Honey's Farm

by Iris Gower

Watching him, Fon smiled. He was right; she and Jamie were close and very happy. And yet, now and again, the ghost of Katherine came to haunt them, especially now, near the Christmas time, for it was then that Katherine had died.

  Quietly, Fon closed the door and went inside. It was time she started the evening meal; there was plenty to do without wasting her time delving into the past. Anyway, she told herself, she must count her blessings, be happy with all that she had.

  ‘Thank you, whoever is up there,’ she whispered and moved purposefully towards the pantry.

  The wait for the doctor seemed endless. Anxiously, Will kept vigil in the window, his heart leaping with every cry from the room above.

  At last, the doctor’s carriage pulled up outside the door, and even before he had alighted into the street Will was dragging at the latch, anxious to let him inside.

  ‘She’s in a great deal of pain, doctor.’ He took the man’s coat, shaking it free of snow before hanging it on the latch behind the door.

  ‘Women in childbirth usually are in pain,’ the doctor said dryly, hoisting his bag into a more comfortable position in preparation for climbing the stairs.

  Will noticed, irrelevantly, how shabby was the worn lino on the treads, how it cracked and groaned beneath the combined weights of the doctor and himself.

  ‘The first room on top of the landing,’ Will directed, wincing as Gwyneth’s cry, nearer now and filled with anguish, rang out, seeming to surround him, to fill him with despair.

  ‘Go back to the kitchen,’ the doctor advised. ‘You’ll only be a hindrance; boil up some water, make tea, anything to keep yourself occupied and out of my way.’

  The door was opened briefly and Will saw Gwyneth, her knuckles white as she clutched the bed posts above her head. Her face was screwed up, almost unrecognizable in her pain, and then, mercifully, the strong wood of the panelled door was closed, shutting him away from the harrowing scene of the childbed.

  He returned to the kitchen and pushed the kettle on to the flames. The tea in the pot had grown cold and stewed, and he made fresh, not caring that it too would doubtless be wasted.

  The screams continued, for what seemed to Will to be endless hours. Finally, his wife’s voice seemed spent, and the only sounds emanating from the bedroom were soft, hoarse moans.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ He hammered his fist against the scrubbed boards of the table. ‘Is it never going to end?’

  Into the suddenness of his silence came another silence. Will realized that the sounds from the bedroom had ceased. It was, for a moment, as if time stood still. Then, with a dipping of his heart, he heard the soft, pitiful sounds of a woman weeping.

  Will pushed himself upright, brushed back his hair and made for the stairs. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Tentatively, he opened the door to the bedroom. The first person he saw was Nina, and she was holding a shawled bundle in her arms.

  Behind her, the doctor and midwife worked over his wife, and Will realized that the weeping was hers; the sound, low and despairing, tore at him.

  Nina looked up. Her eyes were dry but full of anguish. ‘All for nothing,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘All that pain for nothing.’

  Will moved forward and stared at the child in her arms – a perfect child, with waxen features and closed eyes. The baby was still, too still, and Will felt the breath leave his body as the truth dawned on him.

  ‘Your son was stillborn.’ Nina spoke with difficulty, her mouth trembling as she fought to bring out the words. ‘It was a difficult birth, and it was all too much for the little mite.’

  She held the baby towards Will, and he took the child, staring down into the small face, not believing that the baby could have died so easily.

  ‘Think of a name for him,’ Nina urged. ‘Give him a little bit of dignity.’

  Will’s mind was blank. He could not think rationally; he stared down at the child, so light and insubstantial in his arms, and felt despair wash over him.

  From the bed came Gwyneth’s voice, shocking in its weakness. ‘I want him called Kevin, after my father, please, Will.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll call him Kevin.’ Gently Will returned the child to Nina, as if even now the baby was a precious thing that could be hurt.

  ‘Gwyneth!’ He looked to where the doctor was bent over his wife. The man turned, and his eyes, meeting Will’s, were full of sympathy. He shook his head. Will, uncomprehending, went to his wife’s side.

  ‘There’s sorry I am to let you down, Will.’ Gwyneth’s hand, frail and white, was resting in his own.

