by Siân James
We walk on in silence. I’ve never heard her talking so fluently.
‘How did old Big Mouth get to know about Alfredo?’
‘Oh, that was a real misfortune, that was. She’d called about a concert they’re having in Saron, wanting to know if I’d play the piano, if you please. As though I’d ever play in public. Well, I gave her a donation, they’re trying to raise twenty pounds for the Forces Comforts Fund, but do you think I could get her to go? She sat so long in your father’s chair, I thought she’d taken root, and at last I said, “Well, Mrs Lloyd, I’ll walk a step with you since it’s getting so late.” And as we were putting our coats on, Fredo arrived and let himself in, and that was that.’
‘She’ll tell everybody.’
‘She promised not to tell a soul... Oh yes, she’ll tell everybody, no doubt, but will anyone take much notice? I shouldn’t think so. I don’t think anyone is going to take me for a dangerous woman, somehow. No, they’ll only think I’m a bit foolish and leave it at that.’
‘I don’t know. People are stupid enough for anything these days. There could be a lot of bad feeling towards anyone who doesn’t conform.’
‘My family has never conformed, girl. My grandfather burnt his ricks rather than pay tithes to the English church. Why should I take the English side, now? The enemies of the English people are not my enemies. Why should I pretend they are?’
‘I won’t have an easy moment after this. And what would happen to him if they discovered he was breaking out of camp?’
‘Come, come, Rhian, take a hold of yourself. What about Huw? Isn’t he in far greater danger? Think of all the men, of all nationalities, who know they may be killed tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. The risk Fredo is taking is negligible, isn’t it? But I suppose you’re worried because you think he may be some sort of ogre. That’s why I want you to meet him. Once you’ve met him, you’ll understand... you know what I mean. Come on now, I’ve got a nice piece of sparerib in the oven and some parsnips and roast potatoes. In a way, it’s a new lease of life for me.’
When we get into the house, I can see that it is. Her eyes, always her best feature, are soft and glowing. With love, I suppose.
Alfredo arrives at about nine o’clock. He’s small and wiry, his skin dark and shiny as acorns, his dark hair turning grey: an attractive man, lively as a terrier.
My mother is blushing as she introduces us.
He says I am bellissima. Then he says, I think, that he knew I would be. And my mother blushes again.
I’ve been upstairs to my old bedroom and found an English/Italian dictionary which we’re soon passing back and fore to one another. Alfredo seems delighted by this new and more exact way of communication.
I ask him whether he has children. He has three sons, he says, and my mama, three daughters. He can hardly believe it when I tell him there’s only me; he felt sure my mother had held up three fingers when he’d questioned her. I try to tell him that one daughter is worth three sons but he fails to understand me.
‘Don’t try to be clever, Rhian,’ my mother says sharply. ‘Why must you always try to be clever? Talk slowly, and don’t put on that English accent either.’
Chastened – and indeed subdued – I have to sit and listen to her giving him a list of my shortcomings; in particular, pride, waywardness and stubbornness.
Then he, pointing to the occasional word in the dictionary, says I must not have care, because he knows I am gentle, true and radiant, as my mama has told him already much times. Then, suddenly, he understands my earlier weak attempt at a joke and laughs rather a lot.
Then he takes out the snapshot of the large tomb with angel, and yes, it is the grave of his beloved wife, who was as beautiful and virtuous as my mama, though not alike in outward, except regarding gait and industry.
After that, I leave the talking to him and my mother. Leaning back in my chair, I let their simple, halting sentences wash over me and even without following the words, recognise their grave commitment, and recognise also that there is nothing I can say or do which could cancel it.
There is absolutely nothing I can do. The tension slips away from my shoulders as I accept this fact. My mother has always, quietly and steadfastly, gone about doing exactly what she’s decided on, how could I have considered myself capable of influencing her in any way?
‘Your girl is happy, yes?’ Alfredo says, noticing, I suppose, my change of mood. I rearrange my face, careful not to agree too readily. After all, I’m not happy, only a little less unhappy.
