Buy Cheap, Buy Twice: A Novel

By Jennifer Thomas

Few people gave a second thought to Abercerig. The seemingly unremarkable village in the Welsh mining valley looked dreary; endless grey terraced cottages housing dull people with little or no desire to better themselves.

But nothing could be further from the truth. A story of true love and family intrigue weaves itself around the lives of two sisters, Grace and Mari, and their families. A scandalous marriage, the suffering and deprivation of the war years, personal triumphs and communal grief contribute to the colourful tapestry that is Abercerig.

The dedicated family doctor and the fair-minded police sergeant steer their flock through the ordeals of everyday life while the chapel ladies in their Sunday Best hats with their closely guarded recipes for apple pies, rule over the moral welfare of the villagers.

Newcomers are scrutinised before finally being accepted into the watchful community and eyebrows are raised as class barriers are breached.

But essentially, this is a story of Sian, a young girl who, from a very early age, sees far beyond the inflexible prejudices of the adults surrounding her and offers a solution that will put an end to many wasted years of misunderstanding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467879286

Jennifer Thomas

I'm now a Best Selling Author in the Romance category, and I should point out that I write erotic romance that is really for adults only. I grew up mostly in Southern Florida and moved to New York as soon as I turned 18. I have a vivid imagination and that's where most my stories come from. A few are from dreams that were so real I could remember them all day, and a couple are somewhat based on my own experiences with the names (and a few other things) changed to protect us both. Most of all I'm a (fairly) young, romantic girl who loves fantasy, sweets, sex and writing (but not in that order)! When I get my own juices flowing while I'm working on a story, that's when I'm pretty certain my readers will get hot and bothered too!

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© 2012 by Jennifer Thomas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/25/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4678-7927-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-7928-6 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

For my parents, Jenny and Ivor Barrett.

Cover design from an original watercolour

by Wendy Hodges.

Cover design from an original watercolour

by Wendy Hodges.

Acknowledgements

This novel is the culmination of a long standing desire to write—a desire that would never have been achieved without the encouragement and support of my family and close friends. Thank you all.

Special thanks go to Wendy Hodges for painting the beautiful cover picture, to my daughters, Lucy and Mary and my sister Judith for their faith in me and for the many hours of practical help and finally to my husband Chris for his patience and for refusing to let me press the ‘delete’ button when I doubted myself.

Grateful acknowledgement is made for the use of quotations from the following:

‘O Valiant Hearts’ by Sir John Stanhope Awkright. ‘Count your blessings’ by Edith Temple. ‘I shall pass through this way but once’ by Stephen Grellet. ‘God so loved the World’ by John Stainer. ‘Nod’ by Walter de la Mare. ‘The Christmas Story’ by Myfanwy Haycock.

Chapter 1

South Wales July 1941

‘Say what you like, I just don’t think that it’s right,’ she grumbled, ‘there he is, no more than a boy and she’s nearly old enough to be his mother. Downright cradle snatching—that’s what it is.’

‘Oh give over,’ her companion retorted, ‘they’re not hurting anybody, it’s their lives, let ’em get on with it why don’t you now. It’s their wedding day, for goodness sake.’

‘That’s as may be, but when I think of those two together, you know what I mean, married like, it fair turns my stomach it does. Dirty, that’s what I call it.’

With arms folded across ample bosoms, shopping bags bulging with weekend groceries abandoned at their feet, the gossiping women were overcome with curiosity.

It was a perfect day: the air was clear and still and the inconspicuous village nestled in the shelter of the majestic mountains, their subdued colours merging like a fading bruise in the pale sunlight.

The invited guests congregated outside the grey stone chapel, dressed in their finery: hats taken from boxes that had been gathering dust on the tops of wardrobes, jewellery unwrapped from dark tissue paper, shoes polished to a military shine and gold watch chains glinting in the sunlight. Everyone was determined to look their best.

Pursing their lips tightly, the uninspiring onlookers scrutinised the company

‘How come they got an invite then,’ they looked with misgiving at some of the individuals, ‘not as if they’re family or anything is it now?

