The guard nonchalantly slammed each carriage door he passed. He turned and walked backwards, checking there were no latecomers. Then he blew his whistle and the train juddered, a rush of steam spurting out from under the engine.
Jean slid the window down. ‘Let me know when you’ve decided on the date.’ She didn’t smile.
Mary was fully aware Jean still didn’t approve of Peter. At least he isn’t a bully. She instantly regretted the thought. ‘We will,’ she said. ‘And you take care. Remember what we talked about.’
Jean didn’t answer.
‘Stay in touch.’ Mary wondered for the tenth time that morning whether she should be going back with her. It was too late now.
They watched the train shunt slowly backwards on the rust-pitted iron rails; past the end of the platform and out of the station. Two hundred yards away, it connected with the main line opposite the red and cream signal box whose low line of windows flashed in the sun. Squinting, Mary could see the dark shadow of the man inside moving around, pulling on the levers. She dropped her gaze to watch the points sliding across the rails. The signalman appeared at the top of the wooden steps to lift a hand to the driver. It seemed to Mary that he also returned Jacqueline’s frantic wave. The little girl’s face was a pale blob now but Mary knew she was crying and she swallowed her own tears.
With a short burst from the whistle the train chugged away. As the sound grew muffled, others became more distinct: the signal clanged down, bouncing to a noisy stop; under the eaves of the wooden roof sparrows gave the occasional murmur, too lethargic to move; the porter shouted to someone inside the ticket office and a man replied with a laugh. The warm air carried a faint acrid smell of the funnel’s smoke, growing less with each passing moment.
Peter squeezed Mary’s hand. ‘It is better you leave her to her own problems. You have much to do here.’
‘I know.’ He was right. There was nothing she could do. She could only hope Jean came to her senses and moved back in with her mother. She glanced up at the sky, almost translucent against the brilliance of the sun, and heaved a long sigh. Jean could be bossy and awkward but Patrick was a right chip of the old block, his father’s son right enough. She might ask Ellen to keep an eye on Jacqueline.
She let her arm drop to her side, aware she’d been waving long after her niece would be able to see her.
Peter held her face between his palms, and kissed her forehead and then her lips. ‘She and little Jacqueline will be fine. You must not worry.’ He gave her one last quick kiss on the tip of her nose. Mary savoured the feeling of being cherished.
They climbed the steps to the bridge over the single track, their weight causing reverberations on the metal plates. An old memory returned to Mary, the sound of shuffling footsteps on the iron stairs from one landing to the next at Tom’s prison. She closed her eyes for a second and stopped, holding on to the railing with one hand.
‘Mary? What is it?’
‘Sorry, Peter, I was thinking about Tom.’ How can happiness and misery go so hand in hand? she thought. ‘Take no notice of me.’ She tried to laugh. The sound emerged as a sob. ‘I feel so,’ she spread her fingers, ‘so mixed up.’ It wasn’t only the physical loss of Tom. She’d lost the need to protect him, and it left her bewildered. Ingrained in her since his release from prison, it was a role reversal she’d grown used to, repaying him for the way he’d safeguarded her from her father’s temper all through her childhood. It was also the great sadness she felt that her brother and Peter had lost the chance to nurture the friendship they’d started to build.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, liebling.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, threading her arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
They walked through the crowded waiting room to get to the main entrance of the station. The dusty, stale odour was overpowering and Mary held her breath until they were outside.
Strolling along the flagged pavement they stayed on the side of the road shaded by the three-storey stone buildings. Mary looked around, trying to see the town through Peter’s eyes. This was only the third time he’d been to Pont yr Hafan. He’d been in no hurry to stray further than the village, and now he was saying nothing. The ground floors contained a variety of shops. The upper floors, some with windows blanked out with whitewash, others with grubby net curtains, seemed to be either flats or storerooms.
‘It’s a bit dingy, this place, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s taking a while to recover from the war. But there are a few good shops, a Utility Furniture place, two second-hand clothes shops that sell really good stuff.’ She smiled, fingering the lapel of his jacket. ‘We could look for something for you if you wanted?’
He shook his head.
‘Some other time then. Tom especially liked the ironmongers. He used to say there was nothing you couldn’t get from there, or have ordered.’ She pointed towards the end of the street. ‘And there’s a Woolworths on the High Street.’
She stopped outside a large window where blue and white checked curtains were held back by large blue bows. ‘I thought we might splash out a bit, go in here for a cup of tea? We haven’t done that before.’ She waited, hoping she hadn’t sprung this on him too suddenly. ‘We can talk, like you said, make plans?’ It wasn’t fair to spoil Peter’s mood. He’d been so good about everything.
Peter peered through the window. They could both see two or three small round tables from where they stood, and the outline of a few people. He pressed his lips together, ran a hand over his short blond hair and then pulled back his shoulders. ‘That would be good,’ he said finally. He held the door open for Mary and followed her into the café.
