A Small Country Read online

  ‘Wanton,’ he said, turning towards her.

  Pain rose to her heart, exquisitely, like the larks rising.

  Then Robin came back towards them, leading the horses. Miriam dressed the baby and Josi helped her back into the wagon.

  They travelled slowly because of the heat of the day.

  ‘Is that the sea?’ Miriam asked, sitting up so suddenly that she woke the baby. Everything in the distance was so blue that she couldn’t be certain.

  ‘Aye,’ Robin bach said. ‘Aye, that’s it. That’s the sea right enough.’

  ‘We’ve arrived then,’ Josi said. ‘We turn off on this corner here.’

  ‘We’ll be near the sea then, will we?’

  ‘A mile or two, I think.’

  ‘Fancy forgetting to mention the sea.’

  ‘I chose the place for the view,’ Josi said, with a touch of irony. Then, in case he had been too severe, he sang a few lines of an old folk song.

  On the seashore is a flat stone,

  Where my love and I would meet.

  Now the wild thyme grows about it

  And sprigs of rosemary.

  He was glad she seemed pleased about the sea. He doubted whether there was anything else about the mean little cottage to give her much pleasure.

  ‘Well, here it is.’

  It was an uncompromising box of a house, peeling whitewash under a slate roof, four small windows and a door, a holly tree outside, a square garden in front, a yard at the side, a woodshed, a pump and a clothes line.

  ‘It’s very homely,’ Miriam said, as Josi lifted her and the baby out of the cart. She was pleased to find it so unprepossessing. A puritan streak in her nature wouldn’t have wanted anything beyond her deserts. The morning had confounded her.

  ‘I’ll make you a seat here,’ Josi said, marking the spot where he’d set her down with the palm of his hand. ‘And you can sit and look at the sea.’

  ‘I’ll have to go up to the house for the door key,’ he told Robin. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just up the road about a quarter of a mile; shouldn’t take me long.’

  ‘I don’t like the old sea myself,’ Robin said, as he took the horses out of the shafts. ‘On a day like today, well, it looks harmless enough, but it’s different in the winter when it starts churning about and reminding you of all the drowned. It’s not alive like the land is; it doesn’t produce anything, seed-time or harvest, except old fish. It just lies there skulking and churning about and reminding you.’

  ‘I’ve only seen it once before,’ Miriam said, as though to excuse her moment of excitement. ‘Close to, I mean.’

  ‘You’re close enough to it here, in all conscience, but that doesn’t mean to say you’ve got to go in or on it. As long as you don’t go in it or on it, it can’t do you too much harm, except like the river, it can go on your chest if you’re prone, and if you are, chewing an onion last thing at night and first thing in the morning is the thing to do. Baby won’t suffer though, you shall see, wrapped in it from infancy, she won’t be prone.’

  ‘I think I’ll go and peep through the windows,’ Miriam said, a little worried in case Robin felt it necessary to carry on talking until Josi came back.

  ‘No, no, not for the world. Oh no. It’ll bring you nothing but bad luck. There’s nothing so unlucky as to see your future home for the first time through glass. Nothing in the world.’

  Miriam expressed her thanks for his warning and stayed by his side.

  ‘Not that I’m superstitious,’ he told her, ‘not in the least bit. Not on my own account. It’s only the moon I’m careful of, especially with sowing seeds or planting potatoes. It’s only a fool who ignores the moon. Aye indeed.’

  Miriam moved the baby to her other arm. She was still fast asleep, drugged by the fresh air.

  ‘Stop a minute now. Was your grandfather Ellis Lewis the cobbler in Cefnmwyn?’

  ‘Yes he was. Did you know him?’

  ‘No. But I knew one of his sons, Sam. Your uncle he’d be. He went down South to the pits with me thirty-odd years ago. Sam Lewis.’

  ‘He’s still down there, Aberdare way. I’ve never met him as far as I know, but I heard a lot about him from my mother.’

  ‘He’s still down there, then. He was courting Nel the daughter of The Coach-in-Hand when I knew him.’

