Story, Volume I

by Dai Smith

  ‘Gomer Vaughan. A moment, please.’

  Gomer went over to the man who called him.

  ‘You live near my house, don’t you, Vaughan? I wonder would you mind calling there to tell my wife I won’t be home until about eight this evening? I’ve got a job on here, tell her, and I can’t leave it. You see, she’s expecting me now… Hope it’s no trouble?’

  Of course it wasn’t. Gomer was glad to take the chief engineer’s message. Montague was liked by all the miners: a chief engineer with sympathetic principles, though an Englishman. Gomer nodded and resumed his way, soon regaining the particular companions with whom he always walked home. They were all young men.

  ‘What the blighter want?’ asked one.

  Gomer told him.

  ‘She’s a beauty, she is,’ said another, meaning Mrs Montague. ‘Proud of herself, too, strutting about and looking as though the world’s no more than ninepence to her, whatever.’

  ‘Got something to be proud of she has,’ returned a short terrier-looking fellow, perking himself to have his say. ‘A sprightlier bird never trod on two legs. Half French they say. Ach, she makes our lot look like a crowd of wet and panicky hens. Got something our skirts don’t seem to have.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said the eldest of them critically, ‘swop her for my old ’ooman. Too much opinion of herself she has, by the look on her. A spirited mare she is in the house, I bet.’

  Gomer said nothing. He was the latest married of the company. He did not want to say anything on this subject of women. Though he could say a lot, by God he could. He could let flow some language – a lot of language. But he held himself tight, his eye glittering, while the others went on as men will, saying what they’d up and do if any woman had too much lip and bossiness. He had been married a year: and he was all raw and fiery from his encounters with Blodwen. God, he never thought a woman could be so contrary. Soft and simpering as she was before they married… Well, he’d show her yet… And as the colliers swung along together Gomer planked his huge nailed boots down on the pavement with a vicious firmness.

  They had descended the hill, and as they reached the long dismal rows of dwellings that constituted the town they separated to climb to their different homes. Gomer lived in the last row reaching up the side of the greyish-green hill. At the end of this row was a detached house, where the engineer and his wife lived. The lonely bare hill swept up above it. Gomer had to pass his own cottage to climb to the villa.

  It was a warm sunny summer’s afternoon. There was a clear soft mist in the still air. Gomer wished there was a country lane of shady trees with a clean stream running near, in this part of Wales. He would have liked to stroll there in peace that evening. But no – after his meal and bath there would be nowhere to go but the street corners, the miserable pub, or the bare uninviting hills. Ah, what a life! Gomer sighed. The same thing day after day. Down to the pit, up again, food, bath, quarrel with Blodwen, slam the door and then a miserable couple of hours trying to jaw to the fellows on the street corner, and back home to see Blodwen’s face with the jibe on it still.

  He cleared his throat and spat before opening the gate of the garden. Ach, he had had enough of her tantrums, and if she wanted a fight he was ready for her. Trying to dictate to him, just as her mother had tried it on him. Save up to buy a piano indeed! And no one in the house who could play it. He’d give her piano…! He knocked the shining brass image on the villa door and glanced about. Natty house. Bright little garden – a rose garden. There were bushes and bushes of them: he’d never seen such big red and white roses. And such a smell! He almost snorted as he breathed in and emitted the perfume.

  No one had answered his knock. He turned and knocked again. Where was the servant? Keeping him hanging about like this. He wanted his dinner. He knocked again. Then there came sounds of steps, upstairs it seemed, and as the steps sounded nearer, hurrying downstairs, a shrill voice called:

  ‘Can’t you wait a minute, darling!’

  It was Mrs Montague, of course, Gomer said to himself. She thought her husband was at the door. And there was laughter and excitement in her voice. Ah, that was the way to greet a tired husband coming home from work. An excited voice calling ‘darling’. Made a man think a woman was worthy to be a wife… The door was flung wide open.

  Gomer’s tongue clave in astonishment to his mouth. The gaping silence lasted several moments. A naked woman stood before him, and then slowly, slowly retreated, her fist clenched in the cleft between her breasts.

