Goodbye to Dreams (10 page)

Cecily called goodbye as she went out to join Gareth and for the first time there was no cheery response from Ada. But it was irritation Cecily felt as she slammed the shop door, making the bell jangle in reproof, not guilt.

The day was a blustery one. Clouds raced across the leaden sky, roof-tops reflecting the dull colour. Trees swayed in leisurely dance; the grass rippled like a gaudy sea. The horse objected to the gusts which brought dust to
irritate
his eyes and nostrils and he snorted and shook his head as he trotted along the road.

Ada rode with Willie, a big scarf wrapped around her hat to hold her hair neatly in place. They tied the horse to a convenient lamppost near Dorothy’s house and knocked on the door. Dorothy Owen wasn’t the type to approve of visitors calling and walking in. There was no response so they went around to what Dorothy called the tradesmen’s entrance and walked in.

They found Annette busily scrubbing out the big larder cupboard under the stairs. She was flushed with her efforts and the colour deepened when Willie walked in behind her aunt. She dried her rounded arms and quickly removed the sacking apron she had been wearing to protect her clothes.

When they explained the reason for their visit, she was delighted at the suggestion she helped at the shop.

‘Mam works all week at the department store now and uses her half day to visit friends,’ she explained. ‘Apart from occasional days at the beach
helping with trays, I stay home. Mam thought it best I manage the house – she can earn more than me, after all. It makes sense and … I like
housework
,’ she added firmly as though to convince herself.

‘But you’d prefer to help us?’ Ada coaxed. ‘See a bit of life rather than be stuck here on your own?’

Willie stood just inside the door, cap in hand, his best coat worn over an old white shirt and a brown tie. The grey pin-striped trousers were clean and neatly pressed. Ada saw the girl’s eyes dart to him before she replied.

‘Yes, Auntie Ada. I’d love that. I expect Mam and I will manage the work between us.’

‘Pity she doesn’t make your Owen help.’

Annette laughed. ‘But he’s a boy!’

‘The coal and sticks for the fire? He could see to that.’ Ada picked up one of Annette’s hands and looked at the redness and the damaged nails. ‘Beautiful you are, and you should be showing a healthy vanity about your hands as well as the rest of you at your age. Don’t you agree, Willie?’

Embarrassed, Willie stuttered then managed to say, ‘Yes, Miss Ada. Beautiful, yes.’

Ada smiled. It was unkind to tease them, but irresistible.

After a cup of tea and some biscuits made by Annette, they left her to discuss their proposal with her mother and set off again. They had to be at school to meet Van but first they went to the old village where Willie lived, and called on Phil Spencer, the printer.

Phil worked from the small cottage he shared with his mother. He had been knocked over by one of the charabancs that took trippers on days out a few years previously and walked with a serious limp. One leg was
permanently
twisted and bent awkwardly at the knee. He was a popular and cheerful man although few would trust him with either their money or their daughters.

He was in the garden when the cart stopped outside his gate and he waved and came to meet them. ‘Well, well. There’s a lovely sight! Ada Owen in her best bib and tucker and arriving on a delivery cart! Bringing her for me, are you, Willie?’ Phil was pale with a face many described as weaselly, and his fingers were constantly engrained with black ink, but his light-hearted manner always brought a smile. ‘Did you dress up special for me, then, Ada?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of coming to see Phil Spencer in anything but my best,’ Ada said, patting the frilly hat she wore.

‘Come on in, both of you, I’ll just wash my hands.’ He darted in his ungainly way into the house and came out a moment later, drying hands that looked the same as when he went in on a grubby towel.

‘Mam’s putting the kettle over the fire, come in, come in.’ He stepped forward to help her down, his movements jerky, his manner enthusiastic.

There was a sharp intelligence about his face with its shrewd blue eyes, but Willie, through various rumours and his own instinct, saw greed; an impression that he was counting values and costs even through his smile. Willie saw Phil Spencer as a man who loved money and didn’t care how he got it. Ada saw a man who was a flatterer, a flirt and someone ready for fun.

She was genuinely disappointed that they couldn’t stay for tea. ‘I just want to pick up the price lists we ordered. We need them for next week and you know how reliable you are at getting them to us on time!’ She smiled to soften the criticism.

‘Cup of tea! Now that won’t take a moment,’ Phil insisted. ‘You too, Willie Morgan. Tie the horse to the gate. It’s a bit loose, mind, that gate. I hope he doesn’t fancy a walk!’ Chattering non-stop, ignoring Ada’s plea that they couldn’t spare the time, he escorted them inside to where his mother was already pouring out teas. Before she spoke to them, she snatched the stained towel from her son.