  ‘That’s right. My Auntie Eleanor. She came to stay with us once. She’d been ill and she came to us afterwards.’

  ‘A stout girl she was when I knew her.’

  ‘I can’t remember much about her, I’m afraid. It was years ago. Before my father died.’

  ‘Yes, very stout and jolly. She would have made anyone a good wife. Sam was with the horses in the pits. Good little man, he was.’

  ‘How long did you stay down there?’

  ‘Three years exactly. Aye, indeed. It was work and the money was good but it was out of the light of day and besides I was promised to Let the Mill as she was then, and back I came. Not that the girls down South are not pretty, they are, diawch-i, and one or two of them did me the honour of asking me home after a bit of a walk we might have had out on the mountain. But a promise is a promise and Let was waiting and home I came, thirty-three years old with fifty gold sovereigns saved; enough in those days to buy two good horses and a wagon. Aye indeed. And fancy you being Sam Lewis’s niece. Well, I’ll tell you something, then. Since you are niece to old Sam, I’ll let you into a secret. That man you’ve got there is one in ten thousand and don’t let anyone tell you anything different. One and all, rich and poor; everyone is the same to Josi Evans. I’ve known him since he was a slip of a boy, mind. One in ten thousand. So there you are; you can be happy. And remember that anyone who casts a stone is not half the man Josi Evans is. Here he is now. Not a word. Not a word.’

  ‘Have you two been talking about me?’ Josi asked. ‘Ruining my character?’

  ‘Not at all. Saying I was that a ship — now, people are always praising the beauty of a ship — but saying I was that to me a ship isn’t anywhere near as noble-looking as a plough. What do you say to that?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a poet,’ Josi told Miriam. ‘His father, Gwilym Cothi, was noted for it and it goes in families like a wall-eye.’

  Josi unlocked the front door and they trooped into the house; Josi first, then Robin, and last Miriam and the baby.

  It was the best kitchen they saw first; the paper peeling from the wall, the fireplace full of ash; a smell of damp soot; even in the midsummer heat, it was chilly. The kitchen was even worse, piled high with rubbish, old clothes and mattresses, discarded pots and pans and bottles, even old food to judge by the flies and the bitter, rancid smell.

  ‘Whoever lived here before had a poorish notion of cleaning up,’ Robin said.

  ‘Chap was killed. Thrown off a horse, broke his back. The wife was in a bit of a state, no doubt.’

  ‘Something else you didn’t tell me,’ Miriam said.

  ‘Not many jobs going before Michaelmas.’

  ‘Poor old fellow. It happens. Even among horses there’ll be a bad one now and then.’

  ‘What I’m concerned about now is why Isaac Lloyd didn’t see fit to have someone clean up a bit before we arrived.’

  ‘Too busy with the hay,’ Robin said. ‘Never mind, I’ll stay and give you a hand. Drag it all outside, have a good fire. There’s water in the pump so it’s quite safe and there’s not much in the garden to spoil. Go upstairs, my boy, and see what’s there.’

  The two rooms upstairs were bare and relatively clean.

  The men started on the work.

  Miriam fetched the Moses basket from the wagon and carried it upstairs, setting it down by the window in the larger of the two rooms. Then she changed the baby and laid her down in it. She cried so lustily, though, that she had to feed her again before she was able to go down to help. By the time she had finished, most of the rubbish was already in the garden. The fire the men lit lasted for over an hour and all the time it burned, Miriam t
hought of the man who’d been thrown off his horse and had died. It seemed a bad omen. She knew she should be cleaning the kitchen but couldn’t begin on it. She stayed outside with Josi, feeding the fire, being near him. Being near him was to feel his strength.

  Afterwards, when everything was burnt to a clean black ash, they fetched the food from the wagon and unloaded the table and chairs and ate outside in the garden; bread and ham and onions, and afterwards Josi made a fire in the kitchen grate and got their new kettle and made tea for Miriam while he and Robin finished the beer.

