When Nelly woke on the morning of the Coronation party the air was already warm and the day promised to be a good one. She made a trayful of sandwiches as her contribution to the celebrations. She had bought the sliced bread from Amy’s shop and considered it hardly fit to give her chickens. When she was finished, she sat and waited for Oliver. When he arrived he was flushed with hurrying, knowing he was later than they had planned.
‘Come on, dearie. Waited fer hours I ’ave. Where you bin?’ Nelly looked with dismay at the neat little figure, his shirt buttoned up to the neck and the bow tie in place. She pulled it off him and threw it on a chair, opened a few buttons and rolled up his sleeves.
‘Sorry I’m late, Gran. Mother insisted I read to her before I came.’
‘Don’t she think my time’s important then? Eh? Sittin’ ’ere waitin’ while she ’as you doin’ readin’?’ She paused. ‘Ow d’yer get on?’
‘Not bad, but I still can’t remember some words. They won’t stay in my head.’
‘I ain’t surprised with Evie breathin’ down yer neck! Make me forget me own name, your mum would! We’ll get a bit of readin’ done tomorrow, eh? You an’ me ’elpin’ each other.’ She handed him the box of cakes to carry. ‘But now, Ollie me boy, we’re off to enjoy ourselves. Come on, Bobby an’ Spotty.’ They set off up the lane, Nelly staggering under the loaded tray which was covered with a snowy white tea-towel lent to her by Amy when she had bought the bread.
The field and the castle had been transformed. The old walls now painted white were draped with streamers. Union Jacks and the Welsh Dragon were flying from every possible corner and even the trees were wound around with ribbons.
Bert Roberts seemed to be still in command. Nelly saw him shouting instructions at some boys struggling to hang some streamers across the kitchens. Cardboard shields, crowns and swords and daggers were displayed all along the castle walls, and as a centrepiece, a large poster of Queen Elizabeth was slowly being hauled into its chosen place, high on the tower walls.
Nelly had been there until late the previous evening, yet the sight made her gasp. ‘Look at that, Ollie! What d’you think of that!’ She spoke proudly, as if she alone had been responsible for it all.
‘Want a ’and, Bertie?’ she shouted.
‘Don’t talk to me when I’m balanced on a ladder! Got no sense?’ he grumbled.
Nelly looked at Oliver and pulled a face. ‘Sergeant ’e was in the army,’ she explained. ‘Even got stripes sewn on ’is pyjamas!’
Long trestle tables were already spread with white sheets and decorated with jars containing wooden sticks to which red, white and blue streamers had been fastened, one for each child who had paid for the tea. Also at intervals were paper flowers, also in red, white and blue, made by the school children. Above the tables, bunting swung gently in the breeze.
‘It’s like magic, Gran.’
‘Ain’t it just!’
They pushed their way through to the kitchens to deposit their food. Mrs French was cutting sandwiches into small squares, and Evie was helping her. Nelly called to her daughter but only had a slight nod on return. Prue Beynon was chattering away as she arranged the small sandwiches on to plates. Only Mrs French thanked Nelly for her contribution.
Before turning and pushing her way outside, Nelly made another effort to gain a response from Evie. She lifted Oliver up and shouted, ‘’E’s all right, Evie. I got ’im. Be all right with me.’
‘Mind you behave yourself,’ Evie said to her son.
Nelly saw the apologetic expression on Oliver’s face as he promised and her jaw tightened. ‘Why can’t she let the kid ’ave some fun,’ she muttered. She shouted again at her daughter. ‘He’ll ’ave a good time today, don’t you worry.’
Evie looked doubtful. Prue looked at Evie with a sympathetic frown. Nelly poked out a tongue.
The people already pouring into the field were mostly strangers. As well as the children from the council estate, where Nelly had got to know a number of families as she did the weekly collections, there were small groups of houses where there were insufficient numbers for their own party. These had joined with Hen Carw Parc. Others further afield had heard about the party held in a castle ruin and begged to be included. All had paid their share and had entered the races and some had promised help with the entertainments.
