Missing the Moment Read online

  This was some carry on for a start. Peter Russell, poor dab, taken to hospital, and his sister-in-law, who depended on him for providing them all with a living, sitting here crying tears that were for herself and not for him. Bessie sniffed as she remembered when he’d had the accident that had crippled him. Harriet, his only relative since his brother had wandered off in a miasma of lost memory, never went near him all the time he was in hospital. There’s a family for you!

  She added saccharin to Mrs Russell’s tea and stirred two heaped teaspoons of sugar into her own. Didn’t deserve sugar, she didn’t. Selfish ol’ snob that she was, treating her Joe as if he were dirt.

  “There you are, lovely, drink this down and it’ll warm the cockles of your ’eart.” she smiled, handing Harriet her cup.

  After her three hours’ work was finished. Bessie repeated her offer to stay while Harriet went to the hospital to be with her brother-in-law. When she had made Harriet admit that she wasn’t going to see him, Bessie smiled a satisfied smile. Now she could say with honesty that Mrs Russell admitted she wasn’t going to visit him and stand beside his sick bed. Poor dab.

  The walk down the steep hill and through the town was punctuated with brief visits to some of her friends to impart the disgraceful news. Kath, who ran the boarding house near the road bridge, Vi and Willie Walters who ran the café and her closest friend and next-door neighbour, Bertha Evans, were all equally shocked, bemusedly agreeing with Bessie when she added that it was no more than they might expect of a woman who changed her beds twice a week.

  When she reached home, Bessie sat and enjoyed a snack and a cup of tea, then set off to do her collections. It was Friday and she needed to get around as many of her catalogue customers as possible, before the wages were doled out and the spare used up. Missing a weekly payment was the lot of those collectors who called last and Bessie made sure it was rarely her. No time for a proper chat on Fridays. “Headlines only” was her golden rule.

  The cottage in which she lived was one of a pair close to the smaller, older bridge upstream of the town, simply called Bridge Cottages. Bessie lived with her nephew Joe in number one and her friend Bertha Evans lived in the other with her slow and amiable daughter Lillian. Across the river from them, high on the hill, Mill House could be seen.

  Downstream of the town was the coracle station where the small, fragile river craft set out to catch the salmon that leapt the distant falls and came up to spawn in the shallower water beyond Bessie’s cottage, where the river widened.

  Bessie’s first call that cold January evening was on Kath Thomas who lived at number one, Main Street. One of Kath’s lodgers was Jack Roberts who helped Peter Russell at the bookbinding factory. Bessie picked up the weekly shilling-in-the-pound payment and an order for some matting and a new kettle, and hurried on.

  At five o’clock it was very dark outside. She carried a pair of men’s shoes under her arm, an order from Vi Walters for her husband Willie. Wrapping her coat around her legs, poking the darkness with the thin beam of a torch, she left Kath’s warm room and set off for her next call.

  Vi and Willie lived just around the corner, downstream from Main Street, in Betws Villas, nicknamed Tatws Villas. as Willie ate only chips and Vi survived on a diet of mashed potatoes. Best she went there first and got rid of the shoe box. But they were good payers. No, she would be better starting with some of the other, less reliable ones. She eventually decided to go first to the furthest call. That way she would be heading for home, a cheering thought on such a dark, bitterly cold night.

  At seven o’clock she turned for home. She hadn’t called on all her customers but the cold was biting into her hands and the shoe box was a nuisance to carry. She decided to go and have a cup of tea, then call back on some she had missed.

  Leaving the lights of Main Street behind her, she turned onto the narrow path and hurried through the darkness towards Bridge Cottages. The river was on her left and now, with the bushes and grasses bare, she could see occasional glimpses of the steely cold water. The torch was inadequate for the lonely path and she was glad when she saw the light shining out of Bertha’s windows like a welcoming beacon. No light in her own: that meant Joe wasn’t home.

  While she was still some distance from the twin gates, a sound made her stop. Curious as always, she twisted her torch in the direction of the sound. Perhaps it was Joe. He could carry these damned shoes if it was.

