“Thank you,” said Marianne. She took a step into the room, undid her suitcase, and pulled out her nightdress. The old lady smiled and nodded at her, blew out the candle, then turned on her side away from Marianne.
Marianne climbed into bed, and lay near the very edge.
“Nos da – Goodnight,” said Mrs. Evans. They slept.
When Marianne woke up the next morning, the old lady – and the teeth in the glass – were gone. She went downstairs and straight into the kitchen.
“Bore da – Good morning,” said Mrs. Evans, and pointed Marianne into the tiny scullery. She opened the back door, and Marianne walked along the path set with flagstones to the lavatory. Someone, perhaps Mr. Evans, had whitewashed the walls. There wasn’t a spider in sight.
When she got back, Mrs. Evans was pouring hot water from the kettle into a tin bowl. She put out a clean towel and a piece of soap for Marianne to wash.
When Marianne had finished, she went into the kitchen and Mrs. Evans handed her a plate of brown bread and butter. “Bara menyn,” she said, pointing to the food.
Marianne repeated the words. Welsh is quite easy! Mrs. Evans seemed very pleased. She poured Marianne a cup of tea, and then sat in her rocking chair by the big oven and watched her eat her breakfast. Although the kitchen was small, it was very cosy. As well as the big black oven, there was a tall cupboard full of brightly colored plates and cups. A crocheted rug lay in front of the brass fender. On the mantelpiece were two china figurines and a doll wearing a black hat, red flannel dress, and white apron.
A cat purred under the table. If she had noticed Mrs. Evans’ black cat last night, she would truly have been convinced she was in the house of a witch.
Marianne said, “Your house is beautiful.”
Mrs. Evans nodded and smiled. “Diolch – Thanks,” she said. Her teeth moved when she spoke.
There was a knock on the door and Mr. Evans came in. “Bore da, Mam. Good morning, Mary Anne. Had a good sleep, did you?” He did not wait for an answer, but started an animated conversation in Welsh with his mother, who nodded and interrupted softly from time to time. Then they’d both stop talking, look at Marianne pityingly, shake their heads, and continue.
At last Mr. Evans sat down and said to Marianne, “Well now, bach.”
“Please, what does bach mean? I thought it was the name of a composer.”
Mr. Evans laughed. “I knew last night you were musical, young lady. It’s the choir you’ll have to be joining. No, no, bach just means ‘little,’ or ‘dear.’ Now, I’m pleased to say, I have found a very nice home for you, with Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. They are happy to give a home to a little girl. So get your things and we’ll be on our way.”
When Marianne came down with her suitcase, she said, “Please, will you tell your mother ‘thank you very much’? She is so kind.”
Mr. Evans said, “Tell her diolch.”
Marianne went up to Mrs. Evans, said diolch, and curtsied. Mrs. Evans pushed herself up from her chair and patted Marianne’s cheek with her gnarled fingers.
When they got outside and were walking down the hill, Mr. Evans said, “You must be a very good girl for Mrs. Roberts. A sad time she’s had, and her such a pillar of the chapel. Never misses a meeting.”
Marianne’s stomach gave a warning lurch. “Is this a temporary billet?” she asked.
“Oh no, indeed. Mrs. Roberts is looking forward to having a child in the house again. You’ll be settling down there now.”
• 20 •
A Good Home
The white lace curtains of 66 Queen Victoria Road moved slightly. Marianne straightened her shoulders. The front door opened.
“Bore da, Mr. Evans. Come in quick, do. Don’t stand outside.”
They walked in.
“This is the little girl, Mary Anne Kohn, we were talking about,” Mr. Evans said.
Marianne could guess the kinds of things they’d been saying, but he was a very nice man and was doing his best for her. There was no reason to feel so apprehensive. Why do I feel so uneasy? she wondered, her stomach lurching again.
“There’s skinny, she is. Soon fatten you up, we will. Diolch, Mr. Evans, for bringing her. There’s a shame you working Saturday. Lots to do with all these ’vacuees, I dare say, and war not started yet. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing my Elisabeth isn’t here to see it. Very sensitive she was, as you know, Mr. Evans.”
Marianne wondered who Elisabeth was. This lady seemed to have a lot to say; perhaps she was lonely. Was there a Mr. Roberts?
