She shivered. Was this her future? Her life after Rachel and Eddie had grown up and left home to carve out lives of their own? Andrew still incarcerated in a prison camp, her father dead and her, left alone in this great big house a pathetic, abandoned, old woman drifting from room to lonely, empty room.
Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she opened the door to the drawing room and stepped inside. Moving slowly, she tried to recall the position of the toy boxes when she had last seen them. She had hated having to move out Andrew’s treasured pieces. He had taken such pleasure in overseeing the decorating of this room. What would he think of it now?
When she reached the window she tore open the blackout. Moonlight flooded in, painting everything silver. She stood back, staring at the chair her father usually sat in when he visited. She could almost hear his voice, quiet, soft-spoken as he expressed opinions that never seemed radical until she considered them afterwards.
The cold, the silence and the full horror of being buried alive closed in on her. Slowly, silently, the first tears began to fall, and as they trickled, cold and wet down her cheeks, the emotions she had been so careful to keep penned up finally erupted.
Falling to her knees, she lowered her head, wrapped her arms around her legs and wept, harsh, rasping, bestial sobs that tore from her throat and lungs.
‘If you’re going to cry, wouldn’t it be better to do it where you won’t catch pneumonia?’ Strong arms lifted her from the floor, and led her out of the room through the hall, into the kitchen. Weakening waves of warmth swept over her. Dizzy and lightheaded she allowed David Ford to help her to the rocking chair. Picking up the blanket from the log box he tucked it around her legs before taking the boiling kettle from the stove.
‘I’ll try my hand at making tea.’ He reached down cups and saucers from the dresser. ‘I’m not promising it will drinkable, but as they say in Wales, it will at least be warm and wet.’ Passing her his handkerchief, he spooned tea into the pot. ‘Dino told me what happened to your father. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you only have to knock on my door.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised feebly, finally finding her voice. ‘I’m not usually like this.’
‘Perhaps that’s the trouble. You British have such stiff upper lips, they don’t bend, only crack. Frankly, with all you’ve had to cope with, I wonder that you’re still sane.’ Pouring out the tea, he handed her a cup. ‘Milk and sugar?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m not sure I’ve done it right. You people have turned tea-making into a ritual. Doesn’t the spout have to face north when it infuses?’
‘It’s fine.’ She looked up at him. He was in shirtsleeves and braces. It was the first time she had seen him without his jacket. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake anyone.’
‘You didn’t. I was working.’
‘At this time in the morning?’ Bethan brushed her hair back from her face, and as her fingers became knotted in damp tangles, she understood his reference to sanity. Between her wild hair and tear-streaked cheeks, she must look deranged.
‘Joys of command. About your father. If there’s anything I, or for that matter my men can do, just say the word. Some of them may not be over-bright, but if brute strength is all that’s required, they can furnish it.’
‘Experience counts for more than strength down the pit, and the manager of the Maritime is doing all that can be done. This isn’t helping, I’m behaving like a spoilt child.’
‘No one can be strong all the time.’
‘My father was … is,’ she corrected swiftly. ‘And the bedrock of our family’s existence. I can’t imagine him not being here.’
‘From what I heard, there’s still hope.’
‘I wish I could believe it, but I’ve lived in Pontypridd all my life and I’ve seen this happen more times than I can count. The lucky ones are the families that have a body to bury.’
He made a face as he sipped his tea. ‘This is foul.’
‘Only because you made it when the water was off the boil.’ She tried to smile but her face was cold and stiff, and as he looked down at her, she began to cry again, softly and silently this time. He took the cup from her trembling fingers and placed it on the table. Helping her to her feet he cradled her in his arms, the way her father would have done, if he had been there.
‘It can only get better.’
‘I wish I could believe you.’
‘And I wish I could convince you, but you’re too intelligent to believe platitudes, no matter how well meant.’ He stroked his hand across the top of her head as her tears soaked through his shirt. Emotions stirred inside him that he hadn’t allowed to surface since his wife had left him. Wary of taking advantage of her grief, he reminded himself that he was far from home. There hadn’t been any time for socialising – or women – for years, because he’d been too busy building a career. It was simply her need, the unfamiliar scent and texture of her skin and hair beneath his fingers that was making him feel this way. He was confusing compassion with desire, a natural enough mistake considering the way they had been thrown together. Bracing himself to release her, he glanced up and saw Haydn watching them from the hall.
‘So, it’s true what they say about Yanks.’
Bethan lifted her head, saw her brother and extricated herself from David’s arms. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘It’s none of my business.’ Haydn walked past them and picked up the kettle. ‘Mind if I make tea before I go?’
‘I found your sister crying, I was trying to comfort her.’
‘Looks like you succeeded.’ He eyed David Ford coolly as he filled the kettle but Bethan could sense hostility between the two men.
‘David provided a shoulder for me to cry on and that’s all.’
‘You could have called me.’
‘And disturb your last few hours with Jane? Stop playing the outraged brother, Haydn, and make yourself some breakfast while I dress, then I’ll take you down the station.’
‘There’s no need to put yourself out.’
