‘Thanks, Amy, real pal you are an’ no mistake.’
Amy smiled, noticing that as usual when Nelly was upset her London accent was more pronounced. Nelly had lived in Hen Carw Parc more than thirteen years but she was still a Londoner, even though she was as much a part of the village as the oldest inhabitant, Grandad Owen.
* * *
Johnny Cartwright jumped off the bus as it slowed for him. He shouted a cheerio to the conductor and the driver and ran to Amy’s shop to buy some sweets. He was a bus driver and had finished for the day. He loved to be home before Fay, washed, changed and ready to make her a cup of tea and listen to her tell him all that had happened that day.
He would hide the sweets under her pillow for a surprise. She always went upstairs to undress early in the evening, and would enjoy the little treat. She would bathe, then carefully comb her lovely hair while he looked on and marvelled at his good fortune at being married to her.
Then he noticed that her car was parked outside the house. She must have got back from West Wales early. Fay was a hat saleswoman and worked long hours as her area was a large one. Occasionally, as today, she finished early and was waiting for him when he finished his early shift. He wondered what was on at the pictures, she might like to go out.
‘Fay?’ he called as he ran upstairs to their room. He pushed open the door and yelled as he caught his shin on a low stool. ‘Diawl erioed, woman! What you trying to do to me? Always changing the furniture around you are. I keep thinking I’ve come to the wrong house!’ The smile faded from his face as he looked at the over-filled room.
‘Fay, love, what have you brought this extra furniture for? No room to move now. Pansies in the window box have got more room than us.’
When they had married, Netta Cartwright had willingly emptied a bedroom for them to start their home. A bed, a chest of drawers and a cupboard was all there was comfortably room for, but gradually Fay had been buying extra items and taking a few pieces at a time out of store, and filling the tiny room. Her recent additions had been a table and two chairs. Now there was a second chest of drawers, a table holding a vase of flowers and six hat-boxes.
‘What are you trying to do, my lovely, tell me there’s not enough room for us? We know that already for sure. But filling us up with all this clutter isn’t helping. Why, Fay?’
‘I need some of my own things around me, Johnny. I had a whole house to myself before we married and this cupboard of a place makes me so miserable.’
Johnny climbed over the bed, his small figure looking boyish and young as he squeezed past the newly arrived chest of drawers and hugged her. He was shorter than Fay and, in spite of the moustache, looked immature beside his sophisticated wife. Fay was tall, slim and always immaculately dressed. Her blonde hair hung in a neat under-roll on her shoulders, but her blue eyes were clouded and unhappy.
‘I know, my lovely. It isn’t what you want, nor what I want for you, but our savings are growing and it won’t be for ever. Perhaps if they start building the small estate up near the council houses they’re talking about, we’ll be able to get ourselves a place. But can’t we make this more comfortable while we’re here? Working hard we are, both of us. A nice place we need when we get home, not a storage shed.’ He tried to make her see the funny side of what she was doing, exaggerating the difficulty as he pushed around the room to open the window. ‘Send it all back, is it?’ He touched the hat-boxes. ‘Worse than living above the shop this is.’ He piled the boxes up and opened the door. ‘Take these back to the car for a start.’
‘Be careful with them, they’re my new winter models,’ she snapped.
‘I’ll be as careful as if they were babies.’
‘Don’t start on about babies as well!’
‘Yn wir, I didn’t mean…’ He fell silent for a moment, wondering whether to try and explain the innocent remark, then turned to go downstairs. ‘I’ll take these back to the car. Better get downstairs then, Mam’s got supper ready.’
‘Dinner,’ Fay corrected irritably.
‘Dinner, supper, whatever. Only better hurry, it’ll be getting cold. Faggots and peas it is.’
‘I hate faggots and peas.’
‘You said it was your favourite.’
‘It was, until we started having it every Friday, week in week out.’
‘Mam does her best, Fay, give her that.’
