Jennie had never been in a house alone at night before. Although her parents had died when she was a child, there had always been someone with her. First an aunt, then a series of friends with whom she had shared a flat. Although she was without a family, she had never had to face the ultimate loneliness of sleeping in completely empty house. When she married Peter she had never imagined being alone, and the prospect of sleeping in the house they had shared was frightening. How could he do this to her? Why hadn’t he at least discussed it, waited until she could make arrangements, find someone to live in while they sorted out their situation?
She didn’t undress, and that made her feel cowardly. The darkness was more than she could bear, so she sat on the bed wrapped in extra blankets with the lights on both in the bedroom and on the landing. She smiled wryly at the thought of Peter’s reaction if he found out. Peter hated waste. Remembering this, she went and put on the downstairs lights too.
Sounds alarmed her and brought her out of her light dozing: a cat calling with a pathetic wail, followed by the screeching of a fight when another approached; a creaking floorboard had her sitting up, all her senses alert for danger before she remembered that the old lady next door often got up at night, the footsteps sounding as close as if they were in the next room. She waited, unable to convince herself there was no one in the house, until she heard the flush of a toilet followed by returning footsteps.
It was early morning before she slept and even then she was awake again before seven, fumbling her way out of the excess bedding to go and make a cup of tea. She was thankful the lights were still on. It was bitterly cold and the darkness framed in the windows emphasised the silent emptiness. The place had an alien feel, and the small sounds were somehow distorted by her solitary state. She went down the stairs feeling she were trespassing, that she no longer belonged. As she waited for the kettle to boil she mused sadly over the mystery of how the absence of one person could change the atmosphere of a house so much, so that it felt hollow, unlived-in, lacking in friendliness. She looked at the clock, ticking with exaggerated loudness. Eight fifteen. If this had been a weekday, Peter would be cleaning his shoes as part of his morning ritual. His clothes would be brushed, his tie fixed in an orderly position. He used a napkin while he ate his breakfast to make sure his appearance was immaculate. It was something she had admired: his precise attention to detail. Now she hoped he would drop coffee on his white shirt.
Eight thirty and his mother would be calling, “Peter, will two slices of toast be enough? One egg or two?” Why hadn’t he been prepared to leave his parents behind and live his life with her? She had remained an outsider from the first moment she had been introduced to Mr and Mrs Francis. It had been made clear to her even then that Peter was strongly attached to his mother and, as his wife, she would be a poor second. Why had she accepted it? Why had she imagined she would ever be anything else?
When she went to the shop, a little later than usual, both Carl and Viv Lewis were waiting. She had forgotten that Viv had arranged to be there early to collect the goods he had bought. She made half-hearted apologies and opened up. Carl began taking down the shelves and display units he had made such a short time before, while Viv, assisted by two brothers whom he introduced as Frank and Ernie Griffiths, loaded up a rather dilapidated van to take the carpets and tins of paint and the rest of the contents to Westons at the end of High Street. She didn’t watch as the van took its final load, busying herself making tea for herself and Carl, pretending she didn’t care.
For a while they worked in silence, Carl piling up the shelves and filling in the damage to the walls, and Jennie sweeping and putting the last of the rubbish into sacks. Then she couldn’t keep her misery to herself any longer.
“Peter left me yesterday,” she said quietly.
“Left you?” Carl asked, spinning round to stare at her. “As in ‘gone for good’?”
“It seems that way. He’s – he’s gone back to mother.” She unaccountably saw the funny side of this and began to smile. A bubble of laughter that was based not on humour, but on misery, took her over and she began to laugh. Carl laughed too and the sound increased as the absurdity of the remark caught him afresh. “She never wanted me to marry her precious son.” That too sounded funny. Giggles distorted her voice as she added, “She tried everything to stop him leaving and now – now, she’s got him back.”
“Serves her right an’ all!” Carl said, still unable to stop laughing.
“The worst part is,” Jennie sighed, her laughter ceasing as suddenly as it began, “that I don’t really know why.”
“Why she didn’t want you for a daughter-in-law or why he upped and left?” Carl tried to revive the laughter, but failed.
“She didn’t want him to marry anyone, and I suppose she eventually convinced him he had made a terrible mistake.”
“Mother-in-law jokes are sometimes too close to the truth. Specially the lonely ones who are greedy for a second chance, who try to live again vicariously through their children.”
“Personal experience, Carl?” she asked quizzically.
Carl shook his dark head, and smiled. “I’m not cut out for marriage. Too selfish.”
“That didn’t stop Peter,” she said, and this time her laugh was harsh.
The sale at Westons attracted a lot of interest. Joan and Viv Lewis worked all through a weekend, placing posters in the windows as well as displaying some of their best items with prices marked and crossed out and marked again to show the value of the reductions. When the store opened at nine o’clock on Monday morning there was a crowd of hopeful customers waiting.
Dressed against the chill they had formed a ragged queue and were chatting as though they had been waiting for a long time and had become friends.
Surprised, and far from displeased, Joan decided to let them in six at a time. She sent one of the store assistants round to ask Arfon to come and help, although, with so many of the bargains shown in the window, many knew what they wanted before they came in.