‘Please, I have enough to worry about, without you being difficult.’
He opened the bread crock. ‘Toast, anyone?’
‘No thank you. It’s time I was going.’ David Ford went to the door.
‘Don’t worry,’ Haydn called after him. ‘Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell cashmere coat.’
‘Cashmere coat?’ David looked to Bethan as she picked up the blanket from the chair.
‘My brothers’ nickname for my husband. I’ll be ready in five minutes, Haydn.’
David watched her collect her clothes from the study and walk upstairs to the bathroom. When he was sure she couldn’t overhear him, he turned back.
‘There’s nothing going on between your sister and me,’ he said firmly.
Haydn shrugged his shoulders. ‘As I said, it’s none of my business.’
‘This war isn’t easy for her …’
‘Or you, stuck back here in nice safe Pontypridd while the rest of us go out and get killed.’
‘My men will get killed soon enough.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll be with them.’
‘Leading from the front or sitting safe in some dugout, Colonel?’
‘Give me credit for one thing, Captain Powell.’ David’s grip tightened on the door handle. ‘Knowing how and when to retreat. I couldn’t give a damn what you think of me, but I am concerned what you think of your sister. And you are doing her one hell of an injustice if you think her capable of cheating on her husband.’
Bethan drove down the hill in silence. She crouched behind the wheel, peering into the blackout, framing sentences that she lacked the courage to voice, while Haydn sat tense and preoccupied alongside her. It was the thought of Eddie and Maud, and how she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to either of them that finally drove her to speak.
‘Did you wake Jane to say goodbye?’
‘No.’
&
nbsp; ‘Haydn, what you saw …’
‘It’s all right. Your fancy man explained what I saw.’
‘There’s nothing between us. You don’t have to be so – so – big-brotherly about this.’
‘Big-brotherly?’ Haydn exclaimed as she slowed to a crawl before turning left into Station Yard. ‘Is that what you think this is about? I find my sister in a Yank’s arms …’
‘And that’s all you did find. Colonel Ford holding and comforting me. As we tried to tell you, he heard me crying in the drawing room, took me into the kitchen, made me tea and when I didn’t stop crying, he hugged me. I was miserable, afraid, lonely and looking for sympathy. He just happened to be around.’
‘Can’t you see that’s just the problem? He’s here and I’m not. I want to be here all the time. For you, for Jane, for Anne, for Dad – and don’t talk to me about the war. I’m fed up to the back teeth with the bloody war.’
Turning off the ignition she sat back in her seat. ‘We’re all fed up of the bloody war, Haydn. Andrew in his prison camp, the Americans away from their families, Jane facing hard, manual labour every day in the factory when all she really wants is to be with you and Anne.’
‘But we’ve just got to get on with it, is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘That’s what I am saying. It can’t go on for ever.’
‘No it can’t. But have you thought what will happen if the wrong side wins?’
‘It won’t.’
‘And I never thought we’d lose Dad.’
‘We haven’t, not yet.’
‘Bethan …’
‘I don’t want to hear it, Haydn. Dad told me about the bottle of vodka you gave him for Alma. You found it in yourself to give her hope that Charlie is still alive, why can’t you do the same for us? Dear God, haven’t we lost enough with Eddie and Maud?’ She opened the door. ‘Come on, I’ll buy a platform ticket and walk you up to the train. And try not to make it so long before coming home again.’
‘I’ll do my best. You’ll take care of Jane and Anne and Phyllis and Brian?’
‘You don’t have to ask.’
‘About money, I have plenty. I made quite a bit before the war, and although I’m on an officer’s pay now, I still get royalties from my records, and I’ve done one or two private shows. Jane has access to the account. It’s in joint names. Take whatever you need for Phyllis and Brian. There’s more than enough to buy them a house. Graig Avenue, if Mam will sell it.’
‘You don’t know Phyllis if you think she’ll take charity from us.’
‘She has to live.’
‘She’s already talked about taking a job in munitions.’
‘And Brian and Anne?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort something out. Whatever else, the children will be well looked after.’
‘Jane doesn’t have to work.’
‘She knows. Weird, isn’t it? For the first time in our lives the two of us have enough money to leave some in a bank, and it’s useless. It won’t buy Andrew out of his camp …’
‘Or Dad back …’ The noise of the train pulling in drowned out the rest of his sentence. Kissing her cheek, he murmured, ‘I forgot to tell you to take care of yourself. You won’t always have to rely on Yanks for comfort. And enjoy what you have, while you have it. That’s what I do, sis.’
She looked at him, wondering exactly what he meant.
He climbed on to the train. ‘It’s good advice.’
‘Just come home again, safe, sound and soon,’ she called after him.
‘You sure?’
‘Heard it myself from George Rivers. He’s billeted with someone in the family, isn’t he?’ Linking his hands behind his head, Richard Reide leaned back behind his desk, propped his feet up on a filing cabinet and looked at Kurt Schaffer. ‘He said that Jenny Powell’s fancy man was caught up in the same pit fall as Nurse John’s father. And as that was three days ago, he reckoned that made the delicious and very desirable Jenny free, and ripe for the harvesting. I would go in there myself, but my hands are full with the ardent and appreciative Anthea. There’s nothing like the adoration of an erstwhile virgin who’s been shown just how good a good time can be.’
