Swansea Summer (33 page)

‘You can’t be serious, John.’

‘I am.’

‘Even though Esme’s trying every foul, underhand trick to get you back?’

‘Let her try.’

‘It could get bloody.’

‘Knowing Esme, I’ve no doubt it will,’ John said philosophically. ‘But the answer’s still no. I won’t leave her destitute.’

‘Then prepare for the worst.’

‘I have been,’ John said grimly, ‘almost since the day I married her.’

Chapter Eighteen

‘Judy.’ Adam charged up the steps of his parents’ basement and ran after her as she left her house. ‘You walking to your mother’s hairdresser’s?’ He took hold of her arm as he dived under her umbrella.

Resenting his familiarity, she quickened her pace. ‘No, I’m catching the Mumbles train to go to the new salon, and I only have twelve minutes to get to the Mumbles Road.’

‘Don’t suppose you feel like coming to a dinner dance with me tonight?’

‘You suppose right.’ She felt that if she went out with Adam it would be like a public admission that she and Brian were over, and even if they were, it was something she wasn’t ready to face or deal with – not yet.

‘It wouldn’t be like a date or anything,’ he explained. ‘It’s a formal Civil Service do; the girl who was going with me is in bed with tonsillitis. I’ve bought the tickets and hired a dinner jacket. All I need is a fairly presentable partner in an evening frock.’

‘I’m flattered,’ she rejoined caustically.

‘You know you’re more than presentable, please, Judy …’

‘Ask Katie.’

‘After she told me to get lost?’

‘If it’s not really a date …’

‘She still wouldn’t come.’

‘You’re probably right.’ She looked up and down Mansel Street to check there was no traffic coming before crossing the road.

‘I’d ask Lily’ – he crouched down, in an attempt to keep his head under cover as she lowered her umbrella ‘but Martin’s so besotted with her, he’d never lend her out to another bloke, and with Helen married and in hospital, out of all my friends that leaves …’

‘Me.’ She stopped and looked at him, finding it difficult to believe that someone as tall, blond, blue-eyed and good-looking as Adam Jordan was having difficulty in finding a girl to go to a dance with him.

‘The girl I was going with works in the office next to me. We’re sort of serious,’ he acknowledged coyly. ‘But if I told her I was taking an old friend whose boyfriend is also a friend of mine and away in London she wouldn’t mind. She knows the tickets cost a bomb and there’s no way I’d get my money back at this late stage.’

‘So it really wouldn’t be like a date,’ she murmured.

‘Definitely not,’ he asserted, sensing her weakening.

‘You’d be doing me a favour. The tickets were twelve and six …’

‘Each?’

He nodded. ‘Now do you see why I’m desperate.’

‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘as long as I pay my own way.’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it. I’d lose the money if you didn’t come.’

‘Then the drinks are on me.’

‘I won’t argue with that.’ He smiled at her. ‘You have a posh frock?’

‘I’ll dig one out.’ As she returned his smile, she recalled a time before Brian had moved to Swansea and into her life when the prospect of going to a dinner dance with Adam Jordan would have sent her heart rate soaring. ‘Now I really must go.’

‘Pick you up at six thirty,’ he shouted as she ran across the Kingsway. Despite the rain, he was still smiling as he headed up the road towards his office. Brian had told him that Judy had given him the scent and lipstick the night of the stag party. He had also more or less admitted to painting the kisses on him including the one on his underpants and, according to Sam, Judy was still Brian’s girlfriend. He had given fair warning the night they’d come to blows in the Pier. Brian would soon learn that he wasn’t the only one who could play a practical joke.

‘They said she’s well enough to come out, Jack,’ John reassured him as he turned off the ignition. He had parked his car as close to the entrance of the hospital as he dared, but he could barely make out the doors through the rain that sheeted down, flooding the gutters and puddling the pavements.

‘It’s just that after Wednesday …’

‘Helen has to dress and I have to get back to the warehouse before the fashion buyer doubles our regular order with the Italian knitwear rep. Every time he lays on the charm, her common sense deserts her. So, for both our sakes, go in there, boy.’ Turning, he lifted an umbrella from the back seat of the car. ‘And take this. You’re going to need it. You’ve got her clothes and coat?’

‘Katie packed Helen’s case.’

‘Then Helen should have everything she needs.’ John gave a final encouraging smile as Jack opened the door, pushed up the umbrella and ran round to the boot of the car.

‘That is gorgeous,’ the nurse complimented as Helen fastened the button on the waistband of the skirt that hung loosely round her waist and lifted her jacket from the case Jack had brought in. ‘Is it real silk, Mrs Clay?’