Arfon came bustling in, pleased to be asked to help the business that had once been his to manage. His loud, authoritative voice boomed across the showroom as he reminded each customer he served, and others waiting their turn, of the excellent value they were getting for their money.
Victoria and her husband, Jack Weston, Joan’s cousin, came and went off well pleased with new carpeting for two bedrooms, placing an order for curtains as well.
“Not buying for a nursery yet then?” Viv teased his friend, and Jack hurriedly changed the subject.
“We going fishing at the weekend?” Jack asked, glancing at his wife and frowning at Viv to warn him not to say any more. Viv guessed from the sad expression on Victoria’s face that the lack of children might not be from choice. The exchange hadn’t been missed and Victoria said, “My mother had seven and here I am, unable to have one. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Plenty of time,” Viv said. “Damn me, you need a couple of years to get Jack trained first, mind!”
Janet Griffiths came to stand in the doorway waiting her turn to enter. Behind her stood a very self-conscious Hywel. She looked excitedly around her at the displays that were gradually falling into disarray as item after item found a buyer. Hywel shuffled his feet and wished he was somewhere else, anywhere but in a shop full of chattering women. Viv saw them and whispered to Joan that he would never have imagined the Griffithses needing carpets.
The Griffithses lived in a shabby cottage on the edge of town with their son Frank and their daughter Caroline and her son. The cottage was also home to an assortment of animals including goats, chickens, ducks and, on occasions, a pig or two.
Janet was small and neat, with wiry, untidy hair which started each day in a tight bun which soon defied all efforts at control and flared about her head like seaweed on a subterranean rock. Hywel was not much taller than his wife but he was burly, with a beard almost as unmanageable as Janet’s hair. He wore a workman-like, badly stained donkey jacket and a check shirt. His denims were supported by a thick leather belt that was slung under his belly so he looked like a bit-player in a western film. As soon as he entered, trying to hide behind his diminutive wife, Viv, forgetting the other customers, called out, “Bloody ’ell! Hywel Griffiths shopping? Never thought I’d see the day.” He pushed aside the assistant who had approached them. “I’ll see to Mr and Mrs Griffiths.”
“We want something to cover the bedroom floor. Nothing fancy, mind.”
“He means a carpet.” Janet chuckled. “The first ever, mind.”
“What’s wrong with them rag rugs you made when we got married?” Hywel grumbled.
“Worn out like you! And that linoleum is bitter cold under my poor feet.”
“Good idea, Janet,” Viv said, with an unsympathetic face for Hywel. “Time you were spoiling yourself a bit. I’ll show you our best bargains.”
Dora and Lewis Lewis, Viv’s newly reunited parents, bought carpet for a bedroom too, and it seemed to Viv and Joan that half of Pendragon Island had been through the doors of Westons, before they closed at six o’clock on the first day of the sale.
They were leaving the shop at about seven thirty, having stayed to rearrange the diminished stock and tidy the showroom ready for the following day, when Jennie Francis knocked on the window. Joan opened the door and in her forthright manner explained they were just leaving.
“I just wanted to see how it went. Did you have a successful day?”
Relenting, Joan opened the door and invited her in.
“Marvellous,” Viv said, then added, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so pleased. It’s your loss, isn’t it?”
“You gave me a good price, I’m not complaining. I didn’t come for that. I should be able to start again within the year, if I can get a job to pay for my keep, meanwhile.”
“Your keep?” Joan asked curiously. “Doesn’t your husband do that?”
“Not any more.”
“Don’t be in too much hurry to start,” Viv warned. “I don’t worry about competition, mind. But you must see that you wouldn’t have much chance trying to compete with us.”
“I won’t try paint and wallpaper again, and I won’t try carpets.” She moved towards the door, adding, “Paint and wallpaper weren’t my original idea, I was persuaded into that by Peter and his parents. They thought the town wasn’t ready for anything as frivolous as a gift shop.”
“If we can help—” Viv said, spreading his hands in a vague gesture of offering.
“Come and talk to us when you’re thinking of starting again and we’ll help if we can,” Joan agreed.
Neither of them said ‘I’, each said ‘we’ and each knew the other was in agreement, Jennie thought, as she hurried away, preparing herself for entering the empty house.
When she opened the door she knew at once that someone was there. “Peter?” she called and he came out of the living room to stand in the doorway staring at her. “You’re back.” She tried to hide her relief and pleasure at his return.
Then he muttered, “Only briefly,” and her heart fell like a broken lift, plummeting to the bottom of her hopes.
“Briefly?”
“There are things we must discuss. Finances for one thing. I’ll pay the bills until you get a job then I’ll pay half.”
“What? You expect me to pay half the expenses of the house? Well, all right, but I’ll get a couple of lodgers to help with my half.”
“Definitely not!”
They bickered like children for a few moments, each insisting on having their say only for the other to listen without taking anything in, just waiting for their turn to get in a word.
“I’ve sold the contents of the shop,” Jennie said, and that stopped him.
“Good,” he said, after a pause, “then you can begin paying your half straight away, can’t you?”
