by Iris Gower
She stifled a gasp at the angry flesh just above his pubis and compressed her lips for a moment, trying to think calmly, trying to dredge up the memory of the remedies she used for fevers when dealing with the farm animals.
‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘it might be a fistula.’ She glanced at Mrs Jones and saw with dismay that the woman was hanging on her every word.
Patrick tugged at her skirt and began to cry. Almost gratefully, Fon looked down at him.
‘I’ll take the boy home,’ she said quickly, ‘but I’ll pick up some remedies and be back in the morning to do whatever I can, I promise. Until then, try bathing his head with fresh water from the spring; it sometimes helps.’
‘Bless you, Mrs O’Conner,’ Mrs Jones said gratefully. ‘There’s good of you, I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I’ve been that worried about my boy.’
‘I can’t promise to cure him,’ Fon said quickly. ‘All I can do is try to bring down the fever and ease the pain. It’s not much, I’m afraid.’
By the time Fon left the Joneses’ house, the sky had become streaked with evening light. The sun was dying in a blaze of colour, promising another fine day, and suddenly Fon realized that Jamie would be home from the fields wanting his supper.
She thought quickly and decided that cold chicken pie and pickle would suffice for this evening’s meal. Jamie had a hearty appetite and never complained about the food she put before him.
He was at the pump in the yard, stripped to the waist, cold water running over his broad shoulders and down his wide muscled body to his narrow hips. His dark hair was plastered around his head, and droplets of water still lay like diamonds of light among the dark curls.
Love for him surged through Fon’s veins, and she realized with a heat in her cheeks that she was every bit as hot-blooded as her mother. How often had Fon blamed Nina for her lack of caution where men were concerned, and now here she was, Nina’s youngest, supposedly prim daughter, feeling the hot blood pound in her veins after only a few hours had passed since she had made love with her husband in the sweet grass of the fields.
She hurriedly set the table, putting out the cutlery with precise movements, trying to think calmly about her remedies, for she knew Mrs Jones would not rest until Fon returned to see to her son.
Jamie came into the kitchen, a big man, swinging through the low door, his frame filling it, blocking out the light from the rising moon.
‘Tommy’s sick.’ Fon placed the food on the table, thick slices of fresh crusty bread and a pat of salt butter standing alongside the plate of pie and the dish of pickle. She knew she was excusing her failure to make her husband a proper meal.
‘I said I’d go back over there tomorrow and see what I could do for him.’ She sank into a chair and stared across the table at Jamie, waiting for him to speak. He forked some pie into his mouth and stared at her, waiting for her to continue.
‘I don’t know enough to be any real help, Jamie, but Mrs Jones seems to have such faith in me.’
‘Then you must not let her down’ – he smiled warmly – ‘and I’m sure you won’t. What is it?’ Jamie leaned across the table to help his son by slicing the chicken pie, cutting it into smaller, more manageable pieces.
‘Some kind of inflamed fistula,’ Fon said slowly. ‘At least I think that’s what it is.’
Jamie frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’ He wiped his son’s mouth and helped him down from the chair, patting the boy’s plump rear with a large, tender hand. ‘Go play for a minute, give your father a chance to fill his belly.’
‘The skin is red and angry,’ Fon said. ‘Swollen too. Tommy looks real bad.’
‘Bit of thistle might do the trick,’ Jamie said. ‘Why don’t you look it up in that book you’re always reading?’
Fon nodded. ‘That’s what I thought I’d do.’ She poured some hot fragrant tea and placed the cup beside Jamie’s plate. She was worried, unsure of her ability to deal with Tommy’s illness; and the knowledge that she was the only one Mrs Jones could turn to for help weighed heavily upon her.
Fon pushed away her uneaten food and moved to the table, turning up the lamp so that she could read. She looked up ‘fistula’ in her book of herbal remedies and saw that Jamie’s advice about using thistle had been sound.
‘“Star thistle”,’ she read aloud. ‘That’s just what you told me to use, Jamie. You are clever.’
