Remembering brought pain as well as pleasure, and, not for the first time since she had died, he wished himself under the same stone slab in Trealaw cemetery. If there was an afterlife he’d be with her, and if there wasn’t, at least what little remained of him would be beside her. But there was Julia and Gerald and, quite apart from his reluctance to leave Gerald, who was underage, to Mabel’s mercies, he was too much of coward to kill himself, because he hadn’t entirely given up hope that somewhere in the world he would find another woman a little like Amelia who would make life tolerable and, who knew, maybe even almost happy again.
‘Who is it?’ Julia sat up quickly, hitting her head on the window sash of the train.
‘Geraint.’
‘Just a minute.’ She reached for the burgundy velvet robe she had bought along with her lavishly embroidered silk nightdress. Tying the belt of the robe loosely around her waist, she splashed on a dab of essence of violets before opening the door.
‘I wanted to make sure that you are all right, have everything you need and to thank you for the toothbrush and powder.’
‘I am fine, thank you.’ She leaned towards him, willing him to kiss her, or ask if he could spend the night with her. But he stepped back into the corridor.
‘Don’t forget to lock your door. You can never be sure who is on a train.’
‘I will.’ She closed the door, pushed the bolt across and leaned against it. Geraint didn’t love her, but he had to care for her. Why else would he have knocked at her door and checked that she was all right?
Besides, he was only following the guidelines she had set down for their relationship. Financial and personal independence for both of them, separate lives lived discreetly under the same roof. It was what she wanted. She would never have told him otherwise if she didn’t. Would she?
Edward rose early and left the office as the shopkeepers in Dunraven Street were opening their shutters and carrying their wares out on to the pavements. He tipped his hat to the manager of Oliver’s Shoes, and Mr Davies the ironmonger, but he didn’t stop to talk. The milk train from Cardiff reached Tonypandy station at five o’clock. He hadn’t seen anyone around who could challenge the story that he had concocted for Llan House. He had arrived in town on it, and gone straight to his office to do a couple of hours’ work before going home for breakfast.
Mrs Williams opened the door before he’d mounted the short flight of steps and one look at the expression on her face told him that something was very wrong.
‘Miss Julia?’ he asked, truly indifferent to his wife.
‘She didn’t come home last night, sir. Mrs Larch asked me to check her room at ten o’clock in case she’d come in and gone straight upstairs. There was a letter on her pillow addressed to you.’ She didn’t tell him about the second letter addressed to Rhian, which she had passed on and the maid had shown her. It was short but shattering to someone who didn’t even know that Julia had been seeing a man.
Dear Rhian,
I promised I’d tell you his name as soon as I knew what was happening between us. If you read this I will be eloping with Mr Geraint Watkin Jones, your friend’s brother. Pray for me and wish me well,
Love, as always,
Julia
‘We telephoned your club.’ Mrs Williams lowered her voice discreetly when Bronwen crossed the hall behind her. ‘They said you weren’t there, sir.’
‘I had to go out for a couple of hours to see a client. He – the client – was busy. He could only see me late at night.’ Edward realized that in elaborating he had only succeeded in making the lie more obvious.
‘When we couldn’t find you, sir, Mrs Larch opened the letter.’
‘A private letter addressed to me by my own daughter!’
‘It was either that or call the police to search for Miss Julia, sir.’
‘Edward, you’ve deigned to come home.’ Mabel left the dining room.
Mrs Williams glanced from her master to the mistress.
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, ma’am, I have things to attend to in the kitchen.’
‘You are excused, Mrs Williams.’ Edward took off his hat.
‘If you are in the slightest bit concerned as to what’s happened to your precious daughter, you’d better read this.’ Mabel pulled an envelope from her pocket and thrust it at him.
Edward took it from her. He glanced at the handwriting. There was no doubt; it was Julia’s.
Dear Father,
Thank you for talking to me today but I made the decision to marry Geraint Watkin Jones months ago. If you are reading this, it means that I have eloped with him tonight. Please do not try to find us. Only marriage can restore my reputation now.