Many families had brought lunchtime picnics and by midday the field was dotted with knots of people circled around blankets and tablecloths set out on the grass. Wasps and bees hummed around jampots. Ants were shaken from skirts and shoes. Grubby fingers reached out for food, then scratched at the irritations caused by the gnats which swarmed around the diners, depositing jam on hot faces.
Children threw off cardigans and shoes and socks, the unwanted clothing folded across the parents’ arms. Youngsters ran barefoot around the stalls, pleading for pennies for the side-shows which hoped to raise money for the N.S.P.C.C. Even fathers loosened their ties and rolled up shirt-sleeves, admitting the sun-warmed air to cool their white skin.
A stall had been placed at the edge of the field, and its shelves filled with old, unwanted china. Mostly the white crockery which had had to suffice during the years of shortages and which was now thankfully discarded.
For a penny, you could pelt it with wooden balls, to ‘Ease your Frustrations’, the banner said. Nelly read it out to Oliver, carefully, syllable by syllable so he could read it too.
‘Could do with a few penn’orth of that every time I sees yer mum,’ Nelly whispered. ‘Rubs me up somethin’ awful she does.’
‘What’s frustrations, Gran?’
‘When you gets mad with something – or someone – and there’s no way of changin’ things. Inside yer, there’s a pot boilin’ over, and peltin’ a ball or two, an’ smashin’ a few dishes is supposed to ’elp. ’Ave a go, why don’t yer?’
She handed him some money and urged him towards the stall. He hesitantly took the balls offered, and stood, wavering between dropping them on the grass and handing them to Nelly.
‘Go on! Don’t stand there like two penn’orth of Gawd- ’elp-us!’ She took one of the balls and threw it at the stall, succeeding in breaking a plate. ‘See? Now you ’ave a go. Go on, get mad. Throw as if you really means it!’
Oliver threw one self-consciously, but the second reached the shelves and then the balls flew fast and china shattered and fell to the ground. The staff holder laughed and collected the largest pieces to replace on the shelves.
‘Needed that did you, boy?’
‘Frustration ain’t just fer the old uns,’ Nelly laughed her loud laugh and led Oliver away. ‘Come over ’ere, young Ollie, there’s something else you got to try.’ She pushed her way through the increasingly thick crowd, dragging Oliver behind her.
Near the entrance, where people were still queueing to pay, or showing their tickets to get in, were some stocks. Phil Davies the postman was firmly fastened in. At his side was Johnny Cartwright, urging people to pay threepence to throw a wet sponge at the prisoner. Buckets of cold water stood temptingly around. Johnny held out large coloured sponges, asking customers to take one and punish Phil for being stupid enough to volunteer.
When things were slack, Johnny himself would pelt the laughing, soaked victim to encourage others to take part.
‘If you miss,’ Johnny warned, ‘I might pick up the sponge and throw it at you!’
‘Got to ’ave a go at this!’ Nelly paid and collected her dripping sponge and threw it, not at Phil, who was tensed waiting for the missile, but at the unsuspecting Johnny. The crowd roared with laughter. Oliver was shocked and put both hands to his face, before realising that it had been taken in good part and he could safely join in the laughter.
It soon became difficult to get to the stalls, but Nelly managed to buy Oliver a turn on the swings, a ride on a pony, a toffee apple and some candy-floss and an ice-cream already melting from a makeshift fridge.
In the kitchens, the platefuls of sandwiches and cakes were covered with damp tea-towels, waiting for the time to call the children to eat. A flask of tea was being shared between Evie, Prue and Mrs French.
‘I do agree with you, Prue.’ Mrs French nodded agreement as Prue explained how she had persuaded Harry to let her help. ‘I supported Richard whenever I could. He had a full and useful life but he couldn’t have done as much without my assistance.’
‘You’re talking about outside interests,’ Prue disagreed. ‘I’m talking about Harry’s work. By doing the books for him, he can spend more time at home, which is what he wants.’
