Spoils of War (5 page)

‘Do you know anywhere else I might try?’ he asked.

‘Surely your mother can put you up? I know it might mean sleeping on a sofa …’

‘I want a bed. I’ve slept in enough makeshift places the last six years to last me a lifetime. Leave is supposed to mean home comforts.’

‘See what you mean. Well, I suppose I could let you have our boxroom. Like I said it’s small but it’s clean and since the munitions factory closed I’ve nothing else to do but work here nights and look after the house during the day so I could do your washing and feed you. You have got a ration book?’

‘You live in Leyshon Street, don’t you?’

‘Isn’t that good enough for people from Danycoedcae Road?’

‘It’s perfect, not so far to stagger from here but I’ve got someone to see first. Give me the number and a key and I’ll leave my bag there.’

‘Fifteen bob a week all right?’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Including breakfast and tea,’ she added swiftly. ‘It’s number fourteen, the key is in the door because there’s bugger all to steal. My father works nights, but don’t worry about him, we’ve been short since munitions laid me off. He’ll be so pleased at the thought of extra to pay the rent, he won’t mind the two of us sleeping there alone.’

‘You sure?’ Tony asked, realising how it would look.

‘I’ll get us a bit of supper, shall I, from the chip shop?’

‘That would be nice.’ Thrusting his hand in his pocket he pulled out two shillings. ‘Here you go.’

‘Ta, Tony. Whoever you’ve got to visit don’t make it too late. Seeing as how neither of us has much to get up for in the morning we could have a bit of fun before hitting the hay.’ She gave him a broad wink as the landlord shouted at her to get on with serving the other customers.

Chapter Three

The living room above Charlie and Alma’s shop was quiet, and so still that the tick of the mantel clock staccatoed into the chill air like rifle shots, fraying Alma’s ragged nerves to breaking point. Shivering, she hunched further into her cardigan. Hoping to get Charlie to bed early, and incidentally save on severely rationed coal, she’d banked down the fire just before their visitors had arrived. But with frost icing the February night air and coating the windowpane, it hadn’t taken long for the temperature of the room to drop below a comfortable level.

‘Do you think this woman could be Masha?’ she asked, shattering the silence that had closed in, enveloping each in their separateness since Charlie had broken the news.

‘I hope so.’

Leaving her chair she walked to the fireplace and hooked the guard in front of the grate so if any coals fell out during the night they couldn’t roll further than the tiled hearth. She knew what she had to say, it needed saying, but above all she needed to convince Charlie that she meant every word.

‘Do you remember the night you told me about Masha?’

He looked into her eyes with such love she might have been touched if she hadn’t recalled that he’d once told her it was her resemblance to Masha that had attracted him to her. She even heard his voice echoing back from that momentous night –
‘She looked a lot like you, tall, slender with pale skin, red hair and green eyes.’

‘It was the same night I told you I loved you.’

She kneeled before him and took his hands into hers. For the first time in months they were actually talking, but Alma was very conscious that it was the hope of Masha re-entering his life that had wrought the miracle, not anything she had done.

‘You also told me that I had to understand about Masha. That she would always be the first one – and your wife.’

‘That was a long time ago, Alma.’

‘Seven years and a war ago, Charlie, but I know you. Your feelings don’t alter with time.’

‘Masha and I were married only a few months. I haven’t seen her in sixteen years. I don’t even know if it is her, and even if it is, she might not recognise or want me. She could have married again. Anything could have happened to her. The fact that she is in a displaced persons’ camp now suggests her life hasn’t been easy. She could have been in one of the Nazis’ forced labour camps like me – or, even worse, one of the death camps.’ His eyes were miraculously alive – and tortured.

‘First, you have to find out if it is her, Charlie,’ Alma said practically. ‘And if it is, chances are she’ll need looking after and the best place to do that is here, in Pontypridd, where you have a home, friends and business. I’ll view that house in Tyfica Road tomorrow. I’ve already talked to the solicitor so I have a fair idea of what it’s worth. We have more than enough money saved to offer a fair price and if it’s in the condition I believe it is, I think we should buy it.’

‘For you and Theo?’

‘No. Theo and I will stay here with Mary for the time being. If this woman is Masha you’ll need somewhere to take her.’

‘This flat –’

‘Is too public and noisy. There are people in and out of the shop at all hours, if it’s not the customers and deliverymen it’s the staff. Theo, Mary and I are used to living here and it’s ideally situated to run the business. Besides, if you don’t mind I’d like to carry on overseeing the shops until you decide what you want to do with them.’

‘I couldn’t live with Masha in the same town as you.’

‘Why not, Feo?’ she asked, unconsciously reverting to his Russian name. ‘It’s not as if any of us have done anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault that you two were separated. Neither of you left the other willingly.’

