“I thought we might add to the atmosphere by having lighted candles along the tables. What d’you think?” she asked Joan.
“Candles?” Arfon shouted. “Are you mad! What would the papers make of the Westons burning down the Hall? Dammit, Gladys, behave yourself!”
* * *
Gladys marked with a star the most attractive young men and with a circle the most eligible girls. This was her best opportunity for finding a husband for Joan. She was certain Terrence and Megan would sort out their differences. He was such a charming man.
Jack was the problem. Soon to be thirty, it was imperative she found him a suitable partner. A shy young girl might be best, someone who could be moulded into the right kind of wife for a man likely to rise in his profession. He surely wouldn’t stay a teacher all his life? She worked on her lists smiling happily for the rest of the day.
The following morning, with only two days to go before the party, Megan made it quite clear that if Terrence were invited she would not attend. Gladys assured her he had already made his apologies, but she wondered if Megan really did want to see him and decided to find out what had happened between the young couple.
Without the customary phone call, Gladys called on Old Mr Jenkins and asked to see Terrence. The old man looked shabbier than before. His suit was food-stained and tobacco discolouration on his moustache had deepened. He wore slippers and one was cut to ease what looked like a bunion. Very unseemly when entertaining a lady, Gladys sniffed.
“I think my granddaughter and he have had a little tiff, and I wondered if I could do anything to help put it right,” she explained when the maid had brought them coffee.
“I don’t know whether it’s right to interfere,” Mr Jenkins said lowering himself into the most comfortable chair. “If they can’t sort it out themselves there’s no future for them anyway, in my opinion.”
“But they were getting on so well.”
“Look, I’ll talk to Terrence and ask him to come and see you if you wish, but that’s all I can do.” His irritation showed and he had used the word ‘interfere’, so she quickly made her excuses and left, without drinking the bitter and unpleasant drink everyone seemed to serve these days.
“I won’t be sorry not to be related to the man,” she told Arfon later. “He’s very – ramshackle, my dear.”
“These posh families often go in for eccentricity when there’s no money left,” Arfon agreed.
* * *
Mr Jenkins had not been angry with Gladys but with his grandson. When would the boy start acting sensibly, and conform to what most consider reasonable behaviour? He studied the letter that had come by that morning’s post and a deep frown was added to what Gladys had thought ill humour aimed at her. It had been addressed to Terrence but also, to anyone who knew his present whereabouts. Guessing it would be trouble, he had opened it and was still undecided whether to confront the boy or await further developments.
What he had wanted to say to Gladys when she called to ask about Terrence was to warn her to keep her granddaughters away from him. But he couldn’t be that disloyal.
* * *
Terry was still trying to talk to Megan. He waited for her at her home, but it was Thursday before he succeeded, when she made one of her rare forays out of the house. As she crossed the park to meet her sister she was huddled in a loose coat, with a hood that concealed her face, but he recognised her at once.
Apologising was not going to be enough, and he decided that lies would definitely help. He might not have bothered, but stories about someone attacking her worried him. So far no one had accused him but if they did he would find it impossible to prove he was nowhere near the lanes at that time. He had been home but his grandfather had been in his room and the maid had taken herself off to see her boyfriend.
He had to see Megan and ensure she would make it absolutely clear he was not the man who attacked her. Then he would make plans to go back to London once Christmas was over. It had been good to get away but he knew there was no life for him here in this small seaside Welsh town.
“Megan, please listen to me.”
“What can you possibly say that would make it worth my time?” she asked coldly.
“I want to explain.”
“Explain why you rushed me into something I was not ready for? That you attacked me without constraint?”
“Attacked?” The word frightened him. “It wasn’t me in the lane that night. You know it wasn’t!”
“Your attack was no better. Seduction of an inexperienced woman is just as cowardly.”
Her words sounded idiotic but being taken by surprise, they were the best she could do. What if he did think she was crazy? All she wanted was for him to go away so she never had to see him again.
He walked alongside her, looking down at her pert face, her eyes hidden in the shadow of her hood. “I have something to tell you, Megan, will you please listen to me?”
“Why should I?”
“Please?” He saw her nod almost imperceptibly and went on. “I thought I could control my feelings for you, but in the end I couldn’t. I wanted you so badly I lost control. I love you, Megan and I love you enough to be sure it won’t happen again. Please forgive me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll go away, back to London where I won’t be reminded of what I lost.” He took both her hands in his and kissed her gently on the cheek and walked away.
He glanced back hoping she would be following him, or at least looking back, but his lies and charm were wasted. Megan felt nothing but relief.
* * *
When Gladys heard they had met and talked, hope rose in her that at least one of her grandchildren would be settled but hope was quickly dashed. What was the matter with them that they hadn’t found someone and settled down like ordinary people? Still, she consoled herself, there was still the party and with seventy-four people attending, there was certain to be someone there for each of them. She must remind them to mingle. If only those awful Griffithses weren’t coming. They were sure to be trouble.
