Sally was determined to change the attitude of her guests and keep herself distant from them. A few pleasantries was all she would allow herself. She began this new regime by talking to the four people staying there that evening, including Maxie Powell.
“I would like to thank you for your kind thought in offering to help in some of the small tasks I perform for you, but I would prefer you to accept that my kitchen is out of bounds, except when I have given permission,” she said, smiling and hoping her words were not too harsh.
Maxie stood up, throwing his napkin across the table dramatically. “No,” he said kindly. “No, Mrs Fowler-Weston, we don’t want you to think we mind helping. We don’t, do we?” He looked at the other three for agreement and went on, “You work very hard here and your day is a long one, waiting up to give us a late-night snack as well as serving breakfast from eight o’clock. We love helping by starting your day with a cup of tea and if there’s any other way we can spoil you a little, you only have to say. So, please, not another word about it.”
Wrong-footed, Sally could only retire to her kitchen.
Carl Rees arrived before she had finished serving breakfast and when he saw Maxie, carrying out the cereal dishes to an obviously flustered Sally, he was surprised, then amused. So this was the widow Maxie thought he would cultivate. Mrs Fowler-Weston, who was married to Ryan who was very much alive.
“Hello, Maxie,” he said, when Sally had offered him tea and asked him to wait until she was finished. “Don’t tell me this is your fancy woman who’s about to fall into your arms?”
“Carl! What are you doing here? Not a word about where I work, please, she thinks I’m a stationery salesman.”
“Surprise surprise, and you think she’s a widow. Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but her husband is still with us – even if not with her at present.”
Subdued, Maxie went back to the dining room to continue his breakfast.
Sally had very little help, but twice a week she employed a young girl, Anne Davies, to change and wash bedding, vacuum floors and do the dusting. She arrived as Carl was starting to measure up for the work Sally wanted done and throughout the day in odd moments, they talked. When he finished at five thirty, he gave her a lift home.
Anne lived in a run-down street only a few doors away from Molly Bondo, a well-known prostitute.
“See all sorts coming and going at that house,” she told Carl. “People you’d never expect would stoop so low. And that brazen you’d never believe! Walk in as though they’re calling to buy a newspaper they do. I ought to have kept a diary. There’d be a few upset families if I had and that’s a fact. Respectable ones too, mind.”
Carl said very little at the revelation. He’d often seen Molly at the Railwayman’s, and had bought her a drink once or twice. He would have to be more careful. There were watching eyes everywhere.
He didn’t go straight home after leaving Anne. He went to the back lane behind Edward’s shop and knocked on the door of the basement flat. Ryan opened it and asked what he wanted. The man looked surprised, Carl thought, and wondered if he ever had any visitors. From what he had learnt, his family didn’t bother with him; nor had he been the sort to make many friends.
“I’m doing some work for your wife,” Carl said.
“So what? I’m not responsible for her debts,” Ryan said irritably.
“This isn’t about a debt, Mr Fowler-Weston.”
“Fowler. The name’s Fowler.”
Embarrassed and wishing he hadn’t come, Carl said, “It’s just that your wife has a lodger, who I think might be a nuisance. Maxie Powell he’s called, and he—”
“What d’you expect me to do about it?” Ryan demanded.
“Nothing.” Carl began to move away. “Nothing at all. Sorry I bothered you.” Perhaps Maxie had a chance after all, if the Ryan Fowler’s attitude was one of such indifference?
After Carl had gone, Ryan grabbed a coat and went out. White-faced with rage, believing that Sally had sent the man to plead for his help, he headed towards Glebe Lane, once his home.
The closer he got to his destination, the slower his footsteps got until, at the end of the lane on which several expensive houses stood, isolated from each other by large gardens, he stopped. He knew he would only lose his temper again, which would make him feel ill and then he might not be well enough to go to work the following day. He turned and retraced his steps back to the basement flat, where he felt safe.
Jennie and Peter both felt their lives were in a strange sort of limbo waiting for the next stage but unable to do anything to set it in motion. There had been no serious discussion about divorce, yet Peter continued to live with his parents and only occasionally contacted Jennie, usually to argue about the bills she posted on to him.
Jennie had made no effort to find a job, it seemed like defeat to be independent now: it was what Peter wanted. If he blamed the breakdown of their marriage on her attempts to be a modern woman earning money by running her own business, well, he’d have a taste of keeping her, while at the same time paying for a house he didn’t use. Peter was always careful about money and it would worry him. There was childish satisfaction in that. She went through the post, gathered together the few bills that had arrived, including one from Carl for replacing the putty in a window, and addressed them in her large scrawling writing to her husband, care of Mr and Mrs Rodney Francis.
