Let it Shine Read online

  Recalling what her son and Ruth had been up to, and Daisy’s wonderful description of it, Ada had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She noticed how flushed the young woman was. Her mass of fiery red hair was tied back, and her eyes were alive with the glow of youth, and something else… a kind of wonderful arrogance that drew both Ada’s admiration, and her anger. ‘You and Peter…’ She hardly knew how to put it.

  Ruth smiled. ‘You heard, didn’t yer?’

  ‘How long have you and my son… ?’ She felt the hot flush run up her neck.

  Now it was Ruth laughing out loud. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not.’

  Ada was shocked. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘He’s my man and I’m his woman. If I’m clever, I daresay all this will be mine some day.’ Opening wide her arms she encompassed the room in a gesture that left Ada in no doubt of her meaning. ‘He’s a good catch is your son, and you ain’t gonna live for ever, are yer?’

  Enraged, Ada sat bolt upright, her eyes boring into Ruth’s. ‘GET OUT!’

  ‘Temper! Temper!’ Stepping forward, Ruth leaned towards the old woman. Meeting her angry stare with defiance, she said quietly, ‘It wouldn’t be clever to open your mouth to Peter about our little chat. For one thing I make a very bad enemy, and for another, he wouldn’t listen to anything you said. Your precious son hates your guts, did you know that?’

  Disgusted, Ada turned away, but Ruth continued to taunt her. ‘That’s it,’ she jeered, ‘keep your mouth shut. It’s the best way. You see, I know him better than you do. I can twist him right round my little finger.’ Taking Ada’s plait of hair she twisted it hard round her hand until the old lady squealed out. ‘That’s what I mean,’ she whispered. ‘See how easily you can be hurt?’ With that she departed, her voice bursting into song as she ran down the stairs.

  Feeling old and used, Ada began a slow, painful path across the room. The lino was cold to her feet, making her shiver. ‘I’d best ask Daisy to build up the fire.’ Her gaze went to the fire grate; like her life, she thought bitterly, it was growing cold and empty. How many days was it to Christmas now? She began to mutter, ‘What does it matter? One day’s the same as the next to me.’

  As the chilly daylight spilled through the window, she moved closer, peering down into the street, her heart uplifted as she watched the children going from door to door, singing their hearts out, hoping for a penny, but being sent on their way. ‘It’s too early in the day. Come back tonight when my husband’s in.’ That was stingy Mrs Butterworth from number ten.

  Ada tutted. ‘Shame on you, Nan Butterworth,’ she murmured. ‘There is no “husband”. He passed on some ten years back. Moreover he left you well provided for, and now you’re too mean even to give a poor kid a penny.’ Wasn’t it always the way, she mused.

  Dejected, the children walked slowly away, all muffled up against the cold and looking like snowmen beneath the relentless curtain of snow. Ada painfully lifted the window and called to them, before scattering a handful of threepenny pieces, pennies and ha’pennies in their direction. The cold took her breath away. Shuddering, she pulled the window down.

  Casting her glance round the room, she noted the beautiful things she had collected through her life; china and silver, displayed to perfection on antique furniture whose value had spiralled over the years. Every piece gained through hard work and sacrifice. Precious, exquisite things she had once cherished, long ago when she knew no better.

  The whisper of a smile bathed her once pretty features. ‘Things!’ She looked away, her voice hardening with bitterness. ‘They mean nothing to me now. They can’t keep me warm at night. Nor can they wipe away my tears when the loneliness becomes too much.’ More than that, they could never ease the guilt in her heart. Only she could do that and, if it wasn’t done soon, it would be too late.

  With this in mind, she hobbled over to the mirror, pausing to gaze on her reflection. She wondered how she could have grown so old. ‘What would they say now,’ she asked whimsically, ‘all those young men who thought you the loveliest creature on earth?’

  She peered deeper into the mirror. ‘Who is this old woman, eh?’ There was no regret, only astonishment, and a rush of amusement. ‘The mirror never lies – isn’t that what they say?’ But it was always a shock to see herself as others must see her.

  Pinching the flesh beneath her chin, she gave it a little shake, laughing when it trembled like jelly. ‘Poor Ada Williams! You look every one of your sixty-nine years.’ She shook her head. ‘Sixty-nine years. My God, where’s it gone?’

