Gathering the different materials into one place was easier than she expected. Soon a cupboard contained all the hanks and balls of wool, including a place specifically for odd scraps. A chest of drawers held felt pieces and ribbons. Various materials were neatly packed away in boxes on shelves and everything was labelled. Zena wasn’t naive enough to imagine it would look the same on her next visit but hoped that Nelda would agree that it was worth at least allowing the kitchen to be kept free.
Nelda was delighted and offered her extra money, which she refused. A plan was vaguely worked out for future visits and Zena was smiling happily as she cycled back to her parents’ home, via a visit to Aunty Mabs to report on her new and interesting job.
She and Nelda met socially on occasions and on several days the children came with her to Llyn Hir for lunch and a walk through the lanes. Once, although it was cold, a weak sun shone in a hazy sky and Zena took them to the farm. Sam had invited them to meet his sheep and chickens and Digby the working sheep dog, of which Sam was so proud. Sam’s father Neville came with them on the tour of the farm and took them to the large old farmhouse for glasses of milk. When the men went back to work Zena walked them through the wood toward the large old house. ‘The haunted house we used to call it,’ she told Nelda. Bobbie asked what ‘haunted’ meant. ‘It means old, and neglected, with no one to love it,’ Zena explained.
‘Poor house’, said Georgie. ‘Can we go and see it one day?’
‘When summer comes,’ her mother promised.
On his late shifts, Greg had several times seen the bulkily dressed woman in the large hat whom he still thought might be Aunty Mabs, and twice in the early hours of the morning she was seen getting onto the early workers’ bus. She had never used the bus which he was driving and he wondered curiously whether her regular questions about his hours and routes had something to do with it. A pattern began to reveal itself and one night when he guessed when and where she would appear, he waited near the bus stop and followed her when she dismounted. She led him to a café that was closed with curtains across its windows, but she unlocked the door and went inside.
He didn’t know what to do; if he went in and it wasn’t Aunty Mabs he would look foolish and if it was her then she was sure to be angry as she obviously didn’t want these visits known.
As he watched, two men went in, both wearing suits, but there was an air of neglect about them, the overcoats were shabby and either too large or with sleeves so short they were layered with jacket and then the shirt. A third man had the smell of mothballs emanating from his clothes. A fourth man, small, slim and with lively friendly eyes stepped out from the café door and asked, ‘Unable to sleep, boy?’ Greg muttered something and the man gestured to the café. ‘You can come in, and have a cup of tea and a game of draughts or something. She doesn’t mind just as long as you behave. No arguing, mind, or out you go. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Frankie.’
‘Frankie?’
‘She’s the lady who runs the place at night. There’s Frankie and Mr Thomas. Between them they keep the place open for those of us who can’t sleep and have nowhere where else to go.’
‘You mean the homeless?’
‘Oh no, not them. Just those who can’t sleep, and have nowhere to go.’
Greg didn’t know what to do. He needed time to think. Making his apologies to the friendly man he walked for a long time around the dark streets. Frankie? He must have been mistaken. Mabs’s dead husband was Uncle Frank, but she was Mabel. So who was this Frankie who opened a night café to insomniacs and the lonely?
He passed the café twice more and on the second time he heard a shriek of laughter and loud chatter and knew that, whatever she called herself, it was his Aunty Mabs in there. He made his way home on his bicycle, curious but marvelling at the secret life of that remarkable old lady.
An hour later he made a decision. He’d talk to his aunt and offer to help. After all, his hours were far from regular and sleeping day or night, depending on the shift, was a way of life. As long as he slept and was completely rested before his shifts, he would certainly be able to help once or twice a week, coming off late shift or when he had a couple of days off. Yes, it might be something he would be willing to share.
Zena was far from happy; she hadn’t heard from Jake for a week. He planned to come, and even made suggestions about what they would do during his visit, but every time something happened to cancel, usually something to do with his work which entailed a lot of travel. They spoke on the phone, she wrote letters to which she occasionally received scribbled, apologetic replies explaining that his boss was demanding and he rarely had a minute to call his own and reminding her that at least the savings were increasing. She didn’t feel a part of his life any more and wondered whether things would ever return to how they were.
She went into the house called Llyn Hir, and wondered whether her decision to move back there with her parents had been part of the reason Jake was so reluctant to come home. It couldn’t conceivably make much difference; he had always lived in lodgings and she had lived alone at the flat, but at least they had that private place where they could sit and make their plans, share their dreams. She would write and ask him, and move back to the flat as soon as she could, if it would help.
The sight of the made up bed in the back room of her parents’ home overlooking the garden which had been prepared for when her father returned home from hospital was a constant and grim reminder that there was no sign of him becoming strong enough for this to be considered. His weight loss was alarming and he seemed less and less willing to eat. He slept through most of the visiting hour.
The whole family seemed to be waiting anxiously for something, but without hope of a happy outcome. She was waiting for Jake, Greg was searching for Rose who had ‘disappeared’ and her mother waited with less and less hope for her father’s recovery.
