A Mother’s Hope

Unfortunately, when they finally ran the elderly night watchman to earth, he said he was unable to take over Martin’s shift that evening. ‘But don’t worry,’ he added. ‘My son will do it – he’s a reliable chap.’ Martin was forced to accept, although he wished he had time to clear the new arrangement with the boss. But Mr Carruthers was not on site that morning, so he just had to hope everything would go well.

They were unlucky with the trains, and by the time they reached Formby Scotty announced that it was too late to call on Millie’s parents that evening. Reluctantly, Martin agreed to find lodgings for the night and visit the Sandersons first thing the following morning. He spent an uncomfortable night, tossing and turning, worrying about Rose, wondering how young Naylor was getting on, and infuriated by the fact that Scotty, the cause of all his problems, seemed to have no trouble at all in dropping off to sleep as if he hadn’t a care in the world. By the time Martin felt it would be reasonable to go down to breakfast he was anxious, exhausted and angry in equal measure, and could hardly bring himself to speak to his unwelcome travelling companion.

They arrived at their destination soon after nine o’clock. Despite the fury that still gripped him, Martin was impressed by his surroundings, for the drive that led up to the Sandersons’ house wound between thick evergreens and was imposing enough to frighten anyone. Scotty declined to go further than halfway up the drive, handing Martin the note he had penned for Millie, with all its promises of good behaviour in the future. Privately, Martin thought the letter would be taken in and he would be dismissed, but in fact he spent almost half an hour with Millie’s parents. When he re-joined Scotty, he almost couldn’t bear to look at the other man. ‘They aren’t there,’ he said, keeping his voice level with an effort. ‘They never have been there, not either of them.’

Martin turned on him. His fists itched to hit the other man, but he did not want to start a brawl. ‘Scotty, listen to what I’m saying. They are two very nice people, whose daughter has hurt them badly. They feel that they’re the ones who have been cast off, but I’m sure that if Millie disowned you completely – divorced you, in fact – they would willingly accept her back; it’s only you who prevent them from doing so. And they told me why they disapproved of Millie’s having anything to do with you. How Mr Sanderson caught you beating up one of the village kids who was collecting windfalls in the orchard; the boy told you he’d had the Sandersons’ permission, but you went on . . . well, you know what happened better than meself.’

The journey back to Rhyl was largely conducted in silence, but when they were in the train once more Martin spoke, though coldly. ‘When we get home, you can find yourself different lodgings because there’s no point in even pretending that I want to be in your company, or have anything more to do with you,’ he said with brutal frankness. ‘You can go on searching for Millie if you like, but I’m telling you to your head that she won’t want you. If you’re determined to stay in Bath Street, then I reckon Rose and I will move out, because she’ll think just as I do.’ Scotty began to protest but Martin scowled at him. ‘Don’t bother arguin’ ’cos me mind’s made up. And now I’m goin’ to have forty winks, or I’ll be fit for nothing when I go to work tonight.’

Scotty began to plead, to suggest various places where the girls might have gone, but Martin ignored him and presently Scotty’s voice, and the rhythm of the train, took on the soothing cadence of waves on a sandy shore and Martin did indeed sleep.

Rose and Millie, clutching two by now rather fractious little boys, reached their destination in mid-afternoon. They stepped out on to a cold platform, and to Rose’s horror snowflakes began to descend as they handed over their tickets to the collector. He was a small, skinny man, whose huge walrus moustache was stained yellow with nicotine. ‘Nasty weather, girls,’ he said conversationally, looking up at the tiny flakes whirling past. ‘Where’s you bound on such a day? If it weren’t for them babbies, I’d say you was off to Pollyanna’s, though come to think they’ve got a nursery – like for mams wi’ little children – so you might be bound there?’ He raised a grizzled eyebrow, turning what might have been a statement into a question. Millie smiled at him and Rose, much amused, saw the poor man do a double take as the hood which her friend had pulled well forward slid back to reveal her injured face. ‘Oh, whatever happened, cariad? You poor thing!’

