The Legacy

Chapter 1

Doris Evans looked through the compositions handed in by her class. They were, as usual, grubby, the cheap exercise books food-stained and dog-eared. Coal dust from the small hands made the texture of the paper gritty. Page after page of misspelt, blotched, childish dreams. Their subject was, ‘Choose a character from history, one you would like to have been.’

The stories were similar — in many cases too similar — and Doris suspected that Lizzie-Ann Griffiths had been making herself a few halfpennies. Ninety per cent of the girls from her class fancied being Gaiety Girls, but they all spelt it ‘Gayity’. Doris sighed and corrected the scrawled lines. So much for history.

Doris saved Evelyne Jones’ compositions until the very last. Neat, meticulous handwriting on clean, flat pages — the girl kept her notebook in a brown paper bag. At the top of the page Evelyne had printed the date, February 10th 1909, and the title: ‘I am Christina Georgina Rossetti’. Then in the same perfect handwriting the composition followed. The young girl discussed her love for her brothers, Dante Gabriel and William Michael, but what was so remarkable was that Evelyne had interwoven her feelings for her own brothers around her fictional self. She compared her own family’s education to that of the Rossettis. It caught the teacher’s imagination. Doris was taken aback at the depth of feeling and Evelyne’s sophisticated use of the English language. She wrote about what it was like to be part of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Evelyne was ten years old.

Doris was so fascinated she didn’t even correct the spelling. She turned page after page, until the final paragraph moved her to tears. Evelyne had copied down two lines from one of Christina Rossetti’s poems: Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land, followed by a few lines in which she said that, for many in her village, there would be no distant land, just the blackness of the mine, the blackness of death hanging over them. The blackness never stopped the laughter, the love, but so many lives were lost, and too easily forgotten.

From the schoolroom window, Doris stared down into the village. It was growing dark, and the few streetlights twinkled. In the half-light Doris could see the groups of miners gathering and moving towards the pithead for the night shift.

A hawker led his pony and cart through the village, crying that his apples were cheap, just threepence a pound. Grey house crouched close to grey house, each opening directly on to the street; there were no gardens, no colours to relieve the grey. Doris sighed. Even the leaves were grey, never green, and the berries black before they were red.

Doris hugged her brown coat around her, closed up the school and walked down to the village. It was strange to think that only a few hundred yards from here was that wondrous valley sheltered by mountains, their lower slopes covered with the darker greenness of trees,

the upper by the lighter mountain grasses and ferns which seemed to reach up to meet the sky. Then there was the river, curving across the width of the valley, coursing slowly along the ten miles that separated the village from the sea at Swansea. Doris’ heart often ached to have all that beauty so close, and yet their houses huddled, cramped together with the massive furnaces, the coal slags and trams looming above them, the colliery dominating and overpowering the village.

The miners felt differently. To them, God had been extra kind, because just below all this beauty He had placed seams of coal, anything from eighteen inches to eighteen feet wide, and beds of fireclay and iron ore. But for Doris, man had come and defiled the beauty. Man had blackened nature with his meddling, and she hated the coal. She hated the constant threats of pneumoconiosis, ‘black lungs’, and nystagmus, the wandering eyes, that the men lived under, their poor, bent knees and ‘beat’ elbows. Doris had good reason to hate the mines — she had been widowed by them. Her treasured wedding gown was still kept in tissue paper. Her neat house was scrubbed every day and the gleaming brass in the rarely used kitchen dazzled the eye. The brass candlesticks, the strip of brass on the mantel, even the brass rod above the grate shone. The tiny, immaculate house seemed held in suspense, waiting for the warmth of a family, waiting to come alive, for life to breathe through the flower-papered walls. The big tub hung at the kitchen door ready for her man, even his tools were cleaned and polished, but Walter Evans was never coming home. The house remained a glittering monument.

Doris threaded her way through the dark streets, hearing the odd murmur of greeting from the young men who remembered her teaching. She kept her head

down, her nose wrinkled against the slight wind that stirred the coal dust. In some of the back yards she could see washing still hanging. The kind of household that left its washing out was the kind that didn’t care. Only on certain days could the washing be done, for unless the wind blew from the north-east it would quickly be covered in coal dust. Windows were always closed unless the north-east wind blew. The cries of the miners’ wives were often heard as they belted their daughters either for not putting out the washing in time or for not bringing it in.

The men were coming off from the day shift. As Doris passed them she could hardly tell one from another. With their blackened faces and clothes they looked much like the coal they mined. Many would need to get the dust from their throats with a few pints before departing homeward for their baths. Doris made a small detour around the pub to avoid the ones who had already downed a few too many.

Doris knew them all, and as she passed they called and smiled. Mrs Griffiths, Lizzie-Ann’s mother, yelled to Doris, her raucous voice grating on Doris’ ears as she asked how her brood were coming along. Doris nodded to her, said that they were doing well, knowing Mrs Griffiths had already decided that they would leave the following term. Over the years Doris had tired of trying to make them understand how a few more years of education would benefit the boys. It had always proved pointless. They just followed their fathers into the mines as soon as they had enough education to sit the qualifying test, usually by the age of thirteen or fourteen. Some slipped in even younger.

The village women never tired of discussing Doris Evans, who even after thirty years was still an outsider,

and always referred to as ‘poor thing’. Some of the women, too young to remember, thought it was because she was widowed and without children, still living alone after all these years. Many whispered that, unlike everyone else in the village, Doris never took in lodgers although she had four rooms. Little Evelyne Jones had been right, oh so right, thought Doris. Memories fade fast. Heartbreak surrounded the village, every family was touched by it, so why should they remember hers?

The bakehouse smelt wonderful and Doris, who had left her tin of dough there in the morning, now collected her fresh bread. She paid her penny and carefully folded the linen over the bread tin. The short distance from the bakehouse to her front door could ruin the bread, covering it with coal dust so that it tasted gritty. She noticed that already her hands and coat had a fine film of dust on them. She blew her hands clean, then hurried on down the dark street.

Halfway down her street Doris met John Prosser, Tom Clapham, Rees Griffiths and Danny Tanner carrying Jack Carlick between them. Jack’s blackened face was screwed up with pain, and he moaned softly. Doris pressed herself against the wall. She had taught so many of these boys and so many of their names were listed on the church walls, for explosions and fires down the mine were an annual occurrence. When the men moved on, she found the back of her coat smudged with soot from the wall.

A group of small children, clutching their farthings, were clustered around Ernesco Melardi’s ice-cream cart. They should have been tucked up in bed, it was almost six, and Doris tut-tutted at them hanging around playing tic-tac. They saw her and waved, and Doris gave a sharp nod of her head. She could hear the children sniggering and whispering behind her but she didn’t turn back. ‘Droopy-Drawers Doris’ was their favourite name for her this week.

It was the sound of a child’s screeching voice that made Doris catch her breath. It was sweeping over her again, and she only just managed to open her front door before her head began to thud with one of the blinding headaches that beset her so often. Doris was back in Clydach Vale again, her head thudding, her ears filled with the sound of the rushing water. She clung to the edge of the polished kitchen table. Twelve years ago, and yet it was as if it were happening at that very moment…

Again she heard the children’s voices, the screaming hooter as the warning went out. The school had been flooded with water from an abandoned coal level. Doris had waded through the slime, searching, calling out the children’s names. Three tiny bodies had been found in the playground, and then little Ned Jones was found curled up like a baby in the corner. Further on the boy’s mother cradled her six-month-old baby girl in her arms, her pitiful body covered in mud. It had been so long ago, but Doris’ vision of the children never dimmed. She stumbled to the rocking chair by the fire, and closed her eyes. It usually began with the memory of the children, then Doris would hear again the sound of clogs clattering on the street, the high-pitched voices calling, ‘Mrs Evans! Mrs Evans!’ Doris rocked herself back and forth, the clogs came closer … oh, so much closer … The fists banged on her door. The smell of the brass polish made her nostrils flare, her eyes water, and the memories swept over her, like the tears that rolled down her face.

They had been married only days, their honeymoon just a weekend in Swansea, and then Walter had returned to the mines. They said he had been in good voice, they’d heard him singing as the cage came up, then he had collapsed and no one could revive him. The doctor said the work had drawn all the moisture from his body and because it was not replaced he had died of dehydration, just like five others that same year.

The rocking chair creaked, Doris sighed, and the pain in her head began to fade, her thin lips moved as she smiled to herself and sweet memories now eased the pain.

Doris’ father was an inspector for the Cardiff Railway Company, and often at weekends he would get tickets for his family to travel around and see the countryside. He was proud of his eldest daughter; Doris was going to Cardiff University to study English. She was artistic and shy and loved to do quick charcoal sketches as the train puffed and chuffed its way across the valley.

On one of her sketching trips she had met Walter and fallen in love. Her father did not approve of the friendship. He considered the illiterate miner to be far beneath his clever daughter. However, when her father fell ill, Doris had no option but to leave the university to take care of him. Her mother had died when she was a child and there was no one else.

Once Walter had travelled all the way to Cardiff to see her, but he had been refused entry to the house by her elder brother. He, like his father, felt Walter was not good enough for her. It was not until Doris’ father died that she was free to marry the patient miner. By this time her brother had qualified as a doctor and had met a well-connected girl. After a terrible argument, Doris had packed a bag and travelled to the village. She knew she would never be happy living with her brother and his snooty bride-to-be. She had wasted no time telling them, had even said that they had aspirations above their station. Doris chuckled, she could still hear herself…

‘Father only worked the railways, he was nothing special, my Walter’s good enough for me,’ and off she had marched with the small legacy her father had left her, determined to marry her man.

It was the legacy which had enabled Doris and Walter to set up straightaway in their own home, which was unheard of in the village. They did not need to live in Walter’s parents’ house as so many newly-weds had to. They chose carefully every bit of furniture, each piece of linen, discussed the crockery, the glasses. Walter’s family became hers.

She went to Swansea to choose her wedding dress. It was one of the finest the village had ever seen, cream lace-covered satin with lace cuffs and frills at the neck, the veil and train stretching a good six feet behind her. It was decorated with small seed pearls, and she had embroidered shoes to match. Walter had helped her choose the dress. The gossips had whispered that it was unlucky and it was.

Three days later Walter was dead, and Doris was alone in the immaculate house. The wedding dress lay spread out across the bed. She hated her father, blamed him for not letting them marry earlier, at least she would have had those few precious years with her beloved husband. Nor did she ever forgive her brother and his wife. Dr Collins, as he now was, never even sent a wreath. The letter had been short and written by his wife: ‘Perhaps it is for the best, he was never good enough for you and we could, I am sure, accommodate. you for a while until you find a place of your own here in Cardiff…’ Doris never replied. Dr Collins, for all his snobbishness, still lived in the old family house. Half of it had been left to Doris and she had every right to move back, but she didn’t.

The memory of those two full days and nights were all she had to last her a lifetime. And, sadly, they had lasted. Doris had begun to teach in the village school a year after Walter’s death. Her sweetheart, her husband, was with her in every corner of the house, and she needed no one else … ‘poor thing’.

Chapter 2

EVELYNE HAD not been still since she had returned from school. She had slipped a pinafore over her skirt and rolled up her cardigan sleeves. Her thin arms were red raw from the cold, and yet she was sweating. Her pale face shone, her red hair clung in tight curls around her neck and the long braid down her back was loose. She tucked the wildly curling strands back and picked up the heavy buckets, puffing with the effort. As she tipped the water into the pans and the kettle, it splashed out, soaking her, drenching her bare feet which were filthy from the coal-dust-filled streets. She carried the empty buckets outside and waited in line to refill them as she did every day, every week, every month. Come five o’clock the line of village girls and women was always a hive of chatter as they met to collect water for their menfolk’s baths. All their families worked in the mines and every night was bath night.

Lizzie-Ann wiped her button nose on the sleeve of her threadbare cardigan. She grinned at Evelyne.

‘You back again? Well, well, Evie Jones, you’ll make a fine wife.’

She wrinkled her face and pointed to her black eye, a real shiner that made her wide pansy-coloured eyes appear ever larger. Lizzie-Ann was the prettiest girl in the village, and she knew it, she was a holy terror. Laughing, she said, ‘Is it any blacker? Me Mam hit me so hard I near fell off me feet. “Oh,” she said, “you little bugger, not brought in the washing, and Lord love me it’s covered in coal dust.”’

Evelyne smiled shyly and moved a step closer to the tap. She loved to hear Lizzie-Ann’s prattle, and knew they’d all be laughing in a minute.

‘ “I’ll be leaving your coal dust, Ma,” I says, “because I’m going to London to join me auntie, ohhh I’m following in father’s footsteps, I’m following my dear old dad.”’

She swished her skirts and danced up and down, her piping voice off key, but everyone began to giggle. Seeing she had an audience she began to do the can-can.

‘Come on, Evie, kick yer legs up, come on gel…’ ‘Will you really be going to London, Lizzie?’ ‘Didn’t I just say I wuz? Oh, look, there’s Dirty Jed, I’ll bet a farthing I’ll get a lemon sherbert outta him for showing me knickers.’

Evelyne poured the water from the buckets into a big iron pan balanced on the coal fire. Will grinned at his little sister as he stripped off his working clothes and she ducked under his arm to fill the tin bath. She loved bath time — loved the laughs and the warmth of the big old kitchen. Will was a strapping lad with curly, dark auburn hair, and black as his face was it still couldn’t hide his rosy cheeks. He had a tooth missing where he had fallen down in the pit and it gave him a cheeky little-boy look, but he was a devil when it came to teasing her.

‘Look at her stick legs, Mike,’ Will said to his younger brother, ‘it’s a wonder they don’t snap.’

Evelyne slapped him with the newspaper she was laying on the floor. Clouds of coal dust filled the air as the boys dropped their work clothes into the box and Evelyne pushed it under the table. Mike gave her a friendly pat on the bottom.

‘An’ she hasn’t got a bum either, but I love ‘er, I love ‘er.’

Mike always tried to be like his brother Will, but in truth he was as reserved and shy as Evelyne. Today had been his first day down the pit, and he was so tired she had to hold his hand to help him step into the bath. He moaned as he squatted in the water.

‘Give us a yell, gel, when he’s through. I’ll be out in the yard.’

‘Won’t you help me get Mike clean, Will? You’ll have time before supper to go a-courting.’

They all knew that Will was stuck on Lizzie-Ann, but, good-natured as ever, Will nodded, picked up the old sheet and ripped a piece off. He touched Mike’s back, which was raw from rubbing against the coal surface, and noticed that his elbows were bleeding and there were lumps on each side of his head.

‘You did well, our Mike, now get yerself clean. Do it this way.’

He twisted the piece of sheet into a point, dipped it in the water.

‘We do our faces first, mind, roll the corner into a point, wet it, and stuff it into yer eyes, then yer nose and ears … always do this first, while the sheet’s clean.’

Mike prodded and sneezed and coughed, his skin felt as if it was crawling.

‘Aw, put yer back into it, lad, or you’ll not get the muck off … Evie, give him a hand, he’s so tired out he’s lost his strength.’

When she had helped Mike get clean, Evelyne rushed out to refill the buckets. The kitchen was steaming and five times she went to the tap. She never blushed to see her naked brothers, nor were they shy at her scrubbing their backs with a pumice stone. They bawled at her for being too rough, splashed her when she was too gentle. She had seen her Ma bathe her Da since she was able to toddle, and had shared bath-time duties since she was strong enough to carry a bucket of water.

Mike stood up, dripping, and held out his arms for the sheet that served as a towel. She wrapped it around him and held his warm body for a moment. He was much younger than her other brothers, and his face puckered as he stepped out of the tub. Blood was running down his legs in rivulets from his knobbly knees, and Evelyne looked up into his face.

‘You all right, Mike? Shall I get the disinfectant?’

‘No, I can’t stand the stinging.’

Sighing, Will eased his body into the water.

‘My God it feels good, don’t it, Mike? Ahhh, this makes it all worthwhile, will you soap me back, gel?’

As she rubbed his back, she could feel the scars under her fingers. Mike sat huddled by the fire and watched her, and she gave him one of their secret, intimate smiles. He looked down, his long eyelashes looked as if they were resting on his cheeks.

‘Did Lizzie-Ann ask about me?’

Evelyne scrubbed and soaped, her skirt sopping.

‘She did mention that she couldn’t sleep for thinking about a certain person with no front tooth. Could that be you, our Will?’

‘Is that the truth, gel? Aw, yer having me on, but if you get the chance tell her what a fine-looking man I am naked.’

With a mock gasp of shock, Evelyne slapped him. He stood up and took the towel from her, wrapping it around his waist. He was indeed a fine-looking boy, even with the tooth missing.

Evelyne busied herself setting the table and pouring away the dirty bath water. Will brushed his hair, saying he would just parade on the front doorstep for a while.

‘Will you get dressed, Mike, lovey, you don’t want to catch cold now?’

Mike looked furtively around to see if Will had left the room then turned back to the fire. His voice was soft, lilting.

‘It’s so black, Evie, it’s indescribable. You push your hand out to feel it, and it goes right through the solid blackness. There is no gleam of light, no shadow. It is so black — like a massive weight on you, all around you as hard on the eyes as bright light.’

He was worn out, and afraid, she could feel it, but it was unspoken. He did not look at her, knowing that she knew. He was only three years older than Evelyne.

‘Will, Will, supper’s on the table now, come on.’

Evelyne set down the steaming bowls of stew, the big chunks of fresh bread. The two boys ate hungrily, washing the food down with gulps of scalding tea. There was a jug of ale, too, and that went down fast, but the dust stayed deep in their lungs. They were still eating when there was a rap on the back door.

‘I were just passin’ an’ wondered how yer Mike got along on his first day?’

Old Peg-Leg Thomas hobbled in, grinning a toothless smile, his hand already out for a mug of tea. He gasped and heaved for breath, but he rolled a cigarette as soon as he had sunk into the most comfortable fireside chair.

‘Who’s yer butty-mum?’

Mike wiped his mouth and told him it was Danny Williams.

‘Ahhh, now there’s a good butty-mum … yer know, if yer get allocated a butty that don’t know the ropes then yer can spend maybe two years learning what should’ve been taught yer in the first week, an’ there’s the truth. Good butty, Danny Williams, knows what’s what, you got a good lad ter teach yer … is there another drop of tea fer me?’

Evelyne wiped her plate with some bread, washed it, and refilled it from the stewpan. She poured a fresh mug of tea and loaded a small tin tray.

Her mother, Mary, was lying in the big double bed. Hanging from the ceiling and all around the room were sheets drying and the men’s work clothes washed for the following day. The bedroom was above the kitchen, so the big fire kept the room hot and stuffy. Mary was dozing, her thick black hair loose, her cheeks flushed, and Evelyne saw she was sweating. Softly, she put the tray down, and went to the washstand, rinsed a cloth and crept quietly to Mary’s side. Evelyne mopped her mother’s brow as gently as she could, but Mary stirred, opened her eyes and smiled. Evelyne helped her to sit up.

Mary was in her ninth month, and very ungainly. The baby made a huge mound in the centre of the bed, a mound that didn’t seem to belong to the woman who carried it. Mary’s once-strong arms were thin, her hands bony, as was the rest of her body apart from her belly. It was as if all her strength and energy had been drawn from her and given to the unborn child. Evelyne propped up the pillows behind her Ma, and Mary leaned back. As Evelyne put the tray carefully on the bed, she noticed the tea and bread she had brought earlier had not been touched.

‘How’s our Mike, he get on all right, Evie?’

Evelyne nodded and began to tidy the room, patted the drying sheets.

‘Are you feeling any better, Ma? You not been sick?’

She watched as Mary used both hands to lift the mug of tea.

‘You eat the stew if you can, Ma, you need your strength.’

‘Get along with you, Evie Jones, treating me like I was a baby.’ Mary lifted the spoon and tried to eat but couldn’t, she felt too exhausted. ‘Spend some time with Mike tonight, it’s always bad on their first day. I’ll maybe finish my supper later … have you been in to see little Davey?’

‘I’ll go to him now. You try and eat, Ma, there’s not too much salt is there?’

Mary put her hand out to take her daughter’s, gripped it tight. ‘You’re a good daughter, and the stew’s just perfect… I’ll have a little rest now.’

She felt so weary, and her eyes closed. She was more than worried, she’d not felt as bad as this even with little Davey.

Little Davey was in his cot, his nappy wet, his shining face red and blotchy. He banged his rattle against the sides of the cot. Evelyne picked him up. The sheets were sodden, she’d have to wash them out in the morning. She put Davey on the floor while she changed the bedding and grabbed him just before he crawled out of the door, laid him on her knee and took off his wet things. The little fellow lolled in her lap, sucked her arm. She held him close, smelling his baby smell, his soft, downy hair. Little Davey was always happy, gurgling away, but his lolling head and drooping mouth revealed that he was spastic. The full extent of his problem was not yet defined, old Doc Clock putting it down to Davey being just that bit backward. Davey was three years old, but he could not walk by himself or say more than ‘Dada-dada’ …

By the time Evelyne had cleared the table and washed the dishes, filled the kettle for the tea caddies in the morning, it was nine o’clock. She made sandwiches for her brothers, packing them in their tins. The mines were plagued with rats so all food had to be carefully packed. She then washed the rest of her brothers’ clothes. They had already gone to bed as they had to be up at four for the five o’clock shift. Their beds would be taken by their Da and their eldest brother Dicken when they came home from the night shift.

It was after ten before Evelyne had a moment to sit alone by the big kitchen fire. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tiredness, she could hardly see her school books. She read by the firelight, careful not to get dust on the books that Doris Evans had lent her. This was Evelyne’s favourite time, the only time of the day or night when she could be alone. She treasured it, hungered for it, and used it. This was when she did her writing, when she could dream her dreams.

Mary woke and tried to ease her bulk into a more comfortable position. She sighed, this was one she could well do without, especially with Davey as he was. As she turned she saw Evelyne standing by the bedroom window. She said nothing, just lay and watched her daughter brushing her hair. ‘You awake, Mama?’

‘I am, lovely, I was just looking at you. Like a mermaid you are.’

Evelyne slipped into the big bed beside her mother.

‘It won’t be too long then I’ll be back on my feet.’

Evelyne snuggled closer, loving the smell of her mother. She kissed Mary’s neck then looked up anxiously.

‘I’m not too close, am I? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable … can I feel your belly?’

Mary laid her daughter’s hand on her stomach, so she might feel the baby kick.

‘Can you feel him? He’s a big one.’

Gently, Evelyne ran her small hand over the swollen belly, then she yawned and her eyes began to droop.

‘Goodnight, Mama, sleep tight, mind the bugs don’t bite.’

Mary eased her body into a more comfortable position and Evelyne’s hand slipped away as she fell into exhausted sleep. Mary stared at the ceiling, imagining mermaids reaching to her from beneath crystal-clear water.

‘I’ve never even seen the sea.’

Her own voice startled her, as if she had spoken to herself from the grave, and she was enveloped by an overpowering sense of loss. She sighed a deep, shuddering sigh, and two tears, like dew on a flower petal, slipped down her gaunt cheeks.

In the cold light of dawn Mary could just make out the fading photograph of herself. She was not alone, she was standing arm-in-arm with Hugh Jones on their wedding day. The love she still felt for Hugh couldn’t warm her. Her whole body felt as if it was growing colder and colder. ‘Where did I go?’ she wondered. ‘When was I last just Mary? Not Ma, not wife, but Mary.’ She couldn’t remember, and the harder she tried the deeper became her sense of loss. She wept because she couldn’t remember herself, could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t tired, when she wasn’t carrying or worrying about one child or another. Had her whole life just been rearing children? Cooking, washing, bak ing? When was the last time she had been up the mountain?

The pieces fell together in her mind like a jagged jigsaw puzzle. The blazing colours, the flowers … Mary remembered, oh, the mountains … the green fields, the clear, ice-cold water. Havod, the wondrous gardens at Havod, the peacocks. Then, like a picture postcard she saw herself as she had been before all these worn years. She was so free, so carefree, and she was laughing … her big, blown-up body felt light … she was running like a hare, running on long, strong legs, a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, throwing them up into the bright, warm, blue sky, they were cornflowers …

Then there was Hughie Jones. She saw him as he had been all those years ago, so tall golden they had nicknamed him ‘The Lion’. Hugh was the one she had set her sights on, although he was a real lady-killer with all the girls chasing him. But Mary had been the one, the only one, to give him not so much as the bat of an eye in church. She had felt his eyes on her, and when they all congregated outside the Salvation Army Hall she had turned to her friend and in a voice just loud enough for Hugh to hear she said, ‘Well, I’m going for a walk, going up the mountain.’ No one had wanted to join her, they talked of going to play the piano and have a sing-song. So Mary had gone to the mountain alone. She knew he was following her, way behind and below, but she behaved as if she was completely alone. She found a secluded spot, bathed in warm sunshine, and lay down with the flowers around her, the blue sky and bright sun above. He was close, she could feel him coming closer, but she kept her eyes tight shut. She knew when he sat down only a few feet away, but still she kept her eyes closed. It seemed an age, and when eventually she opened them he had made a crown of cornflowers, and handed it to her. She slipped it on her head and they looked into each other’s eyes.

It was not done for a girl to make the first move, or even be out for too long a time with a young man, a young man who hadn’t even been courting her, a young man who had hardly said two words to her, let alone one with the reputation of Hugh Jones. They said not a word — he just sat there and she lay back with the crown of cornflowers on her head. Her hands were at her sides and she could feel the cool grass between her fingers. She began to wonder if he would speak at all, or if he would just get up and walk away. When she opened her eyes he was leaning up on one elbow, staring into her face.

She smiled, but he continued to stare as he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. Still keeping his distance from her, his huge hand covered hers completely … then he lay back and closed his eyes, holding her hand tight. Mary raised herself on her elbow and looked at his handsome face. His hair was a thick, curly mane, blond, yet his eyelashes were almost black. She bent closer and closer, and in one sudden move he pulled her on top of him, held her face and kissed her. She had expected him to be rough, to kiss her like Joe Scuttles had when he grabbed her on New Year’s Eve. Hugh’s kiss was sweeter, and so gentle her body ached to pull him tighter to her. He laughed, his eyes twinkled, and the dimple in his chin deepened. Then he stood up, scooping her in his arms and carried her to the steep drop of the mountainside and she clung to him. She knew he was teasing, but he took her closer and closer to the precipice.

‘Marry me, Mary, or I’ll throw you over the mountainside, because if you don’t I’ll not let another man touch thee. You belong to me.’

Mary clung to him, burying her face in his big, broad shoulder and kissed his neck. There had been no need to speak of love, no courtship, no arguments with the families. They were destined for each other.

The village said that Mary had tamed the wild lion. Stories of what Hugh Jones had been up to, and with whom, were passed around and several girls wept themselves into puffy, red-eyed misery. The prize had been caught by Mary, the quiet one — a dark horse if ever there was one, with her big brown eyes and lanky legs. She’d never even said as much as two words to the lad. The truth was there’d been no ‘taming’, simply a mutual recognition that they belonged together. Everyone said it wouldn’t last without even a few weeks’ courtship for them to get to know each other. Of course, some said she had to get married — the wild one must have got her in the family way — but that wasn’t true either.

Eventually even the most sceptical had to button her mouth, because the couple seemed so contented, so happy, with no need of the social life of the village. They kept themselves to themselves, and were the envy of many other couples. Hugh Jones never stopped off at the pub on his way home from the mine with the other lads. He would be up and out of the cage faster than anyone else as soon as the hooter sounded the shift’s end. At home he would be building, sawing, painting, and if anyone so much as hinted that he would go back to his old ways, Hugh’s temper would flare up and no one in his right mind ever wanted that. Memories of Hugh with his shirtsleeves rolled up, taking on any comer at fist fighting, even the gypsy travellers, were as clear as day. Hugh had been the source of much gossip in his wild days, but the gypsy fight was the one the village remembered best.

No one could recall the reason, it had been so long ago. It was a blazing hot day in August when, as Peg-Leg Thomas remembered, three gypsies had called on Hugh’s invalid father. They had come to exact some kind of vengeance and they weren’t just any old travellers, they were from the Romany clan that sold the pit ponies to the mine. They would arrive in midsummer every other year, with their wagons and trailers and roped lines of ponies. Once they had set up camp the women would go from house to house selling pegs and ribbons. Some, with their bright skirts and headbands, would be invited in to read the tea leaves or the worn, red palms of the miners’ wives.

It was always an occasion, and if they were there on a Sunday, they would set up a small fair. The children were warned not to go too near to the camp or the gypsies, as no one could ever really trust them. On this particular Sunday, according to Peg-Leg, three gypsies, all wearing their smart suits and brightly coloured neckerchiefs, walked down Elspeth Street. Their arms were linked and they knocked any passer-by out of the way with a shrug. It was whispered that the man in the middle was descended from the Romany king himself. Proud, their black eyes expressionless, they were the real Romantishels. They seemed almost to skip, their steps as light as if walking on air. Peg-Leg said you could always tell a gyppo by the spring in his walk.

It was typical of the Jones family, no one could get out of them the real reason for the visit of the three cocksure, highstepping men. All they did know was that Hugh was taken from his house, not exactly held between the men, but walked by them up to their camp. A few of the village boys followed, but kept well back because they could see trouble brewing, like a small cloud in the air.

They saw Hugh Jones being led to one of the very ornate caravans, taken inside and then brought out again. All the gypsy men formed a circle around him, and the one who had walked in the middle of the threesome took off his jacket. Hugh threw his own worn jacket to the ground and adopted a boxer’s stance. Quite a few of the older men from the village had joined the watching boys. They all had to admire Hugh. He seemed fearless with his fists up, his face grim, and yet he could have been no more than sixteen or seventeen. For all his youth, Hugh was a lot taller than his opponent who was a grown man and, by the firmness of his muscular body, also a fit one.

The villagers watched Hugh Jones take one hell of a thrashing. Time and time again he was knocked to the ground, but every time he got up again, although his nose was bleeding and his eyes cut. Nor did his opponent fight clean — there were kicks, and Peg-Leg swore he saw the gypsy snarling and snapping as if he was trying to bite Hugh’s ear off. There was no outright winner; the fight went on for a full hour until both men sank to their knees in exhaustion. Hugh had been picked up by two youths and flung out of the camp. His pals dunk down and helped him up, and only when they had put a safe distance between them and the camp were there raised fists and defiant yells, before they hurried away with the bleeding Hugh. And, by God, Hugh was at the pithead that night, bloody nose and all. They tried to wheedle out of Hugh why he had taken such punishment, but he wouldn’t say a word. A couple of the boys even tried bribes, but he shook his head. It was a private matter.

The gypsies moved on and soon the incident was forgotten, unless Peg-Leg was in one of his story-telling moods or had a few beers too many. Of course, Hugh Jones always came out as the champion, taking on five men — sometimes six or seven — which only built up his legend as a great boxer. It was always murmured in the ear of anyone who crossed Hugh, ‘Eh, watch it, remember the gyppos.’

So when Hugh had insisted on staying by Mary’s side for the birth of their first child, the account of the fight Hugh had with Doc Clock brought out all the old stories again, and Peg-Leg drank quite a few free pints down the pub. Hugh’s workmates shook their heads in amazement. ‘Imagine wanting to be there at a birth,’ they muttered, ‘dear Lord, what was the world coming to …’

Hugh had been at Mary’s side for the birth of his eldest three sons: Dicken, the first, then Will and Mike, but for Evelyne’s and little Davey’s births he had been on the night shift so he had missed their deliveries. The neighbours whispered that perhaps if Hugh had been there when Davey was born, he wouldn’t be the way he was.

Hugh Jones, Mary’s man, lover, husband; the crown of cornflowers had married them on top of the mountain. The taste of that sweet kiss had long since gone, but now the memory of it filled her with a new strength, and she was fifteen again. She knew he’d find her, would come running to her with his big strong arms open wide, to scoop up her tired body and hold her close to his chest. The lioness was exhausted, her brood grown, but the lionheart wouldn’t fail her.

Evelyne woke from a deep sleep, sat up and felt for the warmth of her mother.

‘Ma?’

She wrapped a blanket around her and crept down the stairs. As she pushed open the kitchen door she almost cried out. Mary was dressed, pulling on Hugh’s heavy coat, wrapping a long, woollen scarf around her neck.

‘Ma, where you going? Is it time? Shall I go call Nurse Thomas?’

Evelyne rushed over to her mother, but when Mary turned round her face was so flushed and her eyes so bright that Evelyne drew back.

‘I’m going to see the mountains, Evie, I have to go up to the mountains before it’s too late. Don’t try to stop me, don’t call the boys, I beg you … I’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’

Evelyne ran back upstairs to get into her clothes, and she heard the door slam. She ran to the window. She was frightened. Something was wrong and she knew it. From the bedroom window she could see her mother’s bundled figure as she hurried up the street, helping herself up the hill with her hands against the brick walls of the houses. Evelyne woke Will, shaking him, shouting that their Ma had gone out.

Will sat up and rubbed his head. Evelyne was already shaking Mike awake, and the boys scrambled out of their bunks and ran to the window. Mary was way up the street now.

‘What’s all the fuss, our Evie? Ma’s all right…’

The hooter sounded for the end of the night shift, and it was only minutes before the sounds of the men returning home would fill the street. Evelyne ran to the pithead looking for her father. She knew something was wrong — knew it but didn’t know what to do. As the cages full of black-faced men were cranked up Evelyne ran from one group to the next. Dai Thomas pointed over to Hugh, and Evelyne ran towards him. He was well over six foot two with broad, strong shoulders, and he stood out from the rest of the men. His back had never buckled over, he still stood upright, and with his shock of greying red-blond hair he looked more the grizzled lion than ever.

With Hugh was his eldest son Dicken, tall as his father. They were just climbing out of one of the cages when Hugh saw Evelyne running towards him. He thought automatically that Mary was having the new babe and waved to her, his mouth and gums glowing pink in the blackness of his face.

‘Da, come quick, Ma’s gone up the mountains, and she’s too near her time, she was strange, she shouldn’t have gone walking, not now, not at this time.’

Hugh and Dicken began to run, and the word spread quickly. Soon they were joined by Shoni ‘Bully’ Thomas, Rees Jones, and Willie ‘Black Pipe’ Keenan. Still black-faced, covered in dust, they ran down the street. The day-shift men were leaving home and as word sped through the street, several of them dropped their tools and went to join the search. This meant a lot, for the day men would lose out on a day’s wages if they didn’t turn up at the pithead on time. Dicken, Will and Mike followed their father, all of them running out of the village towards the mountain.

In the early morning the mist had been thick over the mountain-top, but the sun began to cut through and it slowly lifted. Echoes of the men’s voices rang round and round as they called out for Mary. It was a strange sight, the searching, black-faced men calling to Mary as the clear, beautiful day began.

‘Oh Christ, man, where is she? Mary!’

Hugh Jones was beside himself. He thrashed at the bramble bushes, calling his wife’s name, his face streaked with sweat. He turned to the men, told them to go back, not to lose a day’s work because of him; he and his boys would find her. The men eventually turned back to their work or their beds.

The whole village was agog. What on earth was Mary Jones thinking of — a woman in her condition going up the mountain — she must have lost her mind. They discussed it avidly at the water taps, over the clanking of the buckets. They would occasionally look up beyond the village, not that they could see anything, but Mary was up there somewhere. Their menfolk down the pit talked about it and, like their wives, they were only too ready to recall stories of people lost up in the mountains, men who had run wild up there after being too long underground.

Hugh Jones was exhausted. He sat on a rock, his sons around him. They had never seen their father so distraught: he clung to Dicken and began to weep. The boys were scared. Why had Ma suddenly upped and left them in that condition? It was so strange. Their safe, strong Ma, where was she?

Evelyne kept on searching and calling, climbing higher and higher. Surely Ma could not have got this far, she must be below, they must have missed her. Evelyne looked down and could see her Da and her brothers way below like small black dots …

‘Ma … Mama … Ma!’

Evelyne’s voice echoed round the mountain. Mary was standing staring down at the river. There was a puff of smoke where a train had just passed below a bridge, a little train chugging on down the valley.

Evelyne called down to the men that she had found her mother, and they climbed up the mountainside towards her. Mary stood frozen, eyes staring vacantly into space. Hugh reached his daughter’s side and Eve lyne pointed to her mother, his wife … His face was almost clean of soot, whether from sweat or tears she couldn’t make out. He edged towards Mary, speaking her name, so softly the children could hardly hear him. They watched, bewildered, as the huge man moved closer and closer, saw him take hold of his wife, rocking her gently in his arms.

‘Gave us a proper scare, you did, Mary. Had the whole village out looking for you. Did you not hear us calling you?’

He turned back to his children, told the younger boys to go to the pithead and see if they could still get on the shift, the others to go home.

They began to wander down the mountainside, turn ing to look back up at their parents. They saw their father still holding their mother tight, so tight as if he was afraid she would throw her swollen body over the precipice. As they went further down the slopes, the two figures on the mountainside sat down, their arms around each other, their heads close, like young lovers.

Dicken could see his little sister getting anxious so he made light of it.

‘You know our Ma, Evie, she’s just wanting to have Da to herself.’

Evelyne smiled, then went and sat on the front doorstep and waited for hours. She saw Mr Williams’ dog wander past with his shopping bag and little leather purse, saw him trot into the butcher’s and collect the meat. Clever little dog, went by the main street there, but round by the back cobbles when he’d got the meat. That way he was sure none of the other dogs would steal his owner’s chops.

At midday Evelyne woke little Davey and fed him, then sat and played with him on the doorstep, and still her mother and father had not returned.

Dr Jones came by, with his gold watch chain. Doc Jones only had the chain, no one could recall him ever having a watch on the end of it. So he very rarely knew the time and was known as Doc Clock because of it. He’d heard about Mary, and said to tell them he’d drop by to see if everything was all right.

Along the street net curtains twitched aside. Hugh and Mary, entwined in each other’s arms, walked slowly down the narrow, cobbled road. They were like young lovers — twice Hugh stopped and cupped his wife’s face in his big hands and kissed her upturned face.

Evelyne saw her big Da carrying her mother up the stairs. Mary was weak, and her cheeks were flushed bright pink. When Hugh came down again his daughter had already filled the tub with water for him. He said nothing, but began slowly to wash his face and hands, soap his hair. He bent his head as Evelyne scrubbed his back, and when he stood up from the tub his massive, muscular body looked like a warrior’s; there were deep scars and gashes across his back, arms and thighs. His body was still as strong as a young man’s, his thick grey hair stuck up in waves like a mane.

Evelyne kissed his back softly and he squeezed her hand. Oh, how she loved him. He was not a man of many words, never had been, but he had held them all together. The boys, all of them, adored him.

‘Your Ma wanted to go up on the mountains, that’s where we used to do our courting. She’s all right now, just very tired. Take her some hot tea, there’s a good girl.’

Evelyne prepared the tea, and just as she was about to take it up her father stopped her, took from the pocket of his old work coat a tiny wild flower, and stuck it in her hair.

‘Stay a while with her, until I’m home. That woman up there is part of me, understand, child? We just found a bit of our yesterdays … you get so you forget she was a rare beauty. Today she was just as beautiful again, I had almost forgot.’

Mary lay in the bed, her eyes closed. Evelyne placed the tea beside her and lay down close to her mother, took her hand and kissed it. Mary turned her huge, swollen body to face Evelyne. They smiled at each other as if they had an intimate secret. Mary looked into her daughter’s face, traced her high, strong cheekbones with her worn, rough hands.

‘You’re a good girl, Evie, I’m sorry to frighten you all so, I didn’t mean to, but I just had to go up there one more time.’

As young as she was, Evelyne seemed to understand. Mary held her daughter’s hand and whispered to her, made her promise on God’s Holy Bible …

‘Don’t let the mines take your youth. You get away from here, Evie, don’t stay too long. It’ll soon be time for you to go, find yourself someone from outside, promise me, Evie?’

Evelyne promised, but she was unsure exacdy what her mother meant.

She left her mother sleeping and went downstairs to give her brothers their dinner. They had just come back from the day shift. Will was laughing and shoving Mike … it seemed that Lizzie-Ann had said ‘yes’, and she and Will were going to be married. Only half listening, Evelyne gathered that Will planned for Lizzie-Ann to move in with them until they saved enough money for a small house of their own. So much for Lizzie-Ann and London.

Mike’s back was worse, the cuts deeper, and he said it was his own fault because the rocks were jagged and he couldn’t remember to keep his body crouched. His knees were in a terrible state, and his clothes were sodden.

Evelyne washed the boys, fed them, washed their clothes, washed out little Davey’s sheets. It was night again, and she was so tired her arms ached, too tired to get her school books out. She sat in her mother’s rocking-chair, close to the big, blazing fire. Evelyne and Mike were left alone. Mike subdued, his eyes red-rimmed, unused to the coal dust. His hands and nails were already becoming ingrained with black. Evelyne sat and listened to him, he needed so badly to talk to someone — not the lads, they already knew what he was saying, they had all been through it, but for Mike it was all new, all disturbing.

‘My legs were cramped all day, Evie, I got no skin left on the backs of my hands. An’ with the dust in your lungs you can’t stop coughing, an’ it’s burning inside your eyes. My skin is smartin’, flying bits of coal cut into your face … see, I’m in one of the lower surfaces, an’ I got to shovel on my belly.’

Evelyne listened like an old woman, nodding, darning the men’s socks. All the while she was alert for sounds from Davey or her mother. Mike started to tell Evelyne about the pit ponies. Mike had always loved the outdoor life, running up the mountain to school, and he loved animals, especially horses. Mike continued in his low, lilting sweet voice, like a musical whisper, telling Evelyne about how the horses were treated in the pits.

‘Poor devils, Evie, they work sixteen hours or more straight, they often have no water. One dropped this mornin’ from exhaustion — just dropped, Evie. I mean, it’s not all the men’s fault, sometimes you’ve got to take a horse out again right after it’s been workin’, so the poor bastard’s dead on his feet before you start your shift. You got to whip him to make him work.’

Mike went on about the conditions, and Evelyne listened quietly and continued her sewing. Mike was in tears as he told her how some of the horses had to work in tunnels that were too low and, like him, they couldn’t remember to keep themselves bent down, so they ripped their backs open on the jagged rocks. But they were whipped into such a frenzy that they kept on opening up the old wounds.

‘After the first time through the squeeze the horse knows it’s cut him, so next time he’s forced through he wants to go fast, but if he goes too fast and the handler loses control, the tram full of coal can tilt and spill out its contents … so the men put chains through the horse’s mouth to pull him back … and there he is, poor little bastard, with his back ripped open, his mouth chained, tortured …’

Evelyne looked up. Mike was on his feet, tears smarting in his eyes. He was talking about the pit ponies, but it was himself he was really talking about. And the more he talked, the more he upset himself. He ended up clinging to Evelyne and crying like a child.

