One Blue Moon by Catrin Collier Page A

every morning.
    What worried Evan the most was having no savings to fall back on. As soon as he managed to put a few shillings aside in the hope they’d grow into pounds, they slipped through his fingers. Either his or Elizabeth’s shoes finally gave out, or a saucepan had to be replaced because it had gone too far for patching, or the price of coal went up, and rags down. There was always something ...
    ‘You’re quiet, Dad,’ Eddie commented, biting into a wrinkled winter apple the manager of the canal warehouse had thrown him when they’d picked up Ronnie’s flour.
    ‘Thinking how we can do better than we are.’
    ‘Give me a cart of my own,’ Eddie said impatiently.
    ‘There’s too many calling the streets as it is. If you go out on your own, all we’ll do is double our outlay to a bob a day for two carts, instead of a tanner for one. We’ll have no more rags to show for it at the end of the day.’
    ‘Don’t know unless we try,’ Eddie insisted optimistically. ‘I could always get up earlier and try further afield. The Rhondda, or down Cardiff way perhaps.’
    ‘There’s plenty working the trade down there without you adding to their number. There’s got to be more ways to make a living around here if only we knew where to look.’
    ‘I don’t see how,’ Eddie snapped. ‘We’re carting all the furniture and rags we can now, and since Fred Davies switched to lorries there’s precious little removal work going on.’
    ‘That’s what we need,’ Evan said decisively. ‘A lorry.’
    ‘Joe Craggs bought one off the Post Office last month for twenty-five pounds,’ Eddie said eagerly. ‘It only cost him ten pounds to get it ready for the road ...’ He fell silent. From what they made on the cart last month, thirty-five pounds might as well be three hundred and fifty.
    Evan heaved on the reins, and slowed Goliath to a halt outside Ronconi’s.
    ‘Don’t pull back the tarpaulin. Ease the flour bags out from under it,’ he cautioned Eddie, ‘or you’ll soak the whole load.’ Eddie jammed his sodden cap further down on his head, leaped off the side of the cart, and pulled the first of the flour sacks from under the tarpaulin. He manoeuvred carefully, but not carefully enough. A puddle of standing water slithered off the cart and drenched his trousers. Cursing under his breath he heaved the sack on to his shoulders and pushed open the door of the café. Evan tied the reins to a lamp-post and climbed awkwardly off the cart. His joints were stiff after sitting in the cold and damp all day, but it had been worth a little discomfort. Between them he and Eddie had made eighteen shillings: a nice little cushion to set against the two bob they’d made last Monday, the quietest day they’d ever had.
    He pulled out the second sack, took the weight on his bowed shoulders and staggered into the café.
    ‘Wet enough for you, Mr Powell?’ Ronnie called from behind the counter where he was sitting on a stool, watching his brothers and sisters work.
    ‘Could be worse, Ronnie. Could be snow.’ Evan carried the flour behind the counter and into the kitchen where Eddie was standing, wringing the water out of his cap into the square stone sink.
    ‘Tea, Mr Powell?’ Tony offered politely.
    ‘Thanks, but Eddie and I’d better move on.’ Evan thought of the Cross Keys pub a few yards up the road. A dram of brandy was what he needed before they took the cart back.
    ‘Tea’s no good on its own in this weather, Tony.’ Ronnie walked into the kitchen behind Evan. ‘Take over the counter for me Angelo, and bring in three teas.’ He pulled his watch chain out of his waistcoat pocket, picked out a key from amongst the fobs and inserted it into the lock of a cabinet the size of a wardrobe set discreetly behind the door. It swung open to reveal rows of bottles. Some fruit essence, some ice cream flavourings, a few wines and spirits and at the bottom, half a dozen bottles of beer.
    ‘Café stock for