by Paul Henke
I don’t know how long we stood that way. I think we were both afraid to let go, to come back to reality and face the future. Perhaps we both knew, somehow, there was not going to be one. I only know the feel of her body against me, the touch of her lips on mine, caused my dreams to fade into insignificance. Nothing was important any more except now, right that instant, which I wanted to go on forever.
She pushed away from me. I tried to pull her back, but the interlude was gone, as fleeting as it had been intense. I looked down into her blue eyes, seeing the love there, and the despair, and the fear, and the words which she would say. Later, I thought about that moment so often, that I could have persuaded myself into believing anything.
‘W . . . what . . . happened?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Oh God, David, I can’t believe it.’ Fresh tears streamed down her face, her shoulders heaving, and she allowed me to pull her back to my shoulder. ‘You look so different. You’re nose,’ she tentatively touched my slightly misshapen nose.
‘It’s a . . . a long story, my love. I’ve been living on a deserted island with . . . with a few people. We only got away a short while ago. I . . . I came as quickly as I could.’
We might have stayed there forever, incoherently trying to talk, if the baby had not started crying. Gunhild pushed me away and went inside and I followed. The room was spotlessly clean but shabby. A perverse pleasure seeped through me. If her life was so poor it would be easier to convince her to come away with me. I crossed the small room with its rickety looking table and chairs, to a door opposite. In the gloom of the darkened bedroom I could see the cot and the baby standing there, crying for her mother. A surge of love for them both welled up within me, as I watched Gunhild bend to lift her. In the light I could see there was no doubt she was a Griffiths, with her big beautiful blue eyes, black hair, pert nose and now a cheeky smile, a little hesitant, as I was a stranger to her. I said nothing, sitting at the table, watching Gunhild deftly change a wet diaper, a rag held in place by a safety pin. Gunhild lifted the baby to the floor and with a squeal of delight she crawled towards the open door. Gunhild rushed after her, picked her up and sat on a chair close to me.
‘Sion told me what happened,’ I said, my voice a croak. I cleared my throat and continued. ‘I don’t blame you for marrying but I do blame myself for going away. If only I hadn’t been such a bloody fool this would never have happened.’
Gunhild gave a little smile. ‘If only. Can you imagine how often I said those words? I was still saying them up to the second I said I do to the preacher. If only he would walk through that door, now . . . now . . . now. But it never happened. I hoped, I prayed you were still alive, but I suppose as the days passed the hoping and praying died a little more. Did Sion tell you I did not want to get married? I was so sure you were still alive. I was sure even after your family had given up hope. I felt . . . I felt I would have known somehow. I was sure I would feel it if you were dead. Oh,’ she signed, ‘I don’t know. But my parents . . .’ she let the sentence hang between us.
‘I know, my love. But does it mean we have to live to regret it? This place is a hovel,’ I said with disgust, at which she began to bridle. ‘I’m sorry,’ I added hastily, ‘but I can see what it’s like.’
She sank back onto her chair, her shoulders dejected. ‘Let’s go away, now,’ I said earnestly. ‘Get whatever you need and let’s go. We won’t go back to St Louis but down river to one of the stopping stages. We can catch a river boat and head for New Orleans. Once there the world is ours. We can go wherever you say.’ I was speaking eagerly, trying to convince her with my enthusiasm and for a few seconds I was winning. Then the light died in her eyes.
She shook her head. ‘It’s a grand dream, David, but it won’t work. I’m married, for better or for worse. The Catholic Church does not allow us to divorce to marry another man without very, very good reasons,’ she said sadly.
‘There’s a good reason,’ I said pointing at the baby. ‘And anyway, sod the church. If they won’t grant you a divorce we can go away and just live together . . .’ I floundered, when she recoiled from me. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked lamely.
‘I . . . I can’t do that. It’s impossible. I will never do that. I have been forgiven by the mother church for the sin of being with child out of wedlock, I would never be forgiven if I did as you suggested.’
