Goodbye to Dreams (12 page)

‘Young Van all right?’ Waldo asked as he pushed aside the various files and ledgers and settled to enjoy the rest of the evening in social
pleasantries
.

‘Yes, she’s fine, although she still talks about Dadda quite a lot.’

‘Good thing, I’m sure,’ Melanie said.

‘Bertie and Beryl are kind. She enjoys playing with their Edwin and of course their house is such a comfortable one. Van’s home from home it is, their house and yours. She’s so lucky.’

‘Edwin’s only complaint is that she insists on playing shops all the time,’ Ada said with a smile.

‘Remember, you only have to ask if there’s anything you need,’ Waldo reminded them.

On the strength of Waldo’s words of encouragement regarding the state of their finances, the sisters decided to re-paper the big sitting room above the shop. There was extra money and he recommended they use it to make the house more their own.

‘It’s yours now and should reflect more of your personalities.’

‘Know any good decorators, Melanie?’ Cecily asked. ‘I don’t think we should risk splashing about with flour and water paste ourselves, do you?’ Cecily laughed but the smile was frozen when Melanie said innocently, ‘Why not ask Danny Preston? You and he were friends once and he’s supposed to be very good.’

‘Danny? I thought he was a postman?’ Cecily murmured after a pause.

‘Oh, he is, but he’s also working up a business for painting and
decorating
. Clever with colours I’m told.’

The others went on talking and Cecily faded into a daydream of Danny. How could she invite him here, to spend days in their home discussing
wallpaper
, and act as though he were simply a hired workman? She drifted back to the present conversation to hear Ada say, ‘No, perhaps we’ll do it ourselves. The lighter evenings are to enjoy and it would give us something different to think about.’

When their friends had gone, Ada brought up the subject of Danny again. ‘So, he isn’t married after all.’

‘He isn’t? What happened?’ She had obviously missed that part of the conversation.

‘Called it off, he did, a few days after giving Jessie his ring.’

R
HONWEN
O
WEN WAS
eight years younger than her sister-in-law, Dorothy, and as gentle and unassuming as Dorothy was resolute. She started working on the beach during the summer at the same time as Dorothy when they were both widowed, but when Dorothy gave up the seasonal work and started working in the fashion department, Rhonwen had stayed on. She spent each summer selling trays of teas for the sands and working in a cinema during the winter.

To help Dorothy, she met Dorothy’s son Owen from school at the same time as her own daughter, Marged, who at twelve was a year younger than Owen. The two children could hardly be more different.

Marged was a happy child, given to fits of giggling, much to her mother’s amusement and her Aunt Dorothy’s dismay. Giggling, unlike genuine laughter, Dorothy insisted, came at inopportune moments, like the day of her poor dear grandfather’s funeral, and showed serious lack of control. The solemn Owen was a trial to Marged as she failed to make him smile. Rhonwen watched them walking through the school playground, Marged jumping about like a playful young colt, and the overweight Owen beside her, his head in a book, giving a false impression of studiousness. The solemnity was odd in a young boy and he was constantly teased, which bothered him not at all.

‘Come on,’ Rhonwen called to him. ‘We have to get you to the barber before that hair blocks you off from the world completely.’

‘Oh no, Auntie Rhonwen! Not a haircut!’ His face dropped in dismay, the mouth a wet oval, eyes peering over the glasses he now wore, his chin showing its double, cheeks wobbling in anticipation of the horrors to come.

‘Never mind, Owen, it’s sure to be, almost, painless.’ Marged shared a smile with her mother. Owen showed his teeth in a half-hearted snarl.

Rhonwen looked around the slowly emptying playground for either Cecily or Ada, who were usually here to meet Van. ‘Seen Van today?’ she asked. ‘I must have missed them.’

‘Yes, she was crying,’ Owen reported. ‘Someone said she was crying
because she doesn’t have a father. Silly ha’porths. Lots of boys haven’t got fathers. You and I haven’t got a father but you don’t see me, crying about it.’

‘But you do have a mother,’ Rhonwen admonished gently. ‘Van has only got Auntie Cecily and Auntie Ada.’

‘And us, Mam,’ Marged said, hugging her. ‘And old Owen-of-the-
long-hair
, he’s a cousin and that’s better than nothing.’

Myfanwy had been sitting in the playground earlier that day, staring through the railings at the allotments beside the school, where, until recently, her grandfather had worked and occasionally pushed a freshly pulled carrot through the railings for her.

When Gran had gone away he had stopped coming and now his plot was covered with a blanket of weeds: chickweed, groundsel, daisies,
dandelions
and even the larger sow thistles and nettles had infiltrated the once-clean earth where vegetables had once grown.

Now Granddad was gone too and from what she had gathered would never come back. Not like Gran, who was only as far away as the railway station but who never came to see her, to hug her and tell her lovely stories. Now she had to sit in the back room and play shops all alone until the real shop closed. Then it was supper and bed.

Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her rose-red cheeks. Some of her friends came to comfort her.

‘I miss my granddad,’ she sobbed. ‘No mam, no dad, no gran and now no grandfather either.’

Tears flowed and sobs heaved in her chest. Then, among the sympathetic murmurs that she was beginning to enjoy, a voice said, ‘Illegitimate, that’s what you are, Myfanwy Owen. You might as well face it.’

‘What does that mean?’ she demanded, her mouth a pout of held-back sobs.

‘It means you haven’t got no father and you never had no father!’

‘That’s nothing. All my uncles were killed fighting in the war and my dad was too, so there. We’re all the same, we’re all ill – whatever you called it.’

‘Illegitimate,’ the boy repeated slowly. ‘And it isn’t everybody, it’s just you, Myfanwy Owen. Only you!’

Van said the word silently, syllable by syllable, learning it and hating the sound, knowing it was something unpleasant. The malicious look on the boy’s face was enough to tell her that, and the way he slowed his voice and repeated it, time and again.

Soon, all the children, including those who had recently tried to comfort her, were chanting it, leaning towards her, drumming the strange word into
her brain until she screamed and hit out at her tormentors. Then she saw Edwin Richards and knew things would soon be all right again.

His powerfully built body pushed through the taunting children, his arms impatiently forcing aside those foolish enough to resist and soon he stood in front of her, glaring at the slowly quietening crowd. His dark eyes flashed and his face was tight with anger. No one would cause Van a moment’s distress while he was there to speak for her. He had no idea of the reason for the argument but was instinctively on Van’s side.

‘They’re saying I never had a dad,’ she sobbed, dirt streaking her face with the constant rubbing of her small hand.

‘Van’s mam and dad were heroes in the war, that’s right, isn’t it, Van? Her dad was a soldier like her uncles, and he died a hero, saving dozens of lives.’

‘What about her mam then?’ one of the braver boys demanded. ‘You don’t get women heroes.’

‘Van’s mam was a nurse,’ Edwin invented, ‘and she helped the heroes.’

Van flashed him a grateful smile for his inventiveness and the crowd dispersed, the fun already forgotten, on their way to find someone else to tease. Edwin gave Van his handkerchief and waited while she dried her eyes.

Rhonwen walked with Marged and Owen to The Wedge and went into the half that was Gareth’s shop. There were two men waiting and Owen and Marged sat looking at comics.

‘Mrs Owen. How are you?’ Gareth gestured to a chair. ‘We don’t see you in here often. You not having a boy I don’t expect to, of course,’ he added with a smile. ‘Nice to be lucky enough to get a pretty lady like your Marged in here.’

‘Dorothy’s busy and I’m here with Owen. His hair is very long.’

‘Soon put that right, won’t we, boy?’

Owen glared at Gareth over his glasses but made no comment.

As he finished the customers before them he chatted easily to Rhonwen and when it was time for them to leave he felt surprisingly disappointed.

‘Such a quiet, pleasant young lady,’ he said to his mother later. ‘It’ll be nice having her in the family, when Cecily and I are married.’

Throughout the evening, his mind constantly returned to the gentle Rhonwen and he found himself comparing her to Cecily.

‘She’s nowhere as beautiful or as lively as Cecily,’ he told his mother. ‘Cecily’s the perfect choice for someone as quiet and settled as me. She’s resourceful and clever too. Just look how she’s pulled that shop from the ordinary little grocers to the thriving place it is now.’ He shook his head.
‘No, Rhonwen would be too calm for me, nice as she undoubtedly is, mind. She’d be there, a part of the scenery but without me being aware of her most of the time. I’d just drift along the way I do now with no excitement.’ The thought, spoken aloud, didn’t sound dull at all.

His mother was staring up at him from her chair close to the fire, a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘Who are you trying to convince, Gareth?’

‘Cecily makes me proud, see,’ he said, pretending not to hear. ‘She’s clever and beautiful and she turns heads wherever we go. When I walk with her on my arm she makes me feel great, Mam, just great.’

When Rhonwen eventually arrived home with Owen neatly shorn, his sister was putting the final touches to a casserole. Marged sniffed
appreciation
. ‘Can I have some, Annette? Please? Starving I am!’

‘Marged!’ Rhonwen said, then laughed. ‘Don’t take any notice of her, Annette. Starving she is from the moment she wakes till the first snore.’

Annette went to the pottery bread bin and began cutting a very thick slice, locally called a
cwlff
. ‘Eat this – it will give you the strength to walk home.’

‘It’s faggots and peas night, but I’d rather have some of that casserole,’ Marged sighed as she took her first bite.

Dorothy returned from work before they left and over a cup of tea Rhonwen told her about Van being teased at school. ‘They called her illegitimate, would you believe? Where do children pick up these words? Shame on them for upsetting the child and her grieving for her grandfather. An orphan she is, poor love.’

‘Is she? I think they’re right – she is illegitimate.’

