by Iris Gower
But other things would change, Bridie thought helplessly, Paul had made it clear that he would go his own way and brook no interference from her.
The threat was there, he could leave her if he chose. But if she accepted his ‘separate life’ their marriage would survive, at least on the surface. She knew she had no choice in the matter, not at this very moment. She held out her arms to her husband.
‘Take me home, Paul,’ she said softly, knowing that her words were acceptance of his terms. He lifted her out of the coach and carried her into the house.
Collins opened the door wide in welcome. The sun filled the hallway and the gallery above with jewelled light, the servants were assembled near the doorway, waiting for her. Bridie suddenly felt very humble and then the overwhelming need to hide herself away swept over her. She felt flawed, imperfect, from henceforth she was destined to be a useless onlooker in life.
As Paul carried her through to the sitting room where a fire flickered cheerfully beneath the ornate mantleshelf, she was aware of the servants bobbing and murmuring their welcome.
‘You know I envy them, all of them,’ she said as Paul set her into an armchair. ‘All healthy and vigorous. None of them like me, if I wasn’t paying their wages they wouldn’t give me the time of day.’
‘You are too hard on them, sometimes.’ Paul adjusted the wrap around her legs, ‘They would like you well enough if you gave them the chance.’
‘What do I care for them?’ Bridie waved her hand in a sudden gesture of defiance. ‘They are there only to do my bidding.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Bridie, they are servants not slaves, they have rights and they have feelings just like you and me.’
‘Oh, turning into a philanthropist now are we?’ Sarcasm edged her voice. ‘Well, will you tell one of those feeling servants to bring me a glass of port and quickly?’
Paul looked at her and shook his head and after a moment, walked towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Bridie demanded and he paused at the door to look at her.
‘I’m going out into the garden,’ he said ‘to get a breath of fresh air. In the meantime, I trust you’ll think over your ill humour and try to moderate your speech, otherwise I shall find it necessary to curtail my shore leave and return to sea as soon as possible.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Bridie held out her hand in supplication, ‘don’t leave me, Paul, I need you so much.’
He returned to her side and took her hands in his, she read compassion in his eyes and suddenly felt she had the key to him.
‘I feel so helpless, so alone, I can’t bear to be dependent on other people. I’m frightened for our future, Paul, hold me close, please hold me.’
As he took her in his arms, a smile of triumph curved Bridie’s lips, she saw it all now, she must play the weak woman, in need of protection and Paul would do anything for her. She pressed her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him, loving him so much that it hurt. What was it about him that roused in her these feelings? She would do anything to hold him, anything at all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Boyo took the mug of ale from Harry and sipped it gingerly, it tasted bitter and yet nutty, he found he liked it. He was seated with the other men around the fire in the yard. The week was ended, another load of skins had left the tannery, the wagons, piled to the brim, were bound for Mikefords the wholesale merchant in town. Tomorrow was Sunday, a day of rest and of going to church, it was something the men celebrated each week without fail. And it was Boyo’s birthday.
Harry took up his fiddle and began to play, the notes haunting on the quiet air. The sound drew Rosie from the kitchen, her sleeves rolled above her elbows, her face smeared with flour. She stood for a moment, lifting her skirts and tapping her slim foot in time to the melody. It was growing dusk, the fire glowed, the ale was being passed and a sense of well-being washed over Boyo; he felt at one with the other men, they had become the family he had never known.
Rosie suddenly took his hand and dragged him, protesting to his feet. ‘Come on, my lad, time you learned to dance.’ She held him close and Boyo smelled the essence of her, the sweetness of her hair, coming loose from its ribbons, the yeasty tang of new baked bread that clung to her and a strange longing for he knew not what gripped him.
‘Enjoying yourself, lad?’ Rosie said breathlessly. She was against him one moment, then flinging apart from him the next. He relaxed, he might as well enjoy himself, here he was the focus of attention for once in his young life.
He shook back the hair that had fallen over his eyes, giving himself up to the intoxication of the music and Rosie’s nearness.
‘He’s a fast learner,’ Rosie called to the men and Harry waved his hand at her.