There were only three of them, Johnny’s brothers were seamen, going out of Swansea to catch fish and only coming home occasionally. His sister was married and had moved to live near London. The meal was a silent one, Johnny trying to keep the conversation light with talk of the customers he had watched from the cab of his bus, but the stories failed to pierce Fay’s uneasy silence and his mother’s anxious mood. He volunteered to wash the dishes, glad to escape from the atmosphere Fay was creating. If only they could get a house. He wondered fearfully if the marriage would last for the two years it would take to save up for a home of their own. He had loved Fay for as long as he could remember and the thought of her leaving him was terrifying.
* * *
That weekend, Johnny and Phil repaired Nelly’s chicken coop and disinfected and dug it over ready for the new arrivals.
‘I spoke to Mr Leighton for you,’ Phil said. ‘He’s keeping half a dozen for you. Go up on Sunday, will you?’
‘Yes,’ Nelly said. ‘Oliver is comin’ with me. Her ladyship – my Evie that is – ’as given permission for ’im to taint ’imself with me company. She doesn’t realise we’ll ’ave to go past the gypsy camp to get there!’
On Sunday afternoon, after he had changed from his best clothes which he had worn to Sunday School, Oliver set off with Nelly, dragging her cart, made from an old pram. The dogs were left behind and they could hear them complaining as they walked down the lane to the main road. When they reached the spot where the gypsies were camping, there were three families and seven dogs.
‘Thank Gawd we didn’t bring Bobby an’ Spotty,’ Nelly said. ‘This lot would’ve eaten ’em!’
The dogs’ barking made a terrible noise and Nelly clapped a hand over one ear, unable to let go of the cart to do the job properly. Faces appeared in several doorways and Oliver hung back while Nelly went to talk to Clara and the new arrivals. People came out and welcomed her. Backs were patted, the dogs fell silent and the chatter of old friends filled the air. When Nelly beckoned him, Oliver went forward and stood close beside her to be greeted in his turn.
‘Me grandson Oliver,’ Nelly said proudly. ‘’Andsome, ain’t ’e? Where’s Clara? I got a loaf of bread for ’er.’ She handed it to Oliver. ‘Stick this on ’er table, will yer?’ Afraid, yet more afraid to show it, Oliver climbed the steps of the vardo and reached inside to place the loaf as directed.
Suddenly a voice cried, ‘What are you wanting?’ A girl rose from the dark interior and came to the door. Oliver was cemented to the spot and he stammered and pointed to his grandmother.
‘Gran – Nelly – we brought this for Clara,’ he managed to say. He backed down the painted steps, staring at the girl, who was like every picture of gypsies he had seen. She had long black hair held back from her face with a braided band of multi-coloured ribbons, a scoop-necked blouse, embroidered and trimmed with lace, and below it, just visible over the low door, a brightly patterned skirt. He wondered why she wasn’t shivering with cold.
‘Afraid of me, are you?’ The girl leaned closer and smiled.
‘Of course not.’
‘You look fair trashed for all your denying it.’
‘My gran is a friend of your mother,’ he ventured nervously.
‘Grandmother,’ she corrected. ‘My father and mother are dead, at least mother is and father might as well be. Your mother dead is she? That why you’re living with your old ’un?’
‘I don’t live with my grandmother! I live at home with my parents!’
‘Oh, hoity toity.’
He felt ill at ease but unable to move away for fear of look
ing foolish. He was saved by the sound of Nelly’s loud laugh and the dogs beginning to bark again as loudly as when they had arrived.
‘I’d better go back, Gran and I are going to buy her new hens.’ He turned and walked carefully down the steps, imagining the girl’s laughter if he tripped.
‘I’ll be seeing you again, I expect.’
‘Yes, I expect so.’ He walked as far as he could restrain himself, then ran fast back to Nelly’s side.
‘Come on, Gran, we have to get the chickens settled before it’s dark.’
* * *
On the way back from Leighton’s farm Oliver helped to guide the cart down the lane with the boxes of young chickens on board. He began to feel uneasy again as they neared the gypsy camp, wondering if the girl would still be there in her fancy dress that looked so odd in a Welsh village. But this time the encampment was empty except for two dogs, who growled menacingly as they passed.
‘Where will they be, Gran?’ he asked.