‘Gunhild, I know you went to church regularly and all that, but you were never particularly religious. Why should you start now?’
Her words stunned me. ‘I have received comfort and understanding during the blackness of the last months and I have grown to love the church in a way I would never have thought possible. It is the bright spot in my life. It is the,’ she hesitated and then continued firmly, ‘the single sustaining factor in my life which has helped me to retain my sanity. If not for the church and Father Christopher I would have killed myself . . . No, both of us,’ she hugged the baby, ‘a long time ago. I would have committed a mortal sin but . . . but he helped me over it. I . . . I owe him the salvation of my soul and to go with you now would be unthinkable.’
I could not believe it. Gunhild had never been like this. Religious yes, but not fanatically so. I compared her to Estella. Gunhild had been brought up as a moderately religious person, while Estella had been brought up in the cloistered atmosphere of a Spanish family. Estella’s stories came to mind. Yet both had gone in the opposite direction to the one I would have expected.
‘Gunhild, you can’t be serious,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve thought of you every day we’ve been apart. I . . . I’ve dreamed of our life together so often that anything else is unbelievable . . . unthinkable. I need you as much as I love you, please.’
Her eyes softened and she put her hand on mine. ‘I love you too, David,’ she said quietly, ‘and always will. Please believe that, but what you ask is impossible. What will she think,’ Gunhild stroked the baby’s black hair, ‘when she’s old enough to understand? She’ll think me a . . . a harlot,’ she choked over the word. ‘To learn I am living in sin with a man, against the wishes of God and the church.’
‘The church,’ I said bitterly, ‘has caused more strife and anguish than any other thing in the world. I stopped believing in God a long time ago, when I began to understand that. Look at history. The Spanish Inquisition and what was done in the name of the Pope. How can a man be in a position like that and then be claimed as a direct link to God?’ I paused waiting for her reaction. Then when she just stood there looking at me I rattled on, desperately trying to break through her armour of religion. ‘It’s insane. Look at the men there have been who were Popes. All of those conniving thieves, preying on the ignorance and poverty of the masses and keeping them poor by demanding massive payments to the church. Go out and take a good look, Gunhild, and then tell me what these so called men of God have done for the people. I can’t remember seeing a thin Pope,’ my voice grew bitter. ‘They’re all fat, sleek, wine-sipping creeps. And we are a further example of the misery the church causes, you and I. Why shouldn’t we get married by asking for a dispensation if that’s what you want? All right, it’s what I want too. It’ll take a little time but we can do it.’ The bitterness had left my voice and I was pleading once more. All she did was shake her head.
We sat in silence and I felt myself becoming angrier and angrier. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The problem was not insurmountable. She loved me for Christ’s sake, didn’t that count?
‘Please, my love,’ I begged. ‘Come away with me now.’
‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please understand.’
‘Damn it,’ I said bitterly, getting to my feet, the Griffiths’ pride taking over, ‘how can you throw away your life for an . . . an ideology that’s . . . ’ I faltered and strode to the door. ‘If there’s anything you need for the baby, anything at all, contact Sion or my mother. All right?’ She nodded slowly. ‘What’s our baby’s name?’ I asked softly.
She looked at me for a few seconds, tear
s in her eyes, the baby sitting on her lap, looking puzzled and wonderingly at me. ‘Susan . . . Susan Sian,’ she said in a whisper.
I pulled the door open and glanced back. When I left I took away the picture of her sitting in that squalid room, at the table, her head bowed, her shoulders heaving, the baby with her arms tightly around her mother’s neck.
Why didn’t I stay longer? Why didn’t I try harder? In years to come I was often going to ask that question. Now I was in a towering rage, hating the church and cursing God.
The horse was sweating when I reached home. I left it for Juan to see to, throwing him the reins as I jumped down and stalked into the house. My mind was made up. I had pleaded once, never again. If she wanted me she could come and get me, wherever I might be. I grabbed a bottle of whisky from the study and rushed upstairs, not wanting to speak to anybody. I had a lot to do if I was to catch the night train for New York.
