Time to Move On (18 page)

The solicitor continued to advertise in the usual ways for the
whereabouts
of Elsie’s niece, Mary Anne Crisp, but without success. He searched through the marriages in the area of her last known address but found nothing. There were no replies from newspaper advertisements, and sending someone to knock on doors failed to produce any leads.

He sent letters to the few people who might be connected with her but waited in vain for replies. He called several times on Ed, who grudgingly continued to run the business. Each time he called he checked that the accounts – in the new book – were up to date, and thanked him for his generosity in helping.

Having accepted the startling news that his sister didn’t want him at the Ship, Ed knuckled down and did all that was necessary to keep Elsie’s business running. He hoped that once Mary Anne Crisp was found, she’d agree to him staying on. As Mark Lacy had pointed out, at least that way he’d have a job and a home.

He no longer slept in the room he had shared with Elsie and even the living-room where they had spent much of their time no longer felt comfortable. The shock of her will made him feel an intruder there. A bedroom at the back overlooking the gardens of Franklin Terrace was large and he settled there with his wireless and the television which Elsie had bought not long before she had died. The television was such a novelty when so few local people had invested in one, he was never short of people to share his evenings.

It was only slowly that he realized he no longer had any real friends.
Elsie had been the one who attracted people to call and Elsie had been all the friendship he had needed. Content with her he had allowed friendships to fade and those he knew from the Ship were gone once he no longer offered the occasional free drink.

He sat in his room until after 2 a.m. one night, and began to realize how ashamed of him Elsie would be at the way he had treated Betty. They had worked together contentedly until he met and married Elsie and from that moment he’d been utterly selfish. Flattered by winning the hand and heart of Elsie Clements had in some way turned his head.

Expecting to go back to the Ship and laze his days away while Betty looked after him was unbelievable. Guilt began to weave its
uncomfortable
web around him. What had got into him that he could have treated her so badly? Telling Alun Harris that Betty wanted him to leave had been the worst. He must have been crazy. He wanted to go at once and
apologize
, but instead, perhaps he could somehow put things right.

Finding Alun wouldn’t be easy. But he knew he had to try, for Betty’s sake and for his own. Jake Llewellyn at the boat yard would be sure to know where to find him. But a phone call disabused him of that simple solution. He had no idea how to begin a search so enthusiasm faded and the noble thought was forgotten.

Betty went through the routine of each day hardly aware of what she was doing. She was so tired that her body ached and her heart ached even more. Alun had left everything as perfect as possible, the orders had been placed, the cellar clean and organized ready to receive them. He had whitewashed the walls, the floors were spotless and she wondered vaguely when he had done these things. While she was at the guest house helping Ed probably – or more truthfully – doing Ed’s work for him!

She had told Ed she no longer needed him and now Alun had gone and she was once more without help. She went out and put a vacancy notice in the window of the post office and wondered whether Bob Jennings and Kitty would help for a while. Neither were really experienced, but Bob had helped out once or twice and a lot of the work entailed tidiness and muscle rather than know-how.

‘Why don’t you ask your brother to help for part of the day?’ Stella asked when the post office was clear of customers. ‘You can manage the bar as long as someone brings up the bottles and sees to the deliveries, can’t you?’

‘I can’t. Telling him to go was one of my more sensible decisions. I need someone reliable.’ She looked at her friend afraid what she was about to say would sound harsh. ‘Because the Ship and Compass was our family home, Ed has always considered it his right to live there, and up to a point that’s true. But I’m the owner. Ed was paid more than fifty per cent of the valuation, and I’ve worked hard to make the place a success. Ed had his money and spent it. I don’t owe him free board whenever he needs it. Being my brother doesn’t entitle him to take what he needs from me.’

‘Go and put the kettle on, Betty,’ Stella said, avoiding an answer. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea while it’s quiet.’

Alun drifted for a while after leaving the Ship and Compass. He stopped when a town appealed and, after a couple of days, moved on. When he was near the seaside town of Barry, he went to the boatyard to see Jake but not to ask for his job back. He had only been a casual labourer,
keeping
the place relatively tidy, doing small repairs, answering the phone and sometimes dealing with irate customers. It had been all he’d needed at the time. A quiet place to lick his wounds when he’d lost his business.

Then he had found the Ship and Compass, and Betty Connors, and the friendly town of Cwm Derw and knew he’d hit upon a place where he could begin again. Betty’s brother had spoilt that and now he was moving on with no destination in mind, to search for another place, a new group of people who might one day be his friends. Like the legend of Dick Whittington, there were voices in his head telling him to turn back. ‘Turn again Whittington, thou worthy citizen …’ The words of the childish chant issued from his mouth in rhythm with his footsteps but he kept on walking away from it all.

