Story, Volume II

by Dai Smith

  ‘You are breaking the law!’

  Against his better judgement he had to shout. It was the only way he could make himself heard. The old woman seemed to treat his warning as a joke. From the end of the pew where she sat she was raising her hands to warm them above the paraffin stove in the aisle.

  ‘The moral law, Mihangel Paylin,’ she said. ‘That’s something you don’t know too much about.’

  ‘I offered you rooms in Penllwyn years and years ago. You know that as well as I do.’

  In his uncomfortable position he made a strenuous effort not to sound cross.

  ‘Your poor grandfather would turn in his grave if he knew you were living in the enemy’s citadel. That’s what he called your precious Penllwyn. The enemy’s citadel.’

  The old woman was enjoying the reverberations of her own voice in the empty chapel. The sound was an incentive to preaching. She stood up and placed a hand on the back of the pew in front to support herself. She was ready to address an invisible congregation.

  ‘That was your grandfather, auntie. I said your grandfather. It was a very long time ago!’

  He struggled to maintain his balance as he raised his voice. His aunt persisted with her litany.

  ‘Persecuted he was. Gruffydd Owen Parry. Driven out of his smallholding by a vicious landlord for voting against him. Driven to work in the quarry and driven out of Cloddfa by that old monster of Penllwyn. Driven to work as a farm labourer and walking ten miles a day there and back for fourpence a day. But he never soured in spirit. He was the leader of song in this chapel for forty years.’

  She started to sing in a quavering voice, ‘Driven out of Eden and its blessings I came to kneel before the Cross…’

  The effort was too much for her. She sat back in the pew to mumble the words of the hymn to herself. For his part Mihangel could no longer hold his precarious position. A drizzle was beginning to fall.

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  He shouted as he waded through the long grass.

  ‘I’ll be back. We’ve got to be sensible about this. It’s got to be settled.’

  In reality he had little idea how. The weather wouldn’t allow him to pace to and fro among the trees above the house and Penllwyn itself was being given a thorough cleaning by Iola assisted by Maristella and Mrs Twigg. There would be no peace there. In any case they had no idea of the depth of his problem.

  He repaired to the golf club. Ennis Taft was already there enjoying, he said, his first Dubonnet before a light lunch. He insisted Saint Mihangel should join him. Didn’t they have a whole agenda to discuss? Over fish, he said, which was good for the old ticker and a bottle of white wine, in no time at all they could set the world to rights. He was full of a new scheme to deal with industrial waste products and make a healthy profit. There was also an amusing crisis at the Comprehensive school where the kitchen staff were threatening to go on strike. It took Ennis Taft some time to apprehend that Parry-Paylin was weighed down with a critical trouble of his own. After an initial burst of amusement, which included an embarrassing rendition of a vulgar ditty about two old ladies locked in the lavatory, Ennis Taft became serious and intensely resourceful.

  ‘The poor old biddy,’ he said. ‘She must be suffering from senile dementia. There’s only one thing to do, San Fihangel. Section her. Or whatever it is they call it. All they need to do is ask her a few questions. What’s the name of the Prime Minister of New Zealand? What day is it the day after tomorrow? That sort of thing.’

  He grew excited with the sharpness of his own intelligence and the fumes of the white wine. Parry-Paylin had to beg him to keep his voice down. This was a family matter and he found it intensely embarrassing. His friend and colleague was not to be put off his brilliant line of thinking. He continued in a fierce whisper that was hardly less audible than his raucous laughter.

  ‘A doctor and a policeman,’ he said. ‘That’s all you need. And a court order maybe. That should be easy. You’re a serving magistrate. I don’t want to be callous but you’ve got to look ahead. Have her put away and you could have the chapel demolished in the twinkling of an eye. And the road widened and the lorries rolling by and everything in the garden will be lovely.’

