‘I thought I wasn’t supposed to move?’
‘I spoke to Dr Evans this morning and he agreed a short car ride to Penycoedcae wouldn’t do any harm, and a change of air might do you good. I could take you up now. What do you say, just a week or two?’
‘Charlie’s commanding officer might write.’
‘You’re forgetting I have a telephone and there’s one downstairs. The girls in the shop could check your mail, and I’ll call in when the shop’s closed. I’ll notify the post office that you’re moving in with me, so they can redirect any telegrams that come in.’
‘Maisie and Liza have enough to do without waiting on me.’
‘As if you’re such a bother. And I admit I have an ulterior motive. I won’t have to go so far to keep an eye on you, and I’ll be able to monitor exactly what you’re eating. Dr Evans’s biggest complaint is that you should be gaining, not losing weight.’
‘I eat plenty, I just can’t keep anything down.’
‘Because you’re not resting. Tell you what, final bribe, you come and stay with me, and I’ll write to Charlie’s CO and tell him that you’re ill, and any news would be better than none.’
‘Would you, Beth?’
‘If you let me pack your bags.’
‘They’re on top of the wardrobe.’
Bethan lifted them down.
‘Dr Evans meant what he said about the baby’s heartbeat?’ Alma asked, looking for reassurance.
‘Doctors never lie. If they’re not sure of something they hum and ha, and try to look as though they’re weighing up the options, when all the time it’s just a cover-up to fool their patients into thinking they know more than they do. And that’s coming from a doctor’s wife. I promise you, if you follow my advice you’ll have a bouncing baby by Christmas.’
‘It’s just that since the night I had the telegram, I’ve hardly dared hope. I do so want a boy. One with white-blond hair and deep blue eyes just like Charlie.’
‘It could be a girl with red hair and green eyes.’
‘No,’ Alma shook her head. ‘It’s a boy, and he’s going to look exactly like his father. I just know it.’
‘Aren’t you going to read your letter from Haydn?’ Phyllis asked as Jane left the table and picked up her own and Alexander’s plates.
‘Later.’ She carried the dishes out to the washhouse as Phyllis and Evan exchanged glances. She returned to the kitchen and drew a pitcher of boiling water from the copper set into the kitchen stove.
‘Game of chess, Alexander?’ Evan asked.
‘Yes, thanks.’ Although Alexander had made the decision to confront Jenny weeks ago, he still hadn’t managed to see her. By the time he washed and changed and went down the White Hart, she had invariably left, and although he kept a lookout on the hill and in the town on his days off, he hadn’t as much as seen her, let alone been able to corner her.
‘I’ll do the dishes if you’d like to give Anne her last feed and put her to bed, Jane,’ Phyllis offered as she folded the tablecloth ready to shake outside.
‘Thank you.’ Jane picked up Anne from the day cot, and the bottle warming in a bowl of hot water. She went upstairs and fed the baby, sitting on the edge of the bed so she could look out of the window. The weather had broken. Autumn had given way to winter and that morning she had seen a frosting of ice on the inside of the window pane. Everyone was hoping that the weather would be mild, with fuel rationed so heavily, but for all the hardships of war, superficially her life wasn’t all that dreadful.
She was earning more money than she’d ever thought she would, over three pounds a week, and she had saved quite a bit already. She hadn’t needed to touch a penny of the money Haydn had arranged to have paid into the bank in Pontypridd, and at the rate she was going she’d soon have enough to put a down payment on a house. So if Haydn did go off with one of the Simmonds girls, she’d be able to carry on working and supporting herself and Anne, always provided Phyllis was willing to carry on caring for the baby.
As soon as Anne finished the bottle, she tucked her into her cot, curled up on the bed and opened the letter. Haydn had never written in such small, close-packed writing before.
