by Iris Gower
‘When we’re angry, we all say things we regret,’ Hari said. ‘I’m sure Will knows you didn’t mean any of it.’
Had he told Hari about their quarrel, Eline wondered. She felt the urge to confide in Hari; she had always been fair-minded in the past and she undoubtedly cared very much about Will.
‘He won’t marry me, not until he’s made his way, as he puts it,’ Eline said, her voice trembling in spite of her efforts at control. ‘I would live in poverty with him, I wouldn’t care about anything so long as we were together.’
‘Will would care,’ Hari said gently. ‘He knows what real poverty is.’
Eline looked at her, trying to search beneath the calm expression in Hari’s eyes. Hari smiled wanly. ‘William will never forget the time when his family fell sick of the yellow fever, all of them dying in poverty and pain,’ she sighed softly. ‘He would not risk putting you through the humiliation of living and possibly dying in such straits.’
Eline thought about Hari’s words, digesting in silence what she had said. Will rarely talked about his childhood; as far as he was concerned, his life seemed to have begun when he became apprenticed to Hari Grenfell.
‘Write to him.’ Hari’s soft words broke the silence. ‘Tell him how much you love him; he needs to know that.’
Eline looked at the composed, beautiful woman sitting opposite her, Hari Grenfell, successful, rich and so very kind. She rose to her feet, clutching Will’s address like a talisman.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said humbly. ‘I’ll write to him at once.’
‘No need to thank me,’ Hari said. ‘I care very much about Will, and I know you do too.’
Eline let herself out into the street, leaving the plush richness of the emporium behind her with a feeling of reluctance. She glanced back, seeing the fine window display with a feeling of loss. She realized quite suddenly that she missed the world of shoe-making very much. Why had she left it? Given it all up for a gallery in Oystermouth where she felt loneliness pressing in on her, more and more every day.
Just at the entrance to the emporium, she almost bumped into a slight figure and had apologized in quick embarrassment before she recognized that the young lady standing before her, hugging the hand of a small boy, was Irfonwy Parks.
‘Mrs Harries, sorry to bump into you like that!’ Fon said in a rush, the colour flooding into her cheeks.
Eline realized that Fon still felt unhappy at the way her mother had laid claim to Eline’s husband.
‘Fon, don’t worry, it was as much my fault as yours. What are you doing in Swansea?’ Eline spoke warmly; she had always liked the quiet, shy, youngest daughter of Nina Parks.
‘I brought Patrick here for some new boots,’ Fon said, drawing the child close to her skirts. ‘He’s growing so fast that nothing lasts him very long.’
Eline remembered then that Fon was now a married woman, wife of Jamie O’Conner, the handsome Irishman who had bought Honey’s Farm, the very farm where Eline was born.
Fon looked well; her skin held the bloom of a life led in the open air, her eyes were bright, her smile ready, and Eline felt herself envying the girl.
‘How are you enjoying farm life?’ she asked, and Fon’s smile widened.
‘It’s hard work but it’s where I belong, with my husband,’ she said simply.
Eline wondered that a girl brought up to live at the edge of the sea could adapt so easily to a life of hardship in the fields, of long days, sometimes of sleepless nights when the lambing season came. But then, Fon loved her husband and a woman would do anything for love.
‘No problems, then?’ Eline asked, and she saw a frown crease the fine skin of Fon’s forehead.
‘There’s been some trouble with the cows,’ Fon said. ‘Some sickness that made the beasts throw their young too soon, but I think the worst is over now.’
Eline knew the sickness well; it was something most farmers dreaded. ‘You didn’t have to slaughter the animals, then?’ she asked in concern, knowing what such a loss could mean.
Fon shook her head. ‘Jamie cared for the poor creatures, looked after them as if they were babbies,’ she explained. ‘And now they seem to be better. At any rate he’s putting them to the bull again, and the first one to recover is in calf already.’ She spoke proudly, as though the achievement was shared with her; and so it probably was, Eline thought.
