It was slow, dangerous work, and although Jane had only been working in the factory eight weeks, she’d already seen five small accidents on her line alone. What the management called ‘minor incidents’, although they were anything but minor to the girls whose fingers had been blown off, split or burnt.
Pushing yet another completed fuse towards the girl who took them to the X-ray machine to check they’d been assembled correctly, she heard the tinny clatter of the bell signalling the end of their shift. The belt slowed as the next shift walked on to the floor.
Glad to relinquish her seat to her relief, she stretched her aching fingers and walked towards the door to the cloakroom. Peeling off the thick woolly overall and dust cap she bundled them together with her shoes, stowed them away and crossed to the ‘dirty’ side. Opening her locker, the first thing she took out were her cigarettes and matches, although she’d have to wait until she was on the train before she could light up.
‘More women pick up bad habits in this place than on the streets,’ Maggie observed, as Jane climbed into her own clothes.
‘I need something to buck me up,’ Jane complained as she finished dressing.
‘You and me both,’ Judy echoed. ‘Coming to the White Hart with us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You need to think about it?’
‘The way I feel I’ll fall asleep in my beer. It’s so hot.’
‘It won’t be once we hit Ponty. Autumn’s on its way, can’t you feel it in the air?’
Pulling on her cotton summer dress and brushing out her short hair, Jane picked up her bag and followed Maggie and Jenny down the ramp to the platform. Judy was close behind them. It was difficult travelling to and from work with both Jenny and Judy. The two women rarely said a word to one another. Maggie had hinted that the strained atmosphere had something to do with Alexander falling off Jenny’s roof, although Jane had failed to see the connection between Judy and Alexander.
She couldn’t help feeling guilty every time she was with Jenny, because no matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t comfortable in her company. Jenny was her sister-in-law – a member of Haydn’s family – the only family she’d ever had, but Jenny behaved no differently towards her than she did to any of the other girls in the factory.
‘Are you going for a drink, Jenny?’ Jane asked, offering her a cigarette as the train pulled in.
‘Of course.’ She climbed on to the train and grabbed a seat opposite Myrtle, ‘You going to the Hart, Myrtle?’
‘Perhaps,’ Myrtle answered absently. Leaving her seat for the window she looked down the platform for her brother. Wyn and Erik had been called into the manager’s office just before the end of the shift, and there was no sign of either of them. If they didn’t get to the platform soon the train would leave without them, and because only the munitions specials pulled into the factory station they would have to make their way into the main station in Bridgend to get home; a detour that could put as much as two hours on to their travelling time.
The whistle blew and doors slammed up and down the train.
‘You waiting for Christmas to take your seat?’ Judy asked.
‘Just checking …’ the train lurched forward as Wyn, grim-faced and serious, ran down the platform alongside Erik. Someone opened a door for them and she saw them climb into a carriage lower down the train as it moved out. Turning round, she finally took her seat.
‘You seeing the law tonight, Myrtle?’ Judy enquired snidely.
‘Not tonight, he’s on evening shift,’ she divulged as colour flooded her cheeks.
‘You want to pinch a grenade to put under that one. It will take an explosion to spur him into proposing.’
‘Judy’s right,’ Maggie advised. ‘You’re not getting any younger, and the rate he’s going, you’ll still be courting when you’re ninety. Tell him you want an engagement ring.’
‘Not everyone’s as pushy as you, Maggie,’ Jenny observed frostily.
‘You seen this, Jane?’ Sally handed her a magazine as Myrtle pulled a library book from her bag.
‘What is it?’ Jane asked warily. The News of the World photograph had preceded a whole string of articles and interviews with Haydn. She had barely recognised her husband in the description of the popular singer and male pin-up the journalists portrayed, but with a five month absence between them punctuated by few letters, and the ever-present guilt of the last day and night they had shared, she was no longer sure she knew what Haydn thought.
‘Go on, read it,’ Sally urged.
