Shoes for Anthony (33 page)

‘Pass me that glass, Ant,' said Bethan, placing the cool flannel on Father's forehead. ‘He needs some more penicillin.'

I reached for the small tumbler half-filled with water that sat on the bedside table. Bethan was pouring a livid pink liquid into a spoon.

‘Father,' she said, bending in to him, ‘open your lips a little. It's for the medicine.'

He gave out a small moan, not of pain, more of mild irritation that we were trying to keep him alive. I came round the bed and stood at Bethan's shoulder, watching the viscous syrup slipping onto Father's tongue. He grimaced at the taste: bitter, filthy stuff. ‘Here,' said Bethan, taking the water from my hand. ‘Sip this.'

He tried to lean forward, but he didn't have the strength. ‘Help me sit up,' he whispered, his eyes clamped shut in discomfort.

Bethan put down the glass and took him under one armpit. ‘Give us a hand, Ant,' she said, shooting me a quick glance. I edged forwards and took the weight of Father's forearm in my hands. It was lifeless, dense, and as Bethan heaved upwards, I pushed it up and back, as I would a stubborn log that wouldn't settle on a fire. Father leaned into Bethan's side and she sat on the edge of the bed, arm about him, holding him up. She gestured towards the glass of water with her eyes and I took it once more, holding it up to Father's lips.

‘Here's your water, Father,' I said, tilting it carefully so he could drink.

His eyes squeezed tight shut then opened lazily, reluctantly. ‘Thank you,' he managed and then fell back into Bethan like cloth dropping to the floor.

I had to turn away. It was the first time he had ever said that to me.

The meeting was at three. Captain Pugh was in charge and was busy shuffling papers, Arthur Pryce was putting out some chairs in a line on a raised dais, and Captain Willis was towards the back, head hunched in conversation with another man in uniform. He looked like an American. I strained to see. Between them was our radio.

We knew it was serious. There were women in the Labour Club, a first apart from that time Mrs Harris had marched in demanding her husband stop drinking his wages up the wall and get home.

‘Bloody filthy,' said Bopa, sweeping a forefinger across the nearest surface. ‘Look at that!' She presented a pitch-black fingertip. ‘It's like a pigsty. Is that why you've got us all up here? So we'll take pity on you and start cleaning?'

‘There's a mop up the back!' shouted Hughes the Grocer, gesturing with his thumb. ‘Make yourself useful, Bopa!'

A smattering of laughter filled the room.

Bopa folded her arms and arched her back. ‘I'll make myself useful, Mr Hughes. With my boot up your backside!'

A mock roar of shock went up and, against the hoots, Hughes put his arms in the air to show he'd already given up. There was no point trying to outdo the women of Treherbert; they were indomitable. Mam said that was where Mr Churchill was going wrong. He should send a bus filled with Rhondda women to Berlin. They'd sort Hitler out in five minutes flat.

A series of sharp raps echoed about the room as Captain Pugh banged a tankard on the table in front of him. ‘Right, then!' he shouted, as the soft chatter fell away. ‘Let's get this started. Have all the ladies present got a seat? Malcolm, get up, lad. You don't need to be sitting. Unless you're expecting.'

‘Expecting what, Mr Pugh?' answered a puzzled-looking Malcolm, who was then cuffed on the back of his head with the nearest cloth cap.

I looked around the room. There was the usual huddle of Scott Street kids down the front, some sitting cross-legged, others leaning against the corners of tables. I could see Fez, but not Bozo. Thomas Evans, still in his wheelchair. We caught each other's eye and exchanged a short, almost embarrassed smile. Alf was over by the window, Emrys next to him. Alf looked relaxed, one arm draped high across a ledge; Emrys seemed less so, arms tightly folded. Alwyn was over to my left, deep in the circle of some pitmen, no doubt giving them an update on Father's condition, and Piotr was standing with Mr Hughes, hands tucked behind his back.

‘Now, you don't need me,' began Captain Pugh, shuffling the papers in front of him, ‘to tell you the seriousness of the recent incident that occurred up the mountain. Nor do I feel the need to explain the sorrow we all feel at the passing of young Adrian.'

Murmurs of approval rumbled around me.

‘Mrs Jenkins,' Captain Pugh continued, looking down at a chair to his right, ‘please accept our deepest sympathies. We shall spare nothing in finding who did this. Of that, be in no doubt.'

