by Iris Gower
‘I know what you mean.’ Gwyneth smiled. ‘I don’t want much myself.’
Will seemed almost ill at ease, and after he had eaten, he got up and paced through to the bedroom. Gwyneth cleared the table and took the dishes into the tiny kitchen.
She had soon made herself at home there; the place was so small there was hardly room to stand at the strange-looking stove to boil the kettle. Will must be very hard up indeed. This was a far cry from his rooms in Oystermouth, where he was waited on like a lord, his meals cooked, his rooms cleaned daily. But Gwyneth didn’t mind that he was hard up; in a way, it drew them closer. He did not seem so unobtainable any longer.
The evening passed in desultory conversation. Will was working on some figures, something to do with the stock in the boot-and-shoe shop, and now and again he would look up at Gwyneth and smile apologetically.
After a while, she searched out some of his shirts, looking for missing buttons, and spent a happy hour repairing his linen.
She glanced covertly around her. In the light from the fire, the room looked more intimate, more comfortably furnished, than it had seemed at first. From outside came the sound of children playing, voices raised in shouts of laughter as the dying sun faded behind the buildings.
Then, at last, Will closed his books and stretched his arms above his head. ‘I think I’d better get to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to be up early in the morning. I’m no man of leisure, just a hard-working shop manager, and it’s not much of a shop at that.’
He glanced uncertainly at Gwyneth, and she smiled up at him. ‘Don’t you mind me; I’m going to finish this bit of sewing and then I’ll get my head down on this lovely big sofa by here.’ She looked away from the relief in his eyes. ‘Don’t you worry, now, you just get to bed, right?’
When she heard the door close behind him, Gwyneth hugged the shirt she’d been mending to her and breathed in the faint scent of William that clung to it. She closed her eyes in anguish. She loved him; it wasn’t right that he should be shut in there, away from her, she wanted him, and she knew he was a hot-blooded man; so how could he turn her away if she went to his bed?
She slipped off her best dress and put it carefully over the arm of a chair; she would have to wear it tomorrow to go home. The thought tore at her painfully, and with renewed determination she took off the rest of her clothes.
Quietly, she opened the door to his bedroom, and on bare feet made her way between the shadows cast by the curtains, to his bed.
She lifted the covers and slid in beside him, and after a moment she put her arms around his waist, her cheek against his back.
‘I’m sorry, Will, I can’t keep away, I love you so much,’ she whispered. ‘Just give me tonight, just tonight, and tomorrow I’ll go home like a good girl.’
He hesitated, his shoulders tense, and then, with a sigh, he turned and took her in his arms.
Gwyneth drew in a sharp breath as his flesh touched hers. She knew in a moment of triumph that he was roused, he wanted her as she wanted him.
‘Will, cariad,’ she breathed, ‘my fine handsome man, I’d die for love of you.’
She clung to him, and as his mouth came down on hers she felt humble and grateful; for at this moment, for this moment at least, Will Davies was her man, and no-one could ever change that.
CHAPTER TEN
It seemed to Fon that their bad luck, hers and Jamie’s, had begun on the night the spare crop of potatoes was ravaged by the angry bull. It had been bad enough losing the revenue from the surplus potatoes, which they had hoped to sell at the market in Swansea; but since then matters had become decidedly worse.
Tom had decided to go with his mother when she moved, instead of coming to live at Honey’s Farm, which left Jamie short of a farm-hand at a time when he most needed help.
Facing him was the enormous task of lifting the later variety of potatoes and liming the fields ready for the transplanting of the cabbage and cauliflower. There was the grass to cut for hay, and the cows still needed to be carefully watched in case the sickness returned. With only one labourer, times were going to be very difficult indeed.
‘We can’t go on like this, Jamie, love.’ Fon threw down her pen, the list she was making swimming before her tired eyes.
‘I know, colleen,’ Jamie said. ‘I think perhaps you should go into Swansea and place an advertisement in the Cambrian for more help. Even casual labourers would be better than nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t like going to Smale for anything, but as he owns the paper, I’ve no choice. Anyway, I shouldn’t think he’d actually work in the office himself, and to advertise is the only thing we can do, now I must have help.’
