A Sixpenny Christmas (7 page)

As they entered the kitchen Molly said, ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Pritchard; you are good! If you would like to sit down and wait for a moment, I will make the tea, but I must put Rhiannon in her cot before I do anything else. As you can see, she’s fast asleep, and I don’t want to wake her.’

Mrs Pritchard smiled again, then held out her arms and said slowly: ‘She iss beautiful . . . may I . . . ?’

Molly did not hesitate but willingly laid the baby in her neighbour’s arms.

Mrs Pritchard began to say something in Welsh and Rhys translated quickly, speaking directly to Molly. ‘Mrs Pritchard says she would like to hold the baby whilst you make us all a cup of tea. She says any time we need a babysitter she will be delighted to give a hand.’

When the tea was brewed, Molly put Rhiannon into the old Moses basket, settled Chris on the hearthrug with a jigsaw and a piece of cake and turned to her neighbour. ‘I will really try to learn to speak Welsh, Mrs Pritchard, but I’m afraid I was never much good at languages at school,’ she said apologetically. ‘Do you think your Rhodri might pop into Cefn Farm on his way home from school a couple of times a week? If he could teach me some useful words and sentences I’d be so grateful.’

Mrs Pritchard agreed at once and sat smiling contentedly whilst Chris chattered to her about his new little sister. Rhys insisted on giving Mrs Pritchard a lift home in the
baby Morris and later that evening Molly asked him if he too might begin to speak to her in Welsh, for surely if Chris could learn she should be able to do likewise.

‘I hope so,’ Rhys said, but he spoke rather doubtfully. ‘Our language means a lot to us all; did you know that during the war the men who sent the radio messages from ship to ship in the Navy and from one division to another in the army were nearly always Welsh? The enemy could not understand a word. So you see, Welsh really isn’t a dead language and we don’t want it to become one. If you’re sure it’s what you want, I’ll speak Welsh to Chris, and I expect you’ll soon find you begin to understand everything we say.’

Molly was anxious to do as Rhys suggested and produced an exercise book which she had bought in the hospital shop, announcing that it should become her Welsh dictionary. ‘By the time it’s full I’ll hardly ever need to use it,’ she promised Rhys. ‘In fact by the time Chris’s old enough to go to the village school we’ll both be chattering away in English and Welsh. And by the time Rhiannon’s in school . . .’

‘Oh, by the time Rhiannon’s in school you’ll be a positive professor,’ Rhys said, laughing. He glanced at the clock above the mantel. ‘Do you want me to fetch Nonny through? It’s twenty past ten; she’s already late for her next feed.’

Ellen and her mother climbed aboard the tram with the baby in Ellen’s arms. Mrs Meakin hustled her daughter into a seat, ordering the conductor, in a very peremptory fashion, to ‘let the gel sit down. That baby’s a new ’un, and don’t want no more jiggling about than she can help.’

The conductor grinned. ‘Right you are, missus,’ he said breezily. ‘We don’t want to turn the milk sour, do we?’

‘Cheeky bugger,’ Mrs Meakin said disapprovingly, but Ellen could not forbear to smile. She was so happy with her beautiful baby that she did not care whether she was jiggled or not. All she cared about was getting back to 21 Dryden Street so that she could settle the baby into the Moses basket her mother had given her, and start her new life as the mother of the beautiful little girl who slumbered now in the crook of her arm.

The tram decanted them at the appropriate stop, the conductor shouting to the driver to give these ladies plenty of time to alight. ‘They got on at the hospital so the baby’s only a few days old,’ he assured his colleague, jumping off the tram as soon as it stopped and tenderly assisting Ellen to get down. Then she and her mother waved him a cheery goodbye and set off to walk the short distance between the tram stop and Dryden Street. Ellen had thought the baby a light little burden when they left the ward and was astonished and even a little dismayed to find how heavy the child became as she walked. She said as much to her mother, making Mrs Meakin give a snort of amusement.

‘I’d take over, ’cept this here suitcase weighs four times what your babby does,’ she assured her daughter. ‘What have you got in it, anyway? Bricks?’

Ellen laughed, ‘Nah, just me night things and baby stuff,’ she said. ‘I’ve never thought of meself as superstitious, but oh, Mum, I wanted this baby so bad and I were so scared something awful might happen that I wouldn’t go buyin’ anything more than the hospital
needed. But I got money hid away so’s I can buy her an old pram. Whilst she’s little she’ll sleep in one of the drawers of the big dressing table, but later on I mean to see she has a proper cot wi’ bars an’ that; you know, the sort with the side that lets down.’

