‘Dr John, isn’t it.’ He rose from his chair and extended his rough, calloused hand.
‘Please, call me Andrew.’ For once Andrew bypassed etiquette and shook hands with Bethan’s father before her mother. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mr Powell, Mrs Powell,’ he touched Elizabeth’s cold fingers with his own.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Elizabeth said stiffly. ‘Will you take a cup of tea with us?’
‘Only if you’re having one,’ Andrew said pleasantly.
‘I was just about to make one.’ She picked up the kettle and went into the washhouse to fill it.
‘Don’t make one for me, Mam,’ Bethan called, ‘I’m going up to change.’
‘Change?’ Her mother appeared at the washhouse door and looked her up and down.
‘I’m going to Andrew’s for dinner, and there’s a stain on this suit,’ she answered defiantly, as she left the room.
‘Do sit down, Andrew, please,’ Evan offered, hovering in front of his chair.
‘Thank you, I will.’ Andrew sat on one of the wooden kitchen chairs grouped around the table.
‘How long has this been going on then?’ Evan enquired, as he resumed his seat. The contrast between Evan’s politeness and the bluntness of the question took Andrew aback.
‘Do you mean my seeing Bethan?’ he asked warily.
‘Aye, that’s what I mean.’
‘We’ve been spending the odd afternoon together since I came to Pontypridd in January.’
‘The odd afternoon?’ Evan put down his book and peered at Andrew through narrowed eyes.
‘We’re friends,’ Andrew asserted with more confidence than he felt.
There was something in Evan’s cool, appraising gaze that made him feel uncomfortable.
‘I see,’ Evan commented in a tone that clearly said he didn’t.
Elizabeth returned with the kettle. She took a pair of tongs, lifted the hotplate cover on the stove and set the kettle to boil and the teapot to warm on the rack above.
‘You work in the Central Homes, Dr John?’
‘Please call me Andrew,’ he repeated. He found Evan disconcerting, but there was something in Elizabeth’s cold eyes that sent a chill down his back. ‘Yes, I work in the Central Homes.’
Elizabeth lifted down a tin caddy decorated with scratched and faded pictures of roses and spooned tea into the pot. Then she took four of the best cups from the tray on the table, and set them out in front of Andrew.
‘Would you like a rock cake or a scone, Dr John? They’re quite fresh. I baked them this afternoon.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied. He wasn’t hungry, but he thought that sampling Elizabeth’s cooking might give him the opportunity to compliment her.
While Elizabeth was in the pantry buttering the scones, Maud opened the door and bounced in.
‘Have you met my younger daughter, Andrew?’ Elizabeth enquired coolly from the pantry door.
‘No, I haven’t had the pleasure, but of course Bethan has told me about all of you,’ Andrew said as he rose from his seat.
‘She would!’ Maud exclaimed pertly. ‘I’m Maud.’ She looked down at the table. ‘Best cups, you are honoured.’
‘Fill the milk jug, Maud,’ Elizabeth ordered abruptly.
Andrew sat on the edge of his chair, and fervently wished that Bethan would finish whatever it was that she was doing. He looked across the room and saw the book that Evan had laid face down on the hearth and decided to make another attempt at conversation.
‘Crime and Punishment, Mr Powell, you enjoy Russian Literature?’
‘I do.’ Evan pulled out his pipe and a tin of tobacco, and began to pack the bowl. ‘And like most miners I appreciate the socialist ideals of the Soviets.’
‘Anyone who lived here would.’
‘Do you mean the Graig or Pontypridd?’
‘Both. This area has created a great deal of wealth for the nation, but precious little of it has been ploughed back into the Valleys. I don’t mean now, in the depression, but earlier,’ he said, mindlessly repeating one of his father’s favourite observations. As the town’s medical officer Dr John senior constantly railed against the housing and living conditions in the town.
‘I doubt that the lack of amenities in the town has affected you personally, Andrew,’ Evan said pointedly.
‘No, not personally, at least not until recently,’ Andrew agreed. ‘But I grew up watching my father trying to combat illnesses caused by poor living conditions. And now I’m faced with patients who have the same problems. Nothing seems to have changed here in the last thirty years.’
