Goodbye to Dreams Page 11

  Then, when Danny had tired of Cecily’s refusal to conform to what he expected and demanded from a woman, she had captured Gareth. Why Cecily and not me? She wondered sadly.

  She rubbed at the speckled mirror where steam from the kettle had blanked it and stared again at her reflection, all sad and misty. Then she smiled and told herself not to be a fool. ‘How could you want a man who prefers your sister?’ she asked out loud. ‘Best you stop blaming Cecily for being more beautiful and get on with your own life,’ she told herself firmly. ‘You aren’t a shadow of her! You’re a person in your own right!’ She heard Cecily and Gareth come in and attended to the kettle. Singing to announce her arrival, she went in carrying the tray.

  ‘Ada,’ Cecily said in a soft whisper. There was something about her voice that made Ada look up sharply. Cecily’s face was flushed and her blue eyes shone in the light of the hissing gas-light. She smiled and her face was, to Ada, utterly beautiful.

  ‘You have something to tell me?’ Ada asked, forcing a smile.

  ‘I’ve asked Cecily to marry me,’ Gareth said in a rush.

  Ada dropped the tray clumsily and rushed to hug her sister. ‘Oh Cecily, I’m so pleased for you both.’ Tears of disappointment and jealousy coupled with the realization that she was destined to be the ‘old maid’ of the family were presumed to be tears of joy and she made no effort to hide them. She hugged Gareth and it was painfully sweet to feel his arms around her at last and experience the touch of his lips on hers.

  ‘Damn the tea,’ she said with a great gulp. ‘Wonderful news like this deserves more than tea. It deserves something stronger. What’s in Dadda’s cupboard?’ She opened the wooden cabinet and pulled out a few bottles, dabbing her eyes as she searched. ‘Will port do? We don’t seem to have anything else.’

  ‘Don’t say anything about this yet, will you, Ada?’ Gareth warned. ‘Not till I have the chance to tell Mam.’

  ‘Our secret.’ Ada held up her glass and drank to their health, their luck and their secret. Then the bottle was empty and Gareth had to go home.

  ‘I wonder how long it will take him to pluck up the courage to tell her?’ Ada giggled. ‘It took him long enough to tell you!’

  ‘I’ll give him a week, then I’ll tell her!’

  ‘Where will you live?’

  ‘Here, of course! I don’t want to leave you, and,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘I can’t imagine me reigning comfortably with Mrs Long-nosed Price-Jones, can you?’

  Excitement and the unaccustomed drink had tired them and it took longer than usual to get through the few chores left to do before bed. Yet Ada sat up for a while thinking about the promise she had made herself in the misty mirror. Tomorrow she’d stop mooning about Gareth and start moulding a life of her own. I’ll no longer be half of a partnership, she decided, but an individual without strings. The decision cheered her momentarily but gloom had resettled before she reached the door of their bedroom.

  The window was open and the curtains blew softly in the night breeze. The candle guttered and she snuffed it out. Opening the curtains she looked out into the silent street. Only circles of light from the gas lamps lit the scene like spotlights on stage; everywhere was black but a peaceful blackness, not one in which unpleasant things lurked. She wished Willie lived in. She’d love to have someone to walk with her and she needed a walk. A fresh cool night wind on her face would have calmed her.

  On a corner further down the road a door opened and two figures fell out, illuminated by the splash of light from within. Their shapes were distorted by the pattern of light but she quickly realized it was two women and they were fighting. From the screams and the shouts that reached her, it was over a man.

  The mood of tranquillity was shattered and she closed the sash with a gentle thump. Fighting over a man indeed! Thank goodness she and Cecily weren’t like that. Gareth belonged to Cecily and she, Ada Owen, was free to enjoy a real romance of her own. But, she wondered sadly as she pulled the cool sheets over her shoulders, where would she find it?

  Dorothy Owen was an aggressive character and many were afraid of offending her. Since being widowed she had received many invitations to ‘walk out’. She was still attractive, her confidence and air of authority lifting her above the rest, and now, at forty, she was still a woman who men noticed.

