Winners and Losers

by Catrin Collier

  ‘You having second thoughts?’ she asked seriously.

  ‘I am selfish enough to say absolutely not.’

  ‘In which case, a wise man told me that there’s no point in discussing things that can’t be altered.’ She kissed him. ‘This is decadent. With only the two of us in the house we should put that fire out and go to bed.’

  ‘If that’s an invitation, I’m accepting.’

  ‘I’ve saved a candle stub if you want to read,’ she teased.

  ‘Since we started sharing a bed I haven’t finished a single page outside of this kitchen and you know it.’ The front door opened and closed. ‘My father must have heard something in the club.’

  The kitchen door burst open and Megan rushed in, her cloak open, her clothes and hair soaking wet.

  Sali jumped up and helped her off with her cloak. ‘A rat in the sewer would be drier.’

  ‘I’ve just heard about Victor. Is it true? Is he in gaol?’ Megan blurted in between gasping for breath.

  Lloyd outlined the facts as far as they knew them, while Sali opened the hob, set the kettle on to boil and lifted cups down from the dresser. ‘We may as well have a cup of tea while the fire’s still hot enough to boil a kettle.’

  ‘Not for me.’ Megan retrieved the cloak that Sali had shook out and hung over the back of a chair to dry. ‘Mrs Palmer wants me to serve first breakfast tomorrow, and I’m exhausted.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Sali asked.

  ‘It’s hard work but I’ll manage,’

  ‘I’ll see you back.’ Lloyd left his chair.

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s only round the corner.’

  ‘I was thinking of stretching my legs anyway,’ he lied. ‘Be back in a few minutes, Sali.’

  ‘Here, come closer so I can put the umbrella over both of us,’ Lloyd ordered Megan, as they left the house.

  She took the arm he offered her. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You look as though you’re sleeping on your feet.’

  ‘I am. I can’t believe my life has changed so much in one day.’ She glanced back at the house that had been her uncle’s.

  ‘My father told us that you’d accepted an engagement ring from Victor.’

  ‘Yes.’ She clutched it through the folds of her dress. ‘I’m afraid of damaging it when I do housework so I wear it around my neck during the day, but I put it on my finger when I served the meals earlier tonight so all the lodgers could see it. I wish Victor and I could marry right away.’

  ‘So does Victor –and Sali and me. You’ll make a perfect sister-in-law, Megan.’

  ‘I don’t know about perfect but I will be your sister-in-law as soon as I’m old enough to marry without my father’s permission,’ she said determinedly.

  ‘I see Victor’s been giving you Evanses lessons in stubbornness.’ They rounded the corner and walked down the hill. Sergeant Lamb was standing outside the lodging house in company with two other constables.

  ‘Goodnight, Lloyd.’ Megan pulled the hood of her cloak down to conceal her face.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the door.’ Lloyd had seen her glance at the sergeant and sensed her nervousness.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘No trouble.’ Lloyd led her to the front door. The street lamp shone down on to his face. ‘Goodnight, Megan, I’ll let you know what happens with Victor tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you for walking me home, Lloyd.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Mr Lloyd Evans, the famous strike leader?’ Sergeant Lamb stepped forward.

  ‘Sergeant.’ Lloyd nodded acknowledgement.

  ‘We’ve saved ourselves a trip, constables. Lloyd William Evans, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Constable John Lamb. Constables, escort Mr Evans down the station. I’ll be along shortly to question him, Miss Williams.’ He tipped his helmet to her, as Megan watched the officers handcuff a stony-faced Lloyd and lead him away.

  ‘Mrs Palmer!’ Megan dashed into the kitchen where Joyce was making cheese sandwiches for the night shift’s break. ‘I have to go -’

  ‘Where to, child?’ Joyce interrupted. ‘You’ve just this minute walked in through the door.’

  ‘Sergeant Lamb has arrested Lloyd Evans.’ The kitchen spun around her and Megan gripped the edge of the door to steady herself.

  ‘Lloyd Evans! Whatever for?’ Joyce dropped her knife.

