by Iris Gower
‘My Sam’s gone drinking beer with his pals in one of the cottages,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Always does on a Sunday, the heathen.’
Eline sat at the scrubbed table and looked around the spotless kitchen. Carys in her home, as well as in the gallery, made a virtue of cleanliness and order.
During the awful months of hunger and famine that had gripped Oystermouth in the oyster famine, Carys had lost her baby son, a loss doubly tragic because Carys had despaired of ever becoming a mother.
‘I miss him, mind,’ Carys said softly, and it was as though she had picked up on Eline’s thoughts. ‘Some days my poor old arms ache for my baby. I’ll never get over it, for all the old women tell me time heals all wounds.’
‘I know,’ Eline said. ‘I’ve never had a baby, but when I lost my father I felt the world had come to an end for me too. In a way, I’ve been alone ever since.’
Carys looked at her curiously. ‘Even when you was married to Joe you felt like that?’
Eline nodded. ‘Because Joe was so much older than me and was Dad’s friend, I thought he could fill the gap in some way. I was sadly mistaken.’
‘He was a good man, though,’ Carys said, ‘and he loved you. Mind, I’ll never understand why he took up with that hussy Nina Parks.’
Eline was silent. She blamed herself for Joe’s infidelity. Had she been a better, warmer wife, Joe wouldn’t have strayed to another woman’s bed.
‘Funny how he gave her children and yet you . . .’ Cary’s words trailed away and Eline smiled.
‘I know, I often wondered at that myself. Perhaps I can’t have children. I worry about that sometimes.’
‘Probably you are all right,’ Carys said confidently. ‘It just wasn’t meant, not between you and Joe. I spects him and Nina were . . . were – fitting for each other. Any rate, poor man’s gone now, God rest his soul.’
Eline sat quiet, still, wondering why she was exploring past wounds and present doubts with Carys. Probably because she instinctively trusted her; Carys was so down-to-earth and sensible when it came to dealing with her own life.
Eline drank the mug of dandelion and burdock and smiled at Carys, determined to switch the conversation back to more mundane topics.
‘Sam be glad to get back to sea?’ she asked lightly.
Carys poured more cordial and shrugged. ‘I suppose so. He don’t talk much about his feelings; but then men never do, do they?’ She sighed. ‘Let’s hope the oysters are more abundant than they were last season. I wouldn’t like to face a winter of going hungry, not again.’
‘Will you still be able to work at the gallery?’ Eline asked. ‘I know the oyster beds need a lot of time and attention, but I need you too, Carys.’
‘I’ll be cleaning for you, don’t you worry,’ Carys said firmly. ‘It’s my bit of security in case the oysters fail again.’ She leaned her elbows on the table that gleamed white in the splash of sunlight, the wood pale with much scrubbing.
‘The oyster beds are hard, mind; you know that, to your cost!’ Cary’s eyes were suddenly full of merriment. ‘Stubborn, you are, mind, I’ll never forget you struggling with the sack of oysters and the tide coming up round your belly, ready to suck you down.’
‘I won’t forget either!’ Eline grimaced. ‘I thought I was going to die, but I wasn’t going to let the oysters fall back into the sea.’
‘If it wasn’t for William Davies coming like a hero and bringing you out, you would have been a goner.’ Carys sighed. ‘So romantic, it was.’
Eline glanced down into her mug, watching the swirling brown liquid as she raised it to her lips.
‘When you getting married, soon is it?’ Carys asked innocently.
Eline shook back a stray curl of hair. ‘He’s so stubborn,’ she found herself saying. ‘He wants to be rich before he makes me his wife – as if I care about that.’
Carys looked at her with clear eyes. ‘Let him have his way,’ she said softly. ‘Otherwise he might blame you for the rest of his life; that’s the way men are.’
She might be right, Eline thought. If Will failed to make himself the rich man he so wanted to be, would he feel Eline had held him back?
‘You’re very wise, Carys,’ she said softly. She placed her mug on the table, noticing it had made a brown ring on the white surface.
‘Duw, not wise, at all, just lived a bit longer than you have, that’s all.’
