Pontypridd 01 - Hearts of Gold

by Catrin Collier

  Her Uncle John Bull would see that she was never accepted in his or any other chapel again. She’d be shunned, perhaps even stoned like Phyllis.

  Her only recourse would be the unmarrieds ward in the workhouse, where she’d have to wear the grey flannel workhouse dress. She wouldn’t even be allowed to keep or wear her own underwear. She’d be forced to scrub floors and yards for her keep until her child was born and afterwards she’d have to live in the homes until someone either adopted it or took pity on her and gave her a job as a live in maid.

  Even then she’d have to hand over whatever she earned for her own and her baby’s keep. That would be her life. She’d have no opportunity to save anything for a better one. There wouldn’t even be any hope. She’d be like Maisie Crockett.

  She shook herself free from the bleak picture she’d painted of her future and looked at the clock. The hands pointed to three. Her mother always rose at five. Two hours. That was all the time she had. Tomorrow Trevor would return. He could slip up, say something untoward. Her mother might guess. She daren’t risk putting off what had to be done for another day. Cradling the bottle of brandy on her lap, she considered the alternatives to a hot bath. Epsom salts … placing her feet in a bowl of scalding water … knitting needles – she caught sight of her mother’s steel pins crammed into an empty jam jar on the windowsill, and shuddered. The hands on the clock pointed to ten minutes past three. Steam rose gently from the water boiler in the stove. If she was going to do something she’d have to do it now. But not here.

  Anyone passing through on their way to the back yard would see her and if Alun and her brothers had been drinking that could be in the next few moments.

  There was only one room in the house that was shut off – the front parlour. She tiptoed back down the passage. A full moon shone in through the lace curtains that hung at the bay window, creating a beautiful pattern of shadows on the floor. She rolled the rug back lest she soil it and stood the bottle of brandy on the linoleum next to the couch. Returning to the kitchen she fetched one of the old sheets from the back of the washhouse that her mother kept to use as dust sheets when she was spring cleaning.

  She had to risk the sound of running water, but not a bathful. A bucketful would have to be enough.

  She rinsed out the enamel bucket from under the sink and filled it with boiling water from the stove. It came out bubbling. It took two trips to refill the boiler with her mother’s enamel jug. Switching off the light and closing all the doors she carried the steaming bucket into the parlour and set it and herself, down on the dust sheet.

  She skimmed her fingers across the surface of the water and only just stopped herself from screaming. It was scalding hot.

  She touched everything she’d gathered around her. The dust sheet, hot water, brandy – what if she passed out with the pain, or was sick? Deciding she couldn’t risk either, she sat on the Rexine-covered sofa and pulled the dust sheet up beneath her nightgown.

  Then, closing her mouth around the brandy bottle she began to drink. She didn’t find the courage to lower her feet into the water until the bottle was half empty.

  Elizabeth rose before five as she did every day. She liked to black lead and clean the oven, and boil the water for tea before Evan and Alun rose at half past. She dressed in her bedroom, putting on a grubby house overall, only stopping to wash her hands and face and brush her hair. She would have a good wash later, when all the dirty household chores had been completed and she had the house to herself.

  The first thing she did on entering the kitchen was check the stove. She poked up the fire, breaking the crust of small coal she’d laid the night before. Then she raked the ashes out on to the hearth.

  Fetching the ash bucket from the washhouse she shovelled the residue on top of yesterday’s, picking out any bits that weren’t burned to dust to put back on the fire. When the grey dirt had been swept up and deposited in the bucket she built up the fire with fresh coal and sticks from the scuttle that Evan had refilled before going to bed. Recollecting the events of yesterday evening she was even more parsimonious than usual, resolutely replacing five lumps of coal and a handful of sticks from her normal morning’s allowance. Soon even Evan’s reduced coal allowance would be gone. And she couldn’t begin to think how they would afford twenty five shillings for a load of coal with no man’s wages coming into the house.

