by Iris Gower
‘Not tired of the leather trade yet, Boyo?’ Dafydd held out his pipe waiting for his daughter’s nod of consent before lighting it.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be tired of it,’ Boyo said honestly. ‘It’s part of my heritage, part of me.’
Dafydd eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Your grandfather must have been a clever man.’
Boyo was surprised, his origins were scarcely ever referred to. The mists that surrounded his birth were rarely drawn aside and yet, even now, it was a mark of pride to Boyo that he had not been the nameless, penniless foundling he had so long believed himself to be.
Dafydd’s next question brought a wary feeling of tension, though Boyo made every effort not to show it.
‘Were you in town today?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
Boyo wondered if the questions were loaded. ‘Bit of both,’ he replied.
Bethan, as though sensing a tension she could not quite understand, leaned forward and rang the bell. ‘Time we had some coffee.’ She looked at her father. ‘Boyo was reliving his past, going back over his old haunts.’ She put her hand over Boyo’s. ‘Honey’s Farm still has the power to hurt you, doesn’t it, love?’
He felt tenderness rising within him. ‘The things that happened there, yes, sometimes.’
‘The past is best left alone,’ Dafydd spoke in an easy tone but his words seemed filled with meaning. ‘Turning over old stones can be a mistake.’
Was there a warning in his words? Boyo could not be sure. He remained silent and the silence lengthened. Bethan was looking from one to the other of them.
‘Is there something going on I’m not aware of?’ She smiled a little uncertainly. Boyo held his breath, not sure how much his father-in-law knew about his activities, or indeed, if he knew anything at all.
The taut lines of Dafydd’s thin face seemed to relax. ‘Just being an old fool, airing my home-spun philosophy and turning into a bore. Forgive me, I think I’m tired. The trip from Swansea seemed to take for ever, those dreadful, twisting lanes are a hazard for any self-respecting carriage driver, not to mention the passenger.’
He rose and Bethan too. She kissed her father on both cheeks. ‘We can talk more in the morning, when you are feeling more rested.’
He smiled down at her, the long lines around his aquiline nose deepening. ‘I want to know when you are going to give me a grandson.’ He touched his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I do hope you are being a good wife, we men are such pathetic creatures when it comes to moral fibre. If we don’t have what we need on our own hearth we tend to look for it elsewhere.’
He glanced towards Boyo. ‘Good night, son-in-law, take care of my daughter, your wife is an extraordinary woman, as I’m sure you realize.’ Again the old man’s words seemed loaded.
Bethan accompanied her father upstairs and Boyo moved to the drawing-room, helping himself to a liberal measure of port from the gleaming decanter which had been strategically placed on an occasional table near the fire. Bethan thought of everything.
As he sat and waited for his wife, Boyo felt a spirit of gloom descend on him. He had gone headlong into this affair with Catherine, snatching eagerly at the thrill and the passion and yes, the love that burned within him like a fire suddenly ignited. He had not stopped to consider the consequences: what the outcome of such a liaison could mean should his infidelity be discovered. And Catherine, how long would she put up with a part-time lover?
He should give up this foolishness at once, he should never have started the affair in the first place. But now Catherine had become, in a few short days, like a drug to his senses, a drug he had no wish to do without.
‘That’s Daddy settled.’ Bethan entered the room and sat down in the chair at the opposite side of the fire. She took off her glasses and folded them with studied care.
‘Boyo, is anything wrong?’ She was looking at him but he could not meet her gaze. He rose and poured himself more port. ‘You would tell me if something was troubling you, wouldn’t you, love?’
He forced himself to smile down at her. ‘Bethan, you are an old worrier, stop fretting, I’m perfectly all right.’
‘You seem, well, not yourself. I don’t know how to explain it but you even look different these past few days, more alive somehow.’
‘Silly fancies, Bethan, I am the same boring old Boyo I always was.’
Bethan’s hands twisted together. ‘You are so young and yet in many ways so much older than I am. There’s a darkness about your past. I wish you would discuss it with me, Boyo, it might help.’
