Missing the Moment

by Missing the Moment (retail) (epub)

  The only time she and Rhoda were included was when they were dressed up prettily and brought into a room filled with people they hardly knew and were made to sing for them, an embarrassing and painful experience for herself. Although, she remembered, Rhoda had seemed not to mind being paraded and admired. What her uncle had told her only added to her belief that her mother was a selfish woman. That she was repeating the follies of her childhood without a thought for what her own children were suffering, simply made it worse.

  She wondered if she dare discuss her mutinous thoughts with her uncle but when she turned to him, he was sleeping. Not a peaceful, replenishing sleep but one that appeared agitated and unrestful. He began moving his arms about, thrashing the covers as if locked in a nightmare. His swollen face and his unhealthy, moist, red skin alarmed her. Anxious now, she ran to fetch a nurse.

  * * *

  Bertha walked down the lane leading to her home and saw her daughter walking up to meet her.

  “Thought you’d got lost, Mam.” Lillian said, smiling as if she had told a brilliant joke. Bertha laughed and hugged her.

  “Never. Fat chance I have of getting lost when I never leave the town.”

  “I cleaned out the chickens coop and put the straw and shit in a bag for the allotments.”

  “Hush that talk! Call it manure, Lillian.”

  “That isn’t what they call it over the allotments, Mam.”

  “You must call it manure.”

  “Why?” Lillian wore her stubborn look and Bertha resigned herself to a hour of sulks.

  “Go and talk to Auntie Bessie while I get dinner,” she told Lillian. Talking to Bessie always restored Lillian’s normal good temper. Perhaps she would be able to have an hour’s lie down. She pushed a couple of potatoes into the oven. They’d be nice for tea with a bit of sauce to hide the lack of butter.

  Lillian hauled herself up from the chair she had flopped into and watched her mother climb the stairs, and heard the creaking as she lay on the bed. Knocking on next door’s window brought a smiling Bessie to the door.

  “It’s my birthday soon, Auntie Bessie.”

  “Yes, darlin’. Eighteen you’ll be, quite grown up now, you are.”

  “Perhaps he’ll come with a present, my father. Some people have lots of presents for their birthdays, don’t they?”

  “Some,” Bessie said. “But not all.” Dropping her voice she added sadly. “Never have a present, I wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for my Joe.”

  “My Dadda coming home, that would be a present, wouldn’t it?”

  “A wonderful gift.” Bessie handed her the glass of home-made lemonade and a small Welsh cake. “Eat up now then we’ll go for a walk along the riverbank.” Lillian picked up the flat, spicy cake with a nod of thanks.

  “Do you think he’ll be like Ronald Coleman?”

  “Who, my darlin’?” Bessie asked, although she knew who Lillian was thinking of.

  “My Dadda. Tall he’ll be because I’m tall. But not fat. I won’t be fat when he comes, or shy. Mam says I’m shy because I haven’t got a father. But I have and he’ll come and he’ll make everything better.”

  * * *

  Bertha called to tell Bessie where she would be, and walked up the hill to Mill House. The door was opened by Charlotte, for which she gave silent thanks. If Harriet had answered her knock she might not have said what she came for. Snooty beyond was Harriet Russell.

  “Called for a word with your uncle I have,” she explained. “Home from hospital, isn’t he?”

  “Home but far from well. Come in and I’ll see if he’s awake.” Charlotte led her into the back room overlooking the garden and left them to talk. It had been apparent from Bertha’s tightened lips that she wanted to talk to her uncle privately.

  “I’ll make us some tea,” she said, closing the kitchen door behind her.

  Peter smiled at his visitor. “Bertha, nice to see you. How are you managing. All right?”

  “That Jack Roberts of yours has been fighting again,” she said. “Funny mind, considering how well he’s thought of, but I’ve never trusted Jack Roberts. He lives in one of Kath’s cheapest rooms, yet he’s got money. I was behind him in the bank once, changing five shillings worth of pennies that I’d saved, I was, and he was drawing out a lot of money. All them white fivers like I’ve never seen more than twice in my whole life. What could he be wanting to draw such a large sum for? What did he do with it? He’s never left the town so far as I can discover. And more’s to the point, where did he get it?”

