Facing the World

by Grace Thompson

  Eric handed her the empty cup. ‘I’ll come and help when you’re ready.’

  She thanked him again and went inside to get rid of the extra clothes she had worn and set off for the first of her day’s calls.

  It was four o’clock when she finished her final task, giving an extra polish to a spare room for a client who was preparing for her son’s return. Soon Rhys too would be coming home, she thought with a smile. Then her life would be transformed.

  The bright sun had lengthened the day and she bought a bun at the baker’s shop for Sadie and one for the ducks and set off for a walk around the park. Their days were spent going from house to house, the evenings passed in their small room and the opportunity to walk in the fresh air was too good to miss. When she reached home she went first to glance nervously towards the outside lavatory. If she saw just one spider she’d never be able to go in there and shut the door to paint the walls. The door was marked with a ‘Wet Paint’ notice and stood open. Puzzled, she began to walk past, averting her gaze, but she went back and peered in. Everything was clean and the walls had been painted in the bright yellow paint. ‘Eric!’ she said aloud.

  ‘Eric had some help, mind,’ Mrs Falconer said, laughing at her amazed expression. ‘Mr Falconer painted the door. Shamed we were by the smart look inside so we had to do something about the outside too.’

  Sally felt ridiculously happy. How empty my life must be, she chuckled to herself. A coat of paint on an outside lavatory and I feel like I’ve been given a wonderful present.

  The remains of the factory walls were piled in assorted heaps around the perimeter of the plot and already men in suits carrying the inevitable clipboards were walking around checking that the footings were in the correct place. The sounds of the excavating and the rumble of heavy lorries filled the dusty air and every day a group of elderly men stood watching the progress. Soon the houses would begin to grow and memories of the factory and the hopes of many would fade and die.

  Valmai Martin struggled to get her bicycle out of her over-full garden shed, muttering to herself about having to do a ‘proper sort-out’ one of these days. She couldn’t resist picking up oddments she found and although the shed was full to bursting, and in no apparent order, she knew what it contained and where to find it. Local people often called to beg a piece of wood or a certain sized screw or nail and rarely went away disappointed.

  She called back to Gwilym, who sat in his wheelchair, a blanket covering his legs, hiding the sound one and the one partially lost in the accident. He smiled, ready to wave as she set off along the road on her way to work. ‘Back around two as usual, love.’

  ‘I’ll have everything ready,’ he promised, blowing a kiss.

  March 1960, she mused, as she began to push her way along the road, and still he won’t leave the house. She had tried to coax him to face up to his situation every way she could but despite having a decent wheelchair he refused to go further than the garden and only that far when he was fairly certain not to be seen. At least Eric – injured at the same time – had made the effort and was not restricted by stupid pride. Being a sportsman had exacerbated Gwilym’s problems: going from a runner, cricketer and rugby coach to living his life in a wheelchair had been too much for him. But if only he’d try.

  The morning was dull, the sun refusing to make its way through the low cloud, but the air was warm and there were flowers to admire in the gardens she passed. At the house where the Waterstones had lived she saw workmen moving tools from their van, obviously about to start work on the house for its new owners. She wondered vaguely who would be moving in. Someone from town she’d heard. A couple without children. She smiled, hoping they would be friendly and would settle into Mill Road without trouble.

  They couldn’t cause more distress than the Waterstones had with their cruel gossip. The Waterstones and their friend Milly Sewell were the reason her son Rhys had been suspected of robberies and the cause of him running away. A twenty-year-old boy forced to run from home by their vicious tongues. She decided to call on the newcomers at the first opportunity and introduce herself. Start right and perhaps they’d be friends.

  Mill Road was a pleasant place, on the edge of town but some distance from the mill that had given it its name. She looked up and there, in the distance, high on a hill, was the ruin of a windmill. Beyond the wood, out of sight in the valley below, hidden by overgrown trees and shrubs, was a watermill. Rhys used to play there as a boy, even though he had been warned of its dangers. Once the town had been surrounded by cornfields and the millers had been kept busy. Now only houses grew and factories had taken the place of the ancient craft.

