‘I can’t make him go away without talking to him, Katie. It’s a pity Roy’s not here, he’d soon sort him. But father or no father, I can’t have Ernie Clay making that racket on my doorstep. Come on.’ Pushing Katie ahead of her, Norah slipped out of the door into the dining room and through to the kitchen. ‘I wish Roy hadn’t unscrewed all the locks from these doors the last time he decorated but there’s no use crying over what’s gone. Get that chair and jam it under the door handle after I’ve left. If you hear your father in the hall, run down the steps to the garden and call to one of the neighbours.’
‘Auntie Norah ...’
‘Do as I say, Katie, and don’t worry, you’re not going anywhere and most certainly not with your father,’ Norah assured her emphatically as Ernie’s shouts grew louder and more incoherent. As she left the kitchen, both she and Katie started at the crash of glass splintering in the inner hall.
‘The chair, Katie.’ Not daring to look back at the girl in case she lost what little nerve she still possessed, Norah closed the kitchen door behind her and crossed the dining room. Her mind was filled with images of Annie’s face, swollen unrecognisably over broken bones, covered in cuts and bruises.
‘I’m coming in ...’ The rattle of shards of glass showering down on to the hall tiles accompanied Ernie’s threat. Resolutely, Norah continued to head towards the door that opened from the dining room into the hall. Making a valiant effort to control the hysteria rising in her throat, she placed her hand on the doorknob. Her mind worked feverishly. The only telephone in the house was in the hall. If Ernie managed to put his hand through whatever remained of the glass panel he might be able to reach inside and open the front door. Another crash – louder, more terrifying stayed her hand. It sounded as though Ernie was battering down the door.
‘Mrs Evans, you all right?’
‘Brian.’ Norah slumped weakly against the doorpost.
‘I’m fine, so is Katie, she’s in the kitchen.’ She opened the door a crack to see Brian in his uniform, standing at the top of the stairs that connected the basement with the rest of the house.
‘Katie’s father seems to be making a habit of hammering on the doors of this house.’ He looked down the passage to the front door.
Drawing courage from Brian’s presence, Norah followed his gaze. The hall was carpeted in multi-coloured fragments of glass. She had loved the stained-glass panel: her mother’s pride and joy, and one of the features her grandparents had paid extra for when they had bought the house new. Another crash sent the door rattling in its frame.
‘I’ll get you, you bitch! You’re no daughter of mine ...’
‘He’s kicking it in. You phone the police, Mrs Evans, I’ll deal with him.’
Lifting the telephone from the hall table, Brian pushed it as close to the dining-room door as the cable would allow. As he walked towards the front door, Norah stepped out gingerly and lifted the receiver. Hands shaking uncontrollably, she dialled 999. The dial had never moved back into position so slowly between numbers.
‘Katie!’
‘Mr Clay, your daughter isn’t here.’ Brian’s voice, calm and reasonable, fell strangely odd after the clamour of Ernie’s violence.
‘Then I’ll have my bloody sons ...’
‘Believe me, Mr Clay, there’s no one here.’
‘You are lying, you bastard!’
Norah tried not to listen to Ernie’s foul language as she dialled the final nine. She turned just as the inner hall door burst open and Ernie raced, red-faced and snorting like a bull, down the passage.
‘Mrs Evans, get into the dining room and lock the door!’ Brian stepped in front of Ernie in an attempt to block his path. Fit, well-built, used to giving and receiving tackles on the rugby field, Brian proved no match for Ernie’s superior weight driven by alcohol-fuelled rage.
Slammed to the floor, fighting for breath, Brian mustered his remaining strength. Rolling sideways, he grabbed Ernie’s foot as the man stepped over him. He looked towards the dining-room door. It was closed and a thud suggested Norah had moved something heavy behind it.
Muttering a silent prayer of gratitude, Brian braced the soles of his feet against the skirting board, holding his position and maintaining his grip on Ernie’s ankle. Ernie crashed to his knees. Brian winced as Ernie’s shoulder connected with his leg. Struggling to free himself from the dead weight and foul stink of Ernie’s unwashed body, he fought to raise himself, reached for Ernie’s arm with his free hand and hauled it high behind Ernie’s back.