He called that evening on the way home from work. She opened the door, but didn’t step back and invite him in. “I’m sorry I can’t be sociable, Peter, but I’m going out.”
He was breathless, as though he had been running. “It’s Mam,” he said. “She’s ill.”
“Oh? Got the usual cold, has she?”
“No, I wish it was that simple. She can’t get out of bed. She couldn’t even get tea for me and Dad,” he said, in mild outrage.
Jennie laughed. “Poor Peter, that must be worse than having an ambitious wife.”
“It isn’t a joke, she really is ill this time.”
That was the closest he had come to admitting that there were times when his mother was a bit of a hypochondriac. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” She felt ashamed.
“No, unless you could do a bit of washing for us and—”
“No, Peter, I couldn’t do that. You left me, remember?”
“She’s in a bit of pain,” he said.
She was tempted to help, urged on by guilt at her immediate reaction, but she hardened herself and shook her head. Peter’s mother had caused her more distress and pain than anyone else in her whole life, and had made sure their marriage had failed. She owed the woman no favours whether she was genuinely ill or not.
“I’m sorry she’s ill and I hope she’s well soon. But I really don’t think I can help. She doesn’t like me, and seeing me in her kitchen would probably make her feel worse.”
Peter went home still carrying the bills and the cheques he had intended to return to Jennie. If Mam were ill for more than a few days, what would they do? He knew that making a meal was beyond him, and his father was no better. Mam had always looked after them and there had never been a need to learn.
What was wrong with Jennie that she didn’t want to be a proper wife like Mam? All this mess was her fault, leaving him to fend for himself while she played at running a business. Women’s work was women’s work and men should have no part of it. He called in to the fish and chip shop and carried home the steamy package with something approaching despair.
The reason he had left Jennie was because he couldn’t cope with her casual approach to looking after him. Mam had promised a meal on the table when he got in from work every day, a cooked breakfast every morning, washing taken away and returned to his bedroom drawers without fuss by the following day. It was what he’d been used to.
With Mam out of action he was more than a little anxious. What if she was ill for a long time? Who’d look after him then? The fish and chips in their newspaper-wrapped parcel issued an appetizing smell and he began to run, wanting to be home, wanting to be reassured that everything would soon be back the way it should be. The door was open when he reached the front gate and the hall light was on. Voices from upstairs murmured and he ran, still carrying the fish and chips, up to his parents’ bedroom.
“Mam’s got to go to hospital,” his father said stiffly. “The ambulance is on its way.”
When the ambulance had taken his parents, Peter threw the supper into the dustbin and stood for a moment wondering what to do. Closing the door, he went back to tell Jennie. Surely she’d help now? The house was in darkness. She was obviously out. He sat down on the front step and stared into the night. He’d have to come back home. Irregular meals were better than none. Pouting like a small boy, he muttered, “Dad will have to shift for himself.”
For Basil, Frank and Ernie Griffiths, poaching was a way of life. They had kept their family – and several others besides – well fed during the long years of food rationing and, Janet thought, they had been rather disappointed when their illegal talents were no longer needed. They still used their expertise to get meat though, and although not as frequently as before, every now and again one of them would appear in court. If it wasn’t for poaching or trespassing with intent, it was for fighting.
The routine was well practised. Best suit on, a freshly ironed white shirt, the one kept for all of them to use for these, ‘special occasions’. A trip in the van, usually driven by Hywel, an appearance in court and a plea of guilty, then a fine and a countdown to the next outing for the white shirt and best suit.
With Basil and Ernie now married it was only Frank, and on occasions, Hywel, who went out at night and returned with something for Janet to cook. Now, Frank needed the expert skills of his brother, Basil. He wanted a salmon and he didn’t want to pay for it.
Frank met Basil one morning when he was on his way to work at the plastics factory.
“Help me net a salmon, will you?”
“What for, our Mam planning a party is she?”
“No, its not for Mam, it’s—” He hesitated and Basil stopped his long striding walk and waited. “It’s for a bit of owns back. That Carl Rees is messing Mair about.”
“How will giving him a salmon help?”
“If it’s illegal, and he’s caught with it, it’ll cost him money, that’s a start. Too mean he is, only takes Mair on long walks on dark nights. Never gives her a real treat. Never a box of chocolates. He should be taught a lesson.”
Basil scratched his head and frowned. “I’m mystified, Frank, and that’s the truth. And,” he added as he moved on, “I’m going to be late for my shift.”
“Meet me tonight?” Frank pleaded.
“About ten?” Basil replied as he hurried on to the factory work he hated but tolerated because he loved Eleri more than he loved the freedom of the fields.
None of the Griffithses had worked regularly until recently. Living off their wits and the occasional casual work like gardening, or repairing fences, they survived in reasonable comfort.
