Beggars and Choosers

by Catrin Collier

  TUESDAY: Ironing, bread and stew making. Baking. Jam to be made in season.

  WEDNESDAY: Clean the entire house, sweep and wash down all the floors in the house.

  THURSDAY: Beat all mats and rugs, bread and stew making, baking. Jam in season.

  FRIDAY: Wash the windows, do the shopping, allow range to go out in kitchen, take apart, blacklead all parts (even those not seen) and relight.

  SATURDAY: Bread making and baking, make rissoles, prepare vegetables for Sunday dinner. Heat water for baths. Scrub out bath after use and hang back on yard wall.

  SUNDAY: The only work to be done is the Sunday dinner.

  FOOD: Breakfast every day is porridge, tea, toast, margarine and jam.

  Monday: Dinner – leftover joint to be eaten cold with fried leftover vegetables and gravy; tea – boiled eggs for Owen, bread, jam and cheese.

  Tuesday: Dinner – stew, bread and tea; tea – beefsteak for Owen, tripe and onions.

  Wednesday: Dinner – stew, bread and tea; tea – pork cutlet for Owen, stewed calf brains.

  Thursday: Dinner – stew, bread and tea. Tea – lamb chops for Owen, stuffed beef heart.

  Friday: Dinner – stew, bread and tea; tea – fish fillet for Owen, fishcakes and bread.

  Saturday: Dinner – fried liver for Owen, rissoles, bread and potatoes; tea – cold tongue for Owen, kidneys and bread.

  Sunday: Dinner – roast dinner; tea – cold meat for Owen, bread and jam.

  Sali closed the book. Just reading it made her feel tired and after Owen’s speech she had the feeling that the notes had been made by a terrified eight-year-old girl who had displeased her brother more than once. What possible chance did she have of doing any better when the closest she had come to housework was to watch Mari and the maids carry out their chores? She would have to begin her married life by disobeying her husband, and going down to the shop to talk to Rhian. It was Tuesday, and she had absolutely no idea what tripe and onions looked like, let alone how to make it. Or how to cook a beefsteak.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘That’s everything.’ Rhian yawned and helped Sali push the last of the bloodstained butcher’s aprons into a tub they had filled with cold water and half a dozen handfuls of soda crystals, and carried into the scullery behind the shop.

  Sali glanced at her watch. It was past eleven and, the only time she had sat down since midday dinner was for ten minutes at the tea table.

  Rhian massaged her back as she stood upright. ‘Don’t forget to clean Owen’s boots when he comes in. He can’t stand seeing his boots dirty in the morning.’

  ‘What time do you get up?’

  ‘Five. We breakfast at half past so Owen can be at the slaughterhouse by six. The best carcasses go first and he likes to get in early.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sali said, as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘For what?’ Rhian asked.

  ‘Helping me. I could never have made that tripe and onions.’

  ‘Ssh,’ Rhian lowered her voice, although Owen had yet to return from his chapel meeting. ‘Just be grateful that Iestyn was around to keep an eye on the shop for ten minutes while I helped you. It’s always slow on a Tuesday afternoon. You won’t be so lucky on a Friday or Saturday.’ She shuddered as the front door opened and closed. ‘That’s Owen. Be careful, he’s usually in a mood when a chapel meeting finishes this late.’

  They went into the kitchen where Iestyn was sitting at the table looking at a picture book. He hid it under a pile of papers on the dresser before Owen joined them.

  Owen swayed and gripped the back of his chair at the head of the table. Taking a prayer book from his pocket, he opened it and squinted at the page. Iestyn bowed his head and stood behind his chair next to him. Rhian moved behind her chair, but when Sali went to take her place, Owen stopped her.

  ‘It is not fitting for one in your condition to ask for God’s blessing in the company of the faithful. You may pray alone in the bedroom in the hope that God will hear and forgive you.’

  Sali ran from the room.

