“Mummy, d’you think it’s wise to arrange something now? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until memories fade and people have stopped gossiping about us?”
“What do you mean, Sian! We Westons create situations; we don’t bow down to what others decree! Now, what d’you think of a Friday evening? Saturday is such a common day on which to celebrate anything, don’t you think?”
“With Islwyn in this state?” She whispered this, glancing towards the door to the hall. “How can you celebrate with Islwyn hiding like…?”
“A scared rabbit?”
“Mother!”
“The celebration will be for your father, not Islwyn and Ryan, and I’m sure you won’t want to disappoint him, he deserves a show of our love and support.”
Outside the door, Islywn listened, his expression hardening.
* * *
On Friday, Jack and Viv arrived at Montague Court on Jack’s motorbike. Hurriedly arranging their clothes for a suitable entrance into the rather elegant restaurant, Jack announced their booking. They were shown into a very large room which had been changed very little from the drawing room it had once been.
The Jenkinses were a family who could trace their ancestors back for many generations. The area had once been their estate and Montague Court the family home. The land had been sold and now supported families of people instead of cows and sheep, but the house remained in the family, only its use had changed. As an Inn, run by Mr and Mrs Leonard Montague Jenkins, it was still their home and also their business.
Gwennie Woodlas smiled at them from a corner and two of Arfon’s friends nodded politely as they ate.
“Isn’t that Edward Jenkins?” Viv asked after the waiter had taken their order for steak Montague, which wasn’t steak at all, but sausage meat. “I remember being told about him at school.”
“Shot during the war, see how he limps?” Jack whispered. “Good runner before that, now he helps with the family hotel with his sister Margaret. I heard about them from Terry, their cousin. We met in the army but I’ve lost touch now.”
“If you know him why didn’t he speak?” Viv demanded. “Stuck up, is he?”
When the waiter returned, Jack smiled and said hello, and asked if he heard from Terry.
“My cousin is in London, I believe,” Edward replied, without looking directly at them. “Selling jewellery in some store. My grandfather writes to him occasionally. He would have his address if you wish to get in touch.”
“No, it’s all right, we weren’t close, I just thought, seeing you, that he might be living here too.”
“A separate part of the family really, Mr – er—”
* * *
Unknown to either of them, Terry Jenkins was on his way to Pendragon Island, but he had no immediate plans to see either his grandfather or his cousin Edward. All he wanted was a place where he could hide.
* * *
In Sophie Street, life for the Lewises continued in its uneasy way. Dora no longer worked. She had given up her insurance round soon after she had discovered her husband’s long-standing affair with Nia Martin who owned the corner sweet shop. Her husband Lewis Lewis was still living at home, although their marriage was nothing more than an act for the benefit of others.
Dora was frightened to the edge of panic several times each day and for much of each night. What would she do when Lewis left her? She was certain that one day he would. There was a limit to how long she could hold him with the threat of illness. It was Nia Martin he wanted, not her. Not any more.
With the children grown up and ready to leave the home she had provided for them for over twenty years, and no longer even having a job to make her get up and start the day, she was fighting the temptation to stay in bed and lose hours, day after day, in wallowing self-pity. No one needed her any more. At forty-five she was of no further use.
She blamed Nia for much of the time and Lewis for a lot more but somehow it always turned around and became her fault. If she had been different. If she hadn’t been so quick-tempered. If she had made something more of herself, built a career, made herself more attractive. The list was endless and in the end counting all her faults on her fingers achieved nothing. She was still going to lose him and she was still afraid. The rejection was so cruel. All the years of loving thrown on the rubbish heap like dead roses and rotten potatoes.
* * *
Lewis Lewis had lost his job selling freezers and frozen foods when revelations about his private life came to the attention of his employers, and he now had a lesser job selling sweets. Their daughter, Rhiannon, worked at the sweet shop owned by his mistress, Nia, and it was to Rhiannon he went now, at the end of his day, to see if she needed anything. Not that he needed to, it was a ploy to delay walking into number seven Sophie Street and seeing Dora’s accusing and bitter face.