  There was no comfort anywhere. Certainly not in the voice of Ennis Taft. The Alderman sat at the wheel of his car in the spacious golf club car park, stricken with paralysis and the sense of no longer being in charge of anything. This ludicrous crisis called the whole romance of his career into question. In his heart of hearts it had always been a romance: the sacrifices his mother and his grandmother made to ensure his higher education. He was never all that academically bright and he would be the first to admit it, but he had worked hard and overcoming obstacles that in this more comfortable age would have been counted daunting. His greatest triumph had been his marriage. It couldn’t be seen as less than a triumph. The daughter of the big house giving him the courage to confront her formidable father to ask for her hand in the most charming old-fashioned manner, with nothing to offer in return except a decent measure of good looks, a winning smile and a manner that, again in this day and age, would be counted a touch too ingratiating. But it was good for politics and his father-in-law set him on the right road. Laura said that was what fathers-in-law were for.

  If only Laura were with him now. Their life together was a wonder and a marvel. Laura had presided over a golden age. She knew how to handle everybody. In the case of Mary Keturah she plied her with delicious home-made cakes and jam and praised her grubby mintcake as though it were manna from Heaven. She did more than that. Chauffeuring the surly spinster from one eisteddfod or singing festival or preaching meeting to another. The centre of gravity of his existence had been lost since the day Laura died and in some baffling way both his daughter and this impossible aunt seemed determined to hold him responsible for a loss that he felt far more keenly than either of them were ever capable of doing. There seemed to be very little left for him to do except feel acutely sorry for himself.

  VIII

  It did not take long for the substance of Ennis Taft’s advice to her father to reach Iola’s ears. While the Alderman brooded in his study, she bustled about the place increasingly excited by the notion of nurturing a plan of her own. She tried to explain the background of the situation and the opportunities it offered to Maristella, and became impatient with her when she was slow to understand.

  ‘Taft Bronco is hardly the World Trade Organisation,’ she said. ‘But the principle is the same. A chance to wake up the community. Get the people to reassess their sense of values. If we plan this carefully and get Moi Twm’s Uncle Ted to write it all up in his column we could start a home-grown revolution.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Maristella would at least understand action and showed that she was as ready as ever to take part in it. She had every confidence in Iola’s leadership. This was a woman who knew how to act and bring about satisfactory change. She owed her a great debt and was ever ready to pay it.

  ‘We’ll join her,’ Iola said. ‘We’ll have a sit-in strike in Soar. The only thing is we have to keep Moi Twm well away from the place.’

  Maristella frowned hard as she struggled to follow Iola’s line of reasoning.

  ‘They rubbed her up all the wrong way. All that half-baked nonsense about a museum to the memory of R J. Cethin. It was a daft idea.’

  ‘But you encouraged, I think…’

  ‘Well it didn’t work did it. And things have moved on. The essence of revolutionary practice is to seize the moment. I’ll get Mrs Twigg to look after Nino and we’ll go and talk to her. Right away. There isn’t a moment to lose.’

  Maristella felt obliged to listen intently while Iola communicated with Moi Twm on her mobile phone in a language she didn’t understand. Somehow or other troops of protesters, mostly from the student body of the colleges within a reasonable radius, were to be put on standby. When Iola gave the signal, the ancient bus that Moi Twm used to collect support
for rallies would rumble into action and collect enough bodies to lie in the road when the local authority and the police attempted to take possession of Soar chapel. Iola switched off and waved the mobile phone under Maristella’s nose.

  ‘Democracy is a fine thing,’ she said. ‘We’ve just got to learn how to manage it.’

  She became so excited with the potential of her gift for management that she could no longer keep still. They would go now and she would make immediate contact with her great-aunt herself.

  In the car she turned to make Maristella appreciate that a dialogue with Mary Keturah would not be all that easy. There were historical difficulties that had to be overcome. Sectarian difficulties in fact. Did Maristella have any idea of what sectarian difficulties could be like? Her best hope she supposed was that blood in the end would be thicker than the bitter waters of contention. That much Maristella could understand. They stared at the unpretentious façade of the chapel. The west wall was slated from roof to the overgrown path.

