by Stead Jones
‘Now then,’ he said as he crouched down to them. ‘Now then, what’s this?’
‘Had nightmares,’ Dora sobbed.
‘Not all of you?’ He was touching them and kissing them and smoothing back their hair. ‘Not at the same time?’
‘It was terrible,’ Dora said.
Gladstone felt Walter’s bottom. ‘Not wet the bed, have you?’
‘Never,’ Walter said firmly.
‘Tell me, then. What did you have nightmares about?’
‘Chips,’ Walter said.
‘And cockroaches,’ Mair added.
‘That’s a mixture, for sure.’ Gladstone smiled, and Walter and Mair smiled with him. ‘Recovered now?’ They nodded. ‘Then off to Lew by the fire, while I talk to Dora…’
They came running to me and occupied my knees. They smelled of old feather bed and sleep, and were nice and soft and warm.
‘Only me had the real nightmare,’ Dora sobbed.
‘Grammar,’ Gladstone cried.
‘Only me have the real nightmare, then,’ she said.
‘Oh, God,’ he said, picking her up, ‘come over here by the fire and tell me…’
Dora buried her face in his shoulder. ‘I’m going to have a baby,’ she cried. ‘That’s what I was dreaming about – having a baby.’
Gladstone sat down with her and held her close. ‘Some day you will – not now.’
‘It was a baby with blue eyes, and it came out of my belly. Out of here…’
Mair giggled foolishly on my knee.
‘Where did all this information come from?’ Gladstone asked sternly. ‘Who’s been talking? That one next door?’
Dora pressed her face deeper against his chest, but there was a nod too. ‘Said I had a big belly, and that was because there was a baby in there – and it would come out, and there would be blood and everything…’
Gladstone smiled and kissed her ear. ‘Such ignorance,’ he said softly. ‘Such crazy old talk…’
Dora’s face emerged, puffed and tear-stained. ‘Not true, then?’
‘Not true,’ he agreed. ‘A baby comes from heaven…’
‘From my belly, she said.’
‘From heaven, and there’s no blood. Pink and shiny and hungry, that’s how it comes. All ready for you to love.’
‘From my belly, though,’ Dora protested.
‘Well – it’s a nice belly…’
Dora’s head came up. Her chin began to tremble. ‘It’s true, then? What she said is true?’
Gladstone gave an elaborate sigh. ‘Answer me a question, that’s all. How old are you?’
‘Eight,’ Dora said.
‘Then it can’t happen for another ten years – at least. Answer me another – are you married?’
She giggled. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘Can’t have a baby without a husband,’ Gladstone said quickly. ‘Impossible. Ask anybody…’
‘Annie next door did. Mam said she did…’
Gladstone did his sigh again. ‘Well – he was a kind of a husband she had. Not a proper one. Believe me, or believe me not – no husband, no baby. And in any case you’re not old enough yet…’
‘But when I’m old enough – from my belly? Not from my belly.’ She shook her head. ‘No – not from there, eh?’
‘Where d’you suggest then? From your arm? Your head? Your big toe?’
‘Silly,’ she said.
‘Well – it’s got to come from somewhere, poor pink and hungry thing. Never thought of that, did you?’
She shook her head slowly, but the idea struck her as being right. She smiled. ‘From my belly,’ she said.
‘When you’re married, too,’ Gladstone went on. ‘Don’t forget that.’
Dora came off his knee. ‘It’s very disappointing,’ she said, ‘but if you say so, then it must be right.’ Another thought occurred to her: ‘How did it get in my belly, then?’
‘One thing at a time,’ Gladstone said smoothly. ‘That’s the secret of a long and happy life. Best you understand what I’ve told you before we go on to lesson two. Not going to cry any more, are you?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Dora said. ‘Anyway – it’s very disappointing.’
‘I know,’ Gladstone said, ‘I know.’ He wasn’t acting it up because I was there. ‘The trouble is it gets more disappointing as you go on…’
‘Like ice cream?’
‘And toffee apples.’
Dora giggled. ‘What’s that on your face, then?’ She touched the bruise very gently.
The price of one question too many,’ he replied, looking at me.
