The Coward’s Tale

by Vanessa Gebbie

  Simon loves Blodwen, indeed, and Tutt will put his cap and his stick down on the table, run his hand under the lip to feel the shape of the words with his fingertips. Words carved when Simon Tutt Bevan was a boy, and whoever Blodwen was all forgotten now except in the carving.

  Then he will pick up the book of maps, and go over to the window to look out over the roof tiles, the alleys, backyards and bins, holding the book up close to his face. There are no annotations, no hills to give direction. Only the ribbon of the river running through the town is unchanging, even when they made new bridges when the old were swept away in flash floods. He matches the page to this view, or tries. Matches this line to that alley, this space to that park. Then he finds the river laughing at him for the page is upside down.

  Tutt Bevan leaves the walking stick pointing at the window and waits for the door to open again, listening for footfall on the parquet, in case the feet come over this way, towards the map section. And the feet will come. The feet of Factual Philips, Deputy Librarian, who is only come to look up the name of the Minister who buried Fancy Philips, his grandfather, or a union official who led a march once.

  But Tutt says, ‘Can you help me, if you have time? I can’t quite see if this street is this one here? Do you know?’ and he tuts as he points to the map and to the town, the back yards and the bins.

  Factual Philips, who knows every street in the town like the back and the front of his hand, every alley, frowns, ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. And here. See? This one?’

  Tutt points the map at the windowpane as if he was persuading the book to ask the window a question. But the window will just shimmer back instead of saying anything useful. And Tutt asks again, ‘Are they the same? Could they be?’

  For once Factual Philips is stumped. Stumped by his own town. For the river makes a reference point, but which way up is the river? Which hill did the mapmaker choose a long time back as a high place where he must sit with a sharp pencil and paper, looking down at the valley? And for all that the early name of the town is on the spine of the book, it is as though the pages have at some point fallen away from the binding, then been put back wrong. For whichever way the book is held, what it says remains the same. And where the houses may be now that were shown by careful pencil squares on map after map is a matter for conjecture.

  For the first time in a long while Factual takes a deep breath before he says, ‘I’m sorry, Tutt, I can’t help you.’ And with a face as long as a week without newspapers, he goes off down the stairs.

  Coming up, panting, his glasses slipped down his nose, is Laddy Merridew. ‘Are you Mr Philips? I forgot, I need a book on coal mines for school this morning,’ and Factual Philips, on solid ground once more, will show the boy the Reference Room and Local History, and leave him there.

  As he rounds the corner of the stairs to the hallway with its black and white tiles, he may see a couple of lads left there to play whilst their mam is choosing a book. One lad on tiptoe on the bottom step, reaching up to put his spent chewing gum into the mouth of the dragon on the right. And the other lad trying to cross the hallway without standing on a black tile, ‘Or the dragons will get me, Kev, look. And there’s a ditch full of fire in the corners!’

  Factual Philips, Deputy Librarian, brings all his importance with him down the stairs, ‘I’ll give you dragons and ditches of fire, you two. Take your old silliness outside. And your chewing gum as well.’ He points to the mat by the doors. ‘Welcome to a Place of Silence – know what that means?’

  And the lads laugh as their mam comes out from reception, putting her book in her bag, ‘Aww, they were only playing.’

  Factual Philips frowns. ‘Playing? Whatever good did that do for anyone, now?’ and he catches sight of Laddy Merridew coming back down the stairs, a book on coal mines under his arm, and waves a triumphant hand, ‘See? There’s a boy who is going somewhere.’

  Laddy Merridew may wonder where somewhere might be, but he doesn’t ask, and goes to put the book on the school ticket. Factual Philips sees off the dragon slayers and their mam, and he disappears down into the basement, muttering, ‘Teach them a few facts. That will count for something. Boundaries. That is what lads need, mark my words . . .’ and he slams a cupboard door by way of punctuation.

