by Iris Gower
‘Maybe,’ Hari said. Then she became serious. ‘But, Will, while you are in Swansea you are more than welcome to share our house for as long as you like, you know that.’
‘Your offer of a job I accept with no hesitation,’ Will said firmly, making a mental note that the solution would only be a temporary one. He could not remain tied to Hari’s apron strings for ever, fond as he was of her. But now was not the time for pride; he needed to earn a living, to take stock of his situation.
‘But as to living accommodation, I’m a big boy now, Hari, used to living on my own.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’ll find somewhere suitable, don’t you worry.’
Hari smiled broadly. ‘A big boy is right!’ Her Welsh accent became more marked, purposely so, to express her amusement. ‘And a real charmer into the bargain. I see the girls swooning over you, and there’s proud I am.’
Will leaned back in his chair. Hari of course was exaggerating, influenced by her love for him.
Amused by his silence, she continued. ‘Duw, Eline better snap you up quick before some pretty new face comes along to take your fancy.’ She paused. ‘Why are you taking your time getting married, Will? I’d have thought you’d have got Eline to the altar long before now.’
Will’s humour vanished. ‘How can I marry her?’ he asked in a hard voice. ‘I’ve nothing to offer, not even a roof to put over her head.’
‘Proud you always were, Will Davies, too proud for your own good, man.’ Hari sounded cross. ‘Do you think Eline cares so much for material things, then?’
Will shook his head. ‘Maybe not, but I won’t marry her until I can offer her a secure future.’
‘William.’ Hari put her hand over his. ‘Who can assume security for anything? The entire world is insecure; the only thing that keeps us sane is love. Don’t waste it.’
Will looked round the sumptuous sitting-room, the plush hangings on the windows, the rich carpeting on the floor. It was easy for Hari to talk when her world was cushioned with money, her own and her husband’s not inconsiderable wealth.
‘I wasn’t always rich.’ Hari as always read his thoughts. ‘You know that better than most, Will.’
‘I know.’ He leaned towards her. ‘But you made something of yourself. Before you were married to Craig, you had already begun to make a name. You took risks and they paid off; I’m not so clever as you, obviously.’
The words were not spoken with bitterness, only with a deep regret on Will’s part that he had failed to make his business the success that he and Hari had hoped it would be.
‘It was the loss of the oysters that made the business fail, Will,’ Hari said softly, ‘and not any lack on your part. You shod the villagers when they could not pay for shoes, helped them when they were in dire straits. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.’
‘I know.’ Will rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head, easing his cramped muscles. ‘None the less, I must accept defeat. I’ll go home now, make the necessary arrangements to wind everything up.’ He smiled ruefully at Hari. ‘I’ll be back.’
He kissed her cheek, and for a moment she clung to him. ‘You’ll work things out, Will,’ she said firmly. ‘I just feel it in my bones.’
As the Mumbles train careered its way along the narrow tracks, past the large expanse of calm sea towards Oystermouth, Will sat on the top deck, staring back in the direction of Swansea.
His home town, the mean streets and the broad, the hovels and the big houses, all were familiar to him now, courtesy of Hari Grenfell. She had taken him with her on her rise to riches and fortune, had lifted him from his deprivation and poverty to enjoy a world that he now adopted as his own, the world of fine living and of good manners, of good bed and board, and mostly of the respect of those who thought of themselves as his peers. His background was forgotten or never known; he was now William Davies, beloved protégé of the rich and successful Hari Grenfell.
His gaze was drawn towards Oystermouth. It was here his heart lay. It was here that the woman he loved lived and breathed and made for herself a fine living, and the fact of it only served to highlight his own failure.
Why was it, Will asked himself in exasperation, that the women in his life were destined to be rich and successful, and he who loved them was doomed to failure?
But he would triumph again, he told himself, in time. For now he must give up his shop and work for Hari instead of for himself. But he was young and strong and determined; he would make his way in the world, and next time there would be no failing.
