Kingdom's Dream

by Iris Gower

  Bull stood in the work hut staring out at the clouds hanging over the diggings. Behind him the brazier burned briskly, the only warmth in the chill of the dismal day. He was angry that the work on the line was facing yet another delay. Outside, the engineer was pacing the ground, staring up as if he wished he could command the rain to cease.

  Bull knew that Cookson, too, felt the frustration of constant delays as much as he did, but while the inclement weather caused them irritation and worry, the navvies were glad of the time off and were doubtless making a nuisance of themselves now at the public bar in the nearest alehouse.

  ‘Damned weather, Bull. Do you think it’s ever going to clear?’ Cookson called to him.

  ‘It’s in for the day, sir. Come inside for a bit – you’re getting soaked to the skin.’

  Cookson came into the hut and held out his hands to the warmth of the brazier, rubbing them impatiently. ‘Bloody bone-ache! It’s driving me mad – this damp weather worsens it.’

  Bull watched as Cookson’s clothes steamed in the heat and the smell of wet serge permeated the small hut.

  ‘Want a smoke, Bull?’ he asked affably. He took out his pipe and rubbed it sensuously as if it was a beautiful woman.

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’ Bull did not indulge in the almost universal habit of smoking: he had seen his father die coughing, his teeth stained brown from the tobacco, his moustache turned yellow.

  ‘You’re not like your run-of-the-mill navvy, Bull.’ Cookson took his time lighting his pipe. ‘I’d say you’re a cut above the rest.’ He regarded Bull steadily. ‘Had any education, man?’

  Bull almost smiled. His education had consisted of a few hours a day spent at his mother’s side, but she had taught him to read and write and do his figures. She had been a woman of distinction who had married beneath her, in her family’s eyes, but she had been in love with Donald Beynon until the day she died.

  ‘My mother was an educated lady, sir.’ His brief reply forestalled further questions.

  ‘I see.’ Cookson cleared his throat. ‘Well, no good hanging around here in this weather. Why not take a bit of time off? Get down the Castle with the other men – a break will do you good.’

  ‘Aye, you might be right, sir. It looks as if it’s coming down even harder.’ He watched as the engineer took a flask out of his pocket and drank from it, then offered it to him.

  ‘Thanks.’ Bull took the flask out of politeness rather than because he enjoyed the taste of rich dark rum, which was the engineer’s habitual drink. It was fiery in his throat and he instantly felt warmed by it.

  ‘How’s that woman of yours, Bull?’ Cookson pushed back his hat. ‘She’s a fine, comely girl.’

  ‘She’s a good enough woman to share a hut with, sir.’

  ‘Good enough to bed but not the sort you’d want for a wife, eh?’

  ‘That’s about the length and breadth of it, sir.’ Bull felt disloyal to Rhiannon but he would never marry her. He knew it and so did she.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off now and we’ll meet again bright and early in the morning.’ Cookson walked out of the hut, took the reins of his horse from the hitching post and mounted. He touched his whip to his hat and rode away. Bull envied the man his breeding, education and money, but he had determined that he would not be a navvy for the rest of his life. One day, and soon, he would be a respectable, if not wealthy, member of the community.

  Rhiannon sat in the rough shanty staring out at the waterlogged landscape, which was grey and miserable in the pouring rain. She wished Bull would come home. Once he took her in his arms the world would be full of colour again. She sometimes dreamed of being married to Bull, walking down the aisle of a sun-filled church wearing a pretty gown and carrying a bunch of wild flowers – they were the only ones she liked. In fact, they were the only ones she knew, unless she spotted a rose in the garden of a grand house.

  Rhiannon picked up the speckled mirror Bull used for shaving and studied her reflection. She was quite pretty, she supposed, her skin browned by the weather and her hair hanging loose to her shoulders, not swept up in curls like the styles of the gentry. Once, when her father had been alive, she had worn good boots and pretty bonnets, but that had been another life, in the northern part of Wales. Even later, before her mother’s death, she had been happy. But from the age of thirteen she had been alone. ‘You’re not a bad-looking girl,’ she told herself, ‘considerin’ what you’ve been through.’ She remembered the pangs of hunger even now. She had been a thin, bedraggled scrap of humanity when she had given herself in desperation to a labourer in exchange for some food. That had started her on the downward road to whoredom.

