by Anwyn Moyle
‘Miss Moyle, I think it’s totally unreasonable of you to run off and take Mr Lane’s baby with you.’
‘And I think it’s totally unreasonable of Mr Lane to treat me like a slave and gamble away my money.’
Both the solicitor and the sergeant shot stern looks at Alan, who squirmed in his seat. I tearfully elaborated on the situation at Woodbridge Street and, by the time I was finished, the sergeant was ready to clap Alan Lane in irons and the solicitor was ready to prosecute him for high treason and send him after Ikey Solomon to Van Diemen’s Land. But then Alan played what he thought was his trump card.
‘The baby would be better off with me.’
This riled the sergeant even more.
‘Are you saying, Mr Lane, that we’re less able, here in Wales, to take care of our children than you are in London?’
‘I’m not saying that at all.’
‘Well, that’s what you seem to be saying.’
The solicitor kicked Alan in the shin and he shut up.
‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding . . .’
The sergeant growled back at him.
‘Obviously.’
‘I think Mr Lane and I should return to London and see if we can work out the terms of a reconciliation.’
‘Good idea.’
The two of them left with their tails between their legs. The sergeant finished his tea and currant cake, then doffed his hat to my mother before replacing it on his head and following them out into the street.
Three days later my father died.
The curtains were immediately drawn and his body was washed by a corff golchwr19 and laid out on a table in the main room of the house. White sheets were draped over the walls and the mirrors were covered for reasons of respect, as was the custom. Sweet-smelling herbs were brought in from the garden and placed on the counterpane that covered him and candles were lit and stood either side of his head. Mourners came to pay their respects right up to the day of the funeral and the whole village brought cake and ale and spice-wine to be offered round. There was a constant flow of visitors, coming in through the front door and out through the back door, stopping to eat and drink on the way. Some sang songs and others said prayers and I’m sure many of them came more than once.
On the burial day, the chief mourner was a man who did it for all the deaths in the village. He came to the house covered in crêpe and hung his head. Black gloves were handed out to me and my family and strips of crêpe were draped round our shoulders. The water and cloth used to wash my father’s body were kept in a bowl under the table and only thrown out into the street when the funeral party left the house. The whole village was gathered on the road outside and they sang a hymn before the coffin moved off, carried by Walter and three other men and led by the local preacher.
Fi bererin swael ei wedd,
Na does ynwy’ nerth na bywyd
Fel yn gorwedd yn y bedd:
Hollalluog, hollalluog,
Ydyw’r Un a’m cwyd i’r lan20
Everybody filed in and walked behind the coffin to the cemetery on the hill, about half a mile away. Gwyneth came up from Cardiff and she walked with me and Mother and Bronwyn at the front of the procession. I wheeled Charlotte in her pram.
The gravediggers stood by with their shovels as we arrived at the graveside. Another hymn was sung while the coffin was lowered down.
Wele’n sefyll rhwng y myrtwydd
Wrthrych teilwng o fy mryd;
Er o’r braidd ‘rwy’n Ei adnabod
Ef uwchlaw gwrthrychau’r byd:
Henffych fore! Henffych fore!
Caf ei weled fel y mae
Caf ei weled fel y mae21
Then the preacher said prayers while the gravediggers filled in the consecrated pit and the coffin disappeared under the clay. The prayer went on and on and Mother cried, so did Gwyneth and Bronwyn. Me and Walter didn’t.
When it was over, many of the people came back to the house and the curtains were opened and the covers taken from the walls and mirrors. They ate and drank and sang songs into the late evening.
That night, in bed with Charlotte beside me, I said my own prayer for my dearly beloved father.
Deep peace I breathe into you,
O weariness here:
O ache, here!
Deep peace, a soft white dove to you;
Deep peace, a quiet rain to you;
Deep peace, an ebbing wave to you!
Deep peace, red wind of the east from you;
Deep peace, grey wind of the west to you;
Deep peace, dark wind of the north from you;
Deep peace, blue wind of the south to you!
Alan Lane came back at the end of May. This time he came alone. He was sorry for what happened in Woodbridge Street, but he’d managed to find a nice flat in Finsbury for us and I wouldn’t have to go back there any more. He knew we could be happy together if I’d agree to come back to London. In those days, there were few one-parent families and a woman’s place was held to be by her husband’s side, no matter how much of a rogue or rascal he was.
A woman on her own with a child was viewed as loose and wanton, even if the opposite was true, and I’d been getting funny looks from the village people since my father died. So I agreed to go back. Gwyneth had already returned to Cardiff and Bronwyn was back teaching in Maesteg and Walter was working and with his new family, so it was only me and mother – and she was still doing whatever bits and pieces she could to make ends meet. Once my savings ran out, she couldn’t afford to have me and Charlotte living there and me not bringing anything in. I thought of going to see Monica Reynolds and asking her to find me something local, like she did before. But it would be impossible with a baby and I couldn’t leave Charlotte with my mother to mind. So it was the right thing to do, going back with Alan.