‘Richard wasn’t exactly an absentee husband,’ Mrs French admonished gently. ‘He and I did things together. He sang in the choir and I went along too. I organised concerts, with others too, of course. And I helped out in the music shops when someone was ill. I miss him and I miss the involvement. He was such a considerate husband.’
‘Yes,’ Prue said, misunderstanding. ‘Harry’s considerate too. Never bothers me much with – you know.’ Mrs French stifled a smile and glanced at Evie, who also seemed amused.
‘Always done my duty, mind,’ Prue whispered confidentially. ‘He’s never had cause to complain.’
Monica French took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and hid her laughter in a fit of coughing.
Prue also looked away. How often had she told that lie? Pretended to be satisfied with the little attention Harry gave her? She gazed across to where a group of youngsters gathered around the piano. Children. Everyone had children, except her. Night after night she waited for him, and night after night she slept alone, and unfulfilled.
It wasn’t proper to admit to wanting a man so much, she knew that, but how she envied Amy. Even her brief affairs had been full of love, and had resulted in Freddy and Margaret. She watched the girl touching the keys of the piano, tall, graceful and with such a sweet singing voice. An interest in the piano too it seemed.
If she had been mine, how much more she would achieve. I’d send her to Mrs French for lessons. Very musical, Mrs French. She might be famous one day with the right encouragement. Yet it was Amy, sinful Amy, who had Freddy and Margaret.
Netta Cartwright walked past with a still soaked Johnny and waved at them. Prue stared after them with disapproval on her thin face.
‘Those Cartwrights have got above themselves since Johnny married someone with a bit of style,’ she said. ‘I can’t think what Fay saw in him. Not that she’s anything special. Worked in a chemist’s, her father did.’
‘He was a pharmacist.’
‘Three times I’ve called, asking if Fay would like to join our sewing bee, to make things for charity, but she’s never in. When she does her housework and cooking I can’t think. Probably leaves it all to Netta. She’s soft enough to let her get away with it.’
‘I think I’ll go outside to see what’s happening,’ Mrs French said. ‘Coming, Evelyn?’
The two women went out into the sun, each sighing relief at the temporary escape from Prue Beynon’s tongue.
At two o’clock Timothy Chartridge blew his whistle and voices called for entrants for the first race. With the assistance of Harry Beynon and Bert Roberts, Timothy managed to get the children lined up in ages, and, as each race was won, to hand the winners a rosette made by Prue’s sewing bee, and a book about the royal family.
Nelly sprawled on the grass, having found a place near the finishing line, and laughed uproariously at the antics of the sackrace, and the three-legged race. When entrants were invited for the adults’ races, she at once volunteered.
‘Stay there; won’t be long,’ she called to Oliver, and sticking a lump of home-made toffee in his hand, she hurried to the starting post.
Her shoes were loose, the laces having been taken out as her feet grew hot and tired. She tripped several times and finally fell, near the finish and rolled in the now dusty grass. She made the most of the humour of the situation and relished the laughter that rang out as she exposed her pink bloomers, which reached her fat knees.
Evie, who had looked to see the cause of the laughter, turned away in disgust. Mrs French patted her arm.
‘Don’t be upset, dear. Nelly’s a character and much loved and tolerated. You won’t change her. No one thinks the worse of you because of her. Laugh with the rest if you can, it’s far the best way to deal with it.’
‘Would you find it easy to laugh if it was your mother sprawled there attracting such remarks?’ Evie said bitterly. ‘And as for not changing things. I wouldn’t be too sure of that!’
More laughter rang out and Evie was persuaded to look. To her relief it was not Nelly this time. Her mother was not the only one to show more than she should that day.
Amy had closed the shop and had arrived at the field intending to stroll around and talk to a few people, then go home again. She was in no mood to enjoy herself although none would have guessed it.
