The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  Evelyne edged along the coal seam. She had to bend almost double, and the blackness was just as Mike had described, so thick she couldn’t even see a shadow. She called out, directing her voice towards the sound of hammering and the click-click-clicking of the pickaxes.

  She passed two trams being pushed out by Dai Roberts, who grinned at her and said to keep on walking, and to watch her step as it sloped steeply. The air was getting so thick she was gasping for breath as she inched her way along the tunnel – her hands were her only guide.

  ‘Hugh Jones. Hugh Jones!’

  She could barely draw breath and the blackness was so heavy she didn’t know whether to turn back or go on . . .

  ‘Hugh! Hugh Jones . . .’

  As Evelyne turned a bend in the tunnel she saw her father, lit up by the flame of a single candle. His face was stricken, his eyes stared into the blackness as in a nightmare. Evelyne ran to him, knowing what must be in his mind, that he must have thought there was some other tragedy, could there be another? She was quick to shout that she’d brought his tea caddie.

  Hugh held his blackened arms out to her and she clung to him. With barely enough air to keep the candle flame flickering, with no more than four feet of space to work in, the massive man had to hunch himself nearly double to chip away at the face.

  Evelyne felt his powerful arms holding her as he had when she was a little girl. In the blackness the grief that filled both of them was released, and they cried together, their tears mingling with the coal dust that dominated their lives.

  The war was over, and home-made paper chains were strung across the streets, trestle tables were erected on the cobbles and from God knew where came buns, cakes, biscuits and lemonade for the kids.

  There was hardly a family in the village that had not lost a loved one in the mines or in the mighty war that had raged across the Channel. Now the lads who had survived were coming home, and their families went crazy. They sang in the streets, they belted out the old tunes on the piano and they held hands and sang ‘God Save the King . . .’

  Evelyne rushed around handing out cakes, and handmade crackers with no bang! in the middle, but containing little gifts made by some of the old women for the children. It was a wonderful day, and everyone crowded into Mrs Morgan’s to drink her home-brewed wine.

  Evelyne was standing well to the back of the crowd as the home-brewed wine took effect, and the singing reached a raucous level . . . Evelyne left the stuffy house. Some older women, well inebriated, grouped on a corner, looked at her with pitying faces as she walked on up the cobbled street.

  ‘Ah, poor thing, she’ll never get herself a lad now, left it too late . . . or maybe with her being so tall she’ll get one who’s injured, disabled, you never know.’

  Evelyne Jones was twenty-one, that was all, but her eyes mirrored the anguish she had experienced. Hugh Jones could see her striding up the hill, her lean, tough body, high cheekbones and flame red hair, her strong legs like an athlete’s . . . he closed his eyes, dear God, how he wished she was one of his boys come home.

  Lizzie-Ann could have given herself a miscarriage, she ran so fast. The thick bundle of letters all addressed to Evelyne Jones was in a brown paper parcel, and she had to sign for them at the post office. She signed after a hell of a row with Ben Rees, who was livid because he hadn’t had a chance to snoop through them. He’d dropped his bike in fury – that bloody girl was always a little bugger, and her with another kid on the way when she was no better than one herself. Ben picked up his red bike and threatened to strangle Alfred Moggs’ illegitimate grandson, half coloured he was, with black, curly hair. The little bugger had already let the air out of Ben’s tyres once this morning.

  Evelyne took the thick brown envelope with the red line across it and started to open it, with the entire class of nosy children peering through the glass door, the headmistress looking on, and Lizzie-Ann gasping. Before Evelyne had a chance to examine the contents, Lizzie-Ann’s waters broke, and the children sniggered that she’d wet herself. The headmistress, a flat-footed woman in her late sixties, took over the class while Evelyne ran for Doc Clock.

  The Doctor now had the only privately owned motor vehicle in the village. This was patted, polished, and sat in by the Doc but in the driver’s seat he was absolutely hopeless. More than once he had been found still sitting in the car as it teetered on the edge of a ditch, his face concerned and puzzled, his specs dangling from one ear.