“Certainly, as long as your parents don’t mind waiting for their money!” she snapped, and they were off again, shouting, arguing, each blaming the other, until Jennie threw down the shopping she carried and pushed him towards the front door. A twist of the latch and she thrust him through. “Speak to me through solicitors in future. Right? Tell your mother that! And,” she shouted through the slit of the door, “as of tomorrow, the house is for sale. Right?”
“No! You can’t do that! Mam says—”
Jennie slammed the door, then as an idea hit her with sudden and painful shock, she opened it, and said slowly, “There’s another woman! You plan to bring her here after you’ve got rid of me!”
“There’s no one else,” he replied. They stared at each other for a moment then he asked, “Can I come back in?”
She walked into the kitchen and began preparing her meal, pointedly setting out one plate, one cup and saucer.
Peter shuffled his feet a bit, touching a chair as though about to sit, then changing his mind, and shuffling some more. He was obviously finding it difficult to say what he wanted her to hear. She remained silent.
“You’re too independent for me,” he said at last. “When we married, I wanted to look after you, I wanted to feel important, needed, in charge of our lives. And there you were, running a business, not being a wife at all. Not needing me for anything, except to keep you while you waited for the shop to provide for you.”
“Us,” she said quietly. “It was to provide for us.” She brought out a couple of rashers of bacon and put them under the grill. The eggs were waiting for the pan to heat. “So we sell the house?”
“It would have been different if we’d had children. You should have had a child.”
“Yes, that would have made a difference, wouldn’t it? I’d be having to face looking after myself and the child, while earning my living! Your mother would still have persuaded you to leave me. Don’t try to tell me different. All this is her doing. Sell the house, Peter. Let’s end it thoroughly, shall we?”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Ask your mother you mean!” When she turned to look at him he was gone.
Rhiannon was closing the shop at lunchtime a week or so later, when Mair Gregory ran in.
“Rhiannon, can you wait while I buy some chocolates? Dairy Box, I think.” Smiling, Rhiannon put down the key and prepared to serve her. Mair could easily have bought chocolates on High Street, and she was grateful to her for coming down to buy at Temptations.
“Special occasion?” she asked.
“Only pictures, but in Cardiff and with – guess who?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve finally said yes to poor Frank Griffiths? He’s been trying to get a date with you for months.”
“No fear. I’m going out with the gorgeous Carl Rees, him that worked in the carpet shop, remember?”
“Then don’t buy chocolates, you’ll spoil his surprise.”
“You mean he’s already got some? Great! Perhaps I’ll get some peppermints then, in case we get close.” She winked and clicked her tongue. “Not a word, mind. We want to keep it a secret for a while.”
“What d’you know about him, Mair? He seems to be a bit of a mystery man.”
“And all the better for that. Every boy I go out with I’ve known all my life. I know them all down to their last pimple! It’s like going out with one of the family. Been brought up together we have, and with a full knowledge of all the family secrets. Small town stuff. Boring.”
“I found Charlie, and I didn’t know enough about him to find him boring,” Rhiannon said.
“Well that’s hardly surprising! Been away in prison hadn’t he? He can hardly have… Sorry Rhiannon, I shouldn’t have said that. Me and my big mouth. Sorry.”
“It’s all right, Mair. As you say, small town, no secrets.”
Rhiannon had learnt a little more about Carl by talking to Jennie, but not enough to satisfy her curiosity. Why should his date with Mair have to be in secret? It was intriguing. Surely she owed it to her friend Mair to find out more, she thought, to ease the guilt of blatant nosiness.
She saw Jennie approaching later that day and, dashing into the back room to put the kettle on, persuaded her to stay for a cup of tea.
“I was sorry to hear that you’ve closed the shop,” she began, “but there wasn’t much hope down there out of the main shopping area, was there? Try again, will you? When there’s a better spot?”
“This is a long way from the shops too, yet Temptations seems to do well enough. Why is that, d’you think?” Jennie asked.
“Sweets don’t take up as much room as carpets and the other stuff you sold. I can carry a great number of lines. And there’s the loyalty of customers. They got into the habit of coming here while sweets were rationed and they still make their way here whenever they can. Besides,” she added, glancing at Jennie apologetically, “in your case, my brother Viv has got most of the town’s business. There wasn’t much left for you, was there?”
“I don’t intend to sell carpets again, nor paint and wallpaper. What do you think of starting an interior design business?”
“Wrong town! Do it yourself and put the sideboard over the mistakes is more the way of my friends. Frank Griffiths is good at decorating, mind. Really neat with wallpaper, but I doubt whether many people would pay you to let you choose what he puts up.”
“Carl Rees is good at those things too. I wonder what he’ll do now? Not that he did much work for me, but he did get other work while fitting the few carpets I managed to sell.”
“Carpentry, I heard. Any good, is he?”
“Apparently he went to college to do furniture design, but his father died and he had to leave. Money difficulties I suspect. Pity. I think he might have had a successful career. He’s still a bit resentful about his lost chances.”
“He’s taking a friend of mine to the pictures tonight.”
“Really? I didn’t think he bothered with women. Between you and me, I’d always thought him too mean.”