‘We will,’ Millie assured him. ‘But for now we’re looking for Ty Isa, which is a farm, I think. A – a friend said the people there would put us up for a couple of nights, just while we get work and find somewhere more permanent to stay.’

‘Oh, yes, it’s a farm,’ the man said. ‘But a mile or three outside the town, it is. And them babbies aren’t lightweights from the looks. You’d best nip out and stop Huw Williams from lightin’ out for home, ’cos he’ll be thinkin’ there’s no one got off the three twenty.’

But the ticket collector, following the direction of her gaze, gave a gasp and shot across the platform and into the road, holding up a hand, and presently the two girls, the babies and their baggage were safely stowed away in the cab. The driver, a young man with curly hair and an impudent grin, said he knew Ty Isa well, and very soon they were unloading their possessions in a warm farm kitchen and explaining to the farmer’s wife that they had been recommended by Gwyneth Prydderch, a supervisor at the pyjama factory, to come to Ty Isa on their arrival. Rose knew that it had been Mr McDonald’s idea to approach Gwyneth, but made no comment, and presently they were settled at the kitchen table, sipping hot tea, whilst the boys crawled around the floor and were cooed over by their hostess.

Explanations of course were called for, though the name Gwyneth Prydderch seemed to be the best introduction possible. ‘A fine girl, Gwyneth is,’ Mrs Evans, the farmer’s wife, assured them. ‘Second cousin to my man’s brother’s wife,’ she added, as though it explained everything. ‘Worked at the factory, she did, but they moved her up to Rhyl. I dare say that’s where you’ve come across her?’

‘That’s right,’ Millie said easily. ‘She sent a letter of recommendation to one of the directors, advising him that we’re good workers and asking him to take us on. We’re to go down to the factory tomorrow morning, to fill in application forms and take some sort of test. If we’re successful, the firm have promised that the children can go into the nursery and they’ll do their best to find us lodgings.

‘Very organised, you are,’ Mrs Evans said admiringly. ‘Well, I wish you luck, and you’re welcome to stay here until you find something more suitable. The difficulty is that we’re a good two miles from the factory and no bus. Of course you could get Huw Williams to pick you up and bring you home, but a pretty penny that would cost!’

‘We’re good walkers, even when carrying the babies,’ Rose said, rather timidly. She had borne up pretty well throughout the complications of the journey, but now she was tired and beginning to be worried. She was sure that Millie had been fibbing when she claimed that Gwyneth had written a letter of introduction, but she had no intention of letting her friend down by querying what she had said. Oh, if only Martin were here! But of course he had no idea where they had gone, so she could scarcely expect him to arrive, a knight in shining armour on a white horse, to rescue her from the dragon. The Welsh dragon, she thought, with a little snort of amusement.

By now she had realised that Millie was almost certainly expected at Pollyanna Modes, thanks to Mr McDonald, but of her own reception she was far less confident. Millie had had no idea when she had discussed her situation with Mr McDonald that it would be two young women with two babies who needed work, a roof over their heads and places in the nursery wing of the factory. If Martin had been here, she told herself, he would know just what to do. However, by the time she had eaten a delicious stew, which Mrs Evans described as ‘a bit of a scratch meal’, she had begun to feel better.

When the boys had eaten mashed potato and gravy and had had their night-time bottles, they were quite happy to be carried upstairs and placed head to toe in the old cot that Mrs Evans had produced. ‘In summer I take in families who don’t mind that Ty Isa is a bit remote,’ she had explained. ‘They want their children to enjoy the countryside and life on the farm, so I got the cot from my daughter Megan when she said she’d finished with it, and very useful it has been.’

As soon as they were alone in the old-fashioned bedroom, with its low window and sloping ceiling, Millie said quietly: ‘Mrs Evans is awfully nice, isn’t she, Rose? It’s not everyone who would be willing to put up a couple of young girls and their babies at a moment’s notice. To tell you the truth, I’d love to get into that bed right now, but it isn’t even seven o’clock yet, so we’d better go down and help with the washing up.’

