A Small Country Page 13

  ‘Of course I won’t leave. Never.’

  ‘Not even if Benji Brynmoel asks you to marry him?’

  ‘That run-down old tramp. Not likely.’

  Lowri suddenly gave a little gasp and rushed to the oven in the front kitchen. She brought out a large golden cake, perfectly risen and smelling of eggs and spice. She carried it carefully to the back kitchen, laying it down with the batch of fruit tarts she had made earlier. Catrin watched her. ‘You’re a wonderful cook, Lowri.’

  ‘Quite good,’ Lowri said truthfully. ‘My bread isn’t as good as Miss Rees’s though. She says it takes fifty years to get the dough just right.’

  Both girls felt the weight of fifty years on them for a moment.

  Catrin was the first to shrug them off.

  ‘If you and Jâms were to come to any agreement, Tom would find you a little place, you can depend on it. In six or seven years, say.

  ‘Huh,’ Lowri said. ‘Huh.’

  Catrin went upstairs to her mother.

  *

  ‘Why didn’t Nano ever get married?’ she asked her.

  ‘Why should she get married? She had everything she wanted here. She was housekeeper before she was thirty. She’s been here fifty-two years, a few weeks longer than I have. She came to be my nurse-maid.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When my poor mother died, and I only five at the time, who would have snatched Nano from me then?’

  ‘Did anyone try? Did she ever have a sweetheart?’

  ‘She may have done. I never heard of anyone. Perhaps she hoped my poor father would marry her. That sort of thing happens now and again, and oftener too, but he was a very proud man, my father, The Morgans were real gentry once, you know; they had large estates in Pembrokeshire at one time; I’m talking now of several generations back. I suppose he might have thought, at first, of marrying some rich English lady, but he must have lost heart. He didn’t have any spirit for anything but work towards the end. Nano stayed with him, anyway.’

  ‘She stayed with you, surely.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘But you think she may have been in love with Grandfather.’

  ‘In love? I don’t know about that. She was a grown woman by the time I was old enough to take notice, not a girl. In any case, she was much better off here than she would have been in any small place with five or six children to rear.’

  ‘I hope she thought so.’

  ‘Of course she did. Well, I suppose she did. Some would choose poverty, I suppose. I don’t feel certain of anything by this time. Why do you bother me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m very thoughtless.’

  When Catrin told her mother that she would be leaving for Cardiff in ten days’ time, she accepted the news without flinching.

  THIRTEEN

  When Josi saw his son coming towards his house, he was full of anger. Pride, which he didn’t know he possessed, churned up inside him; he was ashamed that Tom should see his poor cottage, clean now, but badly in need of paint and wallpaper, bare of furniture, short of every comfort.

  He went out on to the path as though to forbid him to enter.

  ‘Father, I’m sorry,’ Tom said, his voice so meek and troubled that Josi was immediately placated. Whatever Tom wanted, it wasn’t to humble him.

  ‘Come in, son.’

  Josi put his arm round Miriam’s shoulders when he went back to the kitchen, a gesture both acknowledging and supporting her.

  ‘Here’s Tom come,’ he said.

  Miriam and Tom managed to smile at each other. The three stood together, formally, awkwardly, the evening sun slanting in at them through the open door. Tom’s dark suit, his white shirt with its stiff high collar, added to the gulf between them; Josi was in his shirt sleeves, a brown spotted handkerchief at his neck, Miriam in a print dress, a long blue and white apron over it

  ‘It’s a fine evening,’ Josi said. He smiled, encouraging Tom to give them his message.

  ‘I must fetch some things from the line,’ Miriam said.

  ‘No, don’t go. I want you to hear what I’ve got to say.’ Tom turned back to his father. ‘Yes, it’s bad news, I’m afraid. Doctor Andrews says that Mother is dying. He doesn’t think she’ll last till Michaelmas; he’s sure she can’t live beyond Christmas. I wondered if you could possibly see your way to coming home for these last weeks.’

  The shock in his father’s eyes halted him for a moment but he steeled himself to finish. ‘I know I’m making difficulties for you in asking; I know that. All the same, I don’t know what to do but ask. It’s all she wants. She talks of it all the time. And she’s dying.’

