by Iris Gower
When the emporium closed for the night, Will went out into the street to study Eline’s finished window. He stood back amazed; she had excelled herself.
In the background was a hazy backdrop, the outlines depicting accurately the sturdy lines of Cardiff Castle. The foreground appeared to be a grassy area, with a cricket pitch to one side of the display and a croquet lawn behind a hedge of shrubs on the the other. Sporty shoes danced across the lawn; ladies’ pumps and men’s fancy shoes rested on the lawn, while along the cricket ground, like an edging of spectators, was a plethora of boots and shoes, men’s, ladies’, and children’s, in a carefully arranged scene of disorder.
Will felt a flood of admiration. Eline was a remarkable woman, not even Hari Grenfell herself could have created a finer display.
‘Like it?’ Eline spoke from behind his shoulder, and Will spun round, his face alight.
‘Eline!’ he said. ‘It’s a masterpiece!’ He wanted to hug her, but he contained himself and simply took her hand in his. ‘Congratulations on a fine piece of work,’ he said warmly.
Eline smiled up at him, and for a moment it was as if they were back on the old footing.
‘Is it really all right?’ she asked with the modesty that Will found so appealing.
‘All right?’ he echoed. He put his earlier feelings into words. ‘Even Hari couldn’t have done better.’
Eline sighed. ‘It’s taken a few days’ hard work, but I think now it’s finished.’ She shrugged, sounding almost regretful. ‘I can’t do any more to it. Tomorrow, I’d better make arrangements to return to Swansea.’
‘Eline,’ Will said quietly, ‘would you please stay another day – help me make the shop area more appealing, if that’s at all possible? It’s like a dungeon down there.’
Eline searched his face, as though suspecting a trap. ‘I don’t know if I can spare the time,’ she said, uncertainly.
‘Please, Eline,’ he urged. ‘I assure you that it’s a request that’s based on business, simply that.’ He paused and gestured towards her display. ‘However good your window might be, the customers are put off once they enter the shop and see how dreary it is.’
Eline inclined her head; obviously she saw the truth of his words. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay for another day, see what I can do.’
In the event, Eline did a great deal. She somehow persuaded Mrs Bell to move the stocks of boots and shoes to a much better location on the first floor of the emporium, so that, as customers mounted the ornate staircase, the first thing they would see was the Grenfell boot-and-shoe mart.
‘It will take a little time to set out the shelves and counters,’ Will said, feeling desperate to keep Eline near him for as long as possible.
Mrs Bell was fussing around, ordering her staff to rearrange the china displays to accommodate the Grenfell stock. She looked up curiously at Eline, and Will turned his shoulder, not wanting Mrs Bell to witness his discomfiture should Eline turn him down.
‘I don’t know if I can keep on my room at the hotel,’ Eline said doubtfully. ‘It must be costing Mrs Grenfell a fortune.’
‘Stay here, my dear Mrs Harries,’ Mrs Bell said quickly. ‘I have a spare room in the staff quarters, if you’d like it.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Eline said. ‘I’ll stay a little while, then.’
Will gave a sigh of relief. ‘I am grateful, Eline,’ he said quietly. ‘And I’m sure Hari will be too.’ He looked round him in satisfaction. ‘We should do well here. It’s so much better than I thought it could be.’
And, he thought joyously, he would have Eline close to him for just a little longer. Smiling, he began to move the stock towards the counters and fixtures, ready for Eline to choose some boots and shoes for display purposes. Things were not turning out too badly after all.
In Oystermouth, Gwyneth was just leaving the house of Mary Preece, midwife. She stared up at the cloud-filled sky without seeing the signs of the gathering storm. Neither did she hear the wash of the sea against the dull gold of the wet seashore. Gwyneth was locked into her own thoughts and fears; her emotions were mixed, she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry.
She put her hands up to her hot cheeks and tried to think clearly. She, Gwyneth Parks, was going to have a baby, Will Davies’s baby.
