Free Past Remembering by Catrin Collier Page A

the remark fell heavily into the strained atmosphere. Relations between him and his father had improved since he’d married Diana, and her mother had moved in with them, but only because the introduction of extra people into the household had forced his father to temper his constant criticism of every single thing he said or did.
    ‘Myrtle went to bed early. The shifts have been extended at the factory. They’ll be working twelve-hour days next week.’ Megan sliced a loaf of soda bread into quarters and set it on the table.
    ‘Fine hours and work for your sister to be doing, while you ponce around like a sissy serving up sweets in the New Theatre,’ the old man grouched from the corner.
    ‘I sieved some stew for the baby and tried him with a few spoonfuls at the six o’clock feed,’ Megan broke in, hoping that Wyn would ignore his father’s taunting.
    ‘Did he like it?’ Diana asked.
    ‘Lapped it up.’
    ‘Good, the sooner he gets used to ordinary food the better for me and anyone who looks after him.’
    ‘Sit down and eat up while it’s hot.’ Megan carried the pot to the table and ladled out two bowlfuls.
    ‘How is Mrs Moore, Diana?’ Wyn’s father asked.
    ‘Unconscious most of the time and incoherent when she does wake. Bethan says she hasn’t eaten in days.’
    ‘Then she’ll not last long. And to think she’s a good ten years younger than me,’ the old man cackled gleefully.
    ‘The way you’re going, Mr Rees, you’ll outlast us all.’ Megan handed the old man his supper of bread and cheese on a tray. She and Wyn’s father were the only ones who were able to eat at regular meal-times. Myrtle generally ate in the factory canteen to save bother, while Diana and Wyn usually only managed breakfast and supper at home, filling up in between on pies from the shop and tea in Ronconi’s café.
    ‘Strong constitution to begin with.’ The old man smiled, which made him look more sickly than ever, reminding Diana that Alma Moore’s mother wasn’t the only one who had been given a death sentence.
    ‘How is Bethan?’ Megan sat down opposite her daughter and son-in-law at the table.
    ‘You know Beth, looking after all the sick in the town, her evacuees, running errands for all and sundry.’
    ‘Anything not to think about Eddie, and now Maud,’ Megan frowned. ‘She heard from Andrew lately?’
    ‘She didn’t say.’
    ‘That means she hasn’t. Sometimes it feels as though letters are the scarcest commodities of all.’ It had been a month since Megan had heard from her son, William, who as far as she could make out was ‘somewhere in North Africa’. The closest she could get to him were the daily trips his wife, Tina, made from the Tumble café to see if her mother-in-law had received any news she hadn’t.
    ‘This is the best cawl I’ve ever eaten, Megan. Just what I needed.’ Wyn pushed back his chair and stretched his legs out to the fire.
    ‘It always tastes better after the second boil. There’s plenty more if you want another bowl.’
    ‘No thanks, I wouldn’t be able to move, let alone climb the stairs.’
    ‘Tea?’
    ‘I’ll give Diana a hand to bath the baby and put him to bed.’
    ‘Women’s work,’ his father sneered.
    ‘With this war keeping three-quarters of the men in the town away from home, it’s good to know there’s at least one poor mite in Pontypridd who knows who his father is,’ Megan countered briskly, in an attempt to let the old man know that Wyn wasn’t the only one who resented his constant carping.
    Diana went to the cot and lifted out the boy they’d named William after her father who’d been killed in the Great War. ‘You take Billy.’ She handed him over to Wyn. ‘Put your feet up, Mam. I’ll do the dishes.’
    ‘What dishes?’ her mother scoffed as she cleared the table. ‘Two bowls and four bread plates. Go on, off with you, I’ll have the tea made by the time you’ve finished.’
    Wyn followed Diana up the stairs. This was his