“But Sally and I haven’t enough money,” Sian protested.
“Neither have I according to your father, dear, but why should that stop us? Come on, call your sister. Five party dresses for a start. That will stop her spreading rumours about the Westons!”
Having arranged to meet her daughters and granddaughters at two, Gladys made another phone call, this time to Terrence Jenkins.
“We’re going to choose our dresses for the party,” she told him. “Perhaps you’d like to come and help Megan pick one that makes her look her best.” Terry agreed and persuaded his uncle’s maid to press his suit for the occasion. He needed to look his best too if he were to persuade Megan into a night of passion. Things were not looking very good. Megan had cooled towards him and he hated to think he’d been wasting his time, staying put in this small town and risking the writer of that letter finding him, all for nothing.
* * *
Rhiannon Lewis was not looking forward to Christmas with her usual enthusiasm. With her relationship with Barry the cause for gossip and Jimmy hoping to make their friendship into something more she was in a turmoil.
Barry saw no reason for Rhiannon and himself not to be seen together as often as they wished, but he was married, albeit in name only, to Caroline Griffiths, and Rhiannon felt it was wrong. Her mother agreed.
“I understand how you feel, Rhiannon, love. With your father playing home and away, it makes everyone expect the worst of us Lewises and we don’t want your life spoilt by more gossip.”
Rhiannon and Barry knew that with Barry being the son of her father’s ‘other woman’ there was no possibility of any sympathy for their plight from Dora. She had never openly demanded that they stopped seeing each other, but she did encourage Jimmy Herbert, inviting him to tea, and for an evening of cards or Monopoly, making him feel he could call any time, specially as he was a rep and often far from home. “Your second home this is, Jimmy and don’t be afraid to knock at the door any time you want a cup of tea,” she frequently said, and Jimmy, in his pursuit of Rhiannon often did.
One Wednesday afternoon, Rhiannon and her mother were sorting through the tattered decorations, survivors of many Christmases and countless repair sessions. There was a knock at the door and the cheerful voice of Jimmy called, “It’s only me, can I come in?”
“If you do you’ll have to help us untangle this little lot,” Dora replied.
“A cup-a-tea first then I’ll show you how it’s done,” Jimmy laughed, shedding his navy overcoat and hurrying over to warm his hands against the roaring fire.
“What are you doing here, Jimmy?” Rhiannon asked. “It’s half-day closing so you can’t expect any business.”
“No, I came down special. I want to ask you if you’ll come to a party with me on December the eighteenth. It promises to be a posh do, mind, so you’ll have to dress up and do me proud.”
“Cheek!”
“Funny really, I don’t know why I’ve been invited. It’s them Westons, you know, the lot your Viv works for. I only know Megan and Joan through meeting them at the dance class with you and Viv, so why they invited me I can’t think. But will you come?”
“I couldn’t! I don’t like the Weston Girls for a start, and they wouldn’t want the likes of me there. They’ll be asking the wealthy families not the scruffs of Sophie Street.”
Jimmy put on a superior look and nodded. “Yes, I realised I’d be slumming asking someone like you, Rhiannon. Best if I take someone else, eh, Mrs Lewis?”
“After court cases and all the rest of it, I don’t think the Westons are wealthy any more.”
“But that won’t stop them acting like they are,” Jimmy frowned. “So, why ask me?”
“Short of men,” Viv said coming from the kitchen where he had been cleaning his shoes. “Joan asked me for a few suggestions for eligible young men. I suggested you. Mind, I also suggested the Griffithses and so did Jack, but I don’t think that went down too well!”
“They don’t have as many friends as before the trouble,” Dora said. “But you go, Rhiannon, and get a nice frock and show them how lovely you are compared with them Weston Girls with their haughty ways, long noses and short skirts.”
“Thanks, Jimmy, I’d love to come,” Rhiannon smiled. “I’ll see if Eleri will come shopping and help me choose a dress.”
The following morning, when she went to open the shop, Barry arrived and invited her to go the party with him.