  She was fashion-conscious but always selected for herself clothes that flowed. Even when fashion dictates were for slinky, well-fitted dresses and coats, she wore skirts that were full and billowed out behind her. She frequently wore a couple of scarves around her shoulders like stoles with ends floating around her in layers of undulating cloth as she moved.

  ‘Dorothy Owen makes fashion, she doesn’t slavishly follow,’ she told her admiring friends.

  She had worked for a few seasons on the beach, serving trays of food to families on the sand. As this only lasted for the few months of summer, when trippers came to fill the small, friendly town, she was forced to look for other work for the rest of the year. Standing for a friend who was ill, she found herself in the big department store, selling ladies’ clothes, and she quickly realized she had found her natural place.

  She was so popular with those with money to spend and a desire to be noticed, she had been invited to stay and, leaving the children with a neighbour during the school holidays, and on Saturdays, she continued to enjoy the work and the extra money.

  The bonus was the opportunity to dress up instead of dress down to go to work. She loved it and spent more money on clothes to wear in the shop than she could really afford. This so impressed her employers they appointed her first sales when she had been there only two months, something unheard of. Now she helped with the buying and was considered indispensable in the smart fashion department. Miss Dorothy was a success.

  So, it was no surprise when, sitting in the small room she liked to call her office, one of the trainee sales girls came and told her a customer wanted to see her. There were many people in the town who asked for her advice when buying new outfits and Mrs Price-Jones was one of them.

  ‘Mrs Price-Jones, how nice.’ Dorothy was never too gushing, especially with those she considered her inferior. Just enough of a smile to set the customers at ease but not enough to suggest they might be equals. Dorothy considered herself above most of them, even those living around the park. ‘How can I help you today?’

  ‘I want a dress to cheer myself up,’ Gareth’s mother sighed. ‘Shocking news I’ve just had. Shocking.’ She stopped and covered her mouth and her long nose with a be-ringed hand. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t be saying this, you being related an’ all.’

  ‘My sisters-in-law misbehaving?’

  ‘My Gareth has told me he and Cecily are to wed.’

  ‘Oh, how nice.’ Dorothy waited for the shock to pass before adding, ‘Why should that upset you? Two girls with a busy shop can’t be a bad match, even if it is only a badly run grocery store.’

  ‘But they’re so unsuited. Sorry to say this but Cecily is a bit … bold, for a woman, don’t you think? For someone as sensitive as my Gareth.’ She leaned closer. ‘Did you know that on the day after their father’s funeral they were laughing and singing, yes, singing, with that stable lad of theirs? Trotting over to the Pleasure Beach as if they were celebrating.’

  ‘No principle, Mrs Price-Jones. I sympathize with you. I wonder if there isn’t some way we can persuade them to at least delay things? I mean, that Danny fellow is around again. I’ve seen Willie Morgan giving him a lift only weeks ago. She and Ada went off with him after the New Year dance. That must surely give him cause to wonder if she is being completely honest with him?’

  Dorothy listened to the woman’s criticism of Cecily for a while longer then, leaving her in the hands of a junior, went back to her office. Cecily must not marry. If either of the sisters had a son then Owen would never have the shop. She considered a few ideas on how to prevent Gareth making the engagement official. Danny Preston lived in Quarry Street on the far side of town n
ear the docks. Perhaps a visit might reveal something useful.

  Waldo and Melanie Watkins came one evening to look through the books at Owen’s shop. The fact that they were rivals was not any concern to either side: without Waldo’s advice and assistance, the sisters would have found it difficult to take on the running of the shop without making expensive mistakes. For Waldo’s part, he saw the small grocer’s shop as a hobby, taking a keen interest in its changes and a pride in its success.

  ‘The new business with the stall holders over the beach is impressive,’ he said as he closed the books. ‘You’ve specialized in lines your father refused to consider and it’s paid off. Well done, both of you.’

  ‘Willie has been a marvellous help,’ Ada said. ‘Without him putting in the hours he has, we’d never have kept so many customers happy.’

