‘It was a present. For passing my examinations.’
‘You lucky duck. I’ll never be clever enough to try, let alone pass anything. What you going to wear on top? Surely not your old black coat?’
‘Mam Powell’s shawl and the only coat I possess.’
‘It would look better with furs.’
‘Anything would look better with furs. I must ask Haydn to borrow Glan’s gun and go up the mountain and shoot something. Mind you, it will take an awful lot of rats to make a coat.’
‘When I’m old enough to go to balls, I’m going to have furs,’ Maud said decisively, laying Bethan’s dress on the bed.
‘The underclothes?’ Bethan reminded.
She finished washing, picked up a bowl of talcum powder from the dressing table and puffed it liberally over herself then looked down. She was standing in a puddle of white dust.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll wipe it up before Mam sees it,’ Maud offered.
‘You won’t forget?’
‘Promise.’ Maud extricated the underwear and scent. Picking up Bethan’s jewellery box she set it down on the bed next to the dress and rummaged through the trinkets. Bethan slipped on the silk underwear. She rolled and clipped on the stockings Megan had given her, checking the seams in the mirror, then sat in front of the dressing table. She dabbed a little rouge high on her cheekbones, face powder on her nose, combed Vaseline on to her eyelashes, pencilled over her heavily plucked eyebrows and liberally coated her lips with “flame-red” Hollywood stick, “as worn by the stars”.
‘Scent,’ Maud prompted.
Bethan dabbed scent behind her ears, on her throat, hair and in the crooks of her elbows and knees. Then, on hands and knees, she scrabbled in the bottom of the wardrobe she shared with Maud. After throwing out two worn pairs of plimsolls and a pair of rubber boots, she finally came up with the black patent, strapped sandals she wanted.
As soon as she buckled them on she picked up the dress, holding it carefully she slid it over her head and Maud buttoned up the back.
‘What jewellery?’ Maud asked.
‘The black glass necklace and earrings Haydn gave me for my birthday. They’ll match the shawl.’
‘You don’t want to wear the Bakelite piggy I gave you?’
Bethan looked hard at her sister. Maud had a peculiar sense of humour, but she could also be over sensitive at times.
‘Got you going, didn’t I?’
Bethan threw her powder puff at her.
‘Great, now I get to clean up the bed as well as the floor.’
‘Serve you right’
At twenty five minutes to nine Bethan stood in front of the mirror. She turned on her heel and tried to view herself from the back. The dress was incredible. Beautifully cut, it clung tightly, if a little too revealingly, to her bust, waist and hips and swirled fashionably around her long slim legs. For the first time in her life she felt very nearly pretty.
‘Will you lend me that frock when I go to my first ball?’
‘If you grow another six inches. I’m not lopping that much off the bottom.’
‘I wish I was tall and dark like you.’
‘And I wish I was small and blonde like you.’ Bethan leaned over and kissed Maud’s cheek carefully so as not to smudge her lipstick ‘Thanks for the help. I couldn’t have done without you.’
‘Your bag.’ Maud reminded. Another two minutes were spent frantically searching the back of the wardrobe for the black sequinned bag that Bethan had bought in a mad moment of extravagance from Wilf Horton’s second hand stall on the market. Bethan draped the shawl around herself while Maud filled the bag. She managed to stuff a lace handkerchief, a small bottle of essence of violets scent, a comb and Bethan’s lipstick into the cramped interior.
‘All I need is some change and I’m set to go.’
‘What happens if your nose gets shiny? You’ve no powder.’
‘I’ll borrow Laura’s compact.’
‘You’d better pull that shawl higher or Mam won’t let you out of the house.’
‘It’s not too low is it?’ Bethan anxiously checked her reflection one more time.
‘Depends on what you mean by low. It’ll be too low for Mam but I dare say the men who dance with you will find it interesting. There goes the door.’ Maud said as it slammed.
‘It’ll be Ronnie.’
‘Don’t panic I’ll stall him.’
‘Who’s panicking?’ Bethan demanded hotly.
Maud reached the foot of the stairs just as Bethan left the bedroom.