  The hotel where she worked came into view and although it was daylight, the place was brightly lit, coloured light offering a welcome. She freewheeled the last few yards and around the building, stopping by dragging both feet on the ground. She parked the bicycle against the wall of the kitchen. ‘Mornin’ all,’ she called as she opened the door. Then she reached for her overall, scrubbed her hands and began to cook breakfast.

  Helping with the dishes after the guests had finished eating and cleaning the cooker kept her busy for a while, then after a break she began on the vegetables. She had some time left so she emptied and washed out a couple of cupboards for which she was rewarded with an extra couple of shillings.

  Lunch was a simple meal for a few of the guests and she didn’t need to stay and serve. It was twelve o’clock when she left and on the way home she was further delayed by the sight of a skip outside the empty house, still called the Waterstones’ place, even though the Waterstones had moved away some time ago. Skidding to a stop – she’d really have to get the brakes fixed – she peered over the side hoping to see a few things for which she could find a use.

  Books. They’ll interest Gwilym, she thought, tugging to release them. She spotted a slightly rusty watering can which she hauled out. Lovely that would be, planted with a few marigolds, or with nasturtiums tumbling down the sides. She stuffed the books in her saddle bag and hooked the watering can over the handlebars but as she set off she stopped and gripped the rusty side of the skip, her feet still on the pedals and able to see more easily, unable to resist a second look. Beneath a few broken bricks she saw the leg of a chair and, grunting and puffing with the effort, she pulled it out and saw it was in good condition, but how on earth was she going to get it home? Constable Harvey had warned her several times about precarious loads.

  ‘Hello, Valmai, want any help?’

  ‘Eric! Am I glad to see you! Hide this for me, will you, till I can come with the wheelbarrow to collect it?’

  The clean but poorly dressed man lifted the chair experimentally, judging its weight. ‘I can do better than that. I’ll deliver it for a piece of your seedy cake.’

  ‘Thanks, Eric. Stay and have a chat with Gwilym, will you? Glad of a bit of company, he is.’

  ‘Of course, but sometimes he seems less pleased to see me. Too much time on his own hasn’t been good for him, has it? No sign of him going out yet?’

  ‘I’ve tried everything.’

  ‘Try again. He’s been hiding away for too long.’

  With Gwilym helping by sitting in his wheelchair and using the long-handled hoe, the afternoon was spent clearing weeds from an area where they planned to grow onions and carrots and some greens, but Valmai’s mind wasn’t on her work.

  ‘Gwilym, love, why don’t we go for a walk? Just down the road to the corner. The spring flowers in the end garden are beginning to make a real show. We can wait till dark if you like – we’ll still see them by the lamplight.’

  ‘Not today, Val. Not today.’

  ‘Gwilym, love. It’s years since you and Eric had the accident. Years since you and I went out together. Don’t you think it’s time we did?’

  ‘Soon, but not yet. Now what about me making us a cup of tea? It’s getting chilly out here. Any of that seedy cake left?’

  ‘Yes, but Eric will be coming with the chair soon and I
promised him a slice.’

  ‘I hope he won’t stay long. I want to look at those books you found.’

  ‘I hope you’ll find time to look at the brakes on my bike too. They aren’t working and I’m wearing out shoes like a ten-year-old football fan!’

  ‘You should have told me sooner. You mustn’t neglect things like that. We can get the bike propped up on the bench and replace the blocks as soon as you buy some – unless you have some in that shed of yours.’

  ‘Here’s Eric now. Wait here and show him our plans for spring planting.’ As she knew he would, he hurriedly dropped the hoe and pushed himself back into the house. He couldn’t bear to be seen struggling to do something, with a blanket where his right leg should be.