  “’Oo is it?” Then she gasped as her torch showed two men struggling on the ground, grunting and hitting out at each other. In the flurry of arms and legs she failed to recognise them. Trying to appear brave, she called out:

  “Stop behaving like a couple of tomcats! Get on ’ome with you or I’ll fetch a copper!”

  The men separated and moved in opposite directions, one limping heavily to his left. In vain she waved her torch, searching for a sign of them. She felt the chill of fear. They could see her but she couldn’t see them. She told herself they had done as she had said and gone home, yet apart from the quiet murmur of the river, the night was without sound. Surely she would have heard them running off? “I know who you are, so don’t think I don’t!” Shaking the torch to try and persuade it to give more light, she walked along the path towards the cottages, wishing Joe was there, trying to give an impression of nonchalance, strongly aware of being watched. She felt a vulnerable spot in the area of her shoulder blades and very much alone. The night was as black as her coal hole. Her gate and Bertha’s lights seemed a long way off.

  She began to hum to cheer herself but her voice sounded unnaturally loud. She stopped and the silence was unnerving. Fighting they were, no doubt about that, and one was hurt, favouring his left leg he was, for sure. Increasing her pace, she began to prepare the story she would tell Bertha, poor simple Lillian, and Joe.

  The eerie silence was broken by furtive rustling in the dead grasses and wild flowers on the edge of the path. Fallen branches, made brittle by the frost, snapped like miniature guns. Her heart tightened and she waved the torch around again in a futile way. She couldn’t go into her empty house.

  “Bertha?” she called, running now towards the lit windows. “Open up the door, will you? It’s me, Bessie.” She was touching the gate, feeling safety was only a few steps away, when she felt an arm grab her from behind. She took a deep breath to scream, but before she could make a sound her head was thrown sideways with a blow that knocked her senseless.

  * * *

  Joe was disappointed. Because of her Uncle Peter’s illness, Charlotte had put aside their marriage plans without discussion. He understood of course, but it was difficult not to feel resentment. He wondered if there would ever be a time when she didn’t put her family duties before him. Tonight there had been yet another abandoned arrangement. She had left a note with his Auntie Bessie to cancel their trip into town to see a film. Perhaps he’d write up his accounts so he’d be free on Sunday. Mr Russell would be better by then, sure to be. Perhaps they could go out for the day.

  He whistled as he approached the pair of cottages, his bicycle wheels making a crisp, crunchy accompaniment on the ice-bound earth. His auntie would be settling down for an evening listening to the radio. Two of her favourite comedy programmes were on on Fridays. Up the Pole with Claude Dampier and Over the Garden Wall with Norman Evans. Perhaps he’d listen to Norman Evans himself. He was quite a turn.

  He realised there was no light showing and thought with dismay that she had gone out collecting and had stayed with one of her friends for a gossip. He didn’t fancy an evening on his own. He paused, wondering if there was any point in cycling back up to Mill House to talk to Charlotte. He shrugged and walked on, propping his bike against the wall ready for the next day. He almost fell over as his foot caught against something near the gate. He staggered and swore, thinking someone had deposited some rubbish on the path. Then he went closer and realised he had been tripped by the coat of someone lying on the icy ground. His first thought was that it must be a drunk. He l
ifted the limp body and turned the head so he could see by the light from Bertha’s window and was startled to recognise his aunt. As he moved her she began to groan.

  “Auntie Bessie! What happened? Frozen you must be lying there. Are you ill?”

  “Dying, boy. Dying.”

  * * *

  “I heard one of them call the other one ‘Jack’. And that’s all I remember.” Bessie told the doctor when she had recovered and was sitting in Joe’s favourite armchair being served tea by Bertha Evans from next door. “Big they were, mind. And not a word from them apart from one of them saying ‘that’s enough’ and ‘Jack’.” She sighed and passed her cup to Bertha for more tea. “Duw, if Joe had been off to the pictures instead of coming home for his tea I’d have died of the cold for sure.”

  “Jack?” Bertha queried. “Do we know a Jack?”

