Love and War by Sian James Page B

home or have school dinners, so we’re on our own.
    ‘Do you ever think, Rhian, about that telegram coming? We regret to inform you...’
    ‘I don’t let myself think of it,’ I reply, rather harshly.
    ‘Don’t you really? Oh, you are brave. I think about it all the time, seem to think of nothing else.’
    ‘For goodness’ sake, Mary, don’t be so morbid. You’re not helping Alun by spending your time rehearsing his death. Write to him as often as you can and try to keep cheerful, that’s the only way you can help him.’
    She doesn’t seem to hear me, but carries on in a high, wavering voice, like someone in a fever. ‘You hear about women who don’t stay faithful to their men when they’re overseas. How can they bear the guilt when that telegram comes? Don’t you think it would drive them mad?’
    ‘Mary, if you’re not careful, you’ll be the one who’ll go mad and Alun will come back and find you in Brynglas Asylum.’
    ‘Oh, that’s cruel.’
    ‘I was only joking, girl. Look, we’d all go mad if we spent our time dwelling on all the terrible things that could happen. Everyone has got somebody they’re worried about; son, father, husband or friend. You’re not the only one.’
    ‘I know. Why can’t I be reasonable and calm like you? I’ve lost my faith, that’s the trouble, I think. I can’t even pray any more. Religion has always been such a big part of my life and now it means nothing.’
    ‘You should go to see Mr Roberts after school. He’s so understanding about doubt and weakness. He’d really help you.’
    ‘Do you mean, Mr Roberts, Tabernacle?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh, I couldn’t, Rhian. You see, he’s Congregational and I’m Baptist.’
    ‘He won’t mind. You remember how Christ was always ready to associate with sinners and publicans? Well, Mr Roberts is like that even with Baptists.’
    She manages to smile – and Mary Powell doesn’t often smile. She looks very like the young woman in the Radio Times advertisement, the one so badly in need of Parkers’ little pink liver pills. Perhaps I should get her some.
    ‘I must go back to my room now,’ she says. ‘I’ve got some Form Three boys coming in to do their corrections.’ Her voice becomes shrill. ‘And if they don’t finish them this dinnertime, I’ll keep them in tonight until they do. There are some evil boys in 3C.’
    Mary Powell can’t keep any sort of discipline, poor thing. She should never have become a teacher. The sooner Alun comes back and takes her away, the better for all of us.

    When I tell Ilona Hughes about Gwynn Morgan coming to the house, she says she’s off to the pictures, which is very decent of her. It’s a double feature programme; Esther Williams swimming in one and Dick Haymes singing in the other; she’ll be bored out of her mind. I give her some of my sweet coupons.
    She goes at ten past seven and then I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t imagine why I suggested he should come to this house. What could I have been thinking of? What if my mother-in-law decides to call on me? She doesn’t come often, admittedly, but what if she happens to be at a loose end and takes it into her head to come up to criticise my new dress? What if she can’t resist calling to ask if I’ve heard from Huw? We’ve got an arrangement that if I get a letter before school, I call to tell my next door neighbour, Sam Jones, a retired railwayman, who’ll immediately go down to let her know, but I don’t think she trusts me to remember. Every time she happens to see me in town she asks whether I’ve had any news. You can’t blame her, I suppose; he’s her only son, the only fruit of her womb. And besides, she remembers him when he was sitting up in his pram, clapping his hands and gurgling. I try to think about him, far from home, trusting me completely. It’s shocking, but I can visualise Ilona’s Denzil more clearly. Huw seems like someone I used to know in a previous life.
    I wash up,