  ‘The sergeant said attempted murder.’

  ‘Lloyd Evans! I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Sali Jones doesn’t know. I have to tell her.’

  ‘I don’t doubt someone else has told her by now. If you sneeze in Tonypandy, people at the top end of Clydach Vale ask about your cold five minutes later.’

  ‘I won’t be long.’ Megan opened the back door.

  ‘You’re soaked to the skin, girl. You need to get into some dry clothes before you catch your death -’

  ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ Megan darted into the alleyway before Joyce could stop her. Lifting her sodden skirts to her knees, she put her head down and ran as fast as she could. The hood of her cloak fell back and water streamed from her hair into her eyes, blinding her. She heaved for breath and her throat dried, but she didn’t stop until she reached Victor’s front door. She turned the key, opened it and ran through to the kitchen where Sali was talking to Mr Evans and Ned Morgan.

  ‘Megan, whatever’s wrong?’ Sali led her to the fireplace, relieved her of her wet cloak for a second time and proceeded to dry her hair in the kitchen towel while Megan blurted out the details of Lloyd’s arrest. Before she’d finished, Mr Evans was putting on his coat.

  ‘I’ll go down to the police station and find out exactly what’s going on. I’ll walk you back to the lodging house on the way, Megan.’

  ‘Megan should stay and dry out,’ Sali protested, trembling uncontrollably as the import of Megan’s news sank in.

  Megan shook her head, spraying water droplets into the air. ‘Mrs Palmer didn’t want me to leave the house a second time as it was.’

  Billy Evans opened the basement door and picked up the old umbrella Victor used in the garden when it rained. He closed the door, and bolted it from the inside. ‘Leave this door as it is until morning, Sali. I’ll lock the front door behind me and take the key.’

  ‘We never lock the doors.’

  ‘No one in this family has ever been arrested before, and three in one day is three too many. Some of the boys have had the police in and out of their houses at all hours of the day and night. I don’t want them coming in here when you and Harry are alone. And take that worried look off your face,’ he ordered. ‘You know as well as I do Lloyd’s innocent. Attempted murder, my ... eye!’

  ‘Cells and courts round here are full of innocent men these days, Billy. I think I’ll take a walk down to the station with you.’ Ned put on his own coat.

  ‘Why stick your head in the lion’s den when you don’t have to, Ned?’

  ‘I like to hear their growls,’ Ned replied.

  Sali draped Megan’s soggy cloak around her and walked them to the door. She hugged Megan, despite her damp and dripping state. Mr Evans opened the door and removed the key from the lock.

  ‘That will make a hole in your pocket.’ Sali eyed the six-inch iron key.

  ‘Can’t be helped.’ He turned up his collar. ‘Try to sleep.’

  ‘You know I won’t.’

  ‘If it’s not too late, I’ll knock on your door when I get back.’

  ‘Will you, no matter what the time?’ Sali begged.

  He nodded, opened the umbrella and offered Megan his arm. ‘Perhaps I should put the umbrella between us to stop you dripping over me,’ he joked. ‘There really is no need for you to come with me, Ned. The weather’s foul, it’s late and Betty will be wondering where you are.’

  ‘As I’m older and uglier than your Joey she won’t be wondering that much.’ Ned thrust his bare hands into his pockets. His leather gloves had been one of the first things to be pawned when
their savings had run out. ‘Betty knows that at my age the only thing keeping me from my bed at night is union business. And if you have to stay in the station for any reason, you may need an errand boy.’

  Sali went inside and listened to Mr Evans locking the door. She watched them walk down the street from Mr Evans’ bedroom window –two middle-aged men and a slight young girl between them.

  Shivering, she returned to the kitchen and realized that, for the first time since she had moved into the house, she faced the prospect of spending a night behind two locked doors with only her son for company.

  Luke Thomas thumped his fist against the stone wall of the holding cell in the police station. ‘Another thing about your father and his cronies on the bloody strike committee -’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Joey snarled. ‘It’s bad enough having to spend the night in this damned dungeon, without having to listen to you go on about how you’d handle the strike if you were in charge.’

