‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ Alison sounded as frantic as she felt. ‘It’s just … I’m just…’
‘Wanta cock-let,’ Emma piped up. ‘Mummy! Wanta cock-let.’
Control snapped. Alison was drowning in a torrent of anger and fear. ‘Shut up!’ she yelled. ‘Shut up! How many more times have I got to tell you? I can’t afford bloody chocolate. I can’t even afford the bloody mince.’ Shocked faces loomed before her. The check-out girl was open-mouthed. Emma was screaming, her mouth a dark O. Jon was clinging to the handle of the trolley, white-faced. I must get a hold of myself, Alison thought desperately. But she couldn’t. ‘We shall have to live on air,’ she shouted into the din.
Somebody was standing behind her, somebody familiar, somebody saying, ‘Steady on Ali. It’s not as bad as that.’ Mark! She was torn between relief and shame.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I haven’t got enough to pay the bill,’ she said, cheeks blazing. ‘I only brought twenty pounds.’
He was looking at the till, already taking command. ‘You take the kids and go to my car,’ he said. ‘In the middle, down at the end. I’ll settle up here. Give me the notes.’
He was back at the car before Emma had stopped crying. ‘I’ll just go and tell Jenny what’s going on,’ he said, ‘while you put this in the boot and then we’ll all go home. Good job I came across, eh?’
Alison was so tired it was all she could do to lift her shopping bags out of the trolley. Jon looked awful, as if she’d beaten him up. And Emma’s poor little face was smeared with snot. She took a tissue out of her pocket and tried to clean her.
‘My poor Emma,’ she said. ‘I am sorry. All better now?’ And was reduced to tears herself when the baby smiled at her. How forgiving they are at this age, she thought, torn with remorse. It’s more than I deserve. She tried to smile an apology at Jon and was hurt when he turned his body away from her and wouldn’t respond.
‘Home,’ Mark said, striding back to the car and opening doors to urge them all inside. When he’d driven out of the car park and was heading down the dual carriageway towards his house, he asked, ‘Now what was all that really about?’
Alison was so down that she told him, briefly but more or less accurately. She explained that Rigg had left her – temporarily – because of the poll tax, described how they’d arranged to split the bills and what a mess the phone bill had made of her housekeeping. ‘It’s my fault really,’ she said. ‘I should have budgeted more carefully. I’ll get it right next time.’
Mark looked at her shrewdly and for several seconds. ‘Is he giving you any housekeeping?’ he said.
‘Well no. I couldn’t ask for that. Not when he’s in … when he…’
‘So you’re trying to keep yourself and two children on what you earn at Butlin’s. Is that it?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, adding to salvage her pride, ‘I was managing very well until the phone bill.’
‘You’re not supposed to keep a family on that sort of pay,’ he said. ‘Nobody is. You ought to be on income support.’
‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘That’s taking charity.’
‘That’s taking back some of the money you’ve been putting into the system for years,’ he said. ‘How long have you been at work?’
‘Fourteen years coming up.’
‘Well then.’
Could she do it? she wondered. Was she entitled? It would certainly make her life a lot easier if she had a bit more money coming in every week. But the thought of going on charity made her feel demoralised. I’ll be like a pauper, she thought, a beggar. ‘We’re not separated, you see,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s just that he’s in a bit of trouble at the moment.’
‘Never mind Rigg,’ Mark said, frowning at her. ‘You spend too much time considering his feelings. You always have. He can look after himself. What you’ve got to think about now is how to feed yourself and those two kids. That’s what’s important.’
Alison knew she ought to stick up for Rigg, but she didn’t have the energy. ‘Yes,’ she said meekly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Look in your child-benefit book,’ Mark advised. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s something about it in there.’
It surprised her to discover that there was. She sat in Jenny’s bright kitchen and drank the tea her sister-in-law had made for her and read the instructions carefully.
