by Siân James
I remember my father. I walk over to the churchyard to look at his grave, beautifully cared for by my mother, a bunch of tea-roses spilling their white and yellow petals onto the ugly granite chippings. ‘John Trefor Lloyd, Buarth, Tregroes. Born 12 January 1892. Died 7 September 1940. A true and faithful servant unto His master.’ I never liked that inscription, the way it confined him. I wanted something altogether larger: farmer, poet, philosopher and faithful servant unto His master, but my mother considered that over-reaching and vulgar.
I can’t leave without pausing at a weatherbeaten old gravestone at the far end of the churchyard.
In memory of
The children of David and Letita Thomas.
They died as follows:
John. 14 May 1872, aged three years.
Mary Ann, 15 May 1872, aged six years.
David. 16 May 1872, aged five years.
Hewell, 22 May 1872, aged three months.
As usual the starkness of the wording blurs my eyes; no fine Victorian sentiment recording the resignation of David and Letita to the will of God, only cold anger at the fever or famine which had so ravaged their family. Un dlawd yw fy nghenedl i. My nation is a poor one.
Gwynn’s village, Nantgoch, ten miles away, is much the same; a small farming community, a chapel society with concerts and singing festivals the highlights of the year, a strange old language, one of the oldest in Europe, binding people to their ancient pre-Christian roots when giants walked the hills and the birds of Rhiannon sang.
I shall find the same sort of people in North Wales, I know that. Though the men work in quarries and the women are tougher and sharper, according to Ilona, they have the same background of chapel and music and books.
All the same, these are my acres.
I walk back to the farm through fields of ripening wheat; my mother, like everyone else in these war years, growing cereal crops in little steep fields which have always in the past been laid to pasture.
*
‘I’m not happy about you going away, girl.’
‘I know you’re not, Mam. But try to remember that I’ll be with friends and that I’ve got a decent job and a good salary.’
‘Yes, teaching is a decent sort of job, I’ll grant you that. A good teacher can help and inspire a lot of children, I know that. Education has always been important in this country. But what is a salary but money, and don’t expect me to judge anyone by that standard. Old Benny Brynhir half-starved his men, they say, and he died leaving thousands. Money is nothing but a curse to the ungodly. But I know you didn’t come here for a sermon. And in any case, I have no right to preach to you.’
‘Of course you have. Every right. You’ve always done it and you always shall.’
‘No, no. I’m a sinful woman.’
‘If you’re sinful, Mam, Heaven help the rest of us.’
I look at her fondly, but see at once that she’s trying to tell me something.
‘Fredo managed to get out of that camp last night. He hadn’t been able to come here for almost a fortnight. It was quite late. We were... Oh, I can’t begin to tell you what happened. I can’t believe it myself it was...’
‘You needn’t tell me, Mam. I know what you mean, don’t distress yourself.’
I try to take her hand but she pulls it away. ‘But how can you possibly think it was sinful when you’re going to get married? When you’d have been married already if it were possible.’
‘Oh, that’s the oldest excuse in the world, girl. “We were going to get married.” “We were saving up for a ring.” “We were waiting for a house.” I’m a sinner, Rhian, and so is he.’
‘Mam, you haven’t had time, yet, to get it straight in your mind. Go to chapel tomorrow and think about love and hate, which of them is good and which of them is evil. You and Fredo are harming nobody by your love. Gwynn and I were, I admit that. Our love may have been a sin, it probably was, but only a hypocrite could call your love a sin, and Christ hated hypocrites more than anyone. You know that.’
‘I know the Bible, my girl.’
‘All right. Then tell me where exactly it says that two good, unselfish people who love each other, shouldn’t...’
‘That’s enough, Rhian. There’s no need to go into details... I know what you mean.’
‘Mam, you two are not even committing adultery. Oh, I can surely say that word because it’s in the Bible, Exodus Chapter Twenty. Listen, which commandment have you ever broken?’
‘I’ve coveted a great many things, girl.’
‘Only necessities that we couldn’t afford.’
‘An inside tap, for instance.’
‘An inside tap! Oh, I’ll pray for you. She’s coveted an inside tap. Dear Lord, please –’
‘Don’t Rhian. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.’
‘I will if it makes you see how foolish you’re being. You’re as good as any mortal being can possibly be. You don’t even have any little sins like being lazy or greedy. You get up before six every morning, you work hard as a beast of burden all day and you give Gino and Martino your sweet ration. You go to chapel at least twice every Sunday and drive us all mad with your old hymns. You live a perfect life. Except... well, perhaps there is one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps He will think you rather ungrateful.’
‘Ungrateful?’
‘You should be thanking Him, I think, for this beautiful, loving Italian He’s sent you.’
‘Rhian!’
‘I’m not going to say any more, I’m not going to preach. But that’s my considered opinion. Ingratitude is a sin. You should be thanking Him: Dear God, from whom all blessings flow.’
‘Well, I don’t know where you get your ideas from, Rhian, I’m sure.’