She had dressed unsuitably in a new turquoise outfit with a straight, mid-calf length skirt and a short jacket; tight at the waist and full at the back in a sort of bustle. Seeing Nelly enjoying herself, she lifted her skirt high above her knees so she could run, and came down the field after the rest of the competitors, showing the tops of her nylons and the pink straps of her suspenders. She tripped over Nelly’s sprawled feet and collapsed, laughing, beside her.
She and Nelly helped each other up and they walked back to the start, still laughing. Nelly’s crooked teeth were well displayed, and Amy’s long earrings sparkled and her blonde hair shimmered as she shook her head to free it of the dried grass that had found its way among the curls. The upswept style fell about her neck.
‘I’d have worn something more suitable if I’d known I was part of the cabaret!’ Amy laughed.
‘Borrowed a pair of mine, would yer?’
Nelly pushed her way back to where Oliver waited, acknowledging the pats on her shoulders with a wide grin.
While the tables were being filled with food and drinks, the children were organised into a group for singing. There was a natural amphitheatre against the mound below the castle walls, and it was here that Timothy gathered the choir. The piano was standing in the shade of a tree, and the vicar was strumming a few chords to set the mood.
Barclay Bevan was dressed in black, but he had discarded his surplice and wore only black trousers and a black shirt with the white dog collar. He was very hot and envied the children running about so free from the restrictions of his formal clothes. His face shone redly and his fingers threatened to slip on the keys. As Timothy raised his arms to gather the children for their first song, he quickly wiped his hands on his plump thighs, poised his fingers above the keys, raised his eyes to Timothy and with a benign expression, awaited his instructions.
The rest of the throng sat where they could, mothers waving to their offspring, friends shouting and keeping places for each other, impatient for the singing to begin. Nelly watched as Oliver left her to take his place near his father. He looked rather pale and Nelly thought he was unhappy performing, even as one of a crowd. She didn’t wave.
Timothy’s voice swelled from its usual whisper as he addressed the children. His features lost their habitual frown and he became animated, more alive. His job was his life; there was little room in his heart for anything else.
This day of celebration was acceptable as a useful addition to the school year. Many lessons had been built around the Coronation and the fete day would be the basis of many more. Timothy saw everything through the eyes of a teacher. His son was just another pupil and not a very bright one at that.
After a few popular choruses to settle the children, Margaret Prichard, Amy’s eight-year-old daughter, sang a solo. Her pure young voice made even the liveliest child fall silent. Nelly gulped at a lump in her throat, and was not the only one to wipe away a tear of pleasure. Margaret wore a long, pale green dress and she swung gently from side to side as she sang. Her red hair was long, and had been released from the ribbons which had held it in plaits, to fall about her shoulders like a shawl of gold.
While the children ate sandwiches, crisps and jellies and cakes, the adults attended them, while hoping there would be something left for themselves. Nelly wandered around, enjoying the crowd and full of a feeling of excitement. She saw Johnny and the vicar struggling up the field with the tea urn.
‘I ain’t seen Fay yet? She comin’?’ she shouted.
‘When she’s finished work. She always has a few calls on a Saturday morning,’ Johnny explained.
The queue for tea was long and Nelly thought she would go home and make her own. She was just pushing through the hedge at the edge of the lane when she saw the stranger.
In spite of the day being sunny and warm, he was wearing a coat, with the collar turned up around his face. He was walking away from her, his limp very pronounced, his head bent down as if to hide his face. Nelly followed him.
The noise from the castle was loud, even at this distance. Music from Tim’s gramophone plus the chatter and shrieks from the children. He did not look back, but headed for the trees not far from the cottage. Nelly moved from tree to tree, a bubble of excitement rising as she imagined herself playing detective. Then her mood fell to dismay. Ahead of them she saw a solitary figure. ‘Fay,’ she whispered.
Standing out of sight behind a hawthorn, she watched anxiously as the two people met. The man looked at Fay, then began to run away from her. Fay followed and the two figures were swallowed up in the greenery.
Nelly went to the cottage to make her cup of tea, but grew cold as she sat, staring up the garden to the wood, wondering what would happen next. That withered posy in red, white and blue, the colours of today. Had it been a message for Fay and Alan to meet?
