Authors: Catrin Collier
He stumbled over a stone into a freezing puddle that covered his shoe. Icy water seeped through the patches on his sole as he asked himself the terrible question, “How would I cope if it was Laura who’d given birth to a child with palsy?”
He shuddered. Feeling the need to touch wood he found a pencil in his pocket and gripped it tightly. It was the ultimate irony, he thought bitterly. Giving a man arrogant enough to call himself healer a child who could not be healed.
He recalled the pitiful scraps of humanity that lay in the cots of J ward in the Graig hospital. Babies abandoned to workhouses and institutions by parents who could not cope with the physical demands or emotional pressures of bringing up a child whose disability made it an outcast. But then, perhaps those who had been through the experience knew best. Perhaps institutions offered the only solution for parents and child alike.
He himself had counselled enough women facing the problem with cold logic, telling them that in time they would have other children who had the right to demand all of their attention, not the little that could be spared from caring for a member of the family who would never be able to care for itself. Reassuring them with the official maxim that institutions, not homes, were the best place for those born damaged.
He had said it, and often, but a visit to J ward invariably shook his faith. He had never discussed the matter with Andrew, but couldn’t help wondering if Andrew felt the way he did.
And if he did, where did that leave Andrew’s son –and Bethan?
Much as he liked Andrew, he suspected that his friend would try to ignore the problem –and the child. And that would mean Bethan coping with everything on her own, without any support. If only Pontypridd were closer to London!
He kicked a stone across the sodden, muddied grass of the mountainside. The hailstones had turned to an icy rain that teemed down relentlessly, soaking through his worn mac into the wool of his sweater. He didn’t care. He looked up. The rock the Graig children called the slide gleamed, shining and grey on an outcrop of stone spattered mountainside ahead. He resolved to walk there. Sit on it for a while and think.
He and Laura had been married for three months, and already she’d had three disappointments. She wanted a child much, much more than he did. He was happy with things the way they were and only wished she could be as content with him as he was with her.
Change, as Andrew and Bethan were undoubtedly learning, was not always for the better. And there was no guarantee that a child born perfect would remain so. He’d never forgotten the pain of watching his sick, worn-out mother nursing one of his younger brothers through the final stages of meningitis.
His feeling of helplessness then had been the driving force that had sustained him through the lean, and often lonely, years when he’d studied medicine alongside those born better heeled and better connected.
He sat on the rock and looked over the town spread out below him, but his thoughts remained with Bethan. Was she lying in a hospital bed this very minute, blaming herself for her son’s misfortune? Knowing Bethan, she would be. Punishing herself by recalling every mouthful of every bottle of brandy she had drunk during the early stages when she didn’t know she was pregnant and believed that Andrew had abandoned her.
Reliving every blow she had taken when she had fallen down the steep stone staircase of the maternity block of the Graig Hospital in a drunken stupor. Would Andrew have the sense to take her hand, hold it, look into her eyes and tell her –sincerely –that it would have happened anyway?
That her son’s flaws were none of her doing?
Trevor made a fist and slammed it impotently and painfully into the rock face beside him. Nursing his bruised fingers he stared at the grey waterlogged sky, tears mingling with the icy raindrops that fell on his cheeks.
‘Alma. Are you up there?’
‘Yes. I’ll be down now, Mam.’ Although she hadn’t slept, Alma was reluctant to leave her bed. Despite the chill in the air, it was warm beneath the quilt and coat.
The pain in her stomach had subsided while she’d remained quietly curled in the foetal position on her mattress, but the memory of the agony remained, and she was wary that movement would precipitate its return. She crossed her fingers tightly, hoping that news hadn’t travelled out of Goldman’s about her losing her job. She didn’t want to tell her mother, not yet. And not until she had to. Her mother already lived in terror of the paupers’ ward in the Graig workhouse.
Better she leave the house every morning as usual and use the time to hunt for work. The unemployment register in the town was overflowing with girls her age only too willing to take any job they could get, but armed with a reference from the Ronconis she might pick up something if she wasn’t too fussy about money.