  Sali had washed and changed into a nightdress by the time Owen entered the bedroom. Closing the door he peered at her through half-closed eyes. Her father had drunk whisky and she recognised the smell on Owen’s breath. He had obviously moved on to a public house after the chapel meeting and she wondered if her uncle knew his senior deacon drank spirits. As he stumbled to a halt in front of her, she realised that not only had he been drinking, he was as drunk as her brother Geraint had been when he had stolen a bottle of her father’s whisky on his fourteenth birthday.

  ‘Kneel, and lift out the chamber pot from beneath the bed.’

  She did as he asked.

  ‘Hold it.’

  Her hands shook so much when he unbuttoned his trousers and used it that she was terrified she’d drop it.

  ‘Put it back.’

  She slid it beneath the bed.

  ‘Have you prayed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On your knees?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t tell him that she had prayed for the return of Mansel and a swift release from the nightmare of life in Mill Street.

  ‘Take off your nightgown.’

  Sali stared at him in horror.

  ‘This morning you promised to love, honour and obey me. I told you not to open your cases or remove anything from them.’

  ‘I needed a nightgown ...’

  ‘And I am your husband and you have disobeyed me. Take off your nightgown.’

  Averting her eyes from his, Sali slowly unbuttoned her bodice, lowered the nightgown over her shoulders and allowed it to slip to her feet.

  She stared at the floor as Owen walked around her, and although she didn’t look at his face, she felt he was appraising her the way farmers did cattle at market. He reached out and fondled her breasts, squeezing them between his thumb and forefinger, pinching her nipples until tears formed in her eyes. ‘Open your legs.’

  When she hesitated, he thrust his face close to hers. ‘You did it for him and you did it in sin.’

  ‘I ... It wasn’t ...’

  ‘I don’t want the details of your whorings,’ he roared. ‘I am your husband, and I am demanding my rights. Open your legs.’

  Stretching her hands behind her, she steadied herself against the headboard of the bed and closed her eyes as his fingers probed inside her.

  ‘Kneel on the bed.’

  She bent to pick up her nightgown.

  ‘Leave it! Kneel on the bed.’

  Too terrified to protest, she did as he asked.

  She sensed him moving behind her, heard the rustle of cloth as he removed his clothes, felt the warmth emanating from his body and smelled the sour stench of his unwashed skin as he moved close to her. Grasping her by the waist, he plunged himself into her. She cried out in pain and humiliation as he continued to hold her in a vice-like grip, using her until, what seemed like hours later, he eventually grunted and withdrew. But there was no respite. Knotting his fingers into her hair he forced her head down on to the worn patchwork quilt.

  ‘Forgive me, God, for succumbing to the lures and sinfulness of this Jezebel. I am but a man.’ He tugged painfully at her hair and stretched out to reach for something behind the bed.

  She screamed as the buckle end of his leather belt whipped down on to her bare back. Seconds later it landed on her naked flesh again – and again and again ...

  ‘Owen, please stop,’ she begged thickly.

  ‘One day and already I have lost count of the number of times I have had to remind you of your duty. A wife must above else obey her husband. You have sinned and you have caused me to embrace the sin of lust.’

  ‘For God’s sake, we are married ...’

  ‘For God’s sake, a dozen strokes, to drive the devil’s wickedness from you. Another dozen to teach you not to use the Lord God’s name in vain, and another dozen to teach you not to lead me into temptation.’

  Her senses dulled by pain she barely heard the cl
atter after he delivered the final blow and dropped the belt to the floor.

  ‘Leave the bed.’

  She crawled upright.

  He took a coarse grey blanket from the wardrobe and tossed it to her. ‘A whore is unfit to share the bed of a decent, God-fearing man.’

  ‘Where do I sleep?’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘At the foot of the bed.’

  Hours later, curled into a tight foetal ball of agony, she was still crying for Mansel, her baby, but most of all herself.

  Sali was on her hands and knees scrubbing the passageway when Owen returned to the house the following afternoon.

  ‘Join me in the bedroom.’

  The cuts and bruises on her back, buttocks and thighs burned agonisingly to life as she rose to her feet and followed him. He had opened her case and valise and spread their contents over the bed she had made that morning.

  ‘You will have no need for the extravagant luxuries of your past life here.’ He handed her a brown parcel. ‘Open it.’