  ‘Soar,’ Maristella said. ‘Like soar up to heaven, yes?’

  Iola was so amused she embraced her friend and shook with the effort of controlling her laughter.

  ‘Is it Welsh then?’

  Iola breathed deeply to stop laughing.

  ‘Hebrew, you ignorant Papist. Did you never read your Bible? Soar was saved from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  Iola embraced her again.

  ‘Don’t look so worried. Now then. Here we go.’

  Iola grasped the iron ring on the main door.

  ‘My ancestors built this,’ she said. ‘Some of them did anyway. Quite a lot of them are buried over on the left there. Those gravestones buried in the long grass.’

  She began to bang the door determinedly.

  ‘Auntie! Auntie Ket! It’s Iola. Let me in, won’t you? Let me in!’

  She realised she spoke with too much authority as if she had automatic right of entry. With an effort she injected a note of pleading into her voice.

  ‘Auntie. It’s Iola. Please Auntie. I want to speak to you.’

  Mary Keturah’s voice was harsh but noticeably feeble when at last she spoke with her face close to the closed door.

  ‘Who’s there with you? Not that Moi Twm Thomas? You keep him well away from this place.’

  ‘Are you all right Auntie Ket. I’ve brought you some milk and fresh bread.’

  ‘Men do not live by bread alone,’ Mary Keturah said. ‘She was your great-grandfather’s cousin.’

  ‘Who was?’

  Iola beckoned Maristella to bring her ear closer to the door. Maristella shrugged and shook her head to show she couldn’t understand a word either were saying.

  ‘That girl who ran away with that false prophet R. J. Cethin. So you be careful.’

  ‘I don’t care about R. J. Cethin, Auntie. I only care about you. And Soar of course.’

  ‘If you marry that stupid Moi Twm Thomas you’ll be making the biggest mistake of your life.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of marrying him, Auntie. People aren’t getting married any more.’

  Iola pulled herself up and tried to turn the dangerous observation into a joke.

  ‘It’s gone out of fashion. So there you are. You were well ahead of your time, Auntie Keturah.’

  There was no response to her attempt at humour. For an old woman who attached so much importance to family how could the demise of marriage be something to laugh at? What would become of the family tree that hung in her bedroom and stretched back generations? And what about the first chapter of the gospel according to St Matthew?

  ‘There’s got to be a succession,’ the old woman said. ‘Things can’t carry on without a succession. If you were as old as I am, you would know that. Where’s your father?’

  ‘We want to come in, Auntie Keturah. We want to join you. We want to support you.’

  ‘Do you indeed.’

  ‘Really we do. We want to save Soar.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you darken these doors before. Dashing about the world getting into trouble. That’s what I hear. You run off now, child, and get your father. He is a Trustee. It’s his responsibility. He’s let the whole fabric of this building run down. It’s his job to repair it. And the sooner he starts the better. You go and tell him that. Him and his precious County Council. And tell him I’m not budging out of this chapel until they start repairing it. You tell him that.’

  ‘Won’t you let me in? Please.’

  ‘No, I won’t. Go and get your father.’

  IX

  Iola was too furious to speak. The old woman had left her to glower at a closed door. Maristella was standing behind her, a model of patience, waiting for some form of explanation. She was no more than a refugee in a foreign country, without the language or any acquaintance with local custom. All she could gather was that her champion and benefactor and friend was hugely displeased. On the way home Iola kept repeating the same imprecations under her breath.

  ‘The old witch. She’s impossible. She always was impossible. Who wants families anyway? They should be done away with.’

  A cloud of gloom and despondency descended on Penllwyn. There was a sharp and unforgiving exchange between the Alderman and his only daughter that Maristella could not follow and from then on they stopped speaking to each other. Mealtimes were particularly uncomfortable. Nino was quick to sense an atmosphere of discord and clung more closely to his mother. His large eyes scanned the faces of father and daughter at either end of the table. The Alderman, when he thought Iola wasn’t looking, extended an open hand in Maristella’s direction as though looking for sympathy and then closed it abruptly. He was cut off from his habitual source of consolation and comfort at the golf club by a compelling desire to avoid Ennis Taft’s poking and probing. Iola, for her part was reluctant to contact Moi Twm. She would have to admit her scheme was a total failure and she had put him to great trouble for nothing. It seemed as if they could not agree what to do about Mary Keturah, they would never be able to agree about anything.

