Poor Little Rich Girl (36 page)

Dick sorted out a florin and a shilling and handed the money back to his brother. ‘That should see you right …’ he was beginning, when they all heard the
roar of an approaching engine. ‘Hey up, lads, that sounds like the bus. You’d better gerra move on, you don’t want to miss it. Oh, I’d better give you a few pence for your fare.’ Dick thrust some pennies into Ben’s hand and then the two boys were hustling themselves aboard the bus. Ben was gleeful. After weeks and weeks of country living, this trip to the local town, with a promise of a cinema thrown in, seemed the height of adventure. He and Meirion slid into an empty seat and Ben’s happiness was complete when his friend produced two licorice sticks and handed him one of them.

‘If we get the meat cheap, then mebbe we’ll have enough money over to buy ourselves some dinner,’ he observed. ‘There’s eatin’ houses in Wrexham what’ll do a big bowl o’ vegetable soup and a thick slice of bread for a few pennies. Mam said I could get me some dinner if the money stretched.’

Ben supposed that this would be all right, then concentrated on the view from the window. It was a wide and splendid one, for Bwlchgwyn was perched on the side of a mountain and below them came first the forestry of Nant-y-Ffrith, then the plain, spread out like a map, with Wrexham looking like a toy beneath the haze of light-blue smoke arising from house and factory chimneys. The town was surrounded by coal mines which probably added their own dirt to the blue-grey cloud hovering above it and Ben guessed that later in the day Wrexham would be hidden from view beneath a thick smoke-screen. Now, however, in the early morning, it looked a pleasant place and Ben wondered why he had never been tempted to visit it before. He should have guessed that it would have a cinema – it had several, according to Meirion – and probably other forms of entertainment as well.
The shops, too, would be crowded and busy because Wrexham was a market town and according to the teacher at school attracted people from near and far, particularly on market day.

It was not going to be anything like Liverpool though, Ben realised. Wistfully, he imagined himself walking along the Scottie, shouting greetings to his pal, going into a shop to beg a length of orange box rope or to ask if there were any spare crates which he could chop up for firewood and subsequently sell. Mrs Evans had looked at him as though he had run mad when he had asked her a similar question. ‘Chop up my good boxes?’ she had said incredulously. ‘Why would you want to do that, cariad? There’s many a child has begged a box off me so’s he can make a rabbit hutch or a little house for play, like, but to chop up good wood …’

Ben had explained that he meant to sell the wood for kindling and the elderly lady had laughed and shaken her head. ‘Why should anyone pay for kindling when the forest is full of fallen twigs and branches?’ she enquired. ‘Us country folk don’t have money to burn and it would be like burning money to buy kindling when it’s free for anyone who cares to pick it up. No, no, cariad, you’ll have to find some other way of making money while you live in Bwlchgwyn.’

Ben had been disappointed but not despairing; surely there must be someone willing to pay for a service which he could render? But when questioned on the point, Meirion had not been very helpful. ‘In the summer we helps on the farms, cut cabbage, dig spuds, do a bit of harvestin’ come hay-makin’, but right now things is quiet. You can’t help wi’ the lambing ’cos they need fellers wi’ experience, and
anyway most of them sort o’ jobs is took by farm workers’ kids. But later …’

Ben had thought grumpily that back home it did not matter what season it was, if you were willing to work there was usually some way to earn the odd penny. However, Meirion told him that on market days he could take a bus down into Wrexham and earn some cash helping farmers drive their beasts home from the market there, and though so far he had done nothing about it, it was a possibility, he supposed.

‘It were good of your brother to do your … your errands,’ Meirion said presently, as the bus began to trundle through the suburbs of the market town. ‘Is he wed? I’ve seen him gettin’ off the bus in the village several times, but he’s always alone. Does he have a girlfriend? I suppose he must, ’cos he’s quite a lot older than you, isn’t he?’

‘He is,’ Ben said briefly. ‘He were never one for the gals … that is, he liked ’em all right, but he didn’t like one of ’em more’n the others. Then, last summer …’ And Ben found himself telling Meirion all about Hester and Lonnie, about the horrible old aunt, the sacking of Hester herself, followed by that of various servants, and the incarceration of Lonnie in a boarding school somewhere, but no one knew where.