We had Oliver Williams-Hughes-Jones by Charles Dickens after that – the revised version, Gladstone said. He hurried it a bit, though, because it was late, and didn’t make much of Fagin Price in case the children had another nightmare. No sooner had he got them back up the stairs than Dewi and Maxie burst in.
‘This time of night,’ Gladstone said. ‘Who threw you out and from where?’
‘Not tonight,’ Dewi said. ‘Three times last week, though. From the Palace.’
‘Just thought we’d call round,’ Maxie said, ‘as we hadn’t been…’
‘What happened to your face?’ Dewi asked.
Gladstone said something about falling out of bed, and I felt special because he wasn’t telling them a truth. I realised then, too, that I wasn’t the only one who had decided on a holiday from the Vaughans.
‘Oh,’ Dewi said, ‘well – thought we’d come as we hadn’t seen you for a bit, like.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Gladstone said, ‘just get the Woodbines out.’ So we had the fags going, and Gladstone made some tea, and Dewi swore like the Royal Welch, and Maxie told us how the pictures last week needed something to brighten them up – preferably a human mole. It was an occasion and a party all of a sudden.
The clock was striking eleven when Martha came in like someone in a drama, her face white, tears like rivers on her powdered cheeks, lipstick smeared.
‘Gladstone, Gladstone,’ she cried. ‘Oh, my God, my God.’ She threw herself down on the sofa.
Martha often came in like that, often threw herself on the sofa and moaned away and showed all her legs. It was ‘moods’ Gladstone always said – women over forty had moods all the time, and it was best to leave them alone. We carried on with our game of Pontoon for matches, and smiled and winked at one another. It could have been ‘moods’, it could have been gin – no matter which where Martha was concerned. None of us, not even Gladstone, looked on her like we did other women. Martha was a special case, a comic and a dead loss. We liked her, but we knew she was hopeless, so we let her be.
‘Oh, God, God, God,’ she cried. ‘Oh poor little Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen…. Gladstone, Gladstone!’
‘Pay pontoons only,’ said Gladstone.
‘Speak to me, damn you,’ Martha cried.
‘And five-card tricks,’ said Gladstone.
Martha sat up on the sofa and clasped her ears tight and began to scream. Gladstone was over to her at once, his hand on her mouth.
‘Quiet, woman,’ he said, ‘you’ll wake the children.’
Martha stopped screaming immediately. ‘Let them hear,’ she said sulkily. ‘Everybody should hear…’
‘Have yourself a cup of tea and calm down,’ Gladstone told her. ‘Wipe your face, too. It’s a proper mess.’
He came back and crouched with us at the hearth. ‘All got cards, then?’
‘Your face would be a mess too if you’d heard what I’ve heard,’ Martha said. ‘Murder in Porthmawr…’
Gladstone put his cards down. ‘Murder? Tonight?’
Martha had a mirror up in front of her face now. ‘Don’t ask me. Don’t ask me because I won’t tell you. I’ve been insulted enough. Coming home upset like I did, and getting the cold shoulder. Just don’t ask me, that’s all. I’m not telling anything.’
‘I heard about it,’ Dewi put in. ‘Know all about it, as a matter of fact…’
‘You never do, then. How long’ve you been here? Been here an hour or more, haven’t you?’
‘At the pictures it was,’ Dewi said. ‘James Cagney shot the other one – bang, bang, like that. Everybody’s heard…’
‘Which one?’ Gladstone’s question was a whipcrack across the room.
Martha lowered the mirror. ‘I’m not telling you any more…’ her voice trailed away, and she began to sob again. ‘Ashton,’ she said, ‘brother killing brother. Ashton killed his brother dead!’
We were on our feet, Gladstone running to the door. I had followed him without thinking, was running now at his side down Lower Hill. Behind us Dewi and Maxie followed, Dewi saying murder, murder, murder, over and over again. There were no lights anywhere. Porthmawr was a dead town, murdered, dead.
At the edge of the Square, Dewi cried out in pain and fell to his knees. We all stopped and crowded around him.
‘Dewi’s shot!’ Maxie cried. ‘Bullet came from over there!’
‘Bullet my ass,’ Dewi groaned, ‘got a stitch, that’s all!’
‘Oh – come on,’ Gladstone said sharply, and turned away.
