‘Disgusting habit,’ says Dafydd Owen. He looks at me. ‘That picture, Gwenni. I’ll have to have a word with your mam.’
The door slams shut and I walk back down the steps to Alwenna. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I say, ‘did I?’
‘You’re going to be in double trouble,’ says Alwenna.
‘It’s your fault,’ I say, ‘blowing bubble gum at him.’
‘It isn’t the bubble gum,’ says Alwenna. ‘It’s the stockings. He’s a dirty old man. Everyone knows that.’
‘Where shall we go next?’ I ask.
‘I can’t come anywhere else. I’ve got to go now.’
‘Go where?’
Alwenna taps the side of her nose with her forefinger. I don’t know what she means.
‘We always play together in the holidays,’ I say.
‘You’re hopeless, Gwenni,’ says Alwenna. ‘This is a stupid idea, this going around asking people if they’ve seen Paleface.’
‘It’s what detectives do,’ I say and then remember to take out my notebook and put a question mark next to Dafydd Owen’s name. ‘I’ll have to think of a different way to ask the question. No one will say whether they’ve seen him or not.’
Alwenna gives a strawberry-scented sigh. ‘I’m going,’ she says. ‘And I can’t come to fetch you tomorrow morning. I’m going for a walk with Edwin.’
What? I watch her walk down the hill, her yellow skirt swaying as she goes. She doesn’t even look like my Alwenna any more. ‘See you at the Band of Hope tomorrow night, then,’ I say to her back.
I take out my red Lion notebook and write This man is Ifan Evans. Have you seen him since he vanished? Maybe that’s the way to ask the question.
13
I haven’t got any better answers after spending all morning asking the new question. Almost all the names in my Lion notebook have got a question mark next to them and my poster is falling apart. Mad Huw chased me from Tryfar Terrace because he thought I was showing everyone a picture of him, and I got a stitch in my side that has only just stopped hurting. But I think that before going home for dinner I’ll just call at Number 2 in our terrace that was empty earlier; there’s someone home now, I can see the light on in the living room. It may be that the last person I ask will have seen Ifan Evans.
I don’t see Mam until in a rush of air she grabs my arm. ‘That’s enough of that,’ she says, and drags me up the road towards our house. ‘Get in the house. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
Mam’s face is white with red blotches on her cheeks just like the Toby jugs have when they’re puffing away hard at their pipes. ‘Someone’s been coming out of every other house on my way home to tell me about your goings on,’ she says, her spit spraying onto my face. ‘I’ve been working hard all morning and the last thing I need is to have people complaining to me about your behaviour.’
‘I’m only trying to find Ifan Evans. And you’re hurting my arm.’
Mam flings my arm away from her and I stumble after her into the living room. She hisses at me and I have trouble hearing what she’s saying.
‘I just want to help Mrs Evans,’ I say.
‘Quaint,’ says Mam. ‘That’s what they’re saying about you. That you’re quaint. That’s the next thing to odd. That’s what they’re really thinking.’
‘But I’m not odd,’ I say.
Mam drops her shopping basket on the floor and grasps me by the shoulders and shakes me. ‘Odd,’ she shouts. ‘Odd, odd, odd. That’s what they’re saying.’ She lets go of me and slumps into her armchair holding her face in her trembling hands. ‘What have I done to deserve a child like you?’ she says.
John Morris uncurls from where he’s lying on Tada’s chair and sniffs the air. He jumps down and starts to snuffle and scrabble at the basket, a frantic growl in his throat.
Mam draws a deep breath. ‘Pull that packet on top out of there,’ she says from behind her hands. ‘I got some lights from Jones the Butcher. Take them into the scullery and cut them up for him.’
‘I can’t, Mam. You know I can’t,’ I say. ‘All that blood makes me feel ill.’
Mam springs from her chair and snatches the packet from her basket and marches into the scullery. John Morris darts after her. I hear the soft, wet plop of the meat onto the chopping board. John Morris is hysterical. The knife thuds and thuds on the board until Mam scrapes the lights into his saucer. The fishy stink of blood wafts into the living room; I try not to think about Mrs Evans’s poor mouth or the red wound in the fox’s side. I glance up and see the Toby jugs turn scarlet with the effort of holding their breath.
‘Nain says it will turn him wild, giving him raw meat,’ I say.
