Then, Tom would open an eye and look down and smile. ‘Oh, finished already?’ he’d say as he brought out of his pocket two sixpences. They were always very shiny sixpences and I suspected he polished them up beforehand. There were still vestiges of my old Tom there and I used to struggle with the feeling of what it could have been like without his mother. Then I’d shake myself back to reality. No good dwelling in what ifs. Concentrate on what we had now.
*
By the 1960’s when our grandchildren were getting excited by The Beatles and The Mersey Sound, Tom and I retired and received our pension. It wasn’t much, but then, we didn’t need much. We’d spent our lives without and it was now ingrained in us. Economy was our watchword. We helped out our children when necessary, buying presents for the kids and I was able to save enough to go on holiday twice a year. I’d go with Mrs Farmer from next door and the women from my church. We’d join bus trips to seaside resorts like Ilfracombe, Western-Super-Mare and the like, or go to London for a long weekend and see a West End show. It was fun and I enjoyed them. On one particular trip, I was going to Torquay for ten days.
‘Well, enjoy yourself,’ Tom said as he watched me putting on my summer coat. Then, he said something extraordinary. ‘Tell you what, I’ll paper the kitchen for you. When you get back, it’ll be all nice and fresh with new wallpaper and paint.’
I was so shocked, I had to sit down and make a conscious effort to shut my mouth. This was unheard of. He never did jobs around the house.
‘I don’t believe it. Did you really say you would redecorate the kitchen?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said. I don’t know why you’re so surprised, I’ve decorated it before.’
‘Yes, you did – once! But that was so long ago and I’ve got so fed up of asking you over the years that I’d given up.’ I looked at him hard and he wasn’t laughing. He must be serious then. ‘Well, well, I never thought I’d see the day. You volunteering to decorate. What’s the matter? Why this sudden interest in decorating?’
‘I just feel like it, that’s all. Even I can see it needs doing and I’ll be able to do it in my own time without you nagging me. I’ll enjoy it.’ He scratched his head and looked at me as if he was puzzled by my reaction. ‘I can make as much mess as I like. Tell me what kind of paper you’d like and I’ll look for it this afternoon,’ he said with such finality and confidence, as if it was something he did every day. I was even more shocked. Was this my Tom?
‘Well, I’ll be,’ was all the response I could manage.
‘Well, that’s nice, I don’t think. I thought you wanted the kitchen decorated, you’re always on about it.’ Tom put on one of his sulks. It was rather attractive in its way and before we were married, he could always get around me with such a sulk. It made me laugh. But I hadn’t seen one for years. I didn’t know he could still do it.
But there was no time to dwell as Edie was knocking on our door and walking in saying, ‘Ready, Kate? Ready for an exciting ten days in the flesh pot of the West Country. Song, sea, sand and men; but don’t tell my old lug, whatever you do.’ She laughed her infectious laugh.
‘Oh, Edie,’ I said, laughing too, ‘don’t say things like that or Tom will believe you and you know we all behave like church women with the vicar looking on.’
I took a sneaky look at Tom, worried he might believe her, but he was smiling. I know he looked forward to these times he had alone. He never wanted a holiday. I like my home, he’d say.
‘Well, don’t go back on your word now will you? I’d be disappointed if I come back and find it all the same.’
‘Don’t worry, it will be all new. Go and enjoy yourself and don’t think of home.’
I joined Edie at the front door and turned round to Tom. ‘Make it roses, Tom. Nice pink roses. I love roses.’ And with that I shut the front door and went to Torquay.
*
When I got back, I opened the front door with trepidation. I don’t know why, but something was shivering down my back. What had he been up to? I walked into the kitchen; there was no one there. I called out, but the house was empty. I looked around the room. Sure enough, the window frame was painted a nice, bright white and looked a picture and the doors and skirting boards the same. And the walls were covered in a soft cream paper, with a profusion of pink roses with long green stems: gorgeous, but for the fact that they were all upside-down.
I sat on a kitchen chair, still with my summer coat on, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After all these years I still hadn’t got what I wanted. Why did I bother? I made some tea, changed from my travelling clothes into something more comfortable, all the while trying to get used to upside-down roses.
When Tom finally got home, smelling of beer, but sober, I tackled him about it.
‘No,’ he said, ‘they’re fine. They’re roses, aren’t they? Pretty roses. No, they’re not upside-down.’
‘Get yourself some new glasses. They are definitely upside-down.’ But Tom couldn’t see it at all, and I wondered whether he did need new glasses.
‘Well, upside-down or not, I’m not doing it again. It nearly killed me. I’m too old for decorating. Either you put up with upside-down roses or pay a decorator to come in and re-do it. I’m washing my hands of it.’
And put up with them I did: for years. It was easier and after all, it was just Tom and me, and we weren’t going to entertain royalty, but it did rankle.