There was silence in the small kitchen save for the droning of a bee in the fragrant roses growing around the cottage doorway. Eline realized quite suddenly that Carys might sometimes feel just as alone as she did. Carys had only her cleaning job at the gallery to occupy her during the summer months. And now, with no baby to fill her time, she must find the hours long and tedious.
As if reading her thoughts, Carys spoke. ‘Duw, I’ll be glad when the oyster fishing starts,’ she said quietly, her eyes moist with tears. ‘The devil finds work for idle hands, or at least wicked thoughts to fill the mind.’ Carys swallowed hard. ‘I sometimes find myself blaming the Good Lord for letting my son die, forgetting that He who gives sometimes sees fit to take away.’
She looked appealingly at Eline. ‘But I was a good mother, wasn’t I?’
‘Of course you were!’ Eline said at once. ‘It was the poor conditions, the lack of food and medicine, that was to blame, not you.’ She reached out and touched Carys’ hand, feeling the roughness of her skin with a sense of shock. How quickly, Eline thought, she had become used to the niceties of life. Living in comfort as she did, doing little hard labour, she had become soft and perhaps more vulnerable. If hard times came again, would she be able to survive them? She shuddered a little.
‘There now, I’ve depressed you,’ Carys reproached herself. She picked up the mugs, took them to the big stone sink and dropped them in with a clatter.
‘What do you think of little Irfonwy Parks then?’ she said, changing the subject with a forced brightness of tone. ‘Nina Parks’ youngest, married to that handsome man from up at Honey’s Farm? Lucky girl, mind.’
‘I heard,’ Eline said, trying to shake off the feeling of gloom that had settled over her. ‘She’s got her hands full, with a young child to look after as well as a husband and a fully working farm.’
‘Aye, from there, weren’t you?’ Carys said, turning to look at Eline. ‘Hard work farming, mind, I spects.’
‘Hard indeed,’ Eline agreed. ‘Picking potatoes in spring and summer, and gathering the harvest in the autumn, and then the fodder for the creatures to be baled and kept in the barn until winter as well as a hundred and one other chores. It’s hard, all right.’
‘I spects they got help,’ Carys said. ‘Labourers to work the fields and that sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps one or two at the busiest times,’ Eline said, ‘though most of the year a small farmer can’t afford help.’
She rose to her feet, suddenly overcome with memories of Honey’s Farm, of her childhood spent in the meadows, where poppies grew brightly and where her days had seemed filled with sunshine. Days before her father died. Days before she had married Joe Harries.
‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the cordial and for the chat; it’s been good to have company.’
‘Duw’ – Carys smiled – ‘I spects you’ll get enough company when the gallery is open and all the customers are coming in thick and fast. Good thing you got a Sunday to yourself, really.’
‘You’d think so,’ Eline said, moving to the door. ‘See you tomorrow bright and early, then, Carys.’
She walked briskly back along the street towards the gallery, thinking of the empty hours stretching ahead. Usually she spent the evenings with Will, but perhaps tonight he wouldn’t come, not after the argument they’d had earlier. And soon, when he was in Swansea, she would scarcely see him at all. She couldn’t bear it.
When she arrived home, the door of the gallery was open, and she knew, with a lifting of her heart, that Will was inside waiti
ng for her. She straightened her shoulders, resolving never to argue with him again, just to be thankful that he loved her enough to want to do what he thought was the best for her.
But, a small voice inside her said, why couldn’t he accept that the best, the very best for her, for them both, was to be together as man and wife?
CHAPTER THREE
The sun was warm on Fon’s back as she toiled up the hill to the top field with Patrick clinging to her skirts. The little boy was sun-kissed, his chubby arms golden, his round face brown beneath his curling hair. Fon smiled. He was so like his father, so handsome, so dear. In that moment she wished that he was her own, that she had given birth to him. She shivered suddenly and pushed away the thoughts of childbirth; it was something she did not wish – did not dare – think about.
The basket on her arm was draped with a pristine white cloth, and absently Fon adjusted it, rearranging the already careful folds. Beneath the cloth was concealed a crusty loaf, a small round cheese and a bottle of home-made beer, enough to feed six men if need be. Fon smiled. Jamie did the work of six men, and in the marriage bed he had the strength of six men.