“And how’s your dear mother, Mr. Evans?”
“Mam’s as well as can be expected. Eighty years old last month. Took a great fancy to your little Mary Anne here.”
Your? She hadn’t been in the house two minutes; she wasn’t a parcel to be handed over.
“Well, better be off, Mrs. Roberts. More billets to find. Goodbye, Mary Anne.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Evans. Diolch,” Marianne said.
“Proper little Welsh girl you’re getting to be. Good-bye, both.”
Mr. Evans hurried away and Marianne and her new foster mother were alone.
“You can call me Auntie Vi, short for Violet. Later on, I expect you’ll be calling me Mam,” said Mrs. Roberts.
Marianne already knew that mam was Welsh for mother. Hasn’t Mr. Evans told Mrs. Roberts I already have a mother?
Auntie Vi was small and slim. Her hair was done up in heavy metal curlers, which poked through the scarf round her head. She was very tidy in a dark blue dress and little flowered pinafore. The house smelt of polish.
“Come along, and I’ll show you everything. This is the front room – we use it only for special occasions.” She straightened the lace curtains in the tiny window. It was a square little room, with a small sofa and two matching armchairs. There was a narrow side table, with a vase of dried flowers on it and a leather-bound bible. The floor shone. “We had the funeral tea for Elisabeth here. Lovely, it was. That’s her picture on the mantelpiece.”
A serious-looking child stared down at Marianne from a gilt-framed photograph. She looked like her mother.
“Taken just before she died. There were so many at the tea for her, we had to sit down in shifts. Ten years old, she was.” She touched Marianne’s hair. “I’d brush her hair every night a hundred times – so silky. Kept all her things. I’ll show you.”
They went upstairs to a bedroom that was like a shrine to the dead child.
Marianne said, “I’m twelve, not ten.”
“Well, never mind. A pity, but never mind.” Mrs. Roberts sighed deeply. “Look, there’s a picture of Elisabeth when she was four. Like Shirley Temple, she looked. I’ve kept a lock of her hair.”
Marianne hoped Mrs. Roberts wouldn’t show it to her.
“Remind me, bach, to show it to you. It’s in a locket – I wear it on Sundays.…” She pulled open a drawer. “Her clothes are still folded just the way they always were. You won’t touch the doll, will you?”
Marianne looked at the wax doll sitting on the center of the chest of drawers. The doll’s eyes were fixed, so that they remained wide open.
“Ordered it from Cardiff, I did. Elisabeth was lying in that bed, gasping for breath, and we put the doll in her arms. When she died her dadda wanted to bury it with her, but I said no. I look at it when I dust her room. Every day I dust and think about her. You can dust and keep it nice, can’t you, Mary Anne? Dust your little sister’s room?” Her singsong voice was like a chant.
Marianne nodded, too mesmerized to speak.
Mrs. Roberts said, “You can hang your clothes in the wardrobe. I’ve pushed Elisabeth’s dresses to one side. And the bottom drawer of the chest is empty. Perfect for two little sisters sharing. Get unpacked now, and then come downstairs.”
“Thank you, Auntie Vi.”
Marianne tried the window. Thank goodness it opened. It had stopped raining. The coal tips looked black and clear, framing the horizon, walling her in.
She put her thin
gs away, and then put her nightdress into the bed. Something soft touched her hand – Marianne screamed.
Mrs. Roberts must have been waiting outside. She rushed in. “What is it? Have you a pain?” She placed her hand on Marianne’s forehead.
“I’m fine. I was surprised, that’s all. I felt something touch my hand when I put my nightdress under the sheet.”
Mrs. Roberts pulled a white satin case from the bedclothes.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? See how I’ve embroidered her name on the cover. Now, if you’re very careful, you can keep your nightdress in it too.”
Marianne began to perspire. She felt dizzy. The room was very stuffy. “Oh no, thank you. I don’t want to spoil it.”
“Plenty of room for you both.” Her voice was firm. She closed the window. “Don’t want you getting chilled. Come on down now. Mr. Roberts will be in for his dinner at one. Saturday’s a split shift. Lucky he is working for the railway. All through the Depression, he was in work. Shorter hours, of course, but always something coming in. Not like the colliers – hard times they had. Still, things are bound to pick up now that we’re going to war. There’s always a silver lining, isn’t there? Now you’ve time to go out to play for a bit.” She handed Marianne a ball. “Here’s Elisabeth’s ball.”