Suddenly, her strivings at the gallery seemed so trivial. Here was Fon facing real problems day by day, alongside the man she loved, and Eline was stuck with selling pictures that merely mirrored life when life was to be lived to the dregs, even though they might be bitter.
Her mind, in that instant, was made up. She would sell the gallery, or at least bring in a manager. She would rearrange her life, give herself something to strive for. She was tired of the blandness of her day-to-day activities, for the gallery practically ran itself; there was no longer any excitement, any challenge left to stimulate her in mind.
‘I’d better be going,’ Fon was saying. ‘I’ve got plenty of work to do when I get back home.’ Her face softened. ‘And Jamie, my husband, will be getting anxious.’
Eline watched as Fon led the small boy along the street. She who was going home to where she was needed, to where her presence mattered.
A great loneliness swept over Eline; she was not needed by anyone, she had no-one who would know or even care if she stayed out all day and all night too. Her shoulders were slumped in an attitude of despair as she walked unseeing along the hot pavements to the town.
People – there were people in her life, of course, there were her customers, her neighbours in Oystermouth. There was Penny, who cared for her needs and was concerned with her well-being; but she wanted more than that, she wanted to belong somewhere, to someone, to Will Davies.
‘Will,’ she whispered, ‘why did you go away and leave me?’
But there was no answer to her question. There were only the everyday noises of a busy street, a street on which Eline was totally alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It did not take Eline long to put her plans into action. Her first task was to find a suitable person to take over the gallery, and this turned out to be much easier than she’d anticipated. She had for some time been aware of the admiration of Calvin Temple, who patronized her gallery frequently, not always buying, but on occasion taking a few of her paintings up to London to sell there.
Calvin Temple was tall and personable, not shy of showing his admiration for Eline as well as for her gallery. When he next came into the gallery, Eline approached him with a warm smile and invited him to take some tea in her private rooms.
Calvin bowed over her hand, and the light in his eyes showed his pleasure. When she had made the tea, Eline outlined her idea, and Calvin’s handsome face broke into a smile.
‘You mean you want me to run the gallery for you?’ he asked, with such surprise that Eline wondered if she’d overstepped the bounds of propriety. She had believed that, given the opportunity to run the business, in any way he saw fit, Calvin would jump at the prospect.
‘It’s only a suggestion,’ she said quickly. ‘If the idea doesn’t appeal to you, then of course you are not obligated in any way.’
He sat in the sunny workroom of the gallery, the china cup appearing ridiculously small in his large hands, looking at her with unmistakable warmth in his dark eyes.
‘Mrs Harries,’ he said with enthusiasm, ‘I should be delighted to work with you.’
Eline shook her head. ‘You will be working for yourself, Mr Temple. I shall be nothing more than a sleeping partner.’
By his smile, Eline knew that she had used an unfortunate phrase. To his credit, he said nothing, but she couldn’t mistake the twinkle of merriment in his eye. At any other time, Eline might have been flattered by his obvious admiration, but now she felt she just wanted the whole business of the gallery over and done with, so that she could get on with making the best of the shambles her life had become.
‘You will be here to let me down gently, should I make mistakes?’ Calvin asked easily.
Eline’s level gaze didn’t falter, but she felt suddenly needed for the first time in a long time. ‘Do you think you will – make mistakes, I mean?’ Eline asked, uncertain of her ground in the light of his apparent amusement.
‘I don’t think so,’ Calvin said thoughtfully. ‘But I confess myself ignorant of running a gallery.’
‘But the important thing is, surely, that you know how to sell paintings?’ Eline asked, moving from her chair to stand at the window. She gazed out at the sea, at the plethora of boats bobbing at the moorings. Everything here at Oystermouth looked so peaceful, so enchanting, and yet now, with Will gone away, it was a place of emptiness for her. But she would go to him, beg him to forgive her; she was determined on it.
‘I have no doubts on that score,’ Calvin said firmly. ‘I have studied paintings all my life; I grew up as the son of one of the best, most famous artists in England.’
