Unlocking the Past

by Grace Thompson

  When Helen took the little boy to look for a sweet shop, Janet said firmly to her daughter, “Caroline, love, you and I are going for a walk this evening when Joseph is in bed, and we are going to talk. Right?”

  “No Mam. I’m not ready to talk yet.”

  “Pity, because I am!”

  Helen returned with a chattering Joseph who offered to share his sweets. Sensitive to the mood of Janet and her daughter, Helen offered to go off again, but Caroline quickly thanked her and shook her head.

  After a brief stroll, they studied the houses in the main road of the village and at its centre, they saw the almost obliterated words over a door which said Post Office and General Stores. The shop window had been changed and the house was showing signs of neglect.

  An elderly man opened the door to their knock and said at once that he wasn’t buying at the door. Assured they weren’t trying to sell him anything, he listened to their questions about a Mrs Marion Jolly who had lived in a house no longer standing.

  “Condemned it was. It was a wreck before Mrs Jolly moved in, her and her three children.”

  “You remember her?” Janet could hardly contain her excitement.

  “I remember her! And that husband of hers.”

  “Her husband?” Janet coaxed.

  “Ran off with my wife, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She was so embarrassed she wanted to turn away but the thought of being close to reaching Marion made her ask, “You don’t know what happened to Mrs Jolly, do you? Marion Jolly? She’s my sister and I’d like to get in touch.”

  “Marion Jolly you say? Didn’t call herself that. Harriet she was then. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake?”

  Disappointment showered her like a sudden downpour. She had been feeling optimistic, sure they were getting close.

  “Don’t give up, she probably used a second name to hide her shame,” Helen suggested in her bright, cheerful manner.

  “It wasn’t her fault if her husband ran off,” Caroline said.

  “Of course not. But the shame is felt just the same,” Helen replied.

  “You’re right there,” Janet said. “Come on, we’ll go and knock somewhere else. If she lived here someone else might remember her.”

  “Ask who is the oldest inhabitant,” Helen suggested.

  “Picnic first,” Caroline said firmly.

  “Picnic first,” echoed Joseph.

  The day was warm and they found a sheltered spot where they could escape the sun and sit to eat their picnic and where Joseph could play under the trees. Janet’s sharp eyes noticed that Caroline ate little, passing her food to her son or throwing it into the bushes for birds or field mice to find. She couldn’t ignore this situation any longer. If Caroline had been happier without Barry she might have let things drift, but Caroline was sinking deeper into depression and that couldn’t be allowed to continue.

  They didn’t get any further with their quest that day, but Janet had high hopes of the newspaper advertisements which she had placed in six London papers and two local ones. One of the local papers had sent someone to interview her and the young reporter explained that since the war, many families had lost touch and the paper’s policy was to publicise the names and what information was available, and try to reunite them.

  “D’you think she went away during the war?” Janet had asked the young man.

  “A lot of people moved about. Evacuees came here from the big cities, servicemen and women married and settled in places where they had been posted. Houses were bombed and families moved out to other areas. Plenty of reasons for losing touch.”

  She thought it better not to tell him that it was not a war time mix-up, but sixty years since she had seen her sister.

  She gave him the old photograph she had found in Spring Cottage and showed him the letters and names she had discovered. It gave her a strange feeling on being handed the local paper a few days later to see her own face staring back at her.

  “What d’you think of that, then?” Hywel asked as he held it in front of her.

  “When did I get to look so old?” she replied sadly.

  * * *

  Gladys Weston was not the kind of woman to give up easily. Joan and Viv Lewis might think they had got their own way over their wedding but she was determined to win some of the arguments. The idea of a buffet was acceptable. She had heard of several high-class weddings where a buffet had been chosen instead of a proper sit-down meal. But it had to be a proper one, no niggardly little sandwiches and a few sausage rolls made by Dora Lewis. And the venue. Gomer Hall, for heaven’s sake! That would have to be changed.

  Putting on her fur coat and her best leather shoes and gloves, and the hat which had cost three times what she had told Arfon, she went to call on the Jenkinses of Montague Court.

  An hour later she returned home by taxi, having booked the function room and arranged for them to add a few specialities to the selection of food.

  She told her granddaughter what she had done that evening when Joan called to show her the invitations she had chosen.

  “Sorry, my dear but you’ll have to change them, I have a surprise for you – I have booked Montague Court.”

  Joan kissed her, told her she was kind and generous, then rang and cancelled it.

  * * *

  Hywel decided to sell the goats. It was when he was working for Farmer Booker, clearing out a barn, that he met a man who said he might be interested in buying them from him. The man, a surly individual, had come to look at some old machinery Booker was selling. Hearing about Hywel’s goats he made an offer, subject to them being in good condition. He offered less than Hywel had paid but Hywel knew that some lessons had to be paid for and learning that goat-keeping was not for him was a lesson well-learned.

  He arranged for the man to come and look at them on the following evening and Janet stood in the kitchen and watched as the tall, heavily built man strode across the yard and looked into the pen. She couldn’t see much of his face as a heavy beard hid most of it, but she saw that his colour was high, his eyes were dull and his nose was pitted and had an unhealthy purplish look.