Auntie Vi talked nonstop. Her voice was very soft, and her sentences went up at the end as though she were asking a question, but Marianne could tell she was used to having things the way she wanted.
“Thank you, Auntie Vi. May I go for a walk? Not far. I’ll leave the ball with you so I won’t lose it.”
“Don’t be long, then. I don’t want you catching cold.”
“But it’s summer,” said Marianne.”
“Wear your blazer.” Auntie Vi’s voice was gently insistent.
Marianne didn’t argue. “Good-bye, Auntie Vi.”
• 21 •
Larver Bread
Marianne walked down the road, wondering if she was imagining things. There seemed to be something awfully strange about this new “aunt.” Now she understood what Mr. Evans had meant when he said, “A sad time she’s had.” It must be dreadful to lose an only child. No wonder Auntie Vi seems peculiar. Marianne wondered what it would be like to sleep in a bed in which someone had died. A good thing she didn’t believe in ghosts.
If Bridget were here, she’d say, “Hope she changed the sheets.” She had so much to tell Bridget, and it was only four days since they’d said good-bye.
Marianne crossed the street at the end of Victoria Road and was careful to make a note of the buildings, so that she wouldn’t lose her way. Not like her first day in England! On the left was a big gray chapel called Zion, and across the street was the library. She went up the steps and through the glass doors. A lady behind the counter smiled at her.
“You must be one of the London evacuees. Ever so many came in today. There’s smart you all look in your blazers.”
She handed Marianne a form and said, “Get your auntie to sign and then you can take out a book.”
“Thank you,” said Marianne.
She was just about to cross the street to go back for dinner, when she heard her name.
“Mary Anne. Wait.” It was Lucy. “Oh, Mary Anne, I’m so glad to see you. I’m sorry about last night. How are you? I should have come out and helped you. I was afraid to get into trouble too. Sorry,” she said again.
“It doesn’t matter. Are you still at that awful place?” asked Marianne.
“No. One of the teachers came and got me quite early. I don’t think they knew what was going on yesterday. What a muddle. Can’t wait for school to start so we can find out about everyone.”
“Me, too,” said Marianne. “Wonder how Hilary’s getting on in her billet?”
“Can you imagine her face if the lavatory’s a wooden hut full of spiders?” said Lucy.
They laughed.
“What’s your billet like?” Marianne asked.
“Crowded. It’s a little house. I share the back bedroom with the boys – three-year-old twins. Mrs. Taylor’s father lives there, too. He sleeps in the kitchen so he can keep warm. Only speaks Welsh, I think. Uncle Tom’s down the mines; haven’t seen him yet. When I got there, Auntie Ethel said, ‘There’s sensible you look. Thank goodness they sent me a girl. I’m all behind this morning. Come in, bach.’ We had a cup of tea and Welsh cakes. I haven’t even unpacked yet. She said, ‘I hope you’re a good sleeper. Gareth was up all night with toothache, and Peter cries to keep him company.’ Then she asked me if I’d mind picking up something at the market. Do you want to come with me? It’s not far – I asked at the library.”
Marianne said, “I used to like markets once.” They walked towards the market hall. “Will you be alright in your billet?”
Lucy replied, “I’m good at getting things done. You know, organizing, and she seemed glad to have me there, not just because she’s going to get money for my keep. What about your place?”
Marianne said cautiously, “Auntie Vi seems very nice, a bit strange, but that’s because her little girl died. School will start soon, so I won’t be there that much, will I?”
Lucy said, “We’ll be home before Christmas, I bet. Even if there is a war, it won’t last any time.”
Marianne wondered where she’d go. She supposed she’d have to go back to Aunt Vera’s, if she’d have her.
