by Iris Gower
‘What’s for dinner, love?’ Jamie turned to Fon. ‘I’m starving.’
Fon, turning to cut into the freshly baked loaf, heard her sister’s low, throaty chuckle.
‘Need to keep up your strength, Jamie boy, from what I’ve heard of your prowess between the sheets,’ she teased.
Fon felt her colour rise, and she concentrated on liberally spreading the butter, watching it liquefy as it ran into the crevices in the hot bread.
‘Give me plenty of cheese, love’ – Jamie good-naturedly ignored Gwyneth’s remark – ‘and some pickle. I’ve got a lot of work up on the top end field; some fences down again, with the cattle walking all over them.’
Gwyneth subsided into a chair and leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Where Pat?’ she asked, looking round the kitchen as if expecting him to come out of a corner somewhere.
Fon smiled. ‘He’s having a nap. Up early he was, helping me with the hens. Leave him be in peace until we’ve eaten, is it?’
‘Right enough,’ Jamie said. ‘I’ll take him off up the top end with me later on, give you two girls some time alone to gossip to your hearts’ content.’
Fon poured tea, weak but hot, and then handed round the plates of cheese and pickle before sitting down. She was aware of Gwyneth smiling wickedly.
‘How’s my little sister shaping up as a wife, then?’ she said, leaning towards Jamie, her broad mouth revealing perfect teeth. ‘I know how well you are doing, but our Fon – pleasing as a wife, is she?’
Fon shook her head in despair at her sister’s wickedness, and she glanced at Jamie anxiously. He rested his hand on her shoulder.
‘She all right,’ he said, his expression quite sober. ‘She’s a good mammy to the boy, and as for me, I couldn’t ask for better.’
Fon glanced away. Jamie hadn’t said he loved her, had never said he loved her, not since their wedding. Doubts assailed her afresh; was she just a substitute for Katherine?
‘That’s men for you, Sis; only get excited when it’s bed-time, they do.’
Fon looked quickly at Jamie, but he didn’t seem to mind Gwyneth’s teasing.
‘Not given to romance, our men – not the men I’ve met, anyway,’ Gwyneth continued mercilessly. ‘It’s food in their belly and pretty quick about it, and clean shirts to put on their backs, or there’s hell to pay. It’s only when the sun goes down do they like a bit of kissing and cuddling.’
She laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I bet you get really full of vigour then, don’t you, Jamie? A real stud you are, come on, admit it now.’
Jamie buttered a crust without turning a hair, but a smile played around his mouth, and with a dart of surprise, Fon realized he was not at all embarrassed by her sister’s remarks; rather he was pleased by the praise to his manliness.
‘Been talking about me, have you, love?’ he said softly to Fon, and she bit her lip, hoping that Gwyneth would keep quiet for once. It was too much to hope.
‘She’s been talking all right.’ Gwyneth tossed back the thick hair that had escaped from the flash of red ribbon. ‘I think my little sister has picked a real man in you, Jamie boy.’
He was smiling broadly now, and Fon sat back, realizing she was learning a great deal about her husband; he loved a bit of flattery, loved to have his prowess praised. Were all men like that, she wondered, so easily pleased by a few nice words?
‘How’s Mammy managing?’ Fon asked, determined to change the embarrassing turn the conversation had taken.
Gwyneth shrugged. ‘With her usual crabbiness, I suppose. You know what our mother is like as well as I do, a right misery when there’s no man around to distract her.’
‘That’s not fair!’ Fon said, and then realized she had done just as Gwyneth wanted, provoked an argument.
‘You know it’s fair,’ Gwyneth said placidly. ‘Nina is only happy when there’s a man in her bed.’ She looked coyly at Jamie. ‘I can quite understand it, mind; I like a man’s company myself.’
Jamie rose from his chair and picked up his coat, swinging it over his shoulder. Fon saw him suddenly as Gwyneth must see him, sun-browned and muscular, his shirt sleeves rolled up above strong elbows, his face handsome, with the curling black hair clinging to his brow. He was, without doubt, a desirable, fulfilled man. Why then was she, his wife, having doubts about his love for her?
