by Annie Murray
‘Poor mite.’ Mrs Simmons gave a quivering sigh. ‘Let’s hope she feels better in the morning.’
The room was very dark. Joey lay back for a moment. He could hear the fire shifting, the tap dripping in the yard. There was a smell of bleach. He could not sleep. His heart was thudding. The thoughts hammered at him again. The man from the orphanage was coming in the morning! He had to get away, out of here. Whatever he had to do, they were not taking him away. But what was he going to do about his little sister?
‘Lena!’ He tried again. For the first time since his mother died, tears came into his eyes. He thought of Miss Purdy. Maybe she’d help, but she wasn’t here. He tried not to let himself think of her because it gave him an ache inside. No one was here – not even Lena. Who did he have in the world? Dad – where was he? That was another thought he tried never to have.
The memory of his father’s back disappearing down the entry that day made him cry in earnest. He lay curled tightly on his side. The night pressed round him. He thought of the dark roofs outside, the streets, endless streets beyond them, and he sobbed. Afterwards, without meaning to, he slept.
He woke with a jolt, heart banging hard. He could see the dim shape of the window, the table across the room. Dawn! And they were coming to get him!
‘Lena!’ Frantically, he made a last attempt to rouse her. She did not move.
‘Lena – come on!’ He shoved her. There was no reaction. He’d have to leave her! They’d have to take Lena, but they were never taking him. He’d rather die.
He was seized with the urgent need to relieve himself and he went into the scullery and peed in the bucket under the sink. Then he helped himself to half a loaf of bread. Without a backward glance he went to the door. As he was feeling for the latch, his hand met a garment hanging from the hook on the back. Mr Simmons’s coat. He hesitated. It felt threadbare and soft. It would be far too big, but it would keep him warm. He had nothing of his own. With a jump he managed to get it off the hook and wrap it round him. He tore the loaf in halves and put a piece in each pocket. Then he let himself out into the silent yard.
Fourteen
After the last bell the next afternoon, Gwen walked to the gate among the crowds of children, trying to convince herself that she was not excited, not hoping that Daniel Fernandez would be waiting outside. When she made her way out to the street, Lucy was standing there and smiling shyly up at her.
‘Walking home on your own today?’ Gwen asked.
‘I think so.’ Lucy nodded.
There was no Daniel, but instead, waiting a little way along the road, was Millie Dawson. Some of the younger children were gathered round her and a few others called, ‘Hello, Miss Dawson!’ to her in daring voices.
Gwen waited, smiling, until the children had moved on. ‘Hello! ‘What’re you doing here? It’s lovely to see you!’
Millie smiled wanly from under the brim of her hat. ‘I’m on my way into town.’ She looked towards the school. ‘Everything much as usual, is it? How’s old Monk-face?’
Gwen rolled her eyes. ‘Crabby as ever. I bet you’re not missing her!’
‘No.’ Millie’s eyes filled. ‘I don’t half miss the rest of it, though. Look, Gwen, will you come and see us at the weekend? It’d be good to have a chinwag.’
‘Oh, Millie!’ Gwen saw the tears roll down her friend’s face. ‘Of course I’ll come – I’d love to! I’m sorry you’re feeling so miserable.’
‘I’ll get by.’ Millie tried to smile, wiping her eyes determinedly. ‘I seem to be forever crying these days. I think I’ll go mad if I can’t have a proper talk to someone! Look, I’ll have to go. See you Saturday – about three?’
Poor Millie! Gwen walked along Canal Street towards Joey’s yard with a heavy heart. She was going to Mrs Simmons and felt nervous about what was to come. In her hand was a big bag of sweets. She’d gone out in the lunch hour to find Parks’s Sweet Shop, which was tucked in the lee of the railway bridge where it passed over the junction of Canal Street and Wellington Street. During the school day they heard trains go by, steaming over the bridge. The windows were crammed with jars and bars of chocolate and toffee. Gwen thought of Ron’s terrible teeth and smiled to herself.
‘Yes, bab?’ the woman behind the counter had said. She was very plump, with thick brown hair, and wore spectacles and a big brown cardigan.
‘Hello,’ Gwen said. ‘Are you Ron’s mother?’
