David held up his arm for her to go to him and she sat beside him and kissed his neck and his brow, petting him just like she had Clarence.
‘There, there, darling, shusssh now, you get some sleep and in the morning we’ll all go home . . . Oh, who was that girl I saw a moment ago?’
David shrugged and said that Mrs Darwin had done her usual trick, told him that his aunt had brought the girl to the house before the war. She was the poor little orphan girl he’d brought to the dance when they’d first met. Primrose nodded, she remembered her vaguely, a strange, tall girl with red hair, the girl who danced with Lloyd George. She recalled that dance very clearly because it was there she had met David. They were married on his next leave, and she later became pregnant on their three-day honeymoon. A year later she had David home for good, but he wasn’t the same and they said he never would be. Basically, Primrose had two children on her hands, little Clarence and her husband. Sometimes, most times, she wished she’d married Freddy, never left him for David.
‘Did you remember her, darling? Did you remember the poor little orphan girl at all?’
David’s eyes dropped and he shook his head, he hardly seemed to notice Primrose take Clarence’s hand and lead him out of the room. As the doors closed behind them, he began to drift into a drugged sleep and all he could see in front of his eyes was an old pair of boots with newspaper sticking out of them. Suddenly, in brilliant, flashing colours he saw the dining room, Doris sitting upright with a teacup in her hand, and then a clear picture of Evelyne.
‘Primmy? Primmy?’
The panic started, the terrible feeling of being on fire, the boom, boom of guns was deafening. The nightmare began again and he put his hands over his ear s, began to shout, ‘No . . . no . . . No, no, no!’
Evelyne tried hard to explain to Freddy about the house, but he was so concerned with getting rid of her that he didn’t listen. He instructed a housemaid to take Evelyne out through the kitchens and the servants’ entrance. In a way he felt sorry for the big, awkward girl, but then he heard the awful screams echoing down from David’s room. He knew he would have to go to him, and he blamed Evelyne.
‘Don’t come back, this is your doing, listen to him . . . I think you got what you came for, didn’t you? Go on, get out.’
Lady Primrose rushed into the drawing room. Heather and Lady Sybil could hear David’s screams. Heather shut the door and put her arms around Primrose.
‘It’s all right, dearest, Freddy will see to him, really it’s all right.’
Lady Sybil, eating tea and crumpets, muttered:
‘Should be in a home, not right in the head.’
Heather gave her mother a stern look and tossed her the evening paper to read, then sat Primrose down and poured tea. The shouts and screams from David’s room slowly subsided.
Freddy returned to the drawing room, giving Primrose an intimate smile. He said David was sleeping, the laudanum had taken effect.
‘That girl, Freddy, apparently Mrs Darwin suggested she visit David. I think, as it obviously upsets him so, that we really should watch out for him, don’t you think?’
Freddy blushed. Just meeting her eyes made him want her. He nodded.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t try any more, I’m sorry.’
Primrose gave him a sad, helpless look. Freddy made no mention of David’s wallet or the night spent at the gypsy fair. He nearly dropped his teacup when Lady Sybil read aloud from the evening newspaper.
‘“Riot at boxing match” . . . have you read this, Freddy? Says here a gypsy fighter nearly killed his opponent, a miner. Look, read for yourself. Says the man was almost murdered. Caused a riot, tent burnt down, dreadful to-do. Riff-raff shouldn’t be allowed in the country, none of them fought in the war. If Reggie were alive he would take his twelve-bore and shoot them down.’
Freddy took the paper and agreed with Lady Sybil that they were riff-raff, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to watch them fight, he most certainly wouldn’t. Heather smiled at him and patted his knee. He left the room, and no one noticed that he took the paper with him.