Evan looked at him, a shrewd light in his eyes. ‘Let’s hope something changes in the next thirty.’
‘Your tea, Dr John.’ Maud, a sickly smile on her face, gave him a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Scones, Andrew?’ Elizabeth handed him an empty small plate and a large one laden with buttered scones, ‘Jam and cream’s on the table.’
‘Thank you a plain one will be fine, and milk and three sugars in my tea please, Maud.’ He took a scone and laid it on his plate.
‘Is that why you came back to Pontypridd?’ Evan pressed. ‘To try to do something about the living conditions of the working classes?’
‘I don’t know about the living conditions,’ Andrew mused honestly, ‘but I certainly hope to improve the standard of health care.’
‘You won’t do that until you eradicate poverty,’ Evan observed realistically.
‘At least we can try,’ Andrew replied, struggling with a mouthful of dry scone and blatantly flirtatious looks from Maud at the same time.
‘Sorry I took so long.’ Bethan bustled into the room wearing a calf length green silk frock that buttoned modestly to a small collar at the neck. She was carrying a matching blue and green silk jacket, and a blue leather handbag dyed the same colour as her shoes.
‘Another new outfit?’ her mother commented disapprovingly.
‘I bought it from Aunt Megan some time ago,’ Bethan lied defensively.
‘Seems to me a lot of your wages end up in Megan’s pocket. More tea, Andrew?’ Elizabeth enquired as Andrew left his seat.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t time, Mrs Powell. The scone was delicious, but we have to leave. My mother is expecting us.’
‘What a shame. My uncle, the minister John Joseph Bull, is coming to take high tea with us. He’s bringing his wife. It would have been nice if you could have stayed.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Mrs Powell. Perhaps another time.’
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Andrew. Hope we see you again soon.’ Evan left his chair as Bethan opened the door.
‘The pleasure was all mine, Mrs Powell, Mr Powell, Maud.’ Andrew smiled at all of them as he left the room.
‘Don’t be late, Bethan,’ her mother admonished, returning to her pantry as they walked out through the door.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Powell she’ll be safe enough in my parents’ house. And I promise to bring her home before midnight.’
‘Your father keeps later hours than us,’ Evan remarked loudly.
‘I’ll be fine, Dad,’ Bethan shouted as she ran down the steps.
‘That’s quite a family you have there,’ Andrew said once they were closed into the privacy of his car.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bethan asked, on the alert for anything that sounded remotely like a sneer.
‘What I said. Your sister’s going to be a stunner; your father’s incredibly astute and intelligent. …’
‘For a miner?’ she broke in.
‘For a man,’ he replied firmly. ‘And your mother …’ his voice trailed, as he tried to think of a flattering adjective to describe Elizabeth. ‘Is imposing?’ he suggested cautiously, pushing the gearstick into reverse and driving backwards towards Iltyd Street.
‘Imposing?’
Glad of an excuse to turn away from her he twisted his head to negotiate the corner. ‘She’s also a very good cook,’ he added bl
andly.
‘Imposing and a very good cook,’ she repeated slowly.
He stopped the car to change into first gear.
‘Tell me, is your mother imposing and a very good cook as well?’ she asked.
Not quite knowing what to expect he looked at her, then he saw mischief in her eyes. Unable to contain himself a moment longer he burst out laughing.
She put her hand on his knee. ‘I love you, Dr Andrew John, even if you are an insincere idiot.’
‘Quick, someone’s looking.’ He bent his head to hers without taking his hands off the steering wheel. ‘One kiss now and we’ll set the whole town talking.’
She leaned across and kissed his lips. He lowered the handbrake and the car began to roll down the hill.
‘Release me, woman,’ he shouted, hoping that the shocked and startled Mrs Richards would hear him. ‘Can’t you wait until we get to Shoni’s? There goes your reputation, Nurse Powell,’ he laughed as they turned the corner on to Llantrisant Road.
‘And yours, Dr John.’
‘A man doesn’t need a reputation. Too much baggage.’