Aunty Mabs had found a tenant for Zena’s flat and putting on a brave face, Zena had packed away most of her personal things and put them into her parents’ loft, and settled back with her mother and Greg. Now, she wondered how she would really feel about going back to the loneliness of her own place. Greg had been the sensible one, renting his inherited cottage and saving for his future. Her show of independence had been a mistake. She thought of her shattered wedding plans and now Greg’s too. Concentrating on Greg’s wedding would have helped to take her mind off her own abandoned dream but that had fizzled out in a very odd way.
At nine o’clock when Mabs let herself into the night café which she and Frank, had run for a few years, she set to work in an automatic routine. Drawing the curtains over the café windows she turned on the cooker and began preparing scones and a few cakes. She gathered the carrier bag she had left on the counter and unpacked a few pieces of fruit, a couple of loaves, some meat and fish paste and half a dozen eggs. By half past nine, piles of sandwiches were made and displayed on plates, covered with tea towels. The scones looked tempting cooling on the table ready to be filled and put into the glass fronted display unit. Kettles were humming and two minutes later, her first customers arrived.
Sid and George were always the first, although they always waited out of sight until the door curtain was opened. Mabs poured two teas and put them on one of the tables, where dominoes were waiting for them. After the usual greetings they settled down for their first game.
On other tables were board games like ludo and snakes and ladders. There were packs of playing cards on others and on two, chess men were lined up ready for a contest. Newspapers and magazines were piled on a shelf. Over the next hour several tables were filled, tea and coffee and food provided and paid for and the murmur of conversations and laughter added to the sounds of simmering kettles and the clacking of the pieces on the boards. She noted there were two strangers there. People would have heard of the warmth and friendliness offered by the café and the lady called Frankie. On occasions men walking home had opened the door out of curiosity. The newcomers left afte
r drinking a cup of tea and the others settled down to enjoy the pleasant hours.
Then the peaceful scene was disturbed by raised voices and the scraping of a chair being dragged back from a table. Mabs stepped over and took Henry’s arm.
‘What is it, Henry? Someone upset you?’
‘I lost three games of draughts! I never lose that many. He!’ – he pointed an imperious finger towards his partner, Arthur – ‘he must be cheating!’
Arthur stood up and a fight seemed imminent, but Mabs intervened and said sharply, ‘Henry, come out here with me. Now, this minute, mind!’ Others stood and, after a blustering protest, Henry followed Mabs into the kitchen behind the café. The others stood protectively near, little Sid closest to the kitchen door, making a fist.
‘Now, you know the rules, Henry,’ they heard Mabs say. ‘No arguments and definitely no fighting or you won’t be able to come here again.’
Every time he tried to speak, to argue his case, she stopped him. Her heart was racing, knowing he could easily turn on her. He was twice her size and half her age. ‘Listen to me. You’ve been banned from almost every pub in the area and if you carry on like this you’ll be banned from here out of consideration for the others. Now, get back out there and I’ll make you a fresh cup of tea. No more arguing. Right? No more games tonight, just read the papers and talk to the others.’
He stood for a while in the doorway between the back room and the café and Mabs waited, her body shaking with anxiety. Afraid her voice would tremble she said nothing more, just waited, fingers crossed, until he slowly went back to his seat. When he had calmed down she said, ‘When Mr Thomas comes and I can have a break, you can try again to teach me how to play. Although I’ll never be as good as you lot.’
The clientele of the night café – called by a few who knew of its existence as the sad café – had a variety of problems. Henry was one of the most serious worries, with his violent temper. Among the rest were those with alcohol problems, insomniacs, the lonely, several living isolated from others through lack of social skills, or with no family or anyone to care about them, and occasionally a very few who were homeless.
The homeless sometimes came to investigate what was on offer but rarely returned. They usually concentrated on finding a place where they could sleep at night, and visiting the café would have meant losing their favoured spot: they found it difficult to find a safe and peaceful place to sleep during the day. There were a few ex-soldiers who had been unable to return to their previous lives; a few were ex-prisoners unable to settle and with nowhere to go during sleepless nights.
Some found the refuge and became regulars for a while until a change of luck, or a growing confidence, led them away to better things; but a small core had been coming for years, including little Sid, George, Arthur and Henry, who Mabs knew was a dangerous man.
Ever since Mabs had retired from work and had been given permission for the night café, she and her husband Frank had spent four nights a week there, sometimes more. When Frank had died and left all the money he had so recently won, she had bought the place and, while it continued to serve as a normal café during the day, the place was hers for the night hours. Social Services were on hand when there was a chance of progress with one of the customers and Richard, a retired teacher, opened on her days of rest. Richard Thomas was himself an insomniac and had come first as a customer, but was now a valued assistant.
