The Oyster Catchers

by Iris Gower

  I know this will be a shock to you both, but you must realize, Fon, that as a single girl you can not stay indefinitely at the farm with Jamie, it would not be seemly. And Jamie, to be practical, you can not manage alone.

  My darling baby loves you, Fon, you have become his mother and this, too, was part of my plan. I cannot write any more, but my last words to you are that you must look after each other and you’ll see that love will come in time.

  God bless you both,

  Katherine.

  Fon found that she was crying, tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and into her mouth. She sank down at the table and put her head into her hands and the sobs shook her so that she was crying out loud.

  After a moment, Jamie took her in his arms, he held her tenderly. They clung together for a long time bound by their grief. There was no passion in Jamie’s touch and Fon was glad because passion would have frightened her.

  ‘We both loved her so much,’ he said at last, ‘that we can’t think straight, not yet at least but perhaps, in time.’ He moved a damp curl away from Fon’s cheek and released her.

  Carefully, he folded her letter and placed it in the satin-lined box where he kept his private papers.

  ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ he said softly and though his voice was hoarse, there was an edge of something in it that Fon recognized in herself, it was a feeling of hope that the future, after all, was not going to be entirely bleak.

  Eline was seated at the desk in her brand-new office at the back of Salubrious Passage which was a narrow alleyway between two buildings with an arched gas-light over the front.

  The building was not quite what she had in mind but she had learned that premises were not easily come by. It was only because of an introduction to the landlord by Hari Grenfell that Eline was given the opportunity to rent the place at all and at least there was a big window shedding in some much-needed light.

  She had placed her drawing board under the window and had a new sign painted on a board outside which stated: ELINE HARRIES BOOT AND SHOE ARTIST.

  She smiled to herself. The only order she’d had was one for a painting of a fine old house on the slopes of Kilvey Hill. It was apparent to her at once that the word ARTIST was being taken literally.

  Still, she had accepted the commission given to her by a gentleman called Mr Frogmore who, it seemed, had bought Kilver House for his son who was about to get married. He had not told her a great deal about himself but it was clear that he was a gentleman of means by his dress and his manner and the courteous way he had given her the address of Kilver House and told her to bill him for all travelling expenses as well as for the painting itself.

  As for designs for leatherwear, Eline had been given nothing to do whatsoever except for the work Emily Miller and Hari Grenfell put her way. Eline had decided, however, that along with the cuffed boot she would design matching kid gloves, a plan of which Emily heartedly approved.

  She sighed; she missed seeing Will so badly that it was like a pain within her, a pain, she assured herself, that would fade in time. She had once caught sight of him through the window of his shop but, although she thought that their eyes had met, he had turned away without any sign of recognition.

  She rose from her desk. It was a fine day, an unusual day when the early December sun was shining with cool clarity, bathing the roof of the building opposite in a mellow glow. Outside in Salubrious Passage, a group of ladies walked by, not noticing Eline’s office at all. She felt disappointed. She certainly wouldn’t make any sort of living for herself this way.

  She packed up her coloured chalks and decided to take a walk up to Kilver House, the exercise would do her good and anything was better than sitting twiddling her thumbs.

  Outside, it was colder than she had realized and she pulled a woollen scarf around her neck, glad of its warmth. But after walking briskly for half an hour, she loosened the scarf and breathed deeply, glad of the coolness on her hot cheeks.

  Kilver House was much further than she had anticipated and when her legs began to ache, she told herself sternly that she was getting soft.

  The gently sloping hill of Kilvey was almost barren with stunted unhealthy grass growing in patches like a man going bald. Here and there a camomile flowered but the flowers were bleached white by the fumes from the copper works spread out below her on the banks of the River Tawe.

  Kilver House, when at last it came into view, was settled against the fold of the hill. It was a large house with many windows and built of mellow stone that appeared sun-bathed although it stood in the shade of the hillside.

  Eline moved up to peer through the windows. The house seemed unoccupied, no flames glowed in the marbled, ornate fireplace and there was no sign of movement. Still that would make no different to Eline, she was to draw the outside.