When I get back to Hill Street, Ilona is lying on the floor with a cushion under her head. ‘I’ve started having this damned baby,’ she says. ‘Oh Rhian, I’m in labour and it’s agony and you must get hold of the midwife. Oh, Jesus. Oh, help.’
My heart thumps against my ribs. ‘Are you sure? You said September. You’ve always said September and it isn’t August yet.’
‘Oh Rhian, I’m frightened. This wasn’t supposed to happen till I got to Brynteg. Oh, God, here’s another bloody pain. I’ve been having them since five. Where the devil have you been? I thought you’d be back on the four o’clock. What happened to you? Where have you been?’
‘I’ll have to get someone to stay with you while I run down to fetch Lydia Owen. What about Mrs Jones, next door?’
‘Oh God no, not Mrs Jones. Rhian, I think I’m dying and I don’t want to die with Mrs Jones. No one should have pain like this. Oh God, I’m swelling up with it – my belly feels like a wardrobe. Tell me what to do.’
I don’t know what to do. She’s gripping my hands so hard that I can feel her pain. Nothing has prepared me for this. I know that quantities of boiling water are needed at a confinement and stacks of newspapers and two or three pudding-basins, but what one does with them I can’t imagine. I’ve never had anything to do with babies. I’ve seen calves being born, but cows are such placid creatures. Even when things get very bad they only stare at their heaving sides and wait.
I manage to free my hands, straightening out my fingers one by one. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ I tell her, ‘Stay where you are a minute.’
I dash out into the road. Arthur Williams, the great lumbering boy whose father is in Swansea jail, was out there earlier, whooping back and forth on his man-sized bicycle.
He’s still there. I shout to him and slowly and apprehensively he comes up the hill towards me.
‘Arthur! Hurry up, Arthur! Can’t you see I’m waiting for you?’
‘What is it, Miss? I’m not doing any harm, Miss.’
‘Do you know Iorwerth Place, Arthur?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Not Iorwerth Terrace but Iorwerth Place.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘I want you to take a letter to
Mrs Owen in Iorwerth Place. I think it’s the second house after the Red Lion, but you’ll have to ask.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘She’s a midwife. You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘It’s my lodger, Arthur. She needs Mrs Owen urgently.’
‘You needn’t write a letter, Miss, I’ll get her for you. “Mrs Evans’s lodger needs Mrs Owen urgently” And I’ll show her the way up here, Miss. You needn’t bother with a letter.’
‘It’s a matter of life or death, Arthur.’
‘Right, Miss.’
He was on his bike and flying down the hill before I’d got back to the door.
‘I’ve sent someone for Lydia Owen. Can you try to get up?’
‘No, of course I can’t.’
‘I’ll help you. I’ll pull you up. She’ll want you on a bed, I’m sure. Anyway you’ll be much more comfortable. That’s it. Oops-a-daisy. That’s better.’
‘She’s not married, I take it,’ Mrs Owen says as she takes off her coat
‘No.’
‘Pity. Not that it makes any difference to this part of things. It’s character that counts in this part.’
Oh Lord, not that, I think to myself as we hear Ilona groaning upstairs.
‘I managed to get her into bed.’
‘Did you put newspapers over the mattress?’
‘Is that what the newspapers are for?’
‘Well, we won’t have much time to read them, girl, will we?’
There’s another awesome groan from Ilona.
‘Mrs Owen, she’s in such pain. It can’t be right.’
‘She’ll be better as soon as she sees me. Old Lydia may not have a pretty face, but...’
‘It’s character that counts.’ I finish her sentence for her, trying to hurry her upstairs.
‘And forty years experience,’ she says. ‘That’s what they see in my face. Forty years of easing babies into this nasty old world.’
‘Well, come now, you’re not too bad, are you? We’re going to give you a lovely bath, not too hot, not too cold, and it’ll make you feel ready for anything. It’s such a pleasure to bring a baby into a house with a bathroom, it makes it so much easier for the mother. A bath is the most soothing thing at this sort of time. My job would be child’s play if every house had a bath and an inside lav.’
I escape to run the bath while Ilona is telling Lydia that having a bath is the last thing in the world she intends to do, that she might as well try to persuade her to have a dip in the sea while she’s about it. She’s still refusing to contemplate the idea even as Lydia is helping her into the bathroom, telling her how well she’s doing and what a pleasure it is to see such a fine-looking body.
I think her body looks terrible, as though it might burst open at the navel at any moment. What if the baby was born in the bath? Would it drown? I wonder if Lydia Owen’s been drinking. She looks half-drunk, but then she always does.
‘I think she’d like a nice cup of tea now,’ Lydia says after about fifteen minutes during which time Ilona has been soaking in the bath, steadily cursing and groaning, ‘because we’ve got quite a few hours wait. After I’ve got her out of the bath and comfortable, I’ll be off home to get my ironing done. I’ll be back around midnight.’
‘It’s going to be quite straightforward,’ she tells me as I show her out some time later. ‘Everything is perfectly normal. We’ll have a beautiful baby here before morning service tomorrow.’
‘Shall we have a game of cards while we wait?’ I ask brightly as I go back to the bedroom.
