Swansea Girls (6 page)

‘They weren’t awful; in fact, with the benefit of hindsight they were sensible, considering we had to spend the summer apart.’

‘Sensible! You’ve found another girl!’

‘None who could take your place,’ he responded flippantly, amused by her sudden anxiety.

‘Why don’t I believe you?’ She gave two of Larry’s sisters a ‘keep off my property’ warning look as they scrutinised Joe. ‘This way.’ She steered him towards a bar set up inside the entrance of a marquee that had been erected on the main lawn. ‘I’ve spent all afternoon mixing cocktails for this bash. There’s one I’ve christened “Gower surprise”. You simply
have
to taste it.’

‘Joe!’ Angela’s brother Robin waved him over to where he was standing – or rather swaying – next to Larry Murton Davies.

‘I’d better pay my respects to the birthday boy first.’

Angela wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not talking to Larry.’

‘What’s he done now?’

‘Got himself stupid drunk.’ She hugged his arm tighter. ‘It is great to be together again, Joe. We have so much time to make up – and all the time in the world to do it. I’m starting in art college in September.’

‘Robin told me.’

‘He shouldn’t have, that’s my news and I wanted it to be a surprise. Robin showed me your poems. They’re good.’

‘High praise, coming from you.’

‘Every writer I know says you have to be an absolute genius to get published these days.’

‘Not in the
Gower.
The editor’s a friend of our tutor’s.’

‘He didn’t publish Robin’s.’

‘That doesn’t mean mine are better.’

‘Yes it does. And don’t try to argue. I’ve read Robin’s, they’re banal. And Robin’s green with envy at the way you’ve been given all the best jobs this summer. Pops says you’re the main topic of conversation in Alexandra Road. Rumour has it BBC Swansea will close down when you go back to university.’

‘They don’t think more of me than they do of any other student researcher,’ Joe interposed swiftly, hoping that news of his confidential interview with the Director of Programmes in Cardiff hadn’t leaked out. He’d already accepted the offer of a job when he graduated, although he knew it would annoy his mother. She assumed he would teach, like his grandfather. He hadn’t disillusioned her. An argument delayed meant fewer quarrels and a quieter life in Carlton Terrace until graduation.

‘Have you come to wish me happy birthday or flirt with Angie?’ Larry demanded petulantly as they approached.

‘Both,’ Joe answered easily. ‘Happy birthday.’ Extricating himself from Angela, he shook Larry’s hand before delving into his pocket for the gold tiepin his mother had insisted he buy in Samuel’s rather than his father’s warehouse ‘for appearances’ sake’.

‘Thanks, old man.’ Larry tossed the parcel on to a side table set up next to the bar without giving it a second glance. ‘Drink?’

‘Is that one of the Gower cocktails Angie’s been telling me about?’

‘Is it hell,’ Robin dismissed scornfully. ‘It’s best brandy.’

Larry tottered precariously as he leaned heavily on Joe’s shoulder. ‘Come and meet the family, then we can get on with the serious business of the evening. Drinking!’

‘Joe ...’

‘Stop chasing Joe, Angie. This is boys’ time.’ Dismissing his sister with a wave of his hand, Robin pushed Joe and Larry out of the marquee towards the bench set in front of the French windows that opened into the drawing room. Looking back at Angie, Joe mouthed, ‘Keep me a dance.’ She smiled and nodded.

Larry straightened up as he stood in front of his mother and by making an effort to speak slowly, managed to conceal just how drunk he was. ‘Mums, I’d like to introduce Joseph Griffiths.’

Mrs Murton Davies looked Joe up and down. ‘I’ve just heard you’re poor Esme’s boy. I am
so
glad you could accept our invitation. You’re in university with Larry?’

‘Has been for two years, Mums.’

Joe tried to shake Larry’s mother’s hand as if he hadn’t heard the ‘poor Esme’. His admittance to Swansea University had also gained him entry to some of the best houses in Swansea, but he found it difficult to take the pity of his friends’ parents for what they regarded as his mother’s ‘unfortunate’ marriage and his even more ‘unfortunate’ home address.

‘You’re like your grandfather,’ Mrs Murton Davies gushed. ‘We girls all absolutely adored him when we were young. I think it was the moustache. Have you thought of growing one?’

‘I can’t say that I have, Mrs Murton Davies.’