When they were younger and needed more money to keep up with friends in regular employment, they had earned a reputation for seasonal work on farms, dealing with hedging and ditching, pruning fruit trees, hay-making, all the work for which farmers traditionally needed extra hands.
They had to travel to farms further away than Farmer Booker, who knew they visited him only after dark and with illegal intent. Respectability had only come with marriage and, for Frank, that longed-for moment had yet to arrive.
He was attracted to Mair Gregory and he often wondered whether her acceptance of him as a life partner would be enough to persuade him into regular employment. In his more honest moments he was doubtful. But then, he reasoned sadly, the chances of her looking at him with something other than mild amusement was so slight, he might never have to decide. Her father being a policeman was a serious problem too. Perhaps he should forget her and look elsewhere? But there was still Carl. He wasn’t the right one for Mair and had to be discouraged. It would be fun tormenting him for a while.
Entering the river and finding one of the deep holes where salmon rested, was easy. Basil had done this so often he knew every part of it. Deep in one of the holes, his hands and feet confidently found every depression and every rock. For a long time several of the local families had had a syndicate: one had a second-hand freezer bought from a retiring fishmonger; one had access to the river where they could reach the spot with little chance of being seen; one had a daughter who knew the river warden rather intimately; and then there was Basil Giffiths who could fish with the aid of only the most basic of equipment.
For one salmon they didn’t need the rest of the team. In fact Basil and Frank took two. Walking back across the fields each of them swollen with a salmon in place of a waistcoat, taking the small paths where they were unlikely to be seen, they were grinning like the experts they were.
Salmon fishing was a good way of earning extra cash. Selling to hotels who asked no questions was the best way and, to achieve greater success when using a rod and line, an illegal bait was used. A paste, which the locals called jam, contained roe and attracted the fish so readily it was frowned upon by purists and punishable by law. Basil didn’t need this to take the two fish he captured that night, but when Frank placed the fish in Carl’s van, he added a small supply of the paste as well. Telling the police was fun: disguising his voice with a handkerchief across his mouth, pretending to be a woman. He watched as two men came to investigate the contents of the van and saw them take the newspaper parcel and examine it, before knocking on the door of 4 Bella Vista, where Carl had his lodgings. Frank was grinning widely as the policemen took Carl and the parcel away. Then he ran through the lanes and woods to tell Mair what he had seen.
“Arrested he was, that Carl Rees. Never did like ’im, mind. What’s he been up to d’you think?”
He gave Mair a bar of chocolate that he’d had in his pocket for days, while trying to find an excuse to call on her, and went home, whistling, convinced that Carl would keep away from the policeman’s daughter after his embarrassing brush with the law.
While he walked home, pausing a while to watch a barn owl gliding along a hedgerow, marvelling at its ghostly beauty, the police were talking to his father, demanding to know how the fish and illegal bait had been found in Carl Rees’s van, wrapped in that day’s newspaper on which the newsagent had pencilled the address of the Griffithses’ cottage.
Mair guessed the truth of it when her father laughingly explained what had happened.
“Can’t you leave it, Dad? It has to be Frank and he was only trying to be clever and get Carl into trouble.”
“Oh yes, Carl Rees. The man you’ve been seeing – er – in secret.”
“Hardly secret,” she protested. “You’ve known long enough! So have most of Pendragon Island! He’s a bit shy, that’s all.”
“If it’s only shyness that’s the trouble, why didn’t you tell me?” her father asked. “And why haven’t I met him?”
“He’s a bit older than me, and he doesn’t want people to know just yet.”
“Bring him in for supper. I’ve heard a bit about him and there isn’t a satisfactory explanation of that fish. I want to meet him. Right?”
“I’ll try, Dad.”
“You’ll do more than try. I want him here tomorrow night. Seven o’clock sharp. Right?” He spoke with emphasis and Mair knew that, easy-going as he was, this was one time when she couldn’t argue.
Basil was unsympathetic when Frank told him the disappointing result of his enterprising attempt to get Carl in trouble with the police.
“You wrapped it in a newspaper from the house? Barmy you are. No wonder Mair can’t take you seriously. God ’elp, Frank! Neither can I!”
Frank played with his nephews for a while, Ronnie aged four and Thomas, who was fourteen months old. He envied his brother. Basil was so happy with his life. Eleri and the children adored him. He left their flat in Trellis Street wishing he could find a way of showing Mair that he’d be as good a husband as Basil.
Walking home via the woods as usual, he couldn’t resist passing her cottage. There was a light on and, stepping with ease over the low fence, he crept forward to look through the uncurtained window into the living room and there, in front of a fire, sat Mair and Carl. He watched for an hour and was sick when the light snapped out and the bedroom light snapped on. What was the use? He was a failure with women, he might as well face it.