‘I can’t go back, Evie, I can’t, I hate it, I hate it, I’m scared all the time, Evie, I’m scared, and they keep on tellin’ me terrible stories.’

Evelyne heard little Davey cry out, and she had to pry Mike’s arms from her and scramble up the stairs to look after the boy … she heard the scream from Mary’s bedroom as she reached the child’s door. It was Mary’s time. Hugh had already left for his night shift, he would miss this birth too.

They always said buy yourself a good dark suit, you’ll need it, and every man did have one good dark suit besides his working clothes. The dark suit was necessary because there were so many funerals.

Will, Mike and Dicken were all dressed and ready. They sat in the kitchen waiting for Evelyne to come down. Mrs Pugh had taken Davey until they came back from the service.

There was only one coffin for mother and child, and flowers around the simple wooden box were from all the villagers. The family had asked them to pick wild flowers — cornflowers. Two horses pulled the hearse through the streets, and the grieving family walked slowly behind up to the church. It was a good turnout, everyone spruced up and wearing their Sunday best. Funerals usually took place on Sundays, as the mines were closed and no one lost a shift.

Mary Evelyne Jones and her son were buried where they could always see the mountain.

Evelyne had been a calming influence throughout. A rock, as they all said, astounding for one so young. There was quite simply no one else to run the house. No time even to grieve, and she wept into her pillow at night, quietly so as not to wake anyone. Evelyne would never forget her father’s face as he watched the cornflower-strewn coffin lowered into the ground. He had been so silent, so isolated that no one dared interrupt his solitude. But there at the graveside he had roared out his grief, like a wild animal. The cry echoed round the mountain and chilled those standing at the graveside. Evelyne had held on to his hand, held it so tightly her nails cut into his palm.

That night his sons had taken him down to the pub and they had all got so drunk that Evelyne had to put each one to bed. Her father’s head lolled, his eyes unfocused, as she helped him to undress. Sadly, the drunkenness persisted. Mike and Will would come straight home as usual from the mines, but Hugh would remain in the pub until closing time. Dicken waited to help him home, help put him to bed. No one tried to stop him: it was as if they knew he was trying to ease the pain, the agonizing pain of life without his darling Mary.

Chapter 3

SIX MONTHS passed and Evelyne did not return to school. There was always so much to do at home. Little Davey was dependent on Evelyne and the menfolk had to be cooked, washed and cared for. Lizzie-Ann had married Will and moved in until they could afford a place of their own. Evelyne put away her school books; her Christina Rossetti days were over.

Doris Evans had never been one to poke her nose in to anyone’s business. She had once, she’d gone to see Mrs Reece Mogg, wanting their youngest son to stay on at school. She’d been shown the door so fast, so the story

went, she’d left her brown lace-up shoes behind. However, she had thought about it for a good few weeks, she had decided she would try one more time, this

time with Evelyne Jones.

Doris dressed very carefully, in her brown hat, her brown skirt, and matching coat, set off by a nice cream blouse. She also put on her coral crepe blouse, but felt the cream more suitable.

Doris stood on the Jones’ front door step, thought it looked quite clean considering. She lifted the brass knocker, thinking it could do with a good polish, and tapped lightly, then rapped louder. She could feel inquisitive eyes boring into her back, net curtains flicked aside across the street. Her mouth went dry, her carefully rehearsed speech of introduction slipped away from her. She was about to leave when the front door was inched open.

‘Evelyne, is that you? It’s Mrs Evans, from the school.’

Evelyne had little Davey balanced on her hip, a duster in one hand, and her face was streaked with dust. Doris flushed a bright pink.

‘Do you think I could step inside for a minute? If it’s not convenient I can come back.’

The door edged open wider, and Evelyne coughed as she swallowed backwards. Her eyes watered, and Doris had to pat her on the back.

‘Would you mind coming into the kitchen, Mrs Evans, only I was just feeding little Davey?’

Doris followed her along the corridor. The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and cabbage made her nose wrinkle with distaste. Davey gurgled and threw a soggy, nasty-looking crust of bread at Doris’ head. A lot had changed since Mary’s death, and gossip about the Jones family was rife. Mike, the youngest boy, had run off to join the army, and Will, so rumour had it, had got Lizzie-Ann in the family way so they’d had to marry. The house was bursting at the seams.

‘Er, well, Evelyne, you certainly seem to have your hands full. Should I come back another day?’

With her free hand, Evelyne lifted the kettle and put in on the fire.

‘Will you have a cup of tea, Mrs Evans?’

Sidestepping a teddy bear, Doris picked it up and turned to put it on the dirty table, cluttered with crockery.

‘Oh, I don’t want to put you out.’

Evelyne smiled and went to sit Davey on a chair, looked around the room, then at Doris.

‘Would you mind just holding him while I make the tea?’

Poor Doris could hardly stand the smell of the child, and his nappy was sopping wet, but she held on to him and perched on the edge of a chair. It was a mistake, she knew it, and the girl looked terrible. She’d aged years in a matter of months, if that was possible. Her once clean, shining hair was dull and uncombed, and her face was so pale she looked ill. Evelyne was all thumbs, dropping the tea caddy; and she was so aware of the filthy state the kitchen was in that she tried to clear everything into the big stone sink.

‘I won’t bother with tea, Evelyne, but don’t you think he should have a clean nappy on?’

Evelyne flushed and grabbed Davey, so embarrassed she was near tears. Always a sensitive woman, Doris was just as embarrassed and made things worse by sitting awkwardly, perched like a brown crow.

Evelyne laid Davey over her knee and removed the dirty nappy, dropping it in a bucket. He gurgled and laughed, drooling as she washed his bottom. And all the while Doris coughed dry little coughs, and kept opening and shutting her mouth. Her hand was sticky and she took a small lace handkerchief from her handbag.

‘My Mama died, and I … well, I’ve been meaning to come and see you.’

Doris looked at her as she sat with her feet neatly crossed, her knees red and her bare feet so filthy Doris wondered when the girl had last bathed.

‘Yes, I know. Did you get my note?’

‘I should have written, I’m sorry, Mrs Evans.’

Doris stood up and straightened her hat. ‘It’s about your writing that I’ve come, Evie … Evelyne. Your last composition was good, more than good, I still read it. And the reason I’m here is to see if it would be possible for you to return to school.’

Evelyne tugged at a loose strand of hair. ‘I can’t do that, I’ve no time to come to school.’

‘But you are more than good, child, it’s a sin not to finish your education.’

At that moment Davey put a piece of coal in his mouth, sucking it. Evelyne bent down and took it from him, threw it on the fire and picked him up. She buried her face in the small boy’s neck and to Doris’ consternation her thin shoulders began to shake. Doris realized she was crying.

Although never one to show her feelings, Doris suddenly rose to her feet and wrapped her bony arms around Evelyne. Doris smelt of mothballs and her pale eyes were wet with tears.

‘I understand, I understand, you have the boy to care for, and the menfolk, but … here, don’t cry, child, here …’

She handed Evelyne her tiny handkerchief, and didn’t even mind when Evelyne blew her nose on it. She poured the tea and handed it to Evelyne, patted her head, and it all came out in a gush.

‘I know times are hard, but what I’ve been thinking is that if you have a few hours of an evening, when the little boy is sleeping, then you could come over to my house. It’s quiet, and all my books are there, and if you would like … well, what I’m saying is that I would be prepared to give you private tuition, I don’t want paying for it, but I would like it if you could manage just a few hours.’

She felt her hand gripped tightly, and the girl kissed it hard. ‘Oh, Mrs Evans, I would like that so much.’ ‘Well, then it’s settled, whenever you say — when it’s convenient to you.’

With little Davey in her arms, Evelyne walked Doris to the door. Doris was excited, she chucked the baby under his chin and laughed when he tried to bite her, a strange, high-pitched squeak. Then she was gone.

Evelyne had to shake her father awake, Dicken was waiting to go on shift.

‘Da, Mrs Evans came by today and said I could have private lessons.’

Hugh swayed and stumbled as she helped him dress. He hadn’t even bathed the night before, he had got so drunk coming back from work.

‘You do as you wish, Evie … where’s Dicken? Dicken!’

Hugh left the house with his eldest son. Evelyne went back and began to clear up the kitchen, the broken beer bottles. The new lodger arrived back from his night shift, looked in for only a moment, then went into Dicken’s bed in what used to be Davey’s room, the little lad now sleeping with Evelyne. They’d had to take a lodger as lately the household was always short of money — the tin on the mantel always empty. Evelyne owed money at the baker’s, the pie shop, the hardware store. Things had most certainly changed. The Jones family had never been in debt before. With them being such a big family, and mostly men, there had always been wages coming in.

Hugh still worked the mines along with Dicken and Will, but Will needed his wages for Lizzie-Ann, and they were saving as best they could. But Hugh was getting a bad reputation as a drunkard. Poor Dicken not only did his own job of shovelling, but he hacked the coal face too, his father’s job. Hugh was perpetually drunk, but Dicken never confronted him — he worked without a word of complaint. He went to the pub with his father, watched him waste the hardearned money that rightly belonged to Dicken, but he could say nothing. The Old Lion was losing his roar, his shoulders were bent and his face was always filthy. At night he staggered home, leaning on his eldest son for support.

Dicken was worn to a frazzle, and he knew the managers were beginning to talk. The ‘measurers’ had been round — the men who counted the coal trams and picked over the contents to see if there were any stones or clay clods making up extra weight. The miners were paid by the tram-load so if the loads were down so were the wages. The wage for boys under fifteen was one shilling and sixpence a day, and over fifteen it climbed up by a few pennies a day. A twenty-one-year-old boy, even when married like Will, still only received three shillings a day.

The miners’ wages were scaled according to the job. There were truck-weighers, coal tram-weighers, engineers, stokers, tenders, strikers, lampmen, cogmen, banksmiths, rubbish-tippers, greasers, screeners, trimmers, labourers, small-coal pickers, doorboys, hitchers, hauliers, firemen … but the elite, who worked the big veins of the mines, were the colliers, the men who hacked and chipped away at the coal. They worked in teams of two, and were completely dependent on each other. One hacked and chipped, one shovelled and filled the trams behind them, as they burrowed like moles deeper and deeper into the face. If the shoveller sat down, too lazy or too tired, then the chipper would have to lay off too. Dicken had been working for both himself and his Da. He knew it would be found out and could not continue. That night, as they came up from the cradle, the manager called them over. They went into the office and stood, caps in hand, like guilty schoolboys. The manager, Benjamin Howells, was sorry — he didn’t like doing what he was going to do. He had known Hugh Jones since he was a boy, he’d been at Dicken’s christening in the chapel.

Ben spoke in Welsh — maybe he thought it would soften the blow — but it hammered down anyway. Hugh was given his employment cards and Dicken, of course, stood by his father and wanted his. Ben tried to reason with him, but Dicken was adamant so Ben handed them their cards and the week’s wages kept in hand, and the two men walked out. Ben sighed. What a waste to see a man like Hugh go to pieces; it was tragic. And the worst of it was, it looked like he was dragging that fine boy down with him.

Dicken and his Da were both getting drunk, drowning their sorrows. They called for drinks all round, banging on the bar for their pints. Dicken rose to his feet, weaving, and began to sing. He had a clear, high tenor, and stood with legs apart, eyes closed, while his beautiful voice soared.

Mike pushed open the bar door and stood framed in the doorway, looked first at his brother then his father. His boots were so highly polished you could see your face in them. He swung his haversack down and Dicken lurched into his arms.

‘Mike, is it you, lad? Mike … Da, will you look who’s back, an’ all togged out in his fine uniform.’

Hugh fell off his stool and climbed up, gripping the edge of the bar for support.

‘A drink, get a drink for my lad, the soldier boy.’

Mike could smell Hugh’s breath — he reeked and his clothes were stained and filthy. He shook his head and looked at Dicken.

‘Mun, he’s drunk out of his mind.’

Mike soon discovered that since his Ma’s death their father had rarely been sober.

Evelyne checked the stew and left the pan half on the stove. She knew they would be late again. She had hoped to go and see Doris, but she had not had even a minute to herself for weeks. Lizzie-Ann was no help in the house; if there was work to do she swooned.

‘Oh God, I can’t, Evie, not in my condition. A woman in my condition should not lift nothing heavy, I don’t want to have a baby like little Davey, now do I?’

While poor Evelyne washed and scrubbed, Lizzie-Ann sat with her feet up. It was true she made Evelyne laugh, especially when she put flour over her face and blacked her eyelids and lips like Theda Bara. She could do endless movie-star impersonations.

‘You know, soon as I’ve had this baby, I’m going to London,’ she would say.

The lodger, a coloured gentleman, fascinated Lizzie-Ann. She would ask him to turn his palms over and then shriek with delight at the pinkness of them. Josh Walker was a kind-hearted man whose family lived in Leeds, like many coloureds who had arrived in the village. There was hardly a house left in the village without a lodger of some kind, Italian, Indian, black … well, there was one house. Doris Evans kept her four rooms to herself. The war, everyone said, was taking their men and replacing them with outsiders.

That night Dicken and Mike carried their Da home between them. Evelyne was so happy to see her brother that she forgot about going to see Doris. Somehow she made the stew go round, pushed her worries away. Tomorrow was another day and she’d manage to get a little meat from the butcher.

‘Evie, want to walk awhile with me?’

Mike smiled, slipping their mother’s old shawl around his sister’s shoulders.

‘I’ll be gone by morning, going to France. I’ll write to you, and send you pretty things … oh, Evie, Evie, come here.’

She went into his arms and held him tight. She loved him so, she thought her heart would break.

‘Dicken’s coming with me. Now shush, it has to be, they lost their jobs at the mine, this way he’ll be able to send money home, and me too … but what of you? You’re so thin, and I swear you look older, older than you should …’ Mike could not say how he really felt, how sad he was to see his sister so gaunt, so pale. It was obvious to him that she was working herself into an early grave.

‘It’ll be for the best, Evie. With me and Dicken gone it should ease the burden on you. You have a lad? Someone that’s courting you?’

She hung her head as she walked alongside him, flushing bright red. ‘Be off with you, Mike, there’s no boy interested in me, an’ I’m too young yet even to be looking.’

Mike pulled her to him and kissed the top of her head.

‘You are special, Evie. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll bring a handsome soldier home for you on my next leave.’

The two boys were dressed and ready. Evelyne slipped into the kitchen, afraid they would go without saying goodbye. Dicken ruffled her hair, but he was close to tears. ‘Take care of Da for us, we’ll be back.’

Mike smiled and blew her a kiss, as hand-in-hand with Dicken she walked them to the door. ‘Evie, think about seeing that schoolteacher. You’ll have more time now, promise me?’

She smiled but couldn’t speak, she was too close to tears.

‘Goodbye, darlin’, and God bless you.’

She watched her two brothers walk down the cobbled street, their arms about each other’s shoulders. Will came and stood behind her, put his arms around her, ‘So they’ve gone. Da was too drunk to understand last night; I’ll tell him.’

Deep down he knew his own days at home were numbered, he could be called up at any time.

Six months had passed since the schoolteacher’s visit, and Evelyne popped a note through Doris’ door. She had worked out how many hours a week she would be able to spend with Doris, although it had not been easy to arrange. Lizzie-Ann refused to take charge of little Davey so Mrs Pugh had promised to look after him.

‘I don’t know why you bother learning, Evie. Find yourself a boy, that’s what you should be doing.’

Evelyne looked at Lizzie-Ann. She was wearing only her bloomers with one of Will’s shirts over the top, her belly sticking out.

‘I’ve no interest in boys, Lizzie-Ann … if you could turn your charms on at the bakery I’d be grateful, we’ve no bread.’

‘I’ll do me Theda Bara for that old bugger … well, go on, if yer going.’

A plate of sweet, home-made biscuits and a glass of warm milk were waiting for Evelyne, and Doris had been back and forth to the window to see if she was really coming. All her precious books were laid out neatly on the table with a clean notebook, ready for work to begin.

Evelyne tapped the polished door knocker. She was acutely self-conscious about her appearance; her hair needed washing, her cardigan was darned and threadbare, even her skirt was torn at the hem. She wore a pair of her mother’s shoes, three sizes too large, and she went pink with shame when she noticed that her heels were black with soot.

‘Well, dear, better late than never. Now come in, wipe your feet on the mat.’

She stepped on to the gleaming linoleum in the narrow hall, her heart pounding, hardly able to say a word. She had never seen such lovely, gleaming furniture. There was a sofa covered in velvet with crocheted white cloths on the head rests, and there was a lovely rug in front of the fire.

‘You could eat your dinner off your floor, Mrs Evans.’

They sat at opposite sides of the table and gradually became more relaxed. Evelyne soon forgot her shyness and turned the pages eagerly, clapping her hands when she discovered a word she had not heard of before. She thumbed through Doris’ heavy dictionary.

‘And how, Evelyne, would you spell chameleon? Look it up … now remember, it might not begin with a “k”, it could be a “ch”, so search for the word …’

The wall clock chimed nine and Evelyne looked crestfallen.

‘Never mind, dear, we can continue next time.’

Evelyne found herself watching the clock in the kitchen waiting for Mrs Pugh to take little Davey, and then she was off, running as fast as her legs would carry her. Doris was always ready, standing at the door, biscuits and milk waiting on the table. She would dearly have loved to open her thin, bony arms and hug the child. Evelyne delighted her so, but she was too shy.

‘Oh listen, Mrs Evans, I know it by heart now. All night I practised just as you told me … “From her celestial car the Fairy Queen descended, and thrice she waved her wand, circled with wreaths of amaranth. Her thin and misty form moved with the moving air, and the clear silver tones as thus she spoke, were such as are unheard by all but the gifted ear”.’

Doris watched as Evelyne stood with her arms held up, her wondrous red hair wild from running, her cheeks flushed.

‘That was very good, dear, now drink your milk, and remember descend is “s” before “c”.’

She nibbled her thin lips, watching Evelyne eagerly thumbing through the dictionary. She had received a letter from her brother more than two weeks ago, and had spent sleepless nights over it. His wife had died — not that that had disturbed Doris in any way, far from it — but he had invited Doris to stay. He had said it was time they forgot their old wounds. And she did, after all, own part of the house.

‘Evie … Evelyne dear, I’m going to Cardiff.’

Seeing the desperate, haunted look on her young pupil’s face made her swallow hard.

‘Oh, will you be gone long, Mrs Evans?’ The child’s thin hands clenched and unclenched. She was fighting back the tears at the thought of losing her precious lessons.

‘Not long, but I was wondering if your father would give his permission … of course, I would pay your train fare and any expenses … would you like to come with me? Just a weekend trip? We could see the museums. Would you like to come?’

Evelyne was up and out of her chair, hugging Doris so tightly that she could hardly catch her breath. Evelyne’s kiss was frantic, but then she raised her fist and bit her knuckles. ‘I don’t think it would be possible, but thank you ever so.’

Doris had confused herself, she had not really intended asking the child. Yet now it seemed imperative that she should go. The life flooding through her tired, empty shell was turning Doris into a new woman.

‘Well, I won’t take no for an answer, and here, look, I’ve a few things put by for you.’

Rushing into her immaculate bedroom, Doris pulled open a drawer, even pushing aside her wedding dress as she searched through her neatly folded clothes and wrapped a selection in brown paper. Knowing the child possessed only the poor things she stood up in, she told Evelyne she had no need for them any more.

Evelyne carried the brown paper parcel up to her room and inspected the skirt, cardigan and blouse Doris had given her. They were nearly new and smelt of mothballs. There was not a single darn or hole and even though they were old-fashioned and not a very flattering colour, Evelyne thought they were fit for a queen.

‘Well, will you look at her, Will, if she doesn’t look a lady! Now, don’t you worry, Evie love, we’ll take care of everything, and if you don’t hurry you’ll miss the train.’

Evelyne kissed everyone, checked that Lizzie-Ann knew what to do for little Davey, and gave her so many instructions that they almost got into a fight. Doris wouldn’t come in, but stood on the doorstep with her overnight case. As the two went down the street Lizzie-Ann stared after them, then slammed the door. She turned on Will.

‘There’ll be no livin’ with her when she gets back. Wish to God I’d never got meself married, I’d be in London by now, and that’s where I’m going, you mark my words.’

Good-natured as ever, Will said nothing, didn’t even mention that he’d received his call-up papers that morning.

Chapter 4

DORIS HAD packed a small picnic for the train, and they shared it as the train puffed its way across the valley. Evelyne was more like a child of six than a fourteen-year-old, pointing out of the window, moving from one side of the carriage to the other, unable to keep still for excitement. She smoothed her skirt with her hands, mimicking everything Doris did, acting the lady.

‘Now, Evelyne, pack everything neat and tidy, don’t leave any rubbish on the train. We’ll put it in a bin when we get to Cardiff.’

Evelyne would have eaten the brown paper wrappings if Doris had asked her, she was so thrilled. She grew quieter as the train slowed its pace and moved into the siding at Cardiff Central Station. In clipped tones fit for a sergeant major in the Salvation Army, Doris barked orders to Evelyne.

‘Tickets, handbag, case, exit up ahead, keep close by me … now then, we have to get a tram to Clifton Street.’

When they were seated on the top of the tram, Evelyne turned her head this way and that, her heart thudding in her chest.

‘Oh, Mrs Evans, look at the castle, it is just beautiful, and the grass, is it not greener than at home? Oh, look, look at the motor vehicles!’

Some of the passengers sniggered as she shouted in excitement.

‘Evelyne, dear, you don’t need to shout, I am right next to you, not in an open field … speak softly, child, it’s not ladylike to shout.’

As they got off the tram Evelyne clung tightly to Doris’ hand and almost got them run over, she was so unused to the traffic.

‘Taxi … Taxi …’

Evelyne clapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself shouting out. She had never seen a taxi like it. It had red leather seats, and the driver wore a peaked cap. They got into the back seat and Doris rapped on the glass partition with her umbrella.

‘Clifton Villas, number thirty.’

The taxi drew up outside one of a row of bow-fronted, Victorian houses, with white steps leading up to the front door and more steps leading down to the servants’ entrance behind the basement railings. Evelyne followed Doris like a lamb, waiting quietly as she lifted the ornate brass knocker. A maid in a black dress with a frilly white apron and cap ushered them through a dark hallway leading to what looked to Evelyne like a palace. There were paintings and china everywhere, chiming clocks, and the drawing-room furniture was covered in velvet, everything in rusty, autumn colours.

‘Doris dear, how good to see you, come in, come in.’

Doris kissed the pale lips, identical to her own, and the dapper little Dr Collins gave Evelyne a formal bow and adjusted his pince-nez as he ushered them in. He spoke so quiedy that Evelyne could not catch everything he said, but he was so clean and fresh in his starched white collar. It was obvious he and Doris were brother and sister, Dr Collins was so like her, but Evelyne watched Doris change in front of her eyes. She became stiff and formal, and after their initial greetings they appeared to have nothing to say to each other.

‘Would the gel like tea, Doris?’

Evelyne stood rooted to the spot, staring down at the rose-patterned carpet. The house was carpeted everywhere, she couldn’t believe it. Her feet sank into the pile, into two dusty pink roses.

‘Sit down, Evelyne, and say hello to Dr Collins.’

Evelyne perched gingerly on the edge of a velvet sofa, feeling its softness beneath her hands. She swallowed, about to say, ‘How do you do’, but he went over to the fireplace and rang a bell beside it. Evelyne noticed the pretty rose-patterned tiles around the fireplace.

‘You keeping well then, Doris? Tea, Minnie, straightaway.’

Minnie bobbed a small curtsey and scuttled out, leaving the door ajar.

‘Your practice well, is it, dear?’

‘Well, it keeps me on my toes, ya know … glad you could come, makes a nice change, and young David will be pleased to make your acquaintance. He’s a fine chap, fine boy … ah, good, tea.’

The tea was wheeled in on a trolley. There were small cucumber sandwiches, little cup cakes, and a big currant cake with a frilled collar. The maid poured the tea and handed plates and napkins. Evelyne found it very difficult to balance her plate, napkin, teacup and saucer, and looked to Doris for help.

‘Get the gel a side table, Minnie.’

Minnie brought a small table to Evelyne’s side then picked up the sugar bowl.

‘You take sugar, Miss?’

Evelyne nodded and waited, then realized that the maid was waiting for her to help herself. She was all thumbs and picked up what she thought was a spoon, but it seemed to be two spoons in one.

‘Use the tongs, child, don’t use your fingers.’

Just as she had her mouth full the Doctor spoke.

‘So this is your young protegee. And how do you find Cardiff, Evelyne?’

Evelyne swallowed and gulped and spluttered as the sandwich went down the wrong way. Doris moved quickly to her and patted her on the back, concerned.

‘You must never speak with your mouth full, dear.’

Dr Collins consulted his fob watch and stood up, saying he had to make his rounds. Evelyne couldn’t help but think how much Doc Clock would have liked that watch.

‘Ahh, this sounds like David … yes, he’s here,’ the Doctor beamed with pride, standing at the bay window. ‘He’s got some high-society friends now, Doris, he’s at the university. Oh, I wrote, yes, I remember I told you, well-connected people, be good for his profession, going to be a lawyer, did I tell you? Ah, yes, I suppose I did … yes, his mother would have been proud of him, God rest her soul.’

Doris crossed herself, and Evelyne looked from one to the other. She had not thought the doctor could ever have been married or have a son.

There was a bellow from the hall.

‘Minnie … Minnie! Minnie! Anyone call for me while I was out?’

They heard laughter, then the double doors of the drawing-room were flung open. David Collins made his entrance like an actor. His blond hair shone like silk, his perfectly tailored grey suit hugged his tall slender frame. He was very self-assured, his ice-blue eyes twinkled. ‘Aunt Doris, well I never, Pa mentioned you would be arriving, do forgive me for not being here to welcome you.’

Unaware that her mouth had dropped open, Evelyne stared. He could have been a prince, she had never in her life seen a man so handsome. He bowed over Doris’ outstretched hand and kissed it, then turned his attention to Evelyne. He had no trace of a Welsh accent.

‘And you must be Elaine, how do you do?’

As Evelyne half stood, her plate in one hand and cup and saucer in the other her cake rolled off the plate and landed by his highly polished grey kid boots.

‘Absolutely the place for Mrs Darwin’s cakes, my dear. Minnie! Come along, gel, and bring a dustpan and brush … now, Pa, can I get you more tea? Aunt?’

David dominated the room — lifted the mood as if the sun had suddenly shone in through the windows. He wore a delicate perfume, like lilies, that filled the air.

Doris rose from her chair. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us I think we’ll have a little sightseeing tour, and a wash and change before dinner. Evelyne, dear, have you finished?’

Flushing, Evelyne put her china down on the tray, and stood with head bowed, so tongue-tied it made her desperate to visit the bathroom. Doris took her arm and pulled her towards the door. David watched them leave, waiting until the door closed behind them, then looked at his father with raised eyebrows.

‘Are they staying long?’

Dr Collins dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, ‘Just the weekend, just the weekend.’ David flipped his silk handkerchief out of his pocket and flicked a cake crumb from his boot.

‘Is the skinny child an orphan? Smells quite dreadful, and one couldn’t really say she was frightfully clean.’

After ringing again for Minnie to clear away, Dr Collins went towards the door.

‘Couldn’t spare a fiver, Pa? Bit short, only I have to take a couple of chaps to dinner this evening.’

‘I would like it if you dined at home. Doris hasn’t been here for many years. It would show a bit of respect.’

David whistled, irritated, then sprang to his feet. ‘Okie dokie, but between you and me, it’s no wonder Mother kept her at arm’s length, what?’

At times Dr Collins loathed his son’s supercilious attitude, but then he could be so charming the doctor gave him whatever he wanted, as did everyone else.

David turned abrupdy, moving like a dancer, swept out of the room and bounded up the stairs two or three at a time. Evelyne was standing at the top, on her way to the bathroom, carrying a fresh white towel. They almost collided.

‘Sorry, Elaine, bathroom’s second door on your right.’

She didn’t have the nerve to correct him, just blushed and scuttled past. At the bottom of the stairs Mrs Darwin stood smiling, her big red face glowing.

‘Now then, Master David, will you be having dinner at home?’

‘I will, Mrs Darwin, light of my life … oh, Mrs D, will you make sure my shirts are not folded, just put on the hangers, can’t stand the creases … thanks awfully.’ Mrs Darwin shrugged her shoulders and plodded back down to the basement, passing Minnie.

‘Prince Edward himself wants his shirts not folded, he’ll be wanting me to press his socks next.’

The marble bathroom was like a wonderland. Evelyne touched the white bath, the washbasin, and gasped with delight as she turned on the taps. Hot and cold water!

What would Lizzie-Ann have to say, hot and cold, and a toilet of their own with a cord that flushed it.

‘Evelyne, dear, have you run your bath? Don’t be too long, we won’t have too much time for sightseeing.’

In his room, David sighed. ‘Sightseeing’ … dear God, he hoped none of his friends would show up during his aunt’s stay.

Doris and Evelyne spent the rest of the afternoon in the museums and wandering around the castle. Everything was a wonder to Evelyne. They were both tired when they returned so Doris suggested they take a little nap before dinner. Evelyne was loving every minute of it. Her small single bed with its crisp white sheets was heaven, and she dozed blissfully. She was still snoozing at dinner-time, and Doris woke her. She was embarrassed to see that Doris had changed. She had only one clean blouse.

‘Shall I wear my other blouse, Mrs Evans?’

‘I don’t think so, dear, the gong has already rung, and you’ll need it for tomorrow … just give your hair a brush, would you like me to do it for you?’

Doris had never brushed a girl’s hair before, and she was not much good at plaiting it. At the end of all her hard work it looked as if it still needed brushing.

‘Thank you, Mrs Evans.’

Doris gave her a small, tight smile, patted her and then straightened her cardigan.

‘Well, shall we go down? Don’t eat too fast, dear, don’t speak with your mouth full, and keep your voice lowered, no need to shout, all right?’

The meal was an agony of uncertainty for Evelyne, and she spoke not a word, terrified she would choke or be caught with her mouth full. Her bread crumbled so much that she kept glancing at Doris and picking up each crumb from round her place setting. She watched Doris coping with the lukewarm soup, moving her spoon away from her and then sipping from the side of it, and followed suit. It tasted like her mother’s gravy.

‘So, Aunt, how is village life? Do you not miss Cardiff?’

‘I don’t, David … Evelyne, have you finished your soup?’

The main course consisted of roast beef, carrots, peas, and small, crisp roast potatoes.

‘Do start, dear, don’t want it getting cold.’

Evelyne began to eat and felt David’s half-amused stare making her go hot and cold. She could feel her legs sticking together.

‘You are to be a lawyer, David?’ Doris asked her nephew. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Well, I will no doubt be called up. Bit of a nuisance really, in the middle of studies, but then one has to do one’s bit. Wretched business, this war.’

The pudding was served, a chocolate sponge with thick, bright yellow custard.

‘You know, I really must go to the valleys one day. Spent last vacs in London, met some of Mother’s relatives there, jolly nice people.’

‘She was a good woman, miss her you know, Doris,’ put in Dr Collins. ‘She ran the house like clockwork, didn’t she, David?’

‘So, Elaine, tell me how you like Cardiff?’

‘Her name’s Evelyne, and she’s a very clever girl, my best pupil.’

Evelyne couldn’t meet his blue eyes. She bit her lip, loving the sound of his voice.

‘I do apologize, you should have corrected me before, Evelyne … so, Ev-e-lyne, you are still at school?’

Every time Evelyne opened her mouth to speak Doris butted in until David laughed, a lovely, chuckling laugh. ‘Good God, Aunt, can’t the gel speak for herself?’ ‘Mrs Evans is teaching me private.’ ‘Oh, I see … oh I say, Pa, did I tell you I’m playing polo? Charlie Withers said I could use one of his ponies, rather chuffed about it, actually. You know Freddy Carlton’s always said I should try my hand … did you know Lord and Lady Carlton, Auntie?’

Doris pursed her lips, dabbed them with the napkin. ‘No, when I was a girl I didn’t mix in those exalted circles, but I have seen pictures of their estate. Your grandfather did their gardens, when he retired from the railway.’

Doris’ quiet reproach to her nephew went over Evelyne’s head. She was happy to listen to him talk, and when his attention was directed to his aunt or his father it gave her the opportunity to study him. He had a habit of running his fingers through his silky hair, then tossing his head slightly. He wore a large gold ring on his little finger. Evelyne had still not spoken more than two sentences when everyone rose and went into a small sitting room. It was cosy and informal with a huge, round bowl of fresh roses on the table. The maid wheeled in the trolley with coffee and small, round peppermints covered in dark, home-made chocolate. Evelyne slipped one into her pocket for little Davey, and tucked her worn shoes as far out of sight beneath her skirt as she could.

The fire was stacked as high as it could be and made the small room hot and stuffy, but it was a pleasant stuffiness. Doris sat next to her brother and talked with him in whispers. Evelyne had never tasted coffee before and she found it bitter but nice, like a cross between hot chocolate and very strong tea. She nearly spilled it as she sensed David standing beside her. Evelyne was too shy to look up, and all she could see was his grey trouser-leg and soft leather boot. Her blush was even worse than at supper.

‘Would you care for another?’

David held out the peppermints and smiled. Evelyne was sure he had seen her pocket one, so she shook her head and felt her hair begin to come loose from its braid. She tried frantically to push it back, but the harder she tried the more the strands worked loose.

David picked up the family photograph album and carried it to the table, moving the roses aside and laying it on the crushed velvet cloth. He gave Evelyne a look to join him. She sat next to him with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knowing her hair was all over the place and feeling her rough skin above the worn shoes, but she never once turned her face towards him, seeing only his hands with their long, tapering fingers, and the immaculate cuffs of his shirt. The village boys seemed so rough and unkempt in comparison. David wore his hair slightly long, whereas they had to keep theirs short because of the coal dust, and Evelyne had never seen hair with such a sheen on it, even on a girl.

At bedtime Evelyne scrubbed her face, neck and arms, then spent a long time washing the face cloth so it wouldn’t look grey. She unfolded her mother’s old, greyish nightgown that had once been white and pulled it over her head, then folded all her clothes neatly, and unlocked the door.

She tiptoed along the corridor and heard Doris below saying goodnight to her brother. About to enter her bedroom she caught sight of David’s half-open door opposite. She couldn’t help herself, she stared. David was sitting on the side of his bed wearing only his grey trousers and boots, nothing on the top at all. He was leaning forward, reading a book, and running his fingers through his hair. Evelyne knew she shouldn’t be standing there, but she couldn’t move, she wanted to touch his soft, clean white skin. She had never felt like this in her life before. She was used to seeing and touching male skin from bathing her menfolk, but this was somehow different, she didn’t know quite why, but she had a pain in the pit of her tummy, and her whole body felt hot.

There were footsteps on the stairs, and she turned quickly, dropping a shoe. Mortified, she grabbed it and heard David’s door close as she scurried into her room. Oh, dear Lord, had he seen her watching him?

Evelyne pretended she was asleep as Doris crept around the room and then slipped out to the bathroom. The darkness was lovely, lying between clean sheets with clean smells all around her. She snuggled down into the bed but couldn’t sleep, because David’s face kept floating in front of her eyes. Oh, she had so much to tell Lizzie-Ann!

Evelyne did not see David again. Their visit had passed quickly, and they were about to depart for the railway station. Evelyne stood with clasped hands as Dr Collins handed Doris a parel, saying it contained a few things that had belonged to his wife that he would like her to have.

As Dr Collins waved them on their way, David came down the stairs, yawned and asked if they had gone.

‘I think you should have made the effort to come down, not good enough, you know.’

David shrugged, ‘I doubt if we’ll be seeing her again, and even if we do I hope she won’t bring that dreadful child with her. I mean, what on earth possessed her to bring the girl?’

The Doctor studied his fob watch, ‘Doris was always one for picking up waifs and strays — look at that chap she married. Illiterate, you know, broke up the family. Now I must be off on my rounds, will you be home for supper?’

David was always irritated by his father, the way his father referred to dinner as supper, it wasn’t done.

‘I’ll be dining out at the Carltons’.’

‘You know, son, it’s all very well you mixing with these chaps, but you must never forget your roots, don’t get above yourself.’

David swiped the top off his egg so hard it shot across the table. ‘Don’t get above yourself…’ David had every intention of getting above himself, out of his dreadful house, away from his father’s penny-pinching ways.

‘Goodbye, Father, have an enjoyable day,’ he muttered.

When they were on the tram, heading home across the mountains, Doris opened the small parcel. She sighed, knowing she would never wear the dead woman’s bits and pieces of jewellery. There were also a couple of woollen cardigans and a shawl.

‘You know, I never got on with my sister-in-law. Her name was Eleanor, and she was cruel to my dear husband, mocking him. I always said I would never visit while she was still alive, and now … well, did you enjoy it, Evelyne?’

‘Oh, yes, Mrs Evans, I loved every single minute of it, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

Rewrapping the parcel, Doris murmured that she would give the clothes to the poor. Evelyne half hoped that Doris would give them to her.

‘Could you make use of these ribbons?’

‘Oh, yes, thank you Mrs Evans, thank you very much.’

Doris sighed and looked out of the window. The break had done her the world of good. She looked back at Evelyne who was carefully winding the ribbons round her finger.

‘We’ll make it a habit, I think, yes, I think it would be good for you to spend more time at the museums. Perhaps we can even go to the theatre.’

Evelyne grabbed Doris’ hand and kissed it.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Mrs Evans.’

Her whole slender body trembled with pleasure. Just think, she would be going back to that palace of a house and, even better, she would see him again — she would see David.

Evelyne knew there was something amiss the moment she let herself into the house. It was dark, cold and silent. The kitchen fire was almost out, and she stoked it quickly, disappointed to find no one at home, and worried.

‘Da, I’m home … Da?’

She ran up the stairs, bursting to tell her news, pushed open the door.

‘Oh, Da, I had such a time, such a wonderful time.’

Hugh was lying on the bed, holding Davey’s small, well-chewed teddy bear. He raised himself on to his elbow. He looked ill, his eyes were red-rimmed, but he was sober.

‘Has Lizzie-Ann not been looking after you?’ Evelyne asked, ‘I dunno, I leave you for no more than two days … does Mrs Pugh have little Davey, I’ll go and pick him up, I’ve built up the fire …’

Hugh moaned and lay down, put his arm across his face, and his body shook.

‘What is it? Has something happened? Da?’ He gripped the small toy and his face crumpled. He sobbed.

‘Aw, Christ, gel, I was drunk, I was drunk … he was up here, an’ I heard his hollerin’ and I went to bring him down, down to the fire … he was in my arms … halfway down I fell.’

Evelyne was on the bed, pulling at his arm, ‘Where is he, Da? Where is he? I’ll go to him, I’ll go to him.’

Hugh reached out and pulled her down to lie beside him.

‘I fell, Evie, I fell … I fell on the little chap, and God help me, I’ve killed him.’

She moved away, staring, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Ah, no, you didn’t… you didn’t… Davey, Davey!’ Hugh couldn’t stop her, he sobbed as he heard her running through the rooms calling out the little boy’s name. She gripped the side of his empty cot and called for him, all she could remember was his funny, fuzzy head, his drooling, soft mouth … and he was always so happy …

Lizzie-Ann, her belly even bigger, stood at the door. ‘Oh, lizzie, Lizzie, poor little Davey.’ Lizzie-Ann’s face puckered, a child carrying a child herself, ‘Maybe it was God’s doin’, he wasn’t right in the head.’

Evelyne wiped her tears with the back of her hand. All her stories, all the things she’d wanted to tell Lizzie-Ann meant nothing now. She could even detect the envy, see it in the puffy, pretty face, the huge, searching pansy eyes. Little Davey was far from her thoughts. ‘You have a good time?’

‘No, not really … I brought you back some ribbons, they’re on the kitchen table.’

Lizzie-Ann whooped and rushed to the kitchen, leaving Evelyne standing by the empty cot. She touched the chewed, sucked sides, and thought it could be put to use for Lizzie-Ann’s baby.

Later that night Hugh was heard thudding up the stairs. He was drunk as he had been on the night he had fallen and killed his little boy. He was struggling out of his filthy old working jacket, stumbling against the bed. Evelyne slipped into the room and he straightened up while she took his clothes off him. The bed smelt terrible, the sheets and pillows stained with beer and vomit. The huge man was so broken, so pitiful … he held out his massive, gnarled hand to her, she slipped her own into it, although she didn’t want to stay in the squalid room. Poor little Davey, his whole life just a few silly words, Da da-da-daaaa …

The next Sunday they buried Davey. Only a few villagers turned out to follow the sad, small family to the churchyard. They couldn’t even afford a hearse. Hugh was sober, and he carried the tiny coffin in his arms as if it was a precious box of eggs that would smash if he jolted it.

Over the tiny grave Hugh swore he would never touch another drop, so help him, and as the rain started the big man went down on his knees and wept. There were no cornflowers this time, as it was winter.

Evelyne was drained, but she knew her Da depended on her and didn’t give in. She stood, straightbacked, her arm ready for Hugh to lean on. Will wouldn’t meet her gaze, he was ashamed, like his father. The little boy who had been left in their care now lay alongside their Ma and the baby with no name.

Chapter 5

THE BIRTH of Lizzie-Ann’s daughter was a noisy affair. Red-faced, bawling her lungs out from the very beginning, she started as she meant to go on. She was christened Rosie.

They now had two lodgers, and Evelyne worked part-time in the bakery. They paid her a proportion of her wages in bread. Will still worked in the mines. It was 1916, and the fear of conscription hung over every household. Every day saw another boy leave for the Front, and lorry-loads of workers were brought to the mines, which caused ill-feeling and fights among the men. Uniformed soldiers were a common sight, some on leave and some new recruits. The village was being torn apart.

Doris had taken Evelyne to Cardiff three times. She treasured these trips, but she rarely discussed them at home as she knew Lizzie-Ann was secretly jealous. Fussing with the baby, she would make snide remarks, ‘Oh, off again, are we? Well it’s all right fer some, others have more important things to be doing than traipsin’ to Cardiff. What ya do there that’s so special?’

Evelyne would quietly continue with the housework.

‘We just go round the museums, spend time in the library.’

‘Very borin’ if you ask me. Are there nice young men there? You should be thinking of looking, you know, being so tall you won’t find it easy.’

