Finders and Keepers (13 page)

‘Keeping busy, working all the hours in the day and more looking after everyone at home and in the store. Doctor Williams has arranged for us to see Edyth twice a week but your mother would much prefer to sit by her bed. And would, if they'd let her.'

‘She has to be all right,' Harry breathed fervently.

‘She will be,' Joey insisted. ‘That one's always been a survivor.'

‘All I know is that she's putting years on Sali and me. Any news?' Lloyd asked when Victor returned with four fresh glasses of beer.

‘Megan's father is alive, but her mother died five years ago, and one of her sisters the year before that in childbirth.'

‘I'm sorry. That is going to be hard for her to take,' Lloyd sympathized.

‘For all that the old man's a selfish bully, you'd think one of her brothers or her other sister would have written to tell her about her mother.' Joey was angry for Megan's sake.

‘The landlady said it's doubtful the old man told them that their mother had died. It was the talk of the valley when none of them turned up for the funeral. And then again, even if they had known and had wanted to tell Megan, they wouldn't have known where to send a letter.' Victor set the glasses on the table, pulled out his chair and rejoined them.

‘If they'd written to our old address in Tonypandy, the letter would have found Megan eventually.'

‘It might have, Joey, but from what Mrs Edwards said, I don't think Megan's brothers and sister have any more contact with her father than she does. Two weeks after his wife was buried he married again.'

‘From what I saw of the way he treated his wife and children I'm amazed he found another woman willing to live with him.' Lloyd took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

‘There are always women desperate enough to marry anyone who'll put a roof over their head, especially in farming communities where the choice is down to being a wife or a servant.' Victor helped himself to one of Lloyd's cigarettes.

‘From what I've seen of life in some rural areas, the farmers treat their wives worse than their servants. At least they have to pay those they employ.' Joey flicked his lighter and lit his brothers' cigarettes.

‘As far as Mrs Edwards knows, Megan's brothers are still working on the same farms over Ammanford way that their father sent them to before they were twelve years old. If she's right, they haven't moved on in fifteen years.'

‘Aunty Megan said that both her sisters used to work at Craig-y-Nos,' Harry reminded them.

‘The one who died was married to a man who still lives in Brecon, the other to a railwayman, and Mrs Edwards has no idea where she is living.'

‘Poor Aunty Megan,' Harry said feelingly. ‘I'd hate to lose touch with my sisters and brother.'

‘As if they'd let you,' Lloyd commented.

‘If you find out anything more about Megan's brothers and sister, or hear where they are, Harry, let us know. Now that her mother's dead, I think Megan might risk writing to them. If none of them are living at home there isn't much that her father can do to hurt them.'

‘I'll ask the next time I go to the sanatorium. There might be someone left at Craig-y-Nos who worked there with her sisters when it was a private house, and who knows where the one who married the railwayman is now.' Harry sat back and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

‘Be discreet. I'd rather her father didn't hear that she is trying to get in touch with them. Lloyd's right, he's a nasty piece of work.'

Harry stared at Victor in amazement. It was the strongest condemnation he'd heard his uncle make of any man.

Joey pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. ‘It's time we were back at the station.' He looked to his brothers. ‘Do you think there's a chance that we might persuade the taxi driver who brought us here to drive back more slowly – and safely?'

Diana Adams ran down the stairs of the substantial villa her father had bought as their family home and his refuge from Craig-y-Nos. Situated opposite the sanatorium, it was ideally placed: close to, yet totally separate from, the hospital. Even their gardens were on different sides of the road. One of Dr Adams's chief priorities was to safeguard the health of his remaining family.

It had taken the doctor months to accept his only child's decision to follow in his footsteps and enter the branch of medicine in which he practised. But he still refused to allow his wife to visit them in his office. In his professional opinion, his wife's health was ‘delicate'. She was certainly prone to chest infections, and the two maidservants they employed were likewise not allowed near the hospital. Neither were the staff of the sanatorium allowed into the house, which was why Diana had kept Martha Ellis, the kitchen maid from Craig-y-Nos, waiting in the rain outside the front door.

