Broken Rainbows

by Catrin Collier

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ten o’clock, no earlier. I hate mornings, and don’t forget the cash. No money, no deal.’

  Two days later Anthea took her father up on his offer of time off and went into Cardiff. Believing shopping to be a cure for all ills, especially a broken heart, her mother would have liked to accompany her but she had a committee meeting. Anthea already knew. She had studied her mother’s diary and deliberately picked a day when she would be busy.

  There were plenty of pawnbrokers in Pontypridd, but she didn’t want to run the risk of her parents recognising the ring Richard had given her in one of their windows. She fingered it as she walked up to the platform to wait for the train. She was loath to sell it. It was the only proof she had that a man had desired her enough to ask her to marry him, even if he hadn’t really meant it. But after what her father had said about needing it as evidence for a breach of promise action, she knew she had to get rid of it. She could never go to court and publicly expose the humiliation of Richard’s deception and desertion for the benefit of the Pontypridd Observer and her mother’s friends and acquaintances. Especially now, when she knew he’d been married all along. And there wasn’t any other way to raise the money. If she withdrew it from her bank account her father would see the transaction on her statement. Then again, perhaps there was something fitting about Richard’s ring paying for the operation. When they reached Cardiff, she ignored a request for help from a woman burdened with a pram, a toddler and a baby, and walked briskly towards the arcade that housed the best-known pawnbroker in the city. She had to keep thinking about what was going to happen as a surgical operation. A quick, clean procedure no different from the removal of an appendix. She simply had to.

  ‘Sorry, miss, I don’t want it.’ The wizened old man removed the eyeglass he’d used to examine the stones, and handed the ring back to her.

  ‘I’d settle for less than the full value.’

  ‘I bet you wouldn’t, miss. That’s worth about one pound five shillings.’

  ‘It’s gold set with diamonds and sapphires.’

  ‘What you’ve got there, miss, is what’s known in the trade as paste. Glass, to the uninitiated. Some clear, some coloured a very pretty blue, set in a gold-plated mount. Probably a copy of a valuable original the owners had made rather than risk taking the genuine piece out of the vault for the lady of the house to wear.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I need sixty pounds,’ she pleaded.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I could give you fifty off that watch.’

  She wrapped her fingers around it. ‘I couldn’t possibly. My grandmother left this gold watch to me when she died. It’s been valued at a hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘All right, seeing as how I’ve got a soft heart, sixty, and I’ll throw in a passable copy for free. You won’t get better than that anywhere in the city. What do you say?’

  *……*……*

  Bethan smiled and murmured ‘Good morning’ to the queue of Negroes snaking out of Alma’s shop as she called in for her mid-morning tea. Opening the kitchen door, she crouched down beside Theo and kissed him, before straightening her back and looking at Alma.

  ‘You’re busy?’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘With the Negroes? None. If anything, they’re more polite than the white GIs.’ Alma tipped a pile of cold mashed potato into a pie filling she was mixing.

  ‘You’ve talked to them?’

  ‘The two sergeants and a few of the boys staying in the chapel. Theo’s never been so spoilt. They love him.’

  ‘Everyone loves Theo.’ Bethan tickled him, then joined Alma at the table.

  ‘I did see Mrs Llewellyn-Jones scurrying into the bank with an extremely indignant look on her face the day they arrived, possibly because she can’t view any of them as a replacement bridegroom for Anthea, poor girl.’

  ‘My father-in-law was telling me this morning that the Llewellyn-Joneses have visited a solicitor. They’re threatening to sue Richard Reide for breach of promise. Like you, I feel sorry for Anthea. It must be hard enough to lose a fiancé without going through all the embarrassment of a court case.’

  ‘They’ll have to catch Richard Reide to sue him. And the Americans are refusing to give out any addresses.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Captain Reide wasn’t the only one to love, leave and disappear. Mrs Lane told me this morning that there’s four other girls in the same position as Anthea. Two of them pregnant. She also said that Richard Reide is married with four children, but don’t ask me if that’s true. I’ve no idea where half the stories going around the town come from. And I only repeat them to you in the hope that you’ll either confirm or deny them.’

