A Place To Call Home

by June Francis

  ‘I thought yer’d have put weight on, lad,’ said Cissie, sounding distressed. ‘I imagined yer eating fresh home baked bread spread thick with Welsh butter.’

  ‘I eat plenty, Ma,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘Megan reckons because I’m a worrier that I use too much nervous energy.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your Megan,’ said Cissie, patting his arm. ‘I hope she’s got the kettle on. I’m dying for a cuppa.’

  ‘Not her, Ma,’ he said with a hint of embarrassment. ‘It’s me that looks after that side of things. Since the factory opened for making aeroplane wings, she’s been working there. I look after the land and the livestock, write my poetry and information books and do the cooking.’

  Cissie said, ‘Bleedin’ hell, lad, you do surprise me. There was nothing about this in your letter!’

  ‘I didn’t want people thinking I was a cissy or henpecked, Ma. It’s just that with my nervous debility I couldn’t settle in a proper job outside the home.’

  She nodded and said kindly, ‘Well, lad, if that way suits the pair of you, who am I to argue?’

  He smiled. ‘It also means that I can spend more time with you and … ’ He paused to look at Greta and Rene. ‘Sorry! I haven’t said hello yet. Hi, Rene! You’ve shot up since last I saw you.’ He shook her hand before turning to his niece. ‘You must be Greta. Welcome to Wales!’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Greta. ‘You remind me of Mam.’ And standing on tiptoe she kissed his cheek.

  A flush ran along his cheekbones and tears welled in his eyes. Hastily, he brushed them away and, taking Cissie’s baggage, he led the way out of the station and along a main street to the edge of the town. There, he paused in front of a detached house, constructed of the now familiar slate. He opened the gate and led them up a crazy pavement path and round the side of the house to a door at the back. Several hens cluck-clucked and fluttered out of the way as he opened the door and ushered them inside. He directed them to the scullery to wash their hands and then showed them to a well-scrubbed table in the enormous kitchen.

  The table was situated in front of a window, overlooking a cultivated plot of land. Through an opening at the top of the window came the bleating of sheep and the lowing of a cow. The room was lovely and warm, heated by an enormous black leaded range.

  ‘I’ll show you the bedrooms after you’ve eaten,’ said Fred, placing plates of fruit cake and floury scones, as well as a pat of butter, on the table. ‘We have a cooked meal when the kids come home from school. Megan eats depending on her shift. Help yourself. I’m sure you don’t get food like this in Liverpool.’ They all agreed and fell on the scones and cakes as he continued to talk. ‘Llanberis is a quiet place if you compare it to the resorts along the coast. I’m hoping you won’t find it dull after Liverpool.’

  ‘Stop worrying, lad,’ Cissie said firmly. ‘We can cope with a bit of quiet. We’re not the first to head for the hills in times of trouble. While we’re not exactly evacuees, yer must have seen plenty out this way.’

  Greta’s ears pricked up as she was reminded that Alex expected her to try and discover his sisters’ whereabouts while she was here. ‘Are there any evacuees in the village, Uncle Fred?’ she asked, reaching for another scone.

  He glanced at her. ‘There’s folk who have family from the cities staying and there’s the odd couple of kids, unrelated, but if you’re talking about whole schools being billeted here, you won’t find them. Plenty in the coastal towns, though, I should imagine.’ He turned to Rene. ‘So how is Liverpool? News does get to us when the bombers are heading that way. The enemy comes in from the Irish Sea and zooms along the coast towards Merseyside. We heard it’s been pretty quiet lately.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about the bombing,’ said Cissie gruffly, shifting her bulk on the sofa. ‘We came here to get away from the war. To relax and enjoy the peace and quiet.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ said Fred hastily. ‘I know you’ll get plenty of that here.’

  He was to be proved right. On the Sunday after they arrived, they all attended chapel led by Fred’s wife like a mother hen with her brood of chicks. She was a buxom, rosy cheeked, warm-hearted woman who alternately chided and cosseted her husband. She made them feel welcome in her home. The children, who had been shy of them at first, were soon climbing on their grandmother’s knee and demanding that she tell them what their dadda was like when he was a little boy. Cissie was delighted, but remembered to speak slowly, having discovered that, although her three grandchildren were bilingual, Welsh was their first language.

