Hearts of Gold (8 page)

‘Yes, I’ve been saving it for tonight.’

‘Good girl, and here’s two pairs of stockings, one for each of you. My present and no argument.’

‘Can I come back in?’ William pleaded pathetically from the other side of the door.

‘In a minute,’ Laura shouted, as she and Bethan shed their finery and struggled back into their damp uniforms.

‘If you want to dress here tonight, you can,’ Megan whispered to Bethan as she opened the kitchen door.

‘Nurse Powell, Nurse Ronconi.’ Charlie, Megan’s latest lodger, was standing in the passageway hanging up his working coat.

William, soup bowl in hand, retreated up the stairs to make room for the women to walk out of the kitchen.

‘They really are nurses now, Charlie,’ he called out. ‘They qualified. With distinctions,’ he added emphatically in a singsong tone.

‘My very good wishes,’ Charlie said solemnly in his thickly accented voice as he shook the rain from his white-blond hair.

‘Thank you,’ Bethan replied.

‘Your tea’s all ready in the kitchen, Charlie.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Powell I’ll wash before I eat.’

Bethan and Laura followed William’s example and stepped up on to the stairs to allow Charlie to pass.

Light-footed and athletic, Charlie gave the impression of being much larger than he actually was. William, at six feet three inches, was a good five inches taller, but Charlie was much broader, his square-shaped body thickly roped with well-developed muscles.

He had lodged with Megan for only two months, sharing the front parlour with Sam the black miner who’d boarded with her for over thirteen years. Unusually for the Graig where everyone knew all there was to know about everyone else, no one knew anything other than what was obvious about Charlie; not even Sam who’d introduced him into the house after meeting him at a party in Bute Street, Cardiff docks.

Charlie had sailed into Cardiff on board an Argentinian meat ship. On the strength of that experience he’d talked himself into a job with a wholesale butcher who supplied the traders on Cardiff market.

Deciding to expand his business into retail and, anxious not to offend his existing customers, the butcher rented a stall on Pontypridd market and offered Charlie the chance to run it on a commission basis.

If Charlie was pleased at the trust his employer was placing in him, he didn’t show it. He accepted the job in the same flat, unemotional way that he accepted everything life threw at him.

Those who worked alongside him on the market said he was as strong as an ox and could just about carry a dead one on his back. He helped anyone who wanted a hand with lifting heavy weights or setting up a stall, but beyond those bare facts, his life remained a mystery.

No one even knew his first name. Megan and Sam had heard it and said that it was Russian and unpronounceable, after a few futile attempts they simply gave up trying.

And when Wilf Horton on the second-hand clothes stall christened him “Charlie”, the name stuck. Despite his size, pale complexion and white hair which was unusual in the valleys, he had an uncanny ability to melt into the crowd.

Rarely speaking unless spoken to, and then never beyond the usual pleasantries, he lived on the fringe of Pontypridd life. The best that could be said about him was that no one had a word to say against him, the worst that no one had a word to say about him at all. Megan, William and Diana, used to strangers living in their home, took to him at once, simply because he was quiet, clean and helped around the house without being asked.

Bethan, for no reason that she could put into words, was afraid of him. Whether it was the nature of his job, or what she saw as an unnaturally cold expression in his pale blue eyes, prickles of fear crawled down her back every time she found herself in the same room as him.

She’d voiced her misgivings about Charlie to Megan and William but they’d laughed at her, especially William who, much to her embarrassment, had taken great delight in telling Charlie what she’d said. She drew little consolation from the Russian’s continued distant politeness. It was enough that he knew what she thought. And that knowledge brought a blush to her cheek whenever she found herself in his company.

Kissing Megan goodbye and shielding their new acquisitions under their cloaks, Bethan and Laura left Leyshon Street and cut up Walter’s Road, past Danygraig Street, to Phillips Street.

Although the backs of the houses in Phillips Street faced Graig Avenue there was no thoroughfare between the two roads. But there was Rhiannon Pugh.

Bethan and Laura climbed the steps of the first house in Phillips Street knocked on the door, turned the key and walked into the passage.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Pugh, don’t disturb yourself, it’s only us,’ Bethan called out.

Mrs Pugh hobbled to her kitchen door and opened it. ‘Come in, come in.’ Her broad smile of welcome was like winter sunshine touching a withered landscape. ‘Nice to see you, girls. I’ve got the kettle on all ready.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Pugh, no time for tea today, we’ve got to get dressed for the hospital ball, but we’ll have two cups tomorrow to make up for it,’ Laura apologised.

