A Silver Lining (30 page)

‘Stay out of it!’ the man yelled as blood poured from Tony’s face.

Angelo vaulted over the counter and adopted the classic boxer’s stance, right fist raised above left, but William caught him by the shoulder and thrust him towards the door.

‘Police station, and quick,’ William whispered to him.

Angelo took one look at the half-dozen men grouped in the back room, and Charlie sandwiched between them and Bobby. Then he ran.

‘Bobby, if you insist on having this out here and now, I think we should follow Marquis of Queensberry rules, don’t you?’ William tried his best to stop his hand from shaking as he held it up.

Bobby grunted something unintelligible as he stared belligerently at Charlie.

‘Whatever’s going on here is between Charlie and Bobby, right?’

The most sober of Bobby’s friends nodded assent and the others followed suit. ‘In that case shouldn’t this be taken outside before any more of the Ronconis’ property is damaged?’ William insisted.

Charlie looked at William. His attention was distracted just long enough for him to be caught unawares as Bobby slammed him against the back wall.

Alma crammed her fingers into her mouth, but she still cried out as Charlie’s back crashed into the hard surface with a sickening crunch.

The chimney in the back room hadn’t been swept all winter so it was difficult to keep a fire burning without great clouds of soot falling, damping down the flames. Tony had banked up the wood, coal and paper with an icing of small coal and had left the poker wedged beneath it to create a through draught.

Bobby saw the tip of the poker glowing red, dived forward and pulled it from the grate. Waving it in the air, he lurched towards Charlie.

‘For Christ’s sake, Bobby!’ one of his cronies shouted. ‘Think about what you’re doing, man.’

‘Thump me in the face, would you?’ Bobby hissed, his face contorted with hatred. ‘Smash me on the pavement, would you?’

‘Bobby, put the poker down before someone gets hurt.’ William’s voice was calm, belying the fear that vibrated through his body.

‘Will’s right, Bobby. If you don’t put it down someone will get hurt.’ Alf White, a friend of Bobby’s, William recognised from schooldays, rashly put himself between Bobby and Charlie.

‘Out of my way!’ Demented with rage and drink, Bobby swished the red-hot end of the poker wildly in the air.

Everyone’s attention focused on the glowing arc of light that hovered in the centre of the room for a moment. The arc vanished as suddenly as it appeared. The poker fell and the searing smell of burning wool and flesh filled the café, closely followed by a long, loud bestial scream.

Alf fell to his knees clutching his arm. William leaned forward and grabbed Alf’s leg, dragging him into the front room. Tony locked his shoulder under Alf’s, helped him to his feet, and steered him into the kitchen. Alf’s moans filled the atmosphere, heightening the tension.

The only one who appeared unaware of the noise was Bobby, who still circled threateningly around Charlie with the poker in his hand.

‘Can’t anyone do
anything?’
Alma pleaded hysterically. ‘Please ...’

Bobby turned and stared at her. His friends took the opportunity to move towards the door. One of them opened it and soon his footsteps could be heard pounding up Taff Street.

‘Please?’ Bobby mocked as he stepped closer to her with the poker. ‘Please ... Please
what,
Bobby?’

Charlie moved like lightning. Hurling himself between Bobby and Alma, he reached for the glowing end of the poker. Closing his fingers around it, he lifted it and lashed out.

The steel handle sank into Bobby’s fleshy stomach. As Bobby crumpled to his knees the smell of scorched flesh again permeated the air.

Charlie turned and walked slowly into the back room. He didn’t drop the poker until he reached the fire grate. As it clattered into the hearth William saw that the end was no longer glowing, but covered in a fine grey-white film of skin.

Chapter Eighteen

Andrew reached Cardiff station at nine o’clock in the evening. Refusing a porter’s help, he carried his doctor’s bag and small suitcase himself, walking briskly ahead of the crowd that surged away from the train, down the steep flight of stone steps and into the white-tiled tunnel that connected all the platforms. He reached the Rhondda Valley departure point just in time to hear a barely decipherable announcement that the train to the valleys had been delayed until nine forty-five. Tired, irritable, and unaccountably angry with the world in general, this came as the last straw. He took his luggage and stormed towards the refreshment room only to find the door bolted and the lights dimmed.

