by Siân James
4B crowd in with their customary bang and flourish, see the Head and start twittering like a classroom of small birds. Miss Simpson has backed her small frame into a corner, but by this time I’m feeling well enough to frown threateningly at them, and slowly they lapse into silence.
The Head takes out the portfolio of drawings and watercolours: landscapes and seascapes; some very delicate, some bold and dark; about a dozen altogether. He spreads them out on a table at the back of the room.
‘Which would you like?’ he asks me.
‘I’d like them all.’
He looks at me sullenly; they’d certainly have made an impressive show in the Hall on Prize Day. But he gathers them up carefully, replaces them in the portfolio, hands it to me and marches to the front. ‘Thank you, Miss Simpson. That will be all.’
The swell of voices gathers again before we’ve reached the top of the stairs.
‘I must go to my class. Thank you, Mr Williams.’
‘I shall expect very hard work from you, Mrs Evans, for the rest of this term – exceptionally hard work and some spectacular examination results. By the way, I don’t think Delia Morris is coping too well at the moment. Is she perhaps spending her time around the town cafés in the evenings? If I were you I should have a talk with her. Is it more encouragement she needs or more homework?’
He knows everything about everybody, but at the moment I don’t hold anything against him.
‘I’ll speak to her. I’ll sort it out.’
When I get home I pin the drawings and watercolours up around my small bedroom and they bring me a measure of comfort when I pace about at night.
On the Wednesday of that week – and for the first time since Gwynn’s funeral – I go home to Tregroes.
Huw’s parents have called on my mother and told her about my letter to Huw: I’m for it.
Adultery, she says, is not a nice word. I agree with her. ‘It’s certainly not one of my favourites,’ I say, ‘but compared with death for instance, I find it relatively undisturbing.’
She inclines her head a little, accepting my rebuke. ‘I was sorry to hear about Mr Gwynn Morgan,’ she says.
‘You can call him Gwynn, Mam. He might have been somebody else’s husband, but he was my lover and we were going to live together.’ The sob in my throat almost chokes me.
‘How could you have lived together, girl? He with a wife and you with a husband. Where ever could you have lived? Who would have wanted you as neighbours?’
‘We were going to go away together. We were going to have children together.’
‘Heaven help us! Illegitimate children they’d have been. What ever would your father have said?’
‘He’d have been very distressed, I know.’
‘I would have been very distressed, too. So would Fredo. But don’t cry, girl. It didn’t happen.’
‘I wanted it to happen. I wanted to live with him and have his children. More than anything in the world. That’s why I’m crying. Because I loved him with all my heart and soul. As a woman is supposed to love a man.’
‘As a wife is supposed to love a husband.’
‘Yes, that’s how I loved him. As the hart panteth after the water brooks.’
‘Blasphemy, now. Taking the Lord’s name in vain.’
‘I don’t mean to be blasphemous. I know too much of the Bible, that’s my trouble, it comes into my head unasked. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He taketh me to the banqueting house and his banner over me is love.’
‘Don’t cry, girl, don’t cry. I won’t say anything else, I promise you. He’s dead, poor man. It’s over. And I suppose you might change your mind about Huw after a while. That’s what I told his parents, anyway. I don’t know whether I believe it or not.’
‘No, I won’t change my mind. I’ve given in my notice at school and I’m applying for a post in Caernarfon so that I can live with Ilona.’
‘With Ilona Hughes? Is she going back home, then?’
‘Yes. She’s got to look after her grandmother who’s had a bit of a stroke. And I’ll get some lodgings nearby. It’ll do me good to get away from Llanfair.’
My mother looks shaken but doesn’t try to dissuade me. ‘Well, don’t stay away too long, girl. I’ll miss you, you know that.’
‘I’ll get back every holiday.’
‘You’ll pine after your little house.’
‘No. It was Huw’s house, his father’s house, his grandmother’s – but not mine.’
‘You’ll take your father’s books with you?’
‘Of course I will, and all the other things you gave me. I’ll have to start packing before long.’
