On the morning of Fay and Johnny’s wedding, Nelly went up to the castle again. She saw a man sitting on a stone that had fallen from the ancient walls, oblivious to the raw cold of the early morning. She saw he was dressed as before, in the overlong brown coat that was too large for his thin frame; the collar was turned up but the scarf was different. In profile she could see little of his features but what she did see made her want to cry. The right side of it was horribly distorted by a scar.
He seemed unaware of her, although she had not walked with any intention of keeping her presence a secret. But now, she moved as carefully as she could around the fallen rocks to where she could see him from the opposite side. She screwed up her eyes and focused on him, then put both hands to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to erupt. ‘Alan French,’ she whispered in disbelief. ‘Bloody ’ell. What do I do now?’
She backed away from him, her heart racing and her mind wrestling with the dilemma. She had seen him several times over a period of weeks, and Mrs French had said nothing. So he had not gone home, but instead had lived up here, far from the village, afraid, she guessed, to show his poor face. Unable to go home without one more look to convince herself it really was Alan, back from the dead, she again moved towards him. He appeared not to have heard her, lost in some sad thoughts of his own, and as she came in sight of him, he stood, and she saw that his cheeks glistened with tears. He walked away from the castle, heading for the fields above Fay’s house.
‘Gawd ’elp us,’ Nelly sighed, ‘an’ today’s Fay and Johnny’s weddin’.’
She couldn’t go home. After he had disappeared from sight she went to where he had been sitting, and from there into the old castle. In the kitchens she found a rough bed and several overcoats, which had presumably been used as blankets. Sadly, she picked one up, thinking of the young man who had a comfortable home only minutes away but who was unable to go there.
What should she do? Persuade him to see his mother who would surely not be so horrified by his injuries that she wouldn’t welcome him back with joy? And Fay. What about her? Would she regret marrying Johnny if, soon after, Alan, her first love, turned up? Nelly sat on a stone and shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the shock and the responsibility of what she had discovered.
She sat for a long time, then decided to see the vicar. Yes, he was the one. He’d know what to do. She walked back to the cottage, and the welcome from the dogs then, putting on her old navy coat, set off for the vicarage.
When she told the Reverend Barclay Bevan, he laughed and told her not to worry.
‘You must have been mistaken, Nelly. Especially if the young man was as badly scarred as you say. Leave it with me. I’ll go up there and talk to this young man, help him if I can. So many sad cases since the war; the reception centres for these wandering, unhappy men are full night after night you know. Now go home, and forget it. Leave it all to me.’
His cheeks shone, his bald head shone, his small, gold rimmed glasses shone and his teeth shone between full, moist lips. To Nelly he seemed to be surrounded by a halo of brightness. Yes, she could forget it. Barclay Bevan would see to it. Best if she said nothing more. He was right, she must have been mistaken.
She apologised for taking up his valuable time, and they stood at the door for a while, discussing the forthcoming wedding and their hopes it would stay a fine day. Barclay Bevan was taller than Nelly by only a few inches, and was every bit as plump; Tweedledum to her Tweedledee.
Still smiling, and making reassuring noises, he stood on the doorstep and waved her off; then went back to his interrupted breakfast and forgot all about it.
Amy’s shop was lacking customers and for once she was glad. There was so much to do. With her daughter Margaret a flower-girl at Fay’s wedding, and herself to get ready between customers, the morning was hectic enough. She was glad she had decided to warn everyone that the shop would close at twelve.
The crocheted basket with its arrangement of flowers had arrived early and sat on the sideboard with the head-dress and Amy’s hat. Margaret was to wear white, and with her rich red hair, would look beautiful. Amy hugged the girl. ‘Now you’re sure you know what you have to do, Margaret, darling?’
‘Of course, Mam. I’ve been through it so many times you’d think I was stupid!’
‘No one would ever think that,’ Amy laughed. ‘Sharper than what’s good for you sometimes, you are.’ She went to the bottom of the stairs and called her son. ‘Freddie! Come on; you can’t need all this time to pretty yourself up!’
The shop doorbell rang and she went to serve Nelly.
‘You’re out early, Nelly. And where are the dogs?’ For once Nelly seemed quiet and unwilling to chat, for which Amy was grateful. She sold her a packet of confetti and went back to her children.
Amy’s sister Prue was walking to the church with Mrs French. Monica French wore a dark red suit, being unable to bring herself to use the outfit she had bought, eight years before, for her son’s planned wedding, even though the style did not look dated. Prue apologised for the absence of her husband.
