by Dai Smith
X
At four o’clock in the morning Alderman Parry-Paylin was woken up by a loud cry. He studied his wristwatch on the bedside table trying to decide whether it was part of a dream, or the little boy having another nightmare: considering the oppressive atmosphere in the house the previous day, it would not have been surprising. He had seriously considered the possibility of asking the little boy’s mother to act as some sort of go-between or mediator, between his difficult daughter and himself, only to conclude that such a move would have been too ridiculous. Since when had a foreign girl been able to intercede between a widowed father and his only daughter, who in any case had no excuse to be harbouring imagined wrongs. As so often happened in these matters, it was a case of sitting it out: just waiting until all the parties concerned came to their senses. In all his dealings throughout his life, he had relied on common sense to prevail.
He was slow to become aware of a blue light outside revolving in the grey mist of early morning. He saw the police car in the drive. In a state of agitation he stumbled around the bedroom aware of an impending emergency but uncertain how to prepare for it. Half-dressed and carrying a raincoat he walked down the stairs to be met by Inspector Owen Evans a police officer with whom he had good relations. In their dressing gowns Iola and Maristella stood in silence on either side of the bottom of the staircase. Iola reached out to take her father’s hand. He had to assume she was prepared to offer him comfort. In any event, it looked right. The Inspector was a large avuncular figure who liked to say that he was a farmer’s son from Meirionydd, who had to make a choice between the ministry and the police force, and had settled the matter in his own mind by making his professional manner a mixture of both.
‘Sad news, Alderman. And bad news. I’ve already informed these young ladies. A fire at Soar. I’m very sorry to tell you Alderman Parry-Paylin your dear old aunt has passed away.’
‘A fire?’
The Alderman gripped the curved balustrade to steady himself.
‘Yes. Well now then, I thought it was the least I could do to come and tell you myself.’
Iola reached out to take his hand.
‘Daddy. I’m so sorry. I really am.’
Her sympathy was a form of reconciliation and he smiled at her. The Inspector placed his large hand on the Alderman’s shoulder, and Mihangel Parry-Paylin lowered his head in gratitude for so much thoughtfulness and consideration. The Inspector looked at Iola and she bestirred herself to make some tea. The Inspector and the Alderman made their way at a solemn pace to take tea in the study.
‘A nasty accident,’ the Inspector said. ‘It’s too soon to jump to conclusions but I suspect it was that paraffin stove. It is a great sadness of course, but in my job, alas, we have to deal with these tragedies every day. At least here, my friend, there was a touch of heroism in the story and good deeds are bright lights in a wicked violent world. Nick Jenkin the postman was on his way to work and saw the smoke billowing out of one of the windows and from under the door. He didn’t hesitate. He soaked his jacket in the river, put it over his head, smashed the door open with the jack from his van and dragged the old woman out. Too late of course, but a fine gallant action. She was dead of course, overcome with the fumes.’
They shook their heads and contemplated the postman’s courageous action as they sipped their hot tea.
‘They put the fire out,’ the Inspector said. ‘But the dear little chapel is little more than a smouldering ruin. There was a lamp you know on the communion table. Was it the lamp or the paraffin stove? Did she knock it over? Was she desperate to escape? She was very old of course. But old people are still people, aren’t they? I know how upsetting it must be for you. I know you thought the world of Soar. All those family associations. When you have recovered sufficiently I want you to come with me and look at the damage. Not much we can save I’m afraid. Plenty of scorched papers fluttering around. You, more than anyone else will have to decide what is to be done. And of course, when you feel up to it, we shall need to identify the body.’
XI
In the portico of Moriah, one of the largest chapels in the county town, Uncle Ted drew on the fag end of his cigarette while Moi Twm stood alongside him anxious to find a seat inside. The chapel was filling up rapidly.
‘There’ll be room in the gallery,’ Uncle Ted said. ‘Above the clock. That’s where I like to sit. Keep an eye on things.’
