Broken Rainbows (15 page)

‘I promised I'd be back in time for Phyllis and Evan to go out.'

‘Your father-in-law and his wife?'

‘They're going to visit Alma Raschenko. I think you met her at the party?'

‘It's only four o'clock, what time are they going?'

‘Half-past seven.'

‘We could go for tea. A small celebration in view of your success, no expense spared. Do you know, I've never had afternoon tea. Does the New Inn do it?'

‘At a price,' she warned.

‘I feel extravagant.'

‘It will be less extravagant if I pay my share.'

‘I wouldn't hear of it. I invited you.'

‘Dutch, or I won't go.'

‘Dutch?'

‘I pay my whack, you pay yours.'

‘Stubborn creature, aren't you?'

Her eyes glowed as he climbed on to his bike. ‘You have no idea how much, Captain D'Este.'

Chapter Nine

A queasy feeling rose from the pit of Haydn Powell's stomach as the edge of the long platform of Pontypridd station came into view. Uncrossing his arms, he pushed his hat back from his face and rose to his feet to lift his kitbag from the string rack above his head. It slipped as he brought it down, almost hitting a young WAAC sitting opposite. She glanced up, and as recognition dawned, her eyes widened in amazement. Haydn had seen the same incredulous look on other faces. Most of them female.

‘Haydn Powell?' she gasped.

The sick feeling escalated into full-blown nausea, but he managed a nod.

‘And to think I've sat in the same carriage as you all the way from Cardiff. I wish I'd known. I love …'

The train groaned and shuddered to a halt. He opened the door and threw out his kitbag.

‘… I don't suppose I could have your autograph?'

‘I'd be delighted.' He gave her the full benefit of his well-rehearsed theatrical smile.

‘We – me and the girls that is – listen to your show on the radio every week.' Her hands shook as she rummaged in her bag. ‘Oh, thank goodness… I have it with me.' She handed him an autograph book. ‘You'll be the first famous person to sign it. Please, use my fountain pen. It's got an ink reservoir.'

‘Thank you.' Hastily scribbling his name and a cliché about the prettiest girl in the carriage, he handed them back to her before stepping outside.

‘You can't be staying in Pontypridd?' she cried as he held the door open for her. ‘What I mean is, people like you don't. Not in a town like this. I thought you only went to exciting places like London.'

‘I live here. Or at least I used to.'

‘My brother always said you were from around here, but I never believed him. Not a star like you.'

He tipped his hat. ‘Thank you for the compliments, miss, but I'm not in the least important. Do you need help with that case?'

‘I don't believe it … you're actually offering to help
me
!'

Heaving her luggage from the floor of the carriage he walked on ahead. There was only so much sycophantic adoration he could tolerate. Since the propaganda department had begun releasing photographs of him touring the fronts to every Sunday and most of the weekly papers, he had been unable to call his life his own. Simple things like buying a packet of cigarettes had become at best a marathon of autograph signing, at worst a riot that called for police presence. A casual visit to a pub was impossible: he was mobbed wherever he went; and he soon discovered that adulation was no substitute for friendship. Life was easier when he was touring with showbusiness people who had some understanding and sympathy for what he was going through. After being set upon twice in London by men who'd resented their girlfriends fawning over him, he'd taken to seeking out the company of older thespians who constantly bemoaned the fact that fame was a transitory state, and one he'd long for when it was no longer his. A platitude he didn't entirely believe but could take comfort in.

Dropping the WAAC's case at the foot of the steps, he looked around for a taxi. There wasn't a car or van in sight. Shouldering his bag, he walked across the road to Ronconi's café.

‘Oh my God, look what the wind's blown in. I can't believe it, a big star …'

‘Carry on like that, Tina, and I won't give you the parcel William sent.'

‘Will!' She dropped the tea towel she was holding. ‘You saw Will! Where … when … how was he? Is he all right?'

‘One question at a time.' Trying to ignore the stares of the bus crews who were taking their break, he untied the string that fastened his kitbag and extracted a small, square package wrapped in greasy brown paper. ‘There's a letter in there.'

‘Is he all right?' she repeated, grasping the package with both hands.

‘Missing you.'

‘He really is all right?'

‘Read his letter.'

‘Something's happened to him, hasn't it?' Her voice rose precariously. ‘I just knew it … he hasn't written in weeks. He's been wounded …'

‘Let's go in the back.'

