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Mr Charlie?’ she asked, utilising Charlie’s nickname as both Christian and surname, because like the majority of people in Pontypridd she couldn’t get her tongue around his Russian names.
    ‘A couple of days,’ he answered briefly, glancing at Alma.
    ‘I’ll see you to the door, Mrs Lane.’ Alma preceded Mrs Lane down the stairs, leaving the woman no option but to follow her. ‘Constable Davies is waiting in Ronconi’s to walk you home.’
    ‘There’s no need. I’ll be fine.’
    ‘He insisted. You know his ideas on preventative policing in the blackout. Thank you again.’ Silencing her old neighbour’s protests with a kiss on the cheek, Alma ushered her into the street. She slammed the bolts across the door then she mounted the stairs, hearing her mother’s querulous voice crying out before she even reached the first floor.
    ‘You didn’t tell me your mother was ill,’ Charlie admonished.
    ‘There was no point when you couldn’t do anything about it.’
    ‘What else haven’t you told me?’
    ‘I’m sorry, I have to see to my mother.’ Ignoring his question she laid her hand on the bedroom door. ‘I told her you were here.’ Without waiting for him to reply she walked into the room, leaving the door ajar for her husband to follow. Her mother was lying, a smaller, more shrunken figure than Charlie remembered, in the centre of a vast double bed. Alma walked towards her. ‘Charlie’s home, Mam. Here he is, come to see you.’
    The old woman’s eyes, the only part of her that seemed alive, although she had been blind ever since Charlie had known her, moved restlessly in their sockets.
    ‘Mrs Moore,’ Charlie greeted her softly as he wrapped his fingers around the old woman’s hand.
    ‘We think she can hear, but she can’t talk. It’s a stroke.’
    Charlie kissed the old woman’s forehead before retreating into the living room. Leaving the light burning in the passage he closed the door, opened the blackout and looked down on the moonlit street. Ronconi’s restaurant was open, the room behind it in darkness. He stared at the crowd milling outside, picking out Ronnie, Bethan John’s arm locked into his. Understandable, he allowed grudgingly, considering Maud had been her sister. There were other men behind Ronnie, one a tall, fair-haired fellow he recognised as a conscientious objector who’d been given a job in the pit. He had his arms around the shoulders of two girls, neither of whom appeared to be unduly concerned by his familiarity.
    Hearing Alma’s step in the passageway he pulled down the blind and switched on the lamp as she walked through the door.
    ‘I’m sorry, she’s very restless. She hasn’t slept through a night in over six months now,’ Alma apologised as she stood before Charlie, staring at him as though she couldn’t believe he was really there.
    ‘You should have written to tell me she was ill.’
    ‘Even if I had, you couldn’t have done anything except worry. Besides, we both know you can’t always read my letters when I send them.’
    ‘Mrs Lane told me you’d opened another shop,’ he broke in harshly. ‘Didn’t you have enough to do with running one?’
    ‘It was too good an opportunity to miss. I’ve gone into partnership with Wyn and Diana Rees. When he closed his sweetshop in High Street we restocked it with our pies and reopened it. It’s doing so well we’re thinking of opening another, perhaps in Treforest or Rhydyfelin.’
    ‘You’ve become quite the businesswoman.’
    ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
    ‘At finding my wife in another man’s arms?’ He raised his eyes to meet her steady gaze.
    ‘Ronnie only came back late last night. Maud’s dead.’
    ‘Mrs Lane told me.’
    ‘He’s heartbroken, Charlie.’
    ‘And he needs you to comfort him?’
    She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and faced him head on. ‘You of all people should know that my relationship with Ronnie ended when he fell in love with Maud.’
    ‘But