  ‘I wish I could help Anthea,’ Bethan mused.

  ‘After all the things the Llewellyn-Joneses have said and done to you over the years?’

  ‘That’s just the trouble, if I go to her now, she’ll think I’m trying to get back at her, and it’s not like that. She and Andrew were good friends when they were children.’

  ‘And she did her damnedest to get him away from you, even after you were married.’

  ‘That’s water under the bridge.’

  ‘You’re more forgiving than I would be if she’d set her sights on Charlie.’

  ‘As if Charlie would even notice another woman making eyes at him,’ Bethan laughed.

  ‘I also heard this morning that Kurt Schaffer moved in with Jenny a couple of days ago.’

  ‘He’s lodging with her. I have the colonel and his staff lodging with me.’

  ‘That’s what I told Mrs Lane, but she doesn’t see it quite that way. If there is anything going on between Jenny and Kurt, I’m glad for her. She deserves some happiness after losing Eddie and then Alexander. I’m just trying to warn you that you’ll both need to thicken your skins, because the gossips have their claws out.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They’ve had a go at you already?’

  ‘Mrs Richards. A full ten minutes on how Jenny’s blackening my dead brother’s name.’

  ‘That’s sick.’

  ‘Jenny visited my father to tell him Kurt had moved in, before he had a chance to hear it from anyone else.’

  ‘Does he mind?’

  ‘No. But he is worried about her. Not because of what people are saying, heaven only knows there’s been enough talk about him and Phyllis over the years. I think he actually admires her for not giving a damn about the gossips, but what does bother him is that she hasn’t given herself any time to grieve for Alexander. She’s desperately trying to carry on as though she’s immune to emotion. And it is a pretence. When Eddie was killed she was shattered. If it hadn’t been for the job in munitions I think she might have had a breakdown.’

  ‘Let’s hope Kurt can help her come to terms with what happened to Eddie and Alexander. He seems a nice man.’

  ‘He is. My father asked her to bring him to meet us.’ Bethan smiled wryly. ‘All we need to do now is silence the gossips. If only people would accept that Jenny has her own code of morals that don’t quite coincide with everyone else’s.’

  ‘Especially Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s?’

  ‘No one can measure up to her ideals. But as far as I know, Jenny was faithful to both Eddie and Alexander while they were alive, and there’s not many women in the town who can say that.’

  ‘Bethan!’

  ‘It’s true. Ask the chemist. The demand for laxatives and quack abortion remedies has rocketed since the Americans have been billeted here. Unfortunately so has the incidence of VD, and there’s more than one wife praying for a quick leave soon. The parish guardians are already looking at ways to increase the number of places in the orphanages.’

  ‘I can’t imagine any woman giving up a child.’ Alma looked fondly at Theo.

  ‘I can if they’re desperate enough.’

  ‘Talking about babies, I had a letter from Chuck�
�s wife this morning. You can read it if you like. She said how glad she was that Chuck had someone like me to talk to while he was here, and she is praying that my Charlie will come home safely soon.’

  ‘That was nice of her.’

  ‘She also sent a box of sweets and clothes for Theo. I’ll bring it up on Sunday so we can share it out. Do you think the Americans have gone into France?’

  ‘I don’t know. But with Ronnie gone …’

  ‘It could be Italy?’

  ‘I really don’t know, and it doesn’t do any good to speculate. Whenever and wherever it happens we’ll find out. Eventually,’ she added drily.

  Anthea left the house early on the appointed day. Fortunately, her mother was still too incensed by the presence of Negro troops in Pontypridd and the colonel’s refusal to give her Richard Reide’s address to pay much attention to her family.

  ‘Have a good time in Cardiff with Katherine,’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones muttered absently as she checked the minutes of the last WI meeting, clucking over the fact that they had run to two pages, despite paper shortages and the need to conserve resources.