‘Yes, well, you’re young yet. Poor Esme must have some photographs of her father. You should look at them ...’

‘Cigar, Joe?’ Robin thrust one into his mouth before he could answer. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs MD, we won’t smoke anywhere except out here and in the billiard room.’

‘I should hope not. Aren’t you young people going to dance? We have engaged a very good band.’

‘Just going, Mums. Marquee, boys, last one on the floor has to pour the next round.’ Larry stumbled over the lawn towards the shrubbery.

‘Robin, where have you been hiding? I’ve been searching for you for years.’

‘And now you’ve found me what do you intend doing with me?’ Robin opened his arms as Larry’s sister, Emily, bore down on him. ‘You have brought your car?’ he whispered over his shoulder to Joe, as he embraced her.

‘As ordered.’

‘You can take us into Mumbles later.’

‘On Larry’s twenty-first!’

‘Exactly,
my
twenty-first,’ Larry slurred from somewhere behind them, ‘and I want to have fun, which I can’t have with my bloody family and all these damned people around.’

The bar of the White Rose in Walter Road was crowded with young men downing as many pints as they could cram in before it was time to head for Mumbles and the Pier. While Adam tried to attract the attention of the besieged barman, Martin looked around, narrowing his eyes as they adjusted to the dark-oak and polished-brass gloom, after the early-evening, late-summer sunlight outside. He tried to put the ugly scene and problems at home from his mind by concentrating on the simple pleasure of being back in civilian clothes in a pub devoid of uniforms, but his mother’s face, lined, bruised, old before her time, intruded into his consciousness. And even when he finally succeeded in relegating her to the shadows, she was supplanted by Katie’s thin, cowed figure, small, narrow face and enormous, terrified eyes or Jack’s outwardly sharp Teddy boy image. But for all his veneer of truculent defiance, Martin knew his brother feared their father every bit as much as did their mother and sister.

‘Clay?’ A solitary figure, standing, foot on rail at the opposite end of the bar hailed him.

‘Powell?’ Martin murmured hesitantly.

‘Clay and –’ Brian glanced across as Adam finally succeeded in collaring the barman. ‘Jordan? I had no idea you two lived in Swansea.’ Picking up his beer mug, Brian edged his way through the crowd to join them.

‘And I thought you were from Ponty.’

‘I am but I’ve moved into lodgings here. Work,’ Brian explained succinctly. ‘So what are you doing now?’

‘Same thing I did before conscription. Apprentice in the council garage.’

‘I thought you passed your mechanics exams.’

‘The army ones. I’m carrying on in night school. Fancy a top-up?’

‘Ever known me to say no?’

‘Look what the cat dragged in, Adam. You remember Powell?’

‘I remember you two getting orders for Cyprus, lucky sods. From the uncensored version Marty gave me I gather it was all sunshine, wine and gorgeous girls queuing up to fulfil your every fantasy.’

‘After Germany, Adam served out the rest of his time in Yorkshire,’ Martin explained as he handed the pint Adam pushed towards him to Brian and asked the barman to pull another.

‘In a miserable, cold, damp barracks,’ Adam embellished dolefully.

‘Look on the bright side, with your fair skin the sun might not have agreed with you.’

‘I would have liked to have had the chance to find out.’ Adam raised his glass and the others followed suit. ‘Here’s to reunions. So, what you doing in this neck of the woods, Powell?’

‘Just moved into digs round the corner, Carlton Terrace. Do you know it?’

Adam glanced at Martin and they burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘It’s only where we live. Who you lodging with?’

‘Mrs Evans.’

‘You always did have the luck of the devil.’

‘She makes a good cake.’

‘Good cake, nothing,’ Adam dismissed. ‘You’re living under the same roof as the gorgeous Lily.’

‘We’ve been introduced. Pretty girl. Here, have this one on me, Jordan. Clay’ll only tell you I owe him one if I don’t cough first shout.’ Brian thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his change, picked out four shillings and sixpence and handed it to the barman. ‘I can’t quite work out where Lily fits in. She looks too young to be Mrs Evans’ daughter but she calls Roy Williams uncle.’

‘She was an evacuee. No one turned up to claim her after the war so Mrs Evans kept her.’

‘She
is
a pretty girl,’ Adam observed darkly, ‘but I’d keep my hands off her if I were you. Marty, here, saw her first.’