  The Deputy Librarian’s Tale and the Undertaker’s Tale ii

  This morning, Matty Harris, Deputy Manager of the Savings Bank, called by the Public Library to consult a map of Belgium, for Eunice Harris is planning a holiday somewhere exotic. Tutt Bevan asked him to check the book of town maps against the town itself . . . and he did, with Tutt looking over his shoulder, tutting like the devil. Matty checked all the rooftops outside the window, the parks, the railway, the river, and turned the book this way and that. He got no further in his interpretation than Factual Philips, and Tutt Bevan left without a word of thanks.

  And as he put the book away, Matty Harris wondered why the Undertaker tuts to himself all the time, and why the sound has made itself into his own name. And while he was thinking about it, why does Tutt Bevan follow his stick in a straight line lately, never turning a corner unless he has to? And what is he looking for in the maps? Matty Harris’s head was so full of these questions there was no room for his own thoughts, let alone the whole of Belgium. And off he went down the staircase behind a red-haired boy in glasses, the questions all talking to each other in his head, until he passed Factual Philips scolding lads in the hallway of the library, growling, ‘Playing? What good did playing ever do anyone?’ And Matty’s head made room for a few more questions, for he’s heard Factual Philips telling lads off before. ‘Boundaries. That’s what boys need. Boundaries.’

  And later in the day, when Matty Harris finishes at the Savings Bank he will leave his Clerk Tommo Price to lock up for the night. He will not go the back way up the hill for a pint at The Cat at the corner of Maerdy Street, not yet, but instead he will cross the square to the cinema, where he may find the beggar Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins leaning against the wall as the queue builds up for the six o’clock showing. Matty joins the back of the queue with no intention of seeing the film, and when he can, he puts a coin in the beggar’s cap. ‘Why does Tutt Bevan make his old noises? And why is he following that stick everywhere of a sudden? And what is wrong with Factual Philips? Why doesn’t he like kids playing? Enjoys fishing, and isn’t that playing, of sorts? . . .’

  Ianto Jenkins the beggar will smile and sigh and tap his watch with no hands. ‘One at a time, probably, is that right? Why indeed. I will tell you about Factual Philips first, and Tutt Bevan after, and you will get two stories for the price of one.’

  Someone may ask how much stories are, and the beggar will smile and shake his head.

  ‘My stories cost nothing for one, and twice as much for two. So here is the first, the story of our Deputy Librarian, the boy who was not allowed to play. We shall go back to a day when his own grandfather was working on the railway, taking the steam coal down to Cardiff. Known as Fancy Philips, his grandfather, known as that for his pigeons, in a loft in his back garden. One little lad he had, Little Phil, who would later be our Factual Philips’s da. And there you are, this Little Phil adored his da, went with him once when the foreman was on holiday to Barry, for his da to show him the engine, and to cook the lad’s breakfast egg at work. On the coal shovel in the cab while they were firing the engine – leaving the shovel in the fire and then cracking an egg for the boy to see it spitting and whitening faster than he could watch. Oh yes, close as anything, that Fancy Philips and his son Little Phil.

  Fancy Philips used to catch that lad up on his shoulders when he got home at the end of the day, warm with the smell of hot oil and smoke and sweat, his face covered in smuts and his eyes red from the smoke. Lift him high in the air, then run around the house, pretending the low doorways were the openings to tunnels. Playing at being a train. Charging at the doorways so the boy screamed that he would hit his head, then ducking at the last minute, and outside to ru
sh around the back yard, until the boy was weak with laughing and his mam would put her pinny over her face, laughing too, “Put him down, the lad will be ill!” Then Fancy would take the lad to check on his birds, take him to the loft out the back and take out the birds, one by one, call them his lovelies, and let the lad do the same, “Careful, Phil. Gently . . .”

  But then there came a day when the Kindly Light alarm echoed down the valley and the street was filled with people, running down to the pit. Women running with fear, and men running to see if they could help, hearts in their mouths. And the men on the railway left what they were doing to help. But Fancy Philips hung back, and stopped.

