Broken Rainbows (23 page)

‘Mr Williams said they'll be reopening the pit in the morning, and the first ones down will be another rescue team.'

‘Then they haven't given up?' Phyllis's eyes shone bright with unshed tears and burgeoning hope.

‘Not yet.'

‘As none of us slept last night, I think it's time we all went to bed.' Jane left the table and collected the cups.

‘Leave them. Maisie will do them in the morning,' Bethan said as she left her chair.

‘Or me, come to that.'

‘You're not working tomorrow?' Haydn looked at his wife.

‘I took two days off for your leave, remember?'

‘You have to go back tomorrow, Haydn?' Bethan asked.

‘I rang the office from the Graig Hotel and tried to get an extended leave on compassionate grounds, but they've booked the orchestra and the studio. There's so many people involved …'

‘There's no question about it. I think you should go back.'

Both Haydn and Bethan turned to Jane.

‘In which case you two should spend what little time you have left together,' Bethan suggested.

‘If you're sure I can't do anything, I'll see if Brian is all right.' Phyllis rose to her feet.

Bethan took two pills from her pocket and handed them to her as she passed. ‘They'll help you sleep.'

‘I don't want to take anything.'

‘Just for tonight. Brian's upset, he needs you, and you need your rest.'

‘And Evan will need me if they find him tomorrow.'

Neither Bethan nor Haydn could find the strength to say any more to reassure Phyllis as she left the room.

‘It might be a good idea for you to take a couple of those pills, sis,' Haydn advised as she switched off the kitchen light.

‘I don't need them.'

‘None of us are indestructible.' He kissed her cheek before following Jane up the stairs. The house was in shadows; the only light shone soft and low on the landing. Despite all the fuel-saving directives Bethan kept it burning all night in case any of the children needed to go to the bathroom.

Jane opened the bedroom door and walked in ahead of Haydn. Children's drawings had been pinned to the wallpaper. A mattress had been made up into a bed on the bare floorboards, with a rug laid beside it. Haydn closed the door behind him. Jane lifted the case she had brought on to a chest of drawers and opened it.

‘Do you want to go to the bathroom first?'

‘No, you go.'

She took her toilet bag and dressing gown and left the room. He sank into a wicker chair in the corner. The politeness between them was worse than a full-blown quarrel, but he had no idea how to break through the barrier she had erected between them. A good argument might have cleared the air, but they could hardly shout and scream with the house crammed full of people.

Jane returned and he rummaged through his kit for his own toilet bag then went along to the bathroom. He could hear movement and water running overheard and he remembered Bethan telling him that the American quarters had been as good as self-contained since they had installed a bathroom on the top floor; that he was only likely to see them if they came down to use the kitchen.

He returned to the bedroom to find the lamp switched off and Jane already in bed. Undressing, he folded his uniform and placed it on the chair, then crept on to the mattress beside her. She moved away from him.

‘I know you're awake,' he whispered. ‘I'm sorry I have to leave tomorrow.'

‘The early train?'

‘Six o'clock.'

‘Then you'd better get some sleep.'

He reached out and laid his hand on her. He could feel her shrinking from his touch. ‘Jane, please …' he rested his hand on her waist. She didn't remove it and he dared to leave it there. ‘I need you. From now on …'

‘No, Haydn,' she whispered dully, conscious of the people sleeping close by, ‘there'll be no more “from now ons”.'

‘Then we have now. Please, turn towards me?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because if I did I might lose control.'

‘Maybe that's what we both need.'

‘It might not be in a way you'd want.'

‘Slap me if it will make you feel any better.'

‘That would be too easy. I'd like to do a lot more than slap you.'

Touching her shoulder he gently drew her towards him until her back nestled against his chest and her legs lay against his.

Despite the anger churning inside her, his touch was so familiar, so comforting, she finally allowed herself to relax.

‘You're freezing.' He rubbed her arms lightly, all the time longing to tear the silk negligee from her body. After a few moments he dared to whisper, ‘I love you.'

‘And I love you, although right now I wish I didn't.'

He kissed her lightly on the back of her neck. She turned to face him, returning his embrace with an intensity that sent the blood pounding through his arteries. Her teeth sank into his lips biting, cutting, tearing until he could taste the salt tang of his own blood.

