Rhiannon Page 9

  After his father’s death, his mother had come very close to losing their tied colliery house. At first Frank had been very grateful to Dai Hughes for taking him on as his apprentice. Right up until the day of the accident Frank remembered how proud he’d felt to be Dai’s butty. Now, while still struggling to come to terms with the recurring nightmares of that day, he would be eternally grateful to Dai for saving his life.

  The day the accident victims were buried Frank had sobbed like a baby. He had been unable to come to terms with the fact that better men than he had lost their lives. The guilt he felt at seeing Dai’s daughters, their father taken so suddenly, going through their grief. Never once had they questioned or blamed Frank for their father’s death. While he understood the wrench it must have been for the girls, he couldn’t help but envy the fact that Rhiannon and Mair had been given the opportunity to leave the valley and begin a new life.

  Since their departure not a day had gone by when he didn’t think of Rhiannon. How he missed her. The day she and Mair had left him standing on the station made him realize how deeply he felt for Rhiannon, and perhaps, if things had been different he and Rhiannon... ? He stopped himself. Who was he fooling? With her exciting new life in Cardiff and him stuck here in the valley. They might almost be in different worlds.

  ‘Hello son. Had a good day?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Tell me, Mam, how you think that working down that stinking hole for eight hours could ever be a good day?’ he snapped. Then, seeing his mother’s distress, he wished he hadn’t vented his feelings on her.

  Ethel nibbled her bottom lip, ‘I’m sorry, lad. I so wish—’

  Frank caught his arms around her. ‘No Mam, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m such an ungrateful, miserable bugger. I promise I’ll buck up when I’ve had my bath and a bowl of that stew you’re cooking on the stove.’

  His mother forced a smile. ‘That’s all right, son. I know something that’s going to cheer you up better that a bath or a bowl of stew. Look on the mantelpiece. There’s a letter for you. Jones the post delivered it this morning. It’s got a Cardiff postmark. It’s from Rhiannon, I recognize her writing!’

  Frank headed for the mantelpiece. He grabbed the letter, hastily opened it and proceeded to read its contents.

  After a few minutes his mother’s impatience got the better of her. ‘Well what’s the news? How are they getting on?’

  ‘Fine, I think. Only, reading between the lines like, to me Rhiannon sounds homesick. She sends her love to you, Sadie and Martha.’

  ‘Oh, that’s kind of her,’ his mother said. ‘She always was a good girl. Mind you, I think she’ll have her hands full with young Mair. Mair’s mother was such a bad ’un, and you know what they say: “an apple never falls far from the tree”.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mam. The way Dai took her in, insisting on treating her as his second daughter, especially after her own mother upped and left her, must have influenced her. She and Rhi are so close. I’m sure Mair looks up to Rhiannon.’

  ‘I do hope so. I still can’t believe how Dai allowed that Nellie Parsons to use him. When his Rose, Rhiannon’s mother, was alive he seemed such a sensible, level-headed fellow. I swear, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed how a bit of skirt could’ve turned his head. So ... you take heed, son.’

  Nellie Parsons stepped into her petticoats and pulled them up over her long stockings and drawers. She bent down to buckle her high ankle-boots before reaching for her new turquoise woollen dress with its tight, figure-hugging bodice. Nellie had been so pleased when Harry had arrived home one night with the dress.

  ‘Harry, it’s so lovely. I’ve never had such a beautiful dress. It must have cost you the earth.’ She was touched; surely only a man in love would spoil his woman so?

  Nellie threw her arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth, a long lingering kiss, and all the while her firm breasts rubbed against him with the promise of a lot more. Harry was all hers and he truly loved her. She felt so happy ... but her euphoria was to be short-lived.

  As Harry lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, he chuckled. ‘I’d say the dress will prove a shrewd investment. The better you look, the more punters and the more earnings, eh?’