  He and Miriam sat close together and later Robin smoked his pipe, and in the heat haze of the early afternoon when even the birds were silent they rested and took in their surroundings; the sea dazzling in front of them, the green hills behind, no sign of any other house, no noise except the whirring of the mowing machine in some unseen field; the smell of mint and blackcurrants and Robin’s strong tobacco, the faint taste of salt on the tongue.

  For the moment, Miriam felt at rest. All the guilt and discord and passion, like the noise of the million summer insects around her, dissolved into a low and peaceful hum.

  *

  All too soon, though, it was time to re-start work. They unloaded the wagon, setting everything down in the garden. Robin stayed to help Josi carry the bed upstairs and then he set off for home; Josi and Miriam standing in the road waving until he was out of sight. He had refused payment.

  ‘It’s my turn to work now,’ Miriam said. ‘I’ve got to clean out that kitchen before we can take anything inside. I’ve got my canvas apron and a scrubbing brush somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve got a hatchet and a bill-hook somewhere, too. I need to chop some wood before I do anything else. Afterwards, I’ve got to go up to the house again to get my orders for tomorrow.’

  Miriam swept the floor in every room and then began to scrub the flags of the best kitchen and the kitchen. She got a rag and washed the windows inside and out and every shelf upstairs and down. After that she turned her attention to the kitchen grate. She didn’t have any blacking so had to be satisfied with rubbing it ferociously with an old piece of velvet. That done she sorted out the pots and pans, washing all the things which had been stored for months in Cefn Eithin’s barn, and finding places for them in the pantry and on the wooden shelves near the grate. She brought in the hand-made rug Auntie Hetty had given them and then carried in the new table and chairs. She set the clock going and put it on the mantlepiece with the tea canister and the pair of brass candlesticks she’d received from her pupils. She polished her mother’s armchair with some beeswax she found on a shelf in the pantry. She fetched kindling from the pile of wood Josi had chopped and made a fire. She went to the pump to fill the kettle and when she straightened herself she was so giddy from exhaustion and heat that she sat on the grass and wept.

  Josi found her there when he returned from the farm.

  ‘You’re not strong enough for all this lifting and scrubbing,’ he said, carrying her to the chair by the fire. ‘And besides, that wasn’t what I hired you for.’

  There was nothing much more to do but feed the baby again and have some tea. Josi carried the small chest of drawers upstairs to their bedroom and then they had completed their move.

  ELEVEN

  The hay had been safely gathered in, and in record time, and the work of Hendre Ddu continued at a more leisurely pace.

  In the second week of July the annual picnic was held in Garth Isa, the elm-fringed meadow by the river, but it was Catrin and Miss Rees who presided over the lavish tea for the workmen and their wives and children, Mrs Evans still being too weak to venture from the house.

  Tom had hoped that Edward would be back for the picnic; the previous summer his presence had made it enjoyable for the first time for several years. But the letter he had sent reminding him of the date had remained unanswered; Tom had heard nothing from him since his hurried return to London almost a month earlier. Tom had had to organize the children’s races instead of his father, take part in the tug-of-war and give the impression that he was enjoying himself. Life and picnics had to go on.

  ‘If only I could see an improvement in Mrs Evans,’ Miss Rees said, several times every day to anyone who would listen, ‘I wouldn’t worry about anything else.’

  Tom envied the old woman her whole-hearted loyalty. He seemed to have many worries, large and small.

  One of the things on his mind was the debts he had managed to run up over the last academic year, not enormous ones, but large enough to cause him anxiety. The previous summer he had been able to settle his, admittedly smaller, debts from the money his father had given him for his holiday. ‘How much will you be wanting?’ his father had asked, and though his eyes had widened when Tom had named a sum sufficient to clear his debts as well as cover the week in London, he had handed it over without a word.

  ‘You see, I owe a bit, here and there,’ Tom had explained. ‘Well, you have to stand your friends a lunch now and then, don’t you? You can’t stop them dropping in to your rooms for drinks, can you?’

  He knew he couldn’t begin to explain his debts to his mother. She thought his allowance very generous and would be hurt, even horrified, to know that he had over-spent it and without asking her permission.