  ‘Getting an extra boy, I hear,’ Melanie said. She put down the tray of tea she’d made and began to pour. ‘I wish you’d find a couple for us. Stuck we are now Jack Simmons has gone.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fighting, that’s what! We couldn’t send him to our customers looking like the result of a heavyweight boxing bout!’

  ‘Fighting? That isn’t so terrible, is it?’ Cecily defended. ‘In fact, our Willie came in looking like a map of a coal mine one morning back in the winter, and went through all the colours of a rainbow in the days that followed. He’d obviously been fighting but we pretended to believe his story about falling down some steps.’

  ‘Once you can ignore, but when it happens several times in a month, it begins to look bad. No, Jack Simmons had to go.’

  ‘Shame. Well, if we hear of anyone we’ll let you know.’

  ‘Plenty of people unemployed but not many like your Willie.’

  Melanie handed her husband a cup of tea. He had reopened the books and was thumbing through them, making sure all was well with the way the shop was managed, and what he saw satisfied him. Melanie watched him nod appreciatively before closing them again and taking up his tea.

  Waldo was a small man, still fair although in his late forties. His blue eyes were paler than those of his wife but very bright, impish at times, but always giving a clear indication of sharp intelligence.

  Waldo and Melanie had taken over an ailing business on the main road when they were newly married and worked together, a true partnership, dealing with every part of a complicated business together. They were separated only by their volunteer work. Melanie supported a charity for homeless children and Waldo a sport and exercise club for boys. Regret for their lack of children showed in the way they used their precious spare time.

  ‘Young Van all right?’ Waldo asked as he pushed aside the various files and ledgers and settled to enjoy the rest of the evening in social pleasantries.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine, although she still talks about Dadda quite a lot.’

  ‘Good thing, I’m sure,’ Melanie said.

  ‘Bertie and Beryl are kind. She enjoys playing with their Edwin and of course their house is such a comfortable one. Van’s home from home it is, their house and yours. She’s so lucky.’

  ‘Edwin’s only complaint is that she insists on playing shops all the time,’ Ada said with a smile.

  ‘Remember, you only have to ask if there’s anything you need,’ Waldo reminded them.

  On the strength of Waldo’s words of encouragement regarding the state of their finances, the sisters decided to re-paper the big sitting room above the shop. There was extra money and he recommended they use it to make the house more their own.

  ‘It’s yours now and should reflect more of your personalities.’

  ‘Know any good decorators, Melanie?’ Cecily asked. ‘I don’t think we should risk splashing about with flour and water paste ourselves, do you?’ Cecily laughed but the smile was frozen when Melanie said innocently, ‘Why not ask Danny Preston? You and he were friends once and he’s supposed to be very good.’

  ‘Danny? I thought he was a postman?’ Cecily murmured after a pause.

  ‘Oh, he is, but he’s also working up a business for painting and decorating. Clever with colours I’m told.’

  The others went on talking and Cecily faded into a daydream of Danny. How could she invite him here, to spend days in their home discussing wallpaper, and act as though he were simply a hired workman? She drifted back to the present conversation to hear Ada say, ‘No, perhaps we’ll do it ourselves. The lighter evenings are to enjoy and it would give us something different to think about.’

  When their friends had gone, Ada brought up the subject of Danny again. ‘So, he isn’t married after all.’

  ‘He isn’t? What happened?’ She had obviously missed that part of the conversation.

  ‘Called it off, he did, a few days after giving Jessie his ring.’

  Chapter Seven

  RHONWEN OWEN WAS eight years younger than her sister-in-law, Dorothy, and as gentle and unassuming as Dorothy was resolute. She started working on the beach during the summer at the same time as Dorothy when they were both widowed, but when Dorothy gave up the seasonal work and started working in the fashion department, Rhonwen had stayed on. She spent each summer selling trays of teas for the sands and working in a cinema during the winter.

  To help Dorothy, she met Dorothy’s son Owen from school at the same time as her own daughter, Marged, who at twelve was a year younger than Owen. The two children could hardly be more different.