Jake was pleased to see him but guessed he wasn’t looking for a job and somewhere to sleep as before. ‘Good to see you,’ he called as Alun’s tall figure entered the yard. ‘Oi!’ he shouted to a young boy sanding an old clinker-built boat. ‘Put the kettle on and find some biscuits, will you?’ He put down the curved needle and thread with which he was repairing a sail and stepped forward to meet Alun, smiling in pleasure.

‘Betty given you the day off has she?’

‘Not exactly. Her brother hasn’t anywhere to live and she’s taken him back. Pity mind, I was beginning to settle down in Cwm Derw.’

‘Ed? Why hasn’t he anywhere to live? I thought he owned a guest house?’

‘He thought so too, but his wife left the business to a niece no one has even heard of.’

‘That must have been a shock. Stella at the post office rang a couple of days ago and asked where you were, but I couldn’t help her. What happened?’

Alun told Jake the course of events as they sat in the late April sun and drank their tea. When Jake invited him to stay for a few days, Alun shook his head. ‘I think I’ll make for Swansea, find a job in one of the
restaurants
there. A couple of months then the summer season will start. Plenty of work then.’

‘Stay till then. I’ll find you enough work to earn your keep. Go down and make enquiries then come back and stay a week or two.’ He showed Alun a boat he was building for a client. ‘It’s a sailing dinghy and if it’s
successful I’ll have an order for six more for a sailing school teaching eight to ten-year-olds the basics. Good eh?’

Alun was tempted, but he knew it would be an escape, he’d be hiding away from the real world and if he stayed too long he would never leave. Regretfully he declined. ‘But I’ll come and see you from time to time, I don’t want us to lose touch,’ he said.

It wasn’t until long after he’d walked away, that Jake realized that, as before, he had no forwarding address. If Alun didn’t come to see him, he had no way of contacting him.

Betty sighed as the middle-aged man entered the Ship a few days later. She sat in the bar waiting for him, her fingers crossed, praying that this one would offer her a reasonable hope of success. So far she had
interviewed
three men and a woman, Tilly Tucker, whom she had been tempted to employ, but all had eventually been rejected. The thought of the heavy work involved had persuaded her it would not be a good idea to take on a woman, even though she herself had managed much of the heavy work in the past. A pity, she thought, she and Tilly Tucker might have got on well.

This new applicant was the last of the people who had applied for the job, her final hope of getting someone to start the following week. She glanced at the clock standing in the corner, its slow bur-lip, bur-lip marching away with her life while she struggled to get it in some kind of order. He was going to be late. Not a good start. The pub opened exactly on time – or there’d be impatient banging on the door and shouts of complaint, she thought with a half smile.

She glanced at the piece of paper with the man’s details written on it then looked up as the door swung open and he approached. As a prospect he certainly looked suitable. He wore a smart suit, his thinning hair was brushed neatly back and he walked in with an air of confidence, smiling, offering his hand.

‘Les Gronow,’ he said. Betty gestured to the chair opposite her and began to prepare her questions, but before she could speak, he began his well-rehearsed introduction. ‘I haven’t worked behind a bar for a long time, but I grew up in a pub and you never forget, do you? Keeping stock isn’t a problem, I’m experienced at rotating to keep everything fresh. I’m able to read a balance sheet and I’m a whiz with figures, having worked as an accountant. I can’t stand untidiness and not afraid of hard work and long hours, as long as the money’s right. What wage are you offering, Betty?’

He’d hardly taken a breath and Betty was irritated and at the same time aware that she couldn’t keep turning people away because they weren’t Alun Harris. ‘Firstly, it’s Miss Connors and secondly, would you allow me to ask a few questions of my own before we talk finances?’

Les was immediately subdued. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Connors. When I’m nervous I talk too much.’ He answered her questions more calmly and she was disarmed by his smile and obvious desire to please. She learned that he had spent most of his working life to date as a bookie, besides helping his parents with their small grocery store, where he now lived, since his divorce.

‘A two week trial on both sides, will that suit?’ she asked.

He gave her an address and a phone number where he could be reached and a few handwritten references which she placed in a file. Bob Jennings, as an ex-policeman, would advise her about checking them. Living alone she wasn’t taking any chances.

There was also an illogical niggle of doubt over him being an
accountant
. Presumably unqualified as he’d said only that he’d worked as an accountant. It had been an accountant called Ellis Owen who had robbed Alun Harris, as well as two men who ran a clothing factory. In both cases he had been their accountant and had fraudulently robbed them and ruined their businesses. In one case, he’d convinced the police he was dead and had caused an innocent man to be sent to prison. As an
unqualified
accountant, she unreasonably thought, Les Gronow would need watching. Having turned away three men plus the woman Tilly Tucker, who had since found a temporary job in Hopkins’s baker’s shop, she knew she had to take a chance on this one. She couldn’t continue putting in the hours needed to run the place alone. How she wished Alun would walk through the door. Life had been so wonderful with him to share it. The contrast between the noisy, busy bar and the silence when the door closed behind the last customer was enormous and she hated it. The building echoed her every move, a constant reminder that she was alone.

