Hearts of Gold (33 page)

‘I told him,’ Elizabeth crowed triumphantly. ‘I told your father the first time I clapped eyes on Megan. I said she was trouble, but he wouldn’t have it. Oh no. Not him.’

Bethan released her hold on the clothes bundled in her arms. They fell limply to the floor. She stared at them. They were so fine – so beautiful – she could never hope to replace them. Not only the things she’d bought for herself, but the suits and shirts she’d bought for the boys.

She looked at her hands. She was still holding one frock. The red silk she’d worn to the hospital ball. She lifted it up, resting it against her cheek for a moment. Then she remembered what the sergeant had said.

‘They can even take a twelve guinea silk frock out of the display case in Howell’s window.’

She allowed it to slide through her fingers.

‘I need to wash my uniform,’ she said flatly. ‘As soon as I’ve done that I’m going to bed.’

‘I washed and ironed your spare dress and apron yesterday. They’re hanging in your wardrobe,’ Elizabeth replied in a tone that, for her, was gentle.

‘Thank you, Mam.’

Bethan dragged her feet as she climbed the stairs. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so tired. Her bedroom window was wide open, the lace blowing in the breeze.

She tipped water from the jug into the bowl on the washstand and washed her hands and face. Afterwards she steeled herself to open her wardrobe door. Pushing Maud’s clothes aside she saw her uniform. Behind it hung her grey dressing gown, a plain blue serge skirt, two white cotton blouses, and her ringed black velvet. All the clothes she now possessed.

She pulled open her dressing table drawer. Her everyday plain, serviceable underclothes were stacked neatly in a row. The delicate frothy lace and silk concoctions Megan had given her had gone. Stripping off her uniform, she emptied the pockets and folded it, ready for the wash. Stretching out on the bed in her underclothes she closed her eyes.

She felt as though she’d only been asleep for a few minutes when a loud hammering on the front door woke her.

Pulling the pillow over her head she turned over, hoping that whoever it was would get what they’d come for and go away. Moments later Eddie clumped noisily up the stairs.

‘Bethan,’ he shouted. ‘Bethan, are you awake?’

‘I am now,’ she answered crossly.

‘Uncle John Joseph’s sent for you. He says he needs you. It’s urgent.’

‘He doesn’t need anyone,’ she answered sleepily.

‘Your Auntie Hetty’s been taken ill,’ her mother said as she walked into the room. ‘How soon can you get ready?’

Bethan reluctantly dragged herself out of bed. She felt hot, sticky and dirty, but she made do with tipping more water on to what was already in the bowl. Sponging as much of herself as she could reach with a wet flannel that she wrung out in the cold soapy water, she rubbed herself dry and dressed quickly in her clean uniform. She only just remembered to run a comb through her hair before tying on her veil.

Her mother and Eddie, hat and cap on, were in the passage waiting for her. Maud was standing beside them.

‘Eddie’s coming with us,’ Elizabeth informed her, stumbling over her words from nervousness at the summons. ‘We may need him to run errands. Maud’s staying behind to mind the house.’

Maud smiled at Bethan. She didn’t seem to be disappointed at being left out. But then none of them had ever considered a visit to Uncle John Joseph’s as a great treat.

‘Did Uncle John say what was the matter?’ Bethan picked up her cloak which was still on the floor where she’d left it.

‘No. He sent Tommy Bridges’ boy. There wasn’t a note, just a message for you to get there as quick as you could because Auntie Hetty’d been taken ill.’

There wasn’t time for any more talking. Elizabeth hurried down the hill looking neither left nor right, leaving Bethan to keep up as best she could. Sensing that his sister was exhausted, Eddie lagged behind so he could walk with her.

Every muscle in Bethan’s body was aching. She forced herself to go on, though every inch of her was crying out for rest.

‘Have you any idea what time it is?’ she asked Eddie as they passed the chapel.

‘It was five o’clock when we left the house.’

Five o’clock! Only another two and a half hours before she was due to go back on duty.

‘What I can’t understand is why Uncle John sent for you. If Aunt Hetty’s that ill he would have been better off sending for the doctor,’ Eddie said thoughtfully.

