The Coward’s Tale

by Vanessa Gebbie

  I have found good bread on the bank of the Taff as far down as Treforrest, what do you think of that?’

  There will be no answer from the listeners, for the showing is forgotten, now, and they may just go to the river where they will walk below the bridges and look at the mud to see if the mud might have once been bread.

  The Baker’s Tale iii

  Today Andrew Baker Bowen visited a customer at the bottom of town, and walked back along Plymouth Street as far as the High Street, then passed the old chapel by the cinema, and heard the beggar Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins talking . . . and maybe Baker Bowen stopped to listen and heard sounds that rang in his heart.

  There is something in the sunlight that filters down Steep Street at the end of the day, bringing to life the words on the wooden sign above the window of the last house, Maker of Bread, Cakes and Pastries as Baker Bowen holds the handrail and approaches his home, ready to find his wife, his ears straining already, to see if they can hear her. In case she is weeping to herself while he is out, and the sound of her weeping is running up the slope with the sound of the stream. As it will only do louder and louder in the days and weeks to come. Maker of Bread, Cakes and Pastries.

  He opens the door. ‘Hello, my love, I’m home. I will bring you a cup of tea, now, and a little sugar, and your tablets. Hang on?’

  The sounds stop sudden then, as though she has bitten her tongue to make them go elsewhere, where they cannot be heard except by their maker.

  Maybe Baker Bowen knows that the pain is growing now, every day, and escapes despite her, the pain scratching the wall by her bed with its nails, until the paper is in shreds.

  Each day now she tells him she is cold, and he brings a bed jacket from the closet, and then a second borrowed from a neighbour. He puts more blankets on the bed, and he lights the fire in the little grate in the room. But it makes no difference.

  ‘I am still cold, is it winter?’

  ‘Not yet, it is not.’

  His wife shivers and says the house’s heart feels cold, and why is that? At first he thinks it is the ramble and shudder of the illness, but then he knows it is not. And another thing he knows because his name is Baker Bowen, is that the heart of the place is the old bread ovens in the back bakery.

  It is not a difficult thing, in the end, to decide to fire the bread ovens, the great dark ovens that have not been lit for generations. To get his coat again and go out to buy kindling, and coal nuggets, and firelighters from the General Stores in the High Street. Where there is a boy sent down by his gran with her basket, to buy bread and a pot of strawberry jam, and a bottle of milk. A boy called Laddy Merridew who hears the women behind the counter whispering, ‘Look at Baker Bowen. There’s sad he looks today,’ and the boy turns to the man, ‘Mr Bowen, please can I ask you something?’

  Baker Bowen pauses in his collecting of kindling and firelighters, ‘Ask away, lad. I may not have the answers.’

  ‘Bread in the river, Mr Bowen. I have not done that before. But I was thinking, why does some float and some sink? What is good bread, and what is bad? What is not in bread that makes it not good?’

  Baker Bowen shakes his head and says he does not make bread, so he does not have the answer. But the question does not leave his head with the reply. Instead, it echoes and echoes between his ears on his way home. ‘What is not in bread that makes it not good?’

  Back home, it is not a difficult thing to get on his knees and lay the fire beneath the bread ovens. Then he remembers, with a smile, and takes his instruments out. Piling his scissors and tweezers, his rolls of lint, bottles of antiseptic, anaesthetic ointments on the counter in the front shop, and placing some in his bag, on a chair.

  Then he lights the fire, keeping the door ajar with a wedge found at the back of the shelf, to make a draught. And he watches while the fire catches, then as the old gauge on the oven door begins to move, the needle pulling away from where it has been sleeping. He watches until the oven is hot and the bakery is filled with the smell of hot dust, hot lampblack, and burning cloth – where a scrap was caught at the back of the oven.

  Then Baker Bowen washes his hands, black from the coal, black from setting the fire, as warmth begins to spread through the house. And he knows then that his hands are made from the same stuff as those that worked here long ago. That there is memory deep in these hands, in the bones and the flesh. Maker of Bread, Cakes and Pastries.

