One Blue Moon (18 page)

‘Go on, tell me.’

‘No you’ll laugh.’

‘I promise I won’t.’

‘You’ll think I’m silly, but,’ she looked at him and he felt himself drowning in the clear liquid blue of her eyes, ‘I’ve always liked you, Eddie. But then, what girl wouldn’t? You’re good-looking, and so strong.’ She fingered the muscles on his arm playfully, taking care that William should see her. What she was doing was awful, but then she had to get Haydn to talk to her somehow. Even if she only succeeded in making him shout at her for playing around with his brother.

Diana kept to the shadows as she made her way through the town. Shoulders hunched, shivering as the cold artificial silk lining of her coat brushed against her naked skin, she walked quickly and purposefully. Like a wounded animal returning to its lair, she headed towards the Graig, and subconsciously to a home in Leyshon Street that no longer existed. At painful, spasmodic intervals the enormity of what Ben Springer had done to her hit her anew, and she choked back a sob.

Occasionally she heard footsteps ringing on the pavement. Whenever that happened, she slowed her step and lowered her head, staring down at her feet until the sound died away, either ahead of or behind her.

She couldn’t help feeling that people were hiding behind the windows and in the shadows, watching her, laughing, knowing that she was practically naked underneath her coat. That they’d heard and approved of the names Ben Springer had called her. Hating herself, loathing what Ben had turned her into, she felt that she deserved to be stared at contemptuously, just as the old couple had done earlier. That the unspeakable things Ben Springer had done to her in that back room somehow made her less than human, that she really was the whore he’d have her believe she was.

‘Diana?’

She heard someone call her name, but she kept her head down. When the cry was repeated she quickened her step, put her collar up and hid her face from view. She couldn’t bear to look at or talk to anyone she knew. Not now. All she wanted was to get home ... home! That was a joke! Home was her mam’s warm, cosy, comfortable back kitchen. Her tears flowed faster as she realised the only place she had to go to was her Aunt Elizabeth’s house. What if her aunt came out of the kitchen and walked into the passage before she managed to reach the safety of her box room? Aunt Elizabeth never missed the slightest thing. It was too much to hope that she wouldn’t notice her filthy, bloodstained stockings, or her torn blouse.

Her fingers closed reluctantly around the ragged and damp bloomers that Ben had stuffed into her pocket. They were the most damning piece of evidence. Even if she threw them away, Elizabeth would miss them in the wash. After all, she only had three pairs ...

‘Diana! Diana!’ The voice grew louder. She heard the light patter of footsteps running after her. ‘Diana, what have I done?’ Wyn’s soft feminine drawl wafted towards her through an all-enveloping mist of misery and shame. ‘Diana?’ He grabbed her shoulder, and she broke away from his grasp. ‘My God!’ He was staring at her, horror at what he was looking at etched into his shocked and startled face.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, mingling with the rainwater and blood that oozed persistently from a cut on her temple.

‘Dear God, what happened to you?’ he demanded. Gripping her hand tightly he pulled her into the shelter of the entrance to Woolworth’s store. She tried to slip away from him, but his fingers banded like an iron cuff on her wrist. The light from the windows cast a yellow glow over her strained and terrified face. She turned aside so he couldn’t look at her.

‘Leave me alone.’ She struggled to escape his hold on her. ‘Please just leave me alone,’ she repeated dully.

‘That’s just what I’m not going to do,’ he said determinedly. ‘You can’t walk around the streets looking like this. God alone knows what could happen to you.’

‘Nothing worse than what already has!’ The tears started again. Hot, scalding and bitter.

‘Come on.’ Still holding her wrist, he put his arm round her shoulders.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she screamed as hysteria threatened to take over once again. ‘Don’t you
dare
touch me. Don’t you dare ...’

‘I’ll let you go if you promise to come home with me,’ he said in a voice full of concern. It didn’t take a genius to look at the state of her, put it together with her insistence on not being touched and guess what had happened. ‘Come on, you’ll be safe enough,’ he coaxed gently. ‘My sister will be at home.’

