Swansea Girls

by Catrin Collier

  ‘Who can that be at this time of the morning?’ John pushed the toast he was buttering aside, as the telephone began to ring.

  ‘Someone who didn’t go to bed last night,’ Helen answered flippantly, suddenly losing her croakiness.

  ‘Your throat seems to be better.’ Joe gave her a sideways look as their father abandoned his breakfast and went to the phone.

  ‘Look at it, if you don’t believe me.’ Sticking out her tongue, she opened her mouth.

  ‘Please, I’m trying to eat.’

  ‘Quiet!’ John shouted from the hall.

  ‘Bad news?’ Joe asked, as John returned.

  ‘Your mother is divorcing me. We have a meeting this afternoon with our solicitors to discuss terms. I don’t know how much your mother has told you, but if you have any questions I’d rather you came to me, or talked to her, than listen to any gossip. Helen, Richard Thomas is your mother’s solicitor. Is that going to cause problems for you in work?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, Dad.’ She rose unsteadily from her chair. ‘I think I’ll go back to bed.’

  ‘You’re white as a sheet.’ John frowned. ‘I’ll telephone the doctor.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head violently, making the room swim. Gripping the door handle to steady herself, she repeated, ‘No, thank you, if I’m no better tomorrow I’ll call him myself.’

  ‘I haven’t a lecture until eleven. Do you want me to telephone Thomas and Butler and tell them you won’t be in?’ Joe offered, feeling slightly guilty as he realised she was suffering from more than a tactical sore throat.

  ‘Please.’ She lurched unsteadily down the passage into the hall.

  ‘Mrs Jones will be in soon, I’ll ask her to keep an eye on you.’ Following her, John watched her climb the stairs as he slipped on his coat.

  ‘I just want to sleep, Dad.’ This time she didn’t have to pretend that her voice was husky.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on her until Mrs Jones comes and I can be back here by two.’ Munching toast, Joe followed his father into the hall.

  ‘There’s no need, I’ll call back lunchtime.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Joe reassured.

  ‘Even if it is, what’s the betting your mother will see it as evidence of my neglect.’ John took his keys, opened the door and left.

  Stripping off her dressing gown, Helen lay on top of her bed. She wanted to be cool – freezing, if possible. Closing her eyes, she tried to fight the waves of nausea that washed over her but it was hopeless. She rushed into the bathroom, made it to the toilet in time, but there was nothing left in her stomach to come up. Crawling back to her bed, she climbed into it, covering herself with the sheet and blankets. She’d wanted to be cold, but not that cold. She slid out her hand, opened the drawer in her bedside cabinet and extracted her diary. Taking the key from a chain around her neck, she unlocked it, flicking through the pages without lifting her head from the pillow. Whichever way she calculated it was always the same. Her period was two weeks and six days late. The magazines said that didn’t prove anything one way or another. Young girls could be irregular, particularly if there was trouble at home, like parents divorcing. But she knew. She had never been late before and there was that first time – the night Jack’s mother had died. Turning on to her stomach, she buried her face in her pillow, trying not to think of the awful night in the police station and the doctor’s damning pronouncement: One of the constables said you come from a respectable family. They won’t be regarded as quite so respectable if they have to visit you in an unmarried mothers’ home.

  She’d end up like Mary Davies from Hanover Street. Her parents had told the neighbours she’d gone to help out on her cousin’s farm in North Wales, but everyone knew she’d been sent to an unmarried mothers’ home in Cardiff. When she’d come back she’d said it was horrible. That they’d made her look after the baby for six weeks, feed it, nurse it day and night, make clothes for it and then hand it over for adoption.

  A baby – she was having a baby! Her mother and grandmother would disown her – albeit from Langland – her father would put her in a home because no family could survive the disgrace of an unmarried pregnant daughter in the house. And then what? She’d be on her own with a load of strangers, most of them girls in the same situation.