I pressed myself up onto the toes of my boots. I could just see the back of Mrs Jenkins' head. She was slightly hunched, flanked by other women, and as a resounding ‘Aye' filled the air, she nodded her head in appreciation. I sank back down and looked around me. I didn't want to be seen staring.

‘If I may, Captain Pugh,' said Captain Willis, standing up, ‘I feel obliged to say, as unpopular as this may be, that it is the RAF's view that this German is no longer here. If that is the case, then it shouldn't be greeted with regret.'

‘What you talking about, man?' called out someone leaning against the bar. ‘Course he's not gone. There's what happened with the boy, and the clothes found at the back of Old Morris's salvage shop.'

‘That's true!' shouted Hughes. ‘Stuffed behind some boxes. Probably left there after he murdered the boy!'

‘Although,' chipped in Arthur Pryce, clearing his throat, ‘the clothes found at Old Morris's turned out to be old Polikoff tunics. I don't think Germans wear those.'

‘The point is,' persisted Captain Willis, ‘it's not conclusive that anyone did kill Adrian Jenkins, let alone a rogue German. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but please, I must urge restraint.'

He was right. It wasn't what people wanted to hear. Discontent boiled through the room.

Captain Pugh raised his hand for quiet. ‘That'll do!' he yelled. ‘That'll do! That's one man's view! As for me, I think the German
is
still up our mountain. Truth is, we don't know. One of us is right and one of us is wrong, but, by God, I don't want to take the chance. Let's play safe. If there's an enemy up there, then let's find him.'

A rousing cheer filled the room.

‘Why can't the Americans find him?' shouted Bopa, gesturing towards the third man in uniform. ‘Why aren't they out there looking?'

Captain Pugh glanced towards the American officer.

‘Ma'am,' he began, rising to his feet, ‘we simply cannot spare the resources to look for one man. Our boys are gearing up for something big. And I agree with Captain Willis. There isn't enough evidence that anyone is up there. If I was him, I'd be a hundred miles away by now, and in the absence of anyone actually seeing the fella, we can't spare men to chase a shadow. I'm sorry.'

Cries of ‘Shame on you!' and ‘Disgraceful!' rattled uncomfortably about the room.

The American sat back down again and exchanged a small, awkward glance with Captain Willis.

‘Look,' said Captain Pugh. ‘We're not convinced. But that doesn't matter. We don't need the RAF. And we don't need the Americans. If we want to keep on looking, then that's our business. I've put up a reward of two hundred pounds. We know the mountain; we know the gullies. We know the outhouses that might provide shelter. All we need do is remain vigilant. If you see a stranger, stop him, bring him in to Arthur. Only someone up to no good is going to kick up a fuss. Pitmen have got time on their hands right now, with the mine out of action. Organise yourselves. Walk the mountains. Check the streets. Question everyone who comes into the village. If this German is still here, then he'll show his hand. And as for the children, no going up the mountain until further notice.'

A peal of young disappointed groans sang forth.

‘No,' said Captain Pugh, shaking his head. ‘I shall not be swayed on this. From now on, there'll be a member of the Home Guard on duty by the tinder track. He'll be stopping anyone under sixteen from heading up. Until we're absolutely sure this chap is gone, it's too dangerous.'

The mood was different from before. That evening in the chapel, when we'd first realised a German was missing, had been heady, exciting, even, but now there was no relish, no young men calling for wild heroics. We were as much in the dark as we ever were. Perhaps this German was long gone? Perhaps we were all fretting over nothing? It was as though you could feel the village retreating behind a wall. It was us, not them. Not the RAF, not the Americans. It was
us
, born and bred, our mountain, our home, and a thorn was troubling at our feet.

The meeting wrapped itself up pretty quickly: the Home Guard would set up further searches of the mountain, men from the pit would take up vantage points on ridges, keeping a look out for movement or anything suspicious, like fires burning at night or things going missing from the village. Everyone else was to keep an eye out for anybody they'd never seen before. The village was on lockdown. Doors were to be kept shut.

‘It'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,' said Alf, as we walked home. ‘That's the problem. If the fella's up there, he can see men coming, hide, then creep out, stay in the exact same spot. Unless we've got men up there all day, every day, and stretched across the whole mountain, we've got no chance.'