‘Aye well, the thing I want to know is who’s paying for this lot? I mean to say, he hasn’t got two ha’pennies to rub together. I suppose she’s put a bit by over the years but a ‘do’ like this will cost a pretty penny, no two ways about that.’ They watched the arrivals with a mixture of curiosity and jealousy.

A weary young woman, her three small whining children clinging around her ankles, smiled wanly ‘It’s lovely she’ll be looking, I’m telling you now.’ She turned and faced her indignant companions, ‘come on now, let’s face it, she’s smarter than the rest of us put together.’ She half-heartedly wiped the runny nose of her smallest child, ‘Wish I had her looks.’

Without doubt, this day would long be remembered in the village of Abercerig.

Clean towels still covered the worn beer pumps in ‘The Colliers Arms’ and the portly landlord was irritated by his lack of customers—what did they think they were up to, ogling at a wedding. They should have more sense.

The valley men in their cloth caps and coarse collarless shirts, huddled in shop doorways, trying hard not to look interested, but, in truth, they enjoyed a bit of scandal just as much as their wives.

The entire village had turned out to witness the most talked about event of the year.

Tom Webb was getting married. He was a nice young lad, only just turned twenty one and a bit on the shy side but that was hardly surprising, considering his home life. He lived in the lonely old stone house opposite the chapel, with his mother, a real harridan who ruled him with a rod of iron. He’d always kept himself to himself and then, out of the blue he’d announced that he was going to marry Grace Evans. His mother was furious!

Grace was quite a looker; she was owner of the Corner Craft Shop and a good many years older than him. Everyone was amazed, it wasn’t just the age difference—Tom was a naïve sort of lad but Grace was in a class of her own. Compared to the other village women she was refined, a bit aloof even, and this was an unlikely match, if ever there was one.

Until recently, the men of Abercerig had seen her as being off limits but now they were green with envy. Most of their wives had turned into proper frumps—sad really, they had been a bit of alright at one time but, once the ring was on their finger, well, that was it. Now all that the men had to look forward to when they came home from a hard day’s work was a dowdy woman in her wraparound pinafore and her sensible shoes.

But Tom Webb—it was a bit different for him.

‘How in God’s name did a lad like that catch her eye?’ a roughly spoken miner complained, ‘still wet behind the ears he is, right enough.’

‘Aye, so he may be but how about coming home to her each evening. Can’t think of a better way of keeping warm on a cold night, can you now?’

Grace was an astute business woman and that in itself created a lot of talk.

‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ was the creed and Grace Evans certainly didn’t conform to their doctrine. From time to time rumours circulated about her personal life, ‘courting strong with a man from Cwmcraig’, ‘left in the lurch at the last minute’—but the truth was quite different. Years of seeing her parents destroy each other had convinced her that marriage was not for her—until now.

Tom Webb looked into the small mirror on his bedroom wall. It was true what people were saying—he did look different—his eyes were bright and he was smiling; it was as if a light had been turned on inside him. And the name of the light was Grace. Turning his back on the austere surroundings, he walked towards the welcoming chapel, his new suit crackling with every movement. Just one hour—one short hour, and Grace Evans would be his wife.

Apprenticed as a carpenter at the age of sixteen, Tom had often been the victim of the other lads’ jokes. He had never had a girlfriend and the news that he was to marry a much older but very attractive woman had come as a bolt from the blue. His young workmates sniggered.

‘I bet he don’t even know what to do with her. I reckon he still thinks his thing is for peeing with.’ They all laughed. ‘Never you mind, though, I bet she’s been around a bit, she’ll show ‘im ‘ow. Them snooty ones in’t always what they seem.’

The older workmen raised their eyebrows in irritation. Couldn’t these empty headed lads think of anything other than bedding every willing female they could lay hands on? Young Tom’s life had been hard and if Grace Evans could make him happy then good luck to him.

What’s it matter if she’s a bit on the old side?’ they protested, ‘let’s just hope that she takes good care of him.’

‘Never mind ‘being taken care of’, it’s a bit of ‘How’s your father’ that Tom could do with.’ They nudged each other lewdly, ‘Come out with us lads he could ‘ave, if ‘e’d been a bit more lively like, and had a girl of his own age not some stuck up old spinster like he’s landed with. I mean she’s not bad looking for a woman of her age but she’s a bit past her prime I reckon. Poor beggar, feel sorry for him in a way.’