Evelyne never mentioned David, but then she had not seen him since her first visit, and it was not until her fourth trip that she saw him again. He strode into the lounge. He was now a captain in the Artillery, and wore his gold-buttoned uniform with dashing flair, his greatcoat slung round his shoulders and his riding boots highly polished. ‘Well, my dear aunt, oh, and your little friend, well, what a surprise.’

If David was aware of her infatuation he gave no sign, and spoke to her as if she was a child. Alone with his father he was less than enthusiastic.

‘Good God Pa, I’ve only got a few weeks at home and they’re here. That girl positively reeks of carbolic’

David was enjoying his new status, as he had his time in France. He had not as yet seen any fighting, but the social life was exhilarating, and he did cut an exceptionally elegant figure. He was determined to flirt with all and sundry, setting about it like a military campaign, and was extremely annoyed when his father suggested he give Evelyne a tour of Cardiff.

‘All right, Pa, but then I’ve done my bit, I am on leave, you know.’

Evelyne gasped as David carefully tucked the blanket around her knees. She had never been in a private motorcar before, only in a taxi and on a tram, and here she was in David’s sports car. He wore goggles and drove carefully, but to Evelyne it seemed very fast, nearly thirty miles an hour. Whenever anyone got in the way, David would hoot at them. He even let Evelyne squeeze the large, squashy rubber bulb of the trumpet-shaped horn, it was wonderful. Evelyne was like a child. The wind had brought a lovely colour to her cheeks and her hairpins had slipped out as usual. She wore no scarf, and her hair tumbled down, blowing in the wind. At first she held on to it, but then she laughed and let it fly free. In spite of himself, David enjoyed the little trip, and found ‘Carbolic’, as he called her, quite sweet in her gawky way. Occasionally he pointed out features of the city to Evelyne.

When they arrived home David removed the blanket from around Evelyne’s knees, folded it and helped her out of the car. Her face was flushed, and she smiled, it had been the happiest day of her life. His gentle grip on her elbow thrilled her right through and made her head buzz. She wasn’t sure why he felt he had to help her through doors and up stairs — she wasn’t frail or anything — but she liked it.

‘Care for a glass of sherry?’ He handed it to her with a flourish, ‘Drive did you the world of good, got some colour into your cheeks.’

Evelyne was so nervous that she spilt her sherry. The thimble-shaped glass was so small and she had difficulty in raising it to her lips.

‘Here, allow me.’ He handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her mouth. ‘If you will excuse me, I must bathe and change.’

David swept out, leaving Evelyne to finish her sherry and look forward to dinner when she would see him again, but the sight of the two places set at the table made her heart drop like a stone. David was dining out, murmured the Doctor, who then spent the remainder of the meal reading the Cardiff Gazette.

Later, Evelyne slipped in between the cool sheets and lay listening to the night sounds. From beneath the pillow she drew out the handkerchief with his initials, the one he had given her when she spilt her sherry. She would keep it as a memento, a keepsake of her love.

At breakfast David fairly glowed. He stood up smartly when Evelyne entered, sat down again and whacked the top off his egg. Doris was too ill to come down, in fact she felt so bad she had decided she couldn’t return to the valley until the following day. Evelyne wanted to sing with joy, another whole day here with her love. David noticed that she was wearing exactly the same clothes as on the previous day, and there was a piece of newspaper sticking up from her shoes.

David ate ravenously, and more and more toast was brought in in a silver toast rack. He swamped it with thick butter and marmalade, and Evelyne couldn’t believe her eyes. He took so much that sometimes he even left some on the edge of his plate. He poured tea, munched and chatted, then laughed as he noticed that Evelyne could eat just as fast as he could. In fact he reckoned she had wolfed down two more slices than he had, and joked that she must have been at the Front along with his men. Evelyne flushed with embarrassment, making a mental note not to eat so fast.

David excused himself and walked out to the hall, and Evelyne heard him pick up the telephone. He caught her staring and closed the dining room door, but she could hear the low murmur of his voice and then his laugh. The door swung open and he lolled against the jamb, smiling. ‘Care for another little drive?’

All Evelyne could do to stop herself bursting into song was to pinch herself. She had never known such delight, and being tucked up in the motor, feeling his hand brush her thigh even though it was covered by at least three or four layers, made her shiver. David smiled into her upturned face, then cupped her chin in his immaculate, white-gloved hand.

‘Comfortable? Think we’ll have a spin in the country.’

David had arranged to meet a friend, Captain Ridgely, at a small country inn. The inn was frequented by officers on leave, and a number of rooms had been set aside for their private use. Captain Ridgely had assured David he would enjoy himself, and that he had two exquisite creatures for him to meet. Desperate to ingratiate himself with the social set, David accepted, believing he would be meeting acquaintances of Ridgely’s. Evelyne, of course, had no idea she was being used to cover any potential gossip.

David drove Evelyne out past the casde and into the country, and they had to shout above the roar of the engine. They passed the railway station, leaving the town behind them, and headed along narrow lanes between the fields.

Evelyne sat smiling, taking sidelong glances at her beloved’s beautiful face. Eventually they drew up at an inn with small tables covered with checkered cloths under the shade of a huge oak tree. Again he helped her out, and guided her to a secluded table. He snapped his fingers at a rotund man wearing a big white apron, turned to Evelyne, ‘Sherry? Or would you prefer something else?’

Evelyne sat with her sherry under the tree. David excused himself and entered the inn; just like the men from her village, they always left their womenfolk outside. Making sure she would be able to see David if he came out, Evelyne went for a short stroll.

The fields smelt wonderful, the sun was warm and lovely … she sniffed, stretched, twirled, and up bubbled a laugh of perfect happiness. It took her by surprise and she wanted to shout out. Why was it she never had anyone near when she had things to tell them? She walked on across the fields then turned to stroll behind the inn. It was part of a farm complex and she could see the cows being led into the milking sheds. How little Davey would have liked to see these cows, big fat ones, browns and blacks …

A car similar to David’s roared through the farmyard at the back of the inn. Evelyne stared down the hill as a uniformed officer, accompanied by two women, entered the inn. The women were laughing and clinging to the soldier’s arm. Evelyne was so busy watching the car that she didn’t see the big cow pat right in front of her. Splosh! In went her shoe, and it was such a shock that she slid forwards, lost her balance and slithered down the embankment. Evelyne had cow dung on her skirt, her knees, and her left hand — and her right shoe, the one with the newspaper inside, was covered in it. The silk scarf had slipped from her hair and was mucky too. Almost in tears she squelched towards the brook that circled the field. She took off her skirt and, dipping the hem into the icy water, rinsed it out. Then she put the whole of her shoe in. It was stinking so she picked up a stick and scraped the muck off. She smelt her hands, noticed that the cuffs of her blouse, the one Doris had given her, were covered too, so off it came … she was trying to clean her shoe, her skirt and blouse all at the same time, and it was disastrous. The next thing she knew she had toppled over and was sitting waist-deep in the brook.

David had already downed half a bottle of wine, and was growing impatient. The room was stuffy and smelt of stale beer and cigarettes. He was about to leave when the door opened and there stood Ridgely, with a wicked smile and a blonde on either arm. ‘Now, gels, I want you to meet a very dear friend, and more than that, I want you to make him feel very special — after all, he is on leave, so let’s not waste any time, eh?’

David had to turn away to conceal his astonishment. The blondes wore nothing but lacy panties and stockings beneath their coats. Ridgely came to his side and nudged him in the ribs.

‘Get what you pay for? Nothing like these two in France, I assure you … this one’s on me, old chap.’

David took another covert look at the two girls who had sat down and were casually sipping wine, waiting.

‘Which one is mine?’

‘Both, I’ll be back in an hour.’

Flamboyantly, Ridgely kissed each girl, then with elaborate winks and gestures he left them. David gulped his wine and before he had put his glass down one of the girls was unbuttoning his uniform.

Ridgely tiptoed into the adjoining room, locked the door behind him, and crept to the dividing wall. Moving a picture aside he peeked through the spyhole. He would have a jolly story to tell the lads at the barracks tonight.

Evelyne had spread her skirt out flat in the sun, her blouse on a thorn bush. Her left shoe was all right, but the right one was very squashy and still smelt dreadful. She crept to the hedge and peeked over, looking for David, and sighed with relief that he was not there. Dear God, please don’t let him find me this way, not in my mother’s old shift and a cut-down vest of my father’s. Please, dear Lord, I’d do anything, but don’t let him find me this way. Make the sun hot to dry out my skirt and Doris’ hand-me-down blouse or I will kill myself. The square silk headscarf David had given her was drying on the grass, but it was full of wrinkles. Evelyne’s hair had tumbled down, all the pins flung everywhere in her panic to wash her clothes free of the cow dung. She wished she’d at least brought a comb with her. The water had made her hair curl and frizz, it was sticking out like a bush and she knew it. Her nails were full of dirt and her knees were scratched.

Freedom Beshaley Stubbs approached the field where his stallion was. It was his own gry. The farmer had allowed Freedom to field him separately from the ponies. The gry was a wild one, with a temper, but Freedom believed he was a racer and intended to keep him, not sell him with the rest of the pack. The camp was six miles from the farm, and they were moving on. Freedom didn’t want his stallion broken in yet. Any travellers seeing him might try for him, the horse was a rare one. This way, keeping him wild, only Freedom could handle him and would break him when he was ready.

Apples and crusts bulged in Freedom’s jacket pocket, and as he came close to the gate he saw the great beast toss his head, his black eyes flashing. In one movement Freedom legged it on to the gate, and sat on the top bar. He called the stallion ‘Kaulo’, the Romany word for black, and black he was. The horse pawed the ground, snorting.

‘Choom, choom!’ Freedom whispered, meaning ‘kiss, kiss’, and the stallion moved slowly towards his master, tossing his powerful head. He nuzzled Freedom’s open palm, got his apple and crust of bread, and then as if playing a game he backed away. Freedom was too fast for him, he grabbed the flowing mane and jumped, heeled his beauty forwards and they galloped around the wide, open field.

Evelyne lay back, the brook bubbled and gurgled, and she looked up into the bright clear sky. The sound of horse’s hooves seemed to come from beneath her, underground. She sat up, waded across the brook and stood on tiptoe to look into the distant field.

The black-haired boy and the stallion galloped round and round and, bareback, the boy seemed to be part of the horse, his hair as black as the stallion’s gleaming coat. The boy wore a red neckerchief and an old striped flannel shirt. Evelyne knew at first glance that he was a gypsy — she had seen them come to the village often enough with their ponies to sell to the pits. She and her brothers had never been allowed near the camp, their Da decreeing that his children would not mix with the gypsies ever. No matter how they had pleaded with him they were not allowed even to go to the fairs. They had cried bitter tears because all the other village children had been allowed to go, but on this one subject Hugh Jones was adamant.

Evelyne shaded her eyes, watching the boy riding, and tutted like a little old maid. Those wild gypsy boys would never come to anything. Maybe her Da was right, they were a bad lot and always thieving, so everyone said. She closed her eyes — oh, how very different her David was, now there was a gentleman.

She waded back across the brook and felt her clothes, they were almost dry. She began to think about David, he had certainly been inside the inn a long time. She stared over the hedge, saw the black car drive away. Funny, there in the field was that gleaming black horse, and down below in the yard by the inn the gleaming black motor. Evelyne mused, she’d prefer the motor if ever given the choice.

Her sodden shoe had shrunk, it fitted her now, but still smelt quite terrible. She stood up and stamped her foot, then bent down to pick up her skirt. She turned, looked back again — it had disappeared. She scratched her head, then walked round the bush to see if it had slipped down the other side.

Freedom was stunned. It was her hair, he had never seen a colour like it. She was the palest manushi he had ever seen, with hair of sonnikey. He gaped, then swallowed hard. She was looking at him, staring, and she had the eyes of a sea witch. They stood for a moment, frozen, his dark eyes brooding, his olive skin clear, not swarthy, his high cheekbones giving him a look of arrogance. His mouth was wide, and just as Evelyne was about to scream he smiled, showing the most perfect strong, white teeth. She was no longer afraid when he smiled, but she was still in her drawers, so she covered herself with her hands.

‘Are you not chilled swimmin’, gel?’ Evelyne put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips with anger. This common gyppo was standing on her skirt. All thought of behaving in a ladylike fashion left her.

‘I am not swimming. I was … excuse me, would you mind leaving? I am not dressed.’

Freedom chuckled, but made no move to leave. He cocked his head to one side, looking her up and down which made her blush and grow so hot she didn’t know what to do. But she couldn’t just leave because he was still standing on her skirt.

‘That’s my gry, yonder, the stallion.’ ‘What?’

‘I said that’s my stallion yonder. I’ve a right to be in the field, are thee from this part?’

‘No, I’m not, would you please go away?’ Freedom gave her a twinkling smile. ‘I shall scream, please go away.’ But still he stood on her skirt.

‘Get off my skirt, please, you are standing on my skirt.’

He hopped away, then with deliberate movements he picked up the skirt and shook it, held it out by the waistband as though for her to step into it.

‘It’s best thee dress yerself, gel, there’s many a-wandering around these parts … here, give me your hand.’

Angrily, she took his hand and stepped into the skirt, then moved back sharply and began to do up the small buttons.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s my pleasure.’

David’s voice echoed up from the inn’s courtyard, calling her name. She backed away from Freedom but still he made no effort to leave. He lolled against the trunk of a tree, his eyes never straying from her face for an instant.

‘Evelyne …? Evelyne …? Evelyne?’

She turned and ran a few yards, stopped to look back. He was still there. He cocked his head to one side and kissed the tips of his fingers. He repeated her name, and she tossed her head, glaring, her golden-red hair swirled around her, and then she was gone. Like a monkey, Freedom climbed the tree until he was perched high up in the branches. He watched her running down the courtyard and could see the uniformed figure pacing up and down impatiently.

By the time Evelyne, out of breath, reached David, he was irate. He could not believe the state she had managed to get herself into. Her hair was loose, her clothes, dreadful to start with, were creased and damp. As he inhaled angrily he caught the stench of cow dung. He gestured for her to climb into the passenger seat, not even bothering to open the door for her, then slammed the car into gear with a crashing, grinding noise. The car jolted forward so fast that Evelyne was pressed back against the seat.

Hearing a peal of laughter, Evelyne turned, looked back at the inn to see a blonde girl standing at one of the top windows. She was in her underwear, and even from this distance Evelyne could see her thickly painted red lips.

‘Coooeeee, David … coooeee, lovey … David …’ David looked up at the window, and to Evelyne’s horror the girl blatantly bared her breast, flicked her tongue out at David and shrieked with raucous laughter. Evelyne couldn’t believe her eyes — she looked at David, then back at the inn. An officer in uniform was now standing behind the blonde woman, and he too was roaring with laughter.

‘Who’s that, David? Who is that terrible woman?’

David snapped, his face furious, ‘That is a cheap whore, a paid woman, a prostitute, a tart, a common slag …’

‘But why was she calling you?’

‘How the hell do I know? Shut up, I don’t want to talk about it.’

He ground his teeth, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. He felt dirty, the women had wanted more money, although he knew Ridgely had paid them already, and it annoyed him. They were just like the whores in France, out for every cent they could get. He felt unclean, used, and wanted to get home for a bath as fast as he could. He hadn’t really enjoyed himself, it was all bravado — the Ridgelys of this world, rich as Croesus, loved the tarts, the whores, but David didn’t. He made up his mind he wouldn’t go with another. They were all the same. Worse was the humiliation, because Ridgely had told him he’d been watching his performance, and it would be all round the barracks in no time.

‘I saw a gypsy boy …’

David looked at her, through her, and muttered something inaudible as he swerved the car round the gatepost of the inn.

Freedom remained high up in the tree. He whistled softly, then watched the sports car bouncing across the cobbled courtyard. He screeched like a bird, high-pitched … Evelyne saw him just as he swung down from the tree and raised his arm, waving to her. She turned away quickly, annoyed at herself for wanting to take another look. David swung the car along a track running beside a field, then out into a narrow lane. ‘Do we have to go so fast?’

David said nothing, but he slowed down. The weeds and brambles on either side of the lane scratched against the sides of the open car, and Evelyne held her hands up to protect her face. When she took them down again she saw Freedom on his stallion, galloping through the fields alongside them. He rode bareback, clinging to the horse’s mane, urging it forward and jumping the hedgerows, keeping up with the car, he was going so fast … Evelyne stared, it frightened her, the black horse, the boy so dark, his shoulder-length hair streaming out behind him. She gasped, clung to the windscreen — ahead of the horse and rider was a high, fenced hedge. He would never make it, he couldn’t, it was too high. She screamed.

Freedom urged the gry on, felt the muscles straining beneath him, and then they were flying through the air. He let rip with a shout of sheer exhilaration, pure joy …

‘Stop! David, stop … stop!’

The car screeched to a halt, almost in a ditch.

‘What is it, what?’

But horse and rider had disappeared, there wasn’t even the sound of hooves.

‘Evelyne, for God’s sake what’s the matter? Did we hit something?’

‘No, no, it was nothing, it was no one.’

Freedom stood with his arms wrapped around his stallion’s neck, their lungs heaving as though they were one. The horse tossed his magnificent head, snorting, and Freedom laughed.

‘Did thee see her, Kaulo?’ Isn’t she rinkeney, eh boy?’

Minnie the housemaid had run a steaming bath and was hovering at the bathroom door. She had been given instructions by the doctor himself to clean the girl up because she smelt so much. Minnie felt sorry for her, and even more so when Evelyne had stripped off — she was like a skeleton, and her ribs could be seen clearly. As for her undergarments, they were not even fit to clean the brass with.

Doris still lay in the darkened room with an icepack on her forehead. She had not touched her food, even the slightest noise seemed to pain her. Dr Collins sat with her for a while, taking her temperature. He was not too worried, saying it was just a migraine.

‘But I feel so ill, and sometimes I just go dizzy, like a fainting fit, and the pain moves from one side of my head to the other.’

The Doctor pursed his lips, hissed softly and looked, as always, at his fob watch. ‘Well, you rest up, don’t worry about the young gel, perhaps if you could eat a small meal … I’ll get Minnie to bring you something on a tray.’

Doris murmured that she didn’t feel well enough to eat, and the strain of talking made her head worse as if thousands of tiny hammers were beating against her eyes. Evelyne slipped into the hot, soapy water, her face pink with embarrassment at seeing Minnie pick up her clothes as if she had fleas, and holding them from her at arm’s length.

‘I fell in a cow pat, but I washed them.’ Minnie murmured that judging by the smell, she’d brought the cows home with her. The problem was that Evelyne had no change of clothes and even if Minnie washed them, they’d never be dry before dinner. Minnie soaped Evelyne’s back and bony shoulders, then went to the door, locked it tight, and leant over the bathtub, speaking in a whisper.

‘I’ll bring you some things, but don’t say nothin’ about where I got ‘em from, all right lovey?’

She nipped out of the bathroom and was back within minutes with a neat pile of fresh white underwear. There was a camisole with a small frill round the neck, a pair of satin bloomers with elastic at the knees, and a petticoat.

‘They was the Mistress’s, but he don’t know what’s in the wardrobe. Me an’ cook have delved in there a few times, see, everything’s just left in the drawers, terrible waste.’

Evelyne blushed with shame at Minnie stealing from the Doctor’s dead wife.

Unlike the rest of the house, there was warmth and friendliness in the big basement kitchen. Mrs Darwin, the cook, was a round, fat woman who bellowed with laughter when she saw Evelyne in the huge bloomers, and gave her a wet, motherly kiss. Evelyne’s hand-me-downs were steaming on the fireguard and an iron sat on the burner ready to press them.

The front doorbell chimed and Minnie rushed out. They had visitors and the Doctor asked for tea to be served right away. Evelyne watched the fat Mrs Darwin move like lightning, setting the tea tray, wrapping a gold frill around the cake, cutting tiny cucumber sandwiches, everything done fast and efficiently.

Evelyne, not wanting to get in the way, sat quietly by the fireside, taking it all in.

‘He wants you in for tea, lovely, he’s asking where you are.’

Mrs Darwin threw up her hands in despair. How could the girl go up in her bloomers, her skirt wasn’t ironed yet. Minnie fetched the ironing cloths, laid them on the edge of the kitchen table and began to press the skirt. Mrs Darwin tried to tidy Evelyne’s hair, but she’d never before had to cope with such length and such thickness, and in the end decided to put it in a long braid down her back, whipping out the ribbon from the frilled camisole and tying it in a bow. At the same time Minnie helped Evelyne into the freshly-pressed skirt, and banged the iron over the blouse.

‘Shoes, where’s the girl’s shoes, for heaven’s sake, Minnie?’

Evelyne was painfully self-conscious, Minnie’s shoes were too tight and made high-pitched squeaking noises as she entered the drawing-room. Dr Collins rose to his feet and introduced Evelyne to the two guests who were sitting, straightbacked, on the velvet sofa.

‘This is the young girl I was telling you about, this is Evelyne … Lady Sybil Warner, and her daughter, Heather.’

The pair looked so regal, Evelyne wondered if she should curtsey. Lady Warner shimmered with rows and rows of multi-coloured beads, amber and ivory, draped across her ample bosom. Her daughter, dressed in oyster silk with a matching hat, had unfortunate buck teeth, which made her appear to smirk. Evelyne shook the outstretched, beringed hand, then squeaked her way to a chair.

‘Lady Sybil has very kindly invited you to a soiree this evening, Evelyne, and as Doris is no better, I er … well, I…’

Evelyne had not the slightest notion what a soiree was. She gave the Doctor a perplexed look as Lady Sybil spoke in a very high-pitched warbling tone, as if savouring each trill and tremor.

‘We all have to do our part for the war effort, and I am sure you will enjoy yourself. Some of the boys are from the hospital, some are on leave, always good to have a new dancing partner … Heather?’

Heather blinked, startled.

‘Come along, dear, we must be on our way.’ Lady Sybil rose majestically to her feet, ‘Thank you so much for your advice, I will make sure Heather remains on your diet… so nice to meet you, Eevaleen.’

Heather gave Evelyne a doleful look as she followed her mother. Just as Lady Sybil and Dr Collins reached the hall, David arrived home. He removed his hat with a sweeping gesture.

‘Lady Sybil, I must apologize for my lateness, but I was held up at the barracks.’

‘Don’t apologize, David dear, quite understandable, and we shall be seeing you both this evening. Heather, say hello to David. Thank you again, Dr Collins, come along, Heather.’

Evelyne craned forward to see them depart and then went over to the window. A Rolls-Royce was parked outside, with a uniformed chauffeur holding the door open. She could hear David and his father talking in the hall.

‘Don’t tell me, Pa, you are actually socializing this evening?’

‘No, no, I’m on duty, but Lady Sybil kindly invited Evelyne.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, most kind, Doris isn’t well enough to travel, it’ll be a nice outing for the girl.’

‘Outing? Outing? Father, it’s a dance, really, you might have discussed it with me.’

‘You weren’t here … where are you going? David?’

David looked into the drawing-room and met Evelyne’s startled gaze. He cocked his head to one side.

‘Well, it appears Cinderella’s been invited to the ball.’

The next moment David was running up the stairs calling for Minnie to run his bath. Soiree, dance, now a ball — Evelyne couldn’t make out what on earth they were talking about. Dr Collins walked in and caught her bewildered expression. He felt sorry for her. ‘Pay him no attention, you’d like to go, wouldn’t you?’

Evelyne chewed her lip. Just thinking of spending an evening with David made her so excited she couldn’t speak. The Doctor opened his wallet and coughed, a nervous, ticklish cough.

‘Don’t suppose you brought a party frock with you, so, Minnie …?’

Minnie was just rushing up the stairs after David.

‘I’m just going to run Master David’s bath, he’s already had one today so I don’t know how hot the water will be.’

‘Minnie, will you take Evelyne out and get her a frock to wear for a dance?’

The Doctor handed Minnie a folded note and then glanced at his fob watch, murmured that he must be off and scuttled out. Minnie looked at the five-pound note and her jaw dropped.

‘Lord love us, look how much he give me! Get your coat, lovely, I’ll be two minutes.’

Evelyne hadn’t even had time to thank Dr Collins, it had all happened so quickly. She squeaked up the stairs after Minnie, who disappeared into the bathroom to run David’s bath.

Evelyne was buttoning her coat when she saw David coming out of his room, barefoot and wrapping his dressing gown around him.

‘Well, well, appears we are going out together tonight.’

Evelyne swallowed, unable to look into his teasing, smiling face. As she passed him he quickly tugged her hair. She stopped, but he continued down the corridor to the bathroom.

Minnie was waiting for Evelyne at the foot of the stairs.

‘Come on, hurry, I don’t want to be caught by Mrs Darwin, she’ll find something for me to do and we need all the time we can get. Come on, we’ll go out the front way.’

Evelyne followed her out and as the door closed behind them, Minnie snorted.

‘I never known a man take so many baths, ever so particular, isn’t he?’

David was actually in rather a good mood. The chaps had ribbed him quite a lot about his afternoon at the inn, but he was now very much ‘in’ with the ‘in’ set, and everyone had been impressed with Ridgely’s account of David’s prowess with the two ladies.

He lay in the perfumed, soapy water. His skin tingled as he scrubbed himself hard with the loofah, worried that he may have picked up some disease from the tarts. He shivered with revulsion, remembering their bodies: he couldn’t understand why on earth Ridgely and the other officers enjoyed these prostitutes. They revolted him, but the improvement in his reputation made it worthwhile. He set about scrubbing himself with renewed vigour, perhaps he would find someone more to his liking at the Warners’ dance.

Evelyne and Minnie took the tram into the centre of Cardiff. They didn’t go to any of the big stores with the elegant models in the windows — they went down a back lane into a small second-hand shop run by a Jewish family. Minnie assured Evelyne that this was where all the posh people who had fallen on hard times sold off their dresses, and they were sure to find something at half the price they would pay in any of the fashion houses. The added bonus of this arrangement was that, as Minnie knew one of the shop assistants, maybe they would get a few shillings off their purchases.

Jeremiah Goldstein’s tailoring establishment and pawn shop was a back street hovel. Rows and rows of suits hung on racks, and there were shirts stacked to the ceiling. Minnie knew everyone in the shop, and Evelyne wondered how many of the doctor’s wife’s clothes had found their way here.

Minnie’s friend was named Clara. They kissed and joked with each other, then Clara opened up an Aladdin’s cave of ball gowns, feather boas and sequins. There was a smell of body odour in the room, of stale perfume clinging to the garments. Clara walked around Evelyne, looking her up and down.

‘She’s a right bugger to fit, our Minnie, she’s all skin and bone for one, and then there’s her height. She’s not a dainty one, that’s for sure.’

Gown after gown was taken down from the rails. Whether they were too short or too long they all looked of her wedding day, of her beloved Walter. That was what Evelyne had looked like, a bride.

There was a sweeping gravel driveway, and several other cars already parked by the house. Evelyne’s head was spinning, she had never seen such comings and goings. The mansion was white, with pillars and huge trees on either side. Lamps illuminated the garden and the lake, and on the velvety lawns the bushes were thread with tiny glass candleholders all in different colours. She had to pinch herself to believe she wasn’t dreaming.

David waited at the bottom of the steps with a look of irritation on his handsome face as Evelyne stumbled out of the car. He sighed, knowing this was a mistake. She’d almost fallen flat on her face and they weren’t even inside yet. Together they walked up the steps to the main entrance. The double doors stood wide to reveal a marble hallway with more footmen and guests milling about. Music drifted from a ballroom with gilt-edged glass doors, flowers arranged on pedestals at least four feet high exuded their perfume into the air, vying with the fragrances of the laughing, chattering ladies. The sights, the smells, textures and ambience of wealth overpowered Evelyne. Her heart seemed to jump in her chest, her breath came in short gasps, and tremors shook her body. Only the gentle touch of David’s hand on her elbow gave her the assurance that this was real, not a dream from which she would soon awaken. But her over-riding emotion was terror. Behind the masks of smiles, the bows of the footmen, the fleeting glances from the other guests, Evelyne felt they could see right through her — they could see she didn’t belong, she was an outsider.

A small, sweet, white-haired woman was taking care of the guests’ cloaks. She darted forward to help Evelyne with hers, then with a tiny wave of her hand she directed her to a powder room with a row of gilt-edged mirrors and small velvet piano stools. At least, that was what they looked like to Evelyne. Several girls sat or stood around chattering and powdering their faces, touching the flowers in their hair, dabbing themselves with chiffon hankies dipped in crystal bottles of cologne. Their bracelets jangled and their diamonds glittered. They greeted each other in squealing voices, flinging their arms around each other. Kisses were exchanged, and admiring remarks about each other’s frocks.

One of the stools became vacant, and Evelyne sat down and mimicked the actions of the girl next to her. She was like a tiny china doll, with pale blonde, curly hair, wide blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She wore the palest pink gown, and her tiny feet were encased in satin shoes. She turned for a moment, giving Evelyne an icy stare that swept from the top of her head to the scrubbed, second-hand shoes. She continued talking to her friends as she stared, then turned back, leaned slightly forward and cupped her hands to her tiny rosebud mouth. Her friends tittered and two other girls leaned back slightly to stare at Evelyne.

David hovered outside, waiting for her. He saw everyone coming out and wondered what on earth Evelyne could be doing in there. Then his look of impatience changed. Leaving the powder room was an angel. Lady Primrose Boyd-Carpenter couldn’t help but notice David, who was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. As she passed him she gave him a tiny smile. David’s heart lurched in his chest and, forgetting Evelyne, he turned and followed the vision in the floating pink. She appeared to be very well-known, everyone acknowledged her. Officers kissed her hand as she made her way slowly towards the ballroom. Twice she turned back, aware that David was following, then she was surrounded by a chattering party of people. David caught the arm of his closest friend, Captain Freddy Carlton.

‘Freddy, who is she, who is she?’

Freddy laughed, raised his eyebrows.

‘Not for you, old chap, she’s already taken, that is Lady Primrose Boyd-Carpenter.’

‘Introduce me, you have to introduce me, I’m in love.’

Freddy beamed, his round, good-natured face glowed above his solid frame.

‘So am I, and I was there before you, she’s mine, so don’t you dare move in. I’ve been after her for months.’

David leaned against the wall, watching Freddy, full of himself, easing his way through the crowd to Lady Primrose’s side. She turned her heart-shaped, perfect face to smile up at Freddy, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, slipping his hand through his arm. David could have sworn she flicked a knowing look at him as she began to introduce Freddy to her party of friends. The titles rolled, Lady this, the Honourable that, and again David could have sworn that her wicked, twinkling smile was for him alone. He was besotted.

Captain Ridgely, already flushed with champagne, breezed up to David. ‘Lovely little thing, isn’t she, but I’m here to tell you it’s a kiss on the cheek from that quarter. Place your hand on that type of gel’s knee and all hell gets let loose.’

David pointed towards Lady Primrose, ‘Line me up there, Ridgely, and you’ll be my friend for life.’

Ridgely snorted. ‘You must be joking, that’s Lady Primmy, old boy, her family owns most of the mines in these parts. Besides, Freddy Carlton’s got a pash for her, look at the drooling idiot. Her family no doubt already has it arranged, ya know, titles and money always marry each other … you, having neither, don’t stand a chance … oh, I say, this is more my line, look what’s hovering yonder.’

David turned to see poor Evelyne standing awkwardly at the powder-room door. Angry at Ridgely’s insinuation that Lady Primrose wouldn’t even consider him, he snapped.

‘That’s unfortunately with me, some wretched charge of my aunt’s, if you want her, for goodness’ sake take her …’

At that moment a fuzzy blonde swept into Ridgely’s arms and demanded a dance. He departed, giving David a lewd wink.

‘Another time, what?’

David sighed and walked across to Evelyne. Begrudgingly, he gave her his arm and led her towards the ballroom.

The next disaster was the dancing. It had never occurred to Evelyne that at this sort of dance they didn’t do jigs, and gallop around like they did in the Salvation Army Hall. David led her to a small couch and told her to sit there while he fetched her a glass of champagne. He then disappeared into the throng of dancers. Most of the young men were in uniform, and everyone seemed to know everyone else, calling out, waving, and whizzing past on the dance floor.

Evelyne sat waiting, looking and waiting, and eventually David came back to her side with champagne in a delicate, fluted glass.

‘Don’t gulp it, Flamehead, just sip.’

Lady Primrose danced past, giving David another flickering, darting glance, and he turned and gazed after her pink, floating figure. Then he moved away without another word, and Evelyne wrinkled her nose as the champagne bubbles fizzed, but she quite liked the taste. It was sharper than lemonade, and icy cold, and she drained the glass and sat twiddling the stem.

David danced past with Heather Warner. The girl was sweating, swathed in tulle and net, and while she looked like a powder puff, David made her feel like the most important girl at the dance. He leaned close, feeling her plump, jelly-like body quiver.

‘Tell me, Heather, that girl in pink, is it Lady Primrose? Only I am sure I know her family …’

Heather trod on his foot as she peered round, then blinked up into his handsome face.

‘Yes, Lady Primrose Boyd-Carpenter. She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’

David smiled into the buck teeth and held Heather closer, placed his cheek against hers. She sighed, her frustrated passion mounting. ‘Oh, she’s all right … I must say, you’re very light on your feet, Heather.’

The poor girl nearly swooned, unaware that David was slowly manoeuvring her closer and closer to Lady Primrose, until she was forced to introduce him.

‘Primrose, this is David Collins, David, Lady Primrose Boyd-Carpenter.’

David bowed, kissing the delicate, white-gloved hand, and asked if he would be permitted a dance. Lady Primmy excused herself to Freddy, who was glowering at David, and they moved off to the centre of the floor. She was so fragile, so delicate, and he held her as if she were precious glass, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She smelt so fresh, her hair shone and her wondrous eyes sparkled, and dancing with her was like twirling a feather. Neither of them spoke, they just looked into one another’s eyes, then smiled as Freddy huffed and puffed past, pushing Heather around as if she were a wheelbarrow.

A butler approached Evelyne with a large silver tray, and bent low towards her. She wasn’t sure what he wanted, and she looked, licked her lips and placed her empty glass on the tray. He still waited, so she took another full one and smiled her thanks.

At the far end of the dance floor sat a group of uniformed soldiers. Two of them wore arm bandages, one had a large pad on one eye. Another sat in a wheelchair. They seemed out of place, holding the fluted glasses with care, afraid to drop them or snap them in their big fists, as they watched the dancers gliding past. Evelyne could tell they were as uncomfortable as she was.

Lady Sybil Warner looked over at Evelyne then searched the ballroom for David. The poor girl was still sitting alone on the sofa. Lady Sybil weaved her way towards Evelyne. More beads and feathers than ever floated around her, she was like a ship in full sail. ‘Now, dear, are you enjoying yourself? Come along, come along, let me introduce you to some young men, can’t have you sitting all alone, now can we? Follow me, come along.’

She introduced Evelyne to the young soldiers. Her feathers tickled their noses and she got everyone’s names wrong, but they were all so nervous they didn’t like to correct her. Evelyne sat and tried to think of something interesting to say, but nothing would break through her headful of pins and bows.

‘Would you like to dance, Miss?’

Evelyne bit her lip, then hedged, and finally admitted it — she actually couldn’t dance. The soldier boy laughed, throwing back his head.

‘We all thought you was a duchess sittin’ over yonder, too good for the likes of us. Yer can’t dance, girl, is that true?’

Evelyne nodded. These lads weren’t the same as the young officers on the dance floor, they were her own kind, like her brothers.

‘Well, I’ve never done this fancy two-and-two-step, but can you polka?’

Evelyne nodded, she could do a polka all right. Lizzie-Ann had taught her that. So they waited for a polka and now they were talking freely to her and asking questions. They came from different parts, but they all had families working the mines.

As the boys talked Evelyne’s eyes kept straying to the dancers. David was dancing yet again with Lady Primrose, they looked perfect together. Heather appeared with small beads of sweat along her upper lip, her dress stained at the armpits.

‘Are you enjoying yourselves? Food will be served in a moment.’

‘Would you like to dance, miss?’ ‘Pardon?’

‘Dance, you want a dance?’

Heather licked her rabbit teeth, nonplussed, and stuck out her arms. The young soldier, wearing heavy boots, guided her on to the floor. All the boys sniggered and whispered about her teeth.

‘Always the way, ain’t it, eh? All this money an’ she

got a face like a buckin’ bronco, she looks like she’s

been eatin’ too many of these toffees her family makes.’

Evelyne knew she shouldn’t but she couldn’t help

laughing with the lads.

One boy, the boy in the wheelchair, didn’t smile, he sat staring into the dancers as if they weren’t there. His eyes were glazed, dead, empty. Evelyne moved to the seat next to him. The boy seemed hardly aware of her. A red-haired soldier with bright red cheeks moved along to sit beside Evelyne.

. ‘He’ll not talk, he’s shell-shocked, he don’t know where he is, been like it for two days since they brought him home.’

Four more soldiers pulled their chairs closer, forming a protective circle with the vacant-eyed boy in the centre. They started to talk as if they needed to, the dancing and the champagne were all very well, but they had seen things, terrible things, and none of them wanted to go back. Their stories gushed out like rivers in flood, and Evelyne listened. She wanted to hold them in her arms, she felt their fear and confusion, and thought of Dicken and her darling brother Mike; they had gone off to a war she knew nothing about. The more the lads talked about what they were up against, the more Evelyne feared for her brothers. War was a long way from this elegant house, the orchestra, the young, dashing men in their cavalry uniforms. Evelyne realized that many of the so-called officers had never been to the Front. They were all show, like peacocks, in their braid and polished boots.

‘Wait ‘til they see what the Germans are like, lot of them won’t be dancin’ then, be lucky if they still got their legs.’

The tight group was suddenly aware that couples were drifting into a large side room where a long trestle table had been laid out, the weight of the food bending the legs. Food! The lads rose in unison, then they remembered they were with a lady and turned back, but she grinned at them. She stood up and moved to the silent one, bent over him, touched his face. The lads moved off towards the food and Evelyne took hold of the silent boy’s hand.

‘Would you like something to eat, lad?’

The vacant eyes stared towards her — so empty they frightened her. Slowly the boy lifted his hand. It was a strange move, his hand wavered, moving to her face. Then she felt his rough hand touch her cheek. She held his hand and kissed his fingers. The sad-eyed boy was so helpless, so cut off from reality, and his mouth moved, he was trying to speak. She moved her head closer.

‘Mama …?’

Evelyne piled up a plate with chicken and ham, sweet rolled things with bacon wrapped around them, and tiny sausages on wooden sticks. The plate was so full, she dared not heap on any more. She was unaware of anyone watching her, of the nudges and the smiles or of David’s eyes, bright and angry. He was ashamed, it looked as though the girl had never eaten in her life. Lady Primrose at his side ate with delicate, bird-like movements. She smiled up at him with her rosebud mouth.

‘Do tell me, David, who on earth is that creature, and where exactly did you find her?’

David was very angry and flushed with embarrassment, he glared at Evelyne and then turned his back on her.

‘My aunt works in a school in one of the mining villages, she’s some sort of orphan, one has to do one’s bit.’

Lady Primrose muttered, ‘Poor thing’, and her sweet voice trilled, agreeing that of course one simply had to do one’s bit.

Several of the guests watched the tall girl in the flowing gown as she walked straight back to the sad, vacant-eyed boy in his wheelchair. They watched her place the napkin across his knee. Then she sat next to him and gently fed the boy with her own hands.

If anyone felt guilty they didn’t admit it, but they remembered then the reason for the dance. It was not for flirting and courting, it was to give the boys who had come from the Front a night to remember. They were aware that the number of boys actually from the Front was exceedingly small, but then they knew mostly young officers anyway. Lady Primrose murmured, and it was hastily passed on, that Evelyne was a poor orphaned soul and all the gels there would react the same way if the officers they danced with came home wounded.

The ballroom had become very hot, the hundreds of candles and the great chandelier in the centre of the room shimmered and cigar smoke hung in a haze from the small smoking room. David seemed to have disappeared. The red-haired soldier pressed his face up against the window and rubbed the condensation clear as he gazed out into the garden.

‘Eh, there’s a big bird yonder with a long feathered tail!’

Two more of the boys scrambled up to stare out of the windows. They were becoming a trifle rowdy, having discovered that there were spirits to drink. Evelyne excused herself, she could feel her dress sticking to her body and could hardly breathe in the heat of the room.

There were several couples standing outside the gilded doors that opened on to a flower-strewn balcony overlooking the gardens with steps that led down either side to the velvet lawns. Evelyne was grateful for the cool night air and breathed deeply; no smoke, no soot here, the air was fresh and clean. She wandered down the garden, bending to smell the perfume of the roses, pure sweet fragrances in comparison to the ladies’ scents.

The peacock screamed and it made Evelyne jump, then the bird swung its head and turned. As if dancing for her, it spread its tail, the colours shining in the twinkling lamplight. She laughed, thrilled by the sheer beauty of the bird, and moved closer and closer, and was suddenly knocked right off her feet by the most enormous dog she had ever seen. She sprawled face down, and the dog licked her cheek.

A small, rotund gentleman in rather ill-fitting evening clothes came rushing round the rosebushes. Red-faced, puffing with exertion, he made a grab for the dog’s trailing lead and landed with a thud next to Evelyne.

‘I apologize profusely, Madam …’

The dog stood over him and licked his face, making the gentleman’s snow-white hair stand on end. Evelyne was on her feet first, and helped the gentleman to his feet. He bowed, and with one hand holding the dog’s lead he apologized again, but his eyes twinkled and his arm was jerked back and forth. He whispered that he was just giving his friend a spot of exercise before he had to parade like the peacock he’d just scared off.

The gentleman’s manner was so warm and friendly that Evelyne found herself automatically linking arms with him, and together they walked around the wonderful gardens. He pointed out various flowers to her, he knew almost every one by name. He asked her name, repeated it, and then wanted to know all about her and where she came from. Evelyne told him, and when she started to explain about her gown, and Bertha and Minnie, the laughter shook his whole body, his right arm still constantly being jerked by the massive St Bernard.

‘But you can polka, is that right? Well then, may I ask you to give me the honour of a polka, or would you like me to give you the fastest dancing lesson? I’m not what you might call a light one on my feet, but by God I can and would love to waltz with you.’

There on the lawn, with his dog tied to a privet hedge and instructed to sit, the white-haired gentleman began to teach Evelyne the simplest one-two-three waltz step. He kept up a funny commentary about ‘Now you move back, now you come forward, not on my foot, young lady, turn yourself around, that’s a girl, by God you’re light on your feet, just like a fawn … round you go again …’

The strains of the orchestra drifted down to the lawn as they danced, the old gentleman with his head full of white hair, and the tall skinny girl in the old-fashioned gown.

