Past Remembering (23 page)

‘Your face!’ she exclaimed, looking up and seeing it for the first time.

‘I walked into a door in the factory.’

‘A likely story.’

‘Initiation ceremony.’

‘I was hoping they’d leave you alone.’

‘They will tomorrow; you should see the other fellow. All those training sessions and boxing lessons with Joey Rees in the gym paid off.’

‘I’ll be back in tomorrow …’

‘And you’ll ignore me and get on with your own work. I can take care of myself. You don’t have to play the big sister to your sissy little brother all your life.’

‘I’d like to help.’

‘You can by ignoring the gossips. But then you’ve been doing that for years, haven’t you, Myrtle?’

‘You and Diana seem so happy.’

‘We are, but it’s not exactly a normal marriage.’

‘You won’t leave her?’ she asked anxiously. Diana wasn’t only her sister-in-law, but her closest friend. Diana and Megan had blown the only breath of fresh air that had been allowed into the house since her mother had died.

‘No, Myrtle, I won’t leave her.’

‘And she won’t leave you?’

‘She says not.’

‘Does she know?’ she asked hesitantly.

‘That I’m a homosexual?’ He looked her in the eye. ‘It’s all right. Using the word isn’t going to change anything. Yes, she knows. In fact she probably knows more about me than I do. I’m lucky to have her for a wife. And you for a sister.’ He poured out the tea and handed her a cup. She reached out and touched his hand.

‘I’m sorry, Wyn.’

‘For what?’

‘Everything you’ve had to go through. When you were little I tried to protect you from the other boys but they tormented you no matter what I did.’

‘You can’t change human nature. As the saying goes, “we’re all born different” and I accepted a long time ago that I was born more different than most.’

‘Be careful.’

‘I’ve no intention of getting myself thrown into prison,’ he reassured her. ‘And with the present manpower shortage and surge in blackout crime the police have better things to do than chase the likes of me. But that’s enough about Diana and me. Tell me, where did Huw take you?’

While she talked about the Cardiff shops and Tyrone Power, he allowed his mind to wander. How much longer could he go on living a lie? Was it simply coincidence that he and Diana had both been attacked today? Or could it be one more sign that the cracks were widening and the vultures gathering? How much longer before they swallowed him, Diana and Billy?

Gina walked into the café on the Tumble at midnight. There weren’t many customers. A couple of railway workers waiting for their late-night shift to begin, three usherettes from the New Theatre, and a uniformed constable talking to an uneasy-looking black-marketeer.

Ronnie was behind the counter, keeping half an eye on the tables as he polished the metal ice-cream goblets.

‘I thought you’d be packing up by now,’ she complained.

‘Not until the last tram has gone and the train from the afternoon shift of munitions workers has come in.’

‘Tina and William upstairs?’

‘After what happened this afternoon, I’ve had orders not to disturb them unless the place burns down. Has Tony come round?’

‘Not since you and William dumped him on Luke and me. I got fed up with sitting in Laura’s, so I thought I’d come down and see what’s happening.’

‘Not a lot.’

‘What exactly did Tony do this afternoon?’

‘Go berserk. From what I could see, little brother just wanted to let off steam.’

‘You expect me to believe that, after you disturbed Luke and me in the middle of our tea and dragged us down to Laura’s to look after him?’

‘Tina wanted him out of her rooms. You can hardly blame her. William’s only got a week.’

‘So Luke and I had to give up our evening and sit up half the night to accommodate Tina?’

Ronnie glanced at the back room. No one looked as though they were about to move, or order food. ‘I need to sit down and rest this leg. Come on through, I’ll send the cook out here.’

She followed him into the kitchen. Pulling up a stool he slumped next to a workbench littered with bowls of ready peeled potatoes and chips. ‘That’s better.’ He grimaced as he rested his leg on a sack of vegetables.

‘Did you really knock Tony out like William said?’

‘It was him or me.’

‘In that case I hope he doesn’t feel like hitting someone when he wakes up. Luke’s developed a lot of muscles in the pit, but he’s still a Quaker at heart. They don’t believe in thumping people the way we Catholics do.’

‘I only did it because Tony left me with no other option.’