At least, I thought it was at the time.
What I didn’t know was, Alan was back gambling in the casinos again and he’d given up his accountancy job. His short stint of employment had convinced his father’s executors that he was a reformed character, and he’d made amends with the private clubs where he was a member and they’d allowed him back in after his year in the wilderness – on condition that he didn’t bring me with him.
The flat was on the top floor of a three-storey town house. There was no lift and I had to hump Charlotte’s pram up and down the stairs. Alan was kind and attentive for a couple of weeks and he climbed on top of me and grunted and pushed a few times and I fell pregnant for him again. After that he came and went as he pleased, just like before, and he rarely had any money to give me for food. That didn’t bother him, because he was always running round to his mother’s when he was hungry. The rent was paid from his father’s estate, so there was no danger of being evicted, but he gambled away the rest of the monthly allowance left to him under the reinstated terms of his father’s will, and there was never anything left for me and Charlotte.
Things gradually became more desperate and I eventually had no other option but to take on cleaning jobs to feed my child and the one I was expecting. When Alan wasn’t around, I went with Charlotte in her pram and cleaned the houses of the authors and artists who lived in the affluent areas of Bloomsbury and Holborn, which were within walking distance of the flat in Finsbury. The work involved washing floors and windows and dusting and polishing and brassing and buffing – cleaning kitchens and bathrooms and dining rooms and it was much the same as skivvying, only I could go home when I was finished.
Alan and I didn’t have sex any more – he wasn’t all that bothered and I didn’t want to do it while I was pregnant, in case it harmed the baby I was carrying. He didn’t seem to care either if I was in or out when he came and went. I didn’t tell him I was working because he’d only have wanted me to give him my money so he could gamble it away along with his own. I think he thought I was just out walking to get away from the boredom of the flat, and I got on with the cleaning for as long as I could.
I had to stop when I was eight months pregnant and, instead, I took in washing and ironing like my mother used to do, right up until I went into labour. My son, Daniel, was born on 8 March 1943. I had him at home with a midwife, just as I did with Charlotte, who was now thirteen months old, and I had two babies to feed. As soon as I could manage it I had to go back out cleaning the houses again. I put both children in the pram that I had to lug up and down the stairs and it hurt my foot every time. It was very hard during that summer of 1943, living on the top floor of the town house with two young children and a war on. Almost everything was being rationed by then and there was no sign of it all coming to an end.
After the Americans joined the war in 1942, London was full of GIs, as they called their soldiers. GI stood for government issue and it was a kind of joke that the soldiers called themselves that. They brought their own culture with them and they seemed to have plenty of free time and money to spend, and they brightened up gloomy old London that had been struggling through austere times for what seemed so long. One day, I was coming back from work when I encountered a small group of these GIs near Gray’s Inn Road. They were exploring the area and I must have looked like I was ready to drop, pushing the pram and limping along.
‘Are you OK, ma’am?’
‘Yes, I’m all right.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
They offered me cigarettes, which I declined, and chocolate and stockings, which I accepted. The stockings were called nylons and were made of a new material that was sheerer and more hard-wearing than either silk or rayon. We got chatting about which dancehalls were good and which were bad and they were impressed that I knew so much about the subject. They brought their own dances with them across the Atlantic – like the jitterbug and the balboa and swing and jive and boogie and I longed to be able to go hopping with them, like in the old days, before I got married.
As they were going in my direction, they asked if they could walk with me and I could give them more information about the London dance scene on the way. I found them to be well-mannered and very polite and respectful gentlemen. They even wheeled the pram for me and carried it up the front stairs. Just then the door opened and Alan stuck his head out to see what all the laughing and joking was about. He said nothing when he saw the American soldiers – until I got inside.
‘So that’s how you’re making your money.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bringing back Yank soldiers.’
‘I didn’t bring them back.’
‘Oh no? Then what were they doing here?’
I tried to explain that they were only being perfect gentlemen and trying to help me, which was more than he ever did. But he wouldn’t listen. He flew into a rage when I took the chocolate and nylons they’d given me out of my pocket and he tried to hit me. I’ve already said that Alan was no fighter, and he was older and smaller than me. So I avoided his swipe and punched him straight on his previously broken nose.
Blood began to flow and he looked at me in disbelief for a moment, before storming out of the flat and slamming the door behind him. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or him. He came back later that night, having been to see his old bat of a mother for some sympathy, no doubt. But it started a period of sustained mental harassment by him. He became insanely jealous and suspicious to the point of being paranoid. He’d leave the flat and pretend to go off somewhere but when I went to do my cleaning he’d follow me at a distance and spy on me. I always knew he was there, but I pretended not to notice and, if I even said hello to someone, he’d start an argument when I got home and accuse me of all sorts and even that the children didn’t belong to him.
He knew he couldn’t beat me in a fair fight, face to face, so he’d have a brainstorm and sneak up on me from behind and try to strangle me. I’d reach back and grab him by the goolies and we’d both be screaming like Saturday night slatterns, and the neighbours would rush in and separate us. He’d apologise and say he didn’t know what came over him – until it came over him again.
