The Runaway (19 page)

Ian and his mother called. He went to talk to Faith, hugged her, trying to cheer her out of the sadness that clouded her eyes.

‘They seem very fond of each other,’ Kitty whispered to Vivienne, smiling to encourage confidences.

‘Little chance of romance developing,’ Vivienne replied sadly. ‘Faith doesn’t give the impression that she plans to stay. Ian was badly hurt by a previous love who left him when they were planning their marriage. Now he fears becoming too fond of her, afraid to give more than the friendship they enjoy.’

Faith overheard and depression deepened. She felt unlovable, but it passed and she told herself how fortunate she was to have the friendship of them both.

Christmas was always a time of mixed emotions. Happiness as friends gathered and surprises were revealed, but a time also when other people who had been lost were brought poignantly to mind. Faith thought of her sister and her parents, and wondered if they too were celebrating the occasion among friends. She daydreamed about what they were like, how they had spent their lives and sometimes imagined ordinary people doing ordinary jobs. At other moments she imagined them as successful business people, content and without giving her a thought. They don’t even know I’m alive, she thought, and I have no idea whether they survived the bombing all those years ago. My mother must have died, she comforted herself. If she’d lived she would have searched until she found me. She would never have given up.

Shops reopened and gradually things returned to normal. The weather became colder but on her day off and sometimes in the evenings she went for long walks. A fall of snow coaxed her across the fields and she came back cold and hungry, and happy to have a place of her own and friends to share it. It was here she should concentrate her efforts, not the impossible dream of a family suddenly appearing, to enfold her in love. They’d probably dislike me anyway, she believed in her most miserable moments. They’d walk away and I’d still be on my own, only more unhappy than before.

Olive Monk called one Sunday morning and to their amusement, announced that she was there on important business. Having spent Christmas Day with Faith and being unaware of any distrust, she had decided to brave it.

‘I want you to look at my catalogue and chose something you’d really like,’ she said. ‘And also, if you like, you can join my Christmas Club. Start saving every week and get it all out at Christmas in vouchers to spend in the high street.’

They all asked questions and tried to hide their doubts about the risk of handing over money to a woman who had cheated on Faith.

‘The vouchers can be used in several shops,’ she reminded them. ‘And if you start now you’ll have a nice little sum to spend next Christmas.’

Because of, rather in spite of, her doubts, Faith knew she had to agree. She decided on a weekly sum and others did the same. Her tenants were intending to stay in the area so there was no reason not to join.

As in the past, Faith’s mind immediately flew to the thought that, unlike her tenants, she herself might not be there, but she calmed the thought away. She owned this house and whatever happened, no matter how many times her past was revived in malicious gossip, she was going to stay.

Olive proudly handed out payment cards and filled the details into her notebook.

As it was a Sunday morning the three woman were getting the vegetables prepared for their lunch. Olive looked longingly at the teapot. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’ve been out for two hours already today and I’m sinking for a drink.’

Smiling, Faith began to make tea. Olive made herself comfortable and began telling them about her varied customers. Then she startled Faith by saying, ‘I’ve been to London to visit my cousins. My sons are up there now, both working, that’s good news, eh? I stayed with them at their flat. It’s small but very smart and only up two flights of stairs. They seem to be settled at last. And talk about coincidence, I heard of someone with the same name as you. Someone called Mary Pryor.’

Faith heard the name and it felt like a blow. ‘Mary Pryor? She could be a relation. My family were from London and lived there until the war.’ Faith tried to keep her voice calm, hold back on the excitement the name created. This was certain to be another
disappointment
.

‘Green her name is now, but she was a Pryor,’ Olive continued. ‘I asked, of course, but she said she had no connection with South Wales.’

‘My sister and I were from London, we didn’t come to Wales until we were evacuated in 1939. Do you have an address? They might know something that would help me find my family.’

Olive shrugged as she reached for a biscuit. ‘Unlikely, according to her. She said they haven’t any lost relatives.’