‘You did?’ Suddenly Eline saw Calvin Temple with fresh eyes. She took in his immaculate linen, his fine-cut coat and the hand-made shoes; and the colour came to her cheeks. Calvin was clearly not, as she’d supposed, a gentleman fallen on hard times. Instead, she realized, he was comfortable, to say the least.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I hope I haven’t insulted you by offering you work, work that I see now is far beneath your station in life.’
‘On the contrary,’ Calvin said, ‘I’m honoured at the trust you put in me. I need something to fill my time, and this gallery is just the thing. Apart from which, I love looking at paintings.’
Eline turned to him and smiled. ‘I know. That’s why I thought of you when I began to look for someone to run the gallery. I’m afraid I didn’t realize that you were a well-to-do gentleman.’
Calvin’s smile was disarming. ‘That was part of your charm, my dear Mrs Harries. Yes,’ he continued, ‘running the gallery will be right up my street. I might not be able to paint like my father, which is my great misfortune, but I can recognize talent, even when it is only in the bud. That, I think, is my strength.’
‘You’ll do it, then?’ Eline asked. ‘You will take over the gallery, as from, let us say, a week tomorrow?’
‘So soon?’ Calvin asked. ‘And what will you do?’ His question might have sounded impertinent, prying even, but he spoke with such gentleness and such a real need to know that Eline unbent enough to tell him the truth.
‘I don’t feel fulfilled here,’ she said softly. ‘Oystermouth has many unhappy associations for me. I think it’s time I moved away, found something completely different to do with my life.’
He came towards her, standing very close, his eyes searching hers. ‘I would very much like to be part of that life,’ he said softly.
Eline looked up at him. He was a fine handsome man. Calvin would never have to worry about making a success of anything, for, apart from his illustrious background, as the son of a greatly talented painter, he had a flair all his own for saying and doing the right thing; Calvin was a gentleman in every sense of the word.
There would be no barriers to divide them, Eline realized with surprise, no stiff-necked pride to stand in the way of their happiness. But there would be no love, not on her part; she had given all her love to Will, but Calvin’s friendship, that she would treasure.
She sighed heavily. ‘I am grateful,’ she said, ‘but I have a great deal to think about just now.’ She added apologetically, ‘I must be alone for a time, I feel so confused.’
‘I can wait,’ Calvin said, smiling down at her. ‘I’m a very patient man, and I usually get what I want in the end, you’ll see.’
It would be wonderful to have someone strong to take care of her, to make her decisions for her, to hold her and comfort her. Eline smiled up at Calvin, resting her hand for a moment on his arm. ‘What will be, will be,’ she said softly, and then she moved away from him, remembering that those self-same reasons had made her marry Joe Harries. She’d wanted his support and his strength, but the marriage had been far from a success.
Her tone became brisk. ‘I’ll leave everything to you, then?’ she said, without looking at him. ‘You’ll see to the legalities concerning the gallery?’
‘You can trust me on that,’ Calvin said easily. ‘I will make sure that our partnership works, don’t doubt it.’ If there was a double meaning in his words, Eline chose to ignore it.
Later, she walked alone along the edge of the sea, staring out at the distant horizon, where the coast of Devon was just faintly visible like a mysterious land rising up out of the sea. She sighed. Was she doomed to be alone for the rest of her life? It certainly seemed that way. Perhaps she should enjoy Calvin’s overtures? Begin to live life to the full, instead of being for ever on the periphery of it, an empty shell of a woman without love or family?
‘Rubbish!’ She said the word out loud, and a startled seagull flew screaming up into the sky. Eline sank down on to the sand, and it felt soft and hot beneath her fingers. She plunged them deeper into the warmth, catching a shell between her fingers and drawing it free. It was luminous, pearl-like and delicately shaped, and so thin that the edges were razor-sharp. She stared at it. It wasn’t an oystershell: she had handled enough oysters to know the craggy, hard feel of an oyster. Perhaps this was a mussel shell; it certainly looked like it, but it was fragmented and broken, and it cracked as her fingers pressed it. Fragile, just as she was at this moment.