“Rhiannon, love, it’s me.” He stepped behind the counter and called up the stairs on realising the small shop was unattended.
Lewis Lewis was tall, slim and extremely well dressed. His shoes never needed a shine, his suit was immaculately pressed and his shirt so white it dazzled. His black hair was slicked back and his moustache was a perfectly trimmed thin black line emphasising his full and shapely lips. His dark eyes had a habit of staring just that moment too long and made every woman believe he saved that special look of admiration for her alone. He was a flirt, and to old and young he gave his special wink and loving smile.
“Coming, Dad.” Carrying down a bowl of hot water, Rhiannon came into the shop and smiled a welcome. “I’m closing in a minute, I hope you haven’t called for an order. It’s Friday and I’m off out to see Eleri and Basil later. Invited for supper I am. Then I’m going to set Eleri’s hair so she’s tidy, in case – you know, in case the baby comes.”
“Are you walking all the way over to the Griffithses’ house in the dark? Across those fields? Pity she doesn’t still live with us, in Sophie Street. It’s funny, love, but I still think of Eleri as my daughter-in-law. She might be married to Basil Griffiths now, but to me she’s still Mrs Lewis Lewis.”
“I still think of her as my sister-in-law and I don’t think that will change.” Rhiannon began washing down the counters and tidying the jars of sweets. “There’s sticky these jars get. All the children seem to have hands that have been dipped in treacle!”
Lewis looked around the shop. “It looks spotless to me, everything neat and shiny. I don’t think Nia has any reason to complain. She’s delighted with the way you run Temptations.”
“You still see her then?”
Lewis nodded. “I still see her. I’m living at home with your Mam but my heart is with Nia. Sorry, Rhiannon but that’s how it is. And always will be.”
Rhiannon rubbed harder on the sides of the jar of pear drops. Her long brown hair falling and hiding her face from his sight. “No point saying you’re sorry.”
“I know I messed things for you all, but life isn’t orderly and harmonious. It’s a pack of cards shuffled and thrown wildly about and we just have to tidy them as best we can and play the hand we end up with.”
“There’s certainly more than one joker in my pack!”
“Don’t hang on to Barry Martin, love. He’s out of reach now and a bit of an old sobersides anyway. Best you start looking for someone who’ll give you some fun. It gets harder to find the older you get, mind.”
“You saying I’m getting past it, our Dad?” she teased and he caught hold of her chin and turned her to face him, her eyes so brown in her small face framed in the thick, dark hair.
“Beautiful you are, Rhiannon Lewis, and there are plenty of young men out there who’d be proud to have you on their arm, believe me. Younger and more handsome than Nia’s son, too.”
“I’m happy to wait for Barry,” she said quietly, her eyes suddenly serious.
“You think he and Caroline Griffiths will divorce then?”
“For sure.”
“I’ll have a word if you like?”
“No nee
d, Dad. Barry and I know exactly what we’re doing.”
“You don’t take after your ol’ dad then, do you love?”
“Different colour hair and no moustache,” she laughed.
Lewis walked to number seven Sophie Street and took out his key. He didn’t want to go inside. He never did these days. It was Nia with whom he wanted to spend his evenings. But although they met frequently and even spent the occasional night together, he was committed to spending much of his time with Dora. Just enough to give the impression of a close-knit family to those who were unaware of the truth. Playing happy families, he thought bitterly, looking down the dark road as if planning an escape.
The lamp opposite was broken. With a couple of houses missing, victims of a bomb more than twelve years before, the council probably didn’t think it was worth replacing. Number ten in the terrace was standing with nothing on one side of it, shored up with lengths of wood, the roof a frill of uneven slates, the gutters askew. Buddleia and rosebay willow herb had colonised the empty space, making a glorious display in the summer but a heap of tangled and rotted foliage now, that even from this distance smelled of earthy dampness.