  She chose a hillock on which she could sit comfortably with her pad on her knee and began to work swiftly with her crayons. The house had good, well-balanced lines and yet the crenellated effect of the end walls gave it the appearance of a small castle.

  Eline soon forgot the cold air upon which her breath hung in tiny puffs and although the fingers holding the crayons were blue, she was engrossed in her work, so much so that she didn’t notice a carriage draw up at the end of the driveway and a group of figures alight.

  She looked up startled when a hand touched her shoulder, only to see old Mr Frogmore smiling down at her in approval.

  ‘Dedicated to your work, I see, Mrs Harries.’ He smiled warmly and peered over her shoulder. ‘Excellent, you have caught the spirit of Kilver House and of the hillside behind it very well indeed. I congratulate you.’

  ‘Let me see.’ The young, feminine voice was familiar, But the light was in Eline’s eyes as the woman bent forward. ‘Very good, I like it.’

  Eline rose to her feet, not enjoying having her half-finished work poured over by curious eyes. Then she recognized Sarah Miller, she was clinging to the arm of a young man, looking like the cat that had stolen the cream.

  ‘This is my son, Geoffrey Frogmore,’ old Mr Frogmore said politely, ‘and his wife-to-be, Sarah Miller.’

  Eline mumbled something polite but non-committal and Sarah smiled at her in an infuriatingly patronizing manner.

  ‘Oh, I recognize you, of course, you used to work the oyster beds, didn’t you?’ Her remark was apparently innocent but it put Eline at a disadvantage inferring that she had come up from humble origins and had set herself up as an artist.

  ‘My husband was the master of two oyster skiffs, yes,’ Eline said, ‘but unfortunately Joe was hurt in an accident at sea and now I do my best to make an honest living.’

  ‘Laudable indeed,’ old Mr Frogmore said heartily, ‘and a very talented artist you are. If I can recommend you to any of my aquaintances then I will, my dear.’

  Far from harming her image, Eline thought in satisfaction, Sarah’s spitefulness had enhanced it, at least in Mr Frogmore’s eyes.

  ‘Come along,’ Sarah said, gazing up at Geoffrey Frogmore, ‘let’s step inside and see our beautiful home at close quarters, shall we?’

  Mr Frogmore smiled at Eline. ‘Please accompany us, my dear and then perhaps I might offer you a ride back into Oystermouth.’

  Eline packed up her crayons, she was too cold to work any longer and, in any case, the temptation of not having to walk all the way home was too much to resist. It was even worth enduring Sarah Miller’s smug satisfaction at her rise into wealthy society so long as she could sink back into the warmth and comfort of the gracious carriage that waited at the end of the drive.

  Following the little trio, Eline smiled to herself. Sarah’s efforts to embarrass her had come to nought, but Sarah, it seemed, was about to make up for it by rubbing in the fruits of her good fortune.

  As Christmas drew nearer, Fon, though settling into the routine of the farm without Katherine, began to feel despair at Jamie’s continued gloom. Katherine’s letter, initially, had seemed to make him content, if not happy
, but lately, he had become quiet and morose again.

  Fon made paper chains to amuse Patrick and hung them around the walls. She decorated the mirrors with holly, the polished leaves and bright berries making a colourful splash against the drabness of the walls that badly needed repainting.

  She knitted Jamie a thick wool scarf and wrapped it in bright paper and spent hours in the kitchen baking pies and boiling puddings so that the house was redolent with the smell of fruit. But still Jamie moved about the place as though he himself had died and become a ghost.

  The day before Christmas Eve, Fon made the journey home to Oystermouth to see her mother. She had accumulated a clutch of small presents, embroidered handkerchiefs for Sal and Gwyneth and some stockings she’d bought for Mam while she’d still been receiving wages. Since Katherine’s death, Fon hadn’t the heart to remind Jamie she’d not been paid.

  The little house was empty; the fire was laid, the floors swept but there was no sign anywhere of the Christmas festivities.

  Fon searched for some newspaper and cut it up into strips pasting the edges together with flour and water. Outside was a hedge of holly from which she cut some sprigs and hung them over the dour old pictures in her mother’s kitchen.

