Pontypridd 01 - Hearts of Gold

by Catrin Collier

  She had yet to break the news to Evan.

  ‘This is it.’ Alun turned the key in the lock and pushed open the glass panelled door. The wood, swollen by damp, scraped grudgingly over the tiled floor of the porch, and Bethan found herself facing an inner door, glass-panelled again, this time in ornate etched glass. She turned the knob and stepped into a dark, damp, musty smelling passage.

  ‘It needs a lot doing to it, but I’ve got everything in hand. A few months and you won’t recognise the place, I promise you. And you’re seeing the worst,’ he gabbled, afraid that her silence meant disapproval. ‘The kitchen should be nice and warm.’ He walked ahead of her to the end of the passage and opened a door. ‘I paid the woman next door to lay fire ready for us and clean up the place a bit. She’s been at it all week. I won’t be able to afford to pay her again of course but seeing as how you worked last night and had a week’s wages coming to cover the cost I decided it would be worth it.

  ‘That was thoughtful of you.’

  He failed to detect the irony in her voice.

  ‘You carry on and have a good look round while I put your case in the bedroom.’

  He stepped past her and she walked on into the kitchen alone. It was a large square room, built one storey up from the garden.

  A range was set into the centre of the wall to her right. Clean, newly black leaded, it radiated a little warmth into the chilly atmosphere, but the air was still several degrees colder than in her mother’s kitchen at home.

  Shivering in the draught she went to close the door just as Alun came in.

  ‘Sink in the kitchen,’ he said proudly, pointing to a stone sink complete with wooden draining board fixed under the window with a tap high on the wall above it. ‘You won’t have to carry water far for cooking or washing.’

  ‘So I see, did you buy the furniture?’

  ‘Most of it came with the house,’ he admitted. ‘I know it’s old, but it’s solid.’ He kicked the leg of the pine Victorian table to demonstrate its strength. The six matching upright chairs, two easy chains and dresser were of the same wood. Chipped, stained, yellowed by age, the best that could be said about them was that they were still strong. The covers on the easy chairs were threadbare but clean. Obviously “the woman next door” had done some washing as well as cleaning.

  The shelves of the dresser were crammed with china, but when she went to examine it she tripped over the lino. She glanced down and saw that the floor covering was torn as well as stained.

  ‘It needs a lot doing,’ he repeated.

  The phrase was beginning irritate her. Like the refrain on a cracked record.

  ‘Is this the way down to the back?’ Treading carefully, she opened a door in the far wall. It led into the washhouse. Glass roofed and half walled in cracked, dusty glass, it was built out over the back yard.

  Another door led to a flight of rickety wooden steps down to the garden below.

  ‘At least the washhouse is reasonably clean,’ she commented, trying hard to find something complimentary to say as she returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Told you I paid the woman next door to give the house a good going through,’ he said, brightening at her show of interest. ‘I know the walls could do with a lick of paint, but we’ll soon have that done.’

  She looked at the peeling paint, the damp patches above the sink and around the windows and thought it needed a lot more than a “lick of paint” but she didn’t contradict him.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you the parlour.’ He led the way into the front, bay-windowed room. A deal table, desk and chair were set on the bare floorboards, which had been swept, and a fire was laid in the cast-iron grate. But there were no curtains at the window and no shade over the naked bulb.

  ‘I bought the desk on the second hand stall on the market. I would have got more, but as this is going to be your room as well, I thought you might like to choose something yourself. When the money comes in to pay for it, of course.’

  She stared at the peeling wallpaper and scarred surfaces of the skirting boards and windowsill. ‘It needs decorating first.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand to do that.’

  He shut the door and led the way into the middle room. Dark and dingy, it was lit only by a single tiny window sandwiched between the protruding kitchen wall on one side and the house next door on the other.

  ‘I thought we’d sleep in here. You can’t hear the traffic like you can in the front.’