  She fumbled with the knots and unfolded the paper. She lifted out two shapeless grey flannel smocks of the kind Rhian wore. They were virtually identical to the workhouse uniform and she wondered where Owen had acquired them. Below the smocks were two brown canvas overalls, a couple of calico nightgowns and two sets of coarse woollen underclothes and stockings.

  ‘I want to see you in those clothes and no others from now on. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, Owen, and thank you. I have seen precious little of your gratitude as yet.’

  ‘Yes, Owen, and thank you,’ she repeated mechanically.

  ‘These,’ he grabbed a handful of the silk and lace lingerie Mansel had given her, ‘are degenerate and sinful.’ He dropped them into the case. ‘Give me everything else.’

  One by one she handed him all the underclothes, dresses, suits, skirts, pullovers, cardigans, nightgowns and blouses she had packed the day before. They filled the case. He closed it, carried it to the door, set it down and returned to the bed.

  ‘Your coat, mufflers, shawls, gloves and hats.’ Seeing her reluctance, he barked, ‘You will not be leaving this house, so you will have no need for outdoor clothes.’

  She handed them to him and he dropped them into her valise. ‘Your spare boots and the clothes you are wearing.’

  She thought frantically of an excuse she could make to keep the suit she had on, which had Mansel’s ring sewn beneath the button. ‘May I keep the clothes I am wearing, Owen?’ she pleaded. ‘My mother’s health is delicate and I might need mourning clothes ... for the funeral,’ she added, bracing herself for an outburst, or a blow.

  ‘You may wash the clothes you are wearing and parcel them up and place them in the drawer. But you may not under any circumstances wear them without my approval.’

  ‘Thank you, Owen,’ she mumbled sincerely, elated at the thought of keeping the ring.

  ‘Your watch and your spare boots.’

  She passed him her boots and unclipped the silver bracelet watch her father had given her. She dropped it into Owen’s palm, drawing comfort from the knowledge that her uncle had placed all the jewellery her father, brothers and Aunt Edyth had given her over the years in the family bank box.

  She stood and watched Owen pack her empty jewellery box and perfume bottles. The only things left on the bed were her books and the photograph album. Slowly, deliberately, he took her leather-bound album and placed it in the valise.

  ‘No! Please!’

  ‘Obedience! Your family have disowned you. It would be inappropriate for you to keep any mementoes of your past life.’ Grabbing the books, he threw them on to the album.

  He picked up the valise, walked to the door and lifted the suitcase. ‘When I return, I will expect to find you wearing clothes suitable to your station.’ He left the room and a few seconds later she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  She grabbed the headboard so hard the brass rail dug into her fingers, leaving dents in her skin. Owen was right, she no longer needed finery, but it was hard to see him walk away with every single reminder of her past life. She slid her hand around the waistband of her skirt. Except one.

  Four weeks after her wedding, Sali was kneeling on the kitchen floor attacking coal smears in front of the range with a scrubbing brush, bucket of water and washing soda. She was exhausted, sick to the pit of her stomach and every time she raised her head, the room spun around her, but she continued to scour as though her life depended on the removal of the stains. She didn’t even pause as she checked the time on the grease-stained face of the clock. She had barely an hour to finish cleaning the kitchen before Owen came home for dinner and she was determined not to give him cause to find fault with her again.

  One month in Mill Street had transformed her life. She followed the routine of housework Rhian had set down without question or thought. She collected and emptied slop buckets, cleaned the dog and pig pens, used brushes to chase away the rats that occasionally left the yard for the upper storey of the house, scrubbed, cooked, laundered and mended until her hands were as sore and calloused as the kitchen maid’s in Danygraig House. When she had time to consider her position, which wasn’t often, she envied that maid. Bullied by Cook and Mari, she at least had her duty defined and a few hours off a week to call her own.

  She had also become accustomed to refer to ‘lunch’ as ‘dinner’, regard the itchy, shapeless Welsh flannel smock, heavy cotton overalls and ugly woollen stockings as normal wear, and to check the time constantly, because every hour of her day and night was earmarked to run the house and service Owen Bull’s demands.