She walked across the road to the beach and sank on to a wooden bench, clutching at the slatted wood for support. For a moment, she didn’t want to think about the consequences of her passionate nights with Will; all she wanted to do was marvel in the knowledge that she was going to bear his child.
She didn’t know how long she sat, dreaming in the wash of the sea and the dullness of the day, and she didn’t care that, back in the small house flanking the beach, Mary Preece was probably standing in her window, watching the harlot who was with child and no gold band on her finger.
The midwife’s attitude had been clear. She disapproved. Even as she’d questioned Gwyneth about her courses and conducted a thorough examination, her mouth had been pursed together like a squeezed lemon.
‘Nina Parks know about this yet?’ she had said, and her tone implied that it was a case of like mother, like daughter.
Gwyneth had dressed without making a reply, and, as she’d handed over the money due, the midwife had sniffed her disapproval.
Gwyneth wrapped her arms around her body as if to protect her child. The midwife had suggested that she slip the baby, now, while it was still in the early stages. Gwyneth had looked around the bare clinical room and shuddered, shaking her head vigorously.
Mrs Preece had shrugged. ‘Well, then, bring your bastard into the world if that’s what you want.’ She’d issued a word of warning. ‘Don’t expect the father to marry you, mind. They hardly ever give a fig for you once you give them what they want.’
Gwyneth stopped dreaming and faced reality. What would Will do? He was an honourable man, no doubt about that. He was a real gentleman, but marriage to the daughter of an oyster fisherman was something he might not even wish to consider; and who could blame him? His future was set fair. He was cared for by the rich and powerful Grenfells. His life was destined to go along different, better paths than her own. In one thing the midwife was right; Gwyneth had just been a moment’s pleasure to Will. He had never promised her anything.
She rose and shook the drifting particles of sand from her skirt. She had better get on home; she was hungry now, thirsty too. She smiled; she had better look after herself, she had another life to think about now.
Nina Parks was in the kitchen, pushing a bowl of cowl on to the table. ‘There you are, girl, just in time for some dinner. Where you been then?’
‘Sitting by the beach,’ Gwyneth said evasively. The soup looked appetizing, filled with mutton, carrots and swede, and beside the bowl was a plate of chunky bread slices.
‘Duw, I’ll be glad when you can work on the oyster beds again, girl,’ Nina said, placing another bowl on the table and sitting down with a loud scrape of her chair legs against the flagstones. ‘Money’s getting a bit short now.’
‘I won’t be working on the beds for much longer, Mam,’ Gwyneth said softly.
Her mother looked up at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, planning on going back into shop work, are you, then, girl? The beds not good enough for you now, is it?’
‘I’m going to have a baby, Mam.’ Gwyneth’s heart was beating fast. She dipped a chunk of bread into the stew, her hand trembling.
‘You are being funny, aren’t you?’ Nina said uncertainly, and Gwyneth shook her head.
‘I’m being serious. I’m sorry, it’s definite, I’ve been to see Mary Preece.’
Nina sank back into her chair, her soup forgotten. ‘Dear lord, what’s wrong with you, girl? Haven’t you learned by my mistakes?’
‘No, Mam, sorry.’ Gwyneth smiled. ‘Don’t give me a row, Mam. I love him, I couldn’t help it, see.’
‘It’s William Davies’s child, of course,’ Nina said, shaking her head helplessly
. ‘I suppose I saw it coming, if I was honest. Well, he’ll have to help pay for the baby’s keep, won’t he?’
‘I haven’t thought that far ahead,’ Gwyneth said. ‘I suppose the best thing is to go up to Cardiff and see him, tell him the good news.’
Nina gave a hollow laugh. ‘I doubt he’ll think it good news, my girl. Men never do, not even when there’s a gold ring on your finger.’
‘Well, you should know, Mam,’ Gwyneth said good-naturedly. ‘You’ve had enough experience, haven’t you?’
‘Don’t get lippy, now, girl,’ Nina said, but without rancour. ‘I am telling you the truth; men don’t like babbies – not much, anyway.’
She sighed. ‘Kevin used to deny that he’d slipped up; used to tell me I was all right, he’d been careful.’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t think he knew what careful meant.’
