‘Mrs John?’ Colonel Ford glared at Schaffer and Judy as he went to the door to welcome Bethan. ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘My friend, Mrs Raschenko, and my sisters-in-law, Mrs Jane Powell and Mrs Jenny Powell,’ she added, drawing Jenny into their group as Judy began to flirt even more outrageously with Kurt.
Colonel Ford shook hands with all of them before leading them to his table set as far away from the noise of the band, and as close to the buffet and bar, as could be arranged.
‘My adjutant Major Reynolds, Captain Reide, my aide Lieutenant George Rivers.’ The officers rose to their feet as they were introduced. ‘I believe you know the Mayor and his wife, Councillor and Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, and their daughter, Anthea, Dr and Mrs John -’
‘My mother and father-in-law, Colonel,’ Bethan interrupted, before he could recite the names of everyone at his table.
A glance in Captain Reide’s direction secured extra seats and Bethan, Alma, Jenny and Jane found themselves squashed between the colonel and Major Reynolds.
‘Sherry, ladies?’ Major Reynolds took a bottle from the centre of the table and filled their glasses as a waiter appeared with more plates and a selection of food from the buffet.
‘Sir?’ Looking suitably contrite, Kurt Schaffer approached, his cheek scrubbed of lipstick and Judy nowhere in sight. ‘Everyone is waiting for you to formally open the proceedings.’
Excusing himself, David Ford went to the stage. Taking the microphone from the band leader he tapped it, waiting for silence before speaking.
‘Thank you for accepting our invitation. I hope this occasion will mark the beginning of a warm and mutually beneficial friendship between your town and the American armed forces. Let the dancing begin.’
The band struck up a waltz. He returned to the table and asked Bethan for the first dance. One look at Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s downturned, disapproving mouth was enough. Bethan took his hand and followed him on to the floor.
‘Bang goes my reputation,’ she murmured as they joined the half-a -dozen couples who had braved the stares of the rest of the guests.
‘With only one dance, Mrs John?’
‘You don’t know the gossips in this town.’
He looked back at Mrs Llewellyn-Jones. ‘I believe they’re the same the world over.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘It’s good to know there’s a smiling woman beneath the starched uniform and efficient expression you usually wear.’
‘We haven’t much to smile about these days.’
‘All the more reason to do so.’
‘How are your men settling into the town?’
‘I’d be lying if I said they were happy to be here. Most have left wives and sweethearts back home. They are just as lonely as I suspect most of the women are here.’
‘It’s bizarre when you think about it. You’re here, and don’t want to be. Our men are in North Africa, the East or imprisoned in Germany and they don’t want to be…’
‘That’s war for you, Mrs John.’ He swirled her around so she couldn’t see her mother-in-law’s or Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s face.
‘Would you like to dance, ma’am?’ Major Reynolds asked Alma as Kurt Schaffer commandeered Jenny and Richard Reide escorted an ecstatic Anthea on to the floor.
‘I don’t dance very well, Major.’
‘Truth be told, neither do I, so let’s make a pact not to get riled if we tread on one another’s toes.’ Pushing back his chair he rose to his feet and offered her his hand.
‘This feels peculiar,’ Alma said as he whirled her out into the centre of the room.
‘To be dancing with someone who isn’t your husband?’
‘You know?’
‘I’ve left a wife and small son back in Tennessee, ma’am.’
‘You must miss them?’
‘Like hell, if you’ll pardon the expression. But your son helps. I’ve seen him in the shop. He’s not far off Chuck junior’s age.’
‘Chuck … that’s your son’s name?’
‘Mine too. It’s American for Charles.’
‘Now you’re teasing me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am. Tell me, is Theo very difficult to manage on your own?’
‘You know his name?’
‘We live next door.’
‘Above Frank Clayton’s shop?’
‘Richard and I have that privilege.’
‘Is it very uncomfortable?’
‘Not any more, thanks to Uncle Sam’s home improvement fund, and Richard’s talent for scavenging. You must visit some time. With your friends,’ he added, to avoid any possibility of a misunderstanding.
