Missing the Moment Read online

  “Thank you. Mrs Edwards. I appreciate how much you do for us.”

  Charlotte had the feeling that there was more between the two people than just assisting at the church meeting. Nothing said, just something in the way they looked at each other, a signal, a secret smile. But she was so wrapped in her worries about the firm that the feeling slipped away and didn’t take root in her memory.

  Instead, she thought about Jack’s thoughtfulness, and his secret generosity in wanting to spend his money giving a destitute family a better life. Good deeds done in secret were the finest of all, she decided. He wanted no one told. It was sufficient for him to know he was helping someone. He didn’t need the glory of publicity, the flattery of people’s admiration. How fortunate they were that he was there to help them.

  * * *

  The snow cleared. Peter returned to work and things settled into an uneasy peace at Mill House. It seemed a good time for Joe and Charlotte to make their plans. But every time Charlotte tried to discuss her marriage, the response was the same.

  “How can you think of yourself now, while your father is still missing and your uncle so ill?”

  Ashamed of her selfishness, Charlotte reported back to Joe that, “Now isn’t a good time.”

  The sale of Joe’s shop was underway and whenever she could, Charlotte went to help him prepare for his move into the old butcher’s shop. Legally the shop was not his but the owner, old Maldwyn Prosser, had no objection to his going in and working there. Joe did some decorating but made little effort to furnish the flat.

  “I want us to do that together,” he said, on one of their rare moments alone. He was papering the walls of the living room a bright yellow, and Charlotte had been washing the drips of paste from the fresh brown woodwork.

  “I’ll make covers for the chairs to match the curtains,” she promised.

  While he packed away his brushes, she stood on a rickety old chair to check the measurements. As she was getting down he held her, turned her to face him and kissed her with an urgency that both thrilled and half frightened her. He wasn’t going to force her, was he? Men did sometimes lose restraint, she knew that much.

  “Joe, you’re hurting me,” she protested, but she didn’t attempt to move from his arms.

  He pushed her away then and spoke angrily. “Charlotte, this is madness. Utter madness that we’re allowing ourselves to put up with this! I want you. I can’t wait for ever. How much longer are you going to give her before you defy her and marry me without her permission? We will marry, we both know that, so why put ourselves through this? Fuss there’ll be if we defy her now or in ten years’ time, so there’s no point in waiting, is there? Get it over and done with. Legally she can’t stop us anyway. Twenty-three you are, not sixteen.”

  “Pity we didn’t marry when I was sixteen, Joe.” She sighed. “Mam’s so changed since Dad’s disappearance and Uncle Peter’s accident.”

  “But don’t you see? That’s her life! This is ours, here, making our own way in the world. You’re allowing her to live your life as well as her own. That can’t be right, now can it? Selfish ol’ cat that she is.”

  She wanted to say yes, she’d ignore the needs of her mother and do what he wanted; that it was what she wanted too. But her sense of duty was strong and she knew that once away from his hypnotic kisses she would have to refuse. It was a sacrifice she had to make or she would regret it all her life.

  “It’s only until Mam accepts that Dad won’t ever come back.”

  “Charlotte, my pretty,” he said more calmly, “it’s been seven years!”

  “Just a bit longer, please Joe.”

  * * *

  Bessie Philpot was leaving the post office, next door to Kath Thomas’s boarding house, when she saw a new notice pinned on the wall. She was so finely attuned to what was going on, she recognised a fresh notice immediately.

  “What’s this then?” she asked the postmistress, tapping the handwritten poster. “A trip to Barry Island is it? When is it for? Your writing is getting worse, Phoebe.”

  “I didn’t write it and the date is April the ninth, Easter Saturday. The seats are mostly booked so you’ll have to say quick if you’re wanting to go!”

  “Of course I’m wanting to go. Don’t I always go?” She dug into her handbag and took out the five shillings. “I hope that includes supper,” she grumbled.

