Broken Rainbows (7 page)

He pulled a tin from his pocket. ‘I've brought my own coffee.'

‘The water's hot but not boiling.' Returning to the stove, she set the kettle back on the hob.

‘I don't want to keep you up.'

‘You're not.' She pushed Andrew's letter into her pocket, but not before he saw it.

‘From your husband?'

‘Yes.'

He handed her his tin as she took another cup from the shelf. ‘He's a lucky man.'

‘To be in a German prison camp?'

‘To be alive and have you and your children to come home to.'

‘It would be nice to know when that's likely to be.'

‘As long as it takes us to get organised, over there and destroy the German army.'

‘My father thinks that they are going to take some beating, even with Russian and American help.'

‘Your father is right.'

‘I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. Please, sit down.'

Leaving her the rocking chair, he sat on the end of one of the benches placed either side of the scrub-down table.

‘I don't want to get your hopes up, Mrs John, but have you considered that your husband could be home before the end of the war? There are prisoner exchanges and there's always the chance of escape.'

‘Not for Andrew. He's a doctor, and from what little in the way of details the censor allows through in his letters, I think the only one in his camp.'

‘And he wouldn't leave the men unattended?'

‘He has a strong sense of duty.' She tried to make it sound like a compliment. ‘When he drew the short straw at Dunkirk a medical officer who wasn't married offered to take his place. Andrew wouldn't hear of it. He stayed with the wounded in a field hospital. I didn't know for three months whether he'd been captured, wounded or killed.'

‘Then it must be a relief to know he's safe now.'

‘Safe? With the RAF dropping bombs all over Germany? Surrounded by armed guards who might shoot him at any moment … I'm sorry.' She picked up the kettle and poured water on to the coffee essence. ‘I'm not usually like this. It's been a long day. Would you like milk and sugar?'

‘Milk please, if you can spare it.'

Taking the jug from the pantry she ventured a personal question. ‘Are you married, Colonel Ford?'

‘I was.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I didn't lose my wife in the funeral sense. She divorced me.'

Bethan stared at the cup not quite knowing what to say.

‘By the time the papers came through it was no longer a catastrophe for either of us. I hope I haven't shocked you. I've heard that divorce is more common in the States than here.'

‘Not many women in Pontypridd can afford to leave their husbands.'

‘My wife had independent means.'

‘Do you have any children?'

‘A son. He's sixteen now. You want the war to end so your husband can come home; I want it to end so Elliot won't have to fight.'

‘Surely it can't last another two years?'

‘Let's hope not, Nurse John.' He lifted his cup. ‘To victory.'

‘A quick victory,' she echoed, her imagination painting a future as bleak and lonely as the years that lay behind her.

‘I could come in with you.'

‘Civilians aren't allowed into military billets.'

‘But …'

‘I can't allow you, Miss Llewellyn-Jones.' Kurt's voice was firm. ‘And what goes for civilians goes double for pretty girls,' he added in an attempt to mollify her. Leaving the Jeep, he switched on the torch he was carrying, pointed the beam at his feet and gingerly negotiated the steps that led down to the basement of Penuel Chapel.

The cry, ‘Watch the blackout!' greeted him as he pushed open the door. Fighting his way through the curtain, he saluted two senior officers who were inspecting the neat rows of army cots that had been set around the perimeter of the low-ceilinged, damp and freezing vault.

‘Not like you to be working at this time of night, Schaffer.' Major Reynolds turned back to his list.

‘With the men coming in tomorrow I thought someone should check everything was ready.'

‘We already have. I hear you've sorted yourself a more comfortable billet than this,' Captain Reide needled him humourlessly.

‘That depends on your notion of comfort, sir.'

‘Women to do your cooking and cleaning?'

‘One of you want to swap?' Kurt asked hopefully.

‘For you to make an offer like that, there has to be something seriously wrong.'

‘Nothing. I've got the lot. My own bedroom with a gas fire, carpet and comfortable feather bed. Full maid service, meals with the family, offers to do my laundry …'

‘What's up?' Richard Reide pressed.

Kurt glanced over his shoulder before whispering, ‘The daughter.'

‘She's too young, old or ugly to seduce?'

‘Not at all. Quite passable in fact.'

‘She's a nun?'

‘Or a lunatic?'

‘Quit joking, you two. I had a lecture from the old man this morning on keeping my nest clean.'