‘We’d like that.’ To her surprise she realised she meant it.
‘Chuck junior is seven months old, and according to my wife, almost, but not quite feeding himself, sitting up unaided, and just beginning to crawl. Your maid was telling me that your Theo is nine months old, so that must make him more advanced.’
‘Mary isn’t my maid. She just works for me. And I’m no expert on babies, Major, only Theo, but the one thing I have learned is that they all develop at their own pace.’
‘That’s what my wife says. When Chuck junior was born, I bought a book that had all these tables telling you when a baby should be sitting up, standing and walking. She took one look at it and threw it away.’
‘She sounds like a sensible woman.’
‘I think you’d like her. When I was sent here she went back home to stay with her folks. They own a general store that sells a bit of everything, something like your corner shops only bigger. I’ve written her about your shop to see if it gives her any ideas about expanding the butchery counter. That’s quite a business you have there. Queues around the block every morning.’
‘If I could lay my hands on more supplies I could make a fortune.’
‘The boys tell me you have more shops.’
‘The boys?’
‘The men … troops.’
‘I have a couple of partners, we’ve opened six more shops between us, but the only one I – my husband -’ she corrected swiftly, ‘own, is the one by the fountain.’
‘He’s in the army?’
‘Where else?’
‘Raschenko sounds more like an American than a Welsh name.’
‘Charlie’s Russian.’
‘Then he’s fighting with them?’
‘He lived here for seven years before war broke out, so he enlisted here. He was posted missing fifteen months ago.’
‘I’m sorry. Trust me to go and put my big foot in it. I had no idea.’
‘The worst thing is having to deal with people who believe he’s dead. I know he isn’t,’ she insisted a little too forcefully.
The dance ended and they separated to applaud the band.
‘At the risk of boring you, Mrs Raschenko, how would you like to sit down and have a drink with me so I can show off the snapshots I carry of my wife and Chuck junior?’
Alma took the arm he offered her. ‘I’d like nothing better, Major Reynolds.’
The colonel put a smile on Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s face by asking her for the second waltz. By the time the band had left the stage to take a break, he had danced with all the women at his table and the evening was going better than he had anticipated. Lubricated by American beer and whiskey, and filled with American food, the ‘crache’ (the first Welsh word he had learned) of the town were in a genial and charitable mood, even towards the interlopers who had butted into their territory and war.
The atmosphere at his table had livened up considerably since Bethan John and her sisters-in-law’s arrival; and her friend, Alma, was doing sterling work with Reynolds. Every man on board the troopship that had brought them to England had been subjected to his collection of photographs, and not many were anxious to repeat the experience; principally because the sight of Chuck’s attractive wife and child, coupled with his commentary, was enough to make even the most cynical officer homesick.
As he signalled to Rivers to replenish the guests’ glasses his gaze rested on Bethan. Outwardly cool and self-assured, he noticed her hands tightening into white-knuckled fists every time her mother-in-law or Mrs Llewellyn-Jones spoke. Her sister-in-law Jane, a skinny, little half-pint-sized thing, who looked about twelve years old despite the wedding ring on her finger, was laughing at something Richard Reide had said.
He frowned. If anything, the captain was worse than the lieutenant. At least Schaffer was honest about his womanising. A girl would have to be stupid not to see through his line, but Reide was more subtle. He’d heard some odd stories about the man, mostly from reliable sources. Making a mental note to give him the same lecture he had given Schaffer, he was just about to ask Bethan to dance again when the doors burst open behind them.
‘It’s D’Este. Hi, D’Este, over here,’ Chuck shouted, waving at the officer who stood framed in the doorway. Heads turned, the women’s eyes widening at the sight of the exotically handsome officer. Dropping his kitbag in the corner he waved back.
‘Is he … is he a Negro?’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones enquired in a stage whisper that carried around the table.
