Paint on the Smiles (10 page)

‘Fancy delivering post to foreign parts by aeroplane,’ she greeted Phil and Ada with one evening. She was referring to the newly augmented transatlantic Air Mail service. ‘A bit different from when that Amy Johnson flew to Australia in twenty days or so. Or when that man Corrigan went to fly to America, turned the wrong way and ended up in Ireland! There’s a thing! Fancy if you posted a letter to Ireland and it ended up in America!’

She would prattle on as she brought dishes to the table, seemingly unaware of how little Phil contributed, although he occasionally laughed at her reminders of things long ago. She would take her son into his workshop while Ada did the dishes and talk to him of the customers he’d once served, hoping one day to see him rise out of his lethargy and start up the machines. But he would stare vacantly around him as if he were in a strange place with nothing even vaguely connected with his past or his future. Then he would walk back to the living room, crouch near the fire and play patience, while Ada talked about the happenings of the day.

He gave up playing patience in June and began counting things. Tassels on the chenille table cover, flowers on the wallpaper, bars on the grate, roses on the cloth covering the kitchen table. He would become agitated when his tired eyes refused to separate them and make him lose count. He would begin again and again, anxiously holding threads in his hands, or covering the roses with dishes as he counted, or touching the bars of the fire with the long brass poker.

The doctor called regularly and wanted to take Phil into hospital but Ada wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Can you imagine what it would do to his mother if he went away again?’ she argued. ‘Besides, I want to look after him. Cecily helps and Gladys is wonderfully kind. I can manage.’

When she told Cecily, her sister said, ‘With Van here to help me, you can spend as much time with Phil as you need until he’s well again.’ She was startled by the vehemence with which Ada replied.

‘No need! I’ll continue
helping
you,’ she said. ‘Van gives us extra freedom but you and I, Cecily, are partners. I am not your assistant!’

‘Oh, not this again,’ Cecily said with a groan. ‘When have you and I not been partners?’

‘You’ve always treated me like a useless dogsbody!’

‘Am I such a bossy woman that my own sister has to remind me of my place?’ she asked Peter one Wednesday near the end of August. ‘I don’t mean to treat her like an assistant, it just comes out that way sometimes, and I don’t really think of our partnership that way. We each contribute what we do best.’

‘You’re right. You and Ada are equal partners but your roles within the partnership are different. Ada is the hesitant one, the brake to hold you back and make you consider before you jump into a new venture. You, my dear Cecily, are the brilliant entrepreneur without whom she wouldn’t have such a comfortable life.’

‘I do put her in the shade, then?’

‘No, but the shade is where she is. If she were left alone to manage the business, it would continue well enough for a while, but you create the momentum and without you it would inevitably go downhill. No business stands still, as you well know. It’s always changing, absorbing new ideas and projects, either growing or falling back. You push it ever forward but Ada, capable as she is, would be unable to stop that slide.’

‘You always make me feel better, Peter.’

He smiled at her and said softly, ‘The feeling is mutual. I look forward to seeing you and never feel complete while we’re apart.’

Cecily was warmed by his words but didn’t think about them too deeply. ‘I might not be able to come on Wednesdays for a while,’ she told him. ‘Ada needs to get away from the gloom of spending all her time with Phil and his mother. I’ve suggested we both learn to drive an ambulance. It seems certain we’ll soon be at war. People say – as they did last year – that Hitler’s only waiting for the harvest to be brought in before making his move. Last year it was a rumour but this year it seems inevitable. I think we should all do what we can and it will be a fresh interest for Ada and that’s an extra incentive.’

Willie and Danny had completed most of the work on a pretty farm cottage with a stream running through its garden and it was already sold at a healthy profit. They used the money to buy two other houses which
only needed tidying and cleaning. They hired Jack Simmons to decorate, and dig the gardens between his ice-cream selling, and were pleased with his work. There were only two properties on which they had a mortgage. They now owned seven, giving the job of collecting the rents on Friday mornings to Annette.

