Magda's Daughter, page 8
‘I knew your mother had come to Pontypridd to marry a British soldier who changed his mind when she arrived. But she never mentioned his name, and I never asked who he was.’ Alma set fresh cups of tea on the table in front of Helena and Ned.
The wake was coming to an end, the church ladies were packing away the remaining cakes – there were no savouries left – and the clatter of dishes being washed in the kitchen could be heard in the background above the conversation of the remaining mourners.
‘Do you know Robert Parsons?’ Ned passed Alma the milk jug.
‘I never even heard the name.’ Alma looked up as Ronnie Ronconi pulled a chair out from their table.
‘Alma told me what happened. Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all. Did you know Robert Parsons, Mr Ronconi?’
‘No, Helena,’ Ronnie answered.
Helena laid out the photographs Robert Parsons had given her. They were a series of snapshots, some blurred. Most were just of her and her mother, but there were other women and servicemen in some of them, none of whom she recognised. ‘I simply don’t understand how Robert Parsons could have asked my mother to marry him, made all the arrangements for us to come to this country after the war, and then changed his mind.’
‘It’s difficult to explain wartime to people who didn’t live through it,’ Alma mused. ‘It’s back to the old cliché – live for today, for tomorrow you may die. Every week we seemed to hear news of someone, family or friend, who’d been killed. Most of us honestly believed that we didn’t have a tomorrow, so we did all sorts of crazy things we never would have considered under normal circumstances.’
‘I’ll agree with you there,’ Ronnie echoed.
‘But the war was over when Robert Parsons met my mother,’ Helena emphasized.
‘Only just, from what he told you,’ Alma reminded her. ‘And he was overseas, far from home. The fighting had stopped, and with it the excitement. He was probably lonely, most certainly bored, and your mother was a beautiful young woman who had been treated appallingly while mourning the loss of her husband, her home and her country. He paid her attention and I imagine she was glad to receive it. I know she had you, but it’s difficult to have a meaningful conversation with a baby.’
‘How did you meet Magda?’ Ned asked Alma and Ronnie.
‘I met her in the restaurant.’ Ronnie poured milk into his tea. ‘Peter and I had come into town on business for the garage and stopped for a meal. One perk of being family, probably the only one, is free food in the Ronconi restaurant and cafes. Magda was sitting at a table with you.’ He smiled at Helena. ‘Being a sucker for children, something that happens when you’re the oldest of eleven – and you were gorgeous, not that you aren’t now – I started playing with you. Then Peter realised Magda was crying. She told us that she’d arrived in London docks that morning expecting her fiancé to meet her boat. When he didn’t turn up, she asked a Red Cross official for advice. As she had her fiancé’s address in Pontypridd, he arranged an instant loan from the hardship fund so that she could buy train tickets to Pontypridd.’
‘That much I know, because as soon as Magda had saved enough money from her shop wages, she went to the library to find out the address of the Red Cross in London so she could send them a postal order to repay the loan,’ Alma confirmed.
‘That’s my mother,’ Helena commented, thinking of the money she had sent Bob Parsons.
‘When Magda arrived at Pontypridd station she showed someone her fiancé’s address. They directed her to the house, and his wife opened the door. It must have been a dreadful shock. When your mother told me and Peter what had happened, we decided that, as the man was already married and in no position to do anything for your mother or you, it wasn’t worth looking for him.’
‘A wise decision,’ Alma endorsed. ‘Given your temper and attitude towards men who mistreat women and children, Ronnie, you probably would have thumped him.’
She picked up the story. ‘As luck would have it, I was visiting the Pontypridd shop that day, and Peter fetched me. Liza was managing the shop at the time, but she was pregnant and I was looking for someone to help her. Peter and Liza gave Magda a room in their house, and one of the young girls in the shop looked after you,’ she nodded to Helena, ‘during the busy times. I realised Magda was capable of running the shop by herself the first week she worked there. So, when Liza gave up work to have her baby, your mother took over. When the flat upstairs became vacant, you and Magda moved in, and the rest you know.’
