On the way to the police station he had to pass the estate agency and he stopped and went in. A brief discussion assured them that the sale to Mr Grant was still on and that Margaret would be in the following day to sign the contract.
* * *
Edward didn’t get to the police station. The urgent sound of an approaching fire engine made him curious and he followed it to the main road through the town. Dense smoke filled the air and the cloying smell of burning made him close the car window. A second appliance arrived and a police car followed. He parked in a side street and went to see what was happening. It was soon clear that the large department shop facing the main square was on fire. Palls of smoke poured out of the roof and flames were seen leaping in frightening intensity through broken windows of the first and second floors.
The usual crowds had gathered and he saw the police and fire officers push them back. He presumed this was to allow the firemen to deal with the fierce blaze. But to his surprise he saw that cameras were on the scene. The BBC broadcasting van had been in the town to cover the opening of a new playground, and had taken the opportunity to add the fire story to the item filmed for the local television news.
Lewis Lewis was standing in the crowd and Edward went to join him. “Mr Lewis? This is a first, isn’t it?”
“Being present as news is made? Yes. And we’d better smile in case we’re caught on camera.”
They both watched as the roving lens of the camera travelled past them and on around the crowd, then back to the action outside the blazing building.
Flames were doused with jets of water that sparkled in the spring sunshine of the late afternoon, and gradually died down. The chattering crowd dispersed and the two men nodded to each other and went their separate ways, Lewis to a lonely evening in the house of Rhiannon and Charlie, Edward to smother his guilt at his dereliction of his duties at Montague Court. He decided to postpone reporting the money found, and instead, call on Megan.
* * *
When Lewis reached the house in Sophie Street he looked across at number seven as he always did and saw his daughter coming out of the door.
“Dad,” she said, “I’ve got a whole week off next week. Barry is coming to look after the shop and I’m going to decorate the house. Or at least some of it,” she added with a smile.
“I can help you at the weekend and in the evenings, love. I’ll be glad of something to do.” Rhiannon looked doubtful and he said, “I’m not useless you know. Your old dad used to keep number seven in good order, didn’t he?”
“Of course you did, it’s just, well, Mam has offered. I couldn’t tell her not to come, could I?”
“Then I’ll do what I can and I promise I won’t do anything to make your mother lose her temper with me. Right?” He smiled at her and added in a whisper, “Damned hard it’ll be, mind, knowing how easy it is to make her mad. We all know she isn’t a redhead for nothing.”
“Charlie, Gwyn and I are going to see our Viv on Saturday afternoon to look at paint colours and wallpapers. Exciting, isn’t it?”
Lewis wondered sadly whether they were planning on decorating a nursery. He couldn’t accept his daughter’s marriage to a man who had seen the inside of more than one prison, even though she seemed utterly happy. He was certain it couldn’t last.
Gwyn watched his stepgrandfather and wished he could make him a friend. He loved Rhiannon and her mother Dora, but Lewis seemed unwilling to accept him, apart from rare occasions like the game of ducks and drakes at the seaside that day. Childlike, he wished something would happen to persuade Lewis he was worth a few minutes of his time but what that something was, he had no idea.
“Want to help me wash the car?” Lewis asked, an hour later. But that was not the Something Gwyn was hoping for. Besides he had promised to see Dora.
“Sorry Mr Lewis, but I’ve said I’ll go and see Gran. She’s bringing home some leftovers from the café for our tea.”
Lewis shook out the pages of his newspaper and hid his disappointment in its shadow.
* * *
Margaret didn’t go to Oaklands Estate Agency the following morning, even though Edward had told her the time of the appointment and waited for more than an hour.
When he walked into the kitchen, Margaret held up a hand to stop the words about to burst from him.
“I know, I should have been there, but things happen here and I just couldn’t make it. You’ll have to rearrange it for next week.”
“And you’ll stall and stall until the Grants give up. Is that it?”
“Edward, you can’t honestly want to see this lovely old house in the hands of the Grants? Did you know they were scrap merchants? And that Mrs Grant ran a second-hand clothes shop? Issy checked on them and it’s true. They’ve been dealing in old metal and other people’s unwanted junk, for heaven’s sake! How can they take on a place like this? We have to wait for someone more suitable. Mummy would be broken-hearted seeing it go to people like the Grants.”
“Nonsense, Margaret. They are perfectly decent folk.”
“Decent maybe, but can you image what this wonderful old house would look like in a year’s time if we allow them to buy it? They’d tear out eveything that’s beautiful and change the decor to ‘contemp’ry’ .”She mimicked the voice of a simpering woman. “‘Contemp’ry’ carpets instead of these wonderful Axminsters, and ‘contemp’ry’ curtains with jagged patterns on material you can see through. I can just imagine the plastic ‘egg chairs’ in the lounge can’t you?” She turned for Islywn to share her disparaging laughter, but it wasn’t Islwyn who stood in the doorway, it was Annie Grant.