Eline stood in the slant of late sunshine pouring through one of the large south-facing windows of the gallery, watching the surge of first-night viewers as they moved elegantly from room to room.
It was a good exhibition, and Eline knew a moment of triumph as she looked around. Paintings by the late Alexander K. Brander and one by Joseph Walter of Bristol adorned the room, while upstairs was an entire room dedicated to the paintings of James Harris, whose stormy colours and rich seascapes intrigued Eline and filled her with a longing to be able to paint with such accuracy and skill the moods of the sea.
There was only one thing troubling her. Will had promised to attend the opening of the exhibition, and so far there was no sign of him.
‘Good show, Mrs Harries.’ Gerald Greyfield stood before her, a portly gentleman come all the way from England for the early viewing, his round, good-humoured face wreathed in smiles. ‘There are a few of the pictures I shall want for myself. Will you mark them off for me, my dear lady?’
He paused. ‘Oh, and may I introduce a colleague of mine, Calvin Temple? He’s been just itching to meet you.’
Eline was aware, as Lord Greyfield made the formal introductions, of the tall stranger staring down at her with open admiration. It was something that amused, rather than pleased her; but all the same, the flattering attention was a salve to her feelings of pique at Will for being late on such an important occasion.
Then she forgot Calvin Temple and became occupied with the business of selling the pictures. And yet a worry niggled at the back of her mind; the thought of Will’s absence would not be pushed aside. She was worried about him. Had he perhaps stayed in Swansea for the night? But surely he wouldn’t do that without telling her? Questions flew through her mind even as she mentally worked out the payment she must make to the artists of the pictures and the commission she would claim on the sales.
She was delighted when one of her own paintings, modest in comparison with the artistry around her, sold to Lord Greyfield. She was realistic enough to know that he bought it because he liked the look of her, rather than for any store he set by the painting itself. His blue eyes, crinkled in a bronzed, weathered face, twinkled down at her.
‘You must promise to visit my home in Worcester, my dear,’ he said, standing tall above her. ‘I would like you to see my modest collection of contemporary paintings, as well as my one or two treasured old masters.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ Eline murmured, her eyes glancing beyond Lord Grayfield to where Will had just appeared in the doorway. Joy filled her, suffusing her face with warmth, so that Lord Grayfield blinked rapidly.
‘Excuse me.’ She was barely aware that she had left Lord Grayfield’s presence rather more abruptly than was polite and that he was looking after her with bushy eyebrows raised.
‘Will!’ She stood looking up at him. Her heart was beating swiftly as he smiled at her, and all she longed to do was lean against him and have his arms hold her safely.
Instead, she frowned. ‘Where have you been – you’re late.’ It was an accusation; her voice was slightly raised. Eline knew that she had made Will angry, by the almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth.
‘I apologize for not being here to listen to your opening speech,’ he said, in even tones that should have warned Eline to tread carefully. ‘I’m sure it was a triumph, but I did have rather important things to do, such as arranging my future.’ He glanced around him almost scornfully. ‘Yours, obviou
sly, is well taken care of.’
‘The implication being,’ Eline said shortly, ‘that I’m a selfish person who considers only myself.’
‘Perhaps.’ William made to turn away; his eyes were narrowed and in his jaw a muscle tightened.
‘Well, I’m sorry for wanting this show to be a success,’ Eline said icily. ‘It seems one of us has to make an effort to run a business successfully.’
Will looked directly at her then, and the colour drained from Eline’s face. She couldn’t believe that she’d uttered the hurtful words that had widened, with shocking suddenness, the rift between them into a chasm.
Will turned and, without another word, left the gallery. As though it were thundering within her, Eline could almost feel the heaviness of his footsteps moving ever further from her.
‘What is it? You seem upset.’
Eline became aware that Calvin Temple was standing beside her, looking down at her in concern. She suppressed the desire to rush into the street and, if need be, chase Will to the ends of the earth.
