Jo looked thoroughly wretched. ‘I can’t let you do that. You know how strict Miss Hutchinson is. She’ll get rid o’ me like a shot when I start to show, an’ how am I goin’ to live then? I certainly ain’t stayin’ here to be a burden on you. You sew all the hours God sends as it is to keep yer head above water, wi’out havin’ me to worry about.’
‘Nonsense,’ Maggie declared. ‘We’ll work something out. Once you finish work, you could perhaps do the housework and look after Lucy while I take on a bit more sewing. We’d get by one way or another, so let’s not hear any more silly talk about you leaving. We’re friends and I’m not going to let you down.’
When Jo saw that Maggie meant every word she said, she could have wept with relief. In Maggie Bright she had found a true friend indeed.
Throughout the day, Maggie kept up a constant stream of cheerful chatter to try and raise Jo’s spirits. It seemed to do the trick, for when Jo eventually went off to bed that evening to have an early night, she seemed a little brighter.
Once the stairs door had closed behind her Maggie breathed a sigh of relief and took her foot off the treadle of her sewing-machine. Until recently she’d always done her sewing in the rarely-used front parlour, but now that the weather had turned chilly it made economic sense to work in the kitchen. That way she need light only one fire, which saved on the coal bill.
Standing, she stretched her stiff limbs, then crossing to the door she slipped out into the yard and gazed up at the sky. This had always been her favourite time of day. High in the sky, a silver moon sat proudly above black velvet clouds like a queen on her throne; surrounded by twinkling stars that seemed to be paying homage. For a few moments Maggie lost herself in the beauty of it as she shivered in the cold evening air. Her mother had remarked earlier that there was snow in the air, and Maggie could well believe it. Over the yard, the sound from the Masseys’ wireless faintly reached her, but not a chink of light showed from the heavy black-out curtains that covered the windows.
It had been a huge effort to put on a cheerful face all day for Jo, and now that she no longer had to keep up the pretence, she sagged against the brick wall. Ever since Beryl’s visit she had pushed thoughts of what might be happening to David to the back of her mind, but now they surfaced like unwelcome visitors.
And Sam. Poor Sam. She was well aware that she had never truly done right by him, and now he was dead and it was too late to try and make amends. Her thoughts moved back to David as tears welled in her eyes. The very best that she could hope for was that he was lying in a military hospital somewhere or that he had been taken a prisoner of war. Neither options were very nice but were infinitely preferable to thinking of him lying dead somewhere.
And now she was faced with this latest crisis. Never for a second had it occurred to Maggie to abandon her friend in her hour of need, but Maggie was sensible enough to know that the months ahead were not going to be easy. Money was tight as it was, and soon she would have to support Jo and a new baby too - if Jo chose to keep the child, that was.
The wind swirled some russet and gold leaves that had been snatched from the oak tree at the bottom of the garden around her feet, and shuddering she headed to the back door.
Once back inside the cosy kitchen she carefully pulled the blackout curtain across the door and crossed to a black and white picture of the twins that took pride of place on the mantelshelf. Lovingly she traced their faces with her finger as she ached for them. Soon she would have to go and see them, to tell them the news about their father. Apart from the fact that she missed them more than she could say, the idea of it brought her no pleasure. He had been their father, after all.
Her eyes came to rest on the fine parachute silk that she was presently transforming into yet another bridal gown. She was so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open, but if it was to be done in time for the wedding a week on Saturday, she would have to work into the early hours of tomorrow morning to finish it.
With nothing but the ticking of the clock to keep her company, she squeezed back behind her machine and in no time at all, even that sound was drowned out by the whir of the needle as it flew back and forth across the material.
Within weeks, Danny’s skinny legs were beginning to fill out and his cheeks became rosy, due no doubt to the fresh air and the healthy food that Eric supplied him with.
Danny refrained from mentioning the night he had sneaked into the studio, and much to his delight, the painting lessons continued.
‘Eric showed me how to hold a palette properly last night,’ he bragged to Soho Gus as they walked to school one morning. His life was beginning to fall into a pattern now. Each day he would meet Gus outside
Derwen Deg
, then when they reached the village they would call for Sparky who lived in the flat above the bakery with the baker, his wife and their own three children.
