Charlie spent a couple of hours every evening helping Gwyn to ride his new bicycle. Once he had cleaned himself up after his day in Windsor’s Garage, he prepared a meal and then gave the boy his attention. After three sessions, Gwyn was able to ride a wobbly course up and down the stretch of road from the corner near Temptations to the next corner and back again but he wouldn’t let him go out on his own.
“I want to be sure he’s safe,” Charlie told Rhiannon when she had overheard his son’s pleading. “At the weekend I’ll go out with him and then perhaps—” He grinned at Gwyn.
“Perhaps, is it, Dad? That usually means yes,” he confided to Rhiannon.
“If you fancy coming with us,” Charlie invited. “We won’t be going far, just to the beach and back.” He stepped closer and added, “Gwyn doesn’t realise it yet, but he’ll be fit to drop after a couple of hours concentrated riding.”
“I’d like to, Charlie, but I’m not sure.”
“Glad to have you with us if you can.” He smiled.
She turned to go, giving Gwyn an encouraging wave as he stopped to allow a van, slowly cruising along the street, to pass him.
Charlie said, “That’s funny, I’m sure that’s the van I worked on when I first started at Windsor’s.”
“So?” Rhiannon queried.
“So why is it a different colour and why do I think the number is different?”
“Come on, Charlie, you have to be mistaken. You can’t remember all the numbers of vans you’ve worked on!”
“Plenty of cars and a few motor-bikes, but only two vans and I remember that one because it was the first one Mr Windsor trusted me with. I recognise the damage to the mudguards and the pattern of rust under the passenger door. It was green and now it’s a badly-painted grey. It’s changed. And that’s for definite.”
“If you’re sure, shouldn’t you tell the police?”
“Ha! I can just imagine them listening to me, an ex-burglar. Listen with bated breath they will!”
“Then you aren’t sure,” she challenged.
“Oh, I’m certain. The colour’s changed and that numberplate isn’t the one it had when I worked on it. In fact I can soon check. The number will be in Mr Windsor’s book.”
“Why would someone want to change the number?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie shrugged, “but it can’t be innocent fun, can it?”
“Tell the police.”
“Come with me?”
The sergeant was very off-hand, but told them the matter would be investigated and when they emerged from his solemn presence, they both burst out laughing. “Fat lot of good that’s done!” Charlie sighed. “Probably thinks I’m inventing an alibi.”
Helen Gunner lived not far from Gladys and Arfon Weston, although her family had never been included in the circle of people whom Gladys considered acceptable. Her father worked as a painter and decorator and had contracts to keep the schools and libraries of the town in good order. Comfortably placed but not pretentious, the Gunners lived simply in a modest terraced house, and had two holidays a year, one in Butlins holiday camp and one at Bournemouth in a boarding house.
Helen’s father, Wilfred Gunner, knew Viv Lewis as he sometimes bought his supplies at Weston’s Wallpaper and Paint stores. “Decent chap,” he told his wife, “and he’s a friend of the Griffithses.”
“Pity for him,” Gloria said through pursed lips. Gloria Gunner was acquainted with Caroline Martin, whom she described as “the least worst” of the Griffithses. Being a dressmaker, she used the wool shop where Caroline worked for all her sewing needs.
Mrs Gunner continued to be unhappy about her daughter’s involvement with Ernie Griffiths, as, besides belonging to that notorious family, he didn’t have a trade. Having a list of court appearances against his name, even though they were mostly for poaching and trespass, didn’t augur well for his prospects in getting one either. She tried every way she could to discourage her daughter from seeing him, but Helen was adamant.
“I’ll look at no one else, Mam. It’s Ernie Griffiths or a nunnery!”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“So are you, inviting him here and trying to trip him up with all your tests.”
“What is the girl talking about?” Gloria looked at her husband and shrugged. Wilfred grinned and said nothing.
After a few more visits in which Wilfred opened up to the young man and tried to make him feel more comfortable in the neat and orderly house, Gloria relented.
“He’s untrained but malleable enough for our Helen to do something with,” she confided in her husband.
“You talk about him as if he’s a gorilla,” Wilfred protested.
“Is he the kind of young man you want our daughter to marry? Is he?”