They descended the narrow twisting stair, but though they offered to help clear away the meal Mrs Evans, after a shrewd look at them, said that it would not be necessary. ‘Mr Evans and my sons Arfon and Dewi will be in presently for supper,’ she explained. ‘No point in clearing up until they’ve had their meal. If you want to go off to bed, so’s you’re well rested for tomorrow, then that’s what you should do.’ She had been sitting at the table, but now she got to her feet and took Millie’s hands. ‘A right mess he’s made of your face, me love,’ she said gently. ‘And don’t go inventin’ stories, because I’ve been around a long time and I was married before to a man who . . . but the less said of that the better. Now off to bed, the pair of you!’

Martin and Scotty arrived back in Rhyl at five o’clock and headed straight for Bath Street. Martin had bought a loaf and some cheese at the nearest shop and made some sandwiches and a flask, and then set off for the building site. When he reached it, however, a nasty shock awaited him. When he walked into the night watchman’s hut, Jimmy Carruthers, the boss’s son, was sitting at the small table, with a pile of papers in front of him. He looked up as Martin entered, but did not smile. ‘So you’re back, Thompson,’ he said coldly. ‘I don’t suppose you know it, but a fine mess you got us into by going off the way you did.’

‘He may be reliable, but he’s not experienced,’ Mr Jimmy said. ‘Thanks to him we lost a load of wood and a quantity of bricks, probably to the same gypsies you chased off the other night. I’m not saying young Naylor isn’t honest, but I am saying he wasn’t up to the job, so this morning my father hired someone else; he starts work tonight.’

Martin took a breath, then let it out in a long defeated sigh and left, a hand on Don’s smooth, velvety head. Throughout the walk back to Bath Street he wrestled with the problem of how to pay the rent with only the income from the maintenance work on the fair. Unless Rose came back pretty quickly, he would be forced to go on the dole, and he knew very well that that would not cover all his expenses. He reflected, however, that the money he and Rose had saved in their Post Office account would come in useful until he got another full-time job.

On his return to his room, he shared the cheese sandwiches he had made earlier with Don, and racked his brain for a solution to his problem. Once, he would have gone next door and consulted Scotty, but not any more; never again, in fact. Instead, he planned a tour of every shop, office and building site in the town; decided to ask his ex-boss for a reference, even contemplated writing one himself. When at last he crawled into bed, he was feeling less hopeless; surely something would turn up? He would go to the funfair and ask Mr Foster if there was any chance of more work now that his weekdays would be free.

Satisfied that he had done all the planning possible, he got between the sheets, not on his camp bed, but in the big double which still smelled delightfully of Rose. He fell asleep at last, to dream of her clattering up the stairs to the attic and her warm breath on his cheek.

He awoke to find that Don had joined him on the bed and was breathing softly into his face, and this amused him so much that he got himself a breakfast of porridge and toast in an optimistic and cheerful frame of mind. He would find something. He was a good worker, and if only the boss would give him a decent reference . . .

His visit to the offices, however, produced only the wages owed and a grudging admission from the boss that, if asked, he would supply a reference. ‘Of sorts,’ he added, and Martin, sighing, realised that it might be wiser not to mention the building site when applying for other work.

As Rose had thought, Millie had been welcomed – and expected – at Pollyanna Modes, but Rose herself had come as a total surprise. At first, the lady in charge of the Personnel Department had simply said she would put Rose’s name on the waiting list, but Millie, feeling that she had let her friend down, had insisted on an interview with Mr McDonald. After talking to Millie, he had said that Rose might work as a nursery assistant in the firm’s crèche, and though the pay did not compare with that earned by the machinists and finishers in Pollyanna Modes, it would be sufficient if she were careful.

‘I’m going to write to Martin tonight, telling him we’re all right, but I won’t suggest that he join us, because there’s no work around here for a feller,’ Rose said. ‘It’s odd, but I feel like somebody with only one arm because I’m not in touch with Martin.’

‘Lucky you, to have a husband like him,’ Millie said sincerely. ‘But where will you send the letter? Oh, Rose, don’t send it to Bath Street because I reckon Scotty will still be in the room next door and he’s quite capable of sneaking in when Martin’s at work and going through any papers lying about. I’m still afraid that he – Scotty, I mean – might have read the letter you left for Martin when we fled. Oh, I know you say there were no clues to where we’d gone . . .’

