by David Nobbs
The reception was simple, but she didn’t feel ashamed. Why should she? They were simple people at Tregarryn. It was held in the Temperance Hall, so that there should be no doubt about the matter, because John Thomas Thomas knew that not all the family were teetotal: Nancy and the country cousins had been known to lash into their elderberry and parsnip wines, Uncle Evan from Llansamlet had been seen coming out of the Uplands Hotel, it was even rumoured that Herbert Herbert drank (Herbert Herbert Cricket, not Herbert Herbert Politics, let there be no calumny).
There were sausage rolls and ham and tongue and cold sewin, which, as every Welshman knows, is finer than salmon. There were boiled potatoes and there were tomatoes and cucumbers in profusion. There was junket and blancmange and stewed apples with cloves, and Welsh cakes and bara brith and scones with jam and cream, and to wash it all down there were three kinds of fruit juice and a choice of tea or coffee.
The artists, who had never been to anything where there was no alcohol, listened to the tide of talk, a great wall of bilingual chatter that you could cut with a knife, and they were astonished that a whole room could get drunk on gossip, and the gorgeous galleon that was Kate in full sail rode proudly on the waves and hove to, safe against all storms, in the Bay of Admiration.
Stanley kissed her and said, ‘I know you can’t understand why he chose me as best man, when I’ve spent a whole year trying to bed his fiancée, rather than Daniel, who’d be loyal to the ends of the earth, but that is Dame Life, Kate, in all her rich absurdity,’ and Kate said, ‘Please, Stanley, promise not to try it on now I’m married,’ and Stanley said, ‘I promise to try not to try it on, but I can’t promise to succeed, because I can’t begin to understand why you prefer him to me.’
Daphne kissed her and said, ‘You look ravishing. Will you never ravish me?’ and Kate said, ‘Daphne! This is a temperance hall,’ and Daphne said, ‘Don’t be silly. No one can hear us in this racket.’
Arturo kissed her and said, ‘Oh, if only it was over and we were in bed. Oh, Kate, I think I’ll come in my trousers,’ and Kate said, ‘I’m pleased you did come in your trousers,’ but she was shocked to the core to hear him say such a rude thing in public. He had accepted with reluctance her refusal to have sex before they were married, once she explained that it wasn’t on moral grounds but because she didn’t want to get pregnant and hurt her parents. He had said, ‘It didn’t stop you with Gwyn,’ and she had said, ‘I was sixteen then,’ and he had accepted that.
Her father said, ‘I’m very proud of you, Kate, and how you’ve carried yourself this day,’ which would have been a rare piece of unqualified praise if he hadn’t gone on to say, ‘but I wish you were still a schoolmistress and not a cook.’
‘I don’t like the way you denigrate cooks, Father,’ she said, ‘but, yes, sometimes I do too, but what does it matter now, we’ll be having children soon.’
Her mother said, ‘I cannot believe I have produced anything as wonderful as you,’ but Kate knew that, if her mother had felt the need to qualify compliments, as her father did, she would have gone on to say, ‘but couldn’t you have found somebody more worthy of you?’
Oliver said, ‘I wish all the fellows could see you today. You’re a goddess.’ Later she heard him say, to Arturo, ‘You mean you don’t do another job? You paint all day?’
Bernard said, in tones of awe at his proximity to such wickedness, ‘Are they all communists?’ to which she replied, ‘They profess to be. There isn’t a great deal of evidence of it in their actions.’
Enid said, ‘Be careful on the ferry. Mansel Phillips whose mother isn’t quite right drowned when a ferry sank under him in the Malay Straits,’ and Kate said, ‘Enid! We’re going to Brittany!’
Myfanwy said, ‘Are you a virgin?’ and Kate said, ‘Myfanwy! What a question,’ and Myfanwy said, ‘Kate! You aren’t!’
Arturo’s sister said, ‘I can’t believe I’ve got a streaming cold today. I look a frightful mess and I wanted to do him proud. We’re so outnumbered,’ and Kate said, ‘it isn’t supposed to be a competition, Cicely.’