  ‘Mr… Mr… Montague asked me…’ stammered Gomer, and could not switch his rigid gaze from the apparition.

  How lovely she was!

  ‘…told me…’ he went on humbly, ‘…said…’ His voice dropped and he stared at her like one possessed.

  She turned at the foot of the stairs… fled up: and it was like the flutter of some great white bird to heaven.

  ‘…told me to tell you he couldn’t come home at all until eight o’clock just…’ suddenly bawled Gomer into the empty passageway.

  He waited a few seconds, wondering if she would answer. He heard her hurry about upstairs. Then she appeared again, wrapped now in a loose blue garment. Her face was flushed as she came down the stairs, but as she advanced to him she laughed. By God, how she laughed! Gomer felt his blood run. She wasn’t ashamed, not she. And still her white feet were bare. They were bare and flawless and like lilies pressed on the floor.

  ‘What is that about my husband?’ she asked easily.

  Gomer told her. Under the pit-dirt his cheeks burned.

  She thanked him very prettily; and then she said:

  ‘I thought it was he at the door. I’m sure you’ll understand. I was having a bath. You are married, I expect?’

  Gomer nodded. She looked up at his gazing eyes again in a queer laughing way and said in dismissal:

  ‘Oh, well. Thank you very much for the message.’

  He turned at last, and the door closed. He stepped out of the porch and, his eyes lifted in thoughtful amazement, made his way slowly to the gate. Never before had he seen a naked woman. Not a live one. Only in pictures. Respectable women – it had always been understood – kept themselves a mystery to men. But was that quite right? Ought they to keep themselves such a mystery? When they were so beautiful. Surely Mrs Montague was respectable enough! Her husband was a fine respected man too. He wouldn’t have things done that weren’t right… Gomer suddenly made a decision that it was quite natural for a woman to meet her husband naked. It was lovely too.

  As he opened the gate he saw a rose bush stretched up the wall. There were several curled pink-flushed roses. One bloom wouldn’t be missed. His hand immediately snatched a flower, and, when he got outside the gate, he laid it in his food-tin.

  Gomer’s shoulders seemed squared and defiant as he went down at a quickened pace to his cottage. He was going to make his peace with Blodwen. But he was not going to be a namby-pamby fool either. After all, she was his wife: and he was not an unreasonable man. He had been quite fond of her too: and there were times when he thought her handsome enough for any man.

  II

  ‘You’re late,’ she said accusingly. And before waiting for him to reply she went on shrilly, ‘Don’t you blame me if the dinner’s spoilt.’

  ‘Which means it is, I suppose!’ he said. But he smiled at her, his good white teeth shining out in his blackened face.

  ‘Come in at your proper time then,’ she rapped out, prodding the meat viciously.

  He leaned forward and playfully slapped her on the back. She uttered a scream and the meat slid off its plate, hesitated on the edge of the table and fell on the floor. His action and the ensuing accident had an exaggerated effect on Blodwen. She arched up her long neck in a tight rigid fashion, her face flamed, and she darted out into the little scullery like an infuriated turkey.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she screamed, ‘and more than enough.’

  And she banged some crockery about.

  ‘N
ow then,’ Gomer called to her soothingly, ‘now then, my pet. What’s the damage! A bit of dust on the old meat! Look, it’s all right. Now, Blod, behave yourself. Where’s the taters? I’m hungry.’

  He knew she’d find his gentle coaxing astonishing. Another time he would have hurled abuse at her. But she remained in the scullery. He sighed and went in there. She turned her back on him and went to the tap. He followed her and whispered in her pink ear.

  ‘Now, now, what’s got you, my darling! There’s a way to treat a tired man who’s been working hard as he can to get you a bit of dough! Turn about, Blod – and show me your chops laughing, the same as you used to! Look, look what I’ve got you—’ He lifted his hidden hand and tickled her ear with the rose, then reached it to her nose. ‘Smell! Put it in your blouse.’

  She turned and said angrily: ‘What do I want with a rose in my working blouse! Where did you get it whatever?’ She was relenting.