‘Harry’s working of course,’ she said. ‘When is he not? He leaves the house before seven and I’m lucky if I see him before seven at night. And even then he brings work home. I’ve offered to help, do the books like I did when he started, but he won’t hear of it.’
Mrs French nodded and made sounds of agreement, but her mind was not on the conversation. She was thinking about Alan’s girl who would soon be Mrs Johnny Cartwright.
The church was half full; many of the villagers, aware that Fay had no family, had come to see her married.
‘Snob that she is, she needs someone to sit on her side of the church,’ Milly Toogood whispered to her neighbour.
‘Decent and respectable, I don’t call that snobbish,’ Sian Owen retorted. ‘There’s many could take lessons from her on how to behave. Never hear a word of gossip from her for a start.’
Milly changed pews to sit next to Brenda and Bert Roberts and their children, and whispered about the wicked tongue of that Sian Owen.
Nelly walked into the church alone, and looked for her friend Netta Cartwright. She did not sit next to her; on this day she had better leave the family to their business and sit further away. She settled for a seat halfway back on Johnny’s side, but, seeing how empty the pews were on Fay’s side, moved over to help balance things.
The grey stone church was filled with flowers, the work of Monica French and the vicar’s hard-working wife. Daffodils and primroses in small bunches were made larger and more splendid by the addition of branches of hazel and willow catkins that were just showing the fresh spring green of new leaves. Nelly, to whom wild flowers gave immense pleasure, smiled her delight, her crooked teeth spoiling the symmetry of her round face.
Nelly stood up several times to look at the people gathered and study their various hats. She pulled her own grey velour more firmly on her head and nodded to herself, satisfied she was not the worst dressed there. She had not known what to wear and had no one to ask, so had settled for the grey coat given to her by Mrs French that was too tight to fasten. That, and the grey velour hat with a few primula wanda stuck in the brim was the best she could do.
Johnny was sitting in his seat at the front, nervously glancing towards the church door from time to time. Nelly smiled affectionately. Remembered him as a small boy she did. Fancy him being a bridegroom. Her face clouded as she thought of the unhappy man hiding out in the old castle and crossed her fingers. Nodding towards the altar, she whispered, ‘’E ain’t never done anyone no ’arm, an’ ’e loves Fay an ’ell of a lot. Please, Gawd, let it be all right fer ’im.’
Fay’s house was only yards from the church and she had originally wanted to walk there with her bridesmaid and flower-girl. But Johnny had pleaded with her to arrive by car. She had agreed, knowing how much the trimmings as he called them, meant to him. So, rather than have the car crawl the few yards hardly getting out of first gear, she had asked to be driven towards town, then left, up the road towards the council estate, along the lane past Nelly’s cottage, and down again to the main road. Another left turn would bring her to the church.
Phil Davies the postman was riding with her to give her away. Phil had been a life-long friend of her parents and was best suited to the pleasant role. He looked at her pale face and wondered what was going on behind the over-bright eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Fay, bach. It’ll all be over before you realise it. Then there’ll be only you and your Johnny.’ He touched her arm, where the sleeve of her wedding dress ended in a frill of lace above her wrist and was shocked to find it was trembling. He covered her cold hands with his own.
He looked out of the car window and began talking about the crowd waiting to wish her well. ‘Crowds there’ll be but don’t let it worry you, never forget their words, brides don’t. And everyone there is your friend and young Johnny’s. Lovely start you’ll have with so many friends around you.’
She gave a faint cry and he looked at her, then out of the car window to see the reason. He saw nothing that could possibly frighten her, only a man at the edge of the lane. Perhaps she thought the car would hit him.
Fay had seen the man again, not far from Nelly’s gate. He had been startled to see the large and highly polished vehicle cruising almost silently along the narrow lane. His hand came up to cover his face, but this time she was certain. It was Alan.
When they reached the gates of the church, where people filled the pavement and were scattered in groups around the churchyard, she said, ‘Take me back home.’ The driver stopped suddenly, jerking Fay and a startled Phil forward.
‘Come on, love; don’t scare me like this. Fail in my duty I will if I don’t get you to the church.’ Her face was tense, and as the car cruised slowly on and stopped at her house, she got out.
‘Wait for us a mo, will you?’ Phil said foolishly, as if the grand car were only a casually ordered taxi. He followed Fay into the empty house and sat with her on the stairs. ‘Tell me. You can say anything to old Phil now, can’t you?’
‘I can’t marry Johnny. Please, Uncle Phil, go and tell them all, will you?’
After trying his persuasive tongue for what seemed an age, and sending several people who had come to see what was happening away with an impolite remark, Phil admitted defeat.
