Shoes for Anthony (11 page)

‘Better not be none of your soppy nonsense, Bethan. If it is, I shall snore loudly and show you right up.'

Bethan gave him a sharp stare. ‘Good, I like you better when you're asleep.'

The Gaiety was our local fleapit: fourpence wooden seats at the front, sixpence cushy seats towards the back. Before the war, the picture house frontage had been lit up with grand announcements, but I was too young to remember all that. Instead, there was a board with a poster on that came with that week's reel. The one for
Double Indemnity
had Barbara Stanwyck sitting in a chair with her leg in the air. It caused a bit of a to-do, as lots of mams thought it was racey. I liked it.

The poster on display was for that night's film –
A Canterbury Tale
. It didn't give much away, just three faces, two men and a woman set against a rolling green field. A dark figure lurked at the bottom. Couldn't make out what he was.

‘Look at that lot,' said Emrys, nodding towards a group of boys round Thomas Evans' wheelchair. ‘Like they've struck gold, or something.'

I glanced in his direction. Thomas, having had to complain endlessly that nobody was pushing him anywhere, was now smothered with offers of help. Funny, that; but anyone with a lad in a wheelchair got in for free. The trick was to stand with your hand on the back of his chair. It meant you were with him and had a pass into the flicks. I had a quick count. There were seven hands.

‘I don't know why Gwennie Morgan puts up with it,' said Bethan, laughing. ‘Look at them! They're like flies!'

‘Here,' said Emrys, nudging me, ‘get over b'there. Then we won't have to pay fourpence for you.'

‘Actually,' said Bethan, opening her purse and peering in, ‘that's not a bad idea. I'm a bit short. Go on, Ant, hop to it.'

I did as I was told and slipped between two of the larger boys at the back of the cluster. Reaching forward, I managed to slip a finger over the back of Thomas's chair. Gwennie Morgan was staring down from her glass-fronted booth. She was sucking on a boiled sweet, her blood-red lips squeezed into a pout. Gwennie was a great favourite with Treherbert lads. She had platinum blonde hair, cut short and waved, always worn with a ribbon bow. Her face was plump and cherubic, large blue eyes framed with turquoise half-moon glasses. Her lofty status as the giver of the tickets gave her an authoritative air, but Mam said the way lads behaved round her was more to do with the size of her bosom. ‘They're mesmerised,' she would say. ‘She's a viper.'

I was too short to see the full glory of Gwennie Morgan's bosom. I just wanted to get into the flicks for nothing. So I stood, finger hanging off the canvas back of the wheelchair, waiting.

‘How many is it, then?' said Gwennie, with a sniff. ‘Stand still. I can't see all of you. Right. So, you in the chair. Then one, two, three …' Her red-taloned finger counted us off. ‘… seven … Wait. Is there one down b'there? Right. Start again. One, two …'

Behind me, Emrys was laughing. Another gaggle of boys had joined the group.

‘Hang on. Were you there before?' said Gwennie, counting to eleven. ‘It was seven a minute ago.'

‘I've been here all the time,' said a ginger-haired lad.

‘And me,' rang a chorus of voices.

‘Oh, just get in, the lot of you,' said Gwennie, waving her hand towards the cinema doors. ‘I can't be bothered with it.'

Everyone ran towards the doors to get the front seats. I was left, standing behind the wheelchair.

‘Someone give us a shove, then!' said Thomas, who had been abandoned, again.

‘Two fourpence tickets, please, Gwennie,' said Emrys, leaning into the booth. He glanced down towards the wheelchair. ‘Where've all your pals gone?'

‘They've all buggered off!' said Thomas, staring up. ‘I get 'em in. They all bugger off!'

Emrys laughed. ‘Our Ant'll shove you in.
Diawl
! What a scam! Don't know why you stand for it, Gwennie.'

‘Well, I don't usually,' said Gwennie, handing Emrys two cardboard tickets. ‘I just happen to be in a good mood today, that's all. The Americans are coming. Have you heard? Soldiers in proper uniform. None of you dirty lot!'

‘Better not let Alwyn hear you say that, Gwennie Morgan. And besides, I'm in the Home Guard. I wear a uniform.'

‘I said proper uniform,' said Gwennie, ‘not something that's come out of a dressing-up box. Next!'

Emrys screwed his mouth sideways and gave me a poke in the shoulder. ‘Go on, then, get him inside. And hurry up. Or we'll miss the newsreel.'

