Stolen Moments

by Rosie Harris

  Frustrated, she administered the medicine Dr Pugh had left, and then wrapped herself in a blanket and slept.

  The whole of the next day the man remained completely impassive and her own mood floundered from elation to morbid fears about his condition and her concern as to whether he was David. The loneliness became so oppressive that she felt she was suffocating. In a state bordering on panic she unbarred the door, desperate for fresh air.

  Outside, everything was shrouded in fog, a ghostly cloak of grey that swirled round her, encompassing her in dankness.

  The following day, the weather was no better. Nothing stirred. The grey silence closed in all around her. She began to worry. Her own food supplies were dwindling and there was very little medicine left.

  She had no way of telling the time, except by the number of candles she burned. She longed for something to read; anything to occupy her mind. Countless times she had cleaned and tidied the room, made up the fire and attended to the man’s needs. She had bathed his feet and hands with warm water to make him more comfortable. She talked to him constantly, reciting all the poetry she knew, until her throat ached and the words became a blurred jumble, but he gave no sign of life other than a shallow, rhythmic breathing.

  She dozed, waking with a start as a coal fell from the fire, or a candle guttered. When next she ventured to look out the fog had cleared, the moon shone like a beacon high in the sky and her feeling of optimism returned.

  She had just used up the last of the medicine when she heard hammering on the door.

  Dr Elwyn Pugh swept into the room bringing the icy coldness of the night with him. Huw Jenner followed, laden with provisions. While he unpacked these and replenished the stock of coal and wood, Dr Pugh examined the recumbent figure.

  ‘There’s been no change?’

  ‘None at all,’ Kate admitted reluctantly.

  ‘You’ve fed him regularly?’

  ‘Yes, and dosed him with medicine as you instructed.’

  ‘We’ve brought enough for four days this time.’

  ‘After that if there is no improvement we shall have to think about handing him over to the authorities,’ Huw Jenner stated.

  ‘But you can’t do that!’

  ‘We can’t keep up this charade for ever,’ he answered bluntly. ‘The weather is deteriorating. Once the snow comes it will be impossible to get up here at all.’

  ‘Anyway, our footsteps would be visible and our secret become common knowledge,’ pointed out Elwyn Pugh.

  ‘Mr Jenner said no one ever comes up here because people think the place is haunted,’ she reminded him swiftly.

  ‘If they saw two pairs of footprints leading up from the roadway they’d investigate quick enough,’ he told her drily.

  ‘It may not snow.’

  ‘I’m afraid it will. It always snows by Christmas or early January.’

  ‘It may not do so this year, you can’t be sure!’ Kate argued stubbornly.

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ Dr Pugh murmured evasively. ‘If he remains in a coma much longer there will be no question of him making a complete recovery, anyway.’

  Fear tightened Kate’s throat. If it was David then she ought to give him the chance of returning to his family, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak out.

  Left on her own again she paced the room, trying desperately to think of some way out of the dilemma. She felt guilty about saying nothing, but if it was David and they took him away she might never see him again.

  She sat brooding for a long time, until the fire dwindled so low that she had to go in search of the kindling Huw Jenner kept stored in the next room.

  She gathered up a handful of the small dry twigs and roughly screwed-up balls of paper she found there and carried them back to the main room.

  As she waited for the fire to blaze so that she could bank it up with coal, Kate straightened out some of the pieces of paper. Hungry for the printed word, she pored over them, curious to read what was written. They were old broadsheets announcing the time and place of public meetings to be held by the Chartists.

  Everything else was forgotten as she read them. Notices to the tradesmen of Newport and to the working men of Monmouthshire from John Frost, and to the men and women of Newport from Henry Vincent.

  Some sheets were so torn or crumpled that it was impossible to tell what they were about, others stirred her greatly.

  ‘In the present excited and alarming state of the country,’ she read, ‘when no man can say what a day can bring forth, it will be enough to tell the men of the Hills, that Wales expects every man to do his duty, and may God bless their righteous cause.