‘Been looking forward to this for months I have, walking down the aisle with you on my arm. That proud I’d be.’
‘Sorry, Uncle Phil,’ she said, using the name by which she had known him all her life. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to Johnny, not until…’
‘Until what love?’ he coaxed.
‘Until I’m sure about something,’ was all she would say by way of explanation.
Phil left her then, and walked slowly to the church, where the curious and the caring were equally anxious to hear his news. He stood beside Johnny for a moment and Johnny’s face stiffened as Phil told him the situation. Then he went to the altar, where the Reverend Barclay Bevan waited patiently. He whispered in the small, rosy faced man’s ear and the round face seemed to crumple with dismay.
‘Friends,’ he announced as Phil slipped once more to Johnny’s side. ‘It seems there has been a hitch. The wedding has regretfully been cancelled at this time. There will be more news later and I’m sure we will all meet again very soon to unite these two young people in Holy Matrimony. God bless you all.’
Johnny’s face was ashen. His mother clutched his arm as he seemed about to fall. Barclay Bevan came to stand protectively at his side and he gestured for the congregation to leave. He stood sentinel-like, guarding Johnny from everyone until the old building was empty, except for himself, Johnny and Netta.
‘Would you like me to come with you and talk to Fay?’ he asked softly, his eyes moist with sadness.
Johnny shook his head. ‘No thanks, Vicar, I’m going home.’ He shook off his mother’s hand and strode out of the church.
The sunshine was a shock. He had somehow expected the skies to have opened and flooded the village with a dark and heavy storm. People still hovered around the churchyard and outside the lych-gate. Constable Harris stood waiting to control the traffic as the well-wishers filled the pavement and blocked the road with their excited determination to cover the happy pair with confetti. Instead, he hurried them away, as Johnny walked out alone.
Nelly walked back with Netta Cartwright, but didn’t speak. At the gate of the small cottage where Johnny had expected to return with his bride, she patted the woman’s shoulder and left her. Time for talking is later, she decided silently.
Milly Toogood was whispering to Sian Roberts that it was only to be expected, ‘that Fay’s got too high an opinion of herself altogether.’
Amy walked across the road to re-open her shop, shepherding her two children in front of her: Margaret disappointed both that her services as a flower-girl had not been needed and that the choir in which she sang had been deprived of its performance; Freddy, thankful that he could take off the hated suit and, in comfortable clothes, go fishing.
In the empty house, Fay sat shivering, and staring into space. It was there that Netta found her an hour later and persuaded her to change out of the beautiful white gown, and eat, and sleep.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Fay began, but Netta hushed her in her quiet way.
‘Plenty of time for talk and explanations later,’ she said. ‘Now, what you want is sleep.’ She wrapped the coat she had brought around the girl’s shoulders and led her away.
In the days that followed, that were to have been Fay and Johnny’s honeymoon, Fay walked alone in the woods and fields around Hen Carw Parc, searching for Alan. She often passed Nelly’s cottage, and sometimes saw Nelly in the woods, gathering firewood, but she never stopped to talk.
Finally, Nelly knew that she must. So early one morning when she saw the girl, wearing a blue plastic mac, wandering around the old castle, she called, ‘I’ve seen him too, you know.’
Fay stared at her, and Nelly, holding her skirts high, high-stepping through the wet grass went to join her.
‘Yes,’ Nelly repeated, ‘I’ve seen ’im. ’Im that’s wounded and scarred proper bad. You thought ’e looked like Alan French too, did yer?’
‘It was him.’ Fay’s voice was so quiet, Nelly barely heard her.
‘Couldn’t ’ave bin, dearie,’ Nelly scoffed. ‘Wouldn’t ’ave come ’ome without seein’ you an’ ’is mum now, would ’e? Not Alan.’ She touched Fay’s arm and guided her back to the path. ‘Come on in and ’ave that cuppa, why don’t yer? Kettle’s boilin’ its ’ead off I bet.’ She didn’t say any more, but Fay went with her as if relieved to be sharing her grief at last. She had spoken to no one, not even Johnny, since the aborted wedding.
Nelly dragged open the gate and went down the path. At her approach, five hens cluttered their way guiltily from the living room, feathers flying as they made their escape.
She gestured to the big armchair, then took two small loaves out of the fire-oven and, turning them over, tapped them to make sure they were done. At one side of the range, a big iron saucepan simmered gently, sending the delicious smell of a vegetable soup into the cluttered room. At the other side, the kettle was beginning to sing.