  Looking at her fresh face no one would have known she was a harlot, but she had lost count of the men with whom she had lain. They had all been the same, pushing and thrusting, then walking off and leaving her feeling like dirt beneath their feet. Until she had met Bull. Her expression softened. She loved Bull, had loved him from the moment they met. It had been in a public bar and she had been dressed in good flannel petticoats bought from the market in Swansea. She looked almost respectable but if Bull had had any illusions about her they were quickly dispelled by some of the other men in the bar.

  She flushed as she recalled their meeting. Bull had sat opposite her and they had begun to talk in a leisurely way at first, and then she had relaxed: she was in the company of a real man, who did not scorn her for what she was.

  ‘Watch you don’t catch something nasty from that wench,’ a man had shouted across to Bull, and the crowd at the bar burst into raucous laughter.

  ‘I bedded her last night – not bad too.’ Another had guffawed heartily.

  Bull had walked over to the navvies and stood, arms folded across his chest, staring at them angrily. ‘If the girl is good enough to bed, she’s good enough to treat with a bit of respect, right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Bull, if you says so. No harm meant, see. Didn’t know you was taken with her.’

  That night, Bull had brought her to his shanty. Outside it was like the rest of the huts along the line, but inside it was cosy with a small slope at the back that held a neatly made bed. They had spent the night together, and she had been with him ever since.

  Now Rhiannon looked up eagerly as she heard his familiar step. Hurriedly, she moved to the fire in the corner and pushed the kettle onto the flames. Bull was not a demanding man and he would be content with soup warmed up from yesterday, but he liked a jug of hot tea when he came in.

  ‘Hello, then, girl. What you been up to?’ Bull smelt of rain and droplets sparkled in his dark hair, but Rhiannon put her arms around him, ignoring the dampness of his clothes, and kissed him fiercely.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home.’ She rested her cheek against his shoulder. One day, she knew, he would meet a decent, respectable girl and would want to settle down and raise a family. But please, God, not while he worked on the railway. ‘There’s a mug of tea coming up, love, so get out of those wet clothes and I’ll dry them by the fire for you.’

  Bull planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Hey! You’re not my mother.’ He pulled her hair teasingly. ‘I think today the tea can wait – there’s something I need more than that.’

  She went with him eagerly to the bed in the slope, threw off her clothes and watched him undress, admiring his big muscles, his strong forearms.

  He held her close, kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. He made love to her with a tenderness that was unusual in a man taking a whore. He treated her as if she was a fine lady and it was no wonder she loved him. She breathed in raggedly, wanting him with an urgency fuelled by fear. Fear that one day he would be gone from her for ever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Summer sunshine flooded the church of St Paul’s with a dazzling luminosity. The leaves on the trees lining the pathway that led to the arched doorway fluttered in the light breeze, and the stained glass in the windows gleamed like jewels.

  Jayne, alighting from the carriage decked with roses
, felt the bright sunlight was confirmation of her love for Dafydd and his for her. Not even the sight of Llinos Mainwaring could dampen her spirits because today she was marrying the man she loved and nothing would ever separate them.

  The music swelled as Jayne, on her father’s arm, entered the dimness of the church. Dafydd was there, waiting at the altar, his face turned to watch her.

  She knew she looked beautiful, everyone kept telling her so, and Dafydd was a worthy suitor: he looked so fine and noble, his clothes cut from the finest cloth, his hair neatly trimmed and lying close to his head. And then she was beside him. She saw him smile but the warmth was not reflected in his eyes, and for a moment she doubted the wisdom of marrying a man she did not understand.

  The vicar of St Paul’s, known to the parish as Father Martin, smiled down at the pair, his prayer book open in his sun-browned hands. Vicar he might be, but sometimes his task included tending the churchyard. He began to intone the words of the marriage service, its resonance ringing up into the rafters of the building, and in her mind Jayne said, Thank you, God, for giving me this man. I will never betray him, and I will love him until the day I die.

