Broken Rainbows

by Catrin Collier

  She returned to her bed and looked at the box on the side table. It contained all the letters Andrew had written to her since he’d left for France. Five short notes before he’d been captured at Dunkirk, and over a hundred longer epistles since.

  She reached for them, then, changing her mind, she replaced the box on the cabinet and opened the drawer in the table. Taking out one of the blue letter/envelopes the authorities insisted on for prisoner-of-war correspondence, she unscrewed the top from her fountain pen, sucked the end thoughtfully, and began writing.

  Dear Andrew,

  It is six o’clock on a Sunday morning and our new lodgers …

  She hesitated. If she told Andrew there were Americans billeted in the house, the censor would not only blank out the relevant sentences but could even impound her letter.

  … who have taken over the top floor of the house have left for work. Their company doesn’t make up for your absence. It never could, but at least I have new people to talk to in the winter evenings when I am not on duty.

  I saw your parents last night, they are both well and anxious for news about you. Unfortunately Mrs Llewellyn-Jones was with them. I’m sorry, darling, I can’t like that woman even for you and your parents’ sake.

  She wished she could write something reassuring about the party. He knew the Americans were in Britain, but did he and his fellow prisoners know about the success the Yanks were having with British women? How could she tell him that she was immune to their charms without worrying him? It was easier to write about the children.

  Eddie and Rachel continue to thrive. Both of them are very sociable, but no matter how many hours I work, I make sure they know exactly who their parents are. Eddie’s vocabulary is quite extensive, and he certainly recognises his daddy. If anyone mentions you, he runs straight to your photograph. Rachel is going to start in the nursery class in Maesycoed primary school after Christmas, much to your mother’s disgust. I think she would have preferred a private school, but I hope you agree that it is important for our children to be able to mix with people from all walks of life. Your father does. He says that after the war, class differences won’t matter so much. How can they when labourers are working alongside public schoolboys in the most unlikely situations?

  I also want to tell you how much Maisie and Liza Clark, the eldest evacuee I took in, help me to run the house. I couldn’t manage without either of them. I suspect that you may get a letter from your mother about my insistence on keeping the Clark girls. Their father has been killed and Mrs Llewellyn-Jones wanted to put them in the workhouse. No matter what your mother says, they are not much of a drain on our resources as the two eldest are working and Alma and I are sharing the cost of the younger girls.

  I know this may be difficult for you to understand, but I dare not look too far into the future. Like most people in Pontypridd I live one day at a time. I have to, Andrew: Work takes up most of my time, my few free hours are spent with the children, and although Maisie and Liza are marvellous, I still have to watch that everything runs smoothly and do the household accounts. (That’s one job you can have back the minute you walk through the door.)

  Everyone in Pontypridd keeps talking about ‘when the war is over’. They assume that everything will return to what it was in 1939, but sometimes, like Jane, I wonder if life can ever go back to what it was? Most of the evacuees can go home, but what about the ones who have no one and nowhere left to go to, like the Clarks? If it finished tomorrow, Liza and Mary will be earning barely enough to support themselves let alone the other two. And then there’s Maisie. I know your mother disapproves of my employing an unmarried mother to look after the children, but she has no one else and I can hardly put her and her daughter back into the workhouse …

  She leaned back on the pillows and read what she’d written. What was she thinking of? There was no way she could burden Andrew with her problems with the Clark girls, Maisie, and especially her fraught relationship with his mother and Mrs Llewellyn-Jones. Regretting the loss of the pre-paid envelope, she tore it up, took another from the drawer and began again, this time without voicing a single complaint or criticism of his mother or Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, a mention of the Clarks or giving him the slightest cause to worry about her, the children, the house or what was going to happen at the end of the war. She even finished with a white lie.

  Eddie has just toddled in. He sends you a kiss, but unfortunately demands all my attention. I will write again soon, darling. I love you, yours as ever, Bethan

  She looked up at the closed door. Her letters were getting shorter, but what else could she write about? Day-to-day problems he wouldn’t understand, and even if he could, was powerless to help her solve. Given the choice over the Clark girls would he have sided with her, or his mother and Mrs Llewellyn-Jones?

