Gladys insisted on staying with Hugh to wash the dishes, and Evelyne showed Willie into the front room. Willie sat on the sofa and gave her a wide smile. ‘She’s a good woman, Aunt Glad . . . Evie, will you sit beside me?’
‘My name’s Evelyne . . . so, you’re here looking for work, is that right? You’ll not find any, and there’s the strike coming, you should go back to Glamorgan, or Cardiff even.’
He shrugged, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, blowing out the smoke and crossing his legs.
‘Do you know Cardiff then, Willie?’
She caught his sly glance, and noticed that he flicked his ash on to her polished lino.
‘I’ve been there, but I prefer it here.’
She was one hundred per cent sure it was him, any doubts had disappeared and she boiled with anger at what he had done.
Hugh interrupted the tense moment. ‘Right, Evie, will you be at the meeting? They’ll be arriving any moment, Gladys is setting out the books . . . an’ you too, Willie, it’s important tonight.’
Hugh stood before the fire with his trousers almost sizzling.
‘No man’s takin’ these decisions lightly, for Lord’s sake, mun. You think I for one dunno what hardships we’re all headin’ for?’
Harry Jones jabbed the air with his finger and demanded to know if Hugh could face starving women, never mind starving kids. Hugh sighed and rubbed his hair until it stood on end. ‘Jesus Christ, mun, I know that even the most tenacious strikers are giving way, but . . .’
Hugh had heard the word ‘tenacious’ on the wireless and now used it at every opportunity. The others stopped arguing for a moment as he explained what he meant. Harry muttered that he didn’t give a bugger who was ‘tenacled’ or not, all he knew was his kids were starving, and he had to work to put a crust into their mouths. Hugh banged his fist against the mantel. Intensive union activity had taken its toll not only on him but on four others who were blacklisted. Again his voice rose as he told the men that there were some working with their union badges sewn into their collars for fear of the managers knowing they were members.
Taffy Rawlins twisted his cap and blurted out, ‘Lot o’ men tried workin’ in other collieries. Soon as it was discovered they was union men, none of ’em could get taken on.’
Harry Jones rose to his feet, jabbing the air with a stubby finger. ‘Ay, an’ rumour ’as it, any man what’s a member has ’is name circ’lated from the union roster. They’ll never get work, not now the strike is on, not when it’s over.’
Taffy was at it again, waving his cap. ‘I believe, Hugh Jones, an’ there’s many that says I’m right, your union is bloody destroying a man’s right ta work.’
Dramatically, Hugh tore off his threepenny-piece-sized union badge and held it up above his head.
‘If we don’t join this union now, if we don’t pull together, you’ll all be no better than the pit ponies left down the mines to rot. The managers, the owners, don’t give a hang whether a man dies or not, they’re more worried about losing a dram than they are about any man.’ Hugh’s voice was earshattering in the hot, stuffy, confined kitchen. ‘You lose a dram o’coal, mun, and what happens? The buggers make you pay for it. But when have they paid for a man’s life? The proprietors know the men are weak, that they have no organization so they can do what the hell they like. The pit manager can sack when he pleases, and the poor bugger can do nothing about it, and they’d hardly pay him a penny . . . Am I right, tell me?’
Throughout the meeting Gladys took copious notes for the minutes. Willie paid little attention, picking his teeth with a match and yawning. Evelyne kept feeling his eyes on her but refused to return his stare.
At last the meeting broke up and Evelyne packed what food was left over from tea and slipped it to Taffy for his kids. Hugh walked Gladys home, still arguing with Harry. Willie made no move to leave with his aunt, sitting in Hugh’s chair by the fire. ‘I just seen there’s a good film at the pictures, Evie, last show’s at nine, fancy an outing?’
Evelyne folded her arms. ‘My name’s Evelyne to you, son, or Miss Jones. And if you want some advice I’d clear out.’
Willie looked completely unabashed. He propped his feet on the fireguard.
‘That’s none too friendly, considerin’ we’ll be related soon.’
Evelyne would have liked to swipe his gloating face.