Suddenly her questions irritated him. ‘Bethan,’ his voice was quiet, ‘leave well alone, there’s a good girl.’
Bethan’s mood changed. She smiled at him in her old teasing way. ‘Big buffoon! Spoiled boy! I should take the broom from the kitchen to you, give you a good hiding.’
He wasn’t to be jollied. He filled his glass once more and moved to the door. ‘Excuse me, Bethan, I’m going into the den, I have work to do.’
It was a thin excuse and they both knew it. The administration of his many business affairs was handled by experts, by men specializing in their field. Boyo Hopkins employed only the best.
In the den the fire was burning low in the grate. Boyo knelt on the carpet staring into the flickering embers. He felt tired, no, perhaps jaded was the word. Suddenly he was out of sorts with himself. He lifted lumps of coal from the scuttle with his hands, taking a strange satisfaction in the gritty feel of the fuel against his skin. He studied his grimy fingers, that was how they should look, how they had looked – once. He was becoming soft, if he did not take care he would become flabby, inept. He would lose his muscle tone, the hardness would leave his body, he would develop a paunch from overindulgence. He smiled, if he did not take care he would lose his sense of proportion.
The flames brightened, leaping upward into the chimney. He was reminded at once of Catherine’s hair, falling red and gold in the lamplight across her ivory skin.
It was no casual affair, he wished it was, he could cope with that. No, this bond between himself and Catherine had been there since childhood. Now it was forged again and it would not be easy to disentangle himself.
He didn’t know how long he sat staring into the fire but. his eyes felt filled with grit, he needed to get some sleep. He heard Bethan in the hall, she opened his door and peered in.
‘I’m going up to bed, now, don’t be long Boyo, you look all washed out.’
He left it for an hour, hoping that by the time he joined Bethan in the big four-poster she would be asleep. It was a false hope.
She turned to him at once and wound her arms around his neck. ‘Boyo, hold me, I feel lonely and cold.’ She snuggled against him and he breathed in her familiar scent; a wash of affection made his response much warmer than he’d intended and Bethan lifted her head, drawing his mouth down on hers.
Her kiss was not one of passion, but then passion had never been part of their relationship, yet he felt touched by the warmth of his wife’s embrace.
Her arms wound around his waist, she pressed herself closer to him, her breasts soft against his chest. He was a normal red-blooded man, usually he responded to her as any healthy young man would, to his wife, but not tonight. Tonight he had been with the woman who aroused the demons of hell in him by her passion.
Gently, he eased her away from him. ‘As you said, Bethan, I’m washed out tonight, not very good for anything.’
He kissed her brow and turned away from her; he could feel the depths of her rejection by the rigid line of her body. He didn’t want to hurt her, perhaps it would be as well to talk it over, to bring everything out into the open, to ask her what she wished to do about it.
He sat up and pushed back the sheets. ‘Bethan…’ he spoke softly almost in a whisper. She did not reply and tentatively he put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Not now, Boyo,’ she said in a hard, dry voice, ‘we’ll talk in the morning.’<
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Somehow, he knew from the way she spoke that Bethan was afraid, afraid she might hear something she didn’t want to hear. Pity overwhelmed him; how could he burden his wife, a good, kind, generous woman, with his own conflict of conscience?
He put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, knowing he could not sacrifice Bethan’s peace of mind for his own. What he had done, was doing, was wrong, but he could no more stop it than he could turn back the tide in Swansea Bay.
CHAPTER TWO
Catherine awoke to feel the sun slanting across her face. She lifted her head and saw the curtains lift gently in the breeze. Outside, the birds were singing, it seemed that even nature was conspiring to enhance the happiness that was sweeping through her.
She turned over on her side, her hand beneath her cheek, the heavy weight of her braided hair fell across her neck like a lover’s caress. Excitement flared through her, she, Catherine O’Conner, had a lover.
From the kitchen she heard the muted sounds of morning; the ashes being riddled in the fireplace, the chink of crockery, and realized that she had overslept. She smiled softly, it was just like her parents to allow her to lie in bed until she chose to rise.