‘Time he learned other things beside dancing, mind,’ he said. ‘Matthew’s away with the wagons, what a fine chance will you have then to make the boy, this night, into a man?’
A strange feeling, half fear, half exhilaration filled Boyo as Rosie nodded. ‘Perhaps, if he’s lucky, he might learn the sins of the flesh before the morning light.’
‘Take him off now before he gets too fuddled with ale to be any good.’ Harry advised and Rosie drew Boyo close to her.
‘Want to learn the delights of flesh, Boyo?’ she whispered in his ear. She threw back her head laughing, the white of her throat a gracious column leading the eye to the swell of her breasts.
He was confused, he was a good church-going boy, the sins of the flesh were forbidden and yet his body was filled with desire to taste of the forbidden fruit of Rosie’s ripeness. Sensing his hesitation, she took his arm and led him away from the flames, into the darkness of the currying house. He scented the aroma of the skins, so familiar, so much part of his life. The scent mingled with Rosie’s clean-washed smell and he knew he was lost. He would learn tonight to be a man, it was his fate, no good fighting against it.
Rosie drew him down onto the floor and as her hands moved purposefully to his buttons, a great excitement filled him. It washed away any doubts he had harboured; he was being offered a priceless gift, how many boys of his age could boast knowing a full-grown woman? One of his friends claimed to have deflowered an untried girl but Boyo took leave to doubt the truth of it. The boy’s description of the act was scrappy, he had seemed uncertain about his feelings as he’d recounted the event boastingly to Boyo. Now, Boyo was about to learn the truth.
His buttons open, his manhood exploded from the confines of the rough cloth of his trousers. Rosie clucked her tongue. ‘There’s a fine big boy you are then, it’s going to be a pleasure to teach you how to love.’ She drew him to her but no sooner had he touched the fullness of her breasts than he felt a surging of hotness in his loins. It was as though a thousand stars were bursting inside his body. He pressed his lips together to prevent crying out into the night, his eyes were clamped shut. He knew it was too soon, much too soon, Rosie needed pleasuring as much as he did. He fell onto his back, tears of failure rising to his eyes.
Rosie leaned over him. ‘It’s not the end of the world, Boyo, my darling,’ she said breathlessly, ‘Rosie said she’d teach you to be a man and she will. Rest a minute and then we’ll try again. You’ll see, it will be all the better for it, I know, I’m an experienced woman, mind.’
It might have been her words of encouragement, it might have been something deep within himself, but Boyo quickly found that she was right. He carefully eased himself into her and she gasped with the delight of it.
‘That’s right, gentle now, no pushing, no need for roughness; after tonight, my darling, you will want to pleasure many girls but don’t throw away your precious gems, keep them for the girl you will love.’
The experience was all that he could have wished for, he heard Rosie moan beneath him with a sense of joy and accomplishment, he was pleasing her and it made him feel good. He touched her swelling breasts with reverence; he would remember this, his first coupling, always. The smell of the tannery, the burnin
g of the wood fire and the sound of Harry’s music reaching fingers in the darkness to heighten his pleasure would be a precious experience, one he would thank God for all his life, or was that a blasphemy?
When it was finally over, Rosie took him to the pump, helped him strip off his clothes, washed him as carefully as though he was her child. It was difficult to believe that a few minutes before, she had been clinging to him and sighing with the satisfaction of the fulfilled woman.
‘One last thing, Boyo,’ she rested her hand against his cheek. ‘A real man doesn’t need to boast, see, he lets his actions speak for him, remember that. I’ve found in my lifetime that the more a man talks about his prowess, the less of it he has.’
He kissed her fingers, ‘I won’t do any boasting, Rosie, I’m grateful to you, I think I love you.’
She smiled. ‘Aye, well you’ll think yourself in love many a time yet but wait for the real thing, Boyo, the waiting is worth it.’