‘I’ve no intention of makin’ a friend of you, none at all, and I don’t want you in this house again, now out . . . go on, hop it.’
His piggy eyes glinted, and he slowly removed his feet from the fireguard. He looked at her, and she could almost see the wheels churning round in his flushed head.
‘Way I hear it, you should think yourself lucky bein’ asked out, there’s not many lads left in the village. There’s plenty of young girls panting to go to the pictures so don’t put yourself out, Miss Schoolteacher.’
Evelyne watched the cocky boy saunter out, and she restrained herself from aiming a blow at the back of his stocky, flushed neck. As the door closed behind him, Evelyne went to fetch her heavy coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped out the back way. She didn’t want anyone to see her, to know where she was going.
The gypsies were just setting up their camp, the wagons and trailers drawn up in a semicircle, a group of men erecting the big, round living tents. A fire blazed in the centre of the ring, and a few children were hanging round, wearing cotton dresses and thin, threadbare woollies. Although barefooted they seemed hardly to notice the cold, but they noticed Evelyne striding up the hill. She’d opened up her coat as she was warm from the long walk, and her cheeks flushed pink from the evening air.
A runny-nosed little boy with huge, dark eyes watched her, a brooding look on his tiny face, then he put out his hand.
‘Give us a penny, come on missus, just a copper, we’re starvin’ hungry.’
Evelyne looked down at the tiny boy already adept at begging, and showed him her empty pockets.
‘Is Freedom with you, boy? I need to talk with Freedom.’
At that moment a woman with a shawl wrapped around her appeared from behind the bushes. She grabbed the child by the hair and walloped him, with a cold, angry look at Evelyne.
‘There’s no one of that name here.’
The children ran like hell away from the sharp-tongued woman, the little boy looking back at Evelyne. She went nearer to the camp, and now the men turned and stared with the expressionless, unnerving faces. She stood looking around, then spoke loudly, her voice echoing.
‘I need to speak with Freedom, is he here with you?’
They made no reply, just turned their backs and continued working. Women passed hooded looks to one another and she saw two men talking together in sign language.
‘I know he’s with you and I have to talk with him.’
A grey-haired man, wearing clothes fit for a scarecrow, shuffled towards her. He came within about six feet of her and showed his toothless, shiny gums as he spoke.
‘There’s no one by that name here, wench. Git out of it. Listen to what I say, go away from here.’
Evelyne turned and walked out of the field and headed down the steep path, thinking to herself that at least she’d tried. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and felt the newspaper clippings, paused, looking back, and then walked on. She took the narrow path round the mountainside, beginning to think herself stupid for risking walking out this late, and so close to the gypsy camp. All her father’s old warnings came back to her and she quickened her pace.
Freedom had watched her walk into the camp, seen the way she stamped her foot angrily, turned on her heel and marched out. She had snapped a dead branch off a tree and was whacking the hedges as she walked along. He sat up in the fork of a tree, watching her with his dark eyes, amused, smiling. She was an odd one, that was for sure. As Evelyne walked beneath his tree he dropped down, and she shrieked with terror. When she saw it was him, she put her hands on her hips and let him ha
ve it.
‘That’s a fine thing to do! You nearly gave me heart failure, you did!’
With a mocking bow, but without saying a word, Freedom began to walk along beside her. Evelyne took the newspaper cuttings from her pocket.
‘I suppose you’ve read all these? You can read?’
Freedom cocked his head to one side, smiling. She only came up to his shoulder and had to look up into his face. His hair had grown longer and he had tied it back with a leather thong. He now wore a gold earring in his right ear.
‘I’ve come to tell you to leave, the police will be here, that’s what I’ve come all this way to say.’
With one quick hop Freedom was in front of her, walking backwards.
Still walking, she continued, ‘You can’t just go around killing people, even if what they did was a terrible thing. The law must know the boy’s here, and with the fair being here too, they’re bound to come around asking questions.’