Once home Frank stood for a long time leaning over the goats’ pen, then opened the door of their shed and went in to talk to them. The curious and friendly little creatures came to nuzzle against his hand in the hope of a tidbit. He took down a clean bale of hay and sat, nursing their heads as they dozed. Janet found him there, fast asleep, when she went to unlock the goats the next morning.
Peter’s mother was home from hospital but still spending most of the day in bed. She would get up at midday and attend to the most urgent tasks, preparing food, dealing with washing and ironing and making sure the house was running smoothly, before returning to bed to read one of her favourite Agatha Christie mysteries. Peter and his father dealt with dishes and some of the routine cleaning but, although his father seemed happy to help his wife, for Peter the menial jobs were degrading.
“Can’t we pay someone to come in and do all this?” he asked, on the third day of his misery.
“Pity is you quarrelled with Jennie just when we needed her,” his father said sadly.
“I did ask her to help,” Peter said, “but as usual she found reasons not to do what she didn’t want to do.”
“There aren’t many women like your mam any more. She’s getting out of her sick bed to cook for us.”
“Can you manage the rest, Dad?” Peter asked; “I think I’ll go and see Jennie again.”
“Waste of time, but I suppose it’s worth a try, son.”
Peter cleaned his already mirror-like shoes, put on a fresh shirt and his best suit, and went out. He knocked on Jennie’s door. The place was in darkness and there was no reply. “Out again,” he reported to his father on his return.
Carl went into the sports shop the following day and when she had finished serving a customer, Mair invited him to supper that night. “It’s our Dad’s day off and he’s promised to cook something for us. Not a bad cook, mind, my father. We share that chore, I cook at weekends and when he’s on the wrong shift and he does the rest. So, you’ll come?”
He thanked her, but hesitantly. “I’d love to, but I might be working.”
“Can’t you change your plans? I don’t mind as a rule, you know I never push for anything you don’t want to do, but this is a bit of a royal command. He wants to meet you.”
“We’ve met! I was taken in for questioning when someone mistook my van for someone else’s and left an illegally caught salmon in it!”
“Yes.” She laughed. “I’d heard!”
“Who d’you think it was?”
“How would I know?” Her eyes widened innocently. “My dad knows all the local villains, though. So why don’t you ask him when you come to supper tonight?”
He again promised to try, and when the shop was empty and Edward had gone upstairs to his flat, she kissed him with a promise of better things to come.
“I’ll be there,” he whispered, before leaving the shop.
He hurried away angry with himself for allowing the situation to develop so far and so fast. He should never have started it. Now everyone knew; Edward leaving them alone, obviously understanding their need for privacy. Rhiannon in the sweetshop saying coyly that the chocolates he was buying must be for Mair. Even Jennie Francis was teasing him. It should never have been allowed to become general knowledge. Why couldn’t Mair have enjoyed the secret? It had to stop. Meeting her father was one step too far.
In the basement flat below the sports shop, Sally’s estranged husband, Ryan, was staring out at the garden. It was overgrown and badly in need of tidying. He wasn’t going to start doing that or Edward would expect him to make it a part of his tenancy. Pity he’d missed work today, but he’d had a sleepless night, angry with Sally for sending that man to talk to him.
The day was dull but he looked out at the rain-soaked trees and shrubs and at the strong spears of daffodils boldly declaring the arrival of spring. Buds were breaking and showing the cheerful yellow that would fill the corner where Frank had planted bulbs he had found when he had cleared the neglected garden before Christmas. Late they’d be, but better for that.
He was content, he realised. If only he could get Sally and the rest of the Westons out of his mind, life would be perfect. He went to work, doing an undemanding job just well enough to keep it. He went for a walk after work each evening, then home for supper. The rest of the evening was spent listening to the radio or reading. Peaceful, no interruptions.
Above him, the shop was closed and there was very little noise from Edward’s flat on the top floor. Edward was a fool to think of marrying Megan. Megan, his daughter, who had been given everything she wanted. How well she had turned out! There she was, promising to marry Edward, to love honour and obey, with another man’s child in her arms. Women were not to be trusted. That Molly Bondo had been someone’s loved child once and look at her now, sitting in the Railwayman’s looking for a man she could cheat out of his money. Another example of how weak most men were. Couldn’t manage without a woman. He didn’t need a woman. He was happier without them.
Besides Mair and her father inviting a reluctant Carl for supper, Dora issued an invitation that evening too.
When Lewis called at the Rose Tree Café and had a snack there at lunchtime, he said, “We’ve been given a piece of salmon, Dora, from Hywel Griffiths, what d’you think of that, eh?”
“Probably pinched!”
“Tasty though.”
“Enough for five?” Dora asked.
