Swansea Girls (41 page)

‘Either you’re drunk or mad, and whichever it is, I’d prefer to go back into the house and telephone for a taxi.’

‘Lily, get in ...’

‘Not until you apologise.’

‘Me? After I find you in a bedroom with another man when you’re engaged to me!’

‘I didn’t see any bed, Joe. Did you?’

‘The room was upstairs.’

‘And I was looking out of the window, admiring the view of Mumbles Head. Mrs Watkin Morgan suggested Philip take me up there because she felt sorry for me. You’d disappeared for over two hours. I didn’t know a soul ...’

‘Mrs Watkin Morgan suggested Philip take you upstairs?’

‘Not “take me upstairs” as you put it. She suggested Philip show me the house. His grandfather built it ...’

‘I’m sorry.’

Relenting, Lily finally opened the car door and stepped inside.

‘I really am sorry, Lily.’ He climbed in beside her. ‘I shouldn’t have left you ...’

‘I’m more concerned with what happened just now than you leaving me. It’s obvious you don’t trust me further than you can see me.’

‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’ Starting the engine, he reversed the car across the courtyard, then, putting his foot down, he drove out through the gate. ‘Angie told me you’d gone upstairs with Philip Butler. I know what happens at these parties ...’

‘Angie! She would. It’s obvious she’s in love with you.’

‘We’re over.’

‘Have you tried telling her that?’

‘Yes.’

‘But because Angie told you that I’d gone upstairs with Philip Butler you assumed I’d gone up to test one of the beds with him.’

‘I was angry, I didn’t know what to think.’

‘We’re engaged, Joe, We should trust one another absolutely.’

‘I didn’t know if you’d been drinking ...’

‘If you’d been with me you would have known that I’d had one glass of champagne and by the look of you, that’s a lot less than you. And even if I had drunk more I wouldn’t have forgotten that I’m as good as engaged to you, no matter what usually “happens at these parties”. Don’t tar me with the same brush as your friends, Joe. I am – or rather was – a one-man girl. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘How many times can I say “I’m sorry”?’

She stared at the road ahead, not saying a word until he drove the car down the lane at the back of Carlton Terrace and into his father’s garage.

‘Damn and blast,’ he cursed vehemently as he scraped the bumper on the garage wall. Shutting off the engine, he opened his door, banging it back against the wall and chipping the paintwork. ‘I wish to God I’d never heard of Angela Watkin Morgan, or her bloody birthday party!’

‘It wasn’t a good evening.’

‘Lily, I really am very, very sorry ...’ He gazed at her, silently pleading for forgiveness.

‘The food was good.’

Uncertain if she was making fun of him or not, a wary look stole into his eyes.

‘It gave me some good ideas for our party next weekend.’

‘Lily, Lily, Lily!’ Gathering her into his arms, he hugged her as she left the car. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Another evening like this one and you’ll find out.’

‘Come in for a coffee. We can try out Helen’s sofa if she and Jack aren’t using it.’

‘They might have broken the springs.’

‘I’m prepared to risk it if you are.’

‘On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘Never leave me alone at a party again. Next time I really might be tempted to look for another man.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Helen was alone with Jack in the front room of the basement. She was waiting for him, lying naked on the sofa, watching him undress. She looked into his eyes and as the slow, lazy smile she had come to love played across his mouth, he opened his arms, leaned over her and was instantly transformed into the wrinkled, grinning figure of Richard Thomas. A bell began to ring, a discordant warning bell that droned on and on and on ... She screamed – but although she opened her mouth as wide as she could, she was suddenly struck dumb. Shaking, terrified, she was catapulted from sleep into a harsh, cold sweat. Sitting up, she reached for the alarm clock to silence it. The walls of the room wavered around her as the furniture began to blur. Turning her head, she almost fell out of bed as she vomited on to the floor.

‘You look peaky, love,’ John commented as Helen staggered into the kitchen in her dressing gown.