‘Everybody on the move! Fredo is going to Italy quite soon.’
‘Before the end of the war?’
‘Italy is on our side now, it seems, and the Italian prisoners of war are going to be repatriated. When there are ships available, they say, but when will that be? It’s very hard on him, poor man. He hasn’t heard anything about his sons all this year. Huw’s father was tamping mad about Fredo too. “That Eyetie” he called him.’
‘He probably thinks we’re both loose women. What does it matter? What does anything matter?’
But I suddenly think of Mary Powell at the funeral. ‘You’re a fallen woman, Rhian,’ and feel hot and angry again. And ashamed, too, I suppose.
After supper I’m too restless to sit long. I walk up the hill with great angry strides waiting for the evening to pass. No one will be meeting me from the bus.
My mother is listening to the wireless when I get back; fierce fighting continuing in Normandy with the Allies making steady advances along the Cherbourg peninsula. Huw could well be in the thick of it. I can’t pray, but I cross my fingers for him.
‘I must go, Mam.’
‘I’ll come a step or two with you. Come, Floss.’
Hewl Fach is ablaze with wild roses and honeysuckle, their scent as sweet and delicate as though there were no such things as war and death. I take my mother’s arm and when the bus comes I can hardly bear to leave her.
Next morning the Head isn’t in Assembly. Talfan Roberts, Deputy Head, scrapes his throat and reads, rather haltingly, a long passage from Deuteronomy, tries but fails to lead the hymn singing, drones out the announcements, then walks out, having forgotten to dismiss us.
‘Where’s the Head?’
No-one seems to know. We all half-expect him to burst through the door – he always bursts through doors – but he doesn’t.
‘Right,’ Jack says, bounding on to the platform, ‘Everyone turn. Now walk quietly to your classrooms. Lead out, Form Six.’
‘Has he been called up, Miss?’ a little lad from 2C asks me. ‘if he was in the Army, Miss, would he have to take orders?’
‘That’s enough, Owen. The Head doesn’t have to ask your permission to take a morning off school. He’s probably got a committee meeting.’
‘Can we have a holiday, Miss? Can we have a quiz? Can we have a spelling bee? Oh, not lessons, Miss. Not today, Miss.’
It’s strange without him, peaceful but oddly disturbing at the same time.
‘Where is he?’ I ask Talfan in the lunch-hour.
‘Don’t know. He had someone to deal with, that’s all he told me, and Heaven help him or her, whoever it may be. Anyway, I shall have a nervous breakdown if he’s not back by tomorrow. Everyone seems to think I’m supposed to be in charge. Up to now being Deputy Head has only meant having tea with the governors once a month – and that’s bad enough.’
In fact, the Head is back before the end of the afternoon. I know because I’m called to his room.
‘Sit down, Mrs Evans. Right, I won’t beat about the bush. I’ve been to see an erstwhile colleague of yours, Miss Mary Powell.’
‘Really. How is she?’
He gives me a long, baleful look. ‘I didn’t go to enquire after her health. No, I
went because she’d sent me a filthy, anonymous letter.’
He passes me the letter, a thick white envelope, the address in bold black capitals. My hand shakes as I open it.
I think you should know that one of your staff, Mrs Rhian
Evans, is an adulterous woman not fit to be in charge of
innocent young people. One who knows.
I manage to keep my voice fairly steady. ‘How did you know it was from Mary Powell? It’s postmarked Shrewsbury.’ How she hates me.
His eyes flash at me. ‘How did I know? How do I know who locks the girls in the changing room? How do I know who chalks dirty words on the blackboard? Because I’ve made it my business to know these things. I know my pupils. I know my parents. I know my staff. Because I’ve made it my business to know them. There’s not much that John Cynrig Williams doesn’t know about his school.’
He sits back in his chair as though expecting a round of applause.
‘What happened?’ I ask quietly. I can feel her hatred crushing me.
