Moonlight and Ashes Page 17

  ‘Where do yer think?’ Jo’s voice held a wealth of shame and regret. ‘I’d gone to stand on a street corner to earn the old man an extra few bob.’ She laughed bitterly and the sound made the hairs on the back of Maggie’s neck stand to attention.

  ‘But then the air-raid siren went off an’ this bloke grabbed hold of me arm an’ dragged me into the nearest shelter wi’ him an’ his missus. By the time we come out this mornin’, the house were gone. Nothin’ but a heap o’ steamin’ rubble, an’ the whole o’ me family buried somewhere beneath it. It’s funny when yer come to think of it, ain’t it? I won’t have to stand on any more corners. I prayed fer somethin’ to happen so that I wouldn’t have to go out toutin’ fer business any more, so in a way I’ve caused it haven’t I? Me prayers were answered. Trouble is, I’ve lost me mam an’ the kids an’ all.’ And finally Jo’s tears exploded from her as if a dam had broken.

  ‘Oh Maggie. What am I goin’ to do?’ she sobbed breathlessly.

  Maggie rocked her to and fro. ‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to stay here with me and we’re going to get through this together.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fearful of being late for his dinner, Danny sprinted the last few yards up the hill to Mr Sinclair’s house. He needn’t have worried, for as he rounded the corner he saw the man just emerging from the long outhouse that ran below his bedroom window.

  The man stared at him coldly for a moment before locking the door and dropping the key into his pocket.

  ‘I’m not late, sir, am I?’ Danny asked breathlessly.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Eric replied curtly before briskly striding across the yard. Danny cast a curious glance at the building he’d just emerged from as he followed him. He wondered what Mr Sinclair had been doing in there, but there was no way to find out, for the windows were covered in heavy blinds so that no one could peep through them.

  ‘Is that a shed?’ he blurted out as his curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘No, it is not a shed, and no one goes in there except me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Suitably chastened, Danny stayed silent for the rest of the short walk to the house. Samson’s greeting was far more amicable as he waddled over to him with his tail wagging furiously. Danny fondled his silky ears as his host crossed to the cooker to check on the meal that was cooking. A delicious smell of roast beef was issuing from it, and Danny’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. He knew that if the dinner was as good as the breakfast he had eaten earlier that day, he wouldn’t be disappointed. He was soon proved to be right when Mr Sinclair carried a loaded plate to the table and slapped it down in front of him. There were crispy roast potatoes and slices of thick roast beef on a bed of cabbage, all covered with thick juicy gravy. After the huge breakfast Danny had eaten he was sure that he wouldn’t be hungry for the rest of the day but now he fell on his food as if he were ravenous, and in double-quick time had cleared his plate. Forgetting his fear of the man for a moment, he flashed him a smile.

  ‘That was one o’ the best dinners I’ve ever had,’ he told him appreciatively. ‘Do you always do the cookin’?’ he went on. ‘Or does Mrs Sinclair do it when she’s here?’

  The man’s face might have been set in stone as he snapped back, ‘There is no Mrs Sinclair.’

  Danny flushed. He felt as if he was walking on eggshells, for he just couldn’t seem to say the right thing. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, but the man merely gathered up the dirty plates and carried them to the sink as if Danny wasn’t there.

  Hoping to make amends, the boy asked, ‘Would you like me to wash them up for you? I used to wash up fer me mam sometimes back at home. An’ I used to get the coal in for her after me dad went.’

  Curious despite himself, the man asked, ‘Went where?’

  ‘To war.’ Danny’s small face creased into a worried frown as the man dried his hands on a tea-towel and watched him from the corner of his good eye.

  Eric Sinclair had made no secret of the fact that he didn’t want an evacuee staying with him, and he and Miss Williams had had a right old battle, until eventually he was forced to agree to take one. Even now, he was still smarting from the way she had manipulated him into agreeing. And yet, already he felt himself warming towards the child. He was a polite lad and obviously eager to please, despite the cold welcome Eric had extended to him. He determined to try a little harder. After all, the child hadn’t asked to be here.

