Hosts of Rebecca

by Alexander Cordell

  “God help us,” said Grandfer. “I will be sheltering four generations. Make no mistake, Tom Griffiths, you are not living here.”

  “O, Tom!” cried Mari coming in, and she hooked Morfydd out of it. “In with you, bach, and welcome. Is it Mrs Mortymer you are after, man?”

  “Just passing, I was, and …”

  “For an appointment, is it? O, yes, now.” Finger under her chin, working things out. “Let me see. She is out tomorrow, down at Chapel. Thursday she is visiting Dai Alltwen Preacher, being he has people coming. Friday she is down with Mrs Tom Rhayader, the baby expected, you understand …”

  “Eh, grief,” said Tom, “she is a very busy woman. Saturday, is it?”

  “Saturday she is bathing me,” said Grandfer.

  “Do not notice him,” said Mari. “Saturday would be convenient, say half past seven?”

  “’Tis private, you understand,” said he, mystic.

  Private all right now Grandfer had it.

  “And … and you will tell her I visited, mind. Expect you guess the reason?”

  “Got a fair idea, Tom Griffiths, you leave her to me.”

  “God bless you, Mari, girl. Goodnight, now.”

  And Morfydd exploded as the door closed.

  “Enough of that,” said Mari, severe. “The man is entitled to a hearing.”

  “About all he will get,” I said.

  “Mam’s business, please. A good little man is Tom Griffiths. I could think of a few worse, I expect,” and she shot Grandfer a look that brought up his Cambrian.

  “Hey, you know about this!” said Morfydd, giggling. “Matchmaking, is it?”

  “Ask your mother. I am nothing to do with it,” replied Mari.

  I had often wondered if my mother would marry again, too good a woman to stay single with decent men in loneliness. And I was partial to Tom the Faith. Barge poles would not have touched her when she first came to Cae White, but time and tears were making her mellow and she had come from black some time now, looking lovely in her lace and dainty little hats. She may not have forgiven me for protesting about her grief, but at least she had listened, being different lately.

  The house was close and silent that night, with nothing but the rustle of Grandfer’s newspaper, and I wished him to the devil with his champings and grunts. Tessa was with me, too; strange I could not lose Tessa. Every bark of an otter brought me her face. About then I was losing myself with the mountain meetings where the talk was now growing like a flame to the burning of gates. A gate that would catch me square was going up on the road to Kidwelly, so I got up and left Grandfer to it.

  Spring air is like wine, autumn air as old casked ale, with a smell of centuries about it. Night birds were doing themselves proud in the elms that night, late for November, and I stood for a bit on the road outside Cae White and listened to their chirping; their beaks uplifted against the moon and the saliva bubbles from their throats sailing upward in the windless air. Screeches came from Waldo’s woods where things were dying, for owls were hunting with beak and claw. A screech time is late autumn, I think; of round eyes glowing from shadows, as if the winged things have starved themselves with song-making all summer and now squaring up their stomachs for the torrent of winter. But I do like autumn and her glories; the bloodstained edges of the beech leaves, the boles of the alders painted silver. Aye, autumn to me is best, as a perfumed gentle old matron, while winter I think of as a crone, toothless, shivering, nose-jewelled and with frost on her lashes. Summer could be Mari swinging out on the road for Chapel; spring is like Tessa dancing naked on lawns.

  Drinking pretty hard these days, Squire; fist to his head, legs thrust out, hammering for bottles according to reports. Never been outside the Reach since Tessa died, grief being as sharp for beggar or gentry. I gave him a thought as I passed the mansion, muffled against the wind. Thought of Tessa then, for the stars were as little moons above Kidwelly and the wind had promises to freeze in his shrieks, buffeting down on the foaming river. Heard the door of Cae White come open in a lull and a sword of light shafted the shippon far below me, with Grandfer stumbling in the hilt of it. This moved me faster and I turned by the bend of Osian’s place and bumped into Waldo Rees Bailiff.

  “Well, good evening. Jethro Mortymer, is it.” He peered up into my face.