‘Quite right too. So, you leave her alone: what's the problem?' Charles Reynolds counted the number of cots and ticked off the last item on his inventory.

‘She won't leave me alone. You've no idea …' Before he could finish the sentence, a ‘Coo-ee' echoed down the steps.

‘Coo-ee? Lieutenant Schaffer?' Anthea pushed aside the blackout.

‘Watch the blackout, Miss …'

‘Llewellyn-Jones, Anthea Llewellyn-Jones.' She posed self-consciously on the step, smiling coquettishly at all three men. Richard Reide winked slyly at Kurt before holding out his arm.

‘Please join us, Miss Llewellyn-Jones. Now that we've finished here, perhaps you'll be kind enough to show us where a man can get a drink in this town?'

Chapter Four

‘We won't go unless you come with us, and that's our final word.'

‘That's ridiculous.' Alma frowned in exasperation as Bethan sank down on to one of the easy chairs. ‘You're going to crease that velvet,' she warned as Bethan folded the long skirt of her pre-war, midnight-blue evening gown around her ankles.

‘No matter. There's no one to see it here.'

‘Jane, talk to her?' Alma appealed to Bethan's sister-in-law. ‘Just about everyone you two know will be there.'

‘Except you.' More careful of her dress than Bethan, Jane perched on the arm of Bethan's chair.

‘It just doesn't seem right.'

‘What do you think Charlie would say if he could see you sitting here, moping alone night after night?'

‘Probably that I should have got used to living without him in the last year and a half' Alma smiled in a vain attempt to disguise her tears.

‘I haven't become accustomed to living without Andrew in two and a half,' Bethan warned, her voice tinged with bitterness.

‘I can't stop thinking about him. Wondering if he's in hiding, or locked up in a German prison unable to tell anyone his real identity. Everyone knows that soldiers out of uniform are shot as spies.'

‘You're that sure he's still alive?' Bethan probed gently.

‘That sure.' There was no anger in Alma's voice at the intimation that Charlie could be dead. ‘He's alive. I'm certain of it. I'd know if he'd been killed. I'd feel it, but just as I'm certain he's alive, I also know that he's suffering. How can I go to a party, knowing he is pain?' Her eyes were dark, anguished.

‘Because if you don't, you'll go mad sitting here thinking about him. Come on, Alma, Mary's been working for you for over a month now. Theo loves her, she's every bit as capable of looking after him as you are, and it's not as though we're going to the ends of the earth. The New Inn is less than five minutes' walk away. If he wakes she can telephone reception, they'll pass on a message.'

‘I know.' Alma glanced at her husband's photograph on the mantelpiece. His presence was with her, so real, so tangible, she felt as though he were in the room with them. She could even smell the soap he used, the cologne he brushed through his thick white-blond hair …

‘Then why don't you get ready?'

‘Because-'

‘We're all in the same boat, Alma,' Jane asserted forcefully. ‘Bethan might know that Andrew is alive, but he's still locked away for the duration, however long that will be. And although I know where Haydn is, most of the time,' she qualified drily, ‘he's only managed one three day leave in the last year and I have absolutely no idea when he'll be home again. If we live like nuns until the end of the war we'll go crazy, or even worse, forget how to have a good time and become as dull as ditchwater. We can't stop living just because our husbands are away, and no one with any sense will think any the worse of us for going to a dance.'

‘You really won't take no for an answer, will you?'

Bethan shook her head.

‘I've ironed Mrs Raschenko's green dress, Mrs John.' Mary stood in the doorway, the long skirt of Alma's one and only evening dress draped over her arm. ‘What do you want me to do with it?'

‘Lay it on Mrs Raschenko's bed, Mary. You don't mind staying here on your own?'

‘Of course not, Mrs John.'

‘And you'll telephone the New Inn the minute Theo wakes?'

‘Yes, Mrs Raschenko, but you know he never does.'

Jane looked at Alma. ‘What are you waiting for?'

‘Have you heard about the new brand of knickers the Americans brought with them?' Judy shrieked into Jenny's ear as they stood back, buffet plates in hand watching the American forces' band take their places on the podium. ‘One Yank and they're down.'

‘Did you make that up?'

‘Overheard Alexander Forbes telling it to Ronnie in the café.'