* * *
Basil Griffiths was a doting father and spent as much time as he was able with Eleri and their son Ronnie. Working as a nightwatchman he had time during the day to walk out with them, pushing the pram, bent over from his skinny height, smiling and talking to the sleepy occupant of the pram.
“Like an ‘S’ hook he is,” Eleri teased when they made one of their regular visits to the Griffithses’ cottage. “Peering in to the pram, chatting away, hardly looking where he’s going.”
“He knows my voice and knows what I look like. He knows he has a loving family around him, so what’s wrong with that?” Basil defended.
“Nothing love,” Eleri said affectionately. “Wonderfully lucky he is, having a dad like you.”
“When is your day off next week, son?” Hywel asked. And the expression of almost foolish sentimentality was wiped off Basil’s thin face.
“Oh no! Not this year, our Dad. Please! I’m a working man now. And a father. I don’t have the time.”
“Chickens to feather and clean, ducks and pheasants the same, plus a few rabbits to skin. Your Mam and I can’t manage on our own and you know how useless our Frank and Ernie are.”
Eleri kept her eyes downcast. She dreaded being asked to help with the ritual slaughter although she had no qualms about eating the resulting meals. She felt ashamed, knowing that if she were responsible for killing her own meat she would be a vegetarian.
“Thursday the twenty-third,” Basil muttered. “And you’ll have to teach Frank for next year. It’s his turn after all the years I’ve done it.”
“Right then. We’ll make a start first thing.”
“What d’you call first thing? I work nights remember.”
“The orders are written in this book,” Hywel explained. “And I’ve written cards to put on each bird so we don’t get them mixed up, like when Frank delivered them. Remember that fiasco?”
“You o
pened the Christmas cider barrel a bit early if I remember. Said you had to try it, make sure it was all right. That might have had something to do with it,” Basil reminded him.
They went on arguing good-naturedly until Basil glanced at the baby and said, “He looks flushed. He’s too warm.” Then, “His breathing isn’t right. Look, Eleri, he seems distressed.”
“Nonsense, he’s fine.” But he was not. At eleven o’clock that night his tummy was rising and falling with every breath in an unnatural way and the doctor was called.
“I told you,” Basil was wailing when he was called from work to be with his small son. “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
While Eleri watched little Ronnie as he struggled to cope with the infection the following morning, Basil ran on his long legs to tell Dora that his wife wouldn’t be able to help with the Westons’ party that day.
* * *
Gladys was cheerful, singing a song she had heard on the radio many times, ‘She Wears Red Feathers and a Hooly Hooly Skirt’, and was embarrassed when anyone heard her. “Such a silly song,” she complained to Sally and Sian who had come to show their mother new dresses bought for the following evening.
When Victoria came to tell her Dora Lewis had called to see her, she felt a flood of irritation. “What’s wrong with the woman that she needs to come to me every whip-stitch? Either she can do the job or she can’t!”
Gladys ordered, demanded and shouted but Dora insisted that with baby Ronnie ill, she would not expect Eleri to help.
“I could help, Mother,” Sian said. “After all, it’s a party for the young people, I won’t be missed.”
“How ridiculous, Sian! How can the Westons hold a party and allow you to be seen dealing with food?”
“Only help in the kitchen is needed,” Dora said. “I can probably deal with the cooking beforehand and set it out at nine o’clock as you planned. Mrs Fowler-Weston could stay in the kitchen out of sight.”
“I couldn’t allow it. How can you think of demeaning yourself in such a way, Sian?”
Dora’s eyes began to glitter dangerously. If Mrs Weston said one more word to suggest she was lowly enough to be seen but not her daughter…
“I don’t think it matters whether I’m seen or not. Skulking around trying not to be noticed would be far worse and why should I? Preparing food isn’t anything shameful. Most women do that every day.”
Dora relaxed with a low grunt of approval. Sian was outspoken to the point of rudeness but she wasn’t bad.
“I’d be happy for you to help serve the buffet tonight,” she said. “With the food preparation this afternoon too if you had a mind.”
“That’s settled then.” Sian kissed her mother to show she understood her reluctance and added, “I’ll enjoy helping Mrs Lewis, Mother,” She turned to Dora and suggested, “Why don’t you come to my place at five o’clock, then we can sort out what has to be done?”
* * *
In the sweet shop in Sophie Street Rhiannon was busy. With just a week to go before Christmas Day, mothers were searching for small gifts to put around the tree or to hide in stockings to be hung on bed posts. Jimmy had been around to replenish her display of small tins, and the selection of china gifts she had begun to stock had been a great success.
The shelves and the window needed reorganising and she decided that she would spend the early part of the evening working on them. Being busy, and with no assistant to help since Eleri’s baby had arrived, was no excuse for the place looking less than spotless and inviting, she told herself.
It was the eighteenth, the day of the Westons’ famous party, but that was no great excitement for her. Mam was more animated than she. What was there to be thrilled about?
Barry would be fussing over Caroline and not herself. Jimmy would be pointing out how inattentive he was to her, and how little she and Barry had in common, and coaxing her to make plans to see him over Christmas. What a prospect. The more she thought of it the less she wanted to go. Several times she had reached for the phone to call and tell Jimmy she had a cold and wouldn’t be going, but as he had seen her only a few hours before, he would hardly believe her.
