Bells
Page 33
He re-filled his glass and took it up to the roof. This was an extraordinary building, plonked up here on the hill, remote from the certainties of life. How many people before him had stood on that very spot, watching the racing clouds and reflecting on past stupidity; contemplating future recklessness. A folly – that summed it up, somehow. He walked around the enclosure, running his hand across the rough stones, looking for evidence of previous visitors, proof that he hadn’t slipped into a dream-world. On his second circuit, he found the evidence he needed – a sweet wrapper, folded and folded again, then wedged in a gap between two stones. Phantoms didn’t eat Quality Street.
The sun was dipping behind the hills and a gentle breeze riffled the leaves around his vantage point. It was as if he were in the basket of a hot-air balloon – without the danger or the hot air – hovering ten metres above the ground, unable to proceed unless he shed some ballast. He was feeling buoyant, though, and there were signs that the process had already begun.
Ever since his confrontation with Fay, and their subsequent discussion, Kingsley had cropped up, quite spontaneously, in conversations and reminiscences. It felt okay, too, as if mentioning him, now and again, was draining the pus out of the wound. It might be an idea to drop him an email; tell him about their row and its resolution – in a light-hearted kind of way, of course. News that his parents were getting on well with each other, and getting over his leaving, might be galling enough lure him home. He would discuss it with Fay – see what she thought.
He was at ease with himself about the Laura business, and it wasn’t because he was callous or lacked the full complement of emotions. Sometimes he thought he was going to explode with bloody emotions. No. The ‘thing’ with Laura had never been anything to feel bad about. They’d talked it through at the time and again, on the phone the other day. She’d explained that, from the day she discovered that she was pregnant, she’d been determined to go it alone; that she’d loved David and had never contemplated letting another man into her life; that she expected, wanted, demanded, nothing from him or the other putative fathers. And – he’d worked this out for himself – it was feasible that bearing a child, regardless of whom the father was, had saved her from going round the bend with grief. She’d also apologised for visiting his parents. ‘It was a mad moment, Jack. I promise it will never happen again.’ He was duty bound to accept her decision and he knew she would keep her worFay. Non. Laura. Dafydd Morgan wouldn’t make such heavy weather of it all, would he? Jack could hear him now, chuckling, ‘Go with the flow, Jackie Boy.’
‘Nice shower?’ Jack asked as Fay emerged from the bathroom. She wore a white bathrobe, which reached to her ankles, and had twisted a towel, turban style, around her hair. And, seeing her like that, it was as if he’d been suffering from an undiagnosed illness but, in that instant, had taken a turn for the better. ‘You look fantastic, love.’
‘I look a sight,’ she insisted, but he could see that she was pleased. She sat on the bed, towelling her hair and studying his shaven face. ‘I’m starting to get used to the new you but I’m sure the patients will have plenty to say. And Sheila, too.’
‘It’s nothing to do with them. We’ll decide. You and me.’
Fay nodded. Pink-cheeked and freckle-faced, wet hair combed back from her face – the banner-waving girl he’d spotted across the student refectory stood in front of him. And here they were, cocooned in this fairytale tower – no income tax returns to complete; no books to mark or reports to write; no mother, hovering outside the bedroom door.
He showered as quickly as he could, scouring every nook and cranny. When he dried his face, the fluffy towel snagged on his chin where his beard was already beginning to erupt, but there was nothing he could do about that. He wrapped a towel around his waist, then drew his hand across the steamy mirror to reveal a man he barely recognised – a little on the gaunt side, not bad looking, but, to be truthful, nothing out of the ordinary.
It was getting dark. Fay had lit the candles and, its starkness mellowed by flickering candle glow, the bedroom looked snug; less chaste. She was searching through the chest of drawers. ‘Did you notice a hairdryer? I didn’t bring mine.’ She paused at the drawer containing Jack’s dancing gear and, taking out the bells, she shook them. ‘I never realised what a stirring sound these make. Sort of joyous and nostalgic at the same time. Do they have a special name?’
‘They used to be known as crotals, but I don’t know if anyone still calls them that.
‘Crotals,’ she said, as if memorising a useful phrase in a new language. ‘Crotals. What an ugly word for such pretty things.’ She shook them again, the silver metal glinting in the candlelight.
Dropping the towel from his waist, he kissed her gently on the lips, then harder, breaking off only to apologise, ‘Sorry love, no razor.’ Then he loosened the belt of her bathrobe, prepared to stop instantly if he sensed any resistance. But she returned his kisses, giving him the consent he sought.
He slipped the bathrobe off her shoulders, coaxing the thick fabric down her arms, but she was still gripping the bells, a set in each hand, and it would go so far, and no further. ‘You’ll have to let go, love,’ he whispered.
‘Okay.’ She handed him the bells and the bathrobe slipped to the floor.
He stood a hand’s-span away from her, not moving, afraid he might get it wrong.
‘Jack, will you do something for me?’
‘Anything.’ He meant it.
‘Will you put them on?’
‘What?’
‘Will you put the bells on?’
‘Really?’
She nodded and he raised his foot on to the chair, flicking the leather strap around his shin.
‘No. Not on you.’ She smiled shyly, offering him her leg.
Naked, he knelt in front of his wife, strapping the harnesses around her shapely calves, kissing her on either knee, anchoring himself in the moment.
Tentatively, she stamped her left foot, then her right. ‘How am I doing?’
‘It’s a start, but you’re going to need lots of practice.’
‘Good.’ She looped her arms around his neck and he scooped her up, carrying her across the room and dropping her, tinkling, on to the bed.
A lot later, after they’d showered again – together this time – and eaten a delicious supper, they returned to bed with a bottle of red wine. Fay fell asleep first, curled on her side like a cat amidst the crumpled sheets. Tired, but not quite ready to let the day go, Jack perched on the window-seat. He could see Fay clearly in the candle-glow, her breasts rising and falling steadily as she breathed. She murmured something that he didn’t catch, rolling on her back, reaching towards his side of the bed. What was she dreaming about? Him? The children? Anne Saunders parties? Or something he could never – should never even try to – imagine? You can’t be in my dream…I can’t be in yours. That’s what the man ought to have sung.
He opened the shutters. A gentle breeze drifted up the hillside, carrying the scent of damp leaves; the candles dipped and danced; a harvest moon hung, low and golden in the sky, as if it had just bounced off the horizon. And the lights of Llangwm winked at him, encouraging and comforting, from down in the valley.
*
Morris Off … is farewell, with no sorrow in it; good-bye, but with no dread of loneliness tomorrow; … When the dance is over, and the bells are quiet, there is neither surfeit nor exhaustion. Morris Off is like to make one think of sound sleep and clear awakenings.
The Morris Book,
Cecil J. Sharp and Herbert C. Macilwaine,
Novello & Co. Ltd, 1907
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Honno Welsh Women’s Press was set up in 1986 by a group of women who felt strongly that women in Wales needed wider opportunities to see their writing in print and to become involved in the publishing process. Our aim is to develop the writing talents of women in Wales, give them new and exciting opportunities to see their work published and often to give them thei
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Published by Honno ‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys, South Glamorgan, Wales, CF6 4AH
© Jo Verity, 2007
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print ISBN: 9781870206877
ebook ISBN: 9781906784713
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Cover illustration by Rebecca Gibbon