‘That joke’s wearing thin, Adam. Besides, Lily’s just a kid.’

‘Eighteen isn’t a kid.’

‘If she is the love of your life, Clay, I don’t envy you. From what I saw she’s kept on a tight leash.’

‘Not that tight.’ Adam grinned. ‘You on for a trip down Mumbles?’

‘What’s there?’

‘The Mumbles mile.’ Reading the mystified expression on Brian’s face, Adam explained. ‘You haven’t lived until you’ve travelled the Mumbles mile. Pubs stacked up end to end. Rumour has it there’s a prize waiting for anyone who can down a pint in everyone and stand upright afterwards.’

‘Take no notice, Powell, Jordan here has yet to discover delights beyond drinking.’

‘Poor bloke.’

‘The poor bloke was about to tell you that as well as the Mumbles mile, tonight is dance night in the Pier Ballroom and ten to one the gorgeous Lily will be there along with a selection of the other girls Swansea has to offer.’

‘Ah, but will there be any like Maria?’ Brian teased.

‘I hope not,’ Martin muttered fervently.

‘Willing little piece, was she?’ Adam asked.

‘She was willing all right, and sixty if she was a day, but that didn’t stop her from trying, especially with this one. “Come, my leetle boy, my sweet Clay. Maria is waiting for you ...”’

‘Layoff.’

‘I’m going to like having you around, Powell.’ Adam dug his hand into his pocket. ‘Another pint?’

‘How about we make it in Mumbles?’

‘Suits me.’

‘And me.’ Brian finished his drink in a single swallow. ‘Lead the way.’

‘You can’t sit in the cloakroom all night with your coat on.’

‘It’s my life, I can do what I like.’

‘You look ridiculous,’ Judy asserted forcefully.

‘Not as ridiculous as I’d look with my coat off.’

‘You can borrow my stole if you like.’ Lily handed Helen the white mohair wrap Roy had bought for her birthday on the assurance of the sales assistant that it was the absolute latest in luxurious ladies’ fashion.

‘It won’t cover enough of me.’

‘I thought the whole point of that dress was to uncover as much of you as possible to attract Adam Jordan’s attention.’

‘Why don’t you shout louder, Judy? I think there’s a girl in the corner who didn’t catch his name.’

‘If you’re not careful I might do just that.’ Losing patience, Judy tugged Helen’s hand. Yanking her out of the chair she dragged her through the crowds of girls trying to reach the mirrors, to the furthest – and darkest – corner of the Ladies. ‘Right, off with that coat.’

Helen looked around. Most of the girls were wearing collared shirtwaisters like Judy, Lily and Katie that showed an inch or two of skin below their throats at most. Those who could afford them had wide petticoats that frothed out their skirts beneath waist-clinching leather or elastic belts. A minority of the type her mother would have called ‘loose’ had opted for skin-tight sweaters and hip-hugging, straight skirts that showed the tell-tale bumps of their suspenders. None was wearing full-blown evening dress.

‘No.’

‘Where’s all the “I couldn’t care less what the world thinks of me, I’m going to do what I like” attitude gone?’

‘I’d look stupid among this lot.’

‘I hate to say I told you so.’

‘You just did.’

‘So you’re going to ruin the evening for all of us?’

‘You don’t have to sit with me.’

‘I won’t. You coming, Lily, Katie?’

‘We can’t just leave you here, Helen,’ Lily pleaded. ‘It’ll spoil the night for all of us.’

‘Speak for yourself, Lily,’ Judy chipped in irritably, looking sideways at Katie. Never talkative, she’d been more than usually withdrawn since they’d left Carlton Terrace.

‘It won’t be the same without you, Helen,’ Katie added, sensing Judy watching her and feeling she should make a contribution to the argument.

‘All right.’ Helen finally unbuttoned her coat. As soon as she slipped the last button from its loop, Judy snatched at the collar, tore it from her and ran across to the hatch manned by a middle-aged woman.

‘Judy!’ Helen shouted furiously, feeling as though every eye in the room was focused on her bosom.

‘If you wrap the stole a little higher than usual no one will notice the low neckline,’ Lily suggested sympathetically.

‘Keep your stole.’ Helen tossed it back to Lily, only to regret her action a moment later when she caught sight of herself in the long mirror above the row of sinks. The amount of flesh she was showing bordered on indecent.