He looked at the outside benches. The only unoccupied one was covered with black smuts. He dropped his bags on to it and patted his pockets in search of a cigarette. Finding one in a squashed packet in the breast pocket of his suit, he lit it with his lighter and inhaled deeply. Across the rails a huge billboard was dominated by the swashbuckling image of a sword-wielding pirate, dark-haired beautiful girl behind him, evil-faced villain in front. Below the picture in foot high crimson letters was CAPTAIN BLOOD AT YOUR LOCAL PICTURE PALACE NOW.

Whoever Captain Blood was, he envied him. His choices were simple and clear cut. All he had to do was draw his sword, fight evil and rescue the beautiful damsel in distress. If only the choices in his life were that easy to make.

As he drew on his cigarette again he wondered what exactly he was doing standing on this platform.

Trevor Lewis had telephoned and he’d come running. For what? To witness the death of a son he’d done his damnedest to ignore since birth? To comfort Bethan? If she’d really wanted him she would have telephoned him herself. It was hypocritical of him even to have left London.

Trevor had once told him he always looked for the easy way out. Trevor had been right. He’d do anything to avoid direct emotional confrontation, and not only with Bethan. A brave man would have been honest when Trevor phoned, realising the futility of paying lip service to a dead marriage. Why didn’t he turn round? Now! This minute. Walk down the steps to the London platform and take the first train back. The refreshment room might even be open over there. He could buy himself a hot cup of tea and a sandwich; perhaps there’d be a sleeper.

The thought of stretching out and relaxing was very tempting. And in London he had work waiting. His patients needed him, even if his son and his wife didn’t, and best of all, their ailments weren’t the result of his neglect. On the wards of the Cross he was a healer, not the guilty party.

‘Andrew. Andrew John! How marvellous. You’re coming home? For good, I hope. All the young people have missed you. Especially in the tennis club. Anthea never stops talking about the good times she had when you were a member.’

‘Mrs Llewellyn-Jones.’ Of all the people in Pontypridd the one he least wanted to see at that moment was Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, the wife of the town’s bank manager, and one of his mother’s most patronising bosom friends. But well trained since childhood, he was too polite to allow his dislike of the woman to surface. Taking his cigarette from his mouth with his left hand, he extended his right.

‘You
are
going home, Andrew?’

‘Evidently.’

‘Yes of course.’ She laughed shrilly, attracting the attention of everyone on the platform. ‘You could hardly be going anywhere else from this part of the station, could you?’

‘I’d offer to buy you tea, but the refreshment room is closed.’

‘So remiss of them. First they delay the train, then they close everything down. But what
can
you expect? The whole country has gone downhill. Just look at this station. No matter what time I travel, I’ve never once seen it in an acceptable state. Or anyone even attempting to clean it.’

‘It’s the trains,’ he informed her gravely. ‘Running on coal makes them very dirty.’

‘I suppose it does,’ she replied doubtfully, uncertain whether it was a joke, or not. ‘But then it’s not just this station, it’s every public place,’ she continued, repeating an observation that had been very well received by the Ladies’ Section of the Pontypridd Golf Club, ‘No one takes any pride in themselves or their work anymore. You need look no further than your father-in-law,’ she slipped in slyly. She paused, waiting for him to comment, but he remained obstinately silent.

‘Well, the situation is so awkward, for
your
parents of course. As I said to your dear mother, sometimes the social gulf between the Common and the Graig simply isn’t wide enough. Gossip travels all too quickly, and when he was sent to gaol ...’

The news of Evan Powell’s imprisonment came as a complete surprise to Andrew, but by dint of super human control he managed to keep the shock from registering on his face. Anger burned furiously, as he remained outwardly impassive. Why hadn’t Bethan told him his father-in-law was in gaol? Why had she allowed him to find out like this? Didn’t she love him? Didn’t she consider him part of her family? Didn’t she have any regard for his feelings at all?

