Heartbreak in the Valleys

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Heartbreak in the Valleys Page 26

by Francesca Capaldi


  ‘Oh bach, that’s enough!’ Meg’s shrill voice made both the men jump. She dumped the shirt she’d removed from the airer over an empty chair. ‘Enough. It’s driving yourself nuts, you are, with this insistent mission to find the boys, and why? Because you think it’s your fault Jenkin’s gone?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘But nothing! Stop it now! Do you think I’m any the less upset? I’m his mother! I’ve lost two sons, one at birth and one still a babby. Do you think I relish losing Jenkin any more than you do?’ Her cheeks and neck were crimson and moisture lined her eyes. ‘We’ve informed the offices. We’ve informed the police. Sometimes all you have left is to sit and wait.’

  ‘I can’t just sit and wait.’ Idris slammed his fist on the table, causing the cups and saucers there to rattle a complaint. He lifted his hands, aware that they were both shaking. He hid them behind his back, but soon his whole body was trembling. He had to get on the move, go somewhere, search, search, search. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Idris, wait!’ said Meg. ‘I was going to ask you to come to Enid’s with me.’

  ‘Why?’ She was surely trying to divert his attention.

  ‘Sometimes Madog is there. I’m not comfortable in his presence, especially if Cadi and Anwen are out. Couple of times I’ve let myself in only to be shouted out again by him.’

  ‘He shouts at you?’ Idris was aware she’d been successful in diverting him, but this was a worrying development his mother had not mentioned before.

  ‘Increasingly drunker and crosser, he is.’

  ‘He is that,’ Gwilym confirmed.

  He was desperate to find Jenkin, but he also needed to protect his mother. Perhaps, by the same action, he’d reinforce the warning he’d issued to Madog Rhys the day Miss Meredith brought Sara home, thereby protecting Anwen. But he would not let his mother think he came without effort.

  ‘All right. I will come with you if I must. It’s right that you still visit Enid, the condition she’s in.’

  ‘The only time I can guarantee Madog won’t be there is when the knitting group comes around. Probably because there are a few older men in the group, and Hywel comes round to help. Reckon he doesn’t fancy taking them all on.’

  ‘When do you want to go?’

  ‘When I’ve folded these. So drink up your tea while you’re waiting.’

  Idris caught a brief look shared between his mother and Gwilym, deciding to ignore the fact that they clearly felt they’d achieved some kind of victory. He picked the tea up, willing it to calm his nerves. His body was still shaking, though it was more a vibration within, now.

  ‘I’ll get going,’ said Gwilym. He let himself out the back.

  Having finished the folding, Meg gathered together some scrap wool into a sack bag she’d made a few days before. ‘Enid likes to knit every day so I’m keeping her supplied. We’ve had such a good response to our plea for old wool garments.’

  Meg wrapped her shawl around herself. Idris took only his cap, despite the downpour. They went out the front onto the drenched street, where the rain had eased to a drizzle. At Anwen’s house they halted, glancing at each other before Meg tapped on the door.

  ‘I find now it’s better to knock first in case—’

  She was unable to finish before the door was flung open by Madog, his face unshaven. He was chewing tobacco, but it didn’t stop him saying, ‘What d’you want?’ He treated Idris to a sneer, ignoring his mother altogether.

  ‘I’ve come for my daily visit to Enid,’ said Meg.

  ‘Have you now? Well, she’s sleeping so don’t need your company. And what’s this? You brought a bodyguard?’

  ‘I haven’t been to see Mrs Rhys for a while and thought I’d pay a visit,’ said Idris.

  ‘You’re not welcome in this house.’ He poked a stubby, blackened finger towards Idris’s face.

  Meg held up the sack bag. ‘I’ve brought some wool for Enid, so she can keep knitting.’

  Madog took it, immediately throwing the bag into a puddle in the road.

  Idris was about to protest when his mother pre-empted him with a shrieked, ‘Was that necessary?’

  ‘Enid’s done with knitting for unknown people. If she’s going to do any knitting, it’ll be for me.’ He slammed the door.

