Honey's Farm

by Iris Gower

  Inside the pretty church of St Paul, she made her vows to love and honour and obey, and it struck her that this was the second time in her still young life that she had given her vows to a man she didn’t love.

  Outside, the grounds were filled with well-wishers and guests; the huge wedding breakfast was to be held in the fine rooms of the Mackworth Hotel. Calvin had seen to it that the entire building was theirs for that day and for their wedding night. Tomorrow, they would go home to the enormous house on the hill, to The Crest, and to a life of luxury and ease.

  And yet she must pursue her career as a designer of shoes; Calvin had promised her that he would not interfere. But already he had discarded the small premises she had planned for herself in favour of larger, more substantial buildings.

  As the couple emerged into the open air, a flurry of snow fell over them, almost, Eline thought, like a benediction.

  She smiled up at Calvin, and he squeezed her hand gently. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘At last, Eline, you are really mine.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Will sat in the small workroom and sighed heavily. The boot he was mending stood on the iron last in front of him; the bench was littered with pieces of leather, and the smell of it, fresh cut, reminded Will of his apprenticeship with Hari.

  In those days he was an uncomplicated, innocent boy who was grateful for a roof over his head and food in his belly. Grateful too for the affection Hari unfailingly showered on him, her love wiping out the pain of losing his family to the yellow fever. Hari had shown him what happiness was, and now, somehow, he had lost it all.

  He rose to his feet and removed the leather apron. The sky was darkening outside the window; a flurry of snow flew against the windows. It was high time he was getting home.

  Home! The word rang hollowly in his mind; home was now the modest cottage at Oystermouth, for, with Gwyneth sickly with her pregnancy, Nina thought it wise that her daughter should be where she could keep an eye on her.

  He pulled on his topcoat and picked up the parcels, gaily wrapped, from the table. Gifts to put under the tree, small gifts from himself, a pair of slippers for Gwyneth, sturdily fashioned to keep out the chill of the flagstone floor, and stout boots for Nina, who good-naturedly did the shopping now that her daughter was heavy with child.

  And in the mound of parcels, gifts from Hari, toys for the expected baby and a pretty nightgown and woollen bed-wrap for Gwyneth. For William there was an envelope containing money; it would be more useful, Hari insisted, than any other gift.

  He had balked at first, his pride rearing up to deny that he needed funds, but Hari had simply touched his cheek and smiled. ‘Let me do this, Will,’ she’d pleaded softly. ‘I have too much money, and you are the little brother I never had, remember.’

  He sighed heavily. Would he never be free of petticoat tails? Well-meaning as they were, the women in his life seemed destined to keep offering him a helping hand. Still, he would have no need to walk the five miles tonight; because of Hari’s generosity, he could afford to treat himself to a ride home on the Mumbles train.

  Home, he thought ruefully, was a place which sheltered the people you loved; he was fond of Gwyneth, sorry for her sickness and obvious discomfort now that the birth was near, but his love was all given to another woman, to Eline, who had become the wife of one of the richest men in the town.

  He must stop these feelings of self-pity, he rebuked himself angrily. He wasn’t badly off; he had banked the commission paid to him by Bob Smale, and that, for now, was his nest-egg, his small bit of security. As for the rest, he was making a living, his workshop practically rent-free.

  It had been Eline who offered him the accommodation in the building she had planned to use for her own business before her husband had insisted on a fine new workshop that would be worthy of her standing in the town.

  Eline had taken him round the building, offering him the low rent with the excuse that she had paid out half a year’s rent in any case and this way, she argued, she would at least recoup some of her losses.

  Will believed that Eline’s new husband had no knowledge of the arrangement, and he felt a small glow of triumph that, at least in this, Eline shared something, some small part of herself, with him.

  The door opened and a large figure stood framed against the light. ‘I hope you are proud of your part in all this!’ The words were harsh, a challenge.

  Will put down his parcels and took up a hammer as he faced the red, angry countenance of Bob Smale. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, pretending innocence but knowing exactly what the man was talking about.