‘What happened? I took her to the police station and got her to sign a confession. A bit brutal you think? Well, I can tell you one thing: kindness is rarely any use when dealing with the writers of filthy letters. Perhaps you’ll be a Headmistress one day, so it’s as well I should give you the benefit of my experience. Any more questions?’
‘Will they make any charges against her?’ She hates me, but I can’t blame her.
‘They won’t clap her in prison, if that’s what you mean. No. But they have her confession. She’s not daft, she’ll think twice before writing any more nasty little letters. I would have got another confession out of her to show Jack Jones except that I’ve washed my hands of that unfortunate business.’
‘She’s released him from their engagement.’
‘What? She has? Why doesn’t someone tell me these things?’
‘I thought you’d have made it your business to find out.’
‘Very good. A quick stab below the belt is an excellent tactic. You’re learning fast, Mrs Evans. You’ll be a credit to me, yet.’
‘Her mother died in an asylum.’ But I still attacked her in the churchyard.
I’ve taken him by surprise again, but he quickly recovers. ‘So? Her mother died in an asylum. Does that give her licence to spread filth amongst people?’
‘No. But marching her to a police station might be considered a little harsh under the circumstances.’ But no more harsh than my harsh words.
‘So what exactly would you have done?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ I was certainly never charitable towards her.
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d have been very kind, very understanding. But as I’ve said, kindness doesn’t work with poison letters. You may go now, Mrs Evans. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be receiving a letter of apology from Miss Powell. Needless to say, it won’t contain a shred of genuine remorse, but writing it may have done her some good.’
‘I suppose you suggested that?’ Was anyone ever kind to her?
‘Suggested it? I stood over her while she wrote it.’
I get up to go. ‘Thank you Mr Williams.’
‘Oh, I enjoyed it. The break from routine was very pleasant. And, look, I’ve even made you smile.’
Nineteen
AT SCHOOL I try to appear normal, pushing my grief further and further down inside me like someone trying to pack too much shopping into too small a bag. By the end of the day I’m exhausted with the effort and drag myself home to bed, where I lie flat and quite still till Ilona gets back from work. Crying would do me good, I know, but the pain has become hard as granite, I can’t cry.
The summer evenings are lovely. Sometimes Ilona and I go to sit on the sea wall to watch the setting sun – we’ve had a month of superb sunsets – but somehow we always end up thinking and talking about the war. I suppose it would be worse if we were on the South coast facing Normandy, but since the invasion, the war seems very close, even here. We’re told on every news bulletin that our losses are fewer than expected, but people are still living in fear of that telegram from the War Office. I know I am.
‘Do you pray, Ilona?’
‘Good Lord, no. I gave that up the day they took my tonsils out. I was about eleven, I think. I’d stayed awake all the previous night praying and praying that I should be cured without an operation. Well, it didn’t work, did it, so that when I came round from the anaesthetic it was without tonsils or God. And to be truthful I’ve never missed either.’
The air is rinsed after the light rain. The sky is a clean, bright pink.
‘I think there is a God, but perhaps the only valid prayers are those for greater understanding.’
Ilona’s eyes are direct and a little too sharp. ‘Greater understanding of what?’
‘Of His nature, the nature of His love and mercy. If we could understand, perhaps we could accept. I can’t seem to understand or accept Gwynn’s death.’
‘Of course you can’t. He was killed by a bomb. Who can accept bombs? There’s precious little of love and mercy about bombs.’
Ilona, bright about lots of things, is seldom at her best when it comes to theological discussion. I only manage to peer through the glass darkly, but she seems intent on looking the other way.
I decide to change the subject. ‘I feel really guilty about school. I can’t seem to rouse myself from this apathy. I don’t seem to care about my exam results or my reports. I don’t care about anything.’
‘Why should you? You’ve already worked too hard in that school. Don’t give it another thought. Oh, you’ll be much better at the end of term. When we leave this place, you’ll have other things to think about, other people to meet and make friends with. I’m longing to get away.’
‘It’s all right for you. You’re going home to your family and soon you’ll have a new baby as well.’