Impatient with herself, Eline rose to her feet and moved away from the beach. She was becoming introspective, self-pitying, and it would not do, not at all. She must think rationally now, plan her future, a future that would have some meaning, even if she was to live it out alone.
As she left the beach, she became aware of the shapely figure of Gwyneth Parks, outlined against the pale sand. The girl was standing at the roadside watching her; she was smiling in a way that warned Eline to beware. There was a crisp piece of paper held between her fingers.
‘Bore da, Eline,’ Gwyneth said, and Eline stared at her suspiciously. There was no love lost between them, and it was unlike Gwyneth to make the first move to speak. Her reasons quickly became apparent as she held out what appeared to be a letter.
‘Heard from William, I have, see.’ She spoke triumphantly, her eyes alight. ‘Bet you haven’t had a letter from him, have you?’
Eline felt sick; she wanted to run and hide from the pain and the almost violent feelings of jealousy that gripped her. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t speak, but in any case there was no need to; Gwyneth had read her silence well.
‘I thought not. I mean, you was probably the reason he wanted to get away from Swansea in the first place.’ She hugged the letter to her full breasts. ‘Be joining him, I will. In Cardiff.’ Her head was high, her chin thrust forward, as though she expected her words to be challenged. They were, at once.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Eline said, but of course she did. Gwyneth must be speaking the truth, otherwise how would she even know that Will was in Cardiff? She could hardly have asked Hari Grenfell; it was doubtful that Gwyneth even knew her.
‘Believe what you like,’ Gwyneth said, ‘but I’m going to see him tomorrow. He wants me, see, not you.’
Slowly, Eline walked away, unable to bear the girl’s bright, triumphant look a moment longer. Why did the Parks family always dog her heels, making unhappiness for her on all sides? What had she ever done to them that they hated her so much?
There had been one moment of softening, during the days of the sharp depression that had hit Oystermouth. Gwyneth and her mother had come to the soup kitchen organized by Eline; they had eaten the food she had provided and the two women had been almost approving of her. It had lasted only as long as the soup kitchen, and thereafter the friendliness vanished, to be replaced by the old hostility.
It seemed that where once Nina had taken Eline’s man away from her, now it was the turn of Gwyneth, her
daughter, to interfere in Eline’s life, to destroy any last hope of a reconciliation between her and the man she loved.
Eline longed to cry, but the tears would not fall; instead they lay hard and hot and bitter like a stone deep inside her.
Gwyneth returned to the kitchen and sank into a chair. She smoothed out the letter and read it yet again, even though she knew every word by heart.
It told her that William was sorry he had needed to terminate her employment so abruptly, and that he hoped that she would accept two weeks’ wages instead of proper notice. The wages he would give her when he next came down to Swansea.
She sighed over William’s flourishing signature, and, holding the sheet of paper to her lips, kissed it longingly. If only it was true, if only Will had asked her to come to Cardiff to work with him. He probably hadn’t even thought of it; he didn’t know that she would fly to the ends of the earth to be at his side.
She smiled more cheerfully. He was coming down to Swansea; she would see him, talk to him, perhaps persuade him to find her a job in the shop in Cardiff. There, if it was a large store, they would both be living in; she would have every opportunity to be with him.
She began to plan. Tomorrow Mam would be gone to market most of the day; she always did on Wednesdays. The house would be empty. Gwyneth smiled to herself; she would look her best, she would be her most beguiling. She moved to the speckled mirror over the mantelpiece and looked at herself critically. She was quite presentable; there was something of her mam about her, not a bad thing when you remembered that Nina had a way with the men – at least they always seemed to want all they could get from her.
Gwyneth knew she had fine breasts, perhaps a bit too big. They strained at the bodice of her calico frock as though trying to break free. But men liked that, didn’t they?
Gwyneth didn’t really know, she’d never had a man, not properly. She’d kicked up her heels with the village boys more than once, allowing them just enough familiarity to be exciting, but balking at what her mam called ‘going too far’. That way babies were made, and her mam knew that better than most.