The St Bernard was then dragged off, and Evelyne returned to the house. She examined her face in the powder-room mirror. Her skin was shining, her cheeks rosy from the fresh night air, and Bertha’s coiffure about to tumble down from its hundreds of pins. The orchestra stopped playing, and two girls rushed out of the room. The attendant peeked around the door.

‘He’s here, he’s here himself, be quick or you’ll miss him.’

Evelyne rushed to the door, not really knowing who it was she might miss.

A crowd had gathered at the ballroom doors. Sybil Warner was on the bandstand, and to thunderous applause she introduced Lloyd George himself. Evelyne could just see his shock of white hair above the heads of the group listening by the door. He gave a short, rousing speech, thanked Sybil for her efforts, and toasted ‘The Boys in Uniform’, wishing them God’s luck and telling them to enjoy themselves while they could. Then he turned to the waiting orchestra, and in his enormous, mellifluous voice, demanded to know if they could play a polka, he was exceedingly fond of the polka…..

Lloyd George stepped down from the bandstand, and searched the faces of the guests. He caught sight of Evelyne and gave her a bow, held his hand out to her as the orchestra struck up a polka. He led the blushing Evelyne to the centre of the ballroom, whispered to her that she was doing just fine, and they danced. For the first few bars they danced alone on the huge floor, then other couples joined them. Lady Sybil complained to David, her nose completely out of joint, that she should have opened the dancing with Lloyd George, it was outrageous. David didn’t seem to hear her, he just stared at Evelyne. How in God’s name had that come about? Captain Ridgely passed David and whispered to him from the side of his mouth.

‘Old boy certainly can pick ‘em, what? Stunning-looking gel.’

David glanced at Evelyne and raised one eyebrow slightly.

‘Takes all tastes, old chap, but then he is notorious for his rough side, gel’s an orphan from the valleys.’

Captain Ridgely murmured that Lloyd George wasn’t the only one who liked a bit of rough. He nudged David and winked.

‘I did a good turn for you, what you say you arrange something for me with that delicious redhead, is it a deal? What you say?’

David glanced at Evelyne; she made no impression on him whatever, the common touch left him cold. However, David wanted to keep on the right side of Ridgely, and he gave him an equally lewd wink and returned the nudge.

David could see Lady Primrose talking quietly with Freddy Carlton. Now there was someone who really interested him. Not only was she virginal, beautiful and wealthy but, to add icing to the already delicious cake, she was titled. David leaned close to Ridgely and whispered. They both glanced at Evelyne and then put their heads together again.

The dance seemed to end all too quickly, and Lloyd George moved off towards the soldiers, sat with them and talked and listened earnesdy. As he got up to leave he touched the top of the sad-eyed boy’s head. He didn’t look back at Evelyne until he reached the main doors, then he smiled to her, and with a wave of his hand he was gone.

The orchestra began to move out of their seats, and a band of colourful gypsy men and women entered the ballroom. The women wore bright skirts and headbands, and were decked out in gold jewellery. They smiled and ‘entertained’ their audience, but their eyes were unfathomable. Smiling lips, friendly gestures, and yet there was an untouchable air to them. They remained aloof, distant.

The fiddlers played well, walking around the room while waiters served tea and brandy. Some guests were already departing, others sat talking. A large group, mostly women, moved into the cardroom, where two gypsy women prepared to read fortunes from palms and Tarot cards. There was no need to cross their palms with silver, as Sybil had settled an overall price with them before their arrival. The soldiers were leaving, returning to their barracks, hospitals and rest homes.

Evelyne searched in vain for David, and strolled out on to the balcony. It was very late now, almost eleven-thirty. She was tired, and her mind was full of the events of the evening. She kept biting her lip to stop herself smiling. She had danced with Lloyd George himself! In actual fact, Evelyne had not the slightest idea who he was but she, the outsider, had been the centre of attention for one moment… she wished Lizzie-Ann or her Da could have seen her. There was so much to tell them, they wouldn’t believe it. She wondered if she would be allowed to keep her frock. If so, she’d give it to Lizzie-Ann. Evelyne just knew it was her style, she’d just die for it.

Evelyne didn’t notice the boy, she hadn’t heard his step, and he scared her. He was staring up at her from the grass below, head to one side, and he didn’t look away when she looked down. He kept his eyes on her face. Black, cold eyes … then he smiled, and she remembered him, it was the gypsy boy from the field.

Freedom moved up to the balcony steps, stealthily like a cat, his back to the white stone. His hair gleamed black as his eyes, and they never left her face. His gaze, was magnetic, she could feel him, closer, closer, and his eyes were drawing her to him. He stopped two steps below her, and then he whispered, ‘One two three, one two three …’

For a moment Evelyne didn’t know what he meant, then he rocked his body as if dancing, and she knew he must have watched her practising on the lawn. He climbed higher and there was now only one step between them. He lifted his hand towards her, his eyes still staring intendy into hers. ‘Read your palm …’

Evelyne leaned forward slightly, her hand towards him, palm up. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes raised to hers, and kissed the centre of her palm. She curled her fingers and tried to draw her hand away, but he caught it and held it tight.

A woman seemed to spring from the darkness. Her head was swathed in a shawl, partially hiding her face, and she wore a long, dark skirt and heavy gold necklace. Her voice was soft, but sharp.

‘Freedom … Freedom …’

He turned to the woman, gave her a hard look, almost vicious. Releasing Evelyne’s arm, he glanced at her briefly, then turned and moved lightly down the steps, following the woman into the darkness of the bushes. But before he was out of earshot he heard a voice call.

‘Evelyne!’

David stood at the balcony doors, his face set with anger. He had seen the incident. He moved to Evelyne’s side and gripped her elbow tightly.

‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Come inside, we’re leaving.’

Lady Sybil joined them as they entered the ballroom. Patting David’s arm she asked if they had both enjoyed themselves, surely they were not going to leave before the last waltz.

‘I insist that you stay for just a little while longer, dear boy, your charge will just adore the fortune-tellers … come along and sit with me … Heather, dear, see if you can get the waiters to bring us coffee.’

David gave Evelyne a curt nod, and she went to join the girls waiting in line by the gypsy woman’s table.

David could see Lady Primrose and her party leaving. She didn’t even turn to look at him, hadn’t even said goodbye.

The gypsy musicians were packing their fiddles into their old, worn cases. They had done their allotted time and wanted to leave. They still smiled and their manners were perfect, but they were like trained animals on display. The older of the two gypsy women looked at one of the fiddlers, and he gave a tiny sign with his hand to tell her their time was up. Two of the girls moaned that they had been waiting for ages, surely they wouldn’t disappoint them now. Paying not the slightest attention, the women packed up their cards, slipping them into their worn packets, and, folding their shawls around them, they started to leave. The younger woman brushed past Evelyne, then stopped and turned back. Her skin was dark and tawny, her eyes the same as the young boy’s, the boy called Freedom. She stared into Evelyne’s face, touched her hair. Her hands were rough, the fingernails cut short and straight across. With a quick look at her menfolk she wavered, seemed nervous. The men waited impatiently, but she remained at Evelyne’s side. One of the disappointed girls pushed forward, her hand held out, but the woman ignored it, brushed it from her as she would a buzzing fly. She. pulled Evelyne’s hand, unfurled the fingers and stared into the palm, the same palm the gypsy boy had kissed. The gnarled finger traced along the thin lines, and she could feel the roughness of this ‘lady’s‘ hand. She looked up into frightened eyes, eyes the colour of the cold northern seas, and for a moment she hesitated, about to speak. Then she turned and joined her menfolk.

The ballroom was virtually empty now, the servants were clearing the debris, collecting the glasses. The sweet-faced powder-room attendant slipped the black mourning cloak around Evelyne’s shoulders.

‘This’ll be a night you won’t forget, child. God bless you.’

Mrs Darwin heard the front door open into the darkened hallway. She wondered if Minnie had stayed awake to see to the couple. The stairs creaked and she lay back. They must be going straight to their rooms.

David walked ahead of Evelyne up the stairs, then put his finger to his lips and pointed down, creeping on tiptoe and gesturing for her to follow him into the dark drawing room. She tiptoed after him, and they bumped in the doorway. After shutting the door David lit the gas lamp with a taper from the still-glowing fire. His face twisted into a snide smile.

‘Well, my little Flame, didn’t you do well? Polka with Lloyd George, kissed by the riff-raff gypsy boy, and we never had one dance together …’

He opened the drinks cabinet, careful not to make a noise, and took out a bottle of brandy and a glass. Evelyne’s heart thudded, this was the moment she had dreamed of, alone with David, did he know she loved him, was he going to learn?

He poured a measure of brandy with care and sipped it, rolling it around his mouth, then looked at her over the rim of his glass, ‘You made a great impression on a friend of mine, Captain Ridgely.’ He didn’t even offer her a drink. ‘Yes, he was really taken with you. Comes from a good family, lots of loot … well, to cut a long story short, he wants to see you.’

Evelyne was puzzled. She asked who Ridgely was as she couldn’t recall meeting him.

‘I doubt if you will be going home tomorrow, so I said perhaps you could meet him at tea time, it’ll be up to you what you want to arrange with him.’

‘I don’t understand, what arrangements?’

David sighed. God, he thought, she really is stupid.

‘He likes you, I don’t want to get involved, it will be entirely up to you whether you go to meet him or not. I think you’d be throwing away a good opportunity, he’s very rich, could set you up in a little place of your own … and he’s not a bad chap, you should be flattered, girl like you won’t get many opportunities, especially if you have to stay in the valley all your life.’

Evelyne still stared, dumbfounded.

‘Good God, do I have to spell it out, you could earn money, he’d keep you if you pleased him enough …’

Evelyne’s hand swung out and slapped David hard across the face.

‘Christ, what did you do that for?’

Evelyne was hurt and shaking with anger. He was suggesting she sell herself, and to one of his friends.

‘Now, come along, I didn’t mean any harm, no need to get yourself all upset, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, all I said was I would ask you.’

Still Evelyne was speechless, staring at him, shocked, wide-eyed.

‘You stupid little girl, this was an opportunity for you, I’m sorry I even bothered with you.’ He walked out, leaving her confused and bewildered by all he had said, by his manner towards her. She could not remember the last time she had cried for herself — little Davey, Ma, that was different. She caught her breath as the sobs rose inside her. She wept for herself, for her stupidity, for the dream that had just been shattered. Her foolishness in believing, even for a moment, that she could be part of David Collins’ life filled her with shame. She ran up the stairs to her room, remembering to creep the last few steps so she would not waken Doris.

David’s bedroom door was ajar, and he was watching her as she tiptoed along the landing. Evelyne turned, caught him staring, and he gave her a strange, apologetic smile, then closed his door. The smile made it all the worse, his handsome, perfect face so far from her reach. All she wanted was to go home, home to her own people, her own class.

She cried herself to sleep, her face buried in the pillow, afraid to waken Doris. No one must know, ever, of her humiliation. Suddenly she remembered that

dreadful painted woman at the window of the inn, just like Nellie Lanigan from the village, she knew the men paid money to go with her. Evelyne sobbed into the handkerchief David had once given her, and even through her tears she could smell him, his faint lavender perfume.

Chapter 6

THE TWO brothers died with their arms around each other, Mike and Will, but the cable Benjamin Rces brought didn’t mention that, simply the dreaded words, ‘killed in action’. Dicken wrote a letter from the front dated March 1917 — it took four months to reach the village, and that was when they learned how the two brothers had died.

The Old Lion seemed to bend under the weight of their loss. The drinking had stopped when little Davey had been buried, and Hugh had found work in a small colliery. When the news of the boys’ death came he went straight back to work a double shift. Every morning he rose at dawn and, wrapped in his greatcoat and carrying his tea caddie, sandwiches and tools, he donned his cloth cap and silently left the house. Money was very short and there were now three lodgers who worked in the mine with Hugh.

Lizzie-Ann had been very brave. Rosie was now almost eighteen months old, a pretty little girl with rosy cheeks and curly hair. Lizzie-Ann had made considerable progress as far as housekeeping and cleaning were concerned. She was skinny again, and spent hours chalking and polishing the front step. Often she had a faraway look in her eyes, daydreaming, but she never talked about London now. She was grown up, a widow with a daughter to look after, a widow and still only just eighteen.

Evelyne worked at the local brick factory, tough, hard labour from six-thirty in the morning until three o’clock. In the afternoon she went to the schoolhouse to help the new teachers. Doris Evans was still at the school, but she taught the senior girls and boys. The only house without a lodger was Doris’ — she was still able to keep her four neat rooms to herself.

Poverty was everywhere in the village. The children scavenged for coal chips on the slag heaps, the men no longer sat eating their packed lunches together, laughing at what the missus had landed them with this time. They all knew they had the same, bread and dripping and tea.

Evelyne trudged up the hill to the schoolhouse. The rain was bucketing down, and she’d got soaked earlier in the day on the way to the brick factory. Her hands were raw and blistered, and she was as thin as ever. She had grown even taller, reaching five feet nine and a half inches. She was Hugh Jones’ daughter all right.

The schoolhouse was cold, the small fire banked low, and the children huddled in their overcoats to keep out the freezing draughts. Evelyne helped in the junior class and also cleaned the school.

Mr Matthews, the new headmaster, was elderly, and had actually retired, but he had come to take the place of the original headmaster who had joined up. He called Evelyne in.

‘Mrs Evans has not been in for the past two days, Miss Jones, will you look in on her?’

Evelyne pushed open the polished front door and called out. When she got no reply she began to worry, and went along the passage into the kitchen. It was neat and clean as ever, but empty and very cold. She hurried into the tiny living room. There were books on the table as always, but no sign of Doris. Eventually Evelyne found her lying in her clean bed with the starched white sheets. She was extremely pale and as Evelyne pushed open the door she asked, with a strange look on her face, ‘Walter, is that you?’ Doris didn’t seem to recognize Evelyne at all as she bent over the frail, thin woman and rubbed her icy hands. She pulled more blankets from the wardrobe and laid them on top of Doris.

The coal bunker was piled high, and Evelyne took the full bucket back into the bedroom, laid the fire and lit it. Then she found vegetables in their neat trays beneath the kitchen sink and made some broth. She held the frail woman in her arms, the skinny frame wrapped in the blankets, and gently spooned the hot soup into her. Slowly, Doris seemed to come to herself, and gave Evelyne such a heart-rending look that Evelyne said: ‘I’ll not leave you tonight, Doris, I’ll stay with you.’

She sat by the fire and read Dante’s Inferno until Doris slept, then she banked the fire, pulled a rug over herself and went to sleep.

The following morning Doc Clock came and examined Doris, muttering that she was not taking care of herself — and with her money! He stuck a thermometer into Doris’ bird-like mouth, and fumbled for the watch that wasn’t there, as usual. Doc Clock, the village said, would stick a thermometer into a dead man’s mouth and pronounce him perfectly fit.

Doris went very fast and as quietly as she had lived. Doc Clock said she had a brain tumour, must have had it for years. Lizzie-Ann, who always got everything wrong, told everyone that Doris had died from a brain rumour, and that she’d had it for years. Evelyne wrote to Dr Collins, taking the penny postage money from Doris’ little leather purse. The money was needed, but there was no reply to her letter.

Evelyne had to arrange for the coffin and the funeral, since there was no one else to do it. All the while she still worked at the brick factory and up at the school. She made sure Doris’ house was locked up tight, because already the coal bunker was empty and with things the way they were it was a wonder the furniture was still intact. Evelyne would shiver as she checked the house, knowing Doris was lying upstairs, cold and stiff.

Doris was buried beside her husband, Walter, in a simple ceremony attended only by Evelyne and a few villagers. In her neat handwriting, Evelyne noted down all the expenses she had paid out from the money she had found in the house, and how much was left, and sent the list to Dr Collins. Still she heard nothing back and often villagers passing the cold house would mutter, ‘What a waste’, the four rooms could easily be let and be making someone a few bob a week.

Lizzie-Ann ran from the post office with Dicken’s letter. All the women went every day and asked old Ben Rees if there was any news from the Front. Ben used to get angry, swearing that he did his three rounds a day with the post, and if there was a letter or any news they would be the first to know, but it still didn’t stop the women popping in and asking.

The pub would be lit up and the piano wheeled out when any of the boys came home on leave, only to be wheeled back again when they had to go again after too short a time. Then there would be the tears at the station and the Sunday prayers that the boys would come home.

Hugh and Rosie were sitting by the fire, playing with a bat and ball. Lizzie-Ann had gone on a date with a boy who had been invalided out of the army. He was a good-hearted boy with a bad limp, and Lizzie-Ann seemed to have some of her old sparkle back. ‘Will you not find yerself a lad then, Evie?’ Evelyne laughed, and carried the washing out to dry. Over her shoulder she told him she had no time to spare for lads. As she hung out the cold, worn trousers, she remembered the night she had danced with Lloyd George. She pictured David’s face and sighed. She still thought of him, almost every night and prayed every Sunday that he would be safe and unharmed. It was strange that she had received no word from David’s father in Cardiff, maybe they felt it best simply to forget poor Doris.

Summer was coming on and the war still raged. The villagers found it hard to picture their menfolk fighting in another country somewhere, even harder to understand what they were fighting for. The old boys sitting in the pub said they were after the bastard Germans, and that the Tommies would ‘wipe ‘em off the face of the earth’ — their lads could do it, it was as if only Welsh lads were over there.

Lizzie-Ann had decided to marry her young man with the limp. Evelyne made Jim feel welcome, even though it meant an extra mouth to feed in the house. He was good-hearted, and made Lizzie-Ann smile again. The wedding was a simple affair, and Lizzie-Ann wore the dress Evelyne had brought home from Cardiff. The couple had no honeymoon, they just took over the front room, and life went on as usual. At least the house (unlike so many others) throbbed with life now, a bit too much at times as they still had four lodgers. Lizzie-Ann dropped numerous hints about how awful it was that they could be so cramped while Doris Evans’ house stood empty. It had been more than six months since Doris had been buried, and still no word from Dr Collins.

Evelyne hurried home from the brick factory. It had been boiling hot in there, and working right next to the kilns made you sweat your guts out. She wanted a good wash before going up to the school. Already they called her a schoolmistress, although she wasn’t actually qualified, but she liked it and got on well with the two proper teachers.

Ben Rees was standing by the door, his bike propped up by the wall. He had one of the dreaded yellow telegrams in his hand.

‘No, Ben … Ah, don’t say it’s for us, no, please … no.’

Dicken was gone, and two days after the telegram arrived they got his last letter, telling them how well he was doing, and that he might make sergeant within the month.

Hugh seemed unable to take any more pain, his whole body sagged as if the wind had been punched from his huge frame. He still struggled up every morning and went off to work, but he was so silent, so empty, it was as if his soul had already slipped from his body.

As she had done all her life, Evelyne held the last tenuous threads of the family together. She had to keep on working, she had to keep going up to the school, but she no longer went to church, she couldn’t, and she didn’t care what wrath He sent down on her. How could there be a God who would take each and every one of her brothers, and leave them with nothing?

In August, one of the hottest Augusts ever, Evelyne prepared for another burning day in the factory. She noticed her Da had gone off to work without his tea caddie. She sighed, he’d be dying of thirst by twelve, she’d just have to be late. The sun blazed in the cloudless sky, birds sang, the grass smelt good and all over the hedgerows the flowers were blooming. The further up the mountain she walked the cleaner the air was. The raspberries hung thick and ripe, and she ate them as she walked, thinking that on the way back she would fill her skirt with them to make a tart.

She walked down the further slope of the mountain, crossed two streams and a field of cows. Her legs were getting tired, and she realized just how strong a man her father must be to take this long trek day in and day out. The winter months must have frozen him, the rain soaked him, and then he spent all those hours down the mine. When she reached the small pithead she asked for Hugh Jones, and was directed to a shaft at ground level. Black-faced men called ‘hello’, and five women sitting in the sun called to her and waved. This new mine took quite a few women at the pithead to sort the coal. They were as black as the menfolk, but they were laughing and joking and soaking up the sunshine.

Evelyne edged along the coal seam. She had to bend almost double, and the blackness was just as Mike had described, so thick she couldn’t even see a shadow. She called out, directing her voice towards the sound of hammering and the click-click-clicking of the pickaxes.

She passed two trams being pushed out by Dai Roberts, who grinned at her and said to keep on walking, and to watch her step as it sloped steeply. The air was getting so thick she was gasping for breath as she inched her way along the tunnel — her hands were her only guide.

‘Hugh Jones. Hugh Jones!’

She could barely draw breath and the blackness was so heavy she didn’t know whether to turn back or go on …

‘Hugh! Hugh Jones…’

As Evelyne turned a bend in the tunnel she saw her father, lit up by the flame of a single candle. His face was stricken, his eyes stared into the blackness as in a nightmare. Evelyne ran to him, knowing what must be in his mind, that he must have thought there was some other tragedy, could there be another? She was quick to shout that she’d brought his tea caddie.

Hugh held his blackened arms out to her and she clung to him. With barely enough air to keep the candle flame flickering, with no more than four feet of space to work in, the massive man had to hunch himself nearly double to chip away at the face.

Evelyne felt his powerful arms holding her as he had when she was a little girl. In the blackness the grief that filled both of them was released, and they cried together, their tears mingling with the coal dust that dominated their lives.

The war was over, and home-made paper chains were strung across the streets, trestle tables were erected on the cobbles and from God knew where came buns, cakes, biscuits and lemonade for the kids.

There was hardly a family in the village that had not lost a loved one in the mines or in the mighty war that had raged across the Channel. Now the lads who had survived were coming home, and their families went crazy. They sang in the streets, they belted out the old tunes on the piano and they held hands and sang ‘God Save the King …’

Evelyne rushed around handing out cakes, and handmade crackers with no bang! in the middle, but containing little gifts made by some of the old women for the children. It was a wonderful day, and everyone crowded into Mrs Morgan’s to drink her home-brewed wine.

Evelyne was standing well to the back of the crowd as the home-brewed wine took effect, and the singing reached a raucous level … Evelyne left the stuffy house. Some older women, well inebriated, grouped on a corner, looked at her with pitying faces as she walked on up the cobbled street.

‘Ah, poor thing, she’ll never get herself a lad now, left it too late … or maybe with her being so tall she’ll get one who’s injured, disabled, you never know.’

Evelyne Jones was twenty-one, that was all, but her eyes mirrored the anguish she had experienced. Hugh Jones could see her striding up the hill, her lean, tough body, high cheekbones and flame red hair, her strong legs like an athlete’s … he closed his eyes, dear God, how he wished she was one of his boys come home.

Lizzie-Ann could have given herself a miscarriage, she ran so fast. The thick bundle of letters all addressed to Evelyne Jones was in a brown paper parcel, and she had to sign for them at the post office. She signed after a hell of a row with Ben Rees, who was livid because he hadn’t had a chance to snoop through them. He’d dropped his bike in fury — that bloody girl was always a little bugger, and her with another kid on the way when she was no better than one herself. Ben picked up his red bike and threatened to strangle Alfred Moggs’ illegitimate grandson, half coloured he was, with black, curly hair. The little bugger had already let the air out of Ben’s tyres once this morning.

Evelyne took the thick brown envelope with the red line across it and started to open it, with the entire class of nosy children peering through the glass door, the headmistress looking on, and Lizzie-Ann gasping. Before Evelyne had a chance to examine the contents, Lizzie-Ann’s waters broke, and the children sniggered that she’d wet herself. The headmistress, a flat-footed woman in her late sixties, took over the class while Evelyne ran for Doc Clock.

The Doctor now had the only privately owned motor vehicle in the village. This was patted, polished, and sat in by the Doc but in the driver’s seat he was absolutely hopeless. More than once he had been found still sitting in the car as it teetered on the edge of a ditch, his face concerned and puzzled, his specs dangling from one ear.

‘Christ almighty, there’s something wrong with it again, it turned right when I wanted to go left.’

Doc Clock arrived just in time as Lizzie-Ann gave birth in the school kitchen. He shouted that it was a boy, but when he put his glasses on he realized it was a girl.

‘No, it’s a girl, it’s a girl.’

Lizzie-Ann, sweating and exhausted, screamed.

‘Oh, Christ Almighty, I haven’t got twins, have I?’

Evelyne held her hand and stroked her head, saying it was all right, it was just the one.

The Doc huffed and puffed and dropped them all home. The trip in his car made Lizzie-Ann forget the letters for a moment, but she was soon reminded when Evelyne eventually opened the package and gasped, then fainted, out cold, in the kitchen.

Doris Evans had named Evelyne Jones as her heir, leaving her the little four-roomed house, which no one had realized she’d owned outright, and two hundred pounds. The news went round faster than Mrs Morgan’s radio could have blasted it. In the first version, Evelyne had had a heart attack and a daughter at the same time, but eventually the news filtered through that she had received a legacy.

When it got straightened out and the story told in the right order, there was a strange calm. The villagers whispered, spread the story from house to house, pub to pub. Suddenly the Jones family’s cramped house had an aura to it. Evelyne Jones had a legacy and overnight, out of the blue, the tall schoolmistress became extremely eligible. She had money, she owned Doris Evans’ house, actually owned it. She was now a woman of property — more than the village realized, because Doris had not only left Evelyne her house in the village, but also her half-share in the Cardiff house. There were, of course, the gossips in the washhouses that said no good would come of it, but they all secretly wished they had been a little more friendly to poor old Doris.

There was no word from David in the lawyer’s letter, just a stiff, formal note from the doctor thanking Evelyne for coping with all the arrangements for Doris’ funeral, and that was all.

Lizzie-Ann had cried and Rosie had howled, though not really understanding why everyone in the house was so emotional. Evelyne insisted they move into Doris’ house. There was no question of rent, it would be theirs for as long as they wanted it.

She stood and watched the couple running in and out of each room, hugging each other, then they would kiss Evelyne and thank her for the thousandth time. Evelyne took very little from the house, just Doris’ books and pens, a silver-framed photo of Doris and Walter on their wedding day, and two pairs of linen sheets and pillow-cases, a set for her own small bed and another for her father’s.

Evelyne’s first purchase with her legacy was a wireless, which was installed in the kitchen. Hugh moaned and muttered that he wouldn’t go near the infernal noise machine. The house was quiet now, no lodgers. Evelyne and her father were alone, and spent long evenings sitting by the blazing fire. He still rose before dawn to go to the mines, and she still prepared his tea caddy and sandwiches. Evelyne couldn’t help but smile as Hugh rushed in from work and turned on the wireless. He listened intendy and would talk back to the speakers. On one occasion when she was late home from school she found him standing, fist clenched, shouting back at the radio that the man was talking rubbish, let him spend some time down the mines before making these rules and regulations. Unemployment was out of control, the blasted politicians were talking out of their arses.

Hugh was so irate that Evelyne thought he would put his fist through her precious radio, but he grabbed up his cap to go out. If no other bugger in the village was going to stand up for his rights, then he would. Three sons lost in the war, and for what? He banged out of the house and marched to the pithead.

The Old Lion roared, and the men listened. It was as if new life had been breathed into him. Meetings were held in their front room. The radio became a focal point for many of the meetings, the men clustered around listening, listening to their fate, but until now not actually going out and doing anything about it… until now they hadn’t had a leader. Hugh Jones had become that leader, and his new-found energy gave him back the respect he had lost.

The men listened to him, and gradually his work with the union became a full-time occupation. He was at the pitheads, he was in the managers’ office, discussing safety precautions, he popped up everywhere, he was unstoppable. The men began to turn to him with their problems, their insurance claims, and he turned no one away. The house throbbed with life, and Hugh would stand with his back to the fire, testing out his speeches on his daughter.

Evelyne appeared contented, often at her father’s side handing out leaflets. She, too, got up on the small platform and spoke for women’s rights in the brick factory, the bakeries, even for the women working in the mines. They wanted better conditions, overtime, holiday pay, insurance. She worked all day at school and at night she would read, discussing the campaign with her father. They became close, a unit. After church the pair would hold meetings, gathered in the small church hall. It was after one of these that Hugh stood and looked up at the mountains, then turned to his daughter and held out his hand.

‘It’s a fair day, we’ll walk awhile.’

They walked in silence, the climb taking their breath away. They climbed higher and higher until eventually they sat, side by side, looking down into the valley. Hugh had never been a great man with words, not intimate words, and Evelyne could tell by the way he kept on coughing and starting to speak, then closing his mouth tightly, that he wanted to talk but just couldn’t get around to it.

Evelyne lay back in the warm sun. She could smell the sweet, fresh grass. Hugh lay down beside her, coughed a few more times and then leant on his elbow and looked into her face. He loved her passionately, and he wished he could find the right words to tell her so. Hugh had never referred to Evelyne’s legacy, never asked her what she intended doing with it. He looked down at her face, framed by the thick red hair coiled in braids and clipped tightly to her head. He had not seen her with her hair loose for a long time. With his big, rough hand he gently traced her chin, her cheekbones. She kept her eyes closed, not ever having had such a quiet, intimate moment with her father before. Almost afraid to open her eyes in case the moment slipped away, she kissed his hand softly.

‘You’re a fine-looking woman, Evie, you know that?’ Still she said nothing. ‘You’re also intelligent, a clever girl, and a good daughter, no man could ask for a better lass. Do you not think of marrying? Or having children, gel?’

He turned to her and knelt down. His body was still muscular, his shouders wide, not an ounce of fat on him. He could have been a young man but for the grey hair, the heavy lines in his face, that gave his age away.

‘I’d like to hear the sound of a boy’s voice in our house, Evie, a grandson. Lizzie-Ann’s pair are real sweethearts, but I’d like a grandson. Is there no boy takes your fancy? … fine-looking woman like you, Evie, could take your pick, it’s not natural for you to be with me so much of your time.’

Evelyne had never told anyone of David, of her time in Cardiff, and there on the mountain top it all poured forth, as if she was sixteen again. The hurt, the shame, and at long last she whispered of her obsessive love of David.

‘I loved him since that first time, Da, and no one seems to come up to him. I know I don’t mean anything to him, he’s more than likely forgotten I even exist but I see his face every night.’

Hugh was nonplussed. All the years she had kept her secret to herself, and more than that, her shame. He turned to start down into the village. He struck his fist against his thigh.

‘Go back to him, then, girl, you must get the lad out of your system, or you’ll start to be like Doris herself. Go to Cardiff, but by Christ, this time you’ll go wearing the finest. You have the legacy, then spend it, go and see this David …’

Hugh held out his hand and hauled Evelyne to her feet. He roared with laughter … it echoed round the mountain.

‘Did you really dance with Lloyd George himself?’

Hugh brought in some pages from a magazine that he had found in Doc Clock’s waiting room. He had gone with one of the men to try to get the Doc to sign a medical claim, and had torn the pages out. Evelyne laughed, they were plastered all over the table, the latest fashions. She kissed Hugh, and looked at the crumpled pages. The magazine was only eight years out of date, and the skirts were being worn almost up to the calf now. ‘See, gel, dove grey is the latest colour, now get yourself decked out in that and this David won’t be able to say no.’

He took out of his pocket a return ticket to Cardiff, bought, he hastened to add, with his own money, so it was not to be wasted, and she was not to hang on to her cash like an old miser but go up to Cardiff and get herself done up.

Hugh held out the ticket as proud as Punch. She went into his arms and hugged him tight.

‘Oh, Da, I love you so, I love you more than I ever tell you.’

Hugh held her at arm’s length, and his face shone with love for her.

‘An’ I get so full of love for you, girl, all I want is for you to be happy …’

Evelyne delayed her journey to Cardiff until the Easter holidays, then she had no excuse. Hugh marched her off to the steam train. She took a small overnight bag and her post office savings book. Hugh had got her a list of bed and breakfast hotels for her to choose from. They were so close, so loving, and his pride in her shone out of his eyes. Some said it wasn’t natural, the two being together so much, and Wally Hampton said he saw them kissing like lovers on the station platform.

‘Right, gel, you go and get this David and bring him back …’

She could see him standing, waving his big red handkerchief from the platform … he remained waving until the train chuffed round the mountain.

Evelyne was scared, but realized she was happier than she had felt for years. Perhaps Hugh was right, she was becoming an old maid up at the school. She began to make out a list of all the things she would buy on her first shopping spree.

David’s blond hair, his smile, his sweet lavender smell. Would he still be at the same house? Her mouth went dry, what if he hadn’t returned from the war — what if he’d moved. Evelyne counted the months, the years she had been away. Time had gone fast, and with trepidation she realized her foolishness. Over four years had gone by, he could be dead, killed like her brothers, her letters to Dr Collins had not been answered. By the time the train had chuffed into Cardiff Central station she was as nervous as on her very first journey all those years ago with Doris.

‘Think positively,’ she told herself, and set her shoulders back as she walked along the platform, her face determined, almost haughty.

Evelyne booked into the ‘Rosemount’, a bed and breakfast hotel. The house had a view of the castle, it was clean, and the landlady was a kindly woman named Violet Pugh.

By teatime Evelyne had been in every single women’s wear shop, and her feet ached. Millinery, shoes, gloves, suits, every item had been jotted down and priced. She was stunned at the cost of clothes, and she had by no means calculated for such extravagance. That night she made a list in readiness for her next day’s shopping expedition.

The saleswoman at ‘Chic fashions’ sighed. God, that wretched woman was back, she wished the other assistant was free. The woman had tried on every single outfit in the shop the previous day, and bought nothing. Nor was she an easy one to dress, being so tall, and then she was thin with it — a lot of the new fashions looked dreadful on her. She forced a smile between her ‘Lush Red’ lips, and hovered. Out came the list and Evelyne, with a look of determination on her face, asked to try on the dove-grey pleated skirt with the matching white-collared jacket.

The shop assistant stared at Evelyne as she emerged from the changing room. She muttered to herself. ‘Just shows you, you never know. Girl like that looked more like — she should be sweeping the place out, never mind buying anything.’

The shoes Evelyne had set her mind on did not match the outfit. She was shown the new, fashionable high heel.

‘Don’t you think I’m too tall to wear two-inch heels?’ she asked.

The sales assistant showed how perfectly the two-toned shoes matched her outfit.

‘I’ll take them, thank you, and the matching handbag.’

It was a rash decision, but having made it she felt tickled to death, she was going to look so elegant.

Her next stop was a small milliner’s in a side-street, ‘Paris Designers’. The hat was a problem, the small cloche hats were very fashionable now, but none of them would fit over Evelyne’s thickly coiled hair. The sales assistant pondered and sat back, took a peek inside the bag from the well-known fashion shop that contained the suit, and rifled through the tissue paper. That exquisite dove-grey … to her mind it was a trifle ageing for such a young woman. She scurried into the back of the shop and returned with three large hatboxes, new stock not yet on display. She sat Evelyne down before the mirror in a cubicle. She was a tiny, grey-haired woman dressed neatly in black, her name, ‘Miss Freda’, written on a tag pinned to her dress. She had a strange accent and was very apologetic, yet not cloying in any way. She could see the girl’s big, red hands, and just by looking at her worn clothes she knew she must have some very special occasion in mind, perhaps even a wedding. She brought a magazine to Evelyne’s side, flicked through it, her small, neat white hands moving fast. She stopped at a page. The fashionable bobbed hair was very much in vogue, but then perhaps for someone as tall as Evelyne the bobbed style would not be flattering enough.

‘If Madame would allow me …’

Evelyne chewed her lip as Miss Freda worked quickly and deftly, her nimble fingers fluttering around Evelyne’s head. Down came the coiled braids, flick, flick, they were undone: a silver-handled brush was retrieved from the drawer of the dressing-table. Miss Freda, her mouth full of hairgrips, tossed and wound the hair into an ornate bun, low on the nape of Evelyne’s neck. She then studied Evelyne in the mirror, her head cocked to one side, then the other, and satisfied, she opened up a large hatbox. The tissue rustled and she held up a white cloche hat with a small spray of embroidered white daises along one side of the brim. As Miss Freda held the hat to the side of Evelyne’s face, the doorbell rang and a very elegantly dressed couple entered.

‘Freda, my dear, I am quite desperate. I have to go to the races, and you know that darling little rose-flowered hat we had from Paris, well, Poochie here has eaten it.’

Evelyne peeked out as the woman held out a fluffy dog with an awful turned-up nose and popping eyes. Miss Freda almost curtsied and ushered the couple into another cubicle. She still held the daisy hat in her hand.

‘Oh, that is a little darling, Freda, do let me try it.’

Miss Freda popped back into Evelyne’s cubicle and drew the curtains, and whispered, ‘She is much too old to wear this, but if it is not suitable for you, Madam, well…’ Freda had a delightful tinkling laugh. As she spoke she placed the hat gently onto Evelyne’s head, tilted the daises a little lower, stood back and beamed. Evelyne stared at her reflection. She turned to right and left as Freda held a small silver mirror behind her so she could get the full effect.

‘I shall leave you to make your decision, Madame, but believe me, you look stunning.’

As Freda slipped out between the curtains, she put the price tag face down on the dressing-table.

Evelyne turned the price tag over. One pound fifteen shillings. It was far too much, she simply couldn’t. One pound was almost half a week’s earnings for the girls at the brick factory. She sighed, wondered if she could keep her hair in this lovely knot — that would mean saving a little on the hairdresser, at least three-and-six. She stared, perplexed, at her reflection, she adored the hat, but the price … it really was too much.

Miss Freda passed to and fro, discussing the weather with her clients. Evelyne heard the yap-yap of the dog, the ping of the doorbell and then swish of her curtains. Evelyne turned to Miss Freda, and swallowed.

‘I’ll take the hat, thank you.’

Miss Freda beamed and gently lifted the hat from Evelyne’s head as though it were precious crystal, and laid it in the box. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Evelyne lift the mirror, studying her new hairstyle, her fingers tracing the coils.

‘It is a very simple hairstyle, no? I can show you in two minutes how to do it. The hairdressers here have no idea, all they do is snip, snip, everyone’s head looks the same, or they frizz, frizz with the perms.’

Freda turned the small ‘open’ notice on the door to ‘closed’, and clapped her hands in delight as she moved towards Evelyne.

‘Come, we have some coffee, some croissants, unless you are in a hurry? Come, darling, then I show you, it is very simple.’

Miss Freda’s back room was piled ceiling-high with hatboxes. On a small worktable were laid out roses and ribbons and nets in different shades. Evelyne sat watching the bird-like woman as she chattered away and made up a hat right in front of her eyes.

‘I come from Vienna, but I tell everyone I am French, I sell only Paris creations. As you can see this is a long way from France, no?’

From a small drawer she took a box of labels and waved them at Evelyne.

‘I print them specially, but I don’t think it is a lie because my hats are copies from French magazines, only the price is French.’

She covered her face like a small child as she twittered with laughter, then still talking fast she began sewing and serving coffee all at the same time. It tasted different from the coffee she had been served at David’s house, stronger, thicker and sweeter with no milk.

Miss Freda taught Evelyne how to do her hair, then she brought out a small velvet box filled with tiny jars and fluffy powder puffs. She showed Evelyne how to whiten her hands, instructed her to cream them every night until they were soft. Then she tipped Evelyne’s chin up, stared into her face, and searched through her box, bringing out a tiny pot. She opened the lid carefully and, with the tip of her little finger, dabbed a very soft, pale-pink over Evelyne’s lips … she sat back and clucked and nodded, then, ‘Oh, la la.’

Apparendy quite unconcerned about the shop being closed, Miss Freda insisted on plucking Evelyne’s eyebrows, careful not to make them too arched as was the fashion, just, in her words, ‘tidying them up a little’. After every move she sat back, her tiny head bobbing up and down like a bird, constandy repeating, ‘Oh, la la …’ She even painted Evelyne’s square-cut fingernails with clear polish. Then she carefully packed the daisy hat and tied the box with ribbon.

‘For you, darling, I will charge fifteen shillings.’ Evelyne tried to argue, without much enthusiasm, as even fifteen shillings for a hat that did not really come from Paris, France, was terribly expensive.

‘Will you come and see me again? I would like it, I don’t have many friends, you see, I came over many years ago as a lady’s maid.’

She whispered as if afraid someone would overhear. ‘First I was in Liverpool, then we travelled to Wales and I was just so unhappy that I left and … voila, here I am, cherie … so you must go, but come and see me again.’

Miss Freda locked up her shop, bolting the door, and sat studying her accounts. She looked at her face in the mirror, how she hated to bow and scrape with her ‘oh, la la’s … she sighed. If she didn’t get more business there would be no shop, and she would have to go back to being a waitress, but never the other thing. She would never do that, and looking at herself she knew that not many men would want her now anyway. She put one of her specials on her frizzy head, lifted her chin and decided she was not that bad, not that old, thirty-eight wasn’t old at all … then she sat at her sewing machine, surrounded by net and roses.

The boarders looked up briefly, but went back to slurping their soup. Mrs Pugh did notice the difference, and remarked to her reflection in the spotless hall mirror that the rest was obviously doing wonders for the girl. Catching sight of a spot of dust she flicked it with her finger.

‘Something most definitely is …’

As she came out of the dining room, Evelyne passed Mrs Pugh in the hall.

‘Are you not having pudding, Miss Jones? It’s semolina with jam.’

Evelyne smiled and said she was too full, then went up the stairs to her room. Mrs Pugh stared after her, pursing her lips. The girl had done her hair differently, that was what it was. She hoped it didn’t mean she had any funny ideas, any fancy men … then she marched back into the dining room.

‘It’s semolina, with strawberry jam,’ she announced.

The two elderly boarders were fast asleep at the table.

Evelyne had a dress rehearsal in her rented room. First she practised her new hairstyle, then she sat for over an hour in just her camisole and bloomers with the hat on. She watched herself smiling … she had never been so preoccupied with her face or her body and she wasn’t as sure about her appearance as Miss Freda was, but she certainly did look quite nice.

The following morning, Evelyne was dressed and ready when Mrs Pugh called to her that there was a car waiting for her, and she slowly descended the stairs from her rented room as Mrs Pugh stared, open-mouthed. She was dumbstruck, the girl moving slowly, slightly unsteadily down the stairs couldn’t be Miss Jones … but there she was, looking as if she had stepped straight off the front of a French fashion magazine. Mrs Pugh looked up into the girl’s face as she passed in a cloud of sweet perfume, immaculate from head to toe. ‘My God,’ she thought, ‘the girl must have a fancy man, and a rich one at that.’ Well, any funny business and she’d pack the girl’s bags, she couldn’t afford any gossip, not just as she’d got her two regulars installed, and for life, judging by their ages.

The hired car had been Hugh’s idea. He’d told her, ‘Don’t go up in a ruddy horse-drawn carriage, they’re old-fashioned. Hire yourself one of the newfangled motors with a uniformed driver’. It had cost her one pound ten shillings, and she had the car for eight hours. Now as she stepped out of Mrs Pugh’s front door she knew it was right. The chauffeur moved smartly to open the door, and even gave her a tiny bow.