I packed my best clothes in a portmanteau, threw in my gun and holster, and the gold I had brought with me. With a large drink in my hand I bathed and planned some more. I dressed with care in my black travelling suit, white shirt and necktie, and went down to say goodbye to Mam.
‘David,’ Mam said with a smile which quickly turned to a frown when she saw my face. ‘What is it?...Oh, of course, Gunhild.’
I nodded miserably and wearily sat at the kitchen table and told her about my conversation.
‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry.’ She put her hand on my shoulder.
I looked up at her, Mam’s eyes filled with tears. I knew at that moment that I couldn’t leave just yet. Mam needed me to be around for a while. If I left then I would be punishing my family for something they hadn’t done.
I stayed for nearly six weeks. Then one day I was in town getting a few things for Mam when I saw Gunhild standing next to a buggy with the baby in her arms. I went to walk across to her, to try again, when I saw an elderly man walk out of a nearby store and without a word climb into the buggy. Gunhild followed and with a flick of a whip the buggy moved down the street. I stood rooted to the spot, my heart leaden. Watching them vanish around a corner I made up my mind.
‘I have to go,’ I said to Mam, when I found her in the kitchen with Marie. ‘She won’t leave him because of her damned religion,’ I said with renewed bitterness, ‘so I can’t stay. I’ll let you know where I go and what I do. Where’s Dad?’ I asked, kissing her cheek and hugging her. She was trying hard not to cry. I was forever grateful she understood me well enough not to try and stop me.
‘With Sion, in town,’ she replied tonelessly.
‘Thanks, Mam, and don’t worry,’ I managed a smile. ‘I’ll be all right. Jake’s gone to Europe and I’ll go and meet them in Spain, or somewhere. I’ll be okay,’ I repeated.
I packed my bag for a second time and took the buggy to town. I found Dad and Sion in what used to be Dad’s office, going over some papers together.
I told them my decision and promised that I would write soon.
‘Hang on, son,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty and overreacting a little? Give it a while longer. Gunhild may change her mind yet you know. You haven’t been back with us long. Think of your mother for a moment, can’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I really am. I know Gunhild won’t change her mind. She’s had weeks to think about it. She could have come to me at any time. I can’t stay. I just can’t. Sion, if she needs anything, let her have it, will you? I told her to see you or Mam if she wanted anything for the baby.’ He nodded. ‘And will you continue to look after my investment in the business? Do anything you like with my money.’
He hesitated a second and then nodded again. ‘Why not wait until we’re ready and then you go and see about the new businesses,’ he offered.
I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. You’re the brains behind it all and you should run it. Can you give me a few thousand? Say three? It’ll save me going to the bank and I assume we can afford it?’
‘We can,’ said Sion, opening a safe and counting out the money from a large bundle. ‘Is that enough?’
‘Sure, thanks. I still have the gold I earned with Jake. I’ve got my naturalisation papers from the study, Dad. I’ll get an American passport in New York. I’ve also got Uncle John’s address which I might use,’ though I doubt it, I thought. We shook hands and I left. I bought three bottles of whisky from a local store and went to the railway station. The train arrived on time, departed on time and a berth was available for me. The days dragged and the nights were hell and the whisky was finished by the morning of the second day. After that I paid the car attendant inflated prices to keep me drunk all the way to Grand Central, New York.
There I found a decent hotel and stayed sober long enough to arrange my passport. By coincidence, by the time my passport was ready, the first ship sailing for Europe would be calling at Cardiff. I arranged a first class berth. I had plenty of money and if I ever managed to spend it all I could always send for more. I did not go and see John Buchanan and two weeks after arriving in New York I was aboard the ship. Amid cheering and weeping crowds, paper streamers fluttering in the sharp, snow laden breeze, and the sound of the tugs’ whistles signalling to each other, we left the dock side. I did not see the event, I was too busy in the bar.