The heat and smells and noise of the market washed over them like a wave. There were stalls outside on the cobbles, and more inside the big hall. They went in past bake counters piled high with floury buns, Welsh cakes, pies, and tarts oozing with jam and fruit. Vegetables on carts looked as if they’d been picked moments before – drops of rain shone on the wavy cabbage leaves and bits of rich black soil clung to the carrots and sprouts. A butcher in a blood-spattered white apron was arranging feathered chickens in a row. Rabbits hung from metal hooks, their eyes glazed, their necks broken, their fur matted where a drop of blood had trickled down.
Marianne looked away. Lucy asked the woman at the cheese stall if she could tell them where Mrs. Jones had her stall. The beaming huge woman looked at them and laughed. “From London, are you?” She cut them each a corner of crumbly white cheese and said, “Welsh cheese from Carmathen. You won’t get that in London.”
“Diolch,” the girls said, and the woman smiled at them even more broadly.
“Jones. Now there’s Jones the Fish and Jones Shoes and Jones China – which is it you want, bach? A popular name in these parts.” She laughed again.
Lucy spelled out the words on her paper: BARA LAWR – LARVER BREAD.
The woman said, “Mrs. Jones is straight down this aisle and then turn left at Sammy’s – SAMUEL & SON, TAILOR. Can’t miss it, they’re right beside each other.” She turned to her next customer.
The tailor had bolts of colored fabrics and rows of shirts and dresses on wire hangers, hung on a wooden pole. Sammy was a little old man in a black waistcoat and short leather apron. His chin was stubbly, and he spoke in an accent that wasn’t like the Welsh around them. Marianne heard him say, “Only for you, Mrs. Davis, I make a special price, and I throw in a little remnant. Nu – Well, what do you say?” He held a length of dark blue material.
“Mary Anne, come on. Here it is.” The sign said JONES – BARA LAWR – LARVER BREAD. Lucy was looking at strands of dark green lengths of some kind of vegetable. “This is what I’m supposed to buy. What is it?”
Marianne said, “It looks like spinach.”
The woman said, “Try a piece; tell me how you like it.”
Marianne said, “It tastes of fish, a bit like chopped herring.”
“Seaweed,” said Mrs. Jones. “Very healthy it is too. A pound, is it, you want?” She wrapped the larver bread in newspaper, and Lucy paid her.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted,” said Lucy. “I don’t know how you could say you like it. Come on, let’s buy something to take the taste away. There’s MYFANWY’S SWEETS over there.�
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Marianne turned round and saw Sammy the tailor looking after them curiously. He reminded her of the peddlers who’d sometimes come to her grandmother’s back door years ago.
“You choose, Mary Anne, and I’ll treat, to make up for last night.”
There were jars of liquorice wound in coils like snakes, mints, red and yellow pear drops, small white triangular packets of sherbet, black-and-white bull’s-eyes, humbugs guaranteed to change color, slabs of chocolate, and brightly wrapped toffees all in tall glass jars.
The big market clock began to strike 12:30. Marianne pointed to the striped aniseed balls, twelve for a penny. Lucy divided them equally.
“Thanks awfully,” said Marianne, her cheek bulging. “We’d better go. Don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“Thanks for coming with me. See you in school. ’Bye. Oh, I forgot to tell you, my foster parents keep a pig in the coal shed.” Lucy waved, and they ran back to their billets.
Marianne found her way easily. She saw Mrs. Roberts looking down the road for her.
“There you are, bach. Afraid you’d got lost. Come in now and meet your Uncle Dai. Longing to meet his new little girl, he is.”
• 22 •
A New Name
Marianne wiped her feet on the little strip of carpet inside the front door. It seemed odd to walk in straight from the street, just over the step and inside. Uncle Dai was sitting at the kitchen table eating soup.
“Here she is,” said Auntie Vi proudly. “Sent in answer to our prayers.”
Uncle Dai put down his spoon, wiped his hands on his trousers, and said, “Well, well. Let me have a look at you. Come and shake hands. I’m pleased to meet you.” Auntie Vi beamed.
Marianne said, “How do you do, Sir?”
“Uncle Dai, Mairi.”
“Please, Uncle Dai, my name is Marianne.”
“Mary, Mary Anne. Mair in Welsh. A pretty Welsh name for a nice little girl living in a Welsh home. Mairi it is, then. Right, Mam?”
“Whatever you say, Dai.”
But Marianne had the idea that Auntie Vi had suggested it.
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