  She went to the washhouse to fetch the bucket. She spent five minutes hunting high and low for it before eventually making do with the bowl she kept for soaking Evan’s pit clothes. By five thirty she’d washed the hearth and cleaned and black leaded the top of the stove. While the kettle boiled she scrubbed her hands and arms under the cold tap in the washhouse. When she’d finished the water had boiled, and steam was just beginning to rise from the porridge oats she’d mixed with water in her mother’s old fish kettle and set on the range.

  She laid the table, cut bread and carried the butter and jam in from the pantry. Punctually at five-thirty, Evan and the boys came down the stairs and Alun walked in from his room. They fought over the tap in the washhouse, ate the breakfast laid out on the table and left, Alun and Evan to the pit, the boys to the market. It was Haydn’s day to work for Wilf Horton and Eddie had decided to go down to Market Square with him in the hope of picking up some casual work.

  Left once more in sole possession of her domain, Elizabeth cleared the dishes, stacked them in the washhouse and re-laid the table for Maud. She wondered what to do about Bethan. Perhaps she should take her breakfast up to her bedroom?

  It was probably best to wait until Maud had left. Bethan had certainly looked ghastly last night when young Dr Lewis had brought her home.

  But she hadn’t entirely believed his and Laura’s story that Bethan had slipped on the stairs in the Homes and fallen. However, Bethan herself hadn’t said much. Refusing even Maud’s offer of help, she’d put herself to bed. But young Dr Lewis must be worried about her to say he’d call again today.

  She hoped the stupid girl hadn’t done herself a serious injury. Without Bethan’s contribution to the household budget she’d be hard put to buy food, let alone pay the mortgage next week.

  She poured herself a cup of tea from the cold dregs in the teapot and looked at the clock. It was past seven, time to call Maud. She left the kitchen and shouted from the foot of the stairs. Then, and only then, did she lift the hotplate cover and put the kettle back on to boil. She only ever brewed fresh tea if someone else in the house wanted a cup, considering it a selfish extravagance to do so just for herself.

  Ten minutes later, washed, dressed, hair neatly combed back and tied at the nape of her neck, Maud appeared. She sat at the table and ate the porridge Elizabeth put in front of her in silence. When she finished she carried the plate through to the washhouse, before returning to drink the tea that her mother had poured for her.

  Bethan was well enough to go to work then?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Not likely, young lady,’ Elizabeth said sharply. ‘Not after that fall she took last night.’

  ‘Then where is she?’ Maud asked, looking around the kitchen.

  ‘Where you’d expect her to be. In bed.’

  ‘She wasn’t there when I got up,’ Maud asserted.

  ‘Did you disturb her in the night?’

  ‘Not that I know of, Mam. She was sleeping when I went to bed.’

  Elizabeth left the kitchen and ran upstairs. She crashed open Maud and Bethan’s bedroom door. The bed was turned back the curtains pulled, the sash window left open six inches at the top, just as she liked Maud to leave it.

  She darted into the boys’ bedroom. She couldn’t imagine why, but she thought it might just be possible that Bethan had gone in there. The bed was rumpled, untidy; the wardrobe door left ajar, the window and curtains still closed. It was messy but empty.

  In her own room the blankets were turned back and the window open, just as Evan had left it. She stepped across the landing to the box room and pushed open the door.
It shuddered protesting across the bare floorboards. The cardboard boxes in which she’d stored the wooden bricks; fort and doll’s house that Evan had made for the children when they were small were piled neatly along the wall on the left-hand side of the room.

  She looked behind the door. Her college text books were stacked, where she’d left them under a thick layer of dust. No one had been in there. Fear slimed sick and leprous from the base of her spine. If Bethan had left her bed to go to the toilet she would have seen her pass through the kitchen.

  She remembered Andrew. His sudden departure from Pontypridd. It was as if Bethan’s disappearance had turned over a stone in her mind, uncovering a seething nest of fears she’d been terrified of for years. All she could think of was Hetty.

  She almost fell down the stairs in her haste to return to the kitchen. On the way she opened the door to Alun’s room. The air was stale, musty. The single bed was made, the sash in the bay open a scant half inch at the top. But it was tidy, his clothes hung away on the rail Evan had hammered across the alcove.

