Sophie Street

by Grace Thompson

  In the Rose Tree Café that afternoon, Dora was thinking about what she had to do at home to prepare for sharing the house with Rhiannon and her family. At five o’clock when the customers had dwindled to just one or two sitting drinking tea, she asked Sian, “D’you want the last of these pasties?’’

  “No, you take them. Jack and Victoria have invited me to dinner this evening. They’ve promised me a rich rabbit stew.”

  “Bought? Or courtesy of the Griffithses?” Dora asked.

  “Jack said it had a notice tied round its neck stating it was the property of Farmer Booker.” She laughed. “But it won’t taste any the worst for that!”

  “Frank Griffiths, I’ll bet. He loves outwitting Booker and Constable Gregory. Courting Gregory’s daughter would just be adding to the fun.”

  “There’s some soup left if you want it?” Sian offered as they gathered up their things preparing to leave.

  “The pasties will do for Lewis and me. I need a quick and easy meal tonight,” Dora explained. “I want to start emptying drawers and cupboards, and getting rid of surplus furniture, ready for Rhiannon and Charlie and Gwyn.”

  “I thought you might,” Sian smiled. “Want any help?”

  “No thanks. We’ll put the spare stuff up in the loft for now.”

  “For now? That’s fatal, that is. In the loft they’ll stay and you’ll forget what’s up there. You’d never believe what I found in ours when we moved to Trellis Road. Toys Jack had grown out of, and books galore.”

  “That’s a point. It might be worth having a scout around up there. I think we put some old toys away too. Years ago. Rhiannon might like some of them.”

  “And she might not! I don’t think today’s mothers fancy old things, they want everything new, and who’s to blame them? We had enough of second-hand stuff to last two lifetimes, didn’t we? Leave them there, the Lewis family might have some family heirlooms to discover one distant day.”

  Lewis was late home that evening and Dora put the pasties in the oven to heat slowly and looked up at the landing, where a trap-door opened into the roof space. It was no use trying to stand on the banister and stretch up, like Lewis did. She wouldn’t be able to reach even to open it, let alone climb into it with some of the items she wanted to move. But she was too impatient to wait for Lewis. Manhandling the ladder with difficulty, she succeeded in propping it up against the wall and, climbing up, she threw back the trap-door. Another struggle and she had the ladder touching the entrance and up she went. They was a light, and gingerly touching the edge of the wooden surround, she flicked the switch and flooded the area with a sickly yellow glow. Why did men economise with a low-wattage bulb where it was needed most and used so rarely it hardly mattered? she grumbled.

  It was her intention simply to move a few boxes, to make room for the things Rhiannon would need to bring. But she was quickly distracted, lifting lids that hadn’t been moved for years, poking about in cartons to find school reports and once favourite annuals, Rupert, Radio Fun, Beano and Dandy and many more. Why had they kept them? Viv and Rhiannon’s school reports amused her. ‘Could do better’, was the usual remark. What would those teachers think of them now? Both managing a business, both happily married. She avoided searching deeper into the box, she knew that the reports of her other son, Lewis-boy, would be there and she didn’t think she could cope with seeing them even now, almost five years after his death in a stupid road accident.

  Then she opened another box and found aeroplane models that Lewis-boy had made. Handling them brought tears then a smile or two. None of them had been finished. Always too impatient to move on to the next thing, that was our Lewis-boy, she thought. Braver now she had coped with finding Lewis-boy’s treasures, she lifted the lid of a thick cardboard box she had unearthed in a corner under some remnants of carpet intended to lag the water tank.

  The box contained old newspapers, yellow and brittle with age. She had no recollection of saving them. What could they be?

