A Girl Called Hope Read online

  Hope received a few cards; most held no message, but were just signed with a name. Callers brought flowers to Badgers Brook as a way of expressing the sympathy they felt. Kitty fielded most of them from entering the house; she and Hope didn’t want Davy to be aware of the emotions of that terrible time.

  When the last guest had left Ty Mawr on that tense and sad day, and only Hope and her parents-in-law remained, she couldn’t decide how soon she should leave. Marjorie still hadn’t spoken to her and it was Freddy who shared his feelings with her in murmured remembrances of Ralph as a child, and as a young man who would never grow old.

  ‘Father-in-law, I think I must go now. Kitty and Bob have looked after Davy for long enough.’

  ‘Of course. I’d walk with you, but…’ he gestured to where Marjorie sat silently staring out of the window.

  ‘Goodbye, Mother-in-law. I’ll bring Davy to see you tomorrow. I have to go to see the solicitor first, so it will be late morning.’ There was no response and she left the house feeling enervated, uneasy, having been deprived of the day of grieving that she had desperately needed. None of her friends had been present, Marjorie had made it clear they were not welcome, and she crept away from Ty Mawr and its eerie silence, the unmistakable smell of mourning flowers in her nostrils, as though she’d had no right to be there.

  Kitty had invited the local vicar to visit. When Hope reached the house, he was waiting for her, being plied with tea, and playing a game of racing cars with Davy.

  Kitty handed her a cup of steaming tea then took Davy out in the garden. Hope was finally able to burst into tears, and eventually explain to the sympathetic man all that had happened. He listened and tried to comfort her, take away the bitterness of Marjorie’s grief, persuading her that the accusations were a mother’s way of coping. ‘She had three sons, and Ralph was the youngest. That often makes a child special. One of his brothers died at the end of the war, and another left home – an abandonment in her eyes. Ralph was her last remaining child, her baby, and we must see how impossible it will be for her to find comfort anywhere. Blaming someone else is her attempt to do so, and I’m afraid that means you have a double burden to carry.’

  Although he was only saying what she had told herself time and again, his soothing voice and the authority of the spoken words, although only slightly different from her own, were a comfort. That night, for the first time since Ralph’s accident, she slept for six hours, undisturbed by nightmares.

  Until it was over, she hadn’t thought any further than the funeral. Now, with an appointment at the solicitor’s office, she gathered together the papers relating to the rental of the house, birth and death certificates and anything else she thought she might need. She took Davy’s pushchair and went on the bus into the town of Cwm Derw and sat in the waiting room mulling over what she expected to be told.

  His employers would have some insurance. He would have insured himself once they had married, possibly increased it when Davy had been born. Assets confiscated? She thought about the words and decided they were wrong. It was nonsense to think there would be no money. There was sure to be a lump sum, and a pension.

  At least the house tenancy was safely theirs, hers and Davy’s. Once probate was granted she wouldn’t be rich but she would manage. She would have to earn some money, but she needn’t hurry. When Davy began school would be time enough. Until then she would cope. She smiled, remembering Freddy’s suggestion that she sold the runner beans he planned to grow in her garden. She wouldn’t be wealthy but it wouldn’t come to that.

  The solicitor looked uneasy as she sat beside the heavy desk and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Is everything in order?’ she asked brightly. ‘How long before it’s settled? At least my husband left a will and that speeds things up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘There is no will and I have no record of his ever making one,’ he said solemnly. ‘I suggested it on several occasions. There is no property and only a little money involved, but I advised your husband to make a will. He refused. Although it’s irrelevant now, isn’t it? Because of the manner of his death.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She frowned. ‘Even without a will there’s a pension, isn’t there? He’d have paid in to a pension scheme. And insurances. Those apply whether or not there’s a will. Surely there won’t be much delay?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Murton, but none of those has been arranged. Your husband didn’t think it important at his age to spend out on insurance, and there is no pension except that of the state.’ He usually came straight out with any unpleasant facts but, looking at her young face obviously determined to disbelieve the rumours she’d heard, he was finding it hard to tell her the truth.