  Josi sat down heavily in the armchair. Tom saw how he would look as an old man; shrunken and defeated.

  Miriam caught a sob in her throat, made one strange, child-like sound, then was silent again.

  ‘Make us a cup of tea, love,’ Josi said at last. He got up and squeezed her arm. His words were for her. ‘It’s like a bad dream, isn’t it?’ They stood together for a moment.

  Then Miriam went to the pump to fill the kettle and Josi put some sticks on the fire.

  ‘Sit down, man,’ he said to his son. ‘We don’t charge for sitting. How did you come, then?’

  ‘On the train from Llanfryn to Newcastle, a taxi-cab from there; walked from the main road because the driver was afraid of the hill.’

  ‘Thought I hadn’t heard a horse.’

  Miriam put the kettle on the fire and got out cups and saucers. They had had their supper; she wondered what she could offer Tom; there was sanity in thinking about food and drink. She gripped the table as she caught Josi’s eyes upon her, so full of love and pain they seemed.

  ‘Will you have some bacon?’ she asked Tom.

  ‘I’ve eaten, thank you. In The Swan. I had to wait for the taxi-cab to come back from Aberaeron; someone going to the seaside earlier on.’

  For a time no one spoke. The fire hissed and spat; it was a long time before the kettle started to hum.

  ‘Does she know?’ Josi asked, then.

  ‘No. Neither does Catrin. Doctor Andrews told me so that I’d agree to letting Catrin go away. He doesn’t want her at home.’

  ‘Cancer, I suppose?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. He had a specialist some time back, he said.’

  ‘Yes. He told me it was to do with the headaches she’d been having.’

  ‘It wasn’t that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here’s your cup of tea, at last.’ Miriam’s hand shook as she passed it to him. The cup clattered in the saucer.

  ‘You’ll have to stay the night,’ Josi said. ‘You can have a blanket on the floor down here.’

  ‘Thank you. I could walk back to The Swan but it’s a fair step; I’d rather do it in the morning.’

  ‘What time is your train?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘You’ll need to start at seven, then.’

  ‘Half past six, seven.’

  ‘How was the hay?’

  ‘Very good – same here I suppose?’

  ‘Aye. Pretty fair.’

  ‘Davy is forecasting a wet August, though.’

  ‘Always does, man. Prophet of doom, old Davy. Take no notice It’ll be a good harvest, the barley’s tinkling already.’

  Miriam went back to the table where she’d been ironing. She started folding little garments and putting them to air on the brass rail over the fire.

  Tom knew they wouldn’t talk again about his mother until the morning. In the morning, his father would tell him what he had decided. He had to wait till then.

  It was strange how he could sit so comfortably in the same room as his father’s mistress. She didn’t look like anyone’s mistress; just an ordinary, pretty woman, brown and freckled. Or was there something about her eyes? Strange eyes, wild and frightened, a strange colour, almost gold.

  ‘I’ll go up, then,’ Miriam told Josi. She looked a second at Tom, but didn’t smile.

&
nbsp; ‘Bring her down after you’ve fed her,’ Josi said. ‘She likes it by the fire.’

  ‘You can fetch her down.’

  ‘I’m not going back to Oxford,’ Tom said, when Miriam had left, shutting the door behind her.

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Catrin’s going to Cardiff to train as a nurse – that’s the latest. I’ve no idea what made her change her mind. She doesn’t say. Art School one week, nursing the next; sudden as that. Doctor Andrews pulled a few strings and got her in to the Infirmary in Cardiff. The course started in May, but he knew somebody.’

  ‘Does she know that Catrin’s going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure you won’t have a bite to eat? What about some oat-cakes and buttermilk?’

  ‘I’ll have a couple of oat-cakes then, and another cup of tea.’

  ‘Listen to that bird. Blackbirds sing differently up here; same notes, different tunes.’

  ‘I knew a blackbird could whistle The Old Hundredth.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Heard it four or five times.’

  ‘You drink too much, boy, I tell you all the time. The Old Hundredth!’

  They continued to mutter at each other good-naturedly for a while; talking of anything except what was in both their minds.