  The most painful thought was not that he might do so, but that she couldn’t be sure what he would do. He was her husband, and she didn’t even know him any more.

  Jenny fastened the last button on her blouse, leaned over and poked the comatose figure in her bed. ‘Wake up!’ When he refused to stir she prodded him again, harder this time. ‘Come on, wakey wakey!’

  Kurt Schaffer opened his eyes, screwed them against the glare of the electric bulb and peered up at her. ‘Hi,’ he mumbled sleepily, smiling at the memory of their uninhibited lovemaking and the night they’d shared.

  ‘Hi,’ Jenny said brusquely. ‘You’ve five minutes to get dressed and out of here.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five-thirty. ‘

  ‘Jesus H. Christ! I should be in combat gear and on manoeuvres.’ Leaping out of bed he dived for his dress uniform which was still scattered over the floor where Jenny had thrown it the night before. ‘Hell! I have to go back to my billet to change. What do I tell the old battleaxe if she asks where I spent the night?’

  ‘That you were praying in a chapel?’

  ‘She’ll never believe me.’

  ‘I don’t care what you tell her as long as you don’t mention my name or the Graig hill. And while we’re on the subject, make sure no one sees you leaving.’

  ‘Who’s watching your door at this time in the morning?’

  ‘Nosy parkers.’

  ‘I just love your language. What exactly are parkers?’ he asked as he heaved on his pants.

  ‘Out!’ She folded the blankets to the foot of the bed and stripped the sheets.’

  ‘All right, so you don’t want to talk. I can understand that at this unholy hour. I’m not feeling so good myself. See you tonight?’

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Busier.’

  ‘Give a guy a break?’

  ‘I’ve given you all I’m going to.’

  ‘Come on. Last night -’

  ‘Last night was fun,’ her blue eyes took on a frosty glaze as they gazed into his, ‘but let’s not turn it into something it wasn’t.’

  ‘You don’t want to see me again?’ he asked incredulously, his ego shattered by the first rebuff he’d experienced.

  ‘The very next time you organise a party.’

  ‘That could be months away. I thought after what happened last night, you’d be my girl.’

  ‘I’m my own girl.’

  ‘You really don’t want to see me again?’

  ‘How many ways are there of saying no?’

  ‘You weren’t like this last night.’

  ‘Last night I wanted your body.’ She blanched when she realised how true that was. Last night, almost any young and presentable man would have done to alleviate her loneliness. Picking up his jacket she thrust it at him. ‘We’ll go out the back way. Wait in the yard for five minutes after I’m gone. Mrs Evans should have pulled her blackout back by then.’ Handing him his boots, she herded him through the door and down the stairs.

  ‘Do you mind if I call in later in the week? You could change your -’

  ‘I won’t.’ She strode through the shop and unbolte
d the storeroom door.

  ‘Am I allowed to talk to you if I see you in the town?’ he asked caustically.

  ‘That depends on who I’m with, Lieutenant.’ She pushed him into the yard.

  ‘The name is Kurt, Kurt Schaffer, and it’s freezing out here,’ he protested, hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘Nice to meet you, and thank you so much for stating the obvious,’ she replied, adopting his sarcastic tone.

  He threw his boots to the ground, sat on the step and tried to push his numbed and frozen feet into them. ‘Goddamn it, it’s impossible to dress out here.’

  ‘Ssh, keep your voice down.’

  ‘I need a bathroom.’

  ‘There’s a ty bach in front of you.’

  ‘What in hell’s that?’

  ‘Open the door and find out.’ Stepping around him, she locked the storeroom door, and opened the gate. Walking through it, she slammed it in his face. He was left staring at the planks of wood in the early morning gloom, wondering if he’d broken any peculiar Welsh rule of conduct that no one had thought to tell him about. For the first time in his life a girl had used and abandoned him. Until now, he’d always been the one to cut and run and he discovered that the taste of rejection, like bile, lingered sourly in the mouth, and he didn’t like the sensation. Not one bit.