‘What about Joe, what did he say?’ Gwyneth was curious, because Joe had fathered bastard children on her mother, same as Will had done to her. The only difference being that Will was a free man and Joe had been married to Eline.
‘Oh, Joe was a real man,’ Nina said, her features softening. ‘There was no compromising with him; he admitted straight off he was the father, and they don’t all do that, mind.’ She made a rueful face. ‘Some try to blame the woman, call her a whore, all sorts of things – but not Joe, not him.’
Her voice trembled. ‘That Eline was no match for him, not her, with milk and water in her veins instead of red blood.’
She looked at Gwyneth sharply then. ‘So you’ve taken Will Davies away from Eline, have you? Funny we should both have pinched her man from under her nose, isn’t it?’ But Nina wasn’t laughing.
Gwyneth sighed. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got him or not yet, Mam. I’m not counting any chickens, mind.’
‘He’ll marry you,’ Nina said positively. ‘He’s a man with a conscience, you’ll see. When are you going to tell him?’
‘I’ll go up to Cardiff in a few days’ time, if you can lend me some money,’ Gwyneth said. ‘I think he should know as soon as possible, don’t you, Mam?’
‘Aye, best get it over, girl.’ Nina paused. ‘I hope he does right by you and makes the wedding before the baby begins to show. You can always tell folks it’s a premature birth.’ She smiled. ‘Not that they’ll believe you, mind, but it saves face a bit, see?’
Gwyneth shook her head, half in apprehension and half in anticipation. ‘Imagine me, Gwyneth Parks, strutting about the streets of Cardiff with a wedding band on my finger. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?’
‘Aye, if it comes to pass, it will be wonderful – a damn miracle,’ Nina said dourly.
‘Mrs William Davies.’ Gwyneth spoke the name softly. ‘It has a fine ring to it, doesn’t it?’
‘Aye, it does that, girl, but don’t go making plans that might not come to anything. He could always walk away, mind.’
‘But you said he had a conscience, that he’d marry me,’ Gwyneth protested.
‘I know I did, and I think he will, too, but it don’t do to believe in good things happening to folk like us. Remember that, girl. These menfolk are strange creatures; there’s no way of telling how they’ll turn, and shouldn’t I know that better than most?’
Nina looked thoughtful. ‘I know when he had a second chance, Joe stood by me, like; but not the first time he didn’t. I might as well tell you now, I’d have staked my life on it that Joe would marry me when I fell pregnant for our Tom, all those years ago, when Joe and me were both free as air. I thought he loved me, see. And so he did, in his way, but he ran a mile.’
She paused as if the memory was painful. ‘Once he knew about the baby coming, I didn’t see him for dust.’
Nina looked at her daughter and her face softened. ‘But I think you got a good one in Mr Davies, don’t think he’s the sort to run, but then he’s a mite older than Joe was and more educated, like. You’ll be all right.’
‘I hope so, Mam,’ Gwyneth said, and she drew her shawl around her shoulders, feeling suddenly chilly. ‘I do hope so, because if he lets me down, I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘We’d manage. Come on, don’t be down in the mouth,’ Nina said cheerfully. ‘Haven’t we Parks women always got by?’
‘But how, Mam?’ Gwyneth asked, feeling suddenly lost and alone in a strange and alien world. What if she had a baby, and no father to help support it?
‘I’d mind the babbie and you’d take a job, work the oysters like always,’ Nina said practically.
The prospect was a daunting one, and Gwyneth thought with horror of the long months waiting for the child to arrive, months when she would be talked about, an outcast in the village – a true Parks, people would say.
More practically, how would she and Mam survive those months, months when there would be little money coming in? She squared her shoulders and forced herself to look on the bright side. Will was too good a man to leave her to face her problems alone. He knew he was the first with her; he had taken her virginity, he would stand by her.
Nina seemed to sense her feelings, and with a rare show of emotion, she leaned forward and touched her daughter’s hand. ‘It will be all right, merchi,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll see, it will be all right.’