  The thought brought her up tall and proud, and for a time she remained like that, her bright eyes taking in every facet of herself; the long, grey plait and the flabby skin, the high forehead and the still high cheekbones which alone had carried the shape of beauty. She liked what she saw. She loathed, what she saw.

  With a resigned smile, she dismissed the sagging jawline and the limp folds of flesh lying over her quiet eyes; instead she concentrated on the eyes – hazel in colour, still bright and quick. Like my mind, she thought thankfully. While I have my faculties, he can’t hurt me! Instinctively she glanced towards the door, but Peter wasn’t there, and her heart grew calm.

  Curious, she returned her attention to the image in the mirror once more, noting how well-dressed it was in the pink silk nightgown and matching robe, and the once long, fine fingers, gnarled and bent, bedecked in the trophies she had won… an emerald ring, a single diamond mounted on glinting gold, filigree shoulders, each ring worth a small fortune. Her wrist was adorned with an entwining bracelet of white platinum, threaded with small perfect sapphires. At her throat a single row of humble seed pearls.

  ‘Bertie gave me these.’ Tenderly she fingered the hard cream-coloured pearls. A tear shone proud in her eye. ‘I might have married again after him.’ A sadness scarred her voice. ‘If anyone had asked. But no one ever did. None of them did.’ Trailing a slim hand over the long grey plait that hung gracefully over one shoulder, she moved away, her eyes now fixed on the small, circular table by the window. Peter had placed it there, at the furthest distance from her bed. Another little ploy to make her life more difficult.

  A few more steps and she was there.

  Softly, she picked up the receiver. With trembling fingers she began to dial, saying the numbers aloud as she did so. ‘Three, four, six…’ Here she paused, momentarily unsure, before going on again: ‘Two, one.’

  After a series of ringing tones there was a click at the other end, then a man’s voice, authoritative and crisp. ‘Carter here!’

  Realising that her son might come into the room at any minute, Ada lost no time. ‘There’s something I want you to do,’ she told her solicitor. ‘Right away!’ Attentive as always, he remained silent while she outlined her plan.

  Downstairs, Peter Williams held the receiver to his ear.

  Careful not to breathe too loudly, or make a sound, he listened intently; his dark eyes tightly closed, his handsome face contorting with rage as he followed the conversation.

  After a while, Ada brought the exchange to a close. ‘My son knows nothing of this,’ she warned. ‘It must remain a secret between you and me, for now at least.’

  ‘Of course.’ The solicitor was an old friend. ‘You can rely on me.’

  Shaken by what he had heard, Peter Williams softly replaced the receiver. The conversation only confirmed what he had long suspected.

  For a time he paced the floor, his mind unsettled. Presently, he stopped by the window, his face a mask of loathing. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ He smiled, a not unpleasant smile – unlike his thoughts. ‘I can’t allow it,’ he murmured. ‘It simply won’t do.’

  His dark eyes stared upward, towards the spot where he knew she was standing. His voice was harsh, unforgiving. ‘No, Mother dear. It won’t do at all.’

  Chapter Four

  Comfortable in that cosy little parlour, Jim Bolton laid out his work before him – two small pairs of boots to mend, a bag of
tacks, some large, some small, a half dozen strips of leather, and the hobbling shoe left him by his old dad. ‘D’you know, lass, I’m never more content than when I’m tapping away with the leather,’ he told Sylvia. ‘There’s a kind of pride for a man, in mending his childers’ shoes.’

  When Sylvia didn’t answer, he glanced up, saw that she was resting in the armchair and chatted on. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I feel tired. Staying up chatting till the early hours takes it out of a man my age,’ he chuckled. ‘If you recall, there was a time when I could stay out half the night, then come home and make love with you, right here on the rug afront o’ the fire. Can you remember, lass, that time when young Larry caught us at it on the floor? He were eight year old an’ innocent as the day were long.’

  He laughed aloud at the memory. ‘We told him we were play-fighting and he believed us, bless his little heart. I don’t mind admitting, it gave me a real fright, him coming up on us like that. After that we were allus very careful. “It won’t do for the lad to see the wrong thing”, that’s what you said, and you were right.’

