Shoes for Anthony (17 page)

Piotr smiled down at me. ‘I haven't seen or spoken with my mother in over four years. I could fill book.'

‘Well, then,' said Father, ‘we must leave you to it. When you're done, Ant can run it to the postie for you. Downstairs, boys. If you need anything else, shout for Ant.'

‘It's magnificent, Bopa,' said Mam, standing back and admiring the large Victoria sponge that was now sitting on our back kitchen table.

‘Everyone mucked in,' she said. ‘Quarter of a cup of sugar from most people in the street. Proper butter cream, 'n' all. Worth it, innit? With a hero in the house?'

‘Christ,' said Alwyn, coming in behind me. ‘Is that a cake? Can I have a bit?'

‘Not yet,' said Bopa, lifting it and taking it to the larder. ‘Got to cool. Besides, we're going to give it to Piotr later, innit? Make a surprise out of it. And here,' she added, pressing some coupons into Mam's hand, ‘we had a whip round. It's not much, but everyone's given a little something to help you feed him.'

Mam looked down into her hand, her eyes smiling. ‘Thank you, Bopa,' she said, quietly. ‘Tell everyone thank you.'

Behind us, we heard footsteps coming up the hallway. ‘Hello, there!' a voice rang out. ‘Hello!'

We all exchanged small, anxious glances. It was Dr Mitchell.

Dr Mitchell had a penchant for anything sweet. Before the war, when visiting a patient, he would settle himself into a chair, wait until asked if he wanted tea, feign pleasant surprise when offered and then, after being handed cup and saucer, would stir the tea meticulously before asking, ‘I don't suppose you've got a slice of cake going spare?' in a soft, conspiratorial whisper. If there was one golden rule, it was this: Don't call out the doctor when there's a buttered sponge in the house.

He had come in and was sitting, case on knees, in Mam's chair in the parlour. The clock on the mantelpiece – this one with two hands – was ticking. Father was in his chair, legs crossed, fingers laced together in his lap. Alwyn and Emrys were sitting looking awkward on the sofa. Bethan was standing next to the wireless, Bopa next to her, hands held behind her back. Everybody, bar Dr Mitchell, knew there was a Victoria sponge minding its own business in the larder. Nobody spoke.

‘There you go, Dr Mitchell,' said Mam, coming in from the kitchen with a tray. ‘Imagine if the Germans stopped us getting our tea! Britain would surrender in a day!'

Dr Mitchell let out a small, appreciative snort. Taking a cup and saucer, he began the ritual of slowly stirring. Everybody watched him like a hawk. ‘I wonder,' he began, in a low hush, ‘if there might be something to soak up the wet?'

Mam stared at him, momentarily frozen, and then, to our collective horror, said, ‘There's a bit of sponge in the larder,' she began. ‘Bopa made it, for Piotr.'

Dr Mitchell's face lit up. ‘Sponge?' he said, eyes widening. ‘That would be delightful.'

Mam turned back towards the kitchen.

‘It's all gone, Mam,' said Alwyn, cutting in. ‘That cake. All gone, Dr Mitchell.'

‘What you talking about? Bopa only just …' said Mam, frowning.

‘No. It's definitely all gone, Mam,' Alwyn said again, more forcefully.

Bethan stifled a smile, and Emrys stared resolutely at his shirt cuffs. Father raised an eyebrow and I sat on my hands on the floor. Bopa was staring at Mam and not blinking. We were all willing her to understand. She stood, motionless, like a trout in the mountain stream. Penny dropping, she turned slowly back towards Dr Mitchell. ‘Oh, yes,' she said, ‘last of it went half an hour back. How forgetful of me. But that's cakes, for you. I can cut you a slice of bread instead?'

‘Oh. Well. No, thank you,' said Dr Mitchell, his smile fading. ‘I should have come earlier! A sponge, you say? Well.'

‘It's him upstairs,' said Alwyn, hands on knees. ‘Like a bloody gannet. Never seen a man consume so much cake.'

‘Surprised if he'll eat for a week,' said Bopa, nodding slowly.

Bethan coughed.

Dr Mitchell nodded. ‘That'll be the shock. The body craves sweet things, you see.'

Everyone murmured in agreement.

‘Right, then,' said Dr Mitchell, draining his cup. ‘Let's see the patient.'

The examination was short and precise. Having ascertained there were no broken bones, Dr Mitchell was satisfied that a few days' rest with the leg elevated would be more than sufficient to see him back on his feet.

