The Coward’s Tale

by Vanessa Gebbie

  And Mrs Parrish will consider, and wave a hand over the foot, ‘Here, Mr Bowen, all over.’

  And he bends to his bag and takes out the roll of instruments wrapped in their cloth. He opens a bottle of antiseptic and makes the nostrils of Mrs Bennie Parrish twitch. He sets to, to her toes, with his clippers and his files, his tweezers and his picks, until the white cloth is dusted with clippings, and flakes and powder that were until a moment ago all part of Mrs Bennie Parrish.

  Then he asks her to remove her foot from his lap and she does, holding her skirt to her knee with one hand and watching his face, but he is putting something in his bag. She watches him take the white cloth from his lap, fold it in two and shake it over the grate, sending her clippings into the fire.

  And for all her chatter Mrs Bennie Parrish is quiet while she watches her own body consumed by the flames, and there is a pause maybe, ‘A piece of cake and a glass of restorative before you do the other foot, Mr Bowen?’

  But Baker Bowen never resorts to cake while he is dealing with the town’s feet, and he just asks for the other foot, if she has it nearby.

  When the nails are clipped as neat as the Garibaldi Street hedges, he will take his payment and his bag and go out. Then he will pause and turn back, ‘Mrs Parrish, I wonder if I might ask a favour? The roses. Might I pick the last one? I have no garden.’

  Then he leaves for home, and on his way he may remember he has no bread, and will call in at the General Stores in the High Street to buy a loaf, intending to be quick, not talk. But that is not always possible.

  ‘How is your poor wife, Mr Bowen?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’

  ‘Is she comfortable?’

  ‘She is. Always cold, mind, now.’

  ‘No pain then, that’s grand.’

  But what Baker Bowen does not say is that his wife cannot breathe easy some days, for the growing constriction in her throat. That her pain and his is one thing, but if the air cannot reach where it must, their pain is doubled. And fear. But neither she, nor he will speak about fear.

  And he will walk slowly back home to Bowen’s Bakery at the bottom of Steep Street with his bag and a white rose in one hand, and in the other a loaf of bread all sliced on a machine and wrapped by a machine, in a cold plastic jacket.

  The Baker’s Tale ii

  Baker Bowen may not have noticed, back in the General Stores, for he was distracted, some neighbours from Steep Street, standing by the sweets and chocolates before going down to the cinema for the late afternoon showing,

  ‘Mints, or fruit drops?’

  ‘I don’t mind, either.’

  ‘Yes but which?’

  And maybe they waited to pay while the two ladies behind the counter shook their heads at the sadness of it all at Baker Bowen’s, and couldn’t recall when they last saw Mrs Baker Bowen out and about and it must be a long time now that she is ill.

  One neighbour may wonder, for the first time, why a man who has to buy bread is called Baker Bowen, and the only answer that is forthcoming from the other is, ‘He is called Baker but is not a baker. Lives in a bakery that is not a bakery, see?’

  Later, when they are waiting on the steps of the cinema with their fruit drops and mints, and some toffees, for they were on special, the neighbours may wonder out loud again why there is a name and no job. A bakery and no bread. For they have never thought of it before today.

  ‘Yes, and there is the tipping of bread into the stream. Done that for years but now I can’t remember why.’

  If they ask it right, and if the questions come to the ears of Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins standing there all hopeful at the sight of a bag of toffees, he will look to the hills at the back of the town, and wheel his arms, tap his watch that has no hands and tell those who will hear, the story of the bakers in Steep Street.

  ‘Listen with your ears, I have a story for them, see – But oh I am partial to a toffee, as anyone knows . . .’

  And the cinemagoers will smile and open the packet of toffees they were not going to open until the showing started, and will give one to Ianto Jenkins, who will put it in his pocket, laying a finger on the side of his nose, ‘No teeth, last time my tongue looked.’ He will sit down on the step with a sigh, and cup his hands round a coffee, and begin.

