Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner

by Vicky Adin

Gwenna pictured the black, box-shaped delivery cart with the protective roof jutting over the driver’s head, which Pa had used. He’d had it varnished with several coats of high gloss and emblazoned G Price & Family, Confectioners, Auckland in white and gold on both sides.

  He’d been proud of his purchase, pleased he had enough trade to warrant the expense, and considered it an investment. “Best advertising in the world, Gwenna, my love,” he’d said. “Links me, our name and the business together in one.”

  Gwenna remembered something else he’d said. “All we need is a shop to make the business complete.”

  Now, according to Bethan, the cart sat neglected in the yard. It broke Gwenna’s heart to think of it.

  Two blissful days passed.

  Each morning, Gwenna took a breakfast tray up to Tillie, insisting she stay in bed and rest after she had fed and changed Olwen. Gwenna would then walk with Charlie to school just as she had done when she lived at home. The mornings disappeared with chores, coping with the extra washing a newborn baby created and preparing whatever Tillie decided they were having for lunch and supper. The heaviness and lethargy Gwenna had felt in previous months seemed to leave her as her sense of purpose and worth returned. Sharing her days with her sister became the happiest she’d known in a long time – a time before Elias, before Black Jack, a time when she only knew lightness of heart.

  On Good Friday as arranged, Louisa, Janetta and their children visited after church. Ostensibly to sing the praises of baby Olwen and offer congratulations to the mother, and to wish Gwenna happiness for her birthday in five days’ time, but the day turned out less than cordial.

  “Welcome, dear sisters, welcome,” said Tillie. “Do come in. It’s been so long since we saw each other. Mam’s already here, and Gwenna’s been baking since early morning.” Hugs and fake kisses were swapped, bonnets removed and skirts swished as they moved to the sitting room.

  The cups of tea and cakes began well, with gossip about husbands, their work, the latest fashions, or the newest appliances. The mood started to drift when Louisa’s daughters, Ella and Lucy, aged three and two, became whiny and clung to their mother’s skirts. Bethan considered them spoilt. George had been delighted with his first step-grandchild but didn’t live long enough to enjoy her or meet his next one.

  As best they could, they carried the conversation on around the grizzling children. Tillie excused herself once to clean up a spill from Olwen and refresh her nappy. No one asked Bethan about the business, or Elias, and Bethan refrained from sharing a precious letter she had received from Samuel.

  Janetta laid the baby on a blanket on the floor beside her when she’d first arrived and wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Refusing to play with girls, her two-year-old sat in the corner amusing himself with a few marbles and the wooden blocks Janetta pulled out of her excessively large bag. At least he was quiet. After a while, the girls began to poke each other and fidget, demanding their mother’s attention.

  “Isn’t motherhood hard work?” Louisa commented to Tillie while trying to extricate her children. “Go outside and play, for goodness’ sake.” But after a pointed glance out the window onto the road frontage and seeing people and carriages passing, she sighed. “No. I’d forgotten, you can’t do that here. Sit over there.” Pulling a couple of cloth dolls out of her bag, she pointed to the hooked rug on the floor.

  “Actually, I don’t find it hard at all,” replied Tillie as she watched the girls shoving each other and whispering as they headed towards Billy. “Well, not yet anyway. A little more tiring, maybe, but I’m enjoying watching Olwen develop. She changes so quickly.” Tillie wondered what the girls would do to upset the delicate balance.

  “Teach them to be seen and not heard,” advised Janetta. “Children have to learn independence and to amuse themselves, like my Billy,” she said with a smug smile. “Not like some I know.”

  Louisa took immediate offence. “What do you mean by that, Miss La-di-da?”

  “Whatever you take it to mean, sister dear.” Janetta sipped her tea and selected another dainty from the cake stand.

  After their little outburst, tension simmered between the sisters; Louisa and Janetta were at odds over something. Tillie didn’t quite know what to say to ease the way, and Gwenna bit her lip to stop herself uttering something she would regret. Honestly, sometimes they behaved worse than the children.