‘You have been caught breaking and entering. You ...’
Lying on the floor behind the dining-room door, Norah heard Brian’s voice, low and monotonous. The room grew dim around her as though black clouds had blotted out the sun. She was vaguely aware of the door to the kitchen opening behind her and Katie crying out, her voice shrill in fear.
Her body seemed to be shrinking. Darkness continued to creep insidiously inwards and downwards from the walls and ceiling. She turned, tried to reach out to Katie, wanting to reassure her that everything would be fine, that neither she nor Brian would allow her father to reach her, but all she could see was Katie’s mouth opening in a silent scream.
Chapter Sixteen
‘So, what kind of rings do you like?’ Joe asked Lily as he drew her towards the window of the best – and most expensive – jeweller’s shop in Oxford Street.
‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘You wear a signet ring.’
‘That Auntie Norah bought me for my fourteenth birthday.’
Joe lifted her hand to inspect it. ‘Plain, elegant, gold, engraved with your initials, I approve. I don’t like fussy rings set with lots of small stones, or ostentatiously large, coloured gemstones.’
‘Isn’t this a bit odd?’
‘What?’
‘Us looking at rings.’
‘I think it’s important to check tastes in furniture, books, music, films and jewellery as soon as you start going out with someone. It would be appalling to discover after two or three years of courtship that they like orange and purple colour schemes while you only like beige, cream and white, or they adore marcasite jewellery when you absolutely hate it.’
‘You like beige, cream and white?’
‘No, too bland. So which ring do you like best?’
‘That one.’
‘Top tray on the left, third one along on the second row.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Stylish and very beautiful, like you.’
‘I’m not used to compliments. I never know how to respond.’
‘Try smiling and being polite, because I intend to pay you many more.’
As they moved away from the shop, he slipped his hand round her waist. ‘My father is lending me the Rover on Sunday. We could make a day of it, get up early, be away from the house by eight ...’
‘On Sunday!’
‘Nine?’
‘How about nearer ten?’ Amazed by how close to him she felt after just two outings and several shameless kisses, she made no objection as he left his hand round her waist. She felt wonderfully, supremely happy. Colours had never seemed so bright nor the town so full of friendly people.
‘We could go to Rhossili and walk over the causeway to Worm’s Head.’
‘Is there a low tide?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘And if there isn’t?’
‘There’s a great café there where we could have lunch.’
‘I could pack a picnic.’
‘We could eat that for tea.’
‘How long do you intend for us to stay out?’
‘Years. I think I’ll kidnap you. There are caves on the Gower no one knows about except me.’
‘Really?’
‘Why did I have to get myself a sceptical girlfriend?’
‘I have no objection to visiting a cave, for an afternoon,’ she added cautiously.
‘I suppose that will have to do.’ His fa
ce fell serious. ‘When term starts I won’t have this much free time, you do realise that, don’t you? It won’t mean that ...’ He searched for the right words.
‘What?’
‘That I like you any the less,’ he compromised, deciding there had to be a better place than the centre of bomb-flattened and cleared Swansea on a Thursday night to tell her how much he loved her. The clifftop overlooking Three Cliffs and Oxwich at sunset would be perfect. He imagined himself opening a box, taking out the ring set with a single, exquisite diamond solitaire that they’d just seen, slipping it on to her finger ... Shaking himself back to reality, he tightened his grip on her waist. ‘About this Saturday. Do you really have to go to this youth club thing with the girls?’
‘I promised I would.’
‘And a promise is a promise.’
‘For me it is.’ She made a note to seek out Martin before Saturday and tell him there was something more between her and Joe than friendship after all. She liked Martin. It was better he knew as soon as possible, although she guessed that he had suspected it even before she did, judging by his reaction when she’d told him she was going for a walk with Joe.
‘There’s a party at my friend’s house. You’d be welcome.’ He tried not to imagine Angela’s reaction if he turned up with Lily, but it would prove to Angie once and for all that they were over and he really wasn’t interested in what she was offering.