  Nellie stared at her reflection in the rust-speckled mirror above the marble-topped washstand. She liked what she saw. She drew a deep breath that caused her breasts to push against the fabric of the turquoise dress, the bright colour a perfect contrast to her pale-blue eyes. The bodice of the dress was a bit too low in the front, but what the hell: it was what the punters wanted.

  Nellie smiled. Six months of working on the streets of Cardiff had changed her into a real glamour-puss. She brushed back her shoulder-length light-brown hair and retouched her red lipstick and rouge. Then she took her straw hat with its wide brim, its crown covered with silk flowers and placed it on her head.

  Nellie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost seven o’clock, time she was on her way to the theatre. How she wished she didn’t have to go. But she knew only too well what Harry would say and, more to the point, what he would do if she hadn’t earned enough money. With this thought in mind Nellie picked up her fox-fur stole and kid gloves and headed through the door.

  Nellie had hoped that Harry’s display of temper on the first night would not be repeated – wishful thinking on her part. Where she was concerned he had become far too handy with his fists, and clever enough never to hit her where the bruises would show.

  Since Nellie’s hasty departure from Ponty, Harry had felt it prudent not to return there himself. ‘I think I’ll try the Canton area here in Cardiff for a while. Everyone says that, for a salesman with my talent, with the steelworkers all earning such good money, there’s rich pickings just for the taking.’ He threw Nellie a wry smile. ‘I think I’d really enjoy persuading their womenfolk to part with some of it.’

  She knew he was trying to make her jealous. But she ignored it. ‘Why try somewhere else? I thought you said you were doing well up the valley.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know what they say: a change is as good as a rest.’

  At first Nellie had suspected that the real reason for the change was that Harry didn’t want to risk coming face to face with Dai or, for that matter, any of his mining butties, though she wouldn’t dare say it to his face. Of course, since then, with the accident in the mine everything had changed. No Dai, and, up to now, thank God, no news from Mair. Nellie convinced herself that the girl must be all right; if it were otherwise surely she would have heard by now. It suited Nellie to pretend she’d never given birth.

  As it turned out Harry’s transfer of his work to Canton had been a good one. He was doing really well. In the last few months, as promised, they had moved to new and better digs in Westgate Street. This one had two bedrooms – which meant she didn’t have to entertain the punters in her and Harry’s bed. Like the curtains in the rooms, the Victorian furniture was dark and gloomy, but, for the time being, they would have to do.

  Harry’s working in Canton meant no more staying away or late-night train journeys. Most days he left around half past eight in the morning and arrived back in Cardiff around ten o’clock at night. Then, not wanting to risk disturbing her with a punter, he would go straight to the King’s Head pub, on the corner of their street, and wait for her. Nellie usually arrived well before stop-tap to hand over her earnings.

  Harry’s mood depended on how many punters she’d had and how much they paid.

  It was almost 10.30 when Nellie entered the King’s Head. A drunk almost bowled her over as he made to leave; he reeked of stale smoke, beer and sweat. The noise coming from inside the tap room was deafening and through the haze of smoke the pale gas lights flickered. Once her eyes had become adjusted she saw the sea of bowler hats, cloth caps and flowered bonnets all milling around the piano: the usual Friday-night revellers out for a sing-song and a bloody good time.

  Nellie spotted
Harry, looking as dapper as ever, at the bar. He smiled and nodded, but it was only when she discreetly handed him four crisp white fivers, her earnings for the night, that he pulled her to him. Playfully slapping her arse he said, ‘That’s my girl. I told you, you’re sitting on a gold mine.’ She could tell he was pleased.

  Nellie loved it when he called her ‘his girl’. But if she was his girl how could he just stand by, and encourage her to sleep with other men?

  Later that night Nellie, having downed a few ales and sensing Harry’s continued good mood, plucked up the courage to ask, ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Now that you’re doing so well in Port Talbot, couldn’t I give up doing what I’m doing?’

  ‘Want to be a kept woman then, do you? Well, think again!’ Harry sniggered.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I’d find another job, honest,’ Nellie pleaded.