‘Alma, I’m sorry …’

‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, Charlie,’ she declared a little too firmly. ‘Masha is your first wife, you loved her and she you. I know what it is to lose someone you love. You were missing for just over three years and it almost drove me mad. I can’t begin to imagine how I’d feel after sixteen …’ Her breath caught in her throat. Fighting to maintain her composure she murmured, ‘I’m really glad she’s alive, Charlie. For both of you.’

‘And us?’

She turned away as she rose to her feet. ‘I don’t think Pontypridd is ready for a man with two wives.’ She’d intended the comment to sound light-hearted but her voice cracked under the strain.

‘It might be better for you and Theo if I moved out.’

She gripped the back of the chair in front of her so tightly her knuckles hurt. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘I could move in with Andrew and Bethan for a while. They have room.’

‘I’m tired, I’m going to bed.’ Alma walked quickly to the door but not quite quickly enough. Charlie left his chair, caught her by the waist and clung to her, and for a brief moment nothing else mattered. Then just as abruptly, he released her.

As Alma left the room she felt that the embrace had been his way of saying goodbye.

Tony walked down Graig Street peering at the houses until he came to the one he’d been looking for. A key protruded from the lock just as it did from every other front door he’d passed. He was surprised how odd that looked to him after six years away and eight months in post-war Germany but then the realisation came – he was home. And as Judy had so succinctly pointed out, after years of shortages and rationing people on the Graig had
‘bugger all worth stealing’.

He hesitated, debating whether or not to go in. He’d been unsure of the welcome he’d receive at home but he was very sure of the reception he’d get in this house. As his drink-fuddled mind groped towards a decision, he recalled all the stirring speeches he’d been forced to listen to since he’d been in the army. Hadn’t he and millions of others like him just finished fighting a long and bitter war to assert their own and every other man’s rights? And wasn’t that all he was trying to do, assert his rights?

Turning the key, he stepped into the flagstoned passage to be greeted by silence. Everything was quiet, no murmur of radio, or voices – no lights shining beneath the doors. He glanced at his watch but it was too dark to read the face. Feeling his way past the parlour door on his right and the stairs on his left, he headed for the kitchen and opened the door. It was warm – too warm after the street – and he tugged at his collar. The curtains had been opened and the moon shone silvery cold through the small back window. He could see from the muted glow of small coal smothering large that the stove had been bedded down for the night and the room tidied. As he fumbled for the light switch he heard a step on the stairs.

‘Tony! What on earth are you doing here?’ Dishevelled and even more beautiful and seductive than he remembered, clutching a long, bottle-green brushed cotton robe to her throat, her dark hair hanging loose around her face, his brother’s wife, Diana, blinked back at him.

‘Thought I’d call in on my sister-in-law,’ he slurred, discovering that his voice, like the room, was wavering uncontrollably. ‘Give big brother Ronnie – head of the family’s wife – a chance to welcome the hero home from the war. And there’s Billy, my step-nephew – only we know he’s a lot closer than that, don’t we, Diana? I want to see him.’

‘At a quarter past ten at night?’

‘Why not?’ Reeling, he crashed into the table, sending the cruet rattling.

‘Tony, whatever you want, it will have to wait until morning. And I’d be happier if you’d bring one of your sisters with you the next time you visit.’

‘So beautiful and so heartless. You weren’t always like this, Diana.’

‘You’re drunk.’

The disgust in her voice spawned resentment. ‘Course I’m drunk. I’m home from the army. I have every right to be drunk after what I’ve been through and suffered for the women and children of this country – drunk as a lord …’

Stepping back, Diana opened the door to the passage wider. ‘Out.’

‘No!’ Grinning inanely up at her, he fell back into the easy chair.

‘Tony, don’t make me throw you out.’

‘I’d like to see you try.’ He slid down, propped his feet on a stool and stared defiantly up at her.

‘How about me doing it for her?’

Stunned, Diana stared in disbelief as the tall figure of her husband strode past the open front door and down the passage. Muffled in layers of army-issue khaki, he tossed his kitbag on to the stairs before confronting his brother.

‘Ronnie! I didn’t know you were back.’ Tony started nervously, sending the stool crashing to the floor.

‘I bet you didn’t. Angelo told me you were home. I didn’t think you’d be idiot enough to come here.’

‘Wanted to see my sister-in-law – and Billy …’ Tony shrank back into the chair as Ronnie drew closer. Tony was eight years younger than his brother, but he was also five inches shorter and not so drunk he’d forgotten the pain Ronnie had inflicted on him the last time they had clashed.

‘Ronnie!’ Diana screamed as her husband’s hand closed on the front of Tony’s uniform collar.

‘Just helping him through the door.’

‘He’s drunk.’

‘I noticed.’