‘Isn’t it time you and I packed up our other jobs?’ Danny said as they went over their books in the comfort of Willie’s living room. ‘Look, man, you’ve got a good living and Annette wants for nothing, but she never sees you. What’s the point of working for Cecily when you could spend your time making more money on our own business? You don’t need to work for the Watkins any more.’ He looked at Willie’s face and guessed he was not convincing him. ‘You give up the shop and I’ll give up the post, is it? We can both concentrate on what we do best – repairs and furniture.’

Willie shook his head. ‘I can’t leave them to cope on their own. They’ve always been good to me, and generous. If Phil Spencer had turned out to be a useful man, then I might have considered it, but he’s about as much use as a paper shovel. No, while they need me I have to be there.’

‘Why didn’t I marry Cecily? Fool, I was. What a team we’d have made, you and Annette, Cecily and me. Man, we’d have made a fortune in no time.’

‘Cecily’s the brains there and you wouldn’t be able to take it, seeing her dealing with workmen and architects and the like, every man being a threat. Fool you are, Danny, and it’s unlikely you’ll change.’

‘I have changed. I’d accept her now, flirting an’ all. But it’s too late, we’ve had too many false starts.’

‘What about Jessie? Have you tried to patch things up there?’

‘I tried, yes, on that holiday someone treated her to. But she saw through me, knew it was really Cecily I wanted. Who can blame her for not accepting second best?’

‘Perhaps someone should arrange a holiday for you and Cecily,’ Willie said dryly.

‘Was it you?’

‘No, but I have an idea who it was and before you ask, no, I won’t tell you!’

‘It’s strange working at the shop. We’ve worked on the cellar for a while now, me and young Jack Simmons. Close to her I’ve been, seeing her every day, but not allowed to touch.’ He was silent for a while then said, ‘Hey, there’s odd that Phil is, don’t you think? He stares at Cecily in
a way that makes me nervous. Changes coins from hand to hand, counting in a low mutter and watching her. You’d think from the expression on his face that he hates her. Scary it is, man.’

‘I know and it worries me. I’ve mentioned it to Cecily and Ada but they think he’s all right, just a bit depressed.’

‘Wants locking up again if you ask me.’

Danny and Jack Simmons had finished shoring up the floor of the stables with extra joists to make the cellar as strong as possible. The pillars were sea-soaked wood bought from a ship-breaker’s yard. The place had been cleaned and benches built around the walls for seats, or, if necessary, to use as beds.

‘Come and see if it’s what you wanted,’ Danny said to Cecily when the work was done. ‘Willie and I designed it, safe as anywhere in the town it is. Can I come and share it with you?’

‘Room for six comfortably,’ Cecily said lightly, ‘or more if comfort isn’t the priority.’

‘It’s a bed I want to share with you, Cecily Owen, not a cellar with half a dozen others looking on.’

Cecily stepped away from him, a tacit warning not to say any more, but he followed her into the cellar and took her in his arms. The strangeness of their surroundings took on the feeling of a sanctuary, a refuge from the rush and bustle of the world outside. Armoured against possible air raids, it was still benign, silent, a place without any of the implications of war.

A low-wattage bulb glowed orange from the ceiling, encased in a wire frame. In its light, Cecily saw a small spider audaciously building a web and claiming the place as his own. She looked around at the built-in benches and the cupboard made to hold blankets, food, candles and a first aid box. She looked everywhere except at Danny’s face yet she knew he was looking at hers.

He lowered his head and his lips found hers waiting. ‘Cecily, why are we wasting all the best years? It’s been so long. Let me move in – we’ll make it legal as soon as the divorce is finally sorted. We can’t go on watching the years pass without us being together. Together.’ He whispered the word like a low groan. ‘You’ve defied convention before. Why not now? I can make you happy, I know I can.’

Gradually his words slowed as desire threw them aside, speech wasn’t important. He carried her to the leather-covered bench and they began to undress each other.

When they emerged from the stable, Phil was standing in the doorway of the back kitchen watching them silently. He turned around and disappeared into the house without acknowledging Danny’s wave.

Ada saw the flushed cheeks and the dark-eyed look on her sister’s face and guessed where she had been and with whom.

‘What are you going to do about Danny?’ she demanded. ‘Marry him or what?’

‘Nothing.’

