‘They’re saying I never had a dad,’ she sobbed, dirt streaking her face with the constant rubbing of her small hand.
‘Van’s mam and dad were heroes in the war, that’s right, isn’t it, Van? Her dad was a soldier like her uncles, and he died a hero, saving dozens of lives.’
‘What about her mam then?’ one of the braver boys demanded. ‘You don’t get women heroes.’
‘Van’s mam was a nurse,’ Edwin invented, ‘and she helped the heroes.’
Van flashed him a grateful smile for his inventiveness and the crowd dispersed, the fun already forgotten, on their way to find someone else to tease. Edwin gave Van his handkerchief and waited while she dried her eyes.
Rhonwen walked with Marged and Owen to The Wedge and went into the half that was Gareth’s shop. There were two men waiting and Owen and Marged sat looking at comics.
‘Mrs Owen. How are you?’ Gareth gestured to a chair. ‘We don’t see you in here often. You not having a boy I don’t expect to, of course,’ he added with a smile. ‘Nice to be lucky enough to get a pretty lady like your Marged in here.’
‘Dorothy’s busy and I’m here with Owen. His hair is very long.’
‘Soon put that right, won’t we, boy?’
Owen glared at Gareth over his glasses but made no comment.
As he finished the customers before them he chatted easily to Rhonwen and when it was time for them to leave he felt surprisingly disappointed.
‘Such a quiet, pleasant young lady,’ he said to his mother later. ‘It’ll be nice having her in the family, when Cecily and I are married.’
Throughout the evening, his mind constantly returned to the gentle Rhonwen and he found himself comparing her to Cecily.
‘She’s nowhere as beautiful or as lively as Cecily,’ he told his mother. ‘Cecily’s the perfect choice for someone as quiet and settled as me. She’s resourceful and clever too. Just look how she’s pulled that shop from the ordinary little grocers to the thriving place it is now.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Rhonwen would be too calm for me, nice as she undoubtedly is, mind. She’d be there, a part of the scenery but without me being aware of her most of the time. I’d just drift along the way I do now with no excitement.’ The thought, spoken aloud, didn’t sound dull at all.
His mother was staring up at him from her chair close to the fire, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘Who are you trying to convince, Gareth?’
‘Cecily makes me proud, see,’ he said, pretending not to hear. ‘She’s clever and beautiful and she turns heads wherever we go. When I walk with her on my arm she makes me feel great, Mam, just great.’
When Rhonwen eventually arrived home with Owen neatly shorn, his sister was putting the final touches to a casserole. Marged sniffed appreciation. ‘Can I have some, Annette? Please? Starving I am!’
‘Marged!’ Rhonwen said, then laughed. ‘Don’t take any notice of her, Annette. Starving she is from the moment she wakes till the first snore.’
Annette went to the pottery bread bin and began cutting a very thick slice, locally called a cwlff. ‘Eat this – it will give you the strength to walk home.’
‘It’s faggots and peas night, but I’d rather have some of that casserole,’ Marged sighed as she took her first bite.
Dorothy returned from work before they left and over a cup of tea Rhonwen told her about Van being teased at school. ‘They called her illegitimate, would you believe? Where do children pick up these words? Shame on them for upsetting the child and her grieving for her grandfather. An orphan she is, poor love.’
‘Is she? I think they’re right – she is illegitimate.’
‘Adopted,’ Rhonwen said firmly. ‘Her mother was a friend of Cecily and Ada and married to a soldier, who died before the baby was born, and the mother died in childbirth.’
‘There’s a bit of a tawch about the whole thing if you ask me,’ Dorothy said. ‘Something not clear.’
‘Well, I think it’s a shame and the teacher should be told. I’ll suggest to Ada and Cecily that they sort it out.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Dorothy advised. ‘To have it talked about could make things worse for the child. Best you let it go. There’ll be someone else to torment tomorrow, you know what children are like. Forget it – that’s best.’