Alwyn gave a heavy sigh. ‘I dunno,' he said. ‘Maybe the RAF fella's got it right? Maybe he is gone?'

‘Better be safe than sorry, though, Alwyn,' said Emrys, scuffing his hobnailed boots on the flagstones. ‘That's what Pughsy said. He doesn't want to chance it. And I'm with him. And we'll do it ourselves. We don't need help from outsiders.'

‘Way I like it,' said Alwyn. ‘Been too many outsiders hanging round as it is.'

I cast a look towards Piotr, who was walking with me behind them, but if he was offended, he didn't show it.

‘I need you to help me make cheese,' said Mam, handing me a bottle of sour milk.

‘But that takes ages, Mam,' I protested, taking a sniff into the bottleneck.

I recoiled. Milk made me gag at the best of times, but when it had turned, it was a singular evil.

‘Please, Ant,' she said. ‘I'm up to my eyes. It's all hands to the pump.'

I poured the milk into a large, porcelain bowl and went and sat on the back step, bowl wedged between the heels of my wellingtons. Pulling the neck of my jumper up over my nose, I began to whisk. You had to do it until the milk started to curdle. It took for ever.

Behind me, Mam was getting out a roasting dish. I cast a glance over my shoulder. It'd been a while since that had come out.

‘Are you roasting a rabbit, Mam?' I asked, changing hands as the ache in my upper arm began to burn.

‘Pork,' she replied, opening the larder door and pulling out an enormous joint. ‘And before you get excited, it's not for us. It's for the Women's Guild Annual Dinner. I'm doing the cooking for a bit of extra cash.'

My heart sank. This would be torture. Mam had done the odd bit of cooking for the Guild before. It meant something huge and delicious gently roasting in the oven, and an afternoon of hell for the rest of us. The house would be filled with smells that made your mouth water and your stomach rumble. There wasn't much that could break a pitman, but the sight of caramelised meat sitting in a pool of its own gravy could reduce Alwyn to tears.

I watched as Mam took a knife and scored triangles into the skin; salt next, plenty of it, and then she laid the joint on top of some roughly chopped onions and carrots. Sage leaves were squeezed into the cracks of the scored skin and butter pressed around the meat to keep it moist and flavoursome. What I would give to sit down in front of a plate of that pork, I thought, knife and fork in hand, napkin tucked into the neck of my shirt, fat running down my chin. I stared back down into my bowl. Still no curdling.

‘You're killing me, Mam,' moaned Alwyn, an hour later. The house was a heaven of meaty vapours. ‘It's making me want to wander about with my tongue hanging out,' he moaned, ‘licking up the air.'

I was still stirring. One tiny lump had looked like forming half an hour ago, but it turned out to be a bit of bread that had fallen in. My arms were hurting like hell, so I put the bowl down for a bit so I could watch Mam.

She'd lifted the pork out of the oven and was spooning juices up its sides, a thick, golden, sizzling liquor. ‘You mustn't get the skin wet, mind,' she said, as I leant in for a deep sniff. ‘We want that to crackle up nicely, don't we?'

I nodded. Quite why, I didn't know. I wasn't going to get the benefit of dry-as-a-bone crackling. I hated these women of the Guild who were going to be chomping down on it. Chances were they'd leave it anyway, what with it being fatty. The thought made me furious.

‘Oh, giz a bit, Mam,' begged Alwyn. ‘I've got a bad arm, like.' He pulled a face and gestured towards his cast with the end of his nose. ‘It'll cheer me up, wannit?'

‘If he gets some,' I said, muscling in, ‘then I should have some 'n' all, Mam. I've not grown properly yet. I need it.'

Alwyn shoved me in the shoulder. ‘Get away,' he snarled. ‘If there's scraps, they need to go to people who need proper building up, not lost causes.'

‘That'll do, you two,' said Mam, taking her oven gloves and sliding the pork back into the oven. ‘If you're lucky, I'll let you have some bread and dripping. But you'll have to wait. Have you curdled that milk, Ant?'

I shook my head. She turned and frowned at me. ‘How long have you been whisking it?'

‘Hour. Thereabouts.'

‘Have you put the vinegar in?'

‘No.'

‘And the rennet? Did you add that?'

I shook my head.