‘You read the perishin’ letter,’ Rose said indignantly, ‘so you know very well what I said. If Scotty had guessed where we’d gone, he’d have been here by now. And I wouldn’t dream of writing to Martin at Bath Street; I said I’d send it to his boss at the building site and ask him to hand it on.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Of course I read the letter and I know you’d not give me away, even by accident,’ Millie said contritely. ‘But you know I still can’t sleep on my left side because my face is so sore, and whenever I laugh my mouth hurts like hell and it makes me remember . . . oh, all the worst things Scotty did to me.’

‘Poor old Millie! But you look ever so much better now. However, I heard what Mr McDonald said when he first saw your face – that if Scotty tried to come near you he’d break his bloody neck. He didn’t seem at all worried at the thought of coming between a man and his wife.’ She looked shyly at her friend. ‘He really does like you, Millie. Oh, how I wish you’d never married Scotty!’

They were sitting on their bed at Ty Isa and now Millie turned to her, a smile curving her swollen lips. ‘That, dearest Rose, was the one folly I didn’t commit. Scotty and I never did actually get married. Oddly enough, it was I who tried to persuade him to tie the knot, and he who kept drawing back. I always said he was immature. Part of that immaturity was his desire to remain unattached, a bachelor gay in fact, though he wanted to have a woman who would take care of him by cooking, cleaning and generally behaving more like a servant than a wife.’

‘And he didn’t want to marry you even when you told him you were expecting Alex?’ Rose asked incredulously. ‘What a fool Scotty is. But of course it’s a blessing for you. He has no claim on you, or on Alex.’ She grinned wickedly at her friend. ‘You could say Alex was Peter McDonald’s son, if push came to shove.’

Millie chuckled appreciatively. ‘Peter wouldn’t mind,’ she said, and Rose realised it was the first time her friend had used Mr McDonald’s Christian name, in her hearing at any rate. ‘He really is nice, Rose; the opposite of Scotty, in fact. Oh, I know he’s tall and very good-looking, but he’s also gentle and kind. If he ever did ask me to – to go to a film or something, I’d know I’d be absolutely safe with him.’

‘I don’t see how you can know,’ Rose said after some thought. ‘I agree he’s awfully popular in the factory, but Scotty was probably popular at his works; come to think of it, you said all the girls were after him. So don’t you go trusting any feller until you know him real well.’

‘I won’t,’ Millie promised, but the little smile still lurked. ‘To tell you the truth, if you wouldn’t mind babysitting Alex this evening, Peter has asked me out. He’s told me quite a lot about himself. Apparently, he was engaged to be married once, only she ran off with someone else and it made him wary of all women.’

‘Well, it would. Of course I’ll babysit,’ Rose said readily. ‘But tell me, Millie, when did you learn all this about Mr McDonald? Oh, I know he used to talk to you whenever he came over to Rhyl, but I’m sure he never gave you the intimate details of his life. Or if he did, you never told me.’

Millie giggled again, looking self-conscious. ‘Oh, I might as well tell you everything, I suppose. You know I went into the factory to be shown the ropes yesterday, while you were being taken round the crèche? Ever such a nice girl – her name’s Anna – took me round and introduced me to everyone. She showed me how things worked, of course, but though the designs are far more complicated the machines are just the same as the ones at the pyjama factory. I did a sort of test on them and passed with flying colours. Then, before I came to find you, Mr McDonald called me into his office and we had a long talk. I told him everything he hadn’t guessed about Scotty, including the fact that we weren’t ever actually married, and I can tell you all the worry lines on his forehead smoothed out and he positively beamed. Then he went all serious and told me why he’d never married – he is thirty-eight after all.’

‘Well, then he sort of mumbled that he had liked me from that time in the foyer, when he promised to put us on the waiting list for jobs. He said that after a few meetings he’d known I was the only girl for him, though he thought I was married and couldn’t possibly feel the same. Only I told him I did – feel the same I mean – and then he smiled again and said he wouldn’t rush me, but would I have dinner with him tonight, at a little riverside pub ten miles from here. He chose it because he didn’t want people gossiping about me – tongues wag overtime in small communities – so of course I said I’d love to; I was sure you’d babysit if I asked.’