  ‘The trouble with you -’

  ‘The trouble with me is you’ve killed my patience. And I’ll kill you if I have to listen to one more of your tirades against the strike committee for the way they’re handling the dispute, the colliery owners for working us to death for slave wages or the police for arresting us when all you,’ Joey jabbed his index finger into Luke’s chest, ‘were doing was demanding your rights.’

  ‘I’m fighting for all of us,’ Luke asserted pompously.

  ‘And we believe that, don’t we, Victor?’ Joey mocked. ‘Luke Thomas, the great and noble martyr of Tonypandy, soon to be sainted for the sacrifices he’s made for the cause.’

  Victor held his fingers to his lips, walked to the steel door and pressed his ear against the grille.

  Joey was furious with Victor for silencing him, Luke for his ranting, the police for depriving him of his freedom and incarcerating the three of them in a freezing cell, but most of all with himself, for being stupid enough to join the morning’s unofficial picket. He yanked the single grey army issue blanket from the top ‘bunk’ that was a six by two-foot sheet of steel hinged to the wall and fastened by chains. Shaking it out, he wrapped it around himself.

  ‘You look like one of those Indian squaws in the comic books,’ Luke sneered.

  ‘Be careful, Victor. Those beds, if you can call them that, are cold enough to give you an ice burn.’ Joey decided the only way he was going to cope with Luke was to ignore him.

  ‘I always said you Evanses were soft.’

  ‘What can you hear?’ Joey joined his brother at the door.

  ‘Someone shouting. I couldn’t swear to it but it sounded like Lloyd.’

  ‘Lloyd has more sense than to get himself arrested,’ Joey said tersely.

  ‘If he’s here he’s probably drunk.’

  It took all Joey’s will-power to remember that he was ignoring Luke.

  Luke sat on the bunk below Joey’s and tested it with his weight. ‘We’ll turn into ice blocks by morning.’

  Joey paced to the small barred window and peered outside.

  ‘See anything?’ Victor asked from his post at the door.

  ‘Bugger all,’ Joey answered. ‘The town’s quiet.’

  ‘Not surprising if they’ve arrested every innocent man in the valley on trumped-up charges ... Did you hear that?’ Luke asked, as a thud resounded down the corridor.

  Joey vaulted up on to his bunk, tucked most of the blanket under him, wound his scarf twice round his neck, settled his cap on his head, pulled his overcoat sleeves over his gloves and closed his eyes.

  ‘How you can sleep?’

  Joey rolled to the edge of his bunk, opened one eye and glared at Luke. ‘One more squeak out of you and I’ll go from tamping to murdering mad.’

  Luke kicked up his feet and fell silent.

  Victor frowned from the strain of listening. If only he could be sure it was Lloyd’s voice he’d heard –but there were so many sounds. The tiled walls, floors and metal doors had transformed the corridor into an echo chamber, magnifying footsteps and rendering conversation unintelligible. But he hadn’t picked up on so much as a whisper outside of their cell in ten minutes.

  ‘Come on, Victor, whatever you heard, you can’t do a thing about it locked up in here.’ Joey settled back on his bunk and closed his eyes. ‘You may as well try to get some sleep.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Victor pulled the blanket from the bunk across from Luke’s, draped it over his shoulders and sat down. But he couldn’t forget the voice he’d heard. The years Lloyd had spent working in colliery management had given him a distinctive accent. Not that he’d lost his Welsh intonation, just that he sounded more educated than the average collier. There weren’t many men in the Rhondda who spoke like him.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘We have witnesses who saw you throw the brick that hit Constable Lamb, Evans. Witnesses who are prepared to stand up and testify in court that you took deliberate aim, so there’s no point in you trying to deny that you’re responsible for his injuries.’ Constable Shipton pulled a chair out from under the metal table Lloyd was sitting at, lifted his foot on to the seat and, shifting his weight on to his other leg, glowered down at him.

  Lloyd met the officer’s gaze without flinching. ‘I was outside the railway station yesterday evening, not in Dunraven Street. Several members of the strike committee were with me.’