He shrugged. ‘No, just experienced,’ he said, smiling. ‘Go on, then, let’s hear what more this wonderful book of yours tells you.’
‘“Government and virtues of thistle”,’ Fon read out. ‘“Almost all thistles are under the government of Mars”.’ She looked at Jamie. ‘Mars, that’s good.’
‘Is it?’ Jamie asked, with raised eyebrows, and Fon glanced up at him.
‘It flowers early, so there should be some in the fields right now,’ she explained. ‘I haven’t any dried thistle around the kitchen, but I’ll remember to put some ready for the winter, just in case.’
‘Plenty of thistles up where I’ve been working; if you’d said, I’d have brought some down with me.’ Jamie bit into a crusty piece of bread, enjoying the food she had prepared. For a moment, Fon was distracted from her book, watching his strong face with renewed sense of wonder, seeing how the brows arched darkly over his eyes, seeing how firm was his jawline.
She forced herself to return to her book and read once more. ‘“The root, powdered and distilled in wine, is good against plague and pestilence” . . .’ She glanced at Jamie, who seemed engrossed in cutting another doorstep of bread. ‘“. . . And drunk in the morning while fasting is profitable for ulcers and fistulas in any part of the body.”’
She sighed heavily. ‘I can’t see young Tommy wanting to eat anything at all, so the fasting will be no problem.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll go and pick some thistle now. It can be distilling while I put Patrick to bed.’
It was cooler in the fields now, but the warmth of the day still seemed to be captured in the cornfields that were turning from green to golden. Here and there a tall standing poppy waved translucent red petals towards the sky that seemed to reflect their redness. Fon sighed, drinking in the peace and tranquillity of the land.
Her back ached as she gathered the green, woolly-leaved star thistles, careful to pull the plants up at the root. Once or twice she caught her fingers on the prickly whitish-green heads and paused, rubbing at her apron with stained fingers.
She thought of Jamie and the way he had worked the clover field tirelessly, bending and dipping over the land, and was awed at the strength of his muscles.
Her apron full of thistles, she turned to walk back towards the farmhouse, climbing easily over the stile and making her way around the field where the big Welsh black bull, Jamie’s pride and joy, stared balefully at her, as though challenging her to invade his domain.
‘It’s all right, tarw fawr,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll keep well away from you, big bull, don’t you worry about that.’
When she entered the cool, whitewashed kitchen, there was no sign of Jamie or Patrick, and Fon smiled as she heard soft footsteps on the stairs.
‘Put him to bed, have you?’ Fon dropped the green thistles on the table. ‘I hope you washed his face first.’
‘Don’t worry, girl.’ Jamie caught her from the back and cupped her breasts in his hands. ‘I know how to look after a little boy, well enough.’
He kissed the warmth of her neck. ‘I know how to look after my wife too.’
Fon felt him harden against her buttocks and drew away from him smiling. ‘Duw, there’s a man!’ she said, bringing a large pan from beneath the sink. ‘Like that big black bull up in the field, you are, mind. I sometimes think that’s all you married me for.’
He watched as she began to cut the leaves from the long, thin roots and put them in the pan. ‘What you going to do with those?’ he asked, and Fon glanced over her shoulder as she opened the oven door and placed the pan inside.
&n
bsp; ‘I’ll dry the roots and then crush them in a little of my elderberry wine,’ she said, rubbing her hands on her apron. ‘The leaves I’ll soak in water and then boil them up. I shan’t waste any of it, don’t worry.’
‘Turning into a real little physic, aren’t you, my love?’ The banter had gone from Jamie’s voice and, turning, Fon saw a shadow fall across his face. She knew instinctively that he was thinking of Katherine, of how nothing, no remedies, no amount of loving attention, had saved her. The knowledge that his thoughts were with his dead wife was like the pain of a knife cutting through Fon’s flesh.
‘I’ll go to bed when I’ve finished making the cordial,’ she said briskly, and suddenly wanting to punish him for his thoughts, which she knew was foolish of her, she put down her book and let herself outside, without another word.