  ‘But he was an accountant, he’d have known the importance of insurance. We talked about it and I understood it was all arranged.’

  He rustled papers and said. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Murton, but there’s nothing.’

  ‘I don’t understand. He was an accountant for goodness sake! Surely he couldn’t have been so negligent?’

  ‘I tried to warn him, Mrs Murton. Quite recently I explained what might happen, if…’ He was referring to the suicide but Hope was thinking about Ralph’s lack of care in not insuring himself.

  ‘He was advised by his mother, I suppose?’

  The solicitor heard but he declined to comment. He coughed nervously, silently agreeing with her. Ralph had more or less admitted it during one of his earlier attempts to persuade him to act responsibly toward his wife and child. Again he coughed nervously then said quickly, ‘But its academic now, it would no longer be valid. Due to the manner of your husband’s… from the way he – passed away – you cannot benefit in any way from his death.’

  She stared at him as he muttered a brief explanation.

  ‘It’s considered fraud, you see. Cheating by obtaining an insurance on his own life then taking it himself, d’you see?’

  All she saw was a bleak future.

  *

  Hope went to the bank as soon as she left the solicitor’s office. She was stunned and very frightened. If she couldn’t afford to stay in Badgers Brook, where would she go? There was little chance of Marjorie helping her. Wherever the circumstances finally took her, however she dealt with this disaster, she was undoubtedly on her own.

  The bank manager was sympathetic but unable to help. He explained that it was imperative that she find employment to pay her way. ‘Remember,’ he said encouragingly, ‘that a house is an asset, something you can use to raise income. You can perhaps take in paying guests, or summer visitors, although we’re too far from the seaside to make that a strong possibility. Walkers perhaps. It’s a popular place for walkers and cyclists. The owner’s permission will be required, of course, and the council’s approval obtained. Just a suggestion, Mrs Murton.’

  She said she would pay two months’ rental to Geoff with the money she had in her own post office account. At least that way the house was secure. ‘That will give me time to decide what I’m going to do,’ she said.

  The bank manager was aghast. ‘Two months? A payment before it’s due? That’s no way to get rich, my dear,’ he said with a smile. ‘Don’t be too anxious or people will think the worst and you’ll have people refusing you credit should you need it.’

  She sat on the bus, pointing things out to Davy as they passed. And she looked at the people filling the pavements of the busy little town and wondered how many of them had met problems like hers and overcome them. So many families had lost their breadwinners and they had survived. At that moment she couldn’t see any way out of the mess in which Ralph had left her. Their menfolk had died honourably. According to law Ralph had not.

  Restless and unable to clarify her thoughts, when Davy went to sleep for an hour she began painting the wooden toy chest. It already had a coat of pale blue paint and now she gathered the assortment of colours and painted spitfires, fire engines, tractors and teddies, and a fearsome crocodile and a few books. When she looked up
she was alarmed to realize that two hours had passed and she ran up to see if Davy had woken. He was on his back, his chubby face rosy with sleep, his plump arms above his head in a luxurious stretch as, smiling contentedly, he slowly awoke.

  She didn’t show him the toy chest. Better to wait until it was dry. Perhaps she would hide it until his birthday. Although October was too far away.

  She went to see Marjorie and Freddy, hoping that once they knew the facts they would do something to help her. Davy was their only grandchild after all.

  Marjorie refused to see her. Freddy explaining apologetically that she was resting as she had a headache. She told him about the situation, and although it no longer mattered – the manner of his death meant it would have been lost to her anyway – she asked if the lack of insurance had been Marjorie’s idea.

  ‘It was, and I tried to persuade him she was wrong. But he was very easily convinced by his mother. Always was I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why?’ Hope asked. ‘He had a wife and a child, so why didn’t he protect us?’