‘One of my earliest memories is of moving into the flat above the shop, although I can’t remember Peter’s house,’ Helena said slowly. ‘I remembering carrying my doll up the stairs and following Mama around the rooms. She was so happy, especially with the furniture. She kept on repeating, “Look, Helena, our very first home.ˮ’
‘I often wondered how you and Magda ended up in Pontypridd. But I never liked to ask,’ Ned pushed his empty cup away from him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that my mother had come here to marry someone?’ Helena asked Alma and Ronnie.
‘Because if anyone should have told you it was Magda. And before you blame her for not telling you, consider how she must have felt. To have travelled halfway across Europe carrying a small child and all her worldly possessions in one small bag, only to discover that her fiancé had married someone else. She must have been mortified. When I first set eyes on her in the restaurant she was devastated. She honestly believed her entire future had been taken away. She thought you would both be sent back to the Displaced Persons’ camp.’ Ronnie pushed his chair back from the table.
‘She was lucky to have found you.’ Helena looked from Ronnie to Alma. ‘Why did you help us?’
‘Because we – all of us – Peter, Ronnie, me – felt sorry for your mother. And because she’d been forced to leave her country during the war, just as Peter had. It was obvious that she was afraid to go back there. Something Peter understood only too well.’
Helena looked across the hall to where Peter Raschenko, his white-blond hair shining like a beacon, was sitting, surrounded by his wife and four daughters.
‘Peter has made a good life for himself in Pontypridd, just as your mother did. But like his father – and this is something I found difficult to accept when I was living with Charlie …’ Alma fell silent for a moment as she searched for the right words to express her feelings. ‘You only ever get to know a part of them,’ she said finally. ‘People who have been forced to leave their homeland – and I don’t count you among them, Ronnie, because you left Italy of your own free will – seem to leave something of themselves behind. And I don’t mean material things. A side to their nature that, no matter how much you love them, or think you know them, you can’t begin to understand.’
‘Shared memories of childhood,’ Ned suggested.
‘No,’ Alma contradicted. ‘It’s deeper than that. It’s something in the blood. A bond between a person and their birth country that transcends logic. I can’t explain it better than that. But what I do know is that no matter how hard an exile works to build a new life, how good that life is, or how cruel or hateful the government in their native country, people born behind the Iron Curtain will always feel as though they belong there and nowhere else.’
Ned looked at Helena. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well that your first memory is of moving into the flat above the shop.’
‘Perhaps, but I still sensed that my mother was never really at home here,’ she answered.
Ned didn’t disagree. He too felt that Magda hadn’t really be longed in Wales. Or ever been truly happy in Pontypridd.
After talking it over with Alma and Bethan, Helena had decided that she would move in with Ned and his parents while she cleared the flat and made arrangements to take her mother’s ashes to Poland. But when Ned drove Helena into the town centre after the funeral to pack her clothes, he sensed that she was having second thoughts about living with his family. He parked outside the shop and switched off the ignition.
‘I’ll come up and help you,’ he offered.
‘There’s no need.’ Helena opened the passenger door and stepped onto the pavement. Ned followed her. ‘I think I’ll stay in the flat tonight so I can sort through a few things. I’ll ring you tomorrow …’
For all of Ned’s resolve not to put any extra pressure on Helena, he snapped. ‘I know you’re grieving for your mother, I know you’re distraught, and I can’t begin to imagine what you are feeling right now, but don’t keep shutting me out.’
‘I’m not,’ she protested unconvincingly. ‘It’s just that I have so much to do. I have to go through all Mama’s possessions …’
‘I thought Alma spent the last week helping you.’
‘With the insurance papers and the business side, but not Mama’s clothes and personal things. Apart from the bed, which I changed so Auntie Alma could sleep in it, Mama’s bedroom is just as she left it.’