‘You can’t just throw him into the street.’

‘He’s not bloody well staying here.’

‘You’re hurting him,’ Diana pleaded.

‘See, she still likes me.’ It was one remark too many.

‘But I don’t!’ Lifting Tony bodily from the chair, Ronnie slammed him against the wall close to the dresser. The whole piece shook, sending the china juddering on the shelves. ‘And how often have you called to see my wife since I’ve been away?’

‘Ronnie, please, he hasn’t been back in Pontypridd since you two fought last time.’ Distraught, Diana tried to pull Ronnie off Tony but the room was crammed with overlarge pieces of furniture and the table blocked her way. ‘Ronnie – please let him go,’ she begged.

Grim-faced, Ronnie continued to pin Tony high off his feet, watching dispassionately as his features turned blue-black.

‘Ronnie, you’re killing him!’

‘And you’re not worth going to jail for, are you, little brother?’ Ronnie finally slackened his grip enough for Tony to draw breath. He turned to look at Diana. Her eyes were damp, brimming with unshed tears.

‘Ronnie …’

All the love, warmth and welcome Ronnie had dreamed of every night since he’d left her was mirrored on her face. But the momentary distraction was what Tony had been waiting for. Arms flailing wildly, he lashed out. Catching Ronnie unawares he sent him crashing backwards on to the table. Pressing home the unexpected advantage, Tony jumped on top of him.

‘Stop it. Both of you!’ Diana grabbed Tony’s arm to prevent him from slamming his fist into Ronnie’s nose. Striking out blindly, Tony hurled Diana aside. She screamed as she reeled over the easy chair into the window. She heard the glass shatter, felt the shards raining on to her head and body, heard Ronnie shout, saw blood … But strangely there was no pain – no pain at all – as tidal waves of purple twilight moved in from the shadows, enveloping everything, even Ronnie’s face – fearful – and so very, very loving.

William Powell left his plate on the counter of the café, winked at Angelo, opened the kitchen door and walked straight through to the passage. Shouldering his kitbag he ran lightly up the stairs. The streetlamp shone through the lace that covered the landing window, but both rooms were in darkness. Leaving his bag in the living room, he tiptoed to the bedroom. Turning the knob he peeped round the door to be confronted by total gloom. He was momentarily disorientated before he realised that Tina hadn’t replaced the blackout curtains.

‘Come any closer and I’ll scream.’

‘Not that Angelo will run upstairs to rescue you, he’s too busy throwing out the stragglers.’

‘Will! Is it you? – Damn!’ The lamp thudded to the floor as Tina missed the switch and knocked it over.

‘Close your eyes.’ He switched on the main light, smiling as she sat up, pushing her unruly mass of black curls away from her face.

‘Shut the door, it’s cold.’ She said the first thing that came into her head as a draught of icy air whistled in from the passage.

‘I know. The train Ronnie and I travelled down on from London was unheated and it took ages …’ It suddenly struck him that he was gabbling trivialities during a moment he’d been planning, waiting and longing for almost every minute since he’d left her. He continued to stare, wanting to absorb every aspect of her – her presence – her essence – the exact way she looked with her hair falling forward over her sleep- and cold-flushed cheeks. Then he realised she was scrutinising him in exactly the same way.

‘I can’t believe you’re here. Damn it, Will, why didn’t you write or send a telegram? I could have prepared a special meal or at least stayed up …’

‘There wasn’t time to let you know.’ Smiling at her pique, he opened his arms. Throwing back the bedclothes, she dived to the foot of the bed and hugged him over the footboard, nestling her face against the scratchy, rough, woollen, army-issue overcoat that smelled of cold, oil, trains and the unique, mixed essence she had almost forgotten, that was her husband.

He bent his head to kiss her and she clung to him, forgetting that her feet were freezing out of the bed-clothes, her hair was a mess, her face was shiny with cold cream and even for one blissful moment the old purple cardigan she was wearing over her thickest – and least glamorous – nightdress.

‘So, have you missed me?’ he questioned, finally releasing her.

‘How can you ask?’

‘I assumed you’d be lonely but then I wasn’t expecting to walk into the café at this time of night and find you in bed.’

She dragged him down next to her. Unfastening his overcoat he pulled her on to his lap.

‘Your mother and Dino got married today and I was feeling miserable, lonely and envious.’

‘Of my mother and that fat American she sent me a picture of?’ he laughed.

‘Of your mother having that fat American in her bed tonight – and he’s not that fat,’ she contradicted, ‘just cuddly.’ She slid her hands beneath his coat and jacket, seeking reassurance and warmth as he kissed her a second time.

‘I’ll pull my vest up if you promise to keep your hands in one place. They’re like two little snowballs, move them any lower and you’re likely to destroy all chances of making tonight a happy one.’