  Idris retrieved the dripping bag from the puddle, gathering up a skein of wool that had fallen out.

  They set off back towards their house, the pinched mouth of his mother telling him she was stewing inwardly. Her breathing had become so heavy she was almost blowing steam like an angry bull. Her next sentence burst out of her above the rain. ‘I’ve never been convinced, you know, about Enid’s accident.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Oh yes, he had a very good idea what she was getting at. He only hoped, for Enid’s sake, and Anwen’s, she was wrong.

  When they’d passed the Workmen’s Institute he said, ‘I’m going for a walk, Mam.’

  ‘In this weather, bach? It’s getting worse again.’

  ‘I need to stretch my legs.’ What he needed was to go through things in his mind. He couldn’t do that at home with his mother, and soon his father, talking at him.

  ‘You’re not going to hunt for Jenkin!’

  ‘No, Mam. Just local. Fresh air, even if it is wet.’

  ‘All right, cariad, but don’t be too long, or else I’ll be out looking for you.’

  ‘An hour or so, that’s all I need.’

  ‘Make sure it is.’

  He set off down to Gabriel Street, on the way to Mafeking Terrace. A walk to Rhymney and back would help clear his head a bit. He was unlikely to pass many people in this weather, allowing him to concentrate only on his thoughts.

  * * *

  Anwen approached the allotments behind the cottages, watching the air shimmering above the field. The men working there were distorted in the haze. She pulled her blouse away from her, longing to divest herself of at least her corset. That would be freedom indeed. The air was still cool after yesterday’s rain, but she was overly warm from hurrying.

  Gwilym came down to meet her, spade in hand, his identity becoming apparent only as he got closer. He lifted his other hand in greeting. ‘Good afternoon, Anwen.’

  ‘Gwilym, I wondered if Idris was working back in the field yet.’

  ‘No. Went to see him yesterday. He’s back in that cave of his since Jenkin ran away.’

  Anwen grieved deep in her soul, her face passive in order to conceal this.

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’ Gwilym’s face crinkled with concern.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do with him. He’s made that clear. It’s up to his family and friends.’

  ‘Anwen, whatever’s happened, you are his friend. You’ve known each other too long not to be.’

  She knew this to be true. He was as much a part of her existence as these mountains and valleys, as the neat rows of terraces and the Baptist chapel. He was woven into the fabric of her life.

  ‘And he still cares for you, I know. I’ve seen the frown when he’s heard what your father’s been up to.’

  Anwen was immediately on the defence. ‘What’s my father done now?’ She pictured the drawers full of bottles and other items in Sara’s room.

  ‘His temper, how he lashes out and threatens people.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She hadn’t meant to sound so dismissive, but she’d been anticipating him saying much worse.

  Abraham Owen came shuffling down the incline almost sideways, in between two rows of sown seeds, causing Gwilym to whisper, ‘We’re looking out for you, remember.’

  ‘You’re getting on well here,’ she called to Abraham, not wishing to discuss her family problems any further.

  ‘Aye, fach, the men are doing a good job. But we could do with that daft blighter back. Idris, that is. What’s he playing at? Can’t you go round and talk some sense into him?’

  ‘Mr Owen, Idris and I aren’t—’
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  ‘Oh, I know, I know. But he clearly has more respect for you than he does most. Dunno why you gave him up; nice, decent lad, he is. And he thinks the world of you, you can see.’

  Anwen glanced at Gwilym who shrugged slightly. Most people now believed she’d jilted him, after that strained conversation with Esther Williams in the gardens some months back.

  ‘Grancher, let’s show Anwen what we’ve planted—’ he started, only to be struck dumb by something behind Anwen.

  She followed his eye-line to see the very woman who’d just held her thoughts, ambling towards them with difficulty. She was sporting the kind of tight hemmed skirt that Margaret Meredith was still prone to wear, the fashion for which was now a year or two in the past. A ‘hobble skirt’, she believed it was called. Her employer managed the fashion with more elegance, besides which, her skirts were never quite this narrow. Mrs Williams had hitherto favoured the wider skirts from before the war.

