Sunlight on the Mersey (30 page)

Olivia Rhys-Pritchard dropped Rose off in Liverpool city centre on Tuesday afternoon, promising to pick her up at the same time and place on Thursday, and then headed in the direction of Rodney Street. Rose caught a tram home. Iris and Tom were to be married at four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon as Saturday was Iris’s busiest day. They’d arranged it for late afternoon so that Charlie and Florence, Mr Morrissey and Tom’s sisters would only have to take a few hours off work. As the tram trundled through the streets Rose thought to herself that strangely now she didn’t think of the city as ‘home’. All these roads and buildings were very familiar, of course, but her feelings had changed. She was now used to fields and hills, Gwen’s cottage and the spacious, elegant rooms of Plas Idris. As Olivia had driven – rather more quickly
than Rose would have liked – towards the city, she had remembered the last time she’d come home: when Edward Taylor had come to Tregarron to drive her back after her father had died. She hoped that the sad, bereft atmosphere that had pervaded the house and shop had gone. She was looking forward to seeing everyone and in particular her mam again, and of course finding out what Iris had bought to wear for her wedding.

‘It was very good of them to bring you with them, luv,’ Kate greeted her youngest daughter.

‘Yes. I didn’t think at first I’d be able to come because of the bus times but when I mentioned it to David he arranged it all. How is your arm now, Mam? Still painful? Aunty Gwen sends her love and says she’s coming on a Christmas shopping trip from the village that’s been arranged for next month, so she’ll call to see you,’ Rose informed her mother as she took off her coat and hat.

Kate nodded, noticing that Rose had used his Christian name again, but delighted to hear of Gwen’s impending visit. ‘It’s a lot better than it was but things have been a bit hectic since my fall. Both Iris and Tom have managed to organise everything though and Charlie spends quite a few evenings at Florence’s house so he’s not under my feet too much. Iris has a really smart coat and hat, Rose. I’m sure she’ll show it to you later on.’ Kate pulled a face. ‘I’m going to look a bit of a fright, I can’t get a coat or jacket on properly with this damned arm.’

‘No you won’t, Mam, wear your best dress and we’ll drape
your good coat over your shoulders. It will look very stylish,’ Rose assured her, smiling.

‘I’ve never achieved being “stylish” in my life yet but at least the plaster will be off and the arm healed for our Charlie’s wedding,’ Kate replied. She’d have to look smart for that occasion for Ethel Taylor most certainly would!

Charlie splashed out on a taxi to take the small wedding party to Brougham Terrace to the Register Office and proudly escorted Iris. She looked very smart in her outfit. The colour and style of the coat suited her and the bouquet Florence had ordered was perfect. The flowers must have been expensive, Rose thought as she fastened the spray of small chrysanthemums to the lapel of Kate’s coat. It lent her mother an air of elegance and made Kate feel more confident in her appearance.

Tom and his family were waiting in the ante-room all dressed in their best clothes, and Tom immediately crossed and kissed Iris on the cheek. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous, Iris!’

‘Florence has excelled with the flowers, hasn’t she, particularly as they’re hard to get? I . . . I feel a bit nervous though,’ she confided as her mother and future mother-in-law chatted amiably while Rose and Florence talked to Tom’s sisters. Both Tom’s father and Charlie were glancing around and thinking the place wasn’t a very cheerful venue for a wedding. Charlie was remembering that the last time he had been here was to register his da’s death but he shrugged the thought aside.

A few minutes later they were ushered into a larger wood-panelled room with a desk on which a small vase of flowers had been set to one side of the leather-bound register. Half a dozen chairs stood in a semi-circle. Florence thought it looked dreadfully bleak and far more suited to the mundane business of registering births and deaths than a wedding. She wished Iris had waited a few more weeks and had a church wedding; there was something far more spiritual and romantic about a church, even in winter and without music or masses of flowers, but glancing at her friend as she stood beside Tom with Rose and Charlie at their sides, Iris seemed to be marvellously and happily oblivious of the officious austerity.

