by Stead Jones
Then Marius turned to us, and he was a different man. For one thing, he looked older suddenly. For another he had a smile on his face – a weary sort of smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Well now,’ he said, but gently, very gently, ‘I don’t want you holding up that wall all night. Suppose you try sitting on that couch there.’ I heard Dewi gasp. Asked to sit in Marius Vaughan’s house! ‘I’m tired of standing in front of you,’ he went on. ‘I get tired standing these days. Come on – sit down.’
We shuffled slowly to the couch, wondering what the catch would be. It was a long couch, big enough to take the four of us. Marius settled himself in an armchair opposite and lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Old wounds get going more at night, you know. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?’ His tone was very gentle still, almost kind. ‘Too young, all of you – but we weren’t much older when we went off to war. Only boys, really. I find myself thinking a great deal about the war these days. About my father, too. He was a fine man, my father. He made you want to be like him. Used to swim out there in the bay, winter and summer, when he was turned seventy….’ And on he went, talking like that about his father and the house and when he was a boy. What was he doing it for? Was he just playing with us? Was it the old game the teachers played – talking to you nice and soft before suddenly, when you weren’t expecting it, ripping you to shreds? I watched him warily, then out of the corner of my eye saw Gladstone: he was at the other end of the couch, sitting well forward, his eyes fixed on Marius, rapt, following every word. And Marius, I felt, was speaking more to him than to the rest of us.
‘In this room. He beat me. Took one of his sticks from the hall and thrashed me with it. That’s what he did,’ he went on. ‘But I admired him, worshipped him. He said to the world – this is the kind of man I am, take it or leave it. He didn’t go sucking around like that crowd in the town.’ Dewi giggled appreciatively and I felt myself relax. ‘They haven’t got a good word for the Vaughans in the town, have they? It doesn’t bother me, you know. I don’t care what they think. My father taught me that.’
‘We like the Vaughans,’ Gladstone broke in eagerly. I saw him blush after he’d said it.
Marius stroked his moustache. ‘Is that why you came?’
‘Look, Mr Vaughan, we’re sorry about the frame and everything. We shouldn’t have come…’
‘That’s why you came, though? Because you like the Vaughans?’
‘Well,’ Gladstone began, looking at us as if he expected some support. ‘Well – yes and no. I mean, Mr Vaughan, your brother never sent us…’
‘Drunk all the time,’ Dewi broke in.
Gladstone gave him a dirty look. ‘It isn’t that, Mr Vaughan. Your brother – well, he’s a sick man…’
‘You don’t have to apologise for my brother,’ Marius broke in.
‘Well, he never sent us. If you know what I mean, Mr Vaughan – I don’t think he’s capable of asking us to come here. I mean – he never talks about you…’
Marius nodded briefly. ‘Ashton and I fell out. It’s a terrible thing when families fall out. Difficult to heal the breach, what?’
‘But – why don’t you, Mr Vaughan?’ Gladstone asked, passion in his voice. ‘I mean – why don’t you…?’ He choked into silence.
Marius Vaughan didn’t reply straight away. He just sat there, looking down at his feet, and I thought that’s done it – he’ll be telling Gladstone to mind his own business, and getting back to that broken frame…. But, when he looked up, his face was drawn and somehow helpless. ‘What would you suggest I do that I haven’t already done? I’ve spoken to him – written – but there you are. Ashton’s a special case.’
We sat waiting for more, but all he did was shake his head. He was stroking his false leg all the time.