‘I’m going down to the fields,’ he said. ‘I’ll call in a bit later for the boy.’ He left the kitchen, and for a moment there was silence, except, for the droning of a bee trapped inside the window seeing freedom but unable to get out.
‘He’s no womanizer,’ Gwyneth said, with a hint of disappointment in her voice, ‘I’ll give him that. You got a good man there, Fon. Look after him in bed, I’m warning you, for if you don’t someone else will do it for you.’
‘Meaning you, I suppose.’ Fon was suddenly angry – though with herself, Jamie or Gwyneth she wasn’t quite sure.
Gwyneth shrugged. ‘Could be, Sis.’ She relented then and put her hand on Fon’s shoulder. ‘Look, love, I’ll flirt with any man, you know me, but I wouldn’t take your husband from you even if I could.’ She sighed. ‘And to be truthful, I don’t think he’d bite. No, your Jamie is a rare being, a one-woman man. Make the most of it, and don’t be a fool.’
‘One-woman man,’ Fon repeated. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Gwyneth didn’t seem to hear her; she stared round the kitchen for a moment, her face thoughtful. ‘You’ve got what you want, Fon; you are a very lucky girl. It don’t look like I’ll ever have the man I want. I’ll never find happiness.’
Suddenly, Gwyneth, happy-go-lucky Gwyneth, was sitting at the kitchen table with her head buried in her arms, her shoulders heaving.
‘Love!’ Fon put her arm around her sister and hugged her. ‘You are so beautiful, much prettier than me. Of course you’ll be happy, you wait and see.’
Gwyneth looked up, her cheeks stained with tears, the light gone from her eyes.
‘Will I?’ she said softly. ‘I know I talk big, but all I want is the love of a fine man. I’m afraid that Eline Harries will win, as she always seems to do, damn her!’
She thumped her fist on the table, and the cups leapt in the saucers. ‘I hate Eline Harries! I wish she’d never set foot in Oystermouth. Since she came there, she’s been nothing but trouble.’
Fon was silent; what could she say? Eline Harries had not always found life easy. She’d had her share of tragedy, and who knows if she even wanted Will Davies? But Gwyneth was in no mood to listen to reason.
‘Come on,’ Fon said, forcing a cheerful note into her voice, ‘I’ll make us a nice, fresh cup of tea.’ She patted Gwyneth’s shoulder, wondering at the strangeness of life. Her sister had always got everything she’d ever wanted, or so it had seemed to Fon. She was pretty, with a fine figure that would attract any man, while Fon had been a mouse, quiet and withdrawn, with curling tawny hair but unremarkable features, a girl no-one would lose his heart over, unsure of herself, diffident in the extreme.
But now the roles were reversed; Fon had a husband, a home and a family. She had blossomed; even she could see that. Her body was filling out, her face more mature, its lines fined, so that her eyes appeared larger. In the eyes of the world, she was a success, a woman with a fine husband.
She squared her shoulders with new resolution, knowing that whatever she had to do, whatever compromises she would have to make, she would ensure that nothing spoiled the almost perfect life she was leading.
CHAPTER TWO
Eline Harries sat back on her heels, disregarding the hammer and nails and lengths of wood that were spread around the bare floorboards of the room. Disregarding even the painting that lay beside pieces of wooden frame, the painting she had been so pleased with earlier but that now seemed mundane, ill-conceived.
The room, a high attic with a southward-facing aspect, was sunlit and mellow, the newly whitened walls reflected the light. For a moment, Eline paused, imagining the pictures she would p
aint hanging in the deep shadows of an alcove. It was a perfect studio for an artist, and though Eline would have hesitated to call herself that, she was nevertheless excited by the prospect of actually working in the room.
It was already her workshop, where she had spent hours designing shoes, working on drawings for practical boots; but now it would house a high, sloped bench which would make her designing work so much easier and in addition, at the far end, she would install an easel where she could paint to her heart’s delight.
She had come a long way, she mused, a very long way. Her life as a farmer’s daughter on Honey’s Farm had once filled her childhood with light and happiness; then she had married Joe Harries, a man twenty years older than her.
