A Silver Lining (25 page)

They walked down yet another corridor, where floor and walls bore the scratch marks of hours of scrubbing. The deeper they went into the building, the more overwhelming the stench became. This time the sickly smell was overlaid with an odour of cooking, predominantly cabbage. At the end of the corridor they walked into a huge echoing hall. And for the first time since she’d entered the confines of the prison Bethan saw the prisoners.

A barricade of wire mesh stretched from one side of the room to the other. Supported by huge iron poles it effectively sliced the room into two: the visitors’ side, and the prisoners. On the prisoners’ side, the fence was separated into small cubicles by tall, narrow wooden frames. Rows of hard upright metal chairs were ranged on both sides of the mesh, all of them chained to the floor, and on the far side Bethan saw a mass of grey-suited, grey-faced men who looked as though the sun hadn’t shone on them in years.

‘Prisoner?’

‘Powell. Evan Powell.’ Bethan heard Charlie answer the man, and tried to smile as she scanned the expectant faces of the inmates. Her father was probably watching her now, trusting the visit to give him the strength he needed to carry on living in this dreadful place.

The warden looked down his list. ‘Prisoner number ... 46 ...’

Bethan didn’t hear any more. At that moment she spotted her father, thinner, and paler than she remembered as he made his way towards the barricade of wire.

‘There he is!’ Eddie was there before her. Grabbing two chairs, he pushed one in front of her before taking the second for himself.

‘Thank you for your letter. It’s good of you to come.’ Her father smiled, but the smile didn’t fool Bethan. She knew him too well.

‘You’ve been ill, Dad?’ she asked.

‘It was nothing. Just a dose of flu. They looked after me well enough. Put me in the Infirmary.’ His smile broadened. ‘I get six months’ hard labour and I spend the first four weeks in the Infirmary. How’s that for fiddling the system?’

‘You don’t look at all well to me.’

‘I’m well enough,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘Really. It’s not that bad in here. They’ve put me on light work in the library for the next two weeks because of the flu. I get three square meals a day, which is more than a lot of people get outside.’

‘And the hard labour?’ Eddie asked.

‘They say even that isn’t so bad. But look, you haven’t come all this way to talk about my boring life in here. How are you getting on?’

‘We’re managing fine,’ Eddie answered, trying to sound optimistic in response to a nudge from Bethan. ‘I’m keeping the round going like you told me to. Bethan’s running the house ...’

‘Helping your mam, Beth?’

Bethan and Eddie exchanged guilty looks.

‘What’s wrong?’ Evan demanded.

‘Nothing, Dad,’ Eddie began. ‘It’s just that ...’

‘Mam walked out when she heard about your sentence.’ Bethan was too fond of her father to lie to him. Especially now.

‘Where’s she staying?’ No flicker of expression betrayed his emotions.

‘I took her to Uncle John Joseph’s,’ Eddie said flatly.

‘He’s keeping her?’

‘He must be, Dad. I’ve written to her a couple of times but she hasn’t written back.’

‘Perhaps it’s just as well, Beth.’ Evan pulled the dog end of a hand-rolled cigarette from behind his ear. ‘I think I’m a great disappointment to her.’

‘She got a bit het up when she found out. Mrs Richards came round just after I arrived and told both of us.’ Bethan tried to soften the blow.

‘Maggie Richards as a messenger must have gone down like a lead zeppelin with Elizabeth,’ Evan said.

‘It will be different when you get out and go and see her yourself, Dad.’ Eddie forced a smile.

‘That’s if I bother. I don’t think there was much left between us other than habit.’ Evan turned to his neighbour and lit his stub of cigarette from a glowing end.

What he couldn’t say to his children was that there had never been much of anything between him and their mother except for one night of drunken fumblings that would never have occurred if he hadn’t quarrelled with his childhood sweetheart. The result had been a quick marriage and Bethan, and although he didn’t regret any of his children, he did regret every one of the miserable years he had spent tied to Elizabeth.

‘This is my grandson then, Beth?’ He peered at the baby through the mesh.

‘Yes.’

‘Hold him up love so I can take a look at him.’

Bethan did as he asked. Although her father looked away quickly, it wasn’t quite quick enough. She saw the expression of pity and something else ... something she couldn’t quite fathom in the depths of his eyes.

