The colonel nodded as he stepped further along the bluff to gain a more comprehensive view.
‘People walk in the park all the year around,’ Rhodri continued to prattle heedlessly. ‘In summer they come from miles around to spend a day there. Not many towns in Wales, or England, come to that, can boast a recreation area with this many amenities.’
The colonel continued to gaze at the vista of twisting rivers and railway lines, pitheads marked by the huge wheels of winding gear and narrow, grimy streets. Lifting his head he studied the surrounding hillsides, their windswept summits cloaked in coarse, yellowed grass, the lower slopes ribboned with steep terraces and sprawling puddles of black slag and coal waste.
‘It’s a real people’s park,’ Rhodri shouted, acutely aware that his babbling was boring the colonel, but the American’s reserve had unnerved him to the point where he felt that any sound, even that of his own voice, was preferable to a silence punctuated only by the noise of the chainworks and the gusting of the wind.
Maurice Duval thought otherwise. The eight weeks he had spent driving the colonel around Britain had taught him to keep conversation to a minimum during working hours. It wasn’t that the CO was unfriendly, he simply preferred to limit communication to the essential. The corporal only wished that the billeting officer who had insisted on showing them Pontypridd understood as much.
‘Ynysangharad estate was bought and landscaped with public donations, principally pennies from ordinary working men and women who wanted to build a Memorial Park as a tribute to the soldiers who lost their lives in the Great War.’
‘Have you plans for another collection when this war is over, Mr Williams?’ David Ford enquired drily.
Uncertain whether the colonel had made a joke or not, Rhodri laughed anyway.
‘The mansion in the park? Is it privately owned?’
‘A clinic. An essential facility for the mothers and babies of the town,’ Rhodri informed him quickly, hoping the colonel wouldn’t try to requisition that building along with those he had already earmarked. It was going to be difficult enough to administer the town’s affairs as it was, with half the civic accommodation in military hands. The Americans might be allies, but after months of preparing for their arrival it was beginning to feel more like invasion than alliance. ‘As you see, the town is quite compact. The drill hall and chapel vestries where the majority of your men will be billeted are either centrally situated or within easy walking distance of most of the facilities Pontypridd has to offer. And Mrs Llewellyn-Jones will have accommodation organised for yourself and your officers by tomorrow morning. She is very efficient.’
‘After meeting her, I don’t doubt it.’
‘The local WVS would be lost without her. Although she relinquished her position as chairwoman before the war, she’s still very much a driving force within their ranks. She volunteered their services to take charge of, and find lodgings for all the evacuees sent to the town. It was no mean task. We were inundated when the London blitz began.’
Turning up the collar on his overcoat the colonel strode back to the car. Concerned that he hadn’t done justice to Pontypridd and all it had to offer, the billeting officer trailed dejectedly in his wake. As soon as they’d closed the doors, the driver hit the ignition. Rhodri clutched the door handle as he perched on the edge of the rear bench seat. The boy behind the wheel was wearing a corporal’s uniform but he looked too young to be out of short trousers, let alone be in charge of a car. He also talked funny, even for an American.
The accent Rhodri had such difficulty in deciphering was broad Southern. A native of South Carolina, Maurice Duval had recently celebrated his twentieth birthday, but to his constant chagrin, his skinny five-feet-five frame, curly, ginger hair and boyish, freckled features made him look more schoolboy than soldier. Before being drafted he had helped his father manage a run-down automobile shop. Smarter, and quicker to pick up on things than most draftees, he was an excellent driver who knew what it took to keep an automobile on the road, just two of the reasons he had been picked out to be an officer’s chauffeur.
He glanced in the mirror as he steered down the hill towards the town centre. The colonel had a look of profound concentration on his face, as though he were plotting out a defence against German attack. Maurice shivered. Ever since the regiment had landed in Liverpool and seen the bombed-out buildings and rudimentary, barbed-wire, coastal defences, they’d been expecting Jerry to materialise. Like everyone else in his unit, he couldn’t understand why the enemy hadn’t arrived ahead of them.
‘Council offices, sir?’ he asked, as the landmark old bridge came into view.
‘Yes, Corporal.’
Two people were waiting in the doorway of the building. A short, plump, middle-aged woman, who was so tightly corseted, Maurice expected her to burst out of her green costume at any moment, and a tall, slim, blond lieutenant in immaculate dress uniform. Rhodri said his goodbyes and opened the door, stepping on to the polished shoes of the officer who’d caught the door to stop it from blowing back.
‘I’m so sorry …’
‘Not at all, sir.’ Lieutenant Kurt Schaffer tipped his hat as he grimaced in pain. ‘Nice to meet you again, Mr Williams. I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted with you and all the townsfolk. Mrs Llewellyn-Jones.’ Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it before climbing into the car and taking Rhodri’s seat in the back alongside the colonel.
‘Remember,’ she panted breathlessly, before he closed the door. ‘Now that you have the key, you’re welcome to move your things in any time, day or night.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. That’s most generous and hospitable.’
‘Anthea will be so pleased to meet you.’
‘I will be honoured to make her acquaintance, ma’am.’