‘Give me that ticket, Judy.’

‘No.’ Careful to keep her distance, Judy waved the cloakroom ticket in the air before stuffing it in her handbag. ‘Right, shall we find a good table, then wait for the boys to come to us so we can slay them with our charm, wit, beauty and personality – starting with Adam Jordan for Helen?’

Chapter Four

‘The band’s playing.’

‘And hardly anyone’s dancing, Angie.’ Joe leaned indolently against the bar.

‘Robin and Emily are.’

‘That’s dancing? I thought Emily was holding Robin upright.’

‘He’s not as drunk as Larry.’

‘Now, it’s a competition.’

‘Only among you boys. Come on, Joe,’ Angela wheedled. ‘We could show the rest the way.’

‘Not with my two left feet; besides, I’d prefer to talk. You’ve told me hardly anything about London – or France.’ Joe sipped his glass of champagne slowly. He’d drunk the brandy too quickly and it had gone to his head before he remembered his father’s car. The drive was narrow and he’d only have to put a single scratch on the paintwork to forfeit the privilege of borrowing it again.

‘I was only in France for three weeks. Barely time to get a suntan.’

‘You must have seen something.’

‘The French.’

‘I should have known better than to ask. Next, I suppose you’ll tell me London was full of the English.’

‘And Americans, Dutch, French, Scandinavians, even Germans behaving as though they, not we, had won the war. Foreigners seem to like travelling.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘I told you earlier, not as much as being back here with you.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘You’re real; you talk about things that matter. Life, the future ...’

‘Poetry.’

‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘Just a bit.’

‘I hate it when everyone holds back at a party, waiting for someone else to make the first move on to the dance floor.’ Angela wriggled her fingers inside his collar.

‘That tickles.’

‘It’s supposed to make you feel amorous. There are six – no, seven – eight couples on the floor now. Can we please join them?’

‘You won’t give me a moment’s peace until we do, will you?’

‘No.’ Taking his champagne, she placed it together with her own on the bar and led him on to the wooden staging that had been erected for dancing. ‘What a shame, we’ve missed the jive but I prefer slow ones, don’t you?’ Linking her arms around his neck, she moved close to him as the strains of ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ echoed around the marquee.

‘Angie, people are looking.’ Blood coursed hotly through his veins as she rotated her hips over his.

‘So? Old people expect the young to be outrageous these days.’

‘Not in front of them.’

‘When you ask me out again, we can be outrageous behind their backs.’

He looked down at her. She was indisputably pretty, ash-blonde hair that curled around a charming, elfin face, slim figure, and soft grey eyes that promised kisses and – unlike last spring – maybe more. Then he had believed her to be everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman.

He only had to close his eyes to remember the pain, hot, suffocating and choking, when she had told him she was leaving Swansea for the summer and it would be better if he didn’t write, as they should both be free agents in case either of them met anyone else. He had known she was hoping to meet that ‘anyone’. A wealthier, well-connected, better-bred man than him with prospects he couldn’t aspire to even in his dreams.

That mythical man had cost him sleepless nights, and given rise to the most incisive poetry he had written on the despair of unrequited love and the faithlessness of women. But instead of being flattered by Angela’s change of heart, he felt as though she’d kept him as a fallback: ‘Good old Joe, couldn’t find anything better in the boyfriend department, so he’ll have to do.’

He was amazed he hadn’t seen through her before. He wasn’t even upset. It was almost as though Angela and the pain of her desertion had happened to someone else. Now she was simply what she looked: a pretty girl – any pretty girl. Whatever power she had once wielded over him had gone more completely than he would have believed possible a few hours ago. She left him cold.

Analysing his emotions, he wondered if he had loved
her,
or simply the idea of being in love. In poetic terms his fixation with Angie could be likened to a comet that burned momentarily, brightly, superficially, and just as swiftly turned to ashes.

And Lily. Since he had opened the door earlier that evening to see her standing on the doorstep he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. In Shakespeare’s terms he sensed that Lily could be his
ever-fixed mark,
his soulmate, his muse. He concentrated hard, committing his feelings for Angela and Lily to memory so he could assign them to paper the minute he was alone. Angie’s teasing flirt –
time’s fool–
compared with Lily, his Madonna,
the star to every wand’ring bark.

