by Iris Gower
The business of bringing a child into the world was an enigma to Boyo. He heard an occasional strangled cry from Bethan and closed his eyes as guilt raged through him. How could a man put a woman through such pain, time after time? It did not seem right and yet some couples had huge families of eight or nine children without the mother suffering any harm. But then perhaps Bethan was a particularly delicate woman and she was rather old for child-bearing.
He paced the room downstairs, poured a drink from the brandy bottle and put the glass down untouched. He tried to force away the treacherous thoughts that plagued him but there was a joy in him, that soon he would be able to go to Catherine with an easy conscience because Bethan would have her child to occupy her days.
He must have dozed in a chair for some time because it was dark when the door opened and Cara, the young maid, came into the room bobbing a curtsey. ‘If it please, sir, you are wanted upstairs.’
He rose and took a deep breath trying to clear his thoughts. ‘Light the lamps, there’s a good girl.’
With a strange feeling of reluctance, he moved upwards, his hand caressing the smoothness of the curved banister, his eyes resting briefly on the portraits of Bethan’s ancestors. Now there was another branch to the old family: the Hopkins branch. Boyo’s heart swelled with sudden, unexpected pride; he had a child. He felt that, at last, he had become a whole person.
There was an eerie silence in the bedroom. The doctor, who was engrossed in closing his bag, didn’t meet Boyo’s eyes. It was the midwife who brought the small bundle wrapped in a pristine shawl across the room towards him.
‘This is your son, sir, perhaps you should hold him in your arms, it might be best.’
Puzzled, Boyo took the child and looked down into the perfect face. The skin was waxen, the eyes of the baby closed. This was Boyo’s son and he was dead.
Afterwards, he was ashamed of his reaction, he handed the child back to the nurse and, turning, left the room. He had to breathe fresh air, he had to ride until he dropped, he must do anything but remain in the room where his wife lay silent and suffering.
He rode his unsaddled horse as though demons were chasing him. Once away from the lanes of Gower, he guided the animal out of town and uphill towards Honey’s Farm. It was not conscious thought but a reflex action that led him to the farmhouse. It was only when he was outside the door and saw that the place was in darkness that he realized the lateness of the hour.
Defeated, racked with guilt, he turned his sweating animal and headed back home. He must face what had happened, there was no running away from the fact of his son’s death. From somewhere he must find the strength to comfort Bethan.
The days passed darkly; the funeral of the baby was a swift affair and when the small coffin was lowered into the ground, Boyo felt a sense of relief, because now the tragedy could be stored away somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind and he could get on with his life.
Even amid the grief and pain of losing his son, Boyo thought constantly about Catherine. He wanted her and needed her more than he had ever done. He needed the reassurance of her young body, he wanted to revel in her health and strength. He ached to hold her, to hear her laugh. He felt he could not bear it that his wife, diminished by grief, had become a silent stranger.
He rose one morning to a clear day and stared out towards the hugeness of the sky above the sea. Clouds raced across the heavens, the wind was high, driving still-green leaves over the lawns below him. He made up his mind with no hesitation, he would go to Honey’s Farm again, try to see Catherine, talk to her, ask her to return to their house in Caswell.
It was a brisk morning, late roses were blooming in the garden of Honey’s Farm and the back door stood open. Boyo moved into the slant of sun and, blinded for a moment by the sudden dimness of the kitchen, did not see Catherine run quickly from the room. It was Fon who came towards him.
‘She does not want to see you.’ Fon did not meet his eyes. There was a vagueness about her he had not noticed before.
‘Can’t I just talk to her, please, Fon?’ He was almost begging, he hated the note of pleading in his voice but he could not help himself. Fon shook her head.
‘No. Just leave, please, Boyo.’ She looked past him into the open valley that dipped away from the farm. ‘It was summer madness, that’s all, forget it.’
Summer madness, it was that and more. He had taken Catherine under the skies, in the sweet grass, he had poured his soul into her and he loved her, she was part of him. Fon continued speaking without realizing the memories she had aroused in him.
‘Please leave us in peace.’ She was on the point of tears.
He tried to see beyond Fon into the house. ‘Is the Irishman still here?’ He hated himself for probing but he felt compelled to ask.
‘Go away, can’t you?’ Her voice rose. ‘They’ll make a future together if you leave them alone. My husband is dead, do you understand? It was his dying wish they marry, one Catherine will honour.’
The rush of shock and bewilderment at her words, her assumption he would just go away, was swiftly followed by anger. ‘We love each other,’ Boyo said. ‘Fon, you should understand that better than anyone.’
‘I don’t understand anything. Go away, you are a married man. You spare her a little bit of your time when you want a roll in the hay.’ She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
‘Where were you when Catherine needed you, when her dear father lay dying? What sort of man are you to say you love her and then to use her and to ignore her when her life is torn apart?’ Fon was growing hysterical but it was her grief as much as anything that made her turn on him. How could he tell Fon that he had his own sorrow to deal with? It would just sound like another excuse.
‘You took my daughter and made her into a kept woman.’ She began to cry. ‘Well she’s too good for that, don’t you think so? Get out of my sight, you are no longer welcome here on Honey’s Farm, is that plain enough for you?’