‘Negroes are generally a lot darker than Captain D’Este, ma’am,’ Chuck replied, when he saw the colonel had no intention of answering her.
‘He’s a spic,’ Richard Reide declared contemptuously.
‘I don’t think I’ve heard of them. Are they an African tribe?’
‘Hispanic. Of Spanish origin. In Captain D’Este’s case, Cuban,’ Chuck explained, giving Richard a warning look.
‘Probably with a touch of Indian, maybe even the tarbrush.’ Reide reached for the whiskey bottle.
‘Leave the liquor alone if you can’t hold it, Captain,’ David Ford warned brusquely as he rose to his feet. ‘It’s good to see you again, Captain D’Este.’ He turned to the table, eyeing Mrs Llewellyn-Jones in particular. ‘Captain D’Este is one of our best surgeons.’
‘A doctor.’ She extended her hand warily.
‘You’ve come to work in the RAF hospital in Church Village?’ Dr John asked.
‘There and Pontypridd and District Hospital, sir.’
‘I’m one of the local doctors …’
‘It’s been such a lovely evening. Must we spoil it by discussing medical matters?’ his wife complained irritably.
‘Sir. Ma’am,’ the captain shook both their hands. ‘I’m pleased to meet you both.’
‘We must get together, Captain -’
His wife interrupted by tapping him sharply on the arm with her fan. ‘The band’s starting up again and I’d like to dance.’
Sensitive to her mother-in-law’s lack of courtesy, Bethan held out her hand. ‘I’m Bethan John, one of the district nurses.’
The captain murmured ‘Pleased to meet you’, in a tone that suggested his mind was elsewhere. Taking the chair the waiter brought for him, he turned to the colonel. ‘I only got my orders this morning, sir. They told me you’d be able to sort out a billet for me when I reached here.’
‘No room with us,’ Richard Reide said firmly.
‘We could manage,’ Chuck Reynolds contradicted strongly.
‘No need. That’s if you have no objection to a fifth man moving into our rooms, Mrs John?’
‘Not at all, Colonel.’ Aware that something was wrong, but uncertain exactly what, Bethan smiled at the captain.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ D’Este looked up as an officer escorted Jane back to their table. She was smiling, her thin face flushed with the heat of the room, her gold silk dress clinging to her scrawny frame. She saw the captain the same instant he saw her. Bethan glanced from one to the other, convinced that everyone else at the table must have sensed the change in the atmosphere. It was almost as though an electric current had charged the air linking them.
‘Captain D’Este, Mrs Jane Powell.’ David Ford effected the introduction with the slightest of stresses on the word, Mrs, and Bethan realised that he too had seen the attraction.
Recollecting himself, the captain held out his hand. ‘Mrs Powell.’
‘Captain D’Este.’ Jane’s cheeks darkened from pink to crimson as she took her seat.
‘You’re a surgeon?’ Bethan asked, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over the table.
‘I was studying at a unit that specialises in the facial reconstruction of accident and burns victims when I was drafted.’
The band stopped playing and conversation ceased as applause filled the room.
‘Mrs Powell, may I have the next dance?’ He held out his arm to Jane.
‘He’s certainly very good-looking for a darkie, and he’s obviously done well for himself,’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones observed to no one in particular as D’Este led Jane on to the floor.
Anthea’s frown turned to laughter as Richard Reide whispered in her ear before leading her away.
Bethan watched Jane dance with the captain. She hadn’t seen her sister-in-law smile quite so broadly since Haydn’s last leave. Perhaps it was time to write to her brother and suggest he press for another one.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, I would have knocked if I’d known someone was sitting in here.’
Megan Powell lifted her slippered feet from the hearth of Bethan’s kitchen range and turned to see a plump, middle-aged man standing in the doorway.
‘And I thought all the Americans were at the parties.’
‘I’m a bit long in the tooth for socials.’
‘Join the club.’ Megan set the Marie Corelli novel she’d borrowed from the library on the table. ‘I’ve just made some tea, would you like some?’