  He forced himself to enquire, ‘What did you get up to this morning then?’

  Danny’s face immediately lit up with a smile. ‘I started off fer the village to look fer me sister, an’ on the way I made a new friend. He lives in the house just down the way. He’s an evacuee too an’ his name is Soho Gus - he lives in London. He took me into the village an’ showed me where Lizzie is stayin’, then we all went down to the beach. It was really grand. Lizzie an’ I ain’t never been to the seaside before,’ he finished breathlessly.

  Eric was amazed but politely refrained from saying so. Instead, he walked to the window and stared out beyond the huge outbuilding to the sea. He was standing with the unscarred side of his face to Danny and the child found himself feeling sorry for the man. When he stood like that he was actually quite handsome - until he turned around, that was. It was no wonder that there was no Mrs Sinclair when he came to think of it, for who would want to marry a man who was so horribly disfigured?

  When Eric turned back to him, Danny flushed, hoping that he hadn’t read his thoughts.

  ‘I have to go out now. Do you think you’ll be able to keep yourself entertained for a few hours?’

  Danny nodded numbly as the man headed towards the door. Once there he paused to look back. ‘If you should need me I’ll be in the big outbuilding. Knock on the door, but don’t try to come in because you’ll find it locked.’

  As soon as the door had closed behind him, Danny slid off his seat and scuttled across the room to watch his progress across the yard. He was consumed with curiosity. What could the man be doing in there that warranted him keeping the door locked, he wondered.

  Bored now, he began to wander around the room with Samson close at his heels. Eventually he went into the large entrance hall and, after plucking up his courage, he began to open the various doors that led off it to peek into the rooms beyond.

  One was a spacious lounge with a large three-piece suite and a sideboard in it. The next was a dining room with a table and chairs the like of which Danny had never seen, set out in the centre of it. Danny wished that his mam could see it. It made the table and chairs in their kitchen back at home look like something that had come out of a doll’s house. Although, there seemed to be something missing . . . He suddenly realised what it was. There was not a single ornament anywhere. Apart from the furniture, the rooms were bare and looked unlived-in. The third room had him gawping in surprise, for it proved to be a library that was packed full of books on three walls from floor to ceiling. In the middle of the room was a large, dark wood desk; a great leather chair was pushed up to it. However, it wasn’t this that caught Danny’s attention but the pictures that were hanging on the fourth wall. Completely forgetting that he shouldn’t even be there, Danny gazed up at them enraptured.

  One of them was a picture of the sea, and was so lifelike that Danny could almost feel the spray from the waves as they crashed onto the shore. The second was a country scene of a village that looked vaguely familiar. Squinting up at it, he tried to think where he’d seen it before. And then it came to him: it was Sarn-Bach itself. He could even see the blacksmith’s where Lizzie was staying with Mrs Evans, and the duckpond over the road from it. He studied it for a long time before moving on. The next was another sea scene, but this time with a fisherman’s small boat riding the waves. Again, it was so realistic that he could almost believe he was being tossed and turned on the choppy grey waves.

  The last and final painting was a portrait of a woman. Danny could hardly take his eyes from it
, for the woman was so beautiful. About the same age as his mother, she had blond hair and twinkling blue eyes that exactly matched the colour of the pretty blouse she was wearing. He was so engrossed in studying it that when Samson nuzzled up to him, he almost jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Crikey, boy. Yer give me a rare old turn then,’ he grinned as he bent to stroke the dog’s silky back. ‘Come on, we’d best get out of here. There’ll be hell to pay if yer master catches us creepin’ about where we shouldn’t be.’ Grabbing the dog’s collar, he hauled him out of the room, casting one last look at the magnificent paintings. Danny had always loved art at school and was forever scribbling or drawing something. But those paintings made him feel inadequate and he wondered if he would ever be able to turn out anything half as good. The thought sent his mind racing to his pens and pads tucked in the bottom of his case upstairs.