  A hundred, a hundred and fifty, was nothing, he told himself, compared to what several of his friends owed to various tradesmen. He was already twenty-one, and since he was going to remain home to run the farm he would be able to insist on a decent allowance and would be able to get everything sorted out before too long.

  But whenever he managed to console himself, he remembered his father’s letter; how he had seemed so concerned about a twenty pounds he had taken from the bank before leaving home, his promise to repay it before Michaelmas.

  Before he could approach his mother for money for himself, he knew that he must tackle the matter of his father’s loan; he couldn’t bear to think that he might he harassed by such a trivial sum. What did they know of the stresses and strains of his new life?

  By the Sunday evening following the picnic he had become so worried and depressed that he knew he had to talk to his mother. She had had a relatively good day, had been to morning service for the first time for weeks and had got up again after her afternoon rest.

  He went for a walk by the river after tea, rehearsing what he was going to say; he had never before interfered with anything which wasn’t, strictly speaking, his concern. When he got back, he found her alone in the drawing-room reading her Bible.

  The drawing-room was an ugly, over-furnished room, not much used. There were dark oil paintings of his grandfather and great-grandfather and other members of the Morgan family all around on the dark, maroon and brown wallpaper, and old sepia photographs in heavily decorated frames on every available surface. Most rooms in the farmhouse had retained a Georgian simplicity, but the drawing-room was Victorian; plush and velvet and mahogany. Only Christmas ever managed to lighten its gloom; in high summer it seemed particularly depressing.

  Tom sat at the window so that he could look out at the trees and the sky, and waited for a sign that his mother was ready to talk to him. She went on reading her Bible as though unaware of his presence. It was only his determination to get at least one matter off his chest that kept him seated; he felt more uncomfortable by the minute.

  ‘Tom,’ she said at last, closing her Bible and taking off her glasses.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that letter Father sent,’ Tom said, speaking hurriedly and rather too loudly in his embarrassment. ‘He said he’d taken some money from the bank and intended paying it back as soon as he could.’

  He faltered as she turned her large, down-drooping eyes on him. She seems to have cried away all the colour from her eyes, he thought, sadly; they used to be such a pretty blue.

  ‘Have you given it any thought?’ he continued lamely.

  ‘How can I think about money at a time like this? Haven’t I got enough on my mind?’

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p; ‘Of course you have. Might it be better if I wrote to him – I’ve got his address – and told him he needn’t pay it back? Tell him you said so.’

  ‘Why? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not as far as I know. But poor enough, I should think. Twenty pounds would make a lot of difference to him, I should think.’

  Mrs Evans closed her eyes. Her hands were resting on the Family Bible which was on the circular table in front of her. Tom wondered if she was praying, asking for guidance. He felt near it himself.

  ‘I can’t let you do that,’ she said at last. ‘How can I, Tom? I would be condoning his sin if I provided money for him. I’m trying to keep my feelings out of the situation, imagining him a man married to a woman I don’t even know. However desperate his plight, I couldn’t condone his breaking his marriage vows.’

  ‘You can’t keep yourself out of it,’ Tom said. ‘How can you? No one can be objective about something so close to them. But I can’t see that letting him keep that paltry sum of money is condoning anything. And legally I’m not even certain that he isn’t entitled to keep it.’

  His mother spun round to face him. ‘Of course he’s legally entitled to keep it,’ she said angrily. ‘I’m not interested in the legal position, you should know that. He drew whatever he wanted from my bank account and no questions asked, the money was as much his as mine, it was he that managed it, you know that very well. But he knows that he is not morally entitled to take money to ... to ... well, for sinful purposes, and if he hasn’t lost all his moral values he will pay it back, and it’s right that he should. It’s a matter of conscience. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Tom spoke wearily, his sympathy for his mother worn very thin.

  Suddenly, though, her tone changed completely.

  ‘Tom, write to your father, you say you have his address, and ask him to come back. Tell him that if he comes home, I will provide generously, most generously, for the child. He can’t think I would deny an innocent child. Oh Tom, if he understood that, and understood how I feel towards him, he would come home, I’m sure of it. I think he will come home, Tom, and so does Nano.’