When they returned to the glow of the dying fireside, Harry’s eyebrows lifted, a smile curved his mouth. ‘I see the flush of happiness, if I’m not mistaken,’ he spoke softly, approvingly. Rosie rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment. ‘Harry, this boy didn’t need no teaching from me, he’s a natural lover, whichever girl gets him, she’s going to be one satisfied customer, believe me.’
The blood beat in Boyo’s temples, he felt he would burst with pride. He knew what it was all about now, this thing between a man and a woman. The mystery was no more. With a feeling of happiness, he knew he need not boast, or preen, he fully accepted what Rosie had said; a real man has no need to talk about his conquests, he could hold the knowledge to him, his own special secret for ever.
‘Have another drink, lad,’ Harry said gently, ‘I reckon you’re one of us now.’ Boyo crouched beside Harry and touched the gleaming curve of the fiddle.
‘Will you teach me to play, Harry?’ he asked humbly. Harry smiled. ‘Aye, I will that, Boyo, you are eager to grasp life but remember there will be nettles as well as Rosies.’ He laughed at his own joke and punched Boyo lightly on his arm. ‘Enjoy life, don’t hurt anybody, if you can help it, and you won’t go far wrong.’
Boyo sighed luxuriously, stretching his arms up to the stars. He had a mug of ale in front of him and Rosie at his side. He felt good, he felt he was no longer a green lad.
On Sunday morning, instead of attending his own church in the centre of town, he went to Cwmbwrla to hear Evan Roberts preach. Boyo sat alongside a group of other boys of his own age, they seemed juvenile and silly as they folded up pieces of paper and flicked them surreptitiously at the congregation.
Boyo wondered if Evan Roberts had ever enjoyed the sins of the flesh but the thought seemed blasphemous and he thrust it away. The hymns were the ones he knew and he sang cheerfully, his light voice lifting to the rafters along with the deep bass of some of the older men. Boyo liked going to church, it had been forced upon him in the workhouse where he spent his childhood but he had always found it an escape from his unhappiness. It was a place where voices were never raised in anger, where brows were clear and people spoke kindly to each other.
Boyo wondered if his sin was unpardonable, he had taken a woman outside the marriage bed, that was wrong, he knew it. He felt uncomfortable for a moment but then Evan Roberts began to speak. His fervour was unmistakable, his face shone with conviction, he told them in plain terms that God would forgive them all their sins, that he had sent his son Jesus into the world to save sinners.
Boyo felt better. He was not going to be doomed for ever because he had tasted Rosie’s sweet sinfulness. He shifted uneasily in his seat, embarrassed to be remembering such a lustful scene in the holiness of the chapel. He ran his finger around his collar and eased the stiffness away from the newly shaved skin of his neck. He glanced down at his wrists, they were protruding from the sleeves of his best, his only, suit which he was fast outgrowing.
He thought with warmth of the savings he had accumulated since he’d been working at the tannery, he had quite a bit of money put by in the bank in Wind Street in Swansea, perhaps it was time he bought himself some new clothes.
He tried to concentrate on the service but a group of ladies were standing beside the preacher singing sweetly, mouths opening and closing like those of the young birds in the spring. His attention was wandering, he glanced over his shoulder and suddenly sat up straighter, Ellie Hopkins was seated across the aisle from him. She felt his glance and turned, a smile lit up her face and she lifted her hand in greeting. She looked fresh and sweet and innocent. So different from Rosie. He immediately felt the thought was mean and unworthy.
At Ellie’s side was the reporter from The Swansea Times, handsome enough but so sure of himself, so polished. Of course he was older than Boyo by at least three years and from a good family by the look of his clothes and from the sound of his voice. Posh he was, his accent only faintly noticeable. Boyo envied Daniel Bennett, his privileged background gave him the right to escort a lady like Ellie to church. Of course it was all very proper, their being in church together because Martha was there too, her face turned earnestly toward the pulpit where Evan Roberts was standing once more, the ladies having subsided like full-blown roses into their seats.
Still, there was something about the situation that Boyo didn’t like, Ellie was Jubilee’s widow, she was Boyo’s idol, untouchable, on a pedestal and he could see by the way Daniel was leaning close, the way he was looking into Ellie’s eyes that he wanted her. Boyo knew the signs and from experience he thought with a sense of shame. Who was he to judge another man, he wasn’t exactly without sin, himself, was he?