‘Perhaps,’ Rhonwen agreed. ‘Least said and all that.’
Dorothy looked thoughtful for a while, then she stood up, a hint for Rhonwen and Marged to leave. ‘Now, Annette, that food smells good. Oh, and by the way, I’m going into Cardiff tomorrow. Is there anything you need?’
‘Some ribbons, please, Mam.’
‘Going shopping?’ Rhonwen asked.
‘No,’ Dorothy said seriously. ‘Business. Important business.’
Summer was filling the town with visitors and a number of private houses advertised rooms to let and were kept busy washing bedding and providing big breakfasts for their guests, mostly bread and potatoes to fill the plates.
This increased the trade at Owen’s shop and Willie was run off his feet going to and from the wholesalers topping up stock. He still delivered to the beach customers and still managed to meet Annette every Monday afternoon to take tea with Peter Marshall. They didn’t attempt to hide from passers-by, thinking that, should they be seen, it would be simple to explain that they met by accident and decided to share a pot of tea.
They loved the stolen hour of freedom, sitting watching the trippers parading past with new buckets and spades, the parents loaded with bags containing an assortment of food, fruit and the inevitable bottle of ‘pop’ to quench the children’s thirst.
Families staked their claim to an area of the golden sands and removed as much of their clothing as they dared. Dads wore their suits; the only concession to it being their annual holiday was the removal of their jackets and sometimes their waistcoats too. They would roll up their trouser legs to mid calf, their shirt sleeves as high as they would go, place a knotted handkerchief on their head and set to work building a sandcastle of turreted splendour.
In the background, they heard the rattling and the screams coming from the figure of eight, and the klaxons and horns and wails coming from the more sedate assortment of rides in the amusement park. The air smelled deliciously of seaweed, moist sand and chips. Whatever the weather, for Willie and Annette, each Monday was a perfect day.
Crowds increased towards the middle of August and so did the couple’s feeling of anonymity as hordes of strangers filled the cafes, rides and shops. Willie was well known to most of the business people but no one mentioned seeing him with Annette.
Peter Marshall usually managed to be there each Monday for part of the time they were there. The only comment he made on their using his cafe as a meeting place was to suggest to Willie that he should persuade the sisters to buy a van for when the weather was less kind, and winter saw the closing of the cafes.
‘Annette,’ Willie said one day as they walked back to where they had left the horse and cart. ‘Would you like to come and see my house? Worked on it for months I have and it’s looking smart. But I want a woman’s opinion on curtains and things.’
‘Willie, I don’t think I should. What if Mam found out? Or someone saw us coming out together? What would people think?’
‘I’ll ask Gladys Davies to come in with us and we’ll only stay for a minute or two. Like for you to see it, I would.’
‘All right then. But we’ll make it early so I can get home in plenty of time to get the meal ready for Mam and Owen.’
‘No later than usual, that’s a promise.’
Monday was a fairly quiet day at the shop and the sisters used it as an opportunity to clean windows and scrub beneath the counters. When Willie returned from the beach and his meeting with Annette, Cecily asked, ‘Will you call at Phil Spencer’s for the bill-heads we’ve ordered? If you collect them tonight you can bring them in the morning.’
‘That’s no trouble,’ Willie said amiably as he carried in the last of the boxes
from the display outside the shop.
‘No, I’ll walk down after I’ve met Van,’ Ada said. ‘The shop’s quiet and you can manage for a while, can’t you?’
‘Walk?’ Cecily was surprised. ‘All the way to the village?’
‘It’s such a lovely day and I’ll get a bus for part of the way. I never seem to get any sun on my face.’
It was after four when Ada set out in a new suit of lightweight wool in lime green with a navy blouse showing its frill down the front opening. She wore a pair of high-heeled shoes that certainly weren’t meant for walking.
She had taken a lot of care with her appearance, having set her hair in kiss-curls around her face, similar to those Cecily wore. Waves made a rigid pattern, tight against her scalp, and the back was cut tightly into her neck in a semi shingle. She loosened the waves slightly with a comb and felt the wind lifting them as she went for the bus, causing her to wish she had brought a scarf. Artistically sculpted from stone was the image she had tried to create.