“We could lose her,” Wilfred warned. “Best we make him welcome.”
Gloria reluctantly agreed, still clinging to the hope that Ernie Griffiths was a novelty, a fascination with which Helen would soon tire.
Helen worked in a large grocer’s shop and was presently involved in making an impressive display of the new fats they would be selling once rationing finally ended. Pyramids of one pound and half-pound boxes of Spry and Trex, which promised pastry that melted in the mouth, made a window display that attracted a lot of attention. Whole fifty-six pound cheddar cheeses were exhibited with Caerphilly and Gouda decorated with Danish Blue and the cheerful red Edam and many more. Fruit was added to the eye-catching display, making passersby stop, look, and pop in to ask when these exciting items could be bought.
All this was to remind shoppers that from the third of July they could forget weekly allowances and buy in quantities only limited by their pocket. Bacon and ham had been off-ration since May, but the display in the main window showed models of pigs routing in clean sweet-smelling straw, and artificial sides of bacon amid the rest, all decorated with flags and bunting to mark the end of all food rationing.
It was reported that people were planning to gather together and burn their ration books, the fire a symbol of the end of frugality, and a celebration of a new beginning, the prosperity that was to come.
“I’m going to eat butter until it comes out of my ears.”
“Cheese on toast with more cheese than toast.”
“Imagine making proper pastry instead of making do with a miserable scrape of fat.”
“Strawberries smothered in cream!”
Everyone had something they had only dreamed of for the past fourteen years.
Stepping outside to check on her display, Helen almost knocked over Janet Griffiths who was standing there studying the new products, many of them never seen before. Clutching her hand was Joseph.
After discussing the window’s contents briefly, Janet said, “Half-day today, isn’t it, Helen? Fancy coming over for a cup of tea?”
“Love to. Thanks,” Helen said as she tripped back inside. That was a step forward, being invited to visit Ernie’s mother by Ernie’s mother. She was even more than usually light-hearted as she cleared away the rubbish left from her work on the window, and went to ask the manager to examine and judge her efforts.
When she arrived at the Griffiths’s house, Caroline was there. She smiled and appeared friendly enough, but Helen found it difficult to involve her in conversation. She wondered if her subdued mood was because she didn’t approve of her interest in her brother, but being an optimistic young woman, put that idea aside and decided Caroline was feeling low because of the estrangement with her husband, Barry Martin. She wasn’t clear about what was going on, as Ernie seemed unwilling to discuss his sister’s affairs.
While Janet was in the kitchen preparing tea, she tried to persuade the quiet young woman to open up, but Caroline seemed lost in her own thoughts. All Helen had gleaned from Ernie, was that she no longer lived with her husband. Caroline’s withdrawn state made it impossible to bring the conversation around to that personal and painful matter, so while she waited for Janet’s return, she talked to the little boy.
She wasn’t easy with children. They stared so. But she had to make an effort. She was thankful when Janet had made the tea, set the table and returned to sit with them.
“Have you made any more progress in the search for your sister, Mrs Griffiths?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it be exciting if you found her after all these years? In-laws, out-laws, nephews and nieces and heaven knows who else besides!”
Janet brought out the box in which she kept all the information they had so far learned, and gave her the letters to read.
“A policeman she married, was it? Couldn’t you find something out from the police then?”
“He left soon after Marion left the farm.”
“What about an advertisement in a few newspapers, then? That might rouse a few memories. Our brains only need a bit of a jog sometimes for all sorts of forgotten things to spill out.”
She chattered on and Janet marvelled at the ideas she came up with, the most interesting being the newspaper idea. She made a note to remind herself to do something about it the following day. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” she sighed.
“You can be too close to the problem to see it easily,” Helen chirped knowingly. “‘Can’t see the wood for the trees’ sounds daft but makes sense really, doesn’t it?”
Janet glanced at Caroline and they shared a smile. When Helen had gone, she turned to her daughter and mused,
“I wonder if Ernie knows how that bright, lively girl will change his life? At the moment he’s so dazed by love he can’t see the wood for the trees either!”
“You can be blinded by love,” Caroline said sadly. “I didn’t see clearly when Barry said he loved me, did I?”