‘Mr Vaughan,’ Gladstone said, ‘if you like we can talk to him…’
‘No, no, no,’ Marius said softly. ‘I’ve got to have time to think…’
‘But he might listen to us…’
‘I’ve got to have time to think, dammit! I know it’s time he took his place here. I know. He can’t go on living in this room of his for ever. Dammit all.’ He stood up, his stick in his hand. ‘Time he came back here. I know. I know.’ He pointed with his stick to a high-backed wooden chair which stood against the far wall. ‘Know what we called that chair? The flogging box! The old man – my father – made us lie on it, and let us have it. Not Ashton, though. Me. Oh, yes, it was nearly always me. I used to take the blame for Ashton. “Which one of you has transgressed this time?” he’d ask. Liked big words, the old man…. And I’d own up. It might have been a window smashed in the conservatory, or an oar missing from the boat, or one of his best fishing rods broken, or money gone from a drawer…. Anything like that, and most of the time it was old Ashton. But I stepped forward and owned up. Ashton was weak, you see. Always weak. Besides I was the oldest.’ Marius closed his eyes so tightly that a vein stood out on his forehead. ‘“Trousers off!” the old man would say. “On the chair, boy!” And he’d be off to the hall to fetch his cane.’ A shiver passed through him. ‘Then he’d beat me – beat me till the blood came.’ He pressed finger and thumb hard against his closed eyes. ‘I never cried once. Never made a sound. Not in a hundred beatings. I used to clamp my teeth tight, and close my mind to it. The next one couldn’t be as bad, nor the next, nor the next… the old man would be breathing heavily like a warhorse above me…. The next one, the next one, the next…’ I heard the thwack of the cane and the heavy breathing and the stifled gasp clear across the room…. ‘By Christ, the old man had an arm on him – and I swear he couldn’t count. Swear it. He’d start off going to give me ten of the best and finish off with twenty.’ Marius gave a strange, high-pitched laugh. ‘Then – it was over. “Trousers up!” he’d say. The room would be going round but I’d get myself sorted out – pull my pants up and make myself tidy. Old Ashton would be there by the window – crying. Always weak, Ashton…Then the old man would put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Never a sound, my boy”. He’d say it in Welsh, always, though he hated the lingo. “You never made a sound.”’ He took his hand away from his face, but he didn’t look angry or hurt or full of hate, or anything at all. He stared across the room at the chair. ‘Always felt responsible for Ashton, somehow,’ he said. ‘Always did.’
The silence that followed seemed endless. I wanted to move my leg which had developed pins and needles, but I didn’t dare.
Then Marius spoke again, so quickly that I didn’t hear him. None of us heard him. ‘What’s the matter,’ he said sharply, ‘gone deaf, all of you? I said clear off.’
No one moved.
He turned to face us. ‘Well – go on! Hoppit! I’ll forget about the frame this time. Off you go – and don’t come round here any more. Understand?’
I don’t know who was the first to move towards the door. I came to as we were backing out, nodding like geese. Then, when we had reached the door, he spoke again. ‘Here a minute – you, Gladstone Williams.’
Without hesitation Gladstone went over to him, waving us out behind his back. Dewi had the door open and we ran down the hallway to the front door, and out on to the yard. Dewi and Maxie were off straight away into the darkness, but I stayed by the window and watched. Marius was saying something. Gladstone was nodding and smiling. Then Gladstone did one of those things that always made me feel embarrassed for him – he bowed to Marius, then tried to do a soldier’s about turn, but made a mess of it, then marched stiff and straight out of the room. Oh, God, I said to myself, and crouched by the window to wait for him. But he too, once he was outside, must have felt the urge to get away fast. He went bounding past me, never even noticed I was there.
That left me on my own to see the white-haired man suddenly shake himself and spring into action. Three times, before I went floundering after the others, I saw him raise his stick high in the air and bring it down, vicious and hard, on the back of the chair in front of him. He wouldn’t stop
at three, I told myself as I ran: only his arm hanging limp and useless at his side would stop him.
XIII
‘I’ll go and wet my feet, kid,’ Ashton said as he rolled his trousers up to his bony knees. ‘By God, I’m dry all over. Drier than the Sahara.’
It was a hot day. In fact, the four days that Ashton had been without a drink had all been hot and thirsty. We watched him as he made his way down to the sea, stepping gingerly on the pebbles, still wearing his jacket and his hat.
‘Pathetic, isn’t he?’ Gladstone remarked. ‘Poor old soak. I wonder how long he’ll last.’