  Leaving Gwilym and Eric with the remains of the cake, she risked the bike again and, once out of sight of the house, she bent over the handlebars and picked up speed, turning into School Lane. Sally would be at home and she could spend a little time with her, play with little Sadie, as well as give her the ten shillings she managed to give her each week.

  Eric went into the house where Gwilym sat with his knees tucked under the table. ‘Put the kettle on, shall I?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘I brought the chair and a rusty old watering can for your Valmai and she promised me some cake.’ They chatted easily as Eric set about the tea-making but it wasn’t until he was seated on the armchair that he asked, ‘Any news from your Rhys this week?’

  ‘No. Nor last week.’

  ‘Out of the army then, is he?’

  ‘Months ago, I suppose. I can’t understand it. What could have happened to make him cut himself from us like that? We pretend he’s working at a theatre but we don’t know what he’s doing or where he is. Apart from an occasional postcard we know nothing about him. How can that happen? A son you’ve cared for, for twenty years. How can he suddenly walk away and vanish?’

  ‘He was terrible hurt, mind. All that gossip and so many accusing him of burglary, violence and heaven knows what else.’

  ‘Milly Sewell and the Waterstones, you mean. They were the cause of him leaving. And he didn’t do it. None of it.’

  ‘I know that and most people around here know that too. But it only takes one or two to spread rumours. He should have stayed and brazened it out. Damn it all, he was only a boy. Don’t give up hope.’

  ‘I’d be letting him down – and Valmai too – if I did.’

  They talked about the people they had known when they had worked at the furniture factory. Some had stayed and found other work, some had moved away and news filtered back of their successes and failures.

  ‘Pity it closed,’ Eric said. ‘If I’d been five years younger I’d have started again.’

  ‘Not with half a leg missing you wouldn’t!’ Gwilym said bitterly.

  ‘Ex-servicemen had to adjust to far worse,’ Eric reminded him quietly. ‘Besides, it’s eyes and hands that make a good carpenter – as you were. It’s such a waste of your talent, Gwilym. You were good, and even now after being out of work for so long you’d find it easy to get work if you wanted it.’ He stared at his friend. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Gwilym didn’t reply. How could he when he didn’t know himself? There would be a day when things would change but he couldn’t imagine how. There was this incomplete dream in his head of suddenly walking alongside Valmai, going to the station to greet his son returning from his self-imposed exile, but how could that ever be? The first half of the dream was a blur and he had no idea how he expected it to happen. His dream consisted only of the happy ending.

  He knew the change had to begin with himself but something was twisted up inside and he was waiting for something wonderful to happen. His leg wouldn’t miraculously return and he couldn’t imagine learning to walk on a false one, so a change, a wonderful event, would never happen and the sooner Valmai gave up hope, as he had, the better.

  Valmai sped up the slight incline towards the Falconers’ house where, in the fading lights, Sally was hanging clothes on the line.

  ‘Mrs Martin! Lovely to see you.’ Dropping her voice she asked, ‘You haven’t heard anything from Rhys, have you?’

  ‘No, dear, not a word. Come on, I’ll give a hand with these, you put the kettle on. There are some cakes in my saddle bag.’ She held up a baby dress. ‘Tiddly little clothes they are.’

  ‘Not so small now. She’ll be two next month.’

  ‘Two precious years of her childhood Rhys has missed. I wish he’d come home.’

  ‘Have you heard who’s moving into the Waterstones’ house?’ Sally asked, pretending not to have heard the comment.

  ‘Only that it’s a couple. Amy and Rick.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘They aren’t married yet according to her in the post office. Wedding planned for the autumn, so I’m told. Workmen are there and it looks as though they’re having a lot done before they move in.’

  ‘Good on ’em. Lucky for some.’

  Before she left, after reading a story to Sadie, Valmai slipped a ten-shilling note under the sugar basin. ‘A little treat for Sadie, eh? Now, I’m off but I’ll try to come again soon.’

  ‘Did you see anyone interesting while you were out, love?’ Gwilym asked when Valmai handed him the brake blocks she had found in the shed.