  Marged was a happy child, given to fits of giggling, much to her mother’s amusement and her Aunt Dorothy’s dismay. Giggling, unlike genuine laughter, Dorothy insisted, came at inopportune moments, like the day of her poor dear grandfather’s funeral, and showed serious lack of control. The solemn Owen was a trial to Marged as she failed to make him smile. Rhonwen watched them walking through the school playground, Marged jumping about like a playful young colt, and the overweight Owen beside her, his head in a book, giving a false impression of studiousness. The solemnity was odd in a young boy and he was constantly teased, which bothered him not at all.

  ‘Come on,’ Rhonwen called to him. ‘We have to get you to the barber before that hair blocks you off from the world completely.’

  ‘Oh no, Auntie Rhonwen! Not a haircut!’ His face dropped in dismay, the mouth a wet oval, eyes peering over the glasses he now wore, his chin showing its double, cheeks wobbling in anticipation of the horrors to come.

  ‘Never mind, Owen, it’s sure to be, almost, painless.’ Marged shared a smile with her mother. Owen showed his teeth in a half-hearted snarl.

  Rhonwen looked around the slowly emptying playground for either Cecily or Ada, who were usually here to meet Van. ‘Seen Van today?’ she asked. ‘I must have missed them.’

  ‘Yes, she was crying,’ Owen reported. ‘Someone said she was crying because she doesn’t have a father. Silly ha’porths. Lots of boys haven’t got fathers. You and I haven’t got a father but you don’t see me, crying about it.’

  ‘But you do have a mother,’ Rhonwen admonished gently. ‘Van has only got Auntie Cecily and Auntie Ada.’

  ‘And us, Mam,’ Marged said, hugging her. ‘And old Owen-of-the-long-hair, he’s a cousin and that’s better than nothing.’

  Myfanwy had been sitting in the playground earlier that day, staring through the railings at the allotments beside the school, where, until recently, her grandfather had worked and occasionally pushed a freshly pulled carrot through the railings for her.

  When Gran had gone away he had stopped coming and now his plot was covered with a blanket of weeds: chickweed, groundsel, daisies, dandelions and even the larger sow thistles and nettles had infiltrated the once-clean earth where vegetables had once grown.

  Now Granddad was gone too and from what she had gathered would never come back. Not like Gran, who was only as far away as the railway station but who never came to see her, to hug her and tell her lovely stories. Now she had to sit in the back room and play shops all alone until the real shop closed. Then it was supper
and bed.

  Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her rose-red cheeks. Some of her friends came to comfort her.

  ‘I miss my granddad,’ she sobbed. ‘No mam, no dad, no gran and now no grandfather either.’

  Tears flowed and sobs heaved in her chest. Then, among the sympathetic murmurs that she was beginning to enjoy, a voice said, ‘Illegitimate, that’s what you are, Myfanwy Owen. You might as well face it.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she demanded, her mouth a pout of held-back sobs.

  ‘It means you haven’t got no father and you never had no father!’

  ‘That’s nothing. All my uncles were killed fighting in the war and my dad was too, so there. We’re all the same, we’re all ill – whatever you called it.’

  ‘Illegitimate,’ the boy repeated slowly. ‘And it isn’t everybody, it’s just you, Myfanwy Owen. Only you!’

  Van said the word silently, syllable by syllable, learning it and hating the sound, knowing it was something unpleasant. The malicious look on the boy’s face was enough to tell her that, and the way he slowed his voice and repeated it, time and again.

  Soon, all the children, including those who had recently tried to comfort her, were chanting it, leaning towards her, drumming the strange word into her brain until she screamed and hit out at her tormentors. Then she saw Edwin Richards and knew things would soon be all right again.

  His powerfully built body pushed through the taunting children, his arms impatiently forcing aside those foolish enough to resist and soon he stood in front of her, glaring at the slowly quietening crowd. His dark eyes flashed and his face was tight with anger. No one would cause Van a moment’s distress while he was there to speak for her. He had no idea of the reason for the argument but was instinctively on Van’s side.