‘Yes, it is.’ Helen smiled weakly. The staff had mellowed considerably during her convalescence and she had long since realised that their outwardly cold officious manner was merely a mask they donned whenever they felt relatives were hindering a patient’s recovery. And how like Jack to bring her the costume she had been married in. If it hadn’t been for the clean underclothes, new stockings and fresh handkerchief, she would have believed he hadn’t unpacked the clothes that had been sent out when she’d been admitted.

The nurse fingered the cloth. ‘It really is lovely and heavenly colours. Wherever did you get it?’

‘My father’s warehouse.’

‘Griffiths’ wholesale?’ the nurse asked.

‘How did you know?’

‘Someone said you were related.’

Helen looked despairingly at her hair in the mirror. It hung, lank and greasy to her shoulders.

‘Your husband brought a hat,’ the nurse suggested encouragingly. ‘I could put your hair in a bun if you like.’

‘Please.’ Helen sank on to the chair next to the bed. It wasn’t simply that she was too tired to cope with having to dress and make decisions about her hair and make-up; now that she was finally about to go home, she was stunned to discover that she didn’t want to leave. For four weeks the ward had been her entire world; first the poky little booth with its peeling and stained institution green painted walls at the end of the corridor nearest the nurses’ station. Then this curtained cubicle. And the whole time she’d been incarcerated she’d hated the place. The lack of privacy, the smells, the boredom, the regime, the brusque, no-nonsense senior staff and the trainees straining to prove their efficiency, and all the while she’d longed to be home. Not the pristine flat that had been prepared for her and Jack but her bedroom in her father’s house where he, with the daily’s help, had nursed her through all her childhood ailments from measles, through mumps to chicken pox. Yet now, when she was minutes away from leaving, she was almost afraid to go. It was confusing – made no sense – and she couldn’t even begin to understand it.

‘There.’ The nurse handed her a mirror. The bun was neat but it did nothing to disguise the fact that her hair needed washing. ‘Shall I pin on your hat?’

‘Please.’ Helen opened her compact and dabbed at her nose. The powder clung, pasty and lumpy, emphasising ugly patches of dry skin.

‘Here, let me.’ The nurse took her mascara brush from her and dipped it in her water glass, to wet it. ‘It will be washed before it’s passed on to someone else,’ she explained in reply to Helen’s bemused glance.

Helen rubbed the brush over the block and brushed on a coat. Like the powder it clumped, sticking her lashes together. Even her lipstick seemed to conspire against her, coating thickly over her lips, giving them an oddly greasy appearance.

‘You look wonderful.’ The nurse placed the white hat she had worn for her wedding on her head and secured it with her pearl-headed pin.

‘All ready?’ The sister pulled the curtain; opening it wide, when she saw Helen sitting dressed in the chair. ‘And not a moment too soon, Mrs Clay, your husband’s getting fractious. I think he’s convinced we want to keep you here. Evans,’ she called to one of the trainees. ‘Check Mrs Clay doesn’t leave anything behind.’

‘Yes, sister.’

‘Thank you for everything,’ Helen murmured mechanically as the nurse packed her comb and hairbrush into her vanity case.

‘Just doing our job.’ The nurse smiled.

‘Dab of scent.’ The trainee handed her a bottle.

Unscrewing the top, Helen removed the rubber stopper, held her finger over the neck and tipped the bottle upside down, before perfunctorily dabbing her finger on her wrists and neck.

‘I can’t see that you’ve left anything.’ Closing the drawer and door on the locker, the trainee took the bottle and stowed it in Helen’s vanity case.

‘Your coat.’ The nurse held it out and Helen slipped her arms into the sleeves.

‘The porter’s waiting, staff.’

‘Coming, sister.’ The staff nurse helped Helen up as a porter pushed a wheelchair towards them.

‘I can walk.’

‘Not out of here, you can’t.’ The sister nodded to the porter. ‘Her husband is in the visitors’ room next to the office. ‘Take care of yourself, Mrs Clay.’

‘And good luck,’ the staff nurse added.

Too overcome to answer and ashamed of the tears that were falling from her eyes yet again, Helen nodded as the porter laid the vanity case on her lap and lifted her suitcase. To the cries of her fellow patients’ good wishes he steered her out of the ward and into the corridor.

‘Mrs Griffiths.’ John’s daily cleaner retreated into the hall at the sight of Esme on the doorstep.

Esme walked past the woman. ‘Could you carry my cases upstairs?’ she asked the taxi driver who was standing behind her. ‘Second door on the left.’

