Family Pride
Page 5
She began to stutter her thanks as the assistant was paid but Shirley shook her head. “I haven’t finished with you yet, young Gilly.” And they went to a hair dresser.
Gilly’s long straight hair was cut and shaped and she came out with a style that transformed her thin face into an oval. Her eyes, always nondescript when she had examined them in a mirror, seemed to have grown large and lustrous, their blueness intensified.
“I daren’t try you with any make-up, not yet, your Mam’ll have a fit as it is,” Shirley laughed when once more they were out in the street.
The pavements were full of shoppers struggling homeward with their baskets. As usual, Shirley pointed out, the men walked with hands in their pockets, or with one hand free to manage the cigarette they puffed and coughed over, while the women uncomplainingly carried the heavy loads. Stalls were fewer than on the weekend, but a few edged the pavements and caused the traffic to swerve around them. The fruit and vegetables they offered were limited in choice, ships no longer bringing a variety from across the sea. But their enthusiasm hadn’t been dulled. Wrapped against the cold September weather they were shouting for last customers, reducing the price of their remaining goods to attract last minute sales.
Gilly and Shirley pushed their way through crowds of people waiting for buses, all anxious to get home as darkness approached and the threat of air-raids increased. But Shirley didn’t guide Gilly to the station. She led her back against the flood of pedestrians filling the pavement to join a queue of people waiting patiently to go into the dark, disinfectant-tainted air of the cinema.
Late that evening, when they alighted at their local station, struggling with their various parcels, they saw Ivor standing watching the people getting on and off the train. They called to him, but he seemed not to hear.
“He likes to stand and watch people,” Gilly explained. “There’s no harm in him mind, although he makes some people feel uneasy. I think it makes him feel less lonely.”
It was ten-thirty and as they opened the shop door and walked through they found Fanny, Gerry and Bessie all standing in a line to greet them.
“Like a lot of ducks at the fairground waiting to be shot at!” Shirley whispered to a delighted Gilly. As they moved and found their seats she saw to her delight, and with sudden shyness, that Paul and his father were also there. Derek smiled with genuine affection at his wife, to Gilly he gave his usual surly nod.
“We’ve come to walk Mam home and hear about your day out,” Paul smiled. There was admiration in his eyes that the poor glow of the gas light couldn’t hide.
“What have you done to the girl’s hair?” Fanny demanded and at once, Gerry said;
“It looks very smart, Gilly. You look quite grown up.” For once Gilly was grateful to him. Bessie gave unstinting approval to the new coat when it was shown. Fanny said nothing more, but her face showed her displeasure at the way her daughter had been taken out of her hands and allowed to grow up in the space of one afternoon. She kept glancing at Gerry, afraid of seeing doubts in his dark eyes. If only he would propose now, before Gilly showed herself as a young woman and no longer a school-girl. Fanny was older than Gerry and seeing Gilly tonight made it more obvious. She felt her confidence slipping lower and lower. She would lose him and all because of her stubborn daughter.
Unaware of the reason for her mother’s displeasure Gilly glowed in the praise from the others. Bessie told her she was a little beauty and Granfer, whom she woke so he could see her in her new finery, said she looked like a film star and added, “Young Paul had better hurry up and take you out before he loses the chance, or gets squashed flat in the rush!”
Blushing, she left Granfer and ran back down the stairs, afraid Paul would leave before she had a chance of another word. At Fanny’s brisk request she went out into the cold back kitchen to make cocoa for them all and Paul followed to help.
She felt trembly and so wide awake as he helped prepare the tray, she thought she would never sleep again. Their hands touched as they both reached for the same spoon and they looked at each other, aware of their newly awakened feelings for each other. Paul put a hand in his pocket and fingered the ribbon he had picked up before he followed her through to take the hot drinks to the others. He wished he dare touch her shining brown hair.
Gilly was so happy she felt sick. Sleep was a long time coming that night. Her imagination went on wild trips during which Paul fell desperately in love with her and asked her to marry him. Paul for her husband and Auntie Shirley for a mother-in-law. Bliss!
Chapter Three
Lucy Lewis passed the canal and headed for the boarding house of Mr and Mrs Slade. She was not relishing the day’s work ahead. Mrs Slade was determined to get value for the three shillings a day she paid Lucy and every week added more to the list of jobs she expected Lucy to complete. Mr Slade was another problem altogether.
The house had six bedrooms which were let to boarders who each shared with two or three or four others, according to the size of the room and whether or not another bed could be fitted. Besides the use of a room, the boarders were given breakfast and an evening meal. It had originally been Lucy’s sole responsibility to keep the rooms clean but gradually she had been given more and more to do and was now expected to cook breakfast and prepare the vegetables and meat for the evening meal. When she had first taken the job she had been expected to arrive at eight-thirty, by which time the rooms were empty, allowing her access with slop-pail, mop and bucket, broom and duster. Now she was there at six-thirty and frequently began her day’s work by washing up the dishes and pots from the previous evening’s meal. Her wage had not increased.