  She waited about an hour and then made her way reluctantly to Joe’s house further along the village street. Fon heartily disapproved of Joe Harries, he had treated her mother shabbily enough in all conscience, but now that he was confined to his bed it wasn’t Christian to bear a grudge.

  A greatly different picture to that in Mam’s own kitchen met Fon’s eyes as she stood in the doorway of Joe Harries’s house. Cheerful flames roared up the chimney, flickering through the black-leaded bars of the fireplace and crackling with the scent of apple boughs.

  The succulent smell of roasting meat and the sound of it spitting in the dish made her realize how hungry she was. A huge plum pudding stood on the table, still steaming from the pot, and Joe and Mam were seated side by side drinking a glass of port.

  ‘Fon!’ Nina rose to her feet and held out her arms and Fon went to her, hugging her warmly. ‘Have you come to spend Christmas with me?’

  Fon shook her head and saw something like relief in her mother’s face. ‘I can’t, there’s the baby, Jamie couldn’t manage Patrick on his own. In any case, it’s his first Christmas without Katherine, I think I should be there.’

  Joe, Fon noticed, was sitting in a chair with wheels fixed to it and after a moment, he nodded to her and wheeled himself out of the room. He was obviously as uncomfortable with her as she was with him, Fon decided.

  ‘Is it wise being up there all alone with a man?’ Nina asked softly. Fon knew that she meant well and yet anger flared through her.

  ‘I don’t think you’re one to worry about gossip, are you, Mam?’ she said briskly. She saw Nina’s colour rise.

  ‘Look, Fon, I’m an old married woman, you are different, you have your life before you, you must keep your reputation or you’ll never get yourself a husband.’

  ‘I’m going to marry Jamie,’ Fon said flatly. ‘We’ve both agreed and it’s what Katherine wished on her death-bed.’

  Nina looked discomfited. ‘But, love it’s what you want that counts,’ she said biting her lip, ‘you mustn’t sacrifice yourself to this man however loyal you feel to his wife’s wishes.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mam,’ Fon said, ‘I love Jamie, I want to marry him.’

  ‘I see,’ Nina spoke slowly and it was clear she didn’t see at all. Fon realized that Mam couldn’t understand that this was her destiny, Fon, Jamie and Patrick were meant to be together for always.

  Nina sighed. ‘I suppose I should talk to you about – well – about life. Love between a man and a woman isn’t always the romance it seems, there’s the marriage bed to think about.’

  Fon shook her head. ‘Don’t, Mam, there’s no need, I’ve seen enough to know what life is about, I am living on a farm, mind.’ She didn’t add that, in any case, Mam and Joe had made a good job of teaching her all about babies and such.

  ‘I know, but you got to have patience with a man, they sometimes act a bit rough-like in bed, but they don’t mean it and when you get used to it, it’s, well, it’s nice.’

  Fon could not envisage Jamie ever being rough, he was far too kind and considerate for that. But she kept her own counsel, she knew that her mother meant well, was trying to warn her so that she wouldn’t be hurt.

  ‘I’ll be all right, Mam.’ She handed over the presents. ‘I won’t see our Sal I don’t suppose so perhaps you’ll give her this, but I’ll call in on Gwyneth on the way back, she’ll be at the shop, I expect.

  ‘Aye, she will that,’ Nina said, ‘folks will be rushing to spend their money for Christmas I don’t doubt.’ She handed Sal’s present back to Fon. ‘Take it with you, I saw Sal and she’s going to come up to Honey’s Farm tomorrow. Give her the gift yourself.’

  Fon concealed her surprise; Sal had become almost a stranger to her, she had kept out of the way of all the gossip and scandal and had lived her own life in her comfortable position in one of the big houses and was safely walking out with a nice, respectable man.

  ‘Have a good Christmas then, Mam,’ Fon said. ‘God bless, see you soon.’

  It was cold out in the street after the warmth of the kitchen and Fon drew her coat round her, pushing her hands into the sleeves to keep them warm. She looked at the pewter sea, full of the promise of snow and shivered, wishing she was back at the farmhouse. It was, she realized, her home now, it was where she belonged.