  ‘My advice to you is be cool but firm. It is the object of your enemies to drive us to some outburst in order to destroy us. This is the state on which our country is now placed. The people ask for bread and the answer is the bludgeon or sword. Let not the desire of the enemy be gratified.’

  Where did David fit into all this, she puzzled as she read the words over and over again.

  If it was David in the bed, she reasoned, then he was being cared for by a doctor who sympathized with the Chartists. Yet he was one of the owners, one of the oppressive men in authority that these broadsheets decried.

  She stood looking down at the inert shape in the bed for several minutes, wrestling with her conscience, silently begging for forgiveness if what she was about to do went wrong. She knew that Dr Pugh would be horrified when he discovered the action she had taken, but that no longer seemed to matter, not as long as she obtained the answers she needed.

  Chapter 35

  Taking infinite care, Kate began to peel away the bandages that swathed the man’s head.

  His hair had been shaved close to the scalp and the first glimpse of the livid flesh beneath the strips of bloodied linen made her shiver. Taking a deep breath to overcome her revulsion she braced herself to go on with her grim task.

  At first she was filled with hope. Any moment now, just as soon as his features were exposed, she would know the identity of the man she had been nursing.

  Horror struck her like a padded fist as she paused to survey her handiwork. She felt stunned. What had she done? The man’s face was badly scarred but the features were quite distinguishable and it was certainly not David.

  She felt a deep sense of despair. Ever since she had been there she had been telling herself it was David, even though deep in her heart she knew it was only remotely possible. This man might be the same age but he was shorter, more wiry and muscled, a different build altogether.

  She stood staring down at him, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

  Now that her hopes were completely shattered, all that was left was a cold hollow inside her. She wished she’d never uncovered his face, then she could have gone on deluding herself. It was easier than knowing she was looking after a stranger.

  Her eyes filled with tears as she compared the scarred features with those which had haunted her dreams ever since she’d left Bramwood Hall. There was absolutely no comparison! The shape of the face even was different. This man had never had a square chin, a strong straight nose or aristocratic features. His head was round and bullet-shaped, his face small and lean with a squat nose and close-set eyes.

  Kate regarded him dispassionately, thinking how much he must have suffered, wondering how he came to be so badly injured.

  She picked up the discarded bandages, wondering if she should try to wrap his face up again. Then she pulled back sharply. Her gasp of shock filled the room. Had she imagined it, or had the man’s eyelids moved?

  Now that his wounds were exposed to the air, the rhythm of his breathing seemed to have changed. She was sure it had deepened and quickened.

  Fearful lest the pain she must be causing him might be more than his heart could stand, she felt for his pulse and was alarmed by the way it raced beneath her fingers. It had been foolhardy to give way to her selfish impulse, she thought guiltily. She had no medical knowledge and if her meddling pro
ved detrimental to his recovery, how would she explain her actions? Dr Pugh was bound to find out since she couldn’t replace the bandages with his professional skill.

  She held her breath. She had not imagined it, his eyelids had moved. The lids flickered again and very slowly opened, flinching as if even the soft glow of candlelight dazzled them.

  Shielding the flame so that his face was almost in darkness, she bent closer.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  His eyelids slowly lifted, but the dark brown eyes beneath seemed glazed and vacuous. When she spoke again they focused on her face, picking up the reflection of the candle in their depths.

  The apathetic vagueness disappeared.

  ‘Who are you?’ The hoarse whisper from his cracked and swollen lips exhausted him. He drifted back into the twilight world he had occupied for so long.

  She dropped on her knees beside the bed, patiently waiting for him to open his eyes again.

  After a while, she moved away and went to heat up some broth. The minute quantities she had been feeding him over the past days had been barely enough to sustain him. Now, if he remained conscious he might be able to cooperate, and then she could increase the amount.

  She would try and prop him up, then there would be less fear of him choking. Once he was getting proper nourishment, he would make a much quicker recovery.