Boyo tried to imagine Ellie, her breasts exposed, her legs akimbo, the way Rosie had been last night but the image was an impossible one to conjure into his mind and in any case, it was surely sinful to harbour such thoughts at a time like this when everyone’s head was bowed in prayer.
‘If we are to be fools, make us fools for thee.’ The earnest voice rang out in the silence and Boyo looked down at his boots, good boots, made from leather from Glyn Hir. Was he a fool, he wondered? Perhaps he was, he had snatched at what Rosie offered him and though it had given him momentary gratification, he did not feel good inside himself. Perhaps it took love to make this sweetness between a man and a woman right.
The last hymn was being sung, Boyo stood and looked around him realizing he was taller than any of the boys standing beside him, taller than many of the men in the congregation, come to that. He was growing up. Perhaps he should give his mind a chance to catch up with his body, he thought moodily. The congregation was moving now, edging out towards the doors to where the sunlight poured in. Ellie smiled at Boyo and walked along beside him.
‘Will you walk along with us, Boyo?’ she asked and he felt a warmth flow through him. How many bosses would stoop to be seen with their most menial worker? But then, until Jubilee’s death, Boyo and Ellie had worked side by side, she thrusting the plates into the grinder and he carrying the baskets of oak bark to the yard.
He fell into step beside her and to his satisfaction saw that Daniel was forced to walk with old Martha who was complaining bitterly at the sudden squall of rain which was making the feathers on her hat go limp. Boyo resisted the urge to laugh.
‘What’s amusing you?’ Ellie was nothing if not perceptive.
‘I’m sorry, I’m just looking at the way Martha’s feathers are giving up the ghost, slowly they’re creeping down her forehead, they’ll be touching her nose in a minute.’
Ellie’s eyes lit up as she glanced over her shoulder at Martha. She squeezed Boyo’s hand and pressed her lips together and he could see that she was bursting to laugh out loud. After a moment, she composed herself. ‘How’s work in the yard, Boyo, still managing without me, are you?’
‘Aye, Ellie, managing but not liking it much. You were fair by me but some of the men seem to think I’m built like a mule and able to carry baskets of bark chippings at the double.’
‘Well, you are grown up, now,’ she said reasonably and he looked at her wondering how much she knew of last night’s events. He saw her frown and rich colour flooded into his face. That Rosie, she never could keep her mouth shut, she was a fine one to be telling him not to boast.
‘I suppose you think I should save myself for my wife.’ The words were spoken before he had time to withdraw them and he regretted them at once. He should have remained silent, kept his dignity but now the subject of his initiation into manhood was open for discussion.
‘I’m not the right person to tell anyone what to do with their life.’ Ellie’s voice was gentle. ‘I’ve made mistakes, it often happens when you’re very young.’
Boyo had heard of Ellie’s past, who in Swansea hadn’t? But she was an innocent, beautiful and trusting, she had doubtless been taken advantage of. ‘But you thought you were in love, when you made your mistake, that’s true, isn’t it?’
‘It’s true but I shouldn’t have allowed myself to settle for second best. I knew the love was one-sided, it couldn’t ever have worked even if I’d been married to the man. Don’t ever do that, Boyo, settle for second best.’
The rain had ceased, the sun was warming the pavements, steam was rising from the cobbled streets. Suddenly, it was good to be alive and Boyo squared his shoulders as he walked along, side by side with Mrs Ellie Hopkins, owner of Glyn Hir Tannery.
‘He’s a little in love with you,’ Daniel’s voice was warm, good humoured and Ellie looked at him as he sat beside her in the garden. He had eaten roast dinner with her at Glyn Hir and now they were spending Sunday afternoon together, enjoying the wash of warm sunshine.
‘It’s just a fancy, he will forget it all when he meets a girl his own age.’
‘You talk as if you’re an ancient.’
‘I suppose I am in terms of experience of life and the unhappiness it can bring.’