Jane glanced at the page. In the top right-hand corner was a pre-war photograph of Haydn. The impossibly handsome man she had fallen in love with, a warm smile curving his lips, eyes slightly misty as though he were focusing on something just out of camera shot, blond hair gleaming, impeccably dressed in a black evening suit and bow tie. The headline HAYDN POWELL WOWS THE TROOPS appeared above another photograph, this time with the Simmonds girls. They were wearing short skirts that showed off their legs and low-cut summer blouses that left little to the imagination.
‘I’m glad my Paul is fighting, not looking down on a view like that.’ Sally took her cigarettes from her bag.
‘The photographer wouldn’t have dared take that if they’d been leaning forward,’ Judy commented, looking over Jane’s shoulder.
‘Haydn’s tour seems to be a roaring success,’ Sally said as she offered her cigarettes round.
‘It would be, wouldn’t it?’ Jenny said as she took one. ‘The troops don’t exactly have a choice of theatres they can visit.’
Jane was too busy scanning the article beneath the photograph to contribute to the conversation. After the usual flattering paragraph about the morale-boosting programme Haydn and the girls were presenting, there were a couple of sentences that unleashed the jealousy she was finding more and more difficult to keep in check.
… troupers to the last, the performers who normally sleep in the best suites and eat the finest French cuisine West End hotels have to offer, bunk down in slit trenches, wash in canvas buckets, dress and make up in the backs of lorries, and stage their shows without curtains or props, wherever and whenever they can find an audience.
A little bird told me that even in these primitive conditions, or perhaps because of them, romance has flourished. The question on everyone’s lips at the front is, ‘Which one of the Simmonds girls has caught handsome Haydn Powell’s roving eye? Is it Ruth or is it Marilyn?’
‘We both adore him,’ cooed Ruth to our on-the-spot reporter. ‘He’s the tops, not only with the WAACs and nurses, but with the men.’
‘Every woman wants him for a boyfriend and every man for a friend,’ echoed beautiful Marilyn. Watch this space for more.
Chapter Nineteen
The staff had closed up. After cleaning the shop and kitchen and scrubbing down the tiled floors they had all left for the day. Alma’s footsteps echoed hollowly as she walked from the shop to the back rooms and food storage areas, checking for dirt or anything left undone. She knew even before she ran her finger over the shelves and peered into the meat safes that all the surfaces would be spotless. They were.
Diana was right: she did have good staff, but then they should be. She paid them enough.
Closing the kitchen door she walked out from behind the counter into the handkerchief-sized hallway that opened on to the stairs that led to her flat. The evening stretched ahead of her, yawning and empty. For so many months before Charlie had come home there hadn’t been enough hours in the day. She had spent every minute frantically rushing around the shop, dashing up and down stairs, stealing as much time from the business as she could to sit with her mother.
The few days she had spent with Charlie had already taken on a distant, dream-like quality. And now – there was nothing. All the hours of care, all the nights she had sat up with her mother, and suddenly she was left with no claims on her time except those of work and tending the grave in Glyntaff that now held both her parents.
She walked slowly up the stairs into her mother’s room. The bed had been stripped. The mattress lay on its side, the furniture shrouded in dustsheets. She opened the wardrobe door. Her mother’s clothes still hung on the rail: her underclothes, stockings and blouses were neatly folded on the shelves at the side. She knew she should pack them up and take them down to the WVS for distribution to the victims of the Blitz. Her motives weren’t entirely charitable. The room had to be cleared because it would soon be needed for another.
Closing the door, she went into the living room and switched on the radio. Strains of Bach filled the air, the mellow tones harmonising with the sunshine that streamed through the window, but neither the music nor the sun could lighten her dark mood. Perhaps she should go for a walk, but even as the thought occurred to her, she sank down on to the padded window-seat. She felt restless, yet too mentally and physically exhausted to make the effort required to do anything. She hadn’t even eaten since the elevenses of tongue rolls she had shared with Diana. And because it was easier to do nothing than make a decision, she continued to do just that; sitting, staring out over the rooftops of the row of shops across the road to the topmost branches of the trees that grew along the bank of the river behind the town.