  “Of course it does. Doesn’t it always include supper?” retaliated the postmistress. She wrote the name in a small notebook and whispered to her next customer, “One of these days we’ll manage to get off on a day trip without having clecking Bessie Philpot to pester us.”

  “What a hope!” was the response.

  Charlotte and Joe were waiting to buy some stamps. Charlotte chuckled with the rest at the long-running feud between Joe’s aunt and the postmistress and when she had been served turned to Joe, her eyes sparkling.

  “What about our going on a trip to the seaside?” she said.

  “Oh yes? And what do we tell your Mam?”

  “Ah well, it was a nice thought.”

  It was a Monday and when Bessie arrived at Mill House to do the week’s washing she told Harriet about the trip.

  “Why don’t you go,” she suggested. “There’ll be plenty of people you know. Do you good it will to get a bit of sea air in your lungs.”

  “No thank you. I don’t need doing good!”

  Charlotte, and even Rhoda, added their voices to the suggestion but it wasn’t until Bessie reported that Kath Thomas was going and had a spare ticket that Harriet changed her mind.

  “I’m not spending the day with Kath, mind,” she warned. “Nor anyone else. I couldn’t stand their company for more than the bus ride, common gossipy lot that they are.”

  “What will you do?” Charlotte asked, afraid to argue.

  “Walk around the town. Revive a few memories. We had some lovely holidays there when you were children. All those exciting rides, bracing walks, and the beach is a perfect one for children.” Her voice had softened and her eyes had a faraway look, and Charlotte and Rhoda guessed she was thinking of their father.

  * * *

  The weather relented and spring arrived with its display of celandines, snowdrops, wild violets and primroses. Overlapping their display came the miniature wild daffodils that grew in abundance on the hills, waving bravely in the strong winds.

  Charlotte watched the seasons unfold through the return of her favourite flowers. In the small copse in a protected part of the hill of windmills, the rich green shoots of bluebells began to appear and blackthorn bushes gave their bridal display of blossoms on their bare branches. For Charlotte, it was a sad reminder that 1950 was well underway and she was still without a sign of her own bridal finery.

  Joe had still not moved into the new premises. He ran the bicycle shop with his usual efficiency while he waited for the legal difficulties to be dealt with. Peter was back to his daily stint at the factory and, with Rhoda keeping her mother amused, Charlotte gradually created the habit of spending part of every day with him at the factory. She loved it, and the regular visits had the effect of making her want more and more involvement. In the few hours she could spare, she succeeded in reducing the long list of overdue jobs and pacifying many irate customers.

  Her mother going on the bus trip to Barry Island was a longed-for free day and although her first instinct was to spend the day at Russell’s Bookbinders and Restorers with Uncle Peter, she accepted Joe’s invitation to spend the precious day with him.

  * * *

  The bus load of trippers set off for Barry Island at eight o’clock. Stopping for passengers who lived on the more isolated areas around Bryn Melinau meant that they didn’t actually leave the town until almost nine. For the first part of the journey Bessie, sitting in the back with Bertha and Lillian, complained loudly about the few who hadn’t been ready on time and who had inconsiderately made them all late.

  Kath Thomas tried to bring Harriet into the discussio
n on the best way to organise an outing, but Harriet turned away from her and stared unseeing out of the window. With only an hour of the trip gone she was already regretting her decision to come. Really, it had been madness to agree. She had nothing in common with these people. She began to make her plans for escaping from them as soon as they reached their destination.

  When they alighted from the bus, most of the party headed for the seafront in the hope of finding a café open for a reviving cup of tea. Harriet ignored calls to join several groups, hurried to the railway station and bought a return ticket to the centre of the town. The weather was chilly and there was the threat of rain. Best to get near the shops where there was shelter, she had decided. It was sure to rain.

  The wind channelled by the buildings blew, bitingly cold, against her back and she hurried up towards Holton Road where most of the larger shops were situated. She turned into a side road and it was then that she saw him.