  Come Monday, Fred took them up the foothills of Snowdon along an old slate quarry road to Gladstone Rock, named after the Victorian prime minister. His mother begged him for an easier day on Tuesday. So he borrowed a friend’s pony and trap and took them to Betwscoed to see the Swallow Falls. The weather was perfect. On Wednesday afternoon, he made a picnic lunch and they walked to Llyn Padarn.

  ‘It’s beautiful! Really beautiful!’ Rene sat on the grass, gazing at the stretch of water. It was so still and clear that the mountains were reflected in its shining surface. How she wished Harry was here.

  ‘Would you like to stretch your legs further, Rene?’ asked Fred.

  She looked at him and demanded with a hint of laughter in her voice, ‘Depends on how far you expect me to walk. I’m not used to country walks, remember.’ He had been kind to her, not once had his attitude shown any resentment towards her for her mother’s actions. So different from his brother. She liked him a lot. More often than not in the last few days it was he and she who walked ahead, leaving Greta and Cissie trailing behind. They talked about the old days, about Sally and Cissie, and the years between the wars and she asked him about his writing. His company was undemanding and restful.

  ‘I promise we’ll just walk along the lakeside,’ said Fred, holding down a hand to her.

  Rene allowed herself to be dragged to her feet. ‘What about you two?’ she asked, gazing down at Greta and Cissie, who were lying on rugs on the grass, heads resting on their folded coats.

  ‘You can go without me,’ murmured Greta, without opening her eyes. Cissie’s only response was a snore.

  Rene and Fred smiled at each other and set off. They had not gone far when he said, ‘I’m glad we’re alone because there’s a couple of things I want to ask you about.’ He looked anxious as he gazed into her face. ‘I’m not sure how to start

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ she prompted.

  ‘It’s about our Jeff.’

  Immediately her smile vanished. ‘What about him?’ she said warily.

  From his pocket Fred produced a letter. ‘I know you haven’t mentioned him but Ma has and, although I’ve not disillusioned her, I know he’s deceived you both.’ He thrust the letter at Rene. ‘You can read it if you like. It’s from his wife.’

  ‘Wife!’ She was stunned. ‘But-but he told me she was killed in the blitz on Southampton.’

  ‘He’s a b-bloody l-liar!’ stuttered Fred. ‘In that l-letter she asks me wh-whether I’ve heard from him. Ap-parently she hasn’t done so for ages and has no-no idea where he is. I’m-I’m sorry, Rene.’ He took her hand and gripped it tightly.

  Rene was glad that she could reassure him. ‘That’s OK! Thanks for telling me. Whatever Mrs Hardcastle has said she’s mistaken. I detest Jeff, he was horrible to me, thinking that I should pay, in the worst of ways, for what my mother did. You must know how sorry I am about it all but I had no idea what was going on.’

  He looked relieved. ‘He-He was always was a bit of a swine. I could never understand why our Sal thought the sun shone out of him.’

  ‘I’m sure he can charm the birds out of the trees if he wants to,’ said Rene.

  Fred nodded. ‘Just like me dad. Sal thought him the bees’ knees when he turned up … always with a present for her. He used to call her his little doll. I don’t know if you remember him, Rene?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’

  He grimaced. ‘Not surprising. I sa
w little enough of him he was a travelling salesman but what I did see of him I could have done without. That’s all I’m saying.’

  They walked on in silence for a while, breathing in the sweet air and listening to birdsong. Then Rene said abruptly, ‘What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?’

  Fred’s face, which had worn a brooding expression, lightened. ‘Oh, I wanted to ask you to back me up and try and persuade Mam to stay on here for a while. She respects your opinion. The kids love her and we’ve got a lot of years to make up and she’s getting on. And to be honest,’ he said ruefully, ‘since she’s been here, I can see she’d be an asset to the place. It would give me more time for my writing.’