If only Charlie would come home now, when her time was entirely her own. They could go away together, steal a few days out of the war. Stay in a hotel somewhere by the sea like Swansea, or Porthcawl. The shops would run smoothly whether she was there or not. Her friends were kind, but they didn’t need her, not in the way her mother had, or Charlie.
She thought back to what he had said about Masha. Had Charlie ever really loved her or had she simply been a substitute for the wife he had been forced to leave in Russia? Where was he now? Did he ever think about her the way she thought about him? She hadn’t heard from him in months, and sometimes she wondered if there was any point in continuing to write to him when she never received an answer.
A boy cycled down Taff Street. He was wearing the flat cap of the telegraph service, and in the same instant she recognised the badge on the front, she knew. Before he even stopped outside the shop she knew. He straightened his uniform jacket, pushed the cap forward to cover his eyes, pulled the small yellow envelope from his bag and walked towards her door.
And she knew.
The sun was sinking over the mountains as Diana left her Uncle Evan’s house. Wyn’s farming cousins had given them a bag of peas and beans, and her mother and Myrtle had insisted on passing half on to Phyllis. It hadn’t been easy to refuse Evan’s pressing invitation to stay to tea, but using the excuse of the theatre shop she had managed to get away.
It was close to teatime and the Avenue was quiet. She hesitated for a moment on the steps outside before deciding that no one would think it odd if they saw her walking over the mountain on a lovely evening like this. As Ronnie had said, no one knew how many more good days there’d be before winter set in.
Children skipped towards her as she passed the last houses and left the unmade road for the rough track that curved above the high garden walls of Phillip Street. They smiled shy hellos, their hands full with pails and bowls that contained what remained of the small, round whinberries that had stained their mouths, teeth and hands dark purple. The berries would make good pies and tarts – if any remained uneaten by the time they reached home.
She walked slowly, passing the last of the whinberry pickers as she climbed higher. Sitting on a clump of heather she looked over the rooftops of the rows of terraces that clung to the hillside below her, and gazed down on the green lawns of the park. Four of the crache, dressed in white, a most unserviceable colour for a mining town, were playing tennis on the club courts. The pool in the public baths shone a deep cerulean blue that looked more inviting from a distance than it ever had close up. Turning her head she studied the Graig again, picking out the back of Laura’s house behind the massive twin, water-storage tanks.
Was Ronnie waiting for her behind the lace curtains that screened the kitchen window? Would he have left the washhouse door open? She didn’t have to turn back towards Graig Street. She could carry on walking down the hill to Graig Terrace and join High Street from there, but as she rose to her feet and dusted the beads of heather from the skirt of her dress she knew she wouldn’t.
She considered the enormity of what she was about to do. Unlike other women in the town, she didn’t even have the excuse of her husband’s absence, or the war. Apart from rationing, shortages and increased workloads, it hadn’t affected her own or Wyn’s life, and unless the Germans invaded it wasn’t likely to. Neither she nor Ronnie was in danger, not like William or Charlie. And Ronnie wasn’t likely to get called up, not after it had taken his leg so long to heal.
She was terrified of what was going to happen in the next few hours, afraid that if she did go to Ronnie it might turn out as disastrous an experience as the dreadful night she had stayed in the café with Tony. Yet she was more frightened of staying away. Ronnie loved her, and she knew that she could live her whole life without experiencing the feelings she had for him, ever again. If she ignored them and walked away now, she might end up regretting it for the rest of her life.
If she allowed him to be, Ronnie would not only be her lover, but remain her friend. And more than anything, she wanted to be loved the way Charlie loved Alma and the way William loved Tina: with consideration and respect for who she was, as well as her body. And perhaps, if she experienced physical love just once in her life, she would be able to settle for what Wyn had to offer.