‘Yes.’ The woman immediately looked guarded and folded her arms beneath her large breasts. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing to worry about.’ Gwen smiled. ‘I’m his teacher, that’s all.’
‘Oh ar . . .’ Mrs Parks still looked wary. ‘Miss er . . .?’
‘Purdy,’ Gwen said brightly.
‘Oh yes – he’s mentioned you.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope?’
Mrs Parks just looked at her.
‘He’s a good boy, your Ron.’
At this, the woman’s eyes lit up behind her spectacles and she nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh, he is. They’re good ’uns, my boys. Golden, they are.’
Gwen had been taken aback and rather moved by this declaration. Imagine her mother saying that about her!
Now, as she came in through the entry to the yard in Canal Street, Gwen thought the back-to-back houses looked even more mean and dreary than she remembered. Immediately, though, her attention was taken by the two men standing outside Mrs Simmons’s house. They wore long, dark coats and one of them had, tucked under his arm, a child-sized white coffin.
She hovered at a respectful distance until Mrs Simmons came to the door and showed the men in. She spotted Gwen behind them.
‘Oh dear, what a carry on! You’re too late, I’m afraid, if it’s about the children.’
‘Whatever’s happened?’Gwen was appalled. ‘What d’you mean, too late? Is Joey – has one of them passed away?’
‘The girl. When we got up this morning she was laid down there, stiff as a plank . . .’ Mrs Simmons’s voice thickened. She groped in her extensive cleavage and pulled out a rag to wipe her nose. ‘And no sign of the boy. The people from the orphanage came this morning and I had to tell ’em the bird had flown! What they must’ve thought . . . He must’ve scarpered in the night . . .’ She stood back to let the men out again, thanking them. ‘I don’t know if he saw his sister’d passed on and it frightened him, or what. And my husband’s coat’s gone . . .’
Gwen stood, nonplussed, the bags of sweets in her hand.
‘Come in a minute – oh, my word – they’ve put her in . . .’
The coffin was on the table and Gwen looked in at the terrible sight of Lena’s little figure laid in it in her ragged dress, eyes closed, hands laid to rest on her stomach. Dora Phillips had been the first dead person she had ever seen. It was awful for this to be so quickly followed by another, especially a child. She could hardly take it in.
‘Oh God, how awful!’ she breathed. ‘Poor little thing. How could she have died?’
‘Well, she was bad last night,’ Mrs Simmons said. ‘You know, feverish, but I daint think she was that poorly. Ooh – I feel quite peculiar myself.’ She sank down on a chair and mopped her face with her apron. ‘There’s been that much upset . . . My Dolly was beside herself . . . And with the boy going off like that. It’s not good for me, all this – that it isn’t.’
Gwen could see that Mrs Simmons was genuinely in a state.
‘I’m ever so sorry.’ She felt tearful herself. ‘You’ve been a good neighbour and ever so kind to these children. You couldn’t have done any more than you have.’
‘I’ve done my best.’ Mrs Simmons mopped her eyes. ‘Only I never expected this.’
‘Do you have any idea where Joseph might have gone?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No. Not unless he’s gone off to look for Wally, that good-for-nothing father of his. He’s not been about here for months now. Be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
Gwen took her leave
and walked back slowly down the entry, full of misgiving at the thought of Joey Phillips roaming the streets. He was so small, so ill-fed and fragile. Whatever would become of him? Should she try to look for him? But Mrs Simmons said he had gone very early in the morning. He could be anywhere by now.
She found herself standing out in Canal Street, lost in thought, holding the bags of jelly babies, sherbet lemons and toffees. What am I going to do with these? she wondered. I don’t want to eat them all. She thought about taking them in to school to treat her class. Then another idea came to her. Where was the one place she really wanted to go, to be able to sit in a homely room and where she would find a large collection of children?
Hardly knowing she had decided to go there, almost daring herself, she found her feet straying past the school and pub and into Alma Street. She didn’t give herself time to think about whether she would feel embarrassed turning up at the Fernandezs’ house again so soon. The desire simply to go there was too overwhelming.