‘We brought you some Welsh cakes and tobacco, Dad. They took them off us. Broke up the cakes into small pieces ...’

‘That’s all right,’ Evan reassured Eddie. ‘They do that to everything that’s brought in. Don’t worry, I’ll get the crumbs later.’

‘Charlie’s with us. He’s opening a shop and he’s asked me to work for him a couple of days a week, but don’t worry. I won’t let it interfere with the round, and he’s offering me more money and better hours than Wilf Horton. And Haydn’s written. He’s having a great time in Brighton with all those chorus girls ...’

The precious minutes trickled past consumed by Eddie’s account of domestic trivia. And all the time Eddie gabbled Bethan longed to tear down the wire cage, reach out and stroke her father’s pale, thin cheeks and ask how he really was.

‘ ... Oh, and Rhiannon Pugh died last night.’ Beset by an onset of mixed emotion that he didn’t dare examine too closely, Eddie moved on from the family’s doings to an account of events on the Graig.

‘Rhiannon?’

‘Yes, last night,’ Eddie repeated, surprised by the earnest look on his father’s face. He hadn’t realised he was so fond of the old lady. Of course they all knew her, walking through her house every day, the way half the street did ...

‘Is anyone with Phyllis?’ Evan broke in. Something in the tone of his voice made Bethan look up.

‘Charlie and I stayed with her last night, Diana’s with her now.’

‘That’s why they both look so tired,’ Eddie chipped in.

‘How’s Phyllis coping?’ Evan asked. ‘She had no one to turn to except Rhiannon, you know. She relied on her for everything.’

‘She’s coping,’ Bethan murmured, a ghastly suspicion forming in her mind. ‘Obviously she’s upset, but she’s bearing up under the strain, all things considered.’

Eddie looked from his father to his sister then back again at Charlie, who was hovering close to the door. ‘It’s time we changed over, that’s if you want a word with Charlie.’ Much as he loved his father he was glad of an excuse to leave the unnatural situation.

‘I’d appreciate the chance of a word with him. Thanks for coming, son. You look after your sister and the house, and remember what I said about the round?’

‘Of course.’ Eddie pushed back his chair. ‘And you don’t mind about me taking the job Charlie offered? Just a couple of days a week.’

‘No, I think it’s a good idea. I’m not a believer in turning down regular money, you know that.’ Evan watched his son walk away. ‘You haven’t left that husband of yours have you, Beth?’ he asked when they only had strangers around them.

‘No. He sends me money every week,’ she said proudly.

‘Then how come he isn’t with you?’ Evan raised his eyes until they looked into hers.

‘Because he’s having trouble coming to terms with Edmund. He wants to put him away.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘He needs me,’ she said simply.

‘It must be a hard choice to make.’

‘It doesn’t have to be made at the moment,’ she said practically. ‘Not when I’m needed at home.’

‘As long as you don’t use our troubles as an excuse to run away from your own.’

‘I’ll try not to, Dad.’ She sensed Charlie’s presence behind her. ‘Look after yourself.’

‘I’m not about to get up to much in here love. Take care.’

Bethan nodded as she turned her back on the wire mesh and walked towards her brother. She could hear her father whispering to Charlie: low, solemn words that were too softly spoken to be deciphered, even if she’d been in a mood to do so. She was preoccupied with the strange look on her father’s face when he had asked after Phyllis Harry. She remembered other things that had puzzled her. The way Phyllis had accepted Charlie’s presence in the house as natural. The way she had leant on him, done everything he had suggested calmly, unquestioningly. And Phyllis’s small son had such beautiful dark eyes and black curly hair, so different from Phyllis’s fair hair and grey eyes –and so like her father’s and Eddie’s.

‘You’ll come again, next month?’

She turned. Her father’s face was pressed against the wire, the forbidding presence of a warder behind him. Charlie hadn’t had very long with him after all.

‘As soon as they let us, Dad,’ she called back. ‘I promise.’

‘I still don’t understand why he’s prepared to lend you the money to pay our rent and shop bill. It doesn’t seem right to me.’ Lena Moore sniffed as Alma ladled out a small tin of tomatoes on to two pieces of toast.

As it was Sunday Alma had insisted on lighting the stove. For a few hours at least.