  ‘The roadway, it isn’t going through that parcel of land I bought after all. It’s a useless burden now, just more space for the weeds to grow.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Will said cheerfully, ‘but it wasn’t part of our bargain that I survey the land or find out what it was to be used for. You didn’t confide that much to me, remember?’

  For a moment Bob Smale appeared nonplussed. ‘Well, common sense would tell you that I wouldn’t buy the ground unless there was something in it for me.’

  ‘Quite,’ Will agreed. ‘In which case I’d have thought it was in your own interests to check the plans before you put out any money.’

  Bob Smale, defeated, made for the door, but before he left he swung round to face Will, his face even redder, his eyes blazing.

  ‘I don’t care what you say,’ he snarled, ‘you were part of this – this outrage – and I thought you were a man to be trusted.’

  Will raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. ‘What outrage?’ he enquired. ‘You asked me to front a consortium buying a piece of land from Jamie O’Conner, and I did exactly that; where is your quarrel with me?’

  Bob Smale swung away, slamming the door shut with a bang that reverberated through the building. Will smiled to himself; the man had got only what he deserved. But Will was wise enough to know that he, as well as Jamie, had made an enemy of a dangerous man.

  Will let himself out into the darkness and locked the door of the workshop carefully; there was no telling what a man like Bob Smale would do once angered.

  Sitting in the cold leather seat of the Mumbles train, Will stared out into the darkness, seeing the twinkling lights of the houses on the perimeter of the bay with no sense of comfort. He dreaded going back to the small cottage where he and Gwyneth slept in a cramped bedroom together, of necessity unable to be apart. But he had made his bed, and now he must lie on it.

  The cold wind was rushing in from the sea when Will alighted from the train, and he was thankful to reach the shelter of the cottage. He pushed open the door and stared round at the familiar kitchen, with the fire burning cheerfully in the grate and the small tree decorated bravely with paper chains, and his throat constricted. Gwyneth had done her best to make their first Christmas a happy one.

  He placed the parcels carefully round the base of the tree and looked around, wondering where everyone was. He glanced at the back of the door and saw that Nina’s coat had gone. A chill of apprehension touched him; there was only one reason why Nina would go out so late and in such weather – the birth of the baby must be imminent.

  He took the stairs two at a time and moved quickly into the bedroom.

  ‘Will!’ The gladness in Gwyneth’s tone brought a searing guilt that was difficult to contend with; he should have been here, with her, he knew it was near her time, the least he could have done was to leave work early.

  ‘What’s this, then, idling in bed while your husband slaves to bring in the bread! What sort of wife are you?’

  He crossed the room and took her hand, seeing, with sympathy, the sweat beading her forehead and upper lip.

  ‘Is it very bad?’ he asked quietly.

  He sat on the chair beside her and smoothed her wrist, and Gwyneth forced a smile.

  ‘No worse than for other women,’ she said bravely, ‘and if they can do it, so can I.’

  Her face crumpled, and her mouth was pursed in
to a circle of pain. Her eyes were closed, and beneath the bedclothes her body stiffened.

  Will was at a loss. Memories of his mam, straining on the bed, and him crouched in the corner, listening in mute terror to her moans, filled his mind. For a moment he was back in the past, in the hovel that had been his home. Then he shook his head as though to clear his mind and held his wife’s hand, waiting for the pain to pass.

  When Gwyneth rested, finally, he smiled down at her, brushing the damp hair from her forehead. ‘Can I fetch you anything?’ he asked softly. She shook her head. ‘Mam’s gone for the midwife,’ she said. ‘Once the new young nurse is here, I’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

  Will marvelled at the fortitude of women, who endured the agony of birth not once but several times in their lifetime. The procreation of the species must go on at all costs, he mused with some bitterness.

  It was with a sense of relief that he heard the door bang downstairs and the sound of footsteps coming steadily nearer.

  ‘Out of here, Will Davies,’ Nina said, her voice full of false cheer. ‘This is women’s work; you did your job when you planted your seed, my fine man.’