She alighted from the bus at the small park where Danny Preston had found his motorbike months ago, and walked down the green lane to the old part of the town, where Phil Spencer ran his printing business near where Willie lived.
Her knock on Phil’s door was answered promptly. He wiped his stained hands down his overall before offering her one. ‘Come in, come in!’ he said, opening the door wide. ‘Business, is it? Or am I lucky enough to have a social visit from the prettiest lady in town?’
‘Don’t talk daft, Phil Spencer,’ Ada laughed. ‘Come for the bill-heads I have.’
Mrs Spencer came out of the living room and smiled a welcome. ‘Lovely it is to see you again, Miss Owen. Phil’s been so hoping you’d call.’
‘Mam!’
‘Well, the truth won’t harm anyone.’ She picked up the local paper and tapped her finger on the relevant place. ‘Seen this, have you? A road race on roller skates in fancy dress. There’s fun that’ll be and there’s going to be a Grand Fete with a carnival queen an’ all, an end-of-season spectacular with summer nearly over. Lots will be going, won’t they? Holiday-makers and locals alike. You taking your Myfanwy?’
She didn’t need or expect answers as she went back to the fire which burned dully in the sunshine streaming through the window, busying herself with kettle and teapot.
‘Sit down,’ Phil fussed, plumping up cushions in the most comfortable chair. ‘I’ll just get your order.’ In his ungainly manner he went through to the workshop-cum-office and returned with a neatly parcelled box.
‘How did you come?’ he asked.
‘I walked down from the park. The bus dropped me there. I didn’t have time to walk all the way after meeting Van.’
‘I’ll take you back in style if you like. I’ve bought a van. What d’you think of that, then?’
Ada looked out of the window, stretching up to see past the wide window sill in the two-feet-thick wall. A van stood outside and painted on the side in beautiful scroll work was the legend ‘Phil Spencer, Master Printer and Sign Writer’.
‘I bought it from a man called Peter Marshall and he gave me ten minutes’ instruction and left me to drive it home. Damn me! I never had such a hair-raising ride in all my life. Talk about chaos! A policeman saw my erratic progress and thought I was trying to end it all, in the dock! Came with me he did, walking and running alongside, shouting instructions through the window and him never even been in a car before!’
He went on describing the journey home and the subsequent trips he had made since as he slowly became more proficient. Ada drank tea, ate cake and laughed and forgot about time. When she heard the clock in the corner rumble and strike five thirty, she stood up, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes and insisted it was time she left.
‘I don’t know whether I should trust myself to you and your van, though,’ she said, ‘after all the disasters you’ve told me about.’
‘Safe as houses you’ll be with me. I’d never let anything harm you, I can promise that.’ He stared at her for a moment, his merry eyes in the sharply featured face very intense. He helped her into her jacket and Ada thanked Mrs Spencer for the tea and cakes, then he bustled her out into the still warm evening. She sat in the van that smelled pleasantly of polished leather, Phil still chattering.
‘Caught the button of my sleeve in the steering wheel, see, and there was this bloke trying to get away and every way he turned so did I as I struggled to release the button. Damn, it was funny. Like a flaming rabbit he was. Young Jack Simmons. Know him, do you?’
Ada hardly said a word until they stopped outside the shop and Cecily and Myfanwy came out to meet her.
‘Well,’ Cecily teased. ‘Walking indeed!’
‘You want to get one of these for your Willie, for delivering orders. Save a lot of time it will and it looks good to the customers, don’t you think?’
Phil held out the package for which Ada had called, hoping she would come back to him for one final word. All the way to the shop he had filled the air with words while trying to pluck up the courage to invite her out. Unless she came back to collect the package he had left it too late.