‘I told you, Mam, he wants me to work for him,’ Alma explained testily.

‘If the wages he’s promised you are straight and above board and all he expects from you is a week’s worth in exchange, he can get any one of a number of girls with the money he’s offering. So why you?’

‘I’ve already answered that question, Mam,’ Alma said impatiently. ‘He’s seen me work in the café and he thinks I’m a good worker –’

‘And he’s heard something of your reputation with the men?’

‘It’s not like that, Mam. Not with Charlie.’

‘How do you know? Anything could happen once we’re under his roof and in his power.’

‘It won’t. If you must know, I asked him outright if there was going to be any funny business and he said no.’

‘What did you expect him to say? This whole arrangement doesn’t sound right to me, Alma. It’s too good to be true, and everyone is going to say so.’

‘I’ve no choice but to take Charlie up on his offer.’ Alma pushed a knife and fork into her mother’s hand and guided her to her customary place at the table. ‘If I hadn’t, we would have already been put on the street by the bailiffs.’

‘The chapel and the minister would never allow it to come to that, Alma. My father was a deacon ...’

‘The chapel’s done precious little to help us until now. I can’t see the minister or the deacons putting themselves out just because the bailiffs move in.’

‘Of course they would help us. Look at what they did for poor old Mrs Edwards. They paid her housekeeper’s wages when she was dying.’ Her mother cut into the tomatoes and toast and ferried a forkful to her mouth.

‘Poor old Mrs Edwards let it be known that she was leaving that great big house of hers to the chapel. They won’t help us because there’s nothing in it for them,’ Alma commented caustically as she sat down by her mother.

‘You’re bitter because they banned you, Alma. But even if I say it myself, you were in the wrong. You work on the Lord’s day of rest ...’

‘To put food on this table. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t even be able to afford this magnificent Sunday dinner.’ Although she was hungry, Alma pushed her tomatoes aside in disgust.

‘You don’t even try to understand them, Alma. That’s your trouble. They’ve been good to me over the years, particularly when your grandfather died. I wish he’d lived longer. Things wouldn’t have come to this pass if he’d still been alive. He would never have allowed you to work on a Sunday for a start.’

‘Rich, was he?’ Alma enquired. She had heard the same stories before, many times, and steeled herself for the inevitable repetition.

‘Only in a spiritual sense. You could have learned a lot from his example, Alma. He was religious, but forgiving and understanding as well. I upset him so much when I married your father. He tried, but no matter what he said, I wouldn’t even listen. Now I know he was right. You’ve only got to look around this house to see how right he was.’

‘My father kept us well enough until he was killed.’

‘But he didn’t really provide for us, and that’s just what my father was worried about. I never understood until it was too late and I was left to bring you up on five shillings a week. But it’s not just that.’ Her mother reached across the table and laid her work-roughened hand over Alma’s. ‘It’s these rumours. They would never have started if you’d done what the minister and deacons wanted. You should have listened to them, walked your grandfather’s way as the minister wanted instead of ...’

‘Becoming a streetwalker!’

‘Alma, how could you?’

‘What? Put the congregation’s thoughts into words?’

‘I’d rather you weren’t beholden to any man,’ her mother said sternly, suddenly finding her voice. ‘This Russian? Who is he? Where does he come from? We don’t know anything about him. Why is he living here instead of his own country? For all you know he could be a thief or a murderer.’

‘The fact is, Mam, I can’t see any other way I can support us.’ Alma left the table and scraped her toast and tomatoes into the slop bucket.

‘So in spite of everything I’ve said, you still intend to go ahead and work for him?’

‘To keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. Yes.’

‘Can’t you see it should be this roof, Alma? Not his. People will talk.’

‘Then let them. I won’t be held responsible for their filthy minds.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t –’

Alma tried to block out the rest of her mother’s speech as she left the kitchen. The biggest problem of all was that her mother was voicing her own doubts and fears. But she had made her decision. Anything Charlie offered her had to be better than Bobby Thomas or the workhouse.

Didn’t it?

Chapter Fifteen

‘I missed you last Saturday night.’

‘George insisted on staying with me until we closed, then he walked me home before going to the Queen’s,’ Vera whispered as she pushed her bucket under the tap in the washroom market.

‘He’s suspicious?’