Love, as always,
Julia
Do not blame yourself. If there is fault or guilt, it is entirely mine.
Chapter Eleven
‘Have you heard about Mr Watkin Jones?’ Rosie Dyer from women’s corsetry whispered to Tonia when they left the shop floor and walked upstairs to the canteen for their lunch break.
‘No, is he ill?’ Tonia had missed him that morning, because he usually commandeered her on Wednesdays to assist him in ‘special duties’, which invariably resulted in what he referred to as ‘alone time’ for them in the stockroom. She had even splashed out a week’s wages on new French silk underwear for the occasion.
‘No,’ Rosie giggled. ‘Miss Prendergast overheard Mrs Evans talking to Mr Horton in the office this morning. Mr Watkin Jones has left the store.’
‘He has another job? Did they say where?’ Tonia asked excitedly. Geraint had talked about finding another, better-paid position that would enable them to elope in style before returning to live in the newly repaired annex of Ynysangharad House.
‘Not another job, he’s gone and eloped with Miss Larch. Mrs Evans told Mr Horton that he wouldn’t be coming back – ever – and to turn his staff account into a customer account.’ Taking Tonia’s silence as bewilderment, Rosie continued, ‘You must know Miss Larch, Miss Julia Larch. She’s that ugly, fat – well, not exactly fat, but square – customer. Apparently she has pots and pots of money. A man like Mr Watkin Jones would never marry an ugly woman like her if she weren’t rich, but I still wonder if she has enough to keep him on the straight and narrow.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tonia whispered faintly, too shocked to fully comprehend what Rosie was saying.
‘Come on, you must have heard what he’s like. He’s had the knickers down of three assistants from ladies’ fashions that I know of.’
‘Who?’ Tonia asked faintly.
‘You know that blonde girl who works on shoes, and Barbara from gloves and Judith from skirts.’
‘Are you sure?’
Rosie spat on the tip of her finger and waved it over her chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. I saw him with Judith myself and the liftboy told me about the other two. Well, not me exactly, but he told his sister and she told me. They live next door to my Auntie Bess –’
‘Eloped,’ Tonia repeated feebly, as the enormity of what Geraint had done sank in. If he really had run off with Julia Larch, he would never marry her.
‘To Scotland, that’s what Mrs Evans said,’ Rosie babbled. ‘They took the sleeper train from Cardiff last night. I think it’s incredibly romantic. Do you think he sneaked from his carriage into hers in the night? Mind you, as Annie Harris said, he’ll have to wrap a blindfold round his eyes and think of a bucketful of sovereigns to get into bed with that one. What a sight to wake up to every morning. Talk about beauty and the beast …’
Tonia didn’t hear any more. She gripped the rail for support, as stairs, girls and ceiling whirled in a montage of black-and-white uniforms, black-and-white floor tiles and black iron banisters. Geraint was married! After he had promised to marry her. She’d be a laughing stock.
Joey would point a finger and tell the world that she’d allowed Geraint Watkin Jones to – what had Rosie said? ‘pull her knickers down in the stockroom’. It sounded
so sordid and crude. And it wasn’t what had happened at all. Geraint had made love to her gently and tenderly; he’d made her feel as though she was the only girl in the world for him. He had been as much in love with her as she him – she was sure of it. And now! He had left her for an ugly woman like Julia Larch just because she had more money than her.
She thought of what she’d allowed him to do to her and began to panic. He’d promised her that she wouldn’t have a baby. He’d used something he called a French letter, but what if it hadn’t worked and she did have a baby? And even if she didn’t, she was still ruined. No man wanted damaged, second-hand goods for a wife.
Joey knew what she’d done, he’d promised not to tell. But supposing he broke his word? And if he didn’t, the next man she went out with would find out eventually. Even if she made him wait until their wedding night to make love, he still could leave her, perhaps divorce her …
‘Tonia, you all right? You’ve gone terribly pale.’ Rosie took her arm and steered her to the nearest free table in the canteen.
Tonia almost fell into a chair.
‘Is it that time of the month?’ Rosie asked sympathetically.
