It took a huge effort to calm herself. She’d never been given to a temper, in fact, her mother had always said she was too mild. But this slur was unacceptable.
‘I most certainly am not! And maybe it would help if people in this village minded their own business, for it was for women’s troubles that I went to see the doctor, not wanting to ask him here with you and the children around.’
‘You shouldn’t go bothering the good doctor with women’s problems. Got better things to deal with, he has. We women just have to put up with these things.’ She gave her head one sharp nod, emitting a ‘Hmph!’ at the same time. Her expression changed from affront to curiosity. ‘Though, maybe those problems would account for your unacceptable behaviour. I knew a woman in Bargoed, got sent to the asylum because her women’s problems made her insane. It happens, you know. Such a shame, for she’d three young babbies and wasn’t able to see them grow up. The father couldn’t cope, so the grandparents are bringing them up now.’
Within the innocent-sounding account Violet detected a threat. Would Olwen attempt to get her committed, using her relationship with Hywel as proof of madness? It was surely far-fetched, but the possibility of it was like a hand squeezing her heart.
‘As for dinner, there was no meat at the butcher’s for supper again, just some bones to make a stock. That will have to do, with the bits of veg what’s left in the larder and some bread and dripping.’
Olwen marched back to the kitchen, like a soldier going to war.
Hywel, oh Hywel. She’d have to find some way of letting him know that their relationship, such as it was, had to end. The very idea cut to the core of her, but there was no other choice. Whatever had made her think it was acceptable with Charlie barely cold? No, it was just as well that Olwen was there to keep her on the straight and narrow.
Chapter Eighteen
Anwen and Idris joined the crowd outside the Workmen’s Institute, which sat majestically at the top of Jubilee Green. Like many in the queue, they were sporting daffodils on their lapels, though there were also plenty with leeks too. Cadi stood beside them, proudly carrying Sara Fach, who was smiling at people and blowing bubbles. Hywel stood behind, chatting to a couple of work colleagues. Both the Union Jack and the Welsh flag – white with a small red dragon in the centre – were draped along the iron railings on both sets of the Institute steps. Anwen stared up at the blue sky, enjoying the warm air.
‘Well hello there,’ said Idris’s mother, Meg, joining the end of the queue with his father, Isaiah. She hugged her son and daughter-in-law. ‘Where’s Enid?’
Anwen glanced at Idris. ‘She, um, didn’t feel too well.’
‘She looked fighting fit yesterday when I saw her. Never misses the St David’s Day festivities normally.’
‘These things happen sometimes.’ Anwen didn’t want to admit her suspicions; that her mother didn’t want to be seen with ‘her husband’s disgrace’, as she’d heard Enid refer to the baby. It made her sad each time she recalled it. She stroked Sara Fach’s face and the little girl beamed at her.
Violet appeared through the crowd, walking along with Benjy and Olwen. When the older woman spotted them, she steered a confused Violet away, scowling in their direction. Anwen could only imagine Olwen was still obsessed with keeping her away from Hywel. She almost wished there was something going on between them. Perhaps she’d worry less about them both.
The crowd looked towards the other end of the park, where the village children were being gathered by the gates. She spotted Jenkin and Evan, in their uniforms with their fellow scouts, helping to organise the younger ones. Finally, they were all in line. The two lads hoisted the British and the Welsh flags between them. The children duly saluted them and so began their procession.
They commenced their first lap of the park, to cheers and salutes from the adults. Little Clarice waved madly at Anwen as she passed by. After the second lap, the crowd stood to one side to allow them into the Institute. They took the left set of steps up, chattering like a field full of birds to each other. After the last one had disappeared, the crowd surged forward, all eager to be as near to the front of the queue as possible to get good seats.
Anwen’s family ended up between Gwen’s family and Rhonwen Evans, who was standing with her daughter Mabel and granddaughter Lily.
As Gwen made a fuss of Sara Fach, Anwen said to her, ‘Bet you’re glad to have a day off.’
Her friend had on what must be a new dress – or at least, a good second-hand one. As usual, her hair was perfect along with her rouge and lip stain. But she looked tired.
