A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘He's a barbarian.’ Shuddering, Betty put a newly– ripened cheese to one side. She took down another. ‘There's justice for you,’ she muttered, as she mixed brine. ‘There's law, and there's order. So, he warned the excisemen. He took their gold. But why couldn't John Rhys have had him shot? Why did he have to suffer so?’

  ‘Go to John Rhys and ask him, eh?’ Bethan grimaced. ‘Do you know what they do to Welshmen, in Swansea gaol?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I don't want you to be sick all over these nice clean flagstones, so I shan't tell you now.’ Bethan sniffed again. ‘There won't be any more betrayals,’ she said. ‘One clear example. That's enough.’

  ‘Murderer,’ thought Betty. Crossing the cobbled yard, she saw her mistress standing at the farmhouse door. Her eyes closed, Lalage had her face towards the sun. ‘As for her,’ she reflected, ‘she's no better than he is. Fits in well she does, among murderers and rogues.’

  Betty sighed. She loved her husband. Her own unborn baby kicked lustily against her ribs. But she frequently wished herself at home, in the green safety of her native Warwickshire.

  Spring was beautiful that year. The villagers began to hope for a good summer. They also began to breathe more easily, for they dared to hope they would not be suspected. The bodies of the two excisemen had been disposed of, and Jack Atkins had presumably squared things with their masters at the Customs House — so the farmers and shepherds assumed they were safe from troops of soldiers over–running their land, searching the fields and woods, assaulting the people and destroying for the fun of it.

  For a while, the fishing stopped. Lalage was glad of that.

  * * * *

  The baby was ready to be born. Lalage was longing for delivery, but for all her husband's assurances that she would survive childbirth unscathed, she was afraid. Women did die in childbed. It happened all the time. That winter, in a village near Llangynnydd, a poor girl had lain in labour for three days and nights. Too large to be delivered, the boy had torn his mother apart, and both had eventually bled to death.

  ‘I'm too small. I know I am.’ Dolefully, Lalage met her husband's eyes. Not hungry tonight, she pushed her untasted supper aside. ‘Bethan says I'll suffer the torments of the damned. She says that if she could, she'd have this baby for me.’

  ‘Indeed?’ John Rhys Morgan shook his head. ‘I know whose child I'd rather be,’ he murmured, as Bethan shuffled in on arthritic feet, to remove the supper plates. Her hips were wide enough to brush both sides of the door–frame at once.

  ‘Don't worry, cariad,’ he said, when Bethan had tidied away and gone out again. ‘You're thin, I agree. But you'll give a little. The baby is small. There's nothing to fear.’

  ‘Is there not?’ Only a little comforted, Lalage shrugged helplessly. ‘What shall I get ready?’ she asked now. ‘For when the child arrives?’

  ‘Some old sheets,’ he replied. ‘There'll be plenty in my mother's wedding chest, so take what you want. You'll need some linen, cut into strips. Lots of straw, too. Get William Parry to take up a bale of the best.’

  ‘Why should I want straw?’ Lalage frowned. ‘I'm not a pig in farrow!’

  ‘No. But you'll bleed a bit, you see. Only a little – but straw under the sheets absorbs the blood.’ John Rhys took her hand. ‘Saves the bedding, look. That's all.’

  ‘I see.’ Lalage picked at a corner of the linen tablecloth. ‘May Betty be with me?’ she asked. ‘Shall Betty help?’

  ‘I shan't need help.’ Complacently, John Rhys smiled. ‘Oh — if you want her, you may have her there. She can heat water for washing the child. Tear bandages, cut string, and that.’

  ‘She can hold my hand, too. Mop my brow.’

  ‘Funny ideas you have.’ John Rhys laughed. ‘Mark my words. When this child comes, you'll be too busy to notice whether Mrs Betty's there or not.’

  In the event, John Rhys was right. Betty was of little real use. Roused from her sleep at three o'clock that same morning, she came running from William Parry's cottage. Clad in a nightgown, shawl and curl papers, she held Lalage's hand while the expectant mother, ably tutored by her husband, pushed and grunted valiantly. Then, riding another contraction, pushed again.

  ‘Nearly there, you are. So not as hard this time.’ Glaring crossly at poor Betty and willing her not to faint — for she was already a delicate shade of green — John Rhys placed his hand on his wife's stomach. ‘Just gently now,’ he insisted. ‘Once more, Lali. Breathe in. Now, push. Very good.’

