Alma was undoubtedly the prettiest, brightest and longest lasting of his many girlfriends, but he had never allowed her to be the only woman in his life. Their physical relationship, satisfying as he found it, didn’t prevent him from paying regular visits to a shy little widow in Rickards Street. Not to mention Molly the flower and peg seller who had a stall on the market, Lucy the usherette who worked in the New Theatre ... Ronnie, like all Italian men of his class, saw unblemished virtue, abstinence and chastity as an integral part of the make-up of every decent woman. A vital and essential attribute in his sisters, his mother, and the woman he would eventually marry; but something he, his father and his brothers could comfortably ignore when it came to their own affairs.
‘You took your time coming upstairs,’ Alma complained, wriggling between the sheets as he walked into the bedroom and shrugged his arms out of his jacket.
‘Just checking around.’ He felt in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, and lit one. Throwing his coat on the only chair in the room, he sat on the bed, rested his ankle on his knee and pulled his shoe off. He glanced across at Alma. She was lying on her back, the sheet tucked demurely beneath her chin. He reached over and yanked it down.
‘Ronnie!’ she cried out angrily. Blushing, she grabbed the top blanket and hastily covered herself.
‘Can’t see any point in you doing that.’ He took off his socks and tossed them on top of his shoes. ‘Not when you consider what we’re going to be up to in five minutes.’
‘I don’t like it,’ she said petulantly.
‘Only when I can see, and the lamp is lit.’ He slid his hand beneath the sheet, and reached for her breast. ‘You never object to this when I do it in the dark,’ he whispered, as he fondled her.
‘Come to bed,’ she snapped touchily.
‘Is that an order, Miss?’
She tried and failed to suppress a smile.
‘That’s better,’ he laughed. Turning his back on her, he pulled the collar and tie from his neck and began to unbutton his shirt.
‘Ronnie?’ Alma asked hesitantly, wondering if she dare mention Liz Williams and Dickie Shales’ engagement, or if that might be a bit obvious. She knew he reacted angrily when she talked about anything that could be remotely construed as ‘pressurising’, and it wasn’t as if she was unhappy with their relationship. Last month he’d even asked her to stay on in the café after hours, so she could attend his parents’ wedding anniversary celebrations. Granted she’d ended up by acting as waitress and helping Tina and Gina clear up, but the invitation was more than any other girl had received from him. She knew that for a fact, because Tina, fishing for gossip about her brother, had told her so.
That marvellous, wonderful evening, all the Ronconis, senior as well as junior, had been incredibly kind to her. So much so, she’d wondered if any of them other than Tina had their suspicions about her and Ronnie. She wasn’t quite sure where she stood with him. From the moment she had allowed him to make love to her she had considered herself engaged, assuming that he would take their relationship as seriously as she did. That eventually it would lead somewhere, hopefully marriage. But occasionally, like now, she felt that their unspoken understanding was something that was understood only on her side.
‘Yes?’ he threw his shirt on to the chair.
‘Are you staying here tonight?’ she asked, losing courage and saying the first thing that came to mind.
‘That’s a strange question.’ He unbuttoned his vest.
‘Well, it’s just that if you are, I could always walk home. It’s not far.’
‘It won’t kill me to take the van as far as Morgan Street,’ he murmured carelessly. He took the burning cigarette from his mouth and handed it to her to hold, as he heaved his vest over his head. Unbuckling his belt, and unbuttoning his braces and fly, he pulled off his trousers, took the cigarette and climbed into bed beside her.
‘Ow, you’re bloody freezing!’ he complained as his legs met her feet between the sheets.
‘It’s this bed. It’s not aired properly.’
‘That’s because it’s not slept in enough.’ He set his cigarette down carefully in an ashtray placed strategically at the side of the bed. ‘Here,’ he pulled her close. ‘May as well get it over with.’ He held her close, rubbing his hands over her shivering body, lingering over her breasts and thighs. She knew him too well to expect words of endearment.
‘Ronnie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Turn down the lamp.’
‘I want to see you.’
‘Please, just for me.’