  Will controlled his tears, smiling down at her with difficulty. ‘You didn’t let me down, Gwyneth,’ he said, forcing himself to speak. ‘You worked hard, you did your best; it was fate, that’s what it was.’

  ‘But why my baby?’ Gwyneth said, her voice thread-like. ‘I wanted him so much.’

  ‘You are young’ – Will rushed out the words, wanting to comfort – ‘you can have plenty more babies.’

  He looked to Nina for support, but she did not meet his eyes. As if drawn, he turned towards the doctor, and the man gestured for him to come outside.

  ‘I won’t be a minute, love,’ Will said, tucking the bedclothes around Gwyneth, as though the warmth could ease her pain. ‘I think the doctor deserves a cup of tea, or maybe something stronger.’

  Outside on the landing, the doctor took a deep breath. ‘Your wife is sick,’ he said, ‘very sick.’

  Will’s mouth was dry. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, fear clutching him with cold hands.

  ‘I mean she has lost too much blood, and the birth, it has sapped her strength beyond endurance. It’s doubtful if she will see morning. I’m sorry.’

  Will found himself, idiotically, thanking the doctor. ‘You did all you could,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘Go to her, spend some time with her; it’s all you can do now,’ the doctor said softly.

  Will sat through the dark hours beside Gwyneth’s bed. She slept fitfully, her hands seeming to pluck at the bedclothes, her eyelids twitching spasmodically, as though she was being plagued by bad dreams.

  Near dawn, she woke and looked at Will with a clear gaze. ‘Hold my hand,’ she said, her voice little more than a breath. ‘I don’t want to leave you, Will; I love you.’

  He took both her hands in his as though he could warm life into her by the sheer strength of his will.

  They sat thus for what seemed a long time and then Gwyneth sighed softly, just once, and Will knew that she had relinquished her slender hold on life. He bowed his head over her hands and wept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Fon stared up at the light slanting across the ceiling and felt the chill of the morning air on her face. Outside, the ground was hard, lying beneath the cold rime of frost. But soon spring would come; the drilling of early potatoes would begin, and then the lambing season would be upon them, and for a time life would be hectic.

  Cautiously, Fon turned to look at Jamie. He was still asleep, his strong arms above his head, his breathing quiet, regular and even. How she loved him!

  Turning, she snuggled against him, and he stirred, his arms folding around her. Even in his sleep, he was roused by her nearness. Fon lay for a long moment, savouring the closeness of him, the warmth of the bed and the sweet sensation of being alone in the world with the man she loved. Then, smiling, she crept out of bed and, shivering, picked up her clothes.

  She would light the fire and cook the breakfast before Jamie was up and about, make life as easy as she could for him. She dressed on the landing and, twisting her hair into a knot at the back of her neck, she made her way downstairs. It was cold in the kitchen, the flags of the floor striking a chill into her bare feet.

  Quickly, she knelt before the fire; the ashes had been riddled the night before, and so she placed sticks and paper behind the black leaded bars, arranging them so that they formed a crisscross pattern, a platform on which she could arrange the coals and cinders.

  The cheerfu
l flame shot up through the paper, and, though having no real warmth, the sight cheered her. Carefully, as the fire took hold, Fon placed coals in strategic positions over the fragile glow.

  Afterwards, Fon was to remember every detail of her morning with exact precision, just as though it was marked down in her mind as the momentous and tragic occasion that it was to prove. But for now the kitchen was a cheerful place, and it was soon resounding with animated talk as Eddie and Tommy joined Jamie at the table, faces aglow with the cold.

  Fon ladled out bacon, egg and fried potatoes, knowing the men needed good, warming food inside them to prepare them for the work ahead.

  It was when she was alone, with Patrick still asleep in his bed, her hands plunged into the bowl of hot water as she washed the dishes, that the knock on the door came. She froze for a second, and only when Patrick made his way sleepily into the room, rubbing his eyes, did she move towards the kitchen door, stopping to pick up the gun from its usual place in the porch.

  ‘Fon, it’s me, Mammy.’ Nina’s voice sounded strained, and at once it was obvious that something was very wrong. Fon replaced the gun and opened the door quickly. She saw at once that Nina’s eyes were red with weeping. At her shoulder stood Will Davies, white-faced and haggard.