  “As you say. he doesn’t spend much of his wages, living in one room, with Kath doing his cooking and his laundry. What he does with his savings is his concern. We mustn’t pry.”

  “So long as he doesn’t cheat Kath.” The small woman looked so fierce that Peter was reminded of a ferret he used to keep when he was young. Small, intelligent and looking rather cuddly and harmless, but with a bite that could kill a rabbit in seconds.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t do that. Not Jack.”

  Peter was thoughtful as they sat and sipped their tea and Bertha talked to Charlotte. It was intriguing to wonder what Jack was doing with a bunch of fivers. Then he smiled in relief. Of course, it would have been the business account. Jack went to the bank and took out money to pay the wages every week. He explained this to Bertha.

  After Bertha had gone he frowned. The wages paid to the small work force didn’t really explain why Jack had a load of five pound notes. One pound notes, and ten shilling notes and lots of silver and copper, but there weren’t many who earned more than five pounds.

  He mentioned it to Charlotte then put the puzzle from his mind. Whatever the explanation, Jack had the right to do as he pleased with his own money.

  Harriet overheard some of the conversation and repeated it to Kath some days later.

  “Bertha says he’s taking you for a fool, living cheap while he has a lot of money.”

  “My lodgers are my business and no one takes me for a fool. I decide who should live in my house. I don’t want the likes of you discussing my boarders.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” Harriet said angrily.

  “Dare, is it? Why shouldn’t I dare talk to you like that? Because you think yourself above the likes of the rest of us? Damned cheek telling my private business to all and sundry. For all your fancy pretentions you’ve got a mouth bigger than the Severn Tunnel, you have.”

  “I don’t spread—”

  “You aren’t going to say you don’t spread gossip? Harriet Russell, may my tongue come loose and fall out if you aren’t the biggest gossip this side of Offa’s Dyke!”

  “I’ve never seen you blocking your ears so you can’t hear!”

  “Bertha was concerned, and talked to Peter for reassurance. You’re passing it on for the joy of it, there’s a difference!”

  “You support Bertha Evans, a woman with an illegitimate child, and not me!”

  “Your life isn’t so pure that you could afford for people to talk about you, mind!”

  “At least I haven’t got a child with no known father!” Harriet said haughtily.

  “No known father, is it?” Kath was furious now. “No known father? Well then, Mrs High and Mighty, what if I tell you what I should have told you years ago. Your Eric! That’s who’s been paying for Lillian’s keep. Why would he do that if he wasn’t responsible? No known father indeed! Paying her a couple of pound every week he’s been ever since she was born, to help feed the poor girl. There, how’s that for a juicy bit of gossip then? Like it do you, when you’re the victim? Mrs-superior-sodding-Russell?”

  Harriet ran from her, stumbled along the pavement, stepping out onto the road, running for Rhoda’s house to hide her shame. She ran blindly, oblivious of traffic. Bicycles swerved, horses pulled up, cars squealed their brakes and irate drivers shouted and called her names. She was aware of none of it, hardly caring if she were knocked down or not.

  Eric, with Bertha. It couldn’t be true. He
wouldn’t. Not with Bertha. And all this time Bertha hadn’t said a word. She wouldn’t have kept it to herself. Not for more than eighteen years. Lying Kath was, for sure.

  She reached Rhoda’s house, then remembered with a wail of dismay that Rhoda and Brian were still in Aberystwyth. In a daze, she walked home. Her shoes, unsuitable for walking, cut into her feet. She puffed as she hurried away from the town where she imagined everyone was laughing at her. Sobs wracked her body. Life was too cruel. How could she live through this? Nothing, nothing could ever be worse than this.

  Charlotte was out. She didn’t go in to see Peter, she had almost forgotten he was there.