  Bethan sat back in her chair watching Eddie stagger on chubby, unsteady legs from her father’s knee to her own. He collapsed in a fit of giggles as Ronnie reached out and tickled him.

  ‘That one’s going to run in the Olympics one day, mark my words,’ Megan predicted as she brought in a plate of sandwiches from the kitchen.

  ‘Mam always sees a glowing future for the Powell children.’ Diana’s dark eyes shone warm with love as they rested on her husband.

  ‘What about Ronconi children?’ Ronnie asked in mock indignation.

  ‘They’ll count as Powells.’

  Megan gave her daughter a sideways glance. Ronnie and Diana might have been married only a few weeks but there was a dreamy look about Diana that made Megan wonder if she was already pregnant.

  ‘Reeses are important too.’ Catching hold of his small stepson, Billy, Ronnie swung him high in the air.

  ‘Careful! That’s my grandson you’re about to drop.’

  ‘I wouldn’t drop you, would I mate?’

  ‘Dada,’ Billy chanted, grinning cheekily at Megan.

  Taking two sandwiches from his mother-in-law, Ronnie handed one to Billy, and demolished the other in a single bite.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out keeping those two in order, Diana,’ Evan smiled, happy for his niece. Both she and Ronnie had been married before. Diana’s marriage had ended in tragedy when her husband had been killed in an explosion in the munitions factory. And when his younger daughter, Maud, had died of tuberculosis, her husband, Ronnie, had seemed inconsolable. Ronnie and Diana’s wedding had been the one bright spot in an otherwise bleak year.

  ‘They gang up on me all the time.’ Diana pulled a wriggling Billy from Ronnie’s lap. ‘Go and play with your cousins.’ She set him down and pushed him in the direction of the hall where Rachel, Eddie and Anne were playing a complicated game of tag that was beyond adult comprehension.

  ‘If the noise is anything to go by, the next generation of Powells are likely to be even wilder than the last.’

  ‘If you and Ronnie want some peace, Dad, why don’t you sit in Andrew’s study?’ Bethan suggested.

  ‘And miss the chance of being nagged by my wife and mother-in-law?’

  ‘You don’t know what nagging is, my boy,’ Megan threatened as Ronnie went down on all fours and growled at Eddie and Billy who were creeping towards the door pretending to be bears.

  ‘What do you say to some peace?’ Evan asked his youngest son, Brian, who was sitting in the corner lost in an old book of Andrew’s.

  Brian was too engrossed to answer. Although he was only four years older than Rachel, he already had a reputation as a bookworm. Evan’s common-law wife, Phyllis, looked fondly at her son. ‘He’s always the same. Once his nose is in a book you can’t get a word out of him.’

  ‘Just like his big sister.’

  ‘Was I really that bad?’ Bethan asked.

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  ‘Any sign of Haydn or William coming home?’ Ronnie said as he returned to his chair; the boys had tired of the game.

  ‘None that I know of,’ Jane said flatly.

  ‘Tina was going spare yesterday.’ Megan bustled in with another tray and began setting cups out on the table. ‘She hasn’t heard from that son of mine in weeks. I’ll brain him when he comes home. How long does it take to write a postcard?’

  ‘Not as long as it takes a mail bag to get from North Africa to here.’ Evan pulled out his pipe.

  ‘Tina’ll be up later with Alma. You never know something may have come in today’s post, but I wouldn’t bank on it. Andrew writes at least two letters a week, some take six months to get here, others only three and a half. The post is in a right mess. Everyone you talk to who has family serving overseas complains about it.’

  ‘If there’d been trouble with either of the boys we would have heard.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, Evan.’ Megan walked to the window. ‘Your Americans are back, Beth, and Alma and Tina are with them.’

  ‘And Alma’s major?’

  ‘Alma has a major?’ Ronnie raised his eyebrows.

