Pontypridd 07 - Spoils of War

by Catrin Collier

‘It’s funny to think you once worked for him as a waitress, then Charlie as a shop assistant and now you’re not only handing out advice on how to live and run a business but also managing the most successful shop chain in the area. This war’s turned everything topsy-turvy.’

  ‘A lot of water has flowed under the Old Bridge since I worked for Ronnie Ronconi,’ she said easily. What seemed even odder to her was that while she’d been Ronnie’s waitress she’d also been his mistress. But then that had been before either of them had married. Looking back now, it was almost as though it hadn’t been her but some other woman who’d waited tables in Ronconi’s, cleaned and locked up every night and climbed the stairs to the small cold room on the first floor to make love to him afterwards.

  ‘I heard about Charlie’s first wife.’

  ‘I expect the whole town has by now, Will. Please, don’t tell me how sorry you are.’

  ‘I’m too fond of you as an ex-employer and friend to pretend I’m delighted.’

  ‘And I can’t be sorry the poor woman survived.’

  ‘You’re one tough woman, Alma. And not only in business.’

  ‘I had a good teacher, and not only in business.’

  ‘Ronnie?’

  ‘No, Charlie, but they’re not unlike one another in some ways. The quality I’ve always admired in both of them is their single-mindedness. If they want something, they go for it whether it’s business, pleasure or family, and to hell with the consequences. If I’ve been successful it’s because I’ve tried to foster that attitude in myself. But single-mindedness doesn’t mean being downright reckless.’

  ‘I get the message: no black market goods through the back door of Charlie’s cooked meats and pies.’

  ‘None, but thank you for thinking of me.’

  William finished his tea. ‘In that case I’d best be on my way. I only hope Angelo and Alfredo can use a whole cow in the restaurant and café.’

  ‘People talk, Will. A sudden glut of meat will get noticed and Ronnie won’t like it.’

  ‘He’s already told me he won’t. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Be cautious. What Angelo can’t lose in Ronconi’s normal turnover, chop into manageable pieces and spread around. I’ll take four pounds, your mother will take another couple, and then there’s your Uncle Huw, your Uncle Evan …’

  ‘And no one will notice I’m humping meat around my family?’

  ‘Not if you borrow Angelo’s Trojan. He goes up the Graig Hill at least once a day.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice. And I won’t forget about the van.’

  ‘Ianto used to service the one I’ve got. Did you keep his mechanic on?’

  ‘Afraid Ronnie or I might try our hand at fixing things we know nothing about?’

  ‘Not Ronnie – you. And I’m still smarting because you didn’t come back to work for Charlie. You could have taken your pick of the shops. Managed anyone you liked. You’re a good worker, Will.’

  ‘It’s time to move on. I have a wife to support.’

  ‘If I was the betting sort, I’d back Tina on keeping you rather than the other way round any day.’

  ‘Don’t tell Ronnie that or he’ll go into partnership with his sister instead of his brother-in-law.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Take care of yourself, and if you want to waste an evening bring Theo over to Bonvilston Road. Tina and I’ve moved into my Uncle Huw’s old house.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘If Tina decides she wants it we’ll buy it, but you know what women are like.’

  ‘Kinder, sweeter, gentler and far more sensible and reliable than men.’

  ‘That doesn’t deserve an answer.’ He turned round as the back door opened and Bethan walked into the kitchen. ‘Cold enough for you, Beth?’

  ‘I thought you’d be wishing it colder.’

  ‘Not me. After Italy I like it warm enough to bake bread.’

  ‘But meat keeps better in cold weather and I’ve heard you’ve got a whole cow’s worth.’

  ‘Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t know everyone else’s business?’

  ‘You’re back in Ponty, boyo,’ she joked.

  ‘So I’ve discovered. Well, if I’m going to get rid of my ill-gotten gains before the coppers catch up with me I’d better go out there and start selling.’

  ‘You can put me down for a couple of pounds and my father – oh and my father-in-law.’