  Jack had talked of living together but he barely made enough money to keep himself and she’d have to give up work as soon as she started ‘showing’. Perhaps she could get rid of it. That was it! She’d heard women talking in Norah Evans’s house when she’d been there with Lily and Norah had been out of the room. Hot bath and gin – that’s what they’d said. Someone one of the women knew, a cousin or a friend, had done it but it hadn’t worked and she’d almost died. Baby or not she didn’t want to die. Not now she’d found Jack. Turning restlessly in the bed, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep as a board creaked on the landing outside.

  ‘Helen.’ Joe tapped on the door. ‘You all right?’

  She heard him open it, listened as he tiptoed towards the bed but she kept her eyes firmly closed and her breathing steady. After a few moments the door closed and she turned over and reached for her diary again. If only there were someone she could talk to. Jack – it had to be Jack – but what if he left her, never wanted to see her again? Then she remembered. After this I won’t ever leave you, or let you leave me. You know that? She only hoped he hadn’t been lying. If he stood by her she felt as though she could face even her father’s pain and disappointment.

  ‘Let her have it.’

  ‘John, I strongly protest.’ Martin Davies held up a cautionary hand as Richard Thomas beamed triumphantly. ‘If you agree to these demands, this will go down as one of the most unfair and overgenerous divorce settlements in Swansea history. Your shop in Mumbles is a prime piece of property and the allowance you give Mrs Griffiths is twice the average wage for this area ...’

  ‘And a reflection on the prosperity of Mr Griffiths’ business, which Mrs Griffiths helped him expand.’

  John looked across to where Esme was sitting, cool, composed and elegant in a Dior shantung silk costume that had been part of the warehouse’s autumn range. He wasn’t even aware she’d taken it. ‘I had no idea you helped me in the business, Esme,’ he said impassively.

  ‘I recommended the warehouse to my friends ...’

  ‘Ah – recommendations, of course. How could I forget serving your friends?’ He turned to Martin. ‘You’ll forward me the appropriate papers when they’re ready for signing.’

  Richard Thomas pushed a file across the table towards Martin. ‘We took the liberty of drawing them up.’

  ‘Sure of yourself, weren’t you?’ Martin opened the file and began to study the papers, while Richard and Esme conversed in whispers and John left his chair and went to the window. ‘If you’re intent on giving away half your assets, John, they’re in order.’ Martin pushed the last sheet back into the file.

  ‘Then, as both parties are agreed, it might be as well if we signed them now.’ Taking his fountain pen from his top pocket, Richard unscrewed the top.

  ‘My client will sign only after Mrs Griffiths produces a disclaimer renouncing all rights to renegotiate a future settlement, in favour of accepting this one.’

  ‘Agreed?’ Richard looked at Esme.

  ‘If you recommend that it’s in my interests to do so.’

  ‘We agree. I’ll send over the relevant paperwork as soon it’s drawn up and signed.’

  ‘Once we’re in receipt of the document I’ll forward this settlement contract.’ Taking the file, Martin left the table.

  ‘There’s still the evidence of adultery. As your client is the guilty party, my client will have to sue for divorce as the injured party,’ Richard reminded him.

  ‘I also studied law, Richard, and you’ll have the evidence, together with this contract on receipt of the disclaimer.’

  ‘In that case I think I can safely predict that most of the paperwork will be completed by t
he end of next week and we can press ahead with a court date.’ Richard offered Esme his arm and led her out of the room.

  ‘John ...’

  ‘No more lectures, please, Martin.’ John sat back at the table, slumping as though all his energy had been sapped.

  ‘I wasn’t going to give you one. It is clear to me that for whatever reason, you want to be a free agent as soon as possible. It would take a bit of time to set up the adultery evidence but we’ve a cancellation ...’

  ‘Someone wants to delay committing adultery.’ John smiled at the thought. It all seemed highly ridiculous, like a plot from a Whitehall farce.

  ‘I’m aware it sounds peculiar, but the couple in question have reconciled. There’s no chance of you ...’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  Delving into his pocket, Martin produced a piece of paper and handed it to John. ‘This is the address of the hotel, if you can call it that. The woman will be there at half past two this afternoon, the private detective and photographer at a quarter to three. The woman will expect fifty pounds in cash, the detective thirty, the photographer twenty and a further ten to secure the negatives. If you don’t pay the extra the photographs could end up in the Sunday press. The papers that specialise in covering the more gruesome murders and salacious divorce cases have been known to pay well, especially for ones they have to paint black letterboxes on to cover private parts.’