‘I could do with a few more. It’s exhausting, getting up so early every morning to catch the motorbus to Ebbw Vale, and the work seems to get heavier and heavier.’
‘I, um, hear you’ve possibly been walking out with someone?’ Anwen asked tentatively.
Gwen tutted, but good-naturedly. ‘I bet that was my mother with her speculations. I can’t say a lot at the moment. I’m seeing Ralph next— oh, I mean, seeing him next week.’
‘Ralph, is it? I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry.’ Not that there was anything to tell, since she had no idea who he was.
‘Thank you. I want to keep it to myself for a while. Which reminds me, I’d have thought Elizabeth would have found us here by now.’ She looked out among the crowd.
‘I believe she was going to an event somewhere else.’ She’d said something vaguely about it when Anwen had seen her at chapel on Sunday. ‘I don’t see her so much now she’s working. Why did you having a suitor remind you of—’
Her enquiry was interrupted by Mabel calling over, ‘Have you heard from your Henry recently?’
‘Had a letter a week or so back,’ said Gwen. ‘It sounds like they’re still in the back lines, after the battalion getting the hammering it got.’
‘That’s the impression I had from Maurice. He says it’s boring and dirty, clearing up and repairing, but it’s a relief, I can tell you.’ She looked down at three-year-old Lily, whose hand she was holding. ‘I just hope they stay there until the end of the war.’
Gwen’s expression conveyed the unlikelihood of that, but she said nothing.
‘My niece’s husband is still in the thick of it in France,’ said Rhonwen. ‘Doesn’t sound like it’s about to be over to me. Did you see in the paper what that General Haig said about breaking the German front and destroying them? Revenge and complete victory, he’s after. I can see a lot more of our boys coming to a sad end.’
‘Oh don’t say that, Mam.’ Mabel looked like she was about to cry.
Anwen shook her head. It all seemed so hopeless. ‘Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.’
Ahead, there was a raucous laugh and some overloud chatter. Anwen didn’t recognise the people it was coming from.
Rhonwen pulled herself up to look round the crowd, then leaned forward towards them. ‘Did you hear about Maurice’s sister, Polly, turning up with her new husband and family?’ She tossed her head back to indicate the noisy group.
The women all gathered in to hear what Rhonwen had to say. Idris, Hywel and Gwen’s father were chatting instead about the last union meeting.
‘I can’t see Polly there,’ said Anwen, looking again to make sure.
‘Look, there she is, just joining them now with that strapping baby.’ Rhonwen pointed surreptitiously with her thumb. ‘As gaudy and cheap as ever. I heard they turned up a week ago and took the vacant house on James Street, four doors up from Polly’s parents. Her husband’s called Gus Smith. His mother, sister and brother-in-law, Frances, Hilda and Vic have moved in too. Right noisy lot they are, I’ve been told. And how he’s not in the army I don’t know, rather than swanning into a reserved occupation.’ She bristled and huffed.
‘I hear the reason Polly got packed off to Surrey was because she was expecting,’ said Cadi.
‘Yes, five-month-old that babby is, so Gus is clearly not the father. Must be someone in the village. Suppose you have to admire him, bein
g willing to take on someone else’s mistake.’ Rhonwen sniffed.
Anwen knew a lot more about Polly’s predicament than those here. She’d not told anyone but Idris and Hywel about it and she wasn’t about to now.
‘What did she have?’ Gwen strained her neck to see more clearly.
‘A boy. Herbert. A bit too distinguished a name for the likes of her, if you ask me.’
Anwen only just stopped herself from exclaiming. Herbert. That was bold, naming the baby after the father’s father. It might have been even more obvious if she’d named him Thomas, but then it was such a common name it was unlikely anyone would question it. It must surely have been done to annoy the Merediths. She wondered if Margaret had come across Polly and the baby yet. It could only be a matter of time, especially as she was one of the organisers of today’s eisteddfod. Yet it wasn’t such a different situation to Sara Fach’s. Cadi had accepted her granddaughter, despite her inauspicious introduction to the world. The same was not likely to happen to baby Herbert and his grandparents.