  To Llinos the service seemed interminable and she felt the strongest urge to run away: it hurt her so much to see Dafydd married to Jayne. She glanced at Eynon: he stood at his daughter’s side, tall and elegant as always, his fair hair flopping over his brow in a touchingly familiar way. If she had fallen in love with Eynon, her life would never have been so tempestuous: she would have passed her days in tranquillity and peace. But then, a small voice said, she would have missed the love of two wonderful men.

  The music surged, the ceremony was over. Jayne walked along the aisle on the arm of her husband, her face wreathed in smiles. As she looked up at Dafydd, it was apparent to everyone that she was truly in love with him. Llinos searched Dafydd’s face and realized that he was at ease with the situation, smiling and nodding pleasantly to the congregation.

  Then he caught her eye and she saw her own regret reflected in his guarded look. ‘Good luck, my love!’ she whispered, and the woman beside her glared at her. That in itself was nothing new – Llinos was used to being regarded as an outcast, a woman who had openly taken a lover.

  She became aware that people around her were whispering and staring at her, some were even pointing, and the blood rushed to her face as she filed out of the church behind the rest of the congregation.

  Outside, Jayne was surrounded, being kissed and congratulated. She looked so sweet, innocent, that Llinos felt like the wicked witch who cast a blight on marriages.

  For several minutes she stood alone, wondering whether to get into her carriage and miss the wedding feast; perhaps she could plead a headache – anything to get out of watching Dafydd with his new bride. Then it was too late. Eynon was at her side.

  ‘You’re looking as lovely as ever, Llinos,’ he said softly, taking her hand, and she was grateful to him for realizing what an ordeal today was for her. He kissed her cheek. ‘Hold up your head, my love,’ he said softly. ‘Ignore the stupid, narrow-minded people who talk about you. How many of them would come out lily white if their lives were looked into closely?’ He tucked her arm through his. ‘As for Buchan, forget you were ever associated with him.’ Eynon already bore a grudge against Dafydd, Llinos knew, because of his affair with her and now he must accept the man at his home because he was his daughter’s husband.

  The wedding feast was held at Eynon’s house, the grand gallery set with a long table laden with food and great jugs of wine. As she looked around the room, Llinos wondered at how the social scene had changed in Swansea. New families had moved in and scarcely anyone was left of the old crowd. She was aware of the curious glances thrown her way and she knew how her affair with Dafydd must appear: she was an older woman who had led Dafydd astray. She was glad that Joe and Lloyd were not here.

  Jayne bustled up to her, skirts swaying around dainty ankles, Dafydd behind her. Llinos could tell he was acutely embarrassed by his new wife’s exuberance.

  ‘Aunt Llinos, aren’t you going to wish me well?’

  Llinos heard the emphasis on ‘Aunt’ and knew it was for Dafydd’s benefit. ‘I wish you very well, Jayne,’ she said. ‘I hope you will both be very happy.’ She avoided looking at Dafydd and thought guiltily of their last meeting, and of the shameless way they had kissed behind the closed doors of the drawing room. Colour flooded her face and she wanted nothing more than to get away.

  It was Eynon again who rescued her. ‘Llinos, come and sit at my side.’ He took her arm. ‘As I have no lady wife, will you be my companion at the table?’

  ‘Gladly.’ She kissed Jayne’s cheek. ‘Be happy,’ she said, and allowed Eynon to lead her away.

  ‘It’s as much as I can do to look at that man,’ he said. ‘How can I trust him, Llinos?’ He drew her close to his side. ‘He took you, a married woman, to his bed, so how do I know he won’t seduce you again?’

  ‘Believe this, Eynon, my dear friend,’ Llinos said, with some asperity, ‘I will not allow him to, now that he’s married to Jayne.’

  ‘Have I your word on that?’ Eynon asked.

  ‘I swear it.’

  Eynon nodded. ‘Good.’ He gestured to the chairs set alongside those of the bride and groom. ‘Please sit here next to me, Llinos. The day will pass easier with you at my side.’

  Llinos looked at the huge chargers heaped with pheasant, duck and guinea-fowl. The sight of so much rich fare turned her stomach. Wherever she looked, she saw food. She picked up a glass and sipped some wine. ‘I’m not very hungry,’ she said, ‘so don’t be offended if I eat little.’

