Make Room for the Jester

by Stead Jones

  ‘You’ll come to tea,’ she’d say, and then she’d touch me pityingly on the shoulder, and I felt suddenly undernourished and about to go down with malnutrition or something. The Roberts had a big grocer’s shop, and eating was their hobby. It was always a good tea, I’ll say that for them.

  Towards the end of that Bank Holiday week I was standing with Gladstone near the slot machine on the Square. I’d been trying to get some cigarettes out of it with a washer but without any luck. Then, out of the crowd, came Gwynfor Roberts, and sharp as a flash he put a coin in the machine, a real coin – Gwynfor always had money on him – and slipped a packet of Player’s into his pocket. Then he saw us. He didn’t blush exactly, but he looked as if he was going to blush. He handed round some chocolate straight away – he always carried a few bars with him – and said something about giving us a fag only his mother was on the way.

  ‘Lew,’ he said, ‘will you come up this afternoon?’

  ‘Well,’ I said.

  ‘Got a new Meccano,’ he said.

  I hated the sight of his Meccano, and his Hornby train too – but because he wasn’t anything I said that’s nice.

  I heard his mother before I saw her. Practically everybody on the Square must have heard her. ‘Gwynfor – is that your friend, then? Bring him to tea!’ Mrs Roberts had her hand on my shoulder, checking if I’d fattened up a bit. ‘Bring him along! Now! And his friend!’

  Gladstone nearly fell over. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘are you serious?’

  Mrs Roberts hitched up her enormous bosom, fixed her glasses on her podgy little nose and gave a great roar of laughter. ‘Of course I am, cariad,’ she cried. ‘Come and have a good tea!’

  She swung around and marched off into the crowd, charging them aside like Boadicea with the Romans.

  ‘Better come,’ Gwynfor said. ‘It’ll be all right for Gladstone.’

  The three of us followed in Mrs Roberts’ wake, Gladstone wide-eyed with shock. ‘Haven’t been out to tea since the Sunday school trip in 1933,’ he whispered to me.

  At the end of the street was the car. We piled in the back and Mrs Roberts drove off at her usual speed, which was the speed of Royalty. Gladstone, always quick to sense an occasion, sat bolt upright by the window, chin held high, and graciously waved to the crowds.

  Meira had once done a bit of cleaning for Mrs Roberts and had always come home saying the house was a palace. All I knew was that it wasn’t a house where you could wear tar on your shirt, and have a hole in the seat of your trousers. Not without feeling like a cat dragged in out of the storm, anyway.

  ‘God,’ Gladstone said, as we sat on the big couch in the big front room, ‘it’s very nice, but I feel like a flea-circus attendant.’

  He didn’t show it, though. He had Gwynfor showing him his things, and he was saying very nice, charming, how interesting, fascinating. ‘I must get one of those,’ he remarked, looking at an expensive building outfit.

  By the door there was a grand piano – a German make which I’d heard was the best. When the boys bragged at school it was often about the make of their pianos.

  ‘I suppose you can play it?’ Gladstone said.

  ‘Not much,’ Gwynfor replied.

  ‘Of course he does,’ Mrs Roberts said as she stormed in. She spoke Welsh to us all that afternoon, and English to Gwynfor. That was one of those things that made me have this feeling about her.

  ‘Gwynfor – play for the boys,’ she ordered.

  ‘Oh – Mam!’

  ‘Now then,’ Gladstone said, finger raised, ‘we mustn’t make him play if he doesn’t want to. Very bad, you know. Could so very easily turn him away from his music.’

  Mrs Roberts’ glasses slid down her nose as her eyebrows went up. She was so surprised she had to sit down – opposite us, her legs wide apart so that you could see the skin above her stockings. She looked like a chair we had at home.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked Gladstone.

  ‘Gladstone Williams,’ he replied, ‘after the famous Greek politician.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Roberts said.

  ‘Not a politician I really care for,’ Gladstone went on. ‘Did you know he used to chew each mouthful of food eighty-six times?’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Roberts breathed.