‘Will it, Mam?’ Gwyneth wanted reassurance; she wanted Mam to make things right as she’d done when Gwyneth was a child. But this was the world of grown-up emotions and grown-up repercussions. Not even Nina, with her redoubtable strength of character, could help her now. It would take the good intentions of Will Davies to do that.
She loved Will so much; she had given him her trust as well as her passion. Surely he must feel something for her too, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken her to his bed.
But as Gwyneth lay awake that night, staring up at the ceiling, hands resting lightly on her still flat stomach, she realized that she had led Will on, she had seduced him. Her body had cried out for him; she had thirsted for his love.
In return, he had given her his manhood; his urgent needs had been assuaged by her love. He was a man, a red-blooded man, and who could blame him for not turning such a willing slave away?
Gwyneth stared up at the ceiling and thought with trepidation of the journey she must make to Cardiff to face Will. She tried to think of the words that would break the news to him gently, for, in all fairness to him, he hadn’t meant to put her in this position.
The moon spread a soft light across the room, washing everything in silver; even the quilted bedcover seemed to lack colour. It was a strange, unreal world, a world where Gwyneth Parks suddenly felt very much alone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fon sat in the kitchen and stared around her. It was clean now, the cushions mended and floors swept, the chaos she and Jamie had found on their return from the fair restored to order. But the memory of that night remained with Fon in the days that had followed, and often she lay awake at night, thinking she heard sounds from downstairs.
Of Mike the Spud nothing had been seen or heard; it was as though he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Dewi, in his cottage with his wife and children, had heard nothing of the intruder, and Fon could not in all conscience blame him; the cottage was quite a distance from the farmhouse.
Apart from which, Fon felt it in her bones that somehow Mike the Spud and Bob Smale were connected, and between them they had thought up this act of revenge against her and Jamie.
She said nothing of her fears. Jamie was so toweringly angry at the violation of his home that she hesitated to raise the subject, for fear of upsetting him even more.
At the time, Jamie had questioned both Dewi and Gary closely, his longing to find the men he believed were responsible for the outrage burning within him; but the shepherd, like Dewi, had heard nothing. Indeed, he had slept soundly until woken by Jamie.
When he’d entered the devastated kitchen on the night of the damage, Gary had shaken his grey head and narrowed his eyes, and though he grumbled continuously as he helped Jamie and
Fon clear up the chaos in the farmhouse, he nevertheless worked well.
‘You got an enemy, boss,’ he’d said to Jamie. ‘Thought at first the Black Devil might have got out, but no beast made this mess, not even a bull scenting a heifer.’
Gary coughed noisily. ‘I never trusted that Mike, mind. I didn’t like the look of ‘im, from the start; not our sort, he weren’t.’
After he had passed on his opinions, Gary remained silent, his supply of conversation seemingly used up for the time being.
Fon sighed, staring round at the now neat room, trying to shake off the memory of that awful night. She moved across the kitchen and stared down at Patrick, who was asleep on the sofa, and frowned in concern as she realized the boy had been asleep for longer than was usual.
The small boy was flushed; his cheeks, once so plump, were now thinner than they should be. It was clear he was not well.
Fon glanced out of the window. She should be helping the men in the fields. It was harvest-time; the corn, ripening late, was being gathered in, and Jamie had been able to employ only one casual to help him. And yet he had insisted that Patrick must remain indoors and Fon with him.
There had been talk of the scarlet fever over at Greenhill in Swansea, and Fon feared that Patrick might have caught the sickness one day when she and Jamie had taken him into Swansea to do some shopping. He’d not been himself since then: nothing she could put her finger on, but the normally placid Patrick had been fretful. He’d refused to eat and had fallen asleep at odd moments of the day. Now he had developed a red, angry rash, and Fon was certain he had the fever.
According to her herbal recipe book, the fever should be treated with the roots of bugloss, made into a syrup, but so far she’d used the remedy on Patrick without success.
At dinner-time the men came in from the fields, and Fon, glancing anxiously at Jamie, saw that he was bone tired. She knew he would work twice as hard as any help he hired; that was his way.