She put one foot on the floor, wincing as the pain returned to knife viciously at her stomach. Doubled up in agony she looked down at her skirt and saw, even in the half-light of the street lamp that filtered through her window, that it was hopelessly crumpled. She pulled down hard on the hem, smoothed the front panel with her fingers and checked the buttons on her blouse. Picking up her mac from the bed, she felt in the pockets for her comb.
After tugging it blindly through her curls she poured water from the jug into the bowl and splashed her face, dried herself hastily with the towel that hung on the back of the chair and made her way downstairs.
The first thing she noticed when she entered the kitchen was that the stove was lit.
‘We have a visitor.’ Her mother stood nervously in front of the dresser, cups and saucers in hand.
‘So I see.’
Mr Parry, the chapel minister, made a point of calling in on Mrs Moore whenever he was in the Morgan Street area, but despite his outwardly solicitous attitude towards her mother’s welfare, Alma found it difficult to remain in the same room with the man, let alone be polite.
Four years ago when she had begun working Sundays in Ronconi’s café, he’d come to the door backed by a full complement of deacons, to tell her that she was no longer welcome among the congregation of the faithful.
Distraught by the ostracism the decree implied, her mother had pleaded with them to reconsider their decision. She couldn’t bear to think of her only daughter being denied, not only entry to chapel services, but also the social life that was an important part of chapel membership. The afternoon teas, evening concerts, drama and youth clubs, not to mention the annual outing to the seaside, had been closed to Alma from that day on.
At the time Alma had borne the ban with equanimity, upset more for her mother than herself. She’d had Ronnie then, and believed, really believed, she needed no one else.
‘Alma.’ The minister acknowledged her presence with a brief nod of his long thin head.
‘Mr Parry.’ She couldn’t bring herself to enquire after his health.
‘Your mother tells me you’ve been in bed,’ he commented critically.
‘I was tired,’ she replied shortly.
‘A girl of your age shouldn’t be tired.’
‘I think that depends on how much work a girl of my age does.’ She wondered how any man, let alone a chapel minister, could live and work in an area like Pontypridd without realising just how close to the bone most people lived. In winter there was little else for her to do except sleep between shifts at the tailor’s and the café, especially on days when the stove wasn’t lit.
‘I didn’t think that either of your jobs was particularly taxing.’ The minister was sitting in her mother’s chair, which he’d pulled as close to the stove as was physically possible without actually moving into the hearth. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs Moore, this room is quite chilly.’ He glanced accusingly at Alma as though she were to blame.
‘This house is difficult to heat,’ Lena acknowledged in a small voice.
Alma gritted her teeth, loathing her mother’s deferential tone.
‘Mrs Parry has found that draught-proofing the windows with rolls of newspaper helps enormously.’ He imparted his wife’s discovery as though they should be humbly grateful for such largesse.
‘Our house is cold, Mr Parry, because we have precious little to burn, although I notice Mam always seems to find a few coals whenever you visit.’
‘Alma, please!’ her mother begged.
‘There’s many that find life hard these days, Alma,’ he countered testily. ’Instead of looking for more, you should give daily thanks for what you already have. A kind and loving mother, a roof over your head ...’
‘If we’ve a roof over our head it’s no thanks to anyone except ourselves.’
The minister shook his head. ‘Unfortunately that is the kind of remark I’ve come to expect from you, Alma, since you embraced pagan ways. You have strayed far from the path on which you were brought up. I can only repeat what I’ve had cause to say on more than one occasion before now. I visit this house purely to see your mother, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to expect politeness from you while I’m here.’
‘Alma, please say you’re sorry to Mr Parry.’ Lena wrung her hands in her apron before opening up the hot plate to boil the kettle.
