Sophie Street

by Grace Thompson

  Her opportunity came when he passed the shop an hour later. She called to him and he stopped and came in. Edward was away buying stock and she offered Carl a cup of tea. As he sat and drank it, she asked, “Who’s my rival then? Who’s the mysterious woman you’re buying chocolates for?”

  “None of your business,” he said, the sting taken out of the words by a wide smile. “I’ll tell you one day, but not now. Right?”

  “I’m not a very patient girl, Carl,” she said.

  “Then waiting to learn my secret will be good for you,” he retorted.

  “But if it’s over, and we won’t be seeing each other again, the least you can do is explain. Please, Carl?”

  Thanking her for the tea, kissing her lightly on the cheek he left, whispering, “All right, meet me tonight and ask me again.”

  “You mean it’s on again?”

  “No, I can’t go on seeing you, but we can meet one more time.”

  “And we’ll talk?” She smiled as he nodded, although she half dreaded hearing what he had to tell her, convinced he had a wife; a jealous wife who had taken revenge on her in that dark lane, Her father would be out at some meeting or other and wouldn’t be back until ten. Plenty of time to persuade Carl to reveal his secret. For the rest of the day she puzzled over it and at five thirty, when she left for home, she was still wondering.

  She was edgy walking home even though it was not yet dark. She jumped at every sound and was relieved to see Frank and for once didn’t tell him to get lost. She thanked him for his gifts during the days she had been off work recovering from her injuries.

  “I know you don’t know who was responsible,” he said, “but I’m glad you and that Carl Rees are finished.”

  She didn’t reply.

  * * *

  On her way back from the cinema that afternoon, Jennie Francis walked past the premises she had once leased. The window was still empty. That, and the absence of a sign made it clear that no one had so far rented it. It was already beginning to look neglected and shabby. If only Peter had supported her and she had been able to stay a bit longer, she might have turned the business around. Saddened by the finality of the brief visit, she went for a walk.

  She knew she would have to get a job, but until she had persuaded Peter to sell the house, she had no intention of helping him with the finances. She was in debt, with the end of her business, but not by much. Once she was earning she would easily settle the few outstanding bills. The sale of the house would give her a little capital, enough to start her savings plan towards a fresh business of her own. Really her own. This time she wouldn’t begin it in debt to Peter’s parents.

  She wandered aimlessly along the streets, her feet slowly and almost unknowingly, taking her to the popular Pleasure Beach where several stalls and shops were preparing for the forth coming holiday season. It was almost dark by the time she reached there but there was still plenty of activity. Ladders had sprouted like exotic plants, propped against shop fronts supporting men wielding paint brushes with more enthusiasm than skill. Windows were being cleaned of the grime of the winter months and buckets of water were thrown across paving.

  Whitsun was the big opening and the proprietors of the cafés and shops were going to be ready; One café seemed to be open for business and she went in. It was filled with the local traders. All of the customers were dressed for work. Mostly paint-stained trousers and shirts, or dungarees with paint brushes and small tools jutting out of every pocket. Men were arguing about the best way of repairing gutters and complained about the mess they had to clear out. The women wore coarse aprons with pockets bulging with dusters and tins of polish.

  “We’re closed, Missus,” the man behind the counter said. “Only for the traders this is, see.”

  “I’ll buy her a cup of tea, Wyn,” a familiar voice called, and Jennie turned to see Carl sitting at one of the tables.

  “I’m repairing some of the shop signs,” he explained as he stood and offered her a seat. “This is Jennie, my ex-boss,” he said, by way of explanation.

  When she was sitting with a cup of tea in front of her, Carl asked, “Have you decided what you’re going to do, yet? Will you reopen when you’ve sorted out your finances?”

  “I’ll do something, run a shop of some kind but so far I haven’t decided what business it will be. I should have stuck with my original plan and made it a gift shop,” she said bitterly. “A place selling really special gifts, something for everyone. Once I’d become well known, I’d have persuaded people to come long distances to buy from me because of my unusual stock and wide choice. I’m sure it would have been successful.”

  “Get in touch if I can help,” he said.

  “Thanks. Now, what about you, Carl? How is that girlfriend of yours?”

  “What girlfriend? I don’t stay with a girl long enough for her to call herself my girlfriend.” He took a sip of tea and added, “Too wily for that, I am.”

  “What about the one called Mair? Mair Gregory, wasn’t it?”

  “Only occasional friends. Nothing serious,” he assured her as he stood to get back to his work.

  * * *

  An hour or so later, Mair was getting ready for Carl’s visit. Despite his saying they could not go on meeting, she had convinced herself that this would be the day he would tell her everything and propose. They hadn’t known each other long but the passionate nature of their brief relationship was proof that love wasn’t slow to grow. Thank goodness Dad would be out.

  Carl must have been watching for her father to leave because he knocked on the back door only a few minutes after the constable had ridden off on his bicycle. He stepped inside and at once took her in his arms. There was a scraping sound from outside, which they both recognised as her father’s bicycle being propped against the wall, and instead of standing there as her father re-entered, Carl darted out of sight and crept up the stairs. “Forgot the minutes of the last meeting,” her father explained as he retrieved his papers from the living-room table and left once more.