At five o’clock, just before the usual flurry of customers as people left work, Barry came in. For a moment she wondered if her plans were about to change. If he invited her to the party she would not refuse. He was so busy with his photography that a rare evening was not to be wasted.
He struggled out of the van carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. Was it her Christmas present? Excited, and already abandoning her idea of working late she went to greet him.
“I want you to see this, I made it for Joseph but I’m not sure if it needs painting or varnishing,” he said, dashing her hopes. He unwrapped a beautifully made wooden train, on which a child could sit and work his way along with his feet.
“I’m sure he’ll love it,” she said with genuine admiration. “But I think he might like some bright colours.” Together they designed the pattern for the toy, in between serving customers.
When he left half an hour later, he made no suggestion for spending the evening with her. “I’ll take it up to Mam’s and use the garage to work on it,” he said retreating to the van without even a kiss.
It was long past the time she normally closed, but customers continued to trickle in and she was in no hurry. All she had to do was bathe, comb her hair and put on her dance frock. Gertie Thomas closed her shop on the opposite corner and strolled across to buy some Turkish delight. Maggie Wilpin left her chair in her doorway and stood chatting to Gertie, in the shop doorway.
“You coming over for tea Christmas day as usual, Maggie?” Gertie asked. “Don’t know what meat I’ll have. I’m leaving it till Christmas Eve and seeing what the shops are selling off cheap. I’ve saved my ration for a couple of chops if I don’t get a bird.”
“We usually have a chicken from the Griffithses but it’s hardly worth it for just me and the boy,” Maggie replied. “His dad’ll be out of prison in January, so Gwyn thought we’d be better waiting for then and have a real celebration.”
“If he’s out long enough,” Gertie said with a sniff.
Stepping back from the conversation, Rhiannon wondered what Christmas would be for her. Going on recent performance, Barry would be involved with Caroline and her son. Dora would be deep in books on catering she had borrowed from the library, Viv would be out with his friends, and Eleri, celebrating her first Christmas with Basil, would hardly need her company.
There would be the usual gathering at the Griffithses’ in the evening of course. Barry was certain to be there. But would he have time for more than a word? Like her mother she was beginning to think New Year 1954 would be a time to take stock and consider where she was going.
Chapter Twelve
Terry Jenkins was unhappy. He had returned to London but not where he had lived before. He couldn’t pick up with the life he had so recently left. That part of his life was over. One more change of address must surely mean they wouldn’t find him. As for Megan, he couldn’t face trying to explain to her his reasons for leaving, he wasn’t certain of them himself. She had told him goodbye, but he knew that if he had stayed he could have changed her mind, there was something there, some fiery glow between them that could have been coaxed into a flame. But no, better to put it all aside and make a fresh start somewhere no one knew him. But most people of his age already had their lives sorted out and there didn’t seem to be a place for him.
He missed Megan. She was good company and was beginning to be more than a friend. Much more. He was ashamed at the way he had forced her into making a commitment too soon. What was the matter with him that he couldn’t handle a relationship with a woman?
Putting the past behind him and going back to South Wales had seemed a good idea but now it was one more place to which he couldn’t return. But perhaps that was where he was going wrong, not facing things? Never giving things a second chance?
Running awa
y from his previous mess hadn’t solved anything, and running away from Megan hadn’t either. Perhaps it was time to stand still and face things.
Without waiting until his enthusiasm for the plan faded, he sat down and wrote Megan a letter.
* * *
Megan opened the letter from Terry when she was alone. She didn’t want Joan giving her advice she didn’t need. She wouldn’t see Terry again, of that she was certain. But the letter was a temptation she could resist. She could pretend she hadn’t opened it. It was brief, stating only that he would be returning to Pendragon Island and was determined to speak to her. If his invitation still held, he would be at the Westons’ party on the eighteenth.
She screwed up the paper and told herself she was angry, but that was untrue. She was aware of her body warming with excitement, and there was a hint of a smile as she squeezed the page in her hand.
She told Joan about it later and as her sister began to warn her of trusting him, she said, “It might be fun, just to talk to him.”
“Then make sure you speak rudely, and loud enough for everyone to hear!”
“Oh yes. I’ll make him wish he hadn’t bothered to come.”
But that too was untrue. The separation hadn’t lessened her feelings, but intensified them. She was remembering how her body had reacted to his touch and the memories were electrifying.
* * *
Dora was not looking forward to working with Sian on the day of the party. Her name might be Heath but she was still one of the Westons. Even reminding herself that Sian’s husband Islwyn was now working in a fish and chip shop didn’t prevent her feeling uneasy.
The brief chat in Sian’s miserably small kitchen had not been long enough for the two women to find a way of understanding each other and Dora promised herself that if Sian once tried to lord it over her, she would tell her firmly that with a criminal for a husband she had no right to tell others how to behave. With that uncompromising attitude she set off for Trellis Road.
The Weston Girls Page 19