Past Remembering Read online

  ‘It’s nice to see you home.’ Mrs Lane reached for her coat. ‘These past months have been hard on Alma. You away, her mother on her last legs, all the responsibility of trying to run two shops at opposite ends of the town …’

  The news of Alma’s mother’s illness and a second shop came as a complete surprise to Charlie, but skilled in the art of concealing his emotions, he gave Mrs Lane no indication that Alma hadn’t written to inform him of all the happenings.

  ‘… and of course it’s only a matter of time. Days, or so old Dr John told us this morning. That’s why I was so pleased when that nice Nurse John persuaded Alma to go to the restaurant tonight. Not that it was really a party. More of a wake for poor Maud Ronconi, Powell that was. To think of her being dead and buried for over a year and a half, and her own father and sister not knowing a thing about it. God only knows, none of us have much to be happy about these days, but poor Nurse John has less than most. One brother dead at Dunkirk, now her sister gone, and her husband in a prison camp for the duration. And then there’s the Ronconi girls. What with the rest of the family being enemy aliens and forced to leave Pontypridd, and now their brother coming home a widower …’ Alma’s mother’s bedroom door opened and Mrs Lane started guiltily. ‘Well, listen to me going on when you’re on leave. You got long, Mr Charlie?’ she asked, utilising Charlie’s nickname as both Christian and surname, because like the majority of people in Pontypridd she couldn’t get her tongue around his Russian names.

  ‘A couple of days,’ he answered briefly, glancing at Alma.

  ‘I’ll see you to the door, Mrs Lane.’ Alma preceded Mrs Lane down the stairs, leaving the woman no option but to follow her. ‘Constable Davies is waiting in Ronconi’s to walk you home.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘He insisted. You know his ideas on preventative policing in the blackout. Thank you again.’ Silencing her old neighbour’s protests with a kiss on the cheek, Alma ushered her into the street. She slammed the bolts across the door then she mounted the stairs, hearing her mother’s querulous voice crying out before she even reached the first floor.

  ‘You didn’t tell me your mother was ill,’ Charlie admonished.

  ‘There was no point when you couldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘What else haven’t you told me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to see to my mother.’ Ignoring his question she laid her hand on the bedroom door. ‘I told her you were here.’ Without waiting for him to reply she walked into the room, leaving the door ajar for her husband to follow. Her mother was lying, a smaller, more shrunken figure than Charlie remembered, in the centre of a vast double bed. Alma walked towards her. ‘Charlie’s home, Mam. Here he is, come to see you.’

  The old woman’s eyes, the only part of her that seemed alive, although she had been blind ever since Charlie had known her, moved restlessly in their sockets.

  ‘Mrs Moore,’ Charlie greeted her softly as he wrapped his fingers around the old woman’s hand.

  ‘We think she can hear, but she can’t talk. It’s a stroke.’

  Charlie kissed the old woman’s forehead before retreating into the living room. Leaving the light burning in the passage he closed the door, opened the blackout and looked down on the moonlit street. Ronconi’s restaurant was open, the room behind it in darkness. He stared at the crowd milling outside, picking out Ronnie, Bethan John’s arm locked into his. Understandable, he allowed grudgingly, considering Maud had been her sister. There were other men behind Ronnie, one a tall, fair-haired fellow he recognised as a conscientious objector who’d been given a job in the pit. He had his arms around the shoulders of two girls, neither of whom appeared to be unduly concerned by his familiarity.

  Hearing Alma’s step in the passageway he pulled down the blind and switched on the lamp as she walked through the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, she’s very restless. She hasn’t slept through a night in over six months now,’ Alma apologised as she stood before Charlie, staring at him as though she couldn’t believe he was really there.

  ‘You should have written to tell me she was ill.’

  ‘Even if I had, you couldn’t have done anything except worry. Besides, we both know you can’t always read my letters when I send them.’

  ‘Mrs Lane told me you’d opened another shop,’ he broke in harshly. ‘Didn’t you have enough to do with running one?’

