Say Goodbye to the Boys by Mari Stead Jones Page A

put in an appearance. It was a dull, crawling afternoon, only the occasional customer educating himself in the shop. You could hear Isaac Moss Cobblers whistling some tune as he thumped away at the boots on the far side of the Hall. Trade was slack all round. Mollie Ann Fruits brought me an apple, polishing it on her apron. That German, she said, was a terrible ladies man – did I know? Nell Lewis Crockery had told her, but then Nell and her sister were sex mad. She didn’t fancy that German, but some of them couldn’t keep their hands off him. Closing her eyes, she said, ‘Depravity without wit, is like a toilet without you know what. You enjoy that apple now.’
    Laura returned and I escaped to the snooker hall down Maldwyn Street for a while, but I had to promise to be back to lock up because she was going to have her hair done at Lyn Davies’ house. At six I moved the stock from the window into the shop and fitted the shutters. I turned the key in the lock and dropped the bunch into my pocket. One of them opened the heavy padlock on the sliding wrought iron gates that were pulled across the entrance to the Hall each night. The last of the shopkeepers to leave – usually Isaac Moss – would see to the gates and make George Garston’s property secure. I decided to keep the keys in my pocket. There was a big dance on at the Royal but Ceri wasn’t keen on going and the alternative on a wet night in Maelgwyn had to be the other cinema, the Palace. A dry place might well be useful, later.
    We had to run from the cinema and were the first couple to reach the porch of the Market Hall. ‘Can’t stay late,’ Ceri whispered. ‘My father still thinks I’m twelve.’ Other couples were leaping the puddles in our direction. I slipped a key in the padlock and we went into the darkness of the hall, giggling. I remembered to snap the lock incase we became a congregation.
    We sat on one of the stalls across from the bookshop, and Ceri proved ready, willing and able – up to a point. When she felt my hand too far up her leg she sat up and said, ‘Slow down, Philip Roberts. What a place for that kind of thing.’
    â€˜Well come inside the shop, then.’ I said eagerly.
    â€˜Smells like old socks in there. I bet there’s rats.’
    She was saying it when we heard the noise.
    â€˜What did I tell you?’ she added.
    We were sitting up, listening. Not rats. A sound as if there were wheels turning, a whirring sound I couldn’t put a name to. In the pipes, perhaps. It seemed to come from the far wall of the hall, near where Isaac Moss had his workshop. Suddenly the noise stopped and we were left breathing lightly in a long silence.
    Ceri slipped her arm through mine. ‘Leave me now and I’ll kill you,’ and there was a hollow, bumping sound from above, as if something had been knocked over on the top floor of the hall. ‘What was that? This isn’t good for my nerves.’
    She managed a laugh, then we were in silence.
    Fright made me noisy. ‘That’s old George Garston taking an inventory,’ I said loudly, my voice making ripples in the darkness.
    I lifted her down from the stall and led her over to the bird man’s shop and tried the handle. The door was locked. We peered in through the shutters. Just dusty old packing boxes in the corner. ‘What are we looking for?’ she said.
    There wasn’t a sound from above. ‘Watch this,’ I said, and I cupped my hands and yelled through them, ‘Hello Georgie!’ My voice echoed the length of the hall, caused a rattle in the shutters; appalled me. But there was no response to it from above.
    â€˜Home. Now,’ Ceri said. ‘My nerve’s just snapped.’
    We ran to the gates, barged through them and the line of snogging couples on the porch. I snapped the padlock shut, disregarded the remarks flung at me, and we hurried through the streets