Fon picked up the list and studied it again. ‘You’re right, the grey cow should be coming into season any day now,’ she said, ‘and shortly after that, it’ll be Bessie’s turn. Thank God the Black Devil came back. You want to use him again, don’t you?’
‘Aye, sure I do, if I can spare the time.’ He leant back in his chair, and Fon saw with a feeling of pain that he had dark shadows beneath his eyes and a new furrow between his brows.
‘Can’t we sell off some of the herd?’ she said quickly. ‘That would cut down the work a little bit.’
‘Well, love’ – Jamie rubbed at his eyes – ‘we could sell off the finished beasts, the few bullocks we’ve been growing for beef, I mean. I could do with the money, to tell you the truth.’
He sighed. ‘But it’s help in the fields I really need, or all my hard work will be lost. If the greens are not transplanted soon, it will be too late and we’ll lose the whole crop.’
‘I know, and then there’s the grass,’ Fon added. ‘You must have help to cut it, Jamie, or you’ll lose more than the crop; your health and strength will suffer.’
He smiled suddenly, his white teeth gleaming against the tan of his skin. ‘Don’t fret, girl, I won’t lose my health and strength for some things.’
Fon felt the colour run into her cheeks even as she laughed with him, for Jamie was indefatigable in bed; however tired he was, he always found the energy to make love to her.
‘If only Patrick was older,’ Jamie said thoughtfully, ‘he would be a great help to me. A farmer needs sons to survive in these difficult times.’
Fon looked down at her hands. ‘We will have babies, Jamie,’ she said wistfully, ‘but now is not the right time.’
Jamie shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Now is not the right time, Fon.’ His reply was a little curt, and Fon knew why, well enough. It was becoming something of a bone of contention between them that she wasn’t anxious to have children.
‘I’ll go into town, later,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘put an advertisement in the Cambrian, as you suggested. It might help.’
Jamie worked the potatoes all the morning, and Fon, with Patrick at her side, did her best to help him. It was a backbreaking task, bending and lifting the earthbound vegetables, and Fon stopped and eased herself upright, pressing her fingers against her spine. Perspiration gleamed on her forehead, and her entire being felt as though she had been on a rack.
Patrick did his best, his chubby fingers digging into the soil. Smiling encouragingly, Fon looked down at him.
‘Good boy,’ she said. ‘Look how quickly the sacks are getting full.’ But when she looked ahead at the field stretching out before her, with only a quarter of the crop lifted, her heart sank.
‘Can’t we get the other labourer in to help us?’ she asked, but Jamie shook his head.
‘Dewi’s working on the grass. His wife is helping him for the present, though even he is going to leave when the new baby is born; going to the town to get work, so he says.’ Jamie sighed. ‘No good standing here talking. It’s all got to get done and quickly. We don’t know how long the fine weather will last.’ He moved closer and kissed her mouth, and he smelled of earth and grass and sun, and love poured through Fon’s veins, bringing a sense of renewed energy.
Later, she left Patrick in the fields with Ja
mie and made her way down the hill, glad to be walking instead of constantly bending over the furrows of potatoes. The air was fresh coming in off the sea, and Swansea, as always, was a busy bustle of people, all intent on following their own pursuits.
Fon was glad of a change of scene and of a rest from the seemingly endless work on the farm. The town was thronged with traffic, with colour and excitement, then Fon became aware of the shadows falling from racing, stormy clouds on to the cobbled streets. One or two of the grander ladies sported bright parasols, clearly anticipating rain. Fon sincerely hoped they would be proved wrong; rain, right now, would delay work on the farm for some time, especially the cutting of grass.
At the Cambrian offices, the man at the desk, with his collar askew and ink on his fingers, looked somewhat familiar to her. She smiled, attempting to be friendly, as he took the slip of paper from her.
‘Work on Honey’s Farm, do you, missis?’ he asked, his eyes falling to her bodice, his open gaze making Fon feel vulnerable and threatened. ‘There’s a lovely colour on your skin; comes of being in the open air so much, I suppose.’