Mrs Pugh almost pulled her net curtain down from the window, she was so eager to see everything that was going on. All the nets along the road flicked. Mrs Pugh could see her nosy neighbours, and tutted to herself, they were always at their windows, she couldn’t understand why. That she was doing exactly the same thing never even occurred to her. The car moved slowly off and Evelyne sat back, savouring the smell of the leather upholstery and her perfume. So far so good. They drove slowly along the kerb as the chauffeur searched for the right house. Evelyne was so tense she sat forward on the edge of her seat. She knew exactly which house, it was printed indelibly on her mind, but she was taken slightly aback. The house didn’t look as grand as she remembered. The brass didn’t gleam as bright as hers back in the village.

She pressed back against the leather as the chauffeur walked up the path, rang the bell and waited. Her heart was beating rapidly and her lips felt dry. She licked them and tasted her rose-coloured lipstick. Her heart lurched as the door opened and Mrs Darwin stood framed in the doorway. She was nodding and speaking to the chauffeur. The years hadn’t been kind to her either, she was much fatter and more flushed than Evelyne remembered her. Her chins wobbled as she nodded her head up and down, and she looked past the chauffeur towards the car. She was trying to see inside, and Evelyne pressed even further back against the seat.

The chauffeur gave Evelyne no hint of what had been said as he walked back to the car and opened the passenger door.

‘The housekeeper said for you to go straight in, Miss.’ Evelyne was grateful for the chauffeur’s firm, white-gloved grip on her elbow. She walked slowly to the door. It had been left ajar, but Mrs Darwin had vanished from sight. There was no sign of Minnie either. The comforting grip on her arm withdrew as the chauffeur returned to the car. She was alone, and instead of being full of confidence she could feel her body trembling.

Mrs Darwin stood at the bottom of the stairs. She gave a small bob and gestured for Evelyne to enter the drawing room. The smell of the house — the strange mixture of polish and medical spirits — sent a shudder through Evelyne, and she was again the gawky girl who had come here with Doris Evans. Mrs Darwin didn’t recognize her.

‘It’s me, Mrs Darwin, it’s Evelyne, don’t you remember me?’

The big woman squinted, stared at her, and then her jaw dropped and she slapped her hands to her fat cheeks in total amazement. She went to give Evelyne a hug, then stopped, flustered. She flapped her apron, stared, turned away and stared again, and then her huge face crumpled into a strange, half-laughing cry.

‘Lord above, oh God Almighty, gel, if you don’t look like visiting royalty, then … can I kiss you?’

It was all right suddenly, and Evelyne bent right down and felt the plump, wet lips kiss her cheek.

Mrs Darwin ushered her into the drawing room. From below stairs came a terrible clatter, and Evelyne turned.

‘Is Minnie here?’

Mrs Darwin shook her head and laughed. Minnie now had three little ones and lived over in Carlisle Road. She turned and thudded out, yelling at the top of her voice to someone called Muriel.

Evelyne stared around the room. It was just the same, but smaller, not so overpowering. There was even a bowl of roses exactly as there had always been, except that they were dead, the petals fallen around the bowl. She went to the bookcase and looked at the titles; she had read all these books in the years since she had last been here, while Doris was alive.

Mrs Darwin came back in, carrying a tray with cake and biscuits.

‘Will you be moving in, Miss Evelyne? Only, we don’t know what to do, like? Not since he passed on.’

Evelyne, turned afraid.

‘What did you say?’

Mrs Darwin busied herself laying out the teacups.

‘The Doctor, miss, terrible it was, him a doctor and to be so poorly, couldn’t do a thing for himself at the end, you know, shocking. We had to make up a bed down here for him, I mean, I couldn’t carry him up and down them stairs, even though he was all skin and bone.’

Evelyne had to sit down, for a terrible moment she had thought it could possibly be David.

‘When did he pass on?’

‘Oh, it must be a year or more … now, I’ll just get that ruddy girl downstairs to bring up the tea. Shocking time you know, now, can’t get a good girl. Mind you, we’ve not been paid our wages, not a penny for months now, I was getting to me wit’s end, I was. I really was.’

When she had gone out, Evelyne looked at the tea tray. The biscuits were stale, soft, and a slice had been cut off the cake where it had gone mouldy. She heard the basement door slam and went to the window. She could see Mrs Darwin hurrying down the road, wrapping her shawl around her fat shoulders. Evelyne jumped as a thin, dreadfully scruffy girl stood in the doorway and sniffed.

‘I’ve mashed the tea. Mrs Darwin says she won’t be long.’

She hovered, watched as Evelyne poured the tea.

‘You bein’ here, does that mean we’ll have our wages?’

Evelyne stirred sugar into her cup.

‘I don’t know — Muriel, isn’t it? I’ll obviously have a lot of things to arrange.’

‘I’ll be downstairs if you want me, the bell don’t work so you’ll have to holler.’

Evelyne wanted to ask about David, but she couldn’t get the words out. She began to wander from room to room. The house smelt musty, dank, and there was a thick film of dust on everything. Ghosts of the past crept with her as she quietly looked into each of the ground-floor rooms. Then she mounted the stairs. They creaked, and even the banister was dusty. On all the walls were dark, empty spaces where pictures had been. The house had been stripped of every valuable ornament and there was an air of desolation to the place.

She went into the silent room she had shared with Doris. Nothing had changed but the mounting dust. She closed the door and went on to the bathroom, the memories flooding through her. Then she was standing on the landing looking towards David’s room. She remembered his half-naked body, bending over to untie his boots, remembered his silky hair. There was even now a faint smell of lavender …

Downstairs, David walked into the hall with Mrs Darwin. She took his arm, whispered.

‘Her name’s Evelyne.’

David nodded, looked up the stairs. He rested his arm on the banister rail and shouted.

‘Evelyne … Evelyne, come down!’

Evelyne dropped her comb and ran to the top of the stairs. She stood staring down at him, he hadn’t changed, he looked just the same if not even more handsome … and he was smiling up at her.

David thought she was lovely, just lovely. Turning to Mrs Darwin he gave a slight shake of his head, and she looked sadly up at Evelyne. Then David leapt up the stairs two at a time.

‘Evelyne … Evelyne, how are you?’ Catching her in his arms he swung her up in the air. Close to she could see that he had grown a small moustache and he was much thinner, but his hair, oh, his lovely, silky blond hair was just the same.

‘You remembered me? Oh, David, you remembered me?’

Taking her hand he bowed and led her down the stairs.

‘And who could forget such a beautiful gel? Come along, I refuse to let you out of my grasp … my hat, Mrs Darwin.’

Mrs Darwin held out his brown bowler.

‘Sir, don’t you think you should tell her …’

‘Now, Mrs Darwin, not another word.’

‘It’s litde Evelyne, Doris’ girl from the valley.’

David tossed his bowler in the air, ducked, and it landed right on his head. He gestured with both hands like an acrobat.

‘Can I take her away from you for a while, you great, fat, horrible woman, eh? I want to show this creature off… come along, dear heart, your chariot awaits.’

Bursting with happiness, Evelyne was ushered outside while Mrs Darwin blinked back her tears. For a moment David’s face changed as he looked at Mrs Darwin, hard.

‘Not a word.’

Her fat face wobbled as she nodded. ‘She danced with Lloyd George at the Warners’ ball, sir, when Miss Doris was here.’

David snapped, his face looked pinched.

‘Yes, yes, you said, we won’t be long.’

Evelyne stood on the steps as David danced down them two at a time, took off his bowler hat and bowed low, opening the door of his sports car, bright red with snazzy upholstery. After helping her in, he tucked a rug round her knees just the way he used to, then he leant over her, his face so close she gasped.

‘You smell like a fresh mountain flower, and so you should, I mean you are the girl who danced with Lloyd George, no wonder, m’dear, it’ll be the Princes of Wales next.’

David shouted to her as they careered round corners, they would have a celebration, this was a wonderful surprise. She laughed, and the sound of her laughter shocked her, it was so infrequent, the sound triggered the release of all the tensions and she didn’t want it to stop.

As they drove through the city centre, David tooted the horn and waved and called out to many people driving past. He seemed to know everyone. He appeared elated, as happy as Evelyne. They headed out towards the country.

‘You’ll meet some of my very best friends, we’ll be in time for the last race.’

The car roared up to the special enclosure at the race meeting. Everything was happening so fast, and there was a craziness to the whole afternoon. Evelyne was introduced to so many new faces, and everyone was friendly. She was accepted as part of the group; in fact, as die champagne flowed, several of David’s friends showed more interest in her than in the racing. Not that David allowed his prize to be taken from him more than a few moments, he wanted to introduce her to everyone. He told them all she was an old friend, and they smiled and proffered drinks. Evelyne remembered Freddy Carlton, older, redder in the face, but he was delighted to meet again the girl who had taken everyone’s heart at the midsummer dance.

David darted around, the centre of attention, especially with his strange, beautiful girl in tow. The women with their cute, bobbed hairstyles and short skirts seemed hell-bent on enjoying themselves, and when the last race was over no one seemed inclined to leave the private enclosure. Someone brought out a gramophone and couples danced on the grass or sat watching.

Having never danced to this kind of music, Evelyne remained slightly aloof, which only added to her attraction. She was also watchful of her new clothes; there was champagne flying around, sprayed from bottles all over people, so Evelyne moved further and further to the fringe of the crowd.

David stood on the roof of one of the long, shiny cars.

‘Everyone, listen, listen … we’ll all dine at Bianco’s, the party must go on, I’m in love …’ He tap-danced, jumping from one car to the next, tossing his bowler up and catching it on his head. ‘Who’s out of champers? Come along now, glasses at the ready, chaps.’

Evelyne felt as if she and David were royals; everyone followed him, and accepted her as being with him. They proceeded to get into their cars.

‘I say, look at the posters, be a jolly good wheeze, why don’t we go?’

The posters, in crude, bright red letters, were stuck to the walls on the stand, ‘freedom stubbs versus dai

“HAMMER” THOMAS’.

There was a rough sketch beneath the lettering of two boxers, fists up, about to fight each other. David immediately began charging around with his fists up, dodging, and tapping his friends with mock punches.

‘What say we all go to the fight, it’s a gyppo fair, chaps, should be jolly?’

Evelyne smiled with the rest of David’s crazy antics. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. A face loomed from the past — Captain Ridgely.

‘Well, well, hello there, I don’t remember meeting you deah gel, do tell me where he found you? Captain Ridgely at your command, at your feet, deah, lovely lady.’

David bellowed across the grass.

‘Ridgelyyyyy… Get off her, she’s mine!’

David leapt to Evelyne’s side and put a protective arm around her shoulders.

‘She’s mine, you no-good rascal … now, Evelyne, we are all waiting on your decision. Do we or don’t we go to the fight? What do you say, eh?’

Evelyne saw that everyone was waiting, and shrugged, smiling.

‘Whatever you say.’

‘It’s the fight, everyone, meet at Bianco’s first…’

The cars began to roar out, cheering passengers shouting to each other and waving their arms and champagne bottles. David got into his car.

He leaned back, slithering lower in his seat, and closed his eyes for a few moments. Then he turned his head, still resting on the back of the seat. ‘Where in God’s name have you been all my life, Flamehead, especially when I needed you? Why have you taken so long to come back, my gazelle, my strange, wonderful lady from nowhere?’

The kiss she had dreamed of had not been so hard or brutal. She could feel his teeth, then his tongue pushing open her lips and licking them, then thrusting inside her mouth. She actually felt disgusted, the taste of champagne and cigar smoke was so strong. His hand began slowly to unbutton her dove-grey jacket with the white collar, her lovely Vogue suit, and he was pushing her against the side of the car … and her hat? He was crushing her hat! She pushed him away, and he lolled against the opposite door. He turned his face away, slapped the steering wheel with his hand, and when he looked back he frightened her. His eyes were blazing, staring straight through her, and again he hit the steering wheel with his fist. He was muttering, swearing, a jumble of words. Evelyne didn’t know what to do. David began to rock backwards and forwards, banging his head on the steering wheel. His actions, behaviour frightened her, was he drunk?

‘David, stop it please, don’t… Davidl Don’t. Stop!’ Freddy ran to the car and cupped David’s chin in his

hands.

‘You okay … David? All right, old chap, eh? All

right, are we?’

David shrugged Freddy’s hands away. Freddy gave Evelyne a grin and then ran back to his motor. ‘Everyone follow me!’

David pulled himself together, crashed the gears, then the sports car spun round and followed Freddy’s car, way up in front. Evelyne clung to her daisy hat, terrified it would blow away. David was relaxed again, smiling to himself as though nothing had happened. Evelyne glanced at him and he caught it, winked at her. Everything was all right again, and she felt better when he reached for her hand, held it to his lips and whispered quietly, gently, ‘Sorry flame … make it all up to you.’

The kiss she held in her memory now didn’t seem so bad, and if he kissed her again she would open her own mouth.

‘I love you, I love you, I love you …’ but David didn’t hear because it was all inside her bursting head, besides, he was singing at the top of his voice as he swung the car this way and that in a zig-zag across the road. His craziness was contagious and soon she was joining in with him, standing with one arm raised, the other holding on to her hat.

‘My Lili Marlene… Ahhh … my Lili Marleeeeeeeeene …’

The tiny, elegant restaurant was almost entirely filled by David’s party, the tables, covered in checked cloths, placed close together. A pianola played at full blast. Steaming bowls of spaghetti and chilli were promptly served and wolfed down by all, while they drank themselves into a loud, drunken state with more champagne and red wine.

The proprietor, a good-natured, roly-poly Italian, served the food, opened bottles and turned a blind eye to the damage. They would pay — this young set always did — and he could feel their madness, their desperation for fun. The men were all officers and he knew they had seen sights that had left them scarred — he knew because often they were too drunk to leave. He had sat with many of them crying drunkenly for their comrades, spilling out their nightmares to him, a stranger, a nobody.

Captain Ridgely stood up on a table, glass in hand. ‘Here’s to unemployment… here’s to us, to us, the ones who made it home… Cheers!’

They sang, ‘It’s a long way to Tipperareeee, it’s a long way to go …’At first glance this party of beautiful young people seemed not to have a care in the world. It was only when one looked close that one could detect their lostness. Seemingly hell-bent on living life to the full, in reality they despaired for those they knew had no life left.

Evelyne looked hard at the women, as outrageous as their men, dancing on the tables holding their skirts high, garters flashing. One girl named Tulip had stripped off her dress and was dancing in her shift. She had bobbed hair and was very pretty.

One young chap with a lady’s garter around his head seemed to be having a great time, waving a walking stick in the air. Evelyne craned her neck to see over the table then sat back quickly — he was in a wheelchair, he had no legs. As she looked around the dark, music-filled restaurant she could see that several of the boys were minus one or two limbs. The crazy atmosphere began to change, it became hotter and hotter, and Evelyne wanted to leave. David sat staring sullenly into space. She tapped his arm. ‘David, I think we should go.’

He turned and stared at her as if he didn’t know her for a moment, then he smiled his wonderful smile and cocked his head to one side.

‘Whatever you say, darling one.’ He jumped up on to the table and yelled at the top of his voice that it was time to go. ‘Come on, come on or we’ll miss the fight, we can have our fortunes read, everybody, let’s rollll…’

From beneath a table Tulip emerged, her lipstick smeared, pulling down her undershirt. She searched for her dress and spotted one of the boys dancing round in it. She gave chase with squealing laughs.

‘Tulip, you naughty girl, come along and get your knickers on.’

She turned, and pursed her smeared, cupid’s bow lips.

‘I would, duckie, but I can’t find ‘em.’ At the reception desk Freddy Carlton swayed, a large cigar in his mouth, holding his open wallet. Tulip leaned on his arm.

‘Give me some too, Freddy, I want to make a bet on the boxers, ohhh, Freddy, who’s a booful boy!’

‘I say, Bunny, are we splitting this or what, it’s jolly expensive, ya know … Bunny?’

Bunny waved as he slithered down the wall, and Freddy handed over all he had and tossed the empty wallet over his shoulder.

Evelyne caught David’s hand as he led her back to his car. He stopped, holding her at arm’s length.

‘What a lovely creature you are.’

Evelyne’s heart was pounding. He pulled her to him, cupping her face in his hands, and gently kissed her. She moaned with pleasure, and he kissed her neck, her ear. Then he whispered.

‘Where are you staying? Back at the house?’

She touched his silky hair, said she was in a small hotel. He caught her in his arms, swung her round.

‘We’ll go back to the house later, would you like that, my lovely?’

Choked with tears, all Evelyne could do was nod in agreement. She felt as if she would explode with happiness. David tooted the horn.

‘To the fair, to the fair.’

The car roared off, leaving a trail of blue smoke in the clear night air.

Chapter 7

Freedom Stubbs sat in the back of the covered wagon as it jolted its way to the match. He sat quietly, bandaging his right hand, intent on getting the bandages tight the way he liked them. His left fist would be done by Kaulo Woods. Kaulo sat opposite Freedom and looked out of the canvas flap of the wagon, then turned to Freedom.

‘I kair’d a lot of wongar acoi, I chopped my vardo for another, maybe I’ll dock’d to rardi? (I made a deal of money here, I exchanged my van for another, let’s hope I do it tonight.)

Kaulo leant over and began to bandage Freedom’s left hand. He shot a slanted look up at Freedom who was leaning back against the side of the wagon, his eyes closed. He looked as if he was going for a moonlight stroll rather than a heavy fight. His breathing was as regular as if he was sleeping. Kaulo could weigh the big hand, Freedom was so relaxed, letting Kaulo bandage between his fingers and across the knuckles.

Freedom looked at the small, skinny, elderly man hunched on his left, smiled at him, nodded and rested his head again on the side of the jolting wagon. The old man finished the bandaging, picked up his fiddle and began to play, singing softly.

Can you rokka Romany, Can you play the bosh, Can you jal adrey the staripen, Can you chin the cosh …

Freedom clenched his fists, nodded to Kaulo that all was fine, all the while tapping his foot to the rhythm of the old gypsy’s fiddle.

Two other fighters were further up the wagon, their hands, like Freedom’s, bandaged and ready. They were smaller in build, dark and swarthy, and they sat hunched on the benches facing each other. Freedom always sat apart. He stood apart from them anyway, because he was six foot four. This was tall for anyone — never mind a Romany — but then it was known that his blood wasn’t pure. Freedom was a half-caste. His mother, Romalla, was the daughter of a Romany king, and Freedom’s birth had brought shame to the family. His mother was dishonoured, an outcast, and she had been forced to join another, non-elitist, Romany camp. Her father had refused to have anything to do with her and hadn’t spoken to her since, nor had any member of her family.

Romalla was a catch to have in any camp. She was not only a princess of pure blood, but she carried the powers with her. That made her a valuable asset as a money-earner. Freedom had inherited her powers, but he didn’t use them; it wasn’t done for a male Romany to read hands. However, he had proved to be of royal blood even though half-caste, and was accepted by the lower ranks as a prince. This made him acceptable, and he roamed from camp to camp, even as a child, taken into many families and treated with respect. The stigma of the words posh ta posh — bastard — having no effect on him, at least outwardly.

Romalla was rumoured to have had many lovers, and who Freedom’s blood father was no one ever discovered. Or if anyone knew they kept quiet, not wanting to earn Freedom’s tippoty, or wrath. He was both respected and feared, and although still only twenty-four it was likely that he would become a clan leader. Romalla had died three summers ago of a heart attack. The news was brought to Freedom by a courier carrying the charred back wheel of her caravan, all her goods having been burnt with her body. The wheel was proof she had gone and it was handed to him to roll his fortune further. Romalla had died without revealing who Freedom’s father had been. All she had ever said was that he was a ‘lion of a man’ and one she was proud to have bedded, always implying that the man had been her choice, and one she knew would dishonour her.

Freedom was now becoming famous as a heavyweight boxer and had already made a lot of money for the travellers. The wagon entered the field where the fair was being held and the big tent for the boxing match had already been erected. A beautiful young girl was sitting on a low wall at the entrance. As the wagon rumbled through she jumped down and ran to it, directing the horses to the space allocated for the wagon. It was the best place near the exit; the best was always reserved for Freedom.

When the wagon was in position, Rawnie pulled back the canvas flap. She was a stunning Romany dukkerin, and she would make good money at the side shows tonight. She was decked out in all her finery, her red silk shawl wrapped around her head, her hair in two long braids down to her waist. There were gold studs in her ears with loops of gold coins dangling from them. She wore rings and bangles, and even a ruby stud on the side of her nose. Coal dust enhanced the blackness of her slanting eyes, and she would bite her full lips until they shone as red as the ruby in her nose.

She jumped aboard the wagon, pulling behind her a heavy wooden box of food and drink for the men. She always served Freedom first, she was his manushi, and although all the men were after her she had eyes only for Freedom. As the men ate the cooked rabbit with chunks of bread and steaming, sweet tea, Mr Beshaley came aboard.

Mr Beshaley was dressed in a smart suit with a waistcoat; it was only the scarf around his neck in place of a collar and tie that made him look different from a well-dressed city gent. He wore a gold fob watch on a chain, gold cuff links, and a gold looped earring in his right ear. His once jet-black hair was now iron-grey, but straight, not a wave in sight.

All the Romany men’s hair was black, even Freedom’s, coal-black and shining. They all had the same dark, tilted eyes with strange black pupils, high cheekbones and full, wide lips. Freedom differed only in his size. In every other way he looked like a pure-blood Romany.

Mr Beshaley seated himself on the bench. He opened his leather wallet and took out a wad of notes for the betting. Although he himself would not be allowed to place bets as Freedom’s manager, there were many of the clan around the match who would place bets for the team. First Beshaley turned to the two fighters at the front of the wagon and discussed their impending fights with them, how they thought they would fare, even asked outright if they would win or lose. Joe shrugged, he felt that the miner pitted against him being that much heavier might sway the odds, but he wasn’t going to get himself badly hurt, because he had another bout coming up the following Saturday at a fair in Glamorgan. Beshaley nodded, so they would place bets on the miner for that bout. He turned to the second, a young boy, and asked him what his chances were. Then he told them to go out and get some fresh air into their lungs. It added to the cash flow, because on their walk about the site they would keep their eyes and ears open and report back to the guv’nor. Occasionally they would also feed back bits of gossip for Rawnie to use; it was pointless using her powers in a place like this, it was too much effort.

Freedom stayed behind and listened to Beshaley, and the meeting became serious. Freedom could be up against it as his was the main event. Beshaley talked in detail about his opponent’s moves in previous bouts. The man was a good stone heavier than Freedom and a dirty fighter who butted with his head. Hammer also had a habit of not shaving before an event and would get his opponent into stranglehold and rub his thick stubble hard into the man’s eyes. The referee they had for this fight would probably give way to the miner and not break up the holds as he should. There were many miners in the audience to support their man, and the referee was also a collier. Three trams of miners had arrived from Llanerch Colliery and they were already drunk and causing havoc. Beshaley knew it was going to be one hell of a night.

Freedom gave no hint of how he was thinking or feeling. Beshaley drew neat little diagrams and made Hammer Thomas sound more and more like a nightmare. He certainly sounded so to Rawnie who sat silently listening and watching Freedom with her dark heavy eyes. Her heart reached out to him. She wanted to sit close, tucked in the crook of his arm the way they did when they were travelling.

‘Now the last bout I watched Hammer close, he gave some heavy hits, using a kind of weaving style, half round body blows. Hammer goes for body punches rather than the face, he’s a good five inches shorter than you, lad, so he can hurt, you’ll have to try and take him fast.’

Out of Beshaley’s pocket came a crumpled scrap of paper, and he read out a doctor’s report that said Hammer had been badly cut over his left eye, the skin was still very tender …

‘Go for the left eye, Freedom, get him blinded by his own blood, then try and bring him down before the fourth. You’ll have nearly a hundred riding on you, lad, so do your best.’

Beshaley stood up and straightened his checked waistcoat. His own face showed he had been in the ring many times, his nose was flattened, and he had a scar across his left eye. He touched it for a moment and laughed, showing cigar-stained teeth, then he stepped down.

Freedom had said not a word. He clenched his huge fists and leaned back against the canvas with a sigh. Sometimes, Rawnie thought, looking at his handsome face, he doesn’t even know I exist. At that precise moment Freedom turned to her and smiled, his whole face softened and a twinkle came into his big, dark eyes, and he winked … as if he knew what she was thinking.

It was expected they would marry, she was already nineteen and he was twenty-four, but he had never brought the subject up. They walked together often, but he had never made a serious approach to her. Once, just once, he had kissed her and she would have given herself to him, but he had turned her pressing body from him with that enigmatic smile of his, and then given her bottom a hard smack.

Rawnie knew that Freedom had been with women, all the old’uns told her so — often told her with toothless nudges and winks that it was better to have a man who knew what was what before they were joined for life to a wife.

Rawnie would wait. She knew she was beautiful, had known it from the days when she was just a little dosha. When they found out she had the powers handed down to her from her grandmother, she had become important in the camp and was now the main dukkerin (fortune-teller), and the palefaces came to her regularly with their pieces of gold. The strange thing for Rawnie was that, although she could read the hands of others, she couldn’t foretell her own destiny. But she knew what she wanted — simply Freedom.

In the wagon, Freedom got up, but he had to crouch so as not to hit his head, then he jumped to the ground. He stretched his huge frame like an animal and then turned to help Rawnie down the wooden step. She felt the rough bandages and wanted to kiss his hands, but he was already walking off towards the big tent.

Crowds were gathering and a number of gypsy vans had pulled in to sell their wares. There were artificial flowers made of wood chippings, fern baskets, bottles with wooden crosses built inside, sets of doll’s furniture, pegs, heather brooms and rush whips, bouquets of reed flowers, all made by the old women of the camps. Some wandered around with their heavy baskets calling out their wares, while others sold directly from outside their wagons.

Freedom walked among them and they tipped their caps and wished him luck. They had all placed their hardearned pennies on the prince and Freedom knew it. He picked up a couple of tiny doshas and gave them a kiss and a pat on the head. He was waved at by members of many different clans, and he gave them his flashing smile before he disappeared into the tent to prepare for the match.

Rawnie was set up in a small booth, and already had clients waiting in line. She always had one of the lads standing by in case anyone got troublesome, but she was tough and capable of looking after herself. Rarely did she tell anyone the truth, because sometimes she saw such sadness and heartbreak in people’s hands she knew it was best not to say. They only ever wanted to hear good fortune was coming their way and that they were lucky.

But this was not the case with her own people. They always wanted the truth. And if she saw sadness, loss or great pain she told them so and they would be ready to face it, but then her people were different from these palefaces. The palefaces always wanted happiness ahead and Rawnie didn’t look on what she told them as lies: she contended they were no more than the white lies the palefaces would tell a sick relative, ‘Oh, my, you look better today’, knowing they were drawing their last breath.

The crowds were getting thicker, and above the clamour could be heard the voices of a group of Romany girls singing. The singing was very seductive, whether it was due to the witchery of their slant-eyed glances or the strange, slow body movements, turning their hands with all the clinking bracelets slowly in the air. Groups of boys stood around with gaping mouths, nudging each other. The gypsy girls were sexy all right. They would lay their hats on the ground while they danced for the crowds, and as coins chinked against each other their dancing would get wilder and wilder, like a tarantella with no accompaniment but their seductive chanting. The lamps threw shadows and caught the colours of the kerchiefs, yellow or bright red, the brilliantly coloured skirts, necklaces, gold chains and red beads; the girls were magical, captivating, their swarthy skins even darker in the lamplight, their eyes flashing, eyes that belonged only to the Romany.

Few among the crowds ever detected anything but fairground atmosphere at the gypsy gatherings. They missed the undercurrent of arrogance, or apartness. The gypsies were a naturally hostile group, it was inherent in them all and made them completely unapproachable. But years of concealing their true feelings just to earn enough to live, to eat, gave the Romany eyes a strange blankness. Tonight they appeared to want nothing more than to delight the gathering crowd, but this was their work.

From the top of the hill the fair looked more like a circus, the big tent for the boxing in the middle with the booths and caravans lined up in a circle around it. Lights twinkled and there was music playing. There were many vehicles and two open-topped buses parked in the field. David’s car bounced and rocked over the churned-up grass. He hauled the brake on and a loud cheer rose up from the tent. He looked over, swore, and was out, running towards the entrance. Evelyne fumbled with the catch on the door and ran after him. He shouted for her to hurry, the rest had already gone inside. Evelyne had never been to a fair in her whole life, she would have liked to stop and look at the booths and the gypsy wares but David didn’t hesitate. Another roar went up, then cheers. David turned and held out his hand for her, paid the entrance fees and pulled her inside.

The place was packed. Some people were sitting on tiered benches around the ring which was six feet off the ground and had a bright canvas around it to hide the wooden stilts. Others milled around and some even sat on other people’s shoulders. Big, bright torches lit the whole area and smoke drifted up into the tent top. It was stiflingly hot, and the air was thick with smoke from cigarettes and cigars as well as from the torches. Scuffles were breaking out, fists flying, and the noise was deafening. Car horns sounded, whistles blew — the whole place was in an uproar. A man in an unbelievably loud checked suit, holding a loud hailer, stood in the centre of the ring. Behind him men were taking bets, money was being passed over heads, under arms, and two men sitting on ladders at a blackboard constantly wiped and wrote up new rows of figures in chalk.

David elbowed his way forward, and Evelyne lost her grip on his hand twice and had to push her way to his side. Her hat was knocked off and she had to scrabble for it. The daisies were looking a little ragged now, but she crammed the hat back on her head. David caught sight of Freddy and the others huddled up close to the ringside. A fight was breaking out as people at the back couldn’t see over the heads of the people standing on the front benches.

David eventually fought his way through to the group. How on earth Freddy had managed to capture half a bench was beyond Evelyne, but David sprang up on to it and helped her up, flinging his arm around her waist. ‘Can you see? We’re just in time.’

Evelyne almost fell over, but a small man behind her propped her up, and then toppled over himself as he tried to retrieve the cloth cap he had dropped. A woman hit him with her handbag and called him a dirty little bugger. He countered this with a furious glare and lewd remark about her bum being too big for his liking anyway.

The check-suited man’s face looked ready to burst, the sweat running down his cheeks, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the main event of the evening!’

This was greeted by a roar of approval, and he had to wait for it to die down before he could speak again.

‘In the right corner, Hammer …’

Hammer paraded around the ring, bowing, waving, kissing his huge, gloved hands, and eventually went to his corner where three burly men stood with towels and a large bucket. A small milking stool was placed in the corner for Hammer to sit on, but he refused, and stood pulling at the ropes which provoked more cheering and yelling.

There was obviously some problem getting Hammer’s opponent into the ring. Fists were flying at the other side of the tent, men were being hauled off each other, and the screams of the man in the checked suit through his loud hailer were accompanied by howls from the crowd.

‘Freedom, the Romany gypsy prince … FREEDOM!’

Again no one could hear any details over the crowd’s bellowing, and cries of ‘Boooo … Booooo …’ swamped the tent as Freedom appeared. He bent low, entered the ring, and went straight to his corner. He stood head and shoulders above the men in his corner until he sat on his little stool, and then they closed ranks round him and he couldn’t be seen.

A burly man in a white shirt entered the ring with a white towel over his arm. He held up the towel in one hand, a stopwatch in the other. The man in the checkered suit collapsed out of the ring to sit, hugging his loud hailer, in a state of total exhaustion.

The referee waved his towel a few more times, then turned gesturing to both boxers to come out of their corners. Hammer bounced off the ropes and up went his gloved hands as he waved to the crowd. The roars of approval and disapproval came in earshattering waves. The referee gestured to Freedom to come forward, and as he walked slowly towards Hammer the boos and hisses grew even louder. The two men touched gloves, and whatever the referee said went unheard as the boxers returned to their corners.

Hammer hung on the ropes again, screaming that he would take the gyppo out in three rounds,’Three, three, not-a-one, not-a-two, but three…’ The crowd roared back, ‘ Three, three, three.” The tent felt as if it would collapse as they stamped their feet in unison.

The betting rose to fever pitch before the fight could commence, and more money passed over more heads in cloth caps. The fight was held up again as someone removed a passing cloth cap and tried to take the cash, provoking yet another fight.

A small, balding man fought his way to the ringside and held up a large school bell, which he rang once at Hammer and then once at Freedom. Holding the bell high above the head for the spectators to see, he clanged it again and the fight began. The crowd went quiet as the two fighters moved closer, their corners slipping out of the ring to hang on the corner ropes. High up in the tent two men had crawled like monkeys along the ropes to get a better view.

Rawnie could hear the cheers and boos, and she packed up her little card table. All the gypsies were packing.

They knew better than to stay because if their man Freedom won, they would be the target of fighting-mad miners. They moved quickly and quietly, counting their money and collecting their children so that they were ready to move out.

Jesse Blackton lounged in his booth and jingled the money he had made. He was twenty-two years old, and with a stardo of petty thieving already mounting up. He had the longest coal-black eyelashes, as black as his hair which he wore in a long braid down his back. He also wore his mother’s earring, a long loop, in his left ear. He was very slim, and some said that was why he was such a good thief — his tiny hands could slip into a woman’s putsi like a small child’s. His family didn’t approve of his thieving and he was constantly brought before the elders. But Jesse was Tatchey Romany, very pure-blooded, and because of that he had been forgiven many times and taken back into the fold. Jesse hated Freedom, partly because he was a posh to, posh and yet took the position of a prince. Among the clans Freedom was held up as an example to the children, who were told that one day, according to the readings, Freedom would be rich and successful; he would one day be the king and lead them. Jesse had always felt that to be his prerogative. He could trace his ancestry on both sides back to royal blood, and his many beebees and cocos were scattered from Scotland to the East End of London and beyond to Devon and Cornwall. Jesse could travel anywhere and be greeted with respect and open arms, but he remained with the Welsh family because of his desire to make Rawnie his manushi, his woman. He had been after her since he had joined her clan two years ago, but she would never even give him the time of day.

Rawnie knew Jesse was after her, and often she played him along a little. She knew he was royal but, in her opinion, he didn’t come anywhere near her man Freedom. As it was, Jesse stood only five foot seven, but she had to admit he was a looker and she saw the effect he had on the younger girls.

‘Well,’ said Jesse as he leaned casually against the tiny booth, ‘did you have much bokht tonight?’

Rawnie jingled her purse and smiled, and asked if Jesse had done well. He said nothing, just lifted his long, silky eyelashes, and gave her a cheeky grin.

A roar from the crowds inside made them both turn. That was a roar of approval, and it meant that Freedom must be hurt. Jesse turned back to see Rawnie’s frightened face. He kicked at the floor, tossed a stone on to the top of his boot and flicked it away.

‘Dinna worry, he’s no Icmggry. Freedom has to have the taste of blood in his mouth before he gets his temper up.’

There was a massive swell of shouts and boos, and Jesse grinned.

‘See what I mean, that’ll be a few dcrnds gone. Maybe he won’t look so handsome after this, but he can cour for a diddicoy.”

Jesse’s use of the word diddicoy, or outcast, made Rawnie slap him hard, but Jesse just laughed and shook his head which must have been stinging. He ambled off, turning as he went to say, ‘I’ll wait for you, Rawnie. You’ll come to me one day.’

Another huge cheer from the tent made Rawnie shiver and she packed her belongings fast, hauling them into the wagon and then, knowing she shouldn’t, she made her way towards the big tent.

She couldn’t even see the ring from the back of the tent so she shoved and pushed her way closer, ducking under the sweating arms, narrowly missed by clenched fists that were boxing on behalf of Hammer. She dodged men who were so absorbed in the fight they were giving blow-by-blow accounts of it to themselves. She could hear the thudding, cheering and yelling but could still see nothing. She didn’t know how the fight was going, but her little, wiry body wriggled through until she could glimpse the corner of the ring through a tiny gap in the crowd.

Suddenly Rawnie could see Freedom as he sat on his stool, drinking from a bottle of water like a baby, then turning to spit into the bucket. The sweat was dripping from his hair like tears as he leant back against the post. He was rubbed down with a white towel, water was splashed on his face, and then grease was plastered over his eyes. His face looked red, but she could see no cuts, just deep, red marks, and deeper red ones on his chest and shoulders. Then her view was blocked by a screaming fan as the school bell rang for another round.

Rawnie didn’t even know which round they were fighting or who was ahead on points, so she began to burrow her way closer until she stood behind a bench. ‘The bloody palefaces, typical,’ she thought, ‘they are standing right up close to the ring, no wonder the lads at the back are jumping up and down just to get a glimpse.’

Hammer was hammering blows to Freedom’s upper body while Freedom ducked and weaved but seemed unable to find a break in Hammer’s defence. Hammer lowered his head, almost as if he were looking at the floor, but kept his fists up and jabbed, jabbed, then he swung. Three times his heavy blows had connected, but Freedom had taken it and not gone down. Hammer was heaving for breath, hissing between his teeth, and like an old ram he thundered body blows at Freedom, but the bastard just kept on taking them.

This was the hardest fight Freedom had faced to date, and he was at a loss as to how he could get at the man at all, never mind hit him hard enough to floor him. Freedom couldn’t break through Hammer’s defence — his guard — his jabbing fists, like an oncoming tank.

Hammer was huge and overweight, and his punches hurt. One had nearly winded Freedom and if it hadn’t been for the bell he might have gone down. Hammer was judging his man, knew he’d got him foxed, now he needed to close in, but Freedom’s reach held him back. The gyppo, Hammer knew, would go for any advantage he could find. He hadn’t expected the fight to go this far and he’d already lost on the betting that he’d have Freedom down in three. The lad looked as though he could go the distance. But Hammer’s age was against him. He had to get the boy out because there was no way Hammer could go the full fifteen rounds at this pace. He decided to open up a little, let the boy think he’d found a chink in his defences, then he’d use his famous right uppercut.

The crowd was getting resdess. They weren’t getting enough action, and Hammer acted on his decision to open up. It was a fatal mistake; he had misjudged the power of Freedom’s punches, and he felt his left eyebrow split open like an orange. The blood streamed down and he tossed his head like a crazed bull, trying to cut the boy up with his famous Hammerhead, when another sharp blow to his streaming left eye blinded him on that side. He couldn’t see the punches coming, and as he fought on he couldn’t feel them either. They were coming fast, bang bang, one after the other — there was no let-up. The crowd’s boos and hisses were telling Hammer he was losing, but he struggled on, hunched up and tried to get Freedom hemmed into the corner. He knew his eye had to be attended to, the blood was splashing over Freedom’s body. He hung on, leaning his weight on Freedom, hoping to tire him and praying the bell would ring — only the bell would save his neck. But Freedom couldn’t be cornered, and he couldn’t be stopped.

Hammer lurched at Freedom, felt the big arms trying to push him away, but he clung on. The white towel of the referee flicked — it was now spotted with blood, Hammer’s blood, and then the ref. was between them, trying to break Hammer’s hold.

‘Break … Break… Come on, break!’ The referee hauled Hammer off Freedom and gave him a warning against holding, which caused more loud boos and yells from the crowd. Hammer swayed and gave a quick glance to the man with the bell. He was sure it was time. That look was his downfall, he felt the left side of his face blow apart. He was reeling backwards, he stumbled, and the blows kept on coming and coming, then it was black, black on black; Hammer was going down, down into the mines. He was shouting for his Da to help him up, there was heavy, black, thick smoke everywhere. He couldn’t breathe, his chest heaved and he screamed again for his Da, screaming that the roof was caving in. He was falling, falling down a black shaft, no light, no sound, just silence.

The huge crowd in the tent was ominously quiet, they stared in disbelief as their magnificent Hammer crawled along the canvas floor. He seemed to be crying and his knees were gone, he couldn’t get himself up.

Then his body crashed, face down, the spray of blood and sweat drenching the first row of the audience.

Evelyne gasped as the red spray splashed across her suit, and she put her hands up to cover the nightmare in front of her. The huge man crying like a baby, his head split open and the cheering, screaming crowds. She heard herself shouting, and the next moment the place was in an uproar as the men clinging to the ropes high up in the tent fell, landing in the crowd. The benches started toppling as they were pushed from behind, spilling their occupants forwards on to the people in front. Bench after bench went over, trapping people underneath, screaming, fighting, writhing bodies everywhere, a mass of struggling arms and legs.

Freedom and his crew ran from the ring, pushing the avenging, clawing miners back. They were spat at, insulted, accused of cheating, rigging the match. This had happened once before at a boxing match and the gypsies knew they had to get out fast, move their wagons. The touts would collect the money and bring it to the camp; the main thing was to save themselves from the mob.

Hammer’s trainer and corners were still trying desperately to revive him, shoving the crowds out of the ring. It was pandemonium as a sprawling mass of bodies fought to get out of the crush. The apparently lifeless body of Hammer was passed over heads and outstretched arms to give him air, get him out of the tent.

Evelyne clawed her way up over bodies and finally stood, screaming for David, searching frantically for him. She saw Freddy dragging benches aside and he shouted for help. It looked as though David had broken his leg.

Rawnie pushed and shoved, trying to follow Freedom, and felt her scarf being yanked off her head by an irate miner, who held it in the air.

‘Here’s one of the bloody gypos!’

Hands were all over her, pawing at her, ripping at her clothes. Dear God, why hadn’t she listened, why hadn’t she done as she’d been told? Rawnie scratched at the leering sweating faces.

With the help of two of the others, Evelyne and Freddy finally managed to get David outside. He was bent double in agony, teeth clenched. Freddy tried to calm him, giving orders to the hysterical women. The rest of their friends were gathering, calling out to each other, thankful they were safe. There was so much shouting and screaming going on that their voices were drowned.

Freedom jumped aboard the wagon where the waiting boys patted his shoulder and cheered. There were two men up front, and one of them flipped the horses’ reins and the wagon made for the exit. Motor horns were blaring, and now above the yells could be heard the distinctive bells of police cars as they approached the field. The horses kicked and rolled their eyes, and Freedom climbed up front to take the reins.

The guv’nor, Mr Beshaley, ran to the wagon, his face flushed.

‘Get out, get out fast, past the law, he’s dead, Hammer’s not come round, they think he’s dead — I’ll sort out the cash here, see you back at the camp.’

Beshaley saw Freedom immediately draw the horses back as if to get down. He banged on the side of the wagon.

‘Get out of here, all of you … Go go go!’