Rose chuckled. ‘Considering we’re two miles from town and I don’t know a soul, it’s pretty unlikely that I won’t be here all evening,’ she observed. ‘So I’ll babysit all right. And thanks for telling me how things stand, Millie. I’ve always liked Mr McDonald, but after your experience with Scotty I think you’d be wise to take things slowly, get to know one another properly.’

Millie agreed with this sage advice, though Rose thought it very unlikely that her friend would turn cautious overnight. She had always been impulsive, acting before she thought, and Rose feared that she would go on doing so, despite promises to the contrary.

As soon as Mr McDonald had called for her friend, parking his Ford Zephyr convertible with a flourish, Rose went to her room, checked that the babies were still sleeping, fetched her writing materials and went down to the kitchen. Being largely ignorant of cars, she merely remarked to Mrs Evans that the vehicle looked very expensive, and Arfon, eating at a great rate, informed her that indeed it was. ‘It’s the newest thing: a Ford Zephyr convertible with a 2,262 cc six cylinder engine,’ he informed her. ‘Grand it is to be the boss and take home a huge salary, because them cars simply drink petrol and prices haven’t half risen since the Suez crisis.’

Rose agreed, though her personal recollection of the Suez crisis, which had taken place almost a year earlier, was confined to seeing a newspaper picture of a slogan which the Egyptians had painted on a railway bridge close to the Suez Canal. Go home British, your king is a woman, it had read, causing much amusement to the invading troops and the journalists who had accompanied them.

But before she could do more than agree that Millie was lucky to be riding in such a vehicle, Arfon and his brother had changed the subject and were discussing the latest film to be shown at the cinema in their small town. ‘It’s Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra,’ Arfon said through a mouthful of potato. ‘We might see that and then go to the pub for a pint.’

His brother spread out the newspaper. ‘It’s High Society,’ he read slowly. ‘Yes, I’d like to see that.’ He turned to Rose. ‘Want to come with us, Mrs Thompson? You’d be welcome, though you’d have to ride in Da’s old baby Austin.’

Rose, however, shook her head firmly. She liked both young men, but did not fancy being the bone between two dogs, and anyway she had other fish to fry tonight. Mrs Evans, producing a bread and butter pudding from the oven, offered to babysit but once more Rose shook her head. ‘It’s awfully kind of you, but the babies hardly know you really and they’re nervous with strangers,’ she said apologetically. ‘Once they’re used to you, it might be different. And anyway, we left so hurriedly that even our landlady doesn’t have a forwarding address, so you see I must write some letters.’ She glanced meaningfully at the farmer’s sons. ‘I’m hoping that my husband may join me if he can find work . . . oh, I realise he can’t do that whilst we’re staying with you, Mrs Evans, but once we’ve got a place of our own . . .’

‘He could stay with us and welcome,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘However, Mrs Scott told me you’ll be moving on because of the difficulties of getting to and from the factory.’ She began to dish up the bread and butter pudding, glancing sideways at Rose as she did so. ‘If you want to write letters, best go into the parlour, ’cos these two great lummocks are quite capable of spilling tea all over the page, or spraying it with bread and butter pudding.’

There was a great outcry at this from both young men, but Rose gathered up her writing materials and went into the small, stuffy room, which was filled with old-fashioned furniture. She sat down on a sofa upholstered in vivid green sateen, pulled an elaborate little side table towards her, spread out paper, ink and pen, and began to write. She told herself that she must not give too much away in case Scotty saw the letter, but she knew, really, that Martin would be careful to keep the information to himself. She had told him what Scotty had done to Millie, and though Millie had been convinced that Scotty would destroy the letter before Martin came back from his night’s work, Rose was equally sure that Martin would discover the truth. At first she sat staring ahead of her, wondering how to begin, but once she had started the words flowed easily from her pen.