“I’m sorry, Barry. I’d have loved to go with you, if only I’d known. Now it’s too late, I’m already going with Jimmy Herbert,” she said. After commiserations she suggested, “Why don’t you invite Caroline? She doesn’t go out much and I’m sure she’d enjoy it?” She expected him to refuse, to say it wouldn’t be right, or fair, and she would regretfully have to tell Jimmy she had changed her mind and was going with Barry.
She was sadly mistaken.
“That’s a good idea! You’re right, Rhiannon, it would be a real treat for her, and we would still see each other there, wouldn’t we?”
* * *
Dora was very fond of Eleri. Although she was no longer her daughter-in-law, since the death of Lewis-boy, she still treated her as if she were. Now Eleri was married to Basil Griffiths and had borne him a son, she went to the flat in Trellis Street regularly to take small gifts, including clothes she had knitted for the baby.
On the afternoon following the discussion about Gladys Weston’s party, she took out her bicycle on which she had collected insurance for many years, and, waving to her daughter Rhiannon as she passed the sweet shop, she went up to the main road to collect her rations. On the way back she stopped to spend an hour with Eleri and Basil and the baby.
It was a pleasant day, a winter sun forcing its way through the morning mist and creating a brief spell of brightness that belied the shortness of the day. In an hour it would be dark, but for the moment it was easy to imagine there was time to wander over to the beach and relax on the sand with other families. People she passed had opened their coats, enjoying the brief hint of warmer weather. The crowds looking in the shops moved at a more leisurely pace and Dora felt happy and more relaxed than of late.
Eleri was preparing supper, which Basil would eat at seven, before going for a pint at The Railwayman’s then on, to work throughout the night.
“Mam! There’s a lovely surprise.” Eleri took Dora’s coat and ushered her to a chair close to the fire. “Wait now while I finish grating this old bit of cheese into the pie and we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
The baby began to bleat a warning that he wouldn’t be ignored for long and Dora looked at Eleri. “Can I pick him up, love?”
“Of course you can. I’ll be glad if you can amuse him for five minutes while I finish making this pie. Thanks Mam.”
With a new mother-in-law, Janet Griffiths, Eleri’s name for Dora hadn’t changed from ‘Mam’. Eleri saw no reason to change the name she had used for so long, and Dora loved it.
“What about if I finish the pie and you cuddle little Ronnie?” Dora suggested. She looked at the small piece of meat that Eleri had chopped to stretch into a meal for them and dug around in the food cupboard for inspiration. Lentils and an oxo were added, mashed potato to cover instead of the sad-looking pastry and the hard, stale cheese grated onto the top to make it more attractive. While it cooked she stayed with Ronnie while Eleri and Basil went to do some shopping.
When the pie came out of the oven an hour and a half later brown and shiny, Eleri hugged Dora and said, “Mam, you are a marvel. You can make a meal out of nothing and make it look great.”
“Eleri’s learning fast,” Basil said proudly, “but she’ll be glad when this damned rationing’s finished.”
“Won’t we all!”
They chatted about the baby’s progress and then about their arrangements for Christmas.
“We’re all going over to the Griffithses’ as you’d guess,” Eleri laughed. “The smallest house and the largest number of p
eople. I don’t know how they fit them in, do you?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind trying,” Dora said sadly. “Rattles round in the house I do. And when Rhiannon and Viv leave, as they surely will one of these days, well it’ll get worse won’t it, not better.”
“Why don’t you come too?” Eleri suggested. “Your Viv and Rhiannon are coming in the evening and I know Janet and Hywel would love to see you too.”
“And Lewis? Is he coming, with his fancy woman?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” She frowned then added apologetically, “Yes, Nia probably will come now she has a grandson there, won’t she? Sorry, Mam. I wasn’t thinking.” Realising her mistake she quickly changed the subject. “Mam, it’s not my business but why don’t you get yourself a job again? You’ve been home for a while now and it seems such a waste, you being so clever with figures and not using your skills.”
