The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  They have made good progress. Ludlow is the choice of location for their enterprise. They know what kind of premises they need, how much investment in tools, equipment and transport is required and, without Bronwyn’s superior skills with numbers, have done some financial calculations that seem to suggest that the venture will be viable.

  However, the news about Britain’s declaration of war has led Hywel to have doubts about the whole venture.

  ‘Tom, bach, if this fist fight with the Germans kicks off properly, there’ll be no money about.’

  ‘Possibly, but it could represent a big opportunity for us. There may not be as much domestic work if money gets tight, but there’ll be lots of government work – army barracks, naval dockyards and the like.’

  ‘But that will mean moving away, won’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it will. But think about how big the contracts will be. And there’ll be a shortage of labour if lots of skilled men go off to fight.’

  As Tom continues to describe the kind of work that war might create, Geraint and Morgan look at one another, impressed by his insight, and smile.

  Morgan puts his arm on Tom’s shoulder and fills his mug of scrumpy.

  ‘You’re a clever sod, Tom, that’s what I say.’

  Geraint’s face suddenly takes on a thoughtful look.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’. Shouldn’t we be decidin’ about joinin’ up? Lots o’ boys are talkin’ about it?’

  Hywel adopts his head-of-family pose.

  ‘None of us is joinin’ anythin’. We’ve got a business to run.’

  Hywel’s firm response stops any further discussion, but both Geraint and Morgan are tempted by the prospect.

  After another long day on Saturday, the family decides to go to St Andrew’s Church on Sunday morning for Reverend Henry Kewley’s service. They are not entirely driven by religious devotion; after the service they hope to see Aaron Griffiths in the Duke’s Arms to ask about the paperwork for the sale of Pentry. Although Griffiths, a fervent Primitive Methodist, would not be seen dead in St Andrew’s, his evangelical piety does not prevent him from being one of the Duke’s most committed consumers of its landlord’s Best Bitter, a potent elixir which is brewed lovingly on the premises every Thursday morning.

  When they arrive for the service, Henry Kewley rushes forward to greet the family on the path to the church porch and ushers them to one side.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here today. I was going to come out and see you this afternoon. I’ll have to be brief; I’ve only got a few minutes before I must begin the service.’ The Reverend is breathless and looks anxious. ‘I have some very bad news. Aaron Griffiths died yesterday afternoon. It’s a terrible blow all round; his family are inconsolable.’

  The news strikes the Thomases like a thunderbolt. Hywel is the only one able to mutter a few words.

  ‘We’re really sorry, Reverend Kewley. Please send our condolences to Mrs Griffiths. How did he die?’

  ‘A heart attack, we think. He was at home, just walking upstairs; he was dead before he hit the floor …’ He pauses, knowing what it will mean to the family. ‘I’m afraid that, for obvious reasons, the purchase of Pentry won’t be going ahead now. I’m so sorry for all of you. Come and see me this afternoon, if you want to talk about it.’

  Kewley shakes all their hands before rushing back into the church, his surplice wafting in his wake, to greet the rest of his congregation.

  He also leaves a stunned silence behind. Again, Hywel is the first to speak.

  ‘That’s an end to that, then.’

  Bronwyn has mixed feelings. She is relieved that they will not be losing Pentry, but knows that there will now be no relief from their dire financial circumstances.

  Geraint, impetuous as ever, asks the obvious question, but one that is better not asked.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Well, Geraint, if you mean right now, much as I admire Henry Kewley, I’m in no mood for one of his sermons. Let’s go to the Duke and raise a toast to old Griffiths, the man who very nearly saved our bacon.’

  After two somewhat sombre hours of ‘what might have beens’ and ‘if onlys’, thanks to the curative effects of the Duke’s Best Bitter, the gloom enveloping Tom Crisp and the Thomas family begins to lift.