  Seconds later, a scream from Lucy brought everything to a standstill. She and Ella had been teasing Billy, rolling his marbles away and hiding his blocks, so in retaliation he’d ripped an arm off Lucy’s doll. The mothers began to soothe their respective offspring while the children continued to poke tongues and call each other rude names. Tears fell.

  Janetta took her leave first. “Goodbye, Tillie. I hope you do well with your baby. Gwenna, it’s been nice to see you again after so long. I hear you live in Onehunga these days. You must tell me about it some day. I hear it’s frightful. Lovely to see you too, Mam. I wish you would call on me. We could go somewhere and have high tea if you’d like. I can promise it would be peaceful.”

  Louisa couldn’t contain herself. “Good riddance to you, Janie Lewis. I’ll not be taking tea with you again until you climb down off your high horse.”

  Gwenna came close to spluttering out loud. Louisa was the one who most often sat on her high horse, boasting about all the fancy new things she could purchase, thanks to how well the butchery was doing and the increase in wages Albert had received. Neither of them cared two hoots about Mam; they were too busy trying to outdo each other. But Janetta wasn’t to be outdone.

  “I’m surprised you don’t suffer from giddiness with your head so far in the clouds. You’ll come crashing back to earth one day, you’ll see.”

  Huffing and puffing, Louisa gathered her two daughters and left in Janetta’s wake. “You’ll regret that comment, Janie Lewis. That you will.”

  “Ta-ta then, girls,” Bethan called from the doorstep, in a strong Welsh accent. “Glad I was to be seeing you. You be good now.”

  Tillie and Gwenna burst out laughing. The scowl Louisa had thrown over her shoulder at her mother had been withering, but the girls regretted their mirth when they saw their mam’s face.

  “They don’t set out to be mean,” Tillie consoled her.

  “They are just so wrapped up in themselves and their world, they don’t consider anyone else,” echoed Gwenna. Any thoughts about her birthday: gone.

  “Thank you, girls. I know you mean well, but it still hurts to see how they have turned out. Now, let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

  Bethan bustled about gathering the used cups and saucers, while Tillie saw to Olwen and Gwenna packed the leftover food into tins.

  A few minutes later, Tillie returned to the kitchen. “Are you staying another night then, Gwennie? You’ve not heard from Johnno, I take it.”

  Gwenna stopped, hand hovering in mid-air, and stared in dismay at her sister. For the first time in ages, Johnno had slipped from her mind. She was having so much fun staying with Tom and Tillie, and seeing her mam every day, she’d blocked out her new life, her future life. That same dread feeling she’d experienced before sank into her stomach.

  “No. I haven’t. Oh, my goodness, Tillie. I’ve not heard a word. What can it mean?”

  Bethan and Tillie were quick to assure her it meant nothing. Maybe Mavis hadn’t noticed the telegram delivery or hadn’t got around to sending one of her own. Maybe Jack had asked Johnno to stay another day.

  “There could be dozens of reasons,” said her mam. “Stay the night. You can go home in the daylight, and by the time you get organised, you’ll find Johnno on your doorstep before you know it.”

  13

  When circumstances couldn’t

  get any worse

  14 April 1900

  Gwenna arrived home on Saturday towards the middle of the day and set about preparing the house, opening windows, lighting the fire and making bread. She set the meat she’d bought from the butche
r in Karangahape Road to simmer on the range with onion, potato and carrots. The succulent smells made her stomach rumble.

  By mid-afternoon, when everything could be left unattended for a while, she walked over to Mavis’s place, hoping to get some milk.

  “Gwenna, dear. I was just thinking about you. The hens were busy this morning so I put aside a few eggs. Come in. Sit yourself down.”

  Mavis handed a bag of eggs to her young neighbour. “Thank you,” said Gwenna. “You are so good to me. Is there any chance you might have a little milk to spare too? I couldn’t carry anything else back from town.”

  “Of course, dear, of course. Hang on a minute while I find a jar to put it in.”

  Mavis bustled around her kitchen until she’d found one and poured in the fresh milk from their house cow.

  “Now tell me the news from Auckland while I put the kettle on.”

