Love and War

by Siân James

‘You should be able to recognise my work by this time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m being arrogant as usual. Why can’t I accept that I’m not an artist, only a teacher in a small school in a Welsh backwater.’

  ‘You’ve had your work exhibited. You’ve won prizes.’

  ‘Rhian, don’t patronise me.’

  ‘You should be proud of your work.’

  ‘I’m a conceited ass and if I had any sense I’d go before you throw me out.’

  ‘I won’t throw you out.’ The simple words sound like a declaration of love. I feel as though I’m blushing; my cheeks are warm and my lips feel soft and swollen.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, in what I hope is a brisk no-nonsense voice.

  ‘I would, please,’ he says, very quietly.

  When I go out to the kitchen to put the kettle on, he follows me.

  ‘Pretty house,’ he says, ‘much as I’d expected. I love these small, artisan cottages.’

  ‘Then why do you live in that great posh house?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘I was only joking. It’s a beautiful house.’

  ‘I’d like to live here with you.’

  ‘Oh, Gwynn, don’t.’

  We’re both stunned by this second lapse.

  He takes the cup of tea from me and we sit one on each side of the table in the kitchen. We don’t say a word for a long time.

  ‘I didn’t intend to marry her,’ he says at last. ‘I honestly didn’t. I had no money, no prospects; I certainly didn’t mean to be a teacher in those days. She invited me to a Sunday meal at her home and because I accepted, her parents took it for granted that we were engaged and immediately started planning the wedding. They lived in a small town, about seven miles outside Rouen. I expected them to be worldly and sophisticated, I thought all French people were worldly and sophisticated, but they were more narrow-minded and provincial than the people round here, all lace curtains and genteel poverty and dressing up in their best clothes to walk to the nearest couple of shops. And every evening we endured excruciatingly boring visits from grandmothers and aunts and great aunts and cousins bringing very ugly wedding presents. It was a horrendous time.’

  ‘You must have been very much in love.’

  ‘I suppose I was. Oh, of course I was. But I’d never, for a moment considered marriage. My God, I was only twenty-one, a diffident Welsh art student, very proud of having won the attention of this elegant French woman of twenty-five, but intending only a relationship for my six-months’ stay in France. Not for ever.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that you struggled very hard to get out of it.’

  He sighs. ‘No, I don’t suppose I did. She was very gentille and, yes, quite a lot more, too. She’d been engaged to a young lad from the next village while she was still at school and he was killed in the war and her family was resigned to the fact that she’d be on the shelf for the rest of her life. I think they felt ashamed of her – she became a governess and they were looked down on, you know, and treated very badly.’

  ‘She told me that the people she was with were very good to her.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You tend to remember the good times and forget the humiliations.’

  ‘So you got married in France?’

  ‘Yes. In September 1924.’

  ‘I was only five, then.’

  ‘Yes. Just starting school, I suppose. Big dark eyes and little fat bottom.’

  ‘I wish I could have seen you when you were twenty-one.’

  We sit for another half-hour, I think, hardly speaking. When he says he should go, I jump up to open the door for him.

  ‘Good-night.’

  ‘Good-night, Rhian.’

  I would have gone with him to the edge of the world.

  Seven

  POOR MAY POWELL IS IN TROUBLE. She banged some boy’s head against the classroom wall – one of those boys in 3C she was moaning about last week – and his mother comes up to school to complain.

  She declines an invitation to the Headmaster’s office, preferring to confront him in the corridor, where, the time being exactly ten to nine, she has the largest possible audience of pupils and staff. Cynrig Williams, the Head, has to spend a considerable time saying how sorry he is, explaining about the fiancé fighting in Burma, and how she, Miss Powell, is yet another casualty of war. Complete strangers might think he was quite a compassionate man.

  The boy’s mother is a thin, acid woman with royal blue turban, long grey coat and a magnificent voice which she hoists up and down like a banner. ‘Miss Powell’s fiancé is nothing to me, Mr Williams, wherever he is and whatever he may be doing for his country. But my boy has ringing in the ears, and if it leads to something serious I’ll sue Miss Powell and you and your school with every means at my disposal. I’m taking him to Dr Oliver at ten o’clock this morning. You shall hear from me again, Mr Williams.’