  Perspiration beading her brow, Lalage did as she was bidden. She pushed, she breathed in, she pushed again.

  She'd been so terrified of giving birth. But, now she was actually doing it, she was almost enjoying herself. To her great surprise, it wasn't hurting at all. It was hard work, certainly. But, listening for her husband's next instruction, and striving to obey him to the letter, she didn't have time to wonder if she were in pain.

  She looked up at Betty. Seeing how pale the girl had become, she pressed her hand. ‘Not long now,’ she said calmly. She smiled. ‘When your time comes, you must certainly engage the services of this midwife. He's — ’

  ‘You can stop that chattering!’ As he bit off a length of twine, John Rhys saw the baby's head. ‘Now, Lali,’ he said, ‘take a deep breath. Push, and — well done!’

  There was a sound of slipping, of sliding, of slithering out. Lalage wondered what it was. But then, to her astonishment, she heard a baby's cry. ‘John?’ She tried to sit up. ‘Is it — ’

  ‘Clever girl.’ John Rhys beamed. ‘He's perfect, Lali. Absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘Let me see. Oh, let me see!’

  ‘In a moment.’ John Rhys was busy with the baby. Reaching for a shawl, he glanced at his wife. He smiled again. ‘As for you, girl,’ he remarked, ‘not a mark anywhere. No broken flesh, no pain, not a single tear. Do you feel well?’

  ‘Well?’ Lalage stared. Then, to her great surprise, she realised she did indeed feel well. ‘Yes, I'm fine,’ she replied. ‘John, what are you doing?’

  ‘Just tying the cord. Lie back again, cariad. In a few more minutes, the whole business will be over.’

  Wrapping the baby warmly, he gave him to his mother. He flashed Betty a rather sharp look. ‘Another pillow under her head now,’ he rapped. ‘Come along, girl. You're here to help, not to hinder. Lali, put him to the breast. That's right. It will help to bring on the afterbirth, you see.’

  Looking at mother and child, the midwife realised he was more or less superfluous now. ‘Are you happy, Lali?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfectly.’ Watching her son root for nourishment, Lalage smiled a great beaming smile. ‘I'm the happiest woman in the whole world.’

  That same evening, Rebecca had gone to bed knowing full well she would not sleep. The child was not due for another week or so, but now she thought he might decide to come early.

  He was certainly anxious to be born. For the last few days, he'd kicked and punched her mercilessly, furious to be kept confined when he longed to be in the great world breathing in the fresh air.

  About midnight, Rebecca was woken from a light doze. Her son was tired of waiting. He was going to make his appearance without further delay. ‘Ellis?’ Pushing his shoulder, she roused him. ‘Will you ring for Molly? Tell her to go and wake Mrs Robbins now.’

  ‘I'll go and wake her myself.’ Getting out of bed, Ellis reached for his dressing gown. He slid his feet into slippers. ‘I'll come if you want me,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, I'll be in the old nursery.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘Wide awake.’ Ellis ruffled his wife's hair. ‘Waiting, and hoping all goes well for you.’

  The land agent's wife, who was also Rebecca's midwife, was pleased to note that her patient looked well and that her contractions were coming regularly now. Hopeful that this confinement was going to be as free of drama and crisis as the previous two, she sat down in a wide basket chair and was soon nodding off.

  Half an hour late
r, she woke again. Her cushion had slipped and she was resting her head on hard wood. She looked at her watch. Ten past three. She yawned. It would be half an hour yet. An hour, even. If she rang down to the kitchens, where Molly was heating water, the girl could send up some tea. She struggled to her feet.

  Rebecca had been dozing for the past thirty minutes or so, but now she too woke up with a start. A terrible, agonising pain gripped her like a vice. ‘Mrs Robbins?’ she cried, panicking. ‘Charlotte? Where are you going?’

  ‘Just to check everything's prepared.’ Smiling reassuringly, Charlotte Robbins — who attended only gentry and was accustomed to their imperious ways — came over to the bed. ‘Don't worry, madam,’ she said. ‘Have patience. You're not ready yet.’

  ‘I'm ready now.’ Pushing back blankets and sheets, Rebecca caught her breath. A fresh, even fiercer contraction convulsed her. ‘Look!’ she gasped.