“I don’t intend to change anything in this historic house apart from more modern plumbing, Miss Jenkins,” Annie said in her quiet voice. “And if my taste lacks the necessary polish, I’m not too proud to seek advice. In fact, I have already instructed a professional designer to come and look at the place and help me arrange the few quality pieces I’ve already bought, and assist me in finding the rest.”
As she walked out, Edward glared at his sister. “If you don’t sign that contract today, I’ll burn the place down, Margaret. Contents and all! The house might be beautiful but you are not!”
* * *
Sally returned from shopping to find the back door wide open. She couldn’t keep the place completely secure because of her guests coming and going at odd times, but she thought she’d locked it. Then as she thought about her movements she remembered she had gone out through the front door. She couldn’t have left the back door unlocked, surely. Things like checking doors and windows before going out were automatic. Perhaps one of the boarders had called back for something? No, she admitted to herself, if anyone forgot, it was me.
Even with the thought she might have done it herself, she couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease at finding the door open. Standing in the kitchen, afraid to go any further, she called for Ryan. Then she noticed that the carved table that had stood near the bottom of the stairs was not there; neither were the two valuable porcelain bowls that had stood on it. Surely they hadn’t had a break-in?
Slowly, still calling her husband’s name, she went through the hall and into the lounge. There she could see quite clearly that they had been robbed. She backed out and went to where the telephone now sat on the floor, its table missing from the corner.
When they had first been married, there had been plenty of money and she and Ryan had chosen some beautiful antiques for their home: some Georgian silver, and elegant lamps and small tables and chairs that they had found at auction rooms. China too had become an interest and she looked around, tiptoeing into the rooms as though she were a stranger there, and saw that most of the best items were missing.
She returned to the hall and as she knelt to pick up the phone to call the police, the thought flitted through her mind that Ryan might have taken them to sell. He was always complaining about having no money in his pocket. They were his as much as hers. Perhaps she should wait to speak to him
before calling the police. She replaced the phone.
“Why haven’t you called the police?” Ryan demanded when he came in a few minutes later and learned of the robbery.
“I thought, well, I didn’t know whether you’d decided to sell them.”
“What? You’re accusing me of robbing my own house? Like your father, eh? Burning down his shop and claiming the insurance? Is that what you think of me?”
Frightened now, her tongue tripping over the words, she tried to explain that, as they were his he had every right to sell them should he wish to do so. The words came out disjointed, making no sense.
* * *
When Megan went home she called as usual as she stepped through the door but her mother didn’t answer. She had been in for more than an hour and had started peeling the potatoes which were standing in a bowl ready, cutting them into chips for the usual Friday meal, before Sally appeared.
“Mummy. I was wondering where you were.”
“I was having a lie down, dear.”
“Are you ill?”
“No, but I fell again and hurt my head.”
“Tomorrow you and I are seeing the doctor.”
“No, dear. It’s all right. I wasn’t dizzy or anything. I was overloaded, trying to save myself a journey, you know how it is. A lazy man’s load your grandmother would call it.”
Megan sniffed the air and frowned. “I can smell vinegar. Have you spilled any?”
“Perhaps when I refilled the bottles a little while ago.”
Megan glanced at the shelf where they kept the condiments used for the tables. The vinegar bottles were far from full.
“Where’s Daddy?” she asked.
“He’s – I don’t exactly know, I’ve been asleep,” Sally excused. There was weakness in her voice and Megan wondered with some alarm whether she had been crying.
The front door slammed and Megan saw her father hurrying down the drive. She knew something was wrong between her parents, but couldn’t imagine what it could be and daren’t ask. She would talk to Joan about it.
A little later, she went into the bathroom and smelled again the sharp, unmistakable smell of vinegar. In the small litter bin in her mother’s bedroom she found a pad of brown paper that had been saturated in the stuff. The words of the rhyme came to her.
‘…he went to bed to mend his head
with vinegar and brown paper.’
It was what boxers and others used to help reduce bruising. If that was what her mother had done, why had she lied?
* * *
Rhiannon started work on the living room on Monday morning after Charlie and Gwyn had gone to work. Stripping wallpaper off was a tedious task but by lunchtime she had managed to clean two walls. Her father came in at three o’clock and insisted on helping.
“Your Mam won’t be home from the café until six so I’ve got about four hours,” he said, after changing into old clothes.
When Charlie and Gwyn came in at six the walls were clean and the ceiling had its first coat of white paint.
“Thanks, Mr Lewis,” Charlie said, pleased with the result of the first day. “I feel awful about Rhiannon doing it while I’m at work, but she insisted on having a go.”
“And I feel awful too,” Lewis told him. “She’s only a young girl and she was intending to do that high ceiling herself.” His voice was harsh, the words came out as a criticism.
“It wasn’t my idea, but Rhiannon wanted to try,” Charlie protested. “I wouldn’t tell her she couldn’t do it. She makes her own decisions. I respect her too much to tell her what to do.”
Lewis was angry – but with himself and not Charlie. He had intended to say he was glad he’d been able to take a few hours off and help. “I’ll give the ceiling its second coat before I go to work in the morning,” he said gruffly.
“Thanks for your help,” Charlie uttered.