She looked at him, and he shivered. Her eyes were cold, dead. He felt as though she were looking right through him. Then suddenly, without warning, she uttered a dry, choking cry and stretched out her arms. He gathered her close to him. Caressing the back of her head with his fingertips, he pulled her head down on to his shoulder.

‘Come on, Diana.’ He wrapped his arm round her waist, as much to support as comfort her. Someone’s coming,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s go before they get here.’

The silence between them was terrible. The only sounds in the street were her occasional, quiet choking sobs and the patter of the rain falling into the dark, slimy pools of water that had gathered in the cracks of the broken slabs in the pavement. ‘My father forgot to take his pills to work with him tonight,’ he explained matter-of-factly as he turned left, guiding her into Market Square. He felt he had to talk about something – anything to break the harsh, rasping monotony of her sobs. ‘He always calls into the shop I run next to the New Theatre on his way home from his High Street shop,’ he continued conversationally. ‘He insisted he couldn’t walk another step without them, so he’s looking after my shop for me while I go to the house to get them. But there’s no hurry for me to rush back. I can always get little George next door to run down with them. It’ll take half an hour for them to work, and George can stay with him just in case there’s a surge of unexpected customers. We can have a cup of tea together ...’

‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’ She fought, and failed, to keep her voice steady.

‘Dad really will be all right for a while. The rush rarely starts in the shop until the end of the second house in the theatre, and that’s not for another hour and a half. You’ve given me a good excuse to skive off.’ He smiled at her, and she felt safe. It was ironical. The very reason that made most men, including William, Haydn and Eddie, dislike Wyn so much was at that moment Wyn’s main and only attraction. If he preferred men to women, he was about the only man in Pontypridd who wouldn’t want to do the disgusting things to her that Ben had done. And the one thing she was sure of at that moment was that she didn’t want another man to touch her in that way again – ever.

Chapter Seventeen

Wyn hesitated at the entrance to the Co-op Arcade. It was the way he usually walked home from the New Theatre, but the display lamps that blazed brightly in the windows illuminated the covered walkway with a light as bright and harsh as daylight. And he didn’t want to risk Diana catching sight of her refection. She couldn’t possibly realise just how filthy and dishevelled she looked. He glanced sideways at her, hoping to avoid catching her eye. She looked sad, lost and incredibly pathetic. Embarrassed by his indecision, he walked on briskly, leading her up Penuel Lane. It was in darkness. He held her elbow as they crossed Gelliwastad Road, and began the climb up the hill to Tyfica Road.

Diana allowed him to drag her on. Her earlier hysteria had given way to a cold, anaesthetising numbness. It was easier to walk alongside Wyn than think of reasons why she shouldn’t. To protest would have meant expending effort and energy, and she had neither. Supporting her lightly, he helped her up a short, steep flight of steps to the front door of a huge semi-detached house. A light shone through the stained-glass panel that decorated the front door, puddling the black and white tiles on the porch floor with pools of brilliant blue and crimson.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised as he turned the key that was protruding from the front-door lock. ‘It looks like my sister is out. She always leaves the hall light on when she goes to chapel meetings.’

‘It’s probably as well.’ Diana had just caught sight of herself in the hall mirror as she stepped aside. ‘I look like something dead that the cat dragged in.’

‘Let me take your coat.’

‘No!’ her voice rose precariously again.

‘Look, you’re in such a state, why don’t you have a bath,’ he offered tactfully. ‘You don’t have to worry about clothes. I’ll get some of Myrtle’s.’

‘Myrtle’s?’ She looked at him with large, frightened eyes.

‘My sister,’ he explained patiently. ‘There’s plenty of hot water,’ he added persuasively. ‘We never let the kitchen range go out, and it heats the water in the boiler upstairs.’