She stalked along the pathway and seated herself on the bench below the apple trees at the edge of the garden, her heart pounding. So he still thought of her, his first wife; even all their love-making had not eradicated Katherine from his mind.
He did not follow her, and Fon’s lips tightened. What had happened to the moment of intimacy when he held her against him, his desire for her evident in the hard lines of his body? A rush of pain filled her; was it just a solace to him, did he just enjoy the animal pleasure of taking her and owning her? Would she never reach that inner core of him, be truly one with him except in the flesh? If so, that was what she must accept, because she loved Jamie beyond all reasoning, and she would take whatever he offered her and be glad of it.
Suddenly, she wanted his closeness, she wanted to know that he was hers, at least in some measure. She rose and returned to the house and saw that Jamie was pouring over the books, his pen in his hand.
She had never been the one to approach him before. He always took the initiative, making her feel desired and desirable. It was difficult for her to go to him, to put her hands on his shoulders, but she forced herself to do it. He was her husband, they were bound together for mutual comfort and joy.
He did not look up when she touched him, and Fon knew that he had been aware of her moodiness and was not to be easily won over.
She slipped her hands downward over the broad, muscled chest, feeling the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. She loved him so much that it was like an agony within her. She touched the buckle of his leather belt and felt him tense, his back was solidly against her, and for a moment she expected him to shake her away.
‘Jamie,’ she said softly in his ear, ‘I want you to make love to me, please.’
He hesitated for a moment, and then he rose, knocking over the chair in his haste. He took her in his arms, pushing her suddenly against the hard wood of the cottage door.
She wanted to beg him to say he loved her, but his mouth crushed down on hers, and in any case she would have been afraid to speak the words out loud.
He pushed up her skirts. ‘You smell of the fields, of the corn, of the grass, and I want you so badly, my little colleen.’ He breathed the words in her ear and then he thrust against her so that she gasped and flung her head back, while her body arched towards him.
It was a silent struggle of wills as well as flesh, punctuated by sighs and moans, though who was trying to punish who, Fon didn’t know. But she revelled in his hunger for her, she pressed his strong thighs against her, as though she couldn’t have enough of him, and his lips were hard, forcing her mouth open so that he seemed to be within her, capturing her like a butterfly on a pin. And she did not want to break away, did not want the joy to end.
Now, in this moment, he was hers. This was her triumph, that she and Jamie were bound together at least in this. A searing heat filled her, rising like the flames of a fire to engulf and consume her. She seemed to lose consciousness of anything but sensation, and in that moment Fon knew she had surrendered every last part of herself to her husband.
Fon was up before daylight, ready to make her way across the fields to the farmhouse on the narrow strip of land bordering Honey’s Farm, where she knew Mrs Jones was depending on her with touching faith.
Tommy did not at first respond to the effects of the cordial of thistle roots; his fever seemed unabated, and the unnatural colour still pervaded his body. Not knowing what else to do, Fon bathed him continuously in the water from the bowl beside the bed, and finding it seemed to ease him, bade his mother bring more cold water to soak the flannel she pressed to his head and chest.
Though surprised, Mrs Jones did as she was told and even helped to spread the icy flannel on her son’s skin. Gradually, as the sunlight began to poke inquisitive fingers through the window of the little bedroom, Tommy’s breathing became easier.
‘Time for hot poultices, now, I think.’ Fon seemed possessed of an uncanny knowledge of what was needed next. She spread the poultice on a piece of dry flannel and, while it was still hot, placed it on the inflammation on Tommy’s groin.
The boy winced but did not open his eyes. Wearily, Fon moved away from the bed. ‘There’s nothing more I can do for now,’ she said softly. ‘I’d better go home and fetch Patrick in from the fields’ – she smiled wryly – ‘and I’d better make Jamie a good hot breakfast. He’ll be starving by now.’