‘I have a terrible sore throat,’ she whispered, pitching her voice several octaves lower than usual.

‘A Monday-morning sore throat?’ Joe enquired cynically, as he arranged the bread he’d cut on the grill pan.

‘A heading-for-tonsillitis sore throat,’ she rasped back. Unfortunately for her, Joe had always been able to tell the difference between her real and feigned illnesses, and had never balked at telling their parents whenever he thought she was perfectly well, apart from wanting a day off school.

‘Who can that be at this time of the morning?’ John pushed the toast he was buttering aside, as the telephone began to ring.

‘Someone who didn’t go to bed last night,’ Helen answered flippantly, suddenly losing her croakiness.

‘Your throat seems to be better.’ Joe gave her a sideways look as their father abandoned his breakfast and went to the phone.

‘Look at it, if you don’t believe me.’ Sticking out her tongue, she opened her mouth.

‘Please, I’m trying to eat.’

‘Quiet!’ John shouted from the hall.

‘Bad news?’ Joe asked, as John returned.

‘Your mother is divorcing me. We have a meeting this afternoon with our solicitors to discuss terms. I don’t know how much your mother has told you, but if you have any questions I’d rather you came to me, or talked to her, than listen to any gossip. Helen, Richard Thomas is your mother’s solicitor. Is that going to cause problems for you in work?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, Dad.’ She rose unsteadily from her chair. ‘I think I’ll go back to bed.’

‘You’re white as a sheet.’ John frowned. ‘I’ll telephone the doctor.’

‘No.’ She shook her head violently, making the room swim. Gripping the door handle to steady herself, she repeated, ‘No, thank you, if I’m no better tomorrow I’ll call him myself.’

‘I haven’t a lecture until eleven. Do you want me to telephone Thomas and Butler and tell them you won’t be in?’ Joe offered, feeling slightly guilty as he realised she was suffering from more than a tactical sore throat.

‘Please.’ She lurched unsteadily down the passage into the hall.

‘Mrs Jones will be in soon, I’ll ask her to keep an eye on you.’ Following her, John watched her climb the stairs as he slipped on his coat.

‘I just want to sleep, Dad.’ This time she didn’t have to pretend that her voice was husky.

‘I’ll keep an eye on her until Mrs Jones comes and I can be back here by two.’ Munching toast, Joe followed his father into the hall.

‘There’s no need, I’ll call back lunchtime.’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Joe reassured.

‘Even if it is, what’s the betting your mother will see it as evidence of my neglect.’ John took his keys, opened the door and left.

Stripping off her dressing gown, Helen lay on top of her bed. She wanted to be cool – freezing, if possible. Closing her eyes, she tried to fight the waves of nausea that washed over her but it was hopeless. She rushed into the bathroom, made it to the toilet in time, but there was nothing left in her stomach to come up. Crawling back to her bed, she climbed into it, covering herself with the sheet and blankets. She’d wanted to be cold, but not that cold. She slid out her hand, opened the drawer in her bedside cabinet and extracted her diary. Taking the key from a chain around her neck, she unlocked it, flicking through the pages without lifting her head from the pillow. Whichever way she calculated it was always the same. Her period was two weeks and six days late. The magazines said that didn’t prove anything one way or another. Young girls could be irregular, particularly if there was trouble at home, like parents divorcing. But she
knew.
She had never been late before and there was that first time – the night Jack’s mother had died. Turning on to her stomach, she buried her face in her pillow, trying not to think of the awful night in the police station and the doctor’s damning pronouncement:
One of the constables said you come from a respectable family. They won’t be regarded as quite
so respectable if they have to visit you in an unmarried mothers’ home.

She’d end up like Mary Davies from Hanover Street. Her parents had told the neighbours she’d gone to help out on her cousin’s farm in North Wales, but everyone knew she’d been sent to an unmarried mothers’ home in Cardiff. When she’d come back she’d said it was horrible. That they’d made her look after the baby for six weeks, feed it, nurse it day and night, make clothes for it and then hand it over for adoption.