  “Where are you?” Mair whispered, a giggle of amusement in her voice.

  “I’m up here, stuck under your bed,” Carl hissed back and the unnecessary struggle to pull him out ended in the way his secret visits had always ended, in her bed, both swearing undying love.

  It was past nine o’clock before they came down and Carl was anxious to leave.

  “Don’t dash off, my father isn’t an ogre,” Mair pleaded. “Why don’t you stay for supper, there’s plenty for three unless – unless you’re full up after eating those chocolates Rhiannon thinks you buy for me?”

  “Look, Mair, I think it’s best we don’t see each other again. For a while at least.”

  “What? But I thought we were together again?”

  “No. Believe me it’s best this way.”

  “How can you say that after all we said and did upstairs?”

  “I meant all that, every word. But I have a problem and until it’s solved I’m not free.”

  “You’re married!”

  “No, I’m not married. But this problem, well, I can’t talk about it. You’ll have to trust me. I know it’s asking a lot, we haven’t known each other very long, but I have to deal with it on my own.”

  “How long?” she asked. “You promised to tell me, get every thing out in the open. You told me you loved me, Carl!” Questions crowded her brain and were about to tumble out, eventually, in anger.

  Carl put a finger over her lips. “Please, Mair, please trust me.”

  “How long?” she repeated.

  “Months. Maybe years,” he said, lowering his head in apparent dismay.

  The sound of the bicycle scraping against the wall again alerted him and he kissed her hurriedly and left by the front door. She hid her dismay from her father, talking lightly about her day in the sports shop as she prepared supper, but all the time she was hurting inside. Ending it without any explanation and after telling her he loved her, what had gone wrong?
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br />   When she slipped into her bed, remembering with such pain how Carl had shared it with her so recently, she realised that she still didn’t know who was the recipient of those chocolates, or why he had run so desperately fast from Gomer Hall. She had to face facts. All his previous behaviour pointed to there being a wife. The attack made by a woman added credence to that theory. What should she do?

  * * *

  When Jennie heard from a neighbour that her mother-in-law was recovering from her spell in hospital, she rather reluctantly went to call on her. It was seven o’clock on a mild May evening and she wore a summer dress for the first time. That alone will be enough to start her off, she thought irritably. Never cast a clout, and all that. Well, she wanted to get out of the heavy winter clothes. And her mother-in-law’s house was so gloomy she needed to cheer herself up before going inside.

  Peter was there as she had hoped. He looked nervously at her as though she would undoubtedly bring bad news.

  “Mam isn’t well enough for visitors,” he said at once.

  “Oh, in that case, will you give her these?” She handed him a bunch of mixed spring flowers, but he shook his head. “Flowers always make Mam sneeze, you should have remembered that.”

  “In that case, as I’m not allowed to behave like a daughter-in-law should, can I have a word with you?” She gritted her teeth as he looked around him, trying to think of an excuse. “It’s all right,” she hissed, “I haven’t brought reinforcements.”

  “You’d better come in I suppose.”

  “No! Just meet me at the estate agents tomorrow at five o’clock. The house is going to be sold.” She left him standing there and hurried off, wondering how she could have possibly loved him, wondering why she had ever thought he would be a supportive partner.

  For a while it had been wonderful, she being the strong one. Peter had needed her and together they had defied his mother and bought a house, refusing to live in two of her spare rooms. They had decided to start a business which she would run until it was established, they would then run it together: fine glassware and china; novelties and seasonal offerings, perhaps paintings as well, later on. A happy business expanding as their fame spread, their reputation for having something for every purse and every occasion. It would have been so wonderful. Tempted though she so frequently was, she had never once said to Peter, ‘told you so’, when the decorating business his parents had insisted on, had failed. He was there, outside the estate agents when she arrived at five the following day, but he did not look as though they would agree about the house. She took a deep breath and prepared to argue. “Look, Peter. You let me down about the shop and I’m not willing to let you win this one. I want the house sold. It’s pointless me staying there on my own.” She waited for him to speak and when he did, the next stage of her argument was forgotten.

  “I want to come back,” he said.

  She looked at him for a long time in silence. “How is your Mam?” she asked in a polite voice. “Oh, she’s a bit better, but she isn’t strong.”

  “You’re still having to shift for yourselves? Find your own food?”

  “Yes, I – no, Jennie! That isn’t the reason I want to come back.” She weakened momentarily but knew their marriage was over. It had been over the day he had insisted she close down the business and return the loan his parents had given them. Without loyalty there was nothing. Hardening her heart and, avoiding looking at him, she said coldly, “You left me, Peter. I was working all the hours I could to get our business underway, and all you could do was criticise me for not being the perfect wife. I was working for us. You and me. I could never trust you again. You supported your parents instead of me once too often.” She pushed her way into the estate agents’ office and announced loudly. “Mr and Mrs Peter Francis. We have an appointment. We’re putting our house on the market. Aren’t we, Peter?”

  Peter could only nod.