‘Fon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just that I love Catherine so much.’
‘Would you divorce your wife for her?’
He shook his head, he was defeated and he knew it. How could he leave his Bethan now when she walked the house like a ghost of her former self, grieving for her lost baby?
Fon was calmer now. ‘Just go away, Boyo, you can only cause both Catherine and me heartache if you persist in coming up here. Go back where you belong, with your wife. Don’t ruin the lives of two women.’ She closed the door firmly in his face.
He turned away and if there were tears in his eyes, there was only the breeze and the sun and the softness of the roses to see them.
Catherine stood at the window in her room and stared at Boyo’s retreating figure. She watched him mount his horse, watched as he rode away without looking back. Her hands clutched the sill as she forced herself to remain still. Her entire being was urging her to run after him, to fling herself into his arms, to beg him to love her, but she had made a promise to her father, a promise she could not break. She knew it made sense to keep away from Boyo, there was no future in the affair for either of them. The parting was for the best, why then did she feel so awful, so cut off from the living?
Ever since Liam had returned to Ireland over a week ago, Catherine had felt lost, alone with her grief. Worse than her own sense of loss was seeing the pain that her mother was feeling. Fon had become thinner, she had lost the lustre of love that had always made her so beautiful. Fon seemed to be fading away before Catherine’s eyes.
When she had her feelings under control, she hurried down the stairs into the kitchen.
‘Give us a kiss, Mam.’ She hugged Fon tightly. ‘Thank you for speaking to … to Boyo for me.’ Her mother looked at her with a dullness of expression that had become habitual since the death of her husband.
‘What, thanking me for sending away the only man you will ever love? I suppose it was the only thing to do but he looked so hurt.’ Catherine saw that tears were
streaming down Fon’s cheeks.
‘It’s for the best, Mam, you’re right, he’ll never leave his wife. He never came to me when Dad died, he was too wrapped up in his own life; how can I waste myself on a man like that?’
‘Oh, dear God in heaven, how can I bear to live now he’s dead?’ Fon put her hands over her face and Catherine rubbed at her eyes as her mother sank into the old rocking-chair.
‘I’ve got to get away, Cath,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I will never get over Jamie’s death while I’m here in this house.’
‘But where will you go?’ Catherine asked, fear running through her in waves.
‘I’ll go to Ireland, just for a little while. You stay here on the farm. There are the labourers to help you and Liam will be back soon. You won’t be alone.’
Fon shook her head. ‘Ever since your father died I’ve been going mad, I can’t think straight, not here, not now.’ She paused briefly, ‘When I was young, my family used to say I was too good for this life, always reading the Bible and such. Well, I’m not good but—’ she paused to take a breath, holding up her hand to prevent Catherine from speaking. ‘Maeve has asked me to go and stay with her for a while. I need to find peace and I can’t find it here. Can you understand that, Cath?’
Catherine sank into a kitchen chair and shook her head. ‘Mam, you can’t go away from me, not now, you can’t, I need you. Mam, I’m feeling grief too, mind.’
‘I know, love, but I can’t help you, I just can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t help myself.’
Catherine sighed. ‘I can see you are not yourself, perhaps you do need a break away from the farm. When will you leave?’
‘I don’t know. Liam is making arrangements for the journey. He’ll tell me when the time’s right.’
‘So Liam knows what you want to do, you told him before you told me?’
‘I couldn’t talk to you, Cath.’ Fon rose and Catherine could see she was trembling from head to foot. Her mother was sick, sick with grief. That was normal enough, wasn’t it? Given time, her mother would come to terms with her pain and loss and then she would come home.
Fon spoke again, dashing her hopes. ‘I think I might enter a convent, or a retreat, I’ve had enough of this world and if it wasn’t a sin in the eyes of God I’d kill myself. The next best thing is to shut myself away.’
‘Mam! Don’t talk like that.’ Catherine caught her mother’s thin frame and held her close, trying to stop the terrible trembling of Fon’s limbs.
‘You must do what you think right, Mam,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.
‘I don’t know what is right, not any more but I must find peace if I’m to save my sanity. Won’t you give me your blessing, Cath?’
Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to be strong. ‘Of course I’ll give you my blessing, but come back as soon as you’re better. I’ll miss you, Mam.’
Fon stroked her hair. ‘There, there, Catherine, you are young, you are a strong, determined woman. You will make a good wife and a good mother and then you’ll see what life is really all about.’ She kissed Catherine’s silky hair.
‘You’ll have your work cut out to make the farm pay, Dad let things go here in the last few years, I see now that he wasn’t up to the work.’ She met Catherine’s eyes. ‘Liam will be here with you soon. Can you manage till then Cath? Please tell me you can.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not strong like you, Cath, I know I should help you on the farm but I can’t stand it any more; the empty rooms, the bed where your father died, it all haunts me until I feel I’m going mad. You’ll be all right, won’t you, Catherine?’
‘Yes, of course I’ll be all right, Mam.’ She would have to be all right. Her future stretched out bleakly before her. She would live her life alone working the farm with only casual labourers to help. She would grow into a lonely old maid, in all probability, for she doubted that Liam and she would ever be married.