Olga said, ‘Are you looking forward to having children?’ and Kate said, ‘Yes, I am,’ and Olga said, ‘Take it from me, it’s worth it. I felt sick every day for seven and a half months, I was hot all the time, I couldn’t sleep, I still can’t because Ruth never sleeps through and she cries half the night, but it’s worth it.’
Annie said, ‘Getting married’s the last thing I’d want, but if it’s the right thing for you I hope you’ll be very happy.’
Daniel said, ‘I don’t want to worry you, Kate, and I didn’t know if I should tell you, but I thought I’d better because you might be able to do something about it, but Arturo and Stanley and Daphne keep going out into the yard at the back and mixing gin with their fruit juices.’
She touched his shoulder gently, and went in search of Arturo. Her heart was leaden.
She looked into his eyes, and she could see that they were glazed.
‘How could you do this to me today of all days?’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m nervous.’
‘You think I’m not? No more – please.’
She approached Stanley and said, ‘Please, Stanley, don’t drink any more gin and try to stop Arturo,’ and he said, ‘For you, Kate, and for nobody else, I’ll do it.’
She had a quiet word with Daphne, but Daphne’s reply was less quiet. ‘That little shit Daniel told you, didn’t he? God, I hate prigs and sneaks.’
‘I know very few people who are less shits than Daniel,’ said Kate. ‘And he told me because he’s brave and he cares,’ and Daphne said, ‘It seems to me you should have married him,’ and Kate said, ‘I should be so lucky,’ and Daphne said, ‘I hate you. Do you know that?’ and Kate said, ‘Thank you for being so charming on my wedding day. I shall never forget it.’
Kate turned away and strode off. Uncles from the valleys parted before her like the waters of the Red Sea and she found herself facing Daniel, who said, ‘What did she say?’ and Kate said, ‘She said I should have married you,’ and Daniel looked her straight in the eyes and said, ‘I should be so lucky.’
To her horror, Kate’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away and burst into sobs. Silence fell on the Temperance Hall, and she had a vision of all the faces turned to her in horror, John Thomas Thomas and her mother and Daniel and Miss Penkridge and Caitlin Price-Evans and everyone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s all been too much for me. I’m so happy. So very, very happy. And all of you here, it makes me so happy, so very very happy. But all the emotion, and the heat and everything, it . . . it makes me so happy.’
Her father came to the rescue, and Daniel pushed Arturo forward and hissed ‘For God’s sake’ at him, and to do Arturo fair, he made a supreme effort and managed to grab Kate’s right arm and her father grabbed her left arm and they marched her out together, her puritan father and her drunk husband.
A taxi took them to the station, a train took them to Cardiff, and another taxi took them to the hotel which was the chosen venue for the first night of the honeymoon.
Later, Kate would be glad that the first night of her married life was such a fiasco, because, even if it had not been, it could not have compared with her night of love with Gwyn. Now, there could be no comparison.
But she didn’t feel that way as she watched two porters carry her husband into the bridal suite and lay him senseless on the marital bed.
Dear Dilys,
I have such lovely news. I’m pregnant. I was so pleased to hear that you are pregnant again too. I feel so close to you even though we’re so far apart. It’s a great comfort to me to know that you are there in Macclesfield, after all, you could be overseas.
I still can’t quite believe that you weren’t at my wedding. I sometimes play it back in my mind and set you in there with all the other guests. You behave terribly well and look wonderful and are reconciled to Father. I even see a tear running down h
is cheek. As you can see, I have a strong imagination.
Arturo is well and sends his best wishes. Of course he hopes it’ll be a boy, you know what men are like. I don’t care what sex the child is, provided it’s healthy.
Every morning when I wake up I feel privileged to be carrying a living growing thing, which will become a child. I’m so very careful. I wonder if you’re the same. I drink a bottle of stout every day, as this is supposed to make the baby grow strong. I hate it, but I hate our cheap red wine too, so I endure it.
I’m sorry I burdened you with all those doubts about my marriage, Dil. I have been working hard to make it a success, and I think it will be. Arturo can be childish and selfish and absurd, but he’s fun and he’s never cruel and I like him so very much that I think it could be said that I love him!