“Yes, with a bit of salad and some new potatoes. Thinking of inviting our Rhiannon and co are you?” When she nodded he said he’d call in to the sweetshop and ask their daughter.
“No,” Dora said, in her sharp voice. “Better than that. Why don’t you go to the garage and ask Charlie and Gwyn?”
Lewis was still a little unhappy about Rhiannon having married Charlie Bevan, who had spent several years in prison, and taking on his son, so he understood why Dora had made the request. “Give me another cup of tea, love and I’ll go straight away. Gwyn’ll be pleased, won’t he?”
Frank was wandering aimlessly through the wood that evening. At seven it was still just light and he had been to see someone who wanted a coal house built. He’d refused the job. No particular reason except that he had no urgent need of money. He only worked when his wallet was looking a bit thin, and at present he had enough cash to last another month including, paying Mam and buying a few pints for his friends.
Without really planning it, his feet took him to Mair’s cottage. To his delight she was standing at the gate.
“Waiting for someone are you?” he called, as he stepped out of the trees opposite the house.
“None of your business Frank Griffiths.”
“Oh, I see. It’s that Carl is it?”
“What if it is?” she snapped.
Guessing that Carl was either late or had forgotten, he sidled across the lane and asked, “Come for a walk if he doesn’t turn up? I saw the barn owl again last night and I’ll show you where she nests…”
“He’ll come.”
Desperately trying to think of a subject that would persuade her to enter into a discussion and take her mind off Carl, he said, “I’ve been to look at a job, building a coal house.” No response. What a stupid idiot I am to think she’d be interested in a coal house, he berated himself. Only slightly better, he said, “This gate’s a bit wobbly, want me to fix it?”
“Shut up, Frank.”
“He won’t come. He can’t face your father. Not after being found with a salmon he can’t.”
“What d’you know about that salmon?” she asked suspiciously.
“You know me, I wander about picking up odd bits of conversations, get to know a lot of what’s going on, just wandering about. Like I told you, I saw your father taking him away for questioning while someone searched his room. Found a lot of fishing tackle they did.”
“You put the salmon there, didn’t you? Leaving your name and address on it. Real clever, that was!”
“No, that wasn’t me, that was someone trying to incriminate me,” he said, having been primed in his answer by Hywel. “No, Carl won’t face your father. Not now.”
“And you can?”
“No problem for me.”
She opened the gate and hauled him through. “Come on then! You can come for supper!”
When she opened the living-room door, her father was sitting in a fireside chair. On the table stood a dish of new potatoes, over which butter slowly melted, a bowl of salad and, on a platter, decorated with wedges of lemon and slices of cucumber, sat a whole salmon.
“Pity to waste it, don’t you think?” Mair’s father said, studying Frank’s startled face suspiciously.
At 7 Sophie Street, the Lewises sat down for supper at the same time as Frank and the Gregorys. Dora had scraped the potatoes in between attending to customers at the café, putting them on to boil as soon as she reached home. With the salmon – ironically – poached the meal was easily prepared, but tasted like a feast.
When Rhiannon and Charlie and Gwyn left to return to their home across the road, Dora sighed. “Nice having a crowd here, isn’t it, Lewis?”
“You still miss Rhiannon and our Viv living here, don’t you? What about a lodger then? A pretty young girl. Someone to keep me amused while you’re at the café on my days off?”
She turned and her bright-blue eyes blazed momentarily, but there was no real anger on her face as she playfully thumped him. They hugged affectionately. “I do find the house empty though, don’t you?”
“I enjoy the peace. We have to accept this is a different stage in our lives, love. We’ve done what we can to give our kids a good start and you must admit they’ve doing us proud. There’ll be grandchildren one day, and they’ll fill our hearts if not our house. Lucky we are and don’t forget it.”
“I know how lucky I am,” she said, as they kissed affectionately.
Gwyn looked in the door at that moment and gave a theatrical sigh. “Not you two as well! Everybody’s kissing. Mam and Dad and now you two!”
He was smiling as he collected the coat he had forgotten.
“I hope you don’t think we’re too old, young man,” Lewis said warningly.
“Nearly, but not quite,” was Gwyn’s parting shot.
When Jack called on his grandmother one evening after school Gladys reminded him that she was still looking for someone to help with the cleaning. “D’you think I might ask Victoria’s mother, Jack?”
“No, Grandmother. I would not be happy about you employing my wife’s mother. There must be someone willing to give you a couple of mornings.”
“Mair was all right, but she’s working full time now. I’ve interviewed several young girls, dear, but none of them are suitable. So clumsy and uncaring. I’d lose all my lovely ornaments in a month.”
“I’ll ask in school. Someone will be found.”