  ‘Ah, my secret that is.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said, tossing her head, ‘put it in a cup on the table.’

  During the meal she reverted again to the piano controversy. ‘A catalogue came today from Jones & Evans. Cheaper they seem than anyone else. There’s one that works out at seven-and-six a week.’

  His brows were drawn in wrathfully for a moment. He did not speak. She went on talking, and at last he dropped in:

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’

  The meal finished, a big wooden tub was dragged in to the place before the fire, the mat rolled up. Blodwen, sturdy enough, lifted the huge pan of boiling water from the fire and poured it in the tub. Gomer stripped. The pit-dirt covered his body. Blodwen added cold water and Gomer stepped into the tub. While he washed she cleared away the dinner things. She was quick and deft enough in her work, and the house was bright and neat.

  ‘I’m ready for my back,’ Gomer called.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said coldly, taking the remainder of the dishes into the scullery.

  So he had to wait standing in the tub with the patch of coal dust beneath his shoulders glaring on the whiteness of the rest of his body. He knew she was exercising her own contrary will again. He might have yelled at her, but today he didn’t want to. He was holding himself tight in glowing anticipation. When she came at last to rub the hand cloth over his back and swill him down, he said nothing. Only grunted when she had finished:

  ‘Not much respect have you got for a man’s naked skin, Blod. You rub me as though I’m a bit of old leather.’

  ‘Bah!’ said Blodwen, ‘a nice little powder puff I’ll get for you.’

  He laughed, lingeringly and good-temperedly. He wanted to get her in a good mood. ‘Ach,’ he said with affection, ‘one of these days, Blod fach, perhaps you’ll come to know what a nice skin your husband’s got on him.’

  ‘Conceit!’ she said, and would not look as he vigorously towelled himself.

  Early that evening, when he sat comfortable and easy by the fire, he said to her, as she was about to go upstairs and change:

  ‘You’re not going out this evening, are you, Blod?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to the chapel.’

  ‘Don’t you go this evening, if you please,’ he said.

  Amazement was now evident on her face. This politeness and interference with her arrangements was quite unusual. ‘Oh, indeed!’ she began, ready for a battle.

  He cocked his tight-skinned sturdy young head up at her. His eyes gleamed, there was an odd smile on his lips. ‘Well, go and change first,’ he said.

  She shrugged her shoulders and went upstairs.

  He sat waiting for her. She appeared in a peach-coloured silky dress. Her face shone clean. She was prepared for the women’s meeting in the chapel. He looked at her appraisingly and said softly:

  ‘Come here, Blod.’

  ‘What d’you want now?’ she demanded, withheld in spite of her coldness.

  She moved near to his chair – but apparently to the mantelshelf looking for something.

  ‘You’re looking nice tonight,’ he said. And he suddenly leaned out of his chair and caught her. She cried out, disliking this horseplay in her best silk dress. But he held her and she had to keep still. Then he whispered a few words in her ear.

  She suddenly wrenched herself free and slapped his face. He sprang up. Her face and slender tightened neck were mottled.

  ‘Indeed,’ she breathed, ‘indeed! You rude ruffian. What d’you take me for, indeed? Please to remember I’m your wife, will you? I’ll teach you to respect me, Gomer Vaughan.’ Yet there was an undercurrent of fear in her breathed words of contempt and horror.

  But he had caught fire. His head lurched towards her, his eyes like flame-lit glass, he shouted:

  ‘That’s just it, my fine lady. Remember you are my wife I’m doing. Look here, you. Enough of your silly airs and graces I’ve had. A lodger in this house I might be. You do what I tell you to, now.’

  ‘Never!’ she screamed. ‘Such rudeness I’ve never heard of.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ he demanded furiously. ‘You see me, don’t you, when I wash?’

  She was retreating from him in obvious fear now.

  ‘Never have I heard of such a thing!’ she exclaimed. Her face was contracted, her eyes were strange and hunted. ‘Never. A woman is different from a man… And never do I look at you… not in that way.’

  He was advancing to her. She saw the clear determination burning in his eye. With a sudden quick movement she darted out of the room and he sprang too late. She was out of the house. He heard the front door slam.