  ‘Come on, boy.’ He took the stairs two at a time with Samson close on his heels. ‘Let’s go an’ get me pad an’ pencils an’ do a few pictures of our own, eh?’

  In no time at all he had left the house and was standing at the side of the outbuilding, beyond which was a magnificent view of the sea. Settling himself onto a handy boulder, he began to sketch, and the time slipped away as he lost himself in the pleasure of trying to bring his picture to life. He was shocked when he looked up to see that the afternoon was beginning to darken.

  ‘Blimey, we’d better get back inside,’ he told Samson, who rose and stretched lazily. ‘I hope Mr Sinclair ain’t missed us.’

  Gathering together his paraphernalia, he raced towards the house. There was a light burning in the kitchen window and his heart jumped into his throat. Would Mr Sinclair be angry with him for not telling him where he was going?

  Forgetting to knock, he spilled into the room and blurted out, ‘I’m sorry if I’m late. I decided to do some sketchin’, an’ the time sort of slipped away. I didn’t go far though, I was only at the side of—’

  ‘I know exactly where you were. I saw you when I came back across to the house,’ Eric informed him. ‘Now go and wash your hands or do whatever it is children are supposed to do before a meal and come and get your tea.’

  Dropping his pads onto the settee, Danny hurried across to the deep stone sink and dutifully ran his hands beneath the tap. The water was icy cold and made his fingers tingle.

  When he turned back, Mr Sinclair was once more standing at the door. ‘Help yourself to whatever you want on the table. There should be more than enough there for you. I shall be in the outbuilding. If I’m not back by the time it gets dark, get yourself washed and up to bed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Danny’s stomach sank as the man closed the door behind him and silence settled on the room.

  Even the sight of the crusty loaf and the dish full of jam and real homemade butter on the table did nothing to cheer him. He wondered what his mam and Lucy would be doing back at home as a wave of homesickness swept over him. Ever since they had arrived in Wales, Danny had had to be strong for Lizzie, but now he did what any nine-year-old boy in his circumstances would have done. He lowered his head into his hands and cried for his mam.

  Down in the village, Lizzie was having her tea too but the atmosphere in the little cottage was much lighter than up at Tremarfon.

  ‘Come along now, bach,’ Mrs Evans encouraged. ‘Just try it. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

  Lizzie eyed the dish full of bread and warm buttermilk liberally sprinkled with sugar uncertainly but lifted her spoon and tried it all the same. To her surprise she found it was delicious, and in no time at all she had eaten every bit.

  ‘Now there’s a good girl.’ Mrs Evans beamed her approval as she scuttled away to fetch a homemade sponge cake oozing jam and cream to the table. ‘Keep this up and we’ll soon have some fat on those skinny little bones of yours, won’t we, Father?’

  Daffyd Evans smiled at his wife as she fussed over the little one. Blodwyn was obviously loving having a child in the house again, particularly a little girl. As memories of their beloved little Megan popped into his head he pushed them away. Even now, after all these years, it was still too painful to think of her.

  Lizzie meanwhile was tucking into her cake with a vengeance. She had never had a great appetite, but the morning spent in the fresh air had heightened it. Blodwyn thought she could detect the first bloom of a few roses in her cheeks too. But she was so quiet. Blodwyn had watched her come back down the village street that lunchtime with Danny and his little friend, and her face had been wreathed in smiles. But the second she’d walked back through the cottage door, it was as if shutters had come down across her eyes and she hadn’t so much as grinned since. Mentally, she scolded herself. The child had only been with them for one night up to now. Everything was bound to seem strange to her. She just needed a little more time, that was all. And then she would surely come out of her shell.

  On Sunday morning, Danny stood at his bedroom window gazing at the mountains in the distance. With their snow-capped peaks reaching into the clouds they made a spectacular sight. The vast expanse of open space was almost more than he could comprehend, after being used to living in a city. And the food - it was as if the war hadn’t touched Wales at all.