‘Afternoon, Miss Purdy,’ Theresa Fernandez greeted her as soon as she walked into the shop. She had a good view of the door, between the two rows of shelves and Gwen could see her, surrounded by tins and packets. At one end of the counter were all the cigarettes. ‘I don’t know if you’ve come to find Daniel, but he’s not in, I’m afraid.’
Gwen felt a pang of disappointment, but then she was almost relieved. She would have felt a bit foolish at him seeing her arrive here again. She could explain about the sweets and just leave them without embarrassing herself.
‘Will you have a cup of tea?’ Theresa asked. ‘Shop’s quiet, and I can hear if anyone comes in.’
‘Well, that would be lovely,’ Gwen said. She enjoyed the woman’s Welsh accent and her homely presence. She was wearing her black shawl today over a white blouse. There was something about Theresa Fernandez that felt solid, rock-like, as if you could rely on her for anything. And there was a great warmth about her. To her surprise, Gwen found herself saying, ‘To tell you the truth, I could do with someone to talk to.’
‘Could you, lovey?’
Once they were through in the back room, Gwen explained, ‘I really came to give you these sweets for the children.’ She put the bags on the table and explained about Joey and Lena Phillips.
Theresa was distracted from pouring the tea by Gwen’s story. She stood at the stove, her hand on the handle of the kettle as it warmed.
‘Duw, duw – there’s terrible, isn’t it? The little girl passing on like that! And you think that young lad’s out roaming the streets on his own?’
‘Well, I suppose he must be – unless he’s found somewhere else to go.’
‘P’raps it’s an auntie or uncle somewhere he’s gone to?’
Gwen sighed. ‘I hope so. He’s such a poor little thing. I hate to think of him out – it’s still cold, especially at night.’
Theresa sat down. Gwen wanted to ask where Daniel had gone, but it seemed so forward and she felt self-conscious. But his mother immediately said, ‘Daniel’s out at one of his meetings – least, getting ready for one.’ Gwen was taken aback by the impatience in her voice. ‘Just like his father was, only Daniel’s even redder than red. ’Twas politics killed my husband. Ate away at him till his heart gave up the struggle and now my Daniel bach’s going the same way.’
Gwen wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Don’t you agree with his work in the Communist Party?’
Theresa put her cup down and gave out a great sigh. ‘I have to struggle with myself, Miss Purdy. The priests say Communism’s an ungodly creed which we should never put in place of our faith and the Church. Our Daniel tries to keep the two side by side. He says you can be a Catholic and Communist. I don’t know.’ Another sigh. She got up and spooned tea into the pot while she continued chatting. She seemed glad to talk.
‘I’m a selfish woman, I suppose. All my life it’s been going on, all my marriage, lockouts and strikes at the mines, never any work . . . I lived through it, like we all did. They were bitter times, Miss Purdy – still are for a lot of them. There was no choice. Then the means test. All the meetings, the protests. Arturo was in the thick of it, you see – never a moment’s rest, what with the miners’ lodges, the party, the unemployed. Meetings, leaflets, making speeches. Hardly ate or slept sometimes – and I told him, “You won’t do yourself any good, Arturo – you’ll kill yourself with overwork.” And that’s how it was.’ She paused, steam rising round her as she poured from the kettle.
‘One of the meetings, the first protest in Aberglyn, they were marching to the Public Assistance people, police all round, of course. Arturo was one of the ones speaking. He got up and gave it to them – oh, he had a voice on him! So loud and strong. He could have spoken to the whole valley and they’d have heard him!’ For a moment she smiled, and Gwen saw the love in her eyes. ‘Got to the end, just, and he collapsed. His heart. Never came back home alive.’ She carried the last things to the table and sat down.
‘That’s what’s made me selfish now. I suppose it knocked the fight out of me. Once we came up here I just wanted an end to it. There’s work here – something you can do, not just the colliery. I want my children fed and schooled, not picking cinders off the heaps in the winter just to survive. I want to forget it all . . . go to Mass Sundays . . .’ She shook her head. ‘But not Daniel. He can’t forget what he’s seen. He’s ablaze with it. Whatever I say to him falls on deaf ears. It was a police horse broke his leg – doesn’t stop him. Back for more! It’s no good me saying anything, any more than it was to Arturo. “I’m doing it for you, Ma,” he says. “For all of us – for the revolution.”’ Gwen could hear the mingled pride and anxiety in her voice. ‘And I say to him, “All I’ve learned about revolutions is that they end up with people losing their heads.” But will he take heed of me?’ She poured the tea. ‘I’ve seen politics tearing families apart and I don’t want it breaking up mine. So I hold my peace most of the time.’