‘He would,' Jenny murmured caustically. Alexander had watched her like a hawk for the last month. She had no doubt that he would have been standing behind her now if he had been able to get a ticket, but the invitations Lieutenant Schaffer had sent to the pits had been snapped up by the Pontypridd-born and -bred miners; none had found their way into the pockets of the conscientious objectors who'd been conscripted in from outside.

She glanced around the room. The New Inn's blue and silver ballroom was brighter and more crowded than she'd seen it since before the war. All the lamps had been lit in defiance of energy-saving directives, the walls were decked out in bunting and miniature Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes. The buffet table that stretched down the entire length of one wall groaned with mounds of delicacies that had long since disappeared from the shops in the town: iced cakes, jellies, sugared buns, buttered beef and ham sandwiches, cheese straws, as well as peculiar American dishes and punch bowls liberally decorated with fresh fruit, most of it out of season.

All the town's councillors had turned out, a fair number of businessmen, and a few, mostly female few, munitions workers. Also just about every attractive girl in Pontypridd. Marriage had been no barrier to getting on to the ticket list, but an absent husband had certainly helped. She wondered just how many girls had been left for the enlisted men's dance in the Coronation ballroom which presumably had been organised on a less lavish scale than this affair.

‘Ladies?' Kurt Schaffer greeted them. ‘Can I help you to some punch?'

‘You can help me to whatever you like,' Judy giggled, already tipsy after a couple of double gins in the White Hart. Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek, smearing his face with lipstick.

‘Mrs John?' Colonel Ford glared at Schaffer and Judy as he went to the door to welcome Bethan. ‘I'm glad you came.'

‘My friend, Mrs Raschenko, and my sisters-in-law, Mrs Jane Powell and Mrs Jenny Powell,' she added, drawing Jenny into their group as Judy began to flirt even more outrageously with Kurt.

Colonel Ford shook hands with all of them before leading them to his table set as far away from the noise of the band, and as close to the buffet and bar, as could be arranged.

‘My adjutant Major Reynolds, Captain Reide, my aide Lieutenant George Rivers.' The officers rose to their feet as they were introduced. ‘I believe you know the Mayor and his wife, Councillor and Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, and their daughter, Anthea, Dr and Mrs John -'

‘My mother and father-in-law, Colonel,' Bethan interrupted, before he could recite the names of everyone at his table.

A glance in Captain Reide's direction secured extra seats and Bethan, Alma, Jenny and Jane found themselves squashed between the colonel and Major Reynolds.

‘Sherry, ladies?' Major Reynolds took a bottle from the centre of the table and filled their glasses as a waiter appeared with more plates and a selection of food from the buffet.

‘Sir?' Looking suitably contrite, Kurt Schaffer approached, his cheek scrubbed of lipstick and Judy nowhere in sight. ‘Everyone is waiting for you to formally open the proceedings.'

Excusing himself, David Ford went to the stage. Taking the microphone from the band leader he tapped it, waiting for silence before speaking.

‘Thank you for accepting our invitation. I hope this occasion will mark the beginning of a warm and mutually beneficial friendship between your town and the American armed forces. Let the dancing begin.'

The band struck up a waltz. He returned to the table and asked Bethan for the first dance. One look at Mrs Llewellyn-Jones's downturned, disapproving mouth was enough. Bethan took his hand and followed him on to the floor.

‘Bang goes my reputation,' she murmured as they joined the half-a -dozen couples who had braved the stares of the rest of the guests.

‘With only one dance, Mrs John?'

‘You don't know the gossips in this town.'

He looked back at Mrs Llewellyn-Jones. ‘I believe they're the same the world over.'

‘You're probably right.'

‘It's good to know there's a smiling woman beneath the starched uniform and efficient expression you usually wear.'

‘We haven't much to smile about these days.'

‘All the more reason to do so.'

‘How are your men settling into the town?'

‘I'd be lying if I said they were happy to be here. Most have left wives and sweethearts back home. They are just as lonely as I suspect most of the women are here.'

‘It's bizarre when you think about it. You're here, and don't want to be. Our men are in North Africa, the East or imprisoned in Germany and they don't want to be…'

‘That's war for you, Mrs John.' He swirled her around so she couldn't see her mother-in-law's or Mrs Llewellyn-Jones's face.