‘Nothing, it’s quite all right – please, enjoy the exhibition, Mr Temple.’ To her own ears, Eline’s words seemed garbled. Calvin took her arm and led her outside to where the sweet, salt air drifted in from the incoming tide.
‘I think it best you have time to compose yourself, Mrs Harries,’ Calvin said calmly. ‘It’s clear that . . . that person – I won’t call him a gentleman – has upset you. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No!’ Eline said abruptly, and then added a lame ‘Thank you.’ She was aware that she was making a conscious effort to smile. ‘I’m sorry for my rudeness, but today, it seems, I have the knack of doing and saying the wrong thing to everyone, including my fiancé.’
‘Your fiancé, I see.’ Calvin Temple smiled ruefully. ‘I am destined to be pipped at the post in the matters of the heart. My loss, I’m afraid. Still, is there anything I can do?’
Not at all annoyed by the question, Eline felt it would be a relief to confide in him. Calvin Temple seemed wise beyond his years.
She sighed. ‘Will’s business must close; it’s a touchy time for him, and I’m afraid I’m only making things worse for him by being downright hurtful.’
‘By being successful, perhaps,’ Calvin said smoothly. ‘That can be hard for any man to take.’
‘Well, no, he doesn’t begrudge my success, not really,’ Eline said softly. ‘I was angry with him and so I was cruel, rubbing salt into his wounds. I’m not surprised he walked away from me.’
‘We all say things we don’t mean, sometimes. I’m sure your fiancé has far too much sense to take any notice of words spoken in anger.’
Eline only wished she felt as confident, but the pain in Will’s eyes told her she wouldn’t be forgiven so easily.
‘Come back inside,’ Eline said, smiling up at Calvin, grateful for his sympathy. ‘I might have made some more sales by now, who knows?’
She cast one long last look down the street, her eyes aching to see the tall upright figure of the man she loved; but the roadway was empty. Sighing, Eline went into the noise and laughter of the gallery.
A week had passed, a long, endless week of long days and even longer nights with no word from Will. Eline stared round the gallery. It was almost empty now of paintings, but then the exhibition had gone well since that very first night, the night she had inflicted such a wound on the man she loved that he obviously found it difficult to forgive her.
She had gone over her words a thousand times, and each time they seemed more harsh and cruel than when she’d spoken them; and though her heart seemed to be breaking in two, and she longed to speak to him, to apologize abjectly for her words, she was too proud to go into Swansea looking for him.
And yet, she reasoned, wasn’t it up to her to make the first move? It was she who had uttered the awful words that had driven him away, wounding words telling him that he was a failure. She hadn’t meant to sound like that, a woman crowing at her own success; but anger had tipped her tongue with barbs, and they had struck home.
Eline forced herself to concentrate on the task before her. She took one of the few paintings left and moved it from its place on the wall. With her head on one side, she stood it on the easel in the window.
The painting was one of her own, a seascape that captured Mumbles Head rising like a mythical island from the mists. It was a good picture, and she knew it. Perhaps not technically faultless, but the mood evoked by the sky and sea blending in shades of grey and violet gave it the atmosphere of a fairy-tale world, a place of mystery, but also a place of peace. But Eline knew no peace, had known none since the day Will had walked away from her.
She made up her mind quite suddenly. Damn her pride! She would close the gallery and go up to Swansea and face him, apologize on bended knee if need be, beg his forgiveness. She would find him easily enough; he would have gone to Hari Grenfell’s house, where else?
Eline took off her apron and wiped her hands on the starched linen almost absent-mindedly. What would she say to Will? Would he even see her? For a moment, her courage failed. What if he’d left instructions that he was not to be bothered?
She must try. It was no good sitting still allowing the bitterness between them to go unresolved. So Eline brushed back her hair, tucking the stray curls into the confining pins, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she let herself out of the gallery into the warm sunshine of the day.
The Mumbles train was crowded. Men in tall hats and women in wide-skirted frocks laughed and chattered together as though life was one long holiday. And so it was for some, Eline mused. The rich of Swansea could spend the day at the seaside in Mumbles eating oysters, drinking dandelion cordial, without a care as to where the next penny was coming from. For people like her and like Will, life was a struggle to survive.