  What she needed was to be alone to consider this latest punch in the face from a cruel fate. First Eric turning up to make her story about a mental aberration a lie, and now this. How could it be true? How could the slow, overweight Lillian be half-sister to her lovely Rhoda and Charlotte? Going to her bedroom, she lay on the bed, eyes dry now, but the ache in her heart was like a stone.

  Eric had been such a catch. A neat, attractive man, mannerly and quiet, hard working and helpful in the house. He had been earning a good wage up at the factory and he had saved money to buy into the firm. The previous owner had died and he and Peter had taken over the business and made a success of it. He had restored the neglected Mill House and refurnished it and they had planned to fill it with children. Even during the war, when he had been exceptionally busy and had been called to do extra duties like fire watching, he found spare moments to work on the house. She had believed he was content with her and their life together. It had all been a lie.

  She had boasted to everyone that her husband was generous and kind, comparing him with her friends’ husbands and making them discontented. And all the time he’d been straying, and, she realised with a shock of pain and grief, others must have known. In the bleakness of this latest discovery, others knowing about the affair seemed the worst of his cruelty. She wouldn’t divorce him though. That way she could prevent that Gloria woman from winning everything. No, she’d make him pay by refusing to let him marry the woman and legalize her children.

  A few days later, a letter came from a solicitor in Barry, explaining that Eric was beginning proceedings to divorce her. She didn’t reply to the letter.

  Charlotte and Joe knew nothing about the newest revelation that had given Harriet so much grief. Her depression was put down to her worries over Peter, who was still terribly unwell.

  ‘Mam,” Charlotte said one day in early June. “I want to marry Joe.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s impossible at present, surely you can see that!”

  “I can see my twenty-fourth birthday approaching. How much longer do you want me to wait, Mam?”

  “Until you find someone suitable.”

  “Joe is my choice. Surely you can understand. I love him, like you loved Dad, in spite of others trying to persuade you different.”

  “Who’s been talking to you? Uncle Peter, I expect. Well, when you think of how your father has treated me, I might have been wiser to listen to those dissenting voices!”

  “You had twenty happy years. I’d settle for that while hoping for more.”

  “Happy? You don’t know the half of it!”

  Surprised at the vehemence in her mother’s tone, Charlotte raised her own voice and said. “Uncle Peter tried to make me understand your unreasonableness but all I understand is your selfishness!”

  She stood angrily. wanting to say more but afraid to. She had so rarely answered her mother back, and even now, at her age, when so much was at stake, she couldn’t continue. They glared at each other and the air prickled around them as if filled with electricity. The knock at the door startled them.

  “I’ll go,” Charlotte said, but her mother pushed her aside.

  “Go to your room until you’ve calmed down!” Irritated by the interruption, she pulled open the door.

  Eric stood there, his hand raised to give a second knock. Standing beside him was a girl of about eighteen, whose hands were held by two small girls.

  The toddlers were holding on to Eric’s trouser leg and peering up at her with curiosity. Eric had a small baby in his arms, wrapped tightly in a woollen shawl.

  “Can we come in, Harriet?” Eric asked.

  Bewildered, not knowing what or how she should feel about such an invasion. Harriet stepped back and watched like someone in a dream, as Eric ushered his brood through the passageway and into her living room.

  The children stood in a row while he introduced them.

  “Miranda, who is eighteen, then Ellie, six, Isabelle, five. Louise is four, Petula is just two and this,” hugging the infant in his arms. “this is Matthew. He’s only three months old and missing his mother very much, as we all are.”

  “Missing her?” Harriet stuttered. This was her home, yet these people were making her the odd one out. Where was Charlotte? She looked around, desperate for her daughter to appear and help sort this out.

  “Gloria died three weeks ago. I was wondering if you could see your way to taking us in here.”

  “What?” Harriet shouted the word and Matthew jumped in Eric’s arms and began to cry, a snuffling, dry sound that ate straight into Harriet’s heart. For some obscure reason, memories of her own lost babies flooded back and the once familiar ache of bereavement returned with an intensity that was an acute pain.

  “But – I don’t have room for all of you,” she said. trying to think clearly. Where was Charlotte? She should be here. How could she manage anything like this without Charlotte?