‘Out collecting wood to burn or to carve into pegs and flowers to sell.’
‘Why was the girl dressed like that? The others wore dark clothes.’
‘She’s young and likes to be noticed, and she likes people to know straight off what she is.’ She stopped and struggled with the cart, which wanted to go in a straight line into the hedge on the corner. Then, as it began to move easily again, she added, ‘I cheated yer mother, Ollie, askin’ for you to come to the farm. Don’t tell ’er we saw the gypsies, will yer? She finds plenty to complain about without us givin’ ’er reasons.’
‘What does trashed mean?’
‘Frightened. You’re learnin’ fast, young Ollie-don’t-tell-yer-mother!’
Oliver didn’t even want to tell his friend Margaret Prichard about the gypsy girl. He wanted to keep her as his secret, but regretfully, he allowed his tongue to slip later that day.
‘Did you enjoy your dinner, Oliver?’ Evie asked.
‘Cushti,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the comic Nelly had given him.
‘What did you say?’ Evie demanded. ‘What does “cushti” mean, for goodness sake?’
‘Oh, it’s a word meaning “good”.’
‘Where did you hear it? What language is it?’ his mother insisted, and when he admitted it was a gypsy word and he saw the look on his mother’s face, he sighed and mouthed ‘sorry, Gran’ behind the pages of his comic.
Chapter Two
As the train pulled into Swansea station, a young man was the first to alight. He carried a suitcase and he slung a rucksack across his shoulders as he shouted good-bye to the people he had travelled with and pushed his way impatiently through the rest of the passengers. After five years of occasional brief visits he was home again and in a hurry to reach his mother’s house in Hen Carw Parc.
He wondered if anyone would be meeting him, and when he had succeeded in forcing his way through the crowds to the ticket collector he paused and glanced around at the small huddles of men and women staring hopefully at the barrier. No sign of Mam or any of my brothers, not even Phil, though he could hardly give me a lift on his post-office bike. His good-natured face smiled at the ridiculous thought.
He gathered his luggage more comfortably and began to walk to the bus stop for Llan Gwyn. It would be a while yet before he reached Ethel Davies’s welcoming feast. He bent his head against the drizzle, tilting the smart new trilby on top of short, wiry auburn hair.
Maurice Davies was not a tall man, no more than five feet six, but there was a bouncy enthusiasm about him that made heads turn. He winked at every girl who met his eye and promised himself he would enjoy the possibilities their looks offered. His smile widened at the prospect.
At the thought of his mother’s food he felt pangs of hunger, but hunger was an almost constant state for him. Putting down his case he fumbled in the pocket of his new brown suit for the last of the chocolate he had bought in Paddington. But he stopped in the act of pushing it into his mouth and, with the chocolate held in his strong white teeth, gave a yell of delight.
‘Johnny Cartwright!’ he shouted around the chocolate. ‘Got your car, have you? Good boy! Here, take this damn rucksack it threatens to cripple me.’
‘Not so much of the “boy”, you. Even if you are taller than me and twice as ugly!’
The two friends ignored the hooting of impatient motorists and Johnny settled Maurice and his luggage into the car.
‘How’s married life then?’ Maurice asked, poking Johnny in the ribs. ‘I heard from Mam that you and Fay nearly didn’t make it.’
‘Great,’ Johnny said. ‘You ought to try it yourself.’
‘Not me. Still playing the field I am. Got to make up for the girls I’ve missed being in the army.’
‘I bet you haven’t gone short.’
‘No, but I’ve missed all the local girls, haven’t I?’ He smiled at his friend. ‘Different for you. Always been soft on Fay you have, even when we were kids and she was too old and too smart for you.’
‘She’s still too smart for me.’ Johnny grinned, ‘but everything’s fine now.’
He was silent for a while as he negotiated the busy streets, then went on, ‘You know that Alan French turned up? He and Fay were engaged, then he went into the army during the war and was reported dead. He wasn’t and he came back and that was why me and Fay nearly didn’t get married. But the poor chap is dead now and Fay is slowly getting over the shock.’
‘Yes, I heard all about it from Mam. Working is she? Or looking after a helpless male full time?’