‘And our Dick’s been real miserable because he says he’s lost touch wi’ Hester and may never find her again; he thinks she’ll go back to India as soon as maybe, if she’s not gone already,’ he concluded with some melodrama. ‘It’s awful, ain’t it? That wicked ole woman won’t tell anyone where the kid is, and
I
think that if we could find Lonnie, she’d know where to look for Hester. But there ain’t no way of
discovering where she stuck the kid, and of course I ain’t in Liverpool no more, else I’d search every girls’ boarding school in the place, honest to God I would. But y’see, Dick’s workin’ at Laird’s – that’s Cammell Laird’s, the ship builders – and so he doesn’t have time to comb the streets. He’s been over to the house in Shaw Street – where Hester used to live – but they can’t tell him what they don’t know themselves. So it seems hopeless.’ He turned to his friend as the bus drew to a halt. ‘Is this our stop? Where’s the picture-house? I say, it’s busy; the street is fair black wi’ folk.’

‘Yes, we’ve arrived,’ Meirion said laconically. ‘I’m sorry for your brother, but I’m sure there must be a way to find out where them gals have gone. You’ve just got to hit on the right scheme.’

‘And what would you do, clever-clogs?’ Ben asked sarcastically, as they stepped down on to the pavement. ‘Why, there’s nowt we’ve not thought of, and much good it’s done us so far!’

‘I’d write a letter to the little gal,’ Meirion said placidly, ‘because from what you’ve said, her father will be writin’ to her often. Who’s to say that the letter you send ain’t from her dad, or from this woman he’s married? I bet the old woman has got fed up wi’ openin’ harmless letters by now, and will just bundle it up wi’ the others.’

Ben stopped in the middle of the pavement and stared at his friend, open-mouthed. ‘We-ell, yes,’ he said slowly at last. ‘But it can’t be that simple. There must be a snag somewhere, else we’d ha’ thought of it ourselves.’

‘Ah, but you’re not a wily Welshman,’ Meirion said, grinning. ‘The English have suppressed us and mistreated us for so many generations that we’ve had
to learn to get around obstacles instead of blunderin’ straight into ’em.’

Later, as he’d said goodbye to his friend and agreed with him that they had had a splendid day, Ben’s thoughts returned to Meirion’s suggestion; the more he considered, the more he was beginning to think that it was the scheme likeliest to succeed out of the various ploys which Dick had come up with. Walking along under the stars – for the boys had stayed in Wrexham to see a proper showing of a two-feature film in the afternoon – he began to plan a strategy for getting the letter delivered. If it was meant to come from foreign parts, then there would be a problem over the stamp. He was wondering whether he could get over this by pushing the envelope through the door himself when he remembered Topper Jones in his class. Topper was a keen philatelist, which meant he collected stamps, and he often swapped stamps he already possessed for ones that he did not. Ben knew that letters and postcards from Lonnie’s father would come from a variety of different countries. All he had to do was to stick one of Topper’s unwanted stamps on to the envelope and hope that it would get delivered with the rest of the post. Then there was the letter itself. We can’t rely on the old girl not to open the envelope and have a snoopy read, so whatever we say will have to be kind of coded, Ben reminded himself. He was longing to see Dick’s face when he put the idea to him and broke into a trot as he grew closer to the cottage. This is more exciting than the film we saw this afternoon, he thought, because this is real life and not just a story.

He reached the cottage, opened the small gate and closed it carefully behind him, then went down the side of the dwelling and round the back. The front of
the cottage had been in darkness but light streamed out through the long low kitchen window and Ben stood in the small porch to remove his dirty boots and then opened the back door and entered the kitchen. Dick, his mother and Phyllis were seated round the table with plates of scouse before them and mugs of tea at their elbows. All three of them looked up as Ben came in and Mrs Bailey got to her feet at once, picked up an empty plate and went over to the fire. ‘You’re awful late, Benny,’ she said, ladling food on to the plate. ‘Where have you been? No, don’t say Wrexham, ’cos I know that, but I thought you told Dick you were goin’ to the butcher’s market and the afternoon picture show. Where’s my joint for tomorrow? I hope it’s a good ’un.’

‘It’s a prime shoulder of mutton, and it were dead cheap,’ Ben said proudly, putting the huge joint down on the kitchen table. ‘Meirion said if we waited till the market was about to close we’d get a real bargain, so that’s why I’m late. I reckon it were worth it, ’cos I didn’t pay half what it would have cost me in the village and I reckon this is a meatier joint an’ all.’