‘Pure miserliness,’ Bethan whispered in a voice too low to carry to her mother. ‘He would have to pay a doctor for a prescription and he doesn’t have to pay me.’

Elizabeth halted outside the door of a large stone house built a few doors down hill from the chapel. She rapped the door hard and John Joseph opened it himself. His tie was askew, his collar crumpled. Unheard of and previously unseen phenomena.

‘Quick,’ he cried out in anguish. Stepping on to the doorstep he heaved Bethan into the house. ‘In the scullery. Quick.’

“The scullery?” Strange name for a washhouse Bethan thought in one of those peculiar moments of logical clarity that often accompanies severe shock.

Hetty Bull was lying on the floor in front of the gas stove that John Joseph had bought to save the expense of feeding the kitchen range with coal throughout the summer months. Her feet were curled around the leg of the wash boiler, and the rubber tube that connected the boiler to the gas supply had been removed from the boiler end of the connection and was firmly clamped between Hetty’s teeth.

‘I sent for you as soon as I found her. You will do something?’ It was a plea from the heart.

Elizabeth moaned. Eddie stumbled to the back door and heaved his Sunday dinner up in the yard. Bethan looked around. The windows and doors in the washhouse were wide open but she could still smell gas.

‘You have to do something,’ John Joseph begged frantically. ‘You have to do …’ He wove his fingers together ready for prayer, fell to his knees and sobbed.

One look at Hetty was enough. There was nothing that Bethan or anyone else could do to save her. Her face was blue, her lips black. Her eyes wide open, stared vacantly at the ceiling. Bethan knelt by Hetty’s side and gently removed the tube from her mouth. Someone, presumably her uncle, had already turned off the gas.

She closed Hetty’s eyes and straightened her bent limbs. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle John, she’s dead. Been dead for some time by the look of her. You’d better send for the undertaker and the doctor.’ For the first time in her life she wasn’t afraid of him. ‘You’ll need the doctor to sign the death certificate,’ she explained.

‘Bethan,’ he begged. ‘Please, Bethan, send for someone you know. I can’t have this –’ he looked down at the gas tubing, ‘this … on the death certificate. Think of what people will say. The scandal …’

Then she understood why her uncle had sent for her. His wife was dead and he was worried about gossip. He couldn’t bear the thought of fingers being pointed, of the ruin a scandal like this would make of his life.

‘Eddie?’ she called out to her brother. ‘Run and get Fred the dead. Tell him Auntie Hetty’s dead and ask him to come here as quickly as he can. Then go to the hospital and tell them you have to get hold of Dr Lewis. Remember the name. Doctor Trevor Lewis. Tell them it’s an emergency.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier if I had a note or something?’ Eddie asked.

Bethan picked up a pad and pencil that was lying on the floor next to her aunt. There was writing on the top page. Without thinking she tore off the first sheet and scribbled a note for Eddie. ‘Go on now, quickly,’ she ordered.

Sickened yet fascinated by the sight of the dead body, Eddie couldn’t resist taking one last look before rushing out of the door.

‘Did Hetty write that note?’ her mother asked.

Bethan picked up the piece of paper she’d discarded earlier. She read it before passing it on to Elizabeth.

So sorry. I bought clothes from Megan. I can’t live with the sin on my conscience. Forgive me. Hetty.

Bethan watched as her mother read it and passed it on to John Bull.

Typical of Hetty, Bethan thought despondently. To apologise and ask for forgiveness. Even for dying. 

Chapter Seventeen

The undertaker arrived before Trevor. Bethan made him wait in the front parlour while she stayed in the washhouse with the body. Her mother busied herself making cups of tea for everyone and fussing over John Joseph, who sat slumped in his study, his head in his hands.

‘Doctor’s here,’ her mother announced at last, opening the door and showing Trevor in. She closed the door on them.

‘You look done in, Beth,’ Trevor said tactlessly as he crouched next to the body.

‘I feel done in,’ she agreed wearily. ‘But as we’re into handing out compliments you don’t look much better.’