‘Well save your sympathy for someone who wants it,’ the foreman retorted, ‘thinks that he’s the luckiest man alive, does young Tom.’

A truer word had never been spoken.

Tom walked through the small shadowy porch into the chapel. He knew every inch of this building, from the dark stained wooden arch above the organ loft to the dusty nooks and crannies lurking inside the damp vestry. He smiled to himself—the chapel would be full today, no doubt about that, invited guests rubbing shoulders with the village busybodies, not that the gossips bothered him. He was well aware of the tittle tattle but their small-minded opinions had as much substance as a wisp of smoke escaping from a sooted chimney stack.

Gentle music drifted down from the organ loft. Tom looked up and waved to their good friend Glynis Rees. She beamed at him. A born organiser, Glynis had been busy, calling in favours from many of the villagers and, despite the restrictions of wartime rationing, this day would be one for the memory book.

Grace arrived on time, driven to the chapel by her good friend, Dr. Edward Llewellyn, the local GP, a handsome middle aged man and her greatest champion. Onlookers gasped.

Grace Evans was beautiful! Her dress of smoky blue crepe de chine was exquisite; the soft fabric skimming over her trim figure, a beautiful wide brimmed hat shading her russet brown hair. She carried a simple spray of cream rosebuds.

The women looked on with envy, the men with yearning.

Her young brother, Owen was bursting with pride as he took his sister’s arm and led her into the chapel. He was a frail young man, his hereditary heart problem often confining him to a wheelchair, but not today.

Their older sister, Mari, completed the wedding party. Grace was something of an enigma to her. The two girls had little in common: Mari’s aim in life had been achieved—a husband and family, a modest happy home—what more could a woman want? But her sister! That was another story—from schooldays Grace had been worlds apart from the rest of the family, and now, here she was, causing a right commotion by marrying a man fourteen years her junior, hardly more than a boy. Never mind, things could be worse; Mari was just relieved to know that her sister wouldn’t remain an old maid.

But behind the face of the confident business woman, Grace was shy. She stared at the inquisitive onlookers and gave a weak smile.

‘What are you thinking, Grace?’ Edward Llewellyn whispered. ‘No, don’t tell me, I think I can guess. You just wish that they’d all go away and mind their own business, am I right?’ She nodded.

‘I suggested to Tom that we had a very quiet ceremony, just immediate family and close friends but he was having none of it.’

The doctor gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

‘Dearest Grace, now, just you listen to me. It’s your wedding day and inside this chapel there’s a young man waiting for you, a man who loves you with all his heart. Go to him and be proud.’ He kissed her on her cheek, his eyes bright with tears.

The elusive melody of Handel’s ‘Largo’ drifted through the air. Tom turned, they smiled at each other and all anxiety evaporated. No one else existed. The ceremony was simple but with a sincerity that touched everyone, with the exception of Ada Webb.

Tom’s mother had a look on her face that would turn milk sour.

The congregation, led by the strong voices of the village male voice choir gave their all, the rounded harmonious notes of the tenors in perfect balance with the sonorous basses and the singing reached a magnificent crescendo.

The Reverend Jefferies was satisfied.

‘This is how it should’ he said to himself, ‘thinking about what they’re saying, meaning every word. Haven’t heard such sincerity in my twenty years of preaching. They’ll do alright, just you wait and see.’

The ceremony over, the newlyweds prepared to leave the chapel and high up in the organ loft, Glynis was about to put her plan into action.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, love?’ Ted Rees was uncertain but there was no way of dissuading his wife. ‘I really wouldn’t want anything to upset Grace, today of all days,’ he said. ‘She’s been saying all along that she wants everything to be on the quiet side, no big fuss. I can’t see that she’s going to be happy with this,’ but Glynis smiled knowingly.

‘Don’t you worry now, she’ll love it.’ The old friends knew each other so well; hadn’t they started school together more than thirty years ago?