A baby – she was having a baby! Her mother and grandmother would disown her – albeit from Langland – her father would put her in a home because no family could survive the disgrace of an unmarried pregnant daughter in the house. And then what? She’d be on her own with a load of strangers, most of them girls in the same situation.

Jack had talked of living together but he barely made enough money to keep himself and she’d have to give up work as soon as she started ‘showing’. Perhaps she could get rid of it. That was it! She’d heard women talking in Norah Evans’s house when she’d been there with Lily and Norah had been out of the room. Hot bath and gin – that’s what they’d said. Someone one of the women knew, a cousin or a friend, had done it but it hadn’t worked and she’d almost died. Baby or not she didn’t want to die. Not now she’d found Jack. Turning restlessly in the bed, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep as a board creaked on the landing outside.

‘Helen.’ Joe tapped on the door. ‘You all right?’

She heard him open it, listened as he tiptoed towards the bed but she kept her eyes firmly closed and her breathing steady. After a few moments the door closed and she turned over and reached for her diary again. If only there were someone she could talk to. Jack – it had to be Jack – but what if he left her, never wanted to see her again? Then she remembered.
After this I won’t ever leave you, or let you leave me. You know that?
She only hoped he hadn’t been lying. If he stood by her she felt as though she could face even her father’s pain and disappointment.

‘Let her have it.’

‘John, I strongly protest.’ Martin Davies held up a cautionary hand as Richard Thomas beamed triumphantly. ‘If you agree to these demands, this will go down as one of the most unfair and overgenerous divorce settlements in Swansea history. Your shop in Mumbles is a prime piece of property and the allowance you give Mrs Griffiths is twice the average wage for this area ...’

‘And a reflection on the prosperity of Mr Griffiths’ business, which Mrs Griffiths helped him expand.’

John looked across to where Esme was sitting, cool, composed and elegant in a Dior shantung silk costume that had been part of the warehouse’s autumn range. He wasn’t even aware she’d taken it. ‘I had no idea you helped me in the business, Esme,’ he said impassively.

‘I recommended the warehouse to my friends ...’

‘Ah – recommendations, of course. How could I forget serving your friends?’ He turned to Martin. ‘You’ll forward me the appropriate papers when they’re ready for signing.’

Richard Thomas pushed a file across the table towards Martin. ‘We took the liberty of drawing them up.’

‘Sure of yourself, weren’t you?’ Martin opened the file and began to study the papers, while Richard and Esme conversed in whispers and John left his chair and went to the window. ‘If you’re intent on giving away half your assets, John, they’re in order.’ Martin pushed the last sheet back into the file.

‘Then, as both parties are agreed, it might be as well if we signed them now.’ Taking his fountain pen from his top pocket, Richard unscrewed the top.

‘My client will sign only after Mrs Griffiths produces a disclaimer renouncing all rights to renegotiate a future settlement, in favour of accepting this one.’

‘Agreed?’ Richard looked at Esme.

‘If you recommend that it’s in my interests to do so.’

‘We agree. I’ll send over the relevant paperwork as soon it’s drawn up and signed.’

‘Once we’re in receipt of the document I’ll forward this settlement contract.’ Taking the file, Martin left the table.

‘There’s still the evidence of adultery. As your client is the guilty party, my client will have to sue for divorce as the injured party,’ Richard reminded him.

‘I also studied law, Richard, and you’ll have the evidence, together with this contract on receipt of the disclaimer.’

‘In that case I think I can safely predict that most of the paperwork will be completed by the end of next week and we can press ahead with a court date.’ Richard offered Esme his arm and led her out of the room.

‘John ...’

‘No more lectures, please, Martin.’ John sat back at the table, slumping as though all his energy had been sapped.

‘I wasn’t going to give you one. It is clear to me that for whatever reason, you want to be a free agent as soon as possible. It would take a bit of time to set up the adultery evidence but we’ve a cancellation ...’