There was no light in number eight and he wondered if Maggie Wilpin even had a fire. He stared, half closing his eyes to pierce the gloom. He saw a movement that could have been an arm waving, and knew Maggie Wilpin was sitting in her doorway looking out, watching him, aware of everything that went on.
Three of her grandsons had been killed during the war and her grandson-in-law Charlie Bevan, was in prison for housebreaking and burglaries including a break-in at Nia’s sweet shop, Temptations. Her great-grandson lived with her, his mother having run away soon after her husband had been conscripted into the army.
Lewis walked across and handed her a shilling. “Give that to your Gwyn, will you?”
Maggie snatched the coin and put it jokingly into her toothless mouth. “A good one, is it, Lewis?”
“Time you went inside, Maggie. It’s cold sitting there.”
“The night is long enough without me locking myself away before necessary,” she grumbled.
When Lewis went inside, Dora called from upstairs, “What did she want, old mother Wilpin?”
“Nothing. I gave her a few coppers for Gwyn, that’s all. With his dad in prison he probably doesn’t get much.”
“I don’t think he goes short of anything. What he doesn’t get given he steals. Like father like son!”
“I’m going out, Dora,” Lewis announced as he finished his meal. “Probably call in at The Railwayman’s for a swift half.” He had to shout because Dora was eating her meal in the kitchen as she always did when he was at home.
He was eating with Rhiannon at the table made to accommodate six. Viv was out with Jack. Dora never ate with him, preferring to eat alone in the back kitchen. He never understood why, but presumed that to sit beside him and share a meal was some sort of favour he had failed to earn the right to receive.
“Is Viv going to The Railwayman’s later?” he asked his daughter.
“Might be. It’s his twenty-first, remember, and he’ll want to share it with his friends.”
“Jack has to go to his grandparents’ house tomorrow,” Dora called from the kitchen. “Old Man Arfon and Gladys summoned the family to a meeting about something or other according to Viv, and Gladys – ‘She who must be obeyed’ – Weston, refuses to accept any excuse for them not to attend.”
“I thought Jack was the rebel, the one who refused to be browbeaten into doing as his grandmother demanded?” Lewis queried.
“He used to be,” Rhiannon told him. “But with the family in trouble I think he feels more obliged to support them.”
“It’s over now though.”
“Still plenty for the local gossips to chew on,” Rhiannon said bitterly.
“People will soon forget. We gave them plenty to talk about, didn’t we? But it’s blown over.”
“Fat chance for the Westons being allowed to forget in a hurry,” Dora called from the kitchen. “All their grand talk and fancy ways, people love seeing them come toppling down. The reporters are licking their lips ready for any further juicy details that might be revealed.”
Lewis looked thoughtfully into the fire. “It’s hard on the family though. If Basil Griffiths and our Viv had only burnt the letter they found instead of taking it to the police—”
“They did the right thing!” Dora came in and snatched the plate he had just cleared and took it into the kitchen.
“I suppose so,” Lewis said doubtfully. “Old Man Arfon setting fire to his shop was a criminal offence and he shouldn’t get away with it because it harms his family. And our Viv wasn’t responsible for the police discovering that Islwyn Heath had been robbing the firm, was he? But it’s still hard on them.”
“They’ll survive,” said the voice from the kitchen between clattering the saucepans.
“Joan and Megan put a brave face on things and they still have a few friends, mostly those who, like them, enjoy the notoriety I suppose, but they must be scared of what will happen to them all now there’s no money.”
“Arfon and Gladys will have to sell their big house then, won’t they?” Dora called. “Have to manage with a small one like the rest of us do. It won’t fetch much, mind, being in an unfashionable area.”
“Gladys won’t have so much money to waste on the girls either,” Lewis added. “It’s there the Weston Girls will be hit, in their pockets and on their backs. I don’t think the actual disgrace upsets them too much, they have too much confidence for that!”