So their simple choice of music was rejected and instead, as her friends walked up the aisle as man and wife, Glynis Rees thundered out the exhilarating notes of Widor’s ‘Toccata’, the elaborate melody soaring over the resonant lower chords, her small feet pounding the foot pedals as her nimble fingers skimmed the intricate double-manual keyboard, sending out a message of triumphant celebration.

Grace turned and smiled. It was perfect.

Throngs of people milled around as the couple stood self consciously waiting for the official photographs to be taken, Tom proudly clutching Grace’s hand as if he was never going to let go. Behind him, his mother glowered, disapproval written all over her pinched face, but nothing could detract from the joy of the moment.

The shabby Sunday Schoolroom was the modest setting for the Wedding Breakfast but in the creative hands of Eunice Jones, the local florist, an amazing change had taken place.

The transformation was stunning: blue cornflowers and white marguerites filled the room, the rickety trestle tables covered with snowy white tablecloths, starched to unbendable crispness. Every guest had made a contribution from their meagre rations or home produce and a feast had been prepared. Chickens, well past their laying prime, and ham from a home killed pig were accompanied by crisp salads from the well-tended allotments.

Wartime treats of apple charlottes and fruit ‘creams’, honey biscuits and peppermint sticks sat temptingly among the piles of white china plates. And in pride of place was the wedding cake: not the cardboard replica available for hire but a medium sized fruit cake, made with generous donations from family and friends

There were minimal formalities. Tom gazed at his wife, an incredulous look on his face as they repeatedly touched hands. The delicious meal came to an end and Tom stood up—this was the moment he had been dreading but a new found confidence radiated from him. Grace sat, nervously chewing her lip: all eyes were on them.

‘I’m no speaker so I’m going to keep this short and sweet.’

Encouraging murmurs from the ladies and jovial retorts of ‘Thank the Lord for that.’ from the teasing men eased the mounting tension.

‘Thank you all for coming here today and for contributing so generously, marvellous it is, marvellous. You’ve given us a wonderful start to our married life—my wife and me, that is.’ His self-conscious speech was met with cheers and applause.

‘I still can’t believe that she said ‘yes’ but she did.’ He turned to look at Grace, ‘You enthral me,’ he murmured and for a split second no other person existed. ‘And now, I’d like you all to drink a toast to my beautiful bride. To Grace.’

Glasses of damson cordial were raised and good wishes were showered on the couple.

The newly weds were due to start their married life in two rented rooms, let by a workmate of Tom’s and they had made no plans for a honeymoon, but Dr Llewellyn had badgered them into packing a borrowed suitcase so they knew that there was a plan afoot. As the wedding breakfast came to a close and their friends gathered to say goodbye, the smiling doctor arrived and, amid showers of rice and shouts of goodwill, drove the couple to a comfortable guest house, twenty miles away, for a forty eight hour honeymoon: his gift to two very special people.

The wedding guests drifted away to their own homes. It had been a remarkable day and to think that only a year ago no one had the slightest suspicion that the couple were anything more than friends. A reasonable assumption; Grace was part of the furniture of village life. Her eye-catching craft shop was the hub of the place and no one dreamt that its friendly owner had any plans to change the situation.

They all remembered the opening of Grace’s shop.

The small general store that had previously occupied the site had been a dark poky place, little more than a junk shop. Paint pots with rusting lids, outdated remedies for coughs and back aches and drums of putty, the linseed oil dried up, rubbed shoulders with dusty china dogs and curled up greetings cards.

After the owner’s death, the corner shop stood empty and abandoned; a dismal sight as people approached the uninspiring grey village.

Grace seized the opportunity. It was the perfect solution—an escape from the drudgery of her family home, a chance to make something of her life, to be independent.

With the help of her good friend and adviser, Dr. Llewellyn, she obtained a business mortgage, cleared out years of dust and grime and transformed the modest premises.

Grace knew what she wanted. She would establish a business of quality, no matter how small. Only the best would be supplied to her customers.

‘If it’s just a load of old colourful tat that they want then they’d best wait for the tinkers to come knocking on their doors’, she said, ‘my mam didn’t teach me much that was useful, but one thing she always said was ‘Buy cheap, buy twice‘.’

The shop was Grace’s life.