  Rene smiled. ‘I’ve been wondering how to broach the question of her staying here. Harry asked me to try and persuade her and Greta to stay.’

  He looked pleased and then his brow knitted. ‘Do you think Greta would want to stay? I know that Carnarfon and Bangor aren’t that far away but in winter when the snows come travel isn’t easy. She’s young and could soon miss the bright lights of Liverpool.’

  ‘The lights are a bit dimmed in Liverpool at the moment,’ said Rene softly. ‘But we could ask and see what she says. My conscience will be clear then.’

  So the matter of Cissie and Greta staying on in Llanberis was raised as the four of them walked back to the house. ‘I’d really like you to stay, Ma,’ said Fred earnestly. ‘Greta, too! I’ve been thinking that she could probably get a job at the factory where Megan works. She’d be contributing to the war effort then.’

  Greta was not so sure about staying. What if Alex came home? She might not get to see him and besides she would miss her father … and what about the widow? She made her decision. ‘Thanks for the offer, Uncle Fred. I’ve loved being here but I’d rather not leave Dad on his own.’

  Fred touched her shoulder. ‘You think about it, lovey.’ He glanced at Cissie. ‘You’re quiet, Ma.’

  ‘I’m thinking, lad, that I’ll miss Harry and Wilf.’

  Greta and Rene exchanged a wink. ‘Who’s Wilf?’ asked Fred, looking surprised.

  ‘Just a friend,’ said Cissie casually. ‘But I’d be willing to give it a try here. You could do with a hand in the house with Megan out at work … and what with summer coming you’ll need to be out on your plot more, looking after your veggies and the like.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Besides, I don’t know how many more years I’ve got left and I want to spend some of them with you and the kids. I’m not saying I’ll stay forever, mind. Don’t want to wear me welcome out with Megan. But we’ll see how it goes for a while.’

  Fred looked delighted and placed his arm round his mother’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘That’s great news, Ma.’

  Rene and Greta watched mother and son as they walked ahead of them back to the house. Rene smiled as she linked her arm through that of Greta. ‘I wonder how Wilf feels about your gran these days?’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Greta, and chuckled. ‘Perhaps absence will make his heart grow fonder.’

  Rene’s expression sobered. ‘About your staying here. Your dad wanted you to stay. Think about that before you make your final decision.’

  Greta promised she would, thinking that if she did stay on she could enquire about Alex’s sisters at the coastal resorts, showing the photograph of the girls in shops, etc. The trouble was she didn’t really want them to be found. What was she to do?

  Two days later Megan arrived home from the night shift with news that shocked them all. ‘Waves and waves of Jerry aeroplanes were seen coming in from the Irish Sea last night! I heard it from one of the women this morning. She had an aunt living in Rhyl on the coast and they were on the phone to each other.’ Megan’s eyes were like saucers. ‘They could see the glow from the fires lighting up the sky! Some reckon the fires were still burning this morning and that people are deserting Liverpool in droves! That there’s thousands of homes destroyed.’

  Greta looked at Rene in horror. ‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

  Rene did not know what to say. The truth was that she did not know what to do. She felt sick at heart, terrified that luck might have deserted Harry and he was dead.

  15

  Harry removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow that threatened to trickle into his eyes and blur his vision. His mouth was raw and dry with dust. He reached for the tin mug standing on a convenient brick and gulped down some of the hot, sweet tea. A cry came again from the rubble and Harry put the mug down remembering how, back in March, another rescue worker had found a baby still alive after three days of being buried beside her dead parents.

  He looked up at the men, who took orders from him. Just like him they were exhausted, having gone without sleep for two nights. He had returned home yesterday for a brief rest and to check whether Greta and Cissie had returned home but the house had been empty and, according to Wilf, Rene had not come back home, either. So he had returned to Mill Road Infirmary where a parachute mine had caused devastation. They had dug people out alive, but there had also been more than fifty dead. A sigh escaped him. He was near the end of his tether, but if there was a baby trapped under the debris, he wanted to be the one to get it out. Such moments of lifesaving were sweet and made the danger worthwhile. He imagined taking the baby in his arms.