Evelyne never went back to Mrs Pugh’s, not because she didn’t want to pay but because she couldn’t face her. The few belongings she had left there she could do without. All she wanted was to go home and forget everything that had happened. All the way home, above the noise of the steam engine chug-chug-chugging, she could hear the strains of those high-pitched voices, those posh, upper-crust voices, their secret looks and nudges, their self-satisfaction, their money. She opened her bag and counted out the notes she had taken from David’s wallet, then sat back against the seat and closed her eyes. Even after everything he had done, if he wanted her she would go to him she knew it, and she was angry with herself. ‘You are a bloody fool, Evelyne Jones, forget him, take the money and forget him, he’s not worth it. They treated you like dirt, you only took what was rightly yours. He owed you that money, it was yours to take.’
Her heartache slowly turned to anger. She twisted her hands in her lap, folded and refolded the money. All her love slowly turned to bitterness, turned sour, and her mouth took on a thin, hard line, her face tight. By the time the train stopped at her station she was composed, her anger and pain under control. At least, she said to herself, she hadn’t lost any money on this trip, in fact she’d made it.
Chapter 10
Evelyne let herself into the house and changed her clothes, bundling up the ones she had been wearing and burning them.
‘Well, how did it go, lovey?’
‘It didn’t work out, Da . . . Now, I’d best hurry and get to the school.’
Hugh said nothing, saddened for a moment that she didn’t confide in him, but he had become so busy of late that he soon forgot all about it.
Evelyne was stunned to be told at the school that a new teacher with proper qualifications would be coming for the next term. The school governors had visited during her absence and, although they appreciated the work she had done in the past, they had to have someone with proper qualifications. There was no work to be had at the brick factory, or at the coal face. Come Easter she would be unemployed, but that was Easter, and until then she would continue at the school. Her heart was no longer in it, though, and the children noticed and called her ‘Miss Stick’. Hugh was going from strength to strength within the union. Twice he travelled to other mines to give talks to the men, and returned jubilant that they were solidly on his side, and if the mine owners didn’t bow to their demands for better wages and safety regulations, they would strike. The small house was full every evening with groups of men who would bring their problems to Hugh. Evelyne had once been pleased to be part of this, but now she withdrew upstairs to her mother’s old room, where she would read until her eyes hurt.
Hugh was in good spirits. Dai Thomas had brought the local newspaper and on page three there was Hugh, wearing his cloth cap, standing rigidly straight and glaring into the camera.
As he went up the stairs, he saw the gas lamp still glowing in Evelyne’s room. He tapped, and popped his head round the door. Evelyne was lying on top of her bed, wearing just a white shift, her waist-length hair brushed and gleaming. ‘My God,’ thought Hugh, ‘if any of those buggers was to see her now they wouldn’t be calling her “Miss Stick”.’ She looked like a mermaid. ‘I got a few copies, see . . . it’s me in the main photo, not a bad likeness, gel, wouldn’t you say? Told me not to smile, see, so I’d look fierce, look like I know what I’m talking about.’
‘It’s good, Da, and you look no more than thirty, real fit and strong.’
Hugh laughed and twisted his cap round on his head, pulling a funny face. She handed the paper back to him, but he whipped out another two copies from his pocket. ‘Keep it, Dai’s gonna bring us a frame.’
He wanted to talk, but she put the paper down and picked up the book she was reading. He went out, then came back again.
‘Now don’t start, just let me say something to you, I love you more th
an my own life, an’ I can’t stand to see you wastin’ yourself, sitting up here every night, goin’ up to the school every day, gettin’ more an’ more like an old maid, like Doris.’
Evelyne shrugged, tossed her hair and said, tight-lipped, that he had no need to worry, she wouldn’t be going up to the school much longer, they were replacing her with a proper teacher. As soon as he had left Evelyne felt dreadful. She loved him so much. Why hadn’t she talked with him like they used to, why had she shut him out lately? She picked up the paper and looked at the photograph, his stern face glaring into the camera. She kissed the photo and took some scissors out of a drawer.
As she snipped around the photo she couldn’t help but notice the lead article on the next page, ‘Police investigate two revenge murders’.