Sensing, rather than seeing the colonel’s impatience, he closed the door, returning her wave as Maurice headed down the road.
‘And who is Anthea?’ Colonel Ford enquired.
‘Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s daughter, sir.’
‘Age?’
‘She didn’t volunteer it, sir, and I didn’t ask.’
‘Occupation?’
‘Bank clerk, sir.’
‘You know army policy on billeting in private houses, Lieutenant. Only officers of the rank of major and above to be accorded that privilege.’
‘With respect, sir, Mrs Llewellyn-Jones insisted that there was more than enough accommodation for all the officers, including the lieutenants. And she offered …’
‘You’re a charming bastard, Schaffer. Just make sure those Hollywood looks and gentlemanly manners don’t get you into trouble.’
‘Sir?’
‘Take that innocent expression off your face. You know exactly what I mean.’ He glanced through the window as they overtook a stationary tram in the narrow main street. ‘Do you see what I see out there, Lieutenant?’
‘Buildings that could do with a damn good clean, sir?’
‘With the dust generated by all this coal production there’d be no point; half an hour later they’d be just as black. Look again?’
‘Empty shops, long queues and shabbily-dressed civilians, sir?’
‘They’ve had three years of war, Schaffer. Have you any idea what that does to a country’s economy, not to mention morale? Do you think your South Carolina would have had the guts to stand alone against Hitler?’
‘They had the guts to stand against the Yankees, sir.’ Kurt realised he’d made a mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth. David Ford was a Northerner, a graduate of West Point and a fourth-generation career army officer. A member of the fit, young, capable school of regulars who’d gained rapid promotion since George Marshall had been appointed Army Chief of Staff in ‘39. Rumour had it he’d been a captain only three years ago. At thirty-seven he was one of the youngest full colonels in the army. He was certainly up to the job, but he was not renowned for his tolerance or sense of humour. The lieutenant dropped his
gaze as the colonel stared him coolly in the eye.
‘As you’re unable to see what’s in front of you, Lieutenant, I will explain. If you look out of that window,’ Ford enunciated every word slowly and clearly as though he were addressing an idiot, ‘you will see far more women than men, and the few men you do see will be either too young or old for military service.’
‘Sir.’ Schaffer tried to put contrition as well as respect into his voice.
‘That means that most, if not all, of the healthy, eligible men in this town are either away fighting, or have already been killed.’
‘Sir.’
‘Therefore we have to keep a close eye, a very close eye,’ he reiterated slowly, ‘on our boys, and make damned sure that they treat every woman between the ages of twelve and ninety in this town like ladies, no matter what their social position or marital status. Every GI in my command will show the utmost respect at all times. The same kind of respect they show their mothers and sisters: no more, no less. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, because I am ordering you to enforce that policy. As of now you are liaison officer to the town. I will hold you personally responsible for smooth and peaceful relations between our boys and the locals. You will organise social events. Large-scale events,’ he added caustically. ‘Parties for the town’s children and socials that old ladies will be comfortable attending.’
‘I understand perfectly, sir.’
‘The only seduction will be by the regiment of the entire civilian population, male as well as female. Old as well as young.’
‘Sir.’ Ford squirmed uncomfortably under the colonel’s unflinching gaze. There had been a minor scandal involving a sergeant’s daughter back in training camp. One he thought he had succeeded in keeping quiet; now; he wondered if it was quite the secret he had believed it to be.
‘Officers lead by example, Lieutenant. I don’t care how many girls throw themselves at you while we are here. You’ll put that seductive charm of yours under lock and key for the duration. And in case I’m not making myself quite clear, here it is in plain English. Hands off the women, and that goes double for the daughter of your host family. That’s an order.’
‘Sir.’
‘I’m glad we understand one another so well.’ Lifting his briefcase on to the seat, Ford opened it, extracted a file and handed it to Schaffer. ‘You have the accommodation details, sort the units into billets. This time tomorrow evening I want every man installed in his own space and ready for training.’
*……*……*
Bethan John slowed her car as she reached the top of Penycoedcae Hill. After checking the mirror, she swung sharply to the left of the narrow lane turning between a pair of imposing posts that had been devoid of gates since the Ministry of Supply’s drive for scrap metal in 1940. Her heart sank when she saw the car parked in front of her substantial, three-storey villa. Only one person in Pontypridd had a Daimler, a semi-retired chauffeur to drive it and the petrol ration to run it: Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, doyenne of the WVS and self-appointed administrator of the war in Pontypridd. Why did she have to come on a Thursday of all nights when It’s That Man Again was on the radio at eight-thirty?
Bethan checked her nurse’s fob watch. When Mrs Llewellyn-Jones visited, she visited. She’d be lucky to get rid of the woman in under two hours, and she’d been looking forward to spending the time before her favourite programme playing, bathing and reading to her two children.
Gathering her coat, nurse’s bag and handbag from the back seat, she left the car. Maisie, the unmarried mother she’d taken out of the workhouse to keep house and help with the children, was waiting at the front door.