  ‘The upright Dr and Mrs John from the Common?’

  ‘We’ll take it up as a present.’

  Will kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll drop six pounds off in your house.’

  ‘Thanks, Will, and be careful,’ she warned.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve had the full lecture from this one.’ He gave Alma a brief hug. ‘She needs looking after.’

  ‘What is it with the men since they’ve come back,’ Bethan grumbled as he left. ‘They seem to think we need instructions on how to behave towards one another all of a sudden.’ She saw the expression change on Alma’s face. ‘I’m sorry, that was tactless of me. I don’t know how you’re managing to keep going without Charlie.’

  ‘Perfectly well,’ Alma lied unconvincingly. ‘Tea’s still warm, want a cup?’

  ‘Just a quick one. I came to see if there’s anything I can do to help in the house.’

  Alma shook her head. ‘Mrs Lane was putting the finishing touches to it this morning. I’m going over there now to give it one final check-over before they …’ She faltered, then smiled determinedly. But Bethan knew her too well. She was aware just how much of a struggle it was for Alma to retain her composure. ‘Move in.’

  ‘Would you like company?’

  ‘No, thank you. As I said, it’s just going to be a quick in-and-out. And shouldn’t you be preparing for your journey? You are still travelling down to Tilbury with Charlie?’

  ‘Late Tuesday, Andrew’s booked us berths on an overnight sleeper.’

  ‘Sleeping on a train sounds like fun. I haven’t done much travelling. Charlie always said we would after the war …’

  ‘Alma …’ Bethan hugged her.

  ‘I’m all right, Beth. Really. Just finding it a bit difficult to organise my life without him but I’ll get used to it. I’ll have to, seeing as how I have no other option. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to go if I’m going to be out of the place before Charlie arrives.’

  ‘You’ll be up for tea on Sunday with Theo?’

  ‘Of course, and I’ll see you then.’ She gave Bethan a brittle smile, leaving her no option but to walk away.

  ‘It happened about half an hour ago, Dr John. I thought you’d want to know right away as you’ve taken such an interest in the case.’

  ‘Have you informed the family?’ Andrew asked the sister.

  ‘No, I assumed you’d want to do a full examination first.’

  ‘And she’s conscious now?’

  ‘She was when I left. We called Dr John senior as well. He’s with her now.’

  Irritated by the sister’s officiousness, Andrew ran ahead, down the corridor and into the ward to Diana’s cubicle. He could hear the soft murmur of voices and recognised Diana’s voice – weak and subdued – responding to his father’s gruffer tones.

  ‘Sleeping Beauty’s finally decided to join the land of the living,’ his father said as he pushed open the door.

  Andrew nodded to the nurse standing in front of the window, before turning to the bed. Diana was lying back, thin, pale and drawn, but her eyes were open. Gleaming brown pools in a pinched, bleached face.

  ‘Well, hello there. You had us all worried for a while.’

  Diana looked at him blankly for a moment, then murmured. ‘Andrew.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising.’

  ‘That’s what I said, and she’s having problems moving her left leg and arm but I told her not to worry.’ Andrew’s father smiled down at Diana. ‘She’s been in bed a long time. I doubt
there’s anything that exercise, care and rest won’t cure.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you do know where you are?’

  ‘Dr John told me, I’m in hospital.’ She looked from Andrew’s father to Andrew. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Over seven weeks.’

  ‘Seven weeks! Billy …’

  ‘Hey, young lady, no moving until we say you can.’ Andrew’s father pushed her gently back on to the pillows.

  ‘Your mother is looking after both the children,’ Andrew reassured.

  ‘Both?’ She looked at him in bewilderment.

  ‘Billy and Catrina.’

  ‘Who’s Catrina?’

  Andrew’s father gave him a warning glance and shook his head.

  ‘You know your mother,’ Andrew chose his words carefully. ‘Apart from missing you, Billy’s having the time of his life.’

  ‘That’s good. Does Wyn know I’m here?’