Regular customers became firm friends but the most unexpected relationship had been with Ada Webb. Grace knew little about the dour woman and so an invitation to tea had come as a surprise.

Their friendship grew slowly. It was obvious that they had both known unhappiness, though they spoke little of their personal misfortunes.

For Grace, an unhappy home filled with conflict and bitterness was the only life she had ever known. Her father, Emlyn, was a charming man but too fond of his drink and of other women; her mother, Ceridwen was obsessed with producing sons, oblivious to the needs of her husband or daughters. Four sons were born but life was hard and Grace shared the pain—two of her brothers were already dead, her beloved Bryn had left home to join the army and Owen, dear sweet Owen, was struggling against a heart condition that would surely cut short his life.

But in spite of their tragic loss, many people in the village considered that the Evans family were to be envied. Grace’s father was an overman at the colliery, a responsible and well paid position which enabled him to provide well for his remaining family, unlike so many of the other villagers who struggled to make ends meet.

Not for them one of the cramped poky cottages that clung to the valley sides in straight lines like disused railway carriages, abandoned to the elements. They lived at the top end of Abercerig in a medium sized, well appointed house with a neat front lawn and a large vegetable garden at the rear of the house. Beautiful views of Coopers Wood with the towering mountains beyond, greeted them each morning as the heavy curtains were pulled back in the spacious living room and there was never a shortage of good food on their plates or warm clothes on their backs during the harsh winters.

But material possessions were no replacement for a loving family.

And where had Grace fitted in? Her sister, Mari, had been happy to take up her place in service at Tregelli House near Caerphilly, but Grace had wanted more—she wanted an education.

All these years later, Grace could still picture the ugly scene—the grave headmaster pleading for eleven year old Grace to take up her place at the grammar school, her mother spitting out her resentment towards him.

‘She’s not going and that’s that.’ Ceridwen was venomous, ‘what would she be wanting with all that fancy education, she’s only a girl, and I’ll tell you something else, just as soon as she’s old enough she’ll be out of school and helping me at home. She’s the youngest girl and that’s the way things are. There’s a lot of work to be done in this house, especially since her baby brother’s so poorly. A bit of help, that’s what I could do with, so there.’

But somehow, the argument was won and Grace became a grammar school girl. She excelled but her success went largely unnoticed by her apathetic parents. Four years later her mother’s threat was carried out: Grace left the prestigious school and became the family drudge.

Was it weakness or indifference that had torn the family apart? Who could say?

Her father drank himself into an early grave; her mother lost the will to carry on and Grace could still feel the agony, as time and again she watched helplessly, as Ceridwen Evans was taken away for treatment at the asylum in nearby Cwmcraig.

Life had certainly been hard for the girl.

For Ada, her suffering had been great but oh, so different.

She remembered the day when she first saw William Webb. He was new to the village, a mining engineer from Cardiff and every young girl’s dream. He could take his pick of them all—but he chose her. Ada was ten years his junior, pretty but so shy and William fell totally in love with her.

They were married and soon their first child was born, a son but such a sickly child. The boy, Tom, wasn’t expected to live but somehow he pulled through. It was a difficult time but with William’s love and support, Ada coped. And then a second son was born, a perfect healthy child and for a few years they were a happy family.

But tragedy struck.

The top mine had been closed for repairs. William led the team that carried out the final inspection before reopening—but there was another bad rock fall and William was killed. He was thirty four years old.

And Ada was left a widow with two young sons.

And resentment and hatred grew inside her like a cancer, hardening the heart of the happy young mother.

Two women, both wounded by sorrow yet strengthened by their suffering.

Two women bound together yet forced apart by the same man. To the one, a son; to the other, a lover.

On that sunny day in July, acrimony leeched from Ada Webb as she watched her son marry the woman she had once trusted as a friend, but her bitterness was tainted with a feeling of loss.

Chapter 2

It had all started years ago.

Ada and Grace gradually became firm friends. The odd thing was that, right from the start, one thing puzzled Grace: Ada’s relationship towards her older son was cold and hostile.

It was unheard of for his mother to invite people into their home, and, on his return from work Tom was shocked to see Grace Evans sitting in the best armchair by the fire, his mam’s good china set out on the lace table cloth, but his presence was not welcomed.