  She looked around. As in the front room, the wallpaper was hanging loose off the walls. But this room was fully furnished. A large double bed, gentleman’s and lady’s wardrobes, a tallboy, dressing table, washstand and bedside cabinets all in the same clumsily carved heavy dark wood were crammed into its narrow confines. There was barely room to stand between one item of furniture and the next. The smell of beeswax polish hung suffocating in the still, stale air.

  ‘All the bedding is new,’ he said proudly, patting the dark green candlewick bedspread. ‘The woman next door bought it in Leslie’s. The furniture was the best in the house so I brought it down here. Would you like me to light the fire? He pointed to the grate where a fire was laid, but unlit.

  ‘It might be an idea. The whole house feels a bit damp to me.’ She shuddered as much at the sight of the bed as from the chill in the air. It was ridiculous, particularly in view of the condition that had forced her to marry Alun in the first place, but until that moment she hadn’t really considered that sharing a bed with him was part of the bargain.

  ‘That could be because your coat’s soaking wet. Come on, hang it up in the kitchen next to the stove so it can dry, and then I’ll show you the upstairs.’

  Taking her coat off and hanging it up was the first act that brought home to her that this was the house she was going to live in from now on. Until then she’d felt like a visitor, someone who’d been invited to look over a friend’s new house.

  He gave her a conducted tour of every room except those in the basement. He’d already let them for six shillings a week.

  ‘Not as much as I’d hoped for,’ he apologised as if she’d been expecting more. ‘But then letting it go unfurnished saved me the expense of buying beds and tables and they don’t come cheap.

  He’d furnished every bedroom. Three had double beds; two had twin single beds, the rest only one. He’d even managed to squeeze a short put-you-up in the box room.

  ‘Could come in handy,’ he explained. ‘Even if I only charge four shillings a week for sleeping here, I’ll soon recover the price of the put-you-up.’

  ‘It must have cost a lot?’ she observed, wondering where he’d got the money from. ‘All this furniture as well as the down payment to buy this place.’

  ‘I’ve a mortgage of a hundred and fifty pounds.’ he offered defensively. ‘And until the rent starts coming in we’ll have to manage on your wages and savings and the five pounds which is all I’ve got left from my pit money and savings. It may have to last us as long as a month and I warn you now the mortgage is seventeen shillings and sixpence a week. I also thought I might waive the first week’s rent for anyone who’s prepared to decorate their own room.’

  ‘That might be an idea. The woman next door must have worked hard but you can’t clean dirty wallpaper.’

  ‘We are in the worst room.’

  They were standing in the bay windowed bedroom built over the parlour. Like all the other rooms it contained beds, complete with old but clean sheets and clean blankets. No bedspreads. A chest of drawers, a washstand, toilet ware and a wardrobe. Nothing else. Not even a picture or an ornament.

  ‘The first four lodgers are moving in on Sunday. If they’re not agreeable about the decorating I’ll give you a hand to do it when they’re out during the day.’

  There it was again, the “I’ll give you a hand”. This time she couldn’t let it pass.

  ‘I’ve never decorated a room in my life,’ she countered.

  ‘Didn’t your mother teach you? I watched her
when she did out your kitchen two years ago. She’s a dab hand.’

  ‘That’s my mother, not me. Besides, I may have to work for a while yet. They’ll not be able to replace me on the ward that easily.’

  ‘I thought … I thought with the baby coming and everything you’d have to give up working in the hospital,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘I don’t intend to tell anyone that I’m pregnant just yet,’ she snapped back tartly.

  ‘That suits me.’ he agreed. ‘And if you’re happy to carry on working it might be just as well if you do earn a wage for a few weeks longer. Just until all the rooms are full. That way we might even stretch to paying for someone to do the wallpapering.’

  ‘I think that would better than expecting me to do it.’

  A crushing silence fell between them, accentuated all the more by the sound of the cries of the rag and bone man passing by on his cart. Alun sensed that somehow they’d got off on the wrong foot. He’d expected her to show more pleasure in the house, to be grateful to him for allowing the child to use his name, and for the roof he was providing for both of them. After all there weren’t many men prepared to marry a woman who was carrying another man’s bastard.