  She beckoned to her husband and, when he came over, she whispered,

  “I don’t like him. I don’t think he’d treat them kindly. Let’s wait for someone else to take them.”

  “You’re right. He looks a cruel bugger. And one who’s been in a few fights too.” He went up to where the man was looking over the fence at the goats and said, “Sorry mate, my wife has changed her mind. We’re keeping them.”

  The man walked away after grumbling to Hywel about wasting his time and with a sigh of relief, Janet heard his lorry start up and drive away. She shuddered.

  “He reminded me of my father,” she explained.

  “You don’t need to explain, love,” Hywel said. “I wasn’t happy about him myself.”

  * * *

  Frank was still uneasy about the commitment he had made to involve himself in the robbery at the warehouse. But learning that Basil had Fridays and Saturdays off, he felt that at least he wouldn’t be expected to confront his brother and give him something to make him sleep. Although the worry remained. Even if he convinced the police of his innocence, he knew Basil would know he was guilty. And what trouble was he bringing to him? Basil could be suspected of complicity and could easily lose his job.

  When Percy met him as he was walking home from The Railwayman’s and told him it was on for Saturday night he was almost relieved. At least action was better on the nerves than waiting.

  He was given a flask and a small paper packet, and told to fill the flask with whisky to which he must add the powder. A second fold of paper containing the powder was also handed over.

  “If the watchman refuses to drink the whisky you’ll have to put this in his beer or tea, what ever drink he has, right?”

  “You mean I have to go in there and deliberately give him knockout drops? What about my alibi? He’ll see me won’t he?”


  “You tell the police you were there. You went to see your brother, forgetting it’s his night off. But whatever you say, remember to stay as close to the truth as you can.”

  “What if he doesn’t invite me in?”

  “That’s what I’m paying you fifty quid for, boy. So you make sure he does. Right?”

  * * *

  It seemed far from satisfactory but Frank knew he had to go through with it. By Saturday, he was so tense he was ill. Every muscle ached. His joints felt about to snap apart and the pain in his head was one intense, explosive agony. At five o’clock he sat in his parents’ kitchen and stared at the food his mother had offered and couldn’t swallow a single forkful.

  “Sickening for something, are you?” Hywel asked, his fork poised to take a sausage from Frank’s abandoned plate. “Don’t tell me you’re love-sick an’ all! What a household this is! Ernie mooning about, dreaming of Helen, Caroline in despair because she can’t believe Barry loves her, and now you? Who is it?”

  “Leave it, Dad.” Frank said. “I’m not in the mood for talking, or for food.”

  “Then you won’t want this,” Hywel smiled as he speared the last of Frank’s sausages.

  At half-past eight, when Frank was pretending to sleep in a chair close to the fire, Basil and Eleri walked in with their baby. Frank was swamped with guilt at the thought of what he was going to do to Basil’s deputy in a few hours’ time.

  “Hello, Eleri, Basil. Glad you don’t have to work tonight?” he asked.

  “I do,” Basil groaned as he dropped his shoulder bag onto the table. “Old George, my replacement, is ill and he can’t work. So, no sleep for me tonight.” Frank’s stomach curled in fear. He couldn’t do it now. How could he? Percy wouldn’t expect it. His mind tumbled in a confusion of mixed images; himself arrested, Basil arrested, Eleri crying and accusing him. And Percy, standing threateningly telling him he had to go through with it or else.

  But try as he may there wasn’t a way to get in touch with Percy to tell him the whole thing was off. Perhaps if he simply didn’t go? He thought of walking through Booker’s yard with a couple of pheasants and getting himself arrested. That would be enough of an excuse. Or getting drunk and behaving violently and achieving the same result. But there wasn’t time. He had to be there, and with an unconscious watchman laid out, in just over three hours’ time.

  “What’s the matter?” Eleri asked, alarmed at the paleness of Frank’s face.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said, and rushed from the room.

  “He hasn’t been well all day,” Janet said. “Best he goes to bed I think.”

  Ernie had gone straight to Helen’s from work. He had found a few day’s casual employment, sawing floorboards to the required lengths at the woodyard. At ten o’clock, Eleri and Ronnie were still there but Basil had gone to start his night-shift.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Eleri whispered, pointing a thumb at Frank.

  “Sick,” Hywel said. “Don’t talk to him or he’ll have to make a run for it again.

  “Some sympathy wouldn’t come amiss,” Janet said, then she looked at Eleri. “Are you feeling unwell too, love?”

  “I don’t feel all that grand,” Eleri admitted.

  It was coincidental Eleri being ill at the same time as Frank as there were different reasons for the sickness, but Janet presumed they must have both eaten something that disagreed.

  “Hywel will walk you home, love,” she said. “Or would you like to ride in the van?”

  “Best I walk, I think,” Eleri said. “But I think I’ll sit a while longer.”