Moi Twm was embarrassed by the note of cynicism in his Uncle Ted’s rasping voice. There was a limit to the extent you could suspect everyone and everything. The death of the old woman and the destruction of the chapel had touched him deeply. He had washed the colour out of his hair and had his head shaved like a Buddhist monk. He hoped people would take his transformation seriously. It was not such a big step, he said, from protest to pilgrimage. Uncle Ted’s comment he found thoughtless to the point of being hurtful. He said it made him look like an overpaid professional footballer.
‘Here they come.’
Uncle Ted’s small eyes ferreted about.
‘Two by two the animals enter the ecumenical ark.’
He threw his fag end away and pushed Moi Twm forward to climb the gallery steps on the left side of the vestibule. The weather had taken a turn for the worst. Umbrellas and raincoats abounded and a steamy atmosphere gave the impression that the chapel was packed. In the gallery there was more room, and from his chosen vantage point above the clock, Uncle Ted and Moi Twm could take a close view of the proceedings. The coffin, mounted on a wheeled chromium-plated bier, was parked under the elaborately carved pulpit, where the communion table usually stood. It was adorned with one large wreath of white lilies and red roses. The pulpit itself was overshadowed by the shining mountain of pipes of the powered organ. The curved deacon’s pew was occupied by ministers of all the denominations, including the Anglican Archdeacon and the Roman Catholic priest.
‘I wonder what the old girl would have had to say about that…’
Uncle Ted fidgeted about the pew so that he could get closer to Moi Twm’s ear. There was ceaseless comment he wanted to make for his nephew’s edification.
‘Quite a bing-bang you know at the Ecumenical Council. How best to take advantage of the occasion. The Bishop was there you know. Agreed to Moriah, provided the Archdeacon made an address all designed to prove the old girl died to prove the church was One and indivisible.’
Moi Twm made an effort to shift further away from the buzz of his uncle’s excited whispers. The organ had begun to play low sonorous music. He wanted to be left alone with his own solemn thoughts. Uncle Ted had too much to say for himself. This wasn’t the place to be dishing dirt.
‘The Press is here you know. We are on the verge of a mini-media event. Jones Llandudno Junction has been trying to get the tabloids interested. Working himself up no end concocting tasty headlines – Nonconformist spinster sets fire to herself.
He began to shake as a sequence of witty elaborations occurred to him. In the end he had to clap his hand over his loose dentures to stop them slipping out. He seemed incapable of sitting still. He leaned over the edge of the gallery in case persons of importance might be sitting at the back of the chapel. Moi Twm tugged fiercely at the tail of the black coat his uncle wore to attend funerals.
The two front pews according to custom had been left vacant for the immediate family. Mihangel Parry-Paylin and his daughter Iola occupied the first.
‘Not much of a family.’
Uncle Ted felt obliged to comment. He was surprised almost to the point of outrage when Maristella and her little boy took their place in the second pew. Before she sat down Maristella genuflected in the direction of the coffin and crossed herself.
‘Good Lord! Did you see that Moi Twm? Did you see that?’
It was a neat and unobtrusive gesture, but surprising in a nonconformist chapel.
‘What do you expect her to do?’
Moi Twm was fed up with his uncle’s prattle. The man was tied to his bad habit
s like a wayside goat on a tether.
‘She’s a Latin, isn’t she? It’s a mark of respect. We could do with a little more of it around here.’
In a brief address, the Archdeacon said that he was speaking on behalf of the county branch of the Ecumenical Movement. This was a special occasion. By her sacrifice this lonely old lady had brought the whole community closer together and made it aware of all the present dangers that threatened its Christian roots. The fate of our little nation, he said, was inextricably interwoven with the faith that gave it birth in the first place. There was such a thing as an apostolic succession on the humblest level and by her untimely death, Mary Keturah Parry had made a whole community more aware of this vital fact. Uncle Ted made notes in his own peculiar form of shorthand and grunted full approval of the Archdeacon’s eloquence.
Mary Keturah Parry was buried in the new cemetery plot opposite the ruin of Soar chapel. For this service the mourners were far fewer in number. When the interment was over, Alderman Parry-Paylin stretched out a hand to hold back Maristella.
‘I wonder if I could have a word,’ he said.