‘Your daddy will be glad to see us, Patrick, my boy.’ Fon smiled down at the small child struggling manfully over the uneven pathway. ‘I bet he’ll be dying of thirst by now.’
Jamie had been up at first light, wanting to start cutting down the field of red clover while the weather was fine, for the clover, when dried out, would make fine fodder for the ewes.
As Fon moved slowly over the rise, she caught sight of Jamie, bending and cutting, his muscles gleaming with sweat as he laboured on the land, the land he loved.
Much of the field had been cut, looking like an over-large cottage garden through which the winds had wreaked havoc. Red clover flowers lay brightly against the cut stalks of grass, and the air was sweet with the smell.
Fon waved to Jamie, and he waved back, throwing down the scythe and pressing his big hands into the small of his back to ease the ache.
Fon looked round for Tommy Jones, who usually helped Jamie on the farm, but there was no sign of him.
She spread the checked cloth over the cut grass and brought out the bread and cheese. Patrick sat obediently, mouth half open like a small bird waiting to be fed.
Jamie came towards her, rubbing the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, and Fon marvelled at the strength of him and the rugged handsomeness of his face.
‘Where Tommy?’ she asked, kneeling in the grass and opening the bottle of beer before handing it to her husband.
‘Dunno, must be sick.’ Jamie hunkered down, his strong thighs straining against the seams of his breeches. Fon glanced away, remembering the feel of his hard, masculine body against hers as they lay side by side in bed. The sun was hot above her; the birds were singing so sweetly, it was a perfect day, and suddenly Fon desired her husband desperately.
She handed Patrick a crust from the loaf, and the small boy chewed on it contentedly. ‘There’s a good boy. Fon will give you a drink of milk when we get home.’
After a time, the silence and the heat told on the boy, and Patrick abandoned his crust and snuggled down in the grass, his eyes heavy with sleep.
‘Why don’t you teach Patrick to call you his mammy?’ Jamie said quietly. ‘After all, you are the only mother he will ever know.’
Fon looked into her husband’s eyes questioningly. ‘But you wouldn’t want him to forget Katherine,’ she answered quickly, saying the name with difficulty.
He chewed in silence for a full minute, his brow furrowed, his eyes turned away from her. He seemed to be weighing his words before answering. ‘No, not altogether, but when we have other children we don’t want Pat feeling the odd man out, do we?’
‘I suppose not.’ Fon felt the hot colour rush into her cheeks, but when Jamie turned to her and searched her face for any clue to her feelings, she held his gaze. He smiled slowly, and, leaning over, kissed her lips. His mouth became urgent, and he drew her closer; she fitted into his arms as though she had always been there.
Why hadn’t she been the first woman in his life, his first love, Fon thought, with a dipping of her heart. She resented what Katherine had with Jamie, even though she knew it was wrong and wicked of her. But if there had been no first wife, if Katherine had not existed, then there would be no ghosts between them.
‘Patrick has fallen asleep, look,’ Jamie whispered. The boy was spread out on the sweet grass, his chubby fists above his head; his lashes, brushing the plump cheeks, were gleaming in the sunlight. For a long moment Fon watched the little boy, the soft rise and fall of his breathing, the way his hair hung back from his face. She loved him fiercely; no-one could have loved Patrick more, not even Katherine.
Jamie’s hands were upon her then, gently pushing Fon backwards so that she was lying in the sweet grass. A blade tickled her cheek and Fon smiled, all gloomy thoughts dispelled. She was here now, with Jamie. She looked up into his face and knew the haze of passion that etched lines into his features.
He looked down at her for a long moment, at the relaxed abandonment of her body, and then he stretched himself alongside her, his face close to her own.
His hand traced the outline of her breasts with feather-light touch, and she felt her nipples harden with desire. Her breathing became ragged, and she knew she must possess Jamie here, under the hot sun, with the scent of clover in his hair, and sweet grasses as their bed.
She wound her arms around him and felt the heat of his skin through his thin shirt. ‘I love you,’ she said shyly as, slowly and deliberately, she began to unbutton her bodice. He bent and kissed her breasts and she felt herself respond, lifting herself towards him, wanting to feel him within her.