  Downstairs, he made some tea, feeling it a useless gesture but knowing he must occupy himself with something or go mad. Was this the agony that came then from a few moments of thoughtless passion? The tearing of a woman’s body to produce a child? The one comforting thought was that it was something women experienced all the time, something they apparently wanted.

  He tensed, almost dropping the cup as he heard Gwyneth scream out in agony. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. God! He had done this to her, foisted on her a baby, brought her nothing but pain. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and sank into a chair, and then he became aware that Nina was in the room, her face ashen.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Duw, had babies, me, and not felt such pain as my girl is suffering.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Will asked, looking up at Nina uncertainly.

  ‘Only one thing,’ she said. ‘Fetch my girl a doctor before it is too late.’

  Fon turned over in bed and saw the white of the snow against the window with a feeling of contentment. Jamie in the bed beside her was still asleep, a rare occurrence on a farm where, in the normal course of events, work began at an early hour. But this was Christmas, and even Jamie had decided to lie in bed for a while.

  As if aware of her scrutiny, he opened his eyes and immediately reached for her, his hand seeking and finding her naked breasts.

  ‘Behave!’ Fon said in mock anger. ‘Don’t you ever think of anything else?’

  ‘Not often,’ Jamie agreed, drawing her close. She felt the heavy weight of him against her and smiled happily, knowing he was aroused as always by her nearness. One thing she could be certain of, Jamie’s desire for her was total and undiminished by the familiarity brought about by the closeness of their marriage.

  ‘I’ve got you a lovely present,’ Fon said dreamily. ‘I’m sure you’ll love it; I can’t wait for you to open it.’

  He nuzzled her neck. ‘I can give you yours right now, if you like,’ he said, coaxingly.

  ‘Hush!’ she said good-naturedly. ‘I can hear Patrick getting out of bed.’

  She sat up, her breasts proud against the coldness of the morning. ‘He’ll be so excited,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to see his little face. Come on, Jamie, rouse yourself.’

  He made a face at her, and she laughed at her own foolish choice of words.

  ‘All right, you cruel woman, I’ll get out of bed, if you insist.’

  He slipped from beneath the blankets, and Fon immediately felt the cold seeping into the bed. She looked at him, tall, his hair dark, with hints of red, and his manhood standing proud and him unashamed of it.

  She sighed. ‘I regret being so hasty.’

  Her voice was soft but he caught her words. The door sprang open and Patrick came into the room, clutching a brightly painted toy train.

  ‘Look what I got, Fonny!’ He held it out to her. ‘Lovely puffa train.’

  ‘Daddy Christmas been, then?’ Fon said, hugging the little boy. ‘Come on, get in bed with Fon. Your father can light the fire today as a treat for us.’

  She sank back against the warmth of the pillows and watched as Patrick, well wrapped up in his flannel night-shirt, ran the train along the folds and dips of the patchwork quilt. She closed her eyes and must have dozed, because she heard Jamie’s voice calling for her to come down.

  In the kitchen, the fire was blazing cheerfully and the table was laid with a succulent dish of bacon and eggs surrounded by bread fried in the fat.

  ‘Starving,’ Patrick said, and climbed up on to his chair.

  Jamie poured the tea and sweetened it liberally with sugar. ‘Eddie and Tommy will be here soon.’ Jamie sat at the table and began to eat, and Fon, watching his even, white teeth bite into the bread, felt love surge through her.

  ‘Aye, well, I’ve got each of them a small gift,’ Fon said happily. ‘They’re good boys, both of them.’

  ‘I have something for them too.’ Jamie was smiling. ‘I’ve deliberately kept it back until today.’

  ‘What is it?’ Fon asked. ‘You’ve paid them up to date, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, aye, but I thought a little bonus might not go amiss.’ He helped himself to more bacon. ‘As you say, they are good lads, and I intend to keep them.’

  He leant big elbows on the table. ‘Now that the land is sold, we have enough money to buy in seed for the spring sowing. We’ll put down more swedes this year, and a good couple of fields of potatoes.’