  Fancy did not go up to Kindly Light that day to help after all, or the next, or the day after . . . for there would be plenty of men up there already, wouldn’t there? Of course there would. He would only get in the way, and there would not be anything for him to do in any case. It was done.

  But that first day he just went home, and sat at the kitchen table with his hands jammed over his ears to block out the alarm sounds, knowing he should have gone, and he had not. And every moment that passed making it more impossible to go and more impossible to not.

  And it was then that Little Phil – the father of our Deputy Librarian, remember – was waiting for him, hiding behind the door in the front room, and when his da did not come to find him to swing him up in the air, and play at being a train, as he always did, little Phil crept through to the kitchen and under the table to grab a hold of his father’s leg for a surprise and to cry, “Play with me, Da! Be a train!”

  The little lad was dancing round Fancy Philips, and pulling at his jacket, making the sounds of a train, a high whistle, and more huffing and puffing, a scream, almost – “Come on, my Da! Be a train . . .”

  And all his father could do was push the boy out of his way, harder than he would have if he had been thinking, and he sent the boy reeling back to knock himself against the door jamb and onto the floor, “Go away and stay away!” But the lad did not stay away. This was just another game, for he was not bad hurt, oh no. And he picked himself up and rubbed his shoulder to show his da that that was a little bit hard but he was a big lad after all . . . and he came straight back to his da, now sitting with his head in his hands – straight back to the man who was kind and gentle, and who played trains with him and made him laugh. And maybe his voice was a little smaller now, “Play, my Dada? Shall we hold the birds now?”

  And instead of playing, or taking him to the birds, Fancy Philips swung his fist. He caught his son on the side of the head and knocked him flying a second time, harder – then he knelt in his own kitchen and wept . . . and did not see his little son picking himself up and running out of the kitchen door.

  The little lad was not found then for hours, and his mam went frantic from house to house, “Have you seen my boy, Little Phil?” But a boy who has run off because of a beating was not much to worry about, not now that there was the accident up Kindly Light, and the neighbours just said, “He’ll come home when he’s ready and he should spare a thought for those who won’t be coming home at all . . .” So, it was not until after dark that they found him, Little Phil, curled up in the coal shed of a house three streets away, and not asleep. Shaking still, and cowering away, and had to be pulled out by the leg, crying “No, no . . .”

  And that might have been an end to it, but for the funeral, then. It is only the men of the house have to go to the funerals, even now –

  “Aww, not Phil, he is too young?” See, Little Phil’s mam, she knew he was too small for these things, but his father would not have it, for he would not have it said that his family did not do their bit. And he took the little lad with him, not on his shoulders this time, and no laughter. In a stiff collar and borrowed trousers that scratched, to sit in silence in Ebenezer, just by here, to see and hear the last goodbyes to fathers, sons, uncles and brothers. Little Phil never forgot the darkness of that day.

  And that was not the end of it. For when Fancy Philips came home after that funeral, he did not even take off his dark suit, but went straight to that pigeon loft and opened up all the cages, shouting at the birds to get out of there, and hitting out at the ones who tried to come back in. Until eventually, they did not try to go back into the loft at all but sat on the roof of the house for a while, and then a few days later, they all flew off and never came back.

  Neither Fancy Philips nor Little Phil his son played at trains after, or anything else, come to that.

  And yes, Little Phil, Factual Philips’s father, grew up without playing at all. As serious as anyone could be, reading his school books like a good boy and nothing else, learning his words and his numbers. He did well, and became a serious lawyer down in Cardiff in no time at all and married a fine upstanding member of the Women’s Institute. And his own son is our Philip Philips, that is called “Factual” and who works down the library.’

  And maybe Matty Harris, who asked all the questions, will shake his head and say, ‘But all children play. What happened to stop our Factual Philips the librarian playing then?’ And the beggar Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins will sigh, and suck on a toffee before replying.

  ‘He did, oh yes. He used to play when he was a lad, but away from his father the lawyer, all serious in his study, who brought his boy up to study his books like he did himself, and who thought his boy was reading in his room . . . but oh yes, boys will be boys, and young Factual Philips was not in his room at all but was out in the street playing a game with his friends, when his father heard their screeching and hoots. For young Factual’s friends had taught him to play at being a train.