“It’s a cook you ought to be,” Basil said, sniffing the pie appreciatively.
“There’s plenty to do in the house and garden.” Dora’s blue eyes brightened and her voice was sharp.
Undeterred, Eleri said softly, “Do all that standing on your head, you would, so fast you work. It would be good for you to have some interest outside the house, mind. Why don’t you make that your New Year’s Resolution?”
“Perhaps.”
There was a slight uneasiness between them and anxious to clear it, Eleri took the baby she had been feeding and said pleadingly, “Cuddle him off to sleep Mam, you know he always relaxes with you.”
“Bad habits we’re giving him.”
“And lots of love too,” she smiled, kissing Dora’s pale cheek affectionately.
As Dora cycled home, rain began to fall. Soft and clean onto the leaf-filled gutters. It stung her hands and she wished she’d remembered gloves. But she was soon distracted from the cold by her thoughts. She did need something to fill her time. No, not fill it, use it. She had to stop this hanging around hoping that Nia would leave Lewis and he would come back to her.
Perhaps she should buy herself a pet. A dog would be best, she could take him on walks. Or should she find a job? Perhaps Eleri was right and she needed to get out, meet people and stop hiding in shame. She needed more than just walking a dog. Nothing strenuous, but something that really interested her.
She smiled in the darkness thinking of Gladys Weston having to face the fact that her son-in-law was working in a chip shop. What a laugh. She’d do better than that. The Lewises knew how to get on.
Her son Viv was running the Weston’s business for them and bringing it round from disaster. Her daughter Rhiannon was managing that Nia Martin’s sweet shop, and there was Gladys’s son-in-law Islwyn Heath, cooking chips!
What a funny world it was when things could go so topsy-turvy. She began to sing as she turned the corner into Sophie Street, “How Much Is That Doggie In the Window, Woof Woof—”
Chapter Eight
Gladys Weston was in despair, her plans for her party were in complete disarray. She stared at the two lists she had made of possible guests, and frowned. On the first were the people she had met socially on a regular basis before their little bit of trouble, as she referred to police investigations. Most of these people had refused. Politely for the most part, but firmly.
The second list was longer and most of the people on it she did not want to meet at all. This list had been made up by her grandchildren. Jack had added the Griffithses and at first she thought he had been teasing her but no, he insisted that if she wanted a jolly party with young people having fun, then Frank and Ernie were necessary to its success.
Then there was Viv Lewis, who was an employee and since when did decent families like the Westons invite their staff to a social event? Now she had been told the girls wanted Eleri and Basil, plus Rhiannon and some salesman called Jimmy Herbert.
It wouldn’t do at all. What would Terrence Jenkins think of them?
Unless the party were to consist of only the immediate family, she would have to be more persuasive. If a few more of Terrence’s relations were to accept her invitation, others might be convinced that it would be a wise social move to accept too. She hadn’t actually met Terrence’s cousins but if they were Jenkins they must be acceptable, and she had been able to confirm that neither Edward nor Margaret were married.
Putting on her best felt hat and fur coat, she set off to visit the Jenkinses at their hotel, Montague Court.
It was not considered polite to arrive for a social call unannounced, so she telephoned and arranged a table for afternoon tea for two. Easy to explain that her friend had forgotten to come.
The room in which tea was served was furnished simply with tables and chairs, but the carpet was rich and the walls were covered with a pleasing array of oil paintings in wide, gold-painted frames. A fire burned in a large grate and on the mantleshelf an ormolu clock marked the quarter hours in subdued precision. There were a few highly polished shelves on which glass and china ornaments stood to add to the room’s air of homely luxury.
A waiter came limping over to take her coat and lead her to a small table in which a folded card bearing the word ‘Reserved’ stood on a silver frame. Allowing herself time to look around, Gladys explained that she was waiting for a friend to join her. After ten minutes during which she had decided that the Jenkins family would be suitably fertile ground in which to look for a wife for Jack and a husband for Joan, she sighed gracefully and announced that her friend must have been unavoidably detained, and ordered.