  A man walked in front of her, some fifty yards away, and when she took a second glance she stopped and held her breath. It was Eric, her husband.

  She hesitated. She had seen him – or thought she had – so many times in the seven years since he had left. Each time a more careful look had led to disappointment. But this time she was certain. Or almost. There was something about the walk, the way he threw one foot out slightly. But then, she reminded herself sadly, she had often thought that too.

  Slowly she followed him, her heart beating fiercely. Gradually, when she reached the busier streets of the town centre, she drew closer to him. At one point he stopped to cross the road and as he turned his head to check on the traffic she saw him quite clearly. Her face gained heat, her blood began to race. This time there was no mistake, Eric Russell was close enough to hear if she called his name, close enough for her to reach out and touch. She followed him across the road but did neither.

  Heart thumping so she was afraid it would burst from her body, she followed, dropping back more and more as the crowds thinned, moving forwards again when pedestrians allowed. She just kept him in view. She didn’t lose sight of him.

  He stopped to buy bread and with two large loaves tucked under his arm, wrapped in tissue that fluttered like a collection of small flags, he returned the way he had come. Feeling a bit silly, Harriet darted in and out of the crowds filling the pavements and set off in pursuit, wandering idly one minute and trotting like a long-distance runner another, as Eric paused to look in shop windows or hurriedly overtook dawdlers.

  At a greengrocery there had been a delivery of cucumbers, lumpy ridge cues, Harriet saw, like Bertha Evans grew later in the year in her cold frame, probably bitter and certainly unattractive, but a rare treat all the same. A queue of people stretched past two other shops and around the corner, blocking the pavement to passers-by. Harriet hesitated as Eric stopped.

  He went to the front of the queue to see what was on offer then joined the end of the line. In a dreamlike trance, all sounds around her part of another, faraway world, she watched him. Her feelings were mixed, changing direction like an out-of-control switchback ride. One part of her wanted to go and scream at him, hit him, release all the hurt and humiliation he had brought her. Another side of her felt a resurgence of fierce love. Why, why, why had he left her?

  Now at the front of the queue, he was served by the lady behind the counter. Waving goodbye to his friend he moved away. Harriet followed as before, keeping wide distances when the roads were empty and closing up when they were full.

  In this way she walked for about ten minutes before she saw him take out a key and let himself into a small, stone-terraced house not far from the docks. Daring to walk past after watching for a few minutes, she started with alarm as the door opened and two small children tumbled out.

  “Don’t be long, your dinner will be ready in a minute, mind,” she heard Eric’s voice call, and the children tore at her senses by answering:

  “All right, Dadda.”

  Dadda? They couldn’t be Eric’s children! She felt faint. That, on top of the rest, was more than she could bear. She hurried away from the door, sobs escaping in spite of her efforts to remain calm. She followed the little girls, who were aged about four and two. The elder child held a ration book and some money as, hand in hand, they went to the corner shop.

  Peeking in, Harriet saw them choosing sweets, debating on the best value for their small ration. Impulsively she took out her own ration book and offered to buy an extra two ounces for them. She wanted to question them but in the end she couldn’t. She watched them go back down the road, skipping with excitement, and into the house.

  “Nice little girls.” she said to the shop assistant. “Russell? Is that their name?”

  “Yes. Louise and Petula Russell. Their mother is not too well at present, poor thing. Gloria has been sickly these past months. But Eric copes marvellous. Wonderful dad he is, and Gloria will soon be on her feet again. It’s the new baby, see, she’s had a bad time carrying this one. Strange really, mind, she’s carried the others no fuss.”

  Every word the woman uttered was like a fresh blow to Harriet’s heart. It was hard to take in. Eric, with a wife and children. No, not a wife, just a woman he was carrying on with. They weren’t divorced. He’d never asked for one. Not that she’d have agreed if he had! But imagine! Eric with a woman called Gloria and, according to this chatterbox, a houseful of children!