  Her mind elsewhere, Sylvia didn’t hear a word he’d been saying. For some inexplicable reason, she had been on edge all day. There was something troubling her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that would not let her rest.

  So now, while the house was quiet and she had time to gather her thoughts, she sat beside the fire, her mind far from easy, her troubled gaze following the leaping flames in the grate.

  ‘Hey?’ Jim’s voice cut through her thoughts. ‘Wake up, m’beauty!’

  Startled, she looked up. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I was thinking.’

  Ever patient, he shook his head. ‘Musta been summat pressing, ’cause you’ve not heard a bloody word I’ve been saying.’ He peered at her, curious. ‘Look, lass, I know it’s Christmas Eve an’ you’ve been run off your feet, but you’ve only to ask an’ I’ll help where I can, you know that.’

  Sylvia thanked him, but: ‘It isn’t that,’ she told him tenderly. ‘I love Christmas, you know I do.’

  ‘So, tell me what’s plaguing yer. You’ll feel better if you get it off yer chest.’

  Hesitating, she wondered if he would understand. ‘Have you ever felt afraid,’ she began, ‘only you don’t know why?’

  Frowning, he shook his head. ‘No, lass. Can’t say I have. Ee, you’re a funny little thing an’ no mistake. Happen your old grandma were right when she said you had a bit o’ the gypsy soul in you… seeing things where others can’t, an’ all that.’ Still, gypsy or not, he loved her like no man ever loved a woman.

  ‘Jim, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Ask away.’ He didn’t look up. Marrying the tacks to the leather took a measure of concentration.

  Getting out of the chair, she dropped to her knees before him. ‘Can you stop what you’re doing, just for a minute?’ Glancing up from beneath his eyebrows, he breathed in a great noisy sigh, held it for an age, then blew it out in a series of loud tuts. ‘Can’t it wait, lass? I’m almost done.’ Leaning over the hobbling shoe he was in the process of stretching a square of leather over the worn sole. ‘A few more tacks in place and I’m ready to cut it to shape.’

  ‘Please, Jim! A minute of your time, that’s all I ask.’

  He seemed not to have heard. ‘When I’ve finished, it’ll be good as new, you’ll see. And I’ll have saved you a shilling into the bargain.’

  ‘Huh! Blowing your own trumpet now, is it?’ Yet she was so proud. Jim was a good man, hard-working and handsome with it. And she considered herself very fortunate.

  ‘I reckon I’ve earned the right to blow my own trumpet,’ he chuckled. ‘In twelve years since the lasses were born, we’ve only ever bought them one pair o’ boots, and even they didn’t last as long as the ones I make.’

  That said, he resumed his work but continued chatting. ‘Mind you, I don’t suppose it’ll be long afore they’re gazing in shop winders, wanting summat prettier than their old dad can create. More expensive too, I’ll be bound.’ He paused, his gaze falling on Sylvia, and his eyes filled with love. ‘Bonny lasses the pair of ’em.’ He gave a wink. ‘But then, what else could they be, with a mammy as lovely as you?’

  Sylvia remained silent for a time, content to watch his quick fingers as they felt their way along the rim of the leather, tapping here, smoothing there; until out of chaos emerged the creation.

  It was a fascinating thing to watch. Comforting somehow. Yet even now in this cosy parlour, with Jim beside her and the thought of her two lovely daughters warming her heart, she could not settle.

  ‘Jim?’ She tugged at his sleeve.

  He paused, looking at her from beneath his long dark eyebrows. ‘All right, love, I can see you won’t give me no peace till I’ve heard you out.’ Making sure the boot was still pressed down hard over the hobbling shoe, he placed it aside. ‘Right then.’ Taking her face between his large work-worn hands, he kissed her softly on the mouth. ‘I’m all yours.’

  For a long moment she didn’t speak, and he didn’t urge her to. Instead, he was content simply to look on her loveliness. After a while though, he grew apprehensive. ‘Look, lass, I promised young Ellie her boots would be ready for Christmas morning, and in case it’s slipped your notice, that’s tomorrow. You asked me to stop work, and I’ve stopped. So what’s on your mind?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m worried about something.’

