‘You know where the lavatory is,’ says Mam. ‘Make sure you clean up properly afterwards.’
‘That’s a bit hard, Magda,’ says Nanw Lipstick. ‘Shall I come with you, Gwenni?’
Mam’s face turns pink and she presses her lips tight together. ‘Leave her, Nanw,’ she says.
I shake my head at Alwenna’s mam and run towards the door. I push it shut behind me and stand to listen for a moment to make sure no one is coming. But there’s no point because when I reach the kitchen Mrs Thomas next door is already there.
‘Quick, Gwenni,’ she says. ‘Help me get these cakes on the plates. There’s your mam’s big tin. Put her cakes on these three plates.’ She pushes the plates towards me. ‘I’ll take in these I’ve done while you’re doing that.’ She balances the plate holding her special chocolate cake in the crook of her arm and takes another full plate in each hand and goes out through the kitchen door. The draught from her passing swings the door shut behind her and there on the back of it, hanging on a hook with two striped tea towels, is the dead fox. See how its glassy eyes stare straight at me. They beseech me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say to the fox. ‘I’ll save you.’ But how can I rescue it without touching its dead fur or its dead face?
I look along the table with all its cakes and tins and the paraphernalia from the party preparation. I tip out all the cakes from Mam’s big tin and pick up a serving spoon from the table and push the dead fox off the hook with the spoon so that it drops in a slithery coil into the tin.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say to the fox as I flatten it into the tin with the spoon. And then I say it in English as well in case Mrs Llywelyn Pugh never speaks Welsh to the poor little thing. I don’t look at its eyes as I struggle to put the lid on and then I push the tin under the table.
When Mrs Thomas next door comes back, I’m arranging Mam’s cakes in a pyramid on each plate. The hundreds and thousands make shapes on the icing, eyes to watch me, mouths to tell tales.
22
Mrs Evans has put my school mackintosh over the back of a chair in front of the fire. She says I can’t put on a wet coat to walk back home again. She’s put my shoes by the fire too, and lent me her slippers. They’re green with a red pom-pom each, and too big; I can wiggle my toes around in the shape of her feet in them.
Mrs Evans sits by the fire opposite my coat with her mending in her lap, drinking a cup of tea with no milk in it and watching the fire and occasionally turning her head to watch me play snakes and ladders at the table with Angharad and Catrin. The fire flares and its light licks up and down the walls. There’s a paler square on the cream paint where the photograph of Ifan Evans and his dead fox used to hang under the picture of the babies.
The rain drums on the tin roof of the lavatory outside the back door and plays a higher note on the tin bath hanging on the wall next to the kitchen window. It’s raining too hard to take the girls out to play. Even Mot has been allowed indoors and lies on the rag rug at Mrs Evans’s feet. Now and then he lifts his head and looks around the room, then sighs and lets his head droop to his paws again. Sometimes he opens one eye to watch us play snakes and ladders.
‘It’s my turn, not yours.’ Angharad snatches the eggcup with the dice in it from Catrin and throws a five onto the board. ‘Look, Gwenni, I can go up a ladder now,’ she says. ‘I’m winning.’
Catrin throws the dice and moves her counter onto a snake’s flickering tongue. ‘The snakes keep swallowing me,’ she says. ‘Why do they do that, Gwenni?’
‘You’re just unlucky today,’ I say. The snakes keep swallowing me, too. I take my turn and throw the dice and am swallowed by a snake.
‘Snakes are bad,’ says Catrin. ‘There’s a bad snake in the Bible that makes Eve eat an apple when she shouldn’t have done it. Did you know that, Gwenni?’
Angharad throws the dice again and wins the game. ‘I’ve won. I’ve won,’ she sings. ‘You’re only talking about old snakes in the Bible because you’re not winning.’
‘I remember the story,’ I say to Catrin. ‘It’s after the world is made and Adam and Eve are the first people in it.’
‘Eating the apple made bad things happen,’ says Catrin. ‘Not because the apple had maggots or anything, Gwenni. It was because Eve had been told not to eat it and she did anyway.’
Could Adam and Eve hear the Earth’s hum here on the ground before Eve ate the apple?
Catrin turns towards her mother. ‘Isn’t that right, Mami?’