Or would she? Ronnie’s cool determination and blunt conviction that they were destined to become lovers, unnerved her. He didn’t so much live life as evaluate it, seizing what he wanted, no matter the cost.
He had been right to warn her that they were playing with fire. Common sense dictated that she should never see him alone again. It wasn’t as though it would be difficult. Once he started in munitions, he’d be working long hours. The same as Wyn’s – only unlike Wyn he wouldn’t be walking up to Jacobsdal every evening.
Was she going to Ronnie because she had lost Wyn? She looked around. She hadn’t reached Graig Street yet. It wasn’t too late to turn back. Bewildered and confused she continued to stumble over the rough tussocks of grass past the tanks to the back of Laura’s house.
She looked over the low dry-stone wall down the narrow garden to the lean-to washhouse. How would Tony react if he could see her now, or if he ever found out how she and his brother felt about one another? But then there was no reason why he should; not while she remained married to Wyn, and with Billy to consider there was no way she could do anything else.
What possible harm could there be in seeing Ronnie this one last time? Afterwards she’d leave, go home to her son and her husband and do her best to forget Ronnie and get on with her life.
She climbed over the wall and ran down the path to the back door. Opening it quickly, she slipped inside the washhouse, muffling the latch with her fingers as she closed the door behind her. The air was so still she could hear the clock ticking in the back kitchen. Her heart thundered erratically against her ribcage. What if Ronnie wasn’t alone? What if Tina had walked up from the café to keep him company, or Gina and Luke had called in to see him? How could she possibly explain her presence in the washhouse to them, when Ronnie’s leg had healed weeks ago?
‘I hoped, but I didn’t really believe you’d come.’ He stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette in the dying light.
‘I had to call in on Uncle Evan and Phyllis.’
‘You walked down over the mountain?’
‘It’s a fine evening.’
‘It was a pretty wonderful afternoon.’ He opened the door wider, and stood back. ‘It’s more comfortable in the kitchen than the washhouse.’ He stepped behind her as she moved forward, turning the key in the back door. The click sounded so final, so irrevocable, she shivered uncontrollably as she entered the room.
‘Can I get you tea?’
<
br /> She shook her head mutely.
He left the room. She heard him walking along the passage, the rasp of the front door bolt as he rammed it home.
‘Precaution against anyone walking in on us.’
She couldn’t stop shaking. He took a step towards her and she moved back. Dropping her handbag to the floor she tore at the neck of her blouse, ripping the buttons from their loops as she pulled the neck wide. His hand closed over both of hers, immobilising them, before fastening the collar she had opened.
‘No,’ he whispered, ‘not that way.’ Wrapping his arms around her he held her very close and very still. Afterwards she had no recollection of how long they had stood there, only that when he finally released her she was no longer trembling.
His lips brushed the top of her head as he moved away. Taking her by the hand he led her out of the room and up the stairs into the back bedroom that he had occupied since he’d come home. It was bathed in soft, golden rays of light that highlighted the tiny dust particles in the air. The sun shone through the window, a huge, fiery ball already half hidden behind the mountain. He sat on the patchwork quilt and held out his arms.
She moved towards him, her limbs strangely heavy, as though she were walking over dry sand. He reached out and drew her down beside him. She sat, tense, quivering, her breath coming in shallow, nervous gasps as he shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat and lay back, hands beneath his head.
‘You sure about this?’
‘Yes.’ She lay beside him. He made no attempt to kiss or undress her, simply moved towards her, embracing her body with the length of his. The rough cloth of his trousers rubbed against her bare legs. The clips on his braces pressed through the thin cotton of her dress. She steeled herself to receive his touch without flinching, but there was no rush, no haste, only a quiet, unhurried caress that encompassed every part of their bodies. A gentle coming together of hands, palm to palm; his face resting against hers, the smell of his shaving lotion mingling with her perfume, the warmth of his skin radiating through layers of clothing to her own. She moved slightly, tracing the outline of his lips with her fingers.
Past Remembering Page 32