He watched the doorway and just as he’d decided he must take it to her, she came back. He held it towards her but when she grasped it he didn’t let go. ‘Meet me on Sunday for a drive down the coast?’ he asked in his fast, anxious way. ‘Please,’ he added, staring at her, blue eyes laughing, his expression as eager as a child’s.
‘Yes, Phil. I’d like that. About two o’clock?’
‘I’ll be here, tooting my horn with impatience.’
He was sick with excitement as he released the brake and moved away. He hoped she wasn’t watching as he mounted the pavement and almost ran over a cat.
‘I think there’s something worrying our Van,’ Ada said one evening as they wearily packed away the last of the goods from the porch and windows. ‘She hasn’t said anything to you, has she?’
‘No. Perhaps she’s still grieving for Dadda. Or it might be something to do with my plan to marry Gareth. I’ve tried to involve her in all the preparations and talked about everything openly, but she might still be afraid of being left alone. She was only seven last April and it’s not easy for her to explain what’s worrying her. I could have said too much or not enough.’
‘I asked Beryl and Bertie but they don’t know. And I asked Waldo. He and Melanie have taken her out a few times but they can’t help. She seemed perfectly at ease with them.’
‘Don’t let’s cook tonight. We’ll go for some fish and chips and try to get her to talk.’
It wasn’t difficult. As soon as they sat down to eat, Cecily shut off the wireless, which was giving a news report and weather for the following day, and asked softly, ‘What is it, Van, lovely? What’s bothering you? Tell your aunties and we’ll soon put it right.’
‘What’s ill-e-giti-mate?’ The little girl said the word as she had learned it, syllable by horrible syllable, repeating the word and forcing herself to remember it, chanting it like a litany. Illegitimate. Something very bad, something wicked.
The sisters looked at each other in surprise. Whatever they had expected, it wasn’t this.
‘Where did you hear that word?’ Ada asked.
‘In school. The boys were calling me that, said it meant I didn’t have a father. But Marged and Owen don’t have a father and they weren’t called that.’
‘Your mother was our best friend,’ Cecily told her. ‘Your father was a kind, loving and brave man.’
‘Who died in the war like Uncle John and Uncle Victor?’
‘No, lovey. He died around the time you were born and the war was over by then.’
‘Tell me about them.’
Gradually they reassured the anxious little girl and built a picture of her parents. They had done this many times but, as before, memory faded and she needed reminders of the story they told her. They talked until she seemed content and when she went to bed, they both stayed with her, one
each side of the bed, until she slept.
On Sunday, Annette made an excuse to her mother and went for a walk. She set off through the town, up the hill, on past the shops until the houses became fewer and fewer and there were fields on either side of the road. Then houses appeared again, each with its own colourful garden where Phlox, lupins and tall daisies nodded their heads lazily in the warm sunshine. Wallflowers jutted out precariously from crevices in garden walls, slow and small but determined to add to summer’s show. One day, she thought, I’d like a garden where I can grow flowers.
Some gardens were large and she saw rows of vegetables neatly tended and coops where chickens chortled and clucked. There was even, on occasions, the unmistakable and powerful smell of a pig sty, its occupants sprawled contentedly on the warm earth. Other cottages had small plots but these had been used to full effect and flowers crept up walls and over fences to make use of every inch of soil and were masses of rich texture and colour.
For a while her path followed the brook, as it worked its convoluted way between the higgledy-piggledy arrangement of odd cottages. It widened in places and ducks made use of its shallows to find food. A heron flew across her path to settle in a tree beside a bedraggled and now empty nest.
Annette didn’t know the area well, but from the instructions Willie had given her she found his cottage easily. It was the most recently painted and shone in the August sun, dazzling her eyes as she paused to admire it.
As she looked, the door opened and Willie came out, strangely unfamiliar in shirt sleeves and the trousers of a navy suit. She had never seen him in anything but a jacket and shirt, collar and tie. Today he looked a different man. He ran to meet her and took her at once to his neighbour, Gladys Davies.
Goodbye to Dreams Page 12
