MORNING SERIAL

SHE nestled once more in his arms, and they stood there in silence. A ship’s siren sounded out in the bay, and then, like an answering echo, came the low, plaintive hoot of the harbour pilot’s tug. The Town Hall clock struck, its chimes reverberating loudly over and beyond the houses, the factories, and the silent countryside.

Sally started. She broke away from their embrace.

“Ieuan… it’s late!” He smiled, and reassured her. Time — what did it matter? He was in love. She loved him. She had said so. Nothing mattered, nothing but the moment of living. Now, this very moment when life had given him the greatest joy. Her words had made him happy, delirious. He was light as air, free as the birds that nestled in the trees above him.

“It’s late. We must hurry, Ieuan.” “Late! How late?” he asked, abstractedly. She drew him back to earth with an anxious: “It’s after eleven… and we’ve got half an hour’s walk yet. Oh, please let’s hurry, Ieuan. I don’t know what mam will say...”

The High Street was deserted save for a solitary policeman who strode slowly from shop to shop, flashing his torch into the darkened doorways.

Breathless with anxiety, Sally hurried through the side streets. Ieuan kept pace with her, trusting hard that she would not be upbraided too harshly for her homecoming at such a late hour.

Abermor was Nonconformist in the extreme. The people in the main were narrow-minded and sectarian in their attitude. A girl of seventeen out after half-past ten at night was looked upon as loose and immoral. And if it were known that she had been in company with a boy in Lovers’ Lane at that hour, she would be doomed to suffer a torrent of abuse from her more severe elders.

Ieuan and Sally paused in the shadows at the end of Crooked Row. They glanced furtively up the street. Midway stood a tall woman, her head thrust out from a doorway. She took a quick survey up and down the street, then withdrew.

“It’s mam,” Sally whispered nervously. She bit her lip. “Oh, Ieuan, I must go.” “When — when shall I see you again?” he asked urgently. “Tuesday, if you like. Same time. Good night, Ieuan.” He squeezed her hand. “Good night, Sally. I—I hope you won’t have a row.” He watched her hurry up the street. Suddenly he remembered. “Sally!” She half-turned, apprehensive.

“Where?” he whispered. “Where shall I see you?” The woman’s head appeared in the doorway again.

Sally called softly. “Near the park — same place.” Then she ran towards the house.

Ieuan saw the woman step out of the doorway to let her pass. He heard her sharp reprimand. The door slammed, and there was silence.