‘My word,’ Ronnie, all slicked back hair, dark eyes and flashing white teeth, grinned up at Bethan. ‘We’re beautiful tonight. Iron curlers must be all the rage. Laura’s wearing hers too.’
Bethan stuck her tongue out at him, hitched her shawl higher around her throat and descended the stairs. ‘I’m off then,’ she called to the back of the house. Evan and Eddie came out of the kitchen followed by her mother.
‘That’s some dress,’ Evan commented.
‘Scarlet woman.’ Eddie grinned,
‘I needn’t ask where you got that,’ her mother exclaimed sourly. ‘All I can say is that you must have more money than sense.’
‘Auntie Megan gave it to me.’ Bethan muttered pulling on her shabby black coat and buttoning it to the neck.
‘As I said. More money than sense,’ her mother retorted.
‘When will you be home?’ Evan asked.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Powell, I’m picking the girls up,’ Ronnie said in a tone more paternal than fraternal. ‘The ball finishes at twelve, so even allowing for their gossiping I should have them home before one.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Evan nodded.
‘Don’t forget you have work tomorrow morning, Bethan,’ Elizabeth reminded.
‘She’s not likely to do that.’ Evan leaned over and kissed Bethan on the cheek, scratching himself on one of the iron wavers. ‘Have a good time, love,’ he murmured, rubbing his chin.
‘I will.’ Bethan pulled a coarse woollen headscarf from the peg above her head, folded it cornerwise and tied it over the metal curlers. ‘Bye.’ She squeezed Maud’s hand, waved her fingers at Eddie, picked up the hem of her dress and took a deep breath before stepping out of the house.
Chapter Four
The Coronation ballroom was built on the second floor of the arcade of the Co-operative stores. The Co-op occupied two whole blocks between Gelliwastad Road and Market Square, with the intersecting road of Church Street terminating in the Co-op arcade. The windows of the ballroom overlooked both the arcade and Gelliwastad Road and there was a fine view of the solid grey stone police station. Through the wired-off grilles that shielded the station’s basement windows, shadowy figures could sometimes be seen pacing the cells, and the town wags insisted that the Coro had been sited so potential drunks could view their overnight accommodation beforehand.
As ballrooms go, the Coro was not wonderful. It couldn’t hold a candle to the beautifully moulded elegance of the blue and silver ballroom of the New Inn, or the white and gold function room of the Park Hotel.
Viewed in harsh daylight, it was no more than a bleak assembly hall, proportioned too long for its narrow width, the floor covered with thick brown rubberised linoleum, the walls painted an unprepossessing dingy cream. But that night, by dint of imagination and a great deal of hard work, the ball committee had transformed it into a glittering fairyland.
Silver tinsel and fetching blue and red crepe paper decorations, tortured into fabulous shapes by press-ganged nurses and idle ladies of the crache (those rich enough to employ servants to do their dirty work) hung in clusters from the ceiling and walls.
Even Bethan and Laura had done their bit by donating an evening to help pin up the home made ornaments.
The manager of the Co-op had entered into the spirit of the evening. The windows in the arcade shone with electric lights as though it were Christmas, not January, and there were no shoddy sales goods on offer. He
was astute enough to realise that more customers with money in their pockets would pass his windows that night than on the last Saturday before Christmas, and so had arranged lavish displays of his most luxurious and expensive clothes and trinkets.
The hospital ball was the charity event of the year. Everyone who considered themselves anyone wanted to be seen to be supporting the cottage hospital. Entirely funded by voluntary contributions, money from the depression depleted miners’ union, and as many five guinea a year subscriptions as the Hospital Board could muster, the hospital was in dire need of cash. Particularly as the board had taken it upon themselves to build a new wing to house a four bedded children’s ward and an up to date X-ray room, additions that had been completed and were now operational but not yet paid for.
The ball was organised by, and mainly patronised by the crache. The doctors belonged to that social group, the nurses did not, but they, along with anyone else who could afford the ten and sixpence that the tickets cost were invited, and generally only those nurses who were on duty on the night turned down the invitation.