The war ended on 8 May 1945. Charlotte was three by then and Daniel was two. The whole of London celebrated and danced and drank and sang and went wild. More than a million people took to the streets and crowds assembled in Trafalgar Square and along The Mall and outside Buckingham Palace. It was a warm, bright day and the King and Queen and Prime Minister came out onto the balcony and everybody cheered. There were parades and marching bands all over London and street parties up in Finsbury and the pubs stayed open to help christen the celebrations. Flags and bunting flew everywhere and girls kissed soldiers and sailors kissed each other and children ate cakes and drank lemonade. Kings danced with pearly queens, and queens danced with pearly kings, and it was all over at last and everyone was truly thankful.
But the war between me and Alan went on.
He continued to follow me around, even after all the GIs went back to America. He’d hide behind cars and around corners and sometimes he’d come into the house where I was cleaning and kick over a bucket of water or run away with my washing rags. I’d run after him and trip him up or throw something at him and he’d go and tell the old bat and her ugly daughter. They came round the flat to complain once, but I was in no mood to listen to their lectures. I told them they could have him back, because he was no use to me – in any way, shape or form. They threatened to stop the rent payments and I told them to go ahead, I’d pay it myself and Alan could find somewhere else to live. But he wouldn’t leave the flat and the rent continued to be paid.
His antics became more and more bizarre and I often thought about having him committed to a lunatic asylum. I read somewhere that Sigmund Freud’s daughter, Anna, was taking the theories of psychoanalysis further than her father and new treatments for sexual aggression were being developed every day. Maybe they’d be able to cure Alan if he went in somewhere for a while. But, when I thought about it, I knew they’d never believe me and might commit me instead. Then he’d take the kids and move them back in with his mother. And I couldn’t have that.
He continued to sneak up behind me when I wasn’t looking and try to strangle me, and I continued to grab him by the goolies and the neighbours continued to come in and pull us apart. We didn’t sleep together any more, but I always kept one eye open, in case he crept into my room in the middle of the night with a carving knife. He never did, but I kept a rolling-pin under my pillow just in case and I’d have clouted him with it across the side of his schizophrenic head if he came anywhere near me.
In 1945, Alan was forty-two and I was only twenty-seven. The fact that I was so much younger than him added to his paranoia that I was seeing someone else – and maybe more than one. But he was enough to put me off men for all time and I didn’t need any more of them in my life. In fact, I was getting increasingly fed up with Alan and his antics and I didn’t think I should have to put up with this kind of existence. I longed to be free and single again. I loved my two children and wouldn’t be without them for the world, but the thought of living a life on my own, without some madman constantly watching my every move, was like a dream that would never come true – until he died. Or I did.
Then I thought, what if I left him?
How much worse off would I be?
Chapter Twenty-one
During the war, women had been doing all the jobs men normally did – working in the factories and on the land and, now the men were coming home, many of them didn’t want to be forced back into their traditional roles of housewives and mothers. The Equal Pay Campaign highlighted inequalities in the treatment of women in the workplace, but old prejudices about women’s capabilities were still alive and used by the government to stall reforms. Nevertheless, things would never be the way they were again and attitudes to single mothers were changing, as there were many more young widows than before. I was aware of these developments because I continued to read the newspapers, even after I left service, and I knew it was time to go out on my own.
So I found myself a cheap flat near St Pancras and went there to live, Alan-free, in September 1945.
I didn’t sneak out in the middle of the night. I told him I was going and I didn’t want him coming with me. He kicked up the usual hullabaloo and went off crying to his mother and silly sister. They all came round and threatened me with court action for custody of the children. I told them to go ahead and try it. I was a good mother and earning my own money and well able to look after myself and my children. Alan was a compulsive gambler who lost all his money and never gave me anything and he was violent and unstable, which the neighbours would testify to. They went off with several fleas in their ears, but I knew it wouldn’t be the last I’d hear or see of them.
The flat was on the ground floor, and more accessible for the pram, and there was a little garden out back with grass and a line for the drying of clothes. The rent was reasonable and I was able to take in washing and ironing jobs as well as going out to clean the houses. It was hard work and I didn’t get much time to rest, but I had the children with me and they weren’t neglected in any way.
Then, in early 1946, I got a summons from the court saying Alan had applied for custody of his two children. I couldn’t afford legal representation, but there was a duty solicitor at the court and he agreed to speak for me after a brief interview where I gave him the bare bones of what life was like with Alan Lane. I had no one to look after the children on the day, so I had to bring them along to the court. The clerk let them sit beside me and I listened to Alan’s solicitor saying I dragged them with me when I was working and I had men friends back at my flat and he made me out to be a right trollop. The duty solicitor asked him if he had any evidence of men coming back to my flat and, in response, Alan’s solicitor related the tale of the GIs helping me to carry the pram upstairs in Finsbury.