The queue started to move, prompting the women back in order. It wasn’t long before they were inside, picking up their children and finding seats. Anwen and Gwen’s families settled themselves in the fourth row back. She spied Violet being dragged along to one end of the second row, where she and Olwen settled down with a child on each lap. In the very front row, Polly’s new family had taken up prime position in the middle, cawing loudly about their success.
‘Here, Mamgu, I’ll take Sara Fach now. You must be worn out carrying her.’
Cadi looked disappointed, but handed the baby over. Anwen settled her on her lap. The baby leant against her and sucked her thumb. Idris gently held the tot’s tiny arm. Anwen wouldn’t be at all surprised if she dropped off to sleep. She looked so sweet, with the shock of brown hair sticking up and her chubby cheek squashed against her chest. She felt the tingle of love she’d experienced from the first day she’d laid eyes on her.
Wandering round by the small stage, Mrs Meredith was consulting with Dr Robert’s wife and the under-manager’s wife, Matilda Bowen. All were on the parish church council for St Peter’s, the Anglican church on Gabriel Street. Anwen watched as Mrs Meredith came down the three steps off the stage. Nowadays she looked even more austere than she had done when Anwen had worked for her. Halfway down the steps she stopped, looking into the audience. She had clearly spotted Polly bouncing the baby on her knee. Her eyes widened for an instant before she rushed from the hall.
The voices gradually hushed when Pastor Thomas came on stage with Reverend Banes, the Anglican vicar. The pastor started with a prayer and a profuse welcome in Welsh. It wasn’t long before a grumpy London accent at the front was yelling, ‘Talk in the King’s language, will you?’ It was Gus Smith.
‘What, German?’ some wag called from the middle of the room.
The audience laughed, with a couple clapping.
‘I knew he’d be trouble,’ Cadi muttered.
Gus stood and faced his critic. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Someone else in the crowd called, ‘Look at the surname, mun. Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. Not very British now, is it?’
‘Ah, shut your trap. Treason, that is, talking against our King.’ Gus flung his hand towards the audience as if to dismiss them.
Reverend Banes coughed. ‘Could you sit down please sir, so we may begin.’ When Gus had plonked himself back in the seat he continued. ‘The concert today will be conducted in both languages, as is the custom.’ He gave Mr Smith a hard stare. ‘The proceeds will be going to the Welsh Soldiers’ Fund, as it has done the last two years.’
Anwen had never had much time for Polly, what with her being mean to the younger children when they’d been at school, but she felt sorry for her in that moment. What a brute of a man Gus Smith seemed. The contrast between him and Tom must surely have occurred to Polly. Yet, deep down, behind his fine manners and easy charm, was Tom any more enlightened where women were concerned?
The afternoon began with harp music, followed by performances from the choirs of the church and various chapels, voice soloists and the school choir. There were addresses delivered on St David and ‘Islwyn, His Life and Poems’. Sara Fach fell asleep. The children in the hall shifted, whispered and napped. Tomorrow would be their day, when the school would have its traditional eisteddfod back in this hall, with relatives looking on proudly, cheering them on to win in their music, speech and drawing contests. She’d already asked Cadi to keep an eye on the baby, so she could watch Clarice perform ‘Ar Hyd y Nos’ as a soloist, with her pretty, piping voice.
When it was all over, the audience applauded, some standing when the performers came on stage together to bow. The Smiths, however, took this as their cue to vacate their seats.
Anwen and her family got up to depart, taking the steps to the exit. Sara was awake now and fascinated by the people passing by. Down the bottom of the steps, the Smith family were still gathered and looked, if their expressions were anything to go by, to be having an argument.
‘You didn’t mention nuffin’ about it being in Welsh,’ Gus was saying to Polly, who was half turned away from him, holding the sleeping tot.
The mother and sister stood close by, arms crossed, for all the world like Cinderella’s stepsisters.
The four relatives walked off, leaving Polly looking despondent, leaning against the wall. She didn’t know what compelled her, but Anwen felt she should stop to talk to her.
‘Hello Polly. How are you?’