‘And jealous if he as much as sees a man glance at me.’ She whispered, not daring to turn round and face William lest someone see her. ‘But he’s leaving early tonight,’ she mumbled. ‘I overheard Albert from the bread stall asking him if he was going to the Queen’s after work, and he said yes.’

‘Then I can walk you home?’ William’s pulse raced at the thought.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Vera leaned forward to check the level in the bucket. ‘But ...’

‘Vera. How long is that water going to take?’

‘Not long now, George.’ She turned round and gave her husband a bright, artificial smile.

‘Nice weather we’re having for the time of year, Mr Collins,’ William commented blithely.

‘If you’re a duck and like it wet,’ he answered sullenly, eyeing his wife’s shapely buttocks and legs as she bent over the pail. He really would have to have a word with her about the length of her overalls. They were far too short and probably the reason why she had a damned Powell sniffing around her like a dog after a bitch on heat. The Powell family always had produced men who’d been too good-looking for the peace of mind of fathers and husbands. He could remember William’s father swaggering around town, attracting the attention of every girl for miles, never giving ordinary blokes like him a look in.

‘Wet or not, it’s warm enough to bring the customers out,’ William smiled. ‘Trade’s up on the winter figures.’

‘Maybe on the butchers’ stalls, but not the dairy.’ George turned from William to his wife. ‘You can take that bucket over to the stall and start scrubbing, Vera,’ he ordered sharply, making William’s blood boil. ‘I’ll bring the other one over as soon as it’s full.’

‘Whatever you say George,’ she answered meekly, picking up the bucket.

‘My sister Diana often talks about Vera,’ William ventured boldly. ‘They were in school together. She’s always admiring Vera’s clothes.’

‘And so she should, the price I pay for them,’ George snapped. He stood back, arms folded, glaring at William.

George Collins wasn’t a tall man, five foot six inches at the most, but he was built like an ox, a good wrestler in his youth who still enjoyed a bout or two of arm-wrestling in the pub after the card game on a Saturday night. ‘You taken over the Russian’s stall now?’

‘Only for today. He had to go to a funeral,’ William explained, picking up his bucket.

‘Rhiannon Pugh’s?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Heard he’s doing all the sorting out for Phyllis Harry.’

‘Him and my cousin Bethan,’ William corrected, taking exception to George’s tone. ‘Mrs Pugh was good to us when we were children, and she had no family left.’

‘So that’s why he’s doing it. As a favour,’ George raised his eyebrows sceptically. He turned the water off and walked away without another word.

‘Where have you been?’ Eddie complained when William finally turned up.

‘Waiting in the queue,’ William moved to the left of the stall and began to scrub down the shelves. From there he could just about see the Collins’ cheese stall.

‘What about the shelves this side?’ Eddie asked, his arm aching from scraping the wooden chopping block with a wire brush.

‘You do those,’ William answered flippantly. ‘That’s the way Charlie and I work it.’ He braved a wink at Vera as George, dressed in his overcoat, walked out through the door.

‘Seems a crazy way to me,’ Eddie grumbled, picking up the second bucket.

‘That’s because you know nothing about working a butcher’s stall.’ William lifted down the box containing the money and counted it into piles. Noting the amount in a small book, he bagged it and thrust the bag into his shirt as Charlie always did. ‘Finished?’ he asked Eddie impatiently.

‘Just about.’

‘Then let’s go.’

‘To the café.’

‘No.’

‘You promised Charlie you’d give Alma that message.’

‘Tell you what,’ William handed Eddie his half-a-crown wages plus an extra sixpence. ‘You do it and I’ll give you a tanner.’

‘Why? What are you doing that’s so important?’

‘Man’s work,’ William said mysteriously as he locked the shutters.

‘Who is she, Will?’

‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’

‘I bet Tina Ronconi will give me more than a tanner to find out.’

‘You mention this to her and I’ll regale Bethan with the full account of the chorus girl in Ponty Park as told by you. Noises and all.’

‘You wouldn’t?’

‘Try me.’

William waited until Eddie was out of the door before sauntering past the cheese stall. Vera’s shutters lay piled in a heap on the floor, exactly where they’d been the first time he’d noticed her.

‘Want a hand with those, Vera?’ he shouted.