He could see her visibly tensing at the thought of sifting through Magda’s belongings. ‘You don’t have to do anything, sunshine, especially on your own. Why don’t I come upstairs with you and pack everything in the flat that belonged to your mother into boxes and put them in the car? We can take them up to the new house and they can stay in the spare bedroom for as long as it takes you to get around to sorting through them.’
‘My mother would be horrified. You know how spotless and tidy she kept the house. Everything neat and in its place. If something had happened to me she would have gone through everything at once … she wouldn’t have … wouldn’t have …’
The moment Ned had been waiting for arrived. Helena sank her head in her hands and sobbed. Harsh cries tore from her throat, savage and rasping. Ned held her tight.
‘You got your key?’
She fumbled blindly in her handbag and handed him the key. He opened the door and closed it behind them as he led her inside. She sank down on the stairs and he wrapped his arms around her.
They sat there for over an hour. Helena rested her head on Ned’s shoulder, her tears soaking through his shirtsleeves to his skin. When she finally grew quiet, Ned moved away and held her at arm’s length.
‘I’ll drive you up to my parents’ house. You can go to bed. I’ll bring you your supper on a tray. You won’t have to talk to anyone.’
‘No.’ Helena shook her head fiercely. ‘It’s bad enough that you’ve seen me like this. Besides, I haven’t packed any clothes.’
‘If you want privacy we could stay here, or go up to the new house.’ When she didn’t answer, he released her, and rose to his feet. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
She led the way into the living room. He followed, opened the sideboard and took out the bottle of brandy Magda kept there. She bought one every Christmas, and it invariably lasted until the next. He poured a small glass and handed it to Helena.
‘There’s no urgency to clear the flat,’ he reminded her. ‘Alma said that you can keep it for as long as you like, rent-free.’
‘I know, but every day the shop is closed, it’s losing money. And whoever runs it will need the flat. It wouldn’t be fair to leave our things here.’ She looked feverishly around the room. ‘Auntie Alma arranged to have half a dozen tea chests delivered from the grocer’s yesterday as well as some cardboard boxes. And we scavenged a pile of newspapers to wrap the china. They’re in the kitchen. It’s a good idea of yours to take everything up to the new house. That’s if you’re sure you don’t mind cluttering up the place,’ she qualified.
‘Why would I mind? It’s your house as much as mine. And we’re not likely to need the spare bedroom often. If we do, we can always pile the boxes into a comer.’ He breathed a heady sigh of relief. Helena was talking to him – granted only about practical matters, but it was conversation of a sort.
‘I’ll get the boxes.’ She put the untouched glass of brandy down on the table.
‘Not now. Just pack a bag with what you need for tonight. We’ll come back tomorrow –’
‘No!’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s only half past five. We could get a lot done this evening. But you don’t have to help –’
‘I want to,’ he interrupted, realising that grief had made her irrational. ‘And later on, I’ll go out and get us fish and chips.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You haven’t eaten for days, and that’s your doctor talking. Keep it up and you’ll be too ill to go to Poland,’ he warned, knowing this was the only threat that would work. ‘Where do you want to start? Here or Magda’s bedroom?’
Helena couldn’t bear the thought of taking her mother’s clothes out of her wardrobe, but she disliked the idea of someone else doing it even more, which was why she had refused Alma’s offers of help.
‘In here, please,’ she said decisively. ‘We’ll start by emptying the sideboard and packing the crockery and cutlery.’
‘I’ll get a chest and some newspaper.’
‘And I’ll stack everything on the table.’
Chapter Five
When Ned returned to the living room with a tea chest, he was amazed by the height of the piles of china and silverware on the table, and Helena was still stacking them.
‘I had no idea one sideboard could hold so much.’ He opened a newspaper and began wrapping pieces of Magda’s cherished porcelain dinner service.