  Andrew struggled to control his features and keep the shock from registering on his face. Diana’s first husband, Wyn Rees, had been killed in a munitions’ factory explosion in December 1941.

  ‘Everyone knows you’re here,’ he replied cautiously.

  ‘But you’ve been very ill, my dear,’ Andrew’s father murmured soothingly. ‘We’ve had to restrict your visitors.’

  ‘But I must see Wyn. He’ll be so worried …’

  ‘First, I think we’d better send for a specialist and see what he says. We don’t want you slipping back into another coma.’ He pulled a prescription pad from the pocket of his white coat and scribbled on it. ‘Nurse, would you get these from the pharmacy for Mrs … this patient’s headache.’

  ‘Yes, Dr John.’

  ‘And ask sister to make sure that someone sits with the patient at all times. That’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, Dr John.’

  ‘How’s Bethan?’ Diana asked Andrew.

  ‘Well. Everyone’s well.’

  ‘And William? Mam is always so worried about him. The war …’

  ‘Don’t you go worrying about the war, young lady. We’re winning it on all fronts.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that, Dr John?’

  ‘Would I lie to you?’

  ‘Yes. Both of you would. It’s what doctors do when they’re worried about their patients. Bethan told me.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to tell Bethan off for giving away trade secrets.’ Andrew heard the squeak of a rubber-soled shoe behind him as a replacement nurse walked into the cubicle.

  ‘You get some rest, Diana. I’ll be back in a little while.’

  ‘But I will be able to see Wyn and Mam?’

  ‘As soon as the specialist has taken a look at you and given his permission.’

  ‘They send their love, Diana. Everyone sends their love,’ Andrew reassured as he followed his father out of the cubicle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie paid the taxi driver, picked up his case and looked up at the front door of the house in Tyfica Road. He tried to view the house dispassionately, as if he were a stranger and a foreigner seeing it for the first time – as Masha would on Wednesday. But all he could see was their house in Russia. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to recall every detail of the farm he had been born in, grown through babyhood and childhood to adulthood in, and carried his bride into. The home he’d expected his eldest son to inherit after his death just as he’d expected to inherit it from his father.

  Two storeys high with gabled windows on all four sides that curved the roof into the gentle, rolling lines that he had since come to recognise as uniquely Eastern European. Solid walls and deep-set windows crafted from oak-planking, weathered grey by more than four hundred hot, dry Russian summers and sub-zero, snow-filled winters. The windows of the two principal rooms on the ground floor thrown out into bays that opened into the garden – vast by Pontypridd standards – and lush and green in spring and summer. There had been an orchard of cherry, apple, plum and walnut trees and a fruit garden crammed with raspberry canes and black, white and red currant bushes. Closer to the house were flowerbeds filled with bulbs, and great clumps of perennial flowers that his mother and grandmother had lovingly nurtured from seed. And at the back, behind the kitchen door, neatly tilled, carefully weeded lines of vegetables and salad that his father had taught him to tend, separated from the geese and chicken runs by a fence of close-nailed palings.

  And here! Apart from a square of grass the size of an average tablecloth, there was no garden to break the line of steep concrete steps that led up to the front door. But there was the small back garden, terraced in three layers, each higher than the last and none large enough to hold more than a single cherry or apple tree.

  He walked slowly up to the door and unlocked it with one of the keys Alma had given Bethan to pass on to him. The tiled porch had been cleaned, the stained glass in the door polished, the floor disinfected. He could smell it. Unlocking the inner door he stepped into the hall. He found himself enveloped in unexpected warmth that was all the more welcoming after the frost outside. The stairs and passage stretched before him, sterile, dead areas wallpapered in an uninviting dull tan and dark brown abstract pattern, and carpeted in a vile weave of brown and beige leaves and pink and orange roses that he couldn’t imagine anyone selecting from free choice.