  He pocketed his trowel and his eyes narrowed as he gazed into the tunnel entrance, angled to a degree by a kitchen table and a chair, which had become locked together beneath tons of bricks and charred wood. He reached for the piece of wood used to protect his head and crawled into the hole, inching his way along, careful not to disturb the wall of rubble held up with props of wood. The cry came again and it was close. With a delicate touch he withdrew a chunk of brick and mortar without disturbing the broken timber beside it that might bring down a ton of debris.

  Something shot out of the hole and straight into his face. He felt claws dig into his skin and his chest began to heave. He couldn’t breathe! Panicking, he struggled to get a hold on the ball of fur with his free hand. He managed to get a grip and threw the kitten over his shoulder; he heard it scampering along the tunnel. He sucked in air, heavy with dust. His face stung where the cat’s claws had dug in. He felt a sneeze coming on and struggled to back out of the tunnel, the wood that he held over his head wobbling. A sneeze exploded from him and the force caused him to bang his head against the wood, which hit the roof. His chest was wheezing and dust and tiny bits of brick and plaster fell about him. Another sneeze and everything started to slide. He put up an arm to protect himself as that part of the tunnel caved in.

  *

  ‘You’re staying here,’ said Fred in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘It’s what your father wanted. There’s no point going back to Liverpool; even if you could get back, you could be killed before you made it to your front door if things are as bad as they sound.’

  They had been discussing the matter for several hours.

  ‘But what about Dad?’ cried Greta, her voice catching on a sob. ‘He could be … he could be … ’

  ‘Now don’t let’s think the worst,’ said Rene, sounding calmer than she felt. ‘It was bad just before Christmas and we all survived. Perhaps we could phone the dairy and see what they have to say.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ said Fred, looking relieved.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ decided Rene, unable to remain still any longer, and she hustled Greta and Fred out of the house.

  *

  ‘Come on, Harry! Open yer eyes!’

  Harry felt a slap on his face and moved his head, wincing.

  ‘That’s it, mate! Yer gonna be alright!’ said the voice.

  Harry groaned, coughed, and tried to open eyes that were heavy. His throat and chest felt raw and breathing was difficult. Water splashed on to his face and he gasped and attempted to wipe it away but his arm hurt like hell.

  ‘It’s broken, mate!’ said the voice.

  Harry opened his eyes and focused his gaze on the
first aid man kneeling at his side. ‘Bloody hell!’ he gasped.

  The man smiled. ‘That’s the ticket! I don’t think you’ve got any serious head injury and I’m pretty sure the arm’s a clean break but we’ll have you X-rayed and sort that out for you in no time.’

  One of the rescue team, who had Harry’s head cradled in his lap, said, ‘Yer were lucky that you’d managed to get near the opening of the tunnel so we got yer out dead quick.’

  ‘Thanks!’ said Harry in heartfelt tones.

  ‘D’you have someone at home to look after you?’ asked the first aid man. Harry had no wish to stay in hospital and so nodded. ‘Right, we’ll get you out of here and have that arm seen to.’

  Harry was taken home in style; a car dropping him off in front of the house. The street was Sunday quiet and he reckoned everyone was indoors having their tea. He walked slowly up the step, his jacket slung over his shoulders, one button fastened at his chest, keeping it in place. They had slit up his shirt sleeve, straightened the bone and put his arm in plaster. In a jacket pocket were some pills to help him sleep. He banged on the door but no one came. Which in a way was a relief; it meant Greta and her grandmother were probably still in Wales. So he reached through the letterbox with his left hand, grabbed the string and dragged the key out. He managed to open the door and step inside.

  He shut it behind him and walked like a zombie along the lobby and into the kitchen. He removed his cap and dropped it in a corner and then unbuttoned his jacket and allowed that to fall onto the floor, as well. He stood a moment, swaying with weariness before dragging out a dining chair from the table and sinking on to it. They had provided him with some hot soup, bread, and a cup of strong sweet tea at the first aid post, and also washed his hands and face and dealt with the scratches inflicted by the kitten. He longed for a bath but knew it was out of the question with his arm he couldn’t boil the water himself.