  ‘Is all the ploughing done, then?’ Fon asked, drinking her tea, grateful for its warmth. She was glad that Tom had the task of milking the cows this morning and Eddie would see to the laying hens.

  ‘Most of it,’ Jamie said. ‘And it’s a good feeling to have money in hand again.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I can’t forget the look on Bob Smale’s face when he found out the road wasn’t going through here at all.’

  ‘Serve him right,’ Fon said feelingly. ‘He’s an awful man; he deserved all he got.’ She looked anxiously at Jamie. ‘But it won’t end there, mind. Smale isn’t the sort to forgive and forget; he’ll be an even worse enemy from now on.’

  ‘I can handle him,’ Jamie said easily, ‘but you must be extra vigilant. You must keep the farm door closed and the gun at the ready, just in case.’

  ‘I know,’ Fon said softly. ‘I’ll be all right, Jamie, don’t you worry.’

  The door opened on a rush of cold air. ‘Merry Christmas, boss!’ Eddie entered the room, blowing on his reddened hands. ‘That’s the milking all done, thank the Lord.’

  ‘Sit down and eat,’ Fon said. ‘I’ll throw more bacon into the pan. My husband seems to have a good appetite this morning.’

  ‘And why not?’ Jamie said, smiling, his eyes warm as they rested on Fon. ‘I work hard enough, don’t I? I think I deserve a good hearty breakfast.’

  ‘All right’ – Fon held up her hand in mock surrender – ‘I was only saying, mind.’

  It was half-way through the morning when Eddie handed Fon a parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper but with Eddie’s scrawled handwriting wishing her compliments of the season.

  ‘What’s this?’ Fon asked. ‘You affording presents, Eddie – how did you do it?’

  He winked. ‘Open it and you’ll see.’ He sank into the chair nearest the fire and pulled off his cap; his hair seemed frosted with silver from the cold.

  Fon opened the paper quickly and held up a pocket of linen that exuded the sweet scent of dried lavender. She held it to her face and breathed in deeply.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she said. ‘The smell of summer on a cold winter’s day! You are clever, Eddie.’ She turned the pocket over. ‘But how did you manage the sewing? These stitches are beautiful.’

  ‘I was going to be a doctor, remember,’ Eddie said. ‘I’ve done a bit of stitching, believe me.�
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  Fon rose and took a gift from under the tree. ‘Mine isn’t nearly as imaginative,’ she said, ‘but it’s given with good heart and in gratitude for all you’ve done for us.’

  Eddie’s face lit up. He tore the parcel open with almost childlike delight, and a brightly coloured scarf fell into his lap.

  Laughing, he wrapped it around his neck. ‘It’s splendid!’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had anything made especially for me before. It was good of you, Fon.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said shyly. ‘I’ve made Tommy the same thing – couldn’t manage anything more elaborate.’

  ‘No need for anything elaborate!’ Eddie said quickly. ‘This has been one of the best Christmases I’ve known for a long time; it’s been lovely except . . .’

  ‘Except that you haven’t been able to see Arian.’ Fon finished his sentence for him.

  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘That father of hers is keeping her well hidden. Indeed, I’m more than a little worried. I’m going up there, this evening; I must assure myself that she’s all right.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ Fon spoke comfortingly, but she wasn’t sure at all; with a man like Bob Smale as a father, anything might happen.

  ‘I’d better get some work done, then.’ Eddie rose to his feet. ‘I’ll mend that fence up on the top field; might as well get it all done before spring.’

  Fon smiled. ‘You’re turning into a real farmer, Eddie. I’m proud of you.’ She moved to the door behind him. ‘I’ll see you later, and we’ll have a big dinner, with plum pudding to follow; we’ll be together like a real family.’

  On an impulse, Eddie bent and kissed her cheek. ‘You and Jamie are a very happy couple,’ he said. ‘Anyone with half an eye could see that. And if I could have anything in the world I wanted, I would choose marriage like yours to the woman I love.’

  Then, as though embarrassed by the expression of his innermost thoughts, Eddie hurried away across the windswept yard, pulling his scarf around his neck.