‘Aye, I know what you mean; your sister Myrtle had one when her kids were small. I reckon young Toby is only just out of it so if you can arrange for someone to pick it up I’m sure she’ll be glad to give it you.’

‘To lend it maybe,’ Ellen said cautiously. ‘You never know, Myrtle might have half a dozen more kids. She’s got five already.’

Mrs Meakin sighed. ‘She’s a good girl our Myrtle, but she can’t say no, nor ever did, and of course Jimmy’s a strong Catholic and comes from a big family hisself. He’s one of eleven, ain’t he? So you’re probably right and the cot’ll be a loan rather than a gift.’

Ellen thought of her sister Myrtle’s three-storey house in Blackpool. It was a happy house. Myrtle’s kids shared the big attic rooms on the top floor and her sister and Jimmy took in paying guests in the summer. Jimmy ran a pleasure boat which he was buying on the never-never, and a happier family you would have to go a long way to find. If only Sam were like Jimmy, Ellen found herself thinking. If only he didn’t drink; that’d be something. I dare say Jimmy has the odd bevvy from time to time – well, I know he does – but he’d no more dream of being nasty to our Myrtle than he’d fly to the perishin’ moon. Still, I s’pose it’s just possible my darlin’ Lana will make Sam a changed man. Mebbe I shan’t have to get one of them court orders to keep him out of the house. Wouldn’t it be just grand if he turned into another Jimmy?

She was saying as much to her mother as they reached Dryden Street and her own small terraced house. They approached the front door and Mrs Meakin hauled the key up through the letterbox, fitted it into the keyhole and swung the door wide. ‘In you go, chuck,’ she said breezily, dumping the suitcase at the foot of the stairs and heading for the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on; after carting that big fat babby of yours all the way from the hospital I reckon what you need most will be a nice cuppa.’

Ellen, agreeing with her, followed her into the kitchen and was surprised, even a trifle alarmed, to see that the kettle was already on the stove and hissing gently. She looked round wildly, expecting to see Sam looming up, but instead her neighbours, Mrs Rathbone and Mrs Durrant, stood by the kitchen table beaming at her. ‘Welcome home, Mrs O’Mara,’ they said, beaming, Mrs Durrant adding: ‘How do, Mrs Meakin? Me and me pal here is longin’ to see the little ’un!’ Both visitors clucked over the baby, then Mrs Rathbone pointed to the kitchen table. ‘I made a cake and there’s some biscuits what Mrs Durrant here brought round earlier. We knew you was coming out today but we didn’t know what time you’d arrive.’

Ellen licked her lips at the sight of the big soggy fruit cake and the plate of mixed biscuits standing in the middle of the table. The neighbours on either side of her had both moved out since her pregnancy, going to live with married daughters some way off, and their houses had been taken by the two women smiling across at her. So despite having lived in Dryden Street all her married life, Ellen hardly knew them. She supposed that the
furious fights between herself and Sam had kept folk at a distance, but Mrs Rathbone and Mrs Durrant were clearly offering friendship and she appreciated what a difference good neighbours could make. They would not interfere between a married couple, but she was sure, now, that these women would give her what support they could.

Mrs Meakin, having seen her daughter and granddaughter safely home, left to catch her tram, and Ellen thanked her new friends profusely, saying that she was just going to put Lana down but would be very glad of a cuppa and a bite when she returned. ‘And you must call me Ellen,’ she instructed. ‘And I’ll call you . . . ?’

‘I’m Hannah,’ Mrs Durrant said, ‘and this here . . .’ she pointed to Mrs Rathbone, ‘is Janet. If there’s anything you want, ’cos you won’t be up to gettin’ your own messages for a while, I reckon, just give us a knock and let us know.’

Ellen felt tears rise to her eyes. When she had lived with her parents she had taken good neighbours and friends for granted, but now she realised how Sam’s attitude had alienated people. She looked hopefully from one face to another. ‘You’re new to Dryden Street, ain’t you? I just hope my husband hasn’t disturbed you when he comes in late. He’s – he’s a docker, you know, and it just so happens that there’s a deal of work down on the docks at the moment which means he’s got money in his pocket when it comes to finishin’ time. I’m – I’m afraid he’s fond of a bevvy and sometimes he gets a trifle rowdy. I hope as how he’s not disturbed you . . .’