  Any news from town was good for gossip, and Mavis laughed over some of baby Olwen’s antics. They sighed together about not being able to attend the Easter Fair, the chrysanthemum show or Pollard’s Opera Company comic opera production, The Geisha. They tutted over the alarming, ongoing news about rats coming ashore off ships arriving from Sydney. Fears they might carry the plague dominated the headlines, but people were assured stringent controls were in place.

  “At least no one’s got sick or died here. I feel for those poor folk over in Australia, with so many dead. Must be a worry, it must.”

  “The papers say they are offering a penny reward for every rat caught,” said Gwenna.

  The two women chatted for another ten minutes, relaxed in each other’s company.

  “Thanks for the cuppa,” said Gwenna, finishing her tea, “but I can’t stop any longer; I’ve got meat cooking and I’m expecting Johnno home any time now.”

  “Have you heard from him, then?”

  Gwenna shook her head. “But it doesn’t mean anything. He said he’d be home tonight at the latest.”

  Dusk fell, day turned to night in the blink of an eye, and still no sign of Johnno. Gwenna paced the floor, straightened the cutlery on the table set ready for supper, and lifted the lid on the stew pot for the third time in as many minutes. Ignoring her stomach rumbling at the aroma, she refused to eat until she could share the meal with Johnno. She just hoped his father wouldn’t be with him.

  Another hour passed. As the minutes ticked by, she accepted he wouldn’t be coming home that night. She banked up the fire with the last of the coal, lowered the flue damper and went to bed.

  Neither she nor the baby rested easy. While the baby kicked and turned, so did Gwenna.

  One minute she needed the blankets, the next she’d kicked them off. She fell into a fitful sleep in the hour approaching dawn and was beset with dreams: the sound of crying in an empty space with a single beam of light breaking the darkness; children laughing and playing Ring a Ring o’ Roses, to be swallowed by the earth when they fell down; a flower seller’s barrow re-forming into a fast-growing wilderness, spreading its tentacles to cover everything in its path – gates, fences, wagons, people.

  She woke with a start. A fine layer of sweat covered her face, and her nightdress clung to her. The room felt cold even though the sun was well up. She shivered. After a moment, her brain grasped where she was, and what had disturbed her.

  She could hear someone shouting.

  “Where is he?”

  Was that Jack’s voice?

  “Where’re you hiding him?”

  Her skin crawled.

  The back door of the kitchen burst open. She scrambled out of bed, grabbed her wrap dress and hurried down the hall doing up buttons as she went.

  Jack stood in the middle of the room. He was more dishevelled than usual and she could smell the sweat and dirt from the doorway. Underneath the awful greyish-green greatcoat he always wore, his clothes were filthy and he hadn’t shaved in days, but it was his eyes that set off alarm bells. They were troubled – and red, as though they had grit in them or he hadn’t slept, or both.

  “Where is he?” Jack rasped, his throat dry and rough, but he sounded more annoyed than worried.

  “Johnno? You mean Johnno?” Panic put an edge on her words.

  “Who else, you stupid girl?” Jack pulled out a chair and sank into it, lowering his head; he stared at the section of floor between his feet. His hat hung in his hand.

  “He’s not here, if that’s what you think,” she snapped, anger and fear competing for dominance. “He’s supposed to be with you.”

  She stoked up the fire, more for something to do than any other reason. Her hands shook as she filled the kettle and set it on the range, and with every beat of her heart, her uneasiness grew. The disquiet of her dreams added to her anxiety. She couldn’t bring herself to ask the question because she didn’t want to hear the answer.

  The kettle boiled and broke the silence that had grown between them. She threw a handful of tea leaves into the pot and poured in the hot water. Turning the teapot around a few times, she tipped the strong, black tea into a mug and banged it on the table in front of Jack, spilling some on the clean tablecloth still set from the night before.

  She poured a cup for herself and, holding it in both hands, leaned against the bench as far away from him as possible. Her jaw ached; her throat burned. A convulsive gasp escaped her lips as she took a deep breath; her whole frame shook with the effort not to lose control. She could stand it no longer. Through gritted teeth, she breathed, “When did you see him last?”