  He puts his head round the door of his wife’s room, and he finds her asleep. Not as before, restless, her white knuckles clutching the blanket to her chin, but relaxed, her hands open on the coverlet.

  While she sleeps, and while the warmth continues to beat through the house, Baker Bowen goes back to the General Stores with a list in his head – strong flour, and yeast. Salt, and milk. And when the ladies behind the counter raise an eyebrow, ‘Well, Baker Bowen, what are you doing now? You were here nowjust.’

  Baker Bowen just says, ‘What is my name?’ for an answer.

  And then, back at home, his wife still sleeping, he takes the yeast and mixes it with a little milk in a jug, and sets the jug near the oven but not too close. He takes flour, and water, and a little of the yeast, and begins to work on the slate surface, gathering it all together, and pushing it away with the heels of his hands. Until his head is filled with the scents of flour, and of yeast, warm and good. He works and works at the mix, kneading and kneading until his knuckles are red with the effort. And he sets the dough aside in one of his own metal dishes, covered in his own clean white linen cloth, to rise.

  And the dough will rise, as dough is made to do. It will be knocked back by the fingers of Andrew Baker Bowen, who has no need of instruction, for it is in him. The dough will be left to rise again as he goes to talk to his wife, awake again, ‘How is the pain tonight? Shall I bring you something for it later? Can you smell the oven? I have lit the bread oven. There is dust in the flue.’

  Back in the bakery, he divides the dough into portions and shapes them small and uneven between his palms, for in this he is unpractised and thinking too much. He greases one of the metal trays then dusts it with a little flour – a memory held from boyhood, or deeper – and he places the rolls on the tray and slides it into the oven.

  While they are baking, Baker Bowen sits with his wife, his head and hers filled with the scent of baking bread made by his own hand. His wife may say it is good for the house to have the bread oven lit for it is the heart of the house after all. And she thinks she is ready to try a little bread, if it is soft.

  He will take a tray through, with a pot of tea, two cups, and his first-baked bread rolls. Strange misshapen things, but well-risen, and good for all that, spread with a little butter, a little jam.

  And he knows then that his hands will be able, when it is their time, and his wife can not breathe easily any more – to do another good thing. To take from the back of the cupboard a box of white tablets and to grind them into powder. To mix some powder with flour, and a little milk, yeast, and to bake bread again.

  He will not question, but will take the rest of the powder and mix it with some sweet jam. And when the rolls are done, he will slide the great tray from the bread oven and set the rolls to cool on the slate. He will mix icing sugar with a little water, and ice them. And when the icing is set, he will spread a little butter. A little jam. Make a pot of tea. And he will take a tray covered in a white lace cloth through to the room he made into a bedroom three years since, and will make sure she eats, and enjoys, and takes her other medicines, to dull the pain and send her to sleep.

  He will kiss her and hold her hand, and will sit by her bedside stroking her forehead. And when he has finished his tea, and his wife has fallen asleep, he will draw back the blankets and slide in beside her, hold her as she floats away.

  But then maybe he will be woken by shouts from outside, in Steep Street. ‘Where are the trays? Where is Baker Bowen?’ And he will get up in a little while, and straighten his knitted waistcoat. He will che
ck the calendar, and shake his head, for he forgot the date – a September date – and will go through to the front shop and pull up the blind on the window.

  Steep Street will be busy, people coming down the hill, from the bus, from the other houses, young and old, men in suits on their way to offices, lads on their way to school, girls, their hair unbrushed. All going down to the bottom of the hill, to the river and then along the path to the bridge just by there. Among them, the boy Laddy Merridew, who has brought his gran down on the bus from the Brychan, even though she did not really want to come.

  Baker Bowen will splash his face with water, run his hands through his hair, and go back to his wife’s room to make the bed tidy as she always liked.

  And then out he will come in his dark coat, carrying two iron trays from the back bakery. There will come a shout from the crowd, ‘Here they come! The trays!’