‘You know Tom, of course’. Ada was dismissive but Grace smiled and said hello to the shy young man that she regularly saw at Sunday services.

‘Hello Miss Evans’ he muttered but was instantly quashed by his mother.

‘Go and clean up Tom, you look like a tramp. Take no notice of him Grace. He knows to keep out of the way.’ The inoffensive lad slunk towards the door.

‘None of the ‘Miss Evans’ if you please,’ Grace’s voice was warm and friendly, ‘you make me sound like an old school marm. ‘Grace’ will do very well.’ Their eyes met, she smiled at him and in that brief moment, Grace had made a conquest!

The conflict between Ada and Tom was the only stumbling block in the otherwise sound friendship and attempts to broach the subject were met with resentment that was deep and long standing.

‘He was an oddity from the day he was born, only weighed three pounds he did. Nobody thought that we’d be able to rear him. He was slow to do everything, walking, talking, the lot. I thought that he was a bit simple.’ Ada took a deep breath, ‘Then after his dad died he went quieter than ever, sometimes he’d hardly say a word all day. The thing I could never understand was that his teachers said that he was bright—could never see it myself’ She looked shamefaced, ‘Got to be honest, I have—never really took to him I didn’t.’

Grace felt sad. Why did Ada find it impossible to show any affection to this inoffensive sixteen year old? There was something solitary about him, to be true, but whose fault was that and why had Ada let such a situation develop?

What made things worse was that Tom’s younger brother, Cliff, was treated so differently. He was a self opinionated boy who had the freedom to come and go as he pleased without any restriction or criticism from his mother. It was hardly surprising that the relationship between the brothers was one of indifference.

But the friendship between the two women flourished and Tom’s spirits rose whenever he opened the back door after a day’s work and heard them talking. Grace’s voice was soft and comforting; filling him with warmth that he had never known and in her company he felt like an equal.

‘What made you choose carpentry, then, Tom?’ Grace looked with admiration at the simple carved design on a new set of bookends. Tom gently held the object in his long fingered hands.

‘Hard to explain really, I just love the feel of wood, it’s like it’s a living thing. Sometimes it’s as if it’s telling me what to do, how to shape it, what it wants to become.’

‘You’re very talented Tom, these are beautiful.’

He could hardly breathe; her words were like warm sunshine, wrapping around him, filling him with an unfamiliar feeling of wellbeing. He laughed self-consciously,

‘Don’t know as how I’d agree with that and anyway it in’t often that I get to do this sort of stuff.’ He turned the skilfully crafted object in his hands, not daring to look at her, afraid to show the adoration in his eyes. ‘Coffins! That’s what I spend half of my life making—seems a bit daft to me—I spend all day measuring and hammering and polishing fancy boxes just to stick ’em in the ground.’ He grimaced, ‘Got told off I did, the foreman gave me an earful when I complained about all the fuss and palaver.

‘Tom lad,’ he said to me, ‘just you stop and think about it for a minute: if a man’s had a tidy innings in this life the least we can do for ‘im is to put ‘im away in a piece of fine wood.’ Put me in my place good and proper.’

Tom idolised her. She was kind and gentle, she was interested and compassionate; all the things he’d missed during his lonely love-starved childhood. Nothing was more important than being with Grace, helping Grace, understanding Grace, becoming part of her life.

She often spoke of her young brother. She worried about him constantly.

Owen Evans was virtually housebound and it troubled Tom. His own life was hardly exciting but at least he could walk in the woods and climb the steep paths up onto the mountains: he could watch the buzzards as they swooped on their prey and marvel at the ever changing landscape spread out before him but Owen knew none of these simple pleasures. There must be something that Tom could do to help and in so doing, gain Grace’s respect or better still her affection.

Idly picking up an old copy of’ The Practical Engineer’ as he waited in the barbers shop for his regular ‘short back and sides’, Tom found the answer.

Two engineers, Everest and Jennings had designed a folding wheelchair, an X frame that could be easily pushed or even self propelled: not one of the bulky contraptions that weighed a ton but a simple device that could open up a whole new world for people like Owen.

