Heartbreak in the Valleys

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Heartbreak in the Valleys Page 9

by Francesca Capaldi


  ‘That is not the subject of this meeting,’ said Hubbard, ‘but rather whether we should go out on strike if the government insists on—’

  ‘Then it should be the subject! That’s what we’re all concerned about.’

  From then on the meeting broke into factions, discussing various topics. Isaiah and Gwilym attached themselves to the nearest group. They talked of the shortage of meat at the butcher’s, despite the recent influx of rabbit, pigeon and the occasional mutton and chicken.

  So absorbed was Idris in catching snatches of these conversations that he didn’t hear someone creep up behind him, until Edgar Williams’s low voice said, ‘So you weren’t man enough to speak up against me yourself. You had to get your friend to do it.’

  Idris kept his gaze ahead as he replied, ‘Gwilym says what he wants. It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Like hell it hasn’t, Hughes. Watch your step – and your back.’ Williams made his way to the door, upright and brash, pushing through the men and not apologising.

  ‘What was that about?’ said Gwilym, joining Idris once more.

  ‘Williams was blaming me for your big mouth.’ He leapt up. ‘I’m off home.’

  ‘Idris, mun, don’t be—’

  Idris left, not hearing what Gwilym had to say, following in Edgar Williams’s footsteps. He didn’t see the under-manager until he was outside, hanging back at the top of the double steps. There was someone waiting for Williams at the bottom. Madog Rhys, Anwen’s father. Idris stepped quietly to the top of the steps, watching as Madog and Williams disappeared into the dark of Jubilee Green. Now there was a strange pairing.

  Chapter Eight

  Anwen gazed around the bookshop, wondering where to begin. She was the only one there, other than the owner, Mr Schenck, who was sorting through a box of books on the counter. The shop had opened around twelve years back. It had always been a place of fascination and peace for her, with its high dark wood shelves of books and the constant aroma of beeswax and paper. A couple of small, square tables were placed in the centre, one of which always held a selection of the latest volumes. Anwen spied DH Lawrence’s The Rainbow and Virginia Woolf’s The Voyage Out among them. On the other table she spotted The Railway Children, picking it up and peeping inside. She’d had a copy of that as a twelve-year-old, bought for her by Mamgu Llewellyn, her maternal grandmother. One day it had disappeared into the fire, like most of the other books they’d owned. Now Anwen mostly borrowed from the library, knowing her father wouldn’t dare harm those.

  She was about to sit down with the book when the shop bell rang. She readied her smile for whoever the new patron might be, a smile that got stuck halfway when she saw it was Idris.

  He glanced briefly at her before making his way to the second room, where they kept the history books he loved. Anwen placed The Railway Children back where she’d found it. She couldn’t afford the book and it wasn’t what she’d come for. Outside, the sky darkened further with incoming slate clouds. Mr Schenck put on the lights.

  Inspecting the second-hand shelves, always neatly in author alphabetical order, Anwen quickly found Peter and Wendy. Sara had borrowed it from the library at the Workmen’s Institute several times so Anwen was sure she’d love her own copy. She ran her fingers over the green cover with its beautiful gold illustrations.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ said Mr Schenck, his Dutch accent still evident, though his English was very precise and accurate – probably more so than many in the village. He wore a suit with a waistcoat, his fob watch tucked into the pocket, and a round-collared, high-necked shirt.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Schenck, but I believe I’ve found what I’m looking for.’

  He peered down at the title. ‘The boy who never grew up. A book of wishful thinking maybe, from Mr Barrie.’

  Anwen often wished she’d never grown up. Maybe that was the appeal of the book to Sara. ‘It’s a Christmas present for my sister.’

  ‘The first of December already. Where has the year gone? Shall I take that for you?’

  She handed him the book. ‘Thank you, though I’d like to browse for a little longer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Anwen moved from the novels, to a section labelled ‘Travel’, wondering what lands she could visit via a book. As she was taking down one about Scotland, the door opened swiftly, clanging against the door stop. Esther Williams, the under-manager’s wife, stormed in. Following her were a group of half-a-dozen women, each with a furled umbrella looped over an arm.