“Perhaps it’s now that your sight is distorted, love,” Janet replied as she gathered up the plates and took them into the kitchen.
When Caroline and her mother went the following week to visit one of the addresses on the letters from Marion, Janet invited Helen to go with them. They took the van and a picnic and went through the pretty villages of Glamorgan Vale. They found the address they were searching for after being confused by false instructions several times, but to their disappointment the house they were seeking had been demolished.
Janet shrugged off her disappointment saying, “What was it about my sister? First Spring Cottage left to fall down and now this one pulled down. A vandal was she?”
Janet was aware that Caroline was even quieter than usual. She was always one to sit back and let others talk, but accompanied by the lively chatterbox that was Helen Gunner, she seemed to have sunk deeper and deeper into her shell. She began to wish she hadn’t invited the girl. Perhaps, if she and Caroline had come alone Caroline might have been persuaded to talk about what was troubling her. She was well aware that Caroline had once tried to kill herself, just after the death of her fiancé, Joseph Martin, when she had discovered she was to have his child. Although reassured by all who knew of it, there was always the fear in her heart that her beloved daughter might reach those depths again.
When Helen took the little boy to look for a sweet shop, Janet said firmly to her daughter, “Caroline, love, you and I are going for a walk this evening when Joseph is in bed, and we are going to talk. Right?”
“No Mam. I’m not ready to talk yet.”
“Pity, because I am!”
Helen returned with a chattering Joseph who offered to share his sweets. Sensitive to the mood of Janet and her daughter, Helen offered to go off again, but Caroline quickly thanked her and shook her head.
After a brief stroll, they studied the houses in the main road of the village and at its centre, they saw the almost obliterated words over a door which said Post Office and General Stores. The shop window had been changed and the house was showing signs of neglect.
An elderly man opened the door to their knock and said at once that he wasn’t buying at the door. Assured they weren’t trying to sell him anything, he listened to their questions about a Mrs Marion Jolly who had lived in a house no longer standing.
“Condemned it was. It was a wreck before Mrs Jolly moved in, her and her three children.”
“You remember her?” Janet could hardly contain her excitement.
“I remember her! And that husband of hers.”
“Her husband?” Janet coaxed.
“Ran off with my wife, didn’t he?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She was so embarrassed she wanted to turn away but the thought of being close to reaching Marion made her ask, “You don’t know what happened to Mrs Jolly, do you? Marion Jolly? She’s my sister and I’d like to get in touch.”
“Marion Jolly you say? Didn’t call herself that. Harriet she was then. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake?”
Disappointment showered her like a sudden downpour. She had been feeling optimistic, sure they were getting close.
“Don’t give up, she probably used a second name to hide her shame,” Helen suggested in her bright, cheerful manner.
“It wasn’t her fault if her husband ran off,” Caroline said.
“Of course not. But the shame is felt just the same,” Helen replied.
“You’re right there,” Janet said. “Come on, we’ll go and knock somewhere else. If she lived here someone else might remember her.”
“Ask who is the oldest inhabitant,” Helen suggested.
“Picnic first,” Caroline said firmly.
“Picnic first,” echoed Joseph.
The day was warm and they found a sheltered spot where they could escape the sun and sit to eat their picnic and where Joseph could play under the trees. Janet’s sharp eyes noticed that Caroline ate little, passing her food to her son or throwing it into the bushes for birds or field mice to find. She couldn’t ignore this situation any longer. If Caroline had been happier without Barry she might have let things drift, but Caroline was sinking deeper into depression and that couldn’t be allowed to continue.
They didn’t get any further with their quest that day, but Janet had high hopes of the newspaper advertisements which she had placed in six London papers and two local ones. One of the local papers had sent someone to interview her and the young reporter explained that since the war, many families had lost touch and the paper’s policy was to publicise the names and what information was available, and try to reunite them.
“D’you think she went away during the war?” Janet had asked the young man.
“A lot of people moved about. Evacuees came here from the big cities, servicemen and women married and settled in places where they had been posted. Houses were bombed and families moved out to other areas. Plenty of reasons for losing touch.”
She thought it better not to tell him that it was not a war time mix-up, but sixty years since she had seen her sister.