The inside of the Gaiety was a dark mess of a room, the projector light crawling to the screen through a blanket of swirling cigarette smoke. The screen was in constant motion, with anonymous objects – bits of orange peel, chewed-up wads of paper, discarded butt ends – all flicked up into the beam using elastic bands. The general rule was that mucking about was tolerated during the newsreel, unless the King appeared, in which case you all had to stop and show respect; and if you didn't chuck something up every time a German appeared, you were a traitor.

‘Do you want to sit with us?' Bethan said to Thomas, as we pushed him down the central aisle.

‘No, ta,' he replied, reaching into his pocket. ‘Down the front, please.'

I pushed him to the edge of the first wooden bench, where all the boys were flicking stuff up into the projector beam. Someone had brought a bag of woodlice. ‘Flick 'em up b'there,' said the ginger-haired lad, gesturing to where some girls were sitting. They all did. Screams.

‘Guess what I've got,' said Bethan, as I slid onto the bench beside her. ‘Bag of humbugs.' She pulled out a small white paper bag and I could instantly smell a sweet, heady vapour.

‘Get away, man!' said Emrys, his face lighting up. ‘Where d'ya get 'em from?'

‘Work. I did a favour for one of the WAAF. She wanted someone to do her shift so she could see her fella on furlough. I volunteered. She gave me these as a thank you. Want one?'

‘Do I ever!' said Emrys, sticking his fingers into the bag in her hand.

‘Come on, Ant, help yourself.'

I peered into the top of the bag and saw the glorious striped chaos of beloved humbugs. Oh! It was proper lovely: the sweetness on the tongue, my spit turning thick and minty. It was like a long-forgotten memory running to meet me.

‘Remember,' said Bethan, popping one into her own mouth, ‘suck it so it lasts.'

The
Pathé News
newsreel was in full swing. Something about French civilians being allowed to evacuate during a truce between the British and Germans. I wasn't really paying attention, but there must have been a German on screen as a sudden flurry of catcalls and missiles filled the air. I shifted on the bench and cast a look back towards the rear of the cinema. A hand waved in my direction. I peered through the smoky gloom. It was Alf. I waved back.

‘What you looking at?' said Bethan. ‘Watch the news.'

I twisted back round and let the humbug rattle behind my teeth. Emrys, having lit a cigarette, was picking strands of tobacco from his tongue. Down at the front, Thomas had a catapult out. Up on the screen, Princess Elizabeth appeared. Someone wolf whistled, only to be scolded immediately by everyone around him. I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I looked up.

‘Shove over,' said Alf, with a grin. ‘All right, Emrys? Evening, Bethan.' He sat down. Bethan gave me a sharp stare.

Nobody said anything.

‘Bethan's got humbugs,' I said, pulling mine out and showing him. ‘Do you want one?'

‘Not that one, I don't,' said Alf, eyes fixed on my half-sucked sweet. I popped it back in my mouth and licked my fingers. ‘Gonna offer me one or what, Bethan? All in it together, and all that.'

Bethan offered up her bag without looking at him. She said nothing.

‘Thank you very much,' said Alf, popping one into his mouth and shooting me a wink.

‘Heard you almost took a tumble down the shaft today, Emrys,' said Alf. ‘No harm done, I hope?'

‘I'm fine,' said Emrys, blowing a puff of smoke upwards. ‘I was just tired, what with being up all night. Home Guard, see. Surprised you're not mucking in with that. You should join.'

‘Well,' said Alf, settling into the back of the bench. ‘I was thinking more about joining up for proper, like.' He shot a quick, sideways glance towards Bethan.

My mind cast back to the first time I'd seen him, and his chat of charming girls into giving him tups. I frowned. ‘He's not really, Bethan,' I said, tugging her sleeve.

‘I know,' she replied, curtly.

Alf smirked. ‘Anyways, Americans coming, eh? Talk of the village. They'll be turning all the girls' heads, I expect.'

‘Why are you looking furious?' said Emrys, noticing my sister's expression.

‘Shut up,' she said, staring determinedly forward. Emrys raised an eyebrow and sat back with a grin.

Ahead of us, in the dark, there was another small commotion. Thomas Evans was catapulting spitballs at the girls – small, chewed-up lumps of tissue that were cold and wet as they landed. ‘Not surprised no one wants to push him anywhere,' said Emrys. ‘He's a right proper shit.'