  ‘Nice and warm, these hands. Maybe this story is not about bakers at all, but about hands? And maybe it starts with the hands belonging to a real baker called William Bowen, grandfather of this Andrew Bowen who still lives in Steep Street with his sick wife, there’s the pity.

  But this Will Bowen, his grandfather, oh he was a real baker, baking bread every day, the house warmed right through by the heat from the bread ovens. Exactly right, those ovens, and he knew, as he put them in himself. Couldn’t afford them, mind. Oh no. What with, a young lad just making his way?

  Could never have afforded those ovens, or that house, if it was not for a friend called Benjamin Lewis. Gave him the money saved for his own wedding and the honeymoon after with the soon-to-be Mrs Susannah Lewis, Benjie Lewis did. Gave him enough for down payment on this house in Steep Street that was nigh on slipping right into the stream, and an old oven. Whatever next!

  No baker, this friend. Benjie Lewis was a collier. Both at school together as boys, they were, Will Bowen and Benjie Lewis – the one laughing at the other who stood on a chair to watch his mother bake and loved the feel of bread dough in his hands. And he in his turn laughing at the other who wanted to go into the dark all day to break coal he said, even when he was a lad. Each thinking the other is daft.

  Yes, gave him his wedding money, Benjie Lewis did. And helped Will Bowen set up that first bread oven when it came all the way from Shrewsbury, bought second-hand, a good one. And helped to make the house into a bakery – painted the bakery sign themselves too, out the back on a table, Benjie who could draw well enough getting the words drawn right in pencil, Bowen’s Bakery and Maker of Bread, Cakes and Pastries . . . and then it was Will Bowen who fetched a pot of paint and filled in Benjie’s letters to make the sign, then there they were both up ladders to fix it to the house, Benjie half-laughing about Susannah, and what she would say when she found the money gone.

  Baked every day, Will Bowen did. Loaves and baps, buns and bread plaits for the tables of the big houses who couldn’t possibly have their bread in the same shapes as others, indeed not. And the house was filled with the smell of bread, and the warmth of the ovens, for after a while he married as well, and bought a second with his wife’s money, this time. Soon enough, among the other sounds in the house were the small voices of Will Bowen’s young sons playing at being bakers on the floor in the front shop after hours, with buns made from scraps of dough and pennies cut from brown paper.

  And he sold most of the bread from the front room, made into a shop, bread piled high and dusted in flour, loaves and baps, cakes and pastries, all made by the clever hands of Will Bowen. And soon, he was known as the baker in Steep Street, and the word attached itself to his name as words will, given the chance. William Baker Bowen.

  And when he had closed up the shop at the end of the day, he took orders round on his bicycle, delivering to all the corners of the town. And it was a funny thing, but always, at the end of the round there would be one loaf and maybe a few rolls, and sometimes a cake left in the bottom of the basket on the bicycle. And another funny thing, for Will Bowen would always happen to find himself down at the far end of town, at a small terraced house on the road leading to the next village and Kindly Light pit, where Benjie Lewis was working.

  He would wheel his bike down the alley at the side of the house and lean it against the wall by the back door – you go and look – there is a still a dark mark left on the bricks by the handlebars. And he knocked.

  After a little time, the little time it takes for hair to be patted into place in front of a kitchen mirror, and cheeks pinched for the colour to come, Susannah Lewis opened the door. Then Will Bowen held the loaf or the cake behind his back a
nd grinned and said, “I wonder, is there a lady of the house who would like some bread today?” and Susannah Lewis would curtsey, “Best come in and show me your wares . . .” she’d say, acting the gentry – and the brown door would close behind Will Bowen as quiet as a stolen kiss.’

  Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins the beggar will be doffing his cap and bowing and scraping, and he may take a spare toffee from a cinemagoer, ‘Fuel, for later, understand . . . stories about bread make me peckish . . .’ and he’s off with the story again.

  ‘But Will Bowen, our Baker Bowen’s grandfather, he had to be careful, mind. He had to time it right, for sometimes he found Benjie Lewis washing under the outside tap, Benjie come home after an early shift, and Susannah standing on that doorstep, her arms folded, smiling a smile over poor Benjie’s bowed head, “Will Bowen, it is good to see you. Will you come for supper?”

