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I'll Be a Sunbeam, a WW1 story


Today I'm sharing a short story that's set in the same area and era as my four Valleys novels. This story, I'll Be a Sunbeam, was originally printed in The People's Friend magazine back in 2019, before Heartbreak in the Valleys, the first in the series, was even published.


If you'd like to know something of the origin of the story, you can read about it on a blog post here. It involves my great grandmother, 'Gran', who was also called Mary Jones, and reading it always brings a tear to my eye as I recalled happy times with her.

 

Here's a little glossary of the Welsh words used:

Bora da - Good morning

Cariad - Love, sweetheart

Mamgu - Grandmother

 

I hope you enjoy it.

 

Who was this mysterious girl in a dress as yellow as her daffodils? Mary just had to find out... 

 

I'll Be a Sunbeam

 

Mary Jones unpegged the last sheet from the washing line. She sang as she placed it in the basket with the bed linen and other clothes. They'd been blessed with sun and a good breeze today.

 

As she straightened up, something bright caught her eye on the mountain that rose up behind her garden. It was that girl again, in the yellow dress, skipping away across the slope and down the side of the end house, out of sight.

 

She'd caught a glimpse of the youngster several times. She almost fancied she was a figment of her imagination, longing for a little child of her own as she did. But no, she was real enough. About six she must be, always in that dress, the colour of the daffodils now growing in her garden. She never had any pals with her.

 

A stiff gust lifted Mary's long skirt and she fought to flatten it. She'd have loved a walk on the hillside. The red campion, cow parsley and delicate thrift were springing up all over, trying to impose themselves on her ordered garden. The view of the verdant valley from further up was breathtaking, if you ignored the pit.

 

No, she didn't have the time for a walk today.

 

She glanced at her vegetable patch, sloping down the length of one side of the long garden. Had she removed that much broccoli from the second row yesterday? She'd need to pick more tomorrow, to sell to the greengrocer. He'd been glad of her supplies, and that of other amateur growers, with the shortages of the war. Why, even George V was growing potatoes around Buckingham Palace, she'd read in the newspaper.

 

She limped back to the house with the basket, dropping it on the floor and pushing it with her foot under the table in the scullery, hopping awkwardly. She'd iron the clothes tomorrow, along with the washing she'd taken in from the Big House.

 

A strident knock at the front door had her shuffling through the kitchen to the hall, opening the door to someone she knew by sight. She was carrying a sack bag.

 

'Mary Jones, is it?' said the woman.

 

'That's right.'

 

'Bora da. I'm Rhiain Jenkins, the maid from the Big House.'

 

'Good morning. I recognise you from chapel.'

 

'Me too. Mrs Evans wondered if you could do some repairs, please.' She lifted the bag.

 

'Of course. They must miss the maid who used to do the laundry and sewing.'

 

'I certainly do, and the other maid. Both went into the munitions. On my own now, I am.'

 

'We've all got to do our bit.' As she said this, Mary remembered her own attempt to get a job at the munitions factory. One look at her limp and the manager had decided she wasn't fit enough. Such a pity. She'd fancied the idea of the camaraderie with the other young women. So here she was, supplementing a soldier's pay with washing, sewing and growing. Always busy, but always alone.

 

'Aye, I suppose so. Mrs Evans says can she have it back tomorrow, with the laundry, please?'

 

'Yes, of course.'

 

The maid passed the new job over. 'Hem's come down, see, and a seam's split.'

 

Mary took hold of it, examining the damage. 'Shouldn't take too long… By the way. Do you know a young girl, about six-years-old, wanders around in a yellow dress?'

 

'Well, there's old Mrs Hughes's granddaughter. I've seen her in a bright yellow dress.' When Mary looked blank Rhiain added, 'They live in an old whitewashed cottage on the edge of the village.'

 

There were a few cottages that answered that description. Mary nodded, thanked Rhiain, and watched the maid depart with a wave.