‘I am sorry, Mr Parry.’ Alma gave the apology in a tone that even her mother with her acute hearing couldn’t fault. But she stared at the minister coolly as she lifted the lid on the saucepan simmering on the second hob. Her mother had made a thin soup from the chop bones and peelings of the Christmas vegetables. She picked up one of the bowls set on the warming rack above the stove and ladled out a tiny portion.
‘Would you like some broth?’ her mother ventured to the minister when she heard Alma replace the lid on the pot.
‘No thank you, Mrs Moore. I’ve satisfied the inner man well over the festive season. I was at the workhouse yesterday, to help serve the paupers their dinners, and I have to say that the town did them proud. You should have seen the decorations, the table, the linen, the variety of meats,’ he eulogised, hearing no humour in the words he used to a blind woman. ‘There was a choice of roast pork, chicken or beef, three vegetables and all the trimmings ...’
‘I take it there was enough left over to feed the crache who’d been doling out their annual allowance of charity?’ Alma couldn’t resist the gibe. It was a tradition in the workhouse that the poor were served their Christmas dinners by the town’s councillors and well-to-do businessmen.
‘I won’t deny we had a fair meal. But we hardly took food out of the paupers’ mouths. I doubt that any of them could have managed another morsel.’
‘If you’d given them a couple of hours I’m sure they would have, bearing in mind their diet the rest of the year.’
‘I take it you think they’re hard done by?’ The minister raised his voice as though he was sermonising in chapel. ‘These people aren’t deserving of Christian charity or pity. Having contributed nothing to the town, they throw themselves on the parish demanding to be clothed, warmed and fed. They don’t spare a thought for the decent, hard-working, thrifty people who find themselves having to work all the harder to keep the workhouse doors open. The inmates are nothing more than idle layabouts who’ve never done a day’s work, or saved a farthing in their lives. And instead of punishing them for their laziness and lack of prudence as we should, what do we do? We give them Christmas presents,’ he answered quickly, lest Alma interrupt. ‘There wasn’t a man yesterday who didn’t get his ounce of tobacco, or a woman who didn’t get a bar of chocolate and an orange. And as if that isn’t enough, we feed them first-class food. The meal I saw yesterday was as good as you’ll get for half a crown in the New Inn any day of the week.’
‘Workhouse inmates don’t get Christmas dinner every day of the week,’ Alma pointed out.
‘You will take a cup of tea with us, won’t you Mr Parry?’ Lena broke in hastily as the kettle began to boil.
‘I don’t think so, but thank you for offering, Mrs Moore.’
‘Please don’t go on my account. I have to be on my way.’ Alma rose from the table.
‘In that case, perhaps just one cup, Mrs Moore.’
Lena went to the pantry to get the sugar and milk, hoping Alma wouldn’t say any more than had already been said.
Alma carried her soup bowl into the washhouse and managed to tip most of what little she’d taken down the sink without her mother hearing.
‘Don’t wait up for me.’ She kissed her mother on the cheek as she prepared to leave. She said no goodbye to the minister.
The last thing she saw as she allowed the curtain to swing down over the doorway was the Christmas tree she’d set up in the alcove next to the stove. Christmas had only been yesterday, yet already it seemed like months ago. The sweets and fruits she’d bought had all disappeared from the boughs and the presents she’d wrapped for her mother had gone from underneath it. It looked ragged and forlorn, and she made a mental note to take it down as soon as she returned.
She smiled as she recalled the expression on her mother’s face when she’d handed her two of the four chocolates she’d bought. Her mother had loved the coat, but Alma had learned as a child that it was the little things that made Christmas memorable.
Upstairs she had a new jumper. Not the green lamb’s-wool she’d coveted on Wilf’s stall, but a grey one that her mother had re-knitted her from her father’s last remaining garment.
As she closed her front door she thought of the picture the minister had painted of the workhouse Christmas. An abundance of food and presents! If it really was that marvellous why hadn’t people been queuing up to admit themselves to the dreaded building?
Exhausted by the long walk to the Tumble, Alma paused for a moment outside Ronconi’s café. Through the fog of condensation that misted the windows she could see shadows at virtually every table. Didn’t people have anywhere else to go on Boxing night?