His attempt at flattery was embarrassing, and Fon spoke quickly. ‘I’m the farmer’s wife,’ she said quickly. ‘Mrs Jamie O’Conner.’
‘Wife?’ he echoed, and somehow his attitude altered a little. ‘Duw, you look too young to be married.’ He smiled, but somehow there was little warmth in it.
‘I’m Bob Smale,’ he said. ‘I own the property adjoining Honey’s Farm – at least it does now that your husband has bought the strip between us. You have a small son, don’t you?’ he asked.
Fon’s first instinct was to tell him to mind his own business. Instead she replied as politely as she could. ‘No, he’s my stepson,’ Fon said, pointing to the slip of paper and wishing Bob Smale would get on with the business in hand and stop asking her personal questions.
He ignored her gesture and leaned closer over the counter, looking at her closely. ‘You’re a real lovely girl, mind, pretty as a picture and smelling of the sunshine. Experienced too, being a farmer’s wife.’
Fon was disconcerted. She didn’t know how to deal with the man’s almost leering interest.
‘I own this paper,’ Bobby Smale said softly. His hand lightly rested on hers. She drew away quickly.
‘Yes, I know,’ Fon stuttered. ‘I’ve heard about you, of course, you being a neighbour and all that.’ She didn’t wish to appear rude but she moved impatiently, wanting nothing more than to be out of the office and back in the safety of the street.
‘Could I take you out for a pot of tea, and we can talk about this advertisement?’ he asked, and, not wishing to hurt his feelings, Fon thought carefully about her reply.
‘It’s very kind of you but I don’t think my husband would like it,’ she said at last.
‘But, lovely, I’m not asking your husband, am I?’ he persisted.
Fon looked down at her hands, before putting them behind her back. She felt stupid and inept. She should know how to repulse unwanted attention at her age. She was sure Gwyneth wouldn’t be at a loss in such a situation; but then Gwyneth was used to men.
‘Right, then.’ Bob Smale’s voice was suddenly brisk as the door opened and a group of ladies came into the room. ‘Let’s see to the wording of this advertisement, then, shall we?’
Fon watched, grateful for the interruption, as Bob Smale took down the details in a surprisingly neat hand.
‘I’ll see to it,’ he said, smiling, and yet there was something menacing behind his expression.
Fon was glad to be back out into the street. The smell of the ink had given her a headache, and keeping Bob Smale at arm’s length had been something of an ordeal.
The prospect of the long walk home was not a pleasing one, but Fon knew she was needed at the farm. Patrick would be ready for his sleep about now, and there was the evening meal to prepare. Still, a few minutes looking round the shops would do no harm, she decided.
It was growing colder as Fon set off for the hill leading upwards from the town in the direction of Honey’s Farm. Her legs ached, her back ached, and a feeling of weariness was creeping over her. She sank down on the grass, feeling she would like to rest, if only for a few minutes.
A pleasant breeze was drifting in from the sea. Up here on the hill, the air was clear and bright, and above her was the vast arc of the sky, with the clouds more settled now; hopefully the rain would keep away for a while.
Fon sighed and stretched herself out in a hollow in the grassy slope. A bee lazily hovered near by, doubtless seeking some late flowers, and faintly the sounds from the town drifted upward, a background to the chirping of crickets in the grass.
Fon closed her eyes, comfortable in her little nest of grass, and eventually she must have slept, for she was dreaming of being in Jamie’s arms; he was holding her, caressing her breasts with his fingertips, but his hands were unusually rough.
She woke suddenly, frightened to see a strange face looking down at her and to feel unfamiliar hands inside her bodice.
She reacted instinctively, pushing the man away from her with such force that he fell back into the grass, an expression of surprise on his face. She recognized him then, and her heart was suddenly in her throat.
‘Bob Smale, what do you think you are doing?’ she demanded with more ferocity than she’d intended.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked in an innocent voice. ‘Were you really sleeping, then? I thought you were putting it on.’