  The next time he opened his eyes, she rolled up her cloak and the blanket she used at night and slipped them under his shoulders, supporting him so that she could spoon-feed him without the liquid trickling down his chin. He ate hungrily, seeming to gain fresh strength with each mouthful.

  When the bowl was empty his swollen lips widened into a crooked smile.

  ‘Are you an angel?’ he croaked, as gently she eased him back flat on the bed. Then his eyes closed and his breathing became the deep, steady rhythm of natural sleep.

  After covering him over, she reheated the remainder of the soup for herself and sat in the chair alongside his bed to eat it.

  As she contemplated all that had happened, her own eyelids grew heavy as sleep claimed her.

  When she awoke, Kate’s first conscious thoughts were of her patient. Apprehensively, she walked over to check on him and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that he was awake, his dark eyes studying her. It was a tense, watchful look with no trace of vagueness.

  His shaven scalp, his puffed-up, red-rimmed eyes and swollen lips, showed the extent of his injuries but the livid purple bruises that covered the rest of his face seemed less inflamed than when she had first removed the bandages.

  ‘Am I still alive… or is this a dream?’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘My mind’s a blank. I can’t remember anything.’

  ‘No, you’re not dreaming!’ she murmured, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Kate… Kate Stacey. Can you remember your name? Or what happened?’

  She waited hopefully but he shook his head.

  ‘Can you remember what happened… how you came to be in such a terrible state?’

  He looked at her bewildered, then closed his eyes.

  ‘Never mind, it will all come back to you in time,’ she murmured soothingly, taking his uninjured hand between her own.

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘I told you. Kate… Kate Stacey.’

  ‘I don’t know you. Where am I?’ The puzzled look clouded his eyes again as he stared uncomprehendingly at the bare walls. ‘Am I in gaol?’

  ‘No! Of course not. Don’t worry. You’re quite safe.’

  She tended him carefully, reassuring him when he became fretful because he could remember nothing from his past.

  Her task was made easier because now that he was conscious he was able to cooperate. Raising him into an upright position so that she could feed him became routine and made the process so much quicker and much less messy. He still had considerable difficulty in swallowing but he responded valiantly to her encouragement.

  He tired very quickly and was highly sensitive to pain. In an attempt to make him more comfortable she agreed to his request to bathe the wounds that covered his body.

  When she began to strip away his soiled garments the suppurating sores made her heave. He cried out in agony as she soaked away the cloth that adhered to the raw flesh and deftly cleaned away the vile green pus below.

  Several times she was on the point of giving up, knowing from his contorted face the agony she was inflicting on him, wondering if the ultimate relief justified the present pain.

  ‘Daro! Get on with it, can’t you,’ he gasped each time she paused and looked at him questioningly.

  Every groan and twinge set her nerves tingling, the sight of the horrific scabs and sores churned her stomach.

  By the time she was finished her hands were shaking and she felt weak with fatigue. Quickly she cleared away the debris, burning the soiled pieces of rag on the fire.

  When she turned round, he was supine, his eyes closed, breathing shallowly, his face drained of colour.

  Desperately she tried to revive him, propping him up and holding a cup of diluted whisky to his lips. Gradually his breathing grew stronger, the colour returned to his lips but it was a long time before he was sufficiently recovered to talk to her. When he did he seemed bewildered.

  ‘Why can’t you tell me where we are?’ he asked peevishly, as he looked round at the bare stone walls of the austere room in bewilderment.

  ‘Because I don’t know. We’re in a ruined tower. After you were injured you were hidden here so that you’d be safe…’ her voice trailed off as she saw how baffled he looked.

  ‘But why are you here?’ He turned his head from side to side restlessly.

  ‘Dr Elwyn Pugh from Newport asked me to nurse you. It’s such a complicated story,’ she prevaricated, unsure how much she ought to tell him. ‘Perhaps I should wait until you are stronger.’