Eline sighed. She had tried so hard to do her duty by Joe, but she had failed miserably. How could she blame him for taking a mistress when she did not welcome him into her own bed? And now he was dead she felt nothing but sadness that she had never made him happy.
Outside, the Sunday bells of All Saints were ringing out into the soft air, echoing across the village. Eline felt the sad memories fade away, and suddenly she was at peace with the world.
‘So here you are.’ The voice was low, melodic. ‘I might have known.’
‘Will!’ Happiness flowed through her, as it always did at the sight of her beloved husband-to-be. Eline rose to her feet and dusted her fingers against her skirts.
‘I was just trying to fit one of my pictures into a frame. I’m not very good at it really.’
‘Hmm.’ He encircled her waist from behind, chin resting on her shoulder as he looked down at the picture. ‘That’s a lovely watercolour of the Mumbles,’ he said. ‘I like the feeling of the rocks rising out of the morning mist. You are a talented girl, Eline.’
He turned her to face him and kissed her mouth. ‘I’m a very lucky man, though I don’t know if I relish the prospect of marrying a lady who has more money than me.’
‘Ha!’ Eline’s voice was sceptical. ‘Don’t fool yourself that you are getting a rich woman, my love. I have only debts and the good-will of the people who have invested in me.’
‘And I have only debts,’ Will said ruefully, releasing Eline, ‘though I must admit the villagers are doing their best to repay me for the shoes they bought on credit last year, when times were hard.’
Eline sighed. ‘The hard times are far from over, Will.’ She shrugged. ‘I know the oyster fishing is better now, but only a little. The villagers are still finding things difficult.’
‘I know,’ Will said soberly, ‘and that doesn’t make it any easier for me to make a living, either. If it wasn’t for the customers Hari Grenfell sends me from Swansea I’d have been finished long ago.’
Eline put her arms around his neck. ‘You are a fine man, William Davies, and you will be rich one day, I know it.’
Will sighed heavily. ‘I can’t wait, Eline.’ He kissed her throat, and his voice became hoarse. ‘For one thing I can’t wait to get you into my bed.’
Eline clung to him, feeling the usual sweet longing for him, and though she knew she was being unfair, playing with fire, she pressed herself against him.
‘Let’s get married anyway, Will,’ she urged softly. ‘We’ll be all right, you’ll see.’ She kissed his mouth. ‘Between us, we’ll make a reasonable living.’
Will moved away as though putting as much distance between Eline and himself as he could. ‘We’ll marry when I think I can support a wife,’ he said sternly. ‘I don’t want to have to take handouts from you, Eline, surely you can see that?’
‘Don’t be so pig-headed!’ Eline replied, and then bit back the angry rush of words. This was an argument she’d had with Will many times, and she recognized it was an argument she would not win.
‘Look, I’ve come to a decision,’ Will said, and there was something in his tone that alerted her, heightened her senses, bringing a tingling feeling of anxiety.
Eline glanced at him, deliberately keeping her voice even. ‘What decision?’ she asked quietly.
‘I’m returning to Swansea,’ he said. ‘I’ll give up the shop in Mumbles, cut my losses. Hari Grenfell is willing to take me on to manage part of her shoemaking empire.’
Eline felt a pang of fear. Will could not move away, not now, just as she was establishing herself as a successful businesswoman in the area.
‘Don’t look like that.’ Will smiled. ‘Swansea is only five miles away, you know, and Hari is a dear friend. She virtually brought me up.’ Will paused for a moment. ‘Come on, Eline, Hari would not be happy if I made a wrong choice. She is a fine, intelligent woman; I trust her judgement, and she feels as I do over this, the best thing is to pack up the business now.’
‘I know you love and trust Hari Grenfell, and I respect her too, but, Will, you can’t give up your shop and move away.’ Eline caught his arm. ‘Please, Will, I can’t bear it if you are not here with me.’
‘My mind is made up, Eline,’ he said firmly. ‘The business is not viable any longer. I’m not making a profit, I’m simply increasing my debts. I can’t go on like that, it’s simply not responsible.’
Eline stared around her at the bright, sunlit room, at the large windows overlooking the sea, and suddenly she felt as though she was standing on shifting sands.