‘I’ll give Mrs Collins a hand.’ Carrie Hardy, a fishwife with arms the size of hams rose from behind the counter and loomed over him. ‘Mr Collins doesn’t like young men hanging around his wife,’ she said sharply. ‘That’s why I’m helping her.’

William looked over her head to where Vera stood, rolling her eyes heavenward.

‘In that case I’ll be off. Night, Mrs Hardy.
Mrs
Collins.’ He touched his cap and kept on walking. A small boy caught up with him as he was kicking a path through the debris of the closed stalls in Market Square.

‘Mister. Hey, Mister! Lady told me to give you this. Said you’d give me a penny.’

William unfolded a scrap of the greaseproof paper George used to wrap his cheese in. The message had been scribbled in pencil and was difficult to read. He walked over to a lamp and held it up to the light.

Wait in the garden. I’ll open the kitchen curtains when it’s safe for you to come in.

He kissed the paper and tossed the boy a penny. She wouldn’t have written if there’d been no chance of him seeing her. All he had to do was creep down the back lane into her garden and wait.

A gust of wind blew through the square, snatching the paper from his hand. As he turned to retrieve it he saw the square solid form of Carrie Hardy marching alongside Vera’s slender figure.

Mrs Hardy had probably received orders from George to sit for a while with his wife. There was time enough for him to slip into the gym for a game of cards, or the Queen’s ... No better not make it the Queen’s, he thought, remembering George’s card game –the Central for a pint. Which was it to be? Cards or beer?

The beer won. Whistling, he went on his way.

Eddie pushed open the door to the café and looked inside. It was crowded, as it was every market night.

‘Will not with you tonight, Eddie?’ Tony asked.

‘Not tonight.’

‘More important fish to fry than he can find in here then?’ Tony looked across at Tina who tossed her head haughtily as she loaded a tray with teas and coffees.

‘He’s seeing someone about business,’ Eddie answered evasively. ‘Any chance of a quick word with Alma?’

‘She’s in the back. Go on through.’ Tony flipped up the hatch on the counter.

The kitchen was hot and steamy. Angelo, chef’s hat pushed to the back of his head, was dipping a huge basket of chips into an open fat fryer. Alma was sitting on a stool as far away from him as she could get, buttering a stack of bread.

‘Does Tony know you’re in here?’ Angelo asked.

‘He knows. Charlie asked me to give Alma a message.’

‘Charlie?’ Hearing his name, Alma turned round and smiled, but her face fell when she saw Eddie.

‘He couldn’t come down himself. He had to see to Rhiannon Pugh’s funeral.’

‘The old lady who died on the Graig?’

‘She didn’t have anyone except her lodger, and it’s a lot for her to manage on her own.’

Alma’s back stiffened. She’d heard all about Phyllis Harry. Everyone in Pontypridd had. Phyllis had a reputation even worse than her own.

‘Anyway, he said to tell you that if it’s all right we’ll move you into the shop tomorrow.’

‘So soon?’

‘If it’s not all right it’ll have to be Sunday or next Thursday. They’re the quietest days for Will and me, and we’re the ones Charlie hired to do the job.’

‘I suppose we could move tomorrow,’ Alma said doubtfully, angry with Charlie because he couldn’t be bothered to come down and tell her himself. She wondered why he’d arranged Rhiannon Pugh’s funeral for Phyllis Harry.

Was he the father of Phyllis’s son? Was that why he didn’t want her in his bed? Well if it was, it suited her. She’d have everything she wanted, a job, a home, money enough to live on and to spare, and all without strings attached.

‘Eight in the morning suit you?’

‘We’ll be ready.’

‘See you.’ Eddie was glad to return to the warmth and companionship of the café. The more he saw of Alma the less reason he could find for Charlie to employ her. The woman was so damned spiky and miserable all the time.

It was cold behind George Collins’s shed. Very cold and very dark. Ianto Douglas next door came out to use his ty bach, and Will crouched low, holding his breath. He’d lost all track of time. He’d been staring at the closed curtains for what seemed an eternity. If they opened now he’d be too bloody frozen to move, let alone do anything.

A washhouse door banged open and closed again. Ianto going in. Then he heard it, the unmistakable sound of the Collins washhouse door opening.

‘Will?’

‘Vera, I’m bloody frozen.’

‘Ssh. I know, petal, but that horrid Hardy woman won’t budge. George made her promise to stay with me until he got home.’