The next morning, even though she felt ashamed, she rang the Social Security freeline. It was remarkably painless. A calm voice asked her how many hours she worked and how much she earned and she answered as well as she could, pointing out that her wages fluctuated according to the season.
‘I work good hours from Easter to October,’ she said, ‘but in the winter it’s largely weekends and the odd day here and there, so I don’t do so well then.’
‘Get a claim pack from the Post Office,’ the voice advised. ‘Read it carefully and fill it in. I should think your best bet would be to go on Family Credit, but they’ll tell you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘When you’ve been on your own for thirteen weeks,’ the voice said, ‘you can claim One-Parent Benefit, you know. It’s only a fiver a week but it all helps. They’ll tack it on to your child benefit.’
‘Thank you,’ Alison said again. ‘I feel so awful asking for charity.’
‘You mustn’t do that,’ the voice said kindly. ‘You’re just the sort of person these benefits were designed for.’
That afternoon Alison filled in the necessary forms and sent them off to Blackpool as instructed. In the evening she phoned Mark to tell him what she’d done.
‘They say I am entitled,’ she said. ‘If I get this money it’ll make all the difference. You were right.’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘You won’t tell Mum, will you? She doesn’t know about any of this. I’d rather she didn’t.’
‘It’s OK,’ Mark reassured. ‘I’m not a blabbermouth.’
‘Nor any of the others.’
‘Nor any of the others, if that’s the way you want it.’
‘You are good to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you in Tesco’s. I’ll pay you back, the first thing I do next pay day. I promise.’
‘What are brothers for?’ he said.
After she’d put the phone down Alison sat in her empty living room and thought harder than she’d ever done in her life. She was ashamed to be taking charity and cross with herself for handling her lack of money so badly. I’ve been feeble, she thought. I could have worked this all out for myself weeks ago. It was all in my child-benefit book, if I’d looked. If I’m going to be on my own for any length of time – and it looks as if I am – I shall have to face up to things a lot quicker. Take responsibility. Grow up. It’s disgraceful for a grown woman to wait for her brother to show her what to do. Not that it wasn’t very, very kind of him, but I should have worked it out for myself. Well from now on I shall be a lot tougher.
Still, at least Mum doesn’t know, she comforted herself, as she made a cup of tea. That was one good thing.
Actually it was a bad mistake.
Left in happy ignorance of the true state of her daughter’s affairs, Elsie had no hesitation in listening to Rigby Toan when he came calling on her, unexpectedly, two weeks later.
She was clearing up after a rather messy family tea when he rang at the door.
‘Hello Rigg,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed them. They’ve all gone home. Mark took them.’
‘Yes. I know,’ he said, giving her the full benefit of his brown eyes. ‘It wasn’t them I wanted. I came to see you.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Not trouble is it?’
‘Well…’ he hesitated.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘I’m in a bit of a pickle. I was just drying the tea things. Ali usually helps me but we’ve been all behind this afternoon.’ She had led him into the kitchen as she was speaking, picked up
her tea-towel and set to work again. ‘You won’t mind if I get on, will you?’
‘No, of course not,’ Rigg said. He hesitated for a second, then he took a dry tea-towel from the rack above their heads and chose a plate to dry.
Elsie was rather surprised because she’d never known him help with the housework before. In the early days, on the rare occasions when he’d joined them for a family tea, he’d sat in an armchair and gone to sleep while the others worked round him.
‘Well then,’ she said, ‘what have you come to see me about?’
He looked distressed. ‘This is terribly difficult,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Begin at the beginning,’ Elsie advised. ‘That’s the best way.’
‘I’m at the end of my tether,’ he said, contriving to look it. ‘I don’t know what to do and that’s the truth.’
That sounded alarming. ‘It’s not about Ali, is it?’
‘Well I suppose it is, in a way. It’s Ali I’m worried about. Ali and the children. Oh God, this is so embarrassing.’
Nervous with all this odd talk, Elsie put down her tea-towel and turned away from the sink to look at him. ‘Spit it out Rigg,’ she said. ‘Don’t beat about the bush.’