‘Mr Griffiths didn’t say anything about you coming back, Mrs Griffiths,’ the cleaner said, as she found her voice. ‘Your room’s not ready; the bed’s not even aired …’

‘The electric fire will soon rectify that.’ Esme gave the daily a tight smile as she opened her handbag and removed her purse.

‘That will be five shillings, ma’am.’ The taxi driver tipped his hat as he returned downstairs. Esme handed him two half-crowns, then, after a moment’s hesitation, added a shilling tip.

‘Thank you.’

Closing the door behind him, Esme shrugged off her lightweight pale-blue mackintosh and hung it on a hanger on the stand. ‘Is Helen’s room ready?’

‘Jack, Martin, Katie and Lily from next door spent all yesterday evening cleaning the flat in the basement.’

‘It is quite out of the question that Helen move in there. I spoke to her doctor this morning. She needs peace quiet and absolute rest, and she’s not going to get that with Jack Clay around. If you get the electric fire, you can put it in her room first.’

‘Mr Griffiths …’

‘Like all men, he means well, but’ – Esme looked around the hall before opening the door to the living room – ‘it’s obvious he’s allowed this place to go to rack and ruin since I’ve been away.’ She faced the daily head on. ‘First things first, the electric fire in Helen’s room. Set the mattress on its side. I’ll bring in the bedclothes when I’ve checked the state of the airing cupboard.’

‘You look great.’ Jack bent over the wheelchair and kissed Helen’s cheek.

‘Bet you’ll be glad to get her home,’ the porter commented.

‘You can say that again.’ Pocketing the pills and prescription the sister had given him for Helen, Jack took the suitcase from the porter and held the umbrella over the chair with his free hand as the man pushed Helen out of the foyer towards the car.

John left his seat and opened the back door. Helping Helen into the car as Jack lifted her cases into the boot, he asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Wobbly,’ she admitted, ashamed of her weakness. ‘And strange.’

‘Strange good or bad?’

‘Everything seems so cold, bright, colourful and’- she looked around – ‘big.’

‘That’s only to be expected after you’ve been cooped up in an overheated hospital for the best part of a month.’

Jack folded the umbrella and tossed it on top of Helen’s suitcase before slamming the boot shut.

‘You sitting in the front with me, or in the back with Helen?’ John climbed into the driver’s seat.

‘The back, Mr Griffiths.’

Under pretence of adjusting the rear-view mirror, John watched as Jack sat beside Helen and reached for her hand. She allowed him to fold it between his, but she continued to glance nervously around her, as if the world were suddenly too vast for her to take in. He gunned the ignition and switched on the windscreen wipers. ‘Jack’s got the flat all ready for you, love.’

‘I’d rather go home.’

Struck by the panic in her voice, he looked at Jack who was staring at him in the mirror.

‘Whatever Helen wants, Mr Griffiths.’ Jack wrapped his arm round Helen’s shoulders.

‘Home it is, then.’

‘Telephone call for you, Miss Sullivan.’ Miss Oliver, the manager’s secretary, interrupted Lily as she was taking her morning tea break in the staff room. ‘You know the manager’s policy on private calls during office hours. Emergencies only.’

‘Yes, Miss Oliver. I’m sorry, but I’ve told my uncle and my friends I’m not allowed to receive calls.’

‘Then we’ll assume it’s an emergency, shall we? You can take it at your desk.’ Miss Oliver relented, granting that as it was the first private call she could recall Lily receiving at work, it might well fall into the category of ‘emergency.’

‘Thank you, Miss Oliver.’ Lily carried her teacup to the sink.

‘Leave that, Lily. I’ll wash it with mine.’ Marion, one of the typists, offered.

‘Thanks.’

‘Go on, quick, it might be the love of your life.’

Blushing, Lily walked through the office to her desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Lily Sullivan.’

‘Anyone would think I wanted to speak to the queen, the palaver they put me through to get to you.’

‘Who is this?’ she asked.

‘Don’t you recognise my voice?’

‘No.’

‘And I thought we were friends.’

‘Joe, what are you doing telephoning me here? The bank doesn’t allow private calls …’

‘I had to do something to speak to you,’ he broke in impatiently. ‘If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were avoiding me. Every time I’ve seen you the past couple of days you’ve either been with Martin or Katie …’

Lily glanced at her watch, there were only a couple of minutes of her tea break left and she dare not allow the call to run into her working time. ‘What do you want, Joe?’

‘I had no idea you could be a Miss Snappy Boots.’