  ‘Christ almighty, there’s something wrong with it again, it turned right when I wanted to go left.’

  Doc Clock arrived just in time as Lizzie-Ann gave birth in the school kitchen. He shouted that it was a boy, but when he put his glasses on he realized it was a girl.

  ‘No, it’s a girl, it’s a girl.’

  Lizzie-Ann, sweating and exhausted, screamed.

  ‘Oh, Christ Almighty, I haven’t got twins, have I?’

  Evelyne held her hand and stroked her head, saying it was all right, it was just the one.

  The Doc huffed and puffed and dropped them all home. The trip in his car made Lizzie-Ann forget the letters for a moment, but she was soon reminded when Evelyne eventually opened the package and gasped, then fainted, out cold, in the kitchen.

  Doris Evans had named Evelyne Jones as her heir, leaving her the little four-roomed house, which no one had realized she’d owned outright, and two hundred pounds. The news went round faster than Mrs Morgan’s radio could have blasted it. In the first version, Evelyne had had a heart attack and a daughter at the same time, but eventually the news filtered through that she had received a legacy.

  When it got straightened out and the story told in the right order, there was a strange calm. The villagers whispered, spread the story from house to house, pub to pub. Suddenly the Jones family’s cramped house had an aura to it. Evelyne Jones had a legacy and overnight, out of the blue, the tall schoolmistress became extremely eligible. She had money, she owned Doris Evans’ house, actually owned it. She was now a woman of property – more than the village realized, because Doris had not only left Evelyne her house in the village, but also her half-share in the Cardiff house. There were, of course, the gossips in the washhouses that said no good would come of it, but they all secretly wished they had been a little more friendly to poor old Doris.

  There was no word from David in the lawyer’s letter, just a stiff, formal note from the doctor thanking Evelyne for coping with all the arrangements for Doris’ funeral, and that was all.

  Lizzie-Ann had cried and Rosie had howled, though not really understanding why everyone in the house was so emotional. Evelyne insisted they move into Doris’ house. There was no question of rent, it would be theirs for as long as they wanted it.

  She stood and watched the couple running in and out of each room, hugging each other, then they would kiss Evelyne and thank her for the thousandth time. Evelyne took very little from the house, just Doris’ books and pens, a silver-framed photo of Doris and Walter on their wedding day, and two pairs of linen sheets and pillowcases, a set for her own small bed and another for her father’s.

  Evelyne’s first purchase with her legacy was a wireless, which was installed in the kitchen. Hugh moaned and muttered that he wouldn’t go near the infernal noise machine. The house was quiet now, no lodgers. Evelyne and her father were alone, and spent long evenings sitting by the blazing fire. He still rose before dawn to go to the mines, and she still prepared his tea caddy and sandwiches. Evelyne couldn’t help but smile as Hugh rushed in from work and turned on the wireless. He listened intently and would talk back to the speakers. On one occasion when she was late home from school she found him standing, fist clenched, shouting back at the radio that the man was talking rubbish, let him spend some time down the mines before making these rules and regulations. Unemployment was out of control, the blasted politicians were talking out of their arses.

  Hugh was so irate that Evelyne thought he would put his fist through her precious radio, but he grabbed up h
is cap to go out. If no other bugger in the village was going to stand up for his rights, then he would. Three sons lost in the war, and for what? He banged out of the house and marched to the pithead.

  The Old Lion roared, and the men listened. It was as if new life had been breathed into him. Meetings were held in their front room. The radio became a focal point for many of the meetings, the men clustered around listening, listening to their fate, but until now not actually going out and doing anything about it . . . until now they hadn’t had a leader. Hugh Jones had become that leader, and his new-found energy gave him back the respect he had lost.

  The men listened to him, and gradually his work with the union became a full-time occupation. He was at the pitheads, he was in the managers’ office, discussing safety precautions, he popped up everywhere, he was unstoppable. The men began to turn to him with their problems, their insurance claims, and he turned no one away. The house throbbed with life, and Hugh would stand with his back to the fire, testing out his speeches on his daughter.