‘But my family will really take to you Rhian, because you’re so genteel. They’re a rough lot, my family, very impressed by quiet people who don’t drink or swear. And as for the baby, you shall take it out for me every afternoon. Ifor’s getting me a new pram.’
‘Will you be seeing a lot of Ifor? Will people know it’s his baby?’
‘I suppose so. I suppose it will look like him; fat with sandy hair and a big lump of a nose. Jesus, what do I see in him? He’s bad-tempered and ugly and unreliable. Why are women so stupid? By the way, I saw your mother-in-law in Finch Square this afternoon and she smiled at me quite kindly. What can it mean? Is she plotting something?’
‘I really don’t know. She baffles me; I expected all sorts of trouble from her, but she’s been almost too quiet. And I expected Huw’s father to try and turn me out of the house, but not a word. I can’t understand it.’
‘Perhaps they’re counting on you changing your mind, so that they’ll be sitting back ready to forgive and forget.’
‘No, I’m sure they could never forgive me. And I think they must have sent Huw the letter I wrote, because I haven’t heard from him for three weeks now. Oh, I hope he’s safe. I’ll feel so wretched if anything happens to him; responsible, somehow.’
‘Great Heavens, girl, you can’t hold yourself responsible for a war. Have some humility. Pull yourself together. You’ll be thinking you’re God next. Like your Head.’
‘He doesn’t think he’s God. Just a minor saint. Saint John Cynrig Williams... You know, I used to hate him, but I’m getting quite fond of him now that I’m leaving. I’ll miss him when I go. And I’ll miss Jack, of course.’
‘I’ll miss Jack, too. God, if I was anything like sane, I’d marry him.’
‘Has he asked you to?’
‘About a hundred times. He’s coming round later on to make it a hundred and one. Hey, we’d better go home or we’ll miss him.’
‘Poor Jack. He hasn’t had much luck with women.’
‘He has. He got away from that dopey Mary Powell and very soon he’ll be free of me. That’s wonderful luck. Who’ll he be after next I won
der?’
We don’t get back until half past nine. Ilona doesn’t seem too concerned that she’s missed Jack.
‘Do you think I look pregnant?’ she asks me as we’re clearing up before going to bed.
‘Well, you don’t stick out in one big lump in the front. You could be just fat, I suppose. I mean, fatter than you were. Why?’
‘I heard Myfanwy Jenkins whispering something to Katie Lloyd this morning, both of them staring at my belly. I suppose they know. They pretended to believe me when I told them I was having to go back home to nurse Nain, but I don’t suppose they did.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘No. As long as Jack’s name isn’t dragged into it. I wouldn’t want them to think badly of Jack. Perhaps I shouldn’t go out with him from now on.’
‘Oh, stop being so conventional. Why shouldn’t people gossip? There’s precious little entertainment these days. Give them something to enjoy.’
The next evening, when we’ve just finished washing up, there’s a knock at the door and Ilona goes to answer it. I’m hoping she and Jack will go out for a walk and a drink, because I’ve got some reports to write.
‘It’s Gwynn’s wife,’ Ilona says, rushing back into the living room looking wild and flustered. It’s Mrs Morgan – Celine – shall I ask her in?’
‘You’ll have to, I suppose.’
I stand up too quickly and feel dizzy. I haven’t seen her since the funeral. I straighten my hair in the mirror. I look terrible, my eyes are suddenly burning and my lips feel parched.
‘Come in.’ My voice sounds high and unnatural. ‘Won’t you sit down? Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘And a raspberry bun?’ she asks dryly.
‘You never liked raspberry buns,’ I reply, as smoothly as I can, ‘so it’s just as well that I haven’t any.’
‘I won’t have tea either, thank you. It will be a very brief visit.’
She’s dressed in a plain black dress with a pearl choker round her neck. She’s lost weight and looks older than she did, but very smart, very French. I remember Gwynn telling me that she never went out of the house without an hour’s preparation.