Freedom halted and she walked straight into him. He gripped her arm, hurting her. Evelyne looked into his face, she wasn’t afraid, she never had been afraid of him, but he hurt her wrist and she jerked her hand free. ‘I said the fourth boy’s here in the village, and you know it, that’s why you’re here.’
Freedom took the tree branch from her hand and swiped at the bushes in anger.
‘I’m here to fight at Devil’s Pit, nothing more.’
Evelyne fell into step beside him, told him he was crazy, the police wanted to question him about the murders. If he came out in the open to fight, they would certainly arrest him. They had even put his name in the papers.
‘So, Evelyne, you came to warn me, is that it?’
She tripped over a stone and he caught her, but she moved quickly out of reach. Flippantly, she said she was amazed that he remembered her name.
‘You remembered mine, I heard you asking for me, and I thank you.’
They walked on and she asked after Rawnie. Freedom told her that she was now Jesse’s woman and would be at the camp. As they walked she became aware of his familiar but strange, musky perfume, and even more aware of his cat-like litheness. He seemed hardly to make a sound as he walked, his step surprisingly light for his size.
‘Have you got yourself a man yet then, Evelyne?’
She flushed and bit her lip, and he laughed softly with his little lopsided smile and slightly raised eyebrows.
‘Did you ever go to an inn close by Cydwinath Farm? When we last met I thought I’d seen you before, a long time ago.’
Evelyne shook her head.
‘Oh, it wasn’t you, huh? See, first I saw this girl in a field – like a mermaid she was, and dressed in naught but her shift – and then I saw her again, a big society dance, it was.’ He gave her his strange half-smile, his eyes twinkling, ‘I was standing in the dark and it was as if she was lit up by the moon, like a moment of magic. It was a mermaid again, only, only this time she was a princess in a flowing gown, and she was dancing with an old fella with white hair, there on the lawn with not a soul to see but me.’
Evelyne stopped and bit her lip so hard her teeth almost went straight through. He looked down into her face and cupped her chin in his hand.
‘I was never at a dance, and most certainly not at any farm in my shift, and I find it very ungentlemanly of you even to suggest it.’
Again he laughed, and he did a small jig then bowed low. She knew he was laughing at her, and she almost – just almost – laughed at herself.
They were coming closer and closer to the edge of the village and could see the lights twinkling from the houses. The track was smoother here and soon they would be on the cobbles leading to the main street. Freedom still walked at her side. All she needed now was for someone to see her – pray God it would not be Mrs Morgan or it would be all round the village by ten o’clock next morning. As if he could read her thoughts he stopped, bowed again, and without another word made to move away. This time Evelyne caught hold of his arm. ‘Don’t be a fool, mun, don’t fight, don’t let them arrest you, get away from here.’
Freedom’s eyes went darker than dark, and his voice was soft but cutting, ‘My people depend on the fight for their living. Money is scarce all round, but no scarcer than with us travellers.’
Evelyne told him angrily that his people would be a lot worse off if he were put in prison, which would certainly happen if the people arrested him. He turned on his heel, swishing at the air with the stick. ‘They’ll have to find me first.’
Evelyne let herself in by the back door. She was greeted by an irate Hugh who was worried stiff about her being so late and not letting him know where she was, and they had an argument for the first time in years. She accused him of not letting her know about his friendship with Gladys, a stupid, simpering woman if ever there was one. The stinging slap from Hugh shocked her and she lifted her fist to go for him, but he held her too tight.
‘You’ll take that back, you’ll not say those things about her, it’s jealous you are, girl, jealous, you who’s too bound up in your books and readin’ to find yourself a decent lad. They’re all laughin’ at you an’ callin’ you Doris behind your back. And by God, girl, you’ve got like her, with your mouth always turned down and your nose never out of paper!’
Evelyne countered this by telling Hugh he was behaving like a foolish eighteen-year-old, and making himself the laughing stock of the village with that Gladys. And as for her nephew! He was a pig-eyed, sweaty, revolting youth, it ran in the family. Wallop! She got another stinging blow and she backed away, scared; she had not seen Hugh so angry for such a long time.