‘I’ve had a rough afternoon down the police station.’ He opened Hetty’s eyes, checking her reflexes in the perfunctory manner doctors employ when examining corpses. ‘A couple of women went completely hysterical after being arrested for shoplifting. Two constables were injured, not to mention what they did to the cells.’

‘The women?’ Bethan asked anxiously. ‘Are they all right?’

‘One of them cracked her knuckles punching a policeman in the eye, apart from that they’re fine.’

‘You didn’t come across a Megan Powell by any chance did you?’

‘Your aunt?’

‘Yes, my aunt,’ she agreed miserably, loath to share her family’s disgrace with anyone, even Trevor.

‘No, I didn’t see her. But then there were a lot of them there, and I only saw the ones who needed calming down.’ He took his thumb from Hetty’s eyelid and looked at Bethan. ‘Your aunt’s been arrested?’ he asked.

‘This morning.’

‘Bethan, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d realised.’

‘It’s all right. Really.’ She picked up Hetty’s cold, dead hand.

‘And this is your aunt too?’

‘On my mother’s side.’

‘And I thought I was having a day of it.’ He shook his head, opened his case and removed a death certificate.

‘You said there was a lot of them. How many?’ she demanded.

‘I’m not sure. About twenty I think but the sergeant said they were bringing in more. He was jubilant. Said they’d cracked a well-organised gang that they’d been after for years.’

‘The forties,’ she murmured.

‘Sorry?’ Trevor asked, bewildered.

‘That’s what the sergeant called them. The forty thieves.’

Trevor straightened Hetty’s head as he finished his examination.

‘I hate having to do this, but I’m going to have to put gas poisoning on the certificate.’

‘I know.’ She lifted up her aunt’s hands and crossed them over her chest.

‘That means the coroner will have no choice but to bring in a verdict of suicide.’

‘You don’t have to explain the situation to me. But my uncle is waiting in his study. I think he’d appreciate a word.’

‘How has he taken this?’ Trevor pointed at Hetty with his fountain pen.

‘Badly. He’s very … very upset at the thought of what a verdict of suicide could do to his reputation,’ she said hesitantly.

‘Eddie was telling me he’s a minister.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then this is going to hit him doubly hard.’ He finished writing and stuffed his pen into the top pocket of his suit. ‘You on duty tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll take you down to the hospital after I’ve talked to your uncle.’

‘You don’t have to,’ she said wretchedly.

‘I know. But I have to go there anyway.’

‘Before you see my uncle, go into the front parlour and ask the undertaker to come in please.’

‘I’ll do that.’

Bethan helped Fred to wash her aunt and lay her out. While they cleaned the body, Elizabeth went upstairs and sorted through Hetty’s things. She returned with a white shroud, stockings and cap that Hetty had stitched in preparation for the eventuality of death.

Bethan dressed her with Fred’s help. When she’d finished her mother fastened a plain gold cross around Hetty’s neck and eventually, after a great deal of difficulty, managed to force back on the wedding ring that Hetty had removed before gassing herself.

Fred scooped the body into his arms and carried it into the front parlour where the coffin stood open and waiting.

‘Do you want me to screw the lid down, Mrs Powell?’ he asked Elizabeth.

‘No … yes … I don’t know.’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Bethan, what do you think we should do?’

Bethan stared at her mother in amazement. She’d never consulted her about anything before. ‘Better close it,’ she answered decisively. ‘But don’t screw the lid down. Then if anyone wants to look at her they can.’

‘Righto, Nurse. Now, about the arrangements?’

‘You’re going to have to talk to my uncle about those.’ Bethan glanced at the parlour clock. It was a quarter-past seven. ‘I have to go to work.’

‘I’ll see him as soon as he’s finished with the doctor.’ He left the room and hovered discreetly in the hall.

‘I’d like to stay, Mam, I really would,’ she apologised. ‘But there’s no one else to take over the ward.’

‘I understand perfectly, Beth,’ her mother said sincerely, without a trace of her usual sarcasm, ‘Thank you for what you’ve already done. I’m not sure I could have coped without you.’

