Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner

by Vicky Adin

  After a bit of questioning, Gwenna discovered the other one was for her – a daintier one for inside the shop, or she could put it outside for advertising.

  “Mrs Griffiths had the signwriter do them professionally this time,” said Hugh.

  “So Tillie knows what you’ve been doing?”

  Hugh grinned. “I had to explain it to someone. Mrs Evans and Mrs Price kept asking me where I was going all the time. Mrs Griffiths told them she was getting me to do work for her while you were laid up.”

  Dearest Tillie. She always had Gwenna’s best interests at heart.

  The question was, could they do it all within the remaining time frame?

  “Gwenna, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” interrupted Tom as she babbled on about what she wanted done with the style and decoration, and how the sweets and Tillie’s fudge should be displayed. “Just listen to me for a minute. I have the papers here to secure the lease if you’ve got your heart set on this place, but are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “We’ve got to give it a try, Tom. I promise I won’t do anything more than say hello, and when I get tired, I’ll go out the back for a rest.” Her smile would have knocked another man off his feet, but Tom’s raised eyebrow told Gwenna he knew her too well.

  He had already seen Tillie and Hugh in action and could see they were in cahoots. Louisa wasn’t any better. Charlie would have become a street crier given half a chance, and Bethan had started baking again too. He couldn’t fight them all. Gwenna looked over the table at her resolute family and felt the luckiest woman in the world.

  “Sign here,” said Tom with a sigh. “I hope you all know what you’re doing.”

  Laughter, claps and cheers greeted his words as they watched Gwenna put her name to the piece of paper that opened up her future again.

  But for every step forward, there was one backward. The police had completed their investigations and found no evidence to charge anyone with the crime. No arrests had been made, and as far as they were concerned, the case was closed.

  Why wouldn’t they listen to her? Just because they couldn’t prove anything didn’t mean Black Jack hadn’t smashed the place up. Gwenna railed against the police decision, angry the evil man would not get his just desserts, but more than that, she couldn’t bear the thought he might come back one day.

  She’d finally and reluctantly accepted that the Beresford Street house would never be used for her shop again, but she didn’t like the idea of changing her living arrangements, even if the new shop came with upstairs accommodation. Discussions had gone round and round in circles while they debated what Gwenna should do for the best.

  “It’s worked so well here,” said Gwenna, biting at the side of her fingernail. “You, Tillie and Olwen in your cottage next door, and Charlie between us. Me and Mam, and Louisa upstairs, and Hugh in the room at the back. I’ve loved every minute of it, but I’m fearful. When the repairs are done and the front parlour is restored to its former use, what happens if Black Jack returns and one of the children are in there and gets hurt.”

  “He won’t,” Tom assured her. “He wouldn’t dare, not after what the police know.”

  She couldn’t take the risk.

  But there was a problem. The accommodation above the shop wasn’t large enough to cater for the three women and Hugh. It was either Hugh on his own and the women stayed, or the house was sold and the women moved.

  Hugh, naturally, had his own views. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll go back into digs somewhere.”

  None of the women were listening. They liked having Hugh around and overtalked each other making alternative suggestions. Even Charlie protested about them moving.

  “Let’s not rush into anything,” advised Tom, trying to hush the conversation. “Let’s finish the repairs first. If Hugh wants to, he can move into the accommodation above the shop while he’s working there. We can sort out what’s best when and if you decide to sell this property.”

  “Meanwhile, there’s no time to lose,” said Tillie, eager to get started. “We’ve got less than three weeks to make the place look like ‘Gwenna’s Superior Sweet Treats’ all over again. Let’s get started, everyone.”

  Everyone except Gwenna.

  When Bethan joined her with a tray of tea things, Gwenna was reading the newspaper. Louisa had insisted someone stayed with Gwenna at all times to make sure she didn’t attempt to leave the house to see what was going on.

  “You can’t be trusted,” said Louisa, fussing over Gwenna’s cushions and pillows and placing a rug over her knee. “Someone will bring you a daily update, but you’re to stay put.”

