One Blue Moon (29 page)

‘You don’t know what you’re doing to me,’ he whispered hoarsely. Sliding his hands down, he ran them upwards from her knees to her thighs, lifting her nightdress to her waist. Shifting slightly, he slipped his fingers between her legs, gently, tenderly, caressing and arousing her.

Despite Bethan’s talks to her while she’d been growing up, the first touch brought hot flushes of embarrassment and shame to Maud’s cheeks, but they lingered only as long as it took for new and wonderful sensations to erupt into life. Lifting her with one hand, Ronnie gently peeled off her nightdress with the other.

She heard the whisper of silk as it fell to the floor. Moments later, it was joined by the soft thud of cotton as his pyjama jacket fell close to it.

All feelings of naivety, shyness and inexperience dissipated as Ronnie continued to kiss and caress every inch of her. He kicked off his trousers, and she shuddered as the full length of his naked body came into contact with hers. He eased her on top of him.

‘Ronnie, please,’ she begged. There was a fire between her thighs that she had never experienced before. He rose to meet her until the fire was quenched by pain. She cried out, and he held her gently while withdrawing quietly away from her.

‘No, please. Don’t move,’ she panted breathlessly. ‘Please ...’

Still entwined, they rolled over until he was above her, resting his weight on his elbows. She moved beneath him, and for the first time he forgot her fragility, her sickness, losing himself wholeheartedly in her pleasure as well as his own.

It wasn’t until afterwards, a long while afterwards when she was sleeping beside him, that he realised his face was wet with tears. The first tears he could remember shedding, and they were of sheer joy and happiness.

Chapter Twenty-six

The customary Sunday night card game in the back room of Ronconi’s café had a strangely funereal air about it. Eddie was conspicuous by his absence, and when Alma, during one of her rare moments of conversation, dared to enquire after him, Haydn almost bit her head off before William muttered something about him going down to clean up the gym.

Outwardly it seemed much the same as any other Sunday night, but as none of the Ronconi girls or Diana had come down, Alma was very conscious that it was different, because it was Ronnie’s wedding day. And that consciousness burnt into her heart and mind with all the destructive force of a branding iron.

Haydn, William, Tony, Angelo and Charlie took turns to shuffle and deal the playing cards, but they did it in a mechanical, desultory fashion as though they had no interest in the outcome. And after witnessing some of the physical altercations that had taken place following the more disputed results on other evenings, Alma found the whole situation strained, and unreal. Even Tony’s rather hit-and-miss attempts to play mine host in the way Ronnie had, grated on her delicate nerves. She’d already made up her mind that no one could take Ronnie’s place: not in the café, not in the town, not with his family – and especially not in her heart. She was very glad when the hands on the clock finally turned to eleven and Tony gave the order to clear up.

‘Pity we can’t have a drink to celebrate your good fortune,’ William said mournfully to Haydn. ‘That is, unless we manage to knock up the Horse and Groom.’

‘They won’t open up on a Sunday,’ Charlie commented as he left the table. ‘If they tried the magistrates would throw the book at them.’

‘I suppose they would. Damned shame a man can’t do what he wants in his own town because of the licensing laws. Harry Griffiths once told me that he could get a drink any time he wanted in France.’

‘That’s because he was there when there was a war on.’ Tony picked up the chairs and began to stack them on the tables.

‘No, you can drink in Europe any time you want to,’ Charlie contradicted.

‘Right, we’ll all go to Europe,’ William said gleefully.

‘I didn’t say they were giving it away for nothing, Will,’ Charlie said seriously, ‘You still have to pay.’

‘Then we won’t all go to Europe. Not this week anyway.’

‘Next week then?’ Haydn smiled as he picked up a heavy tray loaded with their dirty cups and carried it out to the kitchen. Alma was there, dumping crockery into the overflowing bowl of warm, soapy water that Angelo had mixed to do the dishes.

‘Off tomorrow then?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’

‘You coming, Haydn?’ William and Charlie shouted from the front.

‘Thought I’d walk up to the gym and meet Eddie.’

William made a thumbs-up sign to Charlie. The estrangement between the brothers had upset both of them.

‘In that case, we’ll see you back in Graig Avenue,’ Charlie replied diplomatically.

Alma untied her apron and hung it on the back of the door. ‘Your brother trains at the Ruperra, doesn’t he?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Why?’

‘Can I walk along with you? I live in Morgan Street and it’s on the way,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘I don’t like walking through town on my own at this hour. Ronnie used to run me home in the Trojan, but Tony’s not used to driving it, and anyway I don’t like to ask him. Not after ... after ...’

‘I’d be delighted to have your company,’ he said, rescuing her from her embarrassment.

‘As long as it’s not taking you out of your way.’