  Eric was jiggling the baby and saying soothing words to comfort him. “I realise you’d have arrangements to make. If we gave you a week?”

  “Give him to me, Dad,” the eighteen-year-old Miranda said, and she took the baby, sat down and began to give him a feed from a bottle taken from Eric’s coat pocket.

  “Dad?” Harriet faltered.

  “He isn’t really my father.” Miranda smiled. “Our father, mine and Danny’s that is, was killed at the battle for Tobruk.”

  “Danny? How many are you for heaven’s sake?”

  “Seven.” Eric replied, sitting and taking the two youngest girls on his knees. “Lucky seven we used to say, while Gloria was carrying little Matthew here. Sadly, he didn’t bring us luck. Gloria didn’t recover from the birth.” He looked at Miranda and they shared a look that brought a tightness to Harriet’s throat. It seemed so long since anyone had looked at her with love or even genuine affection.

  “You won’t turn us away, will you, Harriet?” Eric said. “I don’t know how I’ll manage if you refuse to help us.”

  “Why should I help?”

  “No reason at all, except your basic goodness.”

  Eric watched her as fleeting thoughts and changing emotions flashed across her face. A small, untidy figure, in a creased suit and less than pristine shirt and tie, his grey hair awry, a gentle, patient smile on his tired, pale face.

  “What would I tell people?”

  “The truth is always the simplest. The people of Bryn Melinau are kind folk; they’ll welcome us all for sure. Shocked they’ll be, but they’ll soon forget.”

  “Forget? You waltzing in here after seven years with a family I knew nothing about and expecting me to welcome them like they were my own?” She shook her head. “Shamed I’d be. I couldn’t, Eric. You’re mad to even ask. My friends, all the people in the town, they’d all know.”

  “Gossip is always popular here, but people are good deep down, they wouldn’t make us feel unwanted. Time will see us settled and accepted.”

  “Damn what they think of you! What about me?” Harriet shouted and again baby Matthew started and began to cry.

  “What’s most important, your hurt feelings or the happiness of these beautiful children?”

  “I don’t know how to care for children. We always had servants to cope. I couldn’t have any more after Rhoda or I might have learnt. Not that that stopped you. Because your
wife didn’t oblige, you found plenty of others who did. Bertha Evans and that soppy Lillian. That’s down to you, isn’t it!” She couldn’t stop the words coming out, even though she knew it wasn’t the right time. She was thrown into utter confusion by this unexpected and unbelievable situation. The need to hurt him was a pain that wouldn’t go away. “I think I hate you, Eric. I couldn’t bear to sleep under the same roof.”

  “Then take the children. Miranda will care for them, just give them a home to grow up in together. Please Harriet. I’m begging you not to turn them away. They’ll go into a home if I can’t find us a safe place to live. Separated, growing up not knowing their brothers and sisters. Remember how we planned to fill this house with children?”

  “Don’t talk about what we planned.” she said sharply, memories stabbing her heart. “This is something you did that was wicked, Eric. Truly wicked to do this and come back here to taunt me with it.”

  “The blame is mine and I readily accept it, but how can you refuse them? Innocent they are, and so beautiful.”

  Harriet looked around the room filled with strangers. Where was Charlotte when she needed her?

  “Please.” Eric said again, softly.

  She turned away from his pleading eyes, tried not to look at the drawn and frightened faces of the children and looked instead at Miranda. The girl was sitting feeding baby Matthew, her head bent watching his face, long lashes on her soft, rosy cheeks, dark hair falling around her shoulders in natural waves.

  She’s a very pretty girl, Harriet thought, this stranger who calls my husband “Dad”. There’s a gentleness about her, a trusting look in the dark eyes. She looked away. Although she was the one wronged and being asked the favour, she found she was unable to look any of them in the eyes. She had to stay unemotional, hard, tell them to go, forget they ever came.

  “What do you think of all this?” she demanded, looking towards Miranda but focusing her gaze above the girl’s head.

  “Eric and Gloria were so happy, it’s a tragedy.”