Rigg gave her a long, troubled look. ‘I’m so worried Elsie,’ he confided. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to lose the house.’
The shock made her throat constrict. ‘What do you mean, lose the house?’
‘This is so embarrassing,’ he said again. ‘Look I’m devastated about this. I don’t know how to tell you. I can’t afford to pay the mortgage.’
Elsie felt she understood. Mortgages were the devil to pay. She and Bob had spent hours worrying over theirs. ‘You’ve got behind, is that it? Well, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go and see them and explain it. They’ll probably extend the time for you.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. It’s much worse than that.’ He scrunched the tea-towel between his hands. ‘You haven’t got a drink anywhere have you? I feel awful.’
‘Not that sort of drink, no. I’m sorry. I could make you a cup of tea.’
‘No thanks.’
Elsie poured a glass of water. ‘Take that,’ she said, ‘go and sit in the front room, drink some of it and tell me what’s what.’
Rigg sipped the water pathetically. ‘Don’t tell Ali for God’s sake but I’m months behind with my payments. I haven’t let her know about it. She’s got enough on her plate looking after the kids.’
Elsie assured him she would keep quiet and Rigg looked touchingly grateful.
‘So you’re badly behind,’ Elsie prompted. ‘Is that it?’
He gulped. ‘Months and months,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a nightmare.’
‘How much do you owe them?’
‘Five grand.’
‘Five grand!’
‘Yes. Awful isn’t it. I’ve tried all sorts of ways to raise the money. All sorts of ways. And nothing. Everyone’s short you see. They say it’s the recession.’
‘Wouldn’t your mother…’
‘I can’t ask her,’ he said firmly. ‘That’s out of the question.’ An eyebrow flicked up which always gave the impression that he was mocking himself. ‘I can’t be a mummy’s boy, Elsie. Anything rather than that. Anything.’
‘Well I don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know any rich people.’
‘They don’t have to be rich,’ he assured her. ‘All I need is someone with a little capital in reserve – someone with a nest-egg – someone who wouldn’t mind letting me borrow five grand for a couple of months. That’s all it would take. Just a few weeks to tide me over and then I could pay it all back – with interest if that was what they wanted. Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry to burden you with all this.’
Elsie was thinking hard but she left her thoughts for the second it took her to assure him that it was all right.
‘You’ve always been so understanding,’ Rigg went on. ‘You always have the answer. You don’t know how much I’ve envied Mark and Greg and young Andy, having you to turn to. I can’t turn to my mother, you know. She isn’t strong enough. It would upset her too much. You can’t upset people when you love them, can you?’
Elsie hardly heard him for she was deep in thought, savouring an extraordinary ego-enhancing idea. For the first time in her life she was in a situation where she could make a difference to someone else’s life. She, plain Elsie Wareham, who’d never amounted to a row of beans in the sixty years of her existence, actually had enough money to give this young man what he was asking for. He wasn’t to know, of course, but she had quite a nice little nest-egg tucked away – thanks to Bob’s foresight. It had been £10,000 when the insurance man handed it over but of course Ali’s wedding had eaten into it a bit and now it was just over £7,000. (Not that she begrudged Ali her wedding. It had been a lovely day and worth every penny.)
She had a sudden and total recall of the ceremony, of Ali looking so beautiful at the altar in her fairy-tale dress. Her hair had been longer then, and curling over her shoulders. Dear Ali. She’d been so proud of her that day. And Rigg had been so handsome in his tuxedo, she remembered, with a red rose in his button hole. They were a handsome pair and no mistake.
Lots of sunshine, she remembered. And roses. The scent of them had been all round her as she stood in the pew with her gloves in her hand, waiting for Ali to walk down the aisle. The scent of roses and thinking what a dear girl she was and how much she deserved to be happy. The family peace maker.
Oh no, Elsie decided, pulling herself back to the present with an effort, she couldn’t stand by and let them lose the house.