We still didn’t speak to each other very much, apart from necessary things like, ‘Want a cup of tea?’ ‘Here’s your dinner.’ ‘Mind your feet,’ from me, while Tom’s vocabulary didn’t usually exceed, ‘Going out now.’ ‘Off to bed.’ ‘I’m hungry.’ Not a lot to show for fifty years of marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tom and I were entering our seventh decade. My life was full of my children and grand-children. They all visited regularly and included Tom and me in all family celebrations and outings. Since his mother’s death, Tom had got to know his children more, especially the boys, and they used to go to the pub together. Life was sweet and we’d reached a point of satisfaction in our lives. Our years of struggle were over. We never spoke of them to anyone, not even to each other.
Then I got a letter. I rarely got letters, except from Aunty Annie and I knew her handwriting, and this wasn’t hers. Other letters I dreaded as they usually brought bad news. I didn’t quite know what to make of the one that arrived on my doormat because the envelope was addressed to me, in red pen. Did I owe any money? Not to my knowledge unless Tom had got himself into trouble. I put it on the mantelpiece and looked at it for a while, until I chided my stupidity and grabbed it and tore it open.
Dear Mrs Mallow
Please forgive me writing to you like this, but I’m very worried about Davy. As you know, since my mother’s death some years ago, Davy continued to live with me and my family. He’s an uncle to us all, and we all love him as if he was our own blood. Over the past two weeks, he has taken to his bed and won’t leave it. He refuses all food and cries all the time. I don’t know what to do. I think he’s dying. He won’t see a doctor, says he’s in no pain, but I don’t know. Please help me Mrs Mallow. Please come to visit him. Anytime will do, there is always someone in.
Yours sincerely
Margaret Mace (Mrs)
I went that afternoon and as she led me up to his bedroom, I felt apprehensive and nervous. I hadn’t seen him for years as he preferred it that way so I didn’t push myself on him. We occasionally bumped into each other in town, but we only stopped to say some pleasantries and then he always hurried away, as if, I always felt, he was afraid I was going to pry into his business.
He was in bed in his pyjamas, lying on his back looking up at the ceiling. He didn’t acknowledge me. The air was stale and sour. I quickly took in the neatness of the room, the high polish finish on the wardrobe and chest of drawers. The little table under the window had a pristine white tablecloth over it with a vase of flowers. Davy always liked things nice.
<
br /> ‘Hello, Davy,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
No answer.
‘Mrs Mace is very worried about you. She asked me to come and see you.’
‘Bugger off.’
‘That’s not a nice way to talk to your sister. I’m only trying to help you.’ His eyes never left the ceiling.
‘I don’t need any help.’
‘No, I can see that. You haven’t got up for two weeks, refuse to eat and cry all the time. No, of course you don’t need any help.’
‘Bugger off.’
I lost my temper then. ‘Don’t speak to me like that. I won’t have it. I’m your sister. Now if you don’t care about yourself, Mrs Mace does and it’s very unfair on her for you to be like this. She deserves better than that. She’s your family and continued to look after you after her mother died, and she looks after you very well from what I can see. This is totally selfish of you. Think of her. Talk to me for her. Haven’t you got any gratitude in you?’
And with that, he broke into giant sobs that went on for over half an hour. He couldn’t control himself. I could see why Mrs Mace was worried.
I didn’t know what to do and he wouldn’t accept any comfort. ‘Davy love,’ I said in the end, ‘I’m going to leave you now and come back tomorrow morning. Then we are going to have a chat together, just us two.’
Next morning, I was feeling nervous as I approached the house. They still lived in the same one her mother had lived in when she took in Davy as her surrogate son fifty or so years ago. The front of it hadn’t changed, but inside, everything was different. Davy was different. I didn’t know how to talk to him. I didn’t think I was the best person to talk to him. I was his sister, but only that. We’d hardly had contact from the time he left home and he felt like a stranger. I remembered when I broke down in front of Tom, and how it felt, the powerlessness, the hopeless feeling, the loss of control, the shame, and I wondered if he was feeling the same.
I knocked on the door and Mrs Mace answered. ‘How is he?’ I asked.
‘Just the same, I’m sorry to say. He cried all night after you left yesterday. I don’t know what to do. I’d appreciate your advice, Mrs Mallow. Please see him and then come down for a cup of tea, and let’s talk about what we should do.’
That was the last thing I wanted. I had no idea what to do about him, but I said, ‘Yes, I’ll do that Mrs Mace.’ I went up the stairs – slowly, gathering my thoughts. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. ‘Davy, Davy, it’s me, Kate. Can I come in?’ Nothing. Mrs Mace called up, ‘Go on in, he often doesn’t speak.’ Reluctantly, I turned the knob and my hand was shaking as I pushed open the door. Davy was lying in his bed, just the same as yesterday, but I sensed a difference. Something had changed.
‘Hello, Davy, it’s me again. How are you today?’
I was expecting another profanity to come my way, but to my surprise, he said, ‘I can’t talk about it, it’s too hard.’ His voice was so low that I had difficulty in hearing him. I leaned closer. I caught, ‘I can’t stop crying,’ before a bevy of sobs stopped his words. ‘I’ve written it all down here,’ he said between sobs as he fumbled under his pillow and pulled out a letter. ‘This is for you, Kate, just for you. Please don’t show it to anyone else.’ It was written on slightly creased blue notepaper, and even had an envelope, addressed to me.