‘Mrs Llewellyn-Jones …’
Bethan nodded as she hung her cape on the beechwood stand. ‘I saw her car.’
‘Mr Williams is with her. They insisted on seeing Liza and her sisters. I don’t know what they said to them but the girls have been crying ever since. They won’t talk to me. They’ve shut themselves in their bedroom and …’
‘Whatever it is, I’ll sort it out, Maisie. You’ve put our visitors in the drawing room?’
‘And taken them tea and cake.’
‘Thank you. Tell the children to keep the noise down in the kitchen. They can play in the drawing room after Mrs Llewellyn-Jones and Mr Williams have gone. And as soon Rachel and Eddie have finished their tea send them in to me please.’
‘Even if Mrs Llewellyn-Jones is still with you?’
‘Even if the king and queen decide to join us. They are my children and I want to spend every minute I can with them.’ Bethan gave her a reassuring smile as she crossed the hall. For all of her housekeeper’s domestic capabilities she couldn’t help thinking of her as a young girl, although they had been in the same class in primary school.
Steeling herself for a dose of Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s imperious superiority, she opened the door and walked into the spacious drawing room that her husband, Andrew, had spent a great deal of time, money and care in furnishing when they had moved into the house. Before taking in evacuees she had packed his beloved blond wood, art deco furniture and ornaments into the stables. Now, the wallpaper and paintwork were as shabby as the second-hand pieces she had acquired to replace them. Despite Maisie and Liza Clark’s eagle-eyed supervision, six evacuee children plus her own two, and Maisie’s little girl had wreaked havoc, not only on the drawing room, but the entire house.
‘Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, this is an unexpected visit.’ Bethan glanced at the tray Maisie had set out with an embroidered linen tray cloth, the best china and a plate of home-made dripping cakes. She hoped Maisie hadn’t been over-generous. Rationing and wartime shortages meant there were never enough cakes and biscuits for the children, whereas Mr Llewellyn-Jones’s position as bank manager brought him into contact with enough black-marketeers to ensure that neither his wife nor his daughter went short of luxuries.
‘Bethan.’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones inclined her double chin but made no attempt to leave the battered but comfortable chair she’d sunk her bulk into. Rhodri Williams compensated for her lack of courtesy by leaving his seat and offering his hand.
‘I believe you know Mr Williams?’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones crumbled the cake on her plate with pudgy, beringed fingers.
‘We’re old acquaintances.’ Bethan shook his hand. ‘How is your wife?’
‘Fine, thanks to you and Nurse Evans, Nurse John. You did a magnificent job of caring for her after that nasty fall. She still can’t walk without a stick, but she is moving a lot easier.’
‘And she’ll continue to mend as long as she doesn’t go dusting the tops of any more blackout curtains.’
‘The trouble with blackout material is that it shows every speck of grey dust and spider’s web.’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones stared pointedly at the curtains draped around the rails of the twin bay windows.
‘Doesn’t it?’ Bethan agreed, straining to keep her voice even.
‘And my maid never thinks of cleaning anything until I prompt her. I have to remind her to do even the most basic, routine housework. It’s been impossible to find, or keep, good staff since the beginning of the war.’
The hinges squeaked as the door opened and Bethan’s two children peeped into the room, three-year-old Rachel leading twenty-one-month-old Eddie by the hand. Managing to ignore Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s presence for a moment, Bethan smiled broadly and opened her arms. Neither child needed further encouragement. They rushed in, Eddie climbing straight on to her lap, Rachel standing at her knee, eyeing the visitors shyly from beneath a thick fringe of straight, dark auburn hair.
‘Say hello to Mrs Llewellyn-Jones and Mr Williams.’
Rachel managed a shy ‘How do you do?’ but Eddie buried his head in her cardigan.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but as I’m on duty most days and some nights, I try to spend every minute I have at home with my children.’
‘I don’t know how you manage, working the hours you do.’ Mr Williams leaned
forward and tickled Rachel beneath her chin, driving her even closer to Bethan. ‘My wife told me you’re on the go from early morning until late at night. Then you’re on call -’
‘Bethan has plenty of help,’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones cut in abruptly. ‘And despite labour shortages, no mother of young children has to work.’
Bethan took a deep breath. Mrs Llewellyn-Jones had made her opinion of working mothers known on numerous occasions, and generally in front of Andrew’s already disapproving mother.
‘Surely you haven’t come to billet any more evacuees on me, Mr Williams?’ she asked in the hope of bringing the unheralded visit to a speedy conclusion.
‘Not evacuees.’ Pressing his fingertips together he stared at the ceiling as he struggled to sort classified from unclassified information in his mind. Mrs Llewellyn-Jones seized the opportunity to take over the conversation.
‘We’re here to lighten your load of the Clark girls.’
‘We’d find it difficult to run the house without Liza’s help.’
‘She has three younger sisters who must make more work than she can possibly do.’
‘They are no trouble.’ Bethan helped Rachel up on to her knee next to Eddie. If she had been talking to almost anyone else she might have added, ‘unlike the boys’. The three small cockneys were in constant trouble either with the school, or the neighbouring farmers.
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