  ‘Don’t make me bloody laugh. What else are you qualified for?’ Harry scoffed.

  ‘Maybe I could work in a shop, or a pub, or—’

  Harry raised his hand in front of her face. Nellie ducked, expecting him to strike her, but instead he caught his arms around her.

  ‘You daft ha’peth. When are you going realize that this is what you’re good at?’ He threw back his head and laughed loudly. ‘Thinking about it, you were probably born on your back with your legs in the air. That’s why it comes so natural to you.’

  He was still laughing when Nellie shouted at him. ‘Are you saying that you expect me to sleep with anyone willing to pay for it for the rest of my life?’ She felt her tears well up.

  ‘Of course I don’t! Now you’re just being silly.’ He caught her up and gently kissed her forehead.

  Nellie gave a sigh. For once her tantrum had paid off. Surely no man wanted the woman he loved to sleep around, not even for money?

  ‘Now Nellie, you have to listen to me. It’s not in my interest to steer you wrong. You’ve just got to bide your time. At the moment the reason you’re doing so well is because you have age on your side.’

  She pulled away from him. ‘So, I’ve got to wait until I’m too bloody old, is that it? And pray tell me when that will be?’

  ‘I’d say, at most, another year, maybe two.’

  ‘Bloody charming.’

  ‘I’m only being practical. It stands to reason that most men want their women young and firm; some say the younger the better. And that’s where the big money’s to be earned.’

  ‘And in two years’ time what’s going to happen to me?’ What she really wanted to know was, would he want her, but she was afraid to hear his answer.

  ‘By then, my sweet, if I have my way, we’ll have a few young girls working for us.’

  She smiled. While she liked the sound of for us, indicating togetherness, his plan sounded too incredible for words. ‘Christ! Are you saying you want to run a brothel with me as the madam?’

  ‘Now don’t go jumping the gun. Let’s take one step at a time. Our aim at the moment should be to recruit new blood. Someone to take over from you. Now, if we could find a pretty new youngster then ... it would make sense for you to take a step back and just concentrate on showing her the ropes.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth in a way he hadn’t kissed her for a long time. It felt so good.

  ‘What do you say, Nell, are we partners?’

  ‘Oh yes – yes, whatever you say.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  April 1909

  Florrie Grayson felt pleased with herself. During the past weeks things had worked out far better than she could have hoped.

  When Florrie had explained her predicament to Mrs Gordon, the theatre housekeeper, that lady had willingly offered to speak to each of the girls, to see where they could be best put to use. Mrs Gordon wasn’t married but in the theatre housekeepers were always given the title of Mrs as a mark of respect.

  From the very first it was obvious to all that Rhiannon was a natural. She proved to be a hard worker, willing to take on any job; no task was too large or small and, with her willingness to help, she soon became popular with every member of the company. Mair, on the other hand, had to be pushed. She hated being backstage. She much preferred being on show, in front of house, which made her well suited to sell programmes.

  Florrie soon found out that Tom O’Reilly, the Irish comedian, was a former teacher. With the offer of a few guineas, she soon persuaded him help Mair with her reading, writing and arithmetic a few hours every weekday afternoon. Of course Mair protested. The very first afternoon, in an attempt to avoid the inevitable, she decided to go missing, only to be found hiding in a theatre skip, a large wicker basket where stage costumes were stored. When Florrie threatened to send her to Saint Joseph’s, the local convent’s boarding school, Mair soon saw sense and backed down.

  Since the girls were both occupied for most of the day the only time Florrie saw either of them was when they occasionally popped into her dressing-room, or when they shared a carriage back to the Angel Hotel late at night. Yes, all in all it had worked out well.

  Rhiannon had been working backstage for two weeks, helping out wherever she was needed. Some days she would work for the wardrobe, fitting and altering costumes; another day she might be working with props: helping with the furniture and scenery to ensure every prop was in place for each performance. More recently she had begun to run errands for Adam Fletcher, the show’s producer and theatre company director. He was a man in his early fifties, highly respected for his experience and expertise by everyone in the theatre.