He sold a painting the other day. I didn’t think it one of his best, and nor did he, but a Miss Freeth from St Ives thought it a dear little thing – not how Arturo likes to hear his pictures described, he thinks they’re harrowing, but you can’t insult a buyer. You can insult a non-buyer, though. He was very rude to an American lady who said of a picture, ‘I like it, but it wouldn’t go with my wallpaper.’ He drew himself up to his full height – probably a mistake, as he’s only five foot six – and said, ‘Madam, I am a painter, not an interior designer.’
It is a great problem with painting, though. Some of Daniel Begelman’s pictures are really good, I think, but disturbing. To look at them for an hour is stimulating and exciting, but to have them on your wall for ever is just not on. Daphne’s just the opposite. To look at one of her paintings for an hour would be to waste fifty-nine and a half minutes, but if you had one in your drawing-room it would look pleasant for ever. People admire but don’t like Daniel’s work, and like but don’t admire Daphne’s.
Stanley is almost a very good sculptor. There’s just something a little unwieldy, a little heavy, about his figures. They’re grandiose. Everything he does he regards as great art. You should have seen his face the day he was offered a commission to make a mermaid for the entrance to Truro Fish Market. ‘Who do they think I am?’ he thundered. ‘Hans Christian Andersen?’
Oh, this’ll make you laugh. I hope. Maybe it’ll just seem too rude in Macclesfield. Stanley has produced a huge figure, about twice life size, looking out over the sea from our bottom terrace. He calls it The Dreamer. It’s a slight case of hubris when you think of all the great art on the terrace, but the face is good, and I said so. ‘I think it’s brilliant to be able to make granite wistful,’ I said. But I was standing right by the genitalia, and I said, ‘Stanley, from my admittedly very limited experience I don’t find the testicles very convincing.’ Imagine our father hearing me say that! What a dreadful woman I am. He flushed, he hates criticism of any kind, and said, ‘You’re talking balls, Kate.’ I said, ‘Exactly.’ He didn’t get it, he has very little humour, and none about himself. ‘Just how many testicles have you seen, Kate?’ he said, and I said, ‘Four.’ He said, ‘Let’s make it the round half-dozen, then,’ and dropped his trousers right there in the afternoon sun. I examined his very closely, determined not to be embarrassed, and said, ‘Thank you. Very nice, but I still don’t think you’ve quite got the hang of them.’ He didn’t get that, either. I feel I can never drop my guard with Stanley. There’s something dirty about the way he looks at me. He’s actually not unattractive. He has a girlfriend in London and goes up there twice a month, but won’t let us meet her. Something strangely coy at the heart of his masculinity.
Daniel and Olga’s little girl Ruth cries a lot, but then they give in to her every whim, they’re besotted, and I think that’s no good, much as I like them for it.
My role is chief cook and bottle-washer. Correction. Only cook and bottle-washer. I love it, though. I feel at peace cooking in our great pine kitchen, Dil, but I just wish the sun streamed into it of an evening. The hills don’t give us our sun till mid-morning and they take it away again in late afternoon, and then we are a gloomy place.
I’ve had no sickness yet with my pregnancy. I just hope you are feeling the same utter contentment in Macclesfield. I do hope John is keeping well. He must be so delighted that you are going to have another child to keep Tom company.
With much love,
Your affectionate twin
Kate
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
On fine mornings Arturo had developed the habit of working, fuelled by black coffee, until the sun came up over the hilltop, and then taking breakfast on the terrace.
One golden morning in late September, he sat with Kate on the bottom terrace, eating bread and marmalade and sipping tea. There was the sound of wood being chopped in the hamlet below, and the faint chugging of a distant motor boat. Otherwise, silence. Daniel, Stanley and Daphne were hard at work in their studios. They all did work extremely hard. It was the best thing about them.
Arturo seemed preoccupied, grave, intense.
‘I had a letter from Dilys this morning,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ he said from afar. At the last moment he decided to have only butter and no marmalade on his third slice of bread.
There was silence then, save for his irritating munching and the gentle mewing of a kittiwake and the chugging of the boat.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me what it says?’
‘What does it say?’
‘Arturo! Take an interest sometimes, please.’
‘I am taking an interest. I asked, didn’t I?’