Mrs Evans stares into the fire and doesn’t reply. Her hand rubs her lips over and over but the swelling and the marks Price the Dentist left behind are all gone.
‘You’re always doing things you’re not supposed to,’ says Angharad.
‘I’m not,’ says Catrin. ‘I don’t, do I, Mami?’ Her lips tremble and her eyes brim with tears. I squeeze her hand.
‘We all do things we’re not supposed to sometimes,’ says Mrs Evans. What does Mrs Evans do that she’s not supposed to do?
‘I never do,’ says Angharad. ‘Do you, Gwenni?’
I think of the dead fox that I took from the vestry door on Saturday. Mrs Llywelyn Pugh had hysterics when she couldn’t find it. Mrs Jones the Butcher said: It must have been one of the Bermo boys who slipped in and took it when no one was looking. Alwenna looked hard at me and then she said: Everyone knows there are bad boys in Bermo; I know some at school. Mrs Llywelyn Pugh was so upset about her dead fox she had to be helped out to Mr Pugh’s car to go home. And Mrs Sergeant Jones said: That poor woman; as if she hadn’t had enough troubles in her life.
‘Sometimes,’ I say.
‘Oh, Gwenni,’ says Catrin. ‘Mami, Gwenni says she does bad things sometimes.’ She takes hold of my hand and strokes it. ‘They’re not very bad, are they, Gwenni?’
I shrug and Angharad dances about chanting, ‘Naughty Gwenni. Bad Gwenni. Nearly-as-bad-as-Catrin Gwenni.’
Mrs Evans puts down her mending in the basket by her chair and says, ‘That’s enough, Angharad. It’s time you and Catrin put your game away and got washed and changed ready for bed. You can have your supper in your nightclothes. Let Gwenni drink her tea in peace before she goes home.’
‘Don’t go,’ says Catrin as she slips down from her chair. ‘Mami, why can’t Gwenni live with us?’
‘Because she lives with her own family,’ says Mrs Evans. ‘With her father and mother and sister.’
‘But her mother doesn’t like her as much as I do,’ says Catrin.
‘That’s a really bad thing to say,’ says Angharad. ‘See? You’re a bad girl. That’s nearly as bad as hitting Tada’s black dog with the poker. And killing it.’
‘That’s enough, Angharad,’ says Mrs Evans.
‘Well, it never came back again, did it?’ says Angharad. ‘Or Tada.’
Catrin’s hand flutters in mine. I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her to my side. It’s like hugging the breeze, as if Catrin’s body is all spirit.
Mrs Evans turns her back on Angharad and to Catrin she says, ‘Gwenni’s family loves her. Now let go of Gwenni and go upstairs with Angharad. There’s warm water on the washstand. I put some in from the kettle when I made the tea so it’ll be just right for washing your hands and faces now. And don’t forget behind your ears.’
Angharad grabs Catrin’s hand and hauls her towards the door to the stairs. ‘You don’t care about Tada,’ she says to her mother.
Mrs Evans stays still as the children’s feet clatter and clomp on the stairs all the way to their bedroom. Then she gets up from her chair by the fire and begins to put the snakes and ladders game away in its box. I put the dice and the counters in their own little box and put it with the board.
‘How are you getting on with your family tree, Gwenni?’ she says.
‘I’ve put in all the names Nain told me,’ I say, ‘and Tada says he can fill in some of the gaps. But I’ve got to find the dates from the cemetery.’
‘The cemetery’s a sad place, Gwenni,’ Mrs E
vans says. She sits in a chair by the table. ‘But I’m sure you’ll be respectful when you’re there.’
Has someone told her that I was sick over one of the tombs? Has someone told her why?
‘I like the cemetery,’ I say. ‘There are lots of stories written there.’
‘Stories?’ says Mrs Evans.
‘About the lives of the people buried there.’
‘Their stories live on in the minds of those who’ve buried them there, Gwenni.’
‘But their stories are written on their gravestones for other people to know about them,’ I say.
Mrs Evans sips her tea and I drink some of mine. Not from the same cups as when I was here with Tada, not from the best cups. My coat has stopped steaming in front of the fire. A cupboard door bangs shut above us and the sounds of scuffles and splashes echo through the boards.
‘Nain says that even though everyone knows everyone’s secret stories, no one talks about them,’ I say. ‘So, I have to read about them on their gravestones.’