  Curious, she carried them to the edge of the trap-door and went down the ladder, pulling the box after her. Carefully taking out one of the crisp newspapers she saw that it had been folded to reveal a court case about a local prostitute called Miss Bondo. She knew the name vaguely and was curious, but seeing the time, she put the box into a cupboard and washed her hands, and started to set the table. The date on the paper had been before she and Lewis had bought the house, over thirty years ago. One day, when she had more time, she’d investigate. Now, she had to prepare for Rhiannon and Charlie and Gwyn. They were far more important than some old newspaper reports.

  “Who’s Miss Bondo?” she asked when Lewis came home.

  “Molly Bondo, d’you mean?” he asked. “What makes you ask about her? She’s the local tart. A friend of Barbara Wheel, who married Percy Flemming. Why?”

  She didn’t have time to explain, so she said, “Oh, the name came up somewhere, that’s all. Now, hurry and eat up. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Are you going to tell me what? And why?” he asked. “Don’t tell me we’ve offered a home to Basil and Eleri and the boys!”

  She laughed. “Of course, you don’t know. Our Rhiannon and Charlie and Gwyn will be staying with us for a while. Their house is being repaired.” He still looked puzzled. “Come on, the ladder’s up ready, you’ll have to shift a few things to make room for them.”

  “What things?”

  “Oh small tables and a couple of chairs. Nothing much,” she said. She was thoughtful as she took in his words. Eleri and Basil and the babies living here? Now that would liven the place up, no mistake.

  A few days later Dora suggested to Lewis that they spent a bit of money strengthening the fences around the garden.

  “What on earth for?” He laughed. ‘‘Rhiannon’s baby isn’t due for months. And I don’t think we need worry about Gwyn escaping, do we?”

  “No,” she conceded, “but it does look untidy. A bit of paint and a few repairs will save more work later on.”

  Lewis looked at her quizzically. “Dora? What are you thinking of?”

  “Well, when Eleri and Basil visit, and for Rhiannon’s baby later on, we’ll need to be sure the garden is safe.”

  Lewis was suspicious but said nothing more.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, Terrence walked into the sports shop in the High Street and was surprised at what he saw. Remembering the state of the shop when Edward had first considered buying it, he had expected a temporary, hastily decorated place with some cheaply made fittings. Instead, there were smart displays of a wide range of sports equipment and sports wear. Full sized models showed the latest in golfing clothes and tennis outfits. Shelf upon shelf showed how well stocked they were and Edward, Megan and Mair were all busily attending to customers. An old man appeared from the back room carrying what looked like a cigar box and which on closer inspection, turned out to be fishing flies.

  Disappointment flooded through his mind. He hadn’t expected dull, boring Edward Jenkins to have achieved all this. He looked around while the four assistants continued to serve, the constantly ringing till painful to his ear. Where was the baby?

  Were they able to employ a nanny as well? At least it looked likely that they could afford to pay him something to compensate for losing his child, he thought sarcastically. He’d put on a good act and then reluctantly agree to allow Edward to be known as the father.

  He had a moment of panic at the thought that Edward might not want that, that he would welcome the appearance of the real father, grateful to hand over some of the responsibility and expense. As Megan looked up and saw him, he was tempted to run from the shop.

  “Terrence?” Megan said questioningly.

  “Megan, my dear. How are you? And, how is my little girl?”

  “We are all well. So, if there’s nothing else, we are rather busy.”

  Her abrupt manner was no surprise to him, Megan always spoke as though she were a dowager reprimanding a servant. It was one of
the things he had liked about her, the way she was never embarrassed, never acted as though she were in the wrong. He remembered once when they had broken down and were lost, she had gone into the hallway of someone’s house and, receiving no reply to her call for assistance, had used the phone to get help.

  The owner came back and had demanded to know what she was doing and, with a few words, Megan had the poor woman apologising for her harsh words. He came out of the brief reverie to see Edward standing beside Megan.

  “I want to see my daughter.”

  “Dorothy, you mean?” Megan asked, her head tilted pertly in query.

  “Of course, Dorothy. How is my little Dorro?”

  “I have no idea. My daughter is called Rosemary,” she snapped. She turned away then and began showing a small boy a collection of kites.