  The scowl on Gwenna’s face would have made a weaker person come up with a compromise, but Louisa would not give in. “It’s for your own good, Gwenna. You have to be patient.”

  Patience was not one of Gwenna’s strong points, but since everyone agreed with the doctor, she had little choice. She was glad of Bethan’s company.

  “They tell me the shelves have been checked,” said her mam. “And Hugh got a man to repair those that were a bit loose. It’s a wonder they didn’t fall down. You wouldn’t want that to happen when they’re full of sweet jars, now would you? Tillie says she’s cleaned them all, and polished them, ready for the jars to be loaded. They look a treat, so I’m told.”

  Bethan poured the tea while Gwenna turned the page, half-listening. Sometimes Bethan explained too much.

  “Hugh has been moving the stock across. He’s such a good fellow. Don’t you think? And so much fitter and healthier than when he came back from that dreadful war last year. Does he talk about it to you at all? I’m sure he must, the way he feels about you, but I can’t get anything out of him. I have to say, the horse and cart do look smart. I think most of it’s in the back room now.”

  Confused, Gwenna said, “Thanks,” as Bethan handed her the teacup. She watched her mam with concern.

  Bethan cleaned when worried about something she needed to sort out in her head, often becoming silent; she baked or cooked and made things when she felt happy, but everyone knew she was anxious when she talked incessantly.

  “What’s wrong, Mam? And what’s in the back room?”

  “The stock, of course, what else would I be talking about? It’s been an awful grey day outside. They say the forecast for the next two weeks is not good. Early winter, they say.”

  “Yes, but what’s troubling you, Mam? You’re upset about something,” urged Gwenna.

  “It’s nothing, Gwenna, bach. Just an old lady’s foible. Don’t worry about me, chook.”

  When Bethan refused to say anything further, Gwenna turned the page to the centre spread and the words ‘Colliery Explosion’ in large capital letters jumped out at her. 150 miners entombed.

  “Oh, Mam. There’s been a terrible accident at the Caerphilly mine.”

  Bethan hurried over to sit beside Gwenna. “Oh, no. I’ve nephews who work in Caerphilly. Read it to me, Gwenna, bach. I can’t bear it.” Those boys she’d known were men now and, like many others, worked underground, taking the daily risk with their lives to feed their families. Bethan shuddered. New Zealand might not have handed them life on a platter, but no one here needed to risk their lives to put food on the table.

  “It’s dated the 24th,” began Gwenna, “and says a gas explosion occurred in one of the large coal mines and completely closed the mouth of the pit.” She scanned the article, paraphrasing as she went. “There were a hundred and fifty men below ... none of them had any chance of escape. Rescue operations were promptly begun and they are doing their utmost to reach the miners, but it will take some time before they can get to them because of the large amount of ground that has caved in.”

  “We’ll have to wait for further news,” said Gwenna, taking hold of Bethan’s hand. It was cold. “Maybe tomorrow or the next day before anything else comes through. I’m sorry, Mam.”

  Bethan collected her handkerchief and blew her nose. Tears were a waste when nothing coul
d be done, she’d always said. Sometimes, being so far away made life hard for those eagerly awaiting news.

  “Tell me more about the shop, Mam,” asked Gwenna, wanting to distract Bethan from the accident. Upsetting as it was to hear about such a thing, life back home had little to do with them.

  Through her sniffles, Bethan began. “The men Tom employed to paint the front will begin tomorrow if the weather is good enough. They say it will take three days at least, because of drying time. The signwriter will do his part when they’ve finished. I’m sorry, Gwenna, you’ll have to excuse me.”

  Seeing Bethan so unhappy disturbed Gwenna too much for her to remain resting. She rushed after her stepmother, catching up with her in the kitchen where she sat in her usual armchair by the coal range, mopping up tears. Gwenna crouched down and put her arm around Bethan’s shoulder. “Mam, what is it? You’ve been out of sorts worrying about something for ages. Won’t you please tell me what it is?”