  ‘Superstitious fear, I believe. That was his mother’s reason – if you can use the word reason in such a context. He was only twenty-three and when Richard was killed, then Phillip left so suddenly and without explanation, she was afraid he was tempting fate by taking on life assurance.’ He looked at her sadly. ‘She persuaded him it was a waste of money. How could I persuade her she was wrong? Twenty-three he was and we thought he had years, decades, before he needed to worry about insurances against him dying.’

  Before she left, he handed her a cheque for twenty pounds, a fortune when Ralph had only earned six pounds a week. ‘Put it in the bank and use it only when and if things get really difficult. It will make you feel stronger knowing it’s there.’

  *

  It was the following day when she showed the painted toy chest to Kitty that the plan began to form. Kitty said, ‘It’s wonderful. How clever you are. I know someone who’d buy that from you. And I might even know a couple more who would like one.’

  Hope started to say, ‘Buy it? What nonsense, I’ll paint one for nothing, it only takes a couple of hours.’ Then she stopped and realized that if she wanted to keep the house she could no longer allow herself generous impulses. ‘No, forget I said that. Sadly, I can no longer be that kind hearted. I learned yesterday that I don’t have any money. If I can sell them, then that’s what I’ll have to do. I’ll do that and anything else to earn a few shillings. Whatever I have to resort to to earn money I’ll do it. Davy and I will stay in this house.’

  ‘Good for you, Hope, dear. Badgers Brook is a good place to be when you face trouble. You have a talent and imagination and people will gladly pay for what you do.’

  ‘It will be hard,’ Hope said. ‘But I’ll earn money in every way I can. We have to stay in this house, and, to do so, Davy and I will need every penny I can earn.’

  ‘I’ll spread the word,’ the loyal Kitty said. ‘Any good at sewing are you?’

  ‘I’ll sew and knit, and work in gardens, mind children, clean houses. In fact, there’s nothing I’ll refuse as long as I’m paid. I’ll accept everything I’m asked to do. I’m here to stay, in spite of Marjorie’s determination to the contrary.’

  Her face showed spirit, but inside she was quaking. How could she earn enough to keep herself and Davy and pay the rent every month?

  ‘The first thing to do is clear a part of the room where I can work,’ Hope said. ‘I’ve often made clothes for myself, sewn curtains and covers and altered dresses for friends, now I’ll have to start advertising.’ She relaxed her shoulders and drooped wearily. ‘But it’s hopeless, how can I earn enough to keep us and pay for this place?’

  ‘Call me crazy if you like, but I believe the house wants you here. You’ll find a way of staying.’

  ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘Stella Jones at the post office. Where else? She knows everything and everybody. Put a notice in her window and the news will spread as fast as greenfly on Bob’s roses!’

  *

  Stella Jones had been in the post office for ever; at least that’s what the locals said. She had started as a young girl helping her parents to run it and had taken over when she and Colin had married. Many could remember queuing with their mothers and now stood in the line of chattering women with children of their own. Her appearance had hardly changed. Her hair, pulled back into an under-roll and held firmly in place by a hair net, had remained a nondescript brown-grey. She wore no make-up and her only concession to fashion was incongruously bright red nail varnish. This, she admitted to friends, was to hide the state of her fingernails after the hours she spent on the allotment.

  Besides dealing with the post office counter, Stella sold knitting wool, cottons and embroidery silks and a few items of clothing for young children. The varied stock and her willingness to order other things when requested made her shop a valuable service. Between them, the post office, Geoff’s hardware store, a small shop selling ladies’ fashions, a hairdresser and Mrs Hayward’s grocery supplied most of the neighbourhood’s needs. Trips into the larger towns of Cardiff and Newport weren’t a necessity, more an occasional ‘outing’, a special treat.

  Stella and her husband Colin had no children, and they filled their spare time with local affairs, taking part in the various fundraising events and, for most of the year, their allotment.