  ‘Please,’ he gasped. ‘I want to know now. Tell me about yourself and how you come to be here. It might help me to remember what happened.’

  He seemed baffled when she told him about the Chartists’ uprising in Newport and the tragedy that had resulted.

  ‘And when the men I nursed were better, Dr Pugh thought it might not be safe for me to return to Blaenafon right away, so he suggested I should come and look after you,’ she explained.

  There was a long silence. The man turned his head from side to side as if trying to clear his way through a fog of memories.

  ‘I don’t remember any uprising…’ his voice trailed off. ‘It wasn’t there… I would have remembered if there had been guns and soldiers.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it now. You will remember in time,’ she assured him.

  * * *

  He slept a great deal. Each time he woke she fed him. At first he could manage only spoonfuls of broth but gradually his appetite returned and he was able to eat the same food as she prepared for herself. She rationed it out carefully, hoping desperately that Dr Pugh would arrive before her supplies were exhausted.

  By the end of the next day he was stronger and much more alert.

  ‘I think I remember what happened,’ he told her. ‘It’s all coming back… unless it’s a dream,’ he frowned worriedly.

  ‘Just tell me what you remember.’

  ‘I was working at Fforbrecon colliery…’

  ‘Fforbrecon! You were a miner at Fforbrecon?’

  Kate’s excitement disconcerted him. He looked puzzled, the apathetic vagueness returning to his face.

  ‘Yes… I’m sure I was…’ He frowned heavily.

  ‘Does the name Owen mean anything to you?’

  Her question hung in the air. She waited anxiously for his reply, her eyes fixed on his face, waiting for his reaction. Her heart pumped wildly when she saw his eyes light up. This was it! Her intuition had been right. This man would lead her to David.

  ‘Owen. Owen,’ she repeated excitedly. ‘David Owen.’ The glimmer of interest that had brighten
ed his eyes faded. He shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘You remember someone called Owen,’ she prompted.

  ‘Owen… Owen… Owen Jones,’ he muttered in a confused manner.

  Her soaring hopes collapsed. It was bitterly disappointing, but something she should have foreseen. The name Owen was widely used in Wales as a forename as well as a surname.

  ‘Are you called Owen Jones?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘That’s right. Owen Jones from Fforbrecon.’

  ‘Have you not heard of David Owen?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘The owner of Fforbrecon colliery.’

  ‘You’re wrong there, cariad.’ His face brightened. ‘The owner is Tudor ap Owen from Llwynowen, over towards Govilon. Very important he is too. Damned hard master,’ he added wryly.

  ‘David is his son,’ explained Kate. ‘Have you never heard of him… or seen him?’

  ‘I never knew he had a son.’

  ‘You worked at Fforbrecon colliery, though? Did you never see him there? In the last few months, I mean.’

  ‘No, but then he’d not be working in the mine, would he!’

  ‘I knew him when I lived in Wiltshire,’ Kate said wistfully. ‘He came back here to help his father. In time he was to take over the colliery.’

  ‘I should have been the one trapped down there,’ Owen Jones exclaimed in a distraught voice, ignoring what Kate was saying. ‘If I hadn’t changed shifts with our Ieuan I would have been underground when the cave-in happened!’

  He was silent for a long time, staring into space as if reliving those moments over again.

  ‘He was killed and I’m still alive,’ he exclaimed in a shocked whisper.

  ‘Was that when you were injured?’ asked Kate, gently trying to draw him back to the present.

  ‘No, no. I wasn’t hurt. I just told you, I’d changed shifts with my brother, see. I wasn’t even there when it happened.’

  ‘So how did you get hurt?’ prompted Kate.

  ‘It was days afterwards. There was some sort of a meeting. We stood around for hours waiting to know what they were going to do. Things became heated. Roddi Llewllyn, the pit manager, told us the owners had decided not to get the bodies out… Daro! Terrible thing to hear, that was. My brother Ieuan was down there. Changed shifts we had…’