She carried the paper over to the lamp and sat down. The article stated that the two boys had been found with their throats slit open, their hands tied behind their backs. At first, they believed the motive had been robbery, but then a third boy had given himself up to the local constabulary. He admitted that he and his friends had made advances to a gypsy girl and one of the gypsy men, Freedom Stubbs, had warned them that they would take their revenge. The article requested anyone knowing of Freedom Stubbs’ whereabouts to come forward.
From then on Evelyne kept every article she found, carefully hidden in her bedroom. She never mentioned the article to her father, not that she saw that much of him to talk to. He spent most evenings in a room above the pub holding meetings for the local miners. Evelyne worked at the school during the day and studied for her examinations in the evenings. Hugh no longer even needed her to help out at the meetings, taking notes and writing letters and so forth. Gladys Turtle had taken over that side of things.
‘No need for you to interrupt your studies, love.’
‘I don’t mind, Da, really I don’t.’
‘Well, lass, as a matter o’ fact we’ve got a sort of committee secretary, Gladys Turtle, from Lower North Road, nice woman, a widow.’
Although slightly put out, Evelyne said nothing. She watched from her window as Hugh met up with the ‘merry widow’, as Gladys was known in the village. Not that she was particularly merry, just that she had overindulged in the sweet sherry at her late husband’s funeral and passed out. She was a small, neat, white-haired woman with a shelf-like bosom, and a habit of wearing crocheted flowers on her hats or pinned to her coat collar.
Gladys had found a new lease on her boring, mundane life, working with Hugh. She had always had an eye for him, even when he was a youngster, but of course he would never have looked at her – she was no beauty like his Mary. Gladys reckoned that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and she cooked stews and casseroles for Hugh to take home in small pots. He would sneak into the house with them, as if embarrassed, and Evelyne would watch him heating them up. Then he would wink at her and wolf the food down.
Gladys had passed by earlier, walking with Hugh – he always took her home after meetings. ‘I’ve just walked our Gladys back, do you fancy one of her scones?’
Shaking her head, Evelyne closed her books.
‘She’s got a young nephew staying, nice young fella, Willie, looking for work like the rest of us. He had a good job over at Glamorgan, beats me why he gave it up. Word is, he may have got a young girl in the family way.’
Hugh coughed and stuck his finger down his starched collar.
‘I was wonderin’, like, maybe as she’s so nice with all these scones and stews, perhaps it would be neighbourly like if we had her and this young Willie come to tea Sunday?’
‘Why not, if that is what you would like, Da?’
He stood up, beaming, and shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Ay, it is, good, well, I’ll leave it with you, shall I?’
Evelyne collected their supper from the fish and chip shop, and carried it home wrapped in newspaper. As she left the shop she bumped into Gladys, and cordially invited her and her nephew to tea on Sunday.
‘Oh, that’s lovely, I’ll look forward to it.’
Not wanting Evelyne to see that she also frequented the fish and chip shop, Gladys waited until Evelyne had walked the length of the street before she went in. From behind the counter the sweating Nellie gave her a toothless smile.
‘Eh, she’s a right stuck-up one, that, ever since she got that wireless, come with her legacy . . . two cod, Gladys, is it?’
As she unwrapped the fish and chips a grease-stained headline caught Evelyne’s eye, ‘Third Murder Victim’. She pulled at the paper, spilling chips on the table.
‘Police step up their search for Freedom Stubbs. They now believe the murders to be revenge killings, all committed by the same hand. Each victim has died in the same circumstances, their hands tied behind their backs and their throats slit. In each killing it seems the murderer knew where his victim lived and worked.’
Sunday was chapel day which meant choir practice, and Hugh went off in his Sunday suit, leaving Evelyne to prepare tea for Gladys and Willie. She baked some scones and, of course, just when she would have liked them to be the best batch she had ever made, they went flat and hard as a rock. Then she slipped down to the newspaper shop to buy a Sunday paper.
Walking back, searching through the paper to see if there was any more news of the murders, she passed a poster advertising the Easter fair. As usual the gypsies would set up their fair on the mountainside. It was always a big occasion, and being a Bank Holiday the men had an extra day off work. There would be coconut shies, hoop-la, and sometimes they built a giant see-saw for the children.