‘Get out of this room and stay out.’
*
She does seem more comfortable after the bath, better able to bear the pains, though they gradually come more often and last longer. After each pain I sponge her face and arms with cold water and tell her how brave she’s being and then wait for her to start groaning and shouting and swearing again.
Lydia Owen comes back at midnight as she promised, and the baby, a lusty boy, is born at twenty to two, the time in between being both frightening and thrilling.
At only an hour old the boy is already sucking, a remarkable feat according to Mrs Owen, and there’s a rich birth smell which I recognise from the farm. By three, Lydia has left and there’s such a weight of peace in the room that I want to fling open the windows to share it with the sleeping town, with the world.
I think about my birth on Fair Day when neither the doctor nor the midwife could be contacted, so that an old long-retired nurse had to be brought by horse and trap from a nearby village. ‘Of course, you were born by the time she’d arrived, your grandmother had done everything for me, well, she’d had nine children hadn’t she, and there wasn’t much she didn’t know, but old Nurse Oliver stayed the night anyway and made herself useful getting some supper for your father.’ Every birth has its own importance, its own history. I realise that Ilona and I will talk about this one while we both draw breath.
At five, Ilona wakes and feeds the baby again. ‘Isn’t he absolutely gorgeous. Look at his little ears. Look at his eyebrows.’ I can hardly believe it’s Ilona talking. She’s suddenly become heavily maternal, but I don’t suppose for a minute it will last. ‘Don’t you think you’d better get some sleep now?’ she asks me with a sweet solicitude I’ve never before heard in her voice.
‘No, I’m still too excited. I’ll wait now till Lydia Owen comes again at nine. Perhaps I’ll go to bed for a few hours when she leaves.’
‘In that case do you think you could do me a big favour? Do you think you could possibly go to the kiosk to make a phone call for me?’
‘Whoever’s going to be awake at this time of morning?’
‘Ifor will be. If you go now, you’ll catch him before he goes out milking.’
‘Yes, all right.’ I can hardly refuse. ‘What exactly shall I say?’
She looks sideways at me. ‘You’ll think I’m being very unreasonable,’ she says meekly.
‘You? Never! How could I think that?’
‘The thing is, I don’t want him to come here today. I don’t want to see him. Could you tell him not to come? I’m not supposed to ring him except in an emergency, but this is very important isn’t it? To stop him coming down all this way.’
‘Yes, of course. But I don’t see why he shouldn’t put himself out a bit.’
‘Only, I don’t want to see him, Rhian. Isn’t it strange? For the first time for ten years, I feel free of him. Absolutely free.’
‘It’s having the baby. Some spiders are the same.’
‘Yes, but it’s not that. I know you won’t understand this, I hardly understand it myself, but I’m not in love with him anymore. Not a bit.’
‘Oh.’
‘You see, Rhian, I think I’ve fallen in love with someone else... I think I’ve fallen in love with Jack.’
My mind is spinning. ‘Have you? With Jack? Well, I’m very pleased. Naturally, I’m very pleased. I think it’s very suitable and sensible.’
‘It’s nothing to do with being suitable and sensible.’
No, of course not. It wouldn’t be. ‘What exactly happened?’ I ask her.
‘It was just... well, it was when we said goodbye yesterday. He was going home and I went to the station to see him off. Just for old time’s sake. We’ve been good mates for the last few months. And, do you know, he kissed me.’
That seems as much as she’s going to say. ‘Oh,’ I say again.
‘Yes, he leaned forward and kissed me. It was the first time he’d ever kissed me. And it was one of those kisses that start something. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Close your mouth. You know exactly what I mean. We couldn’t even get close because of the baby, but there was something so loving in the way he was looking at me; you know, something very strong and very tender at the same time. And I wanted him to stay so badly. And when the train left, I was so furious that I’d let him go without saying anything, that I walked right up to Beacon Po
int to try to calm myself and that’s when the pains started.’
‘And you still feel the same today? About Jack, I mean. You still...
‘Yes. Listen, I’ve fallen in love with him. I don’t fall in love with people very often – hardly ever, in fact. It’s always been bloody Ifor.’
‘Well, Jack is certainly in love with you.’
‘Is he? Oh, but he won’t want anything to do with me now. Not when he sees me with a baby. Oh yes, he knew it was there inside me, but now that it’s born, he’ll see me differently. Men are very changeable.’
‘So different from us,’ I murmur, but my sarcasm is lost on her.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll adopt this one and then you’ll be free again.’
The boy is in my arms, looking with great concentration at a spot somewhere beyond my left shoulder and gripping my finger. If only I’d conceived when I was with Gwynn: I’d willingly put up with every slander and hardship to be in Ilona’s place.
‘Give him to me. I don’t even want you to take him out of the room.’ Her voice plunges. ‘Oh, look, I think he recognises me. Oh, his eyes are so dark. Like damson jelly. Great Heavens, aren’t I lucky that Ifor won’t want a share of him. He’ll be glad to get shot of me. He’ll be glad to get shot of me, too. He couldn’t quite let me go, but I think I’ve been a burden to him for years.’