‘Damn, he is suspicious, isn’t he?’

‘I’ve fed her three sherries and she’s fallen asleep. If we’re quiet we can go in here.’

‘The shed?’

‘Ssh ...’ Vera slipped the latch, and Will followed.

‘What if she comes out?’

‘I’ll say I was looking for my tennis racket. The club’s opening tomorrow. Come on Will, quick.’ She straddled him, pulling her skirt to her waist.

His hands encountered warm, naked flesh. ‘Don’t you ever wear any underclothes?’ he asked.

‘I froze all day in the market hoping we’d have an opportunity to sneak into your stall like last time, but George wouldn’t let me out of his sight for a moment.’ She pulled at his belt buckle. ‘He delivers to the valleys tomorrow. He goes every Tuesday and Thursday, if we found somewhere, we could ...’

‘What about here?’ he whispered, nuzzling her neck.

‘Too dangerous in daylight. We’re bound to be seen by one of the gossips. But everyone says you’re going to be working on Charlie’s new shop. Isn’t there a room there we could slip off to now and again? After all, you’ve got to have a midday break.’ She slid her hand down the front of his trousers. ‘Ooh, you are cold.’

‘Bloody frozen.’ He racked his brains, then remembered the wooden storage shed in the shop yard. Charlie had dismissed it as a space to store rubbish.

‘There is somewhere,’ he murmured, struggling to speak coherently as her fingers slid teasingly, tantalisingly, between his thighs. ‘But we’re going to have to be careful.’

‘Very careful, darling,’ she echoed as he pulled her downwards. ‘Very careful indeed.’

Charlie watched Eddie and William as they carried the last load of Alma’s furniture up the stairs into the flat, and shook his head in despair.

‘Checked it for woodworm?’ he shouted.

‘All of it,’ William called back. ‘It’s firewood but it’s clean firewood.’

‘Alma wouldn’t come on the cart with us, she’s walking down with her mother.’ Eddie looked down at him from over the stairwell.

‘All right,’ Charlie said absently as he returned to the closed shop. He’d brought a dozen large cuts of meat in from the slaughterhouse in the hope that he’d be able to cook them in preparation for the opening he’d planned for Saturday morning, but so far all he had done was succeed in lighting the two ranges, and after piling the coals into both chambers, he’d resolved to check on the price of running and buying a gas oven with Tony Ronconi. It was going to take an awful lot of meat sales to cover the cost of cooking by coal.

‘Charlie?’

‘Bethan! You came,’ he smiled and walked round the counter to meet her.

‘I had to do some shopping anyway.’

‘On half-day?’

‘It’s quieter.’ She tucked the shawl closer around herself and the baby.

‘As you can see, I took your advice.’ He pulled a chair out.

‘Three chairs.’ She looked around the room, noting the dark brown painted woodwork which provided a pleasing contrast to the cream walls. ‘I like it.’

‘Really?’

‘It looks nice and new and clean. Just the sort of place a well-to-do housewife would patronise to buy cooked food for her family. You out to attract the crache, Charlie?’

‘Not only the crache.’ The Welsh colloquialism rolled oddly off his Russian tongue. ‘I’m after the whole town, especially the people living on the dole. I’m hoping even they will be able to afford a slice or two of what I’m selling.’

‘If you keep your prices low enough, they will. Well, I approve of the shop part.’ She left her chair and walked round the counter. ‘Mind you, you could do with something interesting on the wall.’

‘Interesting?’

‘Pictures. Something to stimulate their imaginations.’

‘Appetites would be better. I’ll see if I can find any prints of food. Would you like to see the kitchen?’ He opened the door behind the counter.

‘Who cleaned the range?’

‘The boys. Why, haven’t they done it properly?’

‘If I’d realised they could clean a range like this, I would have set them to work on the one at home.’

He laughed and Bethan smiled.

‘The shop’s going to work out, Charlie. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘I hope so, otherwise I’m going to lose all the money I have, and even some I don’t,’ he added remembering the five-year lease he’d signed. The rent would have to be paid on that every quarter whatever happened. A frown creased his forehead, and on impulse Bethan went to him and kissed him on the cheek.

‘That’s for luck,’ she murmured as the door opened and Alma walked in.