by Kit Habianic
Maybe not exactly as usual but they’d give it a damn good stab. He looked at the tree again and sighed. It was the girl’s job to dress the tree. She spent hours positioning lights and baubles and tinsel just so, often changed her mind and started over. But Carol would be pleased he’d given it a stab. He trudged upstairs to fetch the decorations from the top of the wardrobe, flicked on the bedroom light, jerked backwards in surprise.
His wife was curled up beneath the blankets.
‘You poorly?’
She rolled away, turned her face to the wall.
He raised his voice. ‘I said, are you poorly?’
‘Go ’way,’ she whispered.
‘What’s wrong wi’ you now, woman?’
It threw him, this setback. He thought she’d seen sense, at last. His best intentions scuppered by her moods, yet again.
‘Jus’ leave me alone.’
‘But I bought you a tree—’
‘What bloody point’s a tree?’
‘It’s Christmas in a couple o’ weeks. We always have a tree in this house.’
He stared down at her, defeated. She was too wrapped up in herself to see the effort he was making. He wrestled the urge to blurt out the truth about his test results. Anything to shock her into thinking about someone other than herself, for once.
‘Christmas is for family, Gwyn. Not much of a family, are we?’
She was looking at the dressing table, at the framed photographs of grandparents, parents, uncles and cousins. At the front, Helen’s primary school photograph. A freckled little girl with copper-coloured ringlets and a gap-toothed smile. Gwyn snatched it up, opened a drawer and slammed the photograph inside.
‘No!’
React to that, would she? He ripped the blankets off the bed. She lay there, not moving.
‘Christ, Carol. We’re still a family, you and me. And if you give a stuff about that at all, you’ll shift your lazy arse and help me dress that bloody tree.’
***
Where to start? Armfuls of silver, gold and red tinsel spilled out of the box, snagged together and bristling hooks. He pulled out a string of bell-shaped fairy lights, several bells missing. Loose baubles rolled under the sofa, some without their wire hangers, others rubbed bare of colour. Glitter and pine needles studded the carpet. At the bottom of the box, he found three crosses made of cinnamon sticks, tied with green and red tartan ribbon and a Christmas angel.
He raised a cross to his nose and sniffed, but the scent had long ago dried to a rasp of dust. It was Christmas 1976. He still had his fingers. Helen would have been eight. She came rushing home from school, home-made crosses in one hand, the angel in the other, first prize for the best home-made Christmas decoration. She loved that angel with its golden hair and cherry lips and gauze wings. He lifted the girl so she could stick the angel on the crown of the tree. She danced around after, face flushed, clapping her hands with delight. The same ceremony to crown the tree every Christmas after that. Even when she got too big to lift. Even when he lost his fingers and everything fell from his grasp. Even these last years, when she shrank away from him, fetched herself a chair.
Time had not been kind to the angel; the halo was cracked, gauze wings streaked grey. He scooped it up with the cinnamon crosses, hurled them into the waste paper bin. He turned to see Carol in the doorway.
‘Don’t sneak up on me like that woman.’
He set to work on the fairy lights. Tightened the bulbs and fiddled with the plug, cursed as the glass bells blazed then died. He scrabbled in the sideboard for spare fuses. A hell of a job this had become. The simplest task was a struggle since he lost his fingers. He clutched plug between thumb and forefinger, fumbled with his knife to loosen the screws. At last he fixed the lights and strung them across the tree so that most of the tiny bulbs faced the window, pinprick lights fighting a losing battle against the darkness that flooded in from the street.
Then Carol was next to him, her movements shaky and unfocused. Despite the pills, she gave it a go, strung up a length of tinsel, placed the crosses between the branches and hooked baubles from the ends. Gwyn stood back to assess her work, wondered whether to laugh or cry. None of it looked right. He pushed Carol out of the way, shifted the baubles, stood back, only to find the tree looking even more forlorn. Carol slipped from the room, a face on her like a kicked puppy. He lost patience, then, hurled the rest of the tinsel at the branches, hung the least shabby baubles in between.