The butterflies in Iris’s stomach had stopped their nervous fluttering as she handed her bouquet to Rose and smiled happily up at Tom. She promised to love, honour and obey, to have and to hold, for better or worse, in sickness and in health until death ‘do us part’ and when he placed the plain gold band on her finger and bent to kiss his new wife, she saw the same light of love and joy reflected in his eyes.

‘I love you, Tom Morrissey,’ she whispered with a catch in her voice.

‘I love you too, Mrs Morrissey,’ he whispered back, gently taking her arm and preparing to lead the family group back outside.

Both Kate and Florence dabbed at their eyes and Rose thought of David Rhys-Pritchard and of how handsome he had looked at Elinore’s engagement party and of how he had so kindly arranged for her to be present on this, the happiest
day of Iris’s life. She’d begun to think of him more often lately and of how kind he was to her. She realised that she missed him. She missed him a great deal.

T
HE
C
HRISTMAS TREE LOOKED
magnificent. It filled one entire corner of the hall and reached almost to the ceiling and Rose, Nancy and Nora stepped back to admire their handiwork. With the help of Henry they’d spent over an hour decorating it. Ever since she’d returned after Iris’s wedding Rose had been looking forward to spending Christmas at Plas Idris.

‘You’ve done a great job, girls. Lovely it looks, very festive,’ Mrs Mathews praised them.

‘It certainly makes the hall look more welcoming,’ Nancy enthused as she helped Henry to fold away the ladder and Rose collected the boxes that had contained the delicate coloured-glass decorations and tinsel and the little candles and their holders.

‘We only ever had a tiny thing at home and we made the decorations ourselves from pipe cleaners and cardboard covered with silver paper from cigarette packets,’ Rose told them. ‘I’m really looking forward to my first Christmas here,’ she added, thinking of the festivities that Miss Olivia had planned for the holiday. Ernest Williams would be coming over both on Christmas Eve for the large dinner party that had been planned, mainly for those who had not been invited to Elinore’s wedding, and for the family lunch on Christmas Day. Another dinner party was being hosted on Boxing Day.

‘Put those boxes away, Rose, and then you’d better see to decorating the tree in Mr David’s drawing room. After you’ve done that make up the fire in the dining room and help Nancy with setting the table for supper,’ the housekeeper instructed as she oversaw the safe removal of the ladder and the sweeping up of the pine needles that had dropped on to the floor.

Rose took the empty boxes away and fetched the ones containing the decorations for the much smaller tree that had been placed in a corner of David’s small drawing room. The room was empty for he was closeted with Evan Price, his land agent, in his study, something he did frequently these days. She admired the fact that he had begun to take an interest in the estate again. She felt it helped him to achieve a more normal outlook on life. She switched on the standard lamp and closed the shutters over the windows, then drew the curtains shutting out the bleak December afternoon, for although it was not yet four o’clock it was almost dark. She stirred up the fire and added more coal and wood and then
started to take the ornaments and strands of tinsel from their boxes.

She was so engrossed with her task that she didn’t hear him enter and he sat watching her for a few minutes as she carefully attached the red, green and gold glass baubles to the branches of the tree. The light from the fire caught her cheeks giving them a soft, pink glow and her dark hair beneath its white lace cap was thick and shiny. His heart turned over. She was completely unaware of how beautiful she was, he thought as she reached gracefully up to drape a strand of tinsel over the topmost branches. He moved forward a little and the faint humming of the wheelchair’s motor made Rose turn suddenly.

‘Oh, you startled me! I didn’t hear you come in, I thought you were still with Mr Price,’ she said, clutching the gold star that was to be the finishing touch in her hand.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Mr Price has gone. I have to say it looks lovely, Rose,’ he said, moving closer to inspect her handiwork.

‘It’s not nearly as magnificent as the one in the hall, but it does look well,’ Rose replied as she placed the stool beside the tree, preparing to put the star into place.