 

Back in the kitchen, she lifted a sepia photograph encased in an old wooden frame from the dresser. She kissed the glass, behind which was the image of her beloved husband, Percy. At the front he'd been, the past four years. Where exactly she wasn't allowed to know. There hadn't been any letters from him recently, and she did so long for them. He'd signed up the first month they'd asked for volunteers, her brave man. Her heart swelled with pride.

 

Mary considered the house, devoid of his presence. Despite being married a year before the war began, the babbies hadn't come along yet.

 

'This won't do,' she said aloud. 'I've got to scrub the step, blacklead the grate, clean the windowsills, sweep the floors.' She imagined she was saying this to Percy, sitting in one of the two fireside chairs, smiling at her over his newspaper.

 

'No time for self-pity,' she admonished. 'Time for getting water on the boil to scrub that step.'

***

The following day was another bright one, the breeze softer than the previous day. Mary was relieved when the ironing and sewing was finished and collected, leaving her to tend to the vegetables. She knelt carefully, pulling up broccoli and spring onions. Later she'd take them to Mr Harris the greengrocer and collect her bit of money.

 

'Hello.'

 

The unexpected sound made Mary drop the trowel. She twisted round to see the child in the yellow dress, standing at her back gate, unkempt and grubby. Her mouth was turned down at the corners.

 

'Oh, hello there.'

 

'What are you doing?' The girl tipped her head to one side and frowned.

 

'Digging up vegetables.'

 

The girl nodded as she surveyed the garden. 'Your daffodils are pretty.'

 

'Thank you.' She was growing them for the chapel alter, for Easter Sunday. Mary rose awkwardly, limping to the gate to talk to the child properly.

 

'Why are you hobbling?'

 

How often had she explained this to people? 'When I was a little girl, I broke my leg. It didn't mend properly. Your dress is pretty.' Or it would have been, if it had been cleaner.

 

'It's my sunbeam dress. I'm a sunbeam, see.'

 

'How lovely.' Mary turned to where she'd been working, pointing to the plot. 'Would you like to help me? It's very – ' She looked back to find the girl gone.

 

There was only a voice singing, 'I'll Be a Sunbeam', and a vanishing yellow dress.

 

Mary experienced a profound disappointment at the girl's absence, and the regret stayed with her as she dug.

 

***

 

Two days later, on Maundy Thursday, Mary opened the back door to dark clouds and a chill in the air. Mr Harris had asked yesterday for some of her leeks, kale and spring cauliflowers. She'd get out and pick them before it rained.

 

She made her way into the yard, doing her coat up, a sack bag hanging on her arm. She'd pinned the larger of her two hats on her coal black hair today, in an attempt to keep off the rain, should it start.

 

Approaching the rows of vegetables, she saw there was broccoli missing from the third row. And some of the kale. All had been wrenched out, not cut neatly with a knife, as she did it, but she was sure it wasn't an animal. Someone had been here, stealing her veggies. But not many, not like someone who might be hoarding them in a larder.

 

Could it be the girl with the yellow dress? No, more likely a lad out late last night, up to mischief.

 

She shook the thought from her mind, bending instead to cut the required vegetables and place them in the bag.

 

She took them to Mr Harris's shop, glad that the thief hadn't taken enough to prevent her providing what she'd promised. Inside the greengrocer’s was the local schoolteacher in a thick winter coat and shawl, her hat ostentatious with its satin flowers. She was poking at the potatoes in the boxes in front of the counter. Mary knew her from flower arranging at the chapel.

 

'Hello Miss Price. I presume the children, and you, are on holiday now.'

 

'Yes Mrs Jones, that's right.' She picked a potato up and examined it, not looking particularly pleased with what she saw.

 

'I wonder, Miss Price, whether you know of a girl, around six-years-old, who is fond of wearing a bright yellow dress.'

 

'Oh, Gwendolen Thomas! The bane of my life.' Miss Price's voice was filled with zeal. 'Eight she is, but small for her age. Turned up in that same dress the last fortnight of school. Dirtier and dirtier it got. And not suitable. I sent a note home, but it made no difference. Such a dormouse she is, hardly says a word. Quite a strain.'