‘Is Jenny upset?’ Kurt asked, deliberately ignoring Richard’s mention of Anthea.
‘How would I know? George thinks he’s in there with a chance, but I saw the way she looked at you in the New Inn. If anyone should jump in there quick, it should be you, boy,’ he drawled. ‘Take a tip from Uncle Rick, a widow never forgets her way around a mattress. And just like tumbled virgins, they’re so grateful afterwards.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘This coming from Mr Morality himself?’
‘At least I don’t go peddling photographs of my girlfriend in the nude.’
‘Only because you don’t have one.’
‘If her father ever finds out …’
‘How’s he going to do that when I sell exclusively to US army personnel?’
‘It’s a small town.’
‘Or someone could tell him?’ Richard narrowed his eyes.
‘Don’t look at me. Your sordid little affairs are your own concern.’
‘Just remember, Lieutenant, only a complete moron would cross a superior officer. And,’ he ran his tongue over his lips, ‘when you succeed with the blonde with the big knockers, my camera is yours. I’ll even market the product for you for a straight ten per cent. You could make a packet. I’ve cleaned up two hundred bucks on Anthea, but that blonde -’ his eyes glittered in anticipation – ‘she’s got a lot more, if you know what I mean?’
‘I know exactly what you mean. And forget the superior officer. I’m warning you, man to man, Reide. Stay away from Jenny Powell or I’ll reshape your face.’ Kurt walked to the door.
‘Is that a threat?’
‘A warning.’
‘First man to take the photographs wins the loot, Schaffer,’ Reide called after him.
After she saw Haydn off at the station, Bethan felt as though she’d moved into a limbo where time no longer held any meaning. Minutes … hours … days … nights … passed in a blur, and all she could do was go through the motions of living, waiting and watching – waiting and watching – for news that she dreaded hearing and that might never come. In her bravest moments she tried to determine what she feared most: the rescue teams finding her father’s body, or conceding defeat and sealing off the shaft.
Since Andrew’s capture she had often likened herself to the tin man in The Wizard of Oz who had been searching for his heart. Now she felt like an ancient Greek who had come face to face with the Gorgon and been turned to stone.
Unable to think about anything other than her father, she stopped writing to Andrew without even realising it. She did only what she had to, driving from one patient to another, bandaging and cleaning wounds, cauterising ulcerated legs, delivering babies, laying out the dead, filling in endless forms, but she avoided calling into the café where she would see Tina. She didn’t want to hear how Gina was coping, or run the risk of meeting Jenny or Mrs Richards and seeing her grief mirrored in their eyes.
Every time she drove up or down the Graig hill she made a detour along Albert Road so she could stop outside the gates of the Maritime Colliery, but one look at the grim-faced men moving around within the confines of the pithead was usually enough to make her drive on. She had to stop herself from telephoning Mr Williams as soon as she reached home at night, and on waking, first thing in the morning. If there was news, he had given her his solemn promise, she would be the first to know. But it was hard to simply wait, especially when she saw lines of strain and anguish etch daily deeper into Phyllis’s face and Brian grow more and more withdrawn. They had told him that his daddy was ‘lost’ underground, but he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to go down and find him, or why he’d had to leave the familiar surroundings of Graig Avenue.
In an attempt to distract herself, she confided in Dr John, telling him abou
t her mother’s appropriation of her father’s house. He made an appointment for her with his solicitor, but the old man only confirmed what Haydn had already been told, that the only way to get Phyllis back into Graig Avenue was to buy the house from her mother. After checking the funds in her own and Andrew’s bank accounts she instructed him to make an offer, but she wasn’t surprised when her mother didn’t reply.
The telephone call she’d been dreading, yet longing for, finally came at three o’clock in the morning of the seventh day after the fall. She was in the study, reading, having given up on trying to sleep yet again. Charging barefoot into the hall she picked up the receiver.
‘Mrs John?’
‘Mr Williams?’
‘They’ve broken through …’ he paused; it could have been no more than a few seconds but to her it was an eternity. ‘Your father is badly injured but alive. They’re taking him to the Graig Hospital now.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘There’s no visiting.’
‘I’m a nurse, Mr Williams.’
She dropped the receiver. Hearing a noise she looked up to see Phyllis and Jane standing on the staircase. Clinging to the banister for support, she whispered, ‘He’s hurt but alive, Phyllis. He’s alive.’
Dr John came looking for her as soon as he left the operating theatre. Sitting beside her on the bench in the corridor he took her hand.
‘I had to amputate his right arm. I had no choice, Bethan, the bones were crushed to pulp, but the good news is that there’s no sign of infection or gangrene. He’s a strong, essentially healthy man. If he hadn’t been, I’d be telling you something different now. He’ll need a lot of nursing care, but I think he’ll live.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Only if the sister doesn’t catch you, but there’s little point. He’s still under the anaesthetic.’
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