Fay sat on the armchair at Nelly’s bidding and at once the two dogs came to settle beside her, heads on her lap for her to stroke. The comfort of the untidy room over-came her tension and she relaxed into its friendly warmth. She accepted the cup of tea Nelly made and smiled at the plump face that showed such concern. ‘Thank you, Nelly. I feel better already.’
Nelly smiled her relief. ‘That’s good. Now, let me tell you about the man that’s bin wanderin’ around like a lost soul. You an’ me saw ’im once before, remember? When you thought you’d bin burgled? Well, I seen ’im plenty of times since but ’e’d never stop an’ talk. I thought…’ she hesitated, glancing at the pale, serious face before her, then went on, ‘I thought as ’ow it was young Alan French. Not ’alf like ’im he is, in spite of what you can’t see because of that terrible scar. So, I thought an’ thought, wonderin’ what to do, and ’oo to tell. Then I decided to tell the vicar.
‘’E’s the one to deal with lost souls I thought. So I went to see ’im, just before your weddin’. ’E says, Barclay Bevan that is, that ’e’ll see to it. ’E promised to find the poor man and ’elp ’im if ’e could. Well, I ain’t seen ’im since, so I don’t doubt that ’e did what ’e promised. Found the man a place to live an’ a job as well per’aps.
‘Now if it ’ad bin your Alan, that Barclay Bevan would ’ave known straight off, ’im bein’ a reverend an’ all. So, I think you an’ me was mistook. Wishful thinkin’ I bet it was.’ She stretched out a hand for the cup, replenished it and sat, smiling, waiting for Fay to speak.
‘I was so sure.’
‘Me an’ all dearie! But we was wrong.’
‘Johnny’s been so kind. He understood my refusal to believe Alan was dead. All these years he’s been such a good friend.’
‘Good boy that Johnny. You couldn’t do better than marry ’im. ’E couldn’t do no better neither,’ she added firmly. ‘If you love ’im as well as bein’ a good friend.’
‘I do love him, Nelly, and I know we’d be happy. If only I could really and truly believe that “Missing, presumed killed” means that Alan is dead.’
‘It’s bin eight years. Too long for carryin’ on ’opin’, dearie.’
The two women sat in silence for a while, then Nelly stood up and pointed to the new loaves. ‘Stay an’ ’ave some bread and ’ome-made cheese, why don’t yer. Then we’ll go down an’ see Johnny.’
A week later, Fay married Johnny and settled into the room they had been given in the Cartwrights’ cottage opposite Amy’s shop.
Although the May morning was chilly, Nelly sat outside her door on the old wooden chair to eat her breakfast. The dogs were watchful, hoping for a share and the chickens chortled around her feet.
The dogs barked and she looked up the path to see Phil Davies leaning over, waving a letter. He shrugged the heavy bag from his shoulder and called, ‘Morning, Nelly; got a letter for you. Not a bill either.’
Nelly stood and held up the teapot which had rested on the tray at her feet. ‘Got time fer a cuppa, have yer?’
‘Sure.’ Phil rested the bag against the wall and roughed the dogs’ coats, talking to them and enjoying their welcome. Nelly brought a cup and for a while they sat talking about the latest happenings in the village, mostly about the wedding that nearly wasn’t.
‘Felt sorry for that boy I did,’ Phil said, shaking his grey head. ‘Sick to his heart he was. What came over Fay I don’t know.’
‘Just nerves,’ Nelly said. ‘They’re happy enough now.’
‘I hope so.’ Phil looked doubtful and he rubbed the side of his nose in a way that usually meant he was going to repeat something he had promised not to. Nelly waited hopefully.
‘They argue a terrible lot, you know. Hear them we do. Can’t help it, us living next door.’
‘Smashin’,’ Nelly said loudly. ‘Best part of bein’ married, as far as I remember. Specially as they’ve only got one bed so they can’t quarrel fer more than a day! No, they’ll be all right, just give ’em a while to sort things out. Different they are, see; even if they do love each other. Got a few things to sort out.’ She laughed away the thought of problems between the newlyweds but she frowned anxiously long after Phil had eaten her last cake, and gone.
She made herself another pot of tea and sat, sipping it and staring at the letter, putting off opening it. It was Evie’s writing. Telling her about them moving back, at last, she thought with a taste of anger. Everyone in Hen Carw Parc knows except me. When she finally opened it, the letter was brief.
‘Timothy has been appointed Headmaster of Hen Cawr Parc school, so we will be returning to live in the village before the Spring term commences—’
the letter ran. Nelly laughed and re-read it aloud, making fun of the formal, stilted style. ‘Blimey, you’d think she was talkin’ to ’er ’eadmaster the fancy way she writes! Poor Evie. Never could accept she wasn’t born posh.’ She put the letter in her pocket, locked up the dogs and went to work. Mrs Dorothy Williams today and she wouldn’t have the dogs no matter how Nellie pleaded.