  III

  He knew where she had fled to. Twice before, after their more furious clashings, she had hurried off to her mother’s – Mrs Hopkins, a widow, who kept a sweet shop. Mrs Hopkins had come up ‘to see him about it’ afterwards. No doubt she would come this evening. He hated her.

  She arrived half an hour later. Directly Gomer saw her pale, large aggressive face, he buckled in his belt and thrust out his chin.

  ‘What’s this I hear from my Blodwen, Gomer Vaughan?’ she began with shocked asperity. She looked startled this time too.

  He uttered an exclamation of contemptuous ire.

  ‘That daughter of yours got no right to be a wife at all, Lizzie Hopkins,’ he fumed. ‘Running to her mother like a little filly! And don’t you come here poking your nose in this business either. You go back and tell your silly daughter to return at once to the man she’s married. See?’ And he turned his back on her abruptly.

  ‘Well you might look ashamed’ – Mrs Hopkins replied in a rising voice – ‘well you might. Scandalous is the thing I have heard from Blodwen now just. Advice she has asked me. Gomer Vaughan, a respectable man I thought you. Please you remember that my daughter is a religious girl, brought up in a good family that’s never had a breath of scandal said about them. And now you want her to be a party to these goings-on.’ Her voice reached a dangerous pitch. ‘Dreadful is this thing I have heard. Surely not fit to be married to a respectable girl you are! Shame on you man, shame on you. What my poor dead Rowland would have said I can imagine. Why, Gomer Vaughan, for forty years I was married to him, and never once was I obliged to show myself in that awful way! Don’t you fear the wrath of God, man, don’t you think of His eye watching!’

  Gomer retained an admirable silence through this tirade. His thumbs stuck in his belt, he spat in the fire and said:

  ‘Pah, you narrow-minded old bigot, you.’

  Mrs Hopkins began to breathe heavily.

  ‘Insult and rudeness! Would my poor Rowland was here! And would my dear girl was single again!’

  Gomer lost his balance then. He turned and shouted:

  ‘You be quiet, jealous old cat! What do you understand about young married people today? Interfering! Turning Blodwen’s ideas the wrong way. A girl she is, isn’t she then? Nothing extraordinary was it that I asked her. Only today was it I saw such a thing.’

  Mrs Hopkins said quickly: ‘Who?’

  In
his ire Gomer incautiously answered, as though to strengthen his case, ‘Mr Montague’s wife. I—’

  But Mrs Hopkins broke in with a loud exclamation:

  ‘Ha! So that’s it then. Ha, now I understand well enough. She is the one, is it? Long have I had my feelings about her… Very well, Gomer Vaughan, very well—’ And she began to back out of the room, her heavy head nodding with hidden menace, her pale eyes fixed on him triumphantly.

  Gomer shouted at her:

  ‘You send Blodwen back here at once.’

  Mrs Hopkins whisked her bulky figure out of the doorway in a surprisingly swift way. ‘We’ll see, young man,’ she darted back over her shoulder, ‘we’ll see.’ But Gomer had no doubts that Blodwen would return.

  IV

  And so she came back – sooner than he expected. Mrs Hopkins scarcely had time to reach home and impart whatever she had to say, and Blodwen was dashing into the room where her husband sat in brooding wrath.

  ‘You,’ she panted, ‘you been seeing that woman!’

  She looked as though she wanted to leap on him. But like an enraged hound on leash she stood prancing and glaring wildly. ‘That’s where you been, when you came home late! That’s your monkey’s game, is it—’

  ‘Now, now, Blodwen—’ he began. Then he was silent, and he did not attempt to deny her accusation. There was a wolfish grin about his mouth. Blodwen continued to heap vituperation upon him. She became wilder and wilder. Her mouth began to froth, her eyes to protrude. And he liked her fierce, savage beauty. She had a splendour thus. His cunning wolfish grin widened. She became desperate.

  ‘Not another night will I spend in this house! Gladly will my mother welcome me back—’

  He decided she had reached the pinnacle of fear. He got up and went to her. She shrunk away and he followed. He took her arms firmly and with power.