They stood still on the wet grass as the straggle of mourners went past them. There was some curiosity to take a closer look at the ruins of the chapel. Someone said the pews were still smouldering.
‘Something I’ve been wanting to say.’
The Alderman breathed more deeply to gain courage to speak.
‘If you and your little boy wanted to make Penllwyn your home, I would be very glad for you to stay.’
Maristella looked down as if she were measuring the degree of tenderness in the proposal.
‘You are very kind,’ she said. ‘You have been very kind to us both.’
‘Will you stay?’
There was a level of pleading in his voice. He had his own problem, being obliged to grow old alone. This gentle unmarried mother could be the answer. He had to make the offer.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I shall have to ask Iola.’
‘Ah well, Maristella. I am sure you will find life more comfortable in Penllwyn than wandering the wildernesses of this world. Much easier you know.’
‘I don’t think my life was ever meant to be easy,’ Maristella said.
In her deep black, Iola was approaching to ask them what they had stopped to talk about.
Author Biographies
Gwyn Thomas
Gwyn Thomas was born in 1913 in the Rhondda Valley. He studied Spanish at Oxford and spent time in Spain during the early 1930s. He obtained part-time lecturing jobs across England before deciding to become a schoolteacher in Wales. He retired from that profession in 1962 to work full-time as a writer and broadcaster. He wrote extensively across several genres including essays, short stories, novels and plays, and was widely translated. His fictional works include The Dark Philosophers (1946) and All Things Betray Thee (1949), the drama The Keep (1962) and an autobiography, A Few Selected Exits (1968). Gwyn Thomas was given the Honour for Lifetime Achievement by Arts Council Wales in 1976. He died in 1981.
Richard Burton
Richard Burton was born in 1925 in the Afan Valley. He is remembered predominantly for his illustrious stage and screen work, as well as his turbulent private life, but he also wrote copious articles, diary entries and stories during his lifetime. One of these, ‘A Christmas Story’, was published in 1964. He died in 1984. An edited version of his extensive diaries was published in 2012.
Ron Berry
Ron Berry was born in 1920 in Blaenycwm in the Rhondda Valley. The son of a coal miner, he worked in mining until the outbreak of war saw him serving in both the British Army and the Merchant Navy. He studied at the adult education college Coleg Harlech in the 1950s but had further spells in mining and as a carpenter as his writing was never entirely successful enough to sustain him. His fictional output, which included works such as the novels Flame and Slag (1968) and So Long, Hector Bebb (1970), depicted a hard but positive view of the industrial Welsh valleys, entirely bereft of sentimentality and the hype which he scornfully left to others. He died in 1997.
Leslie Norris
Leslie Norris was born in 1921 in Merthyr Tydfil. In 1948, he enrolled in teacher training, and by 1958 had risen to the position of college lecturer. From 1974 onwards, he earned his living by combining full-time writing with residencies at academic institutions on both sides of the Atlantic. Aside from a dozen books of poems, his prose works include two volumes of short stories, Sliding (1978), which won the David Higham Award, and The Girl from Cardigan (1988), as well as a compilation, Collected Stories, released in 1996. He died in 2006.
Roland Mathias
Roland Mathias was born in 1915 in Talybont-on-Usk, Breconshire, and read modern history at Jesus College, Oxford. He taught in schools until 1969, when he resigned from his job as a headmaster and settled in Brecon in order to write full-time. His contribution to the study of Welsh writing in English, as editor, critic, anthologist, historian, poet and short-story writer, is substantial. He helped to found Dock Leaves, later the Anglo-Welsh Review, which he edited from 1961 to 1976. He published one collection of short stories and nine volumes of poetry. The majority of his writing has to do with the history, people and topography of Wales, especially the border areas. He died in 2007.
Sally Roberts Jones
Sally Roberts Jones was born in 1935 in London. She studied history at University College Bangor, and worked as a librarian before becoming a founding member of the English Language Section of Yr Academi Gymreig, of which she later served as honorary joint Secretary and as Chair from 1993 to 1997. She founded the Alun Books publisher in 1977. She has published a wide variety of books, one of which, 1969’s Turning Away, won the Welsh Arts Council Prize. She has also written for radio, as well as both writing and lecturing on Wales’ cultural and industrial history.