  ‘Can I help you, Mrs Williams, ladies?’ Mr Schenck moved away from the counter to greet the group.

  ‘I have to say,’ started Mrs Williams in imitation of Mrs Meredith’s accent, ‘that I am most surprised to find you still trading in time of war. When there are so many shortages, how can you justify selling such – fripperies?’ She dismissed the shop with a flick of her hand.

  Anwen watched as the woman’s minions nodded in agreement.

  ‘I am now a Guardian, which means that I have the authority to check on the morality and behaviour of the village.’

  Anwen had read about this new type of Guardian, who were different to the Poor Law Guardians who oversaw the running of the workhouses. Instead, they were primarily tasked with looking after the women’s virtue, making sure they didn’t run amok while the men were away, and weren’t seduced by the soldiers in their dashing uniforms. It made her angry that women were taken for such weak, silly creatures. That Esther Williams should have been put in a position to keep an eye on them all was worrying indeed.

  ‘My first concern, Mr Schenck, is foreigners in the village. Now, you claim to be Dutch, but your name sounds very German.’

  ‘The two languages are similar, having a common root, that is true, madam.’

  One of Mrs Williams’s acolytes stepped forward, a pinch-faced woman from West Street, called Mrs Watkins. ‘It’s all the same though, isn’t it? You Dutch aren’t fighting the Hun, you’ve just stepped back to let them get on with it.’

  This was awful. Anwen had read how the Germans in some British towns had suffered their shop windows being smashed, and nasty things written on their homes, even though they were guilty of nothing.

  Mr Schenck spoke calmly as he said, ‘I do not know the answer to that, as I am not privy to the actions of the Dutch government. I am but a humble bookseller who left the land of his birth seventeen years ago. I agree it is regrettable that they have decided on this stance, but some good has come of it, I believe. There is, as a consequence, neutral ground across which soldiers from both sides can be treated and where prisoners of war may be swapped.’

  There was no sign of Idris. Perhaps he was absorbed and couldn’t hear what was going on. Or maybe he was hiding because he didn’t want to get involved. Either way, it was up to her to come to Mr Schenck’s defence. She stepped forward. ‘What is it exactly you are accusing Mr Schenck of, because you seem to be accusing him of something?’ She placed her quivering hands behind her back.

  ‘And who are you to question a Guardian?’

  ‘I didn’t think the duties of a Guardian were to question innocent people about their nationality,’ said Anwen.

  ‘Our powers are far-reaching. And one of my duties is to make sure the women in this village remain virtuous, not loose, so you’d better watch your step. What is your name?’

  Mr Schenck put his hand up. ‘You’ve no need to tell her.’

  ‘That’s Anwen Rhys, that is,’ said one of the group. ‘She lives down Edward Street. Her father’s Madog Rhys.’

  ‘Anwen Rhys,’ repeated Mrs Williams. ‘I shall make a note of that. As for you, Mr Schenck, you might show more solidarity with our brave soldiers and the miners here if you closed the bookshop for the duration of the war and concentrated on making a better contribution to the war effort. You’re still relatively young – in your forties, is it? Why not work at the mine or in munitions?’

  There was the plod of heavy boots on the wood f
loor, getting louder as their wearer got nearer. Idris appeared from around a bookshelf, standing defiant, his jaw set firm. ‘Mr Schenck is offering an excellent service here, lifting our spirits with a little escapism. And his nephew, Noah, works at the mine, so this family is doing its bit. I don’t see your son Daniel down a mine, or in the army, Mrs Williams.’

  The old spirited Idris was so evident, Anwen was for a moment back in the past.

  ‘Well really! I know who you are. Idris Hughes, who wasn’t good enough for the army. Probably not good enough for the mine either. Edgar’s keeping an eye on you, and now I am, too.’

  If Idris had fallen foul of the under-manager it was very brave of him to stand up to his wife, thought Anwen. A smidgeon of admiration crept in among the resentment and hurt.