  And Will would always wink and say that was kind, but he had to get back to his wife, his boys. But he would be back tomorrow, and would not forget to bring bread, cakes for Susannah, paying Benjie back for the oven. And Benjie not knowing it was not just bread Will Bowen brought for that wife of his.

  But then there was one September day when Will Bowen came freewheeling down the hill towards Plymouth Street, near midday, whistling as loud as he could, for Benjie would still be at work – and he did not hear a new sound carried on the wind from down the valley. From the direction of Kindly Light pit.

  And he wheeled his bike down the alley as usual, a cake all ready in his hand, ready to knock on the back door and to say, “I wonder, is there a lady of the house . . .” but he never did, for the bike was knocked to the ground by Susannah Lewis who came half-walking half-running away from her house, pulling a coat round her shoulders. She flung the words at him, “It’s the mine . . . the mine . . . something’s happened, it’s bad . . .”

  Will Bowen found that back door wide open. He threw the cake onto the table and as he stood there the alarm from Kindly Light came again and blew about the yard. Then he was off back to the bike, but the wheel was buckled and he kicked it aside and ran instead.

  “Benjie . . . ?”

  Full pelt then, down the road to join the others running down to Kindly Light.

  He heard the noise before he saw the crowd round the pit head, a low noise, the closer crowd, the women, white-faced, huge-eyed, remembering the last words they said that morning to their men, who left them in the morning clean, and came back at shift end smeared always in darkness.

  There was Susannah Lewis standing to one side with her hands over her mouth, her hair blown about, shaking her head as if shaking her head now would stop thoughts taking root. And Will Bowen did not like to touch her, not even a hand on her shoulder.

  Hours they waited, and then there came the sound of the winding gear, slowly and more slowly. And those it brought up staggered out into the light blinking and shrunken.

  And the talking began.

  “Seems the roof came down mid-section.”

  “Seems there was firedamp . . .”

  “An escape of firedamp caught alight . . .”

  “A fire all right, explosion behind the collapsed section, mind, not this end . . .”

  “All right this end, were they?”

  “Explosion went right up the ventilation shaft . . .”

  “I heard it blew two roofs off, brought down some big old wall . . .”

  “No, not all right this end . . . afterdamp.”

  “Poor buggers.”

  “Fire that side of the collapse, was it, and afterdamp this side?”

  “That’s about it.”

  More hours they waited, as the crowd swelled and diminished, swelled and diminished as though it was a heart or a lung, and Will Bowen did not think to go home, but stayed with the wife of his friend while back at home in Steep Street the bread ovens cooled, and the house went cold.

  And then over the next day they brought up the bodies of those who had gone from the afterdamp, the sleeping gas, brought up on planks, on stretchers, a dreadful sight to see them unmoving, even when shaken by a cold hand, “George? My George? Do you hear me? George!” only stopping when a wife, a mother, a sister is pulled away.

  But they did not bring up the body of Benjie Lewis, not then, and Susannah Lewis and Will Bowen waited together all night, not touching. She said over and over again, “If he is only all right. Please, he must be all right. I will never see you again. I am sorry, I am sorry, Benjie, I am sorry, if you will only be all right?”

  And more talk.

  “Digging out the collapse, takes time.”

  “Can’t they get down the ventilation then?”

  “Damaged by the blast.”

  And more waiting.

  There was the sound of the winding gear again, as the engine worked the winch to bring up the bodies of the men sent into a deeper dark by the firedamp. Colourless, the gas that lives in the stones and burns like the furies if it meets a spark. And they did say to stand back, for the bodies could not be identified, not yet – but Susannah pushed through as they brought the two things out, and Will Bowen, seeing what they were, pushed her behind him. Two bodies dark with fire and smoke. Fused, their skin black and melted, their arms twisted about each other, fingers stiff and grasping.