She looked around for a sign that members of the family were present. She had learned from old Mr Jenkins that the place was run by his daughter Dorothy assisted by her son, Edward and her daughter Margaret. Although she stretched her neck to look around the various doorways, she saw only the waiter. He was about twenty-six or twenty-seven she decided, tall, slim and very efficient. The Jenkinses would know about training staff, she thought with approval. The telephone was near her and when it rang she saw the waiter answer and was startled to hear him say, “Edward Jenkins speaking. Yes, my sister Margaret is in the kitchen, one moment please, while I fetch her.”
While pretending to struggle with a crumbled scone which tipped its jam onto her hand, Gladys listened and watched as a woman in her early thirties came out of swing doors wearing a white overall and hat, and spoke into the phone.
“Margaret Jenkins speaking, who is this?” the woman demanded in an imperious voice and after a few moments, she replaced the receiver, scribbled something in a notebook, whispered something to the water before returning to the kitchen. Edward and Margaret, Gladys was startled to realise were the grandchildren of the old man Jenkins, cousins of Terrence. She took out two of her printed invitations and sat with a fountain pen poised.
“Are you related to the gentleman who lives in Channel View Terrace?” she asked when the waiter returned to pour more tea. “I believe he has grandchildren about your age.”
“He’s our grandfather, yes. This house was the family home when he was younger. I suppose it still is,” he smiled. “Although we run it as an hotel, we’ve tried to keep the homelike atmosphere.”
“Charming,” Gladys smiled back.
“Of course most of the property has gone now, the gardens were sold to educate the new generation and are now covered with prefabs.”
Gladys gave a sympathetic shudder. “My husband and I considered buying his house you know, but in the end we decided to stay put.”
“You were right not to buy it I think. Rather a dark old place I’ve always thought.”
“Would Terrence Jenkins be a cousin?” Gladys went on, barely registering the look of disapproval that crossed the young man’s face as he heard the name.
“I don’t know cousin Terry all that well. He’s lived in London for years, and before that I was away at boarding school, so we only met on the usual family occasions, Christmas and summer hols, you know the sort of thing. I’ve heard he is seeing some young woman from the docks area.”
“Hardly the docks! You will have heard of the Westons?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of the Westons,” Edward Jenkins began to smile, thinking of the notoriety the family had experienced. “Everyone must have heard of the Westons and their family embarrassments.” Then, seeing her stricken face he added quickly, “Oh, you are Mrs Weston, aren’t you? I’m sorry. Don’t let a bit of gossip worry you, Mrs Weston. My ancestors acquired such wealth that they must have done a great deal more than burn down a small shop.” He could see this had made things worse and he added, “Aren’t your granddaughters called the Weston Girls? I’ve heard they are charming.”
Unable to do more than nod, reminded of just how badly her name had been affected, Gladys paid her bill and left.
Edward Jenkins called after her noticing she had dropped something but hesitated when he saw that it was a printed invitation to the Westons’ party.
Calming down as she sank into the soft leather of the taxi seat, she glared back at the fading lights as the hotel disappeared into the gloom of the early evening. Only innkeepers they were – innkeepers for all their swank. A girl from the docks area indeed! Her beautiful Megan! How dare they smirk at the Westons?
Back home, she looked again at her lists. Her wonderful party, planned with such excitement, was doomed. She liked the word, and repeated it in her head: Doomed. She put the phone number of the caterers on top of the pile and thought seriously of cancelling. Would her embarrassment be worse by doing so, or by continuing and having people know she couldn’t raise the support without stooping to inviting the dreadful Griffithses?
If something didn’t happen soon, she would be forced to accept the Griffithses or fall so short of guests they could hold it in her own living room. So far she had definite acceptances from only twenty people and she had envisaged at least fifty. She picked up the caterer’s phone number but put it down again. Anger swelled in her against her stupid son-in-law Islwyn, and briefly against Arfon too. She shredded the list in agitated hands. Between them they had brought her to this.
The Weston Girls Page 13