Free Love and War by Sian James Page A

pick. And do you know what I’m going to do now? I’m going out for some fish and chips. I’m still starving.’
    ‘I don’t think I’m going to finish this marking. Not tonight.’
    ‘Come with me, then. We can have cod and chips, a plateful of bread and butter and a pot of tea for one and six.’

Five

    MY MOTHER is at the top of Pen Hewl Fach meeting me off the bus. She’s got her Sunday coat on.
    ‘I love these lighter evenings,’ she says, ‘with the snow almost gone. I couldn’t stop in the house. I’m always restless in February, waiting and waiting.’
    We pause at a five-barred gate to look down the valley at the sun setting in a blaze of pink. ‘What colour is heliotrope?’ she asks me. ‘It’s very fashionable this year, according to the Western Mail .’
    ‘I think it’s a sort of puce.’
    ‘Is it really? Puce? Then I won’t mind a bit not having a new costume of it.’
    ‘You could buy a heliotrope blouse to wear with your grey costume.’
    ‘I’d rather a nice rose-pink like that sunset, but I suppose I should stick to white. That does for everything, doesn’t it; christenings, weddings and funerals. Yes, I may buy a new white blouse if I do all right with the lambs.’
    Her voice softens. ‘I used to meet your father here,’ she says, ‘when we were courting.’ I squeeze her arm. The word courting gives me the cue I’ve been hoping for and I take a deep breath. ‘Mam. I met that silly woman, Miriam Lloyd, on the bus last week.’
    ‘Yes, she told me she’d seen you,’ she says, very calmly. ‘She said someone was meeting you off the bus as well, a tall pleasant-looking man she said he was.’
    ‘It was Mr Morgan, Art.’
    ‘Yes, I thought it might be.’
    ‘He walked home with me, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.’
    ‘And I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about your – friend . That foreign gentleman Miriam Lloyd told me about. What am I supposed to think about him? Is it Gino or Martino she’s seen you walking out with?’
    Even in the fading light, I can see her smiling. ‘I’ve meant to tell you for weeks,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t want to worry you.’
    ‘Is it anything serious, then?’ I’ve broken out in a sweat.
    ‘How can it be anything serious, girl, with him an Italian prisoner of war?’
    My knees are giving way; I can’t go on walking. ‘Please, tell me about him. It’s not fair to keep me in the dark. I need to know.’
    ‘Don’t get excited, girl, I’ll tell you everything. His name is Fredo. Well, Alfredo really, but they call him Fredo. He’s in charge of the others, a sort of foreman, I suppose. Not an officer, mind, they’re in another camp, but he’s older and he was a farmer himself, so he shows the others what to do. He works here for a few days with Gino and Martino, then works at another farm with another pair. He’s a very good worker, too, the sort who goes at it without any huffing and puffing. Well, he can sometimes get away after supper when they’re all supposed to be shut up in the camp. I don’t know how he manages it, but I suppose it’s something he could be punished for. He walks three miles to get here, so of course, I give him a bit of a meal, and we talk what little we can, me with hardly a word of Italian and him with next to no English. And after that he walks back.’
    Why can’t I think of anything to say? Because I’m terrified, that’s why. My mother is so innocent and unworldly that she doesn’t realise how violently her neighbours and friends might react. Even the wildest chapel people might feel outraged by her friendship with one of the ‘enemy’. Italians aren’t hated as the Germans are, but they’re certainly not loved. What if she was ostracised from the community? Farmers depend on one another for help at the harvest and in hard weather. What if she’s snowed up? What