  Then there will be a great pushing and shoving, as the trays are taken to the bridge, balanced on the parapet and loaded, piled high with bread, held steady by Baker Bowen like he’s done for years on this day, and like his father did before him and his father before that – keeping them straight while small boys stretch up to place their bread roll up there on the edge.

  ‘Mam?’

  ‘Mam? You will watch for mine now won’t you? Will mine be good bread?’

  ‘Aww yes, I can see it for sure.’

  Grown men in suits stretching from behind the kiddies to drop bread onto the tray, for not to do it may be bad luck. Laddy Merridew will take a roll from the hands of his gran and reach forward to place that and his own on the tray. And then there will be a single slice of toast thrown, buttered, from somewhere at the back, with a laugh – and it will miss the tray and land on the road – but it will be rescued and placed with the growing pile of bread, everyone staying as close as they can, trying to keep an eye, until the great iron trays are heaped high.

  And Baker Bowen will stand back, to wait, a silence in the middle of the noise, to look at the stream as though the answers to everything would be found down there in its little torrent. And when everything is ready, like there is some secret signal, or when the very last bread roll is thrown from the crowd – then it is that Baker Bowen, holding a tray steady with one hand, will fish in his own pocket with the other, take out two iced bread rolls and place them on top.

  There may come a shout, ‘Never seen that, Baker Bowen, made them yourself?’

  The questioner may be laughing but Baker Bowen will not smile, just nod. And as the crowd stands back he will tip the first tray and send the bread falling into Taff Fechan like thick rain, where some will sink and some will float, all taken by the current, bobbing and jostling like the watching crowd on the bridge. Then the second tray, and the water will carry the bread away fast as anything, between the high walls, and off to the tunnels under the town. And among the bread that is floating will be two rolls, white with sugar icing.

  The crowd will part, and Baker Bowen will make his way back along the path to Steep Street, carrying his heavy trays. And will he turn up the slope to his door? He will not. Instead, he will stand above the stream watching the play of light on the water, watching the last of this year’s bread jostling against the rock in the bed of the stream that divides the flow, some going this way and some going that, according to some indefinable logic.

  In the Porch of Ebenezer Chapel

  There is bread at the chapel porch the next day, sandwiches brought for the beggar Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins, but not by Mrs Prinny Ellis. White bread, sliced, with Sandwich Spread, wrapped in greaseproof and kept in a school satchel all day by a boy who couldn’t tell his gran he doesn’t like Sandwich Spread, when she got it in special.

  ‘They are a bit squashed, sorry.’

  ‘Squashed is fine, thank you. Would you like a toffee?’

  And there is barter in the chapel porch, a little silence for eating on the bench. Then Laddy Merridew coughs and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘Can I say something?’

  ‘You just did.’

  ‘I think there are funny things happen in this town, Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘I do. Gran says that bread is tipped into the river each year, but when I asked her why she said she wasn’t sure. Not like you said. She doesn’t know anything about your Kindly Light accident, I asked her that as well.’

  Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins doesn’t say anything for a while, just sits and chews, and thinks. ‘I can’t help that, Maggot. Just because the clouds are over the Beacons, doesn’t mean the Beacons have disappeared, now does it?’

  ‘I said you remembered it like it was only yesterday, and she said she came to live here years afterwards so how can she remember? Then she said it’s just your old stories.’

  The beggar is quiet again. He looks at his watch with no hands, and taps it, squints at the face. ‘It’s getting on, mind.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘And what do you think, Maggot?’

  The boy considers for a while. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘An honest answer.’

  ‘I like things to be true. I don’t like people making things up, not when they are meant to be telling me the truth. I mean, people lying.’

  ‘Who has lied then?’

  Laddy Merridew doesn’t reply for a moment, then he says in a small voice, ‘My mam. She had a boyfriend and didn’t tell Dad, or me. I know who it is too and I hate him.’ He pauses. ‘He’s a teacher.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘At my school. I was going to be a teacher when I grow up, too. Now I’m not.’