“The wedding isn’t far off and I want the house looking its best for that, even if Megan is determined to have a small affair.” She looked up at him, and pleaded gently, “You don’t think Mrs Collins, just this once, might…?”
“I’ll do my best to find someone, Grannie dear.”
“Grandmother, Jack, you know I consider ‘Grannie’ to be common!”
Jack was smiling affectionately as he left. Whatever problems the Westons had suffered, or would in the future, Grandmother Gladys would never change.
Victoria’s mother enjoyed working at the house on Chestnut Road but she preferred it on the days when Martha Adams was out. Then, Sam Lilly relaxed and they worked together, enjoying the tasks Martha had set, stopping for a cup of tea at ten thirty which, weather permitting, they drank in the garden.
Sam’s sight was not very good, but he managed to help with most of the work, cleaning windows when they needed an extra rub, moving furniture and polishing the floors with the mop Martha provided. She had got rid of most of the carpets, considering then unhealthy.
“I’d love to have a garden for the children to enjoy,” Mrs Collins said one morning, as they sat in the early spring sunshine. “I’ve never had a garden.”
“You live in a house, so isn’t there a backyard? Somewhere to sit and feel the sun on your face?”
“There’s a yard, but no flowers and looking at a grey, old blank wall isn’t the same as sitting in a garden with flowers and greenery.”
“Do you know anyone who would do a bit of gardening, Mrs Collins?” he asked later. “A handyman rather than a professional.”
“Well there’s Frank Griffiths, he’s often looking for a few hours work.” She explained where Frank could be found.
“Thank you, I’ll go and see him. Mrs Collins, look, can I use your Christian name? Mrs Collins and Mr Lilly seems very formal between friends. I’d be pleased if you’d call me Sam.” She didn’t reply for a long moment and he thought he had embarrassed her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offence.”
“You didn’t offend me,” she said softly. “I’ve never been called anything but Mrs Collins - or Mam.” She added, with a smile, “Even my husband called me Collins. I have such a silly name you see, for someone in my position.”
“And you can’t tell me?”
“I can’t tell you,” she repeated sadly. “I’m sorry. Perhaps one day.”
“When you accept that you and I are friends.” He took her cup and they walked back into the house both very thoughtful, the word ‘friends’ hanging enticingly in the air between them.
Sally’s ploy to keep her boarders at a distance failed. She came back from the shops one day to find Maxie cutting the grass. She saw that he had already weeded one of the flowerbeds, and had made himself a cup of tea. This was too much.
“I made him the tea, mummy,” Megan told he when she began to complain. “He was working so hard, doing those jobs we can’t find the time to do ourselves, that I thought he deserved it. Did I do wrong?”
“No, dear, of course not, it’s just that Mr Powell is getting too friendly. I prefer the guests who wear an air of mild offence and complain with tedious regularity.”
“I’ll make sure I do nothing to encourage him again,” Megan promised. “As for now, isn’t it a relief not to have to face grass cutting this weekend?”
Outside the back gate, peering through a weak section of the privet hedge, Ryan watched and glared.
“There’s a man watching the house,” Maxie reported when he carried the bags of grass cutting to the compost heap. “Anyone you know, is it?”
“He’s my husband,” Sally explained.
“I thought you were a widow, Mrs Fowler-Weston.” Maxie feigned surprise, even though Carl had forewarned him. He glanced at Ryan and for a moment, seeing the angry-looking man watching him and feeling his anger from the length of the garden, he felt a strong desire to run. But Sally’s nervousness stilled him and he went to her and reassured her, even though he knew nothing of the situation. She was afraid and that was enough for him. He led her away from where Ryan could see them, his arm protectively around her shoulders.
Seeing Ryan standing there, silent, and so obviously disapproving, she began to talk. Forgotten was her intention of treating the boarders indifferently. Shaken by seeing Ryan staring at the house she needed a comforting shoulder. She explained to a sympathetic Maxie about Ryan’s breakdown, his occasional and frightening violence, and of their separation. Afterwards she was angry with herself for being so weak. “So much for my decision to be aloof,” she said to Megan.
Frank was in such a euphoric state having been invited to supper with Mair that his grin was beginning to alarm his friends. “He’s got more teeth than Charlie Perkins’s horse,” Hywel muttered as he glanced at his happy son. “An’ all because he’s been to supper with Mair, a policeman’s daughter. What’s the matter with the boy, Janet? Where did we go wrong?”
The smile on Frank’s face remained undimmed, his happiness bursting out of every pore, so that when Sam Lilly called at the cottage to ask him about some work, he thought the man was mad.
“Of course I’ll do a small gardening job.” Frank beamed when Mr Lilly had explained. “When d’you want me to start? Certainly, certainly. As quickly as I can. I’ll work all night if it’s urgent, I’m so pleased you asked me.” Mr Lilly glanced nervously at Janet and Hywel who had offered tea, and were sitting one each side of the fire on which a stewpot simmered.