There was no tenderness in her lovemaking. Her nails dug, sharp, scarring, into his back, but there was something purifying and cleansing in her ferocity, and afterwards, absolved and exhausted, he slept.

But she didn't. She lay back staring blindly upwards, imagining Haydn making love to the chorus girl. She pictured her soft, blowsy body, visualised the coarse texture of her peroxide hair, saw the kisses he bestowed, heard the whispered endearments, smelt the cheap perfume … and it was as much as she could do to stop herself from clawing her husband's eyes from his skull and every inch of skin from his body.

Chapter Thirteen

Bethan undressed, wrapped herself in an ugly, thick flannelette nightgown and lay in the makeshift bed she'd made up on the sofa in the study. Too exhausted to sleep, she tossed and turned as her mind conjured hideous images of her father buried alive in a pitch-black hole, dying infinitely slowly for lack of water, heat and light. When she could stand her imaginings no longer she slipped on her robe and left the freezing atmosphere for the warmth of the kitchen.

Switching on the light she peered at the clock. Four. Another hour and Haydn would be downstairs. She picked up the kettle and filled it, setting it on the range without thinking what she was doing. Pacing mindlessly, she returned to the darkened hall, starting when she caught sight of herself in the mirror opposite the door. Barefoot, tall, thin she resembled wraith more than living person in her pale, floor-length gown and robe, with her hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

She shivered. Was this her future? Her life after Rachel and Eddie had grown up and left home to carve out lives of their own? Andrew still incarcerated in a prison camp, her father dead and her, left alone in this great big house a pathetic, abandoned, old woman drifting from room to lonely, empty room.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she opened the door to the drawing room and stepped inside. Moving slowly, she tried to recall the position of the toy boxes when she had last seen them. She had hated having to move out Andrew's treasured pieces. He had taken such pleasure in overseeing the decorating of this room. What would he think of it now?

When she reached the window she tore open the blackout. Moonlight flooded in, painting everything silver. She stood back, staring at the chair her father usually sat in when he visited. She could almost hear his voice, quiet, soft-spoken as he expressed opinions that never seemed radical until she considered them afterwards.

The cold, the silence and the full horror of being buried alive closed in on her. Slowly, silently, the first tears began to fall, and as they trickled, cold and wet down her cheeks, the emotions she had been so careful to keep penned up finally erupted.

Falling to her knees, she lowered her head, wrapped her arms around her legs and wept, harsh, rasping, bestial sobs that tore from her throat and lungs.

‘If you're going to cry, wouldn't it be better to do it where you won't catch pneumonia?' Strong arms lifted her from the floor, and led her out of the room through the hall, into the kitchen. Weakening waves of warmth swept over her. Dizzy and lightheaded she allowed David Ford to help her to the rocking chair. Picking up the blanket from the log box he tucked it around her legs before taking the boiling kettle from the stove.

‘I'll try my hand at making tea.' He reached down cups and saucers from the dresser. ‘I'm not promising it will drinkable, but as they say in Wales, it will at least be warm and wet.' Passing her his handkerchief, he spooned tea into the pot. ‘Dino told me what happened to your father. If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you only have to knock on my door.'

‘I'm sorry,' she apologised feebly, finally finding her voice. ‘I'm not usually like this.'

‘Perhaps that's the trouble. You British have such stiff upper lips, they don't bend, only crack. Frankly, with all you've had to cope with, I wonder that you're still sane.' Pouring out the tea, he handed her a cup. ‘Milk and sugar?'

She shook her head.

‘I'm not sure I've done it right. You people have turned tea-making into a ritual. Doesn't the spout have to face north when it infuses?'

‘It's fine.' She looked up at him. He was in shirtsleeves and braces. It was the first time she had seen him without his jacket. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake anyone.'

‘You didn't. I was working.'

‘At this time in the morning?' Bethan brushed her hair back from her face, and as her fingers became knotted in damp tangles, she understood his reference to sanity. Between her wild hair and tear-streaked cheeks, she must look deranged.

‘Joys of command. About your father. If there's anything I, or for that matter my men can do, just say the word. Some of them may not be over-bright, but if brute strength is all that's required, they can furnish it.'