‘Haydn!'

He opened the counter, took Tina's arm and gently propelled her through the door that led into the kitchen. The cook looked up in surprise.

‘Could you go out front for ten minutes to cover for Mrs Powell?'

‘Haydn -'

‘Sit down.' He pushed Tina on to a stool. ‘As you seem so determined not to open that package, I'll tell you. He has been wounded.'

‘Oh my God!' She covered her mouth with her hands.

‘But it's not even bad enough for him to be sent home. The last I saw, he was sitting in a chair, sipping brandy and lapping up the attention of the nurses.'

‘Nurses!' Her dark eyes flashed with jealousy.

‘Male nurses, before you crush whatever's in that parcel to smithereens. The bullet went through his arm. It didn't even stay there. He's probably back with his unit by now.'

‘Getting shot at again?'

‘It was a fluke, Tina. Someone tripped on night patrol, their gun went off …'

‘Are you saying he was shot by our side?'

‘Open your parcel and read your letter, that way you'll hear it all from him.'

She tore at the paper then suddenly stopped. ‘I'm sorry. You must be starved. I didn't even ask …'

‘I'll go into the café and grab a tea. I don't suppose you know when that wife of mine is due to finish her shift?'

‘She's got a day off.'

‘Great, I'll go on up to the house.'

‘She's visiting the RAF hospital in Church Village.'

‘She knows someone there?'

‘Bethan's got a Yank doctor lodging in her house. He's been drumming up volunteers to visit the men who have no one living close by. Jane offered to help.'

‘That's my wife.' He shook his head fondly. ‘I didn't even know Bethan had a Yank staying with her?'

‘Five of them. You can't move an inch in any direction without hearing their funny voices or seeing their uniforms. Don't tell me you haven't seen them?'

‘Not in Pontypridd, but I've only just got in.'

‘They act as though they own the town …' Tina finally broke through the surface layers of paper. An envelope fluttered to the floor. Dropping the box on to a work surface, she dived down to retrieve it. Tearing it open, she didn't even look up as Haydn returned to the café.

Jane had never been so terrified in her life. Screwing her eyes tightly, she buried her face in the back of Tomas's overcoat and clung to his chest as they tore along the road that wound back into Pontypridd. Rain soaked her hat and trickled down her neck, the roar of the engine and the wind deafened her, her skirt rode high above her knees. Paralysed with fear, it was as much as she could do to keep her grip on Tomas. When he finally turned into Market Square and slowed to a halt outside the side entrance to the New Inn, she was shaking too much to climb off the machine.

‘Are you all right?'

She kept her eyes tightly shut as she nodded.

‘We've stopped.'

‘I know.'

‘Perhaps I should buy you something stronger than tea? It looks like you'll need it before I take you up the hill.'

Jane finally opened her eyes. Half-a-dozen women were staring at her. Making a supreme effort, she pulled down her skirt, took the hand he offered and stepped on to the pavement. Her legs were trembling so much she would have sunk to the ground if he hadn't supported her.

‘I'm not going on that bike with you ever again.'

He smiled. ‘It's not that bad.'

‘I thought I was going to die.'

‘How about if I promise to slow down?'

‘No!'

He steered her around the corner and through the main door of the New Inn. It took a moment for her to recognise the drenched, wind-blown scarecrow framed in the reception mirror as herself. She darted into the Ladies, hoping she'd remembered to pack a comb and powder into her handbag.

By the time she'd returned, still damp, but smoother around the edges, Tomas had commandeered a corner table in the lounge, and was sitting back while a uniformed waitress laid out a selection of cakes, crockery and cutlery.

‘A taste of civilisation.' He pulled a chair out for her.

‘I haven't seen cakes like this since the night of the American party.' Jane eyed the plate wishing she could take some back for the children, Phyllis and Evan.

‘Only one covering per cake allowed,' the waitress declared as though they'd complained. ‘Jam, mock cream or chocolate.'

‘They all look wonderful to me.'

‘I wish you could see the fresh fruit flans my mother makes,' Tomas said as he offered her first choice.

‘I love fruit cakes.'