That wouldn’t change. Les Gronow would continue to live with his parents and she would still be spending the nights alone in the large building. She shrugged, she’d done it often enough and she’d soon get used to it again. Nevertheless, the thought was not a pleasant one, and the temptation to ask her brother to come back was strong. She knew she wouldn’t; not while there was the faintest hope of Alun coming back, and that hope would be a long time dying.

Before she opened for the lunchtime session she had a great many things to do, including arranging to check Les Gronow’s references, but
she ignored them and went to speak to Bob and Kitty. Then, decision made, she rushed back to open the bar.

Mark Lacy had failed to find Mary Anne Crisp. Endless enquiries and many false leads had left him with nothing at all. Many of the letters he had written had failed to produce even a negative response. Many were still outstanding and they came back in dribs and drabs in the morning post. Elsie’s will hadn’t given a time limit after which the instructions would change, but he doubted whether his enquiries would be successful however long he delayed. He had to slow down his search and hope that the post would eventually bring a solution. People married and changed their names, they moved on, and many had settled abroad in places like Australia and Canada. He hated failing to follow the instructions of a client but in this instance there seemed little more he could do.

At the beginning of May, the café in Cwm Derw changed hands. While the legalities had trundled on, Seranne and Babs had been busy preparing for its new look. Tony helped with the painting, and Babs’s parents came over, offered advice and rearranged the kitchen to make their work easier. Although she had asked many times, Seranne’s mother had not seen the place and this was a disappointment. Luke came, bringing some cups and saucers.

‘A gift from my auntie,’ he said, brushing aside their thanks. ‘The one who runs the café for lorry drivers. She said they were too small and
delicate
for her clientele.’

Seranne took out her bag. ‘Can we pay for them now, so we keep the books straight?’

‘They cost me nothing, but I’d welcome an occasional cup of coffee.’

‘Why is he so kind to us?’ Seranne asked Kitty and Bob who were giving the window a final polish.

‘Luke has always been kind and he enjoys helping when he can,’ Bob said. ‘Getting seriously rich like he has can change people, make them mean, but not Luke. He’s generous and I don’t think he’ll change.’

Kitty gave her a wink. ‘Helping some more than others, eh?’

‘But doesn’t his wife mind?’ Seranne dared to ask.

‘Wife?’ Bob said. ‘You mean Marion? Why should she mind? She’s well out of the picture.’

What did that mean? Seranne asked herself. Were they divorced? Separated? Or living together but apart? He ought not to make her heart race with excitement. And he shouldn’t be spending so much time in her
life. Now the wife had a name the thought of how she felt about him made her cringe with guilt.

They had arranged for Hope Bevan to make draped net curtains, and Hope had also painted the window with a delicate drawing of a
wayfaring
tree, the new name for the café. On the Sunday before they opened, they were busy from six o’clock in the morning, cleaning, rearranging and setting up the tables. The new chairs they had bought had been painted a week before, with Bob and Colin’s help and were ready to put in place.

‘You’d better make sure that paint is properly dry, mind,’ Stella warned with a laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be a good start for your customers to stick to them!’

‘Don’t worry, we have new seat covers,’ Babs said. ‘They were made by Hope too and a perfect fit.’

‘Clever girl young Hope,’ Stella agreed.

During that last day, amid all the frantic activity, large numbers of people ‘just happened’ to pass by, hoping to see what was going on at the café and the girls guessed that they would be busy on their first day even if only with sightseeing locals.

Seranne didn’t think she would sleep that night and at nine o’clock she walked to the end of the lane and telephoned her mother. ‘Mum, I’ve just come from the café which we open tomorrow. Won’t you come and see what we’ve done, wish us luck? We’ve worked so hard and I want you to see it and be proud of us.’

‘I’m sure it’s all lovely, dear, and I love the new name. The Wayfaring Tree is perfect.’

‘But…?’

‘But Paul is having to go away tomorrow, to see to some family drama and it’s Pat Sewell’s day off, so I have to get up and remind myself what it’s like to run a tea rooms.’

‘You shouldn’t have left it all to Pat Sewell, Mum. She doesn’t have your ability.’

‘Oh, Pat’s all right and Paul constantly points out that much of what we did, you and I, wasn’t necessary. We made ourselves slaves for
standards
most people hardly noticed.’

‘I think they noticed all right, Mum. Can’t you see that the place has been stripped of its charms?’

‘Nonsense, dear. People only want somewhere to sit and gossip.’

Seranne didn’t say any more. She and Babs were starting their own place to sit and gossip the following day and until she was sure of it being
a success, how could she tell her mother she was wrong? She would be tempting fate and could land flat on her face.