  “You could stay here tonight,” Janet said, “but Basil will be worried if you aren’t there when he gets home at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  When eleven o’clock came Hywel was beginning to doze, Janet was making cocoa, and Frank had an idea.

  “You make up a bed for Eleri and Ronnie, Mam. I’ll go and tell Basil that Eleri isn’t well,” Frank said, seeing the perfect excuse for calling at the factory.

  “D’you feel well enough?” Janet asked and Frank nodded.

  “He wouldn’t like it if we let her walk home at this time of night and her not feeling well.”

  “I would be glad, Mam,” Eleri said.

  “So would I,” Hywel admitted. “I don’t fancy walking to Trellis Street and back.”

  Frank set off, remembering to take the flask he had prepared and the extra packet of powder given to him by Percy. It might work. Fifty pounds just for giving his brother a few extra hours’ sleep. Thank’s to Eleri’s upset stomach, it might just work! He shook off the feeling of panic as he hurried through the dark night, across the fields, down a rutted lane, through the wood, his eyes accustomed to being out at night and effortlessly finding the paths.

  When he rattled the gates and rang the emergency bell, he saw Basil come out, a torch in his hand.

  “It’s only me,” Frank called. “I’ve got a flask, can I come in?”

  “You know I’m not allowed to open the gates except in dire emergency,” Basil said, then added, “Hang on while I fetch the keys.”

  He ambled across and as he opened the gates asked, “What’s up then? Don’t tell me Mam’s locked you out?”

  “No, I’ve come to tell you Eleri and Ronnie are staying at our place tonight.”

  “Not ill, is she?” Basil asked anxiously.

  “A bit tired that’s all. Mam thought she could stay rather than disturb little Ronnie to go home. Fast asleep he is and snoring like a good ’un. We didn’t want you to have a fright, going home and finding the house empty. Fancy a drink?”

  They went into the cabin where Basil spent five nights of the week, and settled down near the open window. The night was dark but there was a warm breeze. Basil had always enjoyed the night hours. Since he was a small child he had relished the silence and peacefulness of the darkness. He felt privileged to share the secret world that revealed itself once human activity ceased.

  He was aware of small sounds that most would not hear. Animals rarely seen during the day were well-known to him. Even here, in his locked-away room behind fences that were supposed to keep the rest of the world at bay, he knew what was going on beyond the arc of light from his window.

  He told Frank about the fox that called at midnight for a share of his food and he went outside and bent down close to the wire fence to show his brother where he fed the trusting creature.

  Frank watched as Basil sat back on his heels, his long legs bent, his knees up around his ears, his head leaning against the wire. It was several minutes before he realised Basil was fast asleep.

  Taking the keys and unlocking the padlock and the heavy locks on the metal gates was easy and he collected the flask and its lid and went home, leaving the keys in the padlock, which he threw into the undergrowth at the side of the lane. When he was well away from the factory he threw the flask away too, after washing it in a stream.

  He went home but he couldn’t sleep. The sick feeling had returned and he thought of his brother lying on the cold ground and knew he had to phone to police. He had done his part, had kept his promise and how would Percy ever know it was he and not a passer-by who had telephoned the police?

  Slipping out of the house without being seen or heard was accomplished with the ease of practice. Trying to disguise his voice, he told the constable, not that there was a robbery taking place, only that there was an unconscious man there.

  He walked a little way through the fields, trying to calm his nerves and holding back from running to the factory to make sure Basil was all right. He heard voices raised in argument, a man and a woman, and he went closer to investigate. As he broke through the trees where a pair of cottages stood, the outside lights revealed the two people. He saw one run off, shouting back abuse at the girl, who stood close to the garden wall, her arms around her shoulders as if for warmth.

  He recognised her as Mair Gregory who worked for Gladys and Arfon Weston and, not w
anting to frighten her, Frank called out and gave his name as he drew closer.

  “You all right, Mair?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t fancy walking home in the dark, and at this time of night,” she said.

  “Not much of a man leaving you out here, even if you have had a quarrel,” Frank said, giving her his jacket.

  * * *

  Ernie was very late getting home that night. He had gone to Helen’s for supper and had stayed playing cards with her and her parents and a neighbour who had called in, until one o’clock.

  Walking home, a bit tipsy from the flagons Helen’s father had opened and shared, he met Farmer Booker, walking his fields with a broken shotgun across his arm. They stopped, farmer and poacher talking in a subdued whisper and remarking on how still the night was and how warm.

  “After poachers, Mr Booker?” Ernie asked.

  “Not really. There’s an injured cow in one of the fields and I went to see how she was. She’s cut herself badly on some barbed wire, silly old girl. She’s been stitched but we’ve left her there, with some hay bales around her. She’ll be able to walk back to the barn tomorrow.” He patted the weapon and added, “I usually carry this. You never know when there’ll be an opportunity to give someone a fright.”

  “Poaching’s for kids,” Ernie said, pulling off a length of grass and chewing thoughtfully. “There comes a time when you want to settle down.”

  “You? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of marrying that Gunner girl?”

  “You know her?”

  “She deserves the best. She’ll expect you to get a proper job, and keep it, mind.”