War in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  ‘What is? You can tell me.’

  ‘Well, she had a girl, see, and I thought, it’s strange, what with Sara going a year ago today. It’s almost like she’s been born to replace her. No, not replace, for no one can replace my lovely sister, but, oh, I don’t know.’

  Violet put her arm around Anwen’s shoulders. ‘I know what you mean, cariad. It’s like she’s sent a little Christmas present.’

  Cadi strode in at that moment, and, judging the situation correctly said, ‘You’ve told Violet then, have you?’

  Anwen nodded, taking Violet’s hands and squeezing them in thanks. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘Right, you two get the bowls. I’m going to make a hole in these condensed milk cans.’ Cadi headed towards the table. ‘How long’s Mrs Jones staying then?’

  Violet let out a deep breath. ‘Hopefully only till the New Year. I’m sure my father-in-law will have something to say otherwise. He’s spending Christmas with a cousin who lives alone. Apparently, Brynmore promised they’d go there back in November, so he felt at least one of them should keep to the promise. It still doesn’t seem right, her leaving him to go on his own. She had a letter from him, but she wouldn’t tell me what was in it.’

  ‘Well you know where we are if you need us.’ Cadi patted Violet’s arm.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Rhys, that’s very kind of you.’

  ‘What’s all this “Mrs Rhys”? It’s about time you called me Cadi. Come on, I want my pudding.’

  Violet’s mood lifted a smidgen. Olwen would be gone in another week and then she could get back to normal. Normal. Currently that involved mourning and guilt at being inadequate – very unappealing companions. She tutted at herself and followed Anwen back to the kitchen. For now she would banish those thoughts.

  * * *

  ‘Siôn Corn gave me a – a – I dunno,’ said Benjy, holding up his first present from Santa Claus.

  ‘It’s a spinning top,’ said Violet, leaning over to show him how to work it.

  Despite Olwen’s brooding presence, Violet was really enjoying the afternoon. It was like a proper family Christmas.

  ‘My turn, my turn,’ Clarice chanted, picking up a parcel for herself, wrapped in newspaper but with a Christmas tree painted on.

  All of the presents Violet had brought were wrapped like that, but with different seasonal pictures.

  ‘Did you do those?’ Hywel asked, pointing at a painting of Santa Claus.

  ‘Um, yes, I did. I used the children’s paint boxes.’ She went a little red, hoping she didn’t sound like she was boasting.

  ‘They’re very good.’

  ‘She was always the most artistic of us at school,’ said Anwen.

  ‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ said Violet.

  The little girl pulled the string free and tore off the paper, revealing a rag doll. ‘Dolly!’ she called, holding it up before clutching it to her chest. ‘I’ll call her Elin.’

  The children had another turn each, revealing the skipping rope and pull-along soldier. Anwen pulled out another gift from under the makeshift tree.

  ‘This is for both of you, from me and Idris.’ She handed them a parcel wrapped in brown butcher’s paper with what looked like a hair ribbon.

  They undid the wrapping between them. Clarice called ‘Skittles!’ grabbing two of the six of them while Benjy took hold of the ball.

  Violet hunkered down next to them. ‘What do you say to Aunty Anwen and Uncle Idris?’

  ‘Diolch yn fawr,’ they chanted together.

  The next presents were a sailor-style shirt and britches for Benjy and a dress with a sailor collar for Clarice, made by Enid and Cadi. Anwen noticed Olwen pinch her lips in as she went to fetch her presents, done up in proper wrapping paper, which she’d already told them she’d got from the department store in Merthyr Tydfil. When the children undid them, treating them no better than the newspaper, it became evident why she was annoyed. There sat another dress and britches with a top.

  ‘You can never have too many clothes,’ said Cadi.

  ‘Mine were from R.T. Jones,’ she said. ‘Not homemade.’

  ‘Well we’re not all blessed with the gift of sewing,’ was the older woman’s retort.

  Violet noticed Anwen glance over at her, as she had many times today.

  ‘Time to move on to the grownups presents now,’ said Enid.

  ‘Ohhh,’ the children sang as a disappointed duet.