‘Heard that you both passed your examinations with flying colours,’ the old lady smiled. ‘Good for you.’

‘They’re so short of nurses they couldn’t do anything but give us our certificates,’ Laura joked as she led the way into the kitchen. ‘Mm, fresh Welsh cakes, they smell delicious.’

‘I baked them specially for you two. Our Albert used to love Welsh cakes.’

‘In that case we’ll make time to eat one,’ Bethan said.

Rhiannon Pugh was a widow. Her only son Albert had been killed in the same pit accident that took her husband. Alone in the world, she was happy to allow her friends and neighbours to use her house as a thoroughfare between the three terraces of Leyshon Street, Danygraig Street, Phillips Street and Graig Avenue. Universal concern for the old lady’s welfare meant that the short cut was put to frequent use.

Mrs Pugh took two garish blue and yellow plates from the dresser, and laid a couple of Welsh cakes on each.

‘Here you are, girls, pull the chairs close to the range. It’s cold outside.’

‘And wet,’ Laura complained, watching the steam rise from her damp cloak. She took the plate from Rhiannon’s shaking hand and bit into one of the thick flat cakes. ‘These are good,’ she mumbled, her mouth full. ‘You really must give our Ronnie the recipe for them.’

‘The secret’s in the kneading,’ Rhiannon winked. ‘I keep telling him that. The kneading, but mind, you need a good griddle iron. And then you’ve got to watch them.’

‘You certainly do that, they’re a lovely colour,’ Bethan agreed.

‘When you see your brother, Laura, thank him for the meat pie he sent up with Mrs Morris from the Avenue. I had it for my tea. Don’t forget now.’

‘I won’t forget.’ Laura popped the last piece of cake into her mouth.

‘And you, thank your Haydn for the potatoes he brought me this afternoon, Bethan. He said Mr Ashgrove gave him more than your mother could use when he delivered for him this morning.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Bethan followed Laura’s example and swallowed the last of her cake. ‘Thank you for the Welsh cakes, Mrs Pugh. See you tomorrow. Don’t come out now, we’ll close the door.’

‘I will stay here if you don’t mind, love. This damp doesn’t help my rheumatism one little bit. See you tomorrow?’

‘Same time. Bye.’

Laura and Bethan carried their dishes out to the washhouse and put them in the enamel bowl in the sink. They left, latching the door securely behind them. They weren’t worried about the washing up they’d created. Mrs Pugh had a lodger, Phyllis Harry, who worked as an usherette in the White Palace. She’d been engaged to Albert, Mrs Pugh’s son and, more like a daughter than a lodger, she moved in with her after Albert’s death and took care of whatever Mrs Pugh couldn’t. And for Rhiannon Pugh’s sake, she welcomed the neighbours who treated the house as a thoroughfare.

It was very dark in the garden, and Bethan and Laura fumbled their way up the steps. Graig Avenue seemed positively floodlit when they finally emerged opposite Bethan’s house.

‘Our Ronnie will take us down at half-past eight. We’ll pick you up here to save you dirtying your shoes.’

‘That gives me barely half an hour to have tea, wash, dress and do my hair,’ Bethan complained.

‘You don’t need to do a great deal to yourself besides wear that dress. Sixpence says that Glan asks you for first dance.’

‘He can ask all he likes,’ Bethan laughed. She ran across the road and up the steps. Opening the door, she shook out her cape and hung it up. She was depositing the box containing her precious dress and stockings on the floor of the front parlour when her father called out.

‘That you, Beth, love?’

‘It is.’ She made her way to the kitchen. It was warm and humid just like Megan’s and Mrs Pugh’s. The table was laid, and a pile of the same type of thick earthenware soup bowls that William had used were warming next to a saucepan of faggots and mushy peas on the range.

‘Heard you passed.’ Her father waylaid her and gave her a hug. ‘Clever girl.’

‘Aren’t I just?’ She kissed his cheek.

‘Knew you’d do it.’ Her brother Eddie came up from behind and tapped her across the bottom.

‘Tarr … a … raaa …’ Maud walked in from the pantry, bearing a rather lopsided sponge cake with a thick coating of icing sugar and blazing candles.

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Elizabeth said tersely, irritated by the fuss the family was making of Bethan’s results.’ She recalled the time when she’d gained a teaching certificate with distinction and received no more than a passing, “You did what was expected of you, Elizabeth,” from her parents.