‘Experience counts for more than strength down the pit, and the manager of the Maritime is doing all that can be done. This isn't helping, I'm behaving like a spoilt child.'

‘No one can be strong all the time.'

‘My father was … is,' she corrected swiftly. ‘And the bedrock of our family's existence. I can't imagine him not being here.'

‘From what I heard, there's still hope.'

‘I wish I could believe it, but I've lived in Pontypridd all my life and I've seen this happen more times than I can count. The lucky ones are the families that have a body to bury.'

He made a face as he sipped his tea. ‘This is foul.'

‘Only because you made it when the water was off the boil.' She tried to smile but her face was cold and stiff, and as he looked down at her, she began to cry again, softly and silently this time. He took the cup from her trembling fingers and placed it on the table. Helping her to her feet he cradled her in his arms, the way her father would have done, if he had been there.

‘It can only get better.'

‘I wish I could believe you.'

‘And I wish I could convince you, but you're too intelligent to believe platitudes, no matter how well meant.' He stroked his hand across the top of her head as her tears soaked through his shirt. Emotions stirred inside him that he hadn't allowed to surface since his wife had left him. Wary of taking advantage of her grief, he reminded himself that he was far from home. There hadn't been any time for socialising – or women – for years, because he'd been too busy building a career. It was simply her need, the unfamiliar scent and texture of her skin and hair beneath his fingers that was making him feel this way. He was confusing compassion with desire, a natural enough mistake considering the way they had been thrown together. Bracing himself to release her, he glanced up and saw Haydn watching them from the hall.

‘So, it's true what they say about Yanks.'

Bethan lifted her head, saw her brother and extricated herself from David's arms. ‘It's not what you think.'

‘It's none of my business.' Haydn walked past them and picked up the kettle. ‘Mind if I make tea before I go?'

‘I found your sister crying, I was trying to comfort her.'

‘Looks like you succeeded.' He eyed David Ford coolly as he filled the kettle but Bethan could sense hostility between the two men.

‘David provided a shoulder for me to cry on and that's all.'

‘You could have called me.'

‘And disturb your last few hours with Jane? Stop playing the outraged brother, Haydn, and make yourself some breakfast while I dress, then I'll take you down the station.'

‘There's no need to put yourself out.'

‘Please, I have enough to worry about, without you being difficult.'

He opened the bread crock. ‘Toast, anyone?'

‘No thank you. It's time I was going.' David Ford went to the door.

‘Don't worry,' Haydn called after him. ‘Your secret is safe with me. I won't tell cashmere coat.'

‘Cashmere coat?' David looked to Bethan as she picked up the blanket from the chair.

‘My brothers' nickname for my husband. I'll be ready in five minutes, Haydn.'

David watched her collect her clothes from the study and walk upstairs to the bathroom. When he was sure she couldn't overhear him, he turned back.

‘There's nothing going on between your sister and me,' he said firmly.

Haydn shrugged his shoulders. ‘As I said, it's none of my business.'

‘This war isn't easy for her …'

‘Or you, stuck back here in nice safe Pontypridd while the rest of us go out and get killed.'

‘My men will get killed soon enough.'

‘And you?'

‘I'll be with them.'

‘Leading from the front or sitting safe in some dugout, Colonel?'

‘Give me credit for one thing, Captain Powell.' David's grip tightened on the door handle. ‘Knowing how and when to retreat. I couldn't give a damn what you think of me, but I am concerned what you think of your sister. And you are doing her one hell of an injustice if you think her capable of cheating on her husband.'

Bethan drove down the hill in silence. She crouched behind the wheel, peering into the blackout, framing sentences that she lacked the courage to voice, while Haydn sat tense and preoccupied alongside her. It was the thought of Eddie and Maud, and how she hadn't been able to say goodbye to either of them that finally drove her to speak.

‘Did you wake Jane to say goodbye?'

‘No.'

‘Haydn, what you saw …'

‘It's all right. Your fancy man explained what I saw.'

‘There's nothing between us. You don't have to be so – so – big-brotherly about this.'