  For some reason Rhiannon and Adam Fletcher instantly hit it off. Although he was a lot older than Rhiannon she liked and admired him; he was a perfectionist and she was sure that given the chance she could learn a lot from him.

  ‘He may be a hard taskmaster, but he certainly knows his stuff. But then, having worked almost every theatre in the country and produced many successful shows, I’d expect nothing less,’ Dave, the stage manager had offered.

  One day Adam Fletcher pulled her to one side. ‘Rhiannon, as we are about to begin rehearsals. I thought that if you can assure me you’ll sit quietly I’d allow you to join me while I take each artist through their paces.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fletcher, I’d like that very much. I’ll be as quiet as a chapel congregation in prayer, I promise.’

  ‘Good. You’ll soon find out that I don’t suffer fools gladly. But your obvious excitement at being involved with every aspect of the theatre shows a genuine eagerness to learn. I like that. And by the way, you can drop the Mr Fletcher, my name’s Adam.’

  As she took her place next to him she couldn’t help notice his growing agitation.

  ‘Where’s the bloody chairman? If he’s not here in two minutes I’ll have to start without him,’ he said, as he ran an impatient hand through his fair hair.

  ‘I’m here,’ Gus called as he approached from the back of the stalls.

  ‘Must you always cut it so fine?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Keep your hair on. I’m here now.’ Gus smiled.

  Since that first night at the stage door Rhiannon had seen Gus Davenport many times backstage. She secretly longed to approach him, but knew that it wasn’t her place. Sometimes he threw her a wink and a smile as he passed by. She did wonder whether he might be flirting with her but soon scolded herself for having such silly thoughts; it was, after all, just wishful thinking on her part. She still considered him to be the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Just standing this close to him made her heart beat faster and, as she met his stare, she hoped he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  ‘Come on, Adam, what’s the delay? Are you going to officially introduce me to this young beauty, or maybe it’s your intention to keep her all to yourself?’

  Adam shook his head. ‘Gus, you really are such a predictable arsehole.’ He turned to Rhiannon. ‘Sorry for the language. This young lady is Rhiannon Hughes.’ He threw Gus a warning look. ‘Miss Florrie Grayson’s—’

  Gus interr
upted him. ‘Niece, yes I know.’

  ‘Rhiannon, this is Gerald Gus Davenport, our chairman and general nuisance to every young girl or, for that matter, any woman with a pulse.’

  Gus Davenport held out his hand. ‘Don’t you pay any attention to this slanderous old bugger. Jealousy can be such a terrible thing.’

  Rhiannon blushed and her hand visibly shook.

  ‘Rhiannon, what sort of a name is that? It’s a bit of a mouthful,’ Gus teased.

  ‘It’s an old Welsh name. It translates as “divine” or “princess”,’ Adam offered.

  Gus smiled and made an elaborate bow, ‘Your Majesty, honoured to meet you, I’m sure.’

  Although she was still blushing, the way this man was making fun of her name annoyed her. ‘My name’s Rhiannon Hughes and I’ll trust you not to make fun of it!’ she snapped.

  ‘Gus, will you stop teasing her and take your place in the wings. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to get this rehearsal under way.’

  ‘All right, let’s do it ... let’s get this show under way,’ Gus said, as he marched off to take his place in the wings.

  Within just a week of sitting with Adam during rehearsals and watching two shows every night from the back of the auditorium, Rhiannon, eager to prove the producer’s faith in her, managed to learn each act word perfect – making her an obvious choice to stand in when the prompter fell ill.

  ‘If you think you’re up to it, then the job’s yours, but you have to make sure to stand way back in the wings and stay out of sight of the audience at all times. And to be aware that, with the artists dashing on and off stage, the wings can be a hectic place,’ Adam said.

  Rhiannon had jumped at the chance.

  Rhiannon stood in the wings enthralled as she watched Dave, the stage manager, go through his checklist for the first show.