  Mopping up another tear as it trickled down her face, Bethan took a deep breath. “I don’t want to burden you, Gwenna dear. It’s the thought my sister could lose her sons that’s upset me. That’s all.”

  “No, it isn’t. You were upset before you knew about the mine accident. So there’s more to it than what you are telling me. Please, Mam, tell me.”

  The profound anguish in Bethan’s eyes nearly broke Gwenna’s heart. Her own eyes glistened as she watched.

  With a shuddering gasp, Bethan sighed. “I’ve been so afraid, Gwenna. Afraid I was going to lose you. First when Georgie was born and then again when you collapsed.”

  Gwenna started to say she was well now, but Bethan interrupted.

  “I know you’re better, but you’re still not strong. I’m being a silly old woman, but I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

  “Oh, Mam. Nothing’s going to happen to me. And Tillie and Tom, and Louisa, would take care of you if anything did – which it won’t.”

  “I’m not worried about who would look after me, but how I would cope without you. Gwenna, you are so special. A daughter any mother would be proud to have. I love you so much, and my heart has been sorely tested as I’ve watched you struggle to survive, struggle to succeed, and struggle to overcome your own doubts. You are such a brave, wonderful girl. Don’t ever doubt it, Gwenna, dear. But, I beg of you, don’t overdo things to get this new shop of yours up and running. Don’t make yourself ill again. Please, I beg you.” Bethan burst into shoulder-shaking sobs.

  If anything would slow Gwenna down, it was the sight of Bethan so heartbroken. Putting both arms around her stepmother, she swore she would take care of herself. “I promised Pa I would look after you, Mam, just like you’ve looked after me. I won’t let you down.”

  * * *

  As June 11th approached, the only news of note in the newspapers was the visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, His Royal Highness Prince George and Her Royal Highness Princess Mary. The weather forecast was not promising, and the authorities worried how they would manage the parades if it should rain, which was quite likely. June was never a good month, usually delivering cold, damp conditions, and this June was no exception.

  In the few days since Gwenna had been allowed out, it had drizzled incessantly. After visiting the shop, she hurried home. Once inside the door, she removed her coat and bonnet, tutting at the floppy ribbons, and headed for the warmth of the fire in the dining room.

  Over supper, Bethan announced, “I’ve received a telegram from my sister, who says both my nephews perished.” She sniffed a little louder than normal, struggling to hold back her tears. “I can’t say I knew them as men, but to lose two of your children is a terrible thing. I can’t help feel for her loss.”

  The news was not a total surprise. The newspapers had since reported three men had been rescued, but more than seventy remained buried. The King had ‘expressed his sympathy for the families and admiration for the gallant rescuers’.

  Gwenna quietly placed her hand over Bethan’s and squeezed. They had not spoken again of Bethan’s fears, but Gwenna had been a model patient ever since. “I’m sorry, Mam,” she whispered.

  While the family sympathised, no one else had known the men concerned and had no appreciation of the choices they were forced to make on a daily basis. Once a miner, always a miner, and so on, for the sons and the sons of sons. Mining was a dangerous occupation, but those men had few options.

  After a while, the conversation turned to more local matters, in particular the royal visit.

  Once they’d settled in the sitting room after their meal, Gwenna picked up the newspaper. She had little interest in what the royal couple did in towns like Rotorua and Wellington but took an avid interest in their Auckland programme.

  “They’ll be bored to tears by the time they get past all the officials wanting to make endless speeches, but it says the procession will come along Queen Street, turn into Wellesley, up to Symonds Street then cut back through O’Rorke to Princes to take them to Government House,” she said. “Pity they aren’t coming up to Karangahape Road. Still, there’ll be lots of visitors out and about. Let’s hope the weather improves.”

  “That’s a sight I’d like to see,” said Bethan, intrigued by the idea of more than two-and-a-half-thousand children creating a living Union Jack in Philson Square outside the Municipal Buildings. “All those children dressed in colours and having to stand in just the right place to make themselves like a flag. How wonderful.”