‘Thank you,’ Gwen said, taking her cup. ‘I learned a lot from listening to Daniel yesterday.’ She felt like defending him. All his passion for people, for the workers of the valleys. Surely his mother shouldn’t be trying to dampen that down!
‘Oh, I dare say. He’s a one for book learning all right. And a proper firebrand with it.’ Theresa smiled ruefully, stirring her tea. ‘I suppose I’m just getting old. And there’s no stopping him, that I do know. Let’s put it away, love. Talk about something else. Tell me about yourself, now.’
‘Late again, Miss Purdy?’ Ariadne Black purred reproachfully as Gwen tore in, barely in time for tea.
One of Ariadne’s quirks was that although she insisted on being called by her own first name she never called Gwen anything except Miss Purdy. Gwen thought perhaps it was because she was a teacher. When it came to Mr Purvis, though, he was very definitely ‘Harold’. Tonight Ariadne was wearing a floaty dress in a pale coffee colour edged with chocolate brown, and smelled strongly of perfume.
Gwen stared at the plate Ariadne plonked down before her. Shrivelled chops with potatoes and cabbage, boiled to death as ever, and the house stank of it.
‘Thank you,’ she said with an effort. Thank goodness it was almost the holidays and she could get out of here for a bit! When she looked up, Harold Purvis was watching her with quiet insolence. Gwen put her head down and ate as fast as she could to get away from the pair of them.
That night, she was just falling asleep, when she heard the boards on the landing creak, then a soft, furtive knocking on a door at the back of the house.
‘Harold? Harold, darling?’
Gwen sat up, hugging her knees, barely able to believe what she was hearing.
‘It’s all right, darling. You can let me in,’ Ariadne pleaded in a purring voice.
Gwen put her hand over her mouth. She wasn’t sure if she felt more appalled or amused. Explosive giggles rose in her chest.
There was a pause, then the knocking again.
‘Harold, my beautiful great big
panther . . . Come on, let your little pussycat in . . .’
Snorting, Gwen stuffed the end of the sheet in her mouth. What kind of household was she living in? Once more she thought of what her mother would say and the laughter began to erupt from her. She lay down, shaking with giggles so much that she didn’t hear the door along the landing open to admit Ariadne, then close again.
EASTER HOLIDAYS
Fifteen
‘Here we are – eat it while it’s hot.’
Gwen’s mother dropped a boiled egg into the egg-cup in front of her and sat down, opening out her table napkin.
Gwen obediently removed the top from her egg and dipped in a finger of toast. The yolk overflowed, rich yellow, down the side.
‘Really,’ Ruth Purdy commented. ‘You’re no more tidy an eater than when you were four years old.’
Gwen said nothing. She tipped a helping of salt onto the edge of her pretty floral plate. Ruth Purdy liked everything to be dainty: bone-china plates and little tea knives. Gwen thought of the thick white cups in the Fernandez household and wished she was there instead. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece and her father coughed and tried to pretend he wasn’t eyeing the newspaper because his wife said it was rude to read at the table. Had her parents ever liked one another? Gwen wondered. It was her third day at home and already she was fit to scream.
‘So,’ her mother said, ‘today’s the ideal day for us to go to Mrs Twining and then Russell & Dorrell. We’ll start early and that’ll give us plenty of time . . .’
Ruth Purdy had been mentioning Russell & Dorrell, the large draper’s at the end of the High Street ever since Gwen arrived home.
‘It’s going to be hard enough for Mrs Twining making your dress with you away so much. We’ll have to squeeze in fittings. So we mustn’t leave it too late. It would be most unfair on her. And there are so many other things to think about!’
‘Edwin and I want to keep the wedding as simple as possible,’ Gwen reminded her. She pushed her teaspoon into the bottom of the egg with such force it smashed through the shell.
