The Road to Forever

by Jeneth Murrey

  'But Owen's so rarely here for dinner.' Stella was gentle but firm.

  'That's his fault,' Lallie marched to the table, shook some flour on to the rolling pin and raised it defiantly. 'He brought me back here to run things and I'd prefer not to make any changes. When Dwynwen's well enough to run things once more, she'll find everything as it always was. She's not a young woman, you know, she has her ways and she likes to stick to them.'

  'A very inflexible attitude,' Stella murmured. 'I've noticed, though, that it's generally like that with the older people. I've usually found that when a person refuses to change a routine because "they've always done it that way", it's time he or she was retired, and really, the question is—will Dwynwen ever be fit again to take over the running of this house?'

  Lallie shrugged. 'Who knows? I certainly hope so, but even if she can never "do" again, she can always keep an eye on things, supervise and feel useful. I don't know how it's happened, but from somewhere, she's had this idea that Owen was going to put her in a home for the aged. It's taken us ages, both of us, to convince her that it's not true. Changing a routine as you suggest would just wake all her worries again, besides being inconvenient for me. I'm used to a nine-till-five job, I like my evenings free.' And she started to roll out her pastry industriously, feeling evil and angry.

  Stella sighed in a resigned way as though she was having trouble with a particularly obdurate 'staff'. 'I'm going into the office,' she said as she went to the door. 'Send the girl in with my coffee at eleven.'

  Lallie rolled steadily and raised her eyes. 'Nerys is doing the bedrooms this morning, Stella,' she nodded at the open door through which came the whine of the vacuum cleaner and the stump of Nerys' heavy feet. 'I'm afraid she won't have time, but coffee will be in here, in the kitchen at eleven, if you want it,' and she watched the pale grey pleated skirt flirt about the slender legs as Stella went off to the office.

  She left the door open and through it, after a lot of drawer and file cabinet banging, she heard the hesitant tap of a typewriter in inexperienced hands, and chuckled softly to herself as she thought about the report to the Milk Marketing Board. Owen had shown it to her the previous evening when he had finished writing it and he had pointed out the format, the underlining of the paragraph headings and the two whole pages of statistics which were to accompany it. He had then dropped it in her lap where she sat curled up on the couch, with a bland, 'I'll leave it with you, Lallie. I'd like it as soon as possible'. She gave another nasty smile. He'd get it when his Stella had finished it, and that sounded like a couple of days from where she was standing. He'd wait for it, and good luck to him!

  At half past ten, the doctor arrived to see Dwynwen and the old housekeeper, washed, brushed and with a pink bedjacket modestly covering the informality of her white flannelette nightgown and with her hair in a neat plait, received him and submitted to his sphygmomanometer and stethoscope with ill-concealed irritation. Lallie, who had done the washing, brushing and the neatening of the already spotless bedroom, stood at the bottom of the bed and pinned a bright, encouraging smile on her face to cover her concern. The smile vanished when, the examination over, she walked back to the kitchen with the doctor.

  'She'll be all right, won't she? Please tell me the truth.' She spoke with the informality of long acquaintance. This was the man who had attended her through half a dozen childhood ailments.

  'Yes, Lallie, she'll be all right, so don't look so worried.' He patted her head as though she was once more a child and she was tempted to bite the hand that patted. 'But it will be a long job and you mustn't expect too much.' He smiled down at her, and then his eyes went to the table where the mugs were set ready for coffee and where Stella was sitting, fingers and one shoe tapping with impatience. Lallie, intent on Dwynwen, didn't even notice her there. Her eyes were fixed on the doctor's face as if she might find the truth in his features, but there was nothing to be read there, not any more than he'd said, so she lifted the coffee pot from the counter and waved it under his nose.

  'Want some?'

  'When did I ever say no?' and he sat down at the table as Lallie put the pot down where everybody could help themselves. By this time she had seen Stella, but Stella was only a minor consideration; at this moment, all her thoughts were concentrated on Dwynwen.

  'Tell me about it,' she demanded. 'How long, and will she ever be completely well again?'