‘ ... well I mean to say it’s hardly the sort of thing you want to broadcast around the town. That you’re connected, even by marriage, to a man who’s serving six months’ hard labour for assaulting a police officer.’ She looked up at Andrew, wondering why he didn’t say something. Perhaps he didn’t want to discuss his father-in-law in public, but then –she glanced around –it wasn’t as if there was anyone who
mattered
near them. ‘I met your wife that once when we dined with your parents. She did seem a very nice girl, but ...’

‘But!’
There was always a ‘but’ with the Mrs Llewellyn-Joneses of this world, Andrew reflected acidly.

‘ ... It can’t be at all
nice
for her having come from a family like that. My woman who comes in to do the heavy work does occasional ironing for Mrs Leyshon.’ She smiled broadly at Andrew. ‘You
must
know the Leyshons. They live in the house on the Graig,’ she said as though there was only one. ’Danygraig House. From what I understand it’s the only decent house on that hill. Not that I’ve ever been there,’ she qualified, as though the Graig was in some way tainted. ‘Well, my woman told me that Mrs Powell has moved out. Apparently she’s living with her uncle, a minister, chapel of course, in the Rhondda, and who can blame her? It must be very difficult given the circumstances. Your wife is coping with the situation, I trust?’

‘Yes,’ Andrew answered shortly, not knowing whether his parents, let alone Mrs Llewellyn-Jones, were aware that Bethan was in Pontypridd. If Mrs Llewellyn-Jones’s “woman” was as much of a gossip as he suspected, they probably did. And that would give his father one more reason to be angry with him.

‘As if she hasn’t enough to do with the baby ... poor little thing. Your mother told us all about it. So sad. Mr Llewellyn-Jones and I were so sorry to hear –’

‘Bethan is coping perfectly well. Thank you for your concern.’ He dropped his cigarette and ground it to dust beneath the toe of his shoe.

‘She’s living in Pontypridd, and you’re living in London now?’

Damn it. The woman did know.

‘Temporarily.’ He spat out the word as he fumbled in his pocket for another cigarette.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Separation, no matter what the cause, is never good for a marriage. But I suppose your wife felt obliged to go home after her father’s disgrace. We can’t always do what we want in life. Mr Llewellyn-Jones did his duty and volunteered his services during the Great War. I hardly saw him for four years. He spent the duration in the Admiralty Office in London, you know.’

‘It must have been a very harrowing time for both of you,’ Andrew commented drily.

‘Very,’ she concurred, failing to see the irony in his remark. ‘You staying in Pontypridd long?’ she probed artlessly.

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Then you are hoping to take Bethan back with you?’

‘Eventually.’

‘Your mother will be so pleased to see you. She doesn’t say much, but I can tell,’ she wagged her finger at Andrew as if he were a naughty schoolboy. ‘She misses you dreadfully. You really should write or telephone home more often. I know you have a wife now, but you must spare an occasional thought for your mother. It’s a sad fact of life that a mother can never entirely cut the bonds that bind her to her child, no matter how she may try. Take me and Anthea ...’

Andrew didn’t hear the story of Anthea’s devotion. He was dwelling on his mother’s sometimes irritating, always fussy, but undeniably deep and abiding love for him. Mrs Llewellyn-Jones was right: the bonds of motherhood were never altogether severed, even in adulthood.

For the first time he realised the enormity of the demands he had made of Bethan. He saw their son as a reproach, a living reminder of his failure to look after both mother and son, but Bethan saw him as her child, and no mother would willingly give up her child. He had driven Bethan into choosing between Edmund and him, and she had chosen the most vulnerable. Knowing her as he did, how could he have expected her to have done otherwise?

He’d been a fool. Seeing an institution as an easy solution to the problem of the baby. Putting Edmund away would solve nothing for him or for Bethan. The baby was there. Would always be there. A part of both of them that Bethan would never willingly abandon to strangers. Maternal instinct had taken its powerful, insidious hold. He couldn’t deny the strength of the bond between Bethan and the child, but he also knew that the blame he carried would never allow him to feel the same way.

‘Why, here’s our train at last.’ Mrs Llewellyn-Jones had to tap him on the arm with her umbrella before he saw the steam train pull in.

