‘You walking down the hill, Haydn?’ William asked, breaking into the oppressive atmosphere. It was late on a foul and filthy Thursday afternoon. So foul that Eddie and Evan, having nothing to do except call the streets, had packed in their carting at midday. Charlie and William had finished early in the slaughterhouse. Setting up their stall for the Friday trade in record time, they had returned home early, much to Elizabeth’s delight. She had tea on the table before five o’clock, and put Diana’s meal on top of a saucepan of water on the shelf above the stove so it could be heated up later. Then she’d rushed down the hill to catch the six o’clock bus for her Uncle John Joseph’s house in Ton Pentre. She’d organised his move from the Graig; now she was busy organising his furniture in the new house.
Evan and Charlie had left straight after tea for the Institute for the Unemployed in Mill Street. Although neither of them were unemployed in the strict sense of the word, like dozens of others they used the centre as a meeting place, especially on nights when Evan couldn’t scrape together the money for a half of mild in any of the pubs.
‘As I’m working in half an hour I suppose I’d better make a move,’ Haydn said miserably.
‘Nothing like it, boyo,’ William grinned. ‘You may have Willi Pantzer and his performing midgets next week, but this week you have some cracking chorus girls. Saw one going through the stage door yesterday that brought tears to my eyes.’
‘A redhead, wearing a blue, fur-trimmed coat?’
‘That’s the little beauty.’
‘Stuck-up madam, more like it.’
‘Enjoyed that, did you?’
‘What?’ Haydn asked in bewilderment.
‘Shattering my dreams.’ William pulled a comb out of his pocket and ran it through hair so heavily Vaselined it barely moved. ‘You ready or not?’ He winked at Maud. ‘Tell that sister of mine to catch up on some rest. Shops close on Thursday afternoons for the staff to enjoy time off, not scrub the place out.’
‘She’s still trying to make a good impression.’
‘Nothing would make a good impression on Ben Springer.’
‘You be all right if I walk down with them, Maud?’ Eddie asked.
‘Of course I will,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.’
‘That’s a nice thing to say to your brother.’
‘Fight coming up soon?’ William asked.
‘Not until the Easter Rattle Fair.’
‘Don’t expect to clean up this year like you did last,’ Haydn warned. ‘They know your face now, boy.’
‘Just practise for the big time. Joey says that if I do well enough at Easter he’ll take me up to Blackpool this summer.’
Maud had to force herself to hold her tongue. She’d never liked Eddie’s boxing any more than her mother or sister had. In their opinion the dangers far outweighed any rewards.
‘Right, if we’re going, we’d better go.’ Haydn picked up his cap from the back of the chair, where he’d left it to dry, and patted Maud on the head.
‘I’m not a dog.’
‘No, but you’re too big to kiss goodbye.’
William finished lacing on his boots, then with Eddie trailing in the rear the boys left.
The house was remarkably still. Maud lay back in her chair, listening to the quiet sounds she’d associated with home since childhood. The dull tick of the kitchen clock that had been a wedding present to her mother from her Uncle John Joseph. A soft hiss, as a damp piece of coal crumbled into the flames in the stove, probably one of the pieces that Eddie or Will had risked prosecution over on one of their scavenging trips to the Maritime tip. She’d seen their blackened hands and faces when they’d sneaked in over the back wall after adding their ill-gotten spoils to the meagre stock in the coalhouse when her mother wasn’t looking.
‘Hello, anyone in?’ The front door slammed and footsteps echoed on the lino in the passage.
‘Ronnie?’ Half asleep, Maud peered through the gloom as Ronnie’s tall figure emerged from the shadows that lay thickly in the corner by the door.
‘Just passing, so I thought I’d call in and see how the boys are doing. Haydn must be about ready to walk down the hill.’
‘They’ve already gone to town,’ Maud said, expecting him to walk straight back out again. Instead he came closer to the fire and pulled his hat off.
‘Leaving you all alone?’
She bristled at the hint of criticism. ‘It’s nice to be alone sometimes,’ she replied tartly.
‘I know what you mean.’ He took off his rain-spattered coat and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Walking over to the range, he placed his hand against the side of the teapot.