  Hywel got up from the table. ‘One moment there.’ He picked up a parcel from the floor, where the ones that didn’t fit on the small table had been put. ‘Here you go, children, one more present each for you.’

  Clarice jumped up and down in excitement, grabbing at hers before Benjy had even reached Hywel.

  ‘Now open them nicely,’ said Violet.

  Olwen glowered at him. ‘Well, I’m sure that wasn’t necessary.’

  Everyone ignored her as the youngsters tugged at the brown paper. Clarice got through first, pulling out a stuffed toy and exclaiming, ‘Pussy cat!’

  Benjy followed on quickly with, ‘Doggy!’

  ‘It’s Miaow and Woof!’ Clarice announced. ‘Thank you Uncle Hywel!’

  When everyone looked confused, Violet explained about the drawings Hywel had done for the children the month before.

  ‘And what was he doing around your house?’ asked Olwen, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Just fixing the picture rail,’ Hywel said lightly. ‘It was a bit high for Violet. But the question is, which one is Woof, and which one is Miaow?’

  The children giggled.

  ‘They’re stoopid names anyway. I’m sure we can think of something better,’ said Olwen.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Enid, ‘let’s get our own presents open. I know Hywel’s been waiting since this morning.’ She tapped his arm playfully.

  Chocolates, homemade biscuits, handkerchiefs, a second-hand pomander and hand-knitted gloves made up the bulk of the remaining presents.

  ‘Can we play the games now?’ chirped Clarice.

  ‘Of course,’ said Anwen. ‘I’ve already hidden the thimble in the front room, and I’ve got a large donkey drawn on some butcher’s paper that needs a tail. Then there’s a pack of snap cards we can have a go at too, if you like.’

  ‘Can we find the thimble first?’ Clarice jumped up and down while turning a circle.

  ‘Stop all that nonsense now,’ said Olwen. ‘Otherwise we’ll be going home.’

  Violet felt the fury rising inside her. When did Olwen get to decide when they did things? She swiftly directed the children towards the front room. ‘Off you go now. I don’t know where it is either, so I’ll be having a look, so you better be quick if you want to beat me.’

  The games were a big hit with the children, with all the adults joining in – except her mother-in-law. After a third game of snap, Benjy yawned and his head lolled onto the table, where he was sitting on Violet’s lap.

  ‘Bless him,’ said Cadi. ‘Why don’t you lay him on the chaise? There’s a blanket over the back you can pop over him.’

  Violet shuffled round carefully, struggling to stand with him in her arms. Hywel came to her rescue, taking Benjy from her and placing him on the chaise longue, on the other side of the table against the wall. She sat for a while, watching the fire in the range. The usual coal had been replaced by logs today, with cones added, lending a hint of pine to the familiar scent of burning wood. It was a winter smell that took her back to the bonfires of her childhood, filling her with contentment. If only today could last forever. Preferably without her mother-in-law.

  ‘I think that signals time for the sing-song,’ said Idris.

  ‘You’ll wake Benjamin up,’ said Olwen, with a little shiver of indignance.

  ‘Not if we’re in the front room with the door pushed to,’ said Violet. ‘When he’s worn out, he can sleep through a thunderstorm.’

  ‘I don’t want to sing anyway. There’s already too much frivolity for the day of the Lord’s b
irth.’

  ‘Give over,’ said Cadi. ‘It should be a day of celebration.’

  ‘I’m going to sit next to Benjamin and read my psalm book.’ She pulled out a small volume from her skirt pocket and changed seat.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Violet was the last in the room, looking back at Olwen as she opened the book and peered closely at the words.

  In the front room, Anwen sat at the piano. ‘I’m a bit rusty. I hardly ever play now. What shall we sing first?’

  ‘How about “Dawel Nos”?’ Idris suggested.

  With a murmur of agreement, Anwen started playing the tune to ‘Silent Night’, and they sang the words in their native tongue.

  Violet was standing next to Hywel, his melodic voice introducing a harmony, while Idris’s created another. Sleep in bliss and peace, they all sang in Welsh.

  Bliss and peace. How she wished she could find that in her life.