‘You would have done fine, Mam. You always do.’ Realising how badly shaken her mother’d been by Hetty’s death, she hugged her for the first time since childhood. ‘See you in the morning.’

She met Trevor in the passage. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Quite ready.’

They walked out into the street, passing a few people who were on their way to evensong.

‘I hope my uncle’s made other arrangements.’

‘If he hasn’t one of the deacons will come down and find out what’s happened.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ She climbed into his battered car, so different from Andrew’s.

‘I thought I’d had a rough day. But you’ve had a worse one,’ he observed as he sat beside her.

‘That’s life.’ She tried to smile at him, but tears started in her eyes.

‘Sunday nights are generally quiet. If you’re lucky you might get some sleep.’

‘Don’t tempt fate.’

He drove in through the main gates and parked the car.

‘Thanks for the lift, thanks for coming when I needed you, and thank you for talking to my uncle. I know it couldn’t have been easy.’ She kissed his cheek.

‘Beth?’ The doctor in him registered the signs of shock, the pale, strained look on her face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the way her hand trembled as she reached for the door handle. ‘Your uncle told me about the suicide note. I’m most dreadfully sorry. If there’s anything else I can do …’ His voice trailed helplessly.

‘That’s all I seem to be hearing from people. Be different, Trevor. Offer to take me out and get me drunk.’

‘Would it help?’

‘Probably not. But it would be fun. See you.’

He followed the progress of her tall slim figure as she walked across the women’s exercise yard. When she disappeared around the corner of the main kitchen, he looked at his wristwatch. He stared thoughtfully at the grey buildings for a moment, then drove around in a wide circle before manoeuvring back out through the main gates.

When Andrew woke, the muted light that percolated through the thick lace at his bedroom windows was a deep gold. He blinked at his surroundings then his thoughts turned to the events of the morning. He felt sick as he contemplated facing his parents, but he knew he ought to see them as soon as he was dressed. Better they hear what had happened in Leyshon Street from him first. In a town the size of Pontypridd there’d be no shortage of people waiting to tell them he’d been caught sitting in a house that the police had raided. Enough of their acquaintances had frowned on his relationship with Bethan to want to indulge in that delight.

He threw back the sheets and blankets, stepped naked from his bed, wandered into the bathroom, put the plug in the bath and turned on the taps. While the water was running he returned to the bedroom to check the time on his pocket watch.

Nearly seven o’clock. He’d slept practically the whole day away. Leaving the bedroom he went to check the food situation in his kitchen. Despite the assertions of independence he’d made to Bethan, he still ate most of his meals in his parents’ house. The only things in his cupboard were a tea caddy half full of tea, a jar of sugar, a tin of coffee and a tin of shortbread biscuits. Crunching a biscuit he lit the gas and put the kettle on.

Half an hour later, bathed, shaved and dressed casually in white flannels, open necked shirt and a cream cashmere sweater he walked across the garden to his father’s house. The French doors to the drawing room were open; his mother was sitting in a chair in front of them reading the latest copy of “The Lady”.

‘Andrew,’ his father greeted him from behind the bar. ‘Joining us for dinner?’

‘If it’s all right with you.’

‘Of course it’s all right, darling. It’s only fruit, cheese, cold meat and salads. But there’s plenty,’ his mother said as she laid the magazine down on a side table.

‘That sounds fine,’ he murmured absently. ‘I’ve been sleeping all day, so I couldn’t face anything heavy. Thank you.’ He took the whisky his father poured him and sat on the sofa. Leaning back he stretched out his legs.

‘You look tired, Andrew,’ his mother observed solicitously.

He tossed off a good half of the whisky and cleared his throat, dreading their reaction to what he was about to say. ‘There’s something I have to discuss with you,’ he said, broaching the subject with difficulty.

‘Would it have anything to do with a police raid on a certain house in Leyshon Street early this morning?’ his father asked.

‘It would.’ He sat forward cradling the whisky glass between his hands. ‘I take it you already know all about it?’

‘Did you expect us not to?’ his mother said in a brittle voice.

His father flashed her a warning look.