  The Duke, with its hotel licence, is the only pub in Presteigne open on a Sunday. As the Presbyterian and Anglican services are now over, it is full to its ancient rafters. All the talk is of war, much of it very animated and jingoistic. For over an hour, Geraint and Morgan have been part of a large group of young men at the bar, many of whom were at school with them. When they return to the corner table where Tom, Hywel and Bronwyn are sitting, they are somewhat inebriated and grinning from ear to ear. Geraint puts his arm around Hywel’s shoulders rather clumsily and makes his brother spill some of his beer.

  ‘Morgan and me will be off your hands soon. Pentry won’t need to feed us.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Bron’s just told us – Philip Davies let on to her this week – that he’s a reserve officer in the Welch Fusiliers. He’s been mobilized an’ ’as already left to join the regiment.’

  Geraint gulps, trying to draw breath, so Morgan takes up the story.

  ‘Davies ’as sent word. He’s organized for a group of local lads to go to Llandrindod to volunteer.’

  Morgan’s words have a dramatically sobering impact on Hywel.

  ‘Listen, the pair of you. Neither of you’ve got much more than bumfluff on your chins and you’re talkin’ of goin’ to war! Not a chance, boys.’

  Bronwyn is also horrified.

  ‘Bloody ’ell! Are you mad? When I told you about Philip’s offer, I didn’t expect it to include you two. Over my dead body – do you ’ear me? – over my dead body!’

  ‘Come on, Bron, for King and country … an’ to save Pentry.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about savin’ Pentry if it means you two gettin’ skewered on the end of a German bayonet!’

  Morgan begins to laugh loudly and act out bayonet thrusts on Geraint.

  ‘There ain’t a German ugly enough to spear two fine Welsh warriors like me an’ Geraint.’

  Geraint joins in the theatrics.

  ‘That’s right, little brother! The Welch Fusiliers are the finest regiment in Wales. We’ll have those Germans on the run, back to wherever they come from.’

  Bronwyn cuffs Geraint across the back of his head as hard as she can.

  ‘They come from Germany, you ’alf-wit! It’s not your brawn that bothers me, it’s that lump of lard that passes for your brain!’

  Hywel brings the exchange to a close.

  ‘Look, you two, you’re not signing up for anything, not even the Boys’ Brigade!’

  Back at Pentry later, the night is warm and humid. Bronwyn and Tom find it hard to sleep.

  ‘Bron, since when have you been on first-name terms with Philip Davies?’

  ‘What do yer mean?’

  ‘Tonight, in the Duke, when you were talking about his offer to help men join up, you called him Philip.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember. If I did, it was a slip of the tongue.’ Bronwyn, a little flustered, changes the subject. ‘Tom, you ’ave to help us with Geraint and Morgan. They admire you.’

  ‘Help you do what?’

  ‘Persuade ’em not to be so daft and join up.’

  ‘I’m not sure it is daft.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I think it’s very worthy of them to want to fight.’

  ‘Tom, how can you! Are you mad?’

  ‘I don’t think so; I’ve been thinking I should join up myself. I like Philip Davies, and I admire him if he’s prepared to give up his good job to go off and fight for his country. He must be in his late thirties.’

  Bronwyn sits up and lights the candle by the bed. She looks dumbfounded.

  ‘Let me see yer face. Look me in the eye and say that again.’

  Tom stares at her with a
steely resolve.

  ‘I think I should join as well. I’m not Welsh, but I was born in Radnorshire, so if they’ll have me in the Welch Fusiliers, then I think I should join up with your brothers.’

  ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearin’.’

  ‘There are all sorts of good reasons. Without Aaron Griffiths’s money, God rest his soul, Pentry is in a lot of trouble. Hywel will need to mortgage the farm to raise cash, which is a road to ruin. So it makes sense for the boys to think of other options.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Bron, this is hard for me to say. I don’t want you to think that I’m not happy here. I love you very much and want to make my life with you, but all the talk about starting a business has got me thinking. I don’t want our life together to be in a small town in a forgotten corner of Wales. Now we’re at war, and that changes everything.’

  Bronwyn begins to cry.