I ate in my cabin, drank too much in the bar and fell into a painless sort of oblivion in my bunk. It was usually in the early morning hours of four and five before I finally fell asleep, and the middle of the afternoon before I got up. I remained meticulous in the way I dressed and even went to the barber’s for a haircut and beard trim.
It was late in the evening of the fourth day when it all changed. I was in the bar getting on a warm glow, the room beginning to sway a little, when the old man came in. He was bleary-eyed, scruffy-dressed, in need of a shave and when he stood next to me, stank like an old brewery. I was surprised he was in the first class lounge and even more surprised when the barman served him. He was skinny, about five feet six inches tall, with thinning grey hair and I guessed he was about sixty-five or seventy years old, but I didn’t look too closely. The barman half filled a glass with brandy, the old man gripped it in both hands, smiled weakly at me and drained it. He thumped the glass back on the counter and received a second. Two of the waiters caught him as he passed out, a second after he replaced the empty glass on the counter. I watched them carry him carefully through the door.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked the barman who was standing close by, wiping the counter with a towel.
‘A rich bum,’ he replied with a sneer. ‘If he had been a poor bum we’d have thrown him out. He’s worth a fortune. He’s a year younger than me and all he can do is drink himself to death, the fool,’ and with a curled lip of disgust he moved down the bar, to serve another customer.
The barman was short, fat and about fifty. The thought of the way the other man looked by comparison was a shock. I sat and looked at my glass of whisky, a special malt from Scotland. My thoughts were in a whirl but one thing was uppermost. I did not have it within me to drink myself into some sort of everlasting stupor because of a woman. I was young, reasonably well off, a trained lawyer and acting like a fool. I felt better as the thoughts took shape and I realised I had not even enjoyed my drinking bout. With that thought came another one; I was also hungry. It was time I had a meal in the restaurant.
They were still serving, in spite of the fact it was nearly 10.00 p.m. I found a quiet table in a corner of the ornate saloon. The white electric lights artfully surrounding the walls cast a subdued glow over the room. The cutlery gleamed like an array of surgeons’ instruments before a delicate operation and the single red rose in the centre of each table completed the effect of richness. There were still twenty to thirty people dining, filling half the tables. I ordered a filet mignon with salad, a bottle of red Burgundy, and while I waited for the order I looked around to see if there were any interesting women. There were but they appeared attached to men.
I noticed one in particular. She had black hair, a pretty but hard face and was wearing a dress cut low enough to prove her breasts were better than adequate. She was sitting two tables away and when I looked she turned her head slightly and smiled. I smiled back.
Later, after I had finished my meal and we had exchanged numerous glances and small smiles, I lingered over my last glass of wine and wondered how to approach her. There were four people at her table, two men and a woman. I guessed the man on her left, with his back to me, was her husband from the way he kept patting her hand. He was running to fat, his hair thinning and greased down to hide a bald patch. I watched them leave and from the way he weaved he was obviously the worse for drink. The woman paused at the entrance, looked back at me and smiled once more. The invitation was unmistakable and I followed them into the bar.
While the other three drank gin the brunette drank soda water and I sat at the bar drinking coffee. The time dragged and I was thinking about going to bed, regretfully alone, when there was a commotion at the table where they were sitting. The man I thought was her husband had apparently passed out. A couple of waiters helped to carry him out while the others followed. The second man could barely stand and the brunette helped him along. She turned her head and smiled again. I waited, deciding to give her fifteen minutes. If she did nor reappear by then, I told myself, the whole thing had been with no promise at all. I need not have worried because she was back within ten minutes. She slid onto the stool alongside me and ordered a brandy and soda.
‘I’m David Griffiths,’ I said with a smile.
‘Barbara Hunting,’ she replied, giving my hand a firm, cool shake. She had wide apart, brown eyes, a pointed chin and thin lips.