Tony Curtis
An award-winning poet, critic and short-story writer, Tony Curtis was born in Carmarthen in 1946, and studied in both the UK and US before embarking on a career teaching in higher education. He was the first Professor of Poetry at the University of Glamorgan. His books include War Voices (1995) and Heaven’s Gate (2001). He has also published works of literary criticism, both as author and editor. He is a Fellow of both the Royal Society of Literature and the Welsh Academy.
Tristan Hughes
Tristan Hughes was born in 1972 in Atikokan, Canada, and was brought up in Llangoed, Ynys Môn. He was educated at the Universities of York and Edinburgh, and at King’s College, Cambridge, where he completed a PhD thesis on Pacific and American literature. He won the Rhys Davies Short Story Award in 2001 for his work ‘A Sort of Homecoming’, and his first book of fiction, The Tower, was published in 2003. His fourth novel, Eye Lake, was released in 2012.
Raymond Williams
Raymond Williams was born in 1921 in Pandy, near Abergavenny in Monmouthshire. He was educated locally and at Trinity College, Cambridge from 1939. After the war, he taught in adult education before returning to Cambridge, from where he retired as Professor of Drama in 1983. Although most well known for his academic and critical works, such as Culture and Society (1958) and The Long Revolution (1961), he also published seven novels, setting them largely in the land of his childhood: the Welsh border country, which inspired the title of his first, and perhaps greatest novel, Border Country (1960). He died in 1988.
Alun Richards
Alun Richards was born in 1929 in Pontypridd. After spells as a schoolteacher, probation officer and as an instructor in the Royal Navy, from the 1960s he was, and successfully so, a full-time writer. He lived near the Mumbles, close to the sea which, coupled with the hills of the South Wales Valleys, was the landscape of his fiction. Alongside plays for stage and radio, screenplays and adaptations for television, a biography and a memoir, he wrote six novels and two collections of short stories, Dai Country (1973) and The Former Miss Merthyr Tydfil (1976). As editor, he produced bestselling editions of Welsh short stories and tales of t
he sea for Penguin. He died in 2004.
Sîan James
Sîan James was born in 1932 in Llandysul, Carmarthenshire. After attending the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, she has gone on to on to write and publish a number of acclaimed novels and short-story collections, several of which have won awards, including the Wales Book of the Year Award in 1997 for Not Singing Exactly (1996) and the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize twice. Her third novel, A Small Country (1979) was adapted for film as Calon Gaeth (2006) by Stan Barstow and Diana Griffiths, winning a BAFTA Cymru award in the process.
Deborah Kay Davies
Deborah Kay Davies was born in 1956 in Pontypool. Her book of stories Grace, Tamar and Laszlo the Beautiful (2008) won the Wales Book of the Year award. She has previously published a collection of poems, Things You Think I Don’t Know (2006), and released her first novel True Things About Me in 2010. Her short stories have been published in magazines such as New Welsh Review and Planet, as well as broadcast on BBC radio.
Glenda Beagan
Glenda Beagan was born in Rhuddlan, where she still lives, and was educated at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth and the University of Lancaster. She has published three collections of short stories, The Medlar Tree (1992), Changes and Dreams (1996) and The Great Master of Ecstasy (2009), as well as a collection of poems, Vixen (1996). Her work has appeared in many anthologies, including The New Penguin Book of Welsh Short Stories (1993), The Green Bridge (1988) and Magpies (2000).
Clare Morgan
Clare Morgan was born in 1953 in Monmouthshire, and now lives in Gwynedd. She gained an MA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia and a doctorate in English literature from Oxford University, where she is now director of the graduate programme in creative writing. Her novel, A Book for All and None, was published in 2011. Her stories have been commissioned for radio and have been widely anthologised, with such a collection, An Affair of the Heart, appearing in 1996. She won the Arts Council of Wales Short Story Prize, and is a regular reviewer for the Times Literary Supplement.