  Just like his grandfather and father played once, a long time ago. There they were, chugging down the street, all in a line the one behind the other, holding each other by their jumpers, the pace set by the one in front and the whole train pulled back by the boy in the rear, the guards van – sometimes running and trying to catch up, acting just like the trucks clanking on their chains in the marshalling yards. And maybe the laughs and the hoots brought back that bad time when he was a lad himself, who knows? But out he went, that lawyer, and hauled his son in from the street and told him that playing never served any purpose. But he had something better for him to do – “A thousand lines. You will write a thousand times, Playing games never did anyone any good.”

  So there he was, our young Factual Philips, left in his father’s dark study with pencil, and paper, and a thousand lines to write, sitting at his father’s great desk, while all around and above, watching him, books and more books, glowering great law books in gloomy leather bindings, on shelves right up to the ceiling. And Factual began to write, slowly and carefully, because his father the lawyer would be checking every word soon enough, Playing games never did anyone any good. Playing games never did anyone any good. Playing games . . . over and over until his hand was aching with the effort. So he stopped and stretched, and that is when he saw, glowing up in the shadows, right up there on the top shelf, different bindings, a whole shelf of red books. Pulled the chair over, climbed up, and brought a book down. A strange law book, this: The Adventures of . . .

  But there were footsteps outside the study door. His father, come to see how Factual was getting on, and the door opened halfway but Factual’s father was not looking, he was talking to someone back there in the hallway, Factual’s mother perhaps, “Don’t worry, Audrey. Boys need boundaries. Oh yes, boundaries . . .” and that gave Factual a chance to sit on The Adventures of . . . and to pick up his pencil and write the next line, head bowed over the paper, Playing games never did . . .

  His father the lawyer closed the door again. “He’s fine, Audrey. Concentrating hard. This will do Philip a lot of good, you mark my words.”

  Young Factual waited until his father’s footsteps had faded, and took out The Adventures of . . . and started to read.

  Sherlock Holmes, that’s what that book was. And the others too, all Sherlock Holmes, adventure after adventure. So, yes, F
actual Philips was stopped playing trains right then, and he had to write his lines, and that was not the last time, either. But strangely, writing lines was something that Factual seemed not to mind, after a while. A thousand. Two thousand. Three . . . helped along by those red books from the top shelf.

  And in the end playing stopped altogether. And that is why Factual Philips does not like others having fun, see? Seems such a waste of time. Maybe it is? Who is to say? But detective books, now there’s another thing. He was even going to be a policeman himself once. Talked to real detectives in Cardiff, friends of his da’s. Even signed up once, for the training, but quit because they had to play at being policemen and he didn’t fancy that. So because he loved books, he’s a librarian. Like that. And in the cupboard where he keeps the kettle, he has the Public Library’s only copy of The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, reads it over and over, finding new facts every time. And behind his desk, Agatha Christie whodunnits in alphabetical order, too, for when he needs a rest.’

  The beggar stops his story, folds his arms, and says he will say no more until someone fetches him a cup of tea and a Welshcake . . .

  The Deputy Librarian’s Tale and the Undertaker’s Tale iii

  If it is not time for a snack then there must be something wrong, that is all Ianto Jenkins can say. But before too long his arms are wheeling again as if they are drawing down words from the wind, and the beggar is looking up the High Street towards the Public Library and the alley opposite, where the Undertaker lives, and his second story is beginning.

  ‘Listen with your ears, the ones that ask “why” and will never stop asking it until the day they are laid to rest. Why does Tutt Bevan the Undertaker make his sounds? Why does he walk as he does, now, in a straight line following his stick? And why is he looking every morning at maps of the town, turning them this way and that, looking out at the real town through the window? Looking for something for certain, he is. And it was Tutt Bevan’s own mam, Rosie, who started it. Another child who hid on that day, the day of the accident down Kindly Light.