  ‘Strictly forbidden, Miss Powell,’ the Head says in the quiet of the staff room after she’s been persuaded to leave. ‘Physical violence by any member of staff is strictly forbidden. You should have sent the boy to me, Miss Powell. I’m allowed to administer the cane quite freely as long as it’s entered in the corporal punishment book – the cane, as you all know, is not physical violence but permissible chastisement. And now I want everybody in Assembly as soon as possible, please. The children are already agitated and excited.

  ‘I can’t go, Rhian,’ Mary says as soon as he’s left. ‘Everyone will be looking at me. I’ll faint, I know I will. Oh, I’m so ashamed. How could I have done it? Oh, and I’ve done it several times, if I’m honest. I just lose control of myself, something seems to snap inside me. They’re evil, those boys, the things they say, the way they snigger. What can I do? I certainly can’t go to Assembly.’

  ‘Then I won’t go either. I’ll stay and make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mary,’ Jack Jones, the boys’ PT teacher says as he goes out of the room. ‘I know that Alfie Morris – all the little bugger wants is a morning off school. He’ll be back, bright as a button, this afternoon. I’ve laid him out before this. He’s a little devil, but he doesn’t bear grudges.’

  ‘What if his brain is damaged?’ Mary asks when everyone’s left. ‘What if he has to go to hospital? What if he dies?’

  ‘He’ll be all right, I’m sure. You can’t have hurt him much, you’re not strong enough. It’s you I’m worried about, Mary. You need some time off. You should go home for a week or two, the doctor would give you a certificate.’

  ‘I can’t go home. I don’t get on with my step-mother or my step-sisters. Even my father seems to have turned against me. All I’ve got in the world is Alun and he’ll probably be killed... Oh, I think I’m going to faint.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You drink this tea instead, it’s got two spoonfuls of sugar in it, it’ll do you a lot of good. What lessons have you got this morning?’

  With a judicious mixture of bullying and cajoling, I calm her down and eventually get her to her feet and ready for her first class, a double with 5A. ‘I’ll see you at break,’ I say in my most cheerful voice. Great Heavens, she depresses me.

  As I’m gathering up books for my first lesson, a prefect taps at the door and tells me the Head wants to see me. I shall probably be reprimanded for missing Assembly but I can’t say it worries me. I rehearse a drawling apology as I go downstairs to his study.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Evans. Sit down, please. I noticed that you stayed in the staff room this morning with Miss Powell. That was kind. Just what I would have expected of you. Let me tell you what’s on my mind. I’m worried about Miss Powell. So are you, I know. As you’re aware, I like my staff to be on top form and at the moment Miss Powell is not on top form.’

  His huge smile seems to bulge out of his face. He’s a large man with enormous energy but little imagination. He waits a moment or two for a comment from me, but as I remain silent, he continues.

  ‘I don’
t go out of my way to flatter my staff, Mrs Evans. Hard work and total dedication are things John Cynrig Williams takes for granted, but since we find ourselves here on our own, I’ll take this opportunity to tell you that I find your work – and conduct – entirely satisfactory.’

  Again he smiles his sudden, over-sized smile. I incline my head a fraction.

  ‘But of course I didn’t send for you to tell you that. No, I’m asking you to do the school a favour. Would it be possible for you to take Miss Powell as a lodger? I think it would be the making of her. She is all nerves and wild imagination. You would give her a calm centre. Because you are solid, Mrs Evans.’

  I hope he recognises the venom in the look I turn on him.

  ‘No, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible, Mr Williams. I’m sorry, but I already have a lodger.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. A Miss Hughes, I believe, from North Wales. You seem surprised? Ah, but I consider it my duty, Mrs Evans, to get to know something of the private lives of the young people on my staff. In that way, I can help them tackle any problems they may have before they prove insurmountable. For instance, when I discovered that young Mr Roberts seemed unable to get his weekly teaching forecast finished on time, I was able to convince him that it wasn’t due to any lack of mental prowess, but solely to the fact that he was spending just a little too much time every week in the town Billiard Hall. He felt, of course, immensely relieved at my confidence in him, and his work improved almost at once.’