‘As you just said, Morgan Street’s on a direct line to the Ruperra, or almost direct,’ he qualified. He went into the café, picked up his new jacket from the back of a chair and followed her out.

‘Nice night for a honeymoon,’ he said unthinkingly, gazing up at the star-studded sky, which for once was cold, clear and dry.

‘Yes it is,’ she answered abruptly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘That was a stupid thing to say after you and Ronnie –’

‘We weren’t anything special to one another,’ she interrupted.

‘Yes, well, there’s plenty of other fish in the sea, or so everyone’s been telling me since Jenny and I split up.’

‘I don’t think I want to meet any other fish,’ she replied sourly. ‘Not for quite a while.’

‘I know how you feel.’

By tacit agreement they kept to the right-hand side of the road, not crossing over until they’d passed the New Inn, but as they headed towards Gwilym Evans’ shop, Alma couldn’t resist looking back to see if there was a light on in any of the hotel bedrooms that faced Taff Street or Market Square. All were dark, and she had a sudden, heart-stopping, very real image of Ronnie and Maud lying side by side in a comfortable, luxurious bed. At that moment all she wanted to do was hurt him. As deeply and as irrevocably as he had hurt her.

‘The quickest way to Morgan Street is to go past the YMCA isn’t it?’ Haydn asked, interrupting her illogical, vengeful thoughts as they drew close to the empty Fairfield.

‘Yes.’ She looked at his fair hair and finely chiselled features. ‘Happy to be leaving tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘Hopefully it will turn into the break I’ve always wanted,’ he replied carefully.

‘I wish you well.’ She couldn’t help wondering what he’d do if it didn’t work out for him in Brighton, now that his jobs in the Town Hall and on Horton’s stall were filled.

‘Thank you.’ They entered the network of small streets and alleyways behind the town.

‘This is it.’ She paused outside a tiny two-up two-down. ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? I don’t know why I do it after working in a café all evening, but I always make myself a fresh pot when I get home.’

‘I’d like to, but I might miss Eddie. Thanks for the offer, Alma, and I hope all goes well with you too.’

He extended his hand, she took it, and lunged close to him. Her lips, warm and wet, were on his, her hands around his neck. ‘My mother always goes to bed early,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘There won’t be anyone downstairs, and I always find this time of night so lonely, don’t you?’ She opened the door. Taking his hand, she led him unprotestingly down a dark passage into the back kitchen. ‘Stay there,’ she ordered.

He stood in the doorway while she fumbled with a box of safety matches close to the stove. Moments later the soft glow of an oil lamp filled the room. ‘We can’t afford to put electricity in,’ she apologised. ‘Or lino on the floor.’

He looked down involuntarily. The floor was bare flagstones, scrubbed almost white. A brightly coloured rag rug had been laid down in front of the stone sink, and there were multi-coloured patchwork curtains at the window, but the furniture was old and rickety: the kind of stuff that Bown’s sold off for three pennies a piece in their junk pile.

‘It’s not much, but it’s home,’ she said defiantly. ‘My dad was killed in the pit when I was five, and my mam had a hard job bringing me up. When she went blind four years ago, it was almost the last straw.’

‘I’m sorry. I had no idea ...’

‘It doesn’t matter. Not now.’ She regretted telling him as much as she had. The last thing she needed – or wanted – was charity. ‘Ronnie promised me the head waitress job in the new restaurant,’ she said proudly, ‘and Tony said tonight it’s still mine if I want it. And until it opens I’ve enough work to keep me going.’

They were standing close to one another, so close that when she reached out to pick up the kettle from the range her fingers brushed across his arm. The effect was electrifying, and not only on him. Alma had always recognised that her relationship with Ronnie had been primarily a physical one. At the outset she’d acquiesced to his demands because she’d believed submission to be the way to hold him. Later, when he’d aroused passions she’d only dreamt existed, she’d enjoyed and looked forward to their lovemaking much more than she’d ever hinted to Ronnie. And since the night she’d quarrelled with Ronnie over Maud, no man had touched her – until now.

Dropping the kettle on to the table, she laid her hand on the back of Haydn’s neck, pulled him close and kissed him again. After the kiss outside, Haydn had been waiting for her to make another move. But it all felt strange – wrong, somehow. The cooking smells in her hair from the café. Her body more angular, and thinner than Jenny’s. Even her kisses – soft, experienced, passionate – were different from Jenny’s. But once her small breasts pushed against his chest, and her thighs pressed against his, he lost all thoughts of Jenny.

He didn’t come to his senses until she moved away from him. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ he murmured huskily, looking into her eyes. ‘I’m not Ronnie ...’

‘You wouldn’t be here if you were,’ she said caustically.

‘Alma, this isn’t fair on you ...’ He looked around for his hat, forgetting that he hadn’t even taken it from his head.