That they indulged their only child was a fact of which Catherine was well aware. A great deal of her mother’s protectiveness and her father’s gentle kindness stemmed from fear, for they had lost their sons at an early age. April too; beautiful April, tragic April. Catherine pushed the thought away, she did not want to think about April, not now when she was so happy. Light steps approached her room and her mother peered around the door. ‘Awake then? About time, too, cariad.’
Catherine sat up and stretched her arms, closing her eyes against the bright sunlight and the feeling of happiness that rose within her.
‘Come on, I can’t hold this hot tea by here for ever, I’ve got the breakfast to cook.’
‘Right, Mam, I’ll take the tea, I could do with it, I’m parched.’
‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself this morning.’ Her mother handed her the cup. ‘Were you out with a boy last night by any chance?’
Catherine bent her face over the steaming tea. ‘Don’t be soft, Mam. Just because you and Dad are so much in love you think everyone wants to be the same as you.’
‘And don’t they?’ Fon O’Conner was still a very beautiful woman. Her hair swept away from her face, revealed fine cheek-bones and a clear, direct gaze that was sometimes disconcerting.
She sat on the thick patchwork quilt. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry, love, there’s plenty of fish in the sea, mind.’
‘Please, Mam,’ Catherine said softly. ‘It’s all so new, I don’t want to spoil anything by talking about it.’
‘Fair enough, I should have expected this sooner but your dad and I have plans for you, you must know that, love?’
‘I have to live my own life, Mam, and if I am going out with a boy, you will just have to trust me, won’t you?’
‘I do, but he is a good boy, a respectable boy, isn’t he? I mean he wouldn’t … do anything wrong, would he?’
‘He’s very respectable, Mam, so don’t worry.’
Fon took her hand. ‘You see, love, some men take advantage, they are not all gentlemen, do you know what I mean? I would prefer you to go out with someone we know and approve of. We wouldn’t try to run your life but we do want to protect you from someone unscrupulous, out just for a bit of foolishness with the first girl who’s willing.’
‘I’m not a child, Mam. Anyway, he isn’t like that.’
‘Hasn’t he got a name?’
‘Mam, please!’
‘All right.’ Fon rose to her feet. ‘Get up soon, mind, I’ll have breakfast on the table in ten minutes.’
Catherine sighed with relief as her mother left her alone. Fon was too sharp for her own good. What would she think if she knew her daughter had lost her virginity to the man who had once been betrothed to her sister? Catherine bit her lip. Her mother would think she was second best, an echo of the past for Boyo, and was she?
She pictured Boyo’s face as he made love to her. There was passion, oh, yes, there was passion, flaring like a white-hot flame between them, but there was more, much more, she need never question that.
Downstairs, the appetizing smell of bacon filled the kitchen. Catherine kissed her father’s unshaven cheek and sat next to him at the table.
‘So you were out courting last night, darlin’ girl?’ Jamie leaned forward, his big arms brown beneath the rolled up shirtsleeves. Catherine looked at her mother who avoided her gaze.
‘Yes, Dad, and he is very respectable and no, he won’t take advantage of me; I’m a big girl now, mind.’
‘That’s what your dad is afraid of,’ Fon said drily. She placed a plate before her husband and Jamie took up his knife and fork.
‘These eggs look good, the new mash I’m giving the hens must be suiting them.’
Catherine sighed with relief, Jamie was not going to pursue the subject of her ‘courting’ as he called it. She looked down at her own plate, the bacon still sizzled hot from the pan and the eggs were done to perfection.
‘You girls coming into town with me today?’ Jamie asked, cutting into a slice of curling bacon.
‘Got work to do here, love,’ Fon said easily. ‘You go and take Catherine, buy her some pretty ribbons or something.’
‘Well?’ Jamie pulled at his daughter’s hair. ‘Going to keep your old dad company are you?’