  She used a green parasol as a walking stick, aiding her advance. ‘I see you’ve connived to take another two of my women from me.’

  Anwen took three steps towards her. ‘If you mean that two of the ladies you are friendly with decided, of their own accord, to join the allotment group, then you are right. But they are hardly your women.’

  ‘You’ve been telling them lies about me. They’ll barely even say hello to me now.’

  ‘That’s because you shout at them before they have a chance,’ said Abraham. ‘I’ve ’eard you.’

  ‘I was not talking to you.’ She didn’t even bother to look at Gwilym’s grandfather as she said it.

  ‘No, but I’m talking to you. If your hands worked as much as your mouth and did something to help us, why, we’d have a field full of veggies in no time.’

  ‘Grancher,’ Gwilym warned in a low voice.

  ‘Don’t Grancher me. I know you’re thinking that she could make trouble for you and your da. But if she tries that, I’ll be reporting her to the manager, who sits over the likes of Edgar Williams.’

  Esther chose to ignore the taunt, returning her attention to Anwen. ‘As for you, setting yourself up as leader here, doing things above your station…’

  ‘Elizabeth put me in this position,’ Anwen countered.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Esther pushed her face towards Anwen’s. There were beads of sweat on her high forehead. ‘It’s “Miss Meredith” to the likes of you, you impertinent skivvy!’

  On the hillside, the men had stopped to watch the performance below. Anwen stepped backwards from Esther’s intrusive presence and the whiff of her cheap perfume. ‘You know, Mrs Williams, for all your words about doing things for the war effort, you are doing nothing whatsoever.’

  ‘I’m a Guardian!’

  ‘With little to be guardian of, as far as I can see. You make up trouble so you can supposedly put it right. Perhaps you should use your status to do something about the scout master, make sure no other boys in his company go off to enlist. You’re lucky your Christopher was ill and didn’t go with the other boys.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have been so daft.’

  ‘But his name was on the letter,’ said Gwilym.

  ‘That’s what that foolish mother of yours said. It’s rubbish.’

  Gwilym threw his hands up. ‘I saw the note.’

  ‘And you forget, my poor Daniel has gone, and such a weight it is on a mother’s heart.’ She screwed up her face in pain, placing her hand on her chest.

  Anwen might have had a little sympathy for her if she hadn’t suspected Esther of play-acting to garner sympathy. ‘Evan, Gwilym and the others are only fifteen and sixteen.’

  ‘It’s their families’ fault,’ Esther concluded with a firm nod of the head. ‘In my household we have boundaries and we maintain discipline.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Abraham. ‘My pal Peter heard a right to-do coming from your house five days since. Said it sounded like the war had come to Dorcalon.’

  Esther was silenced for some moments before snapping into a stretched pose, making her taller than the old man. ‘Yes, I heard it too. It was next door. I have no idea what that was about.’ With this, she popped up her parasol and tottered off back down the path, her body leaning forward so much that it was likely she would topple over at any moment.

  When she was out of earshot, Abraham said, ‘Like hell it was. Sorry, begging your pardon, Anwen.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Owen. She’d make the pastor’s wife swear, that one.’

  ‘Whatever was going on at that house probably has no bearing on my brother and the other boys going missing,’ said Gwilym.

  But Anwen was not so sure.

  * * *

  Idris dragged his frame along West Street, carrying his jacket and waistcoat along with his food and drink tins. Today was the summer solstice, but summer still hadn’t really got going. Fifty-four degrees, Twm Bach reckoned it said on his thermometer. Yet it might as well have been a heatwave as far as his body was concerned. He was heading home on a different route to his usual one, taking advantage of the alleyways that wove their way through Dorcalon, glad of their shelter from the rest of the world. His father had taken the normal route, announcing he was going to stop off for his usual baccy.

  He’d got to the end of the alley between the terraces of Islwyn Street and was now faced with the field of vegetables and the labour force there, around half a dozen women. A couple of women spotted him from the middle and waved eagerly. He lifted his hand briefly in response, keeping his head down.