  She called out Bethan’s name, quietly at first, then louder not really knowing why she did so when it was plain to see that Bethan wasn’t in the room. She closed the door and entered the back kitchen, checking the pantry, the washhouse and the back yard while a bewildered Maud looked on.

  She climbed the garden steps, looked in the coalhouse, the dog run; the shed where Evan kept his tools.

  ‘Beth’s all right, isn’t she, Mam?’ Maud demanded pathetically, seeking reassurance.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Elizabeth replied tersely.

  She closed all the outside doors and ran back down the passage. Perhaps Bethan was in the street … she wrenched open the front door, looked up and down …

  ‘Nice morning Mrs Powell,’ Glan’s mother called from next door where she was scrubbing her doorstep. ‘How’s your Bethan? I heard she took a bad fall last night.’

  ‘She’s going to be fine, thank you, Mrs Richards.’ Elizabeth shut the door on the street.

  The parlour … she tried to open the door and failed to move it more than a few inches. Something was behind it. She pushed with all the strength she could muster and stumbled over the body of her daughter.

  Bethan, wearing only a nightdress, lay on the floor, an empty bottle of brandy in her hand. Her feet were in the bucket which had fallen on its side. The water it had held had flooded the linoleum, damming up against her rolled-up best hand-stitched tapestry rug.

  Elizabeth knelt down and placed her hand on Bethan’s forehead. It was burning. She moved the bucket and Bethan’s feet fell out into the puddle of water. She thrust her hand into her mouth to prevent herself from crying out. The skin hung in long white threads from the red, raw mass of Bethan’s feet.

  Someone screamed. It wasn’t until Maud called to her from the passage that she realised she was making the noise herself.

  ‘Mam …’

  ‘Stay there, Maud,’ Elizabeth commanded. Years of discipline paid off. Maud remained exactly where she was. Elizabeth thought rapidly. The bucket – the brandy bottle – she knew exactly what Bethan had done. She’d tried the same trick herself years ago. It hadn’t worked then, and judging by the spotless state of Bethan’s nightdress it hadn’t worked now.

  If it had worked for her … if … she heaved the thought from her mind.

  ‘Bethan’s ill,’ she said quickly. She studied her daughter’s mutilated feet. She didn’t want to send for help, but this was way beyond her capabilities.

  ‘Run down the hill as fast as you can to Uncle John’s. Tell him … tell him that we need Dr Lewis quick. Tell him to send messages to the hospital and anywhere else he might be.’ She stared at Maud’s face, white, strained. ‘Do it,’ she shouted. ‘Now!’

  Maud sprang to life. Not waiting to exchange her slippers for her boots she wrenched open the front door and fled down the steps.

  Elizabeth put her arms around Bethan’s shoulders and lifted her out of the pool of water. She’d dreaded something like this since the day Bethan was born. Now that it had actually happened she didn’t feel any of the emotions she thought she would. She wasn’t angry. She didn’t want to punish Bethan … In fact one glance at Bethan’s feet told her that there’d been punishment enough and to excess. Instead of wanting to cast Bethan out, she held her close. Her heart reached for Bethan’s as it had never done before. This was one problem they would face together as mother and daughter.

  Bethan’s eyes flickered open as Elizabeth stroked the hair away from her face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Elizabeth murmured softly, laying Bethan’s head down on her lap. I’ve sent for Dr Lewis. He’ll know what to do. It’s going to be all right.’

  Bethan looked down, plucked at her nightdress, checking the damp patches. Seeing only clean water she began to cry. She pressed her hand against her stomach.

  ‘Mam. I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I …’ She faltered. She had no apology. No defence to offer.

  ‘It’s all right. Try not to talk. You need to conserve your strength.’

  ‘Mam, please, don’t throw me out,’ she pleaded feverishly. ‘I have nowhere to

  go, I …’

  ‘Bethan, it’s going to be all right,’ Elizabeth said in the strong voice Bethan hadn’t dared disobey from childhood. ‘I know you’re going to have a baby.’