‘If I was him I’d be off to the Harp or somewhere,’ Dewi said. ‘He looks worse without having a drink…’
‘He’s got the shakes all right,’ Gladstone agreed. His attitude towards Ashton had changed since our visit to the Point. He criticised him now as freely as the rest of us, although he insisted that we had to be kind and help him all we could. ‘You never know,’ he said, ‘if we can get him to go back it might sort him out…’
‘Have you had a word with him?’ I asked.
‘A lot of words. Lew. It’s going to be a slow job.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I was telling Marius yesterday – you can’t rush him. He’s made up his mind nobody wants him, that’s all.’
Gladstone had gone up to the Point every day since our visit. He never told us why Marius wanted to see him, but it wasn’t too difficult to guess. Our job, Gladstone said, was to persuade Ashton that it was time he went home. ‘Get the poor old thing back where he belongs. Shouldn’t be living where he is, anyway. He’s a Vaughan. Wasn’t brought up like that…’
We had nothing from Gladstone now except the Vaughans. They had become the most important people alive; the world revolved around them. It was the Vaughans against the town, and the town was wrong, had been wrong all the time. What if we had been caught up on the Hill, then? he asked. Where would we have finished up? In the police station, that’s where, with Super Edwards flapping a charge sheet long as your arm in our faces…. Oh, no, Marius had proved himself a gentleman with us. Although we had burst in on him like that, broken his frame and all, he had let us go. And not only that: he had been nice to us as well, even told us about himself, spoken to us as if we were somebody…. The town was wrong, that’s all there was to it. All the town was interested in was knocking people down. Set them up – knock them down. One of their habits was destroying. Nobody had to be different, that was the trouble. They couldn’t bear that. And the Vaughans – well, they were different, weren’t they? And not just different, either – nobler, somehow. Why, there was even something noble about Ashton, poor old hopeless Ashton. They had style, both of them…. And whatever they did, whether it was wrong or what, they looked the town and the world squarely in the face. They didn’t say one thing and do another. If they cheated, they did so openly, and without quoting texts at you. They were straight…. Mind you, there was more to Marius than old Ashton. You had to admit that. Wasn’t it strange how two brothers could be so different, but then little Walter there was different from Dora, really, wasn’t he? We’d seen them both now, hadn’t we? Even seen Marius close to. And they had one thing in common – clear as daylight, that was. They were both scarred men. Scarred by Jupiter dying, living in the shadow of his death…. It was more obvious in Ashton, perhaps, but they were both old before their time, weren’t they? Anybody could see that – anybody, that is, who wanted to see…. They were two broken men….
The rest of us said very little when he went off like this about the Vaughans. I thought there was a lot in what he said, but I also thought he’d been carried away, too. Obsession came easily to Gladstone: it was because of this that I felt embarrassed for him now and then.
‘When Ashton comes back,’ he was saying earnestly, ‘you three say you’re going for a swim, and take the children with you. You know, it would be nice if they got together. I’ll have a real talk with him…’
Maxie sat up, pointing, ‘By God,’ he cried, ‘look at them headlamps…’
A girl visitor was running down to the sea, her breasts bobbing inside her bathing costume.
‘Steady on,’ Dewi said, ‘you’ll be off to the bushes to shake hands with it, the way you’re looking…’
‘The children!’ Gladstone warned.
The girl shrieked as she ran into the sea. ‘She’s a virgin,’ Dewi remarked positively.
Maxie was up on his knees, alert and interested. ‘How d’you know, then? How d’you tell?’
Dewi had Maxie on a hook, and we were smiling the three of us. ‘Always scream,’ he said. ‘Never hear that before? Soon’s they’re in cold water – always scream…’
I was glad of a break like that from the Vaughans, but in a way I was sorry for Gladstone, too: start being serious about something and you find yourself talking to a world of comics.
It was after tea that Dewi came running with the news. ‘He’s going back!’ he said. ‘Gladstone says round to his house by six. Ashton’s decided to go back!’
For a moment I thought it was another of Dewi’s jokes, but he was dead serious. I hadn’t seen him look so impressed since the night the man did the high-wire act when the circus came to Porthmawr. ‘It’s a fact, Lew,’ he went on. ‘You got to hand it to old Gladstone. Wants us at his house six o’clock – washed, he said. We’re taking Ashton up there…’
‘All he said was he wouldn’t go without us,’ Gladstone said. ‘He wants us with him because he feels a bit strange about it, like….’
