Past Remembering

Past Remembering

CATRIN COLLIER

First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Century

First published in paperback in 1998 by Arrow Books

New paperback edition published in 2006 by Orion Books Ltd

This edition published by Accent Press 2013

ISBN 9781909840614

Copyright © Catrin Collier 1997

The right of Catrin Collier to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

Catrin Collier was born and brought up in Pontypridd. She lives in Swansea with her husband, three cats and whichever of her children choose to visit.
Past Remembering 
is the sixth novel in the highly acclaimed
Hearts of Gold
series.

Works by Catrin Collier

The
Hearts of Gold
series:

Hearts of Gold

One Blue Moon

A Silver Lining

All That Glitters

Such Sweet Sorrow

Past Remembering

Broken Rainbows

Spoils of War

Other series:

Swansea Girls

Brothers and Lovers

(
including
Black-eyed Devils
- QuickReads)

Novels:

One Last Summer

Magda’s Daughter

The Long Road To Baghdad

As Katherine John:

Without Trace

Midnight Murders

Murder of a Dead Man

By Any Other Name

The Amber Knight

Black Daffodil

A Well Deserved Murder

Destruction of Evidence

The Corpse’s Tale
(QuickReads)

DEDICATION

To Les and Wendy Watkins.
Who married one perfect June day in 1996.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank those people who have so generously shared their memories with me during the year I spent writing and researching this book.

A special thank-you to Deirdre Beddoe, Professor of History at the University of Glamorgan, Pontypridd, who is doing such sterling work recording local women’s history, and the history of women during the Second World War.

As always I would also like to acknowledge a great debt of gratitude to Mrs Lindsay Morris and the staff of Pontypridd Library, especially the archivist, Mrs Penny Pugh, and Mr Brian Davies and the staff of Pontypridd Historical Centre for their unstinting professional assistance.

My parents Glyn and Gerda Jones, my husband John, and my children, Ralph, Sophie and Ross for their love, and for giving me the time to write this book. Margaret Bloomfield for her friendship and continued help.

My editor Mary Loring for her patience, encouragement, suggestions and being on the end of the telephone whenever I needed to talk, and my agent, Michael Thomas, for his continued faith in me.

And while gratefully acknowledging the assistance of everyone I would like to stress that any errors are entirely mine.

Thank you.

Catrin Collier, Swansea, June 1996

Notes

The characters in
Past Remembering
are creations of my imagination. The traumatic events they lived through are not.

There are women living in the Welsh valleys now, who still bear the scars and cope with the loss of limbs and blindness that occurred as a result of ‘minor incidents’ in munitions factories during the war. In one accident alone between thirty and forty workers were killed, two-thirds of them women.

Up until September 1942 more civilians than servicemen had been killed and injured as a result of the war.

Past Remembering
is their story.

Chapter One

‘Soon be in Pontypridd.’ The corporal shouted to make himself heard above the roar of the lorry’s engine as he glanced across at the passenger huddled into an army blanket in the corner of the cab. If the request to take the shady-looking traveller had come from anyone other than a wing commander he would have told the hiker to shove off and use shanks’s pony to get from the south coast to Wales. He not only looked disreputable, but foreign, and in the eleven months since France had fallen, the corporal, like most of the population of beleaguered Britain, had learned to look on all foreigners as Hitler’s henchmen.

His passenger’s accent had the lilt of the valleys but there was something odd about it that suggested other, stronger influences, and on the few occasions he hadn’t been able to avoid answering questions, his speech had been slow as though he’d had to carefully consider every word before he said it. The man’s dark eyes and black hair were common enough in Wales, but his skin looked as though it had been burned by a hotter sun than the one that had shone in the south of England during the last few fine April days. He was thinner and taller than most locals; drawn and wasted as though he hadn’t eaten properly in a year. And then there were his clothes – his linen shirt was more hole than cloth, and his black trousers had been bled grey by wear and washing. Both were too thin for early spring. He had no jacket or coat, and no luggage. Not even a haversack. Only the blanket, and the corporal had seen a sergeant hand him that. It was all very well the wing commander vouching for him, but then the wing commander might be a spy too. The newspapers were full of stories of German agents infiltrating all ranks, high and low, in the services as well as civilian life.

His passenger could have come in by boat, shipwrecked even, which would explain the state of his clothes and his injured leg. After all, Dover was just across the Channel from France, and a man in the Home Guard had told him they could see the German guns trained on the English coast on a clear day.

‘You know anyone in Pontypridd?’ The driver tried to make the enquiry casual, wanting to hear the man’s voice again just in case he could pick up on a trace of an accent. German or Italian? That was it! His passenger resembled the Mussolini Fascists he had seen on the newsreels. To think he’d carried a potential saboteur to Pontypridd, slap bang in the middle of one of the largest concentrations of munitions factories in the country.

‘A few people,’ came the guarded reply.

‘You haven’t been there for a while?’

‘Over four years.’

‘Well, the town isn’t what it used to be since the war broke out. God forgive me for saying so, but it’s better. More money about. Every spare room in the place is packed to bursting with evacuees and war workers,’ he added cautiously, giving away nothing that wasn’t already common knowledge. ‘You got somewhere to stay?’