Fay called Alan’s name and begged him to stop. Why was he running? His posy had told her he would be here and she had been longing for the hours to pass. He stumbled on a tree root and she lessened the gap between them. ‘Alan. Please wait,’ she begged. But whatever his intentions for the day had been, something had changed his mind. He paused at the edge of the stream where it had widened, and giving a brief glance back, he jumped over, scrambling as he missed the further bank, then he managed to gain the firm ground and soon disappeared among the trees. Fay called his name for an age, then slowly walked to the castle grounds.
Nelly walked back to the field and looked for Oliver. Just as they met up, and he began to tell her of what he had been doing since she left him, music blared out and Timothy announced a surprise item. He pointed towards the highest part of the old walls, and as the record was hushed, singing could be heard. In procession, walking down between the ruined stonework, came a band of minstrels in mediaeval costumes. They carried a few instruments, including guitars and accordians, which were hardly in keeping with the costumes but no one seemed to care. They all wore masks.
Using the ancient ramparts for a stage they sang and played a number of songs, and even did a simple dance. People in the audience that had quickly gathered listened, watched, and tried to recognise the people behind the disguise.
‘Harry Beynon,’ Nelly pointed. ‘That’s easy, ’im bein’ so tall. An’ Emlyn and Gwen Parry. Megan, Bronwen and Sian from next door to you, Ollie. Coo, ain’t that Mrs French? Fancy! And that’s young Johnny. I wonder where Fay is!’
‘Fay wouldn’t join him, more’s the pity,’ Netta Cartwright said. ‘It’s nice to do things together sometimes.’
Nelly glanced at her friend, aware of a hint of dismay in the gently spoken words.
‘Don’t want to live in each other’s pockets, they don’t. Not kids today.’
‘No, they say they want more variety in their lives.’ Still the lack of conviction.
‘Seen Fay ’ave yer?’ Nelly asked. ‘Thought I saw ’er a few minutes ago. Johnny said she’s comin’ later. Work ’as to come first.’
‘I’m just going to the kitchens; they might have seen her. I do hope she doesn’t miss all the excitement.’
Nelly shook her head. ‘No fear of that,’ she said emphatically. Netta gave Oliver a few pence for ice-cream and left them.
Nelly stood up and looked around for Fay’s blonde head. Fay was tall, several inches taller than Johnny, and she should be easy to see, if she were here.
The minstrels finished their singing and came down to find a partner each to start the dancing. Nelly saw Fay and Johnny as people moved to the area near the gramophone and began to dance. Johnny was obviously trying to comfort his wife, pressing a handkerchief to her face to wipe away her tears. Nelly did nothing. Best to let them sort it out themselves, although she longed to go and invite them to go to the cottage and talk in private.
‘There seems to be trouble within the happy throng.’ A voice at her side made Nelly jump with guilt at having been caught watching the couple in a private moment.
‘’Ello, Mrs French, dearie. ‘Avin’ a good time are yer? Wasn’t it you singin’ with them minstrels? Fancy you dressin’ up an’ all!’
‘It was my idea. We had the costumes from when Richard and I ran a concert party during the war. I thought it would be fun.’
‘It was that all right. Smashin’. Enjoyin’ it are yer?’
‘Very much. But not everyone is, it seems.’ She gestured to Fay and Johnny.
‘Early days yet. There’s always a bit of sortin’ to do when you’re newly married, ain’t there?’
‘Perhaps. Although I don’t remember having such problems. Nelly – she can’t be still grieving for my son, can she? I know that sounds silly, but she has visited me quite a lot lately.’
‘It’s eight years now since he – went missin’. Time to forget I’d ’ave thought. For a young girl I mean, not fer a mother of course,’ she added quickly.
Mrs French patted Nelly’s arm affectionately. ‘I know what you mean.’ She smiled at the rosy-cheeked woman and asked, ‘Your marriage wasn’t a very long one, was it? You never talk about… See? I don’t even know your husband’s name.’