‘Fancy taking that outside! I don’t want this lady to think I’m a
slummock
!’ She turned to her visitors, bright blue eyes so like those of her son. ‘Give him rags for the workshop. Dirty
mochyn
he is, showing it outside for the neighbours to see.’ She pulled chairs out from the table and gestured for them to sit. ‘
Teisen lap
?’ she asked and Willie nodded enthusiastically.

‘Yes please, Mrs Spencer. No one makes that like you do.’

‘You must take some home with you, Willie. Poor boy, too, without his mam.’ Willie stopped her mentioning the absence of his mother and sisters with a shake of his head.

‘Seen the paper today?’ Phil asked quickly. ‘That Amy Johnson has flown all the way to Australia. There’s a woman for you, eh?’

‘Arrived in Darwin, she did.’ Mrs Spencer showed them the piece in the paper. ‘Took twenty days in her plane, called Gypsy Moth. Funny name, isn’t it?’ She put down the paper, which she couldn’t read, but by having memorized all her son told her she convinced most that she could.

It was difficult to get away. Ada felt she had been caught in a hurricane. Both Phil and his mother talked fast and continuously. When they came out, Willie clutching half of a loaf-cake Mrs Spencer had insisted on giving him, and Ada carrying the sheaf of neatly printed lists, Ada was reeling, but both were full of laughter.

‘Take me home, Willie,’ Ada said with a chuckle. ‘I’m exhausted.’

‘We must hurry, or we’ll be late for Van.’ He looked at Owen Owen’s watch, which he had been allowed to keep. He needed a watch with so
many things to remember and him not always within the sound of the town clock.

‘Unless the horse wants to take the gate with him, we should do it with minutes to spare.’ He clicked to the horse and they hurried on their way, still smiling after the visit.

D
OROTHY DID NOT
give her permission for Annette to work in the shop. She wrote a note explaining that when her daughter decided to take a job it would be a family decision and discussed fully by herself, Annette and Owen, who, young as he was, was the head of the family. The sisters were the least surprised and Willie the most
disappointed
.

A few days after the note was shown to him, Willie saw Annette crossing the main road, having done her mother’s shopping not at Owen’s shop but at Waldo Watkins’ more expensive store. He pulled up the horse, ignoring the abuse he received from other road users, and offered her a lift. She glanced nervously around her before climbing up to sit beside Willie, placing her basket at her feet.

‘You’ll have to hold my arm as we turn the corner in case you fall,’ he teased. She waited until they had left the busy main thoroughfare and put an arm tentatively on the rough sleeve of his jacket. ‘Shame on your mother for not letting you work with your aunties,’ he said.

‘It would have been nice, Willie, you teaching me things.’

‘There’s a lot I’d like to teach you, Miss Annette.’ He laughed, his dark eyes shining in the bronzed face. ‘Look, what about coming with me now, over to the beach?’ He gestured back to the cargo of boxes, each labelled with the customer’s name and containing the account. ‘Got some money to collect. I need some protection I do.’

‘I can’t!’ She was shocked at the idea. ‘I’ve got to get the meal ready for six and it’s already late.’

‘Tell your mam the gas went out and you couldn’t find a shilling.’

He was looking down at her and, warming in the glow of his dark eyes, she relented. ‘All right, but what will I say if Mam finds out?’

‘Tell her you were kidnapped.’ He clicked to the horse to move faster and they trotted along the road to the beach, arm in arm, enjoying the freedom and the fresh warm sun of early summer.

The sky was deliciously blue and small flat-bottomed cumulus clouds
were throwing an occasional shadow on a calm sea. The golden sand was sea washed and clean, ready for the season about to swell into full holiday mood. A few people could be seen braving the chilly water, paddling along the cream-curled edge of the waves.

‘Better than being home cooking for your mam, eh?’

‘D’you think we have time for a cup of tea? It’ll be a real outing then,’ she suggested.

‘Come and meet Mr Marshall.’ Turning the horse around near the cricket ground, he headed for the green painted stall.

They sat and sipped the tea Peter Marshall made and ate a freshly cooked scone. Annette’s eyes shone with happiness as she sat close to Willie and watched passers-by. For a while she was one of the early summer visitors, admiring the friendly town for the first time, pointing to the island far out in the channel that had once been a fever hospital and was now inhabited only by sea birds. She saw the sandy bay as though for the first time, the figure of eight in the fairground, high about the rest, the promenade and the cafe jutting out precariously from the cliffs, where trays for the sands could be hired complete with cups and saucers, a filled teapot and food.

‘Nice people, nice town,’ she said, adding to the illusion of being a
first-time
visitor. It was the first time, seeing it with Willie.

‘What do you say we do this every week?’ Willie asked as they prepared to leave the cafe and finish his deliveries. ‘I could meet you at the end of town. I have a watch,’ he added proudly. ‘Belonged to your grandfather it did.’