Mair was a bit puzzled by the arrangement to meet Carl on the six-thirty bus into Cardiff, but she thought it was probably because of the weather. January wasn’t the month to be standing around waiting for someone, after all. He jumped on several stops after her and, as she had already paid her fare, bought his ticket and placed it carefully in his wallet. She handed him hers and said, “I suppose you might as well keep it. We will be travelling home together.”
“Maybe not,” Carl said. “Best if you hold on to it. I have to go and see someone later, but I’ll see you onto the bus.”
“Thanks,” she said sarcastically. Some date this was turning out to be. And there was no sign of the chocolates Rhiannon said he’d bought! He found seats in the back row of the cinema, and that was encouraging, but he did nothing more than lean over to take one of the peppermints she offered.
In spite of the disappointments, she agreed to see him again later that week. The secretive arrangements were rather intriguing and he was good-looking.
“Meet me at the telephone box at the corner of Trap Lane,” he said, as she climbed onto the bus. “Seven on Friday. Okay?”
Once the bus was out of sight Carl stood and waited for the next one. Better that they didn’t travel together more than he could help. The fewer people who knew, the better. He stamped his feet against the icy cold coming up from the pavement and wondered whether Mair had done what he asked and told no one of their date.
“First on a bus heading out of town, then in a quiet corner on a dark evening. Is he ashamed of me do you think?” Mair asked Rhiannon, when she went down to report on her night out.
“A bit shy more like. Perhaps he hasn’t been out with many girls. Anyway, meeting on a bus wasn’t exactly hiding you, was it?”
“No, but he made it look as though we had met by accident. ‘Hi,’ he said, as though it was a complete surprise. Talk about acting! And sitting in the back row at the pictures wasn’t romantic, just another way to avoid being seen.”
“No hand holding then?”
“Only to pinch my peppermints.” Mair laughed. “I’m meeting him again on Friday, mind. I must be mad.”
“Where to this time?”
“Corner of Trap Lane, after dark!”
By the middle of February, Mair and Carl had dated a dozen times and every time, they went to places where no one would recognise them. She was developing a strong attraction for him and their tentative relationship began to grow into something approaching affection or even the beginnings of love, yet she still knew very little about him.
“It isn’t that he won’t answer questions. He does. But he never seems to tell me anything,” she admitted to Rhiannon one lunchtime.
“You do try to get him talking about himself?” Rhiannon asked. “It’s easy to ask about family and friends at least, isn’t it?”
“Somehow he manages to twist the questions so the words he uses seem like an explanation, but aren’t really an answer to what I asked.” She sighed. “Then I start to feel embarrassed at my nosiness and shut up.”
Sally Weston was one of Gladys and Arfon Weston’s twin daughters. Like her twin sister Sian, she no longer had her husband living with her. Ryan lived in a basement flat below the sports shop owned by Edward Jenkins. Both sisters had been supposedly happily married, but a disaster in the firm of Westons Wallpaper and Paint had caused such a furore that the dust had still to settle. Sian’s husband, Islwyn, had left her to live with Margaret Jenkins, and Sally’s husband, Ryan, had suffered a serious breakdown which had resulted in him hitting his wife. Both men had been directors of the family business until it almost failed for lack of effort on their part.
Sally’s daughter Joan, was married to Viv Lewis and ran the family business. Her other daughter, Megan, still lived at home with her baby, Rosemary, but would soon be marrying Edward Jenkins and going to live with him in the flat above his sports shop. Then Sally would be completely alone.
The thought frightened her. Keeping a guesthouse meant strangers being there every night and some made her nervous. Jeremy Mullen-Thomas for one.
She told none of her fears to her daughter. Nothing must spoil Megan and Rosemary’s chance of a good life and Edward would look after them both, she was certain of that. He adored them and already thought of himself as Rosemary’s father. It was Wednesday and half-day closing for the shops in Pendragon Island, so she finished her preparations for the evening meal for the seven house guests and went to the sports shop to talk to her daughter. It was very cold and Sally put on a coat with a fur collar to keep out the chill wind that was blowing in from the sea. The coat was seeing her through the third winter and she thought sadly of how old it was. Until the collapse of the firm, she would never had started a second winter wearing the same coat as the previous one.
“Mummy!” Megan greeted her with obvious relief. “Just in time. Darling Rosemary is very unhappy this morning. Would you walk her for ten minutes while Edward and I complete the order forms?”
“That would be a help, Sally,” Edward said. He had decided long ago not to call her mother-in-law. “We’re out of skipping ropes and the school children seem to have the skipping craze again. Whip and top too. It’s early this year, they usually start those things when it gets warmer, not in cold weather like this.” Sally took the little girl down the road and into the park where the air seemed even colder; with the trees holding down the frost from the previous night. A few children were playing chase and shouting excitedly. On their way back to school and enjoying the last moments of freedom, she guessed, and smiled.
When she returned to the shop, Edward was serving a last customer and the door was already showing the ‘closed’ notice. “Come up to the flat and have a bowl of soup and some sandwiches,” he said.
“Thanks. I came to discuss the wedding guest list if this is a convenient time,” Sally explained.
“Do you agree to Megan’s father giving her away?” Edward asked, when they had eaten.