‘There’s a few houses I can try.’

‘You haven’t written to tell anyone you’re coming?’

‘No.’

‘A lot have moved on since the war started, what with the call-ups and labour shortages. There’s no saying whether your friends will still be in the town. We won’t be pulling in much before midnight. If you don’t want to disturb anyone, you could try Jacobsdal,’ he suggested slyly, knowing the house was under the direct supervision of the police.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Big house up by the boys’ grammar school. It was bought back in ‘37 by German Jews. Rumour has it they intended to make their home there but they returned to Germany to pick up their furniture… or perhaps it was their relatives … either way they didn’t come back. Council took it over last year. They use it as a hostel for foreigners. Refugees and immigrants and those sorts of people,’ he hinted heavily, hoping to spark a revelation.

‘You think I’ll get a bed there?’

‘Bound to. Don’t mind me asking, but have you been overseas?’

The man’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile, and the driver concentrated on the road. His passenger’s smile held more menace than the scowl he’d worn for most of the journey.

‘Of course I know Ponty inside out,’ the driver continued nervously, keeping an eye on the sturdy wooden crutch the man had jammed between the bench seat and the passenger door. If he
was
a foreigner there was no saying what violence he was capable of. ‘My missus was born in Hopkinstown. We live in Aberdare now, which is why I’m driving through, but her mother’s still in Ponty, and we like to go down for tea on the Sundays I’m home to catch up on all the news. My wife’s four brothers are in the army. My three sisters too.’

‘We should win, then.’

‘I should bloody well think so,’ the corporal retorted hotly, missing the intended irony. ‘Anyone special you thinking of visiting?’ he hazarded another question.

‘No one special.’ The bitterness in the man’s voice finally silenced the driver. Peering into the blackout he rolled the heavy wagon to the end of Broadway before sliding back his window to check for oncoming traffic at the Tumble crossroads. Ahead loomed the blackout-shrouded centre of the town.

‘You can drop me off here.’

‘Suit yourself.’ The corporal lifted his foot from the accelerator to the brake, grinding to a halt outside the New Theatre in the narrowest part of Taff Street.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ His passenger opened the door.

‘You know the forces: the officers shout, the squaddies jump. What the wing commander says, goes on that particular base. You good friends?’

‘Not really.’ The stranger offered his hand and the driver took it briefly. ‘You ever in the town?’ he asked as he lowered his wooden crutch out of the cab.

‘Now and then.’

‘Eat in any of the cafés?’

‘Used to. They shipped out most of the Italians back last year, about the time of Dunkirk. They said they were enemy aliens. Couldn’t see it myself. After all, most of them have lived here for donkey’s years.’

‘Know the Ronconis?’

‘Who doesn’t? A couple of the girls are still in town. They married local fellows so they were allowed to stay. Look, I can’t stop here any longer. If a copper comes he’ll nab me for blocking the road.’ The driver revved his engine as the man lowered himself gingerly from the cab, clutching the door until he could ease his weight on to the crutch. ‘Say, you’re not one of them, are you?’ the corporal asked suddenly, taking his foot off the accelerator.

‘A Ronconi or an enemy alien?’ he asked as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. The night air was fresh and chilly after the close, petrol-ridden atmosphere of the cab.

The driver had the grace to remain silent.

‘It’s all right, I am on your side.’

‘You’ve hardly said a bloody word in all the fifteen hours we’ve been on the road, and now you want to talk?’

‘Not really. Thanks for the lift.’

The driver stared into his rearview mirror, watching the shadowy figure limp through the darkness back up towards the Tumble and Ronconi’s café. Finally he released the handbrake. He’d seen enough Sherlock Holmes films to put together a description if the police wanted one.

The traveller stood outside the café until he could no longer hear the thunder of the lorry’s engine as it rumbled on down Taff Street. The building was in darkness, but then, courtesy of the blackout, so was the entire Tumble. He walked to the door and knocked.

‘We’re closed.’

He leaned against the café window in relief. There was someone he knew in Pontypridd after all. ‘Open up, Tina, it’s me.’

‘Who’s me?’ The bolts were drawn back before he had time to answer. A face peered out, then the door opened a crack. He pushed aside the curtain.

‘Careful, the blackout …’ Tina stared in bewilderment. ‘Ronnie?’ she ventured tentatively.

‘I used to go by that name.’

‘You look awful.’

‘Trust me to have a sister who always tells the truth.’

‘But you do. That blanket’s filthy and your clothes … you look as though you haven’t seen a square meal in years.’

‘Has anyone, since this war started?’ Untangling his crutch from the curtain he stumbled inside, locking the door behind him. As he turned Tina flung herself into his arms. He lost his balance and crashed backwards into the wall.

‘Ronnie, it’s so good to see you … We didn’t know if you were alive or dead… I have so much to tell you … Gina is going to be out of her mind when she sees you … You’ve hurt your leg … How did you do it? Come here, sit down. I’ll get you something to eat …’

Scarcely hearing Tina’s babbling, he scrutinised the deserted café, automatically checking that the linoleum that covered the floor had been swept and washed and the wooden chairs cleaned before they’d been lifted on to the tables. Old habits died hard, he reflected grimly.