‘Would you like to dance, ma'am?' Major Reynolds asked Alma as Kurt Schaffer commandeered Jenny and Richard Reide escorted an ecstatic Anthea on to the floor.

‘I don't dance very well, Major.'

‘Truth be told, neither do I, so let's make a pact not to get riled if we tread on one another's toes.' Pushing back his chair he rose to his feet and offered her his hand.

‘This feels peculiar,' Alma said as he whirled her out into the centre of the room.

‘To be dancing with someone who isn't your husband?'

‘You know?'

‘I've left a wife and small son back in Tennessee, ma'am.'

‘You must miss them?'

‘Like hell, if you'll pardon the expression. But your son helps. I've seen him in the shop. He's not far off Chuck junior's age.'

‘Chuck … that's your son's name?'

‘Mine too. It's American for Charles.'

‘Now you're teasing me.'

‘I wouldn't dream of it, ma'am. Tell me, is Theo very difficult to manage on your own?'

‘You know his name?'

‘We live next door.'

‘Above Frank Clayton's shop?'

‘Richard and I have that privilege.'

‘Is it very uncomfortable?'

‘Not any more, thanks to Uncle Sam's home improvement fund, and Richard's talent for scavenging. You must visit some time. With your friends,' he added, to avoid any possibility of a misunderstanding.

‘We'd like that.' To her surprise she realised she meant it.

‘Chuck junior is seven months old, and according to my wife, almost, but not quite feeding himself, sitting up unaided, and just beginning to crawl. Your maid was telling me that your Theo is nine months old, so that must make him more advanced.'

‘Mary isn't my maid. She just works for me. And I'm no expert on babies, Major, only Theo, but the one thing I have learned is that they all develop at their own pace.'

‘That's what my wife says. When Chuck junior was born, I bought a book that had all these tables telling you when a baby should be sitting up, standing and walking. She took one look at it and threw it away.'

‘She sounds like a sensible woman.'

‘I think you'd like her. When I was sent here she went back home to stay with her folks. They own a general store that sells a bit of everything, something like your corner shops only bigger. I've written her about your shop to see if it gives her any ideas about expanding the butchery counter. That's quite a business you have there. Queues around the block every morning.'

‘If I could lay my hands on more supplies I could make a fortune.'

‘The boys tell me you have more shops.'

‘The boys?'

‘The men … troops.'

‘I have a couple of partners, we've opened six more shops between us, but the only one I – my husband -' she corrected swiftly, ‘own, is the one by the fountain.'

‘He's in the army?'

‘Where else?'

‘Raschenko sounds more like an American than a Welsh name.'

‘Charlie's Russian.'

‘Then he's fighting with them?'

‘He lived here for seven years before war broke out, so he enlisted here. He was posted missing fifteen months ago.'

‘I'm sorry. Trust me to go and put my big foot in it. I had no idea.'

‘The worst thing is having to deal with people who believe he's dead. I know he isn't,' she insisted a little too forcefully.

The dance ended and they separated to applaud the band.

‘At the risk of boring you, Mrs Raschenko, how would you like to sit down and have a drink with me so I can show off the snapshots I carry of my wife and Chuck junior?'

Alma took the arm he offered her. ‘I'd like nothing better, Major Reynolds.'

The colonel put a smile on Mrs Llewellyn-Jones's face by asking her for the second waltz. By the time the band had left the stage to take a break, he had danced with all the women at his table and the evening was going better than he had anticipated. Lubricated by American beer and whiskey, and filled with American food, the ‘crache' (the first Welsh word he had learned) of the town were in a genial and charitable mood, even towards the interlopers who had butted into their territory and war.

The atmosphere at his table had livened up considerably since Bethan John and her sisters-in-law's arrival; and her friend, Alma, was doing sterling work with Reynolds. Every man on board the troopship that had brought them to England had been subjected to his collection of photographs, and not many were anxious to repeat the experience; principally because the sight of Chuck's attractive wife and child, coupled with his commentary, was enough to make even the most cynical officer homesick.

As he signalled to Rivers to replenish the guests' glasses his gaze rested on Bethan. Outwardly cool and self-assured, he noticed her hands tightening into white-knuckled fists every time her mother-in-law or Mrs Llewellyn-Jones spoke. Her sister-in-law Jane, a skinny, little half-pint-sized thing, who looked about twelve years old despite the wedding ring on her finger, was laughing at something Richard Reide had said.