  'Six months—a year perhaps, but no, Lallie,' he looked at her with pity, 'she won't ever be completely right, but she has a lot of years in her yet and with the proper care… We'll keep her blood pressure down with tablets and she's lost a lot of that excess weight she was carrying, which is a big help, and later on, in about a month's time, she should start getting about a bit, but anything strenuous would be out of the question, of course. You'll be able to cope, though, and I'll see you have help with the nursing, somebody to come in and bath her, give her a bit of massage and so on, and later on, I'll send her up a walking aid.' He patted Lallie's hand again. 'No, don't look so gloomy—she's very lucky, that place Owen built on for her is ideal, no steps or stairs. Meanwhile, keep her happy and you can start her on a more substantial diet from now on.'

  Lallie glanced at the oven. 'Steak pie?' she queried, and at his nod, 'Good, there won't be a cloud in her sky, I promise you that.' As she said it, she knew she was promising away part of her life, but it didn't matter. She tossed her job, her flat and her cherished independence into a mental dustbin, meanwhile assuring herself that she could cope with Owen if she had to. He could think and say what he liked about her, that didn't matter either. She wouldn't pay any more attention to his little digs, she'd let them go straight over her head. If he wanted to think her every sort of a trollop, so what? Everybody was entitled to their own opinions. She wasn't a trollop, she knew it, and that should be good enough.

  The doctor drained his mug, smacked his lips and with a valedictory 'See she keeps taking the tablets', he let himself out, leaving Stella and Lallie together in the kitchen.

  'Don't you think it would be better for all concerned if she went into a home where she'd get the proper attention?' Stella sounded weary of the whole thing as though everybody was making too much fuss about it. 'I know it's hard to get a place in one nowadays, but I'm sure Owen could use a bit of influence…'

  Lallie had moved over to the oven and she raised a flushed but otherwise serene face from her inspection of the steak pies and apple tarts. 'This is her home, Stella,' she said quietly and in a voice which brooked no argument. 'It's been her home ever since Owen's mother died when Dorcas was born, and it always will be her home. Please don't ever mention this again, not to me, and certainly not to Dwynwen. Oh!' She tilted her head as she heard footsteps in the passage. 'That sounds like Owen, he's early,' she marvelled. 'I wonder if he met the doctor on the way up?'

  Owen pushed the door open and came in, big, rainspattered and smiling. His greeting, 'Hello Stella, had a good time?' was brief, he didn't even wait for an answer. He concentrated on Lallie.

  'Can you have dinner ready by twelve-thirty, cariad? I have to go to Lampeter this afternoon,' and he came round the table to stand over her.

  'You're looking very pleased with life.' Lallie's eyes met his gravely. 'Did you meet the doctor?— he's only just left.'

  'No.' He looked down at her and there was a message in his sherry brown eyes, but she ignored it, blinking at him like a cat. 'It's spring,' he murmured, 'and in the spring, it's said a young man's fancy lightly turns…' He put a delicate, hardly noticeable emphasis on the word 'young'.

  'But the operative word is "lightly", isn't it?' She gave him a sugary smile of welcome. 'And who are you fancying so lightly in Lampeter?' She raised one eyebrow in almost exact imitation of his own and her smile grew, if anything, sweeter.

  'Not in Lampeter, nearer home.' He put a hand on each of her shoulders, holding her firmly where she was. 'Don't be so shy, Lallie, Stella will look the other way,' and calmly, deliberately he claimed
her mouth with his own. When he raised his head, Lallie took a deep breath and tried to look nonchalant; it was the hardest thing she'd ever done. She'd braved newspaper reporters and their cameramen, she'd even read the slime they'd written about her in the papers and come up smiling, but this was too much!

  Owen had turned on all his know-how, all his expertise. He'd scattered her wits and set her trembling, while deep in the pit of her stomach, something hot and sweet had stirred into life, and he'd done it carelessly and with as little effort as he would have used to light a cigarette. Lallie had heard girls speak about being turned on and this, she supposed, was what they meant. He'd kissed her and he'd forced her to respond to him, so that now her lips were quivering, wanting more. It made her angry with him and with herself and her eyes sparked dangerously.