  Eynon nodded abstractedly and Llinos saw that he was watching Dafydd talking to his brother, Ceri, who looked as though he had climbed out of his deathbed. His face was pale, his cheeks were hollow. Llinos’s heart contracted with pity. Ceri’s wife hovered nervously at his side.

  Jayne hurried over to her father. ‘Please, Papa, come and say goodbye to Ceri. He’s not well enough to stay for the feast.’

  Llinos watched Eynon cross the room and rest his hand on Ceri Buchan’s thin shoulder. Eynon had no quarrel with him: it was Dafydd he hated. She sank back in her chair, feeling that this was one of the worst days of her life. Suddenly she longed for Joe, his familiar body, the way he read her thoughts before she formed them. Tears stood in her eyes and she rubbed them away. She might be suffering the tortures of the damned but not one person here would be allowed to know it.

  ‘Oh, Dafydd, this has been the most wonderful day of my life!’ Jayne sat up against the pillows, her pristine nightgown buttoned to her throat. Katie had gone now and she was alone with her husband. She watched him cross the room towards her, strong and lean, a man of the world, and for a moment she was frightened. What if she did not like him touching her? She was so inexperienced in the ways of men. The only man she had ever kissed, apart from her father, was Lloyd Mainwaring and he was like an elder brother.

  Dafydd put his arms round her and drew her close to him. She shivered in apprehension: from overheard kitchen talk she had gathered that lovemaking was a painful process.

  ‘You’re so tense,’ Dafydd said softly, his breath blowing the curls away from her face. ‘I promise I won’t do anything to frighten you.’ He touched her breasts gently with his forefinger and she felt a strange sensation in her stomach. He kissed her, then his lips moved to her throat and he unbuttoned her soft cambric nightgown. When his mouth moved to her breast, Jayne felt fire inside her. Now her fear was tinged with pleasure – and not a little curiosity. She had to become a woman and now, with the husband she loved, was the right time.

  She ran her hands over his shoulders, feeling the strong muscles beneath his skin. ‘I love you, Dafydd,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know you do, little darling,’ he said. His hands were gentle as they removed her nightgown, and she felt strangely vulnerable for she had never lain naked in her bed before. Was it immodest to undress in this way? S
he did not know. She had no close women confidantes.

  She thought of Shanni, with her tumbled red hair and knowing eyes. If a girl from the slums could be a successful wife then surely Jayne, with her breeding and upbringing, could do better?

  When Dafydd slid his hand over her flat stomach, she flinched. His hand moved lower touching her delicately and she began to relax against him. He knew how to treat a woman – there was nothing to be frightened of.

  It was over quickly. The pain was minimal but somehow Jayne felt incomplete, as though she had started a feast and left it half-way. It was not a sensation she could explain or understand.

  Dafydd kissed her brow, almost like a brother. ‘Go to sleep now, Jayne,’ he said softly. ‘This has been a long day for you.’

  He turned over and Jayne listened to his even breathing, wondering why she felt disappointed. Surely love for a bride and groom should be more than a quick coupling. But then, she reasoned, Dafydd did not want to hurt or frighten her. He was a gentleman and she was a lady. Surely a lady was not supposed to enjoy the things her husband did to her in the privacy of the bedroom. It was only the lower orders, the maids, women like Shanni Morgan, who could mate like animals in the stables.

  She swallowed her disappointment and turned on her side, feeling Dafydd’s naked back against her breast. Should she get up and put on her nightgown? Should she wash away the signs of intimacy? She felt lost and alone. The only woman from whom she might have asked advice was Llinos Mainwaring, but she would never speak to Llinos about Dafydd, or about her marriage.

  It came to her then that Dafydd had done those things to Llinos, and she an old woman! He had kissed her breasts, entered her and even made her with child. For the first time Jayne understood jealousy. How could he? How could Dafydd have done such things to another woman?

  She turned her back to him and tried to force herself to sleep but it was not until the dawn crept in through the windows that she succeeded.

  The railway line was making progress at last. Tracks laid like a silver ribbon curved towards Swansea and the high street where the station was being built. Bull rested on his pick, wiping the sweat from his eyes. He looked up and saw Cookson riding towards him. ‘Morning, sir,’ he said affably, knowing the engineer was pleased that the work was going well.