  ‘It’s your sister,’ Nina said. ‘Oh, Fon, my little love, something terrible has happened.’

  ‘Come inside, Mam,’ Fon urged. ‘Sit down, and I’ll put the kettle on the fire. We’ll all have a hot cup of tea – you look frozen.’

  She knew she was babbling, and she dimly recognized that her chatter was a futile attempt to put off the evil moment when the bad news could be suppressed no longer.

  Nina held out her arms. ‘Fon, I got to tell you straightaway, Gwyneth’s gone, her and her baby son died in the night. I came straightaway, I just had to get away from the cotttage. Say I can stay up by here for a bit, for I can’t face going home, not yet!’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Fon said hoarsely, holding her mother close. ‘I can’t believe it – our Gwyneth dead, her baby too – it can’t be true.’

  Gwyneth was the one who was always bursting with health; she had a fine big-boned frame and full, rosy cheeks. She was the girl who could handle a sack of oysters as well as any man.

  ‘Fon,’ Will said, ‘is it all right for Nina to stay with you, just for a while?’

  ‘She can stay as long as she likes,’ Fon said and her mind raced, rearranging the bedrooms, putting out the best bed-cover, filling her thoughts with trivia, avoiding for as long as possible the full import of what her mother had told her.

  Suddenly, she sank into a chair; her hands were trembling, and after a moment tears, hot and bitter and totally useless, sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Will, I’m so sorry.’ She held her hand out blindly and Will took it, his fingers strong around her wrist. Her heart went out to him; he had lost his wife and his son, he must be bereft, and yet here he was comforting both herself and Nina, acting more like a son than a newly acquired in-law.

  ‘I’ll make the tea.’ Nina seemed glad of something positive to do, and Fon watched as her mother performed the familiar tasks, swishing hot water round the china pot, warming it before adding the precious quota of tea leaves.

  Nina allowed the kettle to sing and dance on the flames, the fine gust of steam penetrating the cold air, before at last adding the boiling water to the pot.

  She searched, with a helpless gesture, for cups. Fon pointed. ‘In the cupboard, on your right, Mam.’

  Patrick came and stood beside Fon, resting his arms in her lap, his face anxious. Fon attempted to swallow her tears, and they seemed to lie in a hard knot within her chest.

  ‘What went wrong?’ she said, when at last Nina and Will were seated with her at the table. It had to be talked about, every detail must be brought out and examined, before belief could become a reality.

  ‘She was brought to her childbed,’ Nina said. ‘Her pains were bad, worse than I’ve ever seen.’ Her voice broke for a moment. Then, struggling for composure, Nina continued. ‘She was brave, mind, very brave, and Will’ – she turned to him, her hand on his arm – ‘he spent most of his precious savings on the doctor’s bill.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not that it did no good, mind. The babbie went first, and then, as though she’d given up all hope, Gwyneth slipped away.’

  Nina swallowed hard. ‘Will was at her side, as a good husband should be. There is nothing but praise for our Gwyneth’s man.’ She looked at Will. ‘Whatever your life holds now, my boy, you can say you did right by our Gwyneth, and I’ll always be grateful to you for that.’

  Will bit his lips and shook his head, and Fon saw how shocked he had been by the events of the night. He had been there with Gwyneth, witnessed her pain, and he must be feeling as though nothing in his life would ever be right again.

  Now, Fon thought, she was without her sister; there was no more Gwyneth, no more the cheerful, flirty girl who breezed about the house, acting the expert on men, but who in reality loved only one, her husband.

  ‘What will you do, Will?’ Fon asked softly. ‘Where will you stay?’

  He seemed to rouse himself from depths of thought that darkened his eyes. ‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ he said quickly. ‘There’s a small room at the back of my workshop; I’ll live there for now, it will be convenient at least.’ He smiled without humour. ‘I think the best thing to do is immerse myself in my work, such as it is.’

  ‘Remember,’ Nina said suddenly, ‘I shan’t be staying up by here with Fon for ever and my home is your home, whenever you need it.’