‘Yes.’ She grasped at the straw Rosie offered.
‘You sit there and I’ll get your food.’ Rosie looked at the board, although she didn’t need to. The subsidized meals the management in Gwilym James arranged for the staff never varied from one week to the next in a season and Wednesdays in summer meant cold ham, potato and lettuce salads, followed by gooseberry flan and custard.
Tonia stared at the girls lining up at the counter with their trays and tried to think. Would Geraint and Julia Larch set up home in Pontypridd or Tonypandy? He had said that he wanted his account turned into a customer account. That meant he intended to visit the store. Of course he did, no one who was anyone in the valleys would shop anywhere else in Pontypridd. And how could she serve him and Julia and call him ‘sir’ and her ‘madam’ after what he’d done to her.
And if she was having a baby! She’d had one scare already. He’d promised to take care of her if she did fall pregnant but how could he if he was married to Julia Larch? And Joey – he was getting married a fortnight Saturday to that awful goody two shoes Rhian. Everyone was getting married except her! She’d be left on the shelf, a spinster – no, worse, a bad woman like the horrible girls who lined up behind the Empire Theatre after the shows.
She sank her head into her arms.
‘Tonia, are you ill?’
Her supervisor was standing over her.
‘I don’t feel well, Miss Adams,’ she croaked.
‘I can see that. I think you should go home in case you are sickening for something contagious. The last thing we need is a bout of summer influenza in the store.’ She looked around. ‘I’ll get one of the other girls to accompany you.’
‘There’s no need, Miss Adams. I can make my own way.’
‘I’ll at least get a cab to take you to the station.’
‘That is very kind of you.’
‘I’ll ask Mr Horton for some money from petty cash so you can take a cab from Tonypandy station to your mother’s shop. It isn’t far, is it?’ she enquired cautiously.
‘No, not far at all, Miss Adams.’
Joey would be working in the Tonypandy store. She would call in and see him. And perhaps even find a way out of her predicament that wouldn’t make her a laughing stock after all.
Mrs Williams checked the dining-room chairs and floor for crumbs while Bronwen and Rhian cleared the dishes from Mrs Larch’s lunch table. When they’d finished, she replaced the Irish linen cloth with a ‘show’ crocheted lace cloth that matched the curtains, set in the centre a silver rose bowl, which Mrs Larch had spent all morning filling with buds, and closed the door.
‘Leave the dining-room door, Mrs Williams, I’ll inspect it before I go upstairs.’ Mrs Larch crossed the hall from the library. ‘You’ve prepared the trolleys for afternoon tea?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Nine kinds of sandwiches and six kinds of cake?’
Mrs Williams gritted her teeth; the first Mrs Larch had never thought it necessary to inspect the rooms after she had seen to them or enquire after menus once she’d ordered them. ‘Cook has followed your instructions, ma’am.’
‘Caviar, salmon mayonnaise, lobster, pate de foie gras, cream cheese and cucumber savoury sandwiches, strawberry and banana, chocolate and Neapolitan sweet,’ Mabel reminded her, although she written out the menu for the housekeeper two days previously. ‘And make sure the sweet sandwiches are made with Madeira, not sponge cake like last time.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Mrs Williams took care to remain outwardly impassive and deferential, which wasn’t easy. She had seen the sweet sandwiches Cook had made – with sponge cake.
‘Lemon cheese cakes, Madeleines, iced honey cakes, macaroons, queen cakes, cherry cakes plus a selection of buttered fruit breads and plain and cheese scones, all homemade. I want nothing served this afternoon that has come from a baker’s shop. And I can tell the difference, as can all the ladies on the committee,’ she warned.
‘Nothing will be served from the baker’s, ma’am,’ Mrs Williams reassured.
‘Everything is under control, isn’t it?’ Mabel enquired suspiciously. ‘I don’t want any repeat of the mistakes Bronwen made at the last committee tea. No sloppy service or damp sugar in the bowls. Every detail must be absolutely perfect, Mrs Williams. In fact, on reflection, it would be best if Rhian and yourself served the ladies, and Bronwen cleared away the dirty dishes.’
