Ronnie crossed the road, walked under the railway bridge and up the Graig hill towards the Central Homes. He’d thought of taking the Trojan, but someone might see it parked close to the hospital and wonder what it was doing there. This way, all he had to worry about was getting through the gate, and what he was going to say once he was inside the building, always assuming he got that far.
The porter eyed him suspiciously as he walked along Courthouse Street and up to the lodge gate. Pretending he hadn’t noticed the man, he went directly to the gate and banged hard on it before the porter had an opportunity to confront him.
‘Eggs for the TB ward,’ he announced in a loud voice.
‘At this time of night?’ the porter peered at him suspiciously. ‘It’s after eight o’clock.’
‘Donation from the Catholic Mothers’ Union.’ Ronnie explained. ‘My mother promised to deliver them this afternoon but her rheumatism played up. This is the first chance I’ve had to leave the café all day.’
The man squinted through the gloom, eyeing Ronnie suspiciously. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Ronconi.’ He shuffled forward to open the gate. ‘You should have said so in the first place.’
‘Sorry, haven’t delivered anything for the Mother’s Union before,’ he replied brusquely.
‘And God bless them, that’s what I say,’ the porter mumbled. ‘Even if they are Catholics. Want to leave the boxes with me?’ he asked, wondering just how many eggs were inside and if one or two would be missed.
‘Better not,’ Ronnie said easily. ‘There’s something else here that my mother promised the ward sister yesterday. She made me swear that I’d take it to the ward office myself.’
‘Know your way to the TB ward?’
Ronnie shook his head.
The porter leant against the gate as Ronnie walked through. ‘Turn left here, and walk across the female exercise yard. Left is the female side of the Homes,’ he explained laboriously. ‘Men are on the right, away from the main road, less chance of them escaping that way. The first blocks you come to are the casual wards and the workhouse wards. Then you come to the unmarrieds ward. TB patients are in the end block against the wall, you can’t miss it. It’s the last block opposite the boiler house. The only blocks ahead of you are maternity, male acute, and J wards and they’re not against the wall,’ he rambled. ‘TB’s on the top floor,’ he shouted as Ronnie walked away.
Securing the bottle of sherry in the crook of his elbow and balancing the boxes in one hand, Ronnie touched his cap as he continued on his way. The yard was an incredibly depressing place. Hemmed in on one side by a ten-foot-high stone wall, and on the other by a massive stone block that housed the dining room and kitchens, it gave Ronnie the impression that he was travelling through a long, dark, roofless tunnel. If it wasn’t for the rain that dripped down on to his hat he could have sworn it had a ceiling. The towering walls and the feeling of claustrophobia fostered the effect of being trapped in a massive, damp cellar.
Lights glimmered faintly, illuminating the cross-bars of ward windows, but they did nothing to brighten his path. He stepped ankle deep into a puddle of freezing rainwater. Shaking his foot irritably in an effort to get rid of the worst of the water, he kept going. At the end of the dining-room block he passed the kitchens. He recognised them by the smell: an overwhelming stench of rotting vegetables and cabbage water assailed his nostrils. Then he heard the hum of the boiler house. He looked around: to his left was the block he’d been looking for. Balancing the boxes on one arm, he turned the doorknob and stole inside. He found himself in a white-tiled vestibule. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, its low wattage tingeing the atmosphere with a gloomy, dark gold light. Everything around him was tiled – the floor, half the walls, even the stairs. The distant sounds of hospital-trolleys rattling over hard floors, and the clashing of china against metal, echoed towards him. He tiptoed quietly towards the stairs. Holding the boxes out carefully in front of him he climbed up the steps, taking them two at a time. At the top was a closed door, adorned with a large red and white sign.
DANGER INFECTIOUS DISEASES!
ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT PERMISSION
He knocked softly at the door. He waited a few moments, then pushed it open.
‘Do you mind telling me what you think you’re doing, sir?’
Ronnie was not normally of a nervous disposition, but because the voice came from behind him, and not in front as he’d expected, he jumped, almost dropping the eggs.