  “Good evening, Waldo Bailiff,” I said.

  Carrying twins by the look of him, most expansive, thumbs in his waistcoat holes, fingers wagging.

  “Is it well with you, Mortymer?”

  “Not since that gate went up.”

  “Gate, gate? O, come now, do not be so peevish. You use the roads you must face the tolls, is it? And a trifling amount is sixpence a load.”

  “My sister hauls trams for a shilling a day,” I said.

  “Mind you,” and he looked at the moon, going secret, dewdrop swinging. “It do seem unjust for some, those just starting. But there is plenty of fair men in the county, remember – and many have influence. So how is your dear little mam?”

  “Very clever,” I replied. “You know the tollkeeper?”

  “A word in the right place, boy – leave it to Waldo. Come from black, I notice?”

  “Who, the tollkeeper?”

  “No, you bloody fool, your mam. Setting them alight in Chapel last Sunday, did you hear? Pretty as a picture, too, laughing and chattering, quite at home with Waldo. Mind you, I am choosey about the women, not like some I could mention. Respectability do count every time.”

  “Whiskers, too – I give you the tip,” I said.

  “Aye?” And he twirled them delighted, sharp as rose thorns, hooked at the end.

  Gripped my arm. “Do you think I have a chance, boy?”

  “Same as any other,” I said. “You seen Tom the Faith lately?”

  “Great God, why mention him? Would she choose a worn-out widower before a man in his prime and lusty?” And he thumped his chest as a barrel. “Three in a bed, it would be, with his dead wife Martha in shrouds down the middle. At least I have never been wedded – single as the day, I am, and free for loving!”

  “And never been bedded, counts a lot, for virginity comes uppermost with a lady as my mam. You fix that gatekeeper and I will put in a word for you, but watch that Tom the Faith for he has a deceitful nature. Goodnight, Waldo Bailiff.”

  “But wait, wait!”

  “Go to hell,” I said, and was away along the road and singing, happy in my soul at the knowledge of his misery, for he knew he had no chance. And round the corner now in the floodlight of the moon I thought of my father, the giant of strength; fervent in love, demanding in purpose, with Waldo Rees in one hand and Tom Griffiths in the other, holding them high to Mam, shaking them in a thunder of laughter, that they should presume to desire her, she whom his body had worshipped and given his kisses of gentleness. I saw my father on that walk in the moonlight. Wide of the shoulders, he was, lithe of step, bright-eyed, quick with words, noble in features, sullen in anger. And these, the dead fish of a county’s manhood were quarrelling and whining over her body. Tom the Faith; well, not so bad. Waldo Rees Bailiff …?

  Standing in the road, I listened to his galloping. Waldo of the mantraps, the virgin of the bedposts, running to the arms of Gipsy May; tearing her skirt in the hayloft, despoiling her womanhood, degrading his manhood. Obese, despicable, soiled, obscene.

  See my mam dead first.

  CHAPTER 14

  MEMORIES FADE on most things with the passage of the years, but never will I forget the day Tom the Faith called to ask for Mam’s hand, bringing references with him ranging from Squire Lloyd Parry, who thought he was hones; to his marriage lines, and his Martha’s death certificate entered as natural causes.

  “It is what Dada would have wanted, Mam,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” said she, “but I do not intend to be rushed.”

  “Rushed?” said Morfydd. “The chap has been at you two years.”

  “And another two if I will it,” replied my mother. “
Taking a bit for granted, he is, coming a bit previous,” and she bustled about the kitchen.

  “Look,” said Morfydd. “It is all right starting that business now, but you must have given him the eye, Mam.”

  “And I did no such thing. Heaven forgive me if I have given any man just reason …”

  “Do not heed her, Mam,” I said. “A lonely old life it is being a widow and you are entitled to company, so give it careful thought – a nice little man is Tom Griffiths, as long as it isn’t that Waldo Bailiff.”

  “Eh, that thing? Wouldn’t be seen dead with that.”

  Morfydd said, eyes slanting, “But still rivers run deep, girl – not such a fool as he looks, old Tom – might expect more than your company, mind.”