***
In the kitchen, Carol slumped at the table, turning the broken angel between her hands. He grabbed it from her. ‘You fixing supper, or what?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch me some fish an’ chips.’
He reached in the larder for the cocoa tin and prised off the lid. It was empty.
‘Where’s the housekeeping?’
Carol wrapped her arms around herself, didn’t answer.
‘I gave you an extra twenty this week,’ he yelled. ‘Should be fifty quid by here. What you done with it?’
She raised her head, looked him straight in the eye. ‘Spent it.’
She hardly ever looked at him at lately. It was baffling, her behaviour.
‘But the fridge – it’s bloody empty. Nothing to feed a mouse.’
‘Fancied myself a mink coat.’
Unbecoming on a woman, sarcasm. He decided not to rise to it, too tired and hungry to begin to know what to do with her. He reached into his pocket, found a fiver and some loose change. Enough for a fair few pints, cod and chips on the way home. He slammed out of the kitchen and set off for The Mountain Ash.
***
The bedroom was dark, no sign yet of daybreak. His mouth was dry and scratchy, heart beating a flutter. It did that often, lately, when he’d had a drink. He reached out to Carol. Her breath was raspy and shallow. She lay as far from him as the bed allowed, body pressed against the wall. If he wanted to, he could reach over and drag her towards him. She wouldn’t know or feel a thing, senseless from those bloody pills. But no. He turned away. There was too much distance between them, now, for that, awake or asleep.
The letterbox clattered. Light footsteps retreated down the garden path. It was too early for the postman. Gwyn reached for slippers and dressing gown and went down to investigate. A dim glow of fairy lights spilled into the hall. A pink envelope lay on the doormat. He picked it up and turned it over. Addressed to Mrs Carol Pritchard. Unevenly printed capitals, no stamp. Hand-delivered. And who would hand-deliver a letter to his wife. He sat on the stairs, tore open the envelope.
A couple of hours later, Carol shuffled downstairs, wearing a shapeless jumper to match her pallor and stained nylon slacks. She moved heavily, as though wading through deep water, as she filled the kettle, dropped a teabag into her mug. The letterbox clattered again. She drifted down the hall, returned with a fistful of envelopes.
‘Anything of interest?’ He struggled to keep his voice level.
She thrust the post across the table. A brown envelope addressed to Mr Gwyn Pritchard. Three white envelopes for Mrs Gwyn Pritchard.
‘Expecting anything special?’
She said nothing, took the bread knife to the envelopes.
‘Well?’
‘They’re from my sister, her eldest an’ Margaret Parry.’
‘Margaret Parry? We didn’t send her a card.’
The look on her face told him otherwise.
‘Expecting anything else?’ he leaned in closer.
‘Why would I? Few enough friends before. None, now.’
He shoved the pink envelope at her. ‘So what’s this, then?’
Her back and shoulders went rigid. ‘You tell me. You went and opened it.’
He reached into the envelope, pulled out the sheet of notepaper, the sheaf of ten-pound notes, spread the money on the table.
‘“Dear Mam,”’ he read. ‘“I hope you are OK. I’m sorry I missed you. Angela said you were too upset to stop and talk.
I know you’re not well. I’ll come and see you again soon but I don’t want you getting in trouble.
‘“Mam, I know why you left the money, but I’ve asked Angela to give it back to you. Dad earned it from the Coal Board. And that makes it scab money. And I’ve made my decision, so I don’t need it. I know you meant well. But me and Scrapper will do OK.
‘“I miss you and I’m grateful you wanted to help.
‘“Lots of love, Helen.”’
Carol’s face was clammy, her eyes and cheeks tinged pink. The morning light showed no mercy to her sallow skin, to the shadows around her eyes.
‘Scab money?’ He slammed his fist on the table, made the pile of notes jump. ‘How dare she? How dare you? Did I or did I not tell you to leave her be – her and that boy?’