‘A cousin, maybe,’ Faith urged. ‘Cousins lose touch after a
generation
. How many people keep in touch with second cousins?’

‘All right, I’ll ask my boys to give me the woman’s address. And what if I give them yours, so they can offer it to this woman? She might write and tell you about herself. Unlikely, but you might find a connection. Now where’s that tea, before I collapse like a pile of desiccated coconut?’

For days Faith watched for the postman like a lovesick girl but
there was nothing from London. Weeks passed and at the end of March, having been promised a few days off before the summer
visitors
began arriving and the shop became extra busy, Faith decided to go to London.

She was checking her minimal wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear, when Olive offered to lend Faith her warm winter coat. As her choice was between an old-fashioned linen swagger coat or the even older black showerproof she wore to work, she agreed. On the morning she left she realized that Olive’s coat was too big and slightly more shabby than she’d been aware, but it had once been very smart. She’d have felt better wearing her own but couldn’t hurt her friend’s feelings, and she was glad of its warmth. As she walked to the station she noticed that a corner of a pocket was torn and on the train a button fell off. There was a faint mark across the front, probably from carrying shopping. She regretted choosing it but it was too late to worry now.

It wasn’t the first time she had tried the agencies and election
registers
, but London was such a huge place and in the past she’d had no idea in which area to begin her search. At least this time she had a starting point. She went first to see Olive’s sons, who introduced her to their landlady.

Gaynor was a large woman, slow of speech and sluggish in
movement
. She was far from helpful.

‘The Mrs Pryor you speak of was only visiting,’ she said. ‘My friend says she’s passed on your address but its up to her whether or not she writes. So there’s no point in worrying her.’

‘If I could just speak to her,’ Faith pleaded. A shake of the head was the only reply.

Fortunately, Olive had given her the name of the person who shared her name and she knocked on doors persistently for the rest of that day and the next.

She lost count of the number of times she had asked if the person opening the door knew the name but then, during the late afternoon of the last day, she had a response.

‘Mrs Green, yes, she lives in number fifteen.’

Faith gave a huge sigh of relief when she was told the woman had previously been Miss Pryor. ‘But,’ the woman went on, ‘she might be away from home, she travels around buying fancy stuff to sell in that posh shop of theirs.’

Telling herself not to be too hopeful, that a name didn’t mean they were a part of her missing family, Faith had a job to hold herself back from running as she followed the directions and headed for the ‘posh’ shop.

Two buses and a walk eventually took her to the address. ‘Posh’ shop was a good description, she thought as she looked in the windows of the place called Beautiful Homes, admiring the expensive wallpapers, glass and china ornaments, and elegant furnishings. Drapes decorated the walls and small areas of the interior were set up to represent rooms. Many of the items on display were from foreign lands and everything looked seriously expensive. Faith took a deep breath and went inside, conscious of her untidy appearance.

The sales assistant, or Design Adviser, as it said on her label, approached. She was smartly dressed and skilfully made up. Faith guessed they were around the same age and she smiled nervously. The young woman looked at her doubtfully. She can tell before I speak that I couldn’t afford to buy anything from this place, Faith decided, but she held up her head and in what she called her best ‘teachers’ voice asked to see the owner, a Mrs Green.

‘I’m sorry, miss – er – madam, but Mrs Green doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. May I give her a message?’ The haughty expression, the accent, the hard look in the young woman’s eyes almost made Faith run from the shop, but she took a deep breath and said:

‘Not really, there’s something I need to discuss with her, a private subject.’

‘Sorry, but in that case I really can’t help.’

As Faith walked out she saw the young woman brush down her skirt with an impatient hand. As though just talking to me had offended her, she thought. She was disappointed but at least she now had an address and could write again. Her contact, through Olive, mustn’t be lost. She would come again and this time she would be better prepared, not allow herself to be scared off by the
over-confident
young woman. She would speak with more authority and carry all the information she had on herself, her parents and sister.