  It was cruel. How would she ever live with it now she knew? Ignorance certainly was bliss. That Thomas Grey was right about that; where ignorance is bliss, “’Tis folly to be wise”.

  She had become almost convinced that the story she had invented about Eric’s breakdown and subsequent loss of memory was true. Now her protection against continuing hurt, the cocoon of sympathy she had enjoyed these past seven years, was smashed. Whatever she had imagined about Eric during the time they had been apart, it was never this.

  She sat on the promenade after the train journey back to the beach and stared over the heads of the few people left on the beach and on out over the sea. Waves lulled and eased her pain. Her thoughts slowed to a dull confusion that made her head ache and her body numb.

  As she made her way back to where the trippers were to meet for the return journey, her thoughts returned to Bryn Melinau. They must never find out the truth about Eric. She would learn to accept his secret life, say it aloud until it no longer hurt, but she couldn’t face the ridicule of her friends and neighbours learning the truth; that he had left her willingly and oh, so easily, for another woman.

  The coach was waiting, several of the passengers were waving to hurry her on.

  “Hurry up,” Bessie called, “Phoebe has almost blown a fuse wondering where you’ve got to!”

  “Last one you are, Harriet Russell, and after all we said about the others this morning!” Phoebe the postmistress scolded. “What on earth have you been doing all this time?”

  Harriet realised with a shock that she had kept them waiting almost two hours.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte could see there was something wrong when her mother returned from the day out subdued instead of full of chatter. After such occasions she happily shared the rumours and gossip she had been privy to and made them all laugh with her explanations of some of the group’s behaviour. A day out, although she had to be persuaded to take it, usually succeeded in cheering her, albeit temporarily. Today there was none of it.

  “Is something wrong, Mam?” Charlotte asked as she handed her mother a cup of tea. “Come on, drink this and tell me what’s worrying you. Quarrelled with Kath Thomas, did you? Or was Bessie forgetting she was your cleaner and presuming friendship?”

  “No need to be pert, Charlotte!”

  “But something is wrong, isn’t it?”

  Rhoda and her husband Brian were there to welcome her back after her day trip and they stared at the almost tearful face of Harriet with concern. noticing the way her hands trembled when she took the proffered tea.

  “It
’s Barry Island, isn’t it?” Rhoda said emphatically. “I said, didn’t I, Brian? Said you shouldn’t go. It brought back too many memories of the time when Dadda was with us. I knew!”

  Harriet looked at her daughters, her pale blue eyes heavy with sadness. “I shouldn’t have gone. You shouldn’t have persuaded me.”

  “Bringing back memories,” Rhoda went on, looking at Brian, tight-lipped, waiting for him to say how right she had been.

  “I saw your father,” Harriet whispered.

  “Mam,” Charlotte said gently, “we’ve had this talk before. You’ve seen Dad a dozen times and each time you’ve been mistaken.”

  “Not this time. I followed him for an hour or more, saw him go into that house and heard the children call him Dadda. I spoke to the woman in the shop and she said they were called Russell.” Her voice broke as she went on. “My name he’s given the woman, mind. My name. I’m Mrs Eric Russell, not her, whoever she is. It just isn’t fair.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  “That his wife – so called! – this Gloria woman, has been ill since the latest baby was born. Latest baby mind! Not the first.” She shook her head solemnly. “This wasn’t a mistake. I feel more cheated now than when he first left us. Fancy going off and getting mixed up with some woman and having children, and all the time leaving me, his lawful wife, wondering and bewildered by his disappearance. How could he do it?”

  “You need to talk to someone, Mammy.” Rhoda said. “Brian agrees, don’t you, Bri?” Brian gave a cursory nod. “Someone who’ll know the best thing to do.”

  “No! I couldn’t bear anyone to know. You’re the only ones who know the truth. You won’t say, will you? I’d be so shamed for anyone else to know.”