The tap turns off in the scullery and there’s a silence until Mam comes back into the living room and takes off her coat. Her face has come out in more red blotches. Perhaps the blood has splashed on it. I don’t look at her.
‘If you listened to me half as much as you listen to Nain,’ she says, ‘I wouldn’t have the whole town telling me you’re odd every time I walk home from work.’
‘Only today,’ I say, ‘and you said it was every other house, not the whole town.’
Mam takes another deep breath. ‘Just get into that scullery and start making dinner,’ she says.
‘What are we having?’ I say. I walk past all the faces in the distemper with their wide open eyes and don’t look at the saucer of lights.
‘Bread and cheese,’ says Mam. ‘I’ll have to stoke this fire up to get the kettle going.’ She rattles the fire with the poker. ‘I must be the last woman in this town to have to cook on the fire.’
She isn’t. But I don’t say so out loud.
I lift the big white loaf from the bread bin onto the table. I don’t want to use the board in case Mam hasn’t washed all the blood from it. The butter is too cold to spread and makes holes in the bread. I begin to slice the loaf, anyway. Nice, thin slices, only a little bit lacy. I cut the red cheese and nibble a sliver of it. It’s tangy and salty and makes my hunger growl like John Morris in my stomach.
‘Can’t you do anything right?’ Mam comes into the scullery and takes the knife from me. ‘You’re not making a tea party.’ She cuts thick pieces from the loaf. ‘Get that jar of pickled onions down. They’re going a bit soft; we may as well finish them.’
‘That’s because you didn’t salt the onions first,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Nain says you have to salt the onions if you don’t want them going soft.’
‘Right,’ says Mam. ‘Sit on that stool and listen to me.’
I put a thin slice of bread and some cheese and a large pickled onion on a plate and begin to eat. The vinegar on the pickled onion is too sharp because Mam didn’t put the right spices in with it. That’s what Nain said, but I don’t tell Mam. I wipe the vinegar off where it drips down my chin.
‘I’ve been out all morning, working my fingers to the bone for you,’ says Mam.
‘And for Bethan,’ I say.
‘To earn money to buy a nice house with a proper kitchen and a bathroom for you.’
‘I like this house,’ I say. ‘I like living here.’ I take another thin slice of bread. The butter must have been icy when I spread it on this slice. I roll up the bread instead of folding it so I can’t see the holes.
‘You don’t like having a bath in front of the fire and sharing a bed with Bethan, do you?’
‘I suppose not. Will I have a room of my own in the new house, then?’
Mam’s eyes flicker sideways. ‘Yes, of course you will,’ she says, then she glares at me again. ‘And what thanks do I get for slaving away for you? People telling me about your antics all the way home.’
I swallow my last piece of cheese and cut some more, thinly. ‘But what did I do wrong, Mam?’
‘Drawing attention to yourself again, that’s what. Giving people a reason to say you’re odd.’
‘But I can’t ask questions like a detective without people noticing me
. And I’m only trying to find Ifan Evans.’
Mam’s hands are gnawing away at each other like mice eating cheese. Her face is tight and her voice is taut as Mr Pugh’s cheese wire. ‘You shouldn’t be asking anyone any questions at all about him. He’ll come back when he’s ready. Elin Evans has only herself to blame. So prim and proper. No wonder he had to get away. Leave him be.’ Mam starts picking at the loaf of bread, rolling the dough into little balls between her fingers.
‘If I’m going to be a detective,’ I say, ‘I’ve got to practise.’ And what if Ifan Evans is never ready to come back?
‘I don’t know where you get your silly ideas from,’ says Mam. ‘I blame Aunty Lol for giving you all those books.’ She bangs the table and makes me and the bread leap. ‘You’re meddling in things you’re too young to understand.’
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘you said Bethan was too young to be going out with boys but she’s still got a boyfriend.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Mam.
‘I’m not being silly,’ I say. ‘Richard is her boyfriend. Caroline’s brother. Alwenna says she goes to see him, not to play with Caroline.’
‘That Alwenna has no shame,’ says Mam. ‘She ought to wash her mouth with soap.’
‘That’s what Miss Hughes said when Alwenna asked when the baby was due.’ I don’t tell her what Alwenna said about the baby’s father.
Mam covers her mouth with her hand and makes a little gasping noise, just like she did when her new corset got stuck.