All the same, I can’t help liking him. He seems so lively, trying so hard to communicate and understand. And now that he and I are both silent, I’m aware of something else too; a quiet dogged strength, very like my mother’s, very like my father’s; perhaps the strength of all small farmers struggling against nature, but taking a certain pleasure both in the struggle and the occasional victory.
‘My father was a poet... una poeta.’ The word comes to me from my one term of Italian.
‘Ah, yes,’ he says. ‘Is good, poetry and music is good for peoples.’
‘And religion,’ my mother adds, rather sternly. ‘Don’t forget religion, whatever you do.’ She turns to me. ‘By the way, Rhian, Fredo is very worried because I haven’t got a picture of the Virgin Mary on the mantlepiece and I don’t want him to think I’m a heathen, do I?’
‘I’ll get one for you. I’ll bring it with me next time I come.’
‘It’s only for his sake, of course.’
‘Of course.’
My mother cooks him liver and bacon and fried potatoes which he eats very quickly and delicately. And then he smiles a lot at both of us, shakes our hands and leaves.
‘He never stays later than half past ten,’ my mother says. ‘He knows I need my sleep, and so, of course, does he. He won’t be back at that camp until well gone eleven as it is, and he’s got to be up at six.’
Six
THE POST VAN IS EARLY and gets me to school in time. In spite of this piece of luck, I feel worried and rushed all the morning; with so much on my mind, I slept badly last night and for the first time my marking hasn’t been done.
Angela Pugh, 5B, whose aunt lives in Tregroes, asks after my mother. I’m very short with her. ‘She’s quite well, thank you. Why do you ask?’
She gives me a wounded look. ‘I know you go home on a Wednesday evening,’ she says, ‘that’s all.’
I search her face and decide that she’s innocent. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache this morning.’
She’s prepared to forgive me. ‘Shall I get you an aspirin from Mrs Lewis?’
‘It’s all right thank you, Angela. I’ll struggle on.’
In my Welsh lesson with 2A, we’re reading a story set in the last war. An elderly Welsh couple hear that their only son is being sent abroad on active service. ‘Lle mae’r hen abroad ’na?’ the frightened wife asks her husband. ‘Where is that old abroad?’
‘Somewhere... somewhere beyond Wrexham,’ he answers.
This morning the story constricts my throat and brings tears to my eyes. I blow my nose, but the girls are nudging one another.
‘It isn’t right is it, Miss?’ Arthur Williams asks. ‘Sending our boys to fight for the English?’
I’m determined that this lesson is not going to turn into another political debate. Arthur Williams’s father is in prison for his pacifism; the majority of the class think he’s wicked or mad. ‘He’s helping Hitler, isn’t he, Miss?’ ‘It’s cowardice isn’t it, Miss?’ This morning I’m not capable of maintaining fair play.
‘War is a great tragedy,’ I say sternly, ‘and we’ll say no more about it. Go on reading, Carys.’
*
I’m more than ready for the dinner break and the first to reach the staff room. Gwynn Morgan, who never usually comes near, rushes in after me, closing the door behind him.
‘Where were you last night?’ he asks, his voice unrecognisably harsh. ‘I waited for your bus. I was
worried out of my mind when you weren’t on it. Where were you?’
‘I stayed with my mother last night. I didn’t arrange to meet you. What’s the matter with you?’
He comes right up to me and grips me hard by the shoulders. ‘You knew I’d be meeting you. You knew I’d be waiting. Don’t you care a bit about me?’
I shake him off. ‘Leave me alone, somebody will see us. You didn’t ask to see me. I don’t owe you any apology.’
‘Rhian.’ Suddenly he looks old and dejected.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d be meeting me. I had so much to think about.’
‘We must talk, Rhian.’
‘I know. But not here, someone will come.’
‘Come to my room later. I’ll send everyone out.’
‘No. I’m worried about being in your room. Come to see me tonight, at eight o’clock tonight.’