She closed her eyes, and hot, orange particles of light dazzled her senses. She was aware of Jamie’s fingers, as though in a dream, as he teased her to screaming point, his mouth hot on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.
‘I want you, Jamie,’ she said thickly, and she heard his words sighing through the air like a soft prayer.
‘And I want you, colleen.’ He took her roughly, with abandon that she had not known before. He plundered her, and she welcomed it, she clung to him, her fingers digging into his back, the skin silk and sun-hot beneath her fingers. They seemed to battle to possess each other as if neither of them could get close enough. Fon closed her eyes and felt the hot sun against her lids, her bare breasts, her thighs, and the world seemed full of light and sensation. This was what she had been born for, to love and be loved by the man who had possessed all of her, even her very soul.
She wanted to cry out to the blue arc of the sky, to the soft breezes that caressed her, to the gods, never to take this away from her. She was weak with love, and desire was only part of the magic of the moment.
Later she lay in the shade of the hedge and watched Jamie back at work cutting the field, and marvelled at his apparent feeling of renewed vigour. The gleam in his eyes was because of her, she told herself; one day, slowly perhaps, she would replace Katherine in his life, and then Jamie would be all hers.
When Patrick woke, Fon wiped the crumbs from his face and hair, and packed the remains of the food into the basket. She waved farewell to Jamie, who was too far away to hear her voice, and led Patrick back across the fields.
Fon decided she had better call at the small cottage where Tommy lived; she was anxious about the young farm-hand. It wasn’t like him to miss a day’s work. But if he had to, today was as good a time as any, she thought, smiling.
‘Come in, Mrs O’Conner, ’tis good of you to call.’ Tommy’s mother was a plump woman, looking every inch a farm wife with her apple cheeks and sun-kissed hair. But now there were lines of anxiety around Mrs Jones’s mouth.
‘Come about my Tommy, have you?’ she said, without preliminary, as she pushed the blackened kettle on to the fire. Fon nodded, watching as Mrs Jones put out the thick, earthenware cups and poured in the milk, drawn fresh from the cows by Jamie
that very morning.
‘Right sick, he is,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘Something the matter with his belly; complains of cramps, he does, and him normally a strong healthy boy. Perhaps you’ll go through to the back room and take a look at him later,’ she said beseechingly. ‘I put him in there so I could hear if he called.’
Fon drank the tea as quickly as the hot liquid would allow, for Patrick was sitting on the floor pulling the ears of the patient collie dog which crouched beside him.
‘Don’t tease the poor animal, Patrick,’ Fon said reprovingly. ‘He might bite you.’
‘Bless you, our Sheeba wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Mrs Jones said, rising to her feet and putting down her cup. Clearly she was too anxious about her son to pay much attention to anything else.
Fon followed her to the back room, where the curtains were drawn against the sun, and the smell of sickness hung like a pall in the air.
Fon aproached the couch and looked down at the sleeping boy. He was browned by the weather, but now his face had an unhealthy tinge, as though, somehow, he was an apple turning bad.
‘Perhaps you’d better fetch the doctor to Tommy,’ Fon said slowly. ‘He does look very poorly.’
When Mrs Jones didn’t reply, Fon looked up at her. ‘I’ll stay with Tommy until you come back, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Lordy me!’ Mrs Jones said softly, ‘I can’t afford no doctor, my love. Can’t you do something for him? I’ve heard my boy praise you to the skies many times what with those herb things you use on the sick animals.’
‘Me?’ Fon said in surprise. ‘But I don’t know anything about sickness in men; animals are different, you must see that.’
Mrs Jones frowned. ‘You know enough to suit me,’ she said reasonably, ‘and folks is same as animals, get the same sickness they do, mind.’
Fon moved closer to where Tommy lay and rested the back of her hand against his skin. It was burning hot to the touch. It was clear he had some sort of fever. She opened his shirt and saw an area of reddened flesh spreading to his waist. The problem was in the region of the abdomen, and reluctantly Fon lifted the shirt and exposed Tommy’s thin shanks.