‘It’s a grand piece of meat all right,’ Dick observed, smiling at his brother’s evident pride. ‘I’m glad I did your messages for you, young Ben, since there’s nowt I enjoy more than a shoulder of mutton with some nice mint sauce and a big helping of new potatoes. And since I bought a bunch of mint and the potatoes from the village shop earlier, I guess I’m in for a treat.’

Mrs Bailey put the plate of blind scouse in front of Ben and sat down in her place once more. ‘You’re lookin’ awfully pleased wi’ yourself, son,’ she said shrewdly. ‘What else happened in Wrexham today, eh? Lose a sixpence and find a sovereign?’

‘Better’n that,’ Ben said, beaming round at his family. ‘Meirion an’ I were talkin’ on the bus and I telled him how we’d lost touch wi’ Hester and Lonnie and he said …’

At the end of the recital, Dick, Mrs Bailey and even young Phyllis were all beaming, though Dick’s smile, Ben thought, was easily the widest. ‘Your pal’s brilliant – I can’t think why we didn’t think of it ourselves,’ Dick said admiringly. ‘I’m sure Hester will get in touch with Lonnie somehow, so if we can get in touch with Lonnie too, our problems should be over. Ben, tell your pal he’s a bleedin’ genius. We’ll start work on the letter tomorrow!’

‘Well, my darling? How does it feel to be back in India once more?’ Leonard Hetherington-Smith took his wife’s hand and squeezed her fingers. They were in a taxi cab, heading for the home they had left, and despite the heat, the noise and the all-pervading odour of the streets, Leonard found himself glad to be home. ‘I was planning a party so that all my friends could meet my new wife, but after nearly seven months of cruising round the world together we seem more like an old married couple than newly-weds!’

Rosalind Hetherington-Smith returned the pressure of his fingers and smiled her brilliant, three-cornered smile. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time, darling, and I’m going to find it hard to settle down to an ordinary life again,’ she admitted. ‘Of course, I’d love to meet your friends, Leonard, but the person I most want to meet isn’t in India. I know you’ve left your business in other hands for an awfully long time, but wouldn’t it be possible for us to travel to England fairly soon? I know you say Lonnie is very happy living with her aunt and the young governess, but
I’m afraid she may feel I have caused you to neglect her.’ She turned impulsively towards him. ‘Leonard, I do want her to love me! The relationship between a little girl and her stepmother is always difficult; I don’t want to make it even more so by putting off our meeting. I know you say that India is no place for a child, but I’ve never truly understood why parents keep young children with them and send them Home just when they are beginning to be more self-reliant and self-confident.’

‘That’s the reason, my foolish one,’ Leonard said, grinning at her. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to send a very young child Home, because a young child needs its parents. But once a child is seven or eight, a life of being constantly waited upon and spoiled to death by Indian servants saps their strength and does not improve their characters. The ideal thing would be for the children to have six months in India with their parents and six months in Britain attending a good school. But this is rarely possible for reasons which I don’t have to explain to you.’

‘No, I understand. I know what you mean. It’s the school holidays, and missing half a year would scarcely help a child’s education,’ Rosalind agreed. ‘But Leonard, she’s such a little girl and you’ve said yourself that your sister is a difficult woman, and seven months is an awfully long time. I’d be far happier, truly I would, if we could at least plan an early trip to England.’

‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t, if it would please you,’ Leonard said. ‘But remember, we’ve seven months’ post waiting for us when we get home. After reading her letters, you may well feel reassured that there is no need for such a trip. As you say, I’ve left the business in other hands for longer than I should
have done and there may be a great deal of work for me to do before I can even consider yet another trip abroad.’

He had not meant to sound reproachful, but he saw by Rosalind’s flush and downcast eyes that his remark had upset her. He had made it sound as though she were wanting another pleasure trip, whereas, in fact, the journey to England was scarcely that. He realised that most women in her position would have pushed Lonnie and her possible plight into the background and would have been eager that he should do likewise. Lonnie, he reflected, was going to be a very lucky little girl; she was going to have a truly loving stepmother who was already fond of his child and did not consider her a rival for his affections. Impulsively, he put his arm round Rosalind’s shoulders, turned her to face him, and kissed her still trembling mouth. ‘Darling Rosalind, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You are quite right and we should make visiting England – and Lonnie – a priority. When I decided to ask you to be my wife I thought you were an angel, but now I know you are.’