‘I’ll send my little girl over, later, to help with the milking,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘Come back from staying with her auntie she has, and restless as a leaf in the wind.’
She spoke cheerfully, but her eyes were shining with tears. ‘It was good of you to stay with me so long and help me with our Tommy, the way you did. I’ll never forget it.’
‘It’s not much,’ Fon said. ‘I only hope I’ve done some good.’ Fon was doubtful. She glanced at Tommy and was relieved to see that he seemed easier and the unhealthy tinge to his skin was giving way to the more normal colour of the outdoors.
At the door, she paused. ‘The fistula should break some time today,’ she said. ‘But whether it does or not, put on some more of the poultice to draw out all the badness.’
She ached from bending over the bed, and she felt weary as she walked back home; but in spite of her tiredness she was content. She knew she had done her best for Tommy, untutored though she was. She had worked by instinct more than knowledge, and now she could only pray.
In spite of all her reading of the herbal book, she had never been given reason to put any of the remedies into practice on human beings. Even now she wasn’t sure if it was purely luck that Tommy Jones had begun to recover.
She thought of Jamie, waiting for her at home, and she felt warmed by the thought. She touched her breasts where her soft skin was marked by Jamie’s passion, a passion that was well matched by her own.
Fon marvelled at the change in herself, from a wide-eyed romantic to a sensual woman, and all because of the love of a fine man. Or was it lust on Jamie’s part, a small voice within her asked with soft insistence.
She shrugged as she moved forward with renewed vigour. Whatever Jamie was offering her, she would accept humbly. She had his passion, and on her finger was the ring of the man she loved, and that was more than many women achieved in a lifetime.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘But are you sure it’s what you want, Will?’ Hari Grenfell’s voice was soft with concern, and Will felt a warmth run through him. She was on his side, always; he could rely on it.
‘Of course I have a job for you, a job you would do very well, no-one better; but if you would like to keep the shop on, then I’ll help you in any way possible.’
Will touched her hand, smiling down at her. He loved Hari as a brother loved a sister, more perhaps, because he owed her so much. Hari had taken him in when he was barely nine years old, had given him an apprenticeship, given him hope, given him love.
Will remembered with vivid horror the hovel where he’d been born and where he had seen his family die, one by one from the Yellow Jack. The pestilence had come suddenly to Swansea and had brought tragedy to many families, not only his own. When it was too late to remedy the matter, the c
ause had been found: the fever had been brought into Swansea docks by a sick seaman who had passed it on to the pilot who had guided the stricken ship into the arms of Swansea pier.
Will pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside. ‘I must give up the shop. I wouldn’t want to fall even deeper into debt, Hari,’ he said reasonably. ‘Better that I cut my losses now, get out while I can salvage something from the business.’
‘But surely the worst is over, Will?’ Hari poured tea from a fine china pot, and Will watched as the sun shone through the bone china cups, illuminating the finely painted flowers that adorned the service, as bright as any real flowers growing in the garden. He paused for a moment, thinking of the skill that had gone into the painting, the patience as individual pieces were decorated. Then he sighed; he could not avoid the consequences to his business brought about by the oyster famine, could not keep the unpleasant thoughts at bay for ever. They had to be faced; problems needed to be solved, and it was up to him to take the initiative.
‘I don’t think the worst is over, Hari,’ he said softly. ‘People with wealth like yours, established businessmen’ – he smiled – ‘and women, will be all right, but it’s the folk owning small businesses that have suffered. At least those in the village of Oystermouth.’
‘Well, my dear Will, take that job with me. I would be overjoyed to have you on my payroll once again. I couldn’t ask for a better manager.’
She paused. ‘It would mean travelling a little. I want the ties I’ve forged in Cardiff strengthened.’ She grimaced ruefully. ‘Mrs Bell, who owns the emporium, can be a right dragon. She needs to be charmed into renting me a larger, more suitable spot in her premises. You, with your charm, would be an ideal person for that.’
‘Thank you,’ Will said. ‘Do I detect a compliment there?’