‘Where to?’ Maxie asked. ‘Where we going?’
I heard Gladstone gasp in the darkness. He came back to us. ‘Don’t know,’ he said in a voice so changed that I thought it was one of the others who had spoken. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Police station, that’s where,’ Dewi said as he struggled to his feet. ‘Where else would we go?’
‘That’s right,’ Gladstone said, and set off across the Square in the direction of Market Street. Maxie and I followed with Dewi, who was limping badly and cursing.
The light outside the police station must have been the only one in Porthmawr that night, and there was a small crowd, all caps and shawls, standing under it, talking softly. At the top of the police station steps stood Constable Matthews, thumbs hooked in top pockets, stiff with importance.
Gladstone pushed his way to the front. ‘Is it true, then?’ he was saying. ‘Is it true?’
Ned Evans turned with beer on his breath and said, ‘Hell aye, boy. Shot him dead, see.’ Ned was a South Walian and spoke very quickly. ‘Housekeeper comes home, see – and there’s Ashton sitting in a chair, the gun on his knees, and the other one on the floor…. Bloody pantomime for you, that is…’
‘Shouldn’t talk like that,’ Gladstone said.
Ned Evans bunched up a big collier’s fist. ‘Not telling me the way to talk, are you, boy?’
‘You haven’t the slightest idea what’s behind it,’ Gladstone said, sticking his ground.
Ned Evans laughed. ‘By God, now – is that right?’ He turned to the crowd. ‘Hey lads, here’s Martha’s boy – knows all about the motive and all, see.’
‘Go and sober your mam up,’ someone said to Gladstone.
‘Oh – be careful now. He’s a great friend of the Vaughans, that one…’ there was a lot of laughter… ‘oh, hell, aye – a very great friend.’
Constable Matthews came down the steps, stiff-legged, but quick. ‘What’s going on, then? All this laughing.’
‘Constable,’ a beery voice broke out, ‘someone here that knows all about it. Knows the motive, see.’
There was more laughter.
‘Any more of this,’ said Constable Matthews, ‘and I’ll clear the lot of you…. The Super…’
‘Missing a bit of evidence, you are,’ someone said.
‘Come on,’ I whispered. ‘Gladstone, come on.’
I pulled at his arm. He held firm for a while, then gradually backed away with me.
‘He’s escaping,’ a voice cried. The laughter rippled across the crowd.
‘Now then,’ Constable Matthews was saying, ‘warned you, haven’t I? Clear the lot of you, that’s what I’ll do.’
I pulled Gladstone back. ‘Never mind them,’ I said. ‘Come on home.’ He allowed me to do it, too, but once away from the crowd he shook himself clear of me and walked off into the darkness. I saw his face briefly before he vanished: it was all broken up, like old china.
Meira and Owen were on the doorstep, waiting for me.
‘No right to be out with murders going on,’ Meira said, and I felt a terrible contempt for her. What did she know about it, anyway? And there was Owen launching straight into his version, as if he’d been there, as if he understood…. But I stayed up with them a long time just the same, and listened to it all…. Marius on the floor, half his face blown off by the shotgun; Ashton sleeping in the chair when the police burst in; a mirror shattered on the wall….
‘Bad luck, breaking mirrors,’ Meira said. ‘Where was that blondie, then? Eirlys Hampson. Was she there?’
I would have stamped off to bed there and then, only I was afraid that the Vaughans would be there, waiting for me as soon as I closed my eyes.
XVI
Porthmawr next day came to a dead stop with the wonder of it. Wherever you looked people stood talking and tut-tutting and glancing up at the sky and doing the shiver that meant someone was walking over their graves. Voices were pitched at low, faces had a funeral set; and there was a tension in the air that was full of what had happened, and what would happen, and fear.
But not for Polly.
She had sent me out for the papers, had examined each report carefully through her magnifying glass, like a lawyer studying a brief. She was Portia, suddenly, precise and careful of speech, and brimming with jurisprudence.
‘Hang him, will they?’ I asked.
‘See that,’ she replied, tapping the Mail, ‘Porthmawr spelt wrong, such ignorance. Never make a mistake with Addis Ababa, do they?’
‘Hang him, though?’