‘It's a nasty sprain, but the bruise is already good and out. That's a sign everything is on the mend,' said Dr Mitchell. ‘Here,' he added, taking a small ceramic pot from his medical bag. ‘Rub this into the ankle twice a day. It's a balm. Puts heat into the muscle. Helps it mend faster.'

‘I can do that for you,' said Bethan, taking the pot. ‘Save you having to try and reach.' She gave Piotr a small smile and tucked the balm into an embroidered bag on her dressing table.

‘Well, Mr Skarbowitz!' said Dr Mitchell, tidying away his equipment. ‘You've given us plenty to talk about. It's not every day we get crashed planes, Germans and escaped prisoners of war! It's like something you'd see up the Gaiety! Except, instead of Clark Gable, you're the featured star!'

‘It's like having someone famous in our house, like,' I said, nodding in agreement.

‘And I'm glad to hear your appetite is so healthy,' added Dr Mitchell, snapping the clasp of his bag shut.

Piotr frowned. Bethan shot me a glance.

‘Did you enjoy the sponge?' Dr Mitchell stood upright and fixed Piotr with a solid stare.

Piotr shook his head a little. ‘Sponge? I had flannel.'

Dr Mitchell tilted his head to one side. ‘Flannel? Do you mean flan? You had a flan as well?'

Bethan took Dr Mitchell by the elbow. ‘Well, thank you for coming,' she said, bustling him towards the door. ‘I'll make sure he uses the balm. I'll send Ant to fetch you if there are any problems. I'll see you out. Down the stairs, after you.'

Piotr turned and looked at me, his eyebrows knitted together. ‘What was that about?' he said, seeing me convulsed with laughter on the bedspread.

‘It's about cake,' I laughed. ‘He's always desperate for cake.'

‘Like your man, Dan,' said Piotr, tapping at
The Dandy
with his finger. ‘Pie, cake, what else are people desperate for round here?'

Bethan reappeared in the doorway and folded her arms. ‘That would be telling,' she said. ‘You'll have to find out, won't you?'

They exchanged a small, silent stare, and for the first time since Piotr had arrived, I felt left out.

‘An actual jeep!' yelled Ade, jumping up into the passenger seat and bouncing up and down. ‘Cor, you're lucky you've got a sister in the WAAF, Ant. An actual jeep!'

Bethan had been lent a service vehicle in order to dispatch important documents from St Athan to a field office in Tonypandy. I was to go along to keep her company, but mainly so I could see the first wave of Americans who had arrived the night before. The arrival of the jeep outside our house had caused a flurry of activity, and the car was smothered in a swarm of children, like ants on a blob of jam on a summer day.

‘Right,' said Bethan, gesturing with her thumb. ‘You lot, off.'

‘Can't we come 'n' all?' said Ade, who was now sitting in the driver's seat, trying to turn the steering wheel.

‘No,' said Bethan, slinging her bag into a shallow well behind the front seat. ‘You can't. There are only two seats. Hop it. I've got official business to attend to.'

‘Get some gum, Ant,' said Fez, as I climbed up onto the passenger seat. ‘Off the Americans, like. Got any gum, chum? That's what you say, remember.'

‘Tell 'em we captured a German,' said Ade, swinging off the front side mirror.

‘We didn't,' I said. ‘He's Polish.'

‘I know. But they don't know that, do they, man?' said Ade, scrunching his nose up. ‘They might give you more gum if they think you've captured Germans, like. Besides. We sort of did capture Germans. Or, at least, our mountain did. And that's sort of the same, innit?'

Bethan was hunting in her handbag. ‘Where did I put the key?' she mumbled. ‘Could have sworn it was in this side pocket.'

‘It's there,' said Alf Davies, appearing from behind a gaggle of kids, ‘in the ignition.
Diawl
, Bethan. Sure you don't want me to drive?' He leant on the window frame of the door and gave a toothy grin.

‘Why aren't you down the pit?' said Bethan, tossing her handbag into my lap.

‘On shifts, innit?' said Alf. He glanced over to me. ‘All right, little man?'

I nodded. ‘We've got a war hero in Bethan's bed.'

Alf raised an eyebrow. ‘In Bethan's bed, you say? Well, well. And what does Bethan think about that?'

‘I've got to sleep in my brothers' dirty bedsheets. That's what I think about that, Alf Davies.'

