The Legacy Read online

  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 as
sistant 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.