  ‘What’s the work like, up here?’

  ‘Work’s much the same everywhere, isn’t it. It’s a hard place, though, if you live in. The food’s terrible.’

  ‘Can’t be worse than we used to have at school. We had a dish called Workhouse Special. No one could eat it and we were all starving.’

  ‘Starving? You don’t know the meaning of the word, you and your school. When I was seven or eight I used to work for my Uncle Dan on a Saturday morning. Collecting acorns for the pigs, something like that. Hard work too, scrabbling under the wet leaves; you’d work for an hour to get a bucketful. And do you know what my wages were after a morning’s work? Four hours’ work?’

  ‘I used to dream about food in that school. Liver and onions. Dumplings.’

  They were silent at last, the gathering darkness gave them the courage to be silent and to look at each other.

  He despises me, Josi thought, I don’t blame him. When he’s older, perhaps he’ll be kinder, more understanding.

  I think he should come home, Tom thought, it’s his duty to come home. He shouldn’t have left Mother. All the same.... All the same....

  Each wondered what decision would have been reached by morning.

  At last Josi yawned and bent to loosen his bootlaces.

  ‘I’ll have a bit of a walk while there’s still some light,’ Tom said, realizing that he’d be in the way while they were getting ready for bed.

  ‘See you in the morning then, son. I’ll be down by half past five. You’ll have the fire going and the kettle boiling by then, no doubt.’

  ‘What shall I do, sweetheart? Tell me.’

  Miriam didn’t answer. She knew he would go back to his wife. He was a good man, kind and dutiful. It was only because of the baby that he’d ever been able to leave in the first place.

  She found his hand and kissed it.

  ‘It’ll only be for a short time,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll have to go back. What do you say? Oh, Miriam, say something. Please.’

  She sat up in bed and looked towards the window. It was utterly dark, as dark outside as in.

  ‘There isn’t a choice,’ she said at last. ‘You must go.’ She felt his body slacken with relief.

  ‘It’ll be so difficult, though, won’t it. Seeing her growing weaker, trying to be patient. We shouldn’t talk about afterwards, I know, but we’ll be able to get married afterwards. Won’t we? Miriam?’

  ‘Perhaps so.’

  ‘Why perhaps? What can stop us? Afterwards? Miriam?’

  But she had no more comfort for him. It suddenly seemed monstrous, what he intended to do. How could he leave her now? How could he?

  ‘Why should I want to marry you? What’s so wonderful about marriage? Christian marriage ordained for the procreation of children. Only that? It’s a denigration of love, it seems to me. Animals mate to procreate the species; human love is a different thing, surely, something larger – it’s got to be – an explanation of life, its health, the only thing that makes it bearable. I don’t want Christian wedlock. I don’t want to be locked to anyone, not even to you, and I’m not a Christian, I keep telling you that. I’m not a Christian.’

  ‘Never mind, never mind. I’ll have you as you are, freckles and all and thin as a whippet. Lie down, my little one. My little pagan.’

  Josi’s voice was low and his hands tender and soothing, but she seemed in a fever.

  ‘I can’t lie down. I’m going outside. I can’t stay in bed. It’s too hot up here. There’s no air. Just over the stile the grass is cropped like moss, it’ll be soft and cold. Won’t you come out with me, Josi? Let’s pretend this hasn’t happened. The moon will be up soon. I want you, Josi, and I won’t have you long. You’ll go before the end of the week, I know, and I’ll be half mad for you. Walking round in my flannel petticoat and singing like old Marged Rhys.’

  ‘Lie down now, there’s a good girl.’ Josi’s voice was the one he had for a frightened animal. ‘Lie down now.’

  ‘I’m going alone, then. If you won’t come with me, I’m going alone.’

  She sprang up from bed and almost made the door, but Josi was too quick for her. He was too strong for her; he picked her up, carried her back and laid her on the bed.

  ‘A hussy, that’s what you are, a shameless hussy. Can’t live decently between four walls. No. And you’re proud of it, aren’t you. Proud of being a man’s downfall. Proud of being a man’s whore.’