  ‘And what I said just then about the piano is right, you know. I mean – you’ll excuse me saying this to a lady, to a mother, like yourself – but you should never force a child into making an exhibition of himself. You might be spoiling a genius…’

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Roberts said, ‘Gwynfor plays hymns very nice…’

  ‘Exactly,’ Gladstone replied, crossing his legs and showing her for the first time that he wasn’t wearing socks. ‘We all must start somewhere – but the great danger is that we might drown a talent with too much insistence. But of course this is old-fashioned stuff to you, Mrs Roberts, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll have thought like this.’

  ‘Well – yes,’ Mrs Roberts said, but vaguely.

  ‘You need practice, of course,’ he went on. ‘Practise for as long as possible, but at the early stages like this it is so easy, so very easy to make a genius hate his instrument.’

  ‘You must be right, I’m sure,’ Mrs Roberts said, her glasses still at the end of her nose. ‘Do you play, then?’

  I kept my eyes on the Boy’s Own Annual but I wasn’t doing any reading.

  ‘Well,’ Gladstone said, ‘I don’t actually play. Let’s say I merely amuse myself occasionally.’ He swept the long hair clear of his forehead. ‘A few notes sometimes, here and there.’ He got up and walked over to the piano and ran his hand gently along the top as if he expected to find dust there. ‘Beautiful,’ he said softly, ‘a lovely instrument…’

  ‘Walnut,’ Mrs Roberts explained quickly. ‘Polished.’

  Gladstone looked down at the keyboard – I was all attention now – then sat on the stool and stared at the music that was propped up on the stand. ‘Handel’s Largo,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh – beautiful,’ Mrs Roberts said, clapping her hands. ‘A lovely piece, that. Can you play it, then?’

  Gladstone flexed his long fingers. ‘I have played it, of course, Mrs Roberts. A popular piece…’

  ‘Makes me think of Heaven,’ Mrs Roberts said. Her voice sounded very spitty.

  Gladstone began to hum the opening bars. Mrs Roberts joined in, conducting as well. ‘Dah, dah, dah, daah, da, da, da-hah,’ they sang. ‘Lovely,’ Mrs Roberts said. ‘Oh – lovely.’ I was wondering why she hadn’t noticed that Gladstone’s shirt was threadbare around the collar, and that his trousers looked as if he’d slept the week in them. She had always been very observant where my clothes were concerned. Once, she had even given me an old pair of trousers to take home, and I had thrown them into the harbour…. Perhaps she would pay more attention once Gladstone was forced to play.

  He stopped singing. ‘The Largo,’ he said. ‘You’ll know it used to be the Chinese national anthem, I suppose?’

  Something went in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Roberts breathed. She was sitting forward on her chair, eyes intently fixed on him. And now his hands were up, poised over the keyboard. Oh, God, I thought, perhaps he’s carried away, perhaps he thinks he really can…. His eyes were closed. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead.

  ‘Handel’s Largo,’ he whispered, and his eyes snapped open, and he brought his hands down gently on the keys without striking a note. ‘To be or not to be?’

  ‘Oh – yes,’ Mrs Roberts said.

  ‘That – is the question,’ Gladstone went on.

  ‘Shakespeare, Mam,’ Gwynfor explained. He was still crouched on the carpet, trying to straighten out a bent Meccano girder.

  ‘I know,’ Mrs Roberts said sharply. ‘Been to school.’ Her eyes pleaded with Gladstone. ‘Go on, then – please.’

  Gladstone sighed. He was looking at the ornaments on the top of the piano. Mrs Roberts believed in hiding nothing. There
were a dozen and more of them – toy dogs, milkmaids, egg-timers with Present from Llandudno on them, and a pot monkey sitting on a spring, and a bird with a yellow beak that couldn’t possibly have been a blackbird, and Humpty Dumpty sitting on a wall…. ‘I had an uncle named Erasmus,’ Gladstone began softly, ‘who was a major pianist. Mind you – he only had two fingers on his left hand. Used to make up the chords with his right. Got into trouble at the Royal Academy of Music about that. He was a genius, of course – had to oil his hands every night and wear silk gloves in bed in case the damp got at them. He used to play concertos…’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Roberts was bolt upright, sensing a story. ‘And symphonies?’

  Gladstone gave me a frozen-faced look. ‘Only concertos – or, to be more exact, concerti. He played the Birmingham Concerti of John Sebastian…’

  ‘Bach?’ Mrs Roberts cried joyfully.