  ‘The strike committee,’ Shipton echoed. ‘And, of course, we always believe everything the members of the strike committee tell us, don’t we?’

  The constable stationed in front of the door sniggered.

  ‘There were police officers there to prevent us from reaching the station platforms,’ Lloyd said calmly. ‘They saw me.’ He winced as the officer standing behind his chair pulled the handcuffs that secured his arms high behind his back. The strain on his shoulder muscles was agonizing. He felt as though his arms were being torn from their sockets. His wrists burned, skinned raw by the cuffs. But determined to keep his temper, he continued to stare impassively at Constable Shipton.

  Shipton tossed a pen down beside a bottle of ink and sheet of paper on the table. ‘The court will be more inclined to be lenient with you, if you plead guilty and show remorse, Evans, Agree to sign that confession and we’ll unlock your cuffs.’

  Lloyd raised his voice in the hope of being heard outside the cell by someone with more integrity than his interrogators. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that I will not confess to a crime I did not commit?’

  There was a knock at the door. The officer standing in front of it opened it, and Sergeant Lamb walked into the interview room. Shipton kicked the chair he was leaning on back under the table and snapped to attention. When the constable standing behind his chair followed suit, Lloyd tentatively moved his shoulders. Weak and dizzy from relief, he focused on the sergeant.

  Sergeant Lamb walked across the small room and glanced at the sheet of paper on the table. ‘This confession not signed yet, Shipton?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The suspect refuses to confess, sir?’

  Lamb circled Lloyd’s chair. ‘Refuses,’ he murmured. Without warning, he lashed out, kicking the chair from under Lloyd. Trussed and unable to save himself with his hands, Lloyd fell awkwardly. He lay sprawled on his back, fighting for breath. Sergeant Lamb returned to the door and stood next to the constable in front of it. Lloyd realized that all four officers were watching him.

  He rolled on his side and struggled to his knees. The handcuffs bit into his damaged wrists as he fought to regain his balance. He was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to rise, when the sergeant gave an almost imperceptible nod. The three constables moved. There was no time to tense his muscles before the first kick connected with his stomach.

  ‘You ready to sign now?’ Shipton barked.

  ‘I refuse to -’ A steel toe-capped boot smashed into Lloyd’s ribcage and the remainder of his words dissolved into a scream he barely recognized as h
is own. He curled instinctively into a foetal position in a futile attempt to protect himself.

  Walls and floor blurred into a jagged kaleidoscope of white tiles and grey concrete punctuated by flashes of crimson lightning. Lloyd tried to divorce himself from the pain by concentrating on the light and shadows in the room. The oil lamp was smoking. There was a smell of grease in the air. The oil had to be contaminated. Why would the police buy contaminated oil?

  He was aware of the sergeant leaving the room. Of the door clanging shut behind him.

  ‘Are you ready to sign?’

  Too wracked with pain to speak, he lifted his head and shook it. A blow sent him flying into the wall. An ear-splitting crack preceded a tidal wave of agony that flooded from the back of his skull throughout his body, washing all coherent thought from his mind. He felt as though he were dissolving into a sweet grey mist. His last thoughts were of Sali. Then there was oblivion, a nothingness that blotted everything from his consciousness, even pain.

  Sali lay tense and rigid, her senses strained to their utmost as she listened intently for the sounds of Mr Evans returning. The bed beside her stretched cold and empty. She caressed the void, aching for Lloyd’s presence with a pain that was almost physical. No matter how she struggled to concentrate on other things, she couldn’t stop picturing him locked in a police cell, officers with batons closing in ...

  She made a valiant effort to block the scene from her mind. Since the night of the worst riot, the Rhondda Leader had been full of articles about police brutality towards innocent people. Church and chapel ministers, solicitors, doctors, teachers, tradesmen –all had written to the paper to complain about incidents they had witnessed. She recalled what had happened to Betty Morgan. If the police didn’t balk at knocking down women in the street in broad daylight, what would they do to a strike leader they were holding in the isolation of a police cell?