She gave him the old photograph she had found in Spring Cottage and showed him the letters and names she had discovered. It gave her a strange feeling on being handed the local paper a few days later to see her own face staring back at her.
“What d’you think of that, then?” Hywel asked as he held it in front of her.
“When did I get to look so old?” she replied sadly.
Gladys Weston was not the kind of woman to give up easily. Joan and Viv Lewis might think they had got their own way over their wedding but she was determined to win some of the arguments. The idea of a buffet was acceptable. She had heard of several high-class weddings where a buffet had been chosen instead of a proper sit-down meal. But it had to be a proper one, no niggardly little sandwiches and a few sausage rolls made by Dora Lewis. And the venue. Gomer Hall, for heaven’s sake! That would have to be changed.
Putting on her fur coat and her best leather shoes and gloves, and the hat which had cost three times what she had told Arfon, she went to call on the Jenkinses of Montague Court.
An hour later she returned home by taxi, having booked the function room and arranged for them to add a few specialities to the selection of food.
She told her granddaughter what she had done that evening when Joan called to show her the invitations she had chosen.
“Sorry, my dear but you’ll have to change them, I have a surprise for you – I have booked Montague Court.”
Joan kissed her, told her she was kind and generous, then rang and cancelled it.
Hywel decided to sell the goats. It was when he was working for Farmer Booker, clearing out a barn, that he met a man who said he might be interested in buying them from him. The man, a surly individual, had come to look at some old machinery Booker was selling. Hearing about Hywel’s goats he made an offer, subject to them being in good condition. He offered less than Hywel had paid but Hywel knew that some lessons had to be paid for and learning that goat-keeping was not for him was a lesson well-learned.
He arranged for the man to come and look at them on the following evening and Janet stood in the kitchen and watched as the tall, heavily built man strode across the yard and looked into the pen. She couldn’t see much of his face as a heavy beard hid most of it, but she saw that his colour was high, his eyes were dull and his nose was pitted and had an unhealthy purplish look.
She beckoned to her husband and, when he came over, she whispered,
“I don’t like him. I don’t think he’d treat them kindly. Let’s wait for someone else to take them.”
“You’re right. He looks a cruel bugger. And one who’s been in a few fights too.” He went up to where the man was looking over the fence at the goats and said, “Sorry mate, my wife has changed her mind. We’re keeping them.”
The man walked away after grumbling to Hywel about wasting his time and with a sigh of relief, Janet heard his lorry start up and drive away. She shuddered.
“He reminded me of my father,” she explained.
“You don’t need to explain, love,” Hywel said. “I wasn’t happy about him myself.”
Frank was still uneasy about the commitment he had made to involve himself in the robbery at the warehouse. But learning that Basil had Fridays and Saturdays off, he felt that at least he wouldn’t be expected to confront his brother and give him something to make him sleep. Although the worry remained. Even if he convinced the police of his innocence, he knew Basil would know he was guilty. And what trouble was he bringing to him? Basil could be suspected of complicity and could easily lose his job.
When Percy met him as he was walking home from The Railwayman’s and told him it was on for Saturday night he was almost relieved. At least action was better on the nerves than waiting.
He was given a flask and a small paper packet, and told to fill the flask with whisky to which he must add the powder. A second fold of paper containing the powder was also handed over.
“If the watchman refuses to drink the whisky you’ll have to put this in his beer or tea, what ever drink he has, right?”
“You mean I have to go in there and deliberately give him knockout drops? What about my alibi? He’ll see me won’t he?”
“You tell the police you were there. You went to see your brother, forgetting it’s his night off. But whatever you say, remember to stay as close to the truth as you can.”
“What if he doesn’t invite me in?”
“That’s what I’m paying you fifty quid for, boy. So you make sure he does. Right?”
It seemed far from satisfactory but Frank knew he had to go through with it. By Saturday, he was so tense he was ill. Every muscle ached. His joints felt about to snap apart and the pain in his head was one intense, explosive agony. At five o’clock he sat in his parents’ kitchen and stared at the food his mother had offered and couldn’t swallow a single forkful.
