‘I have to say the grounds have never looked so good.’ The Minister pulled an apologetic smile. ‘But that’s all there is at the moment, I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be anything else for you to do.’ He handed a pound note to Peter. ‘I’ll let you know when … as soon as … something else crops up.’ He beamed. ‘Good job, good job, well done, well done – now must dash, a christening this morning. Yes, yes, a christening.’ Muttering to himself he ambled back to the church, stopping now and again at various graves.
When he reached the last one before the porch, a grey headstone that was slightly sunken in the ground he turned back. ‘Sam Jones,’ he called in a bright voice, his hand resting on it, ‘he was the church gardener for thirty years or so I’m told. Of course he did it for the love of his work – wouldn’t take a penny, I believe.’
Peter pretended he hadn’t heard. He picked up his shears and knelt down to trim around the graves. Tugging at a particular stubborn clump of weeds he studied his hands. There were cuts and callouses on his skin but he didn’t mind. They were the hands of the gardener he’d become, not the doctor he once was.
But now he was worried. Would he get work with Tom gone? It didn’t seem so. This was the only job he’d had since then. He shook his head, trying to shift the worry.
Packing away the tools in the old shed at the back of the church he pondered on what to do. He walked slowly along the path and perched on the stone wall by the lych-gate, folding the pound note into small squares. He looked up as two women passed by. The younger one’s smile swiftly faded, vanquished by a dig in her ribs by the older woman.
Peter watched them until they turned the corner at the end of the church wall, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He needed to do something. Mary couldn’t be the only one to bring in money, his pride wouldn’t accept that.
He reluctantly acknowledged his only option: he must ask Alun and Alwyn if they could give him some gardening jobs. Tom had sometimes taken on work they hadn’t time for. They were his only hope. For Mary’s sake he had to try.
He jumped down from the wall and made his way to the outskirts of the village. Looking up towards the top of Ellex Hill he could just see the roof of the twins’ house. He’d never been but Mary had once pointed it out to him.
The air was humid and difficult to breathe as he climbed slowly, back hunched, his knees bent against the steep gradient of the lane. When he reached the top he turned and looked out over the sea to the horizon. On fine days he supposed the views would be breath-taking. Today there was a heat mist rolling in shrouding the cliffs and the beach far below. He took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his arm before turning to face the path leading to the house. If he didn’t know better he would have thought it was empty. No curtains hung in the widows, the framework and the door were badly in need of repair and paint, on the corner the drainpipe hung broken and grass sprouted from the guttering. Mary had told him the twins didn’t bother about their home but still … he stared, a slight flicker of surprised humour in him.
He swallowed, his pride sticking in his throat like a piece of dried stollen. Begging for work wasn’t something he’d done before and he resented it now.
For an instant he remembered the time he was revered as the doctor in his village in Germany. ‘Dummkopf,’ he muttered, twisting his cap in his hands. Those times had gone. He strode up the path and around the side of the house.
The plot of land at the back was immaculate. Canes steepled together were entwined by runner beans, the rows of dark red-veined leaves of beetroot gave way to the shoots of onions and inside the greenhouse was a mass of tomato plants. In the far corner, in the middle of lines of the ferny tops of carrots and the broad leaves of spring cabbage, a homemade scarecrow, wearing an old plaid shirt, black trousers and tattered brown trilby, leaned to one side, its clothes barely moving in the light breeze.
Peter looked around. The pitch roof of a large shed poked up from behind a trellis. ‘Hello?’
Alun appeared first, his tangled black hair flopping over his eyes, a tray of small potatoes in his arms. ‘Peter.’ He grinned and Peter gave an inner sigh of relief. At least he was welcome here. Before Tom’s funeral he’d been lulled into a false sense that he would be accepted by everyone in Llamroth. He’d learned since he was wrong.
Balancing the tray Alun shook his hand. ‘Alwyn, come here, see. We have a visitor.’
Alwyn emerged from the shed wearing a trilby with more holes in it than the one the scarecrow wore. There was a piece of coarse string fastened through the loops of his trousers. He wiped his hand on his jacket and held it out for Peter to shake but said nothing.
‘You are busy?’ Peter shoved his cap inside his overall pocket and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘It is most impressive.’
The two men looked self-conscious and shuffled their boots on the gravelled path but he could tell they were pleased. Alwyn took out a large grubby handkerchief and blew his nose, peering over it at Peter.
‘Just a visit, is it?’ Alun asked.
‘Yes. No.’ Peter faltered. ‘I was – I was hoping for some work?’
‘We can have a chat about it?’ Alun glanced at Alwyn who nodded, handkerchief still held to his face. ‘We always like to have a chat about things first, don’t we brother?’
Alwyn moved his head again.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Alun put the tray down. ‘Mr Howells?’ A burly man, in a tightly fastened dark blue suit and shirt and tie appeared at the back of Alwyn, his florid face devoid of expression. Peter smiled a greeting. The man snubbed him. Putting on his hat he glanced at Alun. ‘How much?’
‘Thruppence,’ Alun said curtly. He’d noticed the snub.
‘Bloody expensive.’
Alun bent down and picked the tray up. ‘No then?’ He tilted his head.
‘You know I need them. Visitors have ordered them for their tea tonight.’ Grumbling the man fumbled in his wallet. He dropped three coppers in Alun’s outstretched hand and took the tray of potatoes.
Alun turned back to Peter. ‘Perhaps you could cut the grass on the green in the village? It’s a job we do for the Council.’
Peter felt gratitude run through him. ‘Ja, good. I will do that.’
‘The Rushville?’ Alwyn offered, his voice almost a whisper.
‘The old folk’s home? Yes,’ Alun said, ‘there’s a few jobs you could do for them, like. We keep telling them we’re better on the repairing side of things but they still keep asking us. Tom used to do all that for us. So if you…?’
‘I will. Thank you.’
The man stopped before he turned the corner of the cottage. ‘Don’t send that Kraut to do any work for me. I don’t want him anywhere near my place. Don’t want my guests upset by the sight of him.’
The three men pretended not to have heard. Then Alwyn heaved a deep sigh. He walked along the path to the man and took hold of the tray. There was a short tussle before Alwyn jerked it out of the man’s hands. ‘Here’s your money back, Mr Howells.’ He pushed the coins into the man’s palm. ‘Get your tatties somewhere else.’
They waited until they heard the man’s car start up.
‘Tom was a good friend to us,’ Alwyn said. ‘He made us see how we felt about the war wasn’t wrong. Not like our family back home.’
That was a surprise. ‘I did not know. You were conscientious objectors also? Tom did not say…’ His words trailed away. Uncertain how to continue, he said, ‘It is of no concern to me but Tom told me you were his good friends.’ He flapped the paper. ‘And now, I see, you are also my good friends.’
‘Aye, well, must get on.’ Alwyn shifted sideways, embarrassed. He pushed his hair away from his forehead and giving Peter a wide grin which crinkled the skin around his dark eyes. ‘Give us a shout if you need any help, see?’
‘Aye, must get on,’ Alun said in a low voice, his face mirroring his brother’s and revealing a gap in his large teeth, into which he now fitted the empty pipe he’d been holding in his hands.
Peter swallowed. He was a proud man. Tormented since Tom’s death that he would have to live on Mary’s earnings he didn’t know how to tell the twins what it meant to him. All he could say was, ‘Thank you, thank you to both of you.’ He shook hands with each of them.
Walking away from the house, self-respect flooded through him. It will be all right, he thought.