The reason she stayed was because of her mother. Polly Lewis was an invalid and spent most of her time in bed or, when the weather was warm, in a chair near the window where there was at least a pretence of fresh air. Working for the Slades meant Lucy was only a few minutes from home and could pop over to check that her mother was not in need of anything, sometimes several times during the hours she was working. Taking advantage of her own generosity in allowing this and by giving Polly an occasional meal that her lodgers didn’t eat, gave Mrs Slade the excuse to make Lucy’s hours longer and longer for the same money.
There had been an air-raid over Cardiff the previous night and Lucy, with the help of Arthur, a tenant in the same house as theirs, had carried her mother down to the shelter. Arthur was a kindly man aged about fifty-five with the appearance of an ex-boxer, who, some said, had spent most of his youth in prison for theft and burglary. He rented a room above theirs and had befriended the eighteen-year-old girl and her disabled mother, often carrying shopping for them and regularly hauling coal up the long staircase whenever he saw Lucy struggling with the heavy bucket. This morning, as people thankfully roused themselves from sleep and smiled at each other in their relief at having survived yet another night of danger, he had been there to help carry Polly back to her room. Ex-convict or not, Lucy was grateful to him.
The September morning was dark and chilly, but Lucy was almost happy as she walked along the quiet streets where the smell of gun-fire and burning was still on the air. The only people she met were the milkman with his horse and cart and some small boys searching for shrapnel from the night’s raid. The milkman and she exchanged information on where the bombs had dropped and assured each other that the war was as good as won.
Last night’s raid had been brief but the resulting bombs had been very close to her home. To stride along the pavements with only the occasional flash of her torch to guide her was pleasant after the discomfort of the shelter where she had slept on nothing more than a wooden shelf. As she walked, she stretched her neck and back to ease the stiffness.
In an ill-fitting brown coat, worn for the warmth it gave rather than its appearance, she still had an air of elegance about her. Tall and slim but, unlike Gilly, with a figure already blossoming into womanhood, she stepped out with confidence on long, slender legs and gave the impression of a self-assured
young woman who knew where she was going in life.
Her feet made no sound on the pavements as her shoes were summer-weight sandals, giving not even the pretence of warmth. Her best, and only, leather shoes were treated with great care and kept for other, more important outings. She wore woollen gloves her mother had made for her and dreamed of kid leather. She wore lisle stocking and dreamed of silk.
Her short fair hair was covered with an ugly felt hat and her head shielded from the cold air with the large turned-up collar of the shabby coat. But the face within the poor frame was bright and eager and full of enthusiasm for the life she knew she would one day live.
One day soon she would be able to say goodbye to the Slades and their greedy blood-sucking treatment of her. She had no idea how this magical change would come about, but was absolutely certain that it would. Approaching number six Field Street, her light-heartedness left her, washed away by the chill of arrival at the hated place.
The house was in darkness. She opened the front door with her key and stepped inside. Making her way down the passageway, guiding herself by touching the walls with her hands, she groped her way into the kitchen. There, after checking that the blackout curtain was in place, she struck a match and lit the overhead gas light. Its brightness and the friendly hiss cheered her a little but her dreaming was over for a few hours. This was the reality. To her dismay the sink was full of yesterday’s dishes. What had begun as an occasional favour was obviously now a confirmed addition to her daily duties.
She turned the radio on low for company, filled the kettle, put the porridge to simmer on the gas stove, then tackled the dishes. She tried to wash and stack the plates without making a noise, wanting as much of the morning to pass without the Slades watching her as was possible. As she put the last cup in its place on the tray, she heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs.
“Please,” she murmured, her fingers tightly crossed. “Please don’t let it be him.”
“Glad to see you’ve made a bit of a start, Lucy,” Mrs Slade called as she bustled into the kitchen. “Got the kettle boiling for a cup of tea, have you? There’s a good girl. Make it while I check the tables are laid properly.”
“Good morning, Mrs Slade. The milkman’s late. Shall I put some condensed milk in the porridge again?”
“Just a little, we mustn’t spoil them now must we?” Mrs Slade was a sharp-faced woman whose dark eyes seemed to be constantly on the move, looking suspiciously around her, hoping for the opportunity to pounce. This morning she found one.
“Do your top button up at once, Lucy. I don’t want my boardings thinking this is a bawdy house!”
“This is as high as it goes!” Lucy protested, touching the neck of her blue dress. “The buttons are only for show.”
“Then a scarf, girl. Put a scarf on.”
“I don’t have—”
“I’ll lend you one of mine.”
So for the rest of the morning Lucy wore a red woollen scarf around her neck and was constantly asked if she had a sore throat.
Thankfully Mr Slade didn’t appear until almost ten o’clock by which time Lucy and Mrs Slade had cleared the breakfast things and seen the lodgers off on their various activities. To her dismay he went back upstairs as her work in the kitchen was finishing. Now she looked for things to do to keep her downstairs. If he was up there then she wanted to be down here.
When there was no further excuse for staying in the kitchen, she said, “All right if I go for a quick look at Mam? I helped her up from the shelter and made her a cup of tea and a bit of toast but I’d like to check she doesn’t need anything.” Perhaps by the time she returned he would be down and ready to set off with his wife to carry the shopping.