‘You’re welcome’ didn’t seem a suitable reply, so Lewis said nothing.
When Dora came at seven o’clock she was dressed in overalls and wore a scarf around her fiery red hair. Seeing the walls were all stripped and clean, she suggested they sized them ready for the paper.
“I’ll do that, Dora,” Charlie said, “but first I’m taking Rhiannon and Gwyn for a walk and to get some fish and chips for supper. Will you come?” He glanced at Lewis as he spoke but Lewis presumed the words were for Dora alone and didn’t acknowledge them. Dora shook her head.
“No thanks. I’ll just get all this wallpaper into a sack for rubbish and go home. We’ll do the sizing tomorrow evening, shall we?” She had guessed from the atmosphere that Lewis was out of favour. The three went out leaving Lewis and Dora alone. “Have you upset them?” Dora demanded as the door closed.
“Not intentionally, no.” He started to explain what had happened, but instead he said, “It’s no use, Dora love, I don’t trust the man with our Rhiannon. He’s a jailbird. He’s broken into people’s houses and stolen from them. He stole from the shop where Rhiannon works. How can I welcome him as a son-in-law?”
“By looking at Rhiannon and seeing how happy she is.”
“What about you, Dora. Are you happy?”
“I’m enjoying the café, and working with Sian is pleasant enough.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“Yes,” she snapped, “I’m happy! Right?”
Lewis burst out laughing. “I asked an innocent question and you flare up as if I’d asked you to murder someone.” He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. “If I ask if you’d like a cup of tea, will you shout at me?”
“No. But I’d refuse.” She picked up her coat and he held her back.
“Please, Dora. Stay a while. I’m damned lonely.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Mine,” he said sadly. But she stayed.
* * *
Margaret stalled for a few more days but signed for the sale of Montague Court on the twenty-third of May. She had always known the house would have to be sold. Once Edward had backed out and demanded half of the money there had been no hope.
“He let me down badly, Issy,” she said as she and Islwyn were getting into bed. “I can’t bear the thought of leaving my home. What shall we do?”
“Sometimes things that seem ruinous turn out to be for the best. This house would always have been a drain on you. There would never have been a moment in all your life when you were free of money worries. A place like this eats money like water pouring down a drain in a storm.”
“I know all that, but I love it so. Besides, we do have to earn a living. What can we do?”
“Open that restaurant you’ve often talked about. You’re a particularly talented cook, my dear, and I’m quite capable of doing all the less skilled jobs.”
“A café,” she said despondently. “Like your wife, Sian.”
“A restaurant very unlike my wife Sian’s. You’d soon earn a reputation for first-class cuisine. Dora and Sian run an unimpressive caff!”
“I have considered a small, exclusive restaurant,” she mused.
“Then think again, of a large, exclusive restaurant. Some thing that will make Edward’s pathetic little shop seem like a joke.”
He had hit on the one thing to cheer her. “I’ll pay him back, Issy. I want to see him suffer for the way he’s behaved.”
“Don’t waste energy on petty anger, my darling. You’re bigger than that. Stronger. More dynamic. A visionary endowed with imaginative skills. You’ll be so successful you’ll be able to forget you ever had a brother Edward.”
“Maybe, but I don’t want Edward to forget me.”
* * *
With the sale of Montague Court set to go through, Edward’s activities in the restaurant were reduced. He spent hours each day working with Frank Griffiths and occasionally Hywel, getting the shop emptied and cleaned.
“Can you imagine this ever being a garden in which we can sit and relax?” he asked Frank one morning when they threw even more
rubbish out of the house and into the once cleared area.
Frank laughed. “Every time we clear it, we start filling it again, but it’ll come. The last few bricks from the dividing walls will take another day to clear, but then we’ll get Dad and Ernie with the van, and we’ll empty the garden for the last time.”
“Don’t you get tired of dealing with jobs like this?” Edward asked as Frank added more bricks to the pile that almost covered the small back garden. “I’m fed up with mess and confusion and I’ve only had a few weeks of it.”
“It depends on what you want from life,” Frank the philosopher replied. “Now me, I don’t like responsibility, see. I give Mam as much as I can afford each week and she does the rest. I never get a bill, she tells me when I need new clothes, she feeds me and I help Dad keep the place going. For me, perfect. Now our Basil’s different. He’s married to Eleri and they had two little boys and he’s in his oils. Never been happier. So there it is, it’s what you choose.”
Edward was surprised. He’d never heard more than half a dozen words from Frank before; in fact all Frank usually offered were monosyllabic grunts.
“It sounds as though you’ve thought about life very seriously,” he said.
“Seriously and long, Mr Jenkins. And I know I’m not the sort to be a reliable husband. Sad,” he added, “but true.”
“I never thought I’d marry,” Edward replied, “so I told everyone, including myself, that I didn’t want to.”
The remark hit home to Frank, who had begun to think he was unlovable and would never find a girl who could love him. He didn’t reply for a long time and as both men were working hard sorting the bricks and stones into piles, Edward thought the conversation was over. Then Frank said, “You’re right.”
A Shop in the High Street Page 7