Evelyne stopped. There was a small item on the second page which simply stated that the police were no further along with their investigation. She hurried on, then stopped again. Even from the street she could smell her bread burning. She ran in with a scream of fury, but it was burnt to a cinder. As she opened the windows to get rid of the terrible smell, she saw Hugh outside with a group of miners on their way back from choir practice.
There was a hell of a row going on, Hugh standing in the centre of the crowd thumping his fist in his palm. The men were shaking their fists at him, all shouting at once.
‘You bastard, Hugh Jones, we go out on strike you tell me who’s gonna feed my ten kids.’
Hugh shouted back and waved his arms, ‘We’ll all chip in, if we don’t stand united then we fall. You said yerself, mun, you not got enough money to feed yer babies now, an’ yer workin’, don’t you understand that’s what we’re striking for, a living wage, mun! We strike!’
Some of them started to walk home, and Evelyne was about to turn back to her studies when she saw a figure on the edge of the crowd around Hugh. It was Freedom Stubbs, large as life, leaning against the wall with a half-smile on his face. Evelyne clapped her hand over her mouth and turned away from the window.
‘Oh, God, it couldn’t be him, not here, not in our village.’
When she looked again he had gone, as if he had vanished into thin air.
‘Evie! Evie! Is tea ready, they’ll be here by half past three lass, and the table’s not laid.’
She ran downstairs to the kitchen where Hugh was already shaking out a clean tablecloth.
‘Da, the gypsy fair, they’re not setting it up yet, are they?’
Hugh reached down the best crockery. ‘Oh, they start early for Easter, lovey. It’s their big time. An’ then they’ll be arranging a fight as usual, Devil’s Rock.’
There was a tap on the door, and Hugh gave Evelyne a startled look.
‘They’re here early, are we all set?’
Before Evelyne had time to answer he was opening the front door and ushering Gladys along the passage.
‘Come in, Gladys, and you, Willie. Welcome, welcome.’
‘Is something on fire, Hugh love? I can smell burning.’
With a frosty smile Evelyne turned to greet them.
‘Here they are, Evie, Gladys you know, and this is Willie, her nephew.’
&n
bsp; Evelyne dropped the plate of solid scones on the flagged floor and the plate smashed in two. Immediately Willie pushed forward and bent to pick up the scones.
‘’Fraid yer plate’s broken, but the scones are none the worse.’
Hugh laughed and said it was more than likely the scones that had crashed through the plate.
Evelyne stared at Willie as he held the chair out for his aunt. She knew it was him, had known at first glance. So this was why he had left Glamorgan, given up his job, Willie Thomas was the boy she had seen on top of Rawnie, this was the lad who had torn her hair out by the roots and who Evelyne had virtually knocked unconscious with the bench leg. She wondered if he recognized her and could hardly bear to look in his direction.
‘Auntie tells me you’re a schoolteacher, that right, Evie?’
She busied herself passing the jam, and murmured that it was quite right. Her mind was racing. He wouldn’t know her now, surely he wouldn’t . . . she looked up to meet his gaze. He gave Evelyne a wink. His familiarity, calling her Evie when he had only just met her, made her temper rise. It was definitely him, the red neck, the horrid, bright red hair.
Gladys simpered coyly and looked up at Hugh, then spoke to Evelyne, ‘We thought you might get uppity, another woman in your kitchen, but you’ve made us very welcome, Evie.’
Evelyne looked down at her plate. The scones were terrible, she could hardly get her teeth through hers. Hugh coughed.
‘Ah well, I’ve not actually told her, we’ll announce it in chapel next week, but we are unofficially engaged to be married, that right, Gladys?’
Somehow Evelyne found her voice and said stiffly that she was very happy for them. The soft, powdered cheek brushed Evelyne’s, and she got a close-up view of the silly crochet work on Gladys’ hat. Evelyne wanted to cry out. How could her Da want this silly woman?
The Legacy (1987) Page 18