Ronnie slowed the cumbersome van to a crawl as he entered the top end of Taff Street. He steered carefully through its narrow precincts until he reached Market Square. Swinging the wheel abruptly to the left, he bumped over the cobbles of the square and ground the van to a halt in front of the entrance to the arcade. Laura and Bethan were still frantically unclipping the metal wavers from their heads when Ronnie stopped the engine.
‘My hair’s damp,’ Laura said mournfully.
‘It’ll be even damper when you go out there,’ Ronnie observed happily.
‘It’s not raining is it?’ Bethan asked, dreading the prospect of water splashes on her silk dress.
‘Just miserable and misty. I’ll come in at twelve.’ He looked at his sister. ‘Buy you a night-cap.’
‘Must you?’ Laura wailed.
‘Oh, now you’re the great qualified nurse you’re ashamed of your brother?’
‘No, only the way you interrogate whoever I’m with.’
‘If you spent your time with decent boys I wouldn’t need to interrogate them,’ Ronnie retorted warmly.
‘And you wouldn’t know decent if you saw it,’ Laura dismissed him contemptuously. ‘I’ve seen some of the girls you go out with.’
‘Who I go out with is none of your concern.’ Ronnie rammed his index finger close to Laura’s nose. ‘But I know spiv when I see it. That porter Glan you primp and wiggle. ’
‘Wiggle! Wiggle!’ Laura’s face reddened in fury.
‘If Papa knew the half of what you do ...’
‘That’s right, bring Papa into it. We all know you can’t breathe without Papa’s say so.’ Laura threw the remainder of her wavers into the front pocket of the van and wrenched open the door. Bunching up the skirt of her gold net she teetered on the side of the bench seat, poised to jump down.
‘Here, you haven’t even got the sense to wait for me to help you.’ Ronnie leapt out of his side, walked around the front of the van and lifted Laura down, dumping her unceremoniously on the pavement. ‘Your turn.’ He looked up at Bethan.
‘I’m quite capable of climbing down myself,’ she said primly. The last thing she wanted was any man, even one she’d grown up with like Ronnie Ronconi, comparing her weight to Laura’s.
‘Nursing’s softened your brains,’ he groused angrily. ‘You’re as stupid as Laura.’ He grabbed hold of her by the waist, lifted her out of the cab and deposited her next to the seething Laura. ‘See you at twelve.’ He climbed back into the driving seat of the Trojan and revved the engine.
‘Men!’ Laura snarled furiously. ‘They’re all stupid, but Italian men are stupider than most.’
‘Ronnie’s more Welsh than Italian.’
‘That’s as may be, but he thinks like an Italian,’ Laura said illogically, walking into the arcade and flouncing up the stairs.
A wave of warm scented air greeted Bethan as she followed Laura. People were milling in every available inch of space. Men in dark dinner suits, boiled shirts, stiff collars and white or black ties. Ladies in frocks of every hue and fabric known to the fashion trade. Laura made a bee-line for the cloakroom only to find it as crowded as the foyer. Bethan queued to deposit their coats while Laura fought for a space in front of the single mirror. The anteroom was packed with nurses not only from the Central Homes but also from Llwynypia and the Cottage Hospitals, as well as the ladies of the town’s prominent citizens.
Bethan found Laura, and they spent five minutes squashed together, reapplying their lipstick and teasing their damp hair into waves.
‘That dress makes you look entirely different’ Laura commented as, much to the relief of the other ladies, they finally walked away.
Bethan glanced at the subdued gold and cream shades in Laura’s dress and contrasted them with the crimson swirls of silk that flowed around her own ankles.
‘You don’t think it’s too much do you? The neck …’
‘Is perfect. Where’s your confidence, Nurse? Good evening, Doctor Lewis,’ Laura called out to Trevor Lewis, Dr John senior’s assistant.
Trevor Lewis, a thin, diffident man whose clothes always hung on him as if they’d been handed down by a much larger older brother, walked over to them. ‘Nurse Ronconi. Nurse Powell. Can I book a waltz with each of you?’
‘For you, Dr Lewis, anything,’ Laura flirted outrageously.
Giggling like a pair of schoolgirls they heaved and pushed themselves into the room.
‘So much for the grand entrance,’ Bethan muttered between clenched teeth.