‘I couldn’t let down the girls, Joe.’
‘In that case I’ll come to the dance with you.’
‘A youth club!’ she exclaimed dubiously. ‘You sure you want to?’
‘It will seem like the Ritz with you there.’
As they stepped round the corner of Walter Road into Verandah Street, he looked around. No one was in sight. Bending his head to hers, he kissed her, longer and even more passionately than he had on the beach, secure in the knowledge that there was no danger of him getting carried away in a public place.
‘Tomorrow I’ll come round and tell you when the coast is clear in our house so you and Katie can visit Helen – and me.’ As he bent his head to hers again, footsteps resounded on the pavement. Lily turned to see Adam Jordan hurtling towards them.
‘Adam, is anything wrong?’ Lily stepped back as he almost charged into Joe.
‘Mr Williams – said – you’d – gone – for – a walk ...’ Adam jerked out the words as he struggled to regain his breath. Placing his hands on his knees, he crouched over and gulped in air.
Lily looked into his face as he straightened up. Without waiting for him to reply, she pulled her hand from Joe’s and raced up the street.
‘Whatever it is, it could have waited,’ Joe admonished. ‘Another five minutes and we would have been home.’
‘Who are you concerned about,’ Adam gasped, ‘yourself or Lily?’
‘Lily,’ Joe snapped, furious that Adam had even asked.
‘Then go after her.’
As Joe ran off, Adam leaned against the wall and took a deep breath that dried his throat and scorched his lungs. He knew he should go back in case he was needed for any more errands, but not wanting to witness Lily’s pain after seeing Katie’s, he stayed where he was.
Lily didn’t stop running until she reached the crowd around her door. It was only when they parted to allow her through that she saw the police cars. Jack was crouched on the doorstep, holding a shovel to the floor for Martin, who was sweeping glass fragments from the inner hall into it.
Dropping the brush, Martin went to meet her. ‘Your uncle is inside.’
‘What happened?’ Lily asked in bewilderment, looking from the shattered door to the glass littering the hall floor.
‘Our bloody ...’
‘Your uncle is waiting,’ Martin interrupted, giving Jack a warning glance. Deliberately ignoring Joe who raced up behind her, he took Lily’s hand and led her around the debris through what was left of the inner door and into the parlour.
Lily blinked, adjusting her eyes to the bright light after the twilight outside. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls and the room seemed to be full of people and noise. Half a dozen policemen were standing around; Mrs Lannon was handing out cups of tea from a tray on the side table. Her aunt and Katie were nowhere to be seen.
‘Lily, love.’ Roy left his chair next to the fireplace. Abandoning his tea on the floor, he gave her a bear hug. ‘Come into the kitchen.’
‘I’ll be ready whenever you are, Roy.’ A young policeman headed for the door.
‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’ Roy walked Lily into the kitchen to find Doris Jordan washing a sink full of cups and saucers.
‘I’ll get out of your way, Constable Williams.’ Drying her hands in her apron, she bustled through the door.
‘Uncle Roy ...’
‘Sit down, Lily, love.’ He almost pushed Lily into the nearest chair. ‘Your Auntie Norah had a heart attack.’
‘Heart attack.’ Lily repeated the words; she could even feel her lips mouthing the syllables but no sound emerged from her mouth as her mind struggled to cope with the implication. ‘Is she ...’
‘She died, love. The doctor said it was quick and painless. If she’d survived she would have been an invalid and you and I know how much she would have hated that.’
A single large tear escaped Lily’s eye and rolled down her cheek. She could feel it, damp, poised on the edge of her jaw; then she was conscious of another crawling down her face – and another – ‘I should have been here. I should have taken more care of her ...’
‘No daughter could have done more for Norah than you, love.’ Roy crouched in front of her chair and took her hands into his. ‘She loved you very much, you know that.’
Lily nodded dumbly.
Roy reached into his tunic pocket for his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face. ‘I haven’t done that since you were six, and fell off your bike and scraped your knees.’
‘Why didn’t you send someone to come and get me?’