‘Adopted,’ Rhonwen said firmly. ‘Her mother was a friend of Cecily and Ada and married to a soldier, who died before the baby was born, and the mother died in childbirth.’

‘There’s a bit of a
tawch
about the whole thing if you ask me,’ Dorothy said. ‘Something not clear.’

‘Well, I think it’s a shame and the teacher should be told. I’ll suggest to Ada and Cecily that they sort it out.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Dorothy advised. ‘To have it talked about could make things worse for the child. Best you let it go. There’ll be someone else to torment tomorrow, you know what children are like. Forget it – that’s best.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rhonwen agreed. ‘Least said and all that.’

Dorothy looked thoughtful for a while, then she stood up, a hint for Rhonwen and Marged to leave. ‘Now, Annette, that food smells good. Oh, and by the way, I’m going into Cardiff tomorrow. Is there anything you need?’

‘Some ribbons, please, Mam.’

‘Going shopping?’ Rhonwen asked.

‘No,’ Dorothy said seriously. ‘Business. Important business.’

Summer was filling the town with visitors and a number of private houses advertised rooms to let and were kept busy washing bedding and providing big breakfasts for their guests, mostly bread and potatoes to fill the plates.

This increased the trade at Owen’s shop and Willie was run off his feet going to and from the wholesalers topping up stock. He still delivered to the beach customers and still managed to meet Annette every Monday afternoon to take tea with Peter Marshall. They didn’t attempt to hide from passers-by, thinking that, should they be seen, it would be simple to explain that they met by accident and decided to share a pot of tea.

They loved the stolen hour of freedom, sitting watching the trippers parading past with new buckets and spades, the parents loaded with bags containing an assortment of food, fruit and the inevitable bottle of ‘pop’ to quench the children’s thirst.

Families staked their claim to an area of the golden sands and removed as much of their clothing as they dared. Dads wore their suits; the only concession to it being their annual holiday was the removal of their jackets and sometimes their waistcoats too. They would roll up their trouser legs to mid calf, their shirt sleeves as high as they would go, place a knotted handkerchief on their head and set to work building a sandcastle of turreted splendour.

In the background, they heard the rattling and the screams coming from the figure of eight, and the klaxons and horns and wails coming from the more sedate assortment of rides in the amusement park. The air smelled deliciously of seaweed, moist sand and chips. Whatever the weather, for Willie and Annette, each Monday was a perfect day.

Crowds increased towards the middle of August and so did the couple’s feeling of anonymity as hordes of strangers filled the cafes, rides and shops. Willie was well known to most of the business people but no one mentioned seeing him with Annette.

Peter Marshall usually managed to be there each Monday for part of the time they were there. The only comment he made on their using his cafe as a meeting place was to suggest to Willie that he should persuade the sisters to buy a van for when the weather was less kind, and winter saw the closing of the cafes.

‘Annette,’ Willie said one day as they walked back to where they had left the horse and cart. ‘Would you like to come and see my house? Worked on
it for months I have and it’s looking smart. But I want a woman’s opinion on curtains and things.’

‘Willie, I don’t think I should. What if Mam found out? Or someone saw us coming out together? What would people think?’

‘I’ll ask Gladys Davies to come in with us and we’ll only stay for a minute or two. Like for you to see it, I would.’

‘All right then. But we’ll make it early so I can get home in plenty of time to get the meal ready for Mam and Owen.’

‘No later than usual, that’s a promise.’

Monday was a fairly quiet day at the shop and the sisters used it as an opportunity to clean windows and scrub beneath the counters. When Willie returned from the beach and his meeting with Annette, Cecily asked, ‘Will you call at Phil Spencer’s for the bill-heads we’ve ordered? If you collect them tonight you can bring them in the morning.’

‘That’s no trouble,’ Willie said amiably as he carried in the last of the boxes from the display outside the shop.

‘No, I’ll walk down after I’ve met Van,’ Ada said. ‘The shop’s quiet and you can manage for a while, can’t you?’

‘Walk?’ Cecily was surprised. ‘All the way to the village?’

‘It’s such a lovely day and I’ll get a bus for part of the way. I never seem to get any sun on my face.’

It was after four when Ada set out in a new suit of lightweight wool in lime green with a navy blouse showing its frill down the front opening. She wore a pair of high-heeled shoes that certainly weren’t meant for walking.

She had taken a lot of care with her appearance, having set her hair in kiss-curls around her face, similar to those Cecily wore. Waves made a rigid pattern, tight against her scalp, and the back was cut tightly into her neck in a semi shingle. She loosened the waves slightly with a comb and felt the wind lifting them as she went for the bus, causing her to wish she had brought a scarf. Artistically sculpted from stone was the image she had tried to create.

She alighted from the bus at the small park where Danny Preston had found his motorbike months ago, and walked down the green lane to the old part of the town, where Phil Spencer ran his printing business near where Willie lived.