  He’d even gone out of his way to make things easy for her. He hadn’t had to employ Ada Richards to set the house to rights, but he’d done it. He’d given Bethan a lot better start than most wives had. Now it was time for her to pull her weight and show willing. Every woman knew what a wife had to do. And, every husband had the right to demand that a wife do everything necessary to turn a house into a home. But instead of displaying the humble appreciation he’d expected, Bethan faced him unbowed, and unrepentant. Refusing to even try her hand at wallpapering, when everyone knew that the woman, not the man of the house, saw to things like that.

  ‘I’ll have to go into work early tonight before the day shift finishes,’ she informed him briskly. ‘I have to make an appointment to see Matron in the morning to tell her I’m married.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Are you hungry?’ he asked as an afterthought. ‘Because if you are there should be food in the cupboard. I asked …’

  ‘I know, you asked the woman next door to buy some.’

  He looked at her with such a peculiar, hurt expression she couldn’t help but smile. ‘No, I’m not hungry, Alun, but I am tired,’ she admitted, suddenly realising why she was so irritable. It was a strain just to stand and face him, let alone think about the future. ‘I’ve been up all night, and if I’m to see Matron I have to leave before six tonight.’

  ‘That early?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, knowing full well what was on his mind.

  ‘Bethan, we haven’t really sorted anything out, but then if you’re tired, now’s probably not the time.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I’m going straight to bed.’

  ‘Would you like me to come and keep you warm, just for a bit?’ he asked suggestively.

  ‘Not now if you don’t mind, Alun,’ she said. ‘I really am tired.’

  He reached out and squeezed her left breast hard. ‘You don’t know what you’re turning down,’ he leered, trying to unbutton her blouse.

  ‘I said I’m tired,’ she repeated, pulling her blouse together and backing away from him.

  ‘Just one quick look.’

  ‘I said not now’, she snapped on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘Tomorrow morning then.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘First thing.’ He might have been talking about a milk delivery. ‘The ty bach is out the back. It’s a bit of a climb up and down the steps. It’s not right next to the house, that’s the coal shed. It’s along a bit.’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  Shaken and repelled by Alun’s crude advances she ran downstairs, opened up her suitcase, took out her damp uniform and hung it over the airing rack next to her coat. Returning to the bedroom she sank wearily down on the bed and looked around at the signs of masculine occupancy. She should unpack, but she couldn’t bear the thought of lifting her clothes out and putting them away. Not here. Not in this room that she’d have to share with Alun.

  Eventually she closed her case and lifted it, clothes and all, on top of the tallboy. Steeling herself to pass him, she walked through the kitchen and into the outhouse. The steps down to the back were rotten in places and slippery with rainwater. The garden, if you could call it that, was a wilderness of waist high weeds and discarded rubbish. She made out the rusting shapes of old cooking pots, pram or “bogey” wheels, and a hill built up of old tin cans.

  When she finally climbed back up the steps she saw Alun sitting at the table eating a slice of cold pork pie smothered in mustard.

  ‘Sure you won’t change your mind about the food?’ he asked.

  She looked at the pie, thick with congealed fat, and almost retched. ‘I’m sure, thank you. Would you call me at five?’

  ‘It’s twelve now.’

  ‘That can’t be helped. I’ll try to make up for lost sleep tomorrow.’

  She went into the bedroom. The ancient cotton curtains were so rotten they fell apart in her hands when she tried to pull them. Hooking the ragged ends over the rail in an attempt to give herself a little privacy, she checked the jug on the washstand. It was empty so she returned to the kitchen to fill it. Alun was at the sink rinsing his plate. He took the jug from her hand and put it under the tap.

  ‘I’ve always been fond of you, Bethan,’ he said clumsily, rubbing himself against her. ‘You do know that don’t you? That’s why I agreed to marry you when your mother asked.’