‘I’m looking for the sister in charge of the TB ward,’ he explained briefly.
‘Looks like you found her,’ the middle-aged woman said stiffly.
Ronnie had learned enough from Laura to tell the difference between a staff nurse’s uniform and a sister’s. ‘God bless the shortage of nurses,’ he thought irreverently, hoping it would be easier to get round the junior hospital hierarchy.
‘I’ve come to deliver eggs, from the Catholic Mothers’ Union.’
The stern expression on her face lifted, as what might have been the beginnings of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
‘How thoughtful. I’ll take them off you.’
That wasn’t what he’d intended at all.
‘Let me carry them into the ward kitchen for you.’ He gave her his most winning smile, a smile that had melted hearts even harder than hers. ‘I’ve put a little something for the staff in there as well,’ he winked. ‘Something that will probably be a bit rich for the patients’ taste.’ He flipped open the top of the box, so she could see and smell the fruit cake, then he removed the bottle of sherry that he had tucked under his arm and waved it under her nose.
‘That’s very good of you Mr ...’
‘Ronconi,’ he said quickly.
‘Ronconi,’ the smile finally broke through her frosty interior. ‘But you still can’t go through that door. Can’t you read?’ She pointed to the sign. ‘Do you want to risk getting tuberculosis?’
‘I rather think I already have,’ he said shortly. ‘You see my – my – my –’ he almost said sister, but no one would believe that he and Maud were brother and sister, particularly now he had been idiotic enough to tell the woman his real name. But then again, what was the point in lying? He was too well known in the town as a Ronconi.
‘My fiancée is in here,’ he blurted out in desperation. ‘I was hoping to have a word,’ he pleaded, reading suspicion all over her face. ‘You see we had the most awful row the night before she came in here –’
‘What’s her name?’ the nurse demanded coldly.
‘Maud. Maud Powell. We were to have been married next month.’
‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘There’s problems.’ This time he wasn’t lying. If he was ever lucky enough to get as far as making the kind of plans with Maud that he dreamed about, there would be problems. Serious ones! ‘You see my family are Catholics and –’
‘And she’s Chapel,’ the sister finished for him. ‘You really are a Ronconi, aren’t you?’ she said, studying his dark, foreign appearance. ‘I’ve seen you in your café. You have lovely cream cakes ...’
‘I’ll bring you a box of them tomorrow,’ he promised rashly. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘There’s so much I want to say to her.’
‘This isn’t the time or place.’ Her voice wasn’t as firm as it had been.
‘Doctor Trevor Lewis is my brother-in-law.’ He played his last card desperately. Now he’d got this far he wasn’t going to be put off. ‘He promised to get me in to see her tomorrow, but I just couldn’t wait.’
‘Then your sister is Laura –’
‘Lewis, who was Ronconi,’ he broke in eagerly. ‘Please,’ he implored. ‘No one will ever find out. I promise. Please ...’
‘Everyone on the ward is sleeping.’
‘I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. Just a minute.’
‘She’s very ill, you know.’
‘I know she haemorrhaged this morning, and that she was brough
t in, in a coma. Her father told me,’ he lied, struggling to contain his irritation with the woman.
‘The kitchen’s along there.’ The nurse finally pushed open the door. ‘You can drop your eggs and cake off there. I’ll go and see if she’s awake. If,’ she stressed the ‘if’, ‘If she’s awake, you can see her for a second. Just a quick peek through the door and a smile. No more, mark you.’
Ronnie felt as though he were floating on air as he watched her broad back disappear through the door marked ‘ward’. He rushed down the corridor to the kitchen. The atmosphere was close and unpleasantly warm. Foul and heavy with the mixed odours of stale urine, cheap disinfectant and the strange sour-sweet smell peculiar to all hospitals. But as he left the bottle and the boxes on the kitchen sideboard the only perfume he was aware of was that of blooming roses. Outside was miserable wet winter and he was lost in the wonders of a beautiful summer that he was confident was heading his way.