‘Superintendent Hunt telephoned this morning.’ His father carried the whisky bottle over from the bar, and topped up Andrew’s glass. ‘He said he was very concerned to see you there. He didn’t say so in actual words, but I got the distinct impression that he didn’t entirely believe your story.’

‘I sensed that much,’ Andrew replied honestly.

‘You told him you were there to check on a patient?’

‘Bethan did,’ Andrew answered sheepishly.

‘Whatever,’ his father remarked dismissively. ‘The long and the short of it is, he’s suspicious. He also went out of his way to make sure your presence in the house went unnoticed by the press, which I must say in the circumstances was uncommonly kind of him. He couldn’t do anything about the people who were there, of course. But with luck they should have plenty of other gossip to occupy themselves with.’

‘You have to admit, Andrew, that you’ve hardly been discreet about your relationship with that woman,’ Mrs John broke in feelingly. ‘From what Superintendent Hunt told your father, it’s common knowledge, a topic of conversation to be discussed in every household on the Graig.’

‘What happened in Leyshon Street today is hardly Bethan’s fault,’ Andrew insisted defensively.

‘Do you really expect us to believe that her aunt was one of the ringleaders in a gang of shoplifters directly involved with selling stolen goods and Bethan didn’t know a thing about it?’

‘I’m certain she didn’t.’

‘What about her clothes?’ Mrs John asked pointedly. ‘The few times I’ve seen her she’s always been extremely well-dressed. Where did she get them from?’

‘Her aunt’ he admitted.

‘I see.’

‘It’s not what you think …’

‘What we think is of little importance, Andrew,’ Dr John said firmly, breaking up the impending argument between mother and son. ‘It’s what the whole town thinks that concerns me. I’ve been a physician here all my working life. I have a certain standing in the county of Glamorgan. I – and my family – are expected to behave in the accepted manner. Like Caesar’s wife all of us have to be above reproach and suspicion. And if I, and you after me, are to continue to work and live here I don’t see how it can be otherwise.’

‘I’m sorry to have brought this whole mess to your door,’ Andrew apologised contritely.

‘Well, now you’ve brought it, the question is what do you intend to do about it?’ His mother left her seat and paced to the cold, empty fireplace, screened off by tapestry for the summer.

‘I don’t know.’ Andrew left the sofa, walked over to the bar and poured himself another whisky.

‘It’s plain enough to me.’ A note of hysteria crept into Isabel John’s voice. ‘You have to break off whatever’s going on between you two,’ she shouted. ‘Immediately …’

‘Didn’t you say earlier that you had something to check in the kitchen with Cook, dear?’ Dr John prompted gently.

‘No … I …’

‘You wanted to tell her which of the cold meats to cut,’ he prompted.

‘Yes, I did.’ She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’ She looked at her son as she left the room. ‘I’m only thinking of you, darling,’ she said softly.

Andrew took his glass and walked over to the open window. He preferred his mother’s hysteria to her understanding.

‘I think the best thing you can do, son, is go away for a while. You obviously need time to think things out for yourself. Why don’t you take Alec’s father up on his offer? Go up to London for a few months. Work on his surgical team. It will be good experience for you. Stand you in good stead, no matter whether you finally opt for general or hospital practice.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Andrew said dully, promising nothing as he stared blindly at the garden.

‘A short spell in London will enable you to put things in perspective. I’ll be able to find a locum to take your place easily enough, and until I do, Trevor can double up. He’s only too keen to earn extra cash these days. You could go up tomorrow. Stay with Fiona and Alec. You know they’d love to have you.’

Andrew continued to gaze blankly at the magnificent display of summer roses that formed the centrepiece of his parents’ garden.

‘Just how much does this girl mean to you?’ his father asked bluntly.

‘I don’t know.’ He wasn’t lying. After the events of that morning he genuinely didn’t know what he felt for Bethan. His feelings were in turmoil. When he was with her all he wanted to do was undress her and himself and make love. But then again, the sensation wasn’t a new one. He’d experienced it before, with other girls. It was just that in London there’d been many other girls. Here in Pontypridd there was only one.