The poetry he had written on the loss of Angela had made its way into print, but the poetry Lily inspired would make his reputation. He was certain of it.

Lily deliberately held back for a few moments as the other three walked into the ballroom. Standing close to the door, savouring the heady atmosphere of excitement and anticipation mixed together with the vying fragrances of Evening in Paris, Californian Poppy and Old Spice aftershave, she wondered if she’d ever go to enough dances to end up as blasé as Judy and Helen appeared to be. She loved everything about their Saturday nights at the Pier, from the thrill of discussing what might or might not happen beforehand, choosing make-up, scent, clothes and getting ready in her bedroom, to the train journey alongside the beach. Even the mundane parts of the evening, like paying admission and cloakroom and checking her hair and make-up in the Ladies, seemed out of the ordinary when she overheard snatches of the other girls’ conversations and shared in their hopes and expectations, if only for a second or two.

The climax of the evening for her was always this – actually entering the ballroom. Most girls made a point of holding their heads high and walking slowly to a chair, while studiously ignoring the horde of well-dressed young men in narrow trousers and slicked-back hair crowding around the long bar. Unlike Judy, she thought the embarrassment of stares from that quarter, interspersed with the occasional wolf whistle, infinitely preferable to indifference and, as she continued to stand in front of the door, she was reassured to see she was attracting some attention.

She took a deep breath. Before her lay the magic of the evening and the dance floor with its glittering mirror ball that reflected tiny glimpses of the couples below. And presiding from the stage, the MC and band in starched white shirts, bow ties and full evening dress. She closed her eyes as the romantic strains of ‘Only You’, played in waltz time, permeated the ballroom and considered the possibility that
this
might be the night that she’d meet
him
and maybe even fall in love. Every Saturday evening since Roy and Norah had first allowed her to go out dancing with the girls, she had imagined both of them getting ready at the same time, he in his house, she in hers and, as yet, neither aware of the other.
His
face was hazy but she knew he’d be fair-haired, blue-eyed and good-looking. His suit would be fashionable, Italian cut, maybe mohair with drainpipe trousers. Close up, he’d smell of aftershave – ‘like a ponce,’ her Uncle Roy would say disparagingly – but she couldn’t help it. It was important to her that boys smelled nice when she danced with them. She even wondered if he thought about not
her
exactly, but a girl like her, as he polished his shoes, tied his tie, slipped cuff links into his shirt ...

‘Lily?’

Startled, she opened her eyes.

‘You were miles away,’ Judy admonished. ‘If you’re not careful we’ll lose you. Do you want an orange juice?’

‘Later.’

‘Let’s sit down,’ Helen suggested.

‘Over here.’ Judy walked to a table set opposite the door.

‘That one would be better.’ Helen indicated an empty table in a dark corner.

‘No one would see us there, including Adam Jordan when he comes in.’ Judy sat down, precluding any argument. ‘Katie, you all right?’

‘I’ve got a bit of a headache,’ Katie lied.

‘I’ll see if the cloakroom lady has an aspirin.’

‘It’s not that bad, Lily. I’ll be all right in a minute.’ Katie sat next to Judy. Wishing Martin hadn’t insisted she go out, she had a sudden overwhelming longing for solitude and the close, stuffy blackness of her sleeping cubicle at home.

‘What are those boys laughing at?’ Helen demanded indignantly.

Judy stifled a giggle. ‘I think you’re supposed to sit inside the hoop, if you don’t want anyone to see your suspenders and knickers.’

Helen glanced down at her skirt. Cheeks burning, she jumped up. After readjusting the hoop she perched gingerly back on the edge of her chair. The hoop bulged upwards, lifting the edge of the satin bell skirt above her waist. She pushed it down, first one side then the other, only to have it rise even higher in the middle.

‘I suppose you think it’s funny.’ Helen leapt crossly to her feet again.

‘Hold still,’ Judy commanded.

‘So you can play some stupid trick on me.’

‘You’ve got something caught in your zip.’ Lily unclipped the rug hook from the tab. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Oh, no what?’

‘This has pulled threads in the back of the dress.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘You can only see it close up.’

‘I wish I’d never seen this damned dress ...’

‘Language! Don’t look now,’ Judy whispered, sitting primly upright and affecting a sudden interest in Lily and Katie, ‘but Adam Jordan has just walked in with Martin. And who is that?’ She stared at Brian, looking away quickly as he gazed intently back at her.