  ‘Not really, I just went into work to check on what time I’m wanted tomorrow.’

  Gwilym smiled. He knew she had visited Sally and slipped her a few shillings as she did every week. Although Sally had denied it, the baby was Rhys’s and one day he’ll come home and they’d be one happy family. If only the police could find out who had really committed those burglaries. Then Rhys would come back.

  It was a month before the new owners, Amy Seaton-Jones and Rick Perry, appeared at the Waterstones’ old place and at once they began to annoy the neighbours. While alterations were being done and Rick had started on the garden, Amy complained about the trees overhanging their fence and about neighbours who didn’t brush the pavement outside their houses and the milkman who made too much noise and the postman who sang. So it was with some trepidation that Valmai stopped outside and alighted from her bicycle when she went to deliver an embroidered cushion she had made as a welcoming gift for the new neighbours.

  ‘You can’t leave that there!’ a voice called, as Valmai propped her bike against the garden wall. She looked around and saw a woman standing in the doorway shaking a yellow duster. She was small, barely five feet tall, and she wore a scarf around her head and an all-concealing apron, both in bright pink.

  Valmai quickly decided to pretend not to have heard. ‘Mornin’. Welcome to Mill Road,’ she said with her brightest smile. ‘Pleasant people around here. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.’ There was no reply; she had obviously confused the woman. ‘I’m Valmai Martin. Gwilym and I live at 42. Come and say hello when you have time.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re the mother of that criminal who ran away from the police.’

  Outrage flared but Valmai once again decided to avoid trouble. After all, the woman would be easily avoided. Adjusting the bike to confirm her intention to leave, she waved. ‘No cushion for you,’ she muttered as she stuffed it back into her capacious shopping bag and hung it on the handlebars. ‘There’s plenty who’ll be glad of it.’

  ‘I’ll kill her!’ she shouted to Gwilym as she practically threw the bicycle down and burst into the house. ‘The Waterstones obviously passed on all the gossip, true or otherwise. As if they hadn’t caused enough damage while they lived here, they’re causing more!’

  Gwilym comforted her, soothed away her anger and wiped away her tears. ‘If they start by quarrelling with everyone, there won’t be anyone to listen.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he come home? They’ll never catch the man who did those burglaries now, and by running away like he did he looked guilty. I doubt whether the police even looked for anyone else. Why doesn’t he come home and face it?’

  ‘He’s still hop
ing the real culprit will be caught.’

  ‘After more than two years? And without any repeat?’ She picked up her embroidery on its frame. Working on pictures soothed her.

  The spate of burglaries had taken place late in 1958. There had been very little crime in the area and doors were left open, people went into neighbours’ houses sharing news, swapping recipes, helping with sewing, and there were plenty of opportunities for someone to go in and out and decide on places to rob.

  The offences all took place within a couple of weeks, although some items weren’t missed until much later. Rhys was one of the suspects. He was a very outspoken young man and some of his clever remarks were taken literally. No charges were brought but when he saw two policemen coming from his house the morning after the most recent thefts had been discovered, he ran.

  Valmai and Eric had searched for him, exploring the fields and the old watermill where Rhys had played as a youngster but there was no sign of the place being recently used. Rhys had been turned down for National Service owing to less than perfect sight but Valmai and Gwilym spread the rumour that he was in the army and had been posted abroad. Then later, when he still hadn’t returned, they told everyone that he was working at a theatre, which was the story they still told.

  For a while people believed them. A few weeks after his disappearance, Sally admitted she was pregnant but denied that Rhys-the-criminal was the father and although questioned by the police, she insisted she had no knowledge of him or his whereabouts. Valmai had guessed that the suspicions were true but she said nothing. Gwilym also knew the truth but to protect Sally and his son, he feigned ignorance too. As he pretended now not to notice the doll Valmai had bought and spent hours dressing, for Sadie’s second birthday.