‘Colonel Ford’s got strong views on us eating into the natives’ rations.’
‘Oh, I think we can manage a cup of tea.’ Megan lifted crockery down from the dresser. ‘I’m Megan Powell, Bethan’s aunt and babysitter for the evening.’
‘Nurse Powell?’
‘My, you fellows are formal, aren’t you?’
‘The colonel’s warned us not to impose on the family.’
‘From what the children have been telling me, your imposition involves making bucketloads of biscuits and pancakes, and spoiling them at every turn.’ She set the cup on the table and poured the tea. ‘Are you the cook?’
‘Sergeant Dino Morelli, ma’ am.’
‘I’m not a ma’am, I’m a Megan, and if you don’t mind me saying so, the American army must be more desperate than the British, conscripting a man of your age.’
‘I’m a volunteer and I’m forty.’
‘And I’m twenty-one next birthday.’ Megan settled back into the rocking chair. ‘Well sit down, there’s no point in standing up to drink tea.’
‘Thank you … Megan.’ He took the easy chair opposite hers.
‘It’s warmer in here than the sitting room. I never could understand Andrew John buying a place this size for Bethan. The rooms are so big they were always cold even before fuel rationing. He should have known he’d married a girl with simple tastes, but then that’s the crache for you. All show and no comfort, that’s what I always say.’
‘I take it the “crache” are the blue bloods of Pontypridd?’
‘You pick up fast.’
‘This is a fine house,’ he commented looking up at the high ceiling, and the two vast dressers filled with painted china.
‘If you have the money and servants to run it and the coal to heat it. Bethan’s found it tough going the last few years.’
‘She’s a nice lady.’
‘She is.’
‘I have a niece about her age. I left her in charge of my diner … a sort of café,’ he explained in answer to her puzzled look.
‘You have a business?’
‘Back in a small town on Cape Cod. You heard of Cape Cod?’
Megan shook her head.
‘It’s in Massachusetts. Pretty place, and as you’d guess from the name, surrounded by sea. My wife fell in love with it. She used to summer there every yea
r with her folks, and when we married she decided we should settle there. By that time I’d learned not to argue with her. We worked in a seafood restaurant until we got enough money together to open a place of our own. Didn’t do too badly either.’ He stared down into his cup, lost in a time and place she could only guess at. It took him a few minutes to recollect her presence. ‘Aside from the diner we opened a small restaurant on a prime piece of real estate overlooking the beach. It was the kind of place Bostonians and New Yorkers didn’t mind paying to eat in. We made enough money to buy a house with sea views, a car and a boat. You can’t be a someone on the Cape and not own a boat. But, we never found the time to go out in it.’
‘Sounds like you miss your home?’
‘That I do, Megan.’
‘So why volunteer for the army? No one could criticise a man your age for taking it easy.’
‘It seemed the right thing to do. I don’t like bullies, and this fellow Hitler’s certainly behaving like one.’ He made a wry face as he set his cup on the table.
‘You don’t like tea?’
‘I prefer coffee.’ He emptied his pockets of tins. ‘As you see, I brought all the ingredients except hot water.’
‘Help yourself.’ She pushed her chair away from the range as he picked up the kettle.
‘You got anyone fighting in the war, Megan?’
‘My son, William. As far as we can tell he’s in North Africa.’
‘You must be worried about him?’
‘Me and his wife. You have no idea how much. I lost my husband in the last war.’
‘You must have been widowed young.’
‘Twenty.’
‘I thought the end of the world had come when I lost my wife three years ago. At least we had twenty-two years together.’ He shook his head as he opened up the hot plate with the tongs and set the kettle to boil. ‘Such a waste of young men’s lives.’
‘And it’s still going on.’
‘Auntie Megan?’ Rachel opened the door and peeped around the corner, her nightgown trailing around her ankles, a doll clutched in her hand.
‘What are you doing up, poppet?’ Megan opened her arms and Rachel ran into the room and climbed on to her lap.
Broken Rainbows Page 7