Dear Jane,
I’ve only just seen some of the rubbish the press have been printing about me and the Simmonds girls. I hope it hasn’t reached Britain, but if it has, I know you’re sensible enough to ignore it. Believe me I’m missing you and Anne more and more every day …
The words danced before her eyes, just as trite, absurd and unbelievable as those in the articles. Loath to read any more, she tossed the letter aside in disgust, remembering Haydn as he had been when she had first seen him: singing on stage, flowers in hand as he’d danced from one chorus girl to another, smiling, flirting, gazing at them with adoring eyes. Haydn at the parties in London, kissing women right left and centre, addressing every female between the ages of sixteen and fifty as ‘Darling’.
She shivered as she remembered the last time they had made love in their London home. Her protest …
‘You’ll find someone else to do this with.’
She couldn’t allow herself to think about him. It was too destructive. She had to concentrate all her energy into building a life for herself and Anne. A good life, with friends around her.
For all his letters professing that he missed her, Haydn seemed to be managing very well on his own. It was up to her to prove that she could be just as self-sufficient. Then, if he ever did decide to visit Pontypridd, she’d show him that neither she nor Anne needed him, and he could do what he liked with one or the other, or both Simmonds girls, for all she cared.
‘Letters, Nurse John,’ the postman called to Bethan as she ran around the garden with Rachel, catching snowflakes on her dark woollen gloves so she could show her daughter the eight-sided patterns. Wrapping Rachel’s scarf around her neck, she carried her to the wall and took the bundle from him.
‘You heard the news?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she answered in trepidation. ‘I haven’t had the radio on all morning.’
‘It’s not good. That bl … blimmin, silly … sausage -’ he substituted the innocuous words for his first choices, which he only just remembered shouldn’t be used in front of ladies – ‘Hitler is at the gates of Moscow. Looks like we’ll soon be in this war on our own again.’
‘At the gates of Moscow isn’t in control of Russia.’
‘I wish I had your optimism, Nurse John.’
‘It’s easy: try to look on the bright side.’
‘What bright side? The know-it-alls who predicted it would all be over by Christmas 1939 are now saying it will all be over by Christmas 1941, but not the way we want.’
‘I’m sure the editor of the Pontypridd Observer would appreciate a list of these “know-it-alls”. He’s always campaigning against seditious talk that could lose us the war.’
The postman touched his cap, pulling it down over his eyes. ‘Well, if I’m going to deliver this lot to the Queen’s Hotel, I’d best be on my way.’ Pulling up his muffler and tugging his fingerless mittens over his hands, he climbed on his bicycle and continued up the lane.
Bethan set Rachel on the path where she carried on trying to catch snowflakes. Maisie knocked the window, waving a garland of newspaper streamers that the children had painted red and yellow. Bethan managed a smile as she waved back.
‘Time to go in, Rachel. Granddad and all the aunts will be here soon for your party.’
‘And Uncle Ronnie?’
‘He promised you he’d try to come, didn’t he?’ Bethan climbed the steps and pushed open one of the double doors. Maisie closed the dining-room door quickly as they walked into the hall, but not quickly enough.
‘My party table?’ Rachel jumped up and down in excitement.
‘You’ll see when it’s teatime.’
‘Now … please.’ Rachel appealed to her through dark brown eyes that reminded her so much of Andrew’s she couldn’t resist her.
&nbs
p; ‘A peek,’ she compromised. She pushed the door open a few inches and picked Rachel up so she could look over the huge oak table. Rachel’s eyes rounded in wonder as she stared at the dishes set out on the pristine white cloth. Bethan’s best damask because Andrew’s parents were coming. It wasn’t the ‘make-do’ jam and paste sandwiches, or jellies and custards that Jenny had acquired from heaven only knows where, that caught Rachel’s eye. Maisie had baked her a cake and covered it with icing. Made from milk powder and half of Bethan’s monthly sugar ration, it wasn’t up to pre-war standard, but it was still icing, and it didn’t matter to Rachel that the candle was the standard utility issue, or that the 2 on the top was cut from cardboard.
‘There’s your age.’ Bethan pointed to the figure Liza’s sister had painted with tiny pink and blue flowers.
‘Two,’ Rachel chanted.