Hugh started on about David – all that show about her going to Cardiff to find the boy she loved, the boy of her dreams. It must have been all fantasy because she came back with a face like a nun’s, and a tongue so sharp no one could speak to her.
‘What happened, Evie? Did he turn you down? Can you blame him, look at you, you act like an old woman . . . dear God, gel, what are we doing, what are we saying? Come here, for the Lord’s sake, come here.’
Evelyne went into her father’s arms as if he were a long-lost lover. He held her, rocking her, kissing her hair, her neck, and saying sweet, soft things, taking back everything he had just said. She found herself kissing him back, she was so in need of love, so in need of physical contact that she was bursting inside. They were held suspended, staring into one another’s eyes.
The crash of the door-knocker brought them round, and Gladys’ voice, high-pitched and hysterical. Hugh let her in. It was Willie, he’d not been home since tea, and now it was one in the morning and she was worried stiff. No one seemed to know where he was.
On hearing that Willie was missing, Evelyne said that he had gone to the picture house to see the jazz film. ‘Perhaps he met a girl there, Da? Wait, I’ll come with you.’
She ran down the street after Hugh and Gladys, who were calling out Willie’s name along the way. Lights were coming on in the houses, heads popped out of windows. Soon there was a trail of people behind them, like the children following the Pied Piper, everyone looking for Willie. Evelyne’s heart hammered in her chest . . . ‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘let him have met someone and gone walking.’ Anything but what she dreaded.
Gladys began to shiver with cold and Evelyne took off her greatcoat and slipped it round Gladys’ shoulders, forgetting the newspaper clippings in the pocket.
By the time they reached the picture house the village bobby was wobbling along beside them on his bike. Evan Evans asked over and over what the fuss was about and slowly pieced the story together in his thick brain. ‘The lad’s missing, is that so? We’ll get a search party out.’
‘What the hell do you think this is, mun? That’s what we’re doing.’
The manager of the cinema, Billy Jones, lived in the house next to it. They woke him by hammering on his door.
‘All right, I’m comin’, I’m comin’ . . . ’ He stood on the doorstep in his dressing-gown as they explained the problem
to him, then fetched a torch and a huge bunch of keys. With everyone rushing him he had trouble finding the right keys to open the door. He took so long that Hugh wanted to belt him.
‘There was not a soul left in the theatre, I’m telling you, unless he went to the gents’.’
Gladys, panicking now, wanted to know if Billy had definitely seen Willie.
‘Yes I did, he was here nine o’clock just before the start of the film, It’s the Jazz, Man – best houses I’ve had for weeks.’
Eventually he got the door open and they spilled into the auditorium, calling for Willie.
‘Now, everyone, keep back, this is police work.’
Ignoring Evan Evans, Hugh bellowed for Willie, while Billy tried to light the gas lamps.
‘Which bugger’s got me torch? I can’t see to light the lamps.’
As they walked around peering along the rows of seats, the lights came on. Billy, up on a ladder, looked down and screamed hysterically, pointing. Hugh pushed his way through to where Billy was pointing, looked for a moment and then turned, ‘Stay back, Gladys, Evie. Don’t come up here, any of you . . . Evan, get the doctor.’
Gladys screamed and screamed, then fainted in a heap at Evan’s feet. Evelyne moved cautiously between the seats.
‘Aw, Christ almighty . . . Holy Mother of God . . .’
Willie lay between the seats. Blood from an open wound on his neck had formed a thick, dark pool which had already congealed. It was obvious from his open, staring eyes that he was dead.
Next morning the village was in an uproar. There’d not been a murder since 1905 when Taffy Ryse hammered his mother’s head in, but then he was funny upstairs. Who would have wanted to kill Willie? They could all understand why Taffy had beaten his mother to death, she had been a right bitch, but Willie?
Doc Clock was limping badly from yet another car accident, and he was also getting old. He examined Willie’s body and muttered that he was dead all right, which got everybody shouting at once that they’d already told the soft bugger he was dead – what they wanted to know was when it had happened. Doc Clock shrugged.
The Legacy (1987) Page 19