  Bethan stared at her mother, wide-eyed, disbelieving. Her mother knew what she’d done and she was caressing and petting her? She had no memory of her mother ever doing that before.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bethan. I won’t let you go on the streets or into the workhouse.’ Elizabeth voiced her own fears of twenty-one years before. ‘First we nurse you back to health, then we’ll sort out your problems.’ She looked hard at her daughter. ‘Just promise me one thing.’

  ‘Yes, Mam,’ Bethan murmured. At that moment she would have promised her mother anything.

  ‘No more tricks like this.’ Elizabeth threw the bottle into the bucket with a crash. ‘They don’t work. All you’ll succeed in doing is killing yourself. Now here, put your arms round my neck. Let’s see if we can lift you out of this puddle and on to the couch.’

  In one single blinding, screaming moment Bethan’s feet came to life. She couldn’t have moved them to save herself from death. If anyone had offered to amputate, she would have allowed them to do so, and gladly. Clinging tightly to her mother she sobbed as she hadn’t done since childhood. Elizabeth’s tears mingled with her own as they fell into the puddles on the floor. For the first time in her life Bethan actually felt close to the woman who had born her.

  ‘Andy, Anthea, is that you?’ Fiona called out as she heard the maid open the front door.

  ‘It is.’ Andrew dropped his doctor’s bag on to the hall floor, divested Anthea of her coat and hat, and handed them to the maid.

  ‘Dwinkie?’ Fiona waved a cocktail glass in front of their noses as she peeped around the drawing room door.

  ‘Ta, love one,’ Anthea cooed.

  ‘What is it?’ Andrew demanded suspiciously, eyeing the peculiar colour of the liquid in her glass.

  ‘Champagne cocktail, with some of my added, my – ster – ious ingredients,’ Fiona purred.

  ‘I think I’d prefer a small whisky, thank you.’

  ‘You’re worse than Father.’ She made a face at him. ‘Be adventurous for once in your life.’

  ‘I value my stomach too much to take a chance.’ He followed Anthea into the drawing room, and slumped down in a chair next to the drinks tray. ‘Alec home, Fe?’ he asked.

  ‘Hours ago,’ she drawled. ‘He’s speaking to Daddy on the telephone.’

  ‘Daddy –’ He left his chair, ‘I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘Daddy England, not Daddy Wales,’ Fiona said irritably. ‘There’s some men only thing on tonight, and they’re both going. I don’t suppose you two would like to take me out, would you? I hate staying in when Alec’s out having fun. We could go to the cinema, or a show
?’

  ‘Fine,’ Andrew agreed enthusiastically, ignoring the tight-lipped expression of annoyance on Anthea’s face.

  Anthea had written to Fiona soon after his arrival in London. Pleading boredom, an empty wardrobe and a desperate need for an urgent London shopping trip she’d asked Fiona if she could visit. Ever accommodating, and only too glad to have someone to stay to help amuse and lighten her lonely days, Fiona had welcomed her with open arms, but Andrew had seen the heavy hand of his mother’s interference in the scheme. And five days and nights spent under the same roof as Anthea had done nothing to dispel the unpleasant notion.

  Anthea rose early so she could breakfast with him and, worse still, chatter about trivial nothings when all he wanted to do was eat, drink and read the paper in silence. She rooted out the small cafe where he and the doctor lunched when they could get away from the hospital, and turned up there with Fe in tow, feigning amazement at his presence.

  She “happened” to be making her way back to Fe’s’ or “passing” in the evenings when he was returning to Fe’s after finishing work in the hospital for the day. A stroll he’d always regarded as a pleasant one until she joined him. And whenever they were alone together she prattled on about how wonderful life in London was, what a marvellous doctor’s wife his mother made, and how well she got on with his entire family.

  Rather obvious topics that did nothing to endear her presence to him.

  ‘Right, where shall we go?’ Fiona asked as she handed Anthea a cocktail and Andrew a whisky.

  ‘Cinema,’ he suggested thinking that at least he wouldn’t have to talk to either of them while the film was on.

  ‘I’ll have a look at what’s showing,’ Anthea volunteered, cheering herself with the thought that Fe might go to bed early when they got back, leaving her alone with Andrew.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fiona smiled as she handed Anthea the paper. ‘You’ve no idea how much I was dreading this evening.’