  Feeling like a criminal, Anthea ran from the house and walked quickly down the hill. Taking a detour through the park, she rejoined the main thoroughfare close to the bank. Breathing slowly and deeply in an attempt to steady her nerves, she looked around. Most of the people in town were already queuing in the shops or searching the market for bargains. When she was sure no one was watching her, she carried on up Taff Street and down Broadway.

  Paint was peeling on the door, windows and fascia boards at the address Vera had given her. Filthy lace curtains hung lopsided at even filthier windows. As she walked up the steps she heard voices raised in anger. Knocking tentatively, she stepped back.

  ‘Yes?’ A woman with her hair in curlers, and stockings rolled down around her ankles, wrenched open the door.

  ‘I’m calling on Vera.’

  ‘Calling!’ The woman snorted in amusement. ‘Then you’d better come in, Your Ladyship.’ She stepped back to allow Anthea to walk through. There was an overwhelming smell of damp washing, sour milk and cheap perfume. ‘The girls are downstairs,’ the woman barked as Anthea glanced through an open door at a row of unmade beds.

  She walked to the end of the passage and saw a flight of rickety wooden stairs leading down to a basement.

  ‘The door’s straight in front of you at the bottom. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Anthea gripped the handrail as she entrusted her weight to the top stair. It creaked, protesting alarmingly, but held firm. The basement was dark and gloomy, the floor covered with cracked, blue and brown linoleum. She knocked on the door at the foot of the stairs. Wrapped in a flimsy rayon robe, cigarette in hand, Vera opened it.

  ‘I hope I’m not too early,’ Anthea apologised.

  ‘You’re on time. Got the money?’ She opened the door wider, revealing a crumpled double bed, and a floor strewn with clothes.

  ‘Here.’ Anthea delved in her handbag and handed over an envelope.

  Vera flicked the top open and counted the notes before pocketing it. ‘Come on through to the kitchen. It’s behind you. I’ve just made tea.’

  ‘I’ve had breakfast, thank you,’ Anthea whispered hoarsely, suddenly terrified of what was about to happen.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Vera went to the stove. It was obvious that she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the robe, and Anthea was shocked by a glimpse of bare, white thigh, dark pubic hair, and the tip of one breast. Vera wrapped the gown closer to her before retying the belt.

  ‘You look as if you haven’t slept.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Anthea confessed.

  ‘I was like that before my first.’

  ‘You’ve done this?’

  ‘Twice. Once after my old man threw me out, and once since. He already had his suspicions about our son. With good cause,’ she admitted. ‘The old bugger couldn’t get it up, much less father anything. Then he heard me being sick one morning and as we hadn’t done it in months he knew it couldn’t be his, so he threw me out of the house and kept the boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for? I’m better off without him. When I was with him I had no money other than what he gave me, which meant I had to do whatever he told me, including washing his dirty underclothes and cooking his tea. My sister was already living here. She got me a room and I’ve been as free as a bird ever since. I do what I like, see who I like, and bugger housework. I’m slave to no man. Most nights I eat out, I’ve got enough money to buy what I want when it’s in the shops, and when it isn’t, there’s always a black-marketeer willing to trade favours with an independent working girl. So you see, Miss High-and-Mighty, I’m better off than you.’

  ‘You hear … I mean, I’ve heard such awful stories.’

  ‘Most of them put about by men who like to keep all the fallen women and unmarried mothers in the workhouse so they can spend all day, every day, scrubbing it clean. Think what that must save the parish on labour costs. Here -’ she returned from the stove with two cups of strong tea and a couple of slices of heavily salted bread and dripping. ‘I know you’re not hungry, but try to get it down you. You’ll need your strength.’

  ‘Is it going to be very painful?’

  ‘It’s no picnic.’ Vera tipped a generous measure of whiskey into both cups.

  As soon as Anthea tasted it she began to cry.

  ‘Hey, it’s not that bad …’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s this.’ Anthea pointed to the cup. ‘It’s bourbon, the whiskey Richard used to drink.’

  ‘Oh God, not waterworks over that rat. He’s gone and you’re better off without him. Come on, a couple of hours from now and it will all be over. Where is that bloody woman?’

  ‘Language, Vera,’ a sharp voice reprimanded from the door.