  ‘Exactly,’ Gladstone replied. ‘A Welshman, thank God…’

  You’re taking a chance, I thought. Any minute now and it’ll be the way out for us.

  ‘Then there was the “Unfurnished” by Franz Sherbert, of course. Who hasn’t played that? And “Hiding”,’ he went on, speeding up so as to get away with it, ‘the “Machynlleth March”, naturally. And Olga’s “Circumcision”, and the “List Post” by Lost. You’ve no idea – it was a musical education just to be near him. He practically lived at the Albert Hall….’

  ‘On the wireless, too?’ Mrs Roberts begged.

  ‘Never,’ Gladstone replied firmly. ‘All that electric, you know – the currents might affect his diminuendo. He was always afraid of that. And he was right, of course. Doctors know they play havoc with the diminuendo…’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Roberts breathed, and the maid came in and said tea was ready.

  Gladstone hit one note on the piano, said ‘Beautiful’, and came away quickly. He held the door open for us, as if he was the host, and we went through to the kitchen where the table sagged with food.

  During tea Gladstone kept it up. He was sitting next to me so I gave him a kick now and then, but he took no notice.

  ‘I have always considered Henry Wadsworth Shortman a mediocre poet,’ he remarked as he stuffed a couple of ham sandwiches into his pockets for the children. ‘Mind you – the “Lay of the last Ministerial” wasn’t bad…’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘Well – I never…’

  ‘“Paradise Lost” by Muldoon,’ he went on, ‘“When I consider how my light is spent”, and so on,’ he cried, lowering his voice. ‘That’s what I call my Chapel voice, Mrs Roberts. Have you noticed how people have one voice for work and one voice for Chapel?’

  Mrs Roberts’ bosom heaved as she giggled. She couldn’t laugh because her mouth was full of food.

  ‘Oh, yes – it’s got to be a hollow voice for Chapel – no reverence unless it’s mournful.’ He did some more of his imitation for her. Any minute now, I thought, and it will all go sour, and we’ll be out in the yard clutching a ham sandwich apiece. ‘I wonder why there has to be a different voice for praying, too? A praying voice with a bit of a cringe to it. Chapel…’

  ‘Now then, who’s talking about Chapel?’ And there was Mr Roberts by the door.

  ‘Dada bach,’ Mrs Roberts cried, ‘you look tired out. Come and sit down then, cariad.’

  Mr Roberts was about eighteen stone, but short. He looked as if he’d been blown up with a bicycle pump – blown up so hard that all the hair had popped out of his head. He sat down, breathing heavily, and began to reach for the bread and the pickles and the boiled ham and the mustard, not saying anything, just filling his plate until it overflowed.

  ‘Having a tea party,’ Mrs Roberts explained.

  Mr Roberts looked hard at Gladstone. ‘So I see…’

  ‘Having a lovely chat we were, about poetry and music…’

  ‘Chapel, too? Didn’t I hear someone say Chapel?’

  ‘We did mention it,’ Gladstone said in a cold voice. He knew Mr Roberts, had been refused tick in his shop more times than he cared to mention.

  Mr Roberts grunted. ‘Didn’t know you were a Chapel man, Gladstone?’

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Roberts cried, ‘you know him, cariad! A lovely pianist! Played the Largo…’

  Her husband looked up sharply. ‘Play the piano, do you, Gladstone? Never knew that. We’ll have to get you on the harmonium at the Mission.’ He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Been keeping company with the drunkards lately, haven’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Gladstone.

  ‘Ashton Vaughan,’ Mr Roberts said flatly. ‘That’s who I’m talking about. I hear you’ve been helping him to drink himself to death.’

  Mr Roberts prided himself on always speaking his mind. It wasn’t really a matter for pride, Rowland Williams said, because there was nothing in Mr Roberts’ mind that was worth hearing.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘Been seen with him all the time. Rescued him from the harbour, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did we?’ said Gladstone very calmly, but before he could go on Mrs Roberts had jumped up crying, ‘Oh – here’s Eirlys come!’ She ran across to open the back door, talking all the time. ‘Oh – now then, Eirlys come with my dress.’ She opened the door. ‘Come in, then – come in, Eirlys fech.’ The woman who walked in was the woman who had been in the car with Marius Vaughan.