He held out the envelope, desperately trying to control his sobbing and I could see his pain clearly etched out on his face. Surprised and intrigued as to what he felt he had to write down, I took it from him without a word and walked over to the window and stood with my back to him. My hands were shaking as I took out the notepaper and put the envelope down on the small table in front of me.
The letter was written in Davy’s usual small, neat handwriting. That was one thing that never changed with him, he was always so neat. But in a way, I wished his writing was so bad that I couldn’t read it, because I found the contents distressing.
Dear Kate,
This is just for you. Please do not tell anyone else what is in this letter. I don’t want the whole world to know my secrets, especially my family here. They’ve been so good to me I don’t want to upset them. So before you read on, please tell me that you will give me your solemn oath not to tell anyone what is in this letter.
I turned to him.
‘You promise, Kate?’ he whispered.
I got drawn into his gaze and knew I had to answer. ‘Yes. Yes, Davy love, I promise.’ I turned my back to him again and continued reading.
I’m sorry, but I am too upset to speak of these things, I can’t stop crying every time I think of it.
I’m just going to have to tell you this straight, get it out as quickly as I can. I’ll try and put it so that you can understand. Or maybe, you never will.
You know why I left home and my love for Rhys all those years ago. You also know that I have never married. There is a reason for that. I couldn’t love a woman. It just wasn’t in me. I could only love men. I buried it deep within myself for years, until when I was forty, I met a man and we fell in love. Unfortunately, he was married with children. He was a doctor, so we always had to be doubly careful. He was the same age as me and we met once a month for nearly thirty years.
We’d catch the train somewhere, Cardiff or Swansea or wherever we were not known. We’d book into a hotel separately and in advance, but one of us would book a double room and when we arrived, say his wife had been taken ill and was not joining him. We would then secretly share the double room for the weekend. We always went to the very best hotels, he always told me nothing but the best was good enough for me. We were so happy together. Thirty years is a long time and I lived for those monthly meetings.
We last met two weeks ago and he told me that his wife had become very suspicious and thought he had a mistress. When he was a working doctor, he told her he volunteered his skills one weekend a month at a charity in Swansea. But now he’s retired and he’s losing his sight. She knew he couldn’t practise any more but he still went on his weekend away with me every month. He made up excuses but she didn’t believe him.
He told me that we had to stop our relationship. He couldn’t bear the shame if he was found out and he would lose all his status in his community. He lives up the valleys and is well known and respected, and as you know, they’re very straight-laced up there. He was broken hearted, but he had to do it. He couldn’t destroy his family and his reputation. He had a responsibility to them. He had no choice.
That’s it, Kate, that’s all there is to it. And look at me. I can’t do anything but cry. We love each other, very much. I know he loves me more than his wife. She was just a cover to hide his true feelings. In fact, he doesn’t love her – you know, like that – at all, but he was so afraid of his feelings that he tried to smother it for years. Until he met me. Me too, I’d smothered it since Rhys died, until I met him. But it was more difficult for him. He loved his children and his job, and I understood that. I had nothing to lose. Look at me, I’m just a little man with a little life and I had a little job. I have no status in the community. No one cares about me except for my family here and, well, maybe you, Kate. But it was so different for him. I understood all that. I was just so grateful that he felt such love for me. It made my life worthwhile.
I don’t blame him, but I’m shocked that I’ve fallen so totally to pieces. I can’t stop it. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I knew this was coming one day, and I thought I was prepared, but can you prepare yourself for a broken heart?
I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to see a doctor because he might get the secret out of me. Give me drugs or something that would make me talk. I can’t talk about it. I have to keep supporting him. I’d die if anyone found out about us and he blamed me. It would destroy him – and me.
Re-reading this, it all seems so pathetic really, two grown men acting like teenage lovers, but that’s how we were for all those years.
I want to die, that’s all I can thin
k of. I can’t stand this pain much longer. I know he will never come back. Our time together is finished, but it doesn’t make it any easier. He was my life. Without him, I have none.
The letter ended there. He hadn’t signed it. I was so absorbed in the letter, I didn’t realise I was crying. I took out my hankie and dabbed my eyes and blew my nose.
I turned and looked at him. He was staring up at the ceiling again. ‘Poor, poor Davy,’ was all I could manage.
‘Do you hate me?’
‘No, of course not. You’re my brother, I could never hate you. But it’s a shock. I never thought . . . oh, I don’t know, I suppose I never thought of you loving someone . . . like this. I thought it was all over after Rhys.’
‘And I never thought I’d love someone as much again. I know it’s disgusting. Two men like that. Most people would hate me for it, I know that. But I couldn’t stop it. It was just natural to us.’
He rose from his bed and in one sweeping movement took the letter from me and threw it in the grate. He took some matches from the mantelpiece and set fire to it. He wasn’t satisfied until it was totally destroyed. Then he got back into bed.
My legs started to shake so I sat down on the wooden chair next to the bed and tried to gather my thoughts.
The Rocking Stone Page 22