‘I suppose I’d better, there’s no telling what trouble you’ll get into on your own.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Jamie leaned back in his chair pretending to be indignant but there was laughter in his eyes.
‘You know what I mean. If I don’t come with you you’ll have all the women of Swansea aflutter with your Irish blarney.’
Fon smiled, ‘He’d better behave himself if he knows what’s good for him, I’m not the sort of woman to put up with any nonsense, mind.’
‘Sure an’ did I not speak only of going into town for supplies? No mention was made of roaming the bars and chasing women.’ Jamie rose to his feet. ‘I’ll be ready in about half an hour, if you are coming along to protect your dad, you’d best hurry up.’
Jamie left the kitchen and Fon began to gather the crockery together. ‘It will do you good, both of you,’ she said. ‘You don’t see enough of each other these days.’
‘But Mam, I work on the farm most days, I’m as good as a son any day, ask Dad.’
‘I know that,’ Fon took the tablecloth in both hands and carried it to the back door, shaking the crumbs onto the yard outside, ‘but Jamie’s down the fields and you’re in the hen-house or milking the beasts; you’re not exactly together, are you?’
She put the cloth away in the dresser drawer and turned to face her daughter. ‘Dad’s done the milking and I’ve fed the hens and there’s labourers enough for the lambing so make the most of it.’
‘Mam, this isn’t a conspiracy, is it?’ Catherine was suddenly suspicious. Fon avoided her gaze.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I want you to keep Dad company, that’s all, he hasn’t quite been himself lately.’
‘Mam, he’s not sick, is he?’
‘Hush girl, all this fuss just because your dad wants you to go to town with him, what next?’ Fon did not look at her and Catherine was suddenly afraid.
‘You would tell me, Mam, if something was wrong, I mean?’
‘Aye, I would tell you, if there was something to tell. Now get off out, will you and leave me to have some peace.’
Half an hour later, Catherine sat up in the front seat of the trap beside Jamie, watching his strong hands gently direct the horses over the uneven ground of the lane leading away from the farm. And yet, she could not help studying him covertly, looking for any sign that he was not in his usual robust health. He appeared relaxed, his skin was lightly tanned by the sun and weather, he looked just the same as he had always done
. A little older, perhaps, with a few more lines around his eyes and mouth but that was only to be expected.
‘Sure it’s a lovely spring day, all right.’ Jamie sighed, lifting his face to the pale sun. ‘I love the spring with the new buds shaking the trees and the lambs leaping everywhere as though pleased to be alive. It’s a time of new beginnings, sure it is.’
Catherine thought so too but not in a way of which her father would approve. For her, life had blossomed since Boyo had come back into her life, she had freely given her virginity and in six short days she had fallen hopelessly in love.
Catherine was quiet, hugging her secret to her and Jamie seemed content with the silence as he easily lifted the reins to encourage the animals to go faster.
Over the crest of the hill, leading away from Honey’s Farm, the land fell away revealing the valley of huddled buildings and twisting streets and beyond the town perimeter, the wide shimmering band of sea stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a sight which never failed to take Catherine’s breath away.
‘Isn’t it beautiful, Dad?’ She leaned against her father’s broad shoulder, breathing in the salt of the breeze drifting in from the sea. He glanced down at her fondly.
‘Aye, but then so is Ireland, darlin’, it’s not called the Emerald Isle for nothing. And the water runs clear up golden sands and the hills are so lush and green. I’ll take you there one day, and then you can see for yourself.’
Catherine had Irish blood in her veins from her father’s side of the family but her mother was Welsh and Catherine had been born on the farm on the Welsh hillsides, she could imagine nothing as lovely as the scene before her anywhere else in the world.
Instead of driving to the store as he usually did, Jamie halted the horses outside the Grand Hotel, looping the reins around a post and clucking softly to the animals.
‘What are we doing here, Dad?’ Catherine looked down at her father as he held up his hands to lift her into the roadway. She noticed then, for the first time, that he was smartly dressed in a crisp linen shirt, good trousers, waistcoat and a jacket.