Eric was still cool towards him - apart from the times they spent in front of the easel, that was, and then he would become a different person as he patiently showed Danny all the tricks of the trade. Already, under Eric’s guidance, Danny had turned out a fairly presentable portrait of Samson and a seascape, of which he was inordinately proud.
Gus, however, still had grave reservations about the man. ‘If yer ask me he’s weird,’ he stated in his own forthright manner. ‘’E fair gives me the creeps wiv that eye-patch an’ all them scars. Ain’t he never told yer ’ow he got ’em?’
Danny shook his head.
‘’Ave yer ever seen him wivout his eye-patch?’ Gus probed, with all the morbid curiosity of a child. ‘’As he got an eye under it?’
The thought that he might not had never occurred to Danny, and he shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ he admitted, ‘but I do know that the scars ain’t just on his face. I came down early the other mornin’ and he was havin’ a wash at the sink, an’ the scars are all across his chest too. Soon as I walked in he pulled his shirt on like a shot.’
‘Perhaps he’s a war hero,’ Gus suggested as his imagination took a hold. Again Danny could only shrug and for a while they walked on in silence. The weather had turned bitterly cold and Danny was glad now of the mittens and scarf his mother had packed for him. The landscape had changed in the short time he had been there, and now the last remaining leaves clung to the branches of the trees before being whipped away by the wind that whistled down the hillside. They swirled about the boys as they walked along before settling on the ground to form a carpet of autumn colours. Danny was sure that he’d never seen anything so lovely, but then he knew that he could never tire of the feeling of space here after the confinement of being brought up in a city.
All in all, he was as happy as he could be, apart from the fact that he missed his mam and Lucy, and he was concerned about Lizzie. Mrs Evans was like her shadow now, and apart from the odd minutes that they managed to snatch in the school playground during break-time, he rarely got to see her on his own. He had been appalled when Mrs Evans cut her hair off, but now that he was getting used to it shorter he quite liked it, for it had sprung up into tight little curls that bobbed about her chin when she moved.
Lizzie had confided to them that she was worried about Mr Evans, who had now taken to his bed for most of the time. The smithy was still closed and Lizzie would often come home from school to find the village doctor’s bicycle propped against the wall. Mr Evans would sometimes be sitting in the fireside chair - his huge callused hands spread across the armrests - and he always raised a smile for her, even though he was struggling to breathe. Lizzie had decided that she liked Mr Evans far more than his wife, which was strange really, because it was always Blodwyn who fussed over her. She noticed that Daffyd always smelled of iron and smoke - no doubt caused by the long hours he had spent in the smithy, but it wasn’t a nasty smell; in fact, Lizzie had grown to quite like it.
Today, after meeting Sparky, the boys noticed that the bicycle was there again but they had no time to comment, for as they drew abreast of
Ty-Du
, Lizzie appeared in the doorway with a big grin on her face. After hastily closing the door behind her she skipped across to the boys.
‘I’m allowed to walk to school on me own today, ’cos the doctor is in there with Mr Evans again,’ she told them gleefully.
At the sight of her, Gus’s heart began to beat so loudly that Albert popped his head out of his top pocket to see what was going on. Luckily, Lizzie was too intent on answering Danny’s questions to see the flush that rose in his cheeks.
‘I think Mr Evans must be really poorly,’ she told them on a more sober note. ‘I could hear him coughing all night, an’ then early this mornin’ Mrs Evans ran for the doctor. She’s flappin’ about like yer wouldn’t believe.’
‘What does the doctor think is wrong with him?’ Danny asked as they moved along the cobbled street.
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. They always jabber away in Welsh for most of the time.’ Leaning towards Danny she whispered, ‘I reckon it’s something really bad because when he coughs I’ve seen blood on his handkerchief.’
‘Gerrout!’ Gus exclaimed, who had overheard what she’d said.
She nodded her head in confirmation. ‘It’s true . . . honest.’
The children’s attention was distracted from what Lizzie was telling them when they became aware of Sparky’s laboured breathing as he hurried along trying to keep up with them. They all slowed their steps and Sparky smiled at them gratefully.
‘Ah well, at least it means we get to walk together fer a change,’ Danny grinned, and nodding, Lizzie slipped her hand into his as they went on their way.