Dorothy Williams lived some distance outside the village, on the way to Swansea and Nelly caught a bus. After she had finished cleaning, she usually stopped at The Drovers Arms, for a stout and a packet of crisps, but today she was in a hurry. Carrying a woollen dress that Mrs Williams had no further use for, she caught the bus home.
Most of the afternoon was spent cleaning the cottage. She lifted up the coconut matting, and the heavy rag mat, and scrubbed the flagstone floor. She black-leaded the grate, and whitened the inside of the oven. The rag mat was lifted with great difficulty onto the clothes line and beaten until the garden was lost in a cloud of dust and dog’s hair. ‘Like a bleedin’ eclipse of the sun,’ she muttered. ‘Still, Evie’s sure to check, so I got to get it done.’ She took an old distorted tennis racquet and continued her beating.
Hanging on the back of the chicken shed was an oval-shaped galvanised bath. She lifted it down and, dragging it on a length of carpet, brought it into the cottage. Two kettles and the stewpan full of boiling water, plus a lot of cold, carried, bucketful by bucketful from the tap in the lane, gave her a good bath, which she lavishly scented with bath salts. She picked up her book and glasses, and the magazines and papers she had collected with pictures and articles about the forthcoming coronation, and settled herself for a long soak.
On the day Evie, Tim and Oliver were due to arrive, Nelly borrowed the key from Fay, who still held it, and went to light the fire. The day was dull and the sight of a blazing fire would be cheering. Nelly guessed Evie would need something to brighten her mood. Reading between the lines of the stilted letter, Nelly knew her daughter would have preferred to keep the fifty or so miles between herself and her mother.
She was still there when the van arrived with the furniture and she watched as the men laid the carpets in the living room and the two bedrooms that were going to be immediately used. Blue, she noticed for young Oliver, mottled and rather dark. His furniture was dark brown and highly polished. No sign of him being only eight, she thought with disappointment.
The car with its three occupants came as the last of the furniture was being unloaded. Evie stopped when she saw a red-faced and very tired Nelly waiting for her at the door, then walked to her, put an arm around her and kissed her, pulling away before Nelly could overdo the greeting.
Tim’s eyes showed more pleasure and as he walked in and saw the room already looking like home, with the curtains up and the fire burning brightly, he thanked her.
‘Mother-in-law, that was very good of you. You must have worked very hard. Thank you.’
‘You ain’t got a proper kettle so I couldn’t ’ave no tea ready. One of them electric ones,’ she explained. ‘They don’t simmer like a proper one. Put it on now, shall I?’
She went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, nervously straightening an already straight tray. She had only nodded and smiled at Oliver. She felt shy of the small, neatly dressed boy and he obviously wouldn’t welcome a display of affection from a woman he could hardly remember. Best I wait, she had decided, when she noticed how he had hung back from her when he had stepped out of the car.
He was thin for his age, she noticed, and dressed as if he’d been prepared for a shop window in one of the big shops in Swansea. A suit. Gawd ’elp us! On a kid like that. And a bow tie! Even his socks, which were ribbed and turned over at the top to show a coloured pattern, were dead straight, the rib in perfect lines. His shoes were polished like Mrs French’s windows and his hair was pressed flat against his head, the white parting adding to the severity of his expression.
He stepped hesitantly into the kitchen and she asked, not looking at him, ‘Want tea, do yer? Or don’t yer mum allow it? Fussy, some mums, aren’t they?’
‘I would like a cup of tea please, Grandmother. Mother does allow it, but only very weak and with plenty of milk.’ The careful little voice chilled her and she doubted if she and this strange child would ever be friends.
‘Sit yerself down, dearie an’ I’ll bring it for yer.’
‘No need, Grandmother. I can manage.’
Nelly looked at him. Grandmother. Blimey, that would have to stop.
‘Would you like to come an’ see the dogs, while yer mum and dad unpack?’ she asked. She saw him glance at Evie and then shake his head. Nelly turned to her daughter. ‘’E can come fer a while, can’t ’e? Bring ’im back in an hour or so?’
‘Not today, Mother. He has unpacking to do too. Perhaps tomorrow.’
Nelly shrugged. ‘I’ll get out of yer way then.’ She picked up the grey coat she had worn for Fay’s wedding and had put on hoping to please Evie, but Evie had already turned away and was busily unpacking a tea-chest, handing the china it contained to Oliver. Sadly, Nelly let herself out.