  ‘Tom, what are you sayin’?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think if Britain calls for its young men to fight, we should answer. The Germans are challenging us and we have to stand up to them. But it’s also more than that for me; enlisting gives me the opportunity to see what the world has to offer beyond our little valley.’

  ‘And what about us? You’re talkin’ about “you” all the time.’

  ‘I mean “us”, of course.’

  ‘But I don’t want to leave this “little valley”. It’s my home, and I love it ’ere.’

  ‘I know you do, but there are many valleys in many places. There are towns and cities as well, full of challenges and opportunities. I want to experience some of them, but with you.’

  Bronwyn does not respond; she just turns away and puts her head on her pillow. Tom stares at her still form, not seeing the tears trickling down her cheeks.

  The last few weeks have been an awful concoction of emotions for Bronwyn Thomas. Driven by powerful yearnings since early adolescence, when images of the farm animals copulating filled her idle thoughts by day and her dreams by night, she finally found sexual fulfilment with Tom. When they began to live together at Pentry, she could give full rein to her desires and sex consumed her to the point of exhaustion.

  She began to plan for the life that she had always dreamed of on her beloved farm: love, marriage, children and happiness ever after. But those dreams are now in ruins.

  When she ran from Pentry two weeks ago, after the row about the sale of the farm, she did not hide herself away or wander aimlessly across the fields. Nor did she think to return to find solace with Tom, her fiancé. She rushed instead into the arms of her lover, a man old enough to be her father. Now she is lying in her fiancé’s bed, the bed of the man she thought she loved but now doubts whether she does.

  Her job as a cleaner for Philip and Clara Davies started well enough. Their home, just to the north of the town centre, on St David’s Street, is an elegant Georgian mansion, one of the grandest in the area.

  But the work is taxing, with many pieces of fine furniture to dust and polish and with paintings, porcelain and ornaments everywhere. The Davieses have a maid and a cook, but the cleaning is more than enough for one person, so Bronwyn does the upstairs and the bathrooms, leaving the maid to do the ground floor and help in the kitchen.

  She hardly sees Clara, who seems to spend all day locked away in her darkened bedroom, a room she does not share with Philip, who has a room of his own. When it is time for Bronwyn to clean Clara’s room, she will sit in the morning room, staring into the garden with a vacant look on her face.

  Bronwyn soon began to feel sorry for Philip. His wife, still a handsome woman, tall, with long black tresses and clear, pale skin, seems to have had all the vitality drained from her. Bronwyn imagined that, for Philip, life with Clara must be like living with a ghost.

  Then, early in July, two incidents turned Bronwyn’s life upside down. The first came when she was cleaning Philip’s study. It is full of collectibles and memorabilia, mainly books, but also ceramics, militaria and prints. It resembles an antiques shop and is a nightmare to clean.

  She had finished cleaning one morning and, in need of a moment to catch her breath, sat in Philip’s captain’s chair at his desk. She began to pick up some prints that were lying in a pile. Always a good reader, the titles were easy for her to follow. One of them was ‘Lysistrata’. Although the words were easy to read, the images were much more challenging. Bronwyn had never seen erotica before, and the sight of women taunting men who sported grotesque, erect phalluses shocked her to the core. But the bizarre images also aroused her, making her feel very confused.

  ‘They are Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations for Lysistrata by Aristophanes, a Greek comic playwright from antiquity, written early in the fifth century BC. I hope they don’t shock you?’

  Bronwyn had not heard Philip come into the room. His study is next to his bedroom, and the door had been left slightly ajar. She jumped to her feet but, as she did so, knocked several of the prints on to the floor, compounding her embarrassment.

  ‘No … well, yes … I’m sorry, sir. I was just tryin’ to clean your room.’

  As she scampered to pick up the prints, all of which portrayed highly suggestive imagery, Philip bent down to help her.

  ‘I hope to sell them next week in Ludlow. They are very collectible.’

  ‘I can’t imagine who’d buy them; perhaps only lonely old men.’