‘It’s perfectly fair,’ she said clearly. ‘You’re not Ronnie, and I’m not Jenny. But there’s no law that says two lonely people can’t share just one night.’

‘It might be different if I wasn’t going away tomorrow.’

‘I asked you to take me home because you are leaving. No ties, no apologies. No regrets.’

She unbuttoned the front of her dress and let it fall to the floor, baring herself to him as she had never done for Ronnie, not even stopping to think why. Her clothes fell in a heap at her feet. She kicked them aside and walked to him, wrapping her arms around him. He ran his hands over her body, caressing her, kissing her.

Slowly they sank to the rug on the floor. She reached up behind her and pulled down a cushion from the only easy chair. Putting it beneath her head, she drew him on top of her, easing his arms out of his coat as she did so.

As their lovemaking progressed from tentative caresses to rougher, more urgent movements, he forgot about the strange scent and the unaccustomed feel of Alma’s body beneath his. He was back in Harry Griffiths’ storeroom in the shop on the Graig, and it was Jenny’s face, not Alma’s, that floated in his mind’s eye as he thrust himself satisfyingly inside her. Just as it was Ronnie’s face that occupied her thoughts as she surrendered herself to her physical needs.

Ben Springer drank in the Ruperra for many reasons: it was within easy walking distance of both his shop and his house at the ‘smart’ end of Berw Road; it had a rough, masculine atmosphere generated by the boxers who frequented the gym at the back of the pub and who very occasionally drank a glass of orange juice in the bar; and finally because the landlord, like him, enjoyed a game of cards and a glass of whisky. A common liking that had led to the setting up of a Sunday night private card school for the exclusive use of the landlord’s favoured cronies, Ben amongst them. He was a popular member, not least because he was in business and solvent and never grumbled about putting in the ten-shilling stake that the landlord insisted on.

The boys who frequented the gym had often seen him leaving on a Saturday night, followed by the landlord’s directive, ‘Seven tomorrow all right for you Ben?’ They cast envious glances at his made-to-measure clothes, his staggering gait, the result of at least five beers and whisky chasers, and whispered stories to one another in which the ten-shilling stake multiplied in magnificence until it reached as many pounds.

The gym, like the pub, was closed on a Sunday. Eddie generally cleaned it on a Sunday afternoon, but that Sunday he didn’t even begin until early evening because of Maud’s wedding. When Ben left at midnight, Eddie was still there, shadow boxing in the ring, lost in glorious fantasies of cheering crowds and Lonsdale belts, the door of the gym bolted and barred behind him.

Ben was always the last to leave the pub, even on a Sunday. As he paused to light a cigarette outside the door, the landlord dimmed the lights behind him. He set his face away from town towards the White Bridge on a route that he’d walked more times than he could remember. Half-way along the road was a pretty clearing of grass sprinkled with trees, where children played and old people sat in summer. On a cold winter’s night it was dark and shadowy, and one of the street lamps had failed, plunging a fair proportion of his path into blinding blackness. He quickened his step, and as he did so someone tapped him on the shoulder.

The last thing on his mind was the ‘bit of fun’ he’d had with his erstwhile assistant. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Someone who owed him money from the shoe club who was looking for more time to pay? Or, more hopefully, someone who wanted to order a special pair of shoes? He turned, straight into a closed fist.

Before he had time to shout, or defend himself, a second punch jerked his false teeth out of his mouth and on to the pavement. They fell on to the dry stone with a dull clink, then smashed into five pieces. A third punch knocked him off his feet, then a well-aimed kick between his legs sent agonising, torturous pains shooting through his body. He vomited once, twice. The pains came again. Then mercifully the blackness intensified, numbing and finally blotting out the pain.

Wyn Rees walked quickly across Berw Road. He glanced over his shoulder: the street was empty. Standing close to the wall that overlooked the river he tossed a bundle as far as he could. The throw was well aimed: the bundle sank in the centre of the flowing water. He had no fears that it would rise again. He’d weighted it too well. His dead grandfather’s overcoat that no one would miss was firmly wrapped round the same grandfather’s steel toe-capped boots, and the stone that he’d used to put out the streetlight. He stopped just once, close to the chapel opposite the Ruperra. He had to rub his feet. The boots had been a size too small, and they’d pinched his feet.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the light still on in the gym, but he had trouble getting Eddie to answer the door.

‘Saw the light on,’ he said, flinching as an expression of distaste curled Eddie’s top lip when he saw who’d knocked him up. ‘I left my wallet here last night.’

‘Black one. There’s nothing in it,’ Eddie said flatly.

‘Yea there is.’ He followed Eddie into the office, took it off the desk and flipped open the secret pocket folded cleverly into the back panel. ‘If you were a pickpocket you would have missed ten bob there.’