 

Mary felt sorrier for the child than she did Miss Price. If she'd been in her class, she'd probably have said little too.

 

Gwendolen Thomas. A different surname to the one Rhiain Jenkins had suggested. Hughes, that had been. Her mystery child might well be neither of them.

 

Miss Price frowned. 'Why do you ask?'

 

'Just curious. I've seen her around.' She didn't want to get her into any trouble.

 

The teacher turned her attentions back to the potatoes.

 

***

 

Mary gloried in the sunny day on Good Friday, the persistent rain of the previous day gone. She stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom in her Sunday best. Slightly past its best, if truth be told, but she'd patched a hole in the blouse sleeve very proficiently. The wool skirt was a few years old now, a longer style than was currently fashionable, where women showed a bit of their ankles. It could have been taken up, but she knew her Mam, though many miles away, wouldn't have seen it as quite decent.  She pinned on the smaller of her two hats, ready for chapel.

 

Going out the back door, she looked around the rows of vegetables, satisfied that none had disappeared in the night. But, glancing over to the flowers, she had a shock. Her lovely daffodils had almost entirely disappeared. She took a long, noisy breath in, willing herself not to cry. As soon as she returned from chapel she would make strident enquiries, maybe call into the local constable.

Despite her resolve, she dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief as she walked to the ten o'clock service.

 

Sitting near the back of the chapel, she was surprised to hear a voice say, 'Can I join you?'

 

She looked up to see Rhiain Jenkins standing at the end of the pew. 'Of course, I'll shift along.'

 

When she'd got comfortable, Rhiain said, 'Did you have any luck, finding your girl in yellow? Was it Mrs Hughes's granddaughter?'

 

'I don't know.' The whole story poured out about the missing vegetables and flowers and how she hoped it wasn't the child’s doing. 'Miss Price the teacher mentioned another child whose surname is Thomas, so there must be at least two of them with a bright yellow dress.'

 

Rhiain turned abruptly towards her. 'No, that's right. Mrs Hughes's daughter, Ada, married Herbert Thomas, so that would be her. 'Gwen. I remember now. Sad story. Ada passed away young, when Gwen was a babbie. Then Herbert joined up three year back. Left Gwen with his mother-in-law.'

 

'I see.' She wasn't sure she quite understood, but the service began. She spent its entirety considering the matter.

 

***

 

Maybe this wasn't any of her business, and perhaps the missing produce was nothing to do with Gwen, Mary thought as she returned from the chapel. But she felt she ought to speak to the grandmother all the same. From what Miss Price said, it didn't sound like she was looking after the girl very well.

 

She approached her house from the back, admiring the beautiful wildflowers on the slope once more. It was then she spotted the flash of yellow disappearing at the end of the terrace. Apart from on the day she'd spoken to her, the girl was always scampering away. She must have been looking out for Mary each time: it was the only explanation.

 

Arriving in her garden, Mary saw that another cabbage and some broccoli had gone missing. Enough was enough.

 

Fuelled with indignation, she limped along the back of the houses and out onto the hillside. When the four whitewashed stone cottages appeared in the distance she stopped. A flash of yellow alerted her to the house furthest up the slope.

Mary trudged upwards, finally reaching the front door. She knocked decisively. There was no reply. Round the back the garden was empty, save for an abundance of wildflowers that also inhabited the slopes around.

 

The back door was ajar. Mary pushed it open slowly, revealing an untidy scullery. Unwashed plates and cups were stacked in the sink. On the table were her vegetables.

 

'Hello?' she called twice.

 

When there was no reply, she crept across the scullery and into the kitchen. The fire was out and the place was cold. The stairs went up from this room. She took them slowly, about to call out once again, when she heard two voices, old and young, singing ‘I'll Be a Sunbeam’.

 

At the top she pushed open the door. In the bed was an old lady cuddling Gwen. They swayed as they sang. On the cabinets, either side of the bed, were two large vases of daffodils. The singing stopped when they saw her.

