Story, Volume II

by Dai Smith

  IV

  The suicide attempt came five years later. They’d moved again. Everything promised had been realised as far as Hywel was concerned. With the expansion in Welsh language broadcasting, there was a sudden demand for personnel, despite the fact that more and more aerials in the city were becoming permanently tuned in to English programmes transmitted from Bristol and the West Country. But Hywel had been in the right place at the right time. Now regular programmes were beginning to go out with his name prominent amongst the credits. The children were growing up. She learned to drive in order to transport them to a distant school where Welsh was the medium of instruction. Now she had different friends, among them the wives of people who worked with Hywel. Now they spoke Welsh constantly, and Hywel had been on a crash course to improve his knowledge of his mother tongue. They were part of a group largely composed of people much like themselves. ‘Upwardly mobile’, Hywel said, but it was a very exclusive curious world and she did not quite feel at home in it for reasons that took some time to become clear. Sometimes she went across to the park where she had earlier wheeled the pram and met some of her old acquaintances, the young mothers who had lived near them previously. A few of them were rather jealous of her, the new house separated her from the old neighbourhood, but others were welcoming. For other reasons which she could not explain, she was sometimes glad to get away from Welsh-speaking people, or rather, the wives of media people, for she was becoming aware of a certain condescension which some of them invariably showed her – as if, despite Hywel’s success, there was something about her which had not kept pace with him. Or that was what she at first thought. It was a feeling shared by Hywel’s mother who now, more than ever, had to be kept from visiting. It was not just the extra work involved since she was the kind who ran her gloves under window ledges in search of dust, nor even her complete spoiling of the children, but this view she had of Delyth as a pretty little thing, the emphasis always being on the ‘little’.

  It was not only patronising, but as if she was being compartmentalised as a person, hopelessly cast in the role of little wife from whom nothing much else could be expected. The entertaining they hoped to do never quite materialised. If they went to dinner parties, they were invariably media people and the only people Hywel ever suggested inviting back were much older than them, invariably men who might advance his career and although Hywel thought about the invitations, he was not quite secure enough to press them with the result that the few people they entertained tended to be rather boring. Very soon, Hywel began to travel the length and breadth of the country and it was then that the condescending looks of the wives of his colleagues began. Only a fool wouldn’t have put two and two together, she thought later, but then, that was how she thought herself for a period of time that seemed never-ending – the fool and the victim.

  One day when Hywel was away directing some programme in Builth Wells, she had safely delivered the children to school and was driving home through an unfamiliar district when she saw Hywel, or somebody who looked exactly like Hywel, emerging from a house and getting into a taxi at the corner of the street. It was but a second’s glance and when she looked into the driving mirror, she could not verify her impression because the taxi immediately pulled away in the opposite direction. Hywel had now put on weight and his regular drinking had begun, but above all, his appetite had become gargantuan with the result that slim figure of old was already quite unrecognisable. Since he had specialised in making programmes about agriculture recently, he also at this time affected a countrified look, frequently wearing thick tweeds and sports jackets which made him look even more overweight and it was the thick herringbone tweed of the overcoat which had caught her eye more than anything else. It was not the kind of coat you saw often in the city, and, as it happened, Hywel had regretted buying it when there were much more serviceable coats available. It was somehow typical of him to make such a foolish purchase, she’d thought, as if once more, he was taking on the colour of his surroundings. The expensive sheepskin had gone with the sports car, then in school he had for a time worn tracksuits and trainers even though he was the most unathletic man imaginable, but he felt they had given him a certain image as an active drama teacher which no one but himself could have explained. It was the coat that caught her attention, the coat with which she taxed him when the opportunity arose.

  But that night, he telephoned as usual from the hotel in Builth Wells as he had done on the previous evening. This was at a time when he telephoned home nightly.

  There were the usual pleasantries, the dutiful enquiries after the children, his apologies because he might have to be away over the weekend.

  ‘What’s the weather like?’ she said lightly, the casualness of her enquiry the first act of deception in her entire life.

  ‘Quite mild. What’s it like with you?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘No, no, I just wondered.’

  There was a coolness about her which later disappeared altogether. It was not that she wasn’t sure, but that some part of her wanted to confront him in person. She wanted to see his face when she challenged him. And this time, she wouldn’t allow him to touch her. Somehow the touching was a part of her defencelessness. So her calm was a progression from the simple casualness of his first question.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind about the weekend?’

  ‘If you have to be there…’

  ‘If there’s any chance of me getting away, I will.’

  ‘Not if it means spoiling the programme.’