  “O, Morfydd, hush!” whispered Mari.

  Blushes and looks at boots at this. Devil, that Morfydd.

  “Are you raising them in singles, Mam, or settling for twins?” said she.

  “Not very considerate the way you are behaving, I must say, Morfydd.”

  Had to giggle myself with Mam trying not to laugh. In front of the mirror now, pushing and patting her hair, straightening her neck lace. “Indeed, I do not know what the present generation is coming to – no respect for parents, is there? Only just turned fifty I am, remember. In oak and brass knobs you would have me half a chance.”

  “And very beautiful you are, too,” said Mari, kissing her. “Do not mind old Morfydd, Mam. An old torment, she is, and jealous. Can’t find a man for herself and determined you won’t have one,” and she clipped at Morfydd’s ear going past.

  “Two minutes to go,” I said.

  “Lace on the head, is it?” asked Mari.

  “I will stick to my bonnet,” said Mam. “Now listen, listen all of you. This proposal of marriage do not mean I am going to accept Tom Griffiths, understand? I am giving him a hearing out of politeness, but nobody is sewing me in bridal sheets before I am ready, so I want no interference, especially from you, Morfydd Mortymer.”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “Aye, well don’t look so damned innocent. Very embarrassing it will be for Mr Griffiths with me pushing him out and you pushing him in, and you will have me to contend with afterwards, remember. Get the old pot on the go, Mari girl, parched I am at the thought of it.”

  “Half a minute late,” I said, looking at the clock.

  “Left at the altar, Mam – probably changed his mind. Quick now, first impressions count most. Line up, all of us, quick. I can hear him coming.”

  And the door burst open and through it came Grandfer, a bunch of flowers held high, whooping and cackling.

  “A damned fine proposal of marriage this will be,” cried Mam. “Mari, get the old varmint out of it.”

  This even shifted me and the four of us were pushing and flapping at him but he rose up like a dog hackled and threw us off. “Am I not the head of the house?” he roared. “Am I to be rushed to bed because of a chit of a man coming courting?”

  “Grandfer,” begged Mari. “It is not decent. Away now!”

  “Now rest your hearts my pretties,” said he. “Just a little seat at the back to watch the capers, I promise to sit quiet. Tom the Faith, is it? God, there’s a selection.”

  “He is coming,” I said. “Quick, the tableau,” and we all formed up opposite the door to give good impressions to the suitor.

  Tap tap at the door like the brush of a butterfly’s wing.

  “Come on in,” called Mari, and in came Tom the Faith, all five feet of him with a stook of flowers up to his ears and his little bald head shining above his high starched collar; funeral black proposal clothes, very gallant, and down with him, then, bald head gleaming, very elegant, and Grandfer lifted a knee and swung his face to the wall, slapping it and howling.

  “O, God,” said Tom, white as a bedsheet. “Not Grandfer!”

  “Do not mind him, Tom Griffiths,” said Morfydd. “In with you now and welcome, he is just off to bed, anyway,” and she took the flowers and swept him in.

  “Most welcome, if I might say,” said Mam, looking rosy. Young and happy she looked standing there with the flowers now. Pleasant to know she was wanted, I expect. Official introductions then, though everybody knew everybody else, and the chairs were brought up to the fire while Mari dragged Grandfer to bed shrieking. We all sat down when Mari came back; backs like ramrods, most formal, expectant, for it was up to Tom to make the first move, he being suitor. And never in my life have I seen an Adam’s apple like Tom’s for travelling, creeping up under his chin one moment then diving out of sight, but to his credit he rose and spoke.

  “Mam Mortymer,” said he. “Nigh sixty years I am, living the last ten of them alone, and the loneliness is upon me, having lost my Martha. God-fearing I have always been, strict Chapel, and if I take a couple at times it is only for the company, you understand. Childless I am, too, with no fine children like yours to bring me company. I have little money, but I am industrious and will work for you and keep you in gentleness if you decide to treat this offer kindly. Mam Mortymer, I do come to offer you marriage, making the offer in the company of your children, according to custom, you being widowed, that they may advise you after I am left here.”