  Jack’s head shot up at the sound of her voice, as if he’d forgotten she was there, or even where he was. He stared at her, his eyes distant and empty. “Monday. Afore last.”

  Two weeks tomorrow. Gwenna gulped in extra air.

  “He was here on the Wednesday night before the rain set in. He left first thing the next morning. He said he had to collect a consignment from the wharf.”

  Jack nodded. “Aye. It was urgent. I told him to be back by Friday. It was important.”

  “So where is he?” She couldn’t hold back any longer.

  Jack turned his head away as if she no longer mattered. “He’s ruined everything, he has. Wait till I get hold of him.”

  Gwenna let her fear and fury out. “You should be worried about your son, not your stupid business. What’s happened to him?” she screamed.

  “What are you talking about, woman? Nothing’s happened to him. He’s playing games, that’s all. Trying to cheat me.”

  Gwenna couldn’t believe her ears. His son, her Johnno, was missing, and the only thing his father could think about was the money he’d lose. “Johnno would never cheat anyone, you selfish old man,” she seethed. “We need to find him. And if you won’t, then I will.”

  She sped down the hall to her bedroom to get dressed. Her hands were shaking so much she struggled to tie the laces on her corset. A minute or two later, she dropped her blouse over her head and fastened her skirt. She was buttoning her shoes when she heard hoof beats.

  Her heart lifted – was that Johnno?

  Tottering towards the window with one shoe in her hand, her spirits plummeted as she caught sight of Black Jack whipping his horse into a gallop and disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust.

  She was alone again – with no idea how or where to start looking for her husband.

  14

  Coming to terms with reality

  Mid-April 1900

  Elias mounted his horse and clip-clopped along the back streets past St Benedict’s Church towards the cabinetmakers just off Mt Eden Road, wondering where his life had gone so wrong.

  After his father died, Elias felt he owed it to him to carry on the business – in his name: the Hughes name – but he’d failed. Everyone had been against him – his Mam, Charlie, even Hugh, but most of all, that bitch Gwenna. It wasn’t his fault. He’d tried. He really had tried. Between them, they had taken away any control he once had, although he didn’t mention any of that to the stranger at the bar.

&nb
sp; He’d met Thomas Woodman by chance in The Edinburgh Castle roughly six months earlier. He’d gone there to get drunk after another clash with Gwenna. Never mind that her very presence annoyed him, or her talent for making sweets far exceeded his, or that his own mother had turned on him. He hated his life. He hated himself. He felt useless and unworthy and loathed the whole confectionery business. Trade was going downhill, and he had no idea how he was going to stop the slide or improve his life.

  For some time, the sickly sweetness of the sugar boiling had set Elias’s teeth on edge, and his hands and forearms had developed an itchy rash. He’d kept his shirtsleeves rolled down so neither Gwenna nor his mother noticed, but Hugh had, and he offered to take over Elias’s work as well. Damn the man. At least he’d gone, but it had left the business short-handed. Elias had made Gwenna work harder, hoping she’d fail and he could blame losing the business on her.

  She hadn’t failed, but the stupid bitch had got herself pregnant.

  He hadn’t known why Gwenna was so uncharacteristically slow to get started in the mornings and snappy when spoken to, until he’d quizzed Charlie.

  The boy was keen to share the news. “Shh. It’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone I told you.”

  The dawning realisation there was nothing he could do to save the business tipped Elias over the edge. He took solace in whatever way he could. He started drinking more heavily. He even resorted to seeking out one or two of those voluptuous women who called out to him as he staggered home late at night, but nothing had provided the answers he sought.

  The more he drank, the angrier he got, and the more he lost his temper. The unfairness of the situation consumed him to the point where he’d even threatened Charlie. Poor kid. He’d done nothing wrong. Except now, after what he, Elias, had done, everyone thought him the worst kind of scoundrel, but it wasn’t his fault. The situation had been against him from the start. No one understood him.

  Until that night in the pub.

  Thomas Woodman had understood. “Call me Woody,” the man said.