A Terrible Kindness(7)
In the porch he slides his coat on and ties his scarf over his chest. With the cold air streaming through the gap under the heavy door, William hears Jimmy from the vestry.
‘Let’s hope this doesn’t screw that young man up forever. He’s a natural.’
‘Got a beautiful voice on him too,’ says Harry.
Braced against the cold, he thinks at least there’s one good thing about not having spoken to his mother for five years. He can’t even be tempted to tell her about any of this. She wouldn’t be able to bear it. He decides, with relief, that it wouldn’t help either of them to visit her when he is finished here, even if it’s the nearest he’s been to her since she left.
6
Outside the air is bitter and damp. The light is failing, but it doesn’t feel like any particular time of day to William. He tries to imagine Aberfan as an ordinary mining village, with children alive and well, and grown-ups whose world is still intact. He weaves in and out of cordons, police, miners and sand sacks, to get to the Salvation Army station. The soles of his shoes are tacky. The idea of trying to clean them when he gets home is revolting.
Chuck ’em out, William, they’re only a pair of bleedin’ shoes.
At this, the first conscious thought of Gloria since he’s arrived, his stomach flips at the remembered sensation of her confident, full lips on his. The slide of her red lipstick, the brief tick of her teeth against his, bone against bone amongst the warm softness of lips, mouth and gum. William considers finding a phone box to call her, but he hasn’t seen one yet and hasn’t got any change. Stop it, he thinks. Eat, drink, get back to work.
The smell of tannin and the rising steam from the urn balanced on stuffed brown sacks remind him how physically depleted he is.
‘Want something stronger with that?’ The tall uniformed man hands him a cup. ‘Some like a drop with their tea?’
‘Maybe. Yes.’ William passes his cup back.
The man unscrews the flat bottle and amber liquid slaps into his tea. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’ The man points to a fold-up seat a few yards away.
William realises how tired his legs are once he sits.
‘You must be one of the embalmers,’ the man says, handing him an egg and cress sandwich.
William nods, chewing.
‘You look young though.’ The man takes the empty cup back from William and pours him another one.
‘I qualified this week.’ William reaches out for a second sandwich, the white bread heavy and bending under the weight of the filling. His body is so greedy he barely tasted the first.
The man drinks his own cup of tea. ‘Family business?’
The cold is starting to affect William. His legs are trembling. He puts the tea on the pile of sacks and flicks up his coat collar. ‘Yep. I’m third generation.’
‘So you always knew that’s what you’d do?’
He shakes his head. ‘Dad was keen but Mum was against it.’
Two miners arrive, silent, before the urn. William eats another sandwich while they are served. They nod their thanks and walk away, shovelling the food in just as William had.
‘So your dad got his way, then?’ The man opens a packet of Kit Kats and hands one to William.
‘Not really,’ he says, ‘he died when I was eight.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He pauses. ‘Your mother must be proud of you now, though?’
‘Wouldn’t know.’ He stands, gulping down the last of his tea and handing the mug back. ‘I’d best go. Thanks for the food.’ He turns back momentarily, wanting to ask the man to call Uncle Robert and say he’s doing just fine, but he simply raises his hand and nods his head.
‘All the best, young man, God bless.’
‘Thank you.’ William waves again before plunging his hands into his pockets and walking as quickly as he can through the people and muck and lorries, back to the chapel, promising himself afresh with every step that he will not shed a tear, not a single one, until he has left this place.
7
William is laying a blanketed body on the table mid-afternoon, when the vestry door whooshes open. William, Jimmy and Harry look up from what they’re doing. A policeman stands before them, his hand on the shoulder of a plump, short woman in a red dress swamped by a man’s jumper. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s just run here. She makes eye contact with each of them, but her gaze rests on William for the longest.
‘This is Betty Jones,’ the policeman says. ‘She’s asking—’
‘I can’t settle,’ she interrupts, clasping the thick handle of her bag. ‘My home’s buried under this murderous filth, so we’re staying with family.’ She turns to the policeman and then urgently back to them. ‘Gentlemen, please let me help. I’ll do anything, anything. What I can’t do is spend one more minute at my sister-in-law’s and not do something!’
Her hair sits in neat, brown curls. The strip of red hem below the green wool is pretty fabric, the sort his mother would wear, but the way she’s thrown on that big jumper, and the wellies on her feet, make her look childlike. Her legs are stocky, her body brimming with energy. ‘Please,’ she continues before Jimmy can answer, ‘let me help.’ Her face creases.