  He smiles at her.

  ‘You’d be surprised, Bronwyn. I sell quite a few to female collectors as well. Aristophanes’ comedy is based around a woman called Lysistrata, who wishes to bring an end to the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta by convincing the women of Athens to withhold sexual privileges from the men until they agree to declare a peace, effectively holding the men’s libido hostage. Don’t you think it an interesting coincidence with war looming in Europe?’

  ‘War, sir?’

  ‘The heir to the throne of the Austrian Empire was assassinated three days ago. They say it may lead to war. Perhaps you women will prevent it happening.’

  Bronwyn did not really hear what Philip was saying. She just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

  ‘I don’t know about war, sir. But if I may say so, those things are just filth in my eyes.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting. Beardsley’s dead now. He was only twenty-six when he died, but before he died he converted to Roman Catholicism and begged his publisher to destroy his erotic drawings because he thought them an abomination. Luckily for his devotees, and for me, he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I think you should burn ’em. He was right, they are an abon … im …’

  ‘Abomination.’

  ‘Yes, one of those.’

  Bronwyn, scarlet in the face and sweating profusely, hurried from the room, closing the door behind her with a boom before bursting into tears.

  She was left with her mind in turmoil. Philip had talked about the prints in a matter-of-fact way, as if was talking about the art of the great masters of painting. He had also spoken to her with kindness, without embarrassment, and had treated her as an adult. The more she thought about the incident, the more she forgot about how embarrassing the circumstances had been. Over the next few days, the images began to fill her head with lurid thoughts that led her to fantasize about recreating the scenes with Tom.

  On the next two occasions when she cleaned Philip’s study, he was away working in Ludlow – selling his ‘dirty prints’, she imagined. But the Beardsley prints were not the only ones she found. There were others, by illustrators with exotic foreign names like Count de Waldeck and Paul Avril, which were far less grotesque, but equally explicit. Bronwyn’s initial shock and revulsion soon turned to fascination, and the images became central to her love-making with Tom. Gradually, and to the sweet torment of her vivid imagination, the large and powerful lover who dominated her secret fantasies came to resemble Philip, not Tom.

  The second incident took place a week later and has filled her with r
emorse ever since.

  Clara Davies had been taken for a carriage ride by her brother, who lived nearby. The house cook and maid were in Presteigne at the shops and Bronwyn knew she was alone with Philip. Despite knowing full well that it was inappropriate – and potentially perilous – her mind raced and she felt her heart thumping in her chest.

  She found herself cleaning his study, even though it was not the day for her to do so, when she heard him splashing in his bath. The door to his bedroom was partly open and she noticed that, by looking at the mirror over the mantelpiece in his study, she could see the door to his bathroom.

  When she heard him step out of his bath and let out the water, she positioned herself so that she could catch sight of him. Philip is a big man, built like a warrior or an athlete, his body covered with thick hair. Compelled by a heady brew of mixed emotions – intense guilt, fear, but also a much more exhilarating sense of anticipation – she looked between his legs and there she saw that his manhood matched his powerful frame. It seemed partially erect, a sight that sent a wave of adrenalin through her body.

  What happened next was an inevitability, entirely instigated by Bronwyn, who merely pushed the study door fully open and stepped into Philip’s bedroom.

  In the days that followed, in between sessions of intense love-making, Philip began to tutor Bronwyn, not only in the nuances of erotic art, but also in many other subjects. After a few days, he hired another cleaner, so that he could spend more time with her. He also paid the charges for two of her other cleaning jobs so that she could cancel them and come to him almost every day. Bronwyn’s mind is alert and perceptive, and their conversations became more and more erudite as she charmed him with her questions and insight.

  Their couplings were sometimes wild, but often tender. Bronwyn felt satisfied in ways she had not experienced before, as sex became an intellectual experience as well as a physical one. She became besotted with him, leaving her with the anguish of loving two men at the same time: her gentle fiancé, sweet, considerate Tom, and Philip, her masterful older lover.