He looks surprised. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Yes, that will be better. Eight o’clock.’
He leaves and I find myself trembling again.
Mary Powell, Maths, comes in to find me staring out of the window, trying to compose myself. I turn towards her, making an effort to smile.
‘Rhian, what’s the matter? Your face is a terrible colour. Have you had bad news?’
‘No, I’m all right. It’s only, you know, the time of the month, that’s all.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I thought it was... Have you heard from Huw?’
‘Not for three weeks.’
‘And that doesn’t help. It’s hard, isn’t it? It’s not fair that we have to suffer like this. I haven’t heard from Alun, either, not this week or last. He had a few days in hospital last month, he had something called prickly heat. It sounds awfully painful, doesn’t it? He burns terribly in the sun, even in Llandudno, he’s so fair-skinned, you see. He should never have been sent to Burma.’ She turns her engagement ring round and round as she talks. ‘I wonder if he’ll come back safe,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid to listen to the news these days. Those Japanese are worse than the Germans. And there are more of them, too.’
We take out our sandwiches and make a pot of tea. Most of the staff go home or have school dinners, so we’re on our own.
‘Do you ever think, Rhian, about that telegram coming? We regret to inform you...’
‘I don’t let myself think of it,’ I reply, rather harshly.
‘Don’t you really? Oh, you are brave. I think about it all the time, seem to think of nothing else.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Mary, don’t be so morbid. You’re not helping Alun by spending your time rehearsing his death. Write to him as often as you can and try to keep cheerful, that’s the only way you can help him.’
She doesn’t seem to hear me, but carries on in a high, wavering voice, like someone in a fever. ‘You hear about women who don’t stay faithful to their men when they’re overseas. How can they bear the guilt when that telegram comes? Don’t you think it would drive them mad?’
‘Mary, if you’re not careful, you’ll be the one who’ll go mad and Alun will come back and find you in Brynglas Asylum.’
‘Oh, that’s cruel.’
‘I was only joking, girl. Look, we’d all go mad if we spent our time dwelling on all the terrible things that could happen. Everyone has got somebody they’re worried about; son, father, husband or friend. You’re not the only one.’
‘I know. Why can’t I be reasonable and calm like you? I’ve lost my faith, that’s the trouble, I think. I can’t even pray any more. Religion has always been such a big part of my life and now it means nothing.’
‘You should go to see Mr Roberts after school. He’s so understanding about doubt and weakness. He’d really help you.’
‘Do you mean, Mr Roberts, Tabernacle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t, Rhian. You see, he’s Congregational and I’m Baptist.’
‘He won’t mind. You remember how Christ was always ready to associate with sinners and publicans? Well, Mr Roberts is like that even with Baptists.’
She manages to smile – and Mary Powell doesn’t often smile. She looks very like the young woman in the Radio Times advertisement, the one so badly in need of Parkers’ little pink liver pills. Perhaps I should get her some.
‘I must go back to my room now,’ she says. ‘I’ve got some Form Three boys coming in to do their corrections.’ Her voice becomes shrill. ‘And if they don’t finish them this dinnertime, I’ll keep them in tonight until they do. There are some evil boys in 3C.’
Mary Powell can’t keep any sort of discipline, poor thing. She should never have become a teacher. The sooner Alun comes back and takes her away, the better for all of us.
When I tell Ilona Hughes about Gwynn Morgan coming to the house, she says she’s off to the pictures, which is very decent of her. It’s a double feature programme; Esther Williams swimming in one and Dick Haymes singing in the other; she’ll be bored out of her mind. I give her some of my sweet coupons.