  'Damn you, Owen!' she hissed as out of the corner of her eye she saw Stella's departure. Stella had got the message as Owen had intended she should, and that was what it had all been about. He hadn't the courage to say, 'Look, Stella, you're wasting your time'—to be honest and direct about it; he'd used her, Lallie, to get the message over, and he'd not been delicate about it, he'd done it with a sledgehammer. She wrenched herself away from his hands.

  'Do you have to be so—so cruel about it?' she hissed. 'Damn you again, I won't be used like that!'

  'You'll be used any way I choose.' Now that they were alone, he dropped his bantering tone. 'And don't look so outraged—you liked it! Have you been starving yourself lately?—your mouth felt very hungry.'

  'I'm on a strict diet,' she snarled back at him. 'Too many's too tiring and I have to think of my health. Now, if you want an early dinner, go and take your kisses where they're welcome.'

  'They're welcome right here,' and he smiled at her in open triumph. 'Besides, to whom else should I give them but to my loving little affianced wife? Now I'm engaged, I shouldn't play the field any more and you shouldn't encourage me to. Come on, Lallie, remember what I said about honesty—you liked it.'

  'All right!' She stepped back from him and looked him squarely in the eyes. 'You want honesty, you'll get it. I'm human, the same as other people, I'm twenty-six, and when a personable man kisses me, it's perfectly natural I should feel some response. I expect, if I gave you the opportunity, you could make me want you, but that's all you can make me do!'

  'Correction, Lallie. If your hungry little mouth is anything to go by, I can make you do anything I want.' Abruptly, he left the subject. 'By the way, I dropped a notice of our engagement into the offices of the local rag this morning, it'll be in tomorrow's edition which comes out late in the afternoon, so as it's Monday today, you can expect Jonty and his girl-friend over on Wednesday or Thursday. I haven't told him you're back here yet, otherwise he'd have been beating a path to the door before now.'

  'Coming here!' Lallie's attention was diverted. 'But you said Dwynwen…'

  'What the eye doesn't see…' he chuckled. 'Dwynwen's in her own place and if you put tea or whatever it is in the front parlour… There's no need to tell her and get her worked up into a state, she mustn't be upset, we don't want a relapse. And you can tell me what you think of the young lady. I've a few reservations myself, I'd be glad of your opinion. What did the doctor say about the old girl?'

  'Quiet, rest, no worries.' Lallie made the report terse while trying not to miss out on anything. 'He said she could go on a more substantial diet—six months to a year before she's able to get about much, but she'll never be completely fit again.' There was sadness in her face and in the despondent droop of her shoulders. All the fight had gone out of her, leaving her limp and defenceless.

  'We'll take care of her, cariad.' Owen's arm was about her waist gently urging her against him and his tone was the one he used to sick animals, kind, soothing and comforting, so that she turned into his arm, letting go of her hard-held control and forgetting temporarily the insults they hurled at each other, while her head dropped on to his chest and her eyes filled with tears.

  'Shush, girl!' She felt him stroke her head, much as he'd done when she was a small child.

  'He said she'd got a lot of years left in her,' she sobbed into his shirt front, and then tore herself out of his arm to turn her back on him and blow her nose vigorously. 'Damn, damn, damn! I'm getting sentimental,' she exploded. 'If you want an early meal, go and wash. It'll be on the table when you're ready—and call Nerys on the way down or she'll be stuck up there with that vacuum cleaner till the cows come home!'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Four days had gone by, days in which Lallie could have been supremely happy if it hadn't been for the battle between herself and Owen. She had mastered the peculiarities of the solid fuel cooker, Dwynwen was steadily improving, she was now at the stage where she was critical of the cooking, and Stella hadn't been too bad either.

  Stella didn't accept the situation, she ignored it—treating the ruby ring and the notice in the paper as a sort of sick joke, a minor problem which would go away if she took no notice of it, but on the other hand, she had concentrated on her work and left the running of the household strictly to Lallie, for which Lallie was suitably grateful.