  Will didn’t reply; he simply rested his hand on Nina’s shoulder and smiled with infinite sadness.

  Fon rose to her feet. Activity was the thing to keep their minds off the tragedy that had fallen upon them so unexpectedly.

  ‘Come on, Mam,’ she said. ‘We got work to do, mind; there’s beds to be made and rooms to rearrange, and then I must see to the chicks; they want their food whatever happens.’

  Will nodded at her in silent approval, and he pushed away his chair, standing tall and somehow distant, a far-away look in his eyes.

  ‘I’ll get back to Swansea, then,’ he said quietly.

  Nina turned to him and, putting her hands on his cheeks, kissed him soundly. ‘God go with you, Will Davies,’ she said quietly, and Fon bit her lip to stop the threatened tears as Will turned away, his shoulders hunched in misery.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ he said, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll see to . . . everything.’

  ‘I know you will, love,’ Nina said, ‘even though the cost of it all will take most of the money you’ve got left. But you’ll see our Gwyneth out of this world right, and I thank you for it.’

  When Will had gone, there was silence in the kitchen for a long moment; then Fon silently held her arms out, and her mother, all her bravado gone, went to her daughter gratefully.

  ‘Why don’t we just run away?’ Eddie said, his arm around Arian, holding her slim form close to him in the darkness of the barn.

  ‘I don’t see why I should have to hide what I feel for you from my father,’ she said. ‘And, anyway, I promised I would always be here when he needed me; and it seems he needs me more than ever since that deal with Jamie O’Conner went wrong, blast the man!’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Eddie felt bound to defend his boss; it had been Bob Smale’s intention to take the land away from Jamie under false pretences and then sell it at a vast profit. All that had happened was that Smale got his just deserts.

  ‘I know it really,’ Arian conceded. ‘But when Daddy’s hurt, I feel hurt.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Eddie said dryly. ‘The way he talks to you when he’s in drink makes me see red.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ Arian said, softly. ‘Deep down he loves me; it’s just that he can’t seem to face reality.’

  ‘Well, the land is worthless now it’s not required for road building,’ Eddie said, ‘and your father is stuck with it; t
here’s nothing he can do.’ He paused. ‘He could farm it, of course, instead of letting all his land go wild.’

  ‘He hasn’t the money,’ Arian said reasonably. ‘It would take many men and horses to get all that land into shape in time for the spring planting. In any case, he hasn’t the interest; he’s never been a working farmer, you know that.’

  ‘Well,’ Eddie said slowly, ‘you have to be allowed to live your own life at some point; you can’t be his little slave for ever.’

  ‘I can be your little slave, though, can’t I?’ Arian’s mood had changed suddenly; she was coquettish. Her lips parted invitingly as she tipped back her head. ‘Kiss me, Eddie.’

  He felt the familiar rising tide of emotion as he held her close, and when he tasted the sweetness of her lips, he knew he’d kill to have her.

  ‘Stop teasing me,’ he whispered, his mouth moving to her throat, ‘or one day my feelings will get the better of me and I’ll tear off your clothes and rape you!’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ Arian’s hands moved to his belt and it was several moments before Eddie realized her intention.

  He tipped her face up, his hand beneath her chin. ‘Arian, are you sure?’ he asked.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Hurry up, before I change my mind, you big oaf.’ She lay back in the hay, her skirts falling back to reveal shapely legs.

  ‘You wanton little hussy!’ Eddie said thickly. ‘I’ll ravish you until you cry for mercy.’

  ‘We’ll see who cries for mercy,’ Arian said, and, reaching up, she bit at his neck, her mouth hot, her hands helping him with the buttons of his trews.

  It was the moment he had waited for all his life, or so it seemed to Eddie; and he was determined to make it an occasion to remember for the rest of his life.

  The funeral of Gwyneth Davies and her infant son brought the villagers of Oystermouth out in force. The church of All Saints was crowded to the doors, and even the weather, cold and damp, seemed to conspire with the general atmosphere to mourn the passing of a young woman and her child.

  Will was grateful for the presence of Hari Grenfell at his side; her arm was through his, and her eyes beneath her dark bonnet were filled with love and sympathy.