  Owen did not spend much time in the shop and the rooms above it, but his presence dominated the household. He was Master, King and God in one. Nothing was done or said between her, Rhian and Iestyn without them bearing Owen and his rulings in mind. Every minute they stole to read anything other than the Bible, or spent in conversation that wasn’t related to him or the house, engendered a feeling of guilt.

  Every weekday morning he jointed the carcasses he brought from the slaughterhouse in the yard, and supervised Iestyn’s mincing and sausage making from the offal, tails, hooves and ears of the animals. He also oversaw Iestyn’s boiling of the brawn, checked Rhian’s entries in the ledgers after tea every evening, and collected his customers’ payments on pay nights, but he left the actual running of the shop to Rhian. His life revolved around committee and council meetings, and organising town council and chapel affairs.

  Sali had cause to be grateful to the council and chapel. Their business took Owen from home most evenings. The single evening he had spent at home since their marriage, he had ordered her to lay and light a fire in the parlour and sat in solitary splendour reading his Bible while she, Rhian and Iestyn remained in the kitchen. Rhian was furtively reading Pride and Prejudice, which Iestyn had borrowed from the lending library on Sali’s recommendation, and which Rhian kept hidden beneath her mattress. And Iestyn, who was pathetically grateful for any attention shown to him, was happy if she could spare the time to read to him from the books he smuggled into the house from the library. And when she had no free time, he delighted in simply talking to her.

  Already, she dreaded some nights more than others. Fridays and Saturdays were the worst. Owen didn’t return until the small hours and she had discovered that the later he came home, the stronger the smell of whisky on his breath and tobacco smoke on his clothes. On the first Friday, tired of waiting for him, she had tried to go to the bedroom, but Rhian and Iestyn had warned her that Owen would be furious if they didn’t wait up for him.

  When he finally walked in, he was as drunk as he had been on their wedding night. He found fault with the house and when they were alone in the bedroom, reached for his belt, although he had never again given her as many strokes as he had on their first night together. The beatings were easier to bear than his demands for ‘his rights’. She no longer even tried to protest that she was too ill or tired. Attempts to d
issuade him inevitably culminated in a more vigorous and brutal attack than when she submitted without protest. Either way, the result was the same; she was left battered, bruised, degraded and resentful that the respectability her uncle had bought for her had come at the price of marriage to Owen Bull.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs a full hour before Owen’s dinnertime, she jumped up, set the stew pan on the hob, and returned to her scrubbing. Owen had pointed out the marks to her that morning and complained the house was looking neglected under her care. He would be furious if he returned to find the floor still dirty, and his fury meant a beating with his belt ...

  ‘Sali,’ Owen stood in front of her, his blood- and mud-stained boots planted firmly on the boards she had just scrubbed, ‘you have a visitor.’

  She wiped her hands on her overall and rose. Mr Richards stood behind Owen, his opinion of his surroundings evident from his shocked expression, but he recovered sufficiently to remove his hat and offer her his hand.

  ‘Mrs Bull, I had hoped to see you sooner to congratulate you, but your husband said you were too busy to receive visitors.’

  She checked her hands. They were chapped, bleeding and grimy from constant immersion in water, soda and chloride of lime, her nails were cracked and split, and her arms to her elbows were covered in a film of dirt. ‘My hands aren’t clean, Mr Richards.’ She went to the tin bowl on the stand and washed them. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, but thank you for asking, Mrs Bull.’ He turned to Owen. ‘May I speak to Mrs Bull alone?’

  ‘Being a bachelor, you may not realise there is a sacred bond between husband and wife, Mr Richards.’ Owen sat in the only easy chair. ‘My wife has no secrets from me.’

  ‘Please, won’t you sit down?’ Sali pulled two chairs out from the table. Mr Richards sat on one and looked expectantly at her. Steeling herself, she winced as the hard wooden seat pressed against her cuts and bruises.

  He looked intently at her. ‘As your solicitor as well as legal guardian, Mrs Bull, I have to ask you if this marriage was of your own volition.’