‘Norman,’ Nelly supplied. ‘Norman Birkett.’
‘Birkett? But I thought – I’ve always called you Nelly Luke.’
‘’E passed on so quick after we was wed, it never stuck, the new name I mean. Nelly Luke I’ve stayed.’
Mrs French saw a momentary flash of unease in Nelly’s eyes. She had upset her by reminding her of her loneliness perhaps.
Then Nelly added, ‘Never did feel like no Mrs Norman Birkett. Nelly Luke people calls me.’ Again that shifty, sideways glance.
Monica French felt embarrassment flood her face. Nelly had never been married! Nelly now looked completely unconcerned, waving at Milly Toogood who was aiming balls at the old china on the Frustration stall. Monica hurriedly changed the subject.
‘Look, Nelly; isn’t that Harry Beynon, still in his mask? He seems to be heading this way. Perhaps he’s going to ask you to dance.’
Harry carried a glass of beer and beneath his mask, his lips were open in a smile.
‘Hello, Monica. Here, Nelly, this is for you, compliments of Johnny.’ He handed Nelly the foaming glass. ‘Sorry I haven’t anything for you,’ he smiled at Monica. ‘There’s only beer and I didn’t think you’d want that.’
‘No, no, don’t worry. I rarely drink,’ laughed Mrs French, ‘but I shall enjoy watching Nelly drink hers.’
Harry didn’t stay, but went back to where the older people were dancing to records played by Timothy.
‘’Andsome devil, ain’t ’e?’ Nelly said. ‘With that mask, ’e looks like some pirate. Flashin’ eyes and long ’air down ’is back – to make up for the bald bit on top I expect. It’s a wonder Prue don’t make ’im ’ave it cut though. That fussy about neatness she is. ‘Er’s looks like it’s been glued down.’ She laughed loudly and Mrs French looked around, hoping no one had overheard, chuckling, in spite of disapproving of Nelly’s outspokenness.
Mrs French left her then to go and find some friends. Nelly stood happily watching the dancers and drinking her beer. She saw Harry go to Amy, and from the gestures, guessed he was asking her to dance with him. Amy refused and pushed him angrily away. He laughed, and with an arm around her shoulders, half lifted her towards the rest of the dancers.
They danced together, but even from a distance, Nelly could see they were quarrelling. She wondered if there had been a disagreement about how much the work on the shop had cost, but the disagreement didn’t look like a business problem. More like lovers, she thought with a jolt.
Fay and Johnny were dancing, their heads together, hers bent slightly to compensate for her extra inches. They looked like lovers too, Nelly thought with a relieved sigh. Perhaps Fay had accepted that Johnny was her love. Instinctively she glanced towards the edge of the trees, now in shadow as the day was ending. She wondered with a shiver if the stranger, whether he be Alan or not, was watching, and she moved further into the crowd.
Later, Johnny brought her another beer. ‘None for sale,’ he explained. ‘Just some brought for the boys. One for you though, even if you aren’t one of the boys, eh?’
‘Ta ever so.’ She began drinking at once. ‘Enjoyin’ yerselves, are yer? You an’ Fay?’
‘It’s great fun. We ought to do it more often. Daft really, waiting for the Queen to give us an excuse. Plenty of other ideas I’m sure, if we set about it.’
‘What about my birthday for a start?’ she laughed. ‘Go on you, back to that wife of yours.’
Later still, when she had returned the glasses to the kitchens, Phil Davies gave her a drink, and so did Timothy, much to her surprise, although he added a warning not to mention it to Evelyn.
‘Where’s Oliver?’ Nelly wanted to know. ‘Ain’t seen ’im for a while.’
‘Try the swings. They’re free now it’s almost dark. He was there with some of his school friends when I saw him last.’
Nelly pushed her way through the laughing crowds, her gait a little unsteady, to the swings. As she came in sight of Evie and Prue, she hesitated, and stumbled. At once, Prue said loudly, ‘Here’s your mother, Evelyn dear, in need of some help again by the look of her.’