“Off you go if you must, but don’t be long. I don’t want everything to be sold out when I get to the market.”
Lucy called up the stairs when she reached home and her mother answered her.
“You’re early,” Polly smiled. “Feeling generous is she, the old scretch?”
“This will be instead of the eleven o’clock visit, Mam, she’s never that generous. Left me all the dishes again this morning.”
“It’s all right, love, Arthur will be in later to bring me a cup of tea. So kind he is, that one.”
In the ten minutes which was all she was allowed Lucy made fresh tea, banked up the fire and made her mother comfortable.
Then she found a scarf of her own, a long grey one that went well with her blue dress, and fastened it round and round her neck fixing it at her throat with a pale blue crotcheted butterfly her mother had made and stitched to a safety pin.
“This is pretty, Mam. It might be worth you making a few more. They should sell well for the party season. War or no war, there’ll be plenty of Christmas parties and dances for sure.”
“I’ll make some this morning, shall I? When I’ve finished these gloves?” Polly looked at her daughter thoughtfully and with a little sadness. “When are you going to find time to go to parties, Lucy? Work and drudge, it doesn’t seem fair.”
“Now now, none of that, Mam. We’re luckier than most. At least we’re earning and can pay the rent and buy food. And put a little by.”
“You’re right, we mustn’t grumble.” She touched Lucy’s arm and looked up at her smiling. “I just wish there was a better way for you to earn it, that’s all.”
“One day. I don’t intend to work for the likes of the Slades for ever, Mam, and that’s for sure.”
She looked at the work held in her mother’s hands and smiled her admiration. A lacy glove was almost finished, the frill around the cuff delicate and perfectly done. The partner to it was on her mother’s lap where she could check the length as she worked. Beside her a box containing twenty or more were fastened together in pairs and neatly labelled.
“These are beautiful, Mam. Much better than the ones I make. My hands are so rough and I don’t seem to make the even stitches that you manage.”
“You sell them, dear, that’s something I could never do.”
Several times each month Lucy collected all the work she and her mother had completed and took it to some of the Cardiff shops. She usually managed to sell it all but the price was a poor return for the hours her mother sat patiently crotcheting and knitting. She watched her mother’s nimble fingers for a moment then, with a sigh, reached for her coat to go back to her cleaning.
To her dismay, when she returned to number six, Mr Slade smilingly opened the door to her before her key slid into the lock.
“Mrs Slade has gone to the market, couldn’t wait. She said for you to start upstairs so you can see to the vegetables the minute she gets back.” His mouth hung slightly and wetly open. Lucy shudddered inwardly.
“There are a few things to do in the kitchen first,” she began but he shook his head.
“Mrs Slade was insistent.”
Lucy sighed. She knew that if she went up the staircase he would follow and once there in the silent house would try and kiss her. She picked up the brushes and the box of dusters and polishes and began to climb the stairs. Anger filled her. It wasn’t fair that she was so afraid of losing her job that she had to face this situation. If only there was some way out of it.
Planning her work so she didn’t give him a chance to come close, she decided to keep hold of the box of dusters and polishes and use it as a shield between “Slimy” Slade and herself. The work wouldn’t be done properly but she could make up for the lack tomorrow. This time she would not allow his filthy cheek any where near her own.
The bathroom was first. It was there that the boarders, in strict rotation washed themselves. Along one wall were hooks on which hung towels and welsh flannel face-cloths. The solitary wash-basin and the bath – which they weren’t allowed to use except by special permission – were grimed by tidemarks and patterned red by the bar of carbolic soap. Standing at the side of the wash-basin and turning to face the door, she tipped out some scouring powder and began rubbing it clean.
Encumbered rather than armed with the duster box, she was helpless to move for what seemed an age. Then, as his hand slid up her thigh and grasped her buttocks, she found unknown strength. The box was jammed between them and she couldn’t move it. But her foot came forward and stamped high on his foot on which he wore only soft carpet slippers. Oh, for high heels, she thought viciously. With his hands creeping around inside her underwear she took advantage of the slight backward movement the pain in his foot caused and pushed him from her. Panting, red with fury, she went into the attack. The box was heavy but with one hand she lifted it, swung it around him and clouted him on the back of the head. It was too heavy for her to gain much momentum but she was immensely gratified at the look of pain and surprise that closed his eyes and made his loose jaw drop even lower.
The cleaning-cloth, wet and dripping with soap and scouring powder was still in her hand, gripped tight, like a straw in the hand of a drowning man. With it she scrubbed his face and soaked his hair.
He staggered back and squealed, staring at her in amazement. Lucy up-ended the cannister of scouring powder and actually smiled as it rained white powder all over his head and shoulders and down his pullover. Then she stopped and the realisation of what she had done overwhelmed her. The moment of regret was brief and she tapped him on the head with the now empty cannister of powder, liked the sound of it and tapped him again before throwing it down and running back to the kitchen.
Mrs Slade came through one door as she came through another.
They stared at each other, Lucy with a silly grin on her face, her eyes wide and staring, Mrs Slade frowning and pursing her lips, wondering if the girl was having a break-down.