‘I don’t think you’ll find their secrets on their gravestones,’ says Mrs Evans.
‘But they’re secrets until you know them. Aren’t they? Mam won’t let us talk about any of the dead people in our family.’
Mrs Evans doesn’t say anything. She puts her cup down on its saucer.
‘Mam’s family is all dead, except for Aunty Siân,’ I say. ‘And I can’t find out anything about them because we can’t talk about them and I don’t know where they’re buried. They’re not in our cemetery. So I can’t find their secret stories.’
Mrs Evans runs her middle finger round and round the rim of her cup. ‘Sometimes secret stories are best left alone, Gwenni,’ she says.
‘But it would be useful to know things about people so you don’t upset other people,’ I say. ‘It would be useful to know things about live people, not just dead people. Mam says I upset people by saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. I always upset her. But how do you know what’s right or wrong to say if you don’t know people’s stories?’
‘You’re a kind girl, Gwenni,’ says Mrs Evans. She sits up straight in her chair and looks at my face. ‘And thoughtful. But what’s happened to make you so worried about this? Is it something you think you’ve done to upset your mother?’
‘In the Singing Festival,’ I say, ‘someone took Mrs Llywelyn Pugh’s dead fox, her fox-fur, and she was crying and crying.’ Is not saying I took it as bad as lying? I cross my fingers under the overhang of the tablecloth just in case. ‘Mrs Sergeant Jones said: That poor woman. As if something terrible had once happened to her. Maybe the person who took the dead fox didn’t know that Mrs Llywelyn Pugh would be so upset and if that person had known her story she – or he – wouldn’t have taken the fox.’
‘Why on earth would anyone want Mrs Llywelyn Pugh’s old fox-fur?’ says Mrs Evans.
‘Maybe she – or he – thought it needed to be buried for its spirit to go to Heaven . . . or something,’ I say. ‘Maybe the person who took it would give it back if she knew Mrs Llywelyn Pugh’s secret story. Maybe that would be more important than saving the fox’s spirit. Maybe.’
‘Oh, Gwenni,’ says Mrs Evans. She fetches the teapot from the range and pours herself more tea. It’s thick and black as treacle now. I drink the rest of mine. It’s gone cold but at least the milk isn’t off today. ‘I can tell you about Mrs Llywelyn Pugh. It’s not a secret. My family lived near hers in Cricieth; she’s always taken an interest in Angharad and Catrin because of that. Her life has been sad; I expect that’s what Mrs Jones was talking about. Her father and her husband were killed in the Great War; like so many. She had two little boys, and when they grew up they fought in the next war and they were both killed. One of them is buried in the same cemetery as your Uncle Idwal in Athens, right beside Mrs Nellie Davies’s husband. As your Nain says, everyone knows but no one talks about it. It’s too painful.’
‘But Mr Pugh is her husband,’ I say.
‘Mr Pugh is her second husband,’ says Mrs Evans. ‘They were married after the last war. He takes great care of her, but she’s often very sad, Gwenni.’
‘She said her father shot her fox for her,’ I say.
‘It’s possible that’s why she was upset, then,’ says Mrs Evans. ‘The family lost their home after her father was killed so it’s possible that the fox-fur was all she had left to remind her of her girlhood; the time before all the terrible things happened to her.’
Poor, poor Mrs Llywelyn Pugh. I look at my hands below the tablecloth and I uncross my fingers. If I save the fox’s soul, Mrs Llywelyn Pugh will have lost the only thing that reminds her of a time when she was happy.
‘Gwenni,’ says Mrs Evans. The noises above us move towards the stairs. ‘Does knowing any of that help?’
Angharad and Catrin are racing each other down the stairs, screeching and laughing, their sadness forgotten for now.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mrs Evans.’ At last, I know what to do.
23
When I open our living room door heavy smoke pours out into the hallway. It surges up the stairs and it smells like when Mam singes the feathers off the goose at Christmas, only a million times worse and it gives me that old family stomach straight away. John Morris races out after the smoke with his belly low on the floor. Fumes catch in my throat and I begin to cough, and my eyes sting and water.
In the living room Mam is on her knees in front of the fireplace poking viciously at something on the fire. The flames leap out of the grate and almost catch her yellow curls as if they’re playing games with her. But Mam just thrashes and thrashes the thing on the fire with the poker.