  She was blonde and she was like a doll, all colour and warmth, wide-eyed and smiling. She made the rest of the room look grey. ‘Tradesman’s entrance,’ she said. ‘Oo, got a tea party going, Marian?’ Her voice was husky, with laughter in it. She winked at Gladstone and me across the table.

  ‘Come in,’ Mr Roberts said without turning round, ‘we were just discussing the Vaughans. Not the one you’re interested in, though.’

  ‘Dada!’ Mrs Roberts cried reproachfully. ‘Come and sit down, Eirlys fech. Sit here.’

  ‘Only staying a minute, Marian,’ Eirlys said, taking no notice of Mr Roberts. ‘I only wanted to tell you those dress lengths won’t be in till next week.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Mr Roberts ordered. ‘This is Gladstone Williams, bosom pal of the other Vaughan.’

  Eirlys didn’t sit down. She stood there holding her handbag in front of her, calm and relaxed. It was as if she had made up her mind long ago how she felt about things. Although she was pretty and painted and all frills, she was strong too. She put a hand with very red nails on top of Mr Roberts’ bald head. ‘Musn’t talk with food in our mouths, must we?’ she said.

  Mr Roberts shook her hand off. ‘These two rescued Ashton Vaughan from a watery grave,’ he said. ‘Did you know that, Mrs Hampson?’

  ‘I thought you were a musician,’ Mrs Roberts cried, pointing to Gladstone.

  ‘You can still be a musician and rescue people from drowning,’ Gladstone replied.

  ‘But – I thought you were a student, or something…’

  ‘Marian,’ said Mr Roberts sharply, ‘why don’t you get new glasses, woman? This is Gladstone Williams. Martha Davies’ son. Lives on Lower Hill.’ It sounded like a police record.

  ‘Lower Hill,’ Mrs Roberts gasped.

  I was very angry. ‘I live on Lower Hill, too,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Roberts said, her face a deep red, ‘but you’re with our Gwynfor. In the County School.’

  Eirlys Hampson laughed so much she had to reach for her handkerchief.

  ‘Sense of humour, haven’t we?’ Mr Roberts said.

  ‘Thank God,’ Eirlys said.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Mr Roberts, speaking only to Gladstone, ‘what about this friend of yours, then? This famous – or should I say norotrious – Ashton Vaughan?’

  ‘Notorious,’ Eirlys said softly.

  Gladstone didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m talking to you,’ Mr Roberts shouted.

  ‘Dada! Please!’

  He pointed his knife at Gladstone. ‘I’m talking to you, boy.’

  ‘You’
re not in the shop now,’ Gladstone said quietly. ‘I’m not asking for tick, and I’m not one of your kicking boys.’

  Mr Roberts sat there, mouth open, showing his teeth and food. I thought for a moment that he was going to choke, but he managed a swallow big enough for a horse, and sat bolt upright on his chair.

  ‘Take care, boy,’ he thundered. ‘You’re playing with fire.’ He glanced at Eirlys. ‘Everybody who mixes with the Vaughans plays with fire. Know that?’ Eirlys winked at us again. ‘Those two men are evil. I’m old enough to know when a man’s evil or not. And I’m warning you, boy – it’ll be a bad end for you, keeping company with a drunken reporbate like that…’

  ‘Reprobate,’ Eirlys said.

  ‘What?’ Mr Roberts was the colour of a summer thundercloud. ‘What did you say, you cheeky bitch?’

  Gladstone stood up, sending his cup spinning, ‘Language, if you please, Mr Roberts. Remember your son is at the table.’

  Mrs Roberts nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, that’s right. Gwynfor’s here.’

  This time Mr Roberts did choke.

  Gladstone bowed to her. ‘Thank you for the tea. Very nice of you to ask us…’

  ‘Must come again,’ Mrs Roberts said, a little uncertainly.

  Mr Roberts recovered. ‘You bloody halfwit!’ he roared at his wife. ‘You silly bloody woman!’

  Gladstone led the way to the door. He opened it for me and stood there giving them all a long, cool look.