‘Two years of this, and you’re still shy?’ Despite his grumbling, he leaned over and turned down the wick on the oil lamp. Some time he’d have to see about running electricity cables up here, but it would be difficult to justify the expense to his father. As he turned, she lifted her face to his so he could kiss her. He did so, thoroughly and expertly. He also knew her well. He may have been an inarticulate lover when it came to words, but he was anything but inarticulate when it came to the physical side of their relationship.
Afterwards there was no teasing, only quiet, relaxed fulfilment, and the sound of their breathing, muted, soft as Alma lay with her head on Ronnie’s shoulder. Outside the street was still. The second houses in the New Theatre and the Town Hall had long since ended. Even the staff in the cinemas had gone home, and those who had the money and the inclination to spend the early hours drinking in pubs where the landlords were brave, or foolhardy enough to defy the licensing hours, were already there.
‘Happy, Ronnie?’ she asked, satisfaction and contentment making her bold.
‘No.’ He paused for a moment, watching her eyes cloud over. ‘But I will be once I have a cigarette.’
‘You’re impossible,’ she laughed, tickling his armpits.
‘Here watch out, I might burn you.’ He struck his lighter.
‘Have you thought about the future?’ she asked, wrapping her arms around his chest.
‘Nothing but.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘How do you feel about giving up your job in the tailor’s?’
‘Giving up?’ Her eyes glittered with dreams poised on the brink of transformation into reality. Of course, he wouldn’t want his wife working. At least, not for anyone else.
‘My father has just bought the lease on the empty shop in the centre of town. You know, the one by the fountain.’
‘I know.’ Her green eyes grew large, almost luminous in the soft glow of the lamp.
‘It’s huge,’ he mused thoughtfully, flicking ash into the ashtray. ‘You’ve never seen anything like the size of the basement.’
‘Then it’s big enough to set some rooms aside for living quarters?’ Of course it wouldn’t be ideal. Living in the middle of town. There’d be nowhere to hang washing. But then, if they were both working, and making enough money, they could send their linen out to the Chinese laundry in Mill Street. Her mother would be close: Morgan Street was no distance at all from the fountain. And the park would be just around the corner. Handy when they had children. She’d never spoken to him about children, but she was sure that he’d want lots. Just like his parents. When the time was right he’d put away the ghastly, thick, rubber French letter he used when they made love and ...
‘Not living quarters,’ he laughed, ‘a restaurant. A big one. Enormous, even. We’re turning the basement into a kitchen the like of which this town has never seen before. Half of it will be used to turn out cooked meals, the other half will be a first-class confectioner’s kitchen. I’m going into cakes and confectionery in a big way. There’s a hell of a market there, and St Catherine’s café in the Arcade hasn’t even scratched the surface. When you consider it, it’s amazing no one’s thought of it before. Everyone in this town has a birthday, and not everyone’s on the breadline.’
‘Only about half the population,’ she interrupted bitterly.
‘Exactly,’ he enthused. Carried away by his grand scheme, he failed to pick up the acid tone of sarcasm
in her voice. ‘And we’ll cater for the other half. We’ll make cakes for every occasion. Weddings, christenings, to celebrate someone in the family getting a job – and the bakery will be only part of it. There’s two windows at street level. We’ll fill one with pastries, the other savouries. Pies, pasties, faggots, pease puddings – you know the sort of thing. We’re knocking all the ground floor rooms into one. Putting counters and four tables in the front to cater for tea and snacks, and behind those there’ll be an archway that will lead into the main restaurant. More upmarket than this. It’ll specialise in cooked dinners and set teas. The second floor is big enough to house a function room. You wait until you see it, it’s as big as the silver and blue ballroom in the New Inn. Not that we’ll be anywhere near as pricey, because all our profit will be made on the food. I think we’ll aim for the club dinners. The Tennis Club, the Golliwog club. The store do’s like Rivelin’s ...’
‘And where exactly do I fit into all this?’ she asked icily, moving as far away from him as the small bed would allow.
‘I’ll need a head waitress.’
‘What about your sisters?’