‘I will take care of it, ma’am.’
‘See that you do. The girls cannot be trusted to work unsupervised.’ Mabel entered the dining room. She ran her finger above the doorframe and checked the mantelpiece ornaments for dust before walking slowly around the table. The housekeeper braced herself for criticism but although Mabel pursed her lips she made no comment. She left the door open and returned to the hall.
‘I am going upstairs to rest before the ladies arrive. You will call me with a cup of tea at a quarter to three. Not one minute after.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Mrs Williams glanced at the clock. It was just after one. She headed for the back staircase and the kitchen. Cook’s voice wafted up to greet her, high-pitched and fractious.
‘That new mistress has a heart of stone,’ Cook said to no one in particular when Mrs Williams walked in on her and the maids. ‘I don’t know how she can contemplate holding her precious committee tea with Miss Julia missing, the Lord only knows where with that awful man, and the master gone searching for them. As if we haven’t enough upset in the house without her entertaining her ladies, today of all days.’
‘There’s going to be even more upset if we don’t carry out her orders to the letter.’ Mrs Williams thrust the tablecloth she was holding at Mair. ‘Shake that out of the back door and fold it properly, there’s a good girl.’ She turned to Cook. ‘The mistress has run through the menu with me and insisted the sweet sandwiches be made with Madeira cake.’
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. The last mistress, God rest her soul’ – Cook, who was of Irish extraction and a practising Catholic, crossed herself – ‘always wanted them made with plain brown bread and butter and very good they were too. Then this one comes along and it has to be stale sponge cake. So, I have to bake perfectly good sponge cakes only to let them go hard. And now Madeira … I’m telling you, Mrs Williams, more waste has gone on in this house since that one married the master, than in any other in the Rhondda. And that includes Mrs Hodges and Mrs Hadley’s. Well,’ Cook crossed her arms across her white-aproned bosom, ‘I’m not making any Madeira cake now, no matter what she says.’
‘You haven’t time.’ Mrs Williams looked to Rhian, who was eating her midday dinner of faggots and peas. The mistress had lunched on hors d’oeuvres of the same salmon mayonnaise that had been used to make the savoury sandwiches, cold roast chicken, salad and fresh cherry compote. In the late Mrs L
arch’s time, the servants had eaten more or less the same meals as the family with the exception of the fancier trimmings. Now there were two entirely different menus and the mistress had cut the one served to the staff to the cheapest, barest minimum.
‘There’s nothing for it, Rhian. As soon as you’ve finished eating you’ll have to go into town to buy a couple of Madeira cakes from Rodney’s. But mind you’re not seen carrying them by any of Mrs Larch’s “ladies”. Tell whoever serves you to wrap them up well and take a teacloth to put over the basket.’ Mrs Williams took the folded tablecloth from Mair.
‘And be quick about it,’ Cook warned. ‘I need them by half past two at the latest if we’re going to get the tea trolleys set up the way she wants them.’
‘I’ll run there and back.’ Rhian spooned the last of her peas into her mouth and pulled her maid’s cap from her head.
‘You’ve more than enough time, so don’t go breaking your neck. Tell Mrs Rodney to put them on the household account. And,’ Mrs Williams lowered her voice, ‘no more than five minutes in Gwilym James, even if it is a certain person’s dinner time.’
Rhian fetched a basket from the scullery and took a clean Irish linen teacloth from the drawer.
‘Get me a penny bar of Fry’s chocolate when you’re there, please, Rhian.’ Mair handed her a penny from her pocket.
‘And me.’ Cook rummaged in her pocket and found a silver joey. ‘Get me three. The way the mistress works us I can’t see any of us going out again before our days off.’
‘Unless we run out of one of her fancy wishes again,’ Mrs Williams muttered under her breath.
‘Bronwen, you want anything?’ Rhian checked her reflection in the small mirror. Her face was clean and shiny, but there was no time to powder it. And because she had washed her hair the night before, her curls were more unruly than ever.
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