‘Emrys!' yelled Bethan.

The
Pathé News
ended and the cinema was plunged into a deeper black as the reel was changed to the main feature. It was traditional to hurl as many insults at the projectionist as possible while he did the switchover. You could call him anything you liked, as nobody could see you.

‘Get on with it, ya bastard!' yelled someone just behind us.

‘Bet you can't wait to see 'em, can you?' said Alf, giving me a nudge. ‘D'you know what to say if you see an American?'

I shook my head.

‘Can I have some gum, chum?' said Alf. ‘They haven't had rationing. They're like walking treasure chests.'

‘Film's starting,' said Bethan, clearing her throat.

A wave of shushes rippled through the cinema, all faces upturned. Title card, a peel of church bells, a swell of strings, a narrator reading out some poem, a load of people in medieval costumes on horses. Someone falls off.

A gust of laughter bellowed up from the benches.

Suddenly, a Spitfire. Cheers as it roared out from the screen.

‘Thank God for that,' whispered Alf. ‘Thought it was going to be all old-fashioned, like.'

I sat, staring up, sucking my humbug as slowly as I could. An American soldier had got off at the wrong train station and found himself walking in the dark with an English soldier and a young lady, but someone attacked the lady and threw glue in her hair.

‘Who throws glue in a girl's hair?' whispered Alf.

‘I did that to Bethan, once,' said Emrys, leaning across. ‘Got the belt for it, 'n' all.'

The American was trying to get to Canterbury. People were suspicious of him but I reckoned he was all right. We didn't get many strangers in Treherbert, but Father always said: If you meet a man you don't know, treat him how you'd like to be treated. ‘There's nothing warmer than a welcome.' Mam says that, too. But the people in the film weren't giving that warm a welcome to the American. I felt sorry for him and resolved that if I ever met a stranger, I'd be as kind to him as I possibly could.

It turned out some posh fella had been chucking glue in girls' hair during blackouts so soldiers wouldn't be distracted from doing their jobs. The American got to Canterbury with his pal, another American soldier, who asked for tea loudly. And the girl who'd been attacked at the start found out her Tommy beau was alive after all. Bethan cried during that bit, but I tried not to notice. It was all right.

‘Didn't think much of the pal,' said Emrys, standing ready for the National Anthem. ‘Bit brash. Full of himself.'

We all stood for the National Anthem. Alf's voice rang out. I glanced up at him. He was smiling as he sang, chest puffed out, cap in hand. A lusty sense of national pride swelled through the room. ‘There is nothing a Welshman loves more than to sing his devotion,' said Alf, grinning down at me. He slipped his cap onto the back of his head. ‘Mind if I walk you up the street, Bethan?' he asked, turning to my sister.

‘You can walk us all up the street,' she said, buttoning her coat. ‘We're all going in the same direction.'

‘Oh, don't mind us,' said Emrys, putting his arm on my shoulder as we walked towards the exit door. ‘Ant and me can manage in the dark, can't we?'

‘I'm the only one with a torch,' said Bethan, shooting Emrys a glare. ‘And you know how clumsy Ant is. He best stay with me. He's been hurt enough for one day.'

‘Don't tell me I didn't try,' said Emrys, shrugging his shoulders towards Alf.

‘The more, the merrier!' said Alf, unfazed. ‘Besides, I haven't got a torch. I shall have to take your arm, Bethan. You can save us all.'

My sister gave a small, exasperated snort.

The wind had picked up, bringing with it a sharp nighttime chill. I'd come out without my coat so I pulled the sleeves of my jumper down over my hands, made fists and stuck them into my armpits. There was nothing to be done about my knees. I didn't own a pair of long trousers. I would have to endure the air biting up my shorts.

There was no moon that night, no stars to walk home by, and Bethan reached into her handbag for the small low-beamed torch she always carried with her. ‘Come on, then,' she said, rather briskly. ‘Let's get off.'

Voices and footsteps sounded around us as people from the cinema peeled off down side streets. As we made our way further up the village, the only sounds were our own footfalls: Emrys and Alf's hobnailed boots, Bethan's sensible heels and my wellingtons providing a base-like squelch to underpin the hometime symphony.

‘So when are the Yanks coming?' said Emrys, breaking the silence. ‘Are they actually coming here, like? Or just to the base?'