  Now she felt like an actress! When he rang off, she went downstairs and poured herself a stiff whisky but the unfamiliar taste revolted her and nearly made her sick. What was strange was that there was no doubt in her mind at all. She just sat there motionless and it wasn’t long before she began to wonder what she would do when her suspicions were confirmed. Again, she thought of her father but now there were the children to be considered. There were problems. Both were small like herself, Geraint the eldest had inherited her mother’s asthma, and already showed signs of frailty, but more than anything she had a horror of divorce that was quite unreasonable. In the first place, she could not see herself returning home, an abandoned wife with two children and all the talk that would involve, and secondly, there was a dismal feeling that getting money out of Hywel would be a tortuous process and she had a vivid memory of one of her park acquaintances who was in just that position, legally separated and made ill by the simple business of staying alive. At the same time, there was a further thought, one that would later amaze her, and this was the incredible perception that a divorce would not help Hywel’s career since there remained vestiges of the old puritanical traditions to which his bosses still paid lip-service. She was even at this moment still thinking of him.

  But oh, how could he? she thought. She wept finally, tasting her own tears in the whisky. That was the first night without sleep. When the second followed after a day of losing her temper with the children, she spent a night trying to put faces to the half-caste teenager and the Irish nurse and before long she thought she’d begun to understand some of the condescending looks which the media wives had given her. Of course, they knew him, or knew about him. Everything was known. Wales was such a small place, there were no secrets, and she had heard enough talk about others, the real celebrities some of whom had the morals of farmyard animals, she’d heard somebody once say. But that put her in mind of Hywel again. It was not just that there was something in him that couldn’t leave any woman alone, it was more; he couldn’t exist without the kind of admiration that she had given him, the total belief and abandonment of everything else for no matter how long, an hour, a night, a week. And it would go on and on, no matter what she said or what he promised. That was Hywel and how he functioned.

  When he finally returned, he had not come in through the door before he announced that he had to return. There were camera problems, lighting problems. They’
d got nothing in the can, he said. He’d only come home for a change of clothes, and, of course, to see if she was all right.

  But she clearly wasn’t all right. She wore no make-up. There were black patches under her eyes as if she had some kidney disease. She was haggard and pale. When she spoke her voice was tremulous and her hands shook. She couldn’t even conceal her distress from the children. He had not noticed in the darkness of the hallway but when he came into the living room, busily shuffling through his mail, he looked up and saw her gripping the edge of the table.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I saw you on Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘In Cardiff. When you were supposed to be in Builth. I saw you get into a taxi. Who was it this time?’

  There was not even a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, certainly, not surprise either. He was merely irritated.

  ‘Barbara,’ he said. ‘We didn’t get back till three and I didn’t want to wake you. ‘

  Barbara was his secretary, a rather drab spinster who was temporarily allocated to his department.

  Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that he’d telephoned that night and the previous night, saying he was actually in Builth Wells. She told him, but just before he could answer, the telephone rang. This time it was Builth Wells and there were problems.

  ‘Real problems,’ he said. ‘Look, can’t this wait? I’ve got to go. I’ve driven two hundred miles today already.’

  She stood motionless by the kitchen table, then Siân fell over in the yard, the telephone rang again and he was gone, forgetting the change of clothes he’d originally come for, gone, hurrying away back to the car and away from her, sweating in that huge tweed coat, she could see. There was no doubt whatsoever.

  Then the children’s questions began, as usual making her feel guilty for the way she looked, for not covering up, for communicating her own misery to them. It was not that night but the next night, the fourth without sleep that she took the soneryl tablets and the whisky which were conveniently to hand. They were his tablets and his whisky and her exhaustion was of his doing. But fortunately, she did not take enough, vomited in her sleep and awoke in the middle of the morning to find his mother downstairs ringing at the front doorbell. She’d come unexpectedly on a coach with a party of women on a shopping expedition and also to see The Sound of Music. The film was apparently receiving its fifth showing.

  ‘Of course, it’s very sentimental but it gave me the opportunity to pop in and see how you all were!’

  The children, still in their nightclothes, were huddled like casualties in the corner of the kitchen, a trail of milk and cornflakes across the floor. At the time, she’d thought they hadn’t been into her bedroom.

  Covering up automatically, Delyth knew that Mrs Mason-Morgan thought she’d taken to the bottle and when Hywel came home later that week, he said there were certain things she had to understand about his job. He was suddenly hard and cool. He did not touch her. She could take it or leave it, he implied. He knew of some marriages that had been ruined by constant unnecessary accusations. The world was changing, he said, and he was changing with it. She sat and listened in a dumb silence. There was neither rhyme nor reason to her acceptance of everything he said, but accept it she did, and it was only when the children were older that he actually started to make excuses again, his lies then aimed at them as much as at her. It was as if something in her had snapped, as if she had forfeited the right to be a human being at all. She went about her daily chores like an automaton. She simply got on with things, a shell hardening about her, as they moved further and further away from each other until in the end, she neither cared where he was, not what he did.

  V

  It was at this time that she began to discover the city. She’d already explored the nearest parks, and now she was at last able to get some supply teaching, invariably moving as Hywel had done to the roughest schools in the worst neighbourhoods. It gave her a purpose and she slowly began to discover a long-forgotten self. But it took an age to make up her mind. Most of all, she lacked self-confidence.