‘Mrs Llewellyn-Jones. Let me help you.’ He took hold of her elbow and propelled her towards the door of a first-class carriage. Opening it, he pushed her inside. ‘So nice to see you,’ he murmured, smiling at her for the first time.

‘Do give my regards to Anthea, and Mr Llewellyn-Jones.’

‘Won’t you join me?’ she asked, flustered by his sudden, unexpected attention. ‘It would be
so
nice to continue our little chat. I haven’t told you about Anthea’s trip to France and her-’

‘It will have to wait until some other time, I’m afraid. I only have a third-class ticket,’ he lied as he went back to the bench to get his bags.

‘Soon, I hope!’ she shouted after him. ‘Soon.’

‘You want to prefer charges, Charlie?’ Constable Huw Davies asked as Charlie sat slumped on a chair in the back room of the café, his arm extended across the table, lying on a bleached linen tea towel. Tina and Alma were sitting either side of him covering his hand with potato skins. Charlie looked up at Alma. She shook her head. The movement was slight, so slight that anyone who hadn’t been looking for it would have missed it. Charlie recalled her fear of attracting more slanderous gossip.

‘No,’ he answered between clenched teeth. For about ten minutes after he had gripped the poker and wrenched it out of Bobby’s hands his whole arm had gone blessedly, blissfully numb but now it was returning, all too agonisingly, to life.

‘Well I do,’ Tony Ronconi declared angrily. ’Just look at the state of this place.’

‘Criminal damage,’ Huw wrote in his neat script in his notebook.

‘And just think about the effect this is going to have on our custom once word gets out.’

‘Violent, threatening behaviour,’ Huw continued to write. ‘I’ve got more than enough to keep him overnight. Can you call down the station tomorrow morning Tony. We’ll try and get him before a magistrate then.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘You ought to go to hospital and get that hand seen to,’ Huw said to Charlie.

‘I’ll take him,’ Tony volunteered.

‘I’ll get the Trojan.’ William was happy to have an excuse to leave the café. He didn’t want to look at Charlie’s hand, yet he couldn’t look away. The fingers were flayed red raw, the palm was charred, blackened, the flesh hanging loose in long, thin, bloody shreds. And it seemed to have been in that state for hours. Huw had taken the names and addresses of Bobby’s friends, told them they’d be called as witnesses, and warned them that if they didn’t stay out of trouble it wouldn’t be the witness box but the dock they’d be finding themselves in.

When he finally allowed them to leave, they sloped off silently, grateful to Huw for allowing them to sleep in their own beds that night. Only Bobby remained in the café. Huw had handcuffed him to the brass rail in front of the counter, and he sat there, a glowering, threatening presence that William could quite cheerfully have knocked senseless.

‘Alma, you come with William, Charlie and me to the hospital,’ Tony suggested. ‘Tina, you and Angelo close up. I think we’ve all had enough for one night.’

‘Tina can go with you. I’ll clear up here,’ Alma volunteered.

‘Sort it out amongst yourselves,’ Tony said impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter who goes where as long as we get away from here soon for Charlie’s sake.’

‘Boys!’ Huw Davies greeted the reinforcements he’d sent Angelo to fetch from the station. ‘We have one rather nasty drunk here who wants to take us up on our offer of free bed and breakfast.’

‘Bethan?’ Phyllis knocked timidly at the bedroom door. In response to Bethan’s answering call she carried in a cup of tea. ‘I’ve come to take down your supper dishes.’ She looked at the tray Diana had brought up earlier. ’Oh, you haven’t touched a thing!’

‘I’m not hungry.’ Bethan leaned over her son’s cot so she wouldn’t have to look Phyllis in the eye.

‘I’m boiling water for his bottles now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I can run the house for you until your baby is better, that’s if you want me to of course,’ she offered shyly. She watched as Bethan picked up her baby, waiting for her to answer. When she didn’t, she continued. ‘I want to say ... want you to know,’ she stammered clumsily, ‘how grateful I am to you for taking me and my son in. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you, especially as you’re so crowded here already.’

‘It’s what my father would have wanted me to do,’ Bethan said coldly, wishing Phyllis would go, and leave her in peace with Edmund.