  ‘It was too good an opportunity to miss. I’ve gone into partnership with Wyn and Diana Rees. When he closed his sweetshop in High Street we restocked it with our pies and reopened it. It’s doing so well we’re thinking of opening another, perhaps in Treforest or Rhydyfelin.’

  ‘You’ve become quite the businesswoman.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘At finding my wife in another man’s arms?’ He raised his eyes to meet her steady gaze.

  ‘Ronnie only came back late last night. Maud’s dead.’

  ‘Mrs Lane told me.’

  ‘He’s heartbroken, Charlie.’

  ‘And he needs you to comfort him?’

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and faced him head on. ‘You of all people should know that my relationship with Ronnie ended when he fell in love with Maud.’

  ‘But now Maud’s dead he’s looking to you for consolation?’

  ‘No more than from any of his other friends. And that’s all we are to one another now, Charlie. Friends,’ she emphasised, pitching her voice deliberately low in an effort to keep her temper. ‘It’s you I married, and you I love.’

  ‘And if I hadn’t come home just now?’

  ‘I would have held Ronnie’s hand, kissed his other cheek and sent him on his way. Please, Charlie, I don’t want to waste whatever time we’ve got talking about Ronnie.’ Slowly, tentatively she walked over to him. When he didn’t step away from her she wrapped her arms around his chest, ‘It’s been so long. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming back.’

  Despite the jealousy that seeped like poison through his mind, Charlie returned her embrace, but there was an awkwardness between them that was rooted as much in their long separation and the reason for his leave as in the incident he had witnessed between Alma and Ronnie. Before either of them had time to ask any more questions, a soft moan echoed down the passage.

  ‘That’s Mam again.’ Alma reluctantly pulled away from him. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Charlie unlaced his shoes and shrugged off his jacket. Stretching out in what had been his favourite chair, he laid his head against the backrest watching the minutes tick by on the clock on the mantelpiece. One minute … two … was it wrong of him to be angry with the men who’d stayed at home? Men who’d been given work in the pits and the munitions factories, as Ronnie probably would be. Work that enabled them to make free and easy with his wife, and not only his wife. Bethan John’s husband, Andrew, was in a German POW camp for the duration, just like Angelo Ronconi. And William Powell and Tony Ronconi were away on active service somewhere. Tony and Angelo weren’t married, but he had recognised William’s wife, Tina, and Jenny, Eddie Powell’s widow, in the crowd.

  Would William and Andrew be greeted on their return by wives who’d become accustomed to receiving the attentions of other men? Wives who’d made lives for themselves that no longer included husbands? Even aside from the incident with Ronnie, Alma had seemed like a stranger. All he had was seventy-two hours, less travelling time, to make her remember who she was married to – but knowing what he did about his future, did he have a right to?

  Woken by the whine of the all-clear, Haydn wondered why the bed was so hard. He reached out for Jane and his arm hit the empty whisky bottle. Disorientated, he opened his eyes in alarm as it clattered noisily, rolling over the stretch of concrete between the straw mattress Joe occupied and his own. A chorus of disgruntled voices rose around him, protesting at the din, then he remembered the raid that had driven him to take refuge in the
basement.

  He peered into the gloom. A candle flickered forlornly in the corner of the cellar. The effort it took to focus hurt his eyes. It had been months since he had experienced this kind of morning-after feeling. Just lifting his head off the makeshift pillow he had concocted out of his jacket brought a sickening tide of nausea. The last thing he recalled was watching Joe drain the dregs from the bottle, and thinking that as the whisky had gone, he might as well leave the building, raid or no raid, as he’d never be able to sleep for worrying about Jane and Anne.

  ‘What time is it?’ Joe mumbled thickly.

  Haydn held up his wrist in the direction of the candlelight and peered at his watch. ‘Just after four-thirty.’

  ‘Bring me tea and shaving water at nine.’ Joe pulled the improvised bedding over his head and burrowed down as deep as the thin layer of straw would allow.