‘Too young, too inexperienced. They haven’t the staying power. I need to put someone who’s hard-working and knows what they’re about in charge, to set them a good example. It’ll be worth ...’ he thought carefully for a moment, weighing up all of Alma’s pluses. She certainly knew how to work, and there was no shirking of unpleasant tasks with her. The first thing she did when she started a shift was to look around and set about what needed to be done, whether it was scrubbing the floor or serving one of the town councillors. On the minus side, he realised that once he set her wages he’d have to pitch everyone else’s to them, including the cook’s, and that could prove expensive.
‘How does twelve shillings a week plus tips sound to you?’ he asked, running his fingers through her red curls.
‘Sounds like more than I’m getting now.’ She struggled to feign gratitude. After all, a job and a pay rise had to be worth something, even if it wasn’t the engagement ring she’d hoped for.
‘Then you’ll give it a try.’ He fumbled in the bedclothes at the bottom of the bed for the underpants he’d kicked off earlier.
‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘Good, that’s settled then. Come on girl,’ he threw back the sheet. ‘If you make a move, we’ll go through the back door of the Horse and Groom for a quick one.’
‘Looking like this?’
He jumped out of bed.
‘You don’t need to dress, not on my account, but your lipstick has wandered up as far as your nose, and your hair needs a good combing.’
‘Why you –’ she threw the pillow at him.
‘Come on, woman. It’s good drinking time you’re wasting,’ he grumbled irritably as he pulled on his trousers.
‘Here’s to the next town, and the next audience.’ Ambrose, the producer-cum-comic of the revue shouted as he held up a bottle of champagne. ‘May they be as kind, welcoming and, God willing, a little more forthcoming and richer than the audiences here.’ He looked around, gauging the reaction to his poor joke. ‘Is everyone’s glass full?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Not mine,’ Tessie giggled.
‘Yours is never full, Tessie,’ he reprimanded humourlessly.
‘Never,’ she simpered in a voice that squeaked from too much cheap sherry.
‘And here’s to the best callboy in the business.’ Ambrose touched his glass to Haydn’s and winked.
Haydn pretended not to see the wink. He’d been careful to leave Ambrose’s dressing-room door open all week when he’d delivered the evening Echo.
‘If the oldest,’ Tessie sniped.
‘Leave it off, Tess,’ Patsy the head chorus girl muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Right then, where are we going to carry on?’ Ambrose slurred.
‘Depends on what you mean by “carry on”,’ Tessie giggled archly.
‘Two foot nine I think,’ the manager suggested, pointedly ignoring Tessie. ‘They’re not too particular there about closing hours.’ He had the urge to add, ‘or clientele’. Some of the girls had a disconcerting habit of dressing for the stage, off it. Half a dozen looked modest enough. They could have sat in the New Inn and passed unnoticed, but a few, Tessie included, could have lost themselves amongst the ladies of the town who were touting for trade in station yard.
‘Everyone game?’ Ambrose downed the last of his champagne. When his glass was empty he looked around the stage. ‘Everything packed here?’ he demanded imperiously of the stagehands.
‘Did you doubt it, sir?’ one of the hands answered in a wounded voice.
‘Just checking, dear boy. Just checking. It’s all right for you people, you have no idea what it’s like to sit on a filthy train all night, only to arrive in the back end of Aber-cwm-llan-snot with half your bloody props missing, and what’s worse, no spirit gum to stick the stars and spangles on the girls. They don’t look very alluring performing in their shimmys and knickers, believe you me,’ he whispered confidentially, wrinkling his nose.
‘Shut up, Ambrose,’ Patsy snarled, pushing her status as head girl to the absolute limit.
‘You sound just like a mother hen, darling,’ Ambrose cooed patronisingly. ‘Come on then girls and boys. Are we all ready?’
‘I’m glad you’re coming with us Haydn,’ Betty whispered, tottering precariously on her high heels over the littered cobblestones of Market Square as she struggled to keep up with his long-legged stride.
‘Why’s that?’ he asked vacantly, his thoughts still preoccupied with Jenny.
‘Because you’re sane and normal,’ she murmured in a voice that sounded incredibly old and tired for one so young.