The thought of washing away the taint of what had happened to her – the smell of Ben, her blood, his sweat – of soaking her bruised and battered body in a bath was like being shown a glimpse of heaven.

‘The bathroom’s the first door opposite the top of the stairs.’

She halted indecisively. ‘Are you sure your father and sister won’t mind? I’m in such a mess.’ The tears began to fall again. Quietly this time, Wyn noted gratefully.

‘No one is here to mind,’ he reassured her. ‘And even if they were they’d be saying the same as me. There’s no way you can go home as you are. I’ll get Dad’s pills and give them to George. Then I’ll dig out some clothes for you.’ He walked down the passage towards the back of the house. She panicked.

‘Don’t leave me,’ she shouted.

He stopped and looked back at her. ‘Come with me if you like.’ He tried to keep his voice calm, neither insistent nor offhand. He went into the kitchen and switched on the light. There was a bottle of pills on the window sill in front of the sink. Large blue and red ones. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. ‘Here, sit down,’ he suggested. She took one look at the highly polished wooden chairs and shook her head.

‘I’m too dirty,’ she murmured shamefacedly.

He filled the kettle and put it on the range to boil. ‘You’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you?’ he asked.

She studied the shining, polished brass rail on the range, the ironwork newly blackleaded, the copper saucepans polished and set out on the rack to dry, the huge dresser filled with gleaming china. It all looked so affluent, so calm, so sane, and so ordinary. She broke down again. A single glimpse of normality was too much for her after the madness of the storeroom.

‘Do you want to talk about it, Diana?’ Wyn asked quietly. She shook her head mutely.

‘Then I’ll show you where everything is upstairs.’ He walked ahead of her, and she followed. Gripping the smooth, dark, mahogany banister rail, she ascended the stairs slowly. It was strange. She’d never thought of Wyn as being either crache or rich, yet living in a house like this, he was obviously both. The hall was tiled to a point half-way up the wall, with beautifully designed squares in a multi-coloured dark flower pattern, topped by a shining dado of deep-blue and brown tiles. She touched the dado with her fingertips. It felt cold. She looked down: her feet were sinking into the deep pile of the carpet. It was wool, not jute, brown like the tiles.

The bathroom door was open. Wyn sat on the edge of the bath, put the plug in and turned on both taps. A cloud of steam wafted into the air.

‘You don’t even have to carry water!’ she exclaimed.

‘Carry water?’ he looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then he coloured, ashamed of his insensitivity. ‘Sorry, I suppose I’m so used to this I tend to forget that not many people have plumbed-in baths. Check the temperature’s all right for you.’ He brushed past her, embarrassed by the intimacy of their situation. ‘I’ll get you clean towels and some clothes.’

He returned with a large, thick, white fluffy towel, and a smaller one. ‘For your hair,’ he explained as he handed it to her. ‘These were Myrtle’s, she’s put on a lot of weight lately. Middle-age spread,’ he grinned wryly as he held out a neat pile of beautifully pressed and folded clothes. ‘She put them into the rag-bag last week. Lucky for you the ragman hasn’t called.’

‘My uncle’s a ragman.’

‘Here, take them,’ he thrust them at her. ‘Myrtle will be happy to know they’ve been put to good use.’ She flicked through the pile. There was a good blue serge skirt, a pair of long, thick woollen socks, a white starched cotton petticoat and a pair of pink silk bloomers.

‘I can’t take these, they’re all brand new,’ she protested.

‘You can’t go home as you are,’ he said practically. ‘I couldn’t find a white blouse so this is one of my shirts.’

‘I can’t possibly ...’

He was staring at her. She looked down and saw that although the top buttons of her coat were firmly fastened, the bottom ones weren’t. For the first time she noticed that her skirt was as heavily bloodstained as her stockings.