  ‘So what will you do instead?’

  Laddy pushes his glasses up his nose again. He grins. ‘I’m going to be a pilot.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What did you do? I mean, did you, do something?’

  ‘I did do something. But before that I was going to be a farmer. Up the mountains in the fresh air, a few hens, sheep. I was going to buy a shop in the High Street and sell lamb, mutton, eggs. But I was only twelve, mind. In the end, I was a collier.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I said?’

  ‘You said you were afraid of the dark. You had nightmares. Were you just saying that?’

  ‘No, Maggot, I was not just saying that. I never was going to be a collier at all. My da was the collier down Kindly Light pit, off every morning before sun-up with Mr Thomas Edwards from along the way. Mrs Thomas Edwards she looked after the both of us, my brother the Maggot and me while I was small, then she looked after the Maggot every day and brought him home later, when I was bigger, and that was all fine. I was meant to make sure there was a bath ready for my da in the kitchen. But I tell you, that was a source of conflict. Oh yes. My brother the Maggot trying to get to scrub Da’s back when that was my job, and him grabbing the cloth, and Da shouting, “Will you stop it the both? There is more water on the kitchen floor than in the bath . . .”

  There were the days Da was home, and trying to be both Mam and Da to us two, and I was meant to help. He would call up, “Ianto! Get to by here, will you?” and I would mean to go straight away, but I was always thinking and dreaming and could not stop for all the trying. Lying on my bed, I would be, arms behind my head, lost and journeying down the cracks in the ceiling. And enjoying being there on my own for a while, I must admit. So when my da called again, right at the foot of the stairs now, for his voice was louder, “Ianto! You great lump, get to by here,” I would tumble off my bed and come thundering down the stairs, “Sorry, Da.”

  And look. There would be my brother Maggot, pulling himself up on my da’s trouser legs, and Da trying to wash his work clothes, his arms covered in soap suds. And for me, the work would be potatoes waiting in the brown basin on the kitchen table for peeling, in water as brown as the basin itself. And Mam’s small knife just by, waiting, the one with string she wound round the handle herself to stop her fingers from slipping. But there was no Mam’s hand to take up that knife and peel the potatoes any more, so it was my
job now.

  And I can hear my own voice, “Sorry, Dada.” ’

  Laddy starts to say something, but Ianto has not finished. He flexes his fingers, moves his hand in the air.

  ‘All these years later, Maggot, close my eyes and my fingers are small again, back on that knife-handle, the string warm as though Mam had just put it down to go out the back for a shallot, the blade cool and curved by my da’s whetting. And me trying to do as she did when I watched her, me the small boy standing on a chair and her slipping that blade neat under the skin of a potato so the potato never noticed a thing and gave up its coat easy. Moving the knife so fine its coat came away in slivers that fell into the muddy water. Then they would rise and wink at me like fish.’

  Ianto Jenkins stops, leans his head back against the wall, eyes nearly closed. ‘I am rambling, Maggot. Rambling . . .’

  Laddy Merridew interrupts. ‘So how come you were a collier as well? Did your da know you were frightened? Did he make you go?’

  The beggar shakes his head.

  ‘I did not tell him about the bad dreams I had, not at first. There was enough to worry about in our house anyway. And always something happening down the pit. Little things. “There’s always trouble down Kindly Light,” Da used to say. “Plenty of good steam coal down there, but the mountain does not want us to have it.”

  Then one little thing happened down Kindly Light. A little bit of roof fell in before the supports were done in one of the new roadways. A little bit of roof that only caught one man, crushed my da’s leg bad and it never healed after at all. Being a collier was finished. For my da, it was finished, see? I was twelve. And suddenly, Ianto Jenkins was the one who needed boots, and water bottles, and all the neighbours knew, and Mr Thomas Edwards was being asked if he would keep an eye on me when I was below . . . and Da, he never asked me.’ Ianto’s voice falls away. ‘He never asked . . .’