Dear Martin,

Sorry to have left in such a hurry, leaving you only a little scrap of a note, but Millie felt it wasn’t safe to linger in case Scotty came back. I don’t know how much you’ve guessed, but we’re in a farmhouse in mid-Wales, a short distance from Dinas Newydd. It is a lovely spot and there is work for us both, though it is in a factory which only employs women, apart from the bosses of course, and some designers and engineers, and you, dear Mart, couldn’t do that sort of work.

I left you our Post Office book so I know you’ll be okay for money for quite a while, though of course you do have your wages for the night work and also whatever you earn from maintaining the funfair, but I do think you ought to come here as soon as you can get leave from your various jobs so we can discuss our situation properly. Ty Isa isn’t on the telephone and of course nor is Mrs Osborne, so we can’t talk to one another; it has to be a visit. You will come, won’t you, Mart? Drop me a line telling me when and I’ll meet the train. We do miss you, all of us, and give Don a big hug and a kiss from me because we miss him, too.

Take care of yourself and don’t wait too long before replying to this letter.

Your Rose.

Rose printed her new address at the bottom of the page, folded it, pushed it into an envelope and then considered what she should do next. She sealed the note, realising, however, that she could not send it since she had no stamps. At this point Mrs Evans came into the room to say that one of the boys was crying. ‘I know they have a night-time bottle, so I put the kettle on as soon as I heard him begin to whimper,’ she said.

Rose thanked her sincerely, but when she enquired about stamps, the farmer’s wife shook her head. ‘No, cariad, I’m not much of a letter writer, but of course you can buy some on Monday when the post office opens. Or are you starting work Monday, same as your pal?’

‘Oh, Lord, of course I forgot tomorrow’s Sunday; and yes, I do begin on Monday,’ Rose admitted. ‘I start at eight and don’t finish until half-past six, because I’m working in the nursery, not in the factory itself. I suppose I could go in my dinner hour . . .’

When Millie got back from her evening out she was flushed and smiling, full of how beautiful the riverside pub had been, how delicious the food and – after a shy glance at Rose – how delightful the company. But she was unable to provide her friend with any stamps and suggested that they might walk into the village the next day and see if they could find a vending machine.

When they woke on the Sunday morning, however, a curtain of rain had swept down on the countryside, causing Mrs Evans to advise them not to risk a chill by going out. The girls were determined, however, so their landlady lent them an old pram which had once belonged to her daughter and they donned their waterproofs, wrapped the boys up warmly and set off, needing fresh air and wanting to talk. Kind though Mrs Evans was, she was also curious, and both girls realised that they needed to discuss their situation without being overheard.

There was no stamp machine in the village, so the two of them turned aside into the gentle green hills and presently found an ancient barn where they could take shelter if the rain continued. They reached the barn just as the rain stopped – Sod’s law, Millie said – and settled down on a pile of hay, for Rose had decided that, as Millie had confided in her, she should do the same. Accordingly, she admitted that she and Martin were not, in fact, married.

But Rose shook her head obstinately. Having started, she realised she would have to tell her friend everything. ‘Yes, but it’s not love, it’s just that we like each other very much. We’re pals, you see,’ she explained. ‘To tell the truth, Millie, I don’t think I really want to marry anyone, especially not Mart. He’s – he’s different, being so pink and white. And anyway, Martin isn’t Ricky’s father. I – I was interfered with by a much older man . . .’

Rose stared admiringly at her friend. ‘Aren’t you quick, Millie?’ she said. ‘Yes, it was horrible old Mr Ellis. We were at Guide camp . . .’ The story took some time in the telling since Millie would keep interrupting, but it was done at last, and the girls set out once more into the beautiful, gentle hills which reared up around Ty Isa, and headed for home.

Millie was thoughtful for the last half-mile or so, but as they entered the farmyard she turned to Rose once more. ‘It’s a pity you say you don’t want to marry Mart, because it’s as plain as the nose on your face that he adores you. But you’ll probably change your mind once Ricky begins to need two parents.’

Rose made some non-committal reply, but that night she lay awake for a long time, thinking over what Millie had said. Perhaps her friend was right and she would change her mind about wanting a husband. And if she did, could she ever love anyone more than she loved Mart?