  Fon didn’t know what to make of Sal’s proposed visit; still they were sisters, Fon would make Sal welcome at the farm, of course, and yet did she really want anyone interrupting the life she was building with Jamie?

  The windows of William Davies’s Boot and Shoe Store were ablaze with lights, sprigs of holly framed the stands that held the merchandise and from somewhere in a back street a barrel organ was playing a festive tune. Fon stood silent for a moment, staring within at the flurry of women in crinolines, toffs who had come to buy last-minute gifts for their family and friends.

  She hesitated and then she saw Gwyneth, her face all aglow as she looked up at Will Davies. He was handing a customer a parcel and then he smiled down at Gwyneth as though together they had achieved something wonderful. Gwyneth, Fon saw at once, was deeply in love with William Davies and no good could come of it.

  She moved tentatively into the store and managed to catch her sister’s eye. Quickly, she pressed the small gift into Gwyneth’s hand and kissed her cheek.

  ‘God bless and keep you over the festive season,’ she said in a hushed tone. Gwyneth hugged her impulsively and disappeared for a moment behind one of the counters. Fon stared around her, embarrassed to be standing among the rich ladies of Swansea who, it appeared, were clearing the shelves of all the goods in sight.

  ‘This is your present.’ Gwyneth pressed a box into Fon’s hands. ‘It’s all right, we’re having a sale and they didn’t cost me a fortune so you needn’t worry.’ She laughed happily. ‘But you mustn’t open the packet until Christmas morning, mind.’

  Gwyneth’s attention was demanded by a customer and, with a quick kiss on Fon’s cheek, she was whisked away to sell yet another pair of shoes.

  In the street once more, Fon clutched the box close and hurried towards the terminus of the Mumbles train. It was getting colder, the night was drawing in and she would be glad to be back at the farmhouse. She looked across at the sea, dark now except for a path of yellow splashed intermittently from the lighthouse. How Fon longed to be home and, in that moment, she knew she could never leave the farm, whatever happened.

  Christmas morning passed with scarcely a ripple in the routine of life on Honey’s Farm. Fon was disappointed with Jamie’s reaction to the festive season and although he obediently prayed with her, he refused to attend church or to celebrate in any way.

  In was after a fine cooked dinner that Sal arrived and with her she had a hand
some young man whose arms were full of gifts.

  ‘Fon, my lovely, you’re so thin and pale.’ Sal clasped her close. ‘Why aren’t you having some port or a little sherry, something to at least prove that you realize it’s Christmas?’

  Fon glanced uneasily at Jamie who was rising to his feet, a dour look on his face.

  ‘This is Sal, my sister,’ she said, ‘and her young man has come to visit with her. Look, Jamie, Sal’s brought us all presents. Isn’t that kind of her?’

  Jamie thrust his hands into his pockets without speaking and Fon glanced apologetically at her sister.

  ‘Jamie’s recently lost his wife,’ she explained and Sal instantly drew herself up to her full height. Sal was a big girl, raw-boned like Nina, but twice the size.

  ‘I know that,’ Sal said, ‘and I’m sorry, but I’m sorrier still to see him making a misery of my little sister.’

  Jamie looked at her sharply. ‘Yes, you, I’m talking about, you,’ she said hands on hips. ‘Are you going through life for ever with your chin on your boots, then? Are Fon and that lovely little baby of yours going to live with misery for the rest of their lives? If so I’m taking our Fon out of here right now.’

  ‘Sal,’ Fon said softly, ‘please Sal, Jamie is grieving for his wife, he can’t help it if …’

  ‘Oh, but he can help it,’ Sal said firmly. ‘Let him show some backbone, is it? Other men lose their wives but they don’t wallow in misery. Feeling sorry for yourself is a sin and worse, it’s morbid.’ She glared at Jamie.

  ‘Is this what your wife would wish for you then? Did she want you to mourn her for ever more?’

  ‘No,’ Jamie said fiercely, ‘she wanted me to marry Fon. She wanted me,’ he gestured to Fon and the baby, ‘us, to be happy.’