  Haydn threw off the army surplus blanket, sending a shower of dust over Joe as he climbed to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Joe’s head appeared over the edge of his overcoat.

  ‘Home. See you later?’

  ‘At showtime. No offence intended, but I’d prefer to limit our relationship to work and social from now on. No more all-nighters. You snore a bloody sight louder than my wife.’

  ‘Only when I’m fed whisky.’ Haydn stooped and picked up the empty bottle.

  ‘Your turn to supply the goods tonight.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to lay one down for the future, but I’m hoping the Luftwaffe has run out of bombs after last night.’

  He slipped on his uniform jacket when he reached street level. The air was bracing after the close, humid atmosphere of the cellar, but London seemed unnaturally quiet, even for early morning. There wasn’t a milk cart, policeman or paper boy in sight. He dropped the empty whisky bottle into a glass salvage bin set by the door, turned up his collar and walked to the corner. Stunned, he stopped, looked, and looked again, his mind refusing to believe the evidence of his eyes.

  What had been a street when he’d gone into work, was now a smoking ruin. Blackened men in the boiler suits and tin hats of ARP wardens worked stolidly against a backdrop of dying flames and smouldering rubble.

  ‘They need help down at the FAP, mate.’

  ‘FAP?’ Haydn repeated dully.

  ‘First aid post. You all right, mate? Haven’t been hit by falling masonry or anything like that?’

  ‘Is it like this down by the river?’

  ‘Who knows? It’s as much as we can do to keep up with what’s happening here, without worrying about what’s happening down the road.’

  Haydn’s only thought was of Jane and Anne. Turning on his heel he started to run, recklessly, blindly, in the direction of the flat he had left the afternoon before. He lost count of the number of times he was turned back at barricades that fenced off burning streets, bomb craters and UXB sites. The sun rose somewhere above the smoke and destruction, bathing what was left of the city in a pale, grey light that wasn’t as kind as the fire-lit darkness. People were crawling out of shelters into a sea of desolation and dereliction. He passed them, scarcely registering their pale, numbed faces as they searched for something – anything – that was unscathed and familiar. Ahead was a patch of green. He thought he recognised the park opposite his street. Quickening his pace he raced towards it.

  When he reached the area he had to stop. Bending double he clutched his knees, fighting for breath. After a few moments he heaved himself upright, pushed his hair back from his eyes and ran his tongue over his lips. They were dry, covered with dust and ashes. He moved off again feeling as though he were struggling against elastic bands that bound his chest and tugged him back in the direction he had come from. His mind was suffused with images of Jane and the baby. All he could think of was reaching them and holding them tight. Two more steps. He rounded the curve that hid their block from view.

  His heart stopped. His mind froze. He closed his eyes but when he opened them moments later nothing had changed. There it was again, the square, solid building that had been home, with the smashed roof and smouldering, skeletal walls that signalled a direct hit.

  Chapter Three

  Alma woke with a start, opening her eyes to see the lamp still burning on her mother’s bedside table. She lifted her head from the eiderdown, straightened her back against the chair she’d slept in and read the clock. Six! She should have been up and supervising the baking in the kitchen of the shop an hour ago. She had no clear recollection of falling asleep, only her mother moaning every time she had tried to leave the room. Pain and confusion had kept the old lady awake for most of the night, but now that morning had finally arrived she lay quiet and peaceful. Alma checked she was still breathing before creeping out on to the landing. It was then she remembered Charlie – was he really home – or had she dreamed it?

  She pushed open the door to the living room and saw her husband deep in sleep, stretched out on his easy chair, his feet resting on the brass log box she used to keep her knitting in. For the first time in her life she found herself actually resenting her mother’s frailty. If Charlie had mentioned how much leave he had been given, she couldn’t recall him telling her. His only free time in over a year and her mother had to be seriously ill.

  The doorbell rang. Was that the sound that had woken her? Straightening her skirt and combing her curls with her fingers she closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed along the passage and down the stairs lest she wake either of the sleepers.