‘No one will be back for ages.’ She resented him intruding into her peace and quiet and wanted him to go so she could sit back and dream. Of Jock Maitlin, the porter in the Infirmary who’d shown more than a passing interest in her. Of the career in nursing that she’d wanted so badly, and now realised she’d never have.
‘Not even Diana and your parents?’
‘My father and Charlie have gone to a meeting in the Unemployed Club.’
‘The anti-Mosley meeting?’
‘I really don’t know, I don’t pay much attention. My mother’s gone to Uncle Joe’s and won’t be back until late. And Diana’s –’
‘As soon as Diana finishes work she’s meeting Tina to go to the pictures,’ Ronnie told her. ‘When Tina saw Ben Springer walk into the bank this morning, she ran to the shoe shop and persuaded her. I sometimes wonder if those two have anything on their minds other than what they read in Hollywood star magazines. Where’s William?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘You know Will?’ she answered carelessly.
‘Yes I do,’ he frowned, thinking how often Tina had gone to the pictures with Diana lately. ‘Want some tea?’ He held up the cold teapot.
‘No thank you,’ Maud refused primly, suddenly conscious of being totally alone in the house with him. Her mother’s warnings about placing herself in a vulnerable position with a man, any man, rang clearly through her mind. Then she remembered how long Ronnie had been a friend to her family, and the vast difference in their ages. Sickness was making her paranoid. The problem was she’d never really had a boyfriend, only dreams. She couldn’t even count Jock Maitlin, they’d never actually gone anywhere together. Diana was right: doing a man’s washing and darning his socks was no substitute for romance.
She allowed herself to drift into a cold, comfortless tide of self-pity. Looking the way she did now, she’d never experience love first-hand. And unless she made a remarkable recovery she wouldn’t even be seeing it on a cinema screen again.
The sound of Ronnie replacing the teapot on the shelf above the range jolted her back to the present. She watched him as he settled into the easy chair opposite her own.
‘Don’t you ever get fed up of the same four walls?’ he asked, tapping a cigarette out of a packet he’d removed from his shirt pocket.
‘A little,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘The Trojan’s outside. It’s not the most comfortable of rides, but I could take you down to the café for an hour or two. Gina and Angelo are there, and Alma,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured hesitantly. The prospect excited her, but she knew her mother, and probably her father, would quite rightly be furious when they found out what she’d done. As they undoubtedly would. Pontypridd was no place for secrets.
‘Come on,’ Ronnie coaxed, ‘I’ll have you down and back before half-past seven. No one will be any the wiser,’ he smiled.
The smile decided the matter for her. ‘All right,’ she said resolutely.
‘You’ll have to dress up warm,’ he commanded in the tone of voice he usually reserved for his eight-year-old sister and six-year-old brother.
‘You can’t get much warmer than what I’ve got on,’ she protested strongly.
‘That’s just the problem. You’ve been sitting in thi
ck clothes in a warm room for weeks. A strong dose of real, fresh air is likely to ... knock you for six,’ he said quickly, almost kicking himself. He’d almost said ‘finish you off’.
She threw back the grey rug that covered her legs. He was right about her clothes. She was dressed for a trip to town on a freezing, damp and miserable market day. Thick flannel skirt more serviceable than attractive. Winceyette blouse, topped by the red cable-knit jumper from her suit, and cable-knit lisle stockings.
‘I’m not taking you out of here without a cardigan. Where can I find one?’ he demanded.
‘On top of this, you must be joking. I’d feel like a bundle of laundry.’
‘You don’t put one on, I don’t take you.’
She glared at him, but it had no effect. Used to dealing with the tantrums and vagaries of ten younger brothers and sisters, Ronnie shrugged off her display of temperament without a second thought.
‘I’ll get one from my room,’ she said, suddenly thinking of her hair – her face – she didn’t even have a dab of powder on her nose, and if she was going out she really ought to put some scent on. Her spirits suddenly soared at the prospect of sitting in the café. Talking to the girls. Seeing people ...
‘Are you allowed to walk upstairs?’ he asked sharply.
‘Of course, how do you think I get to bed?’ she retorted.
‘There’s a difference between walking up and down once a day and running up and down for no good reason in between. And before you say another word,’ he flicked his lighter on and lit his cigarette, ‘I know what’s on your mind. You don’t want to go upstairs to get a cardigan, you just want to primp in front of the mirror.’