‘I’ll hold a sale of my stock of boots and shoes,’ Will continued, ‘let the villagers have the benefit of it before I leave.’
He took her hand and, turning it, kissed the palm lightly. Eline tried to suppress her anger; was it directed at Will, at herself, or at the fates that seemed intent on dragging them apart?
‘Don’t you understand, Eline?’ Will said softly. ‘I can no longer afford even the small rent I’m paying Mrs Parks. Things are that bad.’
‘Oh, Will, why don’t you let me help?’ Eline protested. ‘You could come here, live in these rooms above the gallery.’ She gestured around her. ‘You can see how pleasant they would be.’
Will shook his head and, squaring his shoulders, moved to the door.
‘That’s impracticable and you know it.’ He spoke softly but there was an edge of anger beneath his words.
‘How is it impracticable?’ Eline demanded. She went to him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Let’s not quarrel about it, Will.’
‘We won’t quarrel, not if you don’t insist on trying to run my life, you little bossy boots.’ Will rested his cheek against her hair. ‘You see, Eline, I couldn’t live here under the same roof as you. There would be talk. In any case, these are your rooms, your workshop; you need them.’
‘There wouldn’t be talk, not if we were married,’ Eline said, knowing she was persisting in a line that would only anger Will; and yet she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to be with him, to have him all the time; she loved him so much that it almost hurt.
Will eased her arms from round his neck. ‘Eline!’ he said in exasperation, ‘I will not be a kept man.’
‘That’s absurd!’ Eline was growing exasperated too. ‘Does Emily Miller’s husband look on himself as a kept man?’
‘That’s different,’ he said. ‘Emily Miller took John in marriage when he was a successful cobbler. I admit he was poor by her standards, but at least he wasn’t a failed businessman like me. Anyway, I’m not going to argue with you any more.’ Will moved towards the door. ‘I’ll speak to you later, when you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind.’
Then Eline was alone in the sunfilled room, the room that suddenly seemed to have lost its charm for her. She tried to return to the job in hand of getting the place ready to work in, but her concentration was gone.
She left the studio and wandered down the stairs. Aimlessly she went from room to, room, not seeing the paintings hanging on the wall, not even seeing the red dots alongside some of the works that indicated they were sold to some eager customer. Business was good, very good, and yet suddenly Eline was full of doubts about her future. Perhaps she would be better off if she had no business; perhaps then Wi
ll would not be too stiff-necked with pride to marry her.
The building was silent. Penny, the girl who did the cooking, had gone home to her parents for the weekend, and Carys Morgan, who kept the place spotless, was with her husband in the little house further along the village street. Everyone, it seemed, except Eline had a family, someone to spend Sunday with.
Eline moved out into the street. The sun spilled over the pavements, washing the buildings with light. Along the shore the beached boats lay, idle now in the summer months, waiting for the start of the oyster season in September.
On the edge of the sweeping bay Eline paused, feeling the sand fall away beneath her feet, soft and golden, with a rim of deeper colour where the tide had retreated, leaving a trail of seaweed.
She picked up a group of oystershells that had fused together. It was almost a work of art. She dusted it free of sand and decided to put it in the gallery, a good luck charm, an omen, perhaps.
Across the bay, she could see the pilot ship skimming, it seemed, over the calm waters. Overhead, gulls wheeled and cried, echoing her own loneliness. Tears filled her eyes, and she brushed them away impatiently; self-pity did no-one any good.
Eline returned to the roadway. As she passed the row of small fishermen’s cottages, Carys Morgan called a greeting to her.
‘Bore da, Eline.’ She was sitting on the step of her house, knitting needles flying between deft fingers, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘Having a quiet time, are you?’
Eline paused, glad of someone to talk to. ‘It’s such a lovely day, I felt I had to get out for a while.’
‘A bit lonely, like, are you?’ Carys said, with such perception that Eline stifled the instinct to deny any such thing.
She sighed. ‘I am a bit sorry for myself today. I’ll be glad when Will and I are married, I must say.’
‘Come and have a nice cup of dandelion and burdock with me,’ Carys said. ‘I could do with a bit of company too.’ She rose from the step and retreated into the darkness of the kitchen. Eline followed her.