  Bethan John was standing on the doorstep, neat in her district nurse’s uniform, her cousin Diana behind her.

  ‘We heard Charlie’s home.’

  Alma opened the door wider to let them in. ‘He’s asleep upstairs,’ she whispered.

  ‘And you haven’t had a wink all night by the look of you?’ Bethan shook her head at the creased silk blouse and crepe skirt Alma had worn to the restaurant.

  ‘Mam was very restless,’ Alma murmured by way of an apology. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘We’re not here to make work, but to do it,’ Diana announced briskly. ‘I’m taking over the management of the shop and Bethan is going to look after your mother.’

  ‘But …’ Alma looked to Bethan in bewilderment.

  ‘It’s my day off, and after the news about Maud I’d rather be kept busy.’

  ‘What about your children?’

  ‘I’ve left mine with Phyllis, and Megan’s caring for Diana’s baby. It’s half-day in all the shops so Diana will easily cope, especially as Wyn’s offered to run their shops on his own. She’ll sit with your mother now while I take you and Charlie home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘To my house,’ Bethan answered.

  ‘I couldn’t leave Mam.’

  ‘You’ve a husband home on leave, or so Ronnie told us last night. I know he’s been away for a long time, but I didn’t think it was long enough to forget Charlie. Go on off with you. Pack a case. You can have a bath and change your clothes at my place. I don’t know how long Charlie’s got, but Liza Clark’s taken all my evacuees down to Phyllis’s for the day. The older ones are going to school from Graig Avenue, and Liza’s organised a picnic for the little ones, so you’ll have the house to yourself until teatime, and Maisie and Liza will see that the children don’t disturb you when they come home. They’ve been ordered to stay out of my bedroom and sitting room. It’s hardly the most romantic place to spend a leave, but it’s the best we can come up with at short notice.’

  Bethan fell silent as Charlie appeared at the top of the stairs. He’d always been superbly fit, and while he’d run his butcher’s stall he’d developed muscles like a wrestler’s, but he was leaner than she remembered and harder, and there was a look in his ice-blue eyes that she hadn’t seen before. She recalled something her father had said when they had been worried about the boys at the time of Dunkirk. That wherever Charlie was, he wasn’t on the French coast. The war was proving difficult for all of them, but the strain mir
rored on Charlie’s face told her that it was proving more difficult for him than most.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Only that we’ve decided that you two should spend whatever leave you have at my house. It will give Alma the break she needs from caring for her mother. I’ll take over nursing Mrs Moore, and Diana will help in between looking after the shops.’

  ‘You’ve got good staff, they won’t need much supervising,’ Diana declared, minimising her own contribution.

  ‘I still don’t know whether I should leave my mother …’ Alma began doubtfully.

  ‘Penycoedcae is hardly the ends of the earth,’ Bethan reminded her. ‘If there is any change, or your mother comes round, I’ll drive up there and bring you down.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ Bethan agreed solemnly. ‘Come on, hurry up. Both of you look as though you could do with a good rest.’

  Charlie hesitated but only for a moment. ‘I’ll get my kitbag.’

  Alma went upstairs. She checked on her mother before throwing a few things into an overnight case. It was only when they were walking out through the door that she realised she still didn’t know exactly how much leave Charlie had been given.

  ‘Sorry, mate, this street is closed. You’ll have to walk around through Empress Avenue.’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ Haydn confronted the ARP warden who was standing guard over the ruined block.

  ‘You live here?’ the man asked with a gentleness that irritated Haydn more than his earlier refusal to allow him to pass.

  ‘Of course I bloody well live here. Why else would I be trying to get in?’

  ‘The walls are unstable. They’re likely to fall in at any moment, sir … sir … you can’t go in there …’

  Haydn pushed the man aside and walked over the shattered, splintered remains of the front door and windows, into what had been the hallway of the block of flats. A crash was followed by a cloud of dust and ashes that billowed out over the expanse of rubble that covered the street. The warden put a whistle to his lips.