‘Cuban fruits are very different to what you get here. We used to grow so many varieties in our garden. Oranges, passion fruit, pineapples, bananas, grapes. And vegetables -' he kissed the tips of his fingers – ‘and such vegetables. Sweet potatoes, yams, squash, okra, artichokes …'

‘You lost me after oranges.'

‘Sorry, homesick.'

‘Tea?' she picked up the teapot.

‘Please.'

‘Most Americans don't like it.'

‘I'm not most Americans.'

‘You seem more Spanish.'

‘One of the first things I learned in the States is that there are no Americans except the Indians, and they're even more socially unacceptable than the blacks and Hispanics. First, second, third, sometimes even sixth or more generations of natives of every country in the world except America. It's immaterial if their family hasn't set foot in their homeland for over two hundred years, they are still Italians, Greeks, Germans, French, English, Chinese … I could go on for hours.'

Jane poured out two cups. ‘Milk and sugar?'

‘Black with sugar, please.'

‘Tell me about Cuba.'

‘The way Peter told you about Africa?'

‘You were listening?'

‘Only for a few minutes. It seemed a shame to disturb you.'

‘I love hearing about other countries. I've always wanted to travel.'

‘One day I'll go back to Cuba and reclaim our house and farm. Then you can visit me.'

‘That's a wonderful dream.'

‘Not a dream. When this war is over it will be possible to travel again, and Cuba is a fabulous country. Acres and acres of tobacco and cane fields, long beaches of white sand and deep blue sea. Bluer than any water I have seen since.'

‘Are there a lot of farms there?'

‘Thousands. But there is still some jungle left, and huge plantations of palms, coffee shrubs, bananas and villages and magnificent cities. Beautiful cities with splendid buildings of carved and decorated stone. The rich live in palaces, with patios and fountains smothered with flowers, the poor have only crude bamboo and thatch shacks, but they still have the flowers. Whenever I think of Cuba I see enormous clouds of purple bougainvillaeas, white and pink magnolias, camellias …'

‘And the sun? Is it hot there?'

He looked into her eager, shining face. He had never known anyone so thirsty for knowledge.

‘Except when it rains. And believe me, when it rains in Cuba, it rains.'

‘Like here?'

‘Not cold and damp like here. Warm … warm and steamy.' He looked away. He had never wanted to kiss a girl more. Not even his fiancée. Deliberately avoiding her eyes he stirred his tea. ‘You made quite an impression on Peter. That's the most I've heard him say.'

‘I enjoyed talking to him as much as the others.'

‘Admit it – when I first asked, you didn't want to be a visitor.'

‘No.'

‘You assumed you'd have trouble coping with the patients' injuries?'

‘No, not that. I was set to work on the old people's wards in the workhouse when I was sixteen. There were a lot of men there who'd been injured in the pits. Some had lost arms or legs, and often their skin was ulcerated from old wounds. I used to help the sister and nurses to bathe and dress the open sores, so I knew I could cope with that. But I was afraid I wouldn't have anything to say to them that they'd want to hear. Most of your patients are officers. I didn't think they'd want to talk to an uneducated factory girl like me.'

‘You can't be uneducated if you worked in a hospital. Were you thinking of a career in nursing?'

‘More like fancying. And it wasn't a hospital it was a workhouse – a place where they put the poor who have no money and nowhere else to go,' she explained. ‘I grew up in orphanages. When I was sixteen I was put back in the workhouse, that's when I worked with the old people.'

‘No wonder you didn't have a good education. But everything's going to be different after the war. You will be able to do anything you want.'

‘I'm a wife and mother. My career's mapped out for me.'

‘Why did you marry so young?

‘Living in the workhouse ages people. It certainly didn't feel young at the time.'

‘I'm sorry, that was ill-mannered of me.'

‘I met Haydn when I worked in the theatre I told you about. He was the star of the show and I was one of the usherettes. I fell head over heels in love with him, along with every girl in the cast and the rest of the house workers. Looking back, I can't believe he noticed me, let alone married me.'

‘You don't have a very high opinion of yourself.'

‘It's not easy to be self-confident, when you've spent the first eighteen years of your life being told you're a nobody and a burden to the honest citizens of the parish. But I've got over it,' she smiled, steering the conversation on to safer ground.

‘I think I understand how you felt. I told you we had nothing when we went to America. It wasn't easy for my parents to accept charity, but it was the only way we could survive until my father and brothers found work.'