‘Keep away from me.’ Fon attempted to rebutton her bodice, but Bob Smale had recovered his composure and was forcing her fingers away from the buttons.
‘Oh, come on, now don’t play the little Miss Innocent with me,’ he said grasping at her breast with one hand and pushing at her skirts with the other. ‘I know what you married women are like – love a bit of a change, don’t you? At any rate you led me on enough back there in the office, simpering and blushing and all that nonsense.’
‘You are talking nonsense,’ Fon said, pushing herself upright, but he put all his weight upon her and she was forced back into the hollow of the grass.
His fingers yanked her skirts aside and began probing, painfully and intimately, and a sense of disbelief and outrage filled Fon’s senses.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You farmers’ wives see it happening all the time, don’t you? A little bit of playing around won’t do anyone any harm. I want you! You are a lovely girl. Why are you resisting? You know you want me, I can hear it in the way that you breathe,’ he laughed.
Fon felt horror and fear overwhelm her as he fumbled at his buttons. His mouth came down on her breast, catching her nipple, and at the same time he was pressing himself against her.
‘Don’t be silly, now,’ he said. ‘Let me do what I want. ‘You’ll like it, you’ll see. Just relax now, don’t keep fighting me. I know you mean yes even when you are saying no – women are like that.’
Fon relaxed suddenly, as though submitting, although the touch of his cruel hands made her feel physically sick. Bob Smale looked down at her and grinned. ‘That’s better! I knew you wouldn’t say no when it came down to it. Come on now, let’s have a bit of fun, is it?’
Fon took her chance while he was off guard. She instinctively brought up her knee, catching him between the legs. Before he could utter a sound, she had scratched at his face and was tugging his hair even as she twisted away from him.
‘Bitch!’ he gasped as he rolled away from her. ‘I’ll have you for that, you’ll see if I don’t.’
Fon was on her feet, trying to run uphill, her feet slipping as the ground grew steeper. The farmhouse was in sight but still some distance away. Smoke rose from the chimney, and Fon wished with all her heart that she was in the kitchen, away from harm.
She heard footsteps pounding behind her, and the sound of Bob Smale’s rasping breath brought goose pimples out on her skin. She cried out in pain as she felt her hair caught in a cruel grip and she was dragged backwards. She was pu
shed down on to the ground, and his knee was across her stomach, so that she felt she couldn’t breathe.
‘Keep still!’ He slapped her hard across the face. ‘I mean to have my way with you, and the more you cry out, the more I’ll enjoy it.’
Fon felt her skirts being lifted above her waist, her underwear torn away, and shame burned in her cheeks. She screamed out loud, her voice ringing on the quiet air. She screamed again and again, as she felt him force her legs apart; at any moment now she would be violated, and she knew then she would rather be dead.
She tried to lash out with her feet, but he hit her again, so that her head reeled, and coloured lights flashed before her eyes.
‘Jamie!’ The cry of anguish was wrenched from her, and for a moment she almost welcomed the blessed darkness that seemed to be descending over her.
With a suddenness that made her gasp, the cruel grasp upon her body eased. She heard a pounding and didn’t know if it was the sound of her own heart.
The pounding came nearer, and she struggled to raise her head. She saw Bob Smale standing over her, and past him, like an avenging angel, she saw the big grey, with Jamie riding bare-backed, clutching the animal’s mane as he rode towards where Fon lay, hunched over now, her hands desperately trying to rearrange her torn clothing.
‘Bloody hell!’ There was no fear in Bob Smale’s voice, even though Jamie had a murderous look on his face as he bore down upon the man.
Bob Smale stood his ground as Jamie jumped down from the back of the horse and ran towards him. Fon saw Jamie’s clenched fist connect with the man’s jaw. Smale snapped back and immediately a swelling began to rise around his eye. Jamie shook him to his feet as though he was a rag doll and punched him again and again.
As Fon rose shakily to her feet, she saw that Bob Smale was sagging at the knees now, his eyes turning black, his mouth bleeding.
‘I’ll teach you to molest my wife,’ Jamie growled and hit the hapless man again.