‘Someone wants to delay committing adultery.’ John smiled at the thought. It all seemed highly ridiculous, like a plot from a Whitehall farce.

‘I’m aware it sounds peculiar, but the couple in question have reconciled. There’s no chance of you ...’

‘Absolutely none.’

Delving into his pocket, Martin produced a piece of paper and handed it to John. ‘This is the address of the hotel, if you can call it that. The woman will be there at half past two this afternoon, the private detective and photographer at a quarter to three. The woman will expect fifty pounds in cash, the detective thirty, the photographer twenty and a further ten to secure the negatives. If you don’t pay the extra the photographs could end up in the Sunday press. The papers that specialise in covering the more gruesome murders and salacious divorce cases have been known to pay well, especially for ones they have to paint black letterboxes on to cover private parts.’

John glanced at his watch. ‘That’s all right, I have time to go to the bank.’

‘Drop the money for the photographer and detective off in my office, if someone sees you paying them it could lead to a charge of collusion and we need a nice clean case.’

‘Clean ...’

‘The room will be twenty-five ...’

‘This is going to be the most expensive hotel stay on record.’

‘That will also cover the cost of the chambermaid’s and receptionist’s statements. We need a witness, two are better, and three including the private detective better still. Don’t forget to wait for the woman if you get to the hotel ahead of her. The receptionist has to see you booking in as Mr and Mrs. Use the name Smith. And, John ...’ Martin paused, clearly embarrassed. ‘It’s all going to be – well – a bit seedy, if you know what I mean.’

‘I expected it to be.’

‘It will go through more quickly if you provide a good clear shot where both parties can be easily identified, but I don’t have to explain. The photographer, the woman and the hotel staff know the drill.’

‘Thank you, Martin.’

‘If I pull a few strings and call in some favours I may be able to get this case into the next half-yearly Assizes and organise a decree nisi in a year, give or take a few months – that may not seem quick to you but take my word for it, it is.’

‘It’s not what you think, Martin. There isn’t another woman.’

Martin gave him a sympathetic look as he opened his briefcase and placed the file Richard had given him inside. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, John. If I had a wife like Esme I’d want a quick divorce too.’

The hotel was everything Martin had hinted it would be: peeling paint on a rotting front door that opened without him having to ring the bell; cracked lino that housed thick furrows of dirt; greyish walls that might have been almost any colour once; and an overwhelming smell of greasy food, damp and decay.

‘I’m Mr Smith ...’

He didn’t have to say another word. The middle-aged man behind the desk thrust a register at him and removed a key from a row of hooks on the wall behind him. ‘Mrs Smith has already signed, sir.’

John turned and saw a heavily veiled woman sitting on a bench behind him. Nodding briefly, he signed
Mr Smith
below her
Mrs Smith.

‘Room four, sir.’

Allowing the woman to walk ahead, John climbed a flight of creaking, groaning stairs. She stopped outside a door that bore an inexpertly painted number four. Opening it, she stepped inside.

‘Close the door but don’t lock it.’

John did as she asked, walking in as she tossed her hat and veils on to a chair. He recognised the woman, almost any man who lived in Swansea would have. One of the oldest streetwalkers who plied their trade on the Museum steps, and the seedier pubs down the Strand and dockside end of the town.

‘When you’ve finished gawping you can pay me. I like to get business over and done with at the outset. That way we can both relax.’

‘How much?’ John asked, recalling that Martin Davies had said fifty, but he doubted any professional who looked like her made that in three months.

‘Fifty.’ She saw him hesitate and added, ‘if you know someone who’ll do it cheaper in the next five minutes, go get them!’

Extracting his wallet, he counted out ten five-pound notes. She stuffed them into a tiny velvet bag attached to her wrist by a silver chain.

‘Now we can get down to business.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We only have ten minutes.’ Taking off her coat, she stubbed out the cigarette she was smoking on the rickety wooden bedside cabinet, adding to the rash of existing burns.