She goes at ten past seven and then I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t imagine why I suggested he should come to this house. What could I have been thinking of? What if my mother-in-law decides to call on me? She doesn’t come often, admittedly, but what if she happens to be at a loose end and takes it into her head to come up to criticise my new dress? What if she can’t resist calling to ask if I’ve heard from Huw? We’ve got an arrangement that if I get a letter before school, I call to tell my next door neighbour, Sam Jones, a retired railwayman, who’ll immediately go down to let her know, but I don’t think she trusts me to remember. Every time she happens to see me in town she asks whether I’ve had any news. You can’t blame her, I suppose; he’s her only son, the only fruit of her womb. And besides, she remembers him when he was sitting up in his pram, clapping his hands and gurgling. I try to think about him, far from home, trusting me completely. It’s shocking, but I can visualise Ilona’s Denzil more clearly. Huw seems like someone I used to know in a previous life.
I wash up, tidy the living room, make up the fire and brush the hearth, all the time trying not to think of the sin I committed: marrying without love. It’s Gwynn I love – and that’s another sin. All day, while pretending to be anxious about my mother, what I’ve really been suffering is an anguish of love. And now my heart is aching again, my breath laboured.
Can I live through the next half-hour until he comes? What else can I do to use up the time? I can’t settle to read the paper or write a letter. I’ve brushed my hair, put on some lipstick and rubbed it off, changed my shoes, washed my hands for the third or fourth time, gone upstairs again to look out at the road he’ll walk along, counted to five hundred and recited the long psalm.
And then, just as I’m telling myself that if he doesn’t come in the next four and a half minutes, he’s going to be late, there’s a knock at the door. And as I’m warning myself not to rush, to keep some semblance of calm, I’m there opening it.
When I see him, I know at once that things are not going to be easy. Suddenly I feel cold and quiet.
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ he’s saying, as he comes in.
‘I shouldn’t have suggested it. It’s my fault.’
‘No, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have behaved so wildly. I’m older than you, years older, and should know how to keep a grip on myself. I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.’
When he sits down, it’s on the very edge of the chair.
‘I didn’t know you intended to meet the bus. You didn’t mention it.’
‘I was afraid you’d tell me not to.’
‘I suppose I would have. But, of course, I would have wanted you to come. Oh Gwynn, I’m torn in two. All the same, we mustn’t meet like this – I know that much.’
‘You’re too young. You’ve got too much to lose. Good God, I was your teacher – and Huw’s too, for that matter. How can I let you risk breaking up your marriage?’
‘Why would it be a risk to my marriage, bu
t not to yours?’ It’s not that I want to argue with him, but I need to understand his reasoning, because I know I’ll be going over his words again and again when he’s gone.
‘My marriage... Oh, my marriage is a very settled thing, Rhian. Yours is new and full of hope.’
‘Why did you ask me to your house? Was it so that I should see for myself how lonely and vulnerable your wife is?’
He looks hard at me for a moment or two. ‘Not really,’ he says at last. ‘Nothing as complicated. When I asked you to let me paint you, you said no. I thought – rightly, as it turned out – that you might come to sit for her. I need to see you occasionally, need to talk to you, it’s as simple as that. Was it difficult for you? Did you dislike it?’
‘No, it was interesting. And of course, I enjoyed having tea with you afterwards. We’ll have that time, at least, won’t we? For the next few weeks?’
‘It’s not what I want, Rhian, but it’s as much as I can have.’ He looks into my eyes again. ‘Come on, ask me what I do want. Won’t you?’
I shake my head. ‘How can I?’
I can’t look at him. I can’t ask him what he wants, because hearing it would bring tears to my eyes, and where would that lead us? If he makes a move, takes me in his arms, it must be his decision not mine and he mustn’t regret it afterwards. I can’t look at him because I’m aware – angrily aware – that I’m not as much in control as he is.
He’s completely in control again. ‘You asked me whether my wife was a good artist,’ he says now, ‘and you may decide that I misled you. I’m afraid she’s only a beginner. I hope you won’t mind.’
I can hardly bear to think of his wife, but I have to. ‘I thought the portrait she did of you was very impressive.’
‘She hasn’t done a portrait of me, Rhian. That’s a self-portrait. How could you have thought it was hers?’
‘It was with her other paintings. I took it for granted, I suppose.’