‘And,’ I say, ‘she says Mr Owen Number 1 is a dirty old man. Alwenna knows a lot of things.’
Mam takes her hand from her face. It’s left white marks all around her mouth. ‘That poor old man tries his best. He’s got no one to look after him since Mrs Owen died,’ she says.
‘Alwenna didn’t mean that. It was something to do with her stockings.’
Mam’s face blooms scarlet. Her pale pink powder stands out like dots on her skin. ‘That Alwenna’s a bad influence. She’s just like her mother, spreading rumours like that. And she’s far too old for you; she’s almost Bethan’s age. It’s high time you made friends with some of the other girls. That new girl, Deilwen, why can’t you be friends with someone like that?’
‘Alwenna’s always been my best friend,’ I say. ‘We’re Kindred Spirits.’
Mam clenches her fists, then straightens her back and takes deep, steady breaths like Dr Edwards prescribed. Her face goes from red to pink. She takes some bread and cheese onto her plate, but no pickled onions, and begins to eat. Her hands hardly shake at all.
John Morris prowls beneath the table. He must have finished his lights and smelled the cheese. John Morris loves cheese, especially red, salty cheese. I drop a bit on the floor for him and he purrs as he eats it. Alwenna’s little white kitten couldn’t eat and purr at the same time.
‘Don’t,’ says Mam. ‘It’ll give him worms. And it’s a waste.’
‘Where’s Bethan?’ I say. ‘Is she coming home for her dinner?’ There isn’t much cheese left. And Mam has made a mess of the loaf.
Mam shakes her head. ‘She’s playing with Caroline. And having her lunch there, too. Lovely flat. I used to clean for old Mrs Cameron when she lived there.’
I open my mouth and Mam says, ‘With Caroline. And don’t think you can get me off the subject of your wrongdoing. I don’t want you doing anything of the sort again, do you hear me? Cross your heart.’
I cross my heart but I cross my fingers too.
‘Just look at the time,’ says Mam, ‘You’ve made me late. I’ve got to get some cakes made for tonight. You can give me a hand; it’ll keep you out of mischief.’
‘Can I come to help in the meeting, too?’ I ask. There are always nice things to eat at the Sale of Work meetings.
‘If Bethan doesn’t want to come,’ says Mam. ‘Now get me that new bag of flour from my shopping basket, and be quick about it.’
Bethan never wants to help in the Sale of Work meeting. I skip to fetch the flour, then the eggs and margarine from the larder and the sugar from the cupboard. Mam snatches them from me and measures out what she needs and beats everything together in her big bowl. She’s doing everything too fast. Like the clockwork mouse Aunty Lol gave John Morris; when I wound it up tight it skittered about all over the floor, crashing into chair legs and the fender and our feet. John Morris was scared of it.
‘Grease those fairy-cake trays,’ Mam says, and when I’ve done that she slaps spoonfuls of batter into them. She drops her big bowl into the sink with a crash that makes the faces in the distemper blink in fright.
‘You scared the faces in the distemper, Mam,’ I say.
‘Don’t start, Gwenni.’ Mam takes an extra-deep breath. ‘It’s just peeling a bit.’ She scrubs off tiny flakes of the paint, and more faces appear. ‘Just peeling. It’s time your father gave the walls a new coat.’
Will the faces open their mouths to scream out our secrets as the new distemper washes over them like a wave and drowns them?
‘Right. These are ready to go in the oven,’ says Mam. ‘Put that kettle on. I’m going to have a cup of tea and put my feet up while they’re baking. You can do the washing up with the water that’s left in the kettle.’
I sit in Tada’s chair to wait for the kettle to boil and pull out The Tiger in the Smoke from under the cushion. Mr Campion is old in this book but he’s still a good detective. His wife has got red hair like me. He’s solving a mystery from the war. Tada was in the war, but he doesn’t talk about it. Nobody talks about it; it happened a long time ago.
The kettle boils and I make a cup of tea for Mam. I put the plug in the sink and pour in the rest of the hot water, then run some cold into it. It’s not as bad as washing up after supper. There aren’t any slimy bits floating in the water to tangle with my fingers. Maybe someone else will wash the dishes at the Sale of Work meeting and I can dry them. Will Mrs Evans be at the meeting tonight? If she’s not there the women will gossip about Ifan Evans’s disappearance. They always gossip a lot. They’ll forget I’m there if I keep quiet.