And so it was arranged. Every Monday afternoon, Willie would load the cart and set off on the afternoon’s deliveries. Annette would be waiting with her basket of groceries and they would call at Peter Marshall’s stall to take tea in the open air, breathing in the sweet sea breezes and nurturing their growing friendship.

Peter Marshall took pleasure in their company and often sat with them for a few moments and asked about Cecily and Ada. ‘I don’t see them often now the season’s begun,’ he explained. ‘They’re too busy I expect.’

‘Are you here every day then?’ Annette asked.

He didn’t explain how frequently he stayed in the hope of a visit from the Misses Owen. ‘Not every day. I have a garage to run. This little cafe is an excuse to escape and let the petrol and oil fumes blow away.’

‘A garage?’ Willie’s eyes lit up. ‘Love to drive a car, I would.’

‘It wouldn’t take me long to teach you. So don’t forget, if you can persuade the sisters they need a car, come and see me, all right?’

Bertie owned a number of houses in the town and several blocks of cottages in the old part of the town. He paid collectors to call each week for the rents, but during the first week of June both were taken ill. Knowing the risk that missing a week caused some to slip into arrears, he decided he’d better do the rounds himself. It was a good idea to show himself to his tenants occasionally so he could see how well his properties were being cared for.

He drove his Ford car down to the village and parked it near the stream, intending to walk to the various houses he owned. His first call was at Phil Spencer’s and as usual he was there longer than he’d intended, being offered cakes and tea and becoming involved in a two-way blast of
conversation
between Phil and his mother.

His next call was at the thatched, white-painted cottage of Gladys Davies, who did washing and maintained the fire for Willie Morgan. He didn’t intend to do more than hold out his hand for the book and money, but once again he was delayed.

‘I’ve got Willie’s rent here too.’ Mrs Davies handed him both books.

‘Thank you. Mrs Morgan out, is she?’

‘Out? She’s gone. She took the daughters and went to live in Cardiff.’

‘You mean she just left Willie here?’ Bertie frowned.

‘Indeed, gone this ages. She married, so I heard, a—’ She wrinkled her face in concentration. ‘Derek Camborne. Yes, a railwayman she told me.’

When he had asked a few more questions, Bertie went on to finish his round but he determined to see Willie and make sure everything was all right with the boy. He’d been good to the sisters, loyal, and not afraid to work extra hours when necessary.

Returning to the car he stopped for another look at Willie’s house. The door had been recently repaired and when he checked his book there was no record of a complaint or a request for the work to be done. The boy must have dealt with it himself. Neatly too. The thatch was patched where the straw was beginning to rot but that was not satisfactory and he made a note to get it fixed. He went closer and saw that the windows were shining clean and the wood newly painted. His estimation of Willie increased. ‘A tidy lad,’ he muttered to himself. ‘A boy worth encouraging.’

His opportunity to talk to Willie came on the following Saturday when Willie brought Van to stay with them while the sisters went dancing. Willie carried the little leather suitcase that Van used on her regular visits to the large, richly furnished house with its view over the distant sea. Willie usually left her at the door, in the care of Gaynor, but this Saturday Bertie told the servant to invite him in.

‘Come in, boy, I want a word.’

‘Will it take long, sir?’ Willie asked politely. ‘I have to get home sharpish as I’m back at eleven to see Miss Cecily and Miss Ada home from the dance.’

‘Still do that, do you?’ Bertie was surprised. ‘I thought, with Gareth keeping company with Cecily, he’d walk the ladies home.’

‘No, sir, that’s my responsibility.’

‘Well, I won’t keep you long.’ He ushered the boy into the drawing room and Willie felt uncomfortable, aware of his dirty clothes.

‘Sorry, Mr Richards, I’d have changed if I’d known. It’s the stable work, see.’

‘I should have invited you round the back, I suppose – Beryl’s always on.’ He smiled. ‘Well, you’re here now. It’s about your house.’

‘Nothing wrong, is there? I mean I pay my rent regular.’

‘You’re doing work on it.’

‘Not as much as I’d like, but the long hours and—’

‘Why don’t you buy it?’

Willie looked at the large man, chewing on his fat cigar, in utter
disbelief
. ‘I couldn’t afford to buy a house.’

‘Neither could I when I bought my first one, but I bought it just the same.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Willie waited, his face a mask of misery. Was he being thrown out? What chance then for him and Annette?

‘I’ll lend you the money and you’ll be paying me little more than you’re paying me rent.’

‘But, Mr Richards, I don’t know anything about buying houses.’

‘I’ll put that thatch right and a few other things before we see a
solicitor
.’

‘But why, sir?’