  Every Wednesday, when the post office closed at one, Stella set off armed with brushes and bucket and soap and scouring powder to clean the shed. If he wasn’t at work, Colin went with her and they would work on the plot of land together. At the back of the shed, near the small section in which Colin was allowed to keep his tools, was a shelf on which stood a paraffin stove. A spring at the edge of the allotments provided fresh, clear water and Stella always managed to find the makings of tea plus a couple of cakes for anyone who called. Two chairs and a small bench were placed outside the door on the area Colin had paved, in the hope of a visitor or two.

  It wasn’t only gardeners who passed her shed door. People often walked around to admire the plots and see what was growing, sometimes exchanging plants or begging a helping of fresh produce. It was there that Stella saw Hope strolling, pushing Davy in his pushchair. She waved, found a sweet in her pocket for the little boy and offered Hope a cup of tea.

  ‘Tea? What a lovely idea,’ Hope said with a smile. ‘I’ve just been wandering, trying to think out a problem. A cup of tea in this lovely place might just help.’

  ‘If it’s a gardening problem you’re in the right spot. Between us all we’re a living encyclopaedia.’ Stella bustled in the back of her immaculate shed and Hope sat in the chair she had been offered and looked around her at the regular sized plots, which all showed signs of careful attention. Since the early years of the war, growing food had been a national occupation and although the war had ended there was no sign of the activity losing popularity.

  ‘I forgot it was Wednesday half-day closing and went to the post office,’ Hope said when they were sitting with their cups of tea.

  ‘Damn-it-all, I can’t get a few hours off without someone wanting something,’ Stella said with a laugh. ‘I don’t know what the place would do without me and my little shop.’

  ‘I wanted to put an advertisement in your window. I’m looking for work that I can do at home, or where I can take Davy,’ Hope explained.

  ‘Work? You a widow, daughter-in-law of the posh Marjorie Williamson-Murton of the Ty Mawr? Surely you don’t need to work?’

  ‘Sadly I do. There – there was some mistake in the insurances when Ralph and I married and, well, I need to earn money.’

  ‘Him being a suicide you mean?’

  Hope lowered her head. She didn’t want to say any more. Marjorie would soon hear if she began spreading gossip, and her mother-in-law disliked her enough without adding giving her more excuse.

  ‘Give the advertisement to me, lovely girl, and you can pay when you next come in. The sooner the better
, eh?’ She patted Hope’s cheek with a grubby hand. ‘Don’t let it get you down, love. People soon forget. There’ll be something else to talk about next week, sure to be.’

  Hope left after watching with amusement as Stella washed the dishes and put them carefully away, wrapped in tea towels and stored in a large biscuit tin. She turned back as she left the allotments and saw that Stella was busily cleaning the shed windows.

  ‘Pity help any spider who dares to enter Stella’s country cottage,’ she said with a chuckle.

  The first response to her advertisement was from Stella herself. ‘You any good at alterations, then?’ she asked when Hope went in to pay. ‘Our Mam’s very short, not big enough to cut cabbage as they say round here, and she wants a couple of new dresses shortened. Olive Talbot doesn’t do it any more.’

  Hope went to see the old lady and saw at once that, being barely five feet tall and rather plump, simply shortening the skirt hadn’t made her dress a good fit. It was too large and the waist was in the wrong place and the result was a shapeless garment that made the wearer look even more short and overweight than necessary. She took measurements and carried the dress home, promising to return with it on the following day.

  She took the dress apart and remade it, taking out some of the unwanted length from the top, adding darts at the bust area, putting the waist where it should be and allowing the skirt to hang naturally. The result delighted Stella and she promised to recommend her to her customers.

  With some regret, the toy box that was to have been Davy’s was sold and two people brought plain boxes to be painted in a similar manner. Several requests arrived for dance dresses and for dresses for little girls ready for summer, and Hope thanked her lucky stars for the retirement of Olive Talbot – although her particular skills of altering clothes for those not easy to fit would have attracted more than a few customers once her talents were known. She turned shirt collars to give them an extra least of life, shortened and lengthened children’s clothes as well as making new. In March 1948, clothes rationing was still making life difficult, and she was offered all the work she needed to fill her days.