  Evelyne appeared contented, often at her father’s side handing out leaflets. She, too, got up on the small platform and spoke for women’s rights in the brick factory, the bakeries, even for the women working in the mines. They wanted better conditions, overtime, holiday pay, insurance. She worked all day at school and at night she would read, discussing the campaign with her father. They became close, a unit. After church the pair would hold meetings, gathered in the small church hall. It was after one of these that Hugh stood and looked up at the mountains, then turned to his daughter and held out his hand.

  ‘It’s a fair day, we’ll walk awhile.’

  They walked in silence, the climb taking their breath away. They climbed higher and higher until eventually they sat, side by side, looking down into the valley. Hugh had never been a great man with words, not intimate words, and Evelyne could tell by the way he kept on coughing and starting to speak, then closing his mouth tightly, that he wanted to talk but just couldn’t get around to it.

  Evelyne lay back in the warm sun. She could smell the sweet, fresh grass. Hugh lay down beside her, coughed a few more times and then leant on his elbow and looked into her face. He loved her passionately, and he wished he could find the right words to tell her so. Hugh had never referred to Evelyne’s legacy, never asked her what she intended doing with it. He looked down at her face, framed by the thick red hair coiled in braids and clipped tightly to her head. He had not seen her with her hair loose for a long time. With his big, rough hand he gently traced her chin, her cheekbones. She kept her eyes closed, not ever having had such a quiet, intimate moment with her father before. Almost afraid to open her eyes in case the moment slipped away, she kissed his hand softly.

  ‘You’re a fine-looking woman, Evie, you know that?’ Still she said nothing. ‘You’re also intelligent, a clever girl, and a good daughter, no man could ask for a better lass. Do you not think of marrying? Or having children, gel?’

  He turned to her and knelt down. His body was still muscular, his shoulders wide, not an ounce of fat on him. He could have been a young man but for the grey hair, the heavy lines in his face, that gave his age away.

  ‘I’d like to hear the sound of a boy’s voice in our house, Evie, a grandson. Lizzie-Ann’s pair are real sweethearts, but I’d like a grandson. Is there no boy takes your fancy? . . . fine-looking woman like you, Evie, could take your pick, it’s not natural for you to be with me so much of your time.’

  Evelyne had never told anyone of David, of her time in Cardiff, and there on the mountain top it all poured forth, as if she was sixteen again. The hurt, the shame, and at long last she whispered of her obsessive love of David.

  ‘I loved him since that first time, Da, and no one seems to come up to him. I know I don’t mean anything to him, he’s more than likely forgotten I even exist but I see his face every night.’

  Hugh was nonplussed. All the years she had kept her secret to herself, and more than that, her shame. He turned to start down into the village. He struck his fist against his thigh.

  ‘Go back to him, then, girl, you must get the lad out of your system, or you’ll start to be like Doris herself. Go to Cardiff, but by Christ, this time you’ll go wearing the finest. You have the legacy, then spend it, go and see this David . . .’

  Hugh held out his hand and hauled Evelyne to her feet. He roared with laughter . . . it echoed round the mountain.

  ‘Did you really dance with Lloyd George himself?’

  Hugh brought in some pages from a magazine that he had found in Doc Clock’s waiting room. He had gone with one of the men to try to get the Doc to sign a medical claim, and had torn the pages out. Evelyne laughed, they were plastered all over the table, the latest fashions. She kissed Hugh, and looked at the crumpled pages. The magazine was only eight years out of date, and the skirts were being worn almost up to the calf now. ‘See, gel, dove grey is the latest colour, now get yourself decked out in that and this David won’t be able to say no.’

  He took out of his pocket a return ticket to Cardiff, bought, he hastened to add, with his own money, so it was not to be wasted, and she was not to hang on to her cash like an old miser but go up to Cardiff and get herself done up.

  Hugh held out the ticket as proud as Punch. She went into his arms and hugged him tight.

  ‘Oh, Da, I love you so, I love you more than I ever tell you.’

  Hugh held her at arm’s length, and his face shone with love for her.

  ‘An’ I get so full of love for you, girl, all I want is for you to be happy . . .’