There’s a crash in the living room and Mam wails.
‘Look what you’ve made me do now,’ she shouts, ‘upsetting my nerves with your silliness.’
When I go into the living room Mam is on her hands and knees picking up the fairy cakes and putting them back on their baking tray.
‘You’re lucky,’ she says. ‘I think they’ll do.’
In the firelight Mam’s face looks as if it’s breaking apart like my poster. Little cracks have opened up in the face powder below her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She pushes the hot baking tray into my hands. ‘Pick off any cat hairs,’ she says, ‘and I’ll make some icing to put on them. No one will know.’ She heaves herself up from the floor. ‘And don’t you dare tell anyone,’ she says.
14
I skip along the road beside Mam.
‘Walk properly,’ she says. ‘You’re making me feel wobbly.’
Mam holds the tin with the cakes in front of her with both hands, pulling it tight to her stomach. I had to spoon the icing on the cakes because her hands were too shaky, and then she found some cherries left over from Christmas in the larder and I cut them up so there were enough to put a little red blob on top of the icing right in the middle of each cake.
‘Who’s making the sandwiches tonight, Mam?’ I say.
‘Mrs Edwards the Bank,’ says Mam.
‘Good. I like her egg ones.’ I begin to skip again. Mrs Edwards the Bank cuts the bread thin like Nain does and puts plenty of egg on the slices.
‘You’re not going to eat everything in sight again, are you?’ says Mam. ‘People will think I don’t feed you. You can’t be very hungry; you didn’t eat much lobscouse for your supper. And stop skipping. Why don’t you listen sometimes, Gwenni? I may as well talk to the man in the moon.’
I stop skipping. Mam knows that I don’t like lobscouse. All those bits of grey meat and white bone and potato and
carrot in watery stock with globules of grease floating on top. It reminds me of washing-up water and I can’t eat any of it.
‘Now you’re dawdling,’ says Mam. ‘Come on, hurry up.’
We turn up the path through the cemetery to the vestry. The vestry lights are dim. To save money, Mrs Davies Chapel House uses bulbs that don’t give much light. So she can buy more and more silk stockings, Alwenna says. But I don’t want to think about Alwenna.
Several people are standing in the vestry’s little kitchen. There’s a clatter of crockery and talk and a loud hum from the boiler as it heats the water for the tea. I listen to the hum but it’s not the same note as the hum I hear in the sky. I can’t see Mrs Edwards the Bank or her egg sandwiches.
‘Here come some cakes,’ says Mrs Sergeant Jones. She takes the tin from Mam and pulls off the lid. She hands the tin back to me. ‘Here, Gwenni, put them on that plate there, and put a doily on the plate first, mind.’
There’s already a plate of cakes on the table. Someone else has made cakes like Mam’s and put a whole half-cherry on the icing. I look at Mam and she sniffs and says in a whisper, ‘Those will be from Mrs Twm Edwards. She can afford half-cherries.’
Mam’s cakes would look better if they had no cherries at all on them. There’s also a plate of Mrs Sergeant Jones’s famous vanilla biscuits. I can smell the vanilla from here.
‘I don’t suppose we can expect Elin Evans this evening,’ says Mrs Jones the Butcher. ‘I haven’t seen her once in the shop since Ifan went. She used to come in every day after school.’
‘There’s more to Ifan’s disappearance than meets the eye,’ says Mrs Morris. ‘You know my cousin Morwenna from Cricieth? Well, she knows of Elin’s family there. Rather a posh family but all dead now, apart from the sister of course. Anyway, Morwenna heard that . . .’
But I don’t hear what Morwenna heard because Mrs Sergeant Jones coughs loudly all over Mam’s cakes and nods at me and says, ‘Why don’t you take your mam’s lovely cakes into the Meeting Room, Gwenni. There’s a fire in there to sit by.’ And she hands me the plate of cakes and takes hold of me by the shoulders, steers me into the room next door and closes the door on me. I place Mam’s cakes on the white-clothed trestle table. I think I’ll have one of Mrs Twm Edwards’s cakes instead of Mam’s. And a piece of Mrs Thomas next door’s big chocolate cake that’s here on the table. She always bakes a big chocolate cake when it’s her turn. The women on the benches near the fire are too busy talking and knitting and sewing to take any notice of me, so I stay by the door.
The Earth Hums in B Flat Page 8