  I grit my teeth for another smile, but on this occasion his large mouth remains in a frog-like, down-drooping curve.

  ‘As you’re aware, Mr Williams, I have one lodger and I’m afraid my cottage is too small for another. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Evans. That will be all.’

  I leave the study trembling with anger at the thought of being spied on out of school hours. And I’m not solid, I growl to myself. And the thought of having poor dopey Mary Powell as a lodger instead of Ilona Hughes appals me. I come face to face with Gwynn Morgan in the empty corridor and for a moment I stand gripping one of his large strong hands in mine. He looks surprised but pleased. ‘The Head’s been checking up on me. I’m absolutely furious. He says it’s his duty to keep an eye on his young staff.’

  ‘Come up to my room at break,’ he says. ‘Let’s make his day.’ His voice is playful, but his eyes are dark and serious, so beautiful that my throat aches.

  ‘Shall I?’

  ‘Do. It’ll make my day, too.’

  And mine.

  Last week, the thought of being alone with him in the Art Room frightened me. Today it seems only a minor irregularity. How smoothly and imperceptibly one slips into sin. Only we won’t be doing much in the sinning line, I have to assure myself. A little gazing and sighing, perhaps, and what’s the harm in that?

  I give the Upper Sixth a terrific lesson on Paradise Lost, Book IV. Things I’d hardly understood myself about the nature of love and temptation fall into place; I feel that I’m speaking with the tongues of men and of angels. I hope they’re getting it all down.

  Ilona Hughes has never met, never even seen, Mary Powell. I try to describe her: ‘She’s not exactly fat but she’s all weight, somehow, you know, really heavy on her feet. Even her eyelids seem heavy. She shouldn’t have become a teacher because she has a lowering effect on everyone and the last thing a Maths class wants is to feel tired as well as bored. But what else could she have done? I’m really worried about her.’

  ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You haven’t done your ironing tonight or your marking and you’ve just used half your butter ration on that toast.’

  ‘I was rude to the Head as well, and late for my Welsh class with 2B because I stayed too long in the Art room with Gwynn Morgan.’

  ‘Great Heavens,’ Ilona says, ‘whatever were you doing?’

  ‘Discussing Paradise Lost.’

  ‘Hm. Well, I’m going down to the Ship, I need some cigarettes. I’ll just have one drink with old Lizzie and then come back.’

  ‘If only there was a vacancy at your place, Ilona. Mary Powell would be just right behind the counter in a Post Office. She’s wonderful with figures and she’d be so earnest and conscientious. Do you think you could mention her to Mr Gruffydd?’

  ‘No. We’ve got enough dreary people there as it is.’

  ‘If only you two could change places. You’d love the boys in 3C. Mary Powell thinks they’re evil but they’re only dirty-minded little scruffs. Do you know, I think I’ll walk down with you and call in to see her. She’s got digs in Marine Place.’

  I’m surprised to find Jack Jones, the boys’ PT teacher, with Mary. I suppose he’s worried about her as well.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll just have to make us a pot of tea,’ Mary says. ‘You’re both being so sweet to me.’

  Her voice sounds foolish and flirtatious; she obviously thinks Jack has at least some degree of romantic interest in her. Perhaps he has.

  Jack Jones is a big, broad, tough-looking man, not in the army because he had to have his right arm amputated a few years back, after a rugby injury. ‘I bet you’d like to be a soldier, Sir,’ the boys say, giving him every opportunity to indulge in some heroic fantasy. ‘Not on your life,’ he says. ‘I know when I’m well off.’

  Tonight, he’s telling Mary about all the boys he’s thrashed and left for dead, all the mothers who’ve threatened to sue him.

  ‘Oh Jack,’ she says at last, her voice still sugary, ‘I don’t believe a word of it. People like you and Rhian don’t lose control of yourselves. You’re born teachers, both of you, but I’m a complete failure.’

  Why don’t you try to get a job in a bank or a post-office?’ I find myself asking. ‘With your Maths degree, you’d be bound to get on.’

  She looks at me bravely, blinking back tears. ‘You see, Jack, Rhian thinks I should give up teaching. Thank you, Rhian, for being so honest.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ Jack says. ‘I definitely think you should stick it out. That little bugger was back in school this afternoon, cheeky as ever. You were quite right to fetch him one.’