‘You’ve been very good to friends of mine. I want to help you as a sort of thank you. I’ve talked it over with my wife and she agrees. You’re a good man, Willie. Stay with the Owens and continue to look after their interests as you are now and I’ll help you. The re-thatching is the first thing, I’ll get that sorted, then I’ll sell it to you for sixty pound. That seem fair?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Don’t be frightened by the long term. Just see each week as a small step.’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘I won’t press you, but if you agree, we’ll go together to a bank and let the manager look at what I’m offering, so you are absolutely certain there are no catches.’

‘No need for that, Mr Richards.’

‘I insist.’ Patiently Bertie went over the arrangements – time allowed to
pay, the advantages of being a property owner – and Willie began to see it was possible.

A bemused Willie walked back to the shop and brushed out the stable in a dream. He, Willie Morgan, would be a house owner! He’d work on the place and make it as he wanted it. Improve the ceilings which were at present only rotten, torn calico. He’d put a proper floor in the kitchen where there was only stamped earth and a few flagstones. He’d might even buy a rug. Or make one. Gladys Davies was sure to know how. Happy and full of plans, he counted the hours before he would see Annette and tell her his stupendous news. And it was something to discuss with Mam on his next visit to Cardiff.

It was from Bertie that Ada learned that Willie’s family had left him.

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Ada asked when he reported for work the following Monday morning. ‘Talk about feeling a fool. Fancy you going through all that and us not knowing.’

‘I didn’t want to bother you. Anyway I managed all right. Gladys Davies is great. Does my washing and sees to the fire, cooks a meal for me now and then, too.’

‘Well, it’s good news Mr Richards is going to help you buy your house. He’s a fine man and you can trust him completely. He told us how impressed he is with you and knows you will benefit from a bit of help, as he did when he was young. Nice way of looking at things, giving something back.’

‘Only if it’s good that you’re giving back, miss.’ Willie’s proposed new status gave him the confidence to speak out. ‘No sense trying to give bad things back – that way everyone gets hurt.’

Ada frowned. ‘Thinking of anyone in particular, Willie?’

‘Can’t say, miss, but there’s someone in your family spitting mad about your father’s will and would pay for watching.’

‘You’ve got a man’s head on your young shoulders, our Willie.’

‘Not so young. I’m seventeen next week.’

When Cecily was told, she too was surprised at not being told. ‘Search up in the stable loft,’ she told him. ‘There’s a lot of odd chairs and the like up there. Take anything you need.’

So Willie loaded up two chairs that needed re-covering and a wooden cabinet plus a few smaller items and took them to his home. He felt buoyant and confident as he placed the pieces in his room and looked about him with pleasure. Next, he would set about making that bed he’d promised himself. He could have bought an iron bedstead cheaply enough but wanted the satisfaction of making one.

He had to hurry then to collect the orders and meet Annette. He told her the news and discussed it with Peter Marshall, who seemed delighted to be included in a celebratory tea party. When he went back to the shop, he asked for a few hours off and went to the wood yard with a list of his needs. To his surprise he met Danny Preston there.

‘Aren’t you the boy from the Owens’ shop?’ Danny asked, walking towards him.

‘That’s right. You’re the man who had his motorbike pinched.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m going to make a bed.’

‘Done anything like that before?’

‘No, but I’ve watched carpenters and I think I can do it.’

‘I do a bit of woodwork myself,’ Danny told him. ‘I went to sea for a few years and started it as a hobby, so if you want a hand, just ask.’

‘Thanks!’ Willie was surprised. ‘There is the problem of a saw. Which one do I buy?’

‘One’s no good, you’ll need several.’ Danny laughed when he saw the boy’s face drop. ‘Come on, I’m not busy for the next hour – let’s see what you need and I might be able to lend you a few.’

They spent half an hour poring over the bewildering selection of saws and Willie bought two. Danny went with him as the wood was loaded on the cart borrowed from the sisters, and together they marked out the frame for the bed.

‘Come and see me if you get stuck,’ Danny offered. ‘I’m living in Quarry Street.’

‘But I thought – didn’t you get married then? I thought you moved to Foxhole Street?’

Danny looked away. ‘No. Me and Jessie, we sort of changed our mind. Still with Mam I am. So,’ he said brightly, ‘I work for the post, delivering letters. I’m free after the second round and at your service.’

Willie looked at the powerfully built, black-haired man whose eyes were darker than his own. Was he still fancying Miss Cecily? If so, why didn’t he call? They had become so friendly over the past couple of hours he almost asked, but stopped himself in time. No point risking a snub and spoiling things. He wondered whether he should mention Danny’s help to the sisters but decided against it. Best to let things work out on their own. That way, no trouble could bounce back on you.