‘And who told you that you could waste candles, Maud Powell, when it’s no one’s birthday. Do you think money grows on trees?’

‘It’s mine and Bethan’s birthday next and I’ll do without them on my cake,’ Maud said, almost in tears.

‘It’s not every day our daughter passes her examinations with distinction,’ Evan interposed.

‘And comes top of her year,’ Maud added proudly.

‘There are plenty of others that have done as well,’ Elizabeth commented coldly. ‘And I’m sure their families aren’t losing their heads over it.’

Without looking at one another, or Elizabeth, everyone tacitly ignored her contribution to the conversation. Time and constant exposure had made the entire family, with the exception of Maud, immune to all but her bitterest pronouncements.

And Maud was learning.

‘Glan has a lot to answer for,’ Bethan said after she ceremoniously blew out the candles.

‘Next door’s Glan?’ her father asked.

‘He sneaked out lunch time to buy cigarettes and gave Mrs Lewis in the newsagent’s our results. By the time we left the hospital it was over the whole of the Graig. Even Mrs Pugh knew. We’ve been congratulated all the way up the hill.’

‘You deserve it, love,’ her father smiled proudly. ‘Hospital ball tonight?’

‘Yes, Ronnie’s taking us down in his van.’

‘When will he be here?’ Maud asked.

‘Half-past eight.’

‘It’s five-past now. You’d better get your skates on.’

‘Not before she’s eaten a proper meal,’ Elizabeth said sharply, spooning two faggots and a ladleful of peas on to the top plate.

It wasn’t until they sat at the table that Bethan realised that not only the lodger but also Haydn was missing. Her father saw her looking at her brother’s chair.

‘Haydn was mad when he realised he’d miss you tonight; but he brought good news home before we heard yours today.’

‘What?’ Bethan asked hopefully, thinking of the coat she’d asked him to buy.

‘He’s got a job. Full time. Twelve and six a week,’ Eddie said a little wistfully.

‘Where?’ Bethan asked excitedly.

‘Town Hall,’ Elizabeth snapped. ‘Low wages and unchristian hours. The Lord only knows what kind of people he’ll come up against there. Working every evening except Sunday, if you please. Four until midnight.’

‘It’s permanent, Elizabeth, and a start for the boy,’ Evan interposed.

‘A start in what; that’s what I’d like to know?’ She slapped a plate on the table in front of Evan, splashing mushy peas over his shirt front.

‘He’s stage hand and callboy, and helps out at the box office,’ Eddie whispered to Bethan.

‘Twelve and six a week is no wage for a nineteen year old boy,’ Elizabeth railed bitterly.

‘It’s a wage that plenty round here would like to have.’ There was a note in Evan’s voice that quietened Elizabeth. She continued to dish out faggots and peas in a tight-lipped martyred silence.

She’d had her say and made every one uncomfortable but that was as far as it would go. She’d always balked at out and out argument, because she thought scenes “vulgar”, the kind of thing only the uneducated, unrefined working classes indulged in.

Her reticence infuriated Evan. He’d grown up with parents who’d made a point of frequently “clearing the air”. They’d also periodically cleared the dresser of plates, and broke the odd window pane or two, but they’d never failed to kiss and make up before bedtime, and Evan was conscious that his own marriage lacked the passion that had characterised his parents’ relationship.

Loving or hating, at least they’d felt something for one another.

The only things left between him and Elizabeth were the children they’d made and mutual irritation. But twenty one years of marriage had taught him how to handle his wife, including how to utilise her fear of open discord to gain silence, when he could no longer bear the sound of her carping.

The Welsh cakes had taken the edge off Bethan’s appetite, but she forced herself to eat, finishing the faggots and peas in less than five minutes.

‘I have to get ready,’ she said, rising from her chair.

‘Can I help you?’ Maud pleaded.

‘You sit down and eat your meal, young lady,’ Elizabeth commanded.

Bethan filled a jug with hot water from the boiler as Maud spooned up the last of the mess from her plate.

‘Now can I go?’ she pleaded.

‘You may, though I don’t know why I bother to cook a decent meal when all you do is wolf your food and run. When I was a girl, my family made a point of conversing with one another at the table.’

Elizabeth almost smiled at the memory of her childhood. When she wasn’t consoling herself with thoughts of her teaching days, which time and nostalgia had endowed with a rosy hue that had little basis in reality, she sought comfort in inaccurate memories of her upbringing in the parsimonious home of her minister father.