“A woman,” Hywel hissed in explanation, and Janet nodded soberly.
When Mr Lilly left, having been shown round the property and been introduced to dogs, cats, pigs, chickens, ducks and goats and a couple of ferrets, he wondered whether he had been wise.
His next step was to visit Mrs Collins’s daughter, Victoria, and he went, after enquiries, to the neat little house in Philips Street and knocked at the door.
“My name is Sam Lilly. You don’t know me,” he began when he had ascertained that the person he was speaking to was Jack Weston, Victoria’s husband, “but your mother-in-law, Mrs Collins, helps my sister in the house and, if you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mam, is there?” Victoria asked, appearing beside Jack.
“Your mother is well and so far as I can tell, happy,” he assured them both.
Going inside the small room, he was surprised at how attractive it was. When he commented on the pleasant decor Jack told him that most of the work had been done by Frank and Ernie Griffiths.
“What a coincidence! Frank is one of the reasons I’m here.”
Having been reassured that Frank was a trustworthy person, which Jack did with tongue in cheek and with nudges from his wife, Sam explained his plan.
“Your mother tells me she has never had a garden and, with Frank’s assistance, I thought I might provide her with one. Planters, shelves on a whitewashed wall, you know the kind of thing.”
His idea was welcomed and their promise of help willingly given.
Frank and Jack met that evening in the Railwayman’s and discussed what was needed. They arranged to meet and look at the yard behind 17 Goldings Street when Mrs Collins was at work a few days later.
Jack and Victoria spent some time looking around a local nursery and making lists of suggested plantings for Frank and Sam Lilly to consider. It became a secret enjoyed by many. Frank and Sam used Hywel’s battered old van to transport containers and plants to one of the many sheds around the Griffiths’s cottage, where the planning and planting was done. The shed became a meeting place for Jack, Sam and Viv, as well as for Frank and the rest of his family.
On the day they intended to make the transformation, Jack and Victoria arranged to take Mrs Collins to west Wales for a drive. The youngest two children went with them and the others were being looked after by Rhiannon helped by Dora.
The day was warm and Jack and Victoria had packed a picnic. Doubtful that the beginning of April was a suitable time for eating out of doors, Mrs Collins was assured that they could eat in the car if the sun didn’t oblige.
Lewis, Charlie and Gwyn went along to Goldings Street and were quickly found jobs to do, the first of which was white washing the walls.
“Half the town’s involved, and how Mrs Collins hasn’t heard the whispers I’ll never know.” Sam laughed, as he and Frank began loading the van to take the shelves and containers to Goldings Street on that Sunday morning.
With everything prepared in advance, Frank and Ernie quickly fixed shelves to the newly painted walls. Hywel brought in the simple table and benches he and Basil had made from discarded floorboards taken at night from a due-to-be-demolished house. Sam Lilly moved the items around the small area until he was satisfied. With much huffing and puffing and moaning about people who couldn’t make up their minds, from Charlie, Frank and Viv, the job was finally done. Climbing into the van with the tools and oddments of wood, they drove off to return the tools they’d borrowed, satisfied with their day’s work.
Unsure how long the job would take, Jack didn’t bring his family back until early evening. Dusk was closing in and, the street lights were becoming stronger and as he stopped the car, he said, “Come on, Mother-in-law, on with the kettle, we could all do with a cup of tea.”
When she was encouraged to go outside, she gave a gasp of delight. “How…? When…?” she gasped. Then she smiled wider and said, “Mr Lilly?”
“And the Lewises and Jack and Frank and Ernie and Hywel.” Her daughter laughed. “Half the town was involved.”
“I must go and thank them all,” she said as she walked around the garden, which was lit with a bulb fixed near the back door and the light shining out from the living-room. “I never imagined the old yard could become a garden.” She touched the pots and rubbed a hand across the smooth wood of the table. “He’s so kind, I must go and thank him, at once, and all the others too.”
“Cup of tea first,” Jack insisted. He filled the kettle and set it to boil. Then smiling widely, enjoying her pleasure, he said, “All right then, if you insist on thanking everyone…”He went to the front door and whistled and the work force trooped back in followed by her children with Dora and Lewis, Janet and Hywel Griffiths and more hesitantly, Sam Lilly.
Mrs Collins gave Sam a hug, as he modestly accepted her thanks, which resulted in a spate of wolf whistles and silly remarks which both participants clearly enjoyed.