‘We’ll go on and meet you at home,’ said Idris, passing by with the others. ‘Shall I take Sara Fach?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ She smiled up at him as he stroked her face.
‘Fell on your feet, didn’t you,’ Polly said as Idris walked away. ‘Thought you’d broken up with him?’
‘We got back together. Got married in August.’
The other woman raised her eyebrows and smirked. ‘Looks like you had no choice either. You’re not so different to me.’
‘Sara Fach’s my sister, not my daughter.’ The lack of her own baby hit her anew. Each month she hoped her flow wouldn’t arrive, but it always did.
‘What, your mother had another baby? She’s past it, isn’t she?’
‘No, she’s not the mother.’ She wished now she hadn’t bothered stopping, though Polly would hear rumours around the village sooner or later. Better she got the truth. ‘My father had a fancy woman what got pregnant. But she ran off the day after she had the baby. My father’s in gaol, as you may already know.’
‘I had heard something of it. Sounds like you had a good deal to put up with, from what my mother told me.’
‘Where is your mam, by the way? I didn’t see her today.’
‘Oh, she, um, isn’t well. Bit of a chest, you know. My sister’s looking after her.’ She jiggled the baby a bit more, though he was quite content.
‘That’s a shame. I hear you’ve called your boy Herbert.’
‘Gus chose it. We call him Herby for short. I was lucky to meet him, I suppose. Neighbour of my aunt’s, he was, him and his family. Funny really, because he’s from Hackney originally, not far from where I was born, in Whitechapel.’ She sounded wistful.
The places meant nothing to Anwen. She gathered only that they must be in London because that’s where Polly had moved from as a child.
‘I’d better get going,’ said Anwen, having run out of things to say. There was a lot she’d have liked to ask but it didn’t seem appropriate. ‘Mam’s been putting together a tea, as much of one as you can now.’
‘Your mother wasn’t here either, then?’
‘Felt a bit under the weather, she did. I hope you all settle in quickly.’
‘Me too.’ Polly didn’t look hopeful.
Anwen smiled before she walked off. Despite the less than warm relationship they’d shared over the years, she felt a strange affinity with Polly. Goodness knows why. ‘We’ve nothing in common, have we, Sara Fach?’ she
whispered to the baby, then kissed her woollen hat.
Chapter Nineteen
Violet’s parents had only been at the house three days, since Good Friday, and already she was wishing they’d go home. She’d longed for their arrival, thinking it might make the days with Olwen more bearable. Instead, the two mothers had sniped and endeavoured to outdo each other in helping out, like it was a competition. Her father, too tolerant, had simply raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘All I’m saying is, the Russian people might be better off without a tyrant like Tsar Nicholas ruling them.’ Her mother, Doris, was spreading margarine and the last of Elizabeth’s jam on thin slices of bread for the children’s early dinner. ‘They don’t have a democratic government over there, like we do, and my understanding is—’
‘Your understanding? We women don’t need no understanding of it. We should keep to what we do understand, and that’s looking after the home.’ Olwen eyed Doris’s activity closely, looking ready to jump in and grab the knife to take over the spreading. ‘I’m sure Ioan will agree with me.’ She looked towards Violet’s father.
‘Doris is more informed about such things than me,’ he said. ‘Her father was involved in the establishment of the Miners’ Federation back in the late ‘eighties. She was brought up with the politics.’
Olwen humphed as she placed herself behind Clarice. She pulled a brush out of her apron pocket and started tidying her hair, at which her granddaughter started whining.
‘And since Mr Lloyd George has just announced a bill to enfranchise married women over thirty, it looks like he agrees with me too.’ Doris placed the pieces of bread on the children’s plates. ‘Now eat up, cariadon, for the Sports Day do start soon and your tadcu do be keen to see the seven-a-side football.’
‘Why don’t you go now, Da, since you’ve finished your dinner?’ said Violet. ‘The tournament’s already started. It’s taking place on the field at the end of West Street. Idris, Gwilym and, and Hywel are playing in a team called the Dorcalon Rovers.’ She longed to see the matches herself, though not out of any fondness for football.
War in the Valleys Page 22