  “There’s only Jack Roberts who works with Peter Russell in the bookbinders, but you can count him out.” Joe said. “One of life’s gentlemen is Jack Roberts. Not the sort to go fighting down dark footpaths and hitting poor helpless women.”

  “I don’t think I know another Jack.” Bessie frowned. “He must have been a stranger. No one round here would behave like that.”

  “There are several families that have been up in court for fighting, mind.”

  “Yes, but only good, honest drunks. Not wicked beaters-up of helpless women.”

  “And thieving,” Joe added.

  “Damn me!” Bessie moaned. “I bet they were after my collections. Where’s my bag? It’s gone!”

  “It’s here,” Joe laughed. “You were hanging on to the strap for grim death. Had to prise it away from you one finger at a time!”

  “Not much there, and I can’t go back for second calls, not tonight. I’m too shook up.” She lowered her voice to its lowest and said. “There’s a pity.” She looked at Joe hopefully. “I’ll never get it all tomorrow. You know what some folk are for spending it all on a Friday.”

  “All right, if Bertha will stay and keep an eye on you,” Joe sighed. after a pleading glance from his aunt. “Give me your list.” Quickly finishing the snack Bertha had set out for him, he shrugged on his coat and mounted his bicycle.

  Low clouds made the moonless night even darker. Leaving his cycle and walking down one of the back lanes was like walking into a cupboard. There were few street lights to disperse the gloom once he left Main Street and Joe wondered how they had ever managed when there were no lights at all. For the long years of the war it had been forbidden to show a light, yet they had managed.

  A man appeared in front of him suddenly and Joe couldn’t hold back a gasp of fright.

  “Sorry to frighten you, mate.” the man said. “I wonder if you can tell me how I get to Barry?”

  “The buses aren’t very frequent at this time of night. Your best bet is the train.” Joe directed him along Main Street to the edge of the town and the station. The man thanked him and faded once again into the darkness, appearing as a brief silhouette when he reached the street light on the corner.

  Joe wondered if the stranger was one of the men who had been seen fighting. Trying to remember what he could about the man, he decided he was young, perhaps early twenties. He was about Joe’s own height, five feet ten and although he must allow for the man having been dressed in several layers against the cold weather, he had the impression the man was heavily built. His accent suggested he came from somewhere not too far away. Cardiff perhaps, or Newport. Although having asked for Barry it seemed possible he was from there. Not much to go on. If only there had been some light.

  After calling on all the houses on Bessie’s list, he cycled home. It was getting late, almost ten o’clock, but as he was about to turn right off Main Street onto the narrow path he changed his mind and rode over the bridge, heading for Mill House. Perhaps there was better news of Charlotte’s Uncle Peter.

  Charlotte opened the door and they allowed themselves a brief moment before Joe was invited in to the house.

  “Don’t let him stay too long, dear.” was Harriet’s greeting.

  “She doesn’t talk to me, have you noticed?” Joe whispered. “Talks about me she does, as if I’m dull, daft or deaf! Treats me worse than poor Lillian: she only shouts at her! Any chance of a cup of tea?” he said aloud. He went to follow Charlotte into the kitchen but was stopped by Harriet.

  “No, come here. You can talk to me while Charlotte sees to the tea.”

  Guessing it was an attempt to stop him spending a few minutes with Charlotte alone, he grinned at her, then sat dutifully in front of Harriet.

  “How is Mr Russell then?” Joe asked. “I’ll call in to the hospital on Sunday if he isn’t home by then, shall I?”

  “Rhoda and Brian are abandoning their holiday and they’ll be home. Charlotte insisted they were told. They’ll be there with Charlotte, so there’s no need for you to bother.”

  “We’ll go together then. We can go on our bikes.”

  “Charlotte will be going with Rhoda and Brian. In their car.”

  “There’s nice. We’ll all visit together, he’ll like that for sure.” Joe still smiled but there was determination in his dark eyes. “Rhoda and Brian. Me and Charlotte. Right?”