The horses were skittish because of the running, shouting people and the sound of the police bells. A crowd of miners was heading for the wagons, shouting to each other. They were going to overturn the gyppos’ carts. The wagon moved forward, cutting through the mob. Suddenly Jesse was running wildly towards them, waving his arms and pointing back at the tent. Freedom stood between the horses, heaving them back by their collars, handed the reins to one of the other men and jumped to the ground. Jesse’s panic-stricken face was streaked with dirt from the clods of earth the miners had started hurling at them.

‘She’s still in there, Rawnie, she went back in there, in the tent!’

Freedom looked back in horror. The boys tried to hold him back, but he just brushed them aside and took off with Jesse running at his heels, shouting as he went, ‘Get out, all of you, we’ll use Rawnie’s cart…. go, go, move.’

The wagon hurtled forwards, knocking three burly miners off their feet. They stepped out of Freedom’s way, wary of him as he raised his huge fists.

Freddy managed to lay David down on the back seat of his car, then ran to the driving seat. Evelyne held on to his arm.

‘He must go to the hospital, get him to a hospital.’ Freddy released her hand, ‘Get a lift home with one

of the others, you can’t come with us, I’m taking him

home, for God’s sake.’

Evelyne didn’t understand, and she was almost knocked over as Freddy drove the car out of the field.

She stared after them. The rest of their group was already moving out, their cars heading for the exits, and Evelyne ran towards an oncoming car with Tulip clinging to the running-board. The car drove straight past, leaving her standing there.

Freedom kept on the move, and when any miner approached him with clenched fists and abuse he growled like a mad dog, baring his teeth and snarling, and they stepped back.

‘Fix … bloody fix, man, you cheatin’ bastard!’

With one hand Freedom grabbed the man, hauled him up and threw him against a pole in the side of the tent.

‘You want to take over the fight, man?’

The man’s false teeth rattled in his mouth, and he held his hands over his face, terrified.

‘Anyone else? Anyone else …?’

They backed off and let him pass. Jesse was waiting at the torn tent flap and together they went inside.

Chapter 8

EVELYNE searched the ground for her handbag. She put her hands to her head in despair. Her hat? She’d lost her new hat! At first she felt tearful, then her temper flared and she turned back. She’d not paid fifteen shillings for a new hat to lose it, never mind her handbag. Her hair had come down from the bun, tumbling around her shoulders, and she was being shoved from all sides, but she gave as good as she got. She stood taller than a lot of the lads she battled through. Having been brought up with three older brothers and having Hugh for a father helped. She rolled up the sleeves of her new suit, it was like the old days out in the yard of a Sunday when she was no more than nine years old. Dicken, Will and Mike were always fighting, and she’d joined in. Now she was as good as any man around her, and she punched and kicked her way through into the tent.

Jesse searched the dispersing crowd without luck, then he jumped up on Freedom’s shoulders, looking for the familiar red scarf, and saw it being waved around by a group of men by the side of the ring. He urged Freedom forward like a stallion.

Evelyne felt her hair pulled from behind, and swung her fist round, belting the gormless young boy on the nose.

‘Christ almighty, there’s a bloody Amazon in there, bach.’

The police had imposed some sort of order now, and they gathered around Hammer’s body with their notebooks out. His manager and trainer stood by, helpless. They kept looking at each other and then down at the massive bulk of Hammer at their feet.

The crowds were thinning out faster than before because the police were there and no one wanted to get booked. Hammer was carried to an ambulance and its crew worked desperately, massaging his heart and trying to resuscitate him. Eventually they were rewarded by a slight flutter of his chest, and he drew a faint breath.

Evelyne searched among the benches, lifting them up. She didn’t care about her suit, it was ruined anyway, but she wanted her handbag. It had more than three pounds and sixteen shillings in it, a new comb and mirror. Evelyne suddenly felt faint, oh God, she thought, my post office savings book! She didn’t care who saw her, she lifted her skirt and felt inside her bloomers, then she sighed with relief. Her precious savings — her legacy — was safe. Then her temper rose again as she remembered that her return ticket was also in the handbag.

She was now close to the ring. Its platform was on stilts, some six feet off the ground and was swathed in tarpaulins. Could her handbag have slithered beneath the ring? She pulled the fabric aside.

Underneath the ring, three lads held Rawnie down, her skirts around her head. A fourth was on top of her with his trousers round his ankles, while the others leered and encouraged him. Her face was scratched and bleeding, her mouth bruised and a tooth missing. She lay half-conscious mewing like a small, drowning kitten.

Evelyne let the tarpaulins fall back into place. ‘Go away,’ she told herself, ‘don’t get involved, get out of here, never mind the handbag, just get out, Evelyne Jones, and for God’s sake do it now!’ At the same time as the voice in her head was talking to her, someone else — not Evelyne, she was sure, but another person entirely — grabbed one of the broken bench legs and was under the boxing ring like a wildcat.

The lad on top of Rawnie had his head cracked by the bench leg, felt his hair being torn out by the roots, heard a scream like a tiger. Two of the others tried to grab Evelyne; one caught her by the hair, but she was kicking, biting, spitting, and punching with all her strength. The other tried to pull her off his mate and suddenly they all turned, open-mouthed. Light flooded beneath the ring as Freedom, his muscles straining, lifted the platform bodily upwards and tossed it aside.

Jesse took on one of the lads and Freedom, panther-like, moved towards the other three. He grabbed two of them by their necks, bashing their heads together, and knocked out the other with one punch. The boy’s nose split in two and blood streamed down his face.

‘You’re all right now, love, it’s all right, you’re safe, we’ll take you right now, nobody’s going to hurt you any more, it’s all right.’

Evelyne held the terrified, raped and beaten girl in her arms, covering her body with her own jacket. Rawnie moaned and clung to Evelyne like a child, her body heaving as she sobbed. Her small body jerked and shuddered, and Evelyne stroked her hair.

Evelyne talked non-stop, saying anything that came into her mind to try and calm the terrified girl. Wood splintered around them, cries of ‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’ went up. The tent was aflame.

Jesse repeated the cry as smoke began to billow from one side of the tent, the lanterns having fallen when Freedom moved the boxing ring. He called again, but Freedom was searching one of the boy’s pockets. Jesse pulled Freedom’s sleeve, urging him to get out, the police were inside the tent arresting everyone in sight. Freedom still grasped the terrified boy with one hand and shook him, his feet off the ground, until his teeth rattled in his head.

‘Remember me, because I’ll be coming after you, each and every one of you, this is not the end of it.’

Jesse turned and gestured for them to hurry.

‘Bejesus, Freedom, it’ll be us in the clink if you don’t get a move on.’

Freedom picked up Rawnie in one arm as if she were no more than a rag doll, and with his other hand he guided Evelyne out. They kept moving, Evelyne crouching down as she ran along behind a row of chairs. Half of her felt she had no need to flee like a criminal, but the flames were spreading behind her and the boy she had walloped with the bench leg was shouting after them, pointing at her. The smoke billowed back and masked their escape, Jesse slicing through the side of the tent with his knife.

They made it to Rawnie’s wagon and Freedom helped Evelyne aboard. He laid Rawnie gently down, and the wagon jolted off, Jesse whipping up the horse. Evelyne had now lost her hat, her handbag and one shoe, her hair was loose, her stockings laddered and one sleeve was torn right out of her jacket and soaked with Rawnie’s blood.

As the wagon made its way across the fields, keeping off the roads and away from the police, one of the youths was telling a detective sergeant that he had seen with his own eyes an Amazon woman with a sword, and she was beating everybody up. It was she who had given him the bloody nose, he’d not touched a soul. The youth was thrown into a police wagon and taken away to be charged with disorderly conduct. He maintained his innocence in the wagon, still persisted with his story at the police station. There had been this enormous bloody woman, like an Amazon he had seen at the local cinema. She had red hair down to her waist and was screaming like a crazy horse. One of the other boys, with his head cut open, was put into the next cell. He said nothing, but by God he’d remember that wildcat as long as he lived. Nearly broken his skull, she had.

The Amazon sat hunched in the wagon, having no idea where she was going or with whom. She watched as the big fighter they called Freedom rocked the poor girl in his arms. He talked quietly, intimately, close to Rawnie, and his soothing voice and quiet strength calmed her. She lay with her face turned away from Evelyne and began to weep softly, and all the time Freedom talked in a language Evelyne couldn’t understand. She had never seen a man so gentle; it was hard to reconcile him with the fierce man she had seen fighting in the ring.

They travelled for about thirty minutes and then Jesse pulled up the horses. They were by a stream and Rawnie would want to wash. Freedom bent to lift her down.

‘Acoi Rawnie, chies so betie, you’ll wash here you’re so chiklo, an’ Jesse mun, we’ll leave gav, the gav mush will be after us.’

Evelyne did not understand what they were saying. She saw Freedom lift Rawnie in his arms and then Jesse grabbed him.

To Evelyne’s astonishment the men argued, the poor girl between them. Rawnie clung to Freedom’s neck as Jesse tried to pull her out of his arms.

‘She’s ma woman, raped mun, we take revenge.’ Freedom snarled angrily, his voice hissing, ‘Kek, kek.’ Evelyne stood up and hit her head hard on the roof of the wagon. She saw stars before her eyes and slumped down again.

‘Will you stop your arguing, the girl should be washed.’

They carried Rawnie to the water and she was silent, head bowed.

‘Leave her with me, go, the pair of you, and let me help her.’

Jesse gave her a foul, snarling look and Freedom held him back.

‘Thank ye for this, woman.’

Freedom filled a pail with water and placed it beside Evelyne. Then he took off his shirt and ripped it in two, throwing her the pieces to use as washcloths. The two men went back to the wagon, still arguing.

Rawnie sat staring, stunned, and Evelyne wet the cloths and washed the girl’s face and neck, then sat down and eased the girl’s skirt back to wash her thighs, and was horrified. Her legs were crusted with blood and bruised, deep blue and red marks where the boys had forced her thighs apart.

‘Oh God help you, God help you.’

As Evelyne washed her gently, the girl laid her head on Evelyne’s shoulder.

When it was done Evelyne whispered to her that there was no trace left, she was clean. She dried Rawnie with the remainder of Freedom’s shirt and called out that they were ready. It was Jesse who gently scooped Rawnie into his arms and helped her up the wooden steps of the wagon.

Evelyne went to empty the pail of water. Her foot slipped and she ended up standing in the stream. Freedom appeared on the bank and held out his hand to her, and as she reached for it she slid down the bank again, ending up sitting in cold water to her waist. Freedom hauled her out with one jerk of his strong arm, but her new suit was now soaked.

‘Ye’d best come back to camp and dry off by the fires.’

Evelyne hesitated, and he cocked his head to one side and waited. Then she gave a brief nod and was helped aboard. Well, she couldn’t really arrive back at Mrs Pugh’s in this dishevelled condition.

As the wagon rumbled and bumped its way along the rutted lanes, Rawnie sat staring into space, her hands plucking at her brighdy coloured skirt. The bracelets tinkled and jangled, but she stared straight ahead, her beautiful face scratched, her lips puffy and bruised. She was calm now, her eyes impassive and distant. Evelyne supported herself on the wooden frame of the wagon as it jolted and swayed. She tried to remember what she had in her handbag, maybe the return ticket was on the dressing table at Mrs Pugh’s, but she knew in her heart that it wasn’t. How much money? The more she tried to remember the more she felt like weeping. Her lovely hat, oh God, fifteen shillings gone. She sat as far from the fighter as possible, aware that he kept staring at her. She felt no fear, she wasn’t afraid of them, just extremely worried about her purse and the waste of money, bag, hat and shoes. She bit her lip to force back the tears, then felt disgusted with herself — that poor girl raped and all she was worried about was her outfit.

At long last the wagon stopped, and Jesse opened the fiap. They helped Rawnie down, she wouldn’t be lifted but stepped down, her head high, even her dark eyes were proud, her face a mask. Caravans and wagons formed a semicircle with large tents and the site was lit up by a huge, blazing fire in the centre. Women sat on caravan steps, while cooking pots on stands around the fire sizzled and boiled.

The gypsies had done well that night and they were celebrating. Four girls danced around, flashing their skirts. In the firelight they glittered with gold and their red underskirts flashed as they clicked their heels. A fiddler started to play and an old woman beat her fists against a ribboned tambourine. As Freedom stepped down from the wagon, they cheered and a group of small children clustered around him. Jesse took Rawnie’s hand and led her towards a painted wooden caravan, its shafts laid flat on the grass.

Evelyne hovered at the door of the wagon, and felt the whole camp grow still and silent as they all stared towards her, their expressionless eyes taking her in, then turning to Freedom for an answer. Freedom guided Evelyne into the glare of the fire, and she was very conscious of her appearance. She knew she must look very strange to the gathered people. Her hair was loose, her skirt filthy, she wore no stockings and her jacket had only one and a half sleeves. On top of that she was covered in mud and blood, even her face was streaked with dirt.

Freedom held her hand, guiding her firmly forward, and spoke sharply to two old women who whispered to each other. Evelyne couldn’t understand him, he spoke in his strange language. Whatever he said made one of the old women step towards Evelyne and take her hand, tugging at her to follow. Evelyne was a little afraid to let go of Freedom’s strong hand, but he nodded that it would be all right and to go with the old crone.

She was let into a rounded tent. Inside she could see the carved willow hoops that supported the canvas, shaped like a ribcage. The tent was large, and inside were four cot-like beds. Cooking utensils and household equipment were stacked in one corner and the floor was strewn with rushes. The tent was warm and cosy, and the old woman tugged at Evelyne’s sleeve for her to follow. Opening a wooden box, the woman chatted away, although Evelyne couldn’t understand a word. Out of the box came a cardigan, an old skirt and a white petticoat. Again the woman plucked at Evelyne’s sleeve, gesturing for her to take off her skirt. There was a strange, musky smell to the clothes, but at least they were dry, and she began to feel a little warmer.

Evelyne could see the women scrubbing her clothes and she sighed; they looked as if they were trying to get the oil stain out, but she knew they were rubbing too hard. They should have used vinegar and brown paper, but she didn’t like to move out of the tent, in fact she wasn’t too sure exactly what she should do. She had no idea of the time or where she was.

Jesse was all for driving into town and finding the boys. He constantly flicked his knife, it was razor sharp and his intentions were obvious. Freedom strove to keep the peace.

‘Jesse, I know, mun, what was done to her, but for us all to ride into town is madness.’

Jesse hurled the knife at a tree. It whizzed through the air.

‘I’ll not move out of camp until I take revenge, you saw nothin’ — you did not see what they done. It scarred her mind, not just her body, mun.’

‘Jesse, the men will pay for what they done.’

‘Oh, yeah, you tell me how much? Go on, an’ tell me how? By us going to the police when you know what they would do, clap every one of us into jail so much as look at us. We all go in now. We ride in, take them bastards one by one and then we ride out.’

‘You go in tonight, Jesse, and they will arrest you.’

Jesse put up his fists and struck out at Freedom. He was crazy with rage.

‘It’s you, mush, they want you, the law want you for tonight’s fight.’

The other men stepped in and held Jesse back. Their prince, their great warrior, made them more money than Jesse, they needed him and they needed his fights.

‘He’s our fighter, mush, so listen to what he says. It was fair, no fault of his if that bastard dies.’

Freedom gripped the furious, blazing Jesse. ‘Trust me, mush, we’ll get each one.’

Jesse wanted to weep, always they turned against him in favour of Freedom. He removed his knife from the tree.

‘So be it, but I want each man dead, I want their hearts.’

Mr Beshaley rode up on his sweating horse. He shouted to the men to collect their winnings, and make it fast.

‘Hammer’s still alive, but the law want to question one and all, so pack up and get out, move fast, we’ve made good money … head for Scotland.’

Never one to ride with them, Beshaley heeled his horse and galloped away. He looked back once to Freedom and shouted that he would arrange a fight come next month, then he was gone.

The men occupied themselves with counting their winnings, and Rawnie’s plight was forgotten for the moment. Freedom took Jesse aside and told him to get everyone prepared to move out by morning. Everyone except himself and Jesse who would repay the men who had raped Rawnie.

‘How will ye do it, man, punch every miner we cross?’

Freedom smiled, and took out the wallet he had taken from one of the boys. Find one and they could get the names of the others. Jesse was so eager to use his knife — he would soon have the opportunity.

Jesse seethed inside. It was as if Freedom was always one step ahead of him, but he had to concede that it made sense. Already the men were preparing to move out, quietly taking down the tents and bringing the horses from the fields.

Freedom went to the tent where Evelyne was and stood at the opening. He could see Evelyne fast asleep, her mass of hair sprayed out across the pillow. Her white skin seemed translucent, and the soft violet shade of her eyelids fascinated him. He moved closer to the bed, and stood for a while looking down into the strange, beautiful face. He touched her hair gently — golden hair, it felt soft to his touch, and then he looked again. There was something in the back of his mind, a long-forgotten memory. Evelyne woke to see his face looming above her, and started. As she sat up he smiled at her and said she had no need to fear him.

Her clothes were dry but wrinkled, and when she was left alone to change she discovered that they had shrunk. So much for expensive French labels! She went to the tent flap and opened it a fraction. Freedom was waiting, as if on guard, outside.

‘I can’t get into my skirt, it’s shrunk.’

He turned and looked at her and then laughed, said for her to keep what she had been given. Wearing the petticoat and brown sack skirt, with her own blouse and the jacket that now had only one sleeve, she opened the tent flap. There was a blackened area where the fire had been, and all the tents had been packed away. Most of the camp had already moved on, there were just a few caravans left in line with the horses being backed into the shafts.

The last caravan in the line, with red curtains, was brightly painted, and the blues, reds and greens merged into a strange pattern all over the wagon itself.

‘Rawnie wants to see you, then we will take you back to town.’

Evelyne was led over to the caravan, and she mounted the steps and tapped on the door. Jesse opened it, and with a curt nod jumped down and gestured for her to go inside.

Jesse joined Freedom, who was dismantling the tent Evelyne had used. He jerked his head in the direction of Rawnie’s caravan.

‘By God she’s a big’un, you see the way she fought, like a wildcat…’

Freedom made no reply but continued to pull down the canvas.

The caravan inside was as bright as the outside, full of colours and wonderful paintings. Each panel bore a different scene, and the wooden ceiling was dark blue with moons and stars, and lanterns dangling. The brass was sparkling, polished like mirrors. Bright skirts and blouses were strewn around, and the heavy, sweet smell of musk was everywhere. A side table attached to the wall of the caravan was crammed with pots of cream and rouge. Hanging on hooks were bracelets and bangles and hundreds of beaded necklaces, mostly of bright red beads mixed with gold coins. There were boxes of gold earrings, hair slides, strange, diamond-cut stones, and amber, quaint and oriental. There was malachite and silver, and wonderful, rich, matte yellow gold, a treasure-chest of coral and jet. Evelyne gasped: there were so many colours and sparkling ornaments, it took her completely by surprise.

Rawnie sat curled up on a couch. She was dressed in a bright red skirt with layers and layers of ribboned petticoats. Her hair glistened with oils, her arms covered with bracelets, and she wore a shawl with embroidered roses. She gestured for Evelyne to sit, and seemed pleased with the effect her home had on the strange girl with the funny hair.

Evelyne had to bend slightly, the ceiling was so low, and she sat down next to Rawnie. The girl took Evelyne’s hand and kissed her palm, then she removed her heavy gold earrings and handed them to Evelyne.

‘No, no, I can’t, please, you don’t have to … take them back.’

Rawnie frowned, took back the earrings and reached for some beads. She held them out, and Evelyne again shook her head.

‘You don’t like them? What is it you want?’

Evelyne smiled and said she wanted nothing.

Rawnie’s eyes filled with tears. She lowered her head, and her voice was so soft Evelyne could only just hear.

‘Will you take him when you go?’

Evelyne did not understand. She looked puzzled and reached for Rawnie’s hand, but Rawnie cowered back against the cushions.

‘What is it, Rawnie? That’s your name, isn’t it? Are you afraid of me? I am ashamed for what happened to you, and I will help you in any way … if you want the police informed …’

Rawnie grasped Evelyne’s arm and shook her head, said there were to be no police, they had their own ways of taking care of their people. She had to give her thanks, and Evelyne had refused her gifts; was she ashamed to take them? They were not stolen, they had been handed down to Rawnie from her mother … Evelyne accepted a tiny pair of hooped earrings, and as she bent to kiss Rawnie again, the girl shrank away. There seemed nothing more to say and Evelyne prepared to leave. She could hear the men moving, putting a horse between the shafts of the caravan.

She was aware of Rawnie’s dark eyes staring at her, as if she could see inside her head. Then Rawnie took Evelyne’s hand, her own in comparison were dark-skinned, tiny. The girl’s touch was delicate, as she slowly traced the head line, the life line, her dark eyes seeming even darker as the feather-light touch traced the heart line. Three times she traced the heart line and murmured, ‘Mercury, Apollo, Saturn, Jupiter … venus, venus, venus … the venus.’ She reached over for a lighted candle, brought it closer, and as Evelyne tried to withdraw her hand, her grip tightened. She began to drip the wax slowly into Evelyne’s upturned palm until it was covered in the warm wax. Her black eyes held Evelyne as she began to spread her hand down, pressing hard, palm to palm.

Freedom looked in at the caravan door, glanced at the two women and closed the door again. Rawnie was distant, her eyes expressionless, dark pools. They held Evelyne’s like a snake and then Rawnie lifted her hand away together with the imprint of Evelyne’s in the wax, like a shell. She held it up against the candle flames and stared at the strange, delicate imprint.

The sides of the wagon were banged and Jesse’s voice called out that they must be on their way. Evelyne stood up, nearly knocking her head on the ceiling but remembering just in time. Rawnie still held the paper-thin waxen palm to the candle flame. Evelyne was opening the door to go outside when Rawnie spoke, her low, husky voice as hypnotic as her eyes, ‘He will give you two sons, strong, healthy sons, and you will lose him when the sky is full of black … dark birds. They fill the sky. Beware of the big dark birds, my friend …’

Rawnie was crying soundlessly, tears streaming down her face. She could not read her own destiny, but the faces of the palefaced woman’s two sons mirrored Freedom’s. She might not know it now, but one day he would be the paleface’s rommando: she would have his heart, she already had his soul.

Evelyne turned back, but Rawnie did not look up. She was melting the wax palm in the candle flame, the tears on her cheeks like wax drops, clear, heavy drops.

Chapter 9

THE CARAVANS moved out. As the dukkerin, Rawnie travelled last. Roped to the wagon shafts was their herd of wild ponies. Rawnie stood at the door of her wagon and heard from up front the boy yelping and clicking his tongue to move her horse forward over the field.

In the distance she could still see Freedom, Jesse and the paleface woman sitting on top of the rag-and-bone cart. She sighed, so be it, she would marry Jesse, the Black Prince, if he would have her. She closed the door and flicked open the knife Jesse had given her, similar to his own. He had carved her name on the shaft. She ran her finger along the blade, then opened her palm and slit the mound beneath her thumb. The blood oozed out, became a fine trickle. Although the wagon rocked and jolted, she was able to stand still as if by magic, unaware of the movement … suddenly she opened her eyes wide and screamed, cursing like a witch, and the blade sang through the air to land poised in the wood of her caravan wall, twanging.

Sitting on top of the cart, Evelyne clung on for dear life. Jesse led the donkey, pulling on the reins and glowering, muttering to himself. Freedom walked casually alongside, occasionally looking up at her and smiling. Twice she had almost slipped off, but each time he had been there, hand out to help her regain her balance. He had a way, this fighter, of always being there.

Jesse hit the donkey with a stick and the beast veered to the right, tipping Evelyne over. Freedom made Jesse stop the cart for a moment and got up beside her. Jesse flipped him the rein and walked on, swishing the hedges with his stick. Casually, Freedom slipped an arm loosely around Evelyne’s waist and clicked his tongue for the donkey to move on. She sniffed, there was a musky, sweet smell, and at first she thought it came from the hedgerow, maybe a flower, but as she turned her head she realized it came from Freedom, that he must be using a perfume on his hair, or oil. He caught her looking at him and smiled, showing his perfect white teeth.

As soon as they entered town Evelyne jumped down, insisting she would be all right. Without a word Jesse hopped up on to the cart and took the reins again, flipped them and whacked the donkey with his stick at the same time. The cart rattled off.

‘Rags, bones … bring out yer rags …’

As Jesse shouted, Freedom turned back to stare at Evelyne. He gave her a small wave and then turned to face ahead.

Not having the slightest idea where she was, Evelyne kept walking. She had not a penny to her name, and wondered if there might be a post office, then remembered it was Sunday. She sighed, no train ticket home, no handbag, and what did she look like? She was filthy, her skirt was wrinkled, her blouse torn, beautiful suit completely ruined. She walked on until her feet ached, heading towards the centre of town.

Miss Freda stepped out of her shop, neat as ever and wearing one of her hats. She alwats walked past the Grand Hotel on a Sunday, showing off her creations as a means of advertising.

‘Miss Freda, oh, Miss Freda…I’ve found you.’

She squinted in a shortsighted fashion and looked in the direction of the voice, then her mouth dropped open.

‘Oh, oh, what happened to you, child?’

‘Could I possibly borrow my bus fare, it’s a threepenny ride from the terminal, only I lost my bag and …’

To Freda’s horror Evelyne burst into tears. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, ashamed to be seen with the girl, and hustled her towards a shop doorway. Wiping her nose on Miss Freda’s little lace handkerchief, Evelyne promised to come to the shop next day and repay the three pennies. Freda opened her purse and counted out the money, snapped it shut again and said she had to be on her way as she had a very important business meeting and couldn’t stop to talk. From the doorway, Evelyne watched her hurry away down the street.

By the time Evelyne arrived at Dr Collins’ house her heels were blistered and red raw. Mrs Darwin opened the basement door to her.

‘Gawd love me, what have you been doing? Come on in, lovey.’

She ushered Evelyne into the kitchen where the maid was slumped in a chair by the fire.

Kicking the maid out of the chair Mrs Darwin settled Evelyne down with a steaming cup of tea. As Evelyne drew breath to launch into an explanation of her appearance, Mrs Darwin began to cry, wiping her nose on her apron.

‘I’d have left long ago, but I’ve not had me wages and Master David’s taken everything of value, and what he left that bugger Morgan’s made off with. It’s a shocking state of affairs …’

Evelyne felt the tea warming her chilled body.

‘Is David at home, Mrs Darwin?’

Mrs Darwin looked at Evelyne, her jaw dropped open.

‘We went to a fair last night, there was a terrible to-do afterwards, all the benches fell down and David hurt his leg. Did he come home, or is he in hospital?’

Mrs Darwin glanced at Muriel then back to Evelyne. ‘He doesn’t live here, not any more.’ She could see the confusion in Evelyne’s face and she bit her lip, concerned. ‘He only stays here occasionally, see, he wants to sell this place but he can’t, not without your permission, and then what with all his debts, well, the place is not what it was. He’s sold off everything that wasn’t nailed down. We’ve not been paid …’

Evelyne interrupted her, saying she had already said that she would see about the wages as soon as things were settled.

‘Where is David living, then?’

‘Well, with his wife of course. Then if he’s not there he’s with his friend Freddy Carlton, spends a lot of…’

Mrs Darwin didn’t finish. Evelyne’s body shook and she had to put her teacup down.

‘Wife? Is David married?’

‘Oh, yes, he’s married all right, not that you’d know by his manner, and he’s got a little boy too … Lady Primrose, he married Her Ladyship — oh, what would it be — three, almost four years ago.’

Evelyne couldn’t stop herself shaking, her whole body trembled. Mrs Darwin stood up and bent over her. ‘Are you all right, lovey? You’ve gone ever so pale.’

Unable to speak, Evelyne bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to faint, not to cry out, scream his name. Mrs Darwin held her close, patted her head.

‘I can see by your face, lovey, something is terribly wrong. What did he do to you? Oh, dear God, what did he do?’

Mrs Darwin blew her nose on her apron and, shaking her fat head, slumped into her chair.

‘We’ve had a terrible time with him, he killed his father, you know. Oh, it was shocking the way he carried on when he came home. See, he didn’t know who he was — sometimes he would be gone for days on end and we’d have to send the police out looking for him. Her Ladyship had a shocking time of it, it’s memory loss, they say, but it’s terrible to see. He don’t know who he is, where he is, and he never recognized his father. Broke his heart, it did, killed him as sure as I’m sitting here, shocking, terrible, shocking time.’

Evelyne’s heart was hammering inside her chest and Mrs Darwin’s voice droning on made it worse. She put her hands over her ears.

‘Stop it, stop it.’

‘But it’s the truth, if it wasn’t for Lord Carlton he’d be in a mental home, isn’t that right, Muriel?’

Evelyne stood up and clenched her fists.

‘But he knew me, he recognized me. You saw the way he ran to me. He knew who I was … he called my name, he did, he called me … he called my name!’

She sobbed, and Mrs Darwin rocked her in her arms.

‘No, lovey, I went to fetch him, tell him you was here; you see, they say perhaps something from his past’ll make him remember, sparking something off, like. I told him, I told him who you were … but he didn’t recognize you — he didn’t know you.’

Evelyne felt again the sweet kisses, his gentle kisses on her neck, her face, her lips … she wouldn’t believe it. She shook her head fiercely, and Mrs Darwin sighed.

‘Did he have his way with you?’

Evelyne turned away.

‘Oh, lovey, I wish it was different, but what can I say, he used this place like a whorehouse, always bringing terrible women back here, some of them so filthy I’d have to burn the sheet afterwards. He don’t know what he’s doing … and him what used to have two baths a day.’

Evelyne downed her tea and carefully placed the rose-patterned cup back on its saucer. Always able to fight her emotions, she was suddenly icy calm, controlled, ‘I’ll need to see him, see about signing over my part of the house. We’ll have to sell it to give you both your wages … Do you — do you have a telephone number where I could call him?’

Mrs Darwin nodded and led Evelyne to the hall. ‘There’ll be his own home, Lady Primrose’s, it’s her family house they live in. They had a shocking war, she lost her brother and her father, you know…’

Evelyne snapped, her voice hard. ‘What is the telephone number?’

Mrs Darwin dialled the operator and waited for an answer. The waiting was painful. David was not at home, and a servant suggested they try Lord Carlton’s home. Mrs Darwin called the operator again …

‘Do you remember Lord Carlton, he was in the army with Master David? He married Lady Warner’s daughter, poor bugger, Lord love us, what a lump … an’ ‘im such a nice looker and titled as well. Still, he’s sitting in clover, lot of money and the factory’s going strong. Major Warner, his Lordship, never came back neither. Some say he was killed in action, but there’s those who say he stayed away, out of Lady Sybil’s reach … hello? Hello? Here you are, lovey, you’re through to the house.’

In the marble hallway, the butler held out the telephone to Freddy. ‘It’s Mr Collins’ housekeeper, sir.’

Freddy sighed and took the receiver. ‘Hello? Speaking … who is this? Mrs Darwin? Oh, yes, yes of course, I remember. Well, I’m afraid David’s still rather poorly … Yes, he’s here, resting. I don’t really think that would be very convenient.’

Evelyne gripped the telephone tightly.

‘Would you please tell Mr Collins that Miss Evelyne Jones will be calling to see him. Thank you.’

Evelyne put the ear-piece back so hard Mrs Darwin thought she’d snapped the hook off.

‘Now I would like to take a bath, then I’ll go straight to the Warners’.’

Mrs Darwin nodded, even said, ‘Yes, ma’am’. Suddenly Evelyne frightened the life out of her.

Heather opened the drawing room doors. Freddy was standing staring at the telephone, his thoughts miles away.

‘Who was that, dearest? Mummy said she thought she heard the phone ring.’

She stood staring like an owl, waiting, and Freddy sighed.

‘Just someone for David, nothing.’

‘Primmy’s due at any moment. She called earlier to say she would be driving up from London.’

‘Yes, yes I know, I’ll go and tell him.’

Heather watched her husband climb the stairs. She sighed. David really played such an important part in their lives. If they weren’t chasing around Cardiff looking for him, Freddy was staying at David’s house or he at theirs. They had virtually made over to him one of their best front bedrooms, he stayed so often. Not that Heather ever said anything against it; far from it. It was not in her nature ever to disagree with anything Freddy wanted to do.

Just as she was about to close the door, the children’s nanny appeared, dragging their twin daughters along. The little girls were very like their mother, even down to the buck teeth. They were both crying because Clarence had kicked one of them. Clarence was David’s little boy and, like his father, he spent more time at Freddy and Heather’s home than his own.

‘Tell Clarence, Nanny, that if he doesn’t behave I shall tell his mother, she will be here at any moment.’

The nanny hauled the howling children up the stairs. Trailing behind was the little golden-haired boy, his silky hair just like David’s. Clarence began to shout that he wanted his mother, and was pulled away up to the nursery.

‘David? You awake, old man? Just had a call from that gel Evelyne whatsit.’

David lay in the large double bed with its frills and canopy, his injured leg propped up on pillows. ‘Oh, Christ, that one from last night, I thought we’d got rid of her … I say, want a game of cards? Double or quits?’

Freddy sighed. There David sat, looking as angelic as ever, bathed, his hair shining, almost sparkling, his complexion fresh.

‘Just that it could be a trifle embarrassing, Primmy called and she’s on her way here. Don’t think it’s a frightfully good idea for them to meet, do you? You were making a bit of a meal of her, you know … David?’

Unconcerned, David shuffled his pack of cards. ‘Can’t you get rid of her for me? You know how I hate to upset Primmy … what on earth does she want, did she say?’

Freddy scratched his head and shrugged, muttered that it was something to do with the house, David’s old home.

‘You think you could sneak her up the back way so no one will know? See what she wants?’

Freddy nodded. He always did what David wanted, always had. Deep down he knew why. He would do anything to be near Lady Primrose, even if it meant taking care of her husband.

Evelyne stood at the iron gates and peered through them, up the gravel drive to the big white manor house. Without the twinkling fairy lights the drive seemed longer, and the house had lost its fairy-tale aspect. The sweeping lawns were devoid of peacocks, but the flowerbeds and the hedges were as immaculate as ever.

Freddy met her in the drive, as if he had been looking out for here. He seemed ill at ease, nervous of her, and cleared his throat, ‘Would you come this way, just follow me.’

They followed a path leading away from the front of the manor, around to the back of the house that had been part of his dreams for so many years, and in by the servants’ entrance.

Heather flicked the velvet curtains back into place. She was spying, she knew it. David was obviously up to his old tricks again. The girl looked positively wretched.

She went back to reviewing the firm’s accounts. She now ran the family business, Freddy paying not the slightest attention to it, although he dipped into their joint account freely. Heather never rebuked him, never questioned what he did with all the ‘spending money’. She was frightened that he might tell her the truth. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

Lady Sybil sat by the fire wrapped in a thick woollen rug. She appeared weighed down by her treasured array of beads.

‘Who was that outside? I heard the gravel crunch.’

‘No one, Mother, just the gardener.’

The clock chimed three.

Evelyne could hear the chimes as she and Freddy climbed the back stairs. He had said not a word, simply gesturing to her to follow him. As they crossed the landing towards David’s bedroom, Clarence ran from the nursery, being chased by Nanny.

‘Watch it, Clarence, don’t fall over and hurt yourself,’ she warned.

The little boy ran on, disappearing from view with the nanny calling after him. Freddy tapped on the bedroom door and opened it. ‘Here’s your visitor, old chap, don’t make it too long.’

Freddy turned to Evelyne. ‘I hope you’ll keep quiet about the boxing match should anyone ask you, you know there was a frightful rumpus afterwards. Police were called in to keep the rabble quiet, and David and I think it best you don’t mention our presence there to anyone, all right?’

Evelyne nodded her head, and Freddy went into the bedroom. He laughed at something David must have said, then opened the door wide for Evelyne to enter.

The room was vast, and the ornate four-poster bed had a frilled and flounced canopy with more flounces round the base. A huge tallboy with a mirror on top flanked by carved angels dominated the room. A dressing-table swathed in the same fabric as the bed was covered in little silver pots, brushes, a hand-mirror, and shaving equipment in a silver rack. There were clothes draped across the back of a velvet chair, and a large tray of half-eaten food rested on a stand.

David lay back on a mound of pillows, the embroidered frills matching those on the sheet. He was wearing monogrammed silk pyjamas, and he looked as handsome as ever, just a fraction paler.

‘Well, hello, Flame, come in and sit down. Have you had some tea?’

Unaware that Evelyne could see him in the mirror, David raised his eyebrows questioningly at Freddy.

‘S’all right, old man, I’ve briefed her, she won’t let the cat out of the bag … be back in about ten minutes, toodleoo.’

He closed the door, and Evelyne was left standing awkwardly in the centre of the room.

‘Well sit down, girl, here, next to me, but gently, the leg’s really painful.’

Evelyne perched on the end of the bed and took a deep breath, hardly able to meet his smiling blue eyes.

‘Suppose you met his wife? Dreadful-looking, isn’t she? But then poor Freddy had to take what was available, needed the cash. They run a chocolate factory you know, absolutely loaded. Still, I must say I’m eternally grateful, got me back here in no time …’

He had the grace to blush slightly, aware that they must have abandoned her at the boxing match. He reached over and poured himself a glass of whisky from a cut-glass decanter.

Evelyne blurted out, ‘You didn’t remember me at all, did you? What did Mrs Darwin tell you about me?’

David downed the drink in one and shrugged, then he told her Mrs Darwin was a drunkard, she’d just said that there was a beautiful girl waiting at the house. He gazed at the ceiling, frowned. ‘They tell you about me? They treat me rather like a loony you know, because I can’t remember my past. Well, my father did. If it weren’t for Freddy I’d probably have been put into some kind of home. I’m all right, though, and maybe it’s for the best. God knows what’s hidden in the recesses of my mind, God knows.’

Evelyne twisted her hands and mumbled that she was the girl Doris had brought to the house. She bit hard on her lip, but couldn’t stop the tears. David picked up her hand and pulled, making her move closer until she could smell his lavender perfume, then drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them. She moaned softly, then withdrew her hand.

‘You’re married, you should have told me.’

David cocked his head to one side and asked, ‘Why?’ He wanted to know what on earth it had to do with her. She moved off and paced the room, and slowly, bit by bit, she told him everything, even down to buying her outfit, hiring the chauffeur-driven car. He listened, put a cigarette into a holder and lit it, breathing out the smoke. He was staring into space, and suddenly, out of the blue, he spoke, not to Evelyne but to the wall, ‘Did you know that the average life expectancy of a subaltern on arrival in the trenches was little more than three weeks?’

His face crumpled, like a child’s, a puzzled furrow on his brow. He touched his forehead with one finger, pressing hard, and then took another drift of smoke into his lungs and turned his clear, ice-blue eyes to her. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘I love you, and I’ve been in love with you since I was fourteen years of age.’

There, it was out, she’d said it, said everything she had intended to say, and at the finish she felt drained, empty.

‘I’m very flattered, sweet girl, but tell me what did you intend me to do with this love of yours? Oh Christ, did I make a play for you yesterday? I was drunk, you know that, surely?’

Evelyne stared at him. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and looked enquiringly at her. She couldn’t meet his gaze. He vaguely remembered what had happened last night, and he remembered Evelyne. But he had been drunk, he excused himself. Looking at her now he couldn’t believe he had made a pass at her, and all she had just told him meant nothing to him. He had absolutely no idea who this woman Doris was. His eyes narrowed, he leaned back and stared. After a moment he asked in a clipped, cold tone, ‘What do you want? Well, what do you want?’

Evelyne twisted her hands, swallowed hard, and said, ‘Half of your father’s house is mine, Mrs Darwin said her wages have not been paid.’

‘She’s a liar, absolute lies, pay her every month, ask Freddy.’

‘She says neither she nor Muriel has been paid. Now, maybe they have or they haven’t, I don’t know, but I need to know what you want to do with the house. It’s in an appalling condition. Are you going to sell it? If so, then do you need my signature?’

David yawned and said that he had not the slightest idea. Evelyne’s temper was rising, her fists were clenched at her sides.

‘Well, maybe the money is of no interest to you, it is to me, and I could well do with it. How much is the house worth?’

‘Is that what you’ve come here for, money? Christ, you are all the same, money, money … do what you like with the house, sell it, live in it, I don’t care … I don’t care.’

Evelyne sprang to her feet.

‘Maybe you don’t care, but I spent money on my clothes, they were ruined, I spent money on a train ticket, my handbag, all lost at the fair you took me to. I own half that house, now it may mean nothing to you, but… I want to be paid, no more than is my right.’

David’s mouth turned down like a child’s. He reached for his jacket and took out his wallet, throwing it across the room.

‘Take whatever you want … money is all your kind ever think of.’

That was it. Evelyne turned to face him, eyes blazing.

‘What do you mean by that? What do you mean by “my kind”? What is my kind? Poor, is that my kind, poor?’

She frightened him, confused him, and he sat back in the bed, pressing himself against the pillows. He was as helpless as a child, and she knew it. She opened his wallet. There were three five-pound notes and two ten-pound notes. She held each one up as she took it out, showing him exactly what she was taking.

‘Two five-pound notes, David, and one ten-pound note, I’ve taken twenty pounds.’

He turned away, staring out of the window. His voice was soft, hardly audible.

‘Please go away, you make my head ache … take anything you want, I don’t know what you are talking about, I really don’t.’

Evelyne folded the money and told David that if he needed any papers signed he could send them to her. He turned to her, his eyes wide, frightened, childlike. He held up his arms, his beautiful face pleading. She sat down on the bed, gently so as not to hurt his legs, and he wrapped his arms around her. His silky head was close to hers, she could feel his soft skin, his sweet perfume was in her nostrils. She thought he whispered, ‘Sorry’, but she couldn’t tell. She didn’t want to hold him, but her arms lifted and she hugged him. His warm mouth kissed her innocently, then his arms tightened and his kiss became sexual, forceful.

The door opened and Freddy stood there. ‘I think you had better leave … Come along … David, straighten the bed, your wife’s arrived. I’ll show her out.’

He stood there impatient, then stepped forward and picked up David’s wallet where it had fallen. He opened it, checked inside and then looked at Evelyne. She flushed, knowing he didn’t understand, and tried to explain.

‘I own part of David’s house, his Aunt Doris …’

Freddy paid no attention, he was straightening David’s bed. Then he hurried to the door, pulling her by the arm.

As they reached the landing, Evelyne heard the soft, laughing voice of Lady Primrose as she caught her son in her arms.

‘Clarence, yes, it’s Mummy … it’s Mummy … Oh, what a big boy you are, shall we go and say hello to Daddy? Yes? Come on, you show me the way.’

Freddy pushed Evelyne along the corridor towards the back staircase. Lady Primrose, beautiful as ever, appeared at the top of the stairs, Clarence pulling at her hand. She was swathed in furs and wearing a pale pink suit.