  She walked to the stove, ostensibly to warm herself, glad to be out of his reach. Then she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in her life. Not that many years separated him from her father. And like her father he was broad-built, although a good deal shorter, only about the same height as herself. There was nothing obnoxious about him. In fact the worst she could have said about his looks was that they were nondescript, instantly forgettable.

  His face was plump, circular, his skin pock-marked, his features regular, even. His round, dark brown eyes had the same appeal as those of her father’s lurcher. But despite his not unattractive appearance and his bungling attempts at kindness she could not bring herself to respond to his brutish attempts to caress her.

  ‘I need time, Alun,’ she emphasised, as he carried the jug towards her.

  ‘Not too long. After all, it’s not as if you’re not used to it.’ He lifted her skirt and she pulled it down.

  ‘Once more and I’m going home,’ she hissed.

  ‘This is your home, bach,’ he said flatly.

  She backed towards the door. Catching it with her hip she inadvertently closed it. Exhausted and frightened, she fumbled with the handle. He slammed his free hand above her head, holding it shut behind her.

  ‘I’ll take the water before I go,’ she said bravely, holding out her hand.

  ‘Bethan …’ He tried to fondle her. Instinctively she lashed out, kicking his shin and pushing him away from her at the same time. He tipped the water, soaking the front of her skirt and blouse.

  ‘Serves you right,’ he said angrily, ‘for getting me going like that.’

  ‘Getting you going?’ she shouted frenziedly. ‘I told you I was tired. That I’d been up all night.’

  He turned to put the empty jug on the table. Taking advantage of his movement away from her, she wrenched open the door, ran out into the passage and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Fortunately it had a lock. Not a very strong one, but still a lock. She turned the key and walked to the far side of the bed. Heaving with all her might she pushed it against the door for extra security. Just as she’d finished, the doorbell rang. She heard the murmur of voices as Alun answered it.

  He walked back down the passage, tried the doorknob, and when it wouldn’t give, called out to her.

  ‘That was the woman downstairs. Appears there’s a problem with water coming up through the basement floor. I have to go and loo
k at it. I’ll see you later, but don’t worry I won’t try and touch you again. Not today,’ he said acidly. ‘I can wait until tomorrow morning. After all, we’ve our whole lives ahead of us.’

  It was with that thought in mind that, still fully dressed in her soaking wet clothes, Bethan finally allowed herself to sleep between the freezing, damp sheets on the bed.

  ‘You’ve done what, woman?’ Evan thundered.

  Elizabeth backed away trembling. She’d made Evan angry many times before. But she’d never seen this cold, savage temper burn in his eyes before.

  ‘I saw our Bethan married to Alun Jones this morning …’ She looked past his shoulder and fell silent. Evan turned and glimpsed Eddie and Haydn, white-faced and dumbstruck, standing behind him in the passage.

  ‘I want to speak to your mother, boys. Alone!’ he ordered.

  Eddie retreated but Haydn stood firm.

  ‘I have as much right as you, Dad, to know why our Bethan married the lodger without saying a word to any of us about it.’ He folded his arms and stood his ground. ‘She left me no choice,’ Elizabeth said defensively. ‘I had to arrange it. She brought disgrace on all of us. Would you have rather she’d brought a bastard into this house?’ she asked belligerently.

  ‘She wouldn’t have been the first Powell to roll with a man before she was married,’ Evan countered aggressively.

  ‘At least I was able to marry the father of my bastard in chapel,’ she shouted. ‘Which is more than your precious Bethan could have done.’

  It was the first time Elizabeth had raised her voice in anger. That, as much as what she’d said, sent Haydn and Eddie scuttling back down the hall and out on to the front doorstep.

  ‘That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it, Elizabeth?’ Evan ranted. ‘You never could truck our Bethan being more beautiful and clever than you ever were …’

  ‘What good’s beauty or brains to a woman,’ Elizabeth hissed, ‘when men use a woman for one thing and one thing only? You weren’t concerned with what I thought, or my looks, when you walked me home by Shoni’s that night after choir practice.’