‘Is that so?’
‘That’s so.’
They were both still laughing when he drove under the railway bridge and through the town.
Chapter Thirteen
Andrew’s parents lived in a large comfortable villa set in fair-sized private walled gardens but to Bethan it seemed like a mansion.
In fact every aspect of the suburbs on the Common amazed her; the mature trees that shaded the pavements on the wide, well-planned roads and avenues. The nurtured front gardens with their flowering bushes, banks of daffodils and narcissus and green manicured lawns. The clean, clear aspect over the entire town that sprawled, dirty and untidy along the valley floor beneath the hill. Distance and sunlight even lent a fairy-tale enchantment to the bleak slag heaps and grimy colliery on the hillside to the right.
Bethan had only ever walked up to the Common a few times in her life, and then it had been on Armistice days, following her father and the other miners as they trailed behind the Great War veterans who marched to the cenotaph built high on the hill above Ynysangharad Memorial Park. If she’d seen the neat streets of semi-detached and the walled gardens of the larger villas then, she’d paid no attention. She’d certainly given no more thought to visiting one of them than to the concept of flying to the moon.
Andrew steered the car through the impressive wrought iron gates that his father had erected to replace those melted down in the war, and into the old coach house that was now used as a garage.
‘Before we go remind me to show you my rooms,’ he said as he opened the door for her.
‘Your rooms?’ She looked quizzically at him.
He pointed to the ceiling. ‘We’ve done up the old stable boy’s quarters. Dual purpose, keeps me out of Mother’s hair, and gives me privacy.’
She smiled woodenly.
‘You’ll be just fine,’ he whispered, pinching her cheek. ‘They’ll love you.’
A maid wearing the standard black dress and white starched and frilled cap and apron opened the front door.
‘Thank you, Mair,’ Andrew handed her his hat.
‘Mair?’ Bethan looked at the girl’s face.
‘Wondered if you’d recognise me in this get-up, Beth,’ the girl screeched. ‘How’s Haydn?’ she asked, forgetting herself and earning a frown from Andrew.
‘Where is everyone?’ Andrew asked heavily.
‘In the drawing room, sir,’ Mair bobbed a curtsy.
Bethan stood bewildered and more than a little lost in the hall. A massive curved staircase swept upwards to the first floor with all the grace and elegance of those she’d seen in the pictures. A few pieces of heavily carved dark oak Victorian hall furniture stood against the walls between the panelled doors. Stained-glass windows puddled the black and white tiled floor with pools of brilliant crimson and sapphire light. Andrew put his arm protectively around her shoulders and propelled her gently forwards.
He passed what seemed like a dozen doors before he finally opened one that led into a room that could have swallowed the front parlour in Graig Avenue four times over and still had space to spare.
‘Mother, Father, this is Bethan.’ He gave her a small push.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs John.’ Bethan shook Andrew’s mother’s hand. Small and surprisingly fair given the dark colouring of her children, Andrew’s mother had the figure and disarmingly naive demeanour of a young girl.
‘We’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Bethan. You’ve met Doctor John of course?’
Bethan automatically dropped a curtsy to Andrew’s father.
‘We’re not in the hospital now, Bethan,’ he laughed. ‘You met my daughter and son-in-law earlier, I believe?’
‘Bethan,’ Fiona smiled at her from the depths of the sofa where she sat, feet curled beneath her like a kitten.
‘Iʼm so glad you didn’t dress,’ Andrew’s mother observed in a tactless, futile attempt to put Bethan at ease. ‘We rarely dress for dinner in the spring or summer, it seems wrong somehow on light evenings.’
Bethan immediately compared her light silk dress with Mrs John’s pale blue organza and Fiona’s black lace. Hers was undoubtedly cut along simpler lines, but it was passable. Thanks to Megan her clothes didn’t let her down, even in this company.
‘Jolly nice to see you again,’ Alec said enthusiastically before returning to the paper he was reading.
‘Shall we all sit down?’ Andrew’s mother said brightly.