  Downstairs he could hear Mr Sinclair pottering about the kitchen preparing breakfast so he dragged himself away from the view. He hastily cleaned his teeth then threw on his clothes before tugging a comb through his hair and venturing downstairs. The wireless was on, and the first thing he heard as he entered the kitchen was the broadcaster telling of the air raid on Coventry that had lasted throughout the whole of the night. He froze in his tracks as he listened to the tale of devastation the bombs had caused. There were houses flattened and people dead, and he felt his knees begin to buckle. What if anything had happened to his mam and Lucy? Would that mean that he would have to stay here with someone who obviously didn’t like him forever? The thought was too much to bear and he suddenly felt guilty. He’d been out enjoying himself yesterday, splashing in the sea with Gus and Lizzie, while his mam must have been locked away in the damp Anderson shelter with no one to look out for her and Lucy.

  Glancing around, Eric saw the boy standing there. He was as white as a ghost, and he cursed himself for not switching the report off before the child came down. Swiftly crossing to the wireless, he turned it off.

  ‘Look, Danny, try not to worry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘If anything had happened to your family back home, we would have heard. We would have had a telegram, or the police down in the village would have received a call.’ Even to his own ears the words sounded inadequate, but for now he could think of nothing else to say. He’d never had a lot to do with children before and felt totally out of his depth.

  Danny grasped at this straw nevertheless. ‘Do yer really think we would have?’ he asked in a scared voice.

  Eric nodded. ‘Absolutely. No doubt about it, so try to forget what you heard. Come on, I’ve cooked the breakfast. We might as well eat it while it’s still hot, eh?’

  They were the first kind words he’d uttered to Danny since the child had arrived, and they brought tears stinging to Danny’s eyes. Perhaps Mr Sinclair wasn’t quite as hard as he tried to make out.

  Even so, he struggled to swallow the food on his plate. It seemed to lodge in his throat and more than once he was afraid that he was going to be sick.

  After a time, Mr Sinclair picked up his plate and carried it away. Danny expected to be scolded for wasting food, but he merely told him, ‘Don’t worry about it. No doubt you’ll have an appetite like a horse’s by dinnertime. You can always make up for it then.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he muttered miserably.

  Eric turned to face him, not knowing quite how to begin. ‘Look, Danny,’ he managed eventually, ‘if you’re going to be staying here for a while, which it looks as though you are, “sir” is a bit formal. Why don’t you call me Eric?’

  Danny had been taught to always call adults by their surnames, and to go from calli
ng his host sir to Eric in one great step seemed strange. However, he had no wish to offend the man, so he replied, ‘Yes, sir . . . I mean, Eric.’

  He was surprised when the man’s face broke into a smile, a real smile for the very first time. Once again he found himself thinking how sad it was that Eric was disfigured down one side of his face. He could have been really handsome, were it not for the eye-patch and the scars beneath it. As if reading his mind, Eric’s face suddenly became impassive again.

  ‘Right, seeing as it’s Sunday and there’s no school again, why don’t you go out and amuse yourself. Lunch will be at about two o’clock. Make sure that you’re back for then. Oh, and be sure to put your coat on. It looks cold out there.’

  Danny silently nodded before skittering away to his bedroom where he shrugged his skinny arms into the sleeves of his coat. He really didn’t know what to make of Eric, as he was now supposed to call him. For just a while this morning he had seen a gentler, kinder side to his nature, but now he was back to being a cold fish again. Danny shrugged. As long as his mam and baby sister were safe and sound, and Lizzie was happy at the blacksmith’s, he felt he could cope with anything. Of course, there was still the ordeal of a new school to cope with, but that didn’t scare him half as much as the news report had, about the bombs raining down on his home town.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As Danny dawdled down the lane that would take him to the village, his shoulders were stooped and his thoughts far away with his mother in Coventry, and so it was a shock when Soho Gus suddenly appeared from behind a hedge as if by magic.

  ‘Cor blimey, whassa matter wiv you, mate?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got a face on yer like a wet weekend.’