Chapter Eighteen
It was a long, long time before Diana felt clean enough to stop scrubbing herself. When she finally, reluctantly returned the brush to the bath-rack she noticed her naked body. It wasn’t a sight she was accustomed to, simply because she either washed in a bowl in her bedroom or the sink in the washhouse when the boys were out. And neither room had a mirror.
She shuddered, disgusted and revolted by the sight of her own nudity. She closed her eyes against the image of her full, round breasts topped by the soft, pink aureoles of her nipples. But even with her eyes closed she could still see the flat, white plain of her stomach leading down to the triangle of dark hair that lay between her scrubbed red thighs. Feeling nauseous she screwed up her face in self-loathing. She was in pain. Hurting! Not from the tingling left by the vigorous pounding she had subjected her skin to, but something more, something deeper.
Keeping her eyes closed, she ducked her head beneath the water, washing off the soap lather she’d massaged into her hair. When it was clean, she pulled the bath plug with her toe. Crouching forward, she turned on the cold tap and held her head under its steady flow, rinsing away the last vestiges of bath water from her hair. Afterwards she splashed cold water over the rest of her body. Freezing cold and shivering, she finally stood up and wrapped the larger of the two towels Wyn had left around herself. She dried her skin thoroughly, wiping all the scratched areas first with swabs of cotton wool that she found on the washstand, lest she stain the towel with blood.
Tucking the top of the towel in, she decided to clean the bathroom thoroughly, leaving it exactly as she’d found it. She was more than a little overawed by its magnificence, but then it was the first plumbed-in bathroom she’d seen in a private house. The nearest she’d ever got to an indoor bathroom before now were the spartan utility ones she’d cleaned on the wards in the Royal Infirmary, and the bleak communal wash areas she’d been allowed to use in the hostel for ward maids.
She found a cleaning cloth on the side of the slop bucket beneath the washstand. Filling the bucket with warm water and, in the absence of anything better, the remains of the soap she’d washed herself with, she wiped down the huge clawfoot bath, inside and out. Then she washed the floor, taking care to mop up every single drop of water that she’d dripped outside the bath.
She hadn’t touched the massive stone sink in the corner, or its ornate, wrought-iron supports, but she cleaned them all the same. The last thing she turned her attention to was the toilet. When she lifted the dark wooden seat, she stared in disbelief. The inside was decorated with circles of beautifully painted daisies. She washed out the bucket and the cloth last of all. Lingering next to the washstand, she admired and envied the range of toiletries. The last time she’d seen a display as lavish was in Norma Shearer’s bedroom in a film.
She reached out hesitantly and picked up a bowl of pearl talcum powder. The bowl was beautiful, porcelain china, decorated with a finely drawn design of white, lily-like flowers. She climbed into the bath and gingerly lifted the lid lest she spill a drop, reasoning that it would be easier to wash the powder down the plughole than wipe it off the floor. A circle of white swansdown floated on top of the deliciously perfumed fine dusting powder. She sprinkled a little sparingly over her neck and shoulders. Glancing down at the bath, she noticed with satisfaction that she hadn’t wasted a single speck.
She replaced the bowl on the exact spot where it had rested before. She studied the rows of boxes, bowls and bottles, breathing in the mixture of heady perfumes and allowing them to assail her senses. Lavender water, Pears and Kay’s soaps. Men’s mint Cologne, bottles of Evening in Paris, 4711 eau-de-Cologne and Essence of Violets. Shaving soaps and antiseptic shaving blades. Tubes of cherry toothpaste and small tins of Erasmus tooth-powder, and at the practical end of the table, a massive jar of petroleum jelly and a large bottle of liniment rub.
Feeling like a thief despite Wyn’s generous directive that she help herself, she closed her fingers around the beautiful green and gold bottle of eau-de-Cologne. Unscrewing the top, she dabbed a little sparingly behind her ears. She knew what bottles like this cost. Her mother had sold them for a few pence a year ago, but in the shops they were priced at more than she could hope to earn in a month.
At the thought of earnings she shuddered. She tried to marshal her thoughts and concentrate on replacing everything exactly as she’d found it. Even the bucket and cloth.
