Past Remembering Read Online Free PDF Page A

of steps that led from the platform of Pontypridd Station into station yard. Standing in the light of a half-moon that seemed unnaturally bright after months of winter blackout, he breathed in the cool, night air and looked out over the Tumble.
    The scene before him had remained wonderfully, absurdly unchanged in a world gone mad. Like a reassuring glimpse of normality after a horrific nightmare. The darkened silhouette of the last bus rattling out of the old tram road towards Broadway; a flash of light from the doorway of Ronconi’s café opposite as someone lifted the blackout curtain too wide; the high-pitched cry of Joey Rees the retired boxer, calling ‘Echo’ as he left the White Hart in an attempt to sell his last copies of the wartime-thinned pages of the Cardiff evening paper.
    Turning away from the women touting for trade behind him, he closed his eyes and gripped the cord of his kitbag until it cut into the palm of his hand. He was home! For the first time in thirteen months, one week, three days and nine hours his wife was within reach, and he was determined that for the next seventy-two hours they would forget there was a war. And afterwards – best not to think about afterwards.
    Setting his sights on Taff Street, he pushed his cap to the back of his head and headed for the gap in the low, red-brick wall that marked the boundary of the yard. Listening warily for traffic, he stepped off the pavement on to the road. As he kicked a ball of paper from his path, the fishy, vinegary smell of cockles wafted to his nostrils, bringing with it a flood of nostalgia for the old, uneventful, pre-war Pontypridd days.
    It was a Wednesday – market day – and if he knew the locals, not even a war would be allowed to interrupt Pontypridd market. Although it was late, he heard footsteps echoing along the street, and laughter, the deep resonant tones of a man’s voice joined by high-pitched feminine giggles. He drew his breath in sharply before remembering where he was. No one other than the Germans had laughed in the country he had just left since the autumn of 1939, but then he’d forgotten that the war that had annihilated freedom in most of Europe and rained devastation on London and the Home Counties, where he was theoretically stationed, had brought munitions factories and work to the Welsh valleys; an employment that was finally putting an end to the deprivation of the depression.
    The clock on St Catherine’s church struck the hour as he passed Rivelin’s and crossed the road from Woolworth’s to the New Inn. His step quickened as he hurried past the entrance to Market Square, heading for the fountain and the shop with the comfortable flat above. Would Alma be sitting in the living room listening to the radio? Or would she be in bed? He only hoped that Alma’s mother hadn’t changed her lifetime habit of early nights. He had been dreaming about this homecoming for months, and couldn’t bear the thought of anyone, not even his mother-in-law, witnessing his first moments with his wife.
    He and Alma had what was left of tonight. And tomorrow? It was half-day. Alma had written to tell him that she had taken on four assistants since he’d left to join the army. He hadn’t understood why she’d needed so many for just one cooked meat and pie shop when meat was so heavily rationed, but surely the paid help would be able to manage the business between them tomorrow. Thursday morning had never been a busy one, which was why he’d urged his CO to include a Thursday in his leave pass.
    He slowed his step when he saw the Gothic outline of the Victorian fountain gleaming palely ahead. Stepping on to the plinth surrounding it, he swung his bag from his shoulder and leaned against the stonework, staring up at the blacked-out windows of the shop and the flat above.
    He would have given a great deal to have been allowed a glimpse beyond the curtains before he walked in. Perhaps if he crept up the stairs quietly? He patted