“I don’t know,” Sally said, glancing down at the floor as though she might see Ryan in the flat two floors below. “Does he want to?”
“Well, not so far,” Edward admitted. “But there’s time for him to reconsider.”
“I see.” Sally frowned. “But if he isn’t happy about it – might he not be difficult?”
“You are all right about him being there, aren’t you? Neither Megan nor I want you to be unhappy on our special day, do we, darling?” Edward smiled at Megan looking for agreement.
“I think he should be there if he wants to be, but we shouldn’t try to persuade him.” Sally’s heart was racing at the thought of the violence her husband had shown her. Could they risk him ruining Megan’s wedding day?
Edward thought of his most recent attempt to persuade Ryan to be with his daughter. He had become upset, and had stood, clenching and unclenching his fists in an alarming manner, before announcing angrily that he didn’t want to be there to see his daughter display her disgrace to the whole town. Edward decided there was nothing to be gained by him reporting that little scene to either Sally or Megan, so he said nothing.
Sally went home wondering if she would ever be able to trust Ryan again or whether she now had to face living alone for the rest of her life. She thought the latter was the most likely. The last time she had seen Ryan he seemed as resentful as ever, looking at her with such hatred in his eyes that it had chilled her blood.
She stepped into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, intending to sit for half an hour and read, to take her mind away from Ryan and the problems he had brought her. A sound startled her and she went through to the hall, wondering if one of her guests had arrived early. Usually they didn’t come until evening, but on occasions one of them, Max Powell, who was a stationery salesman, called to pick up stock delivered for him. “Mr Powell, is that you?” she called. She heard footsteps crossing the landing after a top-floor door closed and her heart sank. It sounded like Jeremy Pullen-Thomas. Where had he got a key? Or had she left the door unlocked?
“I’m glad I caught you,” he said, as he ran lightly down the stairs. “I wanted a word before the others return.”
“How did you get in, Mr Pullen-Thomas?” she asked stiffly. “You know the house isn’t open to guests during the day except by express agreement.”
“I got it from old Maxie Powell. He was coming back to collect a delivery, so I asked him to lend it to me. Not a problem, is it?” He was a tall, slim, elegantly dressed forty-year-old and very confident of his appeal to women. Something about him reminded her of Lewis Lewis at his most charming.
“I told him you wouldn’t mind,” he said, “and promised I’d return it to you as soon as you came in.”
“What did you want to see me about that was so urgent?”
“There’s going to be a few changes. I thought you’d like to know,” he said, casually leaning across the lower banisters and smiling at her.
“Changes?” she asked.
“Yes, Max and I will be changing rooms. I’ll be on the second floor instead of the top. Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it ourselves, you needn’t be involved.”
Jeremy Pullen-Thomas seemed so certain that everyone would do as he wished, that his presence had begun to frighten her. If she allowed it, he would be taking over completely. He had already persuaded the others to ask for an earlier evening meal, and he had arranged for morning tea to be provided on a rota organised by himself – the occupant of each room taking it in turns to go to her kitchen and attend to the task. She hadn’t been consulted until it was too late, and everyone was thanking her for being so thoughtful.
“No, Mr Pullen-Thomas, I don’t think that will be convenient. The rooms are different sizes and prices. I will decide who uses which one and I thank you to leave the running of the house to me.”
“But we both agree,” he said, surprise darkening his eyes in a way that reminded Sally of the approach of one of Ryan’s rages. Afraid but determined, she said firmly, “And I disagree. And while we’re on the subject of who uses which room, I would like you to vacate yours by the morning. I don’t want you here after tonight.”
“But I usually stay two nights every week. It’s a regular arrangement. Look here, if any of the others have complained—”
“I’ll have your account ready for you at breakfast time,” Sally said, as she returned to the kitchen. She had to face the fact that she would be doing this for many years and she would be on her own. She had to be strong, and only have people staying about whom she was completely happy. Max Powell was no trouble and no threat. She would tell him tonight that if he wanted the smaller, less expensive room in future he only had to ask. With a sigh of relief, feeling ridiculously pleased with herself, she began to think about the meal.
Megan would be pleased that Pullen-Thomas would not be back, she hadn’t liked the man either. Feeling stronger and more in control, she began to hum a tune as she worked.
Sally went out again later that day, this time to see her sister, Sian.
“The wedding,” she explained. “What are we doing about food?”
“Mother wants Montague Court. Can you imagine the fun there’d be with Edward’s sister Margaret, like a wicked fairy at the feast? No, I think both Edward and Megan want a quiet affair and it will probably be Gomer Hall again.”
“Poor Mummy,” Sally said. “She’ll probably cry.” They both laughed at the thought of telling Gladys that her last hope of a grand wedding was going to be quashed.
“I’m glad Megan and Edward are getting married,” Sally said. “Plans for a new one helps to take my mind off the remnants of mine.”
“And mine.” Sian sighed. “Thank goodness we won’t be celebrating at Montague Court! Talk about a pantomime! Besides Edward’s ugly sister, my one-time husband would be there, as Buttons, playing a waiter.”
“Sorry, Sian, for the moment I was so wrapped up in my own mess, I’d forgotten yours.”