“Confidence or good actors,” Viv said later, when Rhiannon told him of the conversation. “I doubt if Joan and Megan are as brave as they pretend.”
Chapter Three
When Gladys Weston had all her family around her she felt like a queen. They were so beautiful: her twin daughters, Sian and Sally, Sally’s twin daughters Megan and Joan – her wonderful Weston Girls, and Sian’s son Jack, her handsome if stubborn grandson. Her sons-in-law she ignored. They were not important apart from behaving, for most of the time, as befitting a member of the Weston family, and caring for her daughters in a manner which she accepted as moderately good.
When she had provided them all with thinly cut sandwiches and small cakes, and a cup of tea stood beside each one, she told them the reason for inviting them all.
“My dears, I do think it’s time we started to plan something for the party. Now what suggestions do you have? I thought a rather grand affair to celebrate the end of our worries, hiring a hall and a good orchestra and, perhaps an entertainer. What d’you think?”
The men looked at each other stiff-faced and obviously dreading the whole thing, the girls grinned, thinking of new dresses being made, and Sian and Sally glanced at their father wondering if he thought the idea of a party a bit ill-timed.
“Gladys, I think we ought to leave it for a while. At least until echoes of the court case have faded, and we are better fixed financially,” Arfon said pompously.
He didn’t want to remind her that they were broke. Not now, in front of the family, when it would embarrass her. He whispered to Jack instead. “She won’t face the fact that we haven’t the money for a big party. God ’elp, I can’t even afford to take you all out for a meal in a restaurant, unless it’s a Joe’s Caff.”
“Let her talk about it, Grandfather, then we’ll gradually cool the idea.”
“So, what ideas do you have for an entertainer?” Gladys was asking.
Ryan coughed and said now was not the time to celebrate. Islwyn said nothing, staring at his cucumber sandwiches as he nibbled and shaped it, as if working on a sculpture that was causing problems.
“Oh, come on all of you, whatever has happened, it’s over. Joan and Megan need an excuse to revive friendships and make new ones. Besides, it’s time to show the town that the Westons are still showing others how to do things.” She looked at their dull faces and sighed. “A party for my girls. How can we l
et anything spoil that?”
“No one will come,” Sian said. “Most of my friends ignore me these days and I’m sure it’s the same for Sally.”
“All the more reason for having a party. My parties are always events no one would want to miss.” Gladys was talking louder, a clear indication things were not going well. “D’you remember how hesitant you all were when your father and I wanted to take you to France? That was a wonderful holiday wasn’t it? Do I ever plan something that’s less than perfect? Do I?” she demanded when she didn’t hear the expected response.
“No, Grandmother,” Joan said and beside her Megan muttered an echo.
“Forget your so-called friends, Sian, and let us make a list of the young people we can invite. Jack?” She raised a pen and waited for him to suggest names.
“What about Viv Lewis? Basil and Eleri Griffiths?”
“I didn’t intend inviting people like the Griffithses, dear, as you well know.”
“Frank and Ernie Griffiths are good fun, even better than Basil where parties are concerned, and they’ve never been known to refuse an invitation,” Jack went on.
“Now I know you’re teasing me, dear. They’d start a fight within the hour and end up in – in court again,” she ended quietly, regretting her choice of word. “Now, shall we be sensible?”
“Viv, and Eleri and Basil,” Joan said firmly. “If it’s our party then we should be able to choose.”
“At least they don’t treat us like lepers!” Megan added.
“Very well, dear,” Gladys scribbled on her pad. She could always forget to send the invitation.
When they had made a list of possibles and probables, Jack said, “It was Viv’s twenty-first yesterday; we went to Montague Court. You know, the house the Jenkinses have made into an hotel. Very smart and very expensive. Gwennie Woodlas was there, Grandmother, you know, from Guinevere where you buy your frocks.”
The Weston Girls Page 4