‘Bethan's gone a bit moony,' I said.

Bethan turned and gave me a sharp stare. Something in Alf's eyes dulled a little, and his smile fell. ‘And who can blame her?' he said quietly. ‘What with him being a war hero, 'n' all. Well. My shift won't be over until I start it. I'll bid you a good day. Drive careful, Bethan. And keep an eye on the keys, Ant.'

He tipped his cap towards Bethan and slung his bag back over his shoulder. I turned to watch him go, one hand in a trouser pocket, picking his way through jumping children, his normal swagger a little jaded.

‘You shouldn't have said that, Ant,' said Bethan, turning the key in the jeep's ignition. ‘You know he's sweet on me.'

‘But I thought you said you didn't like him,' I said, twisting back towards her.

‘Never mind what I said,' said Bethan, casting a quick look over her shoulder before moving off. ‘Lads have hearts too.' She shoved the gearstick forward, and off we roared, the cheers of all of Scott Street ringing in our ears.

They were different, all right. It was the confidence, the energy, the size of them, the teeth. Slick, smart, caps at a jaunty angle, the way they leant against walls; Americans weren't us, of that there was no doubt.

We'd driven up onto the long high road that looked down into the next valley and, looking down, I was stunned by the activity. I could barely remember seeing a car before, other than the old Morris Minor owned by Hughes the Grocer, but now the valley road was crammed with large green wagons carrying troops, weapons and ambulances, all bearing the badge of the white five-pointed star. America had come to the Rhondda.

Tonypandy was full to bursting. The town was swarming with personnel: soldiers in shiny round helmets smoking cigarettes, guns slung over one shoulder, and smaller vehicles, jeeps like the one we were in, dotted up and down the streets. Large trucks were being waved on towards the town hall, where boxes of oranges and other provisions were being unloaded. It was a scene of endless bustle. Everywhere there were Americans, local children clustered round, women waving to trucks as they passed. It was electric. The hope was electric.

‘Exciting, isn't it?' said Bethan, sticking her arm out to indicate left. ‘Looks like Hitler's going to get a fight.'

‘How come they're all here, though, B?' I said. ‘France is miles away.'

‘Training up the mountain, I think. They won't be here long. Couple of weeks, tops, I reckon. They're going to spread all over. That's what I'm taking in – all the billeting orders. We've got a few coming to Treherbert. Not with us, mind. We haven't got the room. There's going to be Nissen huts going up over by the big field behind the sheep dip, canteen for the Americans. They're having all their food sent from America, cos of rations. That way, none of us will have to feed 'em.'

It was so enormous, I couldn't quite take it all in: an invading army, here in the valley. A week ago it would have been unthinkable. Bethan pulled the jeep over to the kerb outside a large, white building. ‘Right,' she said, yanking the handbrake upwards. ‘Thistle Hotel. We're here. You stop b'there. I'll take the billet orders in, and then we'll be off.'

She jumped out from the jeep and reached behind the driver's seat for a thin red file. An American, standing at the entrance, saluted her as she approached. He looked proper smart: shining metal helmet, white leather gaiters and a gun, a real one, not like the useless one Emrys had stashed in the outtie. Bethan saluted back. I grinned. It was a sharp thrill. The war was happening and it was here.

I was too tumbling with excitement to stay sitting in the jeep. Bethan would be a while, I reckoned, so I opened the door and hopped down, the rumble of trucks vibrating up through my wellingtons. I looked over my shoulder. Another convoy was rolling in: covered wagons filled with soldiers. Local children ran along behind the open backs, hands outstretched ready to catch whatever the Americans tossed down. The air was filled with young voices yelling, ‘Give us some gum, chum!', faces of American soldiers grinning down towards them, sweets scattering out from the backs of the trucks. I ran after them, joining in the concentrated gaggle of children, my hands reached out. Something flew past my face and bounced off behind me on to the pavement. I twisted round, ready to dive down, but I was beaten to it. We were like ducks being fed.

A whistle sounded from up ahead and the bottleneck of lorries began to pick up pace. The trucks pulled away, making running with them near impossible, and I eased up to a walk, chest heaving. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, hands on hips and panting. Kids were on the other side of the street, heads bowed, hands cupped, all assessing their bounty. I had come away with nothing. I scanned the road and the kerbside to see if anything was still to be claimed, but the cobbles had been picked clean.