‘Hello, Freddy, I got here sooner than I expected … all right, Clarence, Mummy is coming.’

Standing behind Freddy, Evelyne knew she had been seen. Lady Primrose gave her a cold stare, her blue eyes flickered.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company. Is David alone?’

Freddy murmured that David was waiting, and that he himself would be back in a moment. Primrose called out to David as she headed for his room.

‘My darling, are you all right, I drove down as soon as I got Freddy’s call.’

She entered the room and shut the door behind her. Evelyne stood with Freddy in the dark little corridor and shook, her teeth chattering in her head.

‘It’s all right, she didn’t know you, not that she would have minded, I’m sure. I’ll see you out.’

He moved quickly ahead of her, guiding her down the stairs.

Lady Primrose fussed and patted the bedclothes down around David. She’d seen the girl leaving, thought maybe she was a housemaid, but she knew there would be more to it than that, there always was. She poured David’s usual measure of laudanum into a glass and topped it up with water. She held it out to him, and he drank it like a good boy. Clarence sat on the end of the bed, kept on asking what she had brought him from London, until he got a sharp smack. He started to howl, so Primrose had to kiss and cuddle him.

David held up his arm for her to go to him and she sat beside him and kissed his neck and his brow, petting him just like she had Clarence.

‘There, there, darling, shusssh now, you get some sleep and in the morning we’ll all go home … Oh, who was that girl I saw a moment ago?’

David shrugged and said that Mrs Darwin had done her usual trick, told him that his aunt had brought the girl to the house before the war. She was the poor little orphan girl he’d brought to the dance when they’d first met. Primrose nodded, she remembered her vaguely, a strange, tall girl with red hair, the girl who danced with Lloyd George. She recalled that dance very clearly because it was there she had met David. They were married on his next leave, and she later became pregnant on their three-day honeymoon. A year later she had David home for good, but he wasn’t the same and they said he never would be. Basically, Primrose had two children on her hands, little Clarence and her husband. Sometimes, most times, she wished she’d married Freddy, never left him for David.

‘Did you remember her, darling? Did you remember the poor little orphan girl at all?’

David’s eyes dropped and he shook his head, he hardly seemed to notice Primrose take Clarence’s hand and lead him out of the room. As the doors closed behind them, he began to drift into a drugged sleep and all he could see in front of his eyes was an old pair of boots with newspaper sticking out of them. Suddenly, in brilliant, flashing colours he saw the dining room, Doris sitting upright with a teacup in her hand, and then a clear picture of Evelyne.

‘Primmy? Primmy?’

The panic started, the terrible feeling of being on fire, the boom, boom of guns was deafening. The nightmare began again and he put his hands over his ears, began to shout, ‘No … no … No, no, no!’

Evelyne tried hard to explain to Freddy about the house, but he was so concerned with getting rid of her that he didn’t listen. He instructed a housemaid to take Evelyne out through the kitchens and the servants’ entrance. In a way he felt sorry for the big, awkward girl, but then he heard the awful screams echoing down from David’s room. He knew he would have to go to him, and he blamed Evelyne.

‘Don’t come back, this is your doing, listen to him … I think you got what you came for, didn’t you? Go on, get out.’

Lady Primrose rushed into the drawing room. Heather and Lady Sybil could hear David’s screams. Heather shut the door and put her arms around Primrose.

‘It’s all right, dearest, Freddy will see to him, really it’s all right.’

Lady Sybil, eating tea and crumpets, muttered. ‘Should be in a home, not right in the head.’

Heather gave her mother a stern look and tossed her the evening paper to read, then sat Primrose down and poured tea. The shouts and screams from David’s room slowly subsided.

Freddy returned to the drawing room, giving Primrose an intimate smile. He said David was sleeping, the laudanum had taken effect.

‘That girl, Freddy, apparently Mrs Darwin suggested she visit David. I think, as it obviously upsets him so, that we really should watch out for him, don’t you think?’

Freddy blushed. Just meeting her eyes made him want her. He nodded.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t try any more, I’m sorry.’

Primrose gave him a sad, helpless look. Freddy made no mention of David’s wallet or the night spent at the gypsy fair. He nearly dropped his teacup when Lady Sybil read aloud from the evening newspaper.

‘“Riot at boxing match” … have you read this, Freddy? Says here a gypsy fighter nearly killed his opponent, a miner. Look, read for yourself. Says the man was almost murdered. Caused a riot, tent burnt down, dreadful to-do. Riff-raff shouldn’t be allowed in the country, none of them fought in the war. If Reggie were alive he would take his twelve-bore and shoot them down.’

Freddy took the paper and agreed with Lady Sybil that they were riff-raff, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to watch them fight, he most certainly wouldn’t. Heather smiled at him and patted his knee. He left the room, and no one noticed that he took the paper with him.

Evelyne never went back to Mrs Pugh’s, not because she didn’t want to pay but because she couldn’t face her. The few belongings she had left there she could do without. All she wanted was to go home and forget everything that had happened. All the way home, above the noise of the steam engine chug-chug-chugging, she could hear the strains of those high-pitched voices, those posh, upper-crust voices, their secret looks and nudges, their self-satisfaction, their money. She opened her bag and counted out the notes she had taken from David’s wallet, then sat back against the seat and closed her eyes. Even after everything he had done, if he wanted her she would go to him she knew it, and she was angry with herself. ‘You are a bloody fool, Evelyne Jones, forget him, take the money and forget him, he’s not worth it. They treated you like dirt, you only took what was rightly yours. He owed you that money, it was yours to take.’

Her heartache slowly turned to anger. She twisted her hands in her lap, folded and refolded the money. All her love slowly turned to bitterness, turned sour, and her mouth took on a thin, hard line, her face tight. By the time the train stopped at her station she was composed, her anger and pain under control. At least, she said to herself, she hadn’t lost any money on this trip, in fact she’d made it.

Chapter 10

Evelyne let herself into the house and changed her clothes, bundling up the ones she had been wearing and burning them. ‘Well, how did it go, lovey?’

‘It didn’t work out, Da … Now, I’d best hurry and get to the school.’

Hugh said nothing, saddened for a moment that she didn’t confide in him, but he had become so busy of late that he soon forgot all about it.

Evelyne was stunned to be told at the school that a new teacher with proper qualifications would be coming for the next term. The school governors had visited during her absence and, although they appreciated the work she had done in the past, they had to have someone with proper qualifications. There was no work to be had at the brick factory, or at the coal face. Come Easter she would be unemployed, but that was Easter, and until then she would continue at the school. Her heart was no longer in it, though, and the children noticed and called her ‘Miss Stick’.

Hugh was going from strength to strength within the union. Twice he travelled to other mines to give talks to the men, and returned jubilant that they were solidly on his side, and if the mine owners didn’t bow to their demands for better wages and safety regulations, they would strike. The small house was full every evening with groups of men who would bring their problems to Hugh. Evelyne had once been pleased to be part of this, but now she withdrew upstairs to her mother’s old room, where she would read until her eyes hurt.

Hugh was in good spirits. Dai Thomas had brought the local newspaper and on page three there was Hugh, wearing his cloth cap, standing rigidly straight and glaring into the camera.

As he went up the stairs, he saw the gas lamp still glowing in Evelyne’s room. He tapped, and popped his head round the door. Evelyne was lying on top of her bed, wearing just a white shift, her waist-length hair brushed and gleaming. ‘My God,’ thought Hugh, ‘if any of those buggers was to see her now they wouldn’t be calling her “Miss Stick”.’ She looked like a mermaid. ‘I got a few copies, see … it’s me in the main photo, not a bad likeness, gel, wouldn’t you say? Told me not to smile, see, so I’d look fierce, look like I know what I’m talking about.’

‘It’s good, Da, and you look no more than thirty, real fit and strong.’

Hugh laughed and twisted his cap round on his head, pulling a funny face. She handed the paper back to him, but he whipped out another two copies from his pocket. ‘Keep it, Dai’s gonna bring us a frame.’

He wanted to talk, but she put the paper down and picked up the book she was reading. He went out, then came back again.

‘Now don’t start, just let me say something to you, I love you more than my own life, an’ I can’t stand to see you wastin’ yourself, sitting up here every night, goin’ up to the school every day, gettin’ more an’ more like an old maid, like Doris.’

Evelyne shrugged, tossed her hair and said, tight-lipped, that he had no need to worry, she wouldn’t be going up to the school much longer, they were replacing her with a proper teacher. As soon as he had left Evelyne felt dreadful. She loved him so much. Why hadn’t she talked with him like they used to, why had she shut him out lately? She picked up the paper and looked at the photograph, his stern face glaring into the camera. She kissed the photo and took some scissors out of a drawer.

As she snipped around the photo she couldn’t help but notice the lead article on the next page, ‘Police investigate two revenge murders’.

She carried the paper over to the lamp and sat down. The article stated that the two boys had been found with their throats slit open, their hands tied behind their backs. At first, they believed the motive had been robbery, but then a third boy had given himself up to the local constabulary. He admitted that he and his friends had made advances to a gypsy girl and one of the gypsy men, Freedom Stubbs, had warned them that they would take their revenge. The article requested anyone knowing of Freedom Stubbs’ whereabouts to come forward.

From then on Evelyne kept every article she found, carefully hidden in her bedroom. She never mentioned the article to her father, not that she saw that much of him to talk to. He spent most evenings in a room above the pub holding meetings for the local miners. Evelyne worked at the school during the day and studied for her examinations in the evenings. Hugh no longer even needed her to help out at the meetings, taking notes and writing letters and so forth. Gladys Turtle had taken over that side of things.

‘No need for you to interrupt your studies, love.’

‘I don’t mind, Da, really I don’t.’

‘Well, lass, as a matter o’ fact we’ve got a sort of committee secretary, Gladys Turtle, from Lower North Road, nice woman, a widow.’

Although slighdy put out, Evelyne said nothing. She watched from her window as Hugh met up with the ‘merry widow’, as Gladys was known in the village. Not diat she was particularly merry, just that she had over-indulged in the sweet sherry at her late husband’s funeral and passed out. She was a small, neat, white-haired woman with a shelf-like bosom, and a habit of wearing crocheted flowers on her hats or pinned to her coat collar.

Gladys had found a new lease on her boring, mundane life, working with Hugh. She had always had an eye for him, even when he was a youngster, but of course he would never have looked at her — she was no beauty like his Mary. Gladys reckoned that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, and she cooked stews and casseroles for Hugh to take home in small pots. He would sneak into the house with them, as if embarrassed, and Evelyne would watch him heating them up. Then he would wink at her and wolf the food down.

Gladys had passed by earlier, walking with Hugh — he always took her home after meetings. ‘I’ve just walked our Gladys back, do you fancy one of her scones?’

Shaking her head, Evelyne closed her books.

‘She’s got a young nephew staying, nice young fella, Willie, looking for work like the rest of us. He had a good job over at Glamorgan, beats me why he gave it up. Word is, he may have got a young girl in the family way.’

Hugh coughed and stuck his finger down his starched collar.

‘I was wonderin’, like, maybe as she’s so nice with all these scones and stews, perhaps it would be neighbourly like if we had her and this young Willie come to tea Sunday?’

‘Why not, if that is what you would like, Da?’

He stood up, beaming, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

‘Ay, it is, good, well, I’ll leave it with you, shall I?’

Evelyne collected their supper from the fish and chip shop, and carried it home wrapped in newspaper. As she left the shop she bumped into Gladys, and cordially invited her and her nephew to tea on Sunday. ‘Oh, that’s lovely, I’ll look forward to it.’ Not wanting Evelyne to see that she also frequented the fish and chip shop, Gladys waited until Evelyne had walked the length of the street before she went in. From behind the counter the sweating Nellie gave her a toothless smile.

‘Eh, she’s a right stuck-up one, that, ever since she got that wireless, come with her legacy … two cod, Gladys, is it?’

As she unwrapped the fish and chips a grease-stained headline caught Evelyne’s eye, ‘Third Murder Victim’. She pulled at the paper, spilling chips on the table.

‘Police step up their search for Freedom Stubbs. They now believe the murders to be revenge killings, all committed by the same hand. Each victim has died in the same circumstances, their hands tied behind their backs and their throats slit. In each killing it seems the murderer knew where his victim lived and worked.’

Sunday was chapel day which meant choir practice, and Hugh went off in his Sunday suit, leaving Evelyne to prepare tea for Gladys and Willie. She baked some scones and, of course, just when she would have liked them to be the best batch she had ever made, they went flat and hard as a rock. Then she slipped down to the newspaper shop to buy a Sunday paper.

Walking back, searching through the paper to see if there was any more news of the murders, she passed a poster advertising the Easter fair. As usual the gypsies would set up their fair on the mountainside. It was always a big occasion, and being a Bank Holiday the men had an extra day off work. There would be coconut shies, hoop-la, and sometimes they built a giant see-saw for the children.

Evelyne stopped. There was a small item on the second page which simply stated that the police were no further along with their investigation. She hurried on, then stopped again. Even from the street she could smell her bread burning. She ran in with a scream of fury, but it was burnt to a cinder. As she opened the windows to get rid of the terrible smell, she saw Hugh outside with a group of miners on their way back from choir practice.

There was a hell of a row going on, Hugh standing in the centre of the crowd thumping his fist in his palm. The men were shaking their fists at him, all shouting at once.

‘You bastard, Hugh Jones, we go out on strike you tell me who’s gonna feed my ten kids.’

Hugh shouted back and waved his arms, ‘We’ll all chip in, if we don’t stand united then we fall. You said yerself, mun, you not got enough money to feed yer babies now, an’ yer workin’, don’t you understand that’s what we’re striking for, a living wage, mun! We strike!’

Some of them started to walk home, and Evelyne was about to turn back to her studies when she saw a figure on the edge of the crowd around Hugh. It was Freedom Stubbs, large as life, leaning against the wall with a half-smile on his face. Evelyne clapped her hand over her mouth and turned away from the window.

‘Oh, God, it couldn’t be him, not here, not in our village.’

When she looked again he had gone, as if he had vanished into thin air.

‘Evie! Evie! Is tea ready, they’ll be here by half past three lass, and the table’s not laid.’

She ran downstairs to the kitchen where Hugh was already shaking out a clean tablecloth.

‘Da, the gypsy fair, they’re not setting it up yet, are they?’

Hugh reached down the best crockery. ‘Oh, they start early for Easter, lovey. It’s their big time. An’ then they’ll be arranging a fight as usual, Devil’s Rock.’

There was a tap on the door, and Hugh gave Evelyne a startled look.

‘They’re here early, are we all set?’

Before Evelyne had time to answer he was opening the front door and ushering Gladys along the passage.

‘Come in, Gladys, and you, Willie. Welcome, welcome.’

‘Is something on fire, Hugh love? I can smell burning.’

With a frosty smile Evelyne turned to greet them.

‘Here they are, Evie, Gladys you know, and this is Willie, her nephew.’

Evelyne dropped the plate of solid scones on the flagged floor and the plate smashed in two. Immediately Willie pushed forward and bent to pick up the scones.

“Fraid yer plate’s broken, but the scones are none the worse.’

Hugh laughed and said it was more than likely the scones that had crashed through the plate.

Evelyne stared at Willie as he held the chair out for his aunt. She knew it was him, had known at first glance. So this was why he had left Glamorgan, given up his job, Willie Thomas was the boy she had seen on top of Rawnie, this was the lad who had torn her hair out by the roots and who Evelyne had virtually knocked unconscious with the bench leg. She wondered if he recognized her and could hardly bear to look in his direction.

‘Auntie tells me you’re a schoolteacher, that right, Evie?’

She busied herself passing the jam, and murmured that it was quite right. Her mind was racing. He wouldn’t know her now, surely he wouldn’t … she looked up to meet his gaze. He gave Evelyne a wink. His familiarity, calling her Evie when he had only just met her, made her temper rise. It was definitely him, the red neck, the horrid, bright red hair.

Gladys simpered coyly and looked up at Hugh, then spoke to Evelyne, ‘We thought you might get uppity, another woman in your kitchen, but you’ve made us very welcome, Evie.’

Evelyne looked down at her plate. The scones were terrible, she could hardly get her teeth through hers. Hugh coughed.

‘Ah well, I’ve not actually told her, we’ll announce it in chapel next week, but we are unofficially engaged to be married, that right, Gladys?’

Somehow Evelyne found her voice and said stiffly that she was very happy for them. The soft, powdered cheek brushed Evelyne’s, and she got a close-up view of the silly crochet work on Gladys’ hat. Evelyne wanted to cry out. How could her Da want this silly woman?

Gladys insisted on staying with Hugh to wash the dishes, and Evelyne showed Willie into the front room. Willie sat on the sofa and gave her a wide smile. ‘She’s a good woman, Aunt Glad … Evie, will you sit beside me?’

‘My name’s Evelyne … so, you’re here looking for work, is that right? You’ll not find any, and there’s the strike coming, you should go back to Glamorgan, or Cardiff even.’

He shrugged, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, blowing out the smoke and crossing his legs.

‘Do you know Cardiff then, Willie?’

She caught his sly glance, and noticed that he flicked his ash on to her polished lino.

‘I’ve been there, but I prefer it here.’

She was one hundred per cent sure it was him, any doubts had disappeared and she boiled with anger at what he had done.

Hugh interrupted the tense moment. ‘Right, Evie, will you be at the meeting? They’ll be arriving any moment, Gladys is setting out the books … an’ you too, Willie, it’s important tonight.’

Hugh stood before the fire with his trousers almost sizzling.

‘No man’s takin’ these decisions lightly, for Lord’s sake, mun. You think I for one dunno what hardships we’re all headin’ for?’

Harry Jones jabbed the air with his finger and demanded to know if Hugh could face starving women, never mind starving kids. Hugh sighed and rubbed his hair until it stood on end. ‘Jesus Christ, mun, I know that even the most tenacious strikers are giving way, but…’

Hugh had heard the word ‘tenacious’ on the wireless and now used it at every opportunity. The others stopped arguing for a moment as he explained what he meant. Harry muttered that he didn’t give a bugger who was ‘tenacled’ or not, all he knew was his kids were starving, and he had to work to put a crust into their mouths. Hugh banged his fist against the mantel. Intensive union activity had taken its toll not only on him but on four others who were blacklisted. Again his voice rose as he told the men that there were some working with their union badges sewn into their collars for fear of the managers knowing they were members.

Taffy Rawlins twisted his cap and blurted out, ‘Lot o’ men tried workin’ in other collieries. Soon as it was discovered they was union men, none of ‘em could get taken on.’

Harry Jones rose to his feet, jabbing the air with a stubby finger. ‘Ay, an’ rumour ‘as it, any man what’s a member has ‘is name circ’lated from the union roster.

They’ll never get work, not now the strike is on, not when it’s over.’

Taffy was at it again, waving his cap. ‘I believe, Hugh Jones, an’ there’s many that says I’m right, your union is bloody destroying a man’s right ta work.’

Dramatically, Hugh tore off his threepenny-piece-sized union badge and held it up above his head.

‘If we don’t join this union now, if we don’t pull together, you’ll all be no better than the pit ponies left down the mines to rot. The managers, the owners, don’t give a hang whether a man dies or not, they’re more worried about losing a dram than they are about any man.’ Hugh’s voice was earshattering in the hot, stuffy, confined kitchen. ‘You lose a dram o’coal, mun, and what happens? The buggers make you pay for it. But when have they paid for a man’s life? The proprietors know the men are weak, that they have no organization so they can do what the hell they like. The pit manager can sack when he pleases, and the poor bugger can do nothing about it, and they’d hardly pay him a penny … Am I right, tell me?’

Throughout the meeting Gladys took copious notes for the minutes. Willie paid little attention, picking his teeth with a match and yawning. Evelyne kept feeling his eyes on her but refused to return his stare.

At last the meeting broke up and Evelyne packed what food was left over from tea and slipped it to Taffy for his kids. Hugh walked Gladys home, still arguing with Harry. Willie made no move to leave with his aunt, sitting in Hugh’s chair by the fire. ‘I just seen there’s a good film at the pictures, Evie, last show’s at nine, fancy an outing?’

Evelyne folded her arms. ‘My name’s Evelyne to you, son, or Miss Jones. And if you want some advice I’d clear out.’

Willie looked completely unabashed. He propped his feet on the fireguard.

‘That’s none too friendly, considerin’ we’ll be related soon.’

Evelyne would have liked to swipe his gloating face.

‘I’ve no intention of makin’ a friend of you, none at all, and I don’t want you in this house again, now out… go on, hop it.’

His piggy eyes glinted, and he slowly removed his feet from the fireguard. He looked at her, and she could almost see the wheels churning round in his flushed head.

‘Way I hear it, you should think yourself lucky bein’ asked out, there’s not many lads left in the village. There’s plenty of young girls panting to go to the pictures so don’t put yourself out, Miss Schoolteacher.’

Evelyne watched the cocky boy saunter out, and she restrained herself from aiming a blow at the back of his stocky, flushed neck. As the door closed behind him, Evelyne went to fetch her heavy coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped out the back way. She didn’t want anyone to see her, to know where she was going.

The gypsies were just setting up their camp, the wagons and trailers drawn up in a semicircle, a group of men erecting the big, round living tents. A fire blazed in the centre of the ring, and a few children were hanging round, wearing cotton dresses and thin, threadbare woollies. Although barefooted they seemed hardly to notice the cold, but they noticed Evelyne striding up the hill. She’d opened up her coat as she was warm from the long walk, and her cheeks flushed pink from the evening air.

A runny-nosed little boy with huge, dark eyes watched her, a brooding look on his tiny face, then he put out his hand.

‘Give us a penny, come on missus, just a copper, we’re starvin’ hungry.’

Evelyne looked down at the tiny boy already adept at begging, and showed him her empty pockets.

‘Is Freedom with you, boy? I need to talk with Freedom.’

At that moment a woman with a shawl wrapped around her appeared from behind the bushes. She grabbed the child by the hair and walloped him, with a cold, angry look at Evelyne.

‘There’s no one of that name here.’ The children ran like hell away from the sharp-tongued woman, the little boy looking back at Evelyne. She went nearer to the camp, and now the men turned and stared with the expressionless, unnerving faces. She stood looking around, then spoke loudly, her voice echoing.

‘I need to speak with Freedom, is he here with you?’

They made no reply, just turned their backs and continued working. Women passed hooded looks to one another and she saw two men talking together in sign

language.

‘I know he’s with you and I have to talk with him.’ A grey-haired man, wearing clothes fit for a scare-crow, shuffled towards her. He came within about six feet of her and showed his toothless, shiny gums as he spoke.

‘There’s no one by that name here, wench. Git out of it. Listen to what I say, go away from here.’

Evelyne turned and walked out of the field and headed down the steep path, thinking to herself that at least she’d tried. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and felt the newspaper clippings, paused, looking back, and then walked on. She took the narrow path round the mountainside, beginning to think herself stupid for risking walking out this late, and so close to the gypsy camp. All her father’s old warnings came back to her and she quickened her pace.

Freedom had watched her walk into the camp, seen the way she stamped her foot angrily, turned on her heel and marched out. She had snapped a dead branch off a tree and was whacking the hedges as she walked along. He sat up in the fork of a tree, watching her with his dark eyes, amused, smiling. She was an odd one, that was for sure. As Evelyne walked beneath his tree he dropped down, and she shrieked with terror. When she saw it was him, she put her hands on her hips and let him have it.

‘That’s a fine thing to do! You nearly gave me heart failure, you did!’

With a mocking bow, but without saying a word, Freedom began to walk along beside her. Evelyne took the newspaper cuttings from her pocket.

‘I suppose you’ve read all these? You can read?’

Freedom cocked his head to one side, smiling. She only came up to his shoulder and had to look up into his face. His hair had grown longer and he had tied it back with a leather thong. He now wore a gold earring in his right ear.

‘I’ve come to tell you to leave, the police will be here, that’s what I’ve come all this way to say.’

With one quick hop Freedom was in front of her, walking backwards.

Still walking, she continued, ‘You can’t just go around killing people, even if what they did was a terrible thing. The law must know the boy’s here, and with the fair being here too, they’re bound to come around asking questions.’

Freedom halted and she walked straight into him. He gripped her arm, hurting her. Evelyne looked into his face, she wasn’t afraid, she never had been afraid of him, but he hurt her wrist and she jerked her hand free. ‘I said the fourth boy’s here in the village, and you know it, that’s why you’re here.’

Freedom took the tree branch from her hand and swiped at the bushes in anger.

‘I’m here to fight at Devil’s Pit, nothing more.’

Evelyne fell into step beside him, told him he was crazy, the police wanted to question him about the murders. If he came out in the open to fight, they would certainly arrest him. They had even put his name in the papers.

‘So, Evelyne, you came to warn me, is that it?’

She tripped over a stone and he caught her, but she moved quickly out of reach. Flippantly, she said she was amazed that he remembered her name.

‘You remembered mine, I heard you asking for me, and I thank you.’

They walked on and she asked after Rawnie. Freedom told her that she was now Jesse’s woman and would be at the camp. As they walked she became aware of his familiar but strange, musky perfume, and even more aware of his cat-like litheness. He seemed hardly to make a sound as he walked, his step surprisingly light for his size.

‘Have you got yourself a man yet then, Evelyne?’

She flushed and bit her lip, and he laughed softly with his little lopsided smile and slightly raised eyebrows.

‘Did you ever go to an inn close by Cydwinath Farm? When we last met I thought I’d seen you before, a long time ago.’

Evelyne shook her head.

‘Oh, it wasn’t you, huh? See, first I saw this girl in a field — like a mermaid she was, and dressed in naught but her shift — and then I saw her again, a big society dance, it was.’ He gave her his strange half-smile, his eyes twinkling, ‘I was standing in the dark and it was as if she was lit up by the moon, like a moment of magic. It was a mermaid again, only, only this time she was a princess in a flowing gown, and she was dancing with an old fella with white hair, there on the lawn with not a soul to see but me.’

Evelyne stopped and bit her lip so hard her teeth almost went straight through. He looked down into her face and cupped her chin in his hand.

‘I was never at a dance, and most certainly not at any farm in my shift, and I find it very ungentlemanly of you even to suggest it.’

Again he laughed, and he did a small jig then bowed low. She knew he was laughing at her, and she almost — just almost — laughed at herself.

They were coming closer and closer to the edge of the village and could see the lights twinkling from the houses. The track was smoother here and soon they would be on the cobbles leading to the main street. Freedom still walked at her side. All she needed now was for someone to see her — pray God it would not be Mrs Morgan or it would be all round the village by ten o’clock next morning. As if he could read her thoughts he stopped, bowed again, and without another word made to move away. This time Evelyne caught hold of his arm. ‘Don’t be a fool, mun, don’t fight, don’t let them arrest you, get away from here.’

Freedom’s eyes went darker than dark, and his voice was soft but cutting, ‘My people depend on the fight for their living. Money is scarce all round, but no scarcer than with us travellers.’

Evelyne told him angrily that his people would be a lot worse off if he were put in prison, which would certainly happen if the people arrested him. He turned on his heel, swishing at the air with the stick. ‘They’ll have to find me first.’

Evelyne let herself in by the back door. She was greeted by an irate Hugh who was worried stiff about her being so late and not letting him know where she was, and they had an argument for the first time in years. She accused him of not letting her know about his friendship with Gladys, a stupid, simpering woman if ever there was one. The stinging slap from Hugh shocked her and she lifted her fist to go for him, but he held her too tight.

‘You’ll take that back, you’ll not say those things about her, it’s jealous you are, girl, jealous, you who’s too bound up in your books and readin’ to find yourself a decent lad. They’re all laughin’ at you an’ callin’ you Doris behind your back. And by God, girl, you’ve got like her, with your mouth always turned down and your nose never out of paper!’

Evelyne countered this by telling Hugh he was behaving like a foolish eighteen-year-old, and making himself the laughing stock of the village with that Gladys. And as for her nephew! He was a pig-eyed, sweaty, revolting youth, it ran in the family. Wallop! She got another stinging blow and she backed away, scared; she had not seen Hugh so angry for such a long time.

Hugh started on about David — all that show about her going to Cardiff to find the boy she loved, the boy of her dreams. It must have been all fantasy because she came back with a face like a nun’s, and a tongue so sharp no one could speak to her.

‘What happened, Evie? Did he turn you down? Can you blame him, look at you, you act like an old woman … dear God, gel, what are we doing, what are we saying? Come here, for the Lord’s sake, come here.’

Evelyne went into her father’s arms as if he were a long-lost lover. He held her, rocking her, kissing her hair, her neck, and saying sweet, soft things, taking back everything he had just said. She found herself kissing him back, she was so in need of love, so in need of physical contact that she was bursting inside. They were held suspended, staring into one another’s eyes.

The crash of the door-knocker brought them round, and Gladys’ voice, high-pitched and hysterical. Hugh let her in. It was Willie, he’d not been home since tea, and now it was one in the morning and she was worried stiff. No one seemed to know where he was.

On hearing that Willie was missing, Evelyne said that he had gone to the picture house to see the jazz film. ‘Perhaps he met a girl there, Da? Wait, I’ll come with you.’

She ran down the street after Hugh and Gladys, who were calling out Willie’s name along the way. Lights were coming on in the houses, heads popped out of windows. Soon there was a trail of people behind them, like the children following the Pied Piper, everyone looking for Willie. Evelyne’s heart hammered in her chest… ‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘let him have met someone and gone walking.’ Anything but what she dreaded.

Gladys began to shiver with cold and Evelyne took off her greatcoat and slipped it round Gladys’ shoulders, forgetting the newspaper clippings in the pocket.

By the time they reached the picture house the village bobby was wobbling along beside them on his bike. Evan Evans asked over and over what the fuss was about and slowly pieced the story together in his thick brain. ‘The lad’s missing, is that so? We’ll get a search party out.’

‘What the hell do you think this is, mun? That’s what we’re doing.’

The manager of the cinema, Billy Jones, lived in the house next to it. They woke him by hammering on his door.

‘All right, I’m comin’, I’m comin’ …’ He stood on the doorstep in his dressing-gown as they explained the problem to him, then fetched a torch and a huge bunch of keys. With everyone rushing him he had trouble finding the right keys to open the door. He took so long that Hugh wanted to belt him.

‘There was not a soul left in the theatre, I’m telling you, unless he went to the gents’.’

Gladys, panicking now, wanted to know if Billy had definitely seen Willie.

‘Yes I did, he was here nine o’clock just before the start of the film, It’s the Jazz, Man — best houses I’ve had for weeks.’

Eventually he got the door open and they spilled into the auditorium, calling for Willie.

‘Now, everyone, keep back, this is police work.’

Ignoring Evan Evans, Hugh bellowed for Willie, while Billy tried to light the gas lamps.

‘Which bugger’s got me torch? I can’t see to light the lamps.’

As they walked around peering along the rows of seats, the lights came on. Billy, up on a ladder, looked down and screamed hysterically, pointing. Hugh pushed his way through to where Billy was pointing, looked for a moment and then turned, ‘Stay back, Gladys, Evie. Don’t come up here, any of you … Evan, get the doctor.’

Gladys screamed and screamed, then fainted in a heap at Evan’s feet. Evelyne moved cautiously between the seats.

‘Aw, Christ almighty … Holy Mother of God …’

Willie lay between the seats. Blood from an open wound on his neck had formed a thick, dark pool which had already congealed. It was obvious from his open, staring eyes that he was dead.

Next morning the village was in an uproar. There’d not been a murder since 1905 when Taffy Ryse hammered his mother’s head in, but then he was funny upstairs. Who would have wanted to kill Willie? They could all understand why Taffy had beaten his mother to death, she had been a right bitch, but Willie?

Doc Clock was limping badly from yet another car accident, and he was also getting old. He examined Willie’s body and muttered that he was dead all right, which got everybody shouting at once that they’d already told the soft bugger he was dead — what they wanted to know was when it had happened. Doc Clock shrugged.

‘How the bloody hell do I know — I’ve not been to the pictures since last year.’

Evan Evans was buzzing around with his notebook and a blunt pencil which he had to keep on licking. Doc Clock said he would give himself lead poisoning if he carried on. Poor Evan was out of his depth and was very swiftly pushed aside when a motor vehicle arrived with three uniformed police and a plain-clothes officer from the main station in Cardiff. They were all banned from the cinema and poor Billy was beside himself. He’d only got the film on lease and he had to send it back; if he couldn’t let his customers in then how was he going to run his business?

The police searched for the murder weapon and drew chalk marks around the body before it was removed. They began questioning everybody who was known to have been in the picture house the previous night, and put out a request for any person not on their list who had been in the cinema or in the vicinity to come forward. A lot of folk, who were interested in the proceedings rather than having anything useful to say, couldn’t wait to be interviewed. One of the harassed police officers was heard shouting, ‘No, no, we’re not interested in the week before the murder — just if you were in the picture house itself on that specific night or if you happened to pass it.’

Billy hovered and moaned as they closed the cinema, and begged to be allowed to open up before he went bankrupt. The police eventually conceded, and Billy opened up with a broad, white ribbon carefully hooked around five seats in two rows. He had never done such business in the whole time the place had been open. He played three shows a day with a Charlie Chaplin short in between for half-price. Not that anyone was watching the film, they were all agog at the bloodstained seat and took turns to sit close, whispering and pointing out to each other the bloodstains and the chalk marks around the spot where the body had lain. Mabel Hitchins, the pianist, drummed her fingers to the bone playing along with the films. Her neck was at a permanent angle from twisting round to tell the kids to leave the ribbons alone, they were police property.

For the three days that the murder investigation was centred in the village, Evelyne stayed indoors. She knew the police had questioned the gypsy men, and in fact seemed to have talked to everyone in the village. They mentioned nothing about the murder being one of the ‘revenge killings’, but there was an undercurrent of emotion among the villagers and the blame was laid on the ‘gyppos’. The police were very firm, warning that there must be no vendetta between the miners and the gypsies. The law would handle the case, and once they had completed certain inquiries they would return to the village.

Hugh came home with the local newspaper and read aloud to Evelyne while she darned his socks. ‘It’s the gyppos, the police have been over the camp, got to be one of them, must be, police say there’ll be an arrest any time now.’

The paper also stated that the murder had to have taken place during the second half of the last showing of the picture. This was because Mrs Dobson remembered selling Willie a toffee-apple. She remembered Willie very clearly because he had demanded his money back as the apple under the toffee had been rotten. The police placed the killing between nine thirty-five and ten fifteen. They also believed the weapon was similar to the one used to kill the boys in Cardiff: a thin blade, perhaps even a cut-throat razor. The gypsy camp had been searched, but they had found nothing.

Hugh shook his head and grunted, ‘Be one of them vermin, sure as I’m sitting here.’ He continued to read aloud from the paper, where it stated that no one at the picture house recalled seeing a gypsy at the box office. Nor had they seen any in line for Mrs Dobson’s toffee-apples and coconut slices. This was also verified by Billy. Hugh jabbed the air with his finger. ‘Too right, he said he wouldn’t allow the buggers in his picture house anyways, not that many went in by the front door. Ask me, most of the audience slipped in the back way.’

He frowned, looking at the paper. Evelyne finished one of his socks and looked up. ‘You’d think if anyone did see the killer they would come forward. It’s common knowledge that most never pay at poor Billy’s, though, so if they did speak up they’d have to admit they’d slipped in the back door too.’

Hugh sniffed, spat into the fire and jabbed his big finger at the paper. ‘Says here they given orders for the gyppos to stay put until the police had finished accumulatin’ their evidence, the way those lazy so-and-sos go about it I’m surprised they ever catch anyone. An’ wouldn’t you know there’s not one man up at that camp who can’t vouch for the others being up there all night, the bastards — killers, bastards!’

Evelyne had nightmares. She kept waking up sweating, going over and over the time she went from the house up to the camp. She was sure it was after nine. She remembered Gladys telling old Evan, the policeman, that Hugh had returned quickly because he wanted to hear something on the wireless at nine. The walk up the mountain would have taken her at least three-quarters of an hour. Freedom was there, she could see him clearly, dropping from the tree with that smile of his on his face. Could he really have slit that lad’s throat and then laughed and joked with her? Walked almost into the village, right up past the picture house itself? The more she turned the evidence over in her mind the more she knew deep down that Freedom could not have killed Willie. Freedom couldn’t because the time wasn’t right, but what of Jesse? He had been at the camp, but she had not seen him. Had Jesse killed Willie? Freedom had told her Rawnie was now Jesse’s woman. She knew she should go to the police — knew it, but then she would have to go through all the questions about how she knew Freedom, how she knew about the rape, why she hadn’t come forward before. Even worse would be the questions about the other lads’ deaths. Why hadn’t Evelyne said anything before? Told the police what she knew? No matter which way she looked at it, silence was the only way out, but it was giving her sleepless nights. She prayed for the fair to be over, for the gypsies to leave, and for the village to return to normal.

The terrible scandal began to die down and the Cardiff Constabulary returned to their station, leaving the ‘Super Sleuth’, Evan Evans, pedalling around the village with his notebook and pencil at the ready. They had found no murder weapon, and no evidence against anyone in the village or at the gypsy camp. Willie’s body was sent back to Cardiff for burial, and without his corpse the Easter festivities began to pick up in earnest. Life was so harsh that any reason for a moment’s relief was grasped with both hands. The band marched through the streets and the choir sang their hearts out at Sunday service. Easter Monday came, and the Bank Holiday gave the village even more of a festive atmosphere; they were still poverty stricken, but the gaunt, grey, worried faces relaxed, if only for a few days. Children’s money-boxes had been raided by their parents, and somehow the odd few coppers had been found for the Sunday fair.

The gypsy men were no fools, they knew they would be targets. Freedom warned them all to keep out of harm’s way. Don’t start anything, just let the folk spend their few coppers, read their palms. There was to be no fighting, they were in trouble enough as it was. He didn’t have to say why; the hooded looks and downcast eyes were enough. The revenge was complete now.

Freedom wondered if Evelyne would come. He doubted it, but he was sure she had kept her mouth shut, but then he had known she would. He had even sworn as much to the men and women of the camp. The paleface woman was their friend, and they could trust her as they did him.

As the villagers prepared for the fair, the travellers got out their gladrags, set up their booths and tables, brought out all their wares to sell. The older women made doll’s house furniture and small, carved flowers from wood chippings, which were painted bright colours. There were goldfish for prizes and headscarves hand-sewn with beads and embroidery.

The streets were filling up with families on their way up the hill to the fair. Evelyne closed her window and went down to make herself a cup of tea. She boiled a big pan of water and had an all-over wash, scrubbing her skin until it hurt, then brushed and brushed her hair. Then she went back upstairs and lay on her bed, listening to the sounds of the fair drifting down, the music, the laughter. Her mouth went tight, and she wondered if they would all be having such a good time if they knew what she knew.

Hugh had gone off to a meeting in another village, and Gladys said she would wait for him to return. She couldn’t think of going to the fair, not after the terrible tragedy.

‘Yes, lovey, you can, it’ll do you good. When I’ve finished my meeting I’ll come and collect you, walk you up the hill, just for a while.’

Gladys was dressed and ready. She fetched the coat she had borrowed from Evelyne and hung it in the hallway to give to Hugh. Noticing a mud stain on the hem, she tut-tutted and carried it into the kitchen to clean it. Humming to herself she wet a sponge and rubbed at the mud. As she turned the coat round she felt a bulge in one of the pockets, slipped her hand in to see what it was and brought out all the newspaper cuttings Evelyne had kept so carefully. Laying them on the table she took out her glasses and began to read.

By the time she finished the last article her hands were shaking. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she had to have a glass of sherry to calm herself. Why, she kept asking herself, why had Evelyne cut these articles out of the papers, some were more than a year and a half old? She’d get Hugh to talk to Evelyne and ask her to her face just what was the meaning of it. Evelyne knew something, she was hiding something, and Gladys would find out what it was.

Chapter 11

Mr Beshaley felt the train was going slow on purpose. Twice he got up and looked out of the window, nearly getting his head chopped off. He checked his gold watch and drummed his fingers on the sill. A very elderly gent sat opposite him, staring into space with a pipe in his mouth. ‘They dinna go as fast as they used ta, it’s the strike, see, fuel shortage, it’s slowin’ everythin’ up.’ The old boy nodded, as if he had satisfied Beshaley as to the slowness of the train, and stared out of the window.

Mr Beshaley had been in London, and had not seen Freedom for nearly eighteen months. He hoped to God that Freedom had kept himself in shape, the fight this evening was very important — more important than any other fight that Beshaley had organized before.

He had been up in Scotland arranging a lightweight bout with three of his men when he had been approached by a tall, elegant man. Sir Charles Wheeler, with his cloak and cane, cut a sharp figure in the new, fashionable double-breasted suit and a brown slouch hat. He was a member of the British Board of Boxing. A gentleman boxer himself in his youth, Sir Charles financed professional boxing bouts all over England, searching out talent, and rumour had it that he paid big money when he wanted a man for his own team. He had acquired a gymnasium in London, filled it with all the finest equipment, and he recruited trainers and managers from all over England and America.

Beshaley had asked for an introduction, but it had proved unnecessary, because Sir Charles had come to Scotland with the sole purpose of meeting Beshaley. Sir Charles had seen Freedom Stubbs fight and thought the boy showed remarkable promise. More than that, he believed Freedom was a possible contender for the British Heavyweight Championship. Beshaley and Sir Charles discussed the forthcoming event at Devil’s Pit, where Sir Charles could see Freedom fight again. Beshaley said he owned the boy, and he too believed him to be a rare boxer. He implied that he had spent considerable sums training Freedom and that he couldn’t part with him without a contract that included himself — unless, of course, he was paid enough to release the boy.

Sir Charles had known immediately that Beshaley was lying and that he no more had a contract with the boxer than Sir Charles himself had. However, Sir Charles intended to rectify that.

While Beshaley was on his way to the railway station Sir Charles’ automobile had cruised past. Through the open window he had smiled at him. ‘No doubt we’ll catch you at the fight?’

Beshaley wanted to run after the motor and demand a lift. He swore blue murder as he paced the platform, waiting for the train. He had to get to Freedom first and sign him before Sir Charles could approach him. The damned train was so slow he feared Sir Charles and his party would get there first, before he got the chance to make Freedom sign on the dotted line. They could be difficult these gypsy boys. Even though Beshaley was part Romany himself, he belonged to no clan; in his own terms he was an entrepreneur. Far from helping Freedom further his career, if anything he had stayed clear of him since the fight with Hammer. But he had overheard Sir Charles describing to one of his men how Freedom had brought a man down with a single body punch. ‘Man punches like the Devil, and he’s light on his feet, best I’ve seen for years’, and Beshaley knew it was true and could kick himself for not having signed Freedom.