‘He would pick this moment.’ Helen stood in front of the others. ‘Are they looking this way?’

‘Yes,’ Judy murmured through clenched teeth as she smiled, lifted her hand and waved.

‘What did you do that for?’ Helen hissed.

‘Adam waved at me. I couldn’t ignore him, could I?’

Helen couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. Adam Jordan was even more handsome than she remembered. Tall, slim, dressed in a silver-grey mohair suit with white shirt and red tie, his blond hair shining in the muted light of the ballroom, she felt instinctively that he was the right one for her. All she had to do was convince him of that fact. As he saw her, he smiled. Regaining her confidence, she managed a brief nod of acknowledgement.

‘They’re coming this way,’ Judy muttered, applauding the band’s final bars. The few couples on the floor moved towards the perimeter of the room as Adam and Martin joined them, leaving the stranger at the bar.

‘Any chance of a welcome home for a war-weary ex-soldier?’ Adam asked, mesmerised by the sight of Helen’s bosom.

‘That depends on the soldier.’ Helen flirted outrageously.

‘And how war-weary he really is,’ Judy added. ‘I heard you spent your National Service chasing sheep in Yorkshire.’

‘There goes any hope I had of impressing you with stories of my heroics ...’ The MC’s announcement that the band was about to play ‘Rock Around the Clock’ drowned out the rest of his sentence.

‘Do you jive?’

‘Do you?’

‘I’m asking for a dance.’

Helen stared in dismay at Adam Jordan offering Judy his hand. As she took it, he led her into the centre of the room. ‘Did you see that?’ she whispered indignantly into Lily’s ear as a tall, thin spotty boy who worked in the café with Katie persuaded her to join him on the dance floor.

‘What was Judy supposed to say?’

‘“I don’t dance but why don’t you try my friend,” would have been better than a lot of cringe-worthy flirting and nonsense about sheep and Yorkshire. She knows I’m crazy about him.’

‘Would you like to dance, Lily?’

Lily liked Martin but at that moment she would have been happy to dance with Frankenstein’s monster if he’d been prepared to take her out of earshot of Helen. She gave Martin a smile that sent his pulse racing. ‘Thank you for asking, I’d love to.’

‘Thanks.’ Adam took the pint of beer Brian handed him as he returned to the bar after the jive. Moving away from the queue jostling to get the barman’s attention, he looked back at the dance floor. ‘What did I tell you? Martin and Lily. He can’t leave the girl alone.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘You like her too.’

‘Who wouldn’t, but I’ve been warned off her once today; I’m not looking to annoy my landlady by trying my luck there again.’ Joining Adam, Brian studied the ballroom. It was no better and no worse than a hundred others where he had bought beer and hunted girls since he had turned sixteen and been able to convince barmen he was old enough to drink.

The same badly constructed, multifaceted, glue-spattered, mirrored ball in the centre of the ceiling to reflect dim lighting that almost, but never quite, succeeded in concealing the dinginess of surroundings overdue for a coat of paint. A dance floor scuffed, marked and pitted by stiletto heels. Rows of rickety Formica-topped tables and vinyl-covered chairs, spattered with cigarette burns, packed too closely around the fringes. A creaking band with a saxophonist who thought he could play better than he did and a singer who squeaked out every high note.

Even the girls looked much of a muchness. The younger ones in wide skirts and ponytailed hair posing awkwardly as they waited for boys to pluck up enough courage to ask them to dance reminded him of the Louis Tussaud waxwork figures in Porthcawl Fair. And when they weren’t posing or eyeing boys coyly from beneath their lashes, they were fiddling with their dresses or hair. The older ones, in short curls and tight skirts appeared only slightly more relaxed. He couldn’t see anyone worth facing the strain of a first and unnaturally polite conversation – apart from Lily, who had been claimed by Martin, and the redhead Adam had danced with, who was nowhere to be seen.

He found himself wishing for a familiar face and just as quickly pushed the thought from his mind. In two years abroad he’d never been homesick; now less than fifty miles from Pontypridd he was being positively maudlin.

‘Nice to hear yourself think again,’ Adam commented as the band crashed out the final chord of the second jive of the evening.

‘Next one’s bound to be slow.’

‘Martin’s hanging on to Lily but there’s two stunning girls sitting over there.’