‘I’m sure young George next door will be only too happy to give Dad a hand in the shop until I get back. So I’ll wait for you to finish. Lock the door behind me. I’ll have the tea brewed by the time you’ve finished and dressed. And if you hear the back door opening and closing, don’t worry. It’ll only be me going next door. I promise I won’t be gone for more than a minute or two.’ He patted the pocket he’d slipped the pills into. ‘Help yourself to soap, eau-de-Cologne and talcum powder. It’s on the washstand.’ He closed the door behind him.

She listened. When she heard the creak of the stairs, she turned the key. Safely locked in, she walked over to the bath and turned the taps off. She pulled her bloomers out of her coat pocket and threw them on to a wooden drip tray. Then she stripped off her skirt, stockings and petticoat. She tossed the rags – all that was left of her blouse, bust shaper and liberty bodice – on top of the pile.

She looked around for soap. The washstand was crammed with bottles and tins. In the centre of the display that reminded her of Boots the chemist’s window, was a straw basket, packed with small, heavily perfumed bars. She’d never seen such small soaps before. Taking one, she lowered herself into the water. A wooden scrubbing brush lay in the steel bath-rack. She picked it up and began to scrub. And scrub. And scrub.

For a Friday night, the café was relatively quiet. Alma had clearly thought better of her outburst. She had walked in at her usual time, murmured a barely audible ‘good-evening’ to the café in general and nobody in particular, put on her apron, and began work on clearing the tables. Ronnie nodded to her absently, as he paced uneasily between the kitchen, where Tony was heating pies and frying chips, and the café, where Angelo was serving. He was barely aware of Alma’s presence. All he could think of was Maud. He’d been such a fool. Wasted so much time. He could have told her last night – any night – that he loved her. But like an idiot he’d waited until she was incarcerated in the Central Homes, totally beyond his, or anyone except a doctor’s reach. If only he was Trevor ...

He racked his brains coming up with plans, each more ridiculous and outrageous than the last. If he tried to climb the ten-foot-high walls, he’d be seen. Not to mention hurt. There were precious few toeholds in the well-constructed stonework. If he went through the main gate the porter would challenge him. The side gate in Albert Street was only used for delivery vans. He could try taking the Trojan through, but he didn’t have anything to deliver; besides, it was locked at night.

Thoughts writhed and slithered through his mind until he felt as though he would go mad from too much thinking. As soon as he conjured up one idea that he felt might work, he lost it, forgetting half of it before it was even conceived. Eventually his restlessness got the better of him. Putting on his street coat, he announced he was slipping out for a while.

He stood on the pavement outside the café, breathing in the damp, cold night air. He had to do something positive about Maud. He simply had to.

He debated whether or not to go and see Evan Powell and announce that he was in love with his daughter. But then what if Evan should talk to Maud, and Maud deny all knowledge of his affection? It would be better to break into the Graig Hospital and see her first. If only – if – a smile brought a strange animated light into his eyes.

He turned on his heel and returned to the café. Heading straight for the kitchen, he opened the pantry door.

‘Forgotten something?’ Tony asked as he lowered a full basket of newly chipped potatoes into the overflowing fat fryer.

‘Yes,’ Ronnie snapped enigmatically. He studied the trays of eggs ranged on the slate shelves. There were close on two dozen there. He could always go to the market early and buy some more. Taking one of the small cardboard boxes they used to put cakes in, he carefully lowered all the eggs into it. Then he looked at the cake shelf. There was only a fruit cake left; there wouldn’t be fresh cream cakes until the morning. He lifted it gently into another box, then as an afterthought he pulled out his watch chain and opened the cupboard where he kept the alcohol. Looking along the shelves he found what he was looking for: a bottle of sweet Spanish sherry. He closed and locked the door, picked up the boxes and hurried out. Tony heard the clang of the front door banging behind him. It crashed even above the sizzling hiss of the fryer.

Alma walked into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes.

‘Where’s he off to?’ Tony asked, pointing to the door.