But he had to find someone willing to make the purchase. There was only one possibility: Lord Ellis, owner of Glynfoel, the big local estate, was well known as a generous benefactor—Tom would ask him for his backing.

Over and over he tried to write the letter that would make clear his request but it was no good; the words just wouldn’t come to him—he needed some assistance.

Edward Llewellyn looked with respect at the awkward young man standing in front of him. He had a good heart, did Tom Webb. Yes, he’d be only too happy to help him and to add his own signature to endorse the request.

‘It’s just an idea, Tom,’ the doctor suggested tactfully, ‘but I think that it might be better to ask that the wheelchair be purchased as a gift to my general practice. Then I can loan it to Owen. I’m just thinking that the Evans’s can be a very proud lot and they’d quite likely turn it down if they thought that it was charity.’

Shortly afterwards, a heavily embossed envelope bearing the Ellis coat of arms arrived at the surgery, clearly marked ‘For the attention of Thomas Webb Esq.’ A generous money order was enclosed.

Tom was thrilled.

Owen was elated with his newly found freedom

—and Grace’s gratitude was immeasurable.

Owen loved Tom’s company: they laughed together just as he had done with his own brothers and Grace watched with delight as they escaped from their personal demons for a while.

‘He’s very fond of you, our Grace’ commented Owen having returned from a regular Sunday morning walk after chapel, Tom firmly in charge of the wheelchair.

‘Aren’t I the lucky one!’ Grace quipped jokingly, ‘I’ve got another young brother to look after now—as if you weren’t enough trouble.’

Owen looked thoughtfully at his attractive sister,

‘I’m not sure that being your brother is quite what he has in mind!’

‘Owen, stop that,’ Grace was outraged, her cheeks burned with indignation, ‘it’s not funny, in fact it’s in very bad taste and Tom would be embarrassed if he heard you talking like that.’

The last thing that Owen wanted to do was to upset his sister so he gave a little shrug of the shoulders and a wry smile and the subject was closed. Grace tried hard to ignore Owen’s remarks but they were cemented in her mind.

‘Just foolish nonsense, that’s all it was. Sometimes our Owen gets some very silly ideas in his head, comes of not having enough to keep his mind occupied.’

Surely that was the truth of the matter.

Chapter 3

War broke out in 1939 and most of the young men from Abercerig cheerfully signed up for the Armed Forces: anything had to be an improvement on the humdrum life of their dull Welsh village. Cliff Webb, Tom’s younger brother, had already left home and was employed as a bank clerk in Cardiff. The Royal Air Force spelled adventure so at the age of eighteen, despite his mother’s pleas, he eagerly went off to war.

Tom’s relationship with his mother deteriorated even further. To be left with the son she had rejected from birth, while her favourite was risking his life for king and country rubbed salt into the wound and Tom felt obliged to follow in his younger brother’s footsteps and join up.

But further humiliation was in store for him.

He opened the official looking brown envelope and bile rose in his throat as he read the result of his medical examination—Failed: reasons—flat feet and poor coordination.

Ada was hysterical,

‘You’re good for nothing, that’s what you are—you’ll never make a proper man. There are times when I think we’d have been better off if we’d let you go when you were born’.

Tom was at his lowest ebb: his mother despised him, his workmates made fun of him but only one person’s opinion mattered. He needn’t have worried.

Grace’s reaction was sensitive but down-to-earth: it was a fact that he had to face but it didn’t change him. He was still the kind, hard working honest person that he had been before taking the medical examination.

‘Talk to Owen, why don’t you,’ her gentle smile melted his despair into thin air, ‘he knows a thing or two about making compromises.’

Abercerig was less affected by the war than much of the country. Rationing was a necessary evil but with the spoils of large gardens and allotments, chickens and the ‘shared pig’, people were generally better fed than those in the town.

Ada went on with her life as best she could, listening to every news bulletin and sending up fervent prayers that her beloved younger son should be kept safe. Endless hours were spent knitting for the troops. New wool was in short supply but Ada diligently unpicked worn and faded garments and remade them into socks and gloves for men in the front line.