  She gives us very weak tea and soft biscuits that smell of cupboards. Why is she so dreary and hopeless about everything? Her bed-sitting room is hideously depressing, dark brown rexine and varnished wood with tired-looking mats and cushions. I know there’s a limit to what you can do in a furnished room, but she could at least have taken down the pictures: sepia reproductions of some Roman battle scenes, strewn with Roman corpses.

  ‘Where do you live, Jack?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of rooms at the top of Graig Road. Been there a few years now. Quite comfortable. Furnished with old washing-stands and octagonal bamboo tables, but at least the landlady is no bother.’

  ‘My landlady is a friend,’ Mary says breathily. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her. She lights this fire for me before I get home and brings in my washing when it’s raining. I have my evening meal with her and my Sunday dinner.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t like that,’ Jack says. ‘I like to come and go as I choose.’

  He yawns and looks around him. He has a wide mouth and a big bony nose. He’s very shy as a rule; I’ve hardly spoken to him till now.

  ‘I like my independence,’ he says.

  I break out in a sweat. What made me so eager to forgo my independence? Younger than either Jack or Mary, I’m already tied. Ilona Hughes can talk and flirt with anyone in the pub tonight; she can begin an exciting new relationship with anyone who catches her eye. She’s free, but I’m trapped.

  Do all married women feel like this from time to time? Or only those who’ve married the wrong men?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jack asks.

  ‘I was thinking about... about all the marking I’ve got, I can’t seem to settle to it this week. So I think I should be going home now. Thank you for the tea.’

  Mary seems ready, almost eager, for my departure. ‘I’ll consider your advice
very carefully,’ she says as she shows me out. ‘Thank you for being so honest. I’ve been thinking along the same lines myself. Some other job. I’m definitely not cut out to be a teacher, I know that.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Jack says, ‘don’t start that again. You’re doing fine. You’re not a saint, but who is?’

  I leave him there, still comforting her. I wonder, briefly, what Alun Brooke would make of the situation and decide that he’s too upright and noble-hearted for anything as degrading as jealousy.

  My mother has a poisoned finger – the middle finger on her right hand – and is feeling very low. She can’t do the milking or any housework, she can’t cook, can’t even cut bread and butter. I try to do some chores for her, but watching me only makes her more irritable. ‘Good gracious, you can’t even squeeze out a cloth properly.’ ‘That’s not the way to sweep a kitchen, girl, that’s the way to sweep a yard.’ ‘Don’t hold the loaf like that or you’ll cut off your thumb.’ ‘You have to be gentle with that drawer, it won’t open unless you coax it a bit.’

  She has no modern appliances, not even a carpet sweeper. Every carpet and mat has to be swept or taken up and beaten. She hasn’t any electricity or gas, not even a water tap in the house.

  ‘I’m not worrying about the housework, girl – it’s just that I hate feeling out of sorts. I’ve told Alfredo not to come again till I’m better. I must go to bed early and try to sleep.’

  I think she’s got a fever; her skin feels hot and dry.

  ‘I’ll come up again tomorrow night and bring you some of that iron tonic.’

  ‘I’ve got some iron tonic here. But why should I waste it, girl, when it’s only my finger that’s bad?’

  ‘It’s not only your finger. The poison has got into your bloodstream by this time.’

  I rummage in the medicine cupboard. ‘Mam, this tonic is almost ten years old. It’s the one you bought for me when I had glandular fever that time.’

  ‘It’s all the better for being old. You only get coloured water these days. Gracious me, are you sure I should have as much as this? Well, it will do me a power of good, I’m sure. It was the most expensive one they had in Albert Lloyd’s. Now, don’t worry about me any more, I’ll have another dose when I get up. And thank you for bringing me the holy picture. I don’t think you ought to leave it in the middle of the mantelpiece, though, in case the minister calls. He may come this week because I didn’t manage to go to chapel on Sunday. Put it on the dresser, behind the cups. That’s better. And fancy the artist being an Italian. They’re very clever people, no doubt about that. Will you help me up to bed now?’