“At least the youngsters seem happy.”
“I thought we were,” Sally reminded her with another deep sigh.
“Habit, that’s what it had become. And enough money to help us pretend: It was little more than that,” Sian said with a sigh that matched her sister’s.
Gladys Weston told her husband that she would have to swallow her pride and ask Victoria’s mother to come and help in the house. “I can’t do it all, Arfon, dear. Not after being used to having a servant.”
“No, Gladys. You mustn’t ask Mrs Collins to clean for you, it wouldn’t be right. Jack would be furious if we had his wife’s mother working for us. Good heavens, woman, can’t you see that?”
“I do see that, but I’ve been trying for weeks to find someone, and all the young girls want better pay and not much work. I don’t know whether you realise it, Arfon Weston, but running a house is hard work!”
“I’ll ask Viv. See if he knows someone.” He knew it wouldn’t be easy, Gladys had a reputation for squeezing the last ounce of effort from anyone she employed.
“Why bother to ask Viv, dear? He’s one of the Lewises and they’d hardly be experts in employing help in the house.”
“Viv and our Joan know a lot of people. It’s worth a try.”
“If you say so, dear, but I do so hate mixing with the Lewises.”
Arfon didn’t reply as he tried to disguise a smile. He knew it was hopeless to argue. Gladys would never think of the Lewises as more than peasants. Since Joan had married Viv Lewis and undertaken to help him run the family business, Gladys had been waking each morning hoping the whole thing had been nothing but a cruel dream.
Gladys and Arfon had spoilt Joan and Megan who had been used to getting their own way about everything and had been taught to accept nothing but the best. Gladys had thought this a certain way of making sure the girls married well, avoiding the mistakes that Sally and Sian had made. Lazy, useless men her sons-in-law had turned out to be: Ryan, suffering what was euphemistically called a breakdown, which Gladys considered to have been brought on by remorse and shame; Islwyn, leaving Sian and going to live with Margaret Jenkins. Now she was facing another wedding. It was her last chance of showing everyone how it ought to be done but Megan was insisting that, again, it wouldn’t be the town-stopping wedding for which she had hoped.
Their one grandson, Jack, taught at the local school. Jack had also offended Gladys’s standards of social niceties by marrying Victoria Collins who had been her servant. She sighed. She’d had such high hopes of her grandchildren, dreaming of them marrying the rich and powerful, but both Joan and Jack had married employees, and she still couldn’t accept it. At least Megan was marrying one of the Jenkinses of Montague Court, a family with an ancient tradition even if they were impoverished. She mulled over the word ‘impoverished’, it had a rather elegant ring, far better than ‘poor’.
Edward Jenkins and his sister Margaret had run their home as a hotel until financial problems after the death of their parents had forced them to sell. Now Edward had a sports shop in the town and his sister worked in Montague Court with Islwyn, Sian’s husband. Even thinking about that woman made Gladys’s anger rise. Not content with stealing her son-in-law away from his wife and son, she was living with him here, right in the town, for Gladys’s friends to see. No shame, no embarrassment, she and ‘Issy’, as she called him, were to be seen walking through the town as bold as you like and even calling to see Islwyn’s son, Jack. She lowered her head so Arfon wouldn’t see her eyes filling with tears. What had she done to cause such a mess?
Arfon did see that she was upset, and said gruffly, “Don’t worry Gladys, I’ll find you someone to help in the house.”
“Thank you dear,” she said, glad to use the excuse for her tears he offered.
During the cold months of January and February, Mair and Carl had met a number of times, mostly to go into Cardiff, meeting on the bus, to go to a cinema or just to walk around before finding a café to warm themselves and have something to eat. Mair wondered whether he would fade out of her life as the nights opened out into spring and the darkness was no longer available as a place to hide.
One Saturday evening, when she had not arranged to go out, she became restless, thinking about the ridiculous situation and wondering whether she could demand an explanation, a better one than the futile excuses he had so far given. There was no way of getting in touch with him and, suddenly, Saturday night was not a night to stay home alone. Her father was on duty from ten o’clock and, when he left their cottage at the edge of the wood to cycle into the town, she went with him.
“Where are you going at this time of night?” he asked in surprise when she reached for a coat, pulled on fur-lined boots and stood at the door. “Gone nine o’clock it is.”
“I’m going to the Railwayman’s,” she said, glaring at him, daring him to disapprove.
“Meeting anyone?”
“I hope so! Someone who’ll make me laugh, tell me I’m wonderful, help me to forget this boring Saturday evening!”
“That Frank Griffiths’ll be there, mind,” he warned.
“I’ll even settle for Frank. I was up at six, working in the shop from nine till half-past five and I come home to an evening sitting on my own, staring at the walls. What a life!”
“No Carl?”
“Carl?” she asked, startled. “What d’you know about Carl?”
“Carl Rees, who worked for Jennie Francis and now does a few carpet-fitting jobs for Westons and any other job he can find.”
“I didn’t think you knew,” she said lamely. “We haven’t told anyone. Except Rhiannon. I bet Frank knows too,” she added.
“Of course I know. D’you think I wouldn’t find out something about a fellow you were seeing, Mair? What sort of a father d’you think I am, eh? Specially someone who you don’t tell me about. Got curious, didn’t I?”
