A Silver Lining by Catrin Collier Read Free Book Online Page A

cups and saucers in hand.
    ‘So I see.’
    Mr Parry, the chapel minister, made a point of calling in on Mrs Moore whenever he was in the Morgan Street area, but despite his outwardly solicitous attitude towards her mother’s welfare, Alma found it difficult to remain in the same room with the man, let alone be polite.
    Four years ago when she had begun working Sundays in Ronconi’s café, he’d come to the door backed by a full complement of deacons, to tell her that she was no longer welcome among the congregation of the faithful.
    Distraught by the ostracism the decree implied, her mother had pleaded with them to reconsider their decision. She couldn’t bear to think of her only daughter being denied, not only entry to chapel services, but also the social life that was an important part of chapel membership. The afternoon teas, evening concerts, drama and youth clubs, not to mention the annual outing to the seaside, had been closed to Alma from that day on.
    At the time Alma had borne the ban with equanimity, upset more for her mother than herself. She’d had Ronnie then, and believed, really believed, she needed no one else.
    ‘Alma.’ The minister acknowledged her presence with a brief nod of his long thin head.
    ‘Mr Parry.’ She couldn’t bring herself to enquire after his health.
    ‘Your mother tells me you’ve been in bed,’ he commented critically.
    ‘I was tired,’ she replied shortly.
    ‘A girl of your age shouldn’t be tired.’
    ‘I think that depends on how much work a girl of my age does.’ She wondered how any man, let alone a chapel minister, could live and work in an area like Pontypridd without realising just how close to the bone most people lived. In winter there was little else for her to do except sleep between shifts at the tailor’s and the café, especially on days when the stove wasn’t lit.
    ‘I didn’t think that either of your jobs was particularly taxing.’ The minister was sitting in her mother’s chair, which he’d pulled as close to the stove as was physically possible without actually moving into the hearth. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs Moore, this room is quite chilly.’ He glanced accusingly at Alma as though she were to blame.
    ‘This house is difficult to heat,’ Lena acknowledged in a small voice.
    Alma gritted her teeth, loathing her mother’s deferential tone.
    ‘Mrs Parry has found that draught-proofing the windows with rolls of newspaper helps enormously.’ He imparted his wife’s discovery as though they should be humbly grateful for such largesse.
    ‘Our house is cold, Mr Parry, because we have precious little to burn, although I notice Mam always seems to find a few coals whenever you visit.’
    ‘Alma, please!’ her mother begged.
    ‘There’s many that find life hard these days, Alma,’ he countered testily. ’Instead of looking for more, you should give daily thanks for what you already have. A kind and loving mother, a roof over your head ...’
    ‘If we’ve a roof over our head it’s no thanks to anyone except ourselves.’
    The minister shook his head. ‘Unfortunately that is the kind of remark I’ve come to expect from you, Alma, since you embraced pagan ways. You have strayed far from the path on which you were brought up. I can only repeat what I’ve had cause to say on more than one occasion before now. I visit this house purely to see your mother, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to expect politeness from you while I’m here.’
    ‘Alma, please say you’re sorry to Mr Parry.’ Lena wrung her hands in her apron before opening up the hot plate to boil the kettle.
    ‘I am sorry, Mr Parry.’ Alma gave the apology in a tone that even her mother with her acute hearing couldn’t fault. But she stared at the minister coolly as she lifted the lid on the saucepan simmering on the second hob. Her mother had made a thin soup from the chop bones and peelings of the Christmas vegetables. She picked up one