‘Can we dress Rachel in her party frock, Nurse John?’ Liza’s sisters asked.
‘In the kitchen, it’s too cold in the bedroom.’ Bethan handed her daughter over. As they ran down the passage giggling and laughing, it suddenly struck Bethan that the first real loss Rachel would experience in her young life was the evacuees when the war was over. Hopefully Maisie and her daughter would stay, but the others would undoubtedly be claimed by their families. All nine children fought, squabbled and played as though they were one big family. Not always happily, but then, Bethan reflected, thinking of her own childhood, that wasn’t the way with real brothers and sisters either.
She went into the dining room where Liza, Maisie and Alma, whose visit had stretched to a month, were putting the finishing touches to the room.
‘Letters. One for you, Liza. Looks like it’s from your father. One for you, Maisie.’
‘That will be the pattern I sent for from Woman’s Weekly.’
Bethan flicked through the rest. Amongst the bills, and directives from the Health Authority detailing her next series of shifts, was one from Andrew.
‘Sorry, Alma, nothing for you.’
‘I’ve given up hope of hearing anything.’ Alma wiped her hands on her apron before moving a plate of cheese straws that were too close to the edge of the table.
Bethan looked over the table. Food supplies were getting tighter and tighter, the girls had worked miracles, but the only way they had been able to organise the party was by asking everyone to contribute something from their own rations.
‘We can’t do any more until everyone arrives,’ Maisie said, as she opened her envelope.
‘I’ll be in the study.’ Bethan left her coat on. It was as cold in the unheated rooms in the house as it was outside, and she couldn’t spare the coal or the wood to heat any more than the kitchen, and on this one special occasion, the dining room.
Slipping her thumbnail under the glued down section at the side, she slit the letter open and unfolded it. True to form it had taken four months to reach her.
My Dear Bethan,
Time goes on, and still nothing happens. Sometimes I think I’ll go insane for lack of news. You have no idea how cut off we feel from the war here. Thank you for the photograph you sent of the children. I couldn’t believe the one of Rachel, she has grown so much, short frocks and holding Eddie on her lap as though she is a little mother. I really am missing out on their childhoods. You say that my father and old Dr Evans are coping well. Sometimes wonder if there’ll be jobs for Trevor and me when we finally return. Everyone seems to be managing without us. From what the boys are saying in camp, you are not the only superwoman. All the wives are working in the ATS, WAAFS, WRNS or munitions, as well as running a home, bringing up children and taking in evacuees. And we continue to sit and do nothing …
*……*……*
Bethan heard the children scampering and calling to one another in the bedrooms above her. She felt sorry for Andrew but she found herself wishing that he’d find something more positive to write about in his letters. Did he really think she enjoyed working gruelling hours as well as coping with shortages, the children, and the added responsibility of a houseful of evacuees?
The boys who planted gardens in the spring are harvesting vegetables, salad and tomatoes between the barracks. Some of them ran a sweepstake as to whether or not we’d be here to eat them,’ unfortunately I lost a cigarette and chocolate ration on the result. There are so many rumours – that the war will finish soon – that it won’t – that it will go on for years – I couldn’t bear the thought of that. Imagine me a wizened, grey-haired old man climbing the hill to Penycoedcae and seeing you, a little, grey-haired old lady sitting in the drawing room with the blinds closed against the glare of the sun, knitting and listening to the wireless.
I’m trying to be funny. The problem is when you don’t know what’s in front of you, it ceases to be funny. I’m sorry I’m whining more than usual, but I have a reason. The RAF bombing raids over here don’t just kill Germans. But you’re not to worry about me, I learned the art of cowardice and staying out of bomb and bullet range a long time ago. Besides, everyone looks after doctors, because they never know when they might need one.
I gave the photograph you sent me to an artist in the camp, and he sketched the children for me. It’s not much, but it’s the only present I can send you. With luck you may get this somewhere around Rachel’s birthday. Give her my love, as there’s nothing else I can send her from here, and tell her and Eddie that they do have a daddy and he loves them very much. One day I hope to show all of you just how much. All my love, Andrew
*……*…….*
Bethan looked up to see her father standing over her. ‘From Andrew?’