She placed the glass down carefully and stood, then smoothed down her black dress, then stroked her high, white forehead with the tips of thumb and forefinger. ‘We know the procedure, don’t we?’ she said. ‘Monday morning, Magistrates’ Court. That’s the official appearance for the remand. Then they’ll take him away until they have the case ready. Prison, of course. Now – there should be a coroner’s inquest, I think.’ She looked at the Family Lawyer next to the Bible on the sideboard. ‘I’ll have to look that up….’
‘The court will be here – in Porthmawr?’
‘Scene of the crime, cariad,’ she said, ‘won’t it be marvellous?’
Oh, poor old boozy Ashton Vaughan, I thought.
‘We know what that verdict will be, of course. Then will come the Assizes. Judge and jury. The black cap.’ She mimed it for me. ‘The judge passing the sentence. “You shall be taken to the place whence you came…”’
Be quiet, be quiet, I wanted to say, this isn’t one of the great murderers, for God’s sake. Be quiet.
But Polly’s prophecies never materialised. Fate, as Owen said, stepped in. Ashton never got as far as the Assizes, never as far as the Magistrates’. He appeared in court, though, on that Monday morning, and the charge was read out. Super Edwards kept the public out, but of course everyone knew what had gone on.
‘How do you plead…?’
I was standing outside the police station with Dewi at the time.
‘Guilty, that’s what he’ll say,’ Dewi said. ‘I plead guilty but insane….’
‘Not that,’ I protested, ‘can’t say that.’
‘Course he can,’ Dewi insisted. ‘His brain’s pickled in alcohol…’
‘But he can’t say that.’
‘All his nerves have rotted away,’ Dewi went on. ‘That’s the last stage – when it pickles the nerves. Then you’re insane.’
Dewi was wrong, too. Ashton Vaughan had appeared before the magistrates that morning, and had been asked the question.
‘Got to go to the lavatory,’ he’d replied.
The question was asked again, and Ashton had told them his bowels were giving him hell. Then Super Edwards had said, ‘Mr Vaughan, we have to know how you plead – guilty or not guilty?’ And Ashton, loud and clear, had answered, ‘Guilty, you silly bugger. No
lawyers by request.’
That was the story we heard that day, and everyone said it had come from Super Edwards himself. Ashton had been remanded in custody – we all had procedure and phraseology right to a T – and he’d been taken, not to a cell to await his escort, but to the lavatory. Ten minutes later they broke the door down when he didn’t answer, and they found him sitting there, dead.
‘Poison!’ Porthmawr cried hopefully, and they were wrong again. Ashton Vaughan had had a heart attack.
Monday was a day to remember. We were surfing along on the waves of tragedy, not sorrowing perhaps, but living at a new pitch of excitement.
‘By God, it’s like the pictures,’ Dewi said.
‘Like Capel Mawr drama, only better,’ Maxie put in.
We walked the town all day, hoping something else would happen. None of us mentioned Gladstone. None of us suggested that we go and see him, either.
On Tuesday the town was still tight-lipped and tragic. Two brothers dead, they whispered, one by his own brother’s hand, the other by the hand of fate. The ravens of the hunting Vaughans had come home to roost… that’s the kind of thing they were saying. In a prayer meeting at Capel Mawr that day, the Rev A. H. Jones added his voice: ‘The mills of God grind slowly,’ he said, ‘but they grind exceeding small.’ It was a quotation that caught on, was repeated by all the Bible-punchers in town, eyes half-closed and all.
By Wednesday, however, the wave of tragedy had hit shore. The jokers were out. ‘He died with his pants down,’ was a favourite. ‘The killer never pulled the chain,’ was another. Dewi had them all off pat. ‘Know why Ashton bumped off Marius, then? Wouldn’t let him have any toilet paper, get it?’
I thought of Gladstone and Eirlys Hampson. ‘Shouldn’t say things like that,’ I said.
‘Come to Jesus,’ Dewi jeered, so we had a fight.
‘Heard this one,’ Meira said at dinnertime. ‘Old Evans Cymric Dairy – know how dry he is, don’t you – said it would never have happened, the shooting I mean, if Ashton had taken his working medicine regular. “Should have had his Andrews, missus fech, like the rest of us,” he says.’
‘Not right,’ I said.