But while most people went about their everyday business, Tom Webb was weaving in his mind a fantasy surrounding his relationship with Grace. He hurried home on the days when Grace came to tea; he walked her home on winter evenings or if she had a heavy bag to carry. He moved from his regular pew in chapel and sat closer to Grace, eventually plucking up courage to sit next to her. A few people noticed and started to talk but Ada remained oblivious.

After all, there was fourteen years difference in their ages and in her eyes Tom was just a dull ignorant boy.

But his life was changing day by day. Every encounter with Grace became embedded into his mind like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle: at first the pieces were isolated and indistinct but as their number increased so the picture started to take form. With sparkling clarity the figure of Grace Evans emerged as the centre of his very existence: just being in the same room as her thrilled him.

Ada’s knitting needles clacked feverishly as she sought to increase the comfort of the troops at the Front. Hesitantly, Tom approached his mother, his favourite shirt clutched in his hand.

‘The collar’s going, Mam and the elbows—d’you think, when you’ve got a minute…,’ he wavered under his mother’s cold glare.

‘Just leave it on the table, will you now—and stop fussing’ He turned away, ‘and make yourself useful for once,’ she whinged, ‘put the kettle on, Grace will be in for a cup of tea in a minute, in fact, here she is now.’

The surly rebuke was overheard by Grace as she walked into the austere living room, Tom smiled at her uncertainly and her heart went out to him.

‘I think I’ve got a piece of material that would do nicely.’ She was annoyed, Tom deserved no such chastisement. ‘I’ll turn the collar and put on a couple of patches and it’ll be as good as new,’ she turned to her friend, raising her eyebrows disdainfully, ‘that’s alright with you, is it, Ada?’

There was an awkward pause,

‘Please yourself, if you’ve got the time,’ Ada sniffed in annoyance, ‘I’ve got more important things to do.’

Tom handed over the garment, his heart thumping in his chest. It would be Grace’s hands that held the soft fabric; her fingers that neatly stitched the well worn shirt. And soon, he would feel her touch on his skin.

Tom was enchanted by her. She occupied every waking moment. ‘What would Grace think? Would Grace like this?’ At first he pretended that this was just the comfortable feelings of being with a good friend but as time went by he could no longer escape the fact:

He wanted more.

The storm blew up suddenly; the mild autumn day yielding to strong northerly winds. Trees moaned; slates crashed from the roofs and fractured onto the unyielding pavement but to Tom, the squally conditions provided a welcome reason to walk Grace home.

‘Look out.’ Tangled branches from an uprooted tree blocked the narrow lane that led to Grace’s home. Tom steadied her as she stumbled into his arms. ‘Are you alright?’

Grace nodded; his touch was warm, she felt secure. And, most of all, she wanted time to stand still.

‘Just you stand over there where it’s safe.’ He gently released her and hauled the wet brushwood aside, ‘There we are. That’s better. Don’t want anybody coming a cropper, do we now. You sure you’re alright?’

He smiled at her and without any warning, her world turned upside down. As he brushed the splintered twigs from his old tweed jacket Grace took one of his hands in hers.

‘You’ve got such strong hands, Tom—strong but gentle.’

He could hardly breathe; he looked at her, adoring her, worshipping her.

‘Grace…’ but the sound of his voice broke the spell. She pulled away as if she had been stung.

‘It’s late,’ she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest, ‘thank you for walking me home but I’m fine on my own from here on.’ She was breathless as she tried to tear her eyes from Tom’s gaze. She had to get away. ‘You’d best be getting back’, her voice was quivering wildly, ‘your mother will wonder what’s keeping you’.

Grace turned and ran from Tom leaving him hurt and confused. She fought back tears. What was happening? Only seconds ago she had wanted her friend’s young son to take her in his arms and kiss her. What was she thinking about? He was so young, far too young to be involved with her and anyway, she had long decided that men held no interest for her, not after witnessing the disastrous results of her parents’ marriage.

And yet she couldn’t stop thinking of him; the touch of his hand, and his eyes—oh those deep, dark eyes—there was only one thing to do; she mustn’t be alone with him again.

But even as she was making this decision she knew in her heart that she would break the promise: her body was aching for him to touch her. This had never happened to her before and she was frightened.

Sleep eluded