  When she went home she sat in a chair for a long time, getting colder, her thin dress no protection against the chill of the evening, too upset to light a fire. The room grew dark and she couldn’t raise the enthusiasm to turn on the light. She felt the grumblings of hunger but when she did move, she went straight to bed. Today she had ended her marriage. She was a bully and she felt ashamed.

  * * *

  Mrs Collins had never been called by her first name: her husband had called her Collins; the children called her Mam; everyone else called her Mrs Collins. The invitation to call Sam Lilly by his first name had alarmed her. If she did so, she would have to admit to the foolish name her parents had chosen for her. How could she do that?

  Sam had been so kind to her. Generous, too, helping with the work his sister Martha paid her to do and preparing the wonderful surprise garden.

  Before leaving for work that morning, she went out into the yard and admired the sturdy geraniums with their burgeoning buds of pink, red and white, and the more delicate lobelia which were already sending out branches of blue flowers amid the stocky sweet alyssum and forming a frame around the larger flowers to come. Small shrubs in a corner promised green throughout the year and nearby, marigolds and nasturtiums were arranged to fill an old coal bucket and drift over a pile of stones. There were even a few hollyhocks Frank had found a place for against the wall where the concrete had weakened and allowed him to prepare a bed.

  What would happen if Mrs Martha Adams discovered how her brother had been spending his spare time? Sam hadn’t said, but she had guessed that he had not told her about his help with the housework. She pushed aside the small hope that if she were told to leave he would still be a friend. She was a widow with seven children and a stupid name. What was she thinking of, imagining someone like Sam was more than a generous and kindly man willing to help anyone? Why think for a moment that he thought of her other than as a deserving case? ‘A deserving case’, had been most people’s opinion of her, both before her husband had died and since. Nothing was ever likely to change that. Certainly not the kindness of Sam Lilly.

  She dressed the two younger children and delivered them to her daughter. Victoria had agreed to look after them for the morning. Then she caught a bus on the High Street. She was due at Martha Adams and Sam Lilly’s house in half an hour and she wished she was not. Because of her fanciful thoughts of a friendship that would grow and perhaps become something stronger, she was embarrassed when she walked into the house in Chestnut Road to begin her work.

  Martha was dressed to go out and, giving Mrs Collins her instructions for the three hours for which she paid her, she left to meet her friends at the Rose Tree Café. Hoping that Sam was also out, Mrs Collins gathered her dusters and polishes, mops and brushes and started on the bedrooms. Singing coming from the bathroom unnerved her and she coughed and called to let him know she was there.

  “It’s me, Mr Lilly, I’m starting on the bedrooms.”

  “Good morning, and call me Sam,” he said as he came out onto the landing. “Now, what d’you want me to do first?”

  “Really, you shouldn’t. You’ve done so much for me already. Mrs Adams pays me to do it.”

  “I’ll take the rugs into the garden and beat them. Best make the most of the dry day, eh?” Ignoring her protests he tackled the rugs and then came back in time to help her put fresh covers on the bed. With few words necessary, they dealt with everything on the list and went out into the rather chilly garden to drink a cup of tea.

  “I hope we don’t have a frost tonight,” he said, looking up at the clear blue sky. “Pity to see those geraniums of yours damaged.”

  “What can I do? Frank told me to cover them with newspaper.”

  “Worth a try. But don’t worry, they’re tough enough.” They walked around the garden when they had drunk their tea and Sam explained to his interested companion the names and habits of the plants in the flowerbeds.

  “The lady who lived here before you, Mrs Nia Martin, loved her garden,” Mrs Collins told him. “So sad that it killed her, wasn’t it?” She told him a
bout the accident in the garden when Nia been trying to cut down a branch that she considered dangerous. Lewis Lewis, who had shared the house with her at the time, had been promising to deal with it for weeks and one day, perhaps to surprise him, she had tried sawing through the branch herself. It had fallen on her and killed her.

  “I think it must have been worse for the man. He must feel guilty every day of his life,” Sam said softly. “I know I would.”

  “He went back home to his wife eventually and I think she has helped him deal with it.”

  “Nice to have someone who cares, isn’t it?” he said.

  “There are times when it can save you from despair,” she replied, as if from personal knowledge, although there had never been anyone in her life to whom she had been able to turn. As if sensing this, Sam took her arm and walked side by side with her back to the house.

  There was a sensation of contentment between them, as though a corner had been turned as they washed their cups and Sam walked her to the bus stop.

  “If you won’t tell me your name,” he teased, as the bus came into view, “tell me again the names of your children.”

  “My husband was a great royalist so the first three were called Victoria, George and Albert – our Bertie. Then we have Elizabeth and Margaret. Then war began so we added, Winston and Montgomery.” She laughed. “We’re a family for grand names and no mistake.”

  “No Eisenhower?”

  “The cat was called Ike.”

  “And yours?”

  The bus stopped and the conductor called, “Hurry along please.”

  “Seven is enough to be getting on with,” she replied. She was smiling as the bus stopped then started on its slow journey back to her children and the need to cook supper.

  * * *