  Evelyne delayed her journey to Cardiff until the Easter holidays, then she had no excuse. Hugh marched her off to the steam train. She took a small overnight bag and her post office savings book. Hugh had got her a list of bed and breakfast hotels for her to choose from. They were so close, so loving, and his pride in her shone out of his eyes. Some said it wasn’t natural, the two being together so much, and Wally Hampton said he saw them kissing like lovers on the station platform.

  ‘Right, gel, you go and get this David and bring him back . . .’

  She could see him standing, waving his big red handkerchief from the platform . . . he remained waving until the train chuffed round the mountain.

  Evelyne was scared, but realized she was happier than she had felt for years. Perhaps Hugh was right, she was becoming an old maid up at the school. She began to make out a list of all the things she would buy on her first shopping spree.

  David’s blond hair, his smile, his sweet lavender smell. Would he still be at the same house? Her mouth went dry, what if he hadn’t returned from the war – what if he’d moved. Evelyne counted the months, the years she had been away. Time had gone fast, and with trepidation she realized her foolishness. Over four years had gone by, he could be dead, killed like her brothers, her letters to Dr Collins had not been answered. By the time the train had chuffed into Cardiff Central station she was as nervous as on her very first journey all those years ago with Doris.

  ‘Think positively,’ she told herself, and set her shoulders back as she walked along the platform, her face determined, almost haughty.

  Evelyne booked into the ‘Rosemount’, a bed and breakfast hotel. The house had a view of the castle, it was clean, and the landlady was a kindly woman named Violet Pugh.

  By teatime Evelyne had been in every single women’s wear shop, and her feet ached. Millinery, shoes, gloves, suits, every item had been jotted down and priced. She was stunned at the cost of clothes, and she had by no means calculated for such extravagance. That night she made a list in readiness for her next day’s shopping expedition.

  The saleswoman at ‘Chic fashions’ sighed. God, that wretched woman was back, she wished the other assistant was free. The woman had tried on every single outfit in the shop the previous day, and bought nothing. Nor was she an easy one to dress, being so tall, and then she was thin with it – a lot of the new fashions looked dreadful on her. She forced a smile between her
‘Lush Red’ lips, and hovered. Out came the list and Evelyne, with a look of determination on her face, asked to try on the dove-grey pleated skirt with the matching white-collared jacket.

  The shop assistant stared at Evelyne as she emerged from the changing room. She muttered to herself. ‘Just shows you, you never know. Girl like that looked more like she should be sweeping the place out, never mind buying anything.’

  The shoes Evelyne had set her mind on did not match the outfit. She was shown the new, fashionable high heel.

  ‘Don’t you think I’m too tall to wear two-inch heels?’ she asked.

  The sales assistant showed how perfectly the two-toned shoes matched her outfit.

  ‘I’ll take them, thank you, and the matching handbag.’

  It was a rash decision, but having made it she felt tickled to death, she was going to look so elegant.

  Her next stop was a small milliner’s in a side-street, ‘Paris Designers’. The hat was a problem, the small cloche hats were very fashionable now, but none of them would fit over Evelyne’s thickly coiled hair. The sales assistant pondered and sat back, took a peek inside the bag from the well-known fashion shop that contained the suit, and rifled through the tissue paper. That exquisite dove-grey . . . to her mind it was a trifle ageing for such a young woman. She scurried into the back of the shop and returned with three large hatboxes, new stock not yet on display. She sat Evelyne down before the mirror in a cubicle. She was a tiny, grey-haired woman dressed neatly in black, her name, ‘Miss Freda’, written on a tag pinned to her dress. She had a strange accent and was very apologetic, yet not cloying in any way. She could see the girl’s big, red hands, and just by looking at her worn clothes she knew she must have some very special occasion in mind, perhaps even a wedding. She brought a magazine to Evelyne’s side, flicked through it, her small, neat white hands moving fast. She stopped at a page. The fashionable bobbed hair was very much in vogue, but then perhaps for someone as tall as Evelyne the bobbed style would not be flattering enough.