  ‘Now, now,’ said Mr Schenck. ‘I like to think my shop is a place of peace and thoughtful contemplation, a whole world of discovery in two rooms. Would you not like to explore, ladies, find a book for a loved one for Christmas?’

  ‘Fripperies and nonsense!’ proclaimed Mrs Williams.

  ‘Quite so, quite so,’ murmured some of her entourage. A couple of them shuffled awkwardly.

  ‘These miners shouldn’t be able to afford such things when times are hard.’

  ‘My understanding is that they are earning more since the war,’ said Mr Schenck.

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. Now ladies, we will depart and spend no more time in this… this den of sin!’

  With that, she ushered her group out of the door, some of them chattering at once in condemning tones. The rain was falling faster now and for some moments they huddled in the doorway.

  Mr Schenck considered his two customers. ‘My goodness, a den of sin! That is indeed an extraordinary claim. Thank you for coming to my defence. I don’t think it will make any difference to the illustrious Mrs Williams, who is always waging her own war.’

  Outside, Esther Williams and her ladies were putting up umbrellas. After, they crossed the road to the McKenzie Arms.

  ‘Can it be true that she’s been appointed a Guardian? I thought only the larger towns had them.’ Anwen said this as much to get Idris’s attention as to make a point.

  Idris stared out of the window, not replying.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Mr Schenck, lifting his shoulders and lowering them. ‘But I see much trouble resulting from it.’

  Idris disappeared back round the bookshelf without another word.

  ‘I will pay for that book now,’ said Anwen, going to the counter in the middle of the room.

  ‘I hope your sister will enjoy it,’ said Mr Schenck.

  She would if it was hidden well, and Da didn’t throw it on the fire.

  * * *

  Anwen congratulated herself as she sprinted up the stairs. Mam would be pleased with the two Jane Austen novels she’d found in the library today.

  She knocked on Mam’s door briefly. Plunging into the room, she came to an abrupt stop. Her mother was sitting on the side of the bed, facing the window.

  ‘Mam, what are you doing?’ Anwen ran to her, dropping the books on her father’s side of the bed.

  Her mother gaped at her, as if frightened of something. ‘I – I don’t know. I don’t know how I got here.’

  ‘Can you get any further? I mean, if you’ve managed to shuffle around and get your legs over the bed, you might be able to do more.’

  ‘No. Help me back, please.’ Her mother’s chest was rising and falling rapidly.

  Anwen took her mother’s legs, manoeuvring them onto the bed. Taking her by the arms, she struggled to pull her back up to the pillows. She straightened the sheet and blankets, covering her mother and tucking the bedclothes under her arms.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ Enid looked over at the books on the bed. ‘You’ve managed to get me some Jane Austen! Wonderful.’

  Anwen leant over to retrieve the books, handing them to her mother before sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Thank you.’ She opened Mansfield Park, reading a little of the first page before closing it and laying it on her knees. ‘Anwen, do you think Sara is ailing a little more than usual? That cough hasn’t got better and she is often pallid.’

  ‘I know, Mam. I did suggest we get the doctor in, but she got quite cross. She says she’s just tired from the work and that the winter cold is making it worse. I wonder if I did the right thing giving up the job to Sara. It’s longer hours than sorting the coal.’

  ‘But much better conditions.’ Enid patted her daughter’s arm. ‘You did the right thing and I’m proud of you.’

  ‘I wish Da hadn’t insisted that she work. I couldn’t dissuade him.’

  ‘I tried, too, goodness knows I did. But I’m not in a good bargaining position these days. Your father’s still out, is he?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know where.’

  ‘He is giving you money for the bills and food though, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is.’ Though barely enough. Her wages paid for a good deal of what his should have paid for, and even then he sometimes snatched money from her. And now from Sara. She wasn’t going to tell Mam this, though. ‘I’d better go and start on supper.’

  ‘You’re good girls, both of you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘Mam, shall I tell the doctor you moved to the edge of the bed? He might examine you again and see if—’

  ‘No. I’m sure it was a fluke, done in my sleep maybe.’