She went out and handed Martha a battered old Gladstone bag and an umbrella. ‘Now remember, these clothes are for your sister's patchwork quilts. And tell her that it seemed a shame to throw out so many good cotton and linen things when she can give them a new lease of life.'

‘I will, Miss Adams, and thank you.' Martha took the bag. It was heavy, and she didn't relish the prospect of carrying it up the five miles of road that separated Craig-y-Nos from the Ellis Estate.

‘My mother and I would love to make quilts, but we simply don't have the time, not with me working in the hospital and my mother having to run this house.'

Martha was only nine years old, but she understood that Miss Adams was trying to be tactful. She had seen the expression on people's faces when they saw her sister and brothers. Not one item of their clothing was in one piece, and Mary wouldn't have had any replacements or cloth with which to patch them if it hadn't been for Miss Adams and the manager of the Colonial Stores in Pontardawe passing on hand-me-downs.

The first thing Miss Adams had given her when she'd walked down to Craig-y-Nos in search of a job was a uniform, albeit one too large for her. It had been during a particularly desperate winter week. Foxes had burrowed into the barn and killed more than a dozen chickens. Thirty sheep had broken out of the pen and frozen to death on the hillside, and two of their best milk cows had died of fever. For the first time in her life, she had left her bed before Mary and David in the morning, woken Matthew and told him to tell Mary that she'd gone looking for work. She had knocked on the door of every inn and occupied house between the farm and the sanatorium, but had no luck until she reached Craig-y-Nos.

Cook had given her the same reply that she'd had from everyone else. ‘You're too young to work.' But instead of telling her to go back to school – as if any of her family had ever had time to attend school – the middle-aged woman had conceded she was short-staffed. She had sent for Miss Adams who had asked her why she wanted to work. After repeatedly asking her age and listening to her persistently lie that she was twelve years old, she had finally given Martha what she wanted – a job in the castle's kitchens that paid seven shillings a week. And it wasn't just the money. Hardly a week went by without Miss Adams giving her cast-off clothes, shoes or linen, which ‘they no longer needed at home'.

Mary had been horrified when Martha had returned to the farm and told them what she'd done. But when her sister had walked down with her to Craig-y-Nos on the Monday morning she was due to start work, Miss Adams had assured both of them that she would only be working in the kitchens and the areas well away from infectious patients.

‘I'm still sorting out the wardrobes, so I may have a few more things for you on Monday, Martha,' Diana said.

‘Thank you for these and for letting me leave early today, Miss Adams.' Martha held the bag close beneath the cloak Mary had cut down from one of their mother's.

‘Go carefully, there's no sign of a let-up in this weather.' Diana looked up at the sky.

‘I'll look after your umbrella and bring it back on Monday morning, Miss Adams.'

‘No problem, Martha, my mother won't be going anywhere in this. I'll borrow hers. Are you sure that you wouldn't rather go back to the kitchen and wait for a ride? A cart may come along in the next hour or two that's going up to Brecon.'

‘There's never much traffic on a Saturday afternoon, Miss Adams,' Martha pulled up the hood on her cloak, pinned the open umbrella on top of it to keep it in place, and started walking.

‘See you on Monday,' Diana called after the girl.

Martha waved her hand but didn't look back.

Lloyd glanced out of the door of the station waiting room and made a face at the rain. ‘Some summer we're having. You'll be home soon?' he asked Harry.

‘As soon as I'm certain Granddad has settled in all right.'

‘Ask Doctor Adams when we can visit. He wasn't in a mood to discuss it when we saw him.'

‘I will, and I'll telephone every night to ask about Edyth. Give Mam and the others my love, and tell them I might not be with them but I am thinking of Edyth and them all the time.'

The signal clunked down and, hissing steam, the Swansea train inched slowly into the station.

Lloyd dropped the hand he was about to offer Harry. Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, he hugged his stepson for the first time since Harry had turned sixteen. He released him a few moments later and bent to tie his shoelace so no one could see his face. Fighting emotion, Harry shook Victor's hand.