“Sickening for something, are you?” Hywel asked, his fork poised to take a sausage from Frank’s abandoned plate. “Don’t tell me you’re love-sick an’ all! What a household this is! Ernie mooning about, dreaming of Helen, Caroline in despair because she can’t believe Barry loves her, and now you? Who is it?”
“Leave it, Dad.” Frank said. “I’m not in the mood for talking, or for food.”
“Then you won’t want this,” Hywel smiled as he speared the last of Frank’s sausages.
At half-past eight, when Frank was pretending to sleep in a chair close to the fire, Basil and Eleri walked in with their baby. Frank was swamped with guilt at the thought of what he was going to do to Basil’s deputy in a few hours’ time.
“Hello, Eleri, Basil. Glad you don’t have to work tonight?” he asked.
“I do,” Basil groaned as he dropped his shoulder bag onto the table. “Old George, my replacement, is ill and he can’t work. So, no sleep for me tonight.” Frank’s stomach curled in fear. He couldn’t do it now. How could he? Percy wouldn’t expect it. His mind tumbled in a confusion of mixed images; himself arrested, Basil arrested, Eleri crying and accusing him. And Percy, standing threateningly telling him he had to go through with it or else.
But try as he may there wasn’t a way to get in touch with Percy to tell him the whole thing was off. Perhaps if he simply didn’t go? He thought of walking through Booker’s yard with a couple of pheasants and getting himself arrested. That would be enough of an excuse. Or getting drunk and behaving violently and achieving the same result. But there wasn’t time. He had to be there, and with an unconscious watchman laid out, in just over three hours’ time.
“What’s the matter?” Eleri asked, alarmed at the paleness of Frank’s face.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said, and rushed from the room.
“He hasn’t been well all day,” Janet said. “Best he goes to bed I think.”
Ernie had gone straight to Helen’s from work. He had found a few day’s casual employment, sawing floorboards to the required lengths at the woodyard. At ten o’clock, Eleri and Ronnie were still there but Basil had gone to start his night-shift.
“What’s the matter with him?” Eleri whispered, pointing a thumb at Frank.
“Sick,” Hywel said. “Don’t talk to him or he’ll have to make a run for it again.
“Some sympathy wouldn’t come amiss,” Janet said, then she looked at Eleri. “Are you feeling unwell too, love?”
“I don’t feel all that grand,” Eleri admitted.
It was coincidental Eleri being ill at the same time as Frank as there were different reasons for the sickness, but Janet presumed they must have both eaten something that disagreed.
“Hywel will walk you home, love,” she said. “Or would you like to ride in the van?”
“Best I walk, I think,” Eleri said. “But I think I’ll sit a while longer.”
“You could stay here tonight,” Janet said, “but Basil will be worried if you aren’t there when he gets home at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
When eleven o’clock came Hywel was beginning to doze, Janet was making cocoa, and Frank had an idea.
“You make up a bed for Eleri and Ronnie, Mam. I’ll go and tell Basil that Eleri isn’t well,” Frank said, seeing the perfect excuse for calling at the factory.
“D’you feel well enough?” Janet asked and Frank nodded.
“He wouldn’t like it if we let her walk home at this time of night and her not feeling well.”
“I would be glad, Mam,” Eleri said.
“So would I,” Hywel admitted. “I don’t fancy walking to Trellis Street and back.”
Frank set off, remembering to take the flask he had prepared and the extra packet of powder given to him by Percy. It might work. Fifty pounds just for giving his brother a few extra hours’ sleep. Thank’s to Eleri’s upset stomach, it might just work! He shook off the feeling of panic as he hurried through the dark night, across the fields, down a rutted lane, through the wood, his eyes accustomed to being out at night and effortlessly finding the paths.
When he rattled the gates and rang the emergency bell, he saw Basil come out, a torch in his hand.
“It’s only me,” Frank called. “I’ve got a flask, can I come in?”
“You know I’m not allowed to open the gates except in dire emergency,” Basil said, then added, “Hang on while I fetch the keys.”
He ambled across and as he opened the gates asked, “What’s up then? Don’t tell me Mam’s locked you out?”
“No, I’ve come to tell you Eleri and Ronnie are staying at our place tonight.”