  Drawing his head back in surprise, he studied her for a brief moment. The rising heat from the fireplace had bathed her face in a warm, pink glow; her green eyes shone up at him, her beauty taking his breath away. ‘What d’you mean, lass?’ he said fondly. ‘What’s to worry about?’

  Sylvia looked away, her quiet gaze going to the fire-grate, where she was momentarily mesmerised by the flames – long, licking tongues of red, dancing up the chimney in a frenzy. She answered in a whisper. ‘I can’t explain. I just feel troubled, that’s all. I’ve been like it all day.’

  ‘I hope yer not gonna tell me you’re having another bairn!’ His eyes widened. ‘Three’s enough to be going on with.’ When she merely smiled, he took her by the shoulders. ‘Yer not, are yer?’

  She laughed. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Reaching out, he took hold of her hand. ‘Are you feeling poorly, is that it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The children all right, are they?’

  ‘You know they are,’ she said fondly. ‘They’re in the front parlour, gathering the presents for the tree.’

  ‘You haven’t got yerself another bloke on the side, have you?’

  She dug him playfully in the ribs. ‘Don’t be daft! One’s enough, thank you.’

  ‘There you go then!’ He kissed her soundly on the mouth. ‘Like I said, there’s nowt to worry about. You and me are still daft over each other. We’re all disgustingly healthy. I’ve a good job, with good money coming in. The larder’s full, and the rent’s paid up.’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘Unless you’ve been squandering it away behind my back, have yer?’

  ‘’Course not!’

  ‘Right then.’ He took up his tacks and hammer again. ‘Happen you might let me get back to me work now? After which I mean to go and get meself a well-earned pint down the pub.’

  While he tapped away at the leather soles, Sylvia remained on the rug, eyes closed, the heat of the fire warming her through. Jim’s plain, honest words had made her realise how lucky she was.

  ‘I’ll tell you what though, lass.’ Once again, Jim’s voice cut through her thoughts. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. You, me and the twins should get away for a few days. Oh, not yet, but when the weather turns – Easter mebbe – we should get off to the seaside. It’ll do us both good, and the twins will love it. Larry’ll be all right on his own. I mean, he’s a capable enough fella, and I’ve no doubt he’ll welcome a bit of peace and quiet, after the twins an’ all. Besides, with him looking after it, a
t least the house will still be in one piece by the time we get back.’

  Once an idea took hold he wouldn’t let it go. ‘Look, as I’m off to the pub tonight, I’ll ask the landlord if we could rent a room in his cousin’s pub on the coast. What d’you say?’

  ‘Why not.’ It was an age since they’d been to the seaside.

  ‘Right then, lass. Consider it done!’ He kissed her softly on the mouth, his fingers walking down the opening in her blouse. ‘I’ll not be out late, if you know what I mean?’

  Smiling knowingly, Sylvia took him into her arms.

  ‘And now, love, will you stop all this worrying?’

  She nodded. He was right, she thought. When all was said and done, there was really nothing for her to worry about.

  * * *

  That night, after she and Jim made love, Sylvia slept like a bairn, and rose to the day a contented woman. By mid-morning she had cleaned the house, plucked and gutted the cockerel and got it in the oven, done all the Christmas vegetables, and finished the ironing, though her mam had always told her you should never iron on a Christmas Day.

  Now, after enjoying the sandwiches which would carry them over until the evening, she left Jim and the twins to their own devices, and returned to the kitchen where she busied herself with the Christmas dinner. There was still much to be done, though thankfully, there was no one to interrupt her for the time being. Larry was having a nap; the girls had gone upstairs to play at dressing up, and Jim was lazing in front of the fire.

  From the armchair, he called out to her, ‘I hope you’ve done enough food. What with the five of us, then young Mick and Grandad Bertie, you’ll need a lorryload of it.’

  ‘There’ll be more than enough,’ she replied. ‘There always is. Come and look for yourself. I’ve peeled a bucketful of potatoes and veg. I’ve made two large brandy puddings, there’s a mountain of a cake I made weeks ago, an army of pork pies from the butcher’s, and I’ve bought an extra chicken, just in case. So, you can stop your moithering, ’cause you’ll not starve.’