  It wasn't so much a battle between her and Owen as a series of skirmishes which started at the oddest times—they came out of a clear blue sky. One moment, they were talking sensibly—they were even cautiously friendly, and the next, they were exchanging insults. One such exchange had just taken place. Lallie, in the middle of preparing breakfast, had gone to answer the phone, swearing under her breath at having to leave bacon sizzling in the pan, but the phone was generally busy between seven in the morning and nine, after which she could ignore its demanding ring, since Stella was there to answer it. It had been Jonty, and she was just getting into her stride when Owen had come down the stairs for breakfast, looking his usual well dressed and immaculate self even in hairy lovat tweeds. That had been when he said 'Jonty?' with a raised eyebrow, and at her nod, 'then hang up, darling, I want my breakfast, I've got a busy day.'

  Wrath had exploded in her and she had yelled down the phone, 'Did you hear that, Jonty? The great man has spoken! Are you going to come over to see us? Oh, there's no privacy…' as Owen had tilted the phone to share the earpiece.

  'The day after tomorrow,' Jonty had said laconically.

  'And your shepherdess,' Lallie had insisted.

  'Never go anywhere without her,' and Owen had taken the phone from her.

  'Come for tea and stay for supper,' he'd suggested, and hung up.

  'That was a bit curt,' Lallie had expostulated. 'We were half way through a very interesting conversation.'

  'The phone's mainly for business,' he snapped as he sat down at the table and picked up the teapot. 'I have to keep in touch with the office and since old Meredith's gone sick, I have to see to the practice in Trellwyd. The new man's all right, but he can't be out on a visit and take calls at the same time. What did Jonty have to say, anyway?'

  'Congratulations mainly,' she said waspishly. 'And explanations for the delay, of course. Apparently his shepherdess doesn't read the local paper, she only makes the fire with it, and Jonty's been busy with the lambing so they didn't know about this farcical engagement until yesterday when he called into the post office and Nerys' mother gave him the news.'

  She recalled Jonty's voice, a bit wry as he said, 'I always knew you and Owen would…' and she had been going to deny anything of the sort when Owen had come interrupting. 'There's lots I wanted to ask,' she muttered as she slid the bacon and eggs on to his plate.

  'Ask them when they come.' He was unmoved.

  'And there's something I have to ask you now.' She poured a cup of tea for herself, added milk and sugar and stirred while she thought of the best way to make the request. Owen didn't seem to be in a good mood, although that wasn't unexpected. There was no audience this morning, so he didn't have to put on a show.

  'I want to borrow the Land Rover,' she said baldly, and at his look of surprised amusement: 'It's all very well for y
ou, you've got all your bits and pieces here, but you dragged me away without giving me much time and you never mentioned anything as long as six months, did you? I just flung a few things in a case, enough for a few days…'

  'Don't say any more,' he sighed. 'Somebody's coming to tea and you haven't a thing to wear. But no dice, little one, you're not borrowing any vehicle of mine. You're lethal on a bicycle!' and as she began to protest, 'You had an endorsement on your licence a month after you passed the test. Speeding, wasn't it?' He pushed his plate aside and refilled his cup. 'Have you done any driving since you've been in London?'

  'No,' she muttered. 'How could I? I didn't have a car.'

  'And you couldn't hire one, not with an endorsement. I think that says it all—the hire car firms wouldn't trust you, so why should I? Tell me where you want to go and I'll drive you.'

  'This afternoon?' and at his nod, 'Aber, please, and we'll have a truce for the rest of the day, no nasty remarks.'

  'A truce?' Owen raised his head and looked at her as though he didn't believe his ears. 'We've tried that, if you remember. We've done nothing but have truces since you arrived here, and they don't seem to work. I thought we'd arranged it, there were to be no yesterdays and no tomorrows, but you somehow can't get the yesterdays out of your mind, you keep dragging them up for an airing.'

  'Me?' she exclaimed indignantly, her voice rising in a scolding tone. 'I'm not to blame, it's you who goes on and on…'

  'There, see what happens!' Owen pushed the teacup aside and reached for his pipe. 'Instead of being civilised, behaving like an ordinary human being, you go up in the air again—you've got a defence mechanism second to none.'