In Beautiful Homes the assistant stared after her curiously. ‘Mother,’ she said to the woman sitting in the office, writing in an order book, ‘a strange woman with a Welsh accent just called and she was dressed, well, hardly better than a tramp.’

‘She didn’t come to place an order for refurbishing her town house then?’

‘Hardly.’ She picked up an invoice and put it back, her movements nervous. Who was the strange woman who had asked to talk to her mother? Best not to take a chance, there were some very odd people about. ‘She might have been an eccentric millionaire,’ she said with a smile.

With her mother too far away to hear, the young woman instructed the secretary to hold back any letter for her mother with a Welsh postmark. ‘It must be handed to me in private,’ she explained. ‘Someone is bothering my mother and I want to prevent it going any further.’ Better safe than sorry.

Faith sat on the train on her way back to South Wales and allowed her imagination to drift, seeing scenes in which she was reunited with her sister, Joy. Although her vision of her sister was completely imaginary, and she simply pictured someone like herself. If she was like the young woman in Beautiful Homes she didn’t hold out much hope of their being instant friends. Had she been wrong to have concentrated on finding her sister rather than her mother? They had all been lost to her for so long it was hard to remember that her mother would still be in her forties and was almost certain to be alive if she had survived the years of bombing. Maybe it wasn’t a sister she’d find but a parent. Just so long as there wasn’t a connection with that awful Design Adviser!

As the train pulled into Cardiff she began composing the letter she would write to this Mrs Green, who had once been called Pryor. Try as she might to stay calm, excitement was sparkling in her eyes as she hurried to the platform for the Barry train.

In his workshop Matt stood looking at the statues he had completed. Beautiful, he knew that, but impossible to sell. While business had slumped following the revival of talk about his court case and
imprisonment
, he had concentrated on the fine work he so loved. There was a mermaid, six feet long and beautifully designed to enhance a garden pond, and a deer, its expression startled, which he envisaged peering out from a shrubbery. These were indulgences, only suitable for large imposing gardens, too expensive to offer for sale, but the more mundane stuff wasn’t selling anyway, so he allowed his imagination free rein.

His present obsession was a fairy figure, four feet tall and with a smaller figure holding its hand. The delicate carving was painfully slow and he had been working on it between other projects for two years, but at present, time was something he didn’t lack, and his concentration was absolute and gave him a rest from his concerns.

Carol called to tell him his meal was ready but it wasn’t until she went into the workshop and touched his arm gently as he stood and stared at his burgeoning masterpiece, that he was aware of her, or his hunger.

‘It’s perfect,’ Carol said softly. ‘You have such a wonderful talent and deserve recognition.’

A woman came into the yard as they were walking to the house, Matt stopped to attend to her. She went into the workroom and stood in front of the almost finished work.

‘Can I help you?’ Matt asked.

‘Are you Matt Hewitt?

‘Yes. Heard about me have you?’ he asked, expecting her to be another reporter or just there for more gossip.

‘This fairy statue, it’s a commissioned piece?’

‘No, it’s something I wanted to do.’

‘And it’s for sale?’

‘It might be,’ he replied cautiously. ‘But it’s very expensive.’

An hour later, he had made a sale, received a deposit and had given a promise that it would be completed by the end of April.

‘I’m Julie,’ she said offering her and. ‘Julie Charters.’

‘My name is Matt Hewitt and before you go, I have to tell you, I’m the one the papers have been writing about. I’ve been in prison accused of attacking a young woman. So if you want to change your mind—’ He held out the money she had just given him.

She closed his hand over the money with both of hers. ‘I know all that,’ she said. ‘But if you create work as beautiful as this, why should your past disasters stop me from owning it?’

They talked for a while during which he learned that she was a widow and owned one of the large houses near the lake and the pebbly beach. They walked around his store room and she praised him, gasping at some of his creations.