  ‘You'll be another hour yet. At least.’ But, obligingly, the midwife rolled up her patient's nightgown, in order to check.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ Throwing back her head, Rebecca cried out. ‘You see?’ she wailed, when she could speak again. ‘Have patience, indeed! It's the child who's impatient. Not me.’

  ‘You're right.’ The midwife rang the bell. ‘Well, my dear madam? Shall we get on?’

  But Rebecca was now past speech. Contraction followed contraction without a break. The pain was so awful she thought she might die. Tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. Why was it hurting so much? This baby was ripping her apart.

  ‘Not so hard, madam!’ cried the midwife, as the child's head appeared. ‘Madam, for the love of God, stop! The cord — ’

  ‘I can't!’ Rebecca was held in an iron grip of pain. Tears soaked her pillow and sheets. ‘I'm sorry, but I — ’

  Another contraction hit home. She heard herself screaming and knew she would die. She was glad. Then she would be at peace.

  The midwife was very experienced. Deftly, she slipped her hand inside the mother. Carefully, so carefully, she eased the cord from round the baby's neck.

  Now it slid over the child's shoulders. With the next contraction, he was born. As Lalage Morgan's son drew his first breath, Rebecca Darrow's child sucked in a great, gulping mouthful of clean, fresh air.

  * * * *

  ‘Go and wake my husband.’ Still somewhat bemused by the speed at which her son had decided to enter the world, Rebecca was now sitting up in bed. ‘Please, Charlotte. Leave all that. Go and fetch Mr Darrow.’

  Mrs Robbins went.

  ‘A boy, Ellis!’ Propped against her pillows, Rebecca beamed in both triumph and delight. ‘Ellis, look! A beautiful, healthy boy.’

  Ellis looked. He saw his own dark eyes. Deep blue, soon they would turn brown. The baby's features were unmistakeably his. They were his sister's, too.

  ‘He's a true Darrow,’ he whispered. His heart contracted. But then, taking his wife's hand, he kissed her. ‘Well done, Becky,’ he said. ‘Very well done indeed.’

  ‘You're pleased with your son?’

  ‘I'm delighted.’

  ‘Good.’ Rebecca held the baby close. ‘Ellis?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He's going to look just like you.’

  ‘Poor child.’ Ellis shook his head. ‘Shall I go and wake the girls?’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Yes. Jane asked me most particularly — ’

  ‘So you promised. I see.’ Ruefully, Rebecca smiled. ‘That child makes a baby of you.’

  ‘She does indeed.’ Ellis grinned. ‘She winds me round her proverbial little finger.’

  He went to fetch his daughter, who was already wide awake, and running along the landing towards her mother's room.

  Chapter 27

  Ellis did not get his cricket team, far less his reserves — for, after the birth of Rayner, Rebecca's recovery was much less rapid than after her previous confinements. Determined nevertheless to get on with her life, she was up and about on the second day. But then, as her milk came in, she was suddenly taken ill. A slight fever became a tossing, burning ague, which in turn became a raging delirium. This lasted for two dreadful weeks.

  ‘Take comfort, sir,’ said the famous London physician, called in at great expense and retained indefinitely. ‘Mrs Darrow is young, and strong. Milk–fever can sometimes be dangerous, but rarely proves fatal.’

  ‘Rarely?’ Watching at her bedside, trying to comfort and encourage a woman who did not even know who he was, Ellis took a vow. If Rebecca recovered, she would have no more babies. Even if this child were to die, and even if she begged him on her bended knees to give her a second son, she would never be pregnant by him again.

  * * * *

  The pet and favourite plaything of two doting elder sisters, the son and heir of a very wealthy landowner, and the light of his mother's life, Rayner George Darrow could hardly help but grow up in peace and prosperity.

  It seemed that both fate and fortune had agreed to bless him, for he led a charmed life. Minor childhood ailments were easily shrugged off. The plague, the septic quinsy and the smallpox all passed him by. The alphabet gave Rayner only a few minor headaches, and the rules of elementary arithmetic were so easily grasped that the mild– mannered curate who taught the little boy pronounced him a native genius. So, if Rayner's opinion of himself was high, his friends and family had only themselves to blame.