  Anthea looked up and blanched. The nurse was a friend of her mother’s and well known in the town before she had retired five or six years before. She wondered if she’d tell her mother she had seen her here … then she realised. She had been expecting a doctor, or a midwife who worked the slums, not this brisk, neat, little old lady who went to the same tea parties and fundraisers as her mother.

  Taking off her coat, the nurse handed it to Vera. ‘I want it hung away properly, on a hanger,’ she ordered, glaring disapprovingly at the whiskey bottle. ‘You’ve brought the money, dear?’

  ‘I’ve given it to Vera.’

  ‘I’ll take it before we start.’ She held out her hand and Vera counted out ten five-pound notes before handing them over. ‘Right.’ She pocketed them briskly.

  ‘Vera, sort out the bed and put the kettle on. Make sure it’s full and take it to the boil.’

  ‘Yes, Nurse -’

  ‘No names,’ she interrupted swiftly. ‘And if anyone asks, neither of you saw me. I wasn’t here. Understand?’

  ‘What if this doesn’t work?’ Anthea asked.

  ‘It will work. It always does. Now go into the other room and strip off.’

  ‘You want me to take off all my clothes?’ Anthea asked, horrified at the thought of undressing in front of the two women.

  ‘This baby has to come out the way it got in. If there’s another way, I haven’t heard of it.’

  Anthea walked into Vera’s bedroom. The bedclothes had been heaped on a chair and Vera was tucking rubber sheets over the mattress. Anthea started to fiddle with the buttons at the neck of her blouse.

  ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’

  ‘No, it’s all right, really,’ Anthea demurred.

  ‘You haven’t got anything I haven’t, have you?’

  The nurse bustled in with her bag. Opening it, she removed a tin and began placing instruments in it. She stood back, watching as Anthea removed the last of her clothes.

  ‘Lie down, dear.’

  Humiliated and feeling totally vulnerable, Anthea did as she asked.

  ‘Take this -’ the nurse handed Vera the tin – �
��and fill it with boiling water. Boiling, and to the brim, mind you.’

  Vera left, closing the door behind her.

  Anthea began to panic.

  ‘Deep breaths, dear. Slowly, one at a time. Breathe in, slowly, deeply, that’s it. Now I need to examine you before we start. Just to check how far along you’ve gone.’ To Anthea’s mortification the nurse pinched her nipples between her finger and thumb. ‘Oh yes, you’re well on the way aren’t you, dear? Bend your knees and open your legs.’

  Anthea closed her eyes as the nurse painfully probed and poked her. ‘Three months, I’d say. You agree?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was that far.’

  ‘Take my word for it, dear. You are.’

  The door opened and closed again, but Anthea kept her eyes shut.

  ‘That’s it, fill it to the top, Vera. Now this is going to hurt, but it will soon be over.’

  Anthea opened her eyes to see the old woman holding an enormous syringe. ‘Bend your knees and open your legs again, wider this time, dear.’

  ‘No!’ Anthea turned on her side and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Well, I’ve been paid, so I really don’t care whether you go through with this or not. I’m asking for the last time. Do you want my help or not?’

  Reluctantly Anthea did as she asked.

  ‘Now hold still. Completely still. Vera, lean on her shoulders, keep them down, there’s a good girl.’

  An agonising pain shot through Anthea’s abdomen. She opened her mouth ready to scream.

  ‘The stick,’ the nurse said urgently. ‘Give her the stick.’

  A wooden rod was pushed between her teeth.

  ‘Bite down hard, dear.’

  She heard Vera’s voice: ‘Do as she says, it helps.’

  She could feel the syringe, hard, icy cold, nosing inside her. Then the pain came again, racking, sharp, excruciating like nothing else she had ever experienced. She opened her mouth and the stick fell from her lips. A hand clamped over her teeth.

  ‘No noise, for God’s sake. No screams. Keep it quiet. If anyone should hear we’ll all be looking out from behind bars.’

  It went on … and on … and on … until in the end she was pain. A single, total mass of pain from her breasts down, and it simply wouldn’t stop.