‘That’s a funny thing to say.’ He ushered her around a pile of soggy newspapers heaped high on the spot where the china stall had stood.
‘It’s true. You’ve no idea what this life is really like.’
‘It can’t be any worse than life around here.’
‘Don’t you believe it. My mother warned me not to go on stage,’ she confessed tremulously, sliding her fingers surreptitiously into his as they followed the others round the corner into Taff Street. He didn’t like the touch of her skin very much. It felt damp and greasy, not at all like Jenny’s cool, dry hand. ‘But I wouldn’t listen,’ she continued. ‘Thought I knew everything, didn’t I? Two of my aunties were in variety, and they got me an audition. It all seemed so glamorous. Whenever I saw them they were smothered in furs and jewellery, and they spent hours telling me about the famous people they knew, and the places they’d seen. It all sounded absolutely heavenly.’
‘Will I have heard of them?’ Haydn asked quickly, knowing full well just how many doors one famous name could open for a beginner.
‘No, of course no,’ Betty answered scornfully. ‘Aunt Edie is running a boarding house in Blackpool now, with a comedian who turned to drink. He’s horrid, and the house is disgusting. Not even clean. I stayed there last summer. She keeps it “exclusive”.’ Betty adopted what she considered a ‘posh voice’. ‘Theatricals only darling,’ she purred. ‘It has to be, because no tripper would look twice at the dump. And Auntie Rita ended up in the workhouse,’ she said coldly. ‘She’s a live-in cook.’
‘That’s not so bad,’ Haydn smiled, seeing the irony in the story. ‘At least she has enough to eat, and a captive audience to practise on.’
‘Perhaps I should join her,’ Betty whined.
‘Come on,’ Haydn said. ‘Pontypridd on a Saturday night, or should I say early Sunday morning, isn’t that bad.’
‘It’s not the place, or rather places,’ she said hastily, wary of offending him. The one thing she had learned about the Welsh was that they could be touchy about Wales, especially their home towns, which were inevitably coated with a thick, filthy layer of coal-dust and crumbling around the edges from the worst effects of the depression. ‘It’s the other girls,’ she moaned. ‘They’re so
bitchy. I have to share a bedroom with four of them, and because I’m the youngest and last in, I’ve no choice as to who I share a bed with. And Tessie ...’ she hesitated for a moment.
‘If you’re homesick why don’t you go home?’ he suggested brutally. Any well of sympathy he might have felt for the ego-induced traumas of theatrical life had been sucked dry by a succession of chorus girls who had sobbed out the most horrendous stories on his shoulder, only to switch to smiles and laughter when someone better heeled had come along and offered to buy them a drink or a meal.
‘Pride, I suppose,’ she intoned dramatically. ‘Besides,’ she curled her damp sweaty fingers around his, ‘there’s nine of us kids in a two-bedroomed house in Bermondsey. It’s so bloody full. You can have no idea what it’s like ...’
‘You can’t tell me anything about overcrowding,’ he said shortly. ‘As of today there’s eight of us living in our house.’
‘Then you do know what it’s like.’ She fluttered her lashes in the direction of his blue eyes.
‘Not really,’ he dismissed her attempt to steer the conversation into intimacy. ‘We all get on pretty well.’
He thought of William, Charlie, his father, Diana and now Maud. If she was as ill as Ronnie had hinted, God only knew how much longer they’d have her with them.
He already missed his older sister Bethan more than he would have thought possible. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d talked to her, or relied on her judgement, until she was in London and out of everyday reach. Maud was no Bethan. She’d always been the baby of the family: the one who needed protecting and keeping safe from the harsher realities of life. He shuddered, hating himself for even thinking of a time when Maud would no longer be in the house. As though he were precipitating tragedy by giving free rein to such thoughts.
‘We all get on very well,’ he murmured again, superstitiously crossing his fingers and hoping that his home and house as it stood now, full of family and cousins, would remain exactly as it was that night. He wished with all his might that he could make it last forever. But even as he formulated intense wishes into silent prayers he knew it wouldn’t. Because change, whether welcome or not, was inevitable.
Pontypridd 02 - One Blue Moon Page 8