‘Mam, I’m so confused.’ Her voice was muffled but she knew her mother had heard her by the way her arms tightened around her.
‘We are all filled with confusion, Catherine, and we must each find a way out of it on our own terms. No-one can solve your problems but you, no-one can tell you what you want from life; it’s experience that will teach you that.’
Catherine looked up into her mother’s face. ‘And by the time I have enough experience to be even halfway wise, it will be too late to do anything about my life.’
‘We’ll see. Go on and check the hens, I don’t think I’ve fed them today.’
Catherine rose to her feet and stared down at her mother. Fon was pale and there were circles of blue beneath her eyes, her clothes were untidy, her hair escaping from the pins. She did need to get away, desperately, Catherine could see that now.
It was one of the last days of summer, a bright, gleaming day, when Catherine said goodbye to her mother. Fon, with a small bag of possessions, took her leave of Swansea and began the first leg of her journey to Ireland. Liam would meet her at the port in Cork and take her to his farm. Then, when he could, he would return to Wales and to Honey’s Farm.
Catherine felt bereft as she wandered aimlessly through the streets of the town. She felt suddenly alone and unloved, little better than an orphan.
Boyo had been an orphan. He had come to Glyn Hir tannery as a child with nothing, not even a name, and he had left it as the proud owner, wealthy and influential, and had married an equally rich wife.
Catherine walked to the beach and sat on the promenade staring across the bay to Oystermouth. There, her mother had lived as a child, brought up in the small fishing community, loved and cared for until the day she had chosen to move to Honey’s Farm.
Catherine rose impatiently, she must stop feeling sorry for herself, it was merely self-indulgent and did no-one any good. She had lands and money enough to live on, she had her health and strength and it was about time she got on with her life and stopped moaning about her lot.
‘We must try again for another child.’ Bethan lifted her chin and stared into Boyo’s face, trying to read his expression. ‘You want an heir, I know that and I, well, I want a baby to hold close in my arms, a live baby to suckle at my breast…’ Her voice broke for a moment, ‘I know I can’t replace our first son but another child would do much to alleviate the pain of our loss, don’t you agree?’
She watched his face carefully, she knew that he had been sent packing from Honey’s Farm, knew that somehow something had gone wrong in the relationship he had shared with Catherine O’Conner and she could not help but rejoice, for now he would stay with her. Boyo would be true to his vows, he would protect her and care for her and if he did not love her, well, hadn’t she known that all along?
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last, ‘your age is against you, Bethan, I don’t want you to risk your life for what might end in another tragedy.’
‘It’s because of my age that I want us to try again as soon as possible, Boyo.’ She spoke softly, ‘I’m not asking you to forget your love for the young O’Conner girl, I know that it’s impossible, at least for the time being. All I’m asking is that we try for another chance at happiness. Please, Boyo, I need a child so very badly.’
He rubbed his forehead and she could see the mixture of expressions flit across his face.
‘Boyo, I’m not so repulsive to you that you cannot come to my bed am I?’
‘Of course not.’ He took her in his arms and held her close. She could hear his heart beating and tears rose to her eyes. If only she could have his love, she would be the happiest woman in the world.
‘All right.’ He spoke the words on a sigh. ‘If your heart is set on it then we shall try for a baby.’
It was only a beginning but suddenly Bethan felt as though she was lit from within with happiness. She clung to him, feeling the crispness of his hair beneath her fingers, her heart bursting with love for him. She closed her eyes and sent up a small prayer of gratitude to the heavens. Boyo would a
gain hold her in his arms and perhaps, just perhaps, they could recapture the old easy relationship they had once enjoyed.
Boyo moved upstairs to the master bedroom with an air of a man attending his own funeral. He felt he was about to be unfaithful to Catherine, which was absurd, he was going to bed with his lawful wife, how could that be wrong? And yet it felt wrong. Every instinct within him urged him to move on past the open door to his own room. He stopped for a moment on the landing and closed his eyes. In a moment he was transported from his home to the house he had shared with Catherine. He could picture her stretched across the bed, her hair like fire around the whiteness of her shoulders. A great surge of need drove through him, followed quickly by a feeling of loss. How could he make love to Bethan feeling as he did?
Purposefully he moved into the room and stood for a moment as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The lamps were turned down low, the curtains open, revealing a fine moonlit night, a night for lovers.
He saw Bethan stretch a pale arm towards him and he went to her, closing his eyes, trying to warm himself into a feeling of love for her.
Once he was beneath the sheets, he held her close and her arms clung to him, her breasts soft against his chest. He caressed her gently and she pressed closer; he could feel the tears on her cheeks, they tasted of salt beneath his lips.
His body refused to respond and then, unbidden, there came to his mind the image of Catherine. With a groan he turned away from his wife, burying his face in the pillow, as though hoping that by hiding his face, he could quench the misery that rose within him.
He felt Bethan’s hurt as she turned her back on him, dragging the bedclothes with her and yet he could do nothing to help her, his own pain was too much to bear.
‘It’s over, then.’ Her voice was muffled but he could hear the hardness that was an attempt to hide her feeling of rejection.