  Terrence laughed. “I knew you were teasing,” he lied. “Now, I want to see my daughter. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  The rush of customers had slowed down and leaving Mair and Willie Jones to see to the remaining few, Megan led the way upstairs to the flat.

  Rosemary was in her cot, her arms above her head, her cheeks flushed with sleep. Terrence looked down at her and tried to look interested. He turned to face them and said, “She’s beautiful. I suppose you want to adopt her, Edward?”

  Edward didn’t reply, he was hushed by a glare from his wife.

  “I could be persuaded to sign her away,” Terrence said, “although it would be a wrench.”

  After trying in vain to convince them that he would prefer not to lose contact with his child, Terrence managed to bring the stilted conversation around to money. “For a thousand pounds I’ll sign anything you wish,” he said.

  “Come on Edward. It’s time we went back down to relieve Mair. Rosemary will be awake soon and she’ll need changing. Although,” she added, “you can deal with her, can’t you, Terrence? While we give Mair and Willie a break?”

  “I have to go. I’m meeting someone,” he mumbled. “But I’ll be back. If you want me to sign adoption papers you’ll have to be generous.”

  “Generous, Terrence? I’m surprised to hear that word falling from your mouth.”

  Megan and Edward watched him leave, running down the stairs and out of the shop, getting into his smart car and driving off with a snort of the powerful engine.

  “He means to make trouble,” Edward said.

  “I don’t think so. Not when we’ve told him that he’s welcome to have the child for a day every week and every other weekend. Fatherhood is the last thing Terrence needs.”

  * * *

  Terrence was not too disappointed about the money. Coral Prichard, his latest ‘love’, had enough of that. But he had hoped to persuade Edward out of a reasonable sum to add a touch of class to his courtship. With a thousand pounds he could have taken her away to spend a weekend in Paris that she would remember all her life. It would have set their relationship on a firm base. After that she would believe him when he told her he didn’t need her money.

  A foolish investment soon after they married would be believable. He would have her sympathy and he already knew how generous she could be. Being married to Coral Prichard and living in her large house in Richmond with two servants to deal with his every need was what he had been born for. He’d always known that. Yes, with a thousand from Edward he would be settled for life. And, Coral was fifty-five and not in the best of health. He would like a thousand pounds to flatter her with a good courtship. He had to persuade them to give him the money, and Edward was his best chance.

  It had to be Edward. He doubted if his sister Margaret had anything left after her disastrous attempt at running a smart restaurant with the lazy Islwyn Weston. And Megan’s family were no longer wealthy. No, he had seen the fear on Edward’s face and knew that he was the most likely one to part with money. Edward loved and wanted the child and that was what he would count on.

  * * *

  Megan’s mother was considering money that day, too, wondering if she would be wise to sell the guesthouse and find a small house in which she could live on the proceeds. But when she counted the cost of moving and the fact that her husband was entitled to half of the money, she knew she would be unable to manage. No, she would have to continue running the house for paying guests and now Megan was gone, she would have to manage alone.

  The girl she had employed for three mornings each week, was very willing, but it wasn’t enough. It had been all right when Megan had been there to help out at busy times and for a few weeks following her daughter’s wedding it had been manageable, but slowly the work had become more and more tiring. This was her excuse for allowing Maxie to stay and to help.

  Having ignored her request to leave, he continued to come on the same two days each week as though nothing had been said. He gave her no cause for complaint and she gradually accepted he was there to stay. He sat with the other guests and ate the evening meal, and only after the others had gone back to their rooms or into the television lounge did he overstep the mark and walk into her kitchen carrying trays of dishes and begin to help her deal with them. It was so casually done she found herself handing him things to deal with, and without being told he seemed to know where everything was kept and rarely made an error. When the kitchen was tidy, he would start setting the tables for breakfast, covering the table with a cloth, exactly as she always did. He would then make a pot of tea and set a tray for her and carry it through to her private room and leave it on the oval table outside her door. Then he would leave her with the admonition to sit and relax for a hour, before going back to his own room.

  How could she complain? How could she tell him to go? She admitted to herself that on the nights he stayed she was glad of his help. But it couldn’t continue. She knew that. She had to discuss it was someone and her sister was the only one who would help.

  The Rose Tree Café usually had a slight lull in their busy day just before lunch, so she went about that time and asked Sian to spare her a few minutes. When she explained the problem of the guest who refused to leave, Sian asked her why she wanted him to.

  “From what you say, he isn’t a problem, more an asset to a busy woman like you.” Sian frowned. “Unless he is threatening in some way. Does he make you nervous, Sally?”

  “He doesn’t do anything I can complain of, really he doesn’t. He just likes to help. But why does he spend time working in my kitchen when he pays for me to look after him?”

  “Have you asked him?” asked the pragmatic Dora, and Sally shook her head.

  “It seems such a silly thing to ask, ‘why are you doing my work for me?’ Well, could you say it?”

  “I see what you mean. But perhaps you could, Sian,” Dora suggested.

  “No, I’m being silly. I’ll ask him myself and suggest that he doesn’t need to, and see what he says.” Sally looked very doubtful.

  She went home still unsure of what she would do, but when Maxie came into the kitchen that evening, she took a deep breath and said, “This is very kind of you, Mr Powell, but I really don’t need your help. You pay to stay here and you shouldn’t feel obliged to do my work for me.”

  His reply suggested that he hadn’t heard a word.

  “D’you know, Mrs Fowler-Weston, I worry about you.”

  “Worry? About me?”

  “I come and stay twice every week and I do what I can to ease your burden, but what about the other five nights, you have all this to do on your own.”

  “I don’t mind,” she protested. “It’s my job.”

  “That girl, the one who comes in to clean. Why don’t you ask her to help you on three or four evenings, see to these dishes for you? You do the cooking, mind. Good at that you are and we’d all hate for someone to take that over from you. But clearing up after, well, she could do that and then I wouldn’t be so worried. Do simple meals on the other days and you could sit and relax in the evenings instead of standing here slaving away for us ungrateful lot.”

  “I do
n’t know…” She was confused. Wasn’t she the instigator of this conversation? Wasn’t she going to be strong? Then why was it ending with him giving her advice? “I’ll think about it, Mr Powell,” she said meekly.

  “Call me Maxie. Everyone does,” he smiled cheerfully, as he placed the last drinking glass on its allotted shelf.

  * * *

  Money was on Basil Griffiths’s mind that Saturday too. With the increase in their rent, Eleri was having to consider working full time. She had once worked as an usherette at the cinema and, with the children so young, that seemed the only work she could do. Basil would be home each evening and she would be leaving as soon as he got in. Not much of a life.

  Several people were looking for suitable accommodation for them, something decent that was cheaper, but every place he had investigated was either too small or too shabby. He thought again of the room where his brothers had slept, and went back to look at it. It had once been a separate building, stone built and with a thatched roof, now replaced with corrugated iron. Perhaps someone had lived there in some far off day, there was even a fireplace of sorts, although within the Griffithses’ memory it had been nothing more than a place to store animal feed and to provide shelter sometimes for the few sheep Hywel had once kept in an adjoining field.

  To accommodate his growing family, Hywel had joined it to the house with an extension linking it to the back porch. Basil went inside. It had an air of despair about it. The window let in little light. Spiders were already colonising the corners between walls and roof and creating net curtains across the glass. Some of Frank’s clothes still hung like a dusty scarecrow, on a hook behind the door. It was nothing more than a glorified shed. He couldn’t ask Eleri to accept this. He ambled into the kitchen and made himself a pot of tea from the constantly humming kettle at the side of the fire.

  Janet came in while he was drinking his second cup and he told her of his worries.