A man’s hairbrush stood on the washstand. Judging by the strands of hair caught up in its bristles, it was Wyn’s. She picked it up, automatically pulling out the hairs and preparing to use it. Then she remembered that she’d carried her handbag into the room. She found it, opened it, extracted her own comb and flicked her hair straight back, like a boy’s, pushing it behind her ears. Straight hair was unfashionable, unalluring. She made a mental resolution never to wave or curl her hair again.
Using her fingers to wipe away the steam from a mirror that hung on the wall above the sink, she stared at her reflection. Her eyes seemed disproportionately large in comparison with the rest of her face. Her cheeks and lips were white, devoid of even a hint of colour. Only her right temple gleamed red. Angry and swollen where Ben had slammed her into the shelves.
She returned the comb to her handbag. Turning her back on the mirror she removed the towel and dressed quickly. The clothes hung stiff and strange on her, especially Wyn’s shirt, which felt peculiar against her bare skin, but he’d been so generous already she felt she could hardly ask him to look for a bust shaper or chemise.
She glanced round the room one last time after she opened the window a crack to let out the steam. She had no more excuse to linger. Gathering up her clothes from the wooden slatted mat, she tied them into a tight little bundle and wrapped the remains of her white blouse round the outside. Only her coat remained. She picked it up, unlocked the door and descended the staircase.
Wyn had made tea. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup and reading the South Wales Echo.
‘You look better,’ he smiled as she walked through the door. ‘Sit down. I’ll pour you some tea.’
‘I’d like to burn these first.’ She dropped her coat on to a chair and held out the bundle of clothes.’
‘Couldn’t they be washed and mended?’
‘Even if they could, I’d never wear them again.’ Her voice escalated alarmingly. ‘Not as long as I live.’
He opened the door to the range. Taking the bundle from her fastidiously with the tongs, he stuffed it on top of the coals, banking it down with a log and a shovelful of small coal.
‘That’ll soon burn.’ He replaced the tongs in the hearth set, and picked up the teapot.
‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to the shop?’ It was warm in the kitchen, and comfortable. She felt like an outsider and, despite the bath, a dirty outsider – a tramp who had no right to sit there.
‘I have another ten minutes or so.’ He poured out her tea. ‘Here, give me your coat.’ He took it and carried it over to the sink where he proceeded to brush it d
own fussily with a damp cloth.
She sat on the edge of the chair, hunched over the table sipping at her tea. ‘I don’t know how to begin to say thank you,’ she murmured in a small voice. ‘I’ll return the clothes after I’ve washed them.’
‘There’s no need. I told you, they don’t fit my sister any more.’ He dabbed some cold water on to a spot on her coat and rubbed it. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked quietly. She stared into her cup. ‘You don’t have to,’ he continued. ‘I just thought it might help.’
‘You’ve probably guessed most of it,’ she snapped.
‘Ben Springer?’
At the mention of Ben’s name, it all poured out. The rape, the humiliation, the feeling of complete and utter degradation and worthlessness ...
He simply stood there, next to the sink, and listened. When she finally ran out of words and into tears, he walked to her and handed over her coat. She delved into the pocket, looking for a handkerchief. When she removed and opened her hand, the five pound note Ben Springer had thrust upon her fluttered to the floor. Wyn picked it up.
‘What do want to do?’ he asked quietly, returning the money to her.
She took a deep breath and raised her eyes to meet his steady gaze.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted brokenly. ‘If I tell Will or my cousins or my uncle what Ben did to me, they’d kill him for sure.’
Wyn remembered the beating Eddie Powell had given Bethan Powell’s seducer for less, and nodded.
‘They’d swing for Ben, that’s for certain,’ he agreed flatly.
‘So what can I do?’ she demanded, hysterically.
‘You can’t be thinking of going back to work there tomorrow?’ he asked, genuinely alarmed by the thought.
‘No!’ her reply was sharp and vehement.
‘Then it’s obvious, you’ve got to find a job elsewhere.’
‘And what do I tell my aunt, uncle and Will when they ask why I left?’
Pontypridd 02 - One Blue Moon Page 23