The chugging boat revealed itself as a little red fishing smack. For a few seconds its noise still came muffled by the cliffs, then the chug came loud and clear, as if from about thirty yards behind the boat. The pale blue sky, the golden haze, the bright red boat alone on a silver, shimmering sea made a scene like a child’s painting. They stared at it in silence for a moment, so peacefully that a stranger might have thought that they were very close to each other.
‘Sorry,’ said Arturo at last. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve had rather an amazing idea.’
‘Oh?’
Ruth began to scream from somewhere inside the house, but the screaming soon stopped. Olga had probably picked her up.
‘You’re as bad as I am,’ said Arturo. ‘You haven’t asked me what my amazing idea is.’
‘Right. Forget Dilys. What’s your amazing idea?’
‘No, no, if that’s your attitude. Fair’s fair. You think all artists are egotists, but we aren’t.’ He took a pear and gazed at it as if he had never seen a pear before, the way he did, the way she liked. ‘Tell me what Dilys has to say. My great idea can wait.’
‘Oh, all right. Our visit to Macclesfield is off. They’re emigrating to Canada next week.’
‘Bit sudden, isn’t it?’
‘John’s got a long-term contract doing the plumbing for government buildings. They have to go.’
‘So I’ll never meet this mysterious twin.’
‘Not until we go to Canada.’
‘It’s a bit selfish, isn’t it, going off without seeing us?’
‘Circumstances have given Dilys a low opinion of family life.’
‘No, but, identical twins, this must be hurtful for you.’
He came over and put his arms round her and kissed her lips. It seemed as though he really cared, but when she said, ‘Now, what’s your great idea?’ his eyes shone with excitement. He forgot all about Dilys in an instant.
‘You know my painting of Port Isaac?’
She did. She didn’t like it. His paintings were growing steadily less abstract, and, as they did so, she found that she was liking them less. The abstraction had hidden the shallowness.
‘Yes,’ she said cautiously.
‘I took it down to look at it last night. I think I must have had a bit too much wine. I hung it upside down by mistake. It looked better that way!’
She refrained from saying, ‘I’m not surprised.’
‘I thought I might exhibit it upside down.’
�
�Why not?’
Later, Kate wished that she had tried to dissuade him. But how could she have known how momentous the consequences would be?
The funeral took place on the first day of the General Strike, in 1926. Luckily, the grave had already been dug.
Kate and Arturo and their one-year-old son Nigel were accompanied on their sad journey by Daniel and Olga Begelman and their two little girls, Ruth and Barbara. Olga and Kate were both pregnant again. This time Olga was flourishing, ‘so it’s a boy. I know it’, and this time Kate was feeling sick a lot of the time. It had been Daniel’s idea that he and Olga should come. ‘All religions are the same in the face of death,’ he had said, ‘and Olga’ll be able to look after Nigel during the service.’
Stanley was the only one of them with a car, and he was touring Scotland, so there was nothing for it but to go by train. The journey would have proved trying at the best of times. The eve of the General Strike was not the best of times. They had to change trains at Bodmin Road, Taunton, Bristol Temple Meads and Newport. One train was cancelled, and by the time they got to Newport trains were ending their journey wherever the driver lived. Their driver lived in Bridgend.
There were thirty or so passengers waiting to go to points further west. They huddled together on the platform at Bridgend, as the train steamed off to the sidings without them. A cold wind blew. A kindly porter told them that there was the possibility of a bus.
They stood at a windy bus-stop. The children were tired and querulous. One child ran off, and a black-shawled Swansea woman yelled out in a voice as Welsh as a Penclawdd cockle, ‘Come over from by there to by ’ere, Nerys, or it’s taking you home lost I will be.’ There’s Welsh, thought Kate. It’s grey and cold and we’re burying my sister, but I’m coming home. Her eyes filled with tears.
A bus roared up towards them. It said ‘Swansea’ on the front. Thirty people held their hands out, for fear that it would go roaring past.
But it did stop, and there were seats for everyone, and suddenly they were all more cheery, until Daniel asked for tickets to Swansea, and the conductor said, ‘We’re only going as far as Neath.’