‘I wanted to see her.’
‘And I said not to.’
She raised her chin. ‘Who gave you the right? To tell me not to?’
‘Who gave me—? This is my house, that is my money, you are my wife.’
She squared her shoulders. ‘So?’
Knocked the breath from his lungs, that did. ‘So you should be grateful,’ he said at last.
‘Grateful?’
‘Look at you. Can’t keep house or put dinner on your man’s table. Nothing doing in the bedroom. Not for months.’
He decided to ignore the grimace that crossed her face.
‘Only married you to save your reputation,’ he said.
‘My—?’
There was a name for girls who got knocked up out of wedlock. Stood by her, he had, when a lesser man would have legged it. Some thanks, this.
‘You married me,’ her voice was icy. ‘Because my dad went to the lodge, had them remind you of your responsibilities.’
‘My—?’
‘You want grateful? Let’s see,’ she counted on her fingers. ‘I married you. Kept house for you. Kept my mouth shut about the drinking and mad rages—’
‘The mad—?’
‘A stranger you been since you lost your fingers. Angry and hard and closed in. Like you lost whatever part of you was good and kind and loving with ’em.’
‘That’s crap.’
‘It’s when you turned vicious towards me an’ the girl—’
His fist slammed into her ear. She lurched sideways, crashed into the fridge. Gwyn pushed her down on the floor, aimed a kick at her ribs. She curled away from him, hands raised to protect herself. Rage crashed over him in waves. He seized his slipper, brought it down with all his strength. Hit her again and again.
It was no good. He felt his strength ebbing away. As he slowed, she twisted out of reach, aimed a sharp upward kick that caught him square in the groin. As he doubled over, she staggered to her feet, wrenched open the cutlery drawer. Turned to face him, rolling pin in one hand, bread knife in the other. Her ear dripped blood.
‘I never cared how you treated me,’ she panted. ‘But I’m pig-sick that you cast out my daughter. And for what? For loving a lad the way I loved you.’
He tried to stand, but his chest was in spasm. She wriggled into coat and shoes, stuffed the money into her pocket and walked out of the house, the door shut quietly behind her.
— 13 —
Carol would come shuffling through that front door any day now, Gwyn knew. Where else could she go, his wife? In the meantime, he made the best of it. Ate better, for one thing; fish and chips, saveloy and chips, sweet-n-sour Chinese. One night, he even fetched an Indian takeaway on the way down from The Mountain Ash. A rum business, the Indian; chicken the colour of dried blood, nuts and raisins and whatnot mixed into the rice. Kitchen bin overflowed tin foil trays and plastic bags and greasy newsprint. The sink filled with smeared dishes. He wouldn’t touch them, on point of principle. He’d have Carol clean it up. Her penance for taking his money. For defying his orders and seeing the girl.
He should never have raised his hand to her, fair dos. Her fault for pushing him to the limit, that. Both of them equally to blame. A trial, the waiting, even so. Some nights, he sat in the bus shelter, watched the flat above the ice cream parlour. She might be with her daughter. Might have sheltered, the better to punish him, with his nemesis, Iwan Jones.
One night, he saw the girl at last. She emerged into the street, wrapped up in hat and scarf. He caught a drift of raised voices before she shut the door. Angie and her husband were fighting cats and dogs, from the sound of it. The girl set off up the hill. He waited a moment, then followed at a distance. Hope eased his wheezing chest. Maybe she was on her way to see him. Off to visit her old dad, at last. Instead, she turned into the lowest street of terraces, crossed the road towards a door with peeling red paint. Number fourteen, it was. His chest tightened. A familiar look to that little house. A long time since his family lived in this street of two-up, two-down collier’s houses.
He fell back as the door opened. Of course. Where else would his wife have gone? Helen stooped to kiss the little widow, vanished inside the house. He strode across the road. Margaret Parry, about to pull