  After lunch, Maristella led Nino to the drawing room to give him a music lesson. It was something he had already begun to enjoy. He had two or three notes he could strike in the treble clef so that his mother could tell him they were playing a duet. He hammered away delighted with his own efforts and his mother was pleased too. The volume of sound increased. Iola marched into the room.

  ‘For God’s sake, won’t you stop that row?’

  When she saw how much she had startled them she clapped a hand to her brow.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a horrible headache,’ she said. ‘It’s not at all my day. I tell you what. Why don’t you go and visit Moi Twm in his precious shop. Tell him the sorry tale. You can stick Nino in front of the telly. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  Maristella was reluctant to accept the suggestion.

  ‘I don’t know what to tell him,’ she said. ‘I find it difficult to talk to him. He speaks so quickly. I don’t really understand what he say. Most of the time.’

  ‘Not good enough for you, is he?’

  ‘Good. He is good of course. Very good.’

  ‘You prefer to be knocked about a bit. Bit of a masochist aren’t you, on the quiet?’

  Maristella was slow to understand that Iola in her frustrated mood was looking for a fight. She grew pale and took what comfort she could from the little boy clinging to her side.

  ‘Just you remember, if you don’t like it here, you can leave tomorrow. I can turn you out the minute you feel like that.’

  Her display of nasty temper seemed to bring her some temporary relief. When she saw that both the mother and child were crying, she left the room. It seemed large and empty when she had gone. In the corner of a sofa Maristella nursed and comforted her little boy. They were only here on sufferance. They were isolated in a cold unfriendly world. Within less than half an hour Iola was back again, contrite and full of apologies.

  ‘I’m so sorry my dear. I’m such a nast
y spoilt bitch. I know I am. I try to control it. I’m one of those miserable creatures trapped in their own nature.’

  She came around the back of the sofa and laid her cheek on the top of Maristella’s head. The little boy shrank closer inside his mother’s arms. Iola whispered more urgently.

  ‘It comes bursting out sometimes. You do forgive me don’t you? Say you forgive me.’

  When Maristella nodded she stroked her cheek tenderly.

  ‘We’ve been through so much together. You are so good for me, Maristella, my guiding star. You help me escape from myself. I mean that. Doing good is more than a backstairs method of getting your own way. You taught me that.’

  She moved around the sofa to sit on the floor at Maristella’s feet. She took hold of her hand to squeeze it. The little boy gazed at her with his mouth open, wondering what she would do next.

  ‘The Dominican Republic,’ she said. ‘There’s enormous work to be done there. Shelter are very keen on starting a housing project. It’s something to think about Maristella, isn’t it? You can speak Spanish?’

  ‘Only very badly.’

  Maristella sighed deeply. She was anxious to please Iola, but there were simple facts that had to be faced.

  ‘It’s an idea anyway. Something to think about. I have to get away from this place. There’s so little I can do about it. You can see that for yourself. It’s my home of course. I have a deep deep attachment. But what good can I do? It’s sunk so deep in a morass of complacency. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  Her father and her great-aunt only seemed to exist to make her uncomfortable. She shifted up to the sofa from the floor and sat so close to Maristella that Nino was crushed between them. He gave a little squeak of protest and this amused her.

  ‘Go and bang at the piano,’ she said. ‘Bang it as hard as you like.’

  Once he had more space, the little boy was reluctant to leave his mother’s side.

  ‘You do what you like,’ Iola said. ‘Don’t ever let people bully you, especially me. We’ve got to think about what to do next, haven’t we, Maristella? Whatever happens we’ve got to be in the same boat.’