“He’s a bit shy, that’s all. Nothing sinister. He’ll be working all the weekend, or so he says. Fixing shelves and cupboards and decorating a kitchen for someone.”
“Like Frank? He does painting and papering and a bit of carpentry, doesn’t he?”
“Yeh, but when Carl fits shelves they don’t fall down!”
“Be fair, Frank does a good job, when he can be persuaded to work.”
“Carl is a craftsman, Dad,” she argued.
“Frank is cheaper! Come on then,” he urged, “you’ll be cold on your bike, mind.”
“My bad temper will keep me warm!”
In spite of her bravado, Mair didn’t like walking into the public house alone. Women rarely did and, even though she would know most of the customers already there, she had to force herself to go in, and not turn and cycle back home. There was a gale of laughter as she opened the swing doors and stepped gratefully into the steamy warmth. The fire burned brightly at the end of the bar and round the room there was a sea of faces, most of them red with sweat and over-indulgence.
She saw Basil and Frank Griffiths straight away; With Viv and his wife, Joan, they had formed a group in the corner behind the entrance, their usual place. Frank saw her at once and stood up to greet her, his long gangly legs stepping over knees and tripping over feet in his haste.
“Mair. Nice surprise.” He looked expectantly at the door. “You with someone then?”
“Not unless he’s invisible!”
“What you havin’ then? Port an’ lemon, is it?”
She thanked him and went to where the others were making room for her next to Joan. “Who we talking about tonight?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
“You’ll do for a start,” Basil said. “What’s this about you going out with that Carl Rees and him trying to keep it a secret?”
“Keeping it a secret? In Pendragon Island? There’s more hope of two Christmases in a year!”
“Keeps you out of sight though, doesn’t he?” Frank said. “That’s not natural.”
“That’s not your business either, Frank Griffiths!” she retorted.
Someone entered the pub but stood in the doorway, out of sight of the group in the corner, and Viv shouted, “Shut that flamin’ door!”
“Sorry,” a voice said, and both Mair and Frank recognised Carl’s voice from the single word. He came round the doorway and was clearly shocked when Mair stood up, glass in hand and waved to him. “Mair! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Nor me you. Been working, have you?” she asked, although she already knew that he had.
“Yes, putting up kitchen cupboards, but I ran out of wall plugs and it didn’t seem worth starting on something else so late.”
He went to the bar and ordered a pint and came back to stand near the group, but away from Mair, who tried in vain to appear indifferent. No one offered to find him a seat and he was reluctant to push in without being invited to do so. So he stood, sipped his drink and looked around the room at the groups involved in their various discussions, some producing laughter and others frowns of disapproval. He wished he hadn’t come.
Viv turned to Frank and said, “Got a job for you, if you want it.”
Frank groaned. “Not more decorating?”
“Afraid so. Jack and Victoria want a bedroom smartened up. They’ve bought new carpet an’ all, they have.”
“Not a nursery?” Joan asked.
“Jack didn’t say,” he said evasively. “But if Frank goes to see them, he can report back, eh?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Viv. Jack’s my cousin, I can ask him!”
Remembering Victoria’s sad face, Viv hoped she wouldn’t.
Carl was obviously listening but didn’t join in as Jack and Victoria were discussed. When there was a lull, he leant over and asked Viv, “Any chance of a bit of fishing next weekend? I might be able to borrow Jennie Francis’s van now she doesn’t have a use for it. We could go down west and try a bit of sea fishing, the tides are suitable for an evening session.”
Viv agreed to ask Jack. Basil thought he might join them, but Frank said nothing. If Carl was fishing, it might be an ideal time to call on Mair.
There was a shuffling of feet as Viv and Basil went to buy more drinks. This time they asked Carl for his choice but he shook his head. He looked at Mair when the opportunity came and gestured with a slight movement of an eyebrow for her to leave. He made his excuses and left and, within a few minutes, Mair followed. She didn’t get up at once, but relaxed as though settled for the rest of the evening. She waited until Frank was at the bar.
She didn’t want him spoiling things by following them. Carl was waiting for her outside.
“I wanted to come and see you but it was a bit late and your father wouldn’t have been pleased if I suggested a walk, would he?”
“Dad isn’t there,” she said, as she began to walk beside him pushing her bicycle. “He’s on nights this week.”
“In that case I’ll see you safely home. But, love, can’t we dump this bike? It’s like a mobile chastity belt and its digging into my hip something awful.”
Laughing, she pushed it into some bushes, where she guessed it would be safe until morning and they strolled on, arm in arm along the crisply cold country lane. Opening the cottage door the warmth that met them was not as welcoming as that of the Railwayman’s.
“I bet the fire’s out.” she sighed. “Hardly worth lighting it.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You shouldn’t go to bed cold, you won’t sleep for ages if you do.”
Gathering some sticks from the pile in the hearth, Carl soon had the fire burning and at once the room had a more friendly feel. The living room was small, over-full of furniture, with shelves of knick-knacks in every available space. It had the clutter of years displayed and, for the first time, Mair recognised its unworldliness and felt embarrassed. She had changed very little in the house in the years she had been looking after it. Conscious that its carelessly arranged, old-fashioned muddle was her mother’s and father’s choices, she had been hesitant to suggest modernising. Now she wished she had.