‘Take care of yourself, Harry. And remember what I said about being discreet in any enquiries you make about Megan's family.' Victor braved the downpour and ran across the platform to the train.

‘Try to have as good a time as this valley can provide, and do as I did at your age – only go out with one girl at a time.' Joey gave him a sly wink before following Victor.

‘Tell me where the girls are, Uncle Joey, and I'll ask one out,' Harry called after him. He turned back to his stepfather. ‘You won't forget to give Mam and everyone else my love?'

‘I won't. You've turned into quite a man, Harry. I'm proud of you.' Lloyd joined his brothers.

Harry watched the train pull out of the station and returned to his car. The grey afternoon was more suited to November than July. He tossed his damp coat and hat into the back, ducked into the driving seat and slammed the door. He had to press the ignition three times before he managed to fire the engine.

He stopped at the junction where the Penwyllt road joined the main thoroughfare that led from Swansea to the market town of Brecon. If Toby had returned from Swansea he would have passed him either on his way to or from the station. What he needed was company, and more lively than that of the farmers and shepherds who frequented the bar at the inn. But he was hardly likely to find that outside of Pontardawe or Swansea, and he didn't feel like driving down into the industrialized lower valley. The weather was depressing enough in a picturesque landscape, let alone one scarred by collieries and metal works.

Succumbing to impulse, he turned right and drove past Craig-y-Nos, up the valley towards the barren mountains of the Brecon Beacons. He'd heard the scenery was magnificent. Although the clouds were low and the mist thick, he hoped it might clear enough for him to see something of the hills.

But the rain that had been heavy in the valley became a torrential cloudburst when the road narrowed to a winding ascent. With water sheeting down over his windscreen and a thick mist encasing the car, he could see nothing beyond the bonnet of the Crossley. If the road had been wider he would have attempted a three-point turn. As it was, he was wary of the drop that he sensed lay to his left. If he was unfortunate enough to plunge down a bank it could be hours or even days before anyone found him in this remote spot. Regretting his decision to turn right, he had no choice but to reduce his speed and continue to move ahead as best he could.

Martha was cold, wet and bone-weary. Saturday lunch for the patients was cold meat and salad so Saturday mornings could be set aside for cleaning the ranges in the hospital kitchen. As if it hadn't been enough work to scrub out the ovens with powdered bathstone, and brush black-lead on to every part of the stoves – even those that couldn't be seen – Cook had also ordered her to polish all the baking tins with wire wool.

Her arms ached, her fingernails were blackened, broken and split to the quick, and the bag she was carrying seemed to have doubled in weight since Miss Adams had given it to her.

The fingers on her right hand were numb, so she shifted the bag into her left, and clutched her cloak closer. To her dismay she noticed that the colour had run. Like all her mother's Sunday clothes, it was black, but the rain had run right through it and blotched her grey maid's dress with stains that were too dark to be water. She only hoped that Mary would be able to wash them out.

A thick mist had fallen, obliterating everything more than a foot away. She felt as though she'd fallen into a gulley of cloudy sheep dip. She certainly couldn't have been any wetter if she had been under water. But as she travelled the road twice a day, and usually on foot, she knew exactly where she was, barely halfway along the five miles that separated the castle from home. It would take her at least another hour to get there.

She pictured the warmth of the kitchen permeated by the welcoming, mouth-watering fragrance of baking bread. Then she imagined the vegetable soup Mary would have simmering on the stove, the smiles Luke and Matthew would give her when she walked in, and Mary's delight at the contents of the Gladstone bag.

Setting her head down against the needles of rain that pricked and stung her face, Martha clutched the umbrella and bag and kept walking.

Harry pushed the car into first gear and dropped his speed from ten to five miles an hour. A small cloud of mist ahead of him drifted to the left, clearing a tiny patch of road. He saw something dark in front of him and slammed on his brakes. He willed the car to stop instantly, but it kept crawling forward. There was a sickening crunch, and whatever it was crumpled to the ground.