Gladys heard a knock at the door one afternoon in early April. She looked around checking that the room was tidy enough for visitors, pushing a cushion more neatly across the arm of the heavy couch and pulling the table runner into a slightly more central position. She took a deep breath. She hated answering the door herself. It had been one of the many things she had enjoyed about having a servant. She could decide who to be invited in when she wanted. Besides, she discouraged people from calling without an appointment being made.
A tall, rather thin woman stood on the step, dressed in black. Her pale face reminding Gladys of a mourner at a funeral. It was raining heavily, the day was dark, and the large black umbrella which the women held above her head, added to the funereal effect.
“Yes?” Gladys enquired haughtily. “What do you want?”
“It’s more what you want, I believe,” the woman replied in a surprisingly well modulated voice.
At once Glady’s voice softened and she asked, “How can I help you, Mrs – er?”
“I believe you need a cleaner. I’m very experienced in looking after a home and, if the conditions are satisfactory, I’d like to apply for the job.”
“Come in, Mrs – er?”
“My name in Dreese. I am a widow and my husband was German.” This was spoken as though in preparation for an unpleasant response, but Gladys was desperate to have some help and the thought of a servant who was well spoken had already made her anxious for the woman to accept the job. “A German? How interesting,” was all she said.
An hour later, after sharing a pot of tea and some excellent home-made apple strudel which Mrs Dreese had brought with her, the arrangement was made. Accepting an hourly rate that was going to shock Arfon out of his chair, Mrs Dreese was to begin her ‘training’ as Gladys put it, on the following morning. The references submitted by Mrs Dreese seemed short lived. She didn’t appear to have worked for very long.
“My husband had a successful business you see, and we lived comfortably and well.” She described her previous home in one of the better areas of a nearby town and Gladys was visibly impressed. “Then we had a disaster, another firm came in offering lower prices until we were driven out, and then the prices went back up and we had nothing left.”
“She’s a widow, dear,” Gladys explained to Arfon when he admitted he was suspicious. “I don’t think she needed to work while her husband was alive. She’s a person fallen on hard times.” She lowered her voice sympathetically.
“Then make sure you don’t put temptation in her way,” Arfon warned. “Hard times can make thieves of the best of us!”
“Arfon, dear. Don’t say such things.” She knew he was referring to his own lapse that had almost ended with him facing a prison sentence. “The Westons don’t consider such things. I’ll treat her as I would anyone else, unless I have reason to change my opinion.”
“German you say?”
“Yes, but the war is over.”
“I wasn’t going to criticise—”
“People do, dear. I could see it in her eyes. Even the best of us have some prejudices and you’ll have to be careful what you say.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything!”
“Of course you were dear, but you’ll soon accept her for what she is, a decent woman.”
“Gladys! I wasn’t going to—” He gave up.
Mrs Dreese went back to the two rooms and a kitchen she called home. She wondered what her son, would say. He hated her using her real name and telling people about his father.
The two rooms for which she paid a weekly rent of ten shillings were small and very dark due in part to the overgrown hedge outside the back window of her living room. She had offered to have them cut them down, but the landlord had refused permission.
The door from the living room led into a narrow kitchen. Along one wall was a bath, covered with a board, which she removed when she took the weekly bath she was allowed. She also removed it to do her washing, in the two hours allotted to her on Monday afternoons. At the moment the wooden board was propped against the wall, the clothes and bedding having just been washed, but left in the bath waiting for the weather to be suitable for drying it in the overgrown garden.
There was a small food cupboard, and she took out a packet of ham and a loaf of bread. Filling two plates with small, neatly cut sandwiches, she covered them with a clean cloth and went to find her son.
She called to him as she knocked on his door, “There’s a sandwich if you’d like it.”
“What’s this about you applying for a job as a cleaner?” he demanded as he pulled the door open. “And with someone like Gladys Weston too.”
“It’s what I do best, looking after a home. I kept our home beautifully, didn’t I? Now I no longer have one, apart from those shabby rooms, I think I’ll enjoy working for the Westons and pretending their house is mine.”
“Oh, Mother, why did it all have to go so wrong? How could my father end up bankrupt?”
“I don’t know, Carl, but I do know we have to try and put it right.”
Carl Dreese, who called himself Rees, took the sandwiches and for a moment resented his promise to his mother that they would work and save until his father’s debts had been cleared. He had given up so much: a career, the girl he loved, and his home. Sometimes there seemed little chance of living long enough to do more than pay off the debts. He knew his mother had given up her chance of a happy life, too, but there were times when he still resented his sacrifices, believing that his were greater – promising he would avoid girls and meeting Mair in secret so his mother wouldn’t be upset. It was hard.
His mother saw the doubt on his face and said encouragingly, “It won’t be much longer, Carl. Another year or two and we’ll almost be there. Selling the house gave us a good start. Thank goodness the house was mine, or that would have been lost to us too.”