The middle-aged couple at the first table glanced up at them before resuming their conversation. An old man, wiping crumbs from his chin with a thin paper serviette, watched with no great interest. Mary led the way past a group of young women, giggling and chattering over frothy pink milkshakes, to a table in the alcove by the window.
The waitress, who was loading up a tray with used crockery, stopped to follow them. ‘What can I get for you?’ She smiled at Peter, arranging the frills on the shoulder straps of her apron.
‘Oh, I think a pot of tea for two,’ Mary said, seeing his reluctance to speak. ‘And some Welsh cakes I think.’
‘Ja … yes,’ he muttered.
Taking a quick sideways peep at Peter the woman scribbled on her notepad. ‘Two minutes,’ she announced, picking up the tray and, carrying it above her head. Mary didn’t miss the raised eyebrows and sideways movement of her head when she manoeuvred past the couple. She saw them twist around to look at Peter and stared back at them until the woman gave a slight cough and fiddled with her necklace, turning away and tugging at her husband’s sleeve. Before long they left the café, followed by the old man who, clearing his throat, spat on the pavement in front of the window before shuffling away.
‘This was a mistake.’ Peter half rose.
‘No!’ Mary seized his hand. She smoothed the folds of her skirt, unfastened her cardigan and, taking it off, laid it across her knees. ‘No, we stay.’
The waitress returned with the tray: brown teapot, milk jug, a plate of Welsh cakes, one cup, saucer and plate.
‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Mary said, placing the latter in front of Peter. ‘My cup and saucer? My plate?’ The woman flushed and turned away towards the counter. When she returned, Mary took them without speaking.
One of the young women leaned towards them. ‘Quite right.’ She grinned. ‘Snotty cow should realise who pays her wages.’ Raising her voice she said, ‘She’ll not get a tip from us.’ The others agreed. ‘Should bloody realise the war’s been over a long time.’
‘Thanks.’ Mary poured the tea, unable to say any more. She was trembling.
With a lot of clatter the girls shoved their chairs back and left.
Now, except for the glowering waitress, they were alone in the café.
‘Thank you,’ Peter said to Mary. ‘Thank you for not caring, for being strong for the both of us, meine Liebe.’ He leant his arms on the table, touching Mary with the tips of his fingers. ‘I always think I do not know what I would do if I lost you.’
‘Well that’s not going to happen, ever, so don’t worry about that.’ The balance of sadness and joy tipped towards contentment. Tom would want her to be happy; he wouldn’t want her moping around. And yet there was that small voice in her mind. She knew how ashamed he would be, knowing he had lied to her.
‘You are fine now?’
‘I’m fine.’ Mary twisted the top flower-shaped button of her blouse.
He raised his hand dismissing the words. ‘You must talk, tell me. Whatever worries you I must know. Perhaps help?’
Mary sipped her tea. There was no point in talking about Tom’s part in Frank’s death. She needed to put it all behind in the past; just as her brother had wanted her to. But there was something she could do. So when she replaced the cup on the saucer she said, ‘I think it’s just with seeing Ellen and Jean go back to Ashford. Seeing the children, Linda especially, growing so quickly. She’s quieter than Jacqueline, more sensitive, I think, and such a lovable little girl. It set me thinking.’ She hesitated, wondering if she should carry on. But he had told her to tell him anything. She took the plunge. ‘There’s something else I’ve mithered about for a long time. It’s Nelly, Frank’s mother, I feel sorry for. Sometimes, when I get letters from her, I feel bad that I’m keeping it all from her. She is Linda’s grandmother after all.’
‘Why is it today you are thinking of her, liebling?’
Was there slight impatience in his tone? ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ All they seemed to be doing today was apologising to one another.
‘You have not. But Linda is happy, I think. What good would it be to have her to meet … diese Frau … this Nelly Shuttleworth?’
Again Mary thought she heard underlying irritation, so unlike him. ‘Are you all right?’ A movement of his head should have reassured her but didn’t. Almost apologetically she said, ‘I don’t know really why it bothers me except I know she’d be a lovely grandmother – the only one for Linda since Mam died.’
‘Do you think Ellen would want that? Have you said this to her?’
‘No but…’ He was looking down. Mary tried to see his expression. ‘It’s just something that bothers me. Especially now I’ve found out how horrible Ted’s mother is.’ The thought of Hannah Booth saying or doing anything to hurt Linda angered Mary so much she was shocked by the depth of her hatred. ‘Still, you’re probably right. Ellen would hate Linda to be involved with Frank’s family.’ George Shuttleworth was a despicable man. He’d make Ellen’s life unbearable. ‘All hell could let loose.’
‘That is probable.’
‘Anyway, it’s not my place to tell Nelly.’ She put her hand over his. ‘I hate secrets but this is one best kept, I think.’
Peter’s voice sounded strained when he spoke. ‘Yes, sometimes it is better that secrets are kept,’ he said.