‘Old cow,’ Nelly muttered, and trying to walk upright and confident, succeeded in appearing more drunk than she actually was.
‘’Ere, Ollie, ’ave a sweet.’ She pulled out from her pocket a bag of sweets and offered the bag to Oliver, who took one quickly, before Evie could prevent him, and popped it into his mouth.
‘He’s had more than enough for one day. And so have you!’ Evie said. ‘Go home, Mother. Go home!’
‘No fear. I ain’t missin’ any of this!’
A bonfire was lit and in its glow, Nelly beamed with pleasure at the assorted faces. Children, red and grubby, many falling asleep in their mothers’ arms, on their fathers’ shoulders, or sprawled in untidy heaps on the grass. Evie’s face showed anger. Oliver’s was anxious and pale. Prue, she noticed curiously, was intently staring into the crowd, oblivious to everything except the object of her gaze. Nelly moved slightly to see what was taking Prue’s attention, making her eyes stare so concentratedly. Harry, she saw, was dancing with Amy, who still looked to be an unwilling partner.
Nelly glanced back at Prue, the coldness of her stare quite alarming. ‘’Ere, Evie, ’old this.’ She pressed her empty glass into Evie’s hand and went to where the dancers were performing a slow waltz. Pushing Amy aside, she said loudly, ‘What about a dance fer me then, eh?’
Amy ran off and after staring after her for a moment, Harry took Nelly in his arms and began dancing. ‘Blimey, I only comes up to yer chest!’ she exclaimed.
‘Pity it’s not the other way around!’ Harry laughed. He looked down at her for a moment, surprised at the lightness of her steps. ‘Why did you suddenly want to dance with me, Nelly?’
‘Your Prue didn’t like it – you an’ Amy. It ain’t my business, but this ain’t the place to mend quarrels.’
Harry laughed again. ‘You don’t miss much do you, Nelly Luke?’
‘Not if I can ’elp it! Got another beer, ’ave yer? Besides,’ she went on, ‘I don’t like your missus. Now if it was my Mrs French or someone like that…’
With a replenished glass, Nelly went back to Evie. ‘Where’s Ollie?’ she asked.
‘Oliver,’ Evie said with feeling, ‘is being sick.’
The crowds were thinning. People, especially those with small children, were filtering home. There were still a few dancers and small huddles of people, sitting chatting, and kissing, and talking love talk among the shadows. Occasionally laughter rang out, and a few screams as teasing continued among the young and the not so young. Young Margaret stood near the piano staring at the keys as if wanting to try and pick out a tune. But she didn’t touch it, just looked.
Fay saw Mrs French standing alone, and knew she must talk to her now, while she had the nerve. Tomorrow would be harder.
‘Mrs French, I know this will be a shock, but he’s alive. Alan is alive. I’ve seen him. He’s here, now.’ The words came out jerkily and unconvincing.
For a moment Mrs French stared at the girl as if she were seeing a ghost. ‘Fay, dear. What are you saying? Is this a joke?’
‘Alan is not dead.’
Monica stared around her, trying to see through the encroaching darkness, searching for his face among the crowd. Her son alive? After eight years? ‘Where is he?’ she asked with a choking cry. ‘Where?’
Johnny ran up and looked angrily at Fay. ‘Fay. You promised.’
‘I know I did, Johnny, but she has a right to know. She’s his mother.’
Tears glistened in Mrs French’s eyes and she asked Johnny shakily, ‘What has happened, Johnny?’
‘Fay thinks she has seen Alan.’
‘I have! He left me a message!’
Johnny looked at Mrs French and shook his head sadly.
‘Fay!’ the older woman said. ‘How could you upset me so? It’s wicked to say such a thing. Wicked.’ She touched her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘If he were alive he would have come home.’
Fay looked from one to the other. ‘Alan is alive I tell you. Not dead. Wandering around, afraid to come home.’ She gave a short scream of frustration and ran off. Johnny hesitated, wondering if he should leave Mrs French after such a shock.