‘Yes.’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘He sent a sketch of Eddie and Rachel.’
‘It’s well-drawn. You do realise that now Hitler’s been stupid enough to extend his Russian campaign into winter, his eastern army will soon be wiped out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve never read War and Peace?’
She shook her head.
‘If the Russians don’t get him, their winter will, just as it destroyed Napoleon’s army in 1812.’
‘Dad, if you’re only saying that to make me feel better …’
‘Remember what I’m telling you next spring.’
‘If you’re right, you’ll remind me.’ She smiled at Rachel, who charged down the stairs and into her grandfather’s arms. ‘Are Phyllis and Brian with you?’
‘And Megan, Diana, Billy, Jane and Anne. Wyn’s working, but Tina, Ronnie and Jenny will be up soon.’
She took his arm as they walked into the dining room. Hidden behind the door was the birthday table the older children had set up for Rachel. Parcels wrapped in painted newspaper and brown paper lay heaped on a green cloth embroidered with daisies. The practice strains of ‘Happy birthday to you’ wafted out of the kitchen where Maisie and Liza were unwrapping Phyllis and Megan’s gifts of food.
‘It’s hard being without Andrew on a day like today.’
‘At least I know he’s safe.’
‘And he’ll be home soon.’ He patted her hand.
‘I know, Dad, the Russian winter.’
‘It’s true,’ he protested at her sceptical smile.
‘I’ll talk to you this time next year.’
‘When we’ll be on our way to winning this war. You’ll see.’
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Why haven’t you been to see me?’ Ronnie cornered Diana in the kitchen, where she’d gone to heat the babies’ bottles.
‘Because I told you that night would be the first and last.’ She couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. If she did, she knew she’d break her promise to Wyn.
‘And I thought we agreed that was impossible.’
‘Hush!’ She went to the door, closing it after making sure everyone else was in the dining room serving the children tea. ‘Please, Ronnie, don’t make this any harder for me than it already is.’
‘I can’t go on without seeing you.’
‘I’ve
Wyn and Billy to consider.’
‘And us?’ He grabbed her hand and forced her to look at him. ‘You love me, Diana, I know you do.’
‘Find another girl, Ronnie. One who isn’t married.’
‘Your husband can’t ever love you. Not the way I do.’
‘But he is my husband, and that’s why I can’t see you again. Not alone like this.’ Blinded by tears she pushed the bottles into a jug. He took it from her, put it on the table and held her gently in his arms. ‘If you love me, Ronnie, please, help me,’ she begged.
The front doorbell rang.
‘The others will wonder what we’re doing if I don’t answer it.’
He looked into her eyes. Seeing her determination and her anguish – he finally released her.
‘This is only for now,’ he warned, holding on to her hand as she slipped away from him. ‘Don’t think I’m giving up on us, because I’m not. And I won’t.’
She gripped his fingers tightly, clinging to them for an instant before walking into the hall.
A man huddled into an army greatcoat, collar up to protect against the snow, stood on the doorstep. ‘Is this where Mrs Raschenko lives?’
Alma recognised the guttural accent even through the closed door of the dining room. Wrenching it open she ran into the passage; she stopped when she saw a small dark man with a Polish officer’s insignia on his shoulder standing in the porch.
‘Mrs Raschenko?’ He removed his cap. ‘I knew your husband. He didn’t do you justice.’ He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘He said you were beautiful; he didn’t tell me you looked like an angel. I’m Captain Melerski, Edmund Melerski, of the Polish Air Force, now seconded to the British Army, at your service.’ He bowed and clicked his heels.
Bethan came out into the hall, with Eddie in one arm and Billy on the other.
‘I’m a friend of Feodor’s,’ he explained.
‘Please come in, Captain.’ Bethan kicked open the kitchen door. ‘If you wouldn’t mind sitting in here, it’s the warmest room in the house.’
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