‘Now look here, Rigg,’ she said. ‘It’s just possible I might be able to help you.’
‘Elsie!’ he said, endeavouring to look surprised, although he’d known about the nest-egg for years. Ali had told him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I might be able to lend you this money.’
‘Really!’
‘Yes.’
‘What can I say?’
‘Nothing,’ Elsie said firmly. ‘And especially to Ali. You mustn’t breathe a word to her. I can’t do anything unless you promise me that.’
‘No, no, Of course. I promise.’
He’s a good boy, Elsie thought, moved by the earnest expression on his face. He’s doing his best.
Ten minutes later Rigby Toan left the house. He kissed Elsie goodbye on the doorstep most lovingly, as well he might. For he had her promise that she would go to the building society first thing in the morning and draw out £6,000 to lend him.
Chapter Seven
Morgan Griffiths was back in South Wales, dressed in his best suit, attending the christening of Hywell’s first baby, who was to be called Morgan in his honour. He had a silver christening spoon gift-wrapped in his pocket next to Hywell’s scribbled invitation to be the child’s godfather.
It was grand to be back in Port Talbot again, to see the harbour glistening in the June sun, the steelworks steaming and the great bulk of the Mynydd, rising protectively above the town, green with ferns and stolidly immense. The strength and permanence of the Welsh mountains had always given him a feeling of security. He saw them as a barbican to those who live among them, a bulwark to the rows of stone grey houses that cluster like roosting pigeons along their lower slopes. Governments had the power to close pits and factories and to put entire villages out of work, but they had no dominion over mountains.
As so many of his family earned their living in mines in the valleys, it had always seemed fitting to Morgan that his home should have been tucked against the side of a mountain. As a child, he’d spent many hours at the top of their steep back garden, looking down at the three terraces Dad had cut to make lawns and vegetable beds, and out over the roof of the house to the distant blue of the sea below. There was magic in that view and he never failed to respond to it. Even now, it was the first place he went to every time he came home.
His younger brother, Trefor, was calling to him from the bottom of the steps. ‘Come by ’yere, Mor. Granddad’s come.’
‘How is he?’ Morgan asked, running down the steps. Their grandfather’s emphysema had been much worse that winter and they’d all been very worried about him.
‘Better than he was, like,’ Trefor said as they walked into the house. ‘Not too bad, all things considerin’.’
To Morgan’s eyes the old man looked very ill indeed. He was coughing too much, his skin was yellowy grey and his eyes looked weary. But he was so pleased to see them all, and so delighted to have yet another great-grandson that he made them forget ‘the dust’ and its consequences.
‘There’s lovely, issen it,’ he said. ‘Another little Griffiths, Gwen.’
Grandma sat protectively beside him, watching him anxiously as he caught his breath.
‘Time for a beer Dad?’ Morgan’s father suggested.
‘Not if we’re going to get to the church in time,’ Grandma said.
‘Get me to the church on time, eh?’ Granddad laughed. And he started to sing the song in his cracked, wrecked voice.
Morgan’s three sisters, who were all dolled up and giggly, were highly amused by that and, straightening their hats, they threw open the front door and set off at a trot down the steps towards the road, with their children gambolling round them, all of them singing at the tops of their voices. ‘Get me to the church, get me to the church, be sure and get me to the church on time.’
‘Not right in the attic!’ Granddad said affectionately.
Family, Morgan thought, following them happily. He knew that this was what he wanted more than anything else, a wife and family of his own. He needed to be part of a family, all day and every day not just on occasions like christenings and Christmas. He’d done very well for himself in the six years since he’d left Port Talbot. He’d got a job he enjoyed, a comfortable flat, a quality car, but it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t made the most important part of his plan come true. He wasn’t married and, as far as he could see, he wasn’t likely to be. Not in the immediate future anyway.
Because he was watching over Granddad most of the time, he managed his role in the christening rather badly, muffing most of his responses and holding his candle so awkwardly that it dripped wax on his sleeve. But Hywell didn’t mind.
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