‘Is Tony the father of Diana’s baby?’

‘And where did you hear that?’

‘Luke heard it in Griffiths’ shop when he bought his cigarettes.’

‘So that’s why you came down?’

‘Well is he?’ she reiterated.

‘I’m the one who has just returned after a five-year absence. You tell me.’

‘There was something odd about her marrying Wyn Rees in such a hurry.’

‘But she is married to him, and he has accepted the baby as his. Which is why I’m putting Tony on the first train to Birmingham tomorrow morning.’

‘Rather you than me.’

‘He’ll do as he’s told.’

‘I’m not so sure, Ronnie. A lot of things have changed in five years.’

He winked at her. ‘Not that many.’

‘But what if the baby
is
Tony’s?’ she persisted.

‘What if he is?’

‘He’s our nephew.’

‘His name is Billy Rees. I think we should remember that for his sake, whoever his father is, don’t you?’

Ronnie had packed Gina off to Luke, closed the café and was just finishing washing the floor when there was a knock at the door. Switching off half the lights, he pulled the blackout and saw Wyn’s large, stocky figure standing outside. He turned the key and opened the door.

‘I know you’re closed. I was hoping for a word.’

‘Come in.’

‘I wanted to thank you for stepping between Diana and your brother this afternoon.’

‘Anyone would have done the same.’ Ronnie closed the curtain and pulled two chairs down from one of the tables.

‘I doubt it. From what William told me, Tony was drunk and looking for trouble. A fit man in that condition is no joke to tackle, especially for someone in your state of health. He is also your brother.’

‘Which was why I did it. I’d offer you a coffee or tea, but I’ve switched everything off. However, I do have a bottle of brandy tucked away.’

‘I only came round to thank you. I won’t keep you any longer.’

‘Wyn -’ Ronnie detained him as he walked to the door. ‘Tony was drunk, he really didn’t know what he was saying, or doing. I’m sorry he insulted your wife. But it’s obvious after today where Diana’s loyalties and affections lie.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What I’m trying to say …’

‘I know what you’re trying to say.’ Wyn held out his hand and Ronnie took it.

‘I’ll see that Tony is on the first train out of here in the morning.’

‘I’d appreciate it if you let Will know so he can tell us. I was going to change shifts so Diana wouldn’t have to go out by herself while he’s in town.’

‘There’s no need.’ Ronnie opened the curtain and pulled back the bolt.

Wyn stood on the pavement outside, listening to Ronnie relocking the door. He had never felt more alone in his life. He had a sympathetic wife and a loving sister, but neither of them really understood how he felt. It wasn’t their fault. The fear of exposure, the sense of futility that came with living a lie, the isolation and loneliness that was with him every day of his life could only be understood by someone in the same position as himself. There was someone, and a place he could go. If he dared.

Torn between his conscience and a need for sympathy, he walked back through the town towards Tyfica Road.

Huw stood in the centre of his kitchen that also did duty as his living room and tried to imagine he was a stranger seeing it for the first time. It was clean, but not as clean as it had been before Megan had moved in with Wyn and Diana, because since then she had only managed to ‘do’ for him once a fortnight, as opposed to the weekly visits she had made before Billy’s birth.

Megan was always going on at him to replace the ancient dogskin hearth-rug that was more burnt hole than rug, the age-grimed, dingy wallpaper, moth-eaten chair covers and curtains and generally make an effort to dispel the air of dilapidation that no amount of cleaning could brighten. He had money put away, but what use would that be when so many things were rationed?

He left the room and went into the parlour. He had trouble opening the door. Swollen with damp it juddered noisily over the bare floorboards that his father had stained a deep mahogany to match his mother’s heirloom furniture. The surface of the ornate Victorian table and chairs was marred with large white spots, and the doors on the mahogany dresser had warped since he had last looked at them. He ran his fingers over the damage. He should have lit a fire in here in winter. Once a week would have been enough to keep the worst ravages of cold and damp at bay. Even the carpet, a genuine Persian that had been his grandmother’s pride and joy, was stained with mould. Megan had thrown out the curtains when she had replaced them with blackout. They had fallen to bits when she had taken them down.