For a moment, anger bit at her with sharp teeth. Will thought he was so hard done by; losing his business was a blow, of course it was, but he was young and strong, he had advantages that she’d never had – the backing of people like Hari Grenfell, for example.
Eline had made a success of things by her own talent and ingenuity. She alone had found backing for the gallery in Lord Greyfield, a fine English gentleman who had been so impressed with Eline’s portrait of his bride-to-be that he had decided there was a profit to be made from her talent, profit that would benefit both of them.
Shame washed over her then. She was doing it again, comparing her own success with Will’s failure. How could she even think like that? Look what Will had given to the stricken village. He had given the people boots and shoes they would never pay for, had lost his own living in the process; he was a fine, good man, a compassionate man. And what had she done to ease the anguish of Oystermouth? Set up a soup kitchen that was paid for mainly out of the pockets of others.
Eline glanced out of the train and saw the soft sea gently lapping the golden sands of Swansea Bay. Out on the horizon, she could just make out the lines of a paddle steamer, making, no doubt, for the busy docklands to the east of the town.
Eline knew that she wasn’t really concerned about the sea or the ships upon it; she was trying her utmost not to think about her meeting with Will, or what words she would find to say to him.
When she alighted at Rutland Street, Eline looked around her and wondered at the size of the town. Swansea had grown very big over the last years; copper and tinplate works dominated the east bank of the river, pouring smoke and grime into the once tranquil air above the houses.
The sun was hot as Eline made her way into Wind Street, pausing to look into the hatter’s window as if to admire a fancy creation of crisp feathers and straw. She was trembling in spite of the heat, and she wondered if she could bear to face Hari, to admit to the cruel words she’d used to wound Will.
The Grenfell emporium was impressive in its size and scope, and once within the portals, Eline was overcome with the familiar scent of new leather. It reminded her so much of Will’s shop that she felt tears
come to her eyes.
She became aware that a young gentleman assistant was bowing politely before her. ‘Anything I can show you, madam?’ he asked obsequiously.
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Grenfell, please.’ Eline spoke with as much authority as she could muster, but the young man’s gaze barely flickered.
‘My apologies, madam, but Mrs Grenfell is out of town, just for today.’ He smiled, and Eline felt a momentary sense of relief. She took a deep breath and tried to muster all her courage.
‘Well, then, I must speak with Mr Davies,’ she said, as though Will was nothing more than an acquaintance. But how could she tell this young man that she and Will were betrothed, that they had quarrelled and now she had come to make amends?
‘Didn’t you know, madam?’ He smiled again. ‘Mr Davies is not with the Swansea branch any longer.’
‘Not with you? I don’t understand.’ Eline felt the words leave lips that were suddenly numb.
‘I understand that Mr Davies is working out of town, madam. I’ve no idea when or even if he intends to return.’ The words fell like stones into the silence, and Eline heard her own inane question as though from a distance.
‘Gone away?’
‘Yes, madam, gone away, and I’m afraid I don’t have his address.’
He had forestalled her next question, and hopelessly Eline turned towards the door. How she got outside the shop she didn’t know, but she felt the hard, hot stone of the building against her fingers as she struggled for composure.
Then there was nothing in her but a great emptiness. Will had gone away, and he hadn’t cared enough even to leave her a message. She drew herself upright and slowly, very slowly, she made her way back to the train terminus.
CHAPTER FIVE
Within two weeks, Tommy Jones had recovered from his fevers enough to help on the farm again and Fon was free to return to her usual tasks of milking the dairy cows and caring for the chickens. Along with her household chores and looking after young Pat, she had quite enough to do. Often she was needed to work the fields with her husband, and then she tumbled into bed at nights aching in every limb. And yet, she smiled at the thought, Jamie, in spite of working like a dog, was never too weary to turn and take her in his arms and make love to her as though every time was the first.