  “You’d never get close enough to see, Mam,” said Louisa. “Not with the archway, and the stand for all those pensioners, and the officials, let alone the actual procession. There’ll be hundreds of soldiers with horses and carriages, and guards and bands and who-knows-what-else filling the streets, never mind the crowds. Don’t know as I’d want to be in amongst all the nonsense.”

  “But Louisa, they are royalty. We have to go see them and welcome them,” said Bethan, shocked anyone would think otherwise. “And while they’re in mourning for Prince George’s grandmother. It’s so kind of them to visit at such sorrowful times.”

  “I’d be interested in going down at night to see the illuminations,” said Tom, also reading about the programme. “They say the Herald Office will be lit up with electric light. Imagine that. A huge star shape lit with red, white and blue globes, and the South British Insurance Company are showing transparencies of portraits of the King and Queen and the Duke and Duchess. Searchlights will light up other buildings and ‘Welcome to Maoriland’ will be spelt out in electric light bulbs on the DS building. Along with the regular gas lighting and these extra displays, it should be magnificent, almost like daylight.”

  “Can I come and see too, Tom?” begged Charlie.

  “Of course, you can. We can all go. It’s a chance in a lifetime.”

  “None of this helps us, though, does it?” said Gwenna, biting her quick as she finished reading. The royal programme included a review of the troops, a military demonstration and the firing of cannons at Potter’s Parade Ground. The duchess would also be laying the foundation stone at the Queen Victoria School in Parnell.

  “What are you expecting?” asked Tom. “That she’ll walk past the door and buy your sweets?”

  Everyone laughed, except Gwenna, who got a certain glint in her eye when she was scheming. “What a good idea, Tom. I wonder how I could arrange it.”

  Only Hugh and Charlie took her seriously.

  With a matter of days to spare before the SS Ophir carrying the royal couple arrived, Gwenna operated like a slave driver. She would have done more herself if she’d been able except Louisa’s threats had been more effective, and no one gave her the chance. Gwenna resorted to sitting in a chair in the middle of the shop and giving orders, and on the Monday morning – a day ahead of the royal couple’s arrival – they were ready to open for business.

  The installation of mirrors along one side gave the shop a light, airy feel, and the glass jars flashed with colour on the shelves
opposite. Tillie’s fudge, once again, took pride of place under glass domes on the counter. Initially, they would not serve teas as they had before, so only two tables were provided for those waiting to be served – Gwenna wanted to gauge what demand there was for refreshments in the new position. Instead, they would offer bottles of lemonade and ginger ale as those ‘add-ons’ Edward Turner had taught her about. Tillie pushed the dainty handcart, with its shelves and canopy, onto the street and parked it beside the entranceway.

  Standing outside to admire her handiwork, Gwenna buzzed with excitement. Even she thought the window display was her best effort yet. After she’d studied other displays as she walked from home to the shop, and listened to advice from Tom, who’d collected tips from Smith & Caughey’s window trimmer, she put her own ideas into practice.

  The window display, with her use of various height boxes and carefully draped satin fabric, would entice the most discerning, and the risk she’d taken in painting the door and window frames in brick red against dark grey had paid off.

  “I love it,” she’d exclaimed, approving the matching sign along the verandah front.

  “It’s very smart,” agreed Tillie. “Well done.”

  Up and down the street, bunting and flags flew from every shop, verandah and window, except Partington’s windmill, now in a most dilapidated state but still a major landmark nevertheless. Tom told them Smith & Caughey’s had turned royal from top to bottom in honour of their visitors.

  The sense of relief and satisfaction that they had finished in time almost had Gwenna in tears again, but she fought them back. She would not cry. Not even with happiness. Those days where she had no control were gone. All she needed now was customers.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Two of their regulars from the previous shop came in to congratulate them. “But I feel it only fair to warn you,” said the older lady as they were leaving, “there are some I know who consider you far too young to be responsible enough to have your own business. Not me, of course,” she hurried to assure Gwenna, “but the less you say about being the owner, the better, I feel.”