  There was a cry of dismay from the kitchen. Violet ran out of the room, knowing it was Benjy. He was sitting up, being comforted by Olwen. It wasn’t like him to awaken like that when he’d just gone to sleep. It was almost as if… Of course. She’d have laid good money – had she been well off and the gambling sort – on betting that Olwen had awoken him.

  ‘Poor lamb. He must have had a bad dream,’ said Olwen, looking at Violet accusingly.

  That was certainly the end of her bliss and peace for today.

  * * *

  Anwen woke up early, shivering. She felt colder than she had done the past few mornings, despite being squashed up close to Idris. He was sound asleep, his breathing slightly noisy. Something was bothering her; she thought hard to remember what it was.

  The dream. It was about Delyth and the baby going to the workhouse. How she wished Rachael hadn’t mentioned that establishment yesterday. She turned on her back and lay there a few minutes, trying to think of nice things to lull herself back to sleep. It was no good. All she could think of was the new arrival.

  She slid out of bed, noticing the dim light peeking through the gap in the curtains, before putting on her dressing gown and slipping downstairs. In the kitchen she glanced at the clock on the dresser. Five to eight. The fire was already burning brightly.

  ‘You could have had a bit more of a lie-in today,’ said Enid, coming through the door with a loaf of bread. She placed it on the board, end up, and started sawing it horizontally with the knife.

  ‘You’re up.’

  ‘I always wake up early and can’t get back to sleep these days. Would you like some bread and dripping for breakfast? I’ve run out of the eggs now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, I’ll get washed and dressed first. Is there any water in the kettle?’

  ‘Yes. Why the hurry?’

  ‘I want to get on with the day and enjoy it, while Hywel’s still on holiday and before Idris returns to the pit. I’ll get on and wash now.’

  She managed to get ready without disturbing her husband. Her mind was in turmoil, all the possible outcomes to what had happened recently going around in circles. By the time she’d got back downstairs, she’d hatched her plan.

  ‘I’m going to pop to Mrs Harris’s for some tea. You said we were running out yesterday.’ Thank goodness she had a genuine excuse.

  ‘Let’s hope they have some as there wasn’t a lot before Christmas. You could see if they have any more eggs too, though I doubt it. Most are being sent out to France for the wounded soldiers, Mrs Harris told me.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ She picked up the sack bag to put her purse inside it. ‘I might call round at Violet’s, make sure Olwen’s behaving herself.’

  ‘Goodness, what a character she is! Don’t be too long.’

  The cold air hit Anwen as she stepped outside. The puddles in the road were icy. It wouldn’t take long just to make sure Delyth and the baby were well, then she’d get on with the other tasks. She didn’t want to see either of them, just to check. Giving birth was such a hazardous thing when there wasn’t really anyone there to take care of them. She doubted Esther was doing much.

  Outside number seventeen Jubilee Gardens she hesitated. She took a deep breath before pushing the metal gate open and taking the four steps along the short path. After another pause, she stepped into the tiny porch and gave two taps of the door knocker. It was then she heard the raised voice from inside getting louder as a figure appeared through the glass.

  The door swung open and there stood Esther, prim in a full-skirted dress from well before the war. It was clean but a little threadbare in places, not like her usual fashionable clothes. Her hair, however, was neatly pinned up.

  ‘Well, there’s timely,’ Esther snapped. ‘Conscience got the better of you, did it?’

  ‘I only want to find out how they’re doing. I have no desire to step over your threshold.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’

  Behind her, Anwen spotted the tall, thin figure of Sergeant Harries coming down the stairs, his hair considerably greyer than it had been at the start of the war.

  ‘What’s happened?’ said Anwen, grasping her coat lapels. She pictured a grim scene, of Delyth and the baby, dead in their bedroom. It wasn’t unlike the unforgettable image of her sister Sara. She sucked in the urge to holler.

  ‘She’s only gone and run away,’ said Esther.

  ‘So she’s left with the baby.’ Anwen shrugged. At least that would keep her out of their way, particularly her mother’s.

  ‘No,’ said Sergeant Harries, poking his head round the door. ‘She’s left the poor babby here.’