‘How in hell should I know?’ she bit back furiously. She crashed the tray down on the wooden table next to the sink. ‘And even if I did know I wouldn’t give a single, sweet, damn,’ she shouted as she stormed out. Tony shrugged as he ladled chips out of the fat with a slatted spoon. Perhaps his father was right, he mused. The priesthood was a good life. If nothing else it would at least be quiet.

Ronnie crossed the road, walked under the railway bridge and up the Graig hill towards the Central Homes. He’d thought of taking the Trojan, but someone might see it parked close to the hospital and wonder what it was doing there. This way, all he had to worry about was getting through the gate, and what he was going to say once he was inside the building, always assuming he got that far.

The porter eyed him suspiciously as he walked along Courthouse Street and up to the lodge gate. Pretending he hadn’t noticed the man, he went directly to the gate and banged hard on it before the porter had an opportunity to confront him.

‘Eggs for the TB ward,’ he announced in a loud voice.

‘At this time of night?’ the porter peered at him suspiciously. ‘It’s after eight o’clock.’

‘Donation from the Catholic Mothers’ Union.’ Ronnie explained. ‘My mother promised to deliver them this afternoon but her rheumatism played up. This is the first chance I’ve had to leave the café all day.’

The man squinted through the gloom, eyeing Ronnie suspiciously. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Ronconi.’ He shuffled forward to open the gate. ‘You should have said so in the first place.’

‘Sorry, haven’t delivered anything for the Mother’s Union before,’ he replied brusquely.

‘And God bless them, that’s what I say,’ the porter mumbled. ‘Even if they are Catholics. Want to leave the boxes with me?’ he asked, wondering just how many eggs were inside and if one or two would be missed.

‘Better not,’ Ronnie said easily. ‘There’s something else here that my mother promised the ward sister yesterday. She made me swear that I’d take it to the ward office myself.’

‘Know your way to the TB ward?’

Ronnie shook his head.

The porter leant against the gate as Ronnie walked through. ‘Turn left here, and walk across the female exercise yard. Left is the female side of the Homes,’ he explained laboriously. ‘Men are on the right, away from the main road, less chance of them escaping that way. The first blocks you come to are the casual wards and the workhouse wards. Then you come to the unmarrieds ward. TB patients are in the end block against the wall, you can’t miss it. It’s the last block opposite the boiler house. The only blocks ahead of you are maternity, male acute, and J wards and they’re not against the wall,’ he rambled. ‘TB’s on the top floor,’ he shouted as Ronnie walked away.

Securing the bottle of sherry in the crook of his elbow and balancing the boxes in one hand, Ronnie touched his cap as he continued on his way. The yard was an incredibly depressing place. Hemmed in on one side by a ten-foot-high stone wall, and on the other by a massive stone block that housed the dining room and kitchens, it gave Ronnie the impression that he was travelling through a long, dark, roofless tunnel. If it wasn’t for the rain that dripped down on to his hat he could have sworn it had a ceiling. The towering walls and the feeling of claustrophobia fostered the effect of being trapped in a massive, damp cellar.

Lights glimmered faintly, illuminating the cross-bars of ward windows, but they did nothing to brighten his path. He stepped ankle deep into a puddle of freezing rainwater. Shaking his foot irritably in an effort to get rid of the worst of the water, he kept going. At the end of the dining-room block he passed the kitchens. He recognised them by the smell: an overwhelming stench of rotting vegetables and cabbage water assailed his nostrils. Then he heard the hum of the boiler house. He looked around: to his left was the block he’d been looking for. Balancing the boxes on one arm, he turned the doorknob and stole inside. He found himself in a white-tiled vestibule. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, its low wattage tingeing the atmosphere with a gloomy, dark gold light. Everything around him was tiled – the floor, half the walls, even the stairs. The distant sounds of hospital-trolleys rattling over hard floors, and the clashing of china against metal, echoed towards him. He tiptoed quietly towards the stairs. Holding the boxes out carefully in front of him he climbed up the steps, taking them two at a time. At the top was a closed door, adorned with a large red and white sign.