  ‘But if you can do it in your sleep—’

  ‘I said no. And don’t tell your father.’

  Anwen left her to it, taking the stairs down with a heavier heart than when she’d gone up.

  * * *

  Sara arrived back on Monday evening as the clock on the dresser chimed half past six. Despite the day of rest yesterday, she was drooping like someone who’d already done six long days.

  ‘I’ll just get my coat off and I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘No, you sit down. I’ve done supper. I managed to get a piece of salted bacon in the butcher’s so I’ve made a cawl of sorts.’

  ‘I’m not hungry tonight. I’ll go and see Mam.’

  ‘Hold on a moment. Shut the door.’

  Sara did as she was told, resting her coat over a chair.

  ‘Is the job too much for you? If so, I’ll get the doctor up and he can tell Da you’re not up to it.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ said Sara, her voice louder than normal. ‘I like it at the House. I don’t get out otherwise. I don’t see any of my old school friends now. I think it’s because I’ve been unwell so much that they get fed up with me.’

  She slumped onto the chair and burst into tears. Anwen flew to her, cradling her in her arms.

  ‘Oh Sara, I hadn’t realised.’ But when she thought about it, her sister hadn’t mentioned friends recently.

  Sara’s sobs got louder before they turned into a cough. It carried on while Anwen found her a clean hankie, handing it to her as she rubbed her back. It was a good five minutes later before the rasping cough ceased.

  ‘I’m going to get the doctor, Sara. That’s more than a cold.’

  ‘No it’s not! I just have a weak chest. I need some herbs, that’s all. Have we got any Cough Cure in the house?’

  ‘I think we’ve run out.’ Not that it ever did much good when Sara was having one of her spells. ‘There is a little bit of honey in the cupboard, if you’d like that in a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll go and see Mam now and have it when I come down.’

  ‘And then we’ll have our supper.’

  Sara nodded. No appetite and a rasping cough. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed Anwen for a few seconds before she told herself it wouldn’t help. What would she do if her sister came down with a bout of influenza? She’d have to insist on her giving up the job, even if she had to tie her to the bed. And take the consequences when Da found out.

  * * *

  Back from her shift, washed and cleanly clothed,
Anwen considered tackling the housework downstairs, the sweeping, dusting and polishing. It was already Thursday. She examined the kitchen forlornly. Barely any of what was usually achieved by this time had been done. It was hard keeping up now that Sara was working too.

  Her father hadn’t returned yet. As they’d left work, she’d seen him traipse off in the opposite direction, despite being unwashed and in his dirty pit clothes.

  First and foremost, the front step needed a good scour. She put some cold water into a bucket and took it with the scrubbing brush and soap to the front door. As she opened it, she jumped, jolting the bucket so that the water went over her skirts.

  Elizabeth was on the edge of the pavement, holding Sara up. Behind them was the Meredith family’s motorcar, a black Morris Oxford. Her sister’s skin had a grey tinge. Anwen put down the bucket and ran to her. Several neighbours were outside, watching with curiosity.

  ‘My goodness, what’s wrong?’ said Anwen.

  Sara coughed, lifting a handkerchief to her mouth.

  ‘Perhaps we could step inside?’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Of course.’ Anwen went back to pick up the discarded items and put them to one side in the hall.

  Elizabeth held Sara’s arm as she helped her in. Anwen cringed with shame for her inadequate house, before the anxiety for her sister weighed her down once more. She led them to the kitchen. Although not as tidy as the front room, where she would in other circumstances have taken Elizabeth, it was warmer.

  ‘Could I have some water, please?’ Sara was having difficulty breathing.

  Anwen ran to the scullery to fetch it, bringing the cup back as Elizabeth helped Sara into one of the wooden armchairs by the fire.

  ‘Could I talk to you in the other room?’ Elizabeth whispered, nodding towards the scullery.

  Anwen led her through, closing the door after her.

  ‘How long has Sara been like this?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Always. She’s never been strong. Every cold goes to her chest.’

  ‘But bad like this. She coughed up a little blood earlier.’

 

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