“I love this room,” Carl surprised her by saying. “It’s warm, and friendly and it makes me realise what I’ve missed not having a family. It’s the centre of people’s lives, just like a home should be.”
“There’s only me and our dad,” she said. “He likes it this way. The clutter is to hide the emptiness, I think.”
Carl stood up from the grate, where he had brushed the hearth clean, and waved his coal-blackened hands in front of her playfully. “Take me to the kitchen or I’ll clean them off on your pretty face.” He washed his hands then put the kettle on to heat, taking out cups and adding tea to the teapot as though he had been there before.
Looking through a slit in the carelessly closed curtains, Frank had the same thought and was saddened. He left and went back to where he had seen Mair leave her bicycle. Perhaps he’d collect it and deliver it to her tomorrow morning. He tried never to miss an opportunity to call. Surely that showed her how much he cared? A Griffiths, visiting a copper?
When he had made the tea Carl sat on the couch and pulled Mair onto his lap. Slowly, his hands caressing her body and, he turned her to face him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, sliding down on the worn old couch with a sigh that made her tremble. Then he kissed her. It was the first time and, being nervous, she had to make a joke of it.
“Better than the pictures, eh?”
He kissed her again and soon it was no longer funny, it was the most wonderful sensation and she didn’t want him to stop, ever. She had kissed any number of boys but the feelings Carl evoked were new to her. The kiss didn’t stop with her lips but spread in waves of urgent excitement throughout her body. Desire was strong and demanding, the need for fulfilment reaching through her nerve ends to the tips of her toes and she knew she was too weak to refuse him.
He lifted her up, his lips still firing her body with longing, and carried her to the foot of the stairs where he raised his face slightly above hers, staring deeply into her eyes, and tilted his head, a query for which there was only one answer.
Frank watched as the lights in the small cottage went on and then off; downstairs and then up, telling him a story he didn’t want to be told. It was freezing. The ground crackled beneath his feet. The cold air penetrated through his clothes but he still didn’t move. Surely Mair wasn’t in her bed with Carl? It couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t, he kept telling himself.
It would be a good night to get a couple of pheasants, Farmer Booker would be in his warm bed if he had any sense. But he didn’t have the heart for it. Not tonight when he had to accept that Mair would never belong to him.
He went home and tried to sleep, but his imagination kept wandering back to Mair, and to the lights on and then off, in the Gregorys’ cottage. At five o’clock he took a shotgun and called to a rather reluctant dog, thinking that he might get a couple of birds after all, and went silently back through the trees to watch outside the cottage. The night was quiet and still. Frost glistened on the ground and on the gates. He stood just within the trees, guessing that with Constable Gregory due home in little less than an hour, Carl would have to leave soon. In his patient way, he stood against a tree, hunched his shoulders within his coat and watched. At his feet the dog curled up and leant against his skinny legs, trying to find a little warmth.
It was five thirty when the light went on in the bedroom. It was so quiet that Frank heard the tinny sound of an alarm clock ringing. Cautious bloke, this Carl Rees, he thought. Not a man to take risks. He wondered where the risk was in letting people know he and Mair were courting? Did Carl have a wife somewhere? Perhaps if I can find out, he mused, I could warn Mair and comfort her when she was confronted with the fact. Then he shook away the stupid daydream of Mair falling into his arms. If I were the one to tell her, she’d hate me more than she’d hate Carl.
He saw lights go on downstairs and within a few minutes the back door opened and Carl came out. At the corner of the building, he saw Mair. She waved, but the man didn’t turn and acknowledge her salute. He put his head down and hurried off down the lane.
Frank followed.
Carl lived in a row of seven houses called Bella Vista. Large properties with three rows of windows, the topmost jutting out of the roof in a gable, they had once been homes for the middle class wealthy. Now they were run down and sadly in need of repair. Paint had peeled, showing the effect of weather damage; wet winters and dry summers had each done their worst. The exposed wood had softened into an ugly drabness.
The once-splendid houses had been divided into separate dwellings: mostly bedsits, a few two-roomed apartments with a shared kitchen and a bathroom, and one or two flats. Frank watched as Carl went into number four. No lights came on, the front door closed softly behind him and there was no other sign or sound of his entering. After waiting for half an hour, without knowing what he was waiting for, Frank turned and went home. The next day he didn’t wake until eleven and he then went straight down to Bella Vista and chatted to neighbours and to the woman in the corner shop, gathering as much information about Carl as he could. It wasn’t much.
“The man’s a mystery,” he said to his father when he went home to eat. “I think Mair ought to be warned that if someone is secretive it’s usually because he’s got something nasty to hide.”
“Mair’s a sensible girl, Frank. She wouldn’t be taken in by someone like that.” Hywel said.
Hywel was uncomfortable with this sort of conversation. If he told the truth and said he thought Mair was a tart, Frank would start a fight. and if he said she was gullible, then that would be wrong too. “Go an’ talk to your mam,” he said.