The thought of spending the evening ahead ferrying teas and snacks in the hot, crowded, noisy atmosphere loomed, an awful task, but with her morning job gone, the last thing she could afford was the luxury of illness. She laid her hand on the door and pushed.
‘You look dreadful, Alma,’ Tina Ronconi greeted her tactlessly as she walked behind the counter to hang up her coat. ‘You feeling all right?’
‘Just something I ate over Christmas,’ Alma mumbled as she tied her apron around her waist.
A crash of dishes resounded from the kitchen, followed by the sound of Tony Ronconi’s voice raised in anger.
‘I take back everything I ever said about Ronnie before he went to Italy,’ Tina whispered as she slid a hot pie out of the steamer on to a plate. ‘Tony’s ten times worse than Ronnie ever was. All he does is pick –pick –pick, from first thing in the morning till last thing at night. Finding fault with everything, and right in nothing, especially the things I do,’ she added, raising her voice in the hope that her complaint would carry as far as the kitchen.
‘It’s a lot to take on a place like this when you’re only nineteen. He’s just a bit unsure of himself.’ Alma stepped smartly aside as Tony barged out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll start clearing the tables in the back.’ She picked up a tray.
‘Thank you Alma,’ Tony said loudly in a voice directed at his sister. ‘I’m glad to see that at least one person around here knows how to work.’
Charlie and William were sitting in the back room drinking tea and playing dominoes with a few of the boys from the Graig. The dominoes were an innovation. On Sundays they risked playing cards, even if it was illegal.
‘Alma, how about another tea?’ Glan Richards, the Powells’ next-door neighbour shouted.
‘Oxo for me, Alma.’
‘Pie and chips for me, love,’ a tram driver called out as he passed her on his way to the table next to the fire.
Half an hour later the pain in Alma’s stomach had grown, intensifying until it invaded every aspect of her entire being, mind as well as body. By then Tina was working flat out manning the till and serving the tables in the front room because Tony was too busy screaming at their younger brother, Angelo, in the kitchen to concern himself with what was happening in the café.
As fast as Alma cleared dirty dishes and wiped down the tables, new customers filled them.
‘Looks like the whole town has come out for an airing tonight,’ Tina grumbled as Alma opened the glass case on the counter and removed a Chelsea bun. ‘So much for
Tony’s quiet Boxing night.’
‘Miss, Miss we’ll have two teas and two scones.’ Alma recognised the voice and glanced across the room. Mary Morris and Freda from the tailor’s shop were sitting at one of her tables in the back, but they were shouting at Tina.
‘Workmates throwing their weight around?’ Tina raised her eyebrows as she clanged the till shut.
‘Ex-workmates,’ Alma replied through clenched teeth as she reached for the butter dish. ‘And don’t you serve them. I’ll get around to them in my own good time.’
‘You lose your job?’
Alma didn’t reply. She finished buttering the Chelsea she had cut open and carried it through to William.
‘You want to order?’ She stood in front of Freda and Mary’s table.
‘Yes, but we don’t want to be served by you.’ Mary pitched her voice high enough to reach all the corners of the café.
‘In that case perhaps you’d better go elsewhere.’ A thick red mist of anger began to cloud Alma’s vision.
‘I think the manager will have something to say about one of his waitresses talking to a customer like that!’ Mary countered indignantly.
William scraped his chair noisily over the tiled floor, sat back, and stared belligerently at Mary. He regarded the Ronconi café as his second home and everyone who worked in it as his friend. If a man insulted Alma he would have waded in, fists flying; but women were different, and he hesitated, not quite certain how to react.
Charlie, who was sitting next to him, laid down the domino he was about to add to the snake angled across the table and turned his chair until he, too, faced Mary.
‘What’s going on here?’ Tina, hearing the word ‘manager’, abandoned the till and her tables and positioned herself protectively beside Alma.