  ‘She’s probably gone out to the shops.’

  The policeman stepped into the doorway, causing Esther to step back. ‘No. Her bag and all her possessions have gone too.’

  ‘What?’ She quickly dismissed the obvious interpretation of what Sergeant Harries was saying. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He rose on his tiptoes and came down again. ‘Mrs Hughes, I’m telling you that the babby has been abandoned.’

  She felt dizzy, clutching the edge of the stone porch wall.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I just can’t understand how anyone could abandon their babby. Where is she?’

  ‘Upstairs. I understand, from Mrs Williams, that she’s your half-sister.’

  She felt a moment’s shame before realising it was pointless. The whole village would know by now and it was hardly her disgrace, but her father’s. ‘That’s right. Can I see her?’

  ‘Take your opportunity while you can.’

  He stood to one side to let her in, then led her upstairs to the small bedroom where they’d found Esther’s son Christopher tied up last July. It was considerably untidier and had a pungent whiff about it. She wondered where the lad was.

  Constable Probert, who’d come out of retirement when young PC Davis was sent off to war, was holding the baby, jogging her up and down as she whimpered. She was covered in a large sheet that had been wrapped around her several times. It had yellow and brown stains.

  ‘Can’t you get another sheet, Mrs Williams?’ said the sergeant. ‘Or something else clean to wrap her up in?’

  ‘And where’s the money to provide such things? I noticed a ten-bob note in Delyth’s purse when she paid the midwife, and plenty of change, though she was always late paying me. She should have left some money here to help with looking after the babby. Lord knows where she got that money, for she wasn’t working.’

  ‘Maybe profiteering along with Madog Rhys, since she was his fancy woman?’ Probert suggested.

  Now there was a thought. So much for Delyth’s claim that she needed money, thought Anwen.

  ‘Now if you don’t mind getting that sheet, Mrs Williams,’ said Probert.

  She stomped off, complaining.

  ‘You should know,’ said Harries, ‘that we’re going to contact the Guardians to get this poor mite into the workhouse. There’s no other choice for an abandoned babby, and one that is a… you know.’


  ‘A bastard,’ said Esther, returning with a folded sheet.

  ‘There’s no need for that language,’ said Anwen.

  She thought quickly, peering at the small soul who was being wiped clean on parts of the old sheet. Her eyes were large, a dark blue, her hair a shock of pale brown. She recalled being a six-year-old, peering over the blanket at Sara after she’d been born. They looked very similar. Her eyes were crinkled as if she was confused about why she’d been left. Anwen sniffed back the tears as a small whoosh of emotion stirred inside her. It was a little like falling in love.

  ‘Yes, there is an alternative. She’s my sister and she deserves a proper family.’

  ‘You’ve changed your attitude,’ said Esther.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ said Harries. ‘Often these days the Poor Law authorities organise for young children to be fostered, or even adopted.’

  ‘And often they don’t.’ Besides, she didn’t like the idea of her sister, half or otherwise, being brought up by strangers.

  ‘I’m not sure how we’ll proceed with this,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ll still have to contact the Guardians, and a decision will be made. I think Dr Roberts can help you with that. In the meantime, would you please get some warm water in a bowl, Mrs Williams, so we can give this babby a proper wash before she goes to her new home, temporary or otherwise.’

  * * *

  Outside her front door, Anwen hesitated. She was carrying the sleeping baby, now swaddled in a blanket that Dr Roberts’ wife had found in their own home. That wasn’t all she’d found, having sorted through a box of baby things she’d kept in their spare room. With the items Mam had kept from Anwen’s babyhood, there should be enough to get them going.

  ‘My mother is not going to like this,’ she told Dr Roberts, who was standing next to her with his leather bag.

  ‘I grant that it’s an odd situation and not one that most people would relish, but it’s a good deed you’re doing, Anwen, for I know the orphans in the workhouse do not have good lives. And you’re right that there’s no guarantee this little one would be adopted.’

  ‘I’m not sure what Idris will make of it either.’ Would he want her looking after someone else’s flyblow, as Maurice Coombes had put it?