The train ground to a halt and he pushed open the window.

‘There’ll be a blockage on the line now, sir, mark me words. Some bastard’ll have laid a log on the track. It’s the strikers.’

Two guards walked through the compartment and when Mr Beshaley approached them, they told him curtly that there was engine trouble and they would be on their way as soon as possible. Beshaley gave one of the men a shilling to see if they could hurry things along, he had an important appointment. The guard could hardly believe his luck, and assured Mr Beshaley he’d get the train moving within minutes.

Sir Charles adjusted his driving goggles and tried to make sense of the road map. His two companions were hunched against the wind, wearing heavy coats and goggles, their hats pulled down low. Ed Meadows was a huge man with an ex-boxer’s face, his nose broken so many times it had remained flat after his last bout, the bridge pulverized. He looked up at the signpost and shook his head. They’d passed it three times to his knowledge.

‘You sure you know this place, guv? Only, we been past this post three times now, an’ wiv the night comin’ on — I don’t fancy us drivin’ round all night.’

Sir Charles turned and put big Ed in his place with his upper-crust English voice.

‘You’ll find this lad’s worth it when you see him, Ed. Now come along, chaps, let’s have a good gander at the road map again.’

Ed shivered and hunched further into his greatcoat. In his twanging, cockney voice he told Sir Charles to stop at the next village and ask — it was the only way round these parts. There was more than one Devil’s Pit, and they could get the wrong one.

Dewhurst, Sir Charles’s valet and butler, sat stiffly next to his master in the front seat. He turned his pink face to stare up at the signpost.

‘There’s a village two and a half miles further on according to this, sir, perhaps it would be better to ask there.’

Ed threw up his hands in despair, ‘That’s wot I just suggested, but nobody listens to me. I said stop at a village, these ruddy Welsh signs don’t mean nuffink.’

Sir Charles pulled his goggles down, started the motor, and they headed for the village. They were actually close, within ten miles, but the winding paths around the mountains were misleading. There was only fifteen minutes before the match was due to start.

The afternoon over, many of the villagers made their way home, clutching their small token prizes. The children began to whine, they didn’t want to leave the fair and yet they were so tired they could hardly keep their eyes open. The men hung around the camp, still playing on the coconut shy and throwing ‘six darts for a ha’penny’. The see-saw had done a great trade and the teenage boys were now, as the dusk fell, shoving and pushing each other to have a go for a farthing a time.

The atmosphere was becoming tense, the groups of lads hanging around and knots of older men hunched in corners, smoking. The gypsies’ eyes were everywhere, and some of the men nodded to their women to pack up and get ready to put the tables away. A fortune-teller’s booth swathed in canvas like a Turkish tent had been doing a roaring trade, but now only a few boys hung around outside, their hands stuffed into their pockets.

Freedom’s opponent, Taffy Brown, had arrived at the campsite two hours earlier. With his two aides he had wandered around and had a few goes on the coconut shy, but he was so strong that one of the balls had not only knocked the coconut off its stand but split the stand in two. This had raised cheers from the spectators and disgruntled moans from the gypsies. The balls, bright reds and yellows, had been ‘lifted’ from snooker tables, and quite a few pubs would be missing them.

The younger lads drifted over to the shy, cheering Taffy on, nudging each other as, enjoying the attention, he rolled up his sleeves. His muscular arms bulged, and he moved further and further away, then went for the stall at a loping run, throwing the ball overarm as if playing cricket. The ball ripped through the canvas amid even more cheers.

Two gypsies, knowing there could be trouble, yelled that the fight was due to start at any time in Devil’s Pit, which made Taffy turn and roar, arms up in the air, for his opponent to show himself.

‘He’s waitin’ for you, Taffy, he’s waitin’ at Devil’s Pit, mun.’

The gypsies were relieved when the miners began to drift off towards the fight.

Devil’s Pit, which lay a couple of miles from the campsite, was so called because the mountain curved out in a huge arm, enclosing the dark, flat earth in jagged rocks. Not even grass would grow there. Below the pit tumbled a waterfall, the water making strange moaning sounds which all added to the eeriness of the place, as if a soul bound in the earth was trying to get out.

Some of the men from the camp had gone ahead with a wagon to prepare the site. The ring was simply marked out in the dirt with ropes hanging from crude posts at the corners. They were raking the ground flat and pulling benches from the wagon to place around the ring.

The men formed a line outside the rocky entrance. An entry fee of threepence was charged, and for this the men got a single sheet of paper which announced forthcoming events in London at the famous Premierland. It also gave details of Taffy Brown’s previous bouts. Taffy had a good record, and had so far never been knocked off his feet. His manager was sure he was world champion material, but he knew Taffy had to have more experience before going to London. This match against the man who had almost killed the famous Hammer was perfect for him.

Taffy’s men looked around for Freedom, but he was nowhere to be seen. They presumed he was in the covered wagon parked at one side of the dirt ring, more than likely shaking with nerves. They took Taffy back to the car and he sat with his trainer, talking tactics. Taffy wanted to know more about this gyppo, and his trainer gave him details of the three bouts he had seen Freedom fight. Two he had lost, but then it looked like a fix. The third was Hammer and the rest was history. Taffy wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Not quite, mun. Gimme the rounds one by one. I seen Hammer fight, he was a big bastard, this lad must have a lot of weight behind his punch. Was it a body or a head punch that floored him?’

‘The lad’s good, Taff, but that’s not the reason we’re a bit on the edgy side. We’ve heard Sir Charles Wheeler is goin’ ter show, and we want you to be part of his stable. You know how we feel, we know you can go to the top, but we need backing, we need money. It took all we had to get these leaflets printed. We even need the few bob from this bout, but if Sir Charles sees your potential then we’ll all of us be in clover.’

Taffy had heard of Sir Charles, the ‘gent of boxing’ — everyone on the circuit had — but to think he was coming up here to this godforsaken place was beyond Taffy’s comprehension. Roberts could see him hesitate, understood why, and put his arm around Taffy’s shoulders. ‘Wipe him out, Taffy, that’s what you’re here for. The lad’s got the press writin’ about him, because of those murders. You drop him on the canvas and it’ll be you they’ll be writin’ about, and next stop it’ll be the belt. That’s what you’ve dreamed of, isn’t it?’

Taffy had more than dreamed of it — it was his one goal in life. They saw him straighten up, clench his fists, and they knew they’d have the fight they wanted.

As if on cue, the roar of a car’s engine coughing its way up the hillside heralded the arrival of Sir Charles himself. He pulled on the brake and looked around the pit, shaking his head. He’d certainly been in some out-of-way places looking for fighters, but never halfway up a mountain before.

‘Gor blimey, guy, you sure they’re not bringing the dogs up ‘ere, don’t look like a boxin’ match to me.’ Ed sniffed and hugged his coat closer. ‘Bloody cold fer Easter, ain’t it?’

As debonair as ever, Sir Charles seemed entirely unruffled by his long journey. He opened his brandy flask and drained it. Already he could see the line growing at the entrance, and below them men were heading up the mountainside in force. He passed his flask to his valet who nipped round to the boot of the car to refill it. The men crowding around were uncouth, shouting and carrying beer bottles.

‘I think, sir, if you don’t mind, I will stay inside the vehicle. I’m sure someone will try to remove your cases.’

Sir Charles laughed, then pushed his way through the crowds to look over the ring. He was pleased to note that there was no sign of the wretched man Beshaley. It would be difficult to miss that loud checked suit.

The crowds cleared a path for Sir Charles and nudged each other, nodding to ‘the toff’. Sir Charles gave Taffy a courteous nod. Taffy watched him and grunted, he’d give him his money’s worth.

Freedom sat in the wagon, his bound fists ready, arguing with Jesse. Freedom was angry that he was still around, having told him to leave days ago. But Jesse had disobeyed and returned for the fight. Jesse grinned, he would steal a few wallets tonight, and one from the gent in the big motorcar. Not that he mentioned it to Freedom, he just said they needed all the hands the camp could provide — and anyway the law had left the village. The crowds were bigger than expected and the takings had to be counted. Jesse rubbed his hands with glee — money, money.

Twice a boy from the entrance came with a sack of coins, tipped them into a box and rushed out again.

‘Where’s Rawnie, Jesse, I told you to keep her out of this.’

Jesse opened the flap of the wagon and hopped down, reassuring Freedom that Rawnie was safe, back at the camp. No one but their own had seen them return, there was nothing to fear. Freedom sighed. Jesse was a madman, he knew it, to kill the boy here in the village, in the picture house, was an act of utter madness. The police had searched every wagon, every trailer, and Freedom knew it would not end there. The law would follow them from town to town, searching, questioning. He clenched his fists, the fight far from his thoughts, preoccupied with Jesse and Rawnie. She had changed profoundly since that night at Cardiff, not that anyone could blame her after what she had been through. Freedom had detected a cold hardness in her, she would no longer come near him, curl up beside him. If anything, she would turn away if she saw him.

Rawnie and Jesse were inseparable, as if they had secrets between them, their eyes constantly gliding to each other’s, giving sly, soft giggles, their hands entwined. Freedom found them unnerving when they were together. True, he had tracked the boys down for Jesse, but then he had stepped aside because, as Jesse said, it was no longer his business. It was Jesse who was exacting vengeance. He had tried to reason with Jesse and the results had caused friction within the camps. Freedom chose to move on, and joined up with various other bands. Some whispered it was because he was scared, others murmured that it was Freedom’s name that was connected to the revenge killings and it was right that he should protect himself.

The Easter fair was a big money-earner for the travellers, and as there was a fight going they sent for Freedom to rejoin them. That was the only reason he was here, but it had angered him when Rawnie and Jesse appeared. He watched Jesse through the flap. He strutted around the makeshift ring, arrogant, cocksure, and the miners stepped aside. Behind his back Freedom saw them give the sign of the fist. Freedom knew the signs, and was sure there would be more than one fight tonight.

The miners already outnumbered the gypsies by ten to one, and a restless murmur was growing as they began to take their seats. It was gone six o’clock, and still the fight had not begun. The referee jumped up into the wagon, a pleasant-faced man from Glamorgan who had refereed many bouts between the gypsies and the miners. ‘Now lad, keep it clean, I want no head-buttin’ and no kicks, any punches below the belt an’ I’ll disqualify you. Make it a good fight, there’s someone out there from the professional circuits watchin’, so don’t let’s make a monkey of this, understand me?’

Freedom smiled, nodded briefly and asked if the ref. was giving the same lecture to the miner — any head-butting usually came from that side, not the gyppos. The referee checked Freedom’s fists and gloves, and spoke a few words to the young lads with his bucket and stool.

‘Thirteen rounds, lads, three minutes per round. When the bell goes you get into the ring, and not before.’

The crowd was now very restless, and torches were lit to illuminate the arena. The beer was being swilled down, and a couple of men who had brought a crate of beer were doing a fair trade selling bottles. It was home-brewed, tasted like stewed apples, and had a hell of a kick to it, but no one minded, they were getting thirsty. from shouting for the match to begin.

Hugh read the newspaper cuttings about the killings in Cardiff. Gladys was distraught, and angry.

‘She knows something, Hugh. All this time she’s known something and not said a word to anyone. When was she in Cardiff? Remember that time she went away and came back here like she’d seen someone die? It’s the same time, Hugh, look, read for yourself.’

Like an omen, the roar of the crowds echoed down from Devil’s Pit.

Evelyne was surprised to see Hugh when he burst in through the back door.

‘Hello, Da, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

Hugh threw her big overcoat on to the kitchen table, then dragged the newspaper cuttings out of his pocket. He waved them in front of her nose. ‘Come on, out with it, gel, what’s all this? An’ don’t tell me it’s just morbid curiosity, there’s more to this than meets the eye, isn’t there? And by God I want it, all of it! Poor Gladys is at her wits’ end. This Freedom fella’s fighting up at Devil’s Pit right now, an’ if he’s the one murdered our poor Willie …’

Evelyne let rip. ‘ “Our…?” What do you mean, “Our”? That little bugger wasn’t ours, Da, he wasn’t worth the worry we all had, he had it coming to him!’

Hugh stared in horror as she faced him, arms folded, with such a look of fury on her face he was astounded. He threw the papers at her. ‘The lad had his throat cut by those vermin and that’s all you can say about it, he had it coming to him? What kind of woman are you?’

Evelyne turned away from him and he walked out, slamming the door so hard the house shook. Why hadn’t she told Hugh the whole story, why hadn’t she told him now? She knew it was because of Gladys, and she felt guilty. She went up to her room and from the window she could see Hugh and Gladys running up the road. If she cut across the fields as fast as she could and up the other side of the mountain, she could get to Freedom before them.

The crowd roared. The two boxers were well-matched, and both around the same weight. Even though Freedom was five inches taller, Taffy had the extra inches in muscle, his solid body straining and sweating as he threw punch after punch. Freedom was up to his old dancing tricks, as light on his feet as a woman. He seemed to be running rings round Taffy.

‘Git the bugger to sit still, Taffy lad!’

They were already into five rounds, with neither boxer giving points away. They were even and both looked strong enough to go to the distance. The bell clanged and they split up, heading back to their corners. They were both filthy from the earth and coal dust they kicked up as they fought. Taffy panted and gulped at the water, spat it out and looked at Roberts.

‘He’s the toughest I’ve had yet, you buggers, he’s like a ruddy fly dancing around me.’

Roberts rubbed Taffy down and he kept up a steady flow of instructions. ‘Tire him, let him dance his feet off, he’ll soon slow down, but don’t stop the punches hitting home.’

‘What d’ye mean, don’t stop ‘em, I’m trying hard enough and can’t get at him, he’s clobbered me twice.’

Roberts could see that Freedom’s punch had caught Taffy’s right eye, which was swelling up like a tangerine.

Throughout the break the crowd yelled, ‘Tafffyyyyy-yyyy … Taffyyyyyy …’ No one shouted for Freedom, the gypsies sat silent and watchful. They were acutely aware of the growing drunkenness on the far side of the ring, and the echo of the men’s voices combined with the gurgle of the waterfall made a horrible, rumbling, guttural noise. Like animals they were baying for blood.

Sir Charles sipped from his brandy flask, gazing at the black-haired gypsy through half-closed eyes. He watched the lean body swerving, dodging, the strong legs keeping up the strange dance steps, and wondered how long the man could keep up such a movement. He didn’t seem to tire in the least, but one look at his opponent told him the big Taffy Brown was starting to tire. Sir Charles knew that the lad was waiting for an opening — knew Freedom was merely toying with the Welshman — and he was excited, grinding his teeth, a habit he had had since childhood. The lad was even better than he had been told, like a wild animal. But the most important thing about him was his intelligence. He was playing for time … an intelligent boxer? Unheard of!

Trying to predict when Freedom would knock Taffy out, Sir Charles turned to Ed and saw the same dazzled look on his friend’s face. ‘What do you think of him?’

‘Gawd help us, he’s beautiful, just beautiful, what I wouldn’t do to get me ‘ands on ‘im, work wiv ‘im. ‘E’s world-class material guv, look at ‘im, dancing round like ‘e was fresh as a daisy.’

Evelyne raced up the path, her breath heaving in her chest. She cut her hand on the brambles as she jumped the stream, but kept on running.

Rawnie was washing out Jesse’s clothes. There was no visible sign of anyone but she could hear the sound of running footsteps. She straightened up, her hackles rising. It was clearer now, someone running, and running fast … there was fear, and Rawnie’s dark eyes flashed around the dark mountainside.

Evelyne gasped for breath and rounded the curved pathway, with still a good mile to go. She paused as another massive roar echoed down from Devil’s Pit. The next moment her heart lurched as a scrawny hand gripped her hair from behind and a razor-sharp knife pricked her throat. Her legs went from under her as a hard kick from hobnailed boots cut into the backs of her knees. She fell forward, and felt her hair torn out by the roots. Screaming with agony and fear, she rolled over and found herself looking straight into Rawnie’s face.

Rawnie’s eyes blazed, the knife held high, and Evelyne shouted ‘Rawnie! Rawnie!’ As if a cloud had lifted from her face, Rawnie relaxed and backed away from Evelyne.

‘Remember me, Rawnie, it’s Evelyne … Rawnie, it’s me, the girl with the red hair, look, I wear your earring, see?’

She pushed back her hair and showed Rawnie the gold hoop earring. Rawnie stared, and Evelyne saw the small, clenched hand loosen its grip on the knife, and then Rawnie sat back on her heels and smiled.

‘O lelled thee for a jal a moskeying, an you as almost mullo mas.’

Evelyne didn’t understand and Rawnie explained, ‘I thought you were a spy, you were almost dead meat.’

Evelyne got to her feet, still panting for breath. She had to find Freedom, had to speak to him. Rawnie pointed up to the mountain. Freedom was still fighting, the roars of the crowd echoed down.

It was very difficult to explain to Rawnie, but Evelyne told her of the newspaper cuttings and how they were discovered in her pocket. She didn’t mention the possibility that her father could cause trouble, just that the men might turn nasty. She wanted to warn Freedom — warn the whole camp that they should leave. Rawnie laughed and asked what the papers said about the killings.

‘This is hardly the time to discuss it — the fact is the villagers will believe Freedom guilty.’

Rawnie looked closely at Evelyne and then turned away, her voice soft and quiet, strange. ‘Thee don’t believe this to be true, but the gav mush do, is that so?’

Evelyne looked puzzled, and Rawnie told her that gav mush was the law, then she spat on the ground. She had changed so much, there was something chilling about her. Still as beautiful, but there was a nasty, sarcastic edge to everything she said. Her eyes were expressionless, then mocking, and she waded into the stream to prevent Jesse’s shirt from floating away. She slapped it on to the bank, and lifted her skirts high.

‘Thee washed me down that night, thee saw the marks on my body, what you say should be done to those that had their way with me? What you say, paleface? Let the gav mush smack their filthy hands that pawed and prodded into my body? Smack their hands and say, “She was only a gyppo whore”?’

Evelyne shook her head as the cheers carried down from Devil’s Pit, and they could have been back in Cardiff inside that nightmare tent. Rawnie rolled Jesse’s shirt and laid it on a rock, banged it, twisted it. She seemed in no hurry to help Freedom.

‘I’m Jesse’s manushi now, he made me romms him to show he didn’t care what those vermin had done to my body. I wear his ring now, I’m Jesse’s woman.’

Satisfied the shirt was clean, Rawnie shook the wet material and then in a strange movement wrapped the wet shirtsleeves round her waist and gave Evelyne a slant-eyed look. Rawnie moved closer and closer to Evelyne, her eyes hypnotic, just like the time she had read Evelyne’s palm.

‘I’ll tell you the tatcho, paleface, only you’ll know, and I can see in your yocks ye’ll not betray me, mande mui.’

Closer and closer she came until her hands traced Evelyne’s face. ‘We done each one — one by one — an’ Jesse let me have their throats, look into their eyes before the blade was drawn across.’

Evelyne stepped back, afraid of her.

‘The best was the last, sucking on his toffee-apple, and I was right behind him, just a small move and …’

Rawnie flicked open the razor-sharp knife and cut through the air. She laughed delightedly at Evelyne’s shocked face, then she turned in one sweeping move, her voice trilled ‘Kushti rardi, Evelyne’, and she was gone.

Evelyne called after her, but the girl didn’t turn back. She heard another roar of men’s voices, cheering in unison and ran towards Devil’s Pit, hoping to God she could get there before her father.

Gladys hammered on the post office door, looking up at the windows and calling for Ben Rees, the postman. His wife opened a window and called down that they were all at the fair, Gladys shouted that she had to use their telephone to call the police. Hysterical, she screamed that the killer, Freedom Stubbs, was up at Devil’s Pit.

By the time Gladys had got through to the police a group of women had gathered outside the post office. In murmurs and whispers they passed the name of Freedom Stubbs among them. Lizzie-Ann, always one to be in on anything going on, came rushing up. The garbled story gained detail. Evelyne Jones knew the killer, he was one of the gyppos, and he was boxing up at Devil’s Pit.

‘Let’s get up there and warn the menfolk. We’ll get the bugger even if the law can’t.’

Rolling pins were hastily collected, and one woman who had armed herself with a heavy frying pan swung it around, saying she’d take first crack at the vermin. Lizzie-Ann fuelled their rising tempers, telling them that Evelyne Jones knew more than she let on. Schoolmistress she may be, but why hadn’t she shown anyone what the newspapers said? She’d concealed evidence, that’s what she’d done. Half the women were illiterate and would never have read the papers anyway, but, egged on by Lizzie-Ann’s bitterness towards Evelyne, they went on the march, fists clenched and rolling pins at the ready, heading for the Devil’s Pit.

Mr Beshaley was beside himself, there was not a soul at the station, even to collect his ticket. There wasn’t a horse or a cart, nothing in sight, and Devil’s Pit was a good five miles up the mountainside.

Doc Clock chugged by in his precious motor. He’d been up at Mrs Morgan’s on an emergency call, only to discover it was her dog that was ailing. The poor animal was very old and couldn’t understand that with the strike on Mrs Morgan didn’t have the money to put in the purse for him to take to the butcher. He was turning nasty, hanging on like grim death to the shopping bag and biting anyone who tried to take it from him. Doc Clock’s thumb was bandaged to prove it.

As if that wasn’t enough, the Doc was confronted by a lunatic in a dreadful suit who demanded to be driven to Devil’s Pit. Beshaley took out his fob watch and looked in desperation at the Doc. ‘The fight, I’ve got to get up there to see the fight,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you whatever you ask — anything — it’s a matter of extreme urgency, sir, I beg you.’

Doc Clock tooted his horn as he rounded a curve on the narrow mountain track, and smiled to himself. At long last he’d got a watch on the end of his chain. Beshaley held on grimly as the old motor bounced and swerved along the unlit track. Twice he thought they’d go over the edge, but the motor somehow weaved its way back to the centre. They could hear the cheering and shouting, and Beshaley stood up, banging on the windscreen, and bellowed for the Doc to go faster.

Evelyne stood on tiptoe at the back of the screaming crowd, but she couldn’t even see the men fighting. She pushed her way through the crowd and, spotting Jesse, made her way towards him.

‘Jesse … Jesse? Do you remember me? … Jesse?’

He shrank away from her, wondering if she’d seen him lift the man’s wallet. His eyes narrowed and he turned to dart back into the crowd, but Evelyne caught his sleeve, and then he recognized her by her red hair tumbling down from her schoolmistress’s bun. She was Freedom’s paleface friend. Jesse could barely hear what she had to say over the roar of the crowd, but when he understood they weaved and elbowed their way through the men to the opposite side of the makeshift boxing ring where the gypsy men watched the fight together. He squeezed his way among them, cupping his hand to their ears and whispering, and they passed the message on.

Evelyne looked at the ring and shuddered. Freedom and Taffy were in the centre, Taffy bleeding badly from a cut below his eye. Jesse moved like a dart, in and out between the men, then he returned to her side. ‘The wagon’s yonder, git outta here.’

He slipped away so fast that Evelyne had no time to grab his arm, and the gypsies were quietly leaving, one by one. The combined noise of the waterfall and the men’s voices was deafening, and across the ring she could see fists raised as the miners yelled, ‘Take the man out, Tarry!’ Over their heads she could see her father, way over on the far side, shoving his way towards the ring. His face was set, he looked vicious, and he too was shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words.

The bell clanged for the end of the round, and Freedom walked abruptly to his corner and sat down, snorting through his gumshield. He was surprised Jimmy One-Eye didn’t take it out of his mouth, and where was the water? Then Jimmy leaned over and cupped his hand to Freedom’s ear. ‘Go down, mun, first punch go down, they know who you are, all hell’s gonna be let loose — police’ll be here, we’re gonna have to do a runner.’

Hugh was close to the side of the ring, pointing at Freedom and yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Killer! Killer!’

The men around him tried to hear what he was saying and Evelyne could see him making gestures, slicing his hand across his throat and pointing again to Freedom.

Taffy’s corner men worked hard, rubbing the big man down, plastering Vaseline over his swelling face. Taffy was heaving for breath and trying to listen to his trainer’s instructions. He gasped with pain as they painted his cut then flapped their hands and blew to dry the paint. It was smarting so badly his eyes were watering, but he could have been weeping. His hopes of the Heavyweight Championship were dimming — he couldn’t even get near the bastard.

The bell clanged, and Freedom was up on his feet before the clapper was still. He looked fresh, his breathing under control but his body glistening with sweat. Taffy lumbered into the centre and hunched up, somehow he knew he was going to get it, that was it, he knew it was coming, but he wasn’t going to let the gyppo get him down easily.

Freedom opened up his defences and looked as if he’d walked into the right uppercut. Over he went, falling back against the ropes, which sagged under him. The crowd went berserk and Taffy gazed in astonishment at the slumped body, the ref. bending over him, counting and waving his arms. The crowd joined in as he counted.

‘One … two … three … four …’

Beshaley ran from the Doc’s car just in time to see Freedom take the final punch. He slumped against the rocks, feeling as if he himself had been hit, winded. Through the celebrating crowd he could make out the tall figure of Sir Charles and was about to push forward to talk to him when he saw Taffy’s manager. Sir Charles was shaking his hand, congratulating him.

Doc Clock panted over to Beshaley, muttering that nobody had told him about any fight. Beshaley had paled visibly, and the Doc was concerned, but he was bodily moved aside by a group of women. ‘Dear God,’ he thought, ‘what is the world coming to when women are watching boxing matches?’ He was walloped on the back with a frying pan, and spun round.

‘Oh, sorry, bach, didn’t recognize you!’ said the woman.

Taffy was riding high on the shoulders of two miners, and the makeshift ring was swarming with men, dancing and yelling, while Hugh Jones stood in the centre, screaming for quiet, his arms waving and his face bright red with fury. ‘Quiet… Quiet… Listen to me, will you listen to me!’

Freedom went inside the wagon while Jesse organized the hitching of the horses. Outside the wagon the noise of the men was diminishing, and one voice was raised high above the rest, a voice screaming, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The wagon rocked as the horse was backed into the shafts. Hugh Jones was slowly getting the men to listen, despite the added din of the high-pitched screams of the women who had just arrived. ‘The police couldn’t find him and they been lookin’, we got him right here, here amongst us … Freedom Stubbs killed Willie, slit his throat, are we gonna let him get away with it?’

Evelyne put her hands over her ears to shut out her father’s voice. She wanted to turn and run — run away from the madness echoing round the mountain like the Devil himself. She stood up and tried to get to her father’s side.

‘Turn the wagon over, get him out, get him out!’ Evelyne was within feet of her father, screaming at him to stop, but a clod of earth flew through the air, narrowly missing her head.

‘Tell us what you know, Bitch! Bitch!’ Frying pans and rolling pins thudded down on heads, the women were screaming and pointing at Evelyne. A man grabbed Evelyne from behind and held her arms. ‘This is the one, she’s known all along …’

Now Hugh was fighting to get to his daughter. Evelyne pulled her arms free and lashed out at her father with her fist.

Miners swarmed around the heavy wagon, heaving together to overturn it. The horse reared and kicked, striking a man on the side of his head. The wagon rolled forward, heading directly into the crowd around Hugh and Evelyne, and the men and women sprang away in fear for their lives.

Jesse whipped up the horse and lashed out at a man who tried to bring him down from the wagon. As they careered through the crowd, Freedom leaned out of the back and grabbed Evelyne by the waist. She tried to fight him off, but she was lifted off her feet and hauled on board as the wagon bounced and rumbled through the crowd.

Chapter 12

HUGH stood in the ring, or what was left of it, the ropes trailing on the ground. His initial fury had subsided, he knew he had been wrong, but he couldn’t understand his daughter — his own daughter had raised her fist to him in front of the whole village. He stood still, shaking. What in God’s name had got into her? Suddenly he took off after the mob chasing the wagon.

Evelyne clung for dear life to the side of the wagon, terrified. Behind them* the mob followed, running down the mountain. Freedom yelled to Jesse to keep clear of the camp, lead the madmen away from their people, take to the main roads. Evelyne wept, begged to be let out, but Freedom ignored her and clambered up beside Jesse. The wagon rolled from side to side as the dirt track wound and curved. The running figures were now a good distance behind them. They passed the entrance to the campsite, and Jesse handed the reins to Freedom. He jumped down as Freedom whipped the horse faster, leading the mob away from the camp. They could see that the camp was already packed up, the caravans in line, set to move out. Alone in the back of the wagon, Evelyne was bruised and battered against the sides, and still she held on.

The sound of the wheels clattering on cobbles told Evelyne they had arrived in the village. The horse slowed its frantic pace and stopped.

‘Stop in the name of the law, now get down, hands above your head, come on, you vermin, do like we say, get down.’

The wagon’s flap was pulled open and a policeman who looked inside shouted that there was a woman on board. At the same time Evelyne heard a voice asking, ‘You the gyppo they call Freedom Stubbs?’

They were already putting the handcuffs on him by the time she stepped down. He made no effort to escape, did nothing to stop them handcuffing him, and said not one word. They hauled him roughly towards the police van, and even though he made no effort to evade arrest, one of the policemen brought his truncheon down hard on the back of his neck. He slumped forward, and they dragged him like an animal into the cage at the back of the van, locking and bolting it just in time as the mob appeared at the top of the village street.

The men and women were quieter now and, seeing the uniformed police encircling the van with truncheons at the ready, they kept their distance. ‘Keep on walking now, come along, get back to your homes, the show’s over. Come along now, keep walking, everybody keep walking.’

Slowly, they moved in groups past the police van, their interest directed first at the van, then at Evelyne. The women shot foul looks at her, then turned their faces away.

Hugh walked to his daughter’s side and laid his hand on her arm.

‘Don’t touch me, this is your doing, this is down to you; Hugh Jones, I’d have thought you had more sense.’

Lizzie-Ann passed by and heard Evelyne’s words, and muttered an abusive, bitter, ‘gyppo lover’. The other women nearby picked up the phrase, murmuring quietly but clearly as they passed the wagon, ‘gyppo woman, gyppo lover.’

Hugh stood still, head bowed, and Gladys whimpered and slunk to his side. The police van was cranked up and the engine chugged into life; then it headed for the police station with Evan Evans, flushed and apologetic, hurrying alongside.

Evelyne walked, head held high, back to Aldergrove Street. She knew they were all looking at her, talking about her, and she kept her eyes straight ahead. She was comforted by the thought that behind them all the caravans would be silently moving out, at least they had not torn the campsite apart.

Hugh wanted Gladys gone; he wanted to talk in private with Evelyne, but Gladys clung to his arm. He sat her down, then folded his arms, staring hard at Evelyne. She met his gaze head on, defiant.

‘Now, Evie, out with it, we have a right to know.’

In a quiet, dead voice, Evelyne told them the truth.

‘I was at a boxing match in Cardiff, remember, Da, the time I went by myself? I don’t want to go into the details of how I got there, but I went to a boxing fair. There was a riot, and I was leaving, but I had to go back inside the tent for my bag, I’d lost my handbag.’

Gladys stood up and demanded to know what on earth this had to do with Willie’s murder. Evelyne pushed her down and leaned over her.

‘Because when I went back I saw a poor gypsy girl being raped, not by one but by four lads. An’ they’d worse than raped her, they’d taken a bench leg to her.’

Gladys screeched at the top of her voice, ‘You sayin’ Willie had something to do with it?’

‘I saw him, he was on top of the girl… it was me that pulled him off by his hair, and I’d swear to it on the Bible, you want me to swear it on the Bible?’

Gladys shook her head, repeating over and over that she couldn’t believe it — not that boy, not her sister’s boy, he wouldn’t do a thing like that.

‘He did it, Gladys, he was one of those lads, the poor girl. I’ll never forget her face.’

Hugh brushed Evelyne aside. ‘That’s enough now, come on, Gladys, I’ll walk you home.’

He helped Gladys to the door, and just as he went out he gave Evelyne a heart-broken look. She couldn’t meet his eyes, the look was filled with so much hurt, why hadn’t she told him?

Freedom sat in the small village gaol that had only ever housed the poor lunatic who had bashed his mother’s head in. Evan Evans ponderously filled in all the forms. His prisoner was to be taken directly to Cardiff to answer the charges there. Evans had to endorse the charge-sheet accusing Freedom of the murder of Willie Thomas.

Doc Clock, very irate, appeared to report the theft of a golf fob watch. He was insistent, never mind the ruddy gypsy, his new gold fob watch had been stolen right off the chain he had just put it on. Evans took down all the particulars, and waited until the Doc left, before he tore up the description of the fob watch. ‘He’s not had a watch attached to that chain for more’n fifteen years. We should have a word with the Medical Board, he’s past it, the silly old fool.’

Mr Beshaley sat in Rawnie’s wagon. He swung his gold watch on its chain, fingered it and replaced it in the pocket of the checked waistcoat that matched his suit. He had used that watch to bribe people on several occasions, but he had always been able to steal it back. ‘Ye think he got himself away then, do ye?’

Jesse shrugged and put his feet up on the shelf, Freedom would be all right, he murmured. Mr Beshaley pursed his lips, what a wasted night it had been, all this way and for what, to be almost mobbed. He had never even got a chance to talk with Sir Charles Wheeler — maybe to get him interested in one of his other boxers.

Rawnie, with her skirts hitched up over her bare knees, smoked a hand-rolled cigarette clenched between her teeth. Perched up on the boards she held the reins loosely between her fingers, clucking for the horses to move on, then flicked a whip across their backs. She began to sing, low, husky, as if she had not a care in the world.

Mande went to poor theory, all around the stiggur sty,

Mush off to Mande, I takes off my chuvvel,

I dels him in the per,

So ope me duvvel dancin Mande cours well.

Inside Rawnie’s caravan Jesse was held by her husky voice, he smiled at Beshaley, and lowered his thick, black eyelashes.

‘Freedom always was a loser, tonight he proved it.’ He joined in singing with Rawnie, their voices as soft as each other’s. Beshaley shivered, they seemed so close, these two, and he felt like an intruder. He couldn’t wait to get to Swansea. The pair of them unnerved him.

Hugh climbed the stairs, heavy-hearted. He could see the gaslight beneath Evelyne’s door. Before he reached the door she opened it and stood, hands on hips. ‘Well, what have you heard?’

Hugh shifted his weight and mumbled that they’d taken the gypsy to Cardiff, and the word was he’d be hanged.

‘What if I was to tell you he didn’t do the killings, none of them, it wasn’t him?’

Hugh said that was for the courts to decide. Evan Evans was in the pub telling everyone that the gypsy had said not one word, which in Evans’ eyes proved that he was guilty.

‘If what you said about Willie is true, then so help me God I’m for the gel, but that’s no reason to slit a man’s throat — more than one.’

Evelyne snapped that more than one boy had raped Rawnie, and turned to go back into her bedroom. Hugh caught her arm. ‘Tell me how you know so much, miss? Why you had the papers, why you showed your fist to your father in front of the whole village?’

Evelyne pulled her arm free and pushed past him, back into her bedroom snapping that he’d no need to worry, she’d not been touched by any of them.

‘Where you goin’? Evie?’

She kicked the door to behind her, shouting that she was going to Cardiff. Hugh kicked the door back open again, his temper rising. ‘Like hell you are, you stay out of this, you’ve done enough as it is.’

Evelyne was pulling clothes out of a drawer and throwing them on her bed. ‘It’s you who’s done it, Da, you, you’re power-mad since you got into that union. They hang him and they’ll hang an innocent man.’

As fast as Evelyne took out her clothes, Hugh stuffed them back in the drawers, his temper mounting, and he shouted that she was not to leave the house.

‘I was with him, Da, the night Willie was killed, I was with him, and I’m going to say so, he couldn’t have done it.’

Hugh pulled her roughly to him, his hand raised to strike her, and she stared at him, stony-faced. ‘Go on, hit me if it’ll make you feel better, I was with him but not in the way you think. God help me, I went up there to warn him.’

Hugh slumped down on to the bed. He couldn’t understand her. He shook his head and rumpled his hair. She still opened and closed the drawers, taking out what she needed. She brought a cardboard box out from under the bed.

‘Don’t get involved, gel, trust me, leave it be:. unless … does this lad take your fancy, is that it?’

Evelyne threw up her hands in despair. ‘No, I just know he didn’t do it, and I can’t live with myself knowing what I know … Oh, Da, I should have told you before, everything, but I just couldn’t, I just couldn’t.’

He patted the bed beside him and she sat close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Slowly, piece by piece, she told him about the night in the boxing tent in Cardiff. The terrible humiliation she had suffered, the money she had taken from David, money she’d been so ashamed of, and at last her bitterness came to the surface. She made no sound, but he knew she was crying and he cradled her in his arms.

‘Being poor, Evie, is nothing to be. ashamed of, one does things in a life that’re much worse.’

She looked up into his sad face and asked if he was thinking of little Davey, and he nodded his head. He still held his big arm around her shoulders, but he stared vacantly ahead. After a moment he rose and walked to the window, drawing back the curtains to look out into the dark night.

‘I was quite a lad, you know, when I was a youngster. Easter fair was always a night out for the lads. She was telling fortunes in a small booth — not like they have now, it was decorated with painted canvas, sort of draped — and you paid a ha’penny for a palm reading. By God, Evie, she was a beauty, not like your ma, different, exciting to young bloods, and we was all after her. See, we couldn’t lay a finger on the local gels, not without their mothers coming around with their rolling pins … Anyways, I set out to capture the little dark-eyed wench, all the while cocksure of myself, telling the lads I’d have her. She said I was to come back at midnight, she’d leave the caravan door ajar. Well, I had my night with her, and the next day three of ‘em came prancing down the street, seems she wasn’t no ordinary gyppo, but one of high blood. They dragged me out and up to their fields and all of them set on me, even the old man threw in a few punches. I was handy with me fists so I gave as good as I got, but me pals hadda carry me home.

‘Next morning, black-eyed and aching all over, I made my way to the pithead, an’ she was there, waitin’ with a small bundle under her arm. Seemed the family threw her out, see, an’ there she was waitin’ for me with her bangles and beads and the little bundle tied up with string.’

Hugh turned from the dark window. He seemed heavy, sluggish, and eased his body down on to the bed and lay flat, his eyes closed. ‘Maybe if the lads hadn’t been gathered around I’d have acted different. I just laughed at her, Evie, told her to be on her way with the rest of her vermin.’

He leaned up on his elbow and fingered Evelyne’s slip which was lying across the bed. ‘Her eyes went black, like a cat’s, and she lifted her hand and gave me some kind of sign, she didn’t scream or shout, it was husky, her voice, that’s what made it worse, the strange softness of her words … She cursed me, Evie, said I’d have no sons to bury me.’ He put his arm across his face and his whole body shuddered as he wept, his voice muffled. ‘By Christ she was right, I’ve seen them buried. God help me, Evie, she was right.’

Now it was Evelyne’s turn to hold her father gently, wipe his tear-stained face. She said that maybe it was fate, fate that made her cross the path of the gypsies.

‘I’ll leave for Cardiff on the first train, Da, all right?’

**

The mist clung to the top of the mountain, the grey rain drizzled, making grey, cobbled streets shine. As Evelyne turned at the corner to wave to Hugh at the bedroom window, he felt a terrible sense of loss, as if he would never see her again.

Evelyne passed three women standing at the water taps. They turned their backs to her and whispered. Evelyne held her head high and walked on.

‘You’ll not be teaching my kids, Evelyne Jones, you dirty gyppo lover.’

A group of men leaving their house for the early shift called to her and raised their fists. ‘You should know better, Evelyne Jones. Our lads not good enough for you, eh?’

Their laughter echoed down the wet street, and she hunched her shoulders as if to defend herself from their malice. She crossed the street so she wouldn’t have to face another group of women who stood waiting for the post office to open. They, too, stared at her then turned and whispered to each other. She gave them a frosty smile and almost bumped into Lizzie-Ann dragging the two kids and a pramful of laundry.

Evelyne stopped, and Lizzie-Ann had the grace to blush — she had, after all, thrown a clod of earth at Evelyne the night before. ‘Well, where you off to at this hour, thought a woman of leisure like you would have a lie-in of a wet morning?’

Evelyne murmured that she was on her way to Cardiff.

‘Going to see your boyfriend, are you? Better make it fast before they hang him.’

Evelyne looked into Lizzie-Ann’s face. Her hair hung in rat’s tails, her coat was’ stained, her legs bare and her shoes so worn that her heels, red and raw, were showing. ‘That’s right, go on, take a good look at me, Evelyne Jones, nothing a few pounds wouldn’t put right, but then you’re such a tight bitch, you’d not a give a beggar a farthing.’

Evelyne banged her cardboard box on top of the pram and pulled Lizzie-Ann to her by the lapels of her coat.

‘What have I ever done to you, Lizzie-Ann, to make you talk like this? Tell me now, I don’t deserve it and you know it.’

Lizzie-Ann pushed Evelyne away, her voice rising hysterically.

‘You’ve always been too good, haven’t you? You give me a roof over me head but begrudge a shilling for food, you’re a hard one, Evelyne Jones, you always were …’

Evelyne felt sick. She couldn’t fight Lizzie-Ann, there. was nothing to say. She picked up her cardboard box and turned away.

‘Don’t you turn your back on me, Evelyne … Evelyne… Evie!’

There was such desperation in Lizzie-Ann’s voice, it made Evelyne turn. Old before her years, beaten, roughened, the prettiest girl in the village had gone, and in the big, pansy eyes was a terrible, heartbreaking desperation. For a fleeting moment Evelyne wanted to hold her, but the accusing voice persisted, ‘Where you going? Cardiff is it? Oh, well, all right for some, go on, there’ll be more than one person pleased. You should stay there, your poor Da can’t get up the courage to tell you he wants to get married, go on, you won’t be missed.’

A few of the women joined in, chipping in their farthing’s-worth.

Evelyne was already walking away, knowing Lizzie-Ann was trailing behind.

‘Take the deeds to Doris’ house, take them, just like you took everything, without a thank you.’

Head high, she strode off, clutching her cardboard box in front of her. Lizzie-Ann broke down, propping her swollen, sagging body against a filthy brick wall. She cried out, but her voice was distorted with tears, ‘Oh, I wanted to go to London … oh God, I wanted to go to London.’

***

Somewhere out of the past Evelyne heard the soft, sweet voice of her mother repeating, ‘Get out of the valley, Evie, don’t let it drag you down,’ well, she would get out, and she would never come back, there was nothing left for her here.

As she paid for her ticket, her mouth trembled, and she had to bite her lip until it bled to stop herself from crying. She had only one goodbye to say, it cried in her throat, the sound of the train’s steam hissing and the ‘chunt, chunt’ of the engine drowned her words, ‘Goodbye, Da, goodbye, Da.’