  ‘A married man who talks even more about his wife and son than she does about Charlie.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ Evan frowned as he remembered a letter Charlie had left with him. A letter he would have given Alma months ago, if she had been prepared to accept the possibility that her husband was dead.

  Bethan went into the hall and opened the front door. ‘Tea’s made and you’re all welcome to join us.’ She smiled at the Americans as Alma carried Theo in.

  ‘That’s very generous, thank you. We’ll be happy to join you, Mrs John.’ David Ford stood back to allow Tina to walk in ahead of him.

  ‘How about I make some American coffee to go with the tea, sir?’ Dino Morelli asked.

  ‘Good idea, Sergeant.’

  Ronnie went to fetch more chairs from the dining room that Bethan had rarely opened since Andrew’s departure.

  ‘Looks like you’re running a nursery here, ma’am.’ Chuck stepped warily around the marauding toddlers.

  ‘And here’s one more to add to them.’ Alma handed over Theo as she unbuttoned her coat.

  ‘There’s usually more, but my evacuees and housekeeper are helping out in the Sunday school. They’ve organised a tea and entertainment for your soldiers.’

  ‘And very welcome it will be, Mrs John, after the manoeuvres we’ve put them through today. I’ve never seen so many pained faces. Running up and down your hills has exercised muscles they didn’t know they had.’

  ‘Lieutenant Rivers?’ David Ford prompted as they entered the drawing room. ‘I believe you have something to say to the ladies?’

  ‘I would like to apologise for my ungentlemanly conduct last night.’ He was too embarrassed to meet Jane’s eye.

  He looked so sheepish, Bethan almost felt sorry for the man. Leaving her father to make the introductions she followed Dino into the kitchen. He was mixing flapjacks and Megan was greasing pans, both of them chatting away as though they’d known one another for years.

  ‘We met last night, he helped me babysit,’ Megan explained.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs John, but as hard tack rations aren’t great, I thought I’d cook up something for the officers and give the children a treat at the same time.’

  ‘I don’t mind, and you don’t have to apologise every time you walk into my kitchen.’

  ‘But I am trespassing.’ He reached down a pitcher of syrup from the cupboard Maisie had cleared for his use.

  ‘Trespass away.’ Scooping up Eddie who was threatening to hit Billy with a wooden car, she return
ed to the drawing room where George Rivers was holding forth as though he were on a soapbox.

  ‘… and I get mad every time I think of the Jerries chaining our men like common criminals …’

  ‘Chains? On our men?’ Bethan looked to David Ford.

  ‘I’ve heard rumours.’ Evan realised that the colonel was annoyed by George’s outburst. ‘But I assumed they were just stories. So many unsubstantiated claims of atrocities have been made by both sides since the war started it’s difficult to sift truth from propaganda.’

  ‘Impossible,’ David Ford concurred. ‘But unfortunately this particular rumour is true. I saw the Red Cross report myself. But didn’t you tell me that your husband was captured at Dunkirk, Mrs John?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘The only confirmed reports of chaining relate to Canadian, Free French and British prisoners captured after the Dieppe raid.’

  ‘But now the Germans have set a precedent, how long will it be before they start chaining all the prisoners of war?’

  ‘The Red Cross are working to calm the situation. They believe the Germans only began to use chains after receiving false reports that the British and Canadians were chaining German prisoners.’

  ‘What next? They hear we shot their men so they start shooting ours?’

  ‘I doubt even the Germans are capable of shooting unarmed men,’ her father interposed.

  ‘No? What about the reports of atrocities in the Warsaw Ghetto? Not only men died there, but women and children.’

  ‘Bethan, no one has cause to hate the Germans more than me, but they’re men not monsters,’ Ronnie interrupted. ‘I know, I’ve seen them. They have two eyes, two arms, two legs and one head, exactly the same as us.’

  ‘And guns. And they are trying to take over the world.’

  ‘If we’d moved over and let them get on with it, there wouldn’t be a war for us to fight.’

  ‘Are you saying that we should have let the Germans take over Europe?’ George Rivers demanded belligerently.