 

Mary's grief for her flowers was replaced by concern for the old lady, who must be Mrs Hughes. There were red patches on her face.

 

'Who are you?' said the old woman.

 

 'I'm Mary Jones. Are you ill?'

 

'I've had shingles,' the old lady croaked. 'Painful it's been. I've not been able to move. Lucky Gwenny's already had chicken pox, else I'd have infected her too.'

 

Mary walked to the end of the bed. 'Have you had the doctor in?'

 

'Noo. Can't afford him. I'm getting better now,' she said defiantly. 'Just knocked me out for a couple of weeks. Are you the nice lady who's been giving my Gwenny the veggies and flowers?'

 

Mary glanced at Gwen's pleading eyes, wondering what she'd said exactly. 'Yes. I didn't know you were so ill, Mrs Hughes. Who's been looking after Gwen?'

 

She already knew the answer. No one. Gwen had been looking after her grandmother.

 

Mrs Hughes burst into tears, causing Gwen to do the same.

 

'We had to eat the veggies raw as I couldn't have Gwenny light the fire,' the old lady sobbed. 'I didn't want anyone knowing I couldn't cope. I was afraid they'd take Gwenny and put her in a home. She's all I've got since my Ada passed. And with her da in the war, I'm all she's got. She's my sunbeam, see.'

 

'Oh, Mrs Hughes. People would have helped out. You should have let us know.'

 

Mary realised with sudden clarity that this was a job for her, an opportunity to work with people, not just vegetables and clothes. She'd get Mrs Hughes on her feet again, and help look after Gwen, for as long as she was needed. She could be a sunbeam too.

 

'Right, the first thing I'm doing is getting Dr Street up here.' She put her hand up to halt Mrs Hughes's objection. 'I'm going to pay for it.'

 

It's not like she had babbies to buy for yet, and there was a little bit put away for a rainy day.

 

'Then Gwen and I are going to tidy up together. I'll light the fire so you can have the veggies cooked. And I'll see if the butcher has a bit of bacon or ham.'

 

'That's very kind of you.' Mrs Hughes dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

 

'Come on, then, cariad.' Mary held her hand out to Gwen, who shuffled off the bed. 'Let's get your mamgu better.'

 

***

 

On Saturday afternoon, Gwen stood in Mary's garden with her, the yellow dress washed and clean. They surveyed the few daffodils, poor specimens, no good for decorating the altar for Easter Sunday. Mary couldn't ask for the flowers back from Mrs Hughes, otherwise she'd have to admit what Gwen had done.

 

'I'm sorry about the flowers,' Gwen said, tearfully. 'Mamgu was sad and I wanted to cheer her up. Yellow's her favourite colour. It's why I like to wear my sunbeam dress so much.'

 

'I know you were trying to do something kind, cariad. No point worrying about it now. I'll have to think of another way to brighten up the altar.'

 

As they each pondered, the postwoman, a near neighbour, stopped at the gate in her blue uniform. 'Thought I'd find you here. You've a letter. Reckon it's from your Percy.'

 

Mary jumped up to take the proffered envelope. 'Thank you, Meg.'

 

It was his handwriting all right. A warmth of contentment spread through her. She'd save it for when she was alone.

 

Gwen pointed to the slope beyond, rousing Mary from her reverie. 'There's loads of wildflowers there.'

 

'I wouldn't like to deprive others of seeing them on the hill.'

 

'We've got lots in our garden. Mamgu's not good with gardening anymore, so she leaves it to the wildflowers, see. Please, come and pick some. I can help you arrange them on the altar. My da and I used to go to that chapel, before he enlisted.' She looked sad.

 

The cut wildflowers wouldn't last as long as the daffodils, but it would brighten up the altar, if only for a couple of days. And it would brighten Gwen up too.

 

'All right then. I'd like your help. As long as you come along tomorrow and wear your yellow dress. It'll cheer everyone up.'

 

'I'll be a sunbeam for them,' said Gwen, and smiled.

 

 

 

 

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