  Oh the smell. Dreadful it was, and clinging, something that made its way into the heads and minds of those waiting and would not leave, not ever.

  And Susannah cried that this was not her Benjie, no not at all, it could not be. But no one listened, for they were calling for help to lift the two bodies down to the ground.

  It was the baker Will Bowen standing with the nearest who stretched out his hands to carry the weight of an arm, a leg, a shoulder, where the cloth had burned into the skin, and all was black. Carried the weight of dead flesh, and lowered the thing that was a collier not long since to the ground as carefully as if he was carrying something newborn.

  And oh, when he took his hand away it was there, still, just imagine, will you? See, the burned and blackened flesh stuck to his palm and his sleeve like it was part of him. He would never touch her again with that hand, his friend’s wife – and he would not wipe his hand on his clothes, for this was perhaps the flesh of his friend.

  It was like that, with two blackened palms, that William Baker Bowen walked back – all the way from the mine back through the town, all the way to Plymouth Street with Susannah Lewis, back to the house where in another lifetime, he knocked on a brown door with a loaf behind his back. Down streets that a day or so since had taken no time at all, and which now held his feet from moving like they were in mud.

  And it was there, at the tap where his friend washed himself so often, that Will Bowen the baker finally washed the black from his own hands, and took a brush from the stone and scrubbed until his own skin was raw.

  He left Susannah asleep, with a neighbour to watch she was all right – then he went back to his bakery in Steep Street, his home. And it was the smell of the bread in the walls of the place, in the front shop and in the back bakery, that made him gag. He stood out on that pavement, held onto the rail, and was sick. It was as though he had been gone for years and not just a day or two.

  But then he was back in the house telling his wife in a low voice for the boys not to hear, what had happened, but it did not take much telling, for bad news travels faster than good in a town like this. Then they worked together, Will Bowen and his wife, making up the ovens in the back bakery again, ready for the morning. They made the dough together late into the night, exactly as they always did, and they held each other while they waited for the dough to rise.

  And the next day William Baker Bowen was up early, as usual, to set the bread to bake. He filled the loaf tins, and rolled the dough between his palms to make rounds, as he always did. And he waited while it baked. But when it was ready to take from the oven, the bread, the rolls, were flat and hard as the ground. So he set to to collect the ingredients for a fresh batch, and he put
a notice up in the window to say there would be no bread today.

  But when he went to take the flour, and water, salt and yeast, to set them ready on the slate, he could not touch them. Instead of making dough, for a long while he just looked at his hands. And he cried to the walls, “How can I make bread with these?” For his hands had carried the weight of darkness, the weight of melting flesh.

  Will Bowen took the bad bread and heaped it on a tray while he made himself prepare fresh dough again, and while he was waiting for that to rise, he took the tray of bad bread out through the front shop and down to the stream. And there, with only one person to watch, a man up early on his way to his allotment – Will Bowen hefted the bread into the water. And the hard bread sank to join the other stones on the bed of the stream, all tumbled and broken up in the current.

  He tried many times, but he was never able to make bread again. Will Bowen took other jobs – painting signs, painting houses. But whatever he did he was always called Baker Bowen by the town.

  And his sons, they did not become bakers either. One trained for a doctor and went to England. The other was a teacher and lived here in the same house in Steep Street, and even he was called Baker Bowen. That teacher’s son, today’s Andrew Baker Bowen, is a chiropodist. How? Why? Who is to say? We do what we do, and the house has been Bowen’s Bakery, to this day. See?

  But the bread in the river? The town throws its bread into that stream, once a year now, on the day of the Kindly Light accident. It is become a game, now, where the bad bread sinks as Will Bowen’s did, to tumble along in the stones, breaking up as it goes. While the good bread floats on the surface. A gift of sorts maybe? You may know better than me. Throw bread into the stream, bread that is put on the old trays that are still there at the bakery – and watch it get taken by the current, and swept away beneath the town – to join the bigger river down there. They say bread has a better chance of floating if it is thrown from one of those old trays.