  Against her better judgement, Rebecca spoiled and indulged her only son. Brought up to despise both personal beauty and every other kind of earthly vanity, she nonetheless took the greatest pleasure in dressing her handsome Rayner in the most luxurious velvets and finest broadcloths money could buy. She retained one of the best tailors in Warwick. She had her own lady's maid cut and style Rayner's black, glossy curls.

  Ellis did not approve of this at all. ‘You make an absolute fop of that child,’ he muttered, one bright Sunday morning, as he eyed his son's new coat of dark blue velvet, the revers of which were edged with silver braid. ‘Prettify the girls, if you must. But let Rayner at least look like a boy.’

  ‘My dear Ellis, he does look like a boy!’ Rebecca smiled her satisfaction. It was not every woman who had three such beautiful, well–mannered, intelligent children to show off in church each fine Sabbath day. ‘Only last week, Lady Westfield herself declared she never saw so stout a lad as your son.’

  ‘That's because she has her eye on him, as a possible husband for one of her lumpy daughters.’ Gratified in spite of himself, Ellis grinned. ‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘Dress him in silks and velvets. Tie ribbons in his hair. But let him go barefoot now and then. Let him climb trees, dirty his clothes, scratch his face. In short, let him grow up to be man.’

  ‘He's doing his best to avoid growing up at all.’ Coming into the drawing room twirling a brand new parasol, Jane Darrow went to kiss her father and be kissed in return. ‘Only last week, while you were at the Assize, he climbed into the great oak by the lodge gates. He fell out of it, too. You should have seen his poor little knees.’

  She turned to her brother. ‘Rayner? Have all your grazes scabbed over now?’

  ‘Nell dressed them again this morning. She thinks I shall live.’ Rayner grimaced. He looked at Rebecca. ‘Mama, are we walking to church today?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly. Unless, of course, you would prefer to ride?’ Rebecca took his hand in hers. ‘If your legs are still bruised and sore, you and I could order the dog cart.’

  ‘We're all walking.’ Ellis took out his watch. He went over to the door. ‘Maria?’ he called. ‘Where the devil is the girl? Can't she ever be on time, for anything?’

  * * * *

  Far away from the tranquillity of rural Warwickshire, Owen Morgan also prospered, was also the sun and moon in his mother's sky. He was fast growing into a courageous, handsome, charming little boy.

  But while Rayner Darrow felt all the constraints of manners and education, and was being carefully groomed to take his place in the highest soc
iety, Owen Morgan was allowed as much freedom as a gypsy's son. He ran wild.

  ‘Owen? John Owen, where are you?’ Coming out of the farmhouse to stand on the steps, Lalage Morgan squinted into the bright morning sun. Then she turned her gaze westwards, towards the sea. There was still no sign of her child. But then, a soft rustle made her start. Looking down, she saw a very dirty little boy grinning up at her.

  ‘John Owen!’ Shaking her head, the mother smiled at her prodigal son. ‘John Owen, you rascal! I've been searching for you everywhere, and so has Bethan. Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Talking to William, in the new byre.’ Nonchalantly, the seven–year–old shrugged. ‘Just talking, Mam. That's all.’

  ‘Then why are you so filthy? Where are your shoes and stockings? Whatever happened to your shirt?’ Lalage sighed in mock despair. ‘I'm almost sure that both the sleeves were whole yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, Mam!’ Glancing at the great tear from elbow to wrist, which now disfigured the left sleeve of his newest shirt, Owen — as he was invariably called, for his full name of John Rhys Owen was far too much of a mouthful for everyday use — shook his head in disgust. Women! How they fussed! ‘I don't need no shoes or stockings,’ he said. ‘I'm a bit dirty because I helped William and Huw clean out the stalls. I don't know nothing about this tear by here.’

  ‘The fairies must have done it. While you slept.’ Lalage ruffled his hair. She had been seriously worried when she'd found his bed empty so early in the morning. Her husband had gone out in the small hours — and she was afraid he had taken the child with him. In Lalage's opinion, Owen was far too young to go fishing, and would be for several years yet.

  Now, however, she had not the heart to reproach him for the anxiety he'd caused. ‘Come and sit on the step,’ she invited. ‘Have something to eat. Bethan's just put a batch of baking to cool. We'll steal a few buns, shall we?’

  ‘Yes!’ At the thought of food, the little boy's dark eyes sparkled. He realised just how hungry he was.