  But she, having heard his monologue many times before, wasn’t attending to a word of it, only kissing him and crying and keeping up a monologue of her own, ‘Open up, oh ye gates, for the king of glory to come in. My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels were moved for him.’

  They found peace and oblivion at last. That one night more.

  In the morning, Josi told his son that he would be returning to Hendre Ddu before the end of the week.

  ‘It’ll serve Isaac Lloyd right, that’s one thing I’m glad about,’ Miriam said. ‘The old fox. Only why should I call him a fox, a fox may be sly but he has his dignity and a sense of fair play; Isaac Lloyd has neither; he’s a twisted old miser and I’m glad you’ll be out of his clutches.’

  ‘I’ll have Prince and Mabon and the wagon here by day-break on Friday,’ Tom said. ‘We’ll load up; take every stick of yours with us. We’ll leave it all at Garnant Mill, they’ve got any amount of room. I can say it’s stuff I had at Oxford; they know I’m leaving.’

  It’s all too easy, Miriam thought, swinging from one mood to another. It’s our little home which is being disposed of, it’s not just furniture. It’s too easy. Too easy.

  Tom suggested getting lodgings for Miriam and the baby in Carmarthen, but Miriam had seen a vacant room advertised in Morfa, the seaside village they could see from the top of the hill, and was determined that that was where she would stay.

  Tom brought out a leather purse from his pocket.

  ‘Pay three months’ rent in advance,’ he told Miriam. ‘Pay whatever they ask. Don’t stint yourself in anything.’

  ‘I’ve got money,’ Miriam said, ‘I shall be quite all right.’

  Tom, realizing at once how tactless he had been, looked apologetically at his father. But Josi was smiling and looking at Miriam so tenderly that Tom couldn’t wait to be away.

  ‘Don’t hate me,’ he said quietly to Miriam as he left. ‘Please don’t hate me.’ He was afraid to offer her his hand.

  ‘I must go too,’ Josi said after his son had left. ‘I must go to work.’ But he didn’t go. He sat down again in the armchair by the fire and took Miriam on his knee and when she cried, he cried, and they sat without a word, their tears mingling.

  The baby
was unsettled; crying even after Miriam had fed her, crying through the morning. I’m losing my milk, Miriam thought, whatever happens I mustn’t lose my milk. She didn’t ask to be born. Oh, Elen, smile at me.

  In a panic, she drank almost a pint of buttermilk straight from the pitcher, then went out to sit on the doorstop in the sun and tried to will herself to think about anything other than Josi; their parting. She tried to think about milk, a land flowing with milk and honey, about water, about the pool in the river where she had swum as a child, how green and cold it was, dappled by shafts of sunlight breaking through the high elms. You could see fish darting about under the water. When she was about seven, she had won first prize for a composition about fishing, though she had never caught a fish or tried to catch a fish in her life, and Owen Brynglas, a famous fisherman, aged nine, had thrown a stone after her. Rain. That was another beautiful sight, rain, falling straight and silent on the land, possessing it. Rain. Once, it had rained so hard that her bed was soaked through in the night. She had had to sleep with her mother, then, and had discovered that she only had one blanket on the bed. After that they had always slept together in the driest part of the room, with three blankets. Rain. Rain. He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass; as showers that water the earth. The story of Noah; how moving. When the dove had brought back the green leaf. And God’s rainbow over the world. ‘And the Lord said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done. While the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest and cold and heat and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.’ That’s it. That’s all there is. Man is weak, imperfect, irredeemable, yet summer and winter and day and night shall not cease. That’s as much religion as I need. That’s enough for me. Who needs more?

  Feeling calmer, Miriam fetched the baby and put her to the breast again, but again she rejected the offered nipple, turning her face away and crying as before.

  Miriam, who had tried being calm and still, now felt compelled to action. She wrapped the baby in a light, carrying shawl and walked hurriedly down the steep hill to the village. She was in her ordinary working dress, a pale grey calico which she used to wear to school during fine weather – it was shabby now and stained – she was far from looking her best and she felt tired and dishevelled. In spite of it, she decided that she would call at the white-washed cottage near the beach, where she’d seen the vacancy advertised. The sooner she was settled in somewhere the better. It was her fault that the baby was upset.