  John glanced at his watch. ‘That’s all right, I have time to go to the bank.’

  ‘Drop the money for the photographer and detective off in my office, if someone sees you paying them it could lead to a charge of collusion and we need a nice clean case.’

  ‘Clean ...’

  ‘The room will be twenty-five ...’

  ‘This is going to be the most expensive hotel stay on record.’

  ‘That will also cover the cost of the chambermaid’s and receptionist’s statements. We need a witness, two are better, and three including the private detective better still. Don’t forget to wait for the woman if you get to the hotel ahead of her. The receptionist has to see you booking in as Mr and Mrs. Use the name Smith. And, John ...’ Martin paused, clearly embarrassed. ‘It’s all going to be – well – a bit seedy, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I expected it to be.’

  ‘It will go through more quickly if you provide a good clear shot where both parties can be easily identified, but I don’t have to explain. The photographer, the woman and the hotel staff know the drill.’

  ‘Thank you, Martin.’

  ‘If I pull a few strings and call in some favours I may be able to get this case into the next half-yearly Assizes and organise a decree nisi in a year, give or take a few months – that may not seem quick to you but take my word for it, it is.’

  ‘It’s not what you think, Martin. There isn’t another woman.’

  Martin gave him a sympathetic look as he opened his briefcase and placed the file Richard had given him inside. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, John. If I had a wife like Esme I’d want a quick divorce too.’

  The hotel was everything Martin had hinted it would be: peeling paint on a rotting front door that opened without him having to ring the bell; cracked lino that housed thick furrows of dirt; greyish walls that might have been almost any colour once; and an overwhelming smell of greasy food, damp and decay.

  ‘I’m Mr Smith ...’

  He didn’t have to say another word. The middle-aged man behind the desk thrust a register at him and removed a key from a row of hooks on the wall behind him. ‘Mrs Smith has already signed, sir.’

  John turned and saw a heavily veiled woman sitting on a bench behind him. Nodding briefly, he signed Mr Smith below her Mrs Smith.

  ‘Room four, sir.’

  Allowing the woman to walk ahead, John climbed a flight of creaking, groaning stairs. She stopped outside a door that bore an inexpertly painted number four. Opening it, she stepped inside.

  ‘Close the door but don’t lock it.’

  John did as she asked, walking in as she tossed her hat and veils on to a chair. He recognised the woman, almost any man who lived in Swansea would have. One of the oldest streetwalkers who plied their trade on the Museum steps, and the seedier pubs down the Strand and dockside end of the town.

  ‘When you’ve finished gawping you can pay me. I like to get business over and done with at the outset. That way we can both relax.’

  ‘How much?’ John asked, recalling that Martin Davies had said fifty, but he doubted any professional who looked like her made that in three months.

  ‘Fifty.’ She saw him hesitate and added, ‘if you know someone who’ll do it cheaper in the next five minutes, go get them!’

  Extracting his wallet, he counted out ten five-pound notes. She stuffed them into a tiny velvet bag attached to her wrist by a silver chain.

  ‘Now we can get down to business.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We only have ten minutes.’ Taking off her coat, she stubbed out the cigarette she was smoking on the rickety wooden bedside cabinet, adding to the rash of existing burns.

  Although he’d had no lunch, John felt sick as she unbuttoned her lacy black cardigan to reveal a grubby, greyish slip and beneath it a black brassiere with thin, twisted straps. Tossing the cardigan on top of her hat, she unbuttoned her skirt. As it fell to the floor she pulled her slip over her head. He averted his eyes as she yanked down the straps on her brassiere and turned it round. Her breasts, wrinkled, flabby, flopped over the band as she unclipped it.

  Left in red suspender belt and a pair of fishnet stockings that had more holes than they should, and nothing else, she climbed into bed. ‘Never wear panties,’ she grinned, revealing gaps in her large yellow teeth, ‘they get in the way in my line of work. And although that wasn’t strictly necessary I like to give value for money.’