‘Ladies, I have your drinks.’ Glan waylaid them with three glasses of orange juice balanced precariously.
‘I’m not thirsty.’ Laura waved her fingers dismissively as Bethan breathed in and slipped sideways between an elderly plump dowager and her equally plump, cigar-smoking husband.
‘But … but …’
Bethan could still hear Glan’s spluttering “buts” as Laura caught up with her. Tables had been placed around two sides of the room, and most were already taken. At the far end opposite the door, a raised dais had been erected, and Mander’s Excelda dance band was in full flow, playing a jazzed-up, foxtrot version of “They didn’t Believe Me”.
‘Bethan, Laura, over here.’
‘See what passing exams has done for us? First-name terms, no less,’ Laura said in a loud voice, ‘Ssh.’
‘That’s a fabulous dress,’ Nurse Williams enthused, pulling out the chair next to her own for Bethan to sit on. ‘I saw it in Howell’s window in Cardiff. It was an absolute fortune.’
‘Twelve guineas,’ Nurse Fry interrupted.
‘This was never in Howell’s window,’ Bethan said quickly. ‘My aunt gave it to me.’
‘Rich aunt, lucky you,’ Nurse Fry said maliciously.
‘She’s not rich; she’s an agent for Leslies’ stores.’
‘She never got that from Leslies.’
‘She also sells “specials”’,’ Bethan explained impatiently. ‘Clothes that local dressmakers pass on to her to sell for them. It’s one of those. It hasn’t even got a label.’
‘Clever dressmaker,’ Freda Williams mused. ‘It wasn’t made by Mrs Jenkins was it? Lewis Street?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.’
‘The bodice would look better without the shawl wrapped around your throat,’ Laura whispered in her ear.
‘Nurse Ronconi. Nurse Powell, your drinks.’ Glan plonked the orange juices in front of them, slopping them.
‘Thank you,’ Laura said heavily. ‘But I prefer my drink in the glass.’
Unsure how to take the comment, Glan hovered uneasily next to their table.
‘Dr John’s in fine form,’ Freda said conversationally in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
Bethan looked towards the front of the hall where Dr John senior was holding forth at a round table set in prime position to the left of the band. He had a large p
arty gathered around him. His wife, his assistant Trevor Lewis, the matron Alice George, the Reverend Mark Price, the vicar of St John’s church on the Graig, and his wife were all sharing at his table and, judging by the way they were laughing, a joke.
‘There he is,’ sighed Nurse Fry, ‘over by the bar. Isn’t he heavenly?’
‘Young Dr John?’ Laura looked to her for confirmation.
‘Who else?’
‘That’s young Dr John?’ Bethan asked.
‘You should know, you worked with him all afternoon.’
‘He was gowned up and had a hat.’
‘Hat or no hat, you gave me first claim,’ Laura muttered into her ear.
Bethan had noticed that Andrew John was tall, broad shouldered and well-built, but she’d failed to realise how concealing a surgeon’s hat and mask could be. He was easily the most handsome man she’d seen off a cinema screen. The dark brown hair that had been hidden under the theatre cap held a rich tint of auburn, and his face, oval, smooth-skinned and with a dark Ronald Colman moustache, attracted the attention of every female under forty, married as well as single, in the room.
He smiled and nodded to her and she blushed crimson with the knowledge that she’d been staring at him. She turned abruptly and knocked one of the orange juices Glan had placed on the table. None of the juice touched her own or Laura’s dress, but
Glan’s trousers were soaked.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ she apologised, jumping up and delving into her handbag for her handkerchief.
‘I bet you are,’ Glan said viciously, all too aware of whom she’d been gazing at.
‘You can borrow my handkerchief, Glan.’ Laura added insult to injury by tendering a purely decorative scrap of silk and lace.
‘Keep it.’ Glan’s temper boiled dangerously close to eruption. The band chose that moment to stop playing, and Bethan sensed the attention of the dancers focusing on their table.
Glan threw Laura’s handkerchief to the floor and glowered at Bethan.
She stepped back and promptly trod on a foot behind her. She turned to find Dr Johnʼs face inches away from her own.
Pontypridd 01 - Hearts of Gold Page 9