  There was a time when she couldn’t even see herself standing up in front of a group of unruly children. She couldn’t control herself, never mind anybody else. There were problems with references, referees, the Ministry of Education itself since she’d never even completed a probationary year. Then she became preoccupied with her appearance. She might have passed muster in some country school but now there came a time when she couldn’t bear to look into the mirror. It was not just her scarred body, it was her face. She was already greying, the crowsfoot lines were becoming permanent and her thick eyebrows arched above her startled black eyes and her sharp, pointed chin giving her the look of some tiny forest animal in a permanent state of fear. If she was not actually always on edge, she looked it. The Minnie Mouse tag returned to her consciousness. She felt she could never muster any authority and there were such louts of children about.

  Then a bizarre happening occurred. There was a long wardrobe mirror in their bedroom and she was changing one morning in preparation for a visit to an old college friend when she could not get her skirt to hang properly. It was a pleated skirt but she had altered the hem line and there was something she’d done which made it irregular so at the last minute she’d decided on a complete change, removing her blouse and examining her hips in the mirror. She was not completely naked but she turned once or twice in what she supposed might be a rather provocative way had she been in view when she suddenly noticed that she was observed. Resting against the window, and appreciatively puffing at a cigarette was the window cleaner, a tousled ginger youth with a pockmarked face and a denim cap jauntly perched on the back of his head.

  Startled, she jumped, but the grin on his face and his appreciative nod might have been that of a spectator at a horse show. The window was open and before she could say anything, he winked in as friendly a way as could be imagined.

  ‘Very nice too!’ he said with all the authority of a connoisseur. ‘Off out, are we?’

  It was not in her to tell him off.

  ‘Make sure you do the children’s windows,’ she told him.

  ‘Oh, I don’t come all the way up here to pick my nose, Missus!’

  She pulled down her sweater examining herself, conscious that his eyes were still on her, finally slipped into her shoes with a flush settling on her cheeks. There was no logic to it, but it was as if everything had changed and after that the window cleaner often teased her, ‘Not into the Miss Worlds this week then?’ Whenever she saw him, she felt cheered as if he was an ambassador of another world out there.

  It was the same when she finally began to get the supply teaching jobs which she eventually sought. It was not the problem she imagined, and although her fears remained, eventually she found, as Hywel had, that she was needed. She soon developed a brisk, no-nonsense way of keeping children busy, and by preparing everything thoroughly, broke her day down into small achievable tasks. Eventually, she found herself being asked to return to the same schools and while she did not immediately think of a permanent job, she began to feel more and more optimistic. She had recovered her independence. More than that, her conversations with some of the children brought her into contact with other lives, some of them so disturbed and fraught with difficulties that she had a further sense of the ills of the world. There were those who were maimed and deprived, there was a shiftless seedy other-world where vile happenings and cruelties were daily events. Whatever had happened to her, she was not alone. She was not too badly off.

  Within the space of a year it was as if this other world was giving her names. She was Minnie Mouse, Miss World and Our Miss, but then a series of minor ailments caused her to stay home with her own children and this broken winter was capped by a car accident when she broke her ankle. No sooner had she begun to make another half-life for herself when she was returned to the old. Now Hywel was promoted. Now Hywel had reached a point, he said, where he could not go on witho
ut her support. What he meant was that he could not stand her coolness. Other people were noticing. His promotion also meant, she suspected, that for a long time he would have a desk job. It was at this time when she had begun to attempt some understanding of the Mason-Morgans and their children that she had begun to worry about her own. She was now sure that Hywel’s childhood had been a kind of battleground with several wars being fought at the same time. Whatever had passed between Morfydd and her husband was somehow beyond comprehension at this distance of time. That weak silent man and the domineering, forceful woman, always insisting on her accomplishments, should by all logic have been the result of some inferiority or insecurity but there was no evidence of it. Unless the padre too had constantly strayed? It was an alarming thought. Then the simple primitive concepts of right and wrong, obviously hammered into the children at every possible opportunity seemed to have had no effect whatsoever. Normally, people had a conscience, they suffered guilty feelings in varying degrees. Delyth herself could not lie. She simply couldn’t. It was unthinkable and while she was not averse to winning people’s affections and scoring off her sister, for example, she was ever-after conscious of her sister’s hurt. But Hywel was completely different and she knew now that he was different even when he was articulating precisely the things he thought she wanted to hear. He could describe anything, any single feeling, and over the years, he had become even more expert than when she had first met him. When he was there, he was marvellous with the children. He had the capacity to seem genuinely interested in what they were doing. At the drop of a hat, he could become a child and see things from the child’s point of view. It was the same with people, she supposed. He had the habit of intense concentration on other people’s wishes, needs, their aspirations for themselves. He gave them his full attention and he never forgot important details, but only when he wanted something. Perhaps he had learnt it, practicing on his mother and on T.J., on all of them since people like that encouraged it. She did not know.