The two women laughed and began to disclaim and Ellen, taking a good look at them, decided that they were
much of an age, probably in their mid-thirties. Since they were both married and since no man was perfect she supposed that from time to time they must have problems of their own. Husbands who drank a little too much, sons who kicked footballs through other people’s windows, possibly even daughters who got in the family way and couldn’t name the father. But of course at this stage in their relationship it was unlikely that they would divulge any of their own problems to someone they had just met.

In a way, however, Ellen decided that this was all to the good since she had told her friend Molly that she was starting a new life, a life without Sam. Well, time alone would tell whether she had spoken the truth or whether it had been mere wishful thinking. She realised that if Sam had to force his way into the house, kicking doors down or smashing windows, he would be in no very pleasant state of mind when he did gain admittance. She would simply have to let him in, turning him out only if he tried to use his fists and boots on her or the baby. Once he had done that she could go to the scuffers and get one of the court order things which would mean he would not dare to come near her.

But her two new friends were pouring fresh tea, cutting the cake once more and pointing out the pie they had bought so that she might have a meal ready for her husband when he returned home.

‘’Cos like all fellers, he’ll be all the sweeter if there’s food on the table,’ Hannah remarked. ‘My Fred’s like a bear wi’ a sore head if he comes back to a cold kitchen and the kids hollerin’ that they ain’t ate nothin’ since school dinner.’

‘Mine an’ all,’ Janet Rathbone admitted. ‘I’ve only the one child – Cyril – but he can make as much noise as his da if he ain’t fed regular.’

Ellen hesitated; should she say what was on her mind, which was the recollection of the last meal she had made for Sam before going into hospital? She had baked a meat pie, saving up for the ingredients over several weeks, for the austerity which had gripped the land ever since the war ended was still very much in force. A lot of food had been taken off ration but seemed to have completely disappeared and everyone was horribly aware that the lease-lend arrangement with America had ceased as soon as the war was over. This meant, so far as Ellen could make out, that the country had to tighten its belt and pay back as soon as possible every penny that the Americans had poured into the war. So shortages had remained a way of life, but even so Ellen had managed to make a large and delicious beef, onion and carrot pie and had presented it to Sam with more than a touch of pride, but not without a flicker of fear, for he had come into the kitchen as surly as a bear and obviously looking for a fight.

He had found one in the unlikely shape of the pie. He had flicked its glorious golden crust with a disdainful forefinger before announcing belligerently that pie and mash was only good for kids; he was a man he was, and after a hard day’s work on the docks he fancied steak and chips.

The sheer idea of laying her hands on a steak was so absurd that Ellen had laughed and that, it seemed, had really put the cat among the pigeons. Since her pregnancy, the threats she had made to kill him as he slept if harm
came to her or her child had kept him at bay until the beef pie incident. Then he had forgotten caution, picked up the delicious pie and hurled it through the open kitchen door into the yard. Ellen’s cry of distress as she ran outside had only served to increase his rage. He had come at her like an enormous bull charging a very small matador, but Ellen did not think he had actually touched her because she had skidded on the gravy from the pie and ended up on all fours. Sam had tripped over her and gone head first into the privy door, knocking himself out cold. Scrambling to her feet, Ellen had returned to the house for just long enough to pick up the Gladstone bag she had already packed in readiness for her time in hospital. She had cast one disgusted glance at her husband and another sad one at her lovely pie. Then she had lit out for the nearest tram stop, arriving at the hospital just as her pains had started and the first faint rumblings of thunder could be heard on the icy air.

So now, she looked curiously at her neighbours. She could not for the life of her remember whether they had been around at the time when the pie – and Sam – had bitten the dust, but remembering that her husband had just returned from work she supposed that their men, too, had probably just arrived in their kitchens, where the women would be far too busy with the preparation of the evening meal to take notice of the angry mutterings from next door. After all, why should they? On that particular occasion at least Sam had not reached the noisy stage, so that the only unusual sounds the neighbours would have heard would have been the pie crashing to earth in the yard, her own muffled grunt of pain as she fell and the thump of Sam’s head as it hit the privy door.