‘Take care you don’t fall, Rose,’ he urged. If she did he could be of no assistance to her at all.

‘There now, shall I light the little candles?’ Rose asked, stepping down.

‘No, leave them. Come and view your handiwork from this angle.’ He had manoeuvred himself close to the fire and beckoned to her to sit beside him.

As there wasn’t a chair situated near enough Rose knelt beside him and viewed the tree critically. ‘It does make the room look festive. Do you think it should be brought a little bit further forward?’

‘No, it’s perfect. It’s only the second time I’ve had a tree in here. I . . . I wasn’t very interested in Christmas and all its trappings when I first came home but then last year Livvie insisted I have some sort of festive decoration in here,’ he said quietly.

Rose nodded; she could understand that. ‘We always had a very small tree at home and even though money was tight, Mam made sure we all got an orange, a new penny, a bag of nuts and usually a penny toy. And we were very fortunate; there were children in our street who never got anything at all. Did you have lots of presents and parties when you were a child, David?’

He gazed into the fire, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. ‘We did. I suppose we were terribly spoilted by many people’s standards. I remember the year I got my first pony. I was five. A sturdy little Welsh Mountain, he was, and I called him Merlin. It was snowing but I insisted on riding him and Father braved the weather to lead me up and down the drive while Mother and the girls waved from the windows. The house was always decorated with greenery and we had house guests and parties and Lewis always gave me a big bag of toffees but then after the . . . accident, things . . . changed. Christmas became a very quiet time.’

Rose looked up at him sadly. ‘That must have been terrible
for you. I . . . I know how I felt when my father was killed.’

He nodded slowly, his eyes filled with pain. ‘I was away at boarding school. The headmaster sent for me, to tell me. He was as kind as he knew how to be but it was still a very brief and awkward interview. And then I was sent home to a house that seemed so . . . desolate and empty.’

Rose watched him, and in his expression and the loneliness in his tone, she suddenly caught a glimpse of the frightened, shocked and bereft child he’d been that day. She too had been away from home when her father had died but she had not been a child. Without really realising what she was doing she reached across and took his hand. ‘It must have been far worse for you than it was for me, David. At least I was older.’

He held her hand tightly as he nodded. ‘I hated this house. Every room held memories. I was so . . . angry. But in time a sense of . . . acceptance took the place of loss and resentment; the grief became more bearable. Then a semblance of normality seemed to return, Livvie took over the household and I went back to school and then war was declared, although I didn’t have to go at once. I was too young.’

Rose looked at him pleadingly. ‘Don’t talk about it, David. Not if it upsets you. Those four years were the most terrible, tragic years everyone has ever known.’

He closed his eyes as he tried to dispel the memories of those days and months in the trenches. The unspeakably filthy, miserable conditions; the mud and the rats; the constant thundering of the heavy artillery; the terror that turned the stomach; and each heart-stopping, gut-wrenching moment
when he’d led his men up the ladders and over the top, the whistle clenched so tightly between his teeth that his jaw ached yet he could not hear the noise it made. Not knowing if each second would be his last; not knowing how many of the lads who followed him – many of whom were the same age or even younger than he was – would survive for even an hour let alone a day. The terrible sights he’d seen, the sounds, the smells and the horror would remain with him for ever, his own wounds serving as a constant reminder. And he’d been fortunate, he hadn’t had to endure years of it as some had, and he’d lived. He was unaware that tears were pouring down his cheeks and that his chest was heaving with suppressed anguish.

Gently Rose gathered him in her arms, her own eyes full of unshed tears. She was filled with guilt that she had unwittingly instigated such devastating memories. ‘I’m sorry, David, so sorry. I know it must have been appalling. Charlie would never speak about it and there were so many lads I knew –grew up with – who died. They were all in the same regiment – the liverpool Pals they called them. They were all friends. They’d grown up together, worked together and they . . .’ She couldn’t go on; memories of devastated families in every single street came flooding back and it was only four years since it had all ended.