‘Go after her, Johnny,’ she said. ‘She needs you.’
‘What can I say to her?’ he asked. ‘How can I compete with a ghost?’
Harry danced with his wife and Amy danced with Freddy. Then they changed partners, but Amy pulled away from Harry and accepted a dance from a man who was vaguely familiar.
‘Remember me?’ he said.
Amy frowned then remembered. ‘You’re the man who delivers to the shop.’
‘That’s me; Victor Honeyman. Look different without my brown overalls, do I?’
Harry stood watching, beside Prue.
‘Time they stopped,’ Prue said. ‘People want to pack up and go home. It’s been a long day for those who did all the work. Selfish, some people.’
‘Amy’s enjoying herself. She doesn’t get out much, what with the shop and the kids.’
They looked at Amy who was dancing as enthusiastically as when she began, hours ago. When she didn’t have a partner she danced alone, her jewellery flashing, her face flushed and full of excitement.
Amy sensed that the fun of the occasion now came from her. Partners were drawn to her like a magnet. Victor danced time and again, unwilling to leave her for a moment. The mood had emanated from her need to expend energy and she knew that when she stopped the mood would change and everyone would go home. She reached into her reserve and went on, pulling others into her energy source, as wildly excited as herself.
Timothy put on a slow waltz and announced that it was the last record.
‘Dance, Prue?’ Harry said.
She turned to face him without verbal agreement, and they joined the others in the brief finale.
‘I’ll be a bit late,’ Harry said as they walked away from the music. ‘I’ve got to make sure my wooden planks are safely stacked away. We’re leaving the piano until tomorrow. I’ve arranged with some of the boys to come about ten o’clock.’
‘I’ll go with Mrs French then.’ She walked off without another word, unable to show her pleasure at his asking her to dance, and his attentiveness during the latter part of the evening. She wondered if, tonight, she might not sleep alone.
The last of the crowd dispersed, leaving only a few men to gather up the remaining furniture. Most had been taken back to the church hall earlier in the evening and the cups and plates were stacked back in their accustomed places in the wooden boxes beside the trestle tables and folding chairs.
Harry’s lorry was half-filled with the stacked chairs, and as Harry was piling more with the rest he saw two figures waiting beside the ashes of the bonfire. ‘Freddy? Margaret?’ he called. ‘Want a lift home on the lorry?’
‘Yes please,’ Margaret said. She ran and lifted up her arms to him to be helped up. ‘Wait for Mammy, she’s talking to someone. She won’t be long though.’
Harry lifted her up into the cab and gestured to Freddy to help him finish loading the last of the wood and the remaining chairs.
‘Thought any more about working for me?’ Harry asked the boy.
‘Yes. I’d like to, Uncle Harry, but Mam isn’t too sure. She wants me to stay on a bit, get a few exams.’ He threw some planks easily onto the lorry. ‘Perhaps you can talk her round for me? I’d rather start work see, get a bit of money. Fed up with school, I am.’
‘Go and call your mother, boy, I’ll perhaps have a word with her. Now it’s time for us all to go home.’
With Freddy on the back of the lorry and Margaret inside the cab, Harry knew Amy could hardly refuse to ride with him. He said nothing as he helped her up beside him, and she took Margaret on her knee and they went down the lane past Nelly’s cottage in silence.
The field settled back into its customary silence, but it was a long time before the last light went out in the village. Nelly’s oil-lamp flickered and went out as she slept in the big armchair, too tired to undress and go to bed.
In the flattened grass around the castle, wind disturbed the rubbish, and swayed the trees. The movement increased as a man stepped out of the trees and wandered around the site. In the amphitheatre where the children had sung the piano stood, covered by sacks and a tarpaulin.
Quietly the covers were lifted. The figure stretched out his left hand and, with a foot pressing the soft pedal, began to play. The ghostly music drifted through the trees and filled the air with plantive melodies until dawn rose and the man closed the lid and walked away.