‘I do not!’ Her voice rose high in indignation.
‘Tell me what you want and I’ll bring it down,’ he interrupted just as she was about to burst into full flow.
Gripping the sides of her armchair she levered herself upwards. Ronnie wavered alarmingly within her sight. The room began to sway, and black spots swam before her eyes as they always did whenever she tried to rise.
‘You’re as weak as a kitten.’ He pushed her gently down into the chair and she fell back, grateful for the feel of its solid support beneath her. ‘Which is your room?’
‘Right at the top of the stairs.’ She felt a draught of cold air as he opened the kitchen door. ‘The grey cardigan,’ she called after him. ‘It’s on the stool in front of the dressing table.’ She blessed her mother’s rigid housekeeping. Her bedroom would be immaculate, just as it always was when she returned upstairs after a day in the kitchen. ‘And bring my handbag as well,’ she shouted, hearing his step on the stairs. ‘It’s next to the bed.’
‘Women!’ he moaned when he returned a few moments later with her handbag and the cardigan. ‘They’ve always got to primp themselves up, even for a trip out the back.’
He watched her as she squinted into the mirror. She’d washed her hands and face after tea, so comforting herself with the thought that she was at least clean, and very conscious of him watching her, she ran a comb through her hair, holding the mirror up in an effort to get a better view.
‘Your hair’s fine,’ he reassured her. It was, she noted with relief. Diana had helped her wash it yesterday evening when her mother had left to go to a chapel committee meeting. It had always been her best feature, and since she’d been ill she’d tried to make the most of what her father called her ‘crowning glory’, torturing her sleeping hours by wearing metal grippers in an effort to tame the unruly curls into fashionable waves. The only problem was, since her illness the contrast between the rich golden colour of her hair and the deathly pallor of her skin had become even more noticeable. Putting away her comb, she pushed up her lipstick with her thumbnail and spread it over her mouth. It was bright red, a colour Diana had assured her, suited her when she’d first gone to the Infirmary. Now it made her mouth look like an ugly red wound against the unnatural whiteness of her face. She lifted the stick, intending to dab some on her cheeks.
Stung by the pathos of what she was doing to herself, Ronnie turned away. Maud painting her thin, sickly face for her first outing in weeks reminded him of an incident he’d witnessed as a child. The curtains had been drawn in the house next door to theirs. He’d asked his heavily pregnant mother if he should go next door and tell Mrs Brown that it was daytime. She’d warned him tersely not to go near the house. It was the lack of explanation that intrigued him: he’d sensed that something secret, something forbidden, was going on behind those closed drapes. When his mother had called him for dinner he’d scoffed it in record time. Then sneaking out into the deserted street, he’d crept up the short flight of steps to next door’s front door. The curtains were still drawn, but there was a crack at the side where they didn’t quite cover the edge of the bay. He’d crouched down and looked through the small gap. Mr Brown was lying on the table in the parlour. Mrs Brown was bending over him, tenderly washing a thick layer of coal dust from his grey, dead face.
He rubbed his eyes. Why had he thought of that incident now? He hadn’t called it to mind for years.
‘I’m ready.’
Maud had put away her lipstick and powder and closed her handbag. She was sitting forward on the edge of her chair, the grey cardigan round her shoulders. The air was sweet, redolent with essence of violets, but he noticed, thankfully, she’d decided against reddening her cheeks.
‘Your hat and coat by the front door?’
‘They are.’
‘Green coat, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she was surprised he’d remembered. ‘And the black tarn’s mine.’
He fetched them. She rose somewhat unsteadily from the chair. He caught her shoulder as she staggered. Slipping her arms quickly into the sleeves of her coat, he lowered her back into her chair.
‘Stay there for a minute,’ he ordered, unnerved by her fragility.
She looked down at her feet and saw the old slippers she’d inherited from Bethan. Tartan with red pom-poms, their ugliness hurt.
‘Shoes?’ Ronnie asked abruptly.
‘They’re in the washhouse on the shelf. Plain black with a bar.’
He found them and brought them out. Maud kicked off the slippers, but when she bent to do up the buckles, she almost fell head first on to the floor. Ronnie knelt and fastened the buckles for her. Embarrassed, she made a bad joke.
‘Does your girlfriend know you play Prince Charming with other girls?’ She didn’t dare mention Alma’s name.