‘You run this place by yourself now?’ he interrupted.

‘Of course.’

‘But Tina, it’s the roughest …’

‘So? You want me to put Gina in charge?’

‘Gina run a café? Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a baby.’

‘She’s managing the restaurant we opened in Taff Street, and managing it well.’

‘God help the business. And Papa’s café?’

‘Laura took care of it until a week ago. Then Trevor got a posting to a hospital in Sussex. He found rooms near the hospital so she took the baby down there to be near him.’

‘You closed our place in High Street!’

‘You haven’t changed have you, Ronnie? Still business before family.’

‘I spent years building up the cafés …’

‘And they’re all standing, and making a profit. Not as much as when you were in charge, but then there’s a war on. I put a girl into Papa’s old café in High Street. It was never that busy. I keep an eye on the two.’

Propping his crutch against a table, he lifted down a chair and sat on it.

‘What am I doing standing here talking? You must be starved.’

‘I’m not sure I could eat anything.’ The driver had made three stops on the long journey down, but apart from coffee Ronnie hadn’t eaten or drunk anything. Even now, he felt queasy, nauseated by the rich smells of cocoa and fried food that lingered in the air.

‘I have some eggs hidden in the back, and …’

‘After what I’ve eaten for the last year, better make it dry toast and tea. I can’t keep much else down.’

‘Ronnie, I have so much to tell you.’

‘I know most of it. Papa drowned on the
Arandora Star
when they were shipping internees to Canada. Someone said the boat was torpedoed.’

‘That’s what we heard too, but Mama and the little ones are safe in Birmingham. They had to relocate to an area more than a hundred miles from the sea.’

‘I’m surprised any place is that far from the sea on this island.’

‘Tony’s in the army. He was wounded before Dunkirk. As far as we know he’s still stationed somewhere in this country, and Angelo …’

‘Was taken prisoner when France fell. Two sons in the army and they thought Papa was an enemy alien. What do we have to do to convince people we’re not Fascists?’

‘It’s not the people around here who need convincing but the government.’

‘I hear you’re married.’

‘William Powell last summer.’

‘You wouldn’t have married him if I’d been home. He’s nowhere near good enough for you.’

‘Then it’s just as well you weren’t around,’ she bit back tartly. ‘And before we go any further you may as well know Gina’s married too.’

‘What! She’s only sixteen.’

‘The same age Maud was when she married you. Anyway, she’s seventeen now. Her husband’s only a couple of years older than her. He’s a conscientious objector, so they sent him down the pit.’

‘Sensible fellow. I tried to opt out of the war, but I didn’t quite manage it.’

‘That covers everyone except you, Ronnie. We never thought you and Maud would get out of Italy once Mussolini came down on the side of the Germans …’

She looked at her brother’s face. ‘Something’s happened to Maud, hasn’t it? You never would have left her otherwise. Ronnie …’

‘She’s dead, Tina.’ He’d meant to break the news gently, but now the moment had arrived, there didn’t seem any other way to tell her.

‘Oh, Ronnie! I’m sorry, so sorry.’ Memories of her brother’s wedding flooded into her mind. Had it really been only five years ago? So much had happened since then, it seemed like half a lifetime and another world away.

Ronnie rose wearily to his feet. Wrapping his arms around his sister’s shoulders, he held her close while she sobbed hot, salt tears on to his ragged shirt. He would have given a great deal to have been able to cry with her. His heart had turned to stone the day Maud had died. Eighteen months later he was still too numb to weep.

He began to wonder what he was doing in Pontypridd. He’d crawled home like a wounded animal needing to lick its sores. How had that corporal put it? ‘Anyone special you thinking of visiting?’ There was no one special person left in the world, not for him. He should never have allowed the British pilots he’d guided over the mountains into Switzerland to talk him into returning to England with them so he could draw maps for British Intelligence. He should have ignored the bullets in his leg and gone back to the hills and the Resistance. Better to have died fighting in Italy. That way at least he would have stood a chance of sharing Maud’s grave.

‘It’s more like midsummer than spring. Real holiday weather.’ Jane Powell slowed her steps as her husband hesitated in front of a park bench.

‘Lovely weather for the countryside. I’m not too sure about the city, though. If it’s like this now we’ll be able to fry eggs on the pavement in a week or two.’ Finally deciding that the bench commanded as fine a view of the small park as they were likely to get, and a better vista of the blitzed London suburbs that surrounded it than he desired, Haydn jammed his foot against the brake on the pram he’d been pushing and sat down.

‘And where do you suggest we get eggs other than powdered to fry?’

‘In Pontypridd. Plenty of people keep chickens there. Remember how cool it was in the woods around Shoni’s pond last August? It would be even prettier now, the bluebells would be out and -’

‘… and just as soon as you get leave we’ll go back there for a visit,’ Jane interrupted, deliberately ignoring yet another hint that she should take herself and the baby out of London and Hitler’s bomb path. Bending over the pram she folded back the covers and lifted up their eight-week-old daughter.