‘Big-brotherly?' Haydn exclaimed as she slowed to a crawl before turning left into Station Yard. ‘Is that what you think this is about? I find my sister in a Yank's arms …'

‘And that's all you did find. Colonel Ford holding and comforting me. As we tried to tell you, he heard me crying in the drawing room, took me into the kitchen, made me tea and when I didn't stop crying, he hugged me. I was miserable, afraid, lonely and looking for sympathy. He just happened to be around.'

‘Can't you see that's just the problem? He's here and I'm not. I want to be here all the time. For you, for Jane, for Anne, for Dad – and don't talk to me about the war. I'm fed up to the back teeth with the bloody war.'

Turning off the ignition she sat back in her seat. ‘We're all fed up of the bloody war, Haydn. Andrew in his prison camp, the Americans away from their families, Jane facing hard, manual labour every day in the factory when all she really wants is to be with you and Anne.'

‘But we've just got to get on with it, is that what you're trying to say?'

‘That's what I am saying. It can't go on for ever.'

‘No it can't. But have you thought what will happen if the wrong side wins?'

‘It won't.'

‘And I never thought we'd lose Dad.'

‘We haven't, not yet.'

‘Bethan …'

‘I don't want to hear it, Haydn. Dad told me about the bottle of vodka you gave him for Alma. You found it in yourself to give her hope that Charlie is still alive, why can't you do the same for us? Dear God, haven't we lost enough with Eddie and Maud?' She opened the door. ‘Come on, I'll buy a platform ticket and walk you up to the train. And try not to make it so long before coming home again.'

‘I'll do my best. You'll take care of Jane and Anne and Phyllis and Brian?'

‘You don't have to ask.'

‘About money, I have plenty. I made quite a bit before the war, and although I'm on an officer's pay now, I still get royalties from my records, and I've done one or two private shows. Jane has access to the account. It's in joint names. Take whatever you need for Phyllis and Brian. There's more than enough to buy them a house. Graig Avenue, if Mam will sell it.'

‘You don't know Phyllis if you think she'll take charity from us.'

‘She has to live.'

‘She's already talked about taking a job in munitions.'

‘And Brian and Anne?'

‘Don't worry, we'll sort something out. Whatever else, the children will be well looked after.'

‘Jane doesn't have to work.'

‘She knows. Weird, isn't it? For the first time in our lives the two of us have enough money to leave some in a bank, and it's useless. It won't buy Andrew out of his camp …'

‘Or Dad back …' The noise of the train pulling in drowned out the rest of his sentence. Kissing her cheek, he murmured, ‘I forgot to tell you to take care of yourself. You won't always have to rely on Yanks for comfort. And enjoy what you have, while you have it. That's what I do, sis.'

She looked at him, wondering exactly what he meant.

He climbed on to the train. ‘It's good advice.'

‘Just come home again, safe, sound and soon,' she called after him.

‘You sure?'

‘Heard it myself from George Rivers. He's billeted with someone in the family, isn't he?' Linking his hands behind his head, Richard Reide leaned back behind his desk, propped his feet up on a filing cabinet and looked at Kurt Schaffer. ‘He said that Jenny Powell's fancy man was caught up in the same pit fall as Nurse John's father. And as that was three days ago, he reckoned that made the delicious and very desirable Jenny free, and ripe for the harvesting. I would go in there myself, but my hands are full with the ardent and appreciative Anthea. There's nothing like the adoration of an erstwhile virgin who's been shown just how good a good time can be.'

‘Is Jenny upset?' Kurt asked, deliberately ignoring Richard's mention of Anthea.

‘How would I know? George thinks he's in there with a chance, but I saw the way she looked at you in the New Inn. If anyone should jump in there quick, it should be you, boy,' he drawled. ‘Take a tip from Uncle Rick, a widow never forgets her way around a mattress. And just like tumbled virgins, they're so grateful afterwards.'

‘You're disgusting.'

‘This coming from Mr Morality himself?'

‘At least I don't go peddling photographs of my girlfriend in the nude.'

‘Only because you don't have one.'

‘If her father ever finds out …'

‘How's he going to do that when I sell exclusively to US army personnel?'

‘It's a small town.'

‘Or someone could tell him?' Richard narrowed his eyes.