“Not ill, is she?” Basil asked anxiously.
“A bit tired that’s all. Mam thought she could stay rather than disturb little Ronnie to go home. Fast asleep he is and snoring like a good ’un. We didn’t want you to have a fright, going home and finding the house empty. Fancy a drink?”
They went into the cabin where Basil spent five nights of the week, and settled down near the open window. The night was dark but there was a warm breeze. Basil had always enjoyed the night hours. Since he was a small child he had relished the silence and peacefulness of the darkness. He felt privileged to share the secret world that revealed itself once human activity ceased.
He was aware of small sounds that most would not hear. Animals rarely seen during the day were well-known to him. Even here, in his locked-away room behind fences that were supposed to keep the rest of the world at bay, he knew what was going on beyond the arc of light from his window.
He told Frank about the fox that called at midnight for a share of his food and he went outside and bent down close to the wire fence to show his brother where he fed the trusting creature.
Frank watched as Basil sat back on his heels, his long legs bent, his knees up around his ears, his head leaning against the wire. It was several minutes before he realised Basil was fast asleep.
Taking the keys and unlocking the padlock and the heavy locks on the metal gates was easy and he collected the flask and its lid and went home, leaving the keys in the padlock, which he threw into the undergrowth at the side of the lane. When he was well away from the factory he threw the flask away too, after washing it in a stream.
He went home but he couldn’t sleep. The sick feeling had returned and he thought of his brother lying on the cold ground and knew he had to phone to police. He had done his part, had kept his promise and how would Percy ever know it was he and not a passer-by who had telephoned the police?
Slipping out of the house without being seen or heard was accomplished with the ease of practice. Trying to disguise his voice, he told the constable, not that there was a robbery taking place, only that there was an unconscious man there.
He walked a little way through the fields, trying to calm his nerves and holding back from running to the factory to make sure Basil was all right. He heard voices raised in argument, a man and a woman, and he went closer to investigate. As he broke through the trees where a pair of cottages stood, the outside lights revealed the two people. He saw one run off, shouting back abuse at the girl, who stood close to the garden wall, her arms around her shoulders as if for warmth.
He recognised her as Mair Gregory who worked for Gladys and Arfon Weston and, not wanting to frighten her, Frank called out and gave his name as he drew closer.
“You all right, Mair?” he asked.
“Yes, but I don’t fancy walking home in the dark, and at this time of night,” she said.
“Not much of a man leaving you out here, even if you have had a quarrel,” Frank said, giving her his jacket.
Ernie was very late getting home that night. He had gone to Helen’s for supper and had stayed playing cards with her and her parents and a neighbour who had called in, until one o’clock.
Walking home, a bit tipsy from the flagons Helen’s father had opened and shared, he met Farmer Booker, walking his fields with a broken shotgun across his arm. They stopped, farmer and poacher talking in a subdued whisper and remarking on how still the night was and how warm.
“After poachers, Mr Booker?” Ernie asked.
“Not really. There’s an injured cow in one of the fields and I went to see how she was. She’s cut herself badly on some barbed wire, silly old girl. She’s been stitched but we’ve left her there, with some hay bales around her. She’ll be able to walk back to the barn tomorrow.” He patted the weapon and added, “I usually carry this. You never know when there’ll be an opportunity to give someone a fright.”
“Poaching’s for kids,” Ernie said, pulling off a length of grass and chewing thoughtfully. “There comes a time when you want to settle down.”
“You? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of marrying that Gunner girl?”
“You know her?”
“She deserves the best. She’ll expect you to get a proper job, and keep it, mind.”
“And that’s what I intend to do. The trouble is, I can’t think what.”
They talked for an hour, standing in the tall grasses at the edge of the hay field, and when they parted Ernie felt as if he had grown up and come of age.
He went into the bedroom he shared with Frank quietly, but a glance at the other bed showed him Frank wasn’t there.
He came in a few minutes later, puffing slightly. “I’ve been outside to be sick,” he explained. “Been feeling bad all evening. Me and Eleri.” He lay on his bed wide awake, all his senses alert and poised as if for flight. He listened intently, his heart pounding, waiting for the dawn, or for the loud imperious knock of the police, whichever came first.