Closing the door, he walked upstairs to the bedrooms. The one he used was clean and spartan. His clothes hung in the wardrobe, the bed was made, an alarm clock stood on the tallboy, the carpet had been recently swept, the furniture dusted, but even he could see it was not the sort of room a woman would feel comfortable in.

Much to Megan’s disgust the other two bedrooms had become dumping grounds for things no longer in daily use, but deemed by him to be too good to throw out. There was a radio he’d meant to get around to fixing some time, just to prove Frank Clayton’s diagnosis of ‘broken beyond repair’ wrong. There were half a dozen holed pots and pans that needed patching. Considering the present national emergency it might be better to donate them to the scrap metal collections. There were five boxes of ‘best’ china that his father had put away after his mother had died, because if there were more than two place settings of crockery in the cupboard, they allowed the dishes to pile up in the sink without washing them. Bits of wood, nails, tools, odd collections of things that might prove useful but never had, and if he were realistic, probably never would.

There was no getting away from the fact that he had allowed the house to get into a state. Hardly the sort of place a man could ask a woman like Myrtle to live in. When he got to know her a little better he could ask her how she’d change it, if it was hers. She couldn’t possibly object if he invited Diana or Megan to chaperon her. Was he being too hasty? One outing, and he was already thinking of marriage and moving her into his house. Best not to say anything. Bide his time. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her off.

Wyn walked along Gelliwastad Grove towards home, but instead of turning right into Tyfica Road he kept on walking until he reached Graigwen Place. At the end of the street stood the substantial Victorian villa of Jacobsdal, a rambling house that the Council had requisitioned and turned into accommodation for the motley collection of refugees who had fled Europe and drifted into the town.

He checked the street as carefully as the blackout allowed, before stepping through the twin posts that had once sported gates, and on to the gravel drive. His feet crunched alarmingly on the small stones, so he moved on to the soft earth of a flowerbed. Trees cast strange, elongated shadows in the faint glow of moonlight. Shrubs and bushes loomed, an impenetrable jungle on his left. A rustle stopped him in his tracks. He turned swiftly, to see a shadow darting past. A cat, or a rat? It was too dark to see.

Ahead gleamed faint lines of white paintwork chequerboarding shining black squares. Alongside the window he could just make out the door. He hit his hand against an ancient bell-push as he raised his knuckles to knock. He had to rap twice before there was a shuffling inside.

‘Who is it?’ called a guttural voice.

‘Wyn Rees to see Erik,’ he murmured.

The door opened a crack; a light shone dimly at the end of a long passage. ‘He’s playing cards in the hall. Carry on until you reach the double doors.’

Wyn walked down the stone-flagged corridor. The house was freezing, the temperature several degrees lower than the air outside. Pushing open the doors that faced him, he found himself in a huge room. He could see why the inmates had christened it the ‘hall’. A potbellied metal stove stood on a stone plinth at the far end of what had probably once been a ballroom. All the parquet flooring in the immediate vicinity had been ripped up, presumably to feed it.

Four men sat around a rickety card table as close to the stove as safety would allow. Erik had his back to him. He recognised him by his blond hair and worn flannel work shirt. Erik had been a history professor in his native country, but now he wore only labourer’s clothes, almost as though they were the insignia of his refugee status.

Alerted by the silence of his companions, Erik turned round. He was a short, slim man with startlingly blue eyes who looked younger than his thirty-six years. ‘Wyn?’ he smiled. ‘What are you doing here so late? Nothing wrong, is there?’

Wyn looked from Erik to the faces of the men sitting with him, and wished he hadn’t come.

‘You want to talk to me?’ Erik suggested, sensing his friend’s unease.

‘Only if you’re not too busy.’

‘I’ll get Jan to take over my hand. It’s all right, we’re staking our sugar ration, not serious money.’ Laying his cards on the table he shouted through the open door. The man who had let in Wyn appeared.

‘Come on through to the kitchen. I’ll make you some tea. You look as though you could use it.’

Wyn followed him down a maze of narrow corridors into what had been the servants’ quarters. They finished up in a small black and white tiled scullery.

‘The house looks big from the outside, but I had no idea it was this big.’

‘You’ve never been in here before?’