  He skirted the field on the right, gathering speed along the soil path. It was too early for Anwen to be there, but he glanced around anyway. Violet was at the top of the field. Her children skipped around each other nearby, the younger of the two wobbling as he went. Violet waved and called but he didn’t catch what she said.

  Before he crossed the road, he spotted Miss Meredith beyond Violet. She shouted something to him, which again he failed to hear. Beside her, Anwen straightened herself, waving as the others had done, catching him off-guard. Joy filled every corner of him. It lasted several seconds before despair swallowed it up and he was possessed once more of his usual melancholy.

  Why was he attracting so much attention? He didn’t want to stop to find out.

  He took the alley up to the back gardens. Relieved to hug the end house’s shadow, he moved more slowly now. Rounding the corner he stopped, juggling his jacket, waistcoat and tins to enable him to reach his handkerchief in his pocket and mop his brow. His whole body was bathed in perspiration. A few more steps along he leant against the high fence of the nearest house for a brief respite. He was bone tired. Even the examiner’s job wearied him beyond normal levels these days.

  All seemed normal as he entered his back garden, yet he was ambivalent about moving forward, in the same way he had been six months back, on a cold, wet afternoon, newly arrived from the camp at Winchester.

  Don’t be so bloody daft, mun. Opening the back door released the sound of his mother singing in the kitchen beyond. It was the same song she’d been singing half a year ago. History was indeed repeating itself. He glanced behind, convinced he’d see the November rain and find he had imagined the intervening months.

  Breathing deeply, he marched through the scullery, pulling open the ajar door to the kitchen. His mother, leaning over the range, straightened her back, beaming. ‘Idris, bach, look who’s back.’

  His attention was drawn to the hunched figure at one end of the table.

  ‘Jenkin!’

  * * *

  Anwen was working with more zeal now than she had been earlier. Even though Mrs Meredith’s trip out that afternoon had given her and Elizabeth the opportunity to work on the allotment, a drop in her mood had initially robbed her of her usual enthusiasm. Jenkin’s return had lifted her up, doubly so because she knew how happy it would make Idris, and now Isaiah, who they’d spoken to before he disappeared up the alley.

  Tom’s appearance on the field barely two minutes later made only
a slight dent in her brighter frame of mind, though she had done her best to avoid him since the day of Polly Coombes’s visit to the house.

  ‘Elizabeth’s over there,’ she told Tom, without greeting him or waiting to see what he wanted.

  ‘I’ve come to see you. Where can I help today?’

  ‘There’s work to be done on the allotment on Edward Street.’

  ‘I’d much rather be here with you.’

  Anwen didn’t reply straight away. How rude could she be to Tom without overstepping the mark? ‘If you want to be useful, it’s the other field that needs more people.’

  He put on his little boy lost expression, the bottom lip protruding. ‘In that case, please say you’ll accompany me to the theatre on Saturday night. I can borrow the motorcar so we can drive there in style and—’

  ‘Did you take Polly to the theatre?’

  He looked abashed, but also a little amused. ‘Polly was a simple girl. She wouldn’t have appreciated the culture.’

  ‘You talk of her as if she’s dead.’

  ‘To us she is. She’s gone to an aunt in Surrey, I believe.’

  ‘So she’s been paid off, pushed away to be forgotten about.’

  Tom glanced nervously around. ‘Do we have to speak of this? It’s not your concern.’

  She realised she was starting something that could get her into a great deal of trouble with her employers should Tom report it back. Yes, they’d consider this whole incident none of her concern, but she was riled enough not to care what they thought at this moment. ‘You are unbelievable, Thomas Meredith. If you don’t stop bothering me, I will tell your parents. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to deal with another incident like that with Polly.’

  ‘Please, Anwen, you don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh yes, I understand all right.’ She noticed Violet move a little closer, so lowered her voice. ‘All you’re after is the latest shiny thing. You are spoilt and need to grow up and do something useful instead of pretending you’re still ill.’ Despite her determination, her hands were sweating with anxiety. Her mouth was dry, making the words difficult to say.

 

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