  Repulsed and revolted, he nodded dumbly.

  ‘Most of my regulars like me to keep on the suspenders and stockings but if you want me to take them off, or go for my special services it’ll be another tenner ...’

  ‘No.’ his voice was as hoarse as Helen’s had been that morning.

  She patted the bed beside her. ‘Take off your shirt then, ducks. The others will be here any minute and that way there’ll be no mistaking your intentions in the photos.’

  Turning his back, Jack removed his coat and looked around for somewhere to hang it. The wardrobe gave the impression that it would fall apart if he opened the door. Seeing a hook on the back of the door, he left it there and removed his jacket.

  ‘No need to take off more than your shirt,’ she said as he kept his back turned to her. ‘There’ll be no way of telling if we’re naked down below or not once the sheet is pulled to our waists. Course, if you want it afterwards, and I can see that a man who looks the way you do would, I wouldn’t mind. Tell you what, I’ll drop down to a fiver, seeing as how you were so good at paying upfront.’

  John went home before returning to the office. Helen was in the dining room eating a late lunch Mrs Jones had made for her. After listening to her assurances that she felt much better and checking that her colour had returned, he went to the bathroom. Stripping off his clothes he bundled the whole lot, including his suit and overcoat into the linen bin. They could be sorted later. He couldn’t wait to scrub himself raw. He had never felt so soiled in his life, but as the second change of scalding bath water washed over him he realised the tainted feeling went deeper than his skin.

  According to the detective, the photographer had been quick, but the five minutes it had taken him to set up the required shots had seemed to last an eternity, an eternity when the prostitute – he hadn’t even asked her name – had insisted on wrapping her arms around his chest and placing his hand on her naked breast.

  Sickened and disgusted by a system that had forced him to degrade himself to break free from a loveless marriage, he left the house an hour later with his skin tingling, but feeling no cleaner, wearing a complete change of
clothes and more after-shave than he had ever put on in his life before.

  ‘Judy, I don’t know what’s got into you,’ Joy admonished as they took an unexpected break, courtesy of a mid-afternoon cancellation. ‘You mixed Mrs Jordan’s perm solution double strength. You turned up the heat on Mrs Harris’s dryer instead of down, the poor woman was almost roasted ...’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry isn’t good enough when you hand my customers excuses enough to sue me. Something gone wrong between you and Brian?’

  ‘And wouldn’t you love it, if it had?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Turning her back on her mother, Judy went into the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove.

  Joy stroked the hair away from her daughter’s face. ‘All I want is for you to be happy. I’m sorry I behaved the way I did, but your father made me very miserable when we were together. I saw similarities between him and Brian and was afraid that if you allowed Brian to get close, he might do the same to you.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be making me unhappy now.’ Walking away, Judy spooned tea into the pot as the kettle began to boil.

  ‘Want to tell me what went wrong?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ Judy poured boiling water into the teapot, and set out two cups.

  ‘If it’s anything I can help with ...’

  ‘Why did Dad make you unhappy?’ Judy asked suddenly.

  ‘Because he wouldn’t leave other women alone.’

  Judy poured the tea before looking at her mother, ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I hoped you hadn’t. I wanted you to have a happy childhood and it’s not the sort of thing a child should be burdened with.’

  ‘But it must have been humiliating for you.’

  ‘It was, and,’ Joy took a deep breath, ‘it was why he never came back at the end of the war. He’s not dead, Judy. He moved in with another woman, in London.’

  Judy sat down suddenly, slopping the tea she was holding over her skirt. ‘Dad’s alive.’

  ‘He asked me to divorce him; I wouldn’t, or let him see you, because I didn’t want people to know he’d abandoned us – me,’ she corrected quickly. ‘I felt it reflected badly on me. You know how people talk “There goes Joy Hunt, she couldn’t even hold on to her man.” If we could have arranged it quietly I would have agreed, but we couldn’t have finalised a divorce without a notice in the Evening Post and then everyone in Swansea would have known about it. Not only the neighbours and my customers but your school friends. But, please, don’t think I was considering you, I wasn’t. I did what I thought best at the time and it was mainly for my own benefit.’