‘You’re not a girl, you’re a baby,’ he contradicted her. ‘Right, blanket around your shoulders.’
‘Ronnie ...’
‘It’s not up for discussion. Either you do it or you don’t go. I’ve left an umbrella by the door. It’ll keep off the worst of the rain, but not all of it. Right, can you walk by yourself or do I carry you?’ he asked, looking at her critically.
‘I can walk,’ she asserted forcefully, swaying precariously. He put his arm round her waist and pulled her close to him, steadying her. ‘One slip and I’m carrying you.’
He helped her as far as the door, then opened his umbrella and gave it to her to hold. Stepping outside, he swung her up into his arms. ‘Don’t argue,’ he ordered, silencing her protests. ‘It’s too damned wet to hang around here quarrelling.’ He carried her down the steps and set her on her feet by the side of the van. Pulling open the door, he lifted her on to the bench seat inside. He ran around to his side of the van, took the starting handle from beneath his seat and swung the engine into life, before climbing in. ‘Right, first stop the café.’ He looked across at her and smiled. The smile froze on his lips. She was lying back against the seat, her thin face grey in the watery lamplight. Perhaps this had been a crazy idea after all. What right did he have to come in and sweep her off to the café for some social life just because her family had left her alone for the evening? Then he remembered what Trevor had said: this was her last year. She deserved every minute of animation and life he, or anyone else, could gi
ve her.
‘I would much rather have gone to the pictures,’ Diana moaned to Tina as they queued outside the Town Hall.
‘I would have gone with you if the boys hadn’t hogged the only decent talkie in town.’
‘It’s the pictures, for pity’s sake. Half the town would have been there, as well as my brother and Glan Richards. Just what are you afraid of?’
‘Being seen sitting too close to Will by someone who’d carry tales back to Papa or Ronnie.’
‘It’s not as if you don’t like my brother ...’
‘That’s just it. I like him, and Ronnie and Papa know it.’
‘And just what could they do to you if they did find out that you were going out with Will?’ Diana demanded testily, convinced that Tina was making a melodrama out of absolutely nothing.
‘Send me to Italy,’ Tina said flatly.
Diana stared at her incredulously. ‘They wouldn’t.’
‘They would,’ Tina assured her.
‘But you’ve never been there, it’d be ...’ The queue shuffled forward and Tina grabbed her arm and pulled her up the line. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘I’m serious,’ Tina whispered. ‘Didn’t Bethan ever tell you what Laura had to put up with when Papa found out about her and Trevor Lewis? My father wants – no, expects – all of us to marry Italians, or at the very least, Welsh Italians. I think secretly he still regards Laura’s marriage as a disgrace to the name of Ronconi, and he certainly doesn’t intend to stand by and do nothing while any of the rest of us dishonour it any more than Laura already has.’
‘But he seems to get on all right with Trevor Lewis,’ Diana protested, trying to recall the few times she’d seen Mr Ronconi senior and Doctor Lewis together.
‘Get on with has nothing to do with it. He gets on with Trevor, likes him even for being a doctor, and a Catholic. What he doesn’t like is Trevor being Irish/Welsh instead of Italian.’
‘But isn’t Ronnie keen on Alma Moore?’ Diana persisted.
‘Perhaps,’ Tina said darkly. ‘And then again perhaps not. Ronnie’s made sure that no one really knows, not even Alma. But believe you me, even if he is keen on Alma, “keen on” is nowhere near marrying.’ The queue surged forward again, and this time Diana pulled Tina on. ‘Ronnie’ll never marry a Welsh girl,’ Tina pronounced decisively. ‘Take my word for it, even if he loves Alma Moore, he’ll walk up the aisle with Papa’s choice. For the last four Mondays Mama’s invited Maria Pauli to tea. She was born in Wales, but Papa’s prepared to overlook that, as both her parents are from Bardi and like us they speak Italian at home. Her father has a café in Ferndale,’ she informed Diana matter-of-factly. ‘And I think both Papa and Mama are expecting Ronnie to succumb to her charms any day now. I overheard Papa tell Ronnie three times last week that a man should be married before his twenty-fifth birthday. Ronnie was twenty-seven last month.’
Pontypridd 02 - One Blue Moon Page 15