‘Mam,’ I say, almost choking on the words. ‘What are you doing? Is Tada home?’
The fire looks as if it might set the whole house alight. It hisses and fizzles and sparks fly out from it with the smoke. I stamp on one of them. ‘Are you trying to put it out?’ I say. ‘Shall I get Aunty Lol?’ I take my handkerchief from my pocket and hold it over my nose and mouth. I don’t like fire.
Mam turns to me and in the heat her face is melting like a candle. Sweat and ash and face powder run in rivulets down her forehead and cheeks and her lipstick bleeds down each side of her mouth.
‘What do you think I’m doing, you silly girl.’ She shrieks at me and I have trouble understanding what she’s saying as well as what she’s doing. She waves the poker at me and I back towards the door. The smoke swirls around her like a dirty grey dressing gown. There are bits of something sticking to the poker. I look at the fire in the grate and see two eyes staring up at me before one of them rolls into the hearth with a clunk. Mrs Llywelyn Pugh’s dead fox.
‘Where’s Tada?’ I say. Tada will know what to do with Mam. Maybe she’s forgotten to take her tablets.
‘Out.’ Mam screams at me. ‘Get out, you wicked girl. How dare you do this to me.’
‘Give me the poker,’ I say and I try to take hold of the handle from Mam, but she swings it around out of my reach. She begins to laugh and then to cry and cough and then she staggers around on her knees and begins to whack what is left of the dead fox down into the dying flames. Fur and ash fly up from the grate.
‘I was going to give it back,’ I say. I can scarcely breathe and I cough as if I’ve got the croup. I put my handkerchief back over my face.
Mam rocks back on her heels by the fire. ‘Give it back?’ She begins to laugh again. ‘Are you completely stupid? How could you possibly give it back?’
‘I was going to take it to Mrs Llywelyn Pugh and apologise,’ I say. I wonder why Tada doesn’t come.
‘Why?’ says Mam, her voice raspy.
‘Because I should have thought about how upset she’d be when I took it,’ I say.
‘Did you think about how upset I would be?’ says Mam. ‘No, I didn’t think you would.’ She begins to cry again in great gulps. She rubs her eyes with the sleeve of her blue jumper. ‘I didn’t bring you up to lie and steal. Where do you get
it from?’ She rocks back and forth in front of the flames. What if she rocks right over into them?
‘I just wanted to save the fox’s spirit,’ I say.
Mam screams until the smoke shakes hazily in the air above her. Her mouth is wide open and her head thrown back. She looks like a vixen might when it howls into the night. Then she retches as if she’s going to be sick.
Where is Tada? And where is Bethan?
‘Where’s Bethan?’ I say. ‘Shall I get Bethan for you?’
‘Bethan found this in my cake tin under your bed. In my cake tin.’ Mam puts her head back again but when she tries to scream the breath rattles in her throat.
I say, ‘I think it’s all burnt now.’
Mam looks at the fire and the fur smouldering in the grate and in little heaps on the hearth tiles. The fire has died down and the smoke thinned. Flares of soot left by the flames shoot along the tiles of the grate to the mantelpiece and up the chimney breast to the high shelf. The Toby jugs have their eyes closed. They’ve probably never seen such smoke and so much of it coming out of the grate beneath them. Mam pokes the burnt fur and the stench pours from it again.
‘What am I going to say to Mrs Llywelyn Pugh?’ I say from behind my handkerchief.
Mam turns round. ‘You don’t have to say anything to Mrs Llywelyn Pugh,’ she says, nodding the poker at me.
I step back. I don’t want bits of the fox’s fur to fly off and touch me.
‘Mrs Evans told me such a sad story—’ I say.
‘Mrs Evans, Mrs Evans,’ Mam says. ‘You’re as bad as your father with his Elin this and his Elin that. Anybody’d think the woman was a saint. She was the worst wife Ifan could have possibly had with her prim and prissy ways and her nose in the air.’ Mam wallops the fire with the poker. A great puff of smoke and ash and fur billows into the air. ‘That’s what I’d like to do to her,’ she says. ‘She’s a thief, if you like. Is that where you learnt to steal? Is it?’
What is it that Mrs Evans has stolen?
The Earth Hums in B Flat Page 13