That evening, the walk home from school was hard for Gus and Danny, for an early frost had already begun to form and the fallen leaves made the uphill trudge very slippery. There was a cold wind whipping through the barren branches of the trees overhead, so by the time they reached
Derwen Deg
, their legs were aching and they were breathless and tired. On top of that, Danny was concerned because Lizzie hadn’t returned to school after their dinner-break.
‘Do yer reckon she’s ill?’ he asked Gus.
‘Nah, she were bright as a button this mornin’,’ the other lad assured him. ‘Mrs Evans probably hadn’t had time to get her dinner done wiv the old bloke bein’ ill. If anythin’ were seriously wrong you’d ’ave heard. The least bit o’ bleedin’ gossip goes through the village like wildfire. She’ll be at school tomorrow, you just mark my words.’
Danny hoped he was right, but all the same he was subdued when he arrived back at
Tremarfon
, as Eric was quick to note.
Slinging his gas mask onto the settee, Danny slipped despondently onto the nearest chair.
‘Everything all right at school, is it?’ Eric enquired as he laid the table for tea.
Danny nodded. ‘Yes, everything’s fine there. It’s Lizzie I’m worried about. She didn’t come into school this afternoon.’
Eric could see that Danny wasn’t himself but felt powerless to help him. He had never been that good with children, possibly because he’d never had a lot of contact with any before. Taking Danny in had been like doing a crash course in childcare, and he had been totally against the idea, yet strangely as time passed he was finding the child to be good company.
Unsure of what to say, he carried a large plateful of shepherd’s pie to the table and instantly Danny looked a little happier. The main course was washed down with a brimming jug of buttermilk. Eric found himself grinning, which gave his face a lopsided appearance, as Danny looked across at him sporting a white moustache. His grin was returned when he next fetched a big dish of rice pudding from the oven. The top was golden brown and crispy with sprinkled nutmeg, just the way that Danny liked it, and despite the fact that he had only just eaten his dinner he managed to down two helpings as Eric looked on with an amused smile on his face.
‘Cor, that were the business,’ Danny declared admiringly as he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Who learned yer to cook like that?’
Eric shrugged as he rose to carry the dirty pots to the sink. ‘I just taught myself. It was either that or you starve if you live alone.’
Danny cocked his head to one side as he observed Eric pottering about the kitchen. Crossing to the fireside chair, the boy lifted Hemily onto his lap and suddenly asked, ‘Did you always live alone?’
Instantly the shutters came down over Eric’s face and Danny could have bitten his tongue out. Why did he always have to go and put his foot in it just when Eric seemed to be warming to him a little?
‘Have you got any homework to do?’ Eric asked coldly, completing ignoring Danny’s question.
The boy nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve got to do some sums an’ hand ’em in tomorrow.’
‘Right - then I suggest you get them done. I’ve got things to do over in the studio. Oh, and by the way, you’ll find a letter on the mantelpiece. It came for you this morning.’
A radiant smile illuminated the little boy’s face, and he rose from the chair so quickly that poor Hemily dropped in a heap onto the hearthrug. In no time at all he was once again sitting at the kitchen table with a letter from his mother spread out in front of him. As he greedily read the words, he had to blink to stop his tears from falling. Suddenly it was harder to picture her face when he closed his eyes, and this frightened him, although he could still imagine the lovely smell of her - Pond’s cold cream and cooking and babies all rolled into one. In the letter she told him that she was now sewing to earn some money and that she, Lucy and the two grandmas were all well. She told him that Jo was still living with her too, which pleased him, for he liked to think of his mother having someone to keep her company. One part of the letter that did trouble him was the part where his mam asked why Lizzie hadn’t written to her. Danny knew that Lizzie had, she’d told him so, and Mrs Evans had promised to post her letter in the shiny red postbox in the village for her once she had bought a stamp for it from the little post office. Stranger still, why hadn’t his mam written to Lizzie? This was his
second
letter and Lizzie was really upset because she hadn’t received even one. Perhaps it was the post, he decided. There was a war on, after all, not that you would have known it here in Wales. Here the bombs and the sound of guns seemed a million miles away. And the space . . . his mam would have loved it here, he knew.