‘Adam went.’ He sat back on his heels. ‘I’m not sure where to start but it’s as well you hear all of it, love. I warn you, there’s a lot more and none of it good.’
He tried to find the words to tell her as gently as he knew how about Norah, Annie and Ernie, knowing that no kindness on his part could soften the devastating effect the events of the evening would have on their lives – or his conscience. He would never, never forgive himself for choosing that particular moment to take Martin and Jack down to the hospital to identify Annie Clay.
His sergeant and colleagues had done all they could to persuade him that he couldn’t have done anything more than Brian Powell, if he had been in the house. The doctor had known about Norah’s weak heart and confided that she had insisted her condition be kept from him and Lily. Trying to sympathise, he’d added that Norah could have had an attack at any time when she’d been hauling a shopping bag up from town, sewing at her machine or scrubbing the kitchen floor.
Only it hadn’t happened at any time. Norah had died when Ernie Clay had been hammering down their front door and just thinking about Norah drawing her last breath to the clamour of Ernie’s violence was enough to generate murderous thoughts in Roy’s mind. During his years in the force he had arrested a fair selection of the town’s lawbreakers, thieves, rapists and several murderers, but this was the first time he had felt like killing a man in cold blood. What was even worse was the knowledge that Ernie might not even go to prison. In his eyes the man had committed murder twice in one day and a week or two from now he would probably be walking the streets of Swansea, free to attack his sons, daughter, or any other unsuspecting soul he chose.
‘I have to go down the station love.’ Roy repeated himself twice before Lily understood. ‘You’ll be all right with the neighbours while I’m gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘I won’t be long, half an hour at the most. I want to see what can be done.’
‘With Katie’s father?’
&n
bsp; ‘Brian was here and I was first on the scene. We have to make statements. Katie and Judy are in your bedroom. You can sit with them ...’
‘Could you please explain to them that I’d rather be alone for a while?’
‘I’ll try, love, but people will want to make tea.’
‘I’ll go upstairs.’ She thought of Katie, suspected she’d need her, but then Katie had Judy and her brothers. ‘Do you think Auntie Norah would mind if I sat in her room?’
‘No, love, I’m sure she wouldn’t. Come on, I’ll take you up.’
Joe was waiting in the hall as Roy helped Lily to the stairs. Roy shook his head and Joe understood. The boy held Lily’s hand briefly, then allowed her uncle to lead her away.
Norah’s room was neat, clean and, by Helen’s mother’s ‘contemporary’ standards, pitifully cluttered and old-fashioned. Feeling as though she were trespassing, Lily closed the door behind her and looked around. The doilies under the Victorian porcelain dressing-table set of candlesticks, hair tidy, brush-and-comb tray and trinket pots had been crocheted by Norah’s grandmother. The set itself had been a wedding gift to Norah’s mother. The enormous Victorian bedroom suite had been bought by Norah’s grandparents and installed when the house was new.
Lily smoothed the crocheted cotton counterpane and fingered the top border of the fine Egyptian linen sheet. If she lived to be a hundred she would never be able to make a bed as neatly and wrinkle-free as Norah. Under the pillow she found Norah’s flowered winceyette nightgown. Norah had worn winceyette summer and winter for as long as she could remember, insisting that a woman of her advanced years needed a little comfort. Lifting the faded gown to her face, she held it against her cheek. It felt soft, warm, and smelled of the lavender water Norah used. Until this moment she had never thought of Norah’s age, despite the number of times her foster-mother had referred disparagingly to her advancing years.
Sinking down on to the dressing-table stool, she stared at the clutter on the bedside table: Norah’s things, intimate appendages of her daily life. A tiny wooden tub filled with the pins Norah used to secure the bun she wore at the nape of her neck, which no amount of imagination could rechristen a chignon. A pair of reading glasses was sandwiched in her current bedtime reading. Lily picked up the book. It had come from the lending library in Alexandra Road, an ancient copy of a Marie Corelli. Next to it stood a small bottle of French scent that looked expensive, which was probably why Norah had never opened it.
Swansea Girls Page 27