‘This is only one cupboard. We’ve the tea service, glasses and everyday sets to do next. As well as the silver.’ Helena lifted out the butler’s tray that held the silver cutlery Magda had bought, one place setting at a time, from the jeweller on the comer of Mill Street. She picked up one of the forks and looked at the hallmark on the back.
‘Your mother had good taste and always bought the best.’ Ned was anxious to keep the conversation flowing.
‘She used to say that no matter how dismal the room, or how bad the situation, you could always lay a festive table. And a clean, embroidered, well-ironed tablecloth and a few wild flowers could make bread and jam taste like a banquet fit for a king.’
‘She was right, although Magda never served me anything as ordinary as bread and jam.’ Ned placed the heaviest meat and dinner plates in the bottom of the chest.
‘That’s because you were never here for breakfast.’
He steeled himself to ask the question that had been bothering him for days. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do if you don’t hear from your relatives in Poland?’
‘Yes.’ She busied herself lifting Magda’s prized cut glasses from the sideboard so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. ‘The undertaker will fetch Mama’s ashes from Glyntaff tomorrow. He offered to bring them to me here, but, as I wasn’t sure whether I would be staying here tonight, I told him that I would collect them. He suggested I choose an urn, but Father O’Brien told me to pick out a plain box casket as it would be easier to transport.’
‘And?’ Ned pressed when she didn’t volunteer any more information.
‘My passport arrived yesterday and I have the forms to apply for the visas I’ll need for East Germany and Poland. As soon as they come I’ll book the train and ferry tickets.’
He took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. ‘I’m going with you, remember?’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘How many times must I remind you that I love you? If it was up to me I’d marry you tomorrow.’
‘No!’ Her voice pitched high in hysteria.
‘I don’t mean the lavish white wedding in the Catholic church that Magda planned for us, but a quiet ceremony in the register office.’
‘Mama would have been horrified.’
‘We could ask Father O’Brien to bless our union afterwards.’
‘No, Ned.’ She saw that she’d hurt him again and whispered, ‘Please, give me time.’
Sensing she would shrink from a more intimate embrace, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on top of her head. ‘You can have all the time in the world, sunshine, on one condition.’
She looked up at him.
‘Come back to me, when we return from Poland, Helena. Because without you, I’m lost.’
‘As you see from the number of tickets, you have to make a lot of changes, but I’ve booked seats for you on all the trains, and berths on the overnight ferry.’ The clerk in Pontypridd’s only travel agency laid the tickets on the desk in front of Ned and Helena. ʻYou take the train from here to Cardiff, change at Cardiff for London Paddington. At London Paddington you take the underground to Victoria – they have maps showing you where to go on the station walls –’
‘We have been to London.’ Ned resented the man’s patronizing tone.
‘Sorry, but not many people in Pontypridd go there. Not often, anyway,’ the clerk amended defensively. ‘You’ll have four hours to kill there if you want to do some sightseeing. But you’ll have your luggage.’
‘There is a left luggage at Liverpool Street.’ Ned sat back and crossed his arms.
‘Yes, there is.’ The man coughed in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his embarrassment. ‘From Liverpool Street you get the boat train to Harwich,’ he continued hastily. ‘You take the overnight ferry from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. At five in the morning you disembark and catch the train to Germany. It will stop at the East German border – you have applied for visas?’
‘They came this morning,’ Helena informed him. ‘For East Germany and Poland.’
‘Good, because without them you’d be turned back.’ The clerk traced their journey on an imaginary map on his desk. ‘In Berlin, you change trains for Warsaw. It’s about an eighteen-hour journey from the Hook of Holland to Warsaw. I can’t be more precise because the train has to go through four customs’ checks, and there could be a delay on any one of them, depending on what the officials find. The first will be at the Dutch port, the second at the Dutch-German border, the third at the West-East German border, and the last at the border between East Germany and Poland. I can’t book you into a hotel in Warsaw but I can give you a list of hotels that are reasonably dose to the railway station.’