  The front door at home in Russia had opened directly into the large, comfortable room his family had lived in for twelve generations. Like the outside of the house, the walls had been lined with oak planking, oiled and polished by scores of Raschenko women until it gleamed, rich and dark, cool in summer and warm in winter. Opposite the door the stairs led upward to the second storey, an integral part of the room that lent height and an extra display area for family pictures and portraits. Paintings had been hung on every available inch of space, some expertly executed, most not, and one or two unashamedly childish. By-products of lessons in the village school to be framed by proud parents.

  Here and there, they’d been interspersed with newer photographs of his parents, grandparents and even one of his own wedding. Him standing proud and erect in a sober dark suit and new shirt Masha had stitched for the occasion. And Masha beside him in a simple, calf-length white dress carrying a posy of flowers from her garden. Both impossibly young, bright and hopeful, looking to a future together after a public secular service and a clandestine one with a priest arranged by his mother-in-law who refused to give up her religion even after the state had outlawed it. Recalling the photograph, he reflected that it had been as well neither he nor Masha had been able to see exactly what that future held in store for them.

  Aside from the pictures, colours sprang to mind. A veritable rainbow of vivid, beautiful shades. Rich red, sea green, gold, turquoise and deep sapphire blue – like that of the eyes set in the Icon of the Virgin in the village church before it had been taken down and stripped of its jewels and gold frame by order of the party. All those colours and more had been woven into the wool rugs that covered the wooden floor, one wall and the three vast couches, every one of them large enough to serve as a bed. A massive square table filled the centre of the room. There must have been many tablecloths but the one he remembered was dark green cotton, embroidered with a border of red and cream roses.

  An enormous stove dominated the north-east corner of the room, large enough for the entire extended family to sleep on when winter set in and finished in blue-and-white Delft tiles that his grandfather insisted had been carried all the way from the Netherlands by a well-travelled Raschenko son in the eighteenth century. But that room – that house – was lost. He hadn’t dared think of it for sixteen years. Did Masha regret it? Was she hoping, even now, that he’d recreated it here? Would she be disappointed?

  He pushed open the door to the parlour Alma had shown him, expecting the same red-plush-upholstered, dark wood furniture, unfashionable reminders of someone else’s taste and memories. But the red p
lush had been hidden by throws in a colourful red and green print that looked suspiciously Russian. There were plants in beaten brass bowls and Alma had found pictures to replace those Mrs Harding had taken – prints of her favourite Pre-Raphaelite painters that he suspected hadn’t been too hard to track down in the pawnshops of Pontypridd. He recognised a Burne-Jones and a Mucha; then as he turned to the fireplace he stopped in his tracks. He was looking at the work of Elena Polenova, a copy of an illustration from his favourite childhood book – The Little White Duck. This hadn’t been something Alma had picked up by chance.

  ‘I intended to be gone before you came.’ Alma stood beside him. ‘Do you like it?’

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘Your friends in Cardiff heard about Masha. They visited the shop and asked if there was anything they could do to help. They supplied the material and prints and some Russian books and magazines for your son and Masha. I put them in the kitchen. As you’ll have to keep the stove alight there for cooking and hot water, I thought you might want to use it as a living room until the warmer weather.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank your friends, Charlie. They gave me all sorts of other things – spices for cooking, glass jars of salted cucumbers and herrings – and vodka. If you look around and in the cupboards you’ll find them. Are you moving in now?’

  ‘I thought I’d familiarise myself with the place before Masha comes.’

  ‘Bethan told me she’s arriving on Wednesday.’

  He took her hand. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘The chimneys have been swept,’ she continued quickly, conscious of the warmth and pressure of his fingers on hers. ‘The kitchen stove’s been lit for over a week so the downstairs is well aired. We lit fires in the bedrooms for the first time today but the beds have been aired with warming pans and Mrs Lane made up all of them this morning because I wasn’t sure where you’d want to sleep. Mrs Lane will be in every day to see to anything that needs doing. I told her to treat the place as her own in the sense of look round and do what needs doing, unless of course, Masha orders her to do something different.’

  ‘Alma …’