Tea at Gladstone’s house that day had got mixed up with going to bed, so it was decided that the children should take their tea up with them. ‘All right, play nurses with Walter if you like,’ he cried, ‘so long as you don’t go too far.’
Martha had been called out on important business to do with a bet on a horse, Gladstone explained, so we gave him a hand with the children. But even so it took half an hour, which included Hamlet’s Mistake, or the Murder in Harlech Castle, before they were up the stairs to stay. ‘Right,’ he said, looking at the jam on his hands, ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’ And he was, wearing a pair of white flannels that were a few inches short in the leg, and a blue shirt. On his head he put his boater which, although I felt it wasn’t quite right, made the occasion one of the highest importance. ‘We’ll have to hurry,’ he said. ‘We’ve kept the poor man waiting long enough.’
By the time we reached the door below Ashton’s room even I had a sense of mission. Gladstone went up to see if he was ready while the three of us stayed down in the street, pulling faces at old Maggie Thomas who was peering out at us through the windows of the house next door.
Gladstone came down in a hurry, and alone. ‘He’s packed everything,’ he said, ‘but he isn’t there.’
The old woman was screaming something at us. Maxie pressed his nose flat against the glass, which made her jump back into the shadows of her room but not before we heard the words that echoed our own thoughts. ‘Try the Fishers. Try the Fishers.’
Gladstone, without a word, ran up the stairs to Ashton’s room. When he came down he was carrying Ashton’s big suitcase and another bundle. We took them from him and followed as he set off rapidly towards the Fishers. It was turned seven, and that meant the pubs had been open for two hours.
We halted outside the Fishers. Gladstone went to the foot of the steps and stood there, fingering the brim of his boater. It was a big thing to enter a pub in Porthmawr in broad daylight.
‘Try the back,’ he announced suddenly. ‘Better for getting him out, anyway.’
We followed him down a narrow alleyway to the yard of the Fishers. Most of the local customers used this entrance to the pub, and the door through which Gladstone, his confidence renewed, marched head held high was labelled ‘Public Bar’. It was very quiet for a moment after the door had closed behind Gladstone, then there was a great, shattering roar of laughter. The three of us stood there in the beer-and-urine-smelling yard and didn’t look at each ot
her and didn’t say anything.
Gladstone wasn’t in the bar more than a minute, but it seemed longer. When he came out there were two red flushes on his cheeks. ‘Been and gone,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Had a bottle in his pocket, too.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Dewi said as he picked up the suitcase, we’ll have to go round them all.’
We went out to the sunlit street and began our tour of Porthmawr’s pubs. There were eleven of them, but we didn’t have to search them all. The windows of the Harp were open against the heat of evening, and through them we saw Ashton, half sprawled across a table. Gladstone’s mother was there, too, already drunk as a monkey and telling everybody to be quiet because she was going to sing.
Gladstone mopped his forehead. ‘There he is,’ he said. He didn’t say anything about his mother.
‘I’ve got to sing, damn you all,’ she was screaming. ‘What is Wales without a song? The land of song. Nothing lovely as a song.’ She was trying to climb up on a table and showing all her legs.
‘I’ll get the police for sure, Martha Davies,’ Joe Pritchard, who kept the Harp, was shouting. ‘There’s no licence for singing…’
‘Joe Pritchard, this the land of song, or isn’t it?’ She put her hand on Ashton’s shoulder. ‘My friend here – got a special request – “Aberystwyth”. Nothing wrong in that, is there? My gentleman friend…’
‘Back a bit,’ Gladstone said. ‘Come on.’ He drew us away from the window. Ashton, we could see, was nodding his head and smiling foolishly. ‘Listen – she’s well away, Martha. Must have met Ashton. Going to be sick as a dog before the night’s out – but never mind that now. The fact is it makes it difficult for me – her being there, like. If I go in, old Pritchard will think I’ve come for her.’ He turned to me, appealing, ‘Lew – will you go?’