Andrew stood in front of the leather chesterfield alongside Alec and, as his parents had obviously been sitting on the only two single chairs in the room Bethan had no choice but to sit next to Fiona.
‘Drink, everyone?’ Andrew’s father rubbed his hands together as he walked over to a wooden bar in the corner of the room.
‘That would be nice,’ said Andrew’s mother.
‘Usual, dear?’
‘No, darlings,’ Fiona said firmly, uncurling her long legs from beneath her. ‘No one drinks sherry in London any more, only cocktails.’
‘Cocktails!’ Mrs John demurred. ‘I really would prefer a nice sweet sherry.’
‘Mother, you’re so archaic,’ Fiona complained petulantly. She joined her father at the bar. ‘Now let me see,’ she peered short-sightedly at the array of bottles, ‘is there any ice?’
‘In the ice bucket,’ Dr John senior said drily.
‘Very witty. Right, I’m going to make a Harvard cocktail.’
‘She’s been making those since we crossed the pond last year to visit my cousin in New York,’ Alec said loudly for Bethan’s benefit.
‘Would you believe there’s no cocktail shaker here?’ Fiona looked disapprovingly at her father.
‘There’s one in the kitchen.’ Her mother rang a bell pull that hung close to her chair. Mair appeared a few moments later.
‘Mrs Campbell-White needs the cocktail shaker, Mair.’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Right!’ Fiona looked along the shelves behind the bar. ‘Iʼll need this.’ She lifted a bottle of brandy on to the bar counter.
‘Not my Napoleon,’ her father groaned.
‘Daddy, you’re impossible. If cocktails aren’t made with first-class ingredients they’re practically undrinkable. Now what else …’ she mused, biting her bottom lip. ‘Oh I know. Angostura bitters and Italian vermouth …’
‘Under the bar,’ Andrew interrupted, watching the proceedings with an amused grin.
‘I was going to add crushed ice.’ She took a silver plated cocktail shaker from Mair, and dismissed her.
‘It should be mushy enough by now,’ Andrew commented.
‘That ice bucket leaves a lot to be desired.’
‘Mushy is not the same as crushed, is it darling?’ she appealed to her husband.
‘Don’t ask me, Iʼm no expert on cocktails.’
‘Coward.’ She made a face at him. �
��Right, here we go.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to measure the quantities carefully?’ Andrew asked as she poured a liberal stream of brandy into the shaker.
‘Not Fe, old boy,’ Alec said cheerfully. ‘Measuring jugs interfere with her creativity. The beauty of her cocktails lies in their element of surprise.’
‘That I can believe.’ Andrew watched as Fiona tipped in a generous amount of vermouth and filled the shaker with ice.
‘Now for the good bit.’ She rammed the lid on, held the shaker between her hands and twirled it vigorously from side to side.
‘Do you think we’re going to survive this experience?’ Andrew’s mother looked playfully at Dr John senior.
‘Oh, I think so, dear. Remember she only visits us once or twice a year.’
‘Cocktails are served.’ Fiona placed half a dozen glasses on the bar, and decanted the mixture evenly between them. Andrew handed them round before sipping his gingerly.
‘Well?’ his father demanded.
‘Not bad, not bad at all, I take my hat off to you, Fanny, you have hidden talents.’ He held his glass high. ‘Here’s to all of us,’
‘To us.’
Bethan held her glass up to the others before drinking, but she felt like an interloper not a participant in the scene. Conversations bounced around the room like tennis balls across a court but, too shy to make a contribution, she remained silent. She looked frequently to Andrew hoping to catch his eye, but he always seemed to be engrossed in something his father or Alec was saying. In the end the sound of the doorbell came as a relief, if only because it heralded change. Andrew looked at his mother.
‘Someone expected?’ he asked.
‘Only the Llewellyn-Jones’ his mother answered. ‘We owe them, and it seemed a good night for them to come.’
‘Speak of the devil,’ his father said cheerfully as Mair opened the drawing-room door. ‘Come in, come in.’ He shook hands with all three guests, and made the necessary introductions, referring to Bethan as “Andrew’s friend” and prevailing on Fiona to make more cocktails.
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