  And down he went, Adam’s apple leaping.

  Damned good, I thought. Must have rehearsed it for months, word perfect.

  Up got Morfydd then, she being eldest. At Sunday School she was, fingers entwined, eyes cast up, shoulders rocking.

  “Mr Tom Griffiths,” said she. “Me being eldest it is up to me to reply. Of all the men of this village I do like you most. Industrious you are, for I have been inside your house and seen it. Clean as a new pin, if I may say,” and here she bowed to him, “although there is no woman about yet,” and she smiled down at Mam who was coming pretty hot, I noticed. “And when you are left here, Tom Griffiths, I will advise my mother that she do think of you kindly, and more, because you are good to the needy and speak the true word of God.”

  Down with Morfydd and I noticed Mari was a bit bright in the eye with a secret sniffing and wiping, for it is touching when older people present themselves in this fashion, I think; being sincere and humble, with little thoughts of marriage beds and the breathless kisses of midnight. So we sat in silence now and there was no awkwardness in us, no shame at this counselling, for the purity of it had filled us, and made us at peace.

  But that was all he had coming just then, of course, for a woman cannot make up her mind on the spot, so we just sat a few minutes in quiet with the wind doing his falsetto in the eaves and buffeting in the chimney, till Mam gave Mari the eye.

  “I will read from the Book,” said Mari, and rose, drifting across the room, her black skirts held between fingers and thumbs, and she sat down in rustles and opened the Book of the King, and read:

  “‘I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse: I have gathered my myrrh with my spices; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey: I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved. I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night …’” and she closed the Book.

  “Amen,” we all said.

  Usually made me pretty hungry, this one, but the others found it touching, with handkerchiefs turning out and dabbings from the women and a good strong trumpet from Tom.

  “Now to food,” said Morfydd, recovering. “Starved, I am, and the body must be fortified as well as the soul. A good little man you are, Tom Griffiths, with speeches like that last one you ought to be in the Parliament.”

  Out with the cups and saucers then, cups of tea and bread and a two pound cheese that had set me back a fortnight, and we chattered and feasted, and Mari fetched Grandfer down in his nightshirt for his supper and congratulations all round. Well after ten o’clock before Tom left, jaunty and confident, bowing himself out, but I didn’t give
a lot for his chances by the look in Mam’s eyes. Bit of a comedown, mind, when you’ve been used to two yards of a man and drop overnight to a bald five feet. Morfydd and me got into the crockery. The house was quiet save for Grandfer’s snoring, and there was a silence in Morfydd as she handed them from the sink. I knew she had something under her apron.

  She handed me a cup.

  “Jethro, boy, you keep from Abel Flannigan.”

  I grunted, wiping.

  “This county’s going on fire soon, and Abel is doing the kindling in this part of the world – he will lead you to trouble, mark me.”

  “Do you think Mam will take Tom Griffiths?” I asked.

  “Not for a moment; we were talking about Flannigan.”

  “So what do we do – sit down and whine?”

  This turned her. “The Mortymers haven’t whined yet, Jethro, and not likely to start now, but this Rebecca business fair stinks of danger.”

  Unlike Morfydd this. Even six months back it was go to the foot of the scaffold rather than bow to injustice. Now she was swilling the cups and saucers and smacking them down on the board. We did not speak for a bit, then:

  “You keep out of it – leave it to the county men, it is their county. I do not like this Rebecca movement.”

  “Six months from now you won’t get a cart to Carmarthen market,” I said. “County people or not, we still have to live here. Move or starve, just as you like.”

  “Who builds the gates, Jethro?”

  “Gentry – landowners, squires, squireens.”

  “Who else?”

  “I do not know what you mean,” I said.

  “I will tell you – magistrates. The people who build the gates fork out the sentences to those who burn them. So expect no mercy if you are caught in white petticoats and happen to be a foreigner – they will make an example of the foreigners because of the bad blood coming in.” She looked at me. “Special, you are, so watch it. And talking of petticoats, I have missed one. When did you take it?”