‘She works. Damn hard. Out all hours she is, selling hats. I’d never have believed there were that many heads to put ’em on. Goes up to Brecon and down as far as Pembroke.’
‘Work is something I’ll have to find now I’m finished with the army. God knows what, though. School seems a long time ago and apart from the little I learnt there, it’s been “Yes sir, no sir” for the past five years, and what does that qualify me for?’
‘Helping Mary Brown in the milk round?’ Johnny laughed, and they reminisced about the years of helping Mary Dairy to fill bottles and deliver them to her customers, first with a horse and cart and later in a van, to earn extra pocket money.
Johnny stopped at the bottom of Sheepy Lane to let Maurice out. ‘I’ll park the car outside the house and give you a hand with your case.’ He stopped in the middle of the row of small cottages, and leaving the key in case Fay needed it, he ran back to join his friend.
Ethel Davies had a meal laid out that would feed a dozen. She was only expecting her youngest son and possibly Johnny, but you never knew who might drop by. She was always prepared for extra mouths, though food was still rationed even now, eight years after the war had ended. Sugar had been released from restriction only the month before and sweets earlier in the year, but meat and fats were still controlled and, apart from the occasional illegal gift from the locals, were very limited.
In the centre of her table was a plate piled high with bread and butter, its richness shining golden in the light of her oil lamp. Her four sons had shared the expense of having electricity brought to the house, but she rarely used it, preferring the softer glow of her old lamp. They had also bought her a small electric cooker which sat on a table in the back-kitchen, but it too was only used on rare occasions in the summer. ‘I have the fire going all day and it seems a waste to burn fuel I don’t need,’ she had explained, but in truth she was used to the old oven and found it hard to learn the controls on the modern cooker, simple as they might seem.
It was from the brightly polished oven beside the fire that the scones and cakes on the table had come. The bread too had been baked on its spacious shelves. A dish of home made brawn and a knuckle of ham, which represented her bacon ration over several weeks, and the pickles and jams had all been prepared in the kitchen-cum-living room of the small cottage.
Maurice started calling as he opened the wooden gate.
‘Mam? Mam, where are you? Damn, it’s good to be
home.’ He picked her up and swung her in delight. ‘Mam, are you getting smaller or am I getting bigger?’ he laughed.
‘Put me down, you daft boy!’ Ethel sat back in her rocking chair and smiled at him. ‘You’ve grown a bit,’ she said, head on one side, dark eyes examining him critically, ‘but it’s out not up. Too fat you are for twenty-three.’
‘More of me to love then. And the girls around here will soon realise what they’ve been missing these last five years!’ He picked up a piece of bread and butter and began eating it, a look of surprise spreading across his face. ‘Real butter? Been saving your rations and going without for me have you?’
‘It’s from the farm but don’t tell anyone,’ his mother whispered.
‘I heard, Mrs Davies,’ Johnny said with a smile.
‘Come on, Johnny, sit down and eat before Maurice swallows the lot. The others will be here before you know it. Not a word about the butter, mind!’
‘Who’s coming, Mam?’ Maurice asked as he began slicing the ham joint.
Ethel shrugged. ‘Sidney I expect, and Phil and Catrin. Teddy if he can manage it, and there’s bound to be a few from the village.’
Maurice passed Johnny a piece of ham. ‘Better eat this while we can.’
In less than half an hour the word seemed to have spread on the air and the small room began to fill up with laughing, talking visitors. Leighton, the taciturn farmer, came with Sidney, who worked for him and who had supplied the butter. Phil and Catrin arrived breathlessly, having seen Maurice stepping out of Johnny’s car. Mary Dairy and her brother Billie squeezed themselves in, Billie’s large frame still in the brown dungarees he always wore. They helped themselves from the loaded table, even the visitors who were not related but had come with friends and were sure of a welcome.
Everyone wanted to say hello to Maurice, who played up as if he were a war hero instead of a soldier who had gone unwillingly from home to wear the King’s uniform, choosing five instead of the compulsory two years to get a better deal.
Valley Affairs Page 3