  “Yes, well, very nice.” Harriet admitted defeat.

  “I’m coming with you to see your uncle on Sunday. Charlotte,” he said, as he took the proffered cup. “You and me. Rhoda and Brian. We could stop off somewhere after and have some tea. What d’you think?”

  “I can’t be too long, Mam will want to hear how he is.” Charlotte looked at her mother, at the tight lips, and wondered what had been said. “Perhaps another day, Joe.”

  “Sunday. You and me,” he said firmly. “We have a lot to talk over, you and me.” He was emphasizing the fact that he and Charlotte were a couple. Sooner the Dragon got used to the sound of it the better.

  He told them where he had been and about the attack on his aunt.

  “Auntie Bessie? Is she all right?” Charlotte asked.

  “Will she be able to come in on Monday to do the washing?” was Harriet’s question.

  * * *

  Rhoda managed to look tearful, brave and distressed without disturbing her carefully applied make-up. Expensively dressed hair immaculately groomed, she turned heads as they walked through the green-tiled corridors of the hospital.

  “She should never have been told,” Brian muttered to Joe.

  “I agree,” Joe said grimly. “Charlotte has enough to do without having Rhoda around flopping a fit every ten minutes!”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Joe!”

  Peter Russell was still very ill, but he was pleased to see the four young people. He looked different. His face was still swollen from the kidney infection that had brought him there, and he had an air of weariness about him. Charlotte was startled to see how old he looked. Even in a wheelchair, he had always been lively and alert and full of exciting plans for the future. Recently that had changed and she wondered if this was a result of the illness or if the situation regarding the business was more serious than she already feared.

  He seemed a bit vague, his eyes losing focus in middle distance; occasionally he seemed unaware of their presence in the room. Charlotte asked several times if there was something he was worried about, but he shook his head and forced his tired eyes to smile. “Terrible headache, that’s all.” he told her.

  Rhoda took one look at him and burst into tears. For the rest of the visit she sat on a chair further down the ward being consoled by Brian. Occasionally she would come and kiss her uncle, then tears would again overwhelm her and she would clutch Brian for more comfort. Peter smiled at her behaviour and said:

  “She’s always been the more sensitive one.”

  “Pain in the arse more like,” Joe whispered to Charlotte.

  “You’re the one we all rely on, Charlotte.” Peter added. “I can always depend on you. In the house and at the factory you are our ‘Girl Friday’.”
With Rhoda out of the way he seemed to rally and said, “Take the business. You’re the one to help sort it, you know. Been up there lately? There’s still a bit of a backlog on the monthly statements going out.”

  “I keep trying to go up there and get the accounts up to date, but Mam doesn’t want me to leave her. You know what she’s like. And with Rhoda away it’s been more difficult than usual. Don’t worry about it, Uncle Peter. It’ll soon get sorted once you’re back at work. Until then I’m sure Jack Roberts is doing his best. He’s so reliable. Lucky we are to have him.”

  “Yes.” There was something in the way Peter said the single word that make Charlotte wonder if there was something she hadn’t been told. Her uncle seemed unwilling to talk when Rhoda returned for another tearful session, and after a while he asked Rhoda and Brian to wait outside while he talked to Joe and Charlotte.

  “It’s the business,” he began. “There’s a lack of money and if I take any more out the firm will have to close. Don’t tell your mother. she can’t cope with any more at present.”

  “What d’you mean, take out any more money?” Charlotte asked. “You only take your wages. Are you saying there isn’t enough for you to take wages?”

  “I had to repay some of the shares owned by Jack Roberts last month and today he came in and asked that I repay the rest. I don’t know what to do.” He stirred in the bed, leaned on his elbows and tried to pull himself higher on the pillows with his strong arms. “Sorry to tell you two all this, but there isn’t anyone else. Talk to Jack, will you? Ask him to wait for his money, just for a year. We’ll be solvent again by then.”

  When they left the ward Rhoda demanded. “What did he tell you? He isn’t going to get well again, is he? Oh, poor Uncle Peter. What will we do when he’s gone?”