After all the loving and the talk that had followed, he had said nothing to make her believe he had changed, that as soon as they were together he wouldn’t resume his mistrust of her and anyone she happened to meet. ‘Nothing,’ she repeated. ‘Danny is Danny and nothing will change him. I’d be a fool if I can’t accept it after all these years.’

‘We aren’t a family for happy marriages,’ Ada said quietly, looking to make sure Phil wasn’t listening. ‘There was Mam and Dadda, you bringing up a child without a husband, your dreams of Danny, and me….’

‘But I thought you … you and Phil are content, aren’t you?’

She smiled then and looked at Cecily. ‘It was Gareth I wanted, but he wouldn’t consider me, not with you around to dazzle him.’ There was no bitterness in Ada’s voice, only sadness.

‘I thought he was long forgotten.’

‘We seemed so right for each other, Gareth and me; dancing, thinking the same about – well, just about everything, or so I believed. I’d have been happy with him, if he’d asked me to marry him instead of asking you.’

‘He’s buying the other half of The Wedge I hear,’ Cecily said to fill the silence that followed.

Gareth had one of a pair of small, odd-shaped shops on the main road, called The Wedge. The doors angled in, with doors set into the triangular porch. He planned to buy the other half when it became vacant and to open it as a women’s hairdressers, run by a manager. Gareth Price-Jones, with the over-possessive mother, who had been their dancing partner until Dadda had died and it had been more difficult to go out as regularly as before.

Cecily was surprised that Ada had felt a love for him. From the expression on her sister’s face as she spoke of him, she guessed that Ada was casting her mind back to her hopes and dreams from long ago.

She shivered then, remembering the intent way Phil had been watching as she and Danny walked out of the stables. Perhaps he’d crept down and been watching them as they lay together. She shivered again.

That night, when Ada and Phil had gone home, Cecily went to play whist, an occupation she now enjoyed. Van was out with Edwin and when she got home, the shop was dark and the empty feeling she dreaded was there, a strong sense of emptiness, yet with shadows hovering like past memories, giving a feeling of utter and inexplicable sadness. If she and Danny were together, at least she wouldn’t have to face walking into the empty house alone.

She went into the room behind the shop and filled the place with light. The kettle was making small purring sounds and she reached for the teapot before taking off her coat. On the table, as she turned to place the filled pot down, she saw a note from Van. She would be staying at the Richards’ overnight. Cecily gave a sigh of disappointment. Tonight, for whatever reason, she didn’t want to be alone. The house was even more cold and empty.

Van’s bed was smooth as she glanced in as she always did, forgetting momentarily that the girl was not there. The bed looked unused, as though the occupant was gone forever. She shook aside the frightening thought and went back to the landing. From below she heard the big clock like the heart of the house – burlip, burlip – burlip, burlip – and she stood looking down into the blackness of the stairwell, willing it to continue, afraid it too would unaccountably cease. Afraid, but not knowing why, she left the landing light burning and went to her room.

She undressed with a continuing feeling of unease, hurriedly slipping on her nightdress and adding a dressing gown for its welcome warmth. It was one o’clock when she drifted to sleep with the light still shining on the ceiling, an open book held in her hand.

She woke with the sickening sensation that she wasn’t alone. Her eyes opened in alarm but all was quiet, everything in the room was as it should be. Perhaps Van had returned after all? She had left the bolts unfastened on the shop door in case she changed her mind. Her eyelids drooped again, drowsy and calling herself a fool for being afraid.

Moments later, as she dozed, the book slipped from the bed and a hand came out and caught it before it touched the floor.

Again something disturbed her restless dreaming, and she roused, afraid to move, with a return of the feeling that she wasn’t alone. She opened her eyes, slowly this time, and saw Phil staring at her from the doorway.

‘Phil!’ She clutched the covers for their flimsy protection and sat up. ‘What d’you want? Why are you here?’ The expression on his face terrified
her. His eyes glittered in the pale face and his mouth was curled in a rictus of hate. His hair was spiky as if he’d recently risen from sleep.

‘I’ve paid the price for my guilt, but you haven’t,’ he muttered. ‘Filth is what you are, Cecily Owen, and you should be made to pay like I had to. Why should you get away without paying for your sins?’