People who had learned of the sad café, or who had once been glad of all it offered, sometimes left parcels of food or even clothing there, but the clothes were taken to other organizations to distribute. Her job was giving the lonely and sleepless a few hours of warmth, companionship and food.
It was seven o’clock when she left to catch the first bus home, tired, but as always content with the way her hours had been spent. Now her team of cleaners would come and the place would be thoroughly cleansed for a clientele not that dissimilar to the night café. Lonely people who were grateful for a place where they were able to stretch a cup of tea to last an hour or more.
As she made her way home for a few hours’ sleep, she thought again about the money she had been left. It was a responsibility she could happily have done without; blaming the windfall for Frank’s death would never change. Deciding what to do with it was a constant concern. She looked on the years she had left as a chance to observe loved ones and friends to decide who would benefit from a gift of money. So far she had been unable to decide on the most needful recipient.
The family had been her first thought, but both Zena and Greg owned a property left to them by their mother’s parents and too much too soon was not necessarily a good thing. Zena’s Jake needed to take the responsibility of making his way in the world. Too easy and Jake would relax and enjoy not having to worry. Decent enough lad, she mused, but too concerned with pleasing others.
She had heard only last year that he’d given away his valuable watch to a lady widowed during the war who was saving to buy her seriously ill son a wheelchair. She had sold it but the boy had received his chair from a hospital charity. When Mabs told him, Jake had shrugged and said, ‘Well, I can’t expect to win them all. Better to try though, don’t you think?’
Greg and Rose – if they ever made the wedding day – would have a good start. There was the cottage on which Greg had been earning rent since he’d inherited it and he had a good bank balance with which to begin married life. He loved his job, the same job her darling husband Frank had done and having extra money might persuade him to do something different and less enjoyable. He had plans for the future and a large sum of money would maybe change things in a way that was not for the better.
She was curious about the reason for Rose’s reluctance to talk about her family. She had moved here from a town the other side of Cardiff and Mabs’s spy system didn’t reach that far. Her unwillingness to talk to Greg was not a good start to a lifetime commitment but she said nothing. Rose would have a change of heart once she was more confident and Greg was being loving and loyal by not pressing her. She was sure to come home soon and explain what had frightened her.
She didn’t know how far Rose had run.
Stepping away from the immediate family there were many good causes and although many were tempting, she was human enough not to want to give to a large invisible organization; which would mean placing a fortune in the hands of someone she would never see, and over which she would have no control. She wanted to give the money to a person whose face she knew, someone she could imagine accepting and benefitting from an unexpected windfall.
Chapter Three
Greg went twice to the shoe shop where Rose had worked to ask for a forwarding address for her, but they pleaded ignorance. He went to the library pretending she had a book belonging to him and he needed to get in touch, just in case she had talked about her plans to one of the friendly staff. No one could help. The post office had received no forwarding address and the local postman said that anyway, Rose Conelly rarely had anything by post. He even asked at the doctor’s surgery and the dentist but there was disapproval at the idea that they would pass on such privileged information.
Rose was renting a small room in south London. She was still afraid to find a legitimate job by which Greg might find her through the references given by the manager of the shoe shop in Cold Brook Vale. Instead she did odd jobs whenever an opportunity occurred. She found work helping to clear a garden for the new tenants of a neglected house, and was offered more of the same. She washed milk bottles and refilled them when an assistant at the local dairy was ill. A baker gave her work for a few mornings and she was paid with bread and left over cakes. She dug an allotment for an elderly man and earned five shillings and some vegetables, which she sold for a shilling as she had nowhere to cook them.
Taking a chance on being seen, she set off one morning back to Cold Brook Vale to collect a few things she had left behind. As the train was leaving Paddington station, a few passengers were walking along the corrido
r looking for a seat. One of them was Jake. She turned her head away but too late. The door slid open and he came in to the compartment and sat beside her.
‘Rose Conelly? Weren’t you supposed to be marrying Greg Martin? What happened, why did you run off without an explanation? Frantic he is.’
‘I couldn’t. So the best thing was for me to move away. He’ll have forgotten me by now. We weren’t really engaged, whatever he told you. Please, Jake, don’t tell him you’ve seen me.’
‘I promise, but tell me, what are you doing? Where do you live?’
Reluctant at first she succumbed to the temptation of talking to someone. She and Jake were unlikely to see each other ever again. They compared details and discovered they were living not far from each other. ‘But not for much longer,’ Rose told him. ‘Greg will have given up trying to find me by now and I can get a better place to live once I have a job.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’ve applied for a position selling beautiful shoes and handbags in a large department store, and I think I’ll get it. I’ve survived on casual work since I came here and I live in a room where no cooking is allowed and a bathroom shared between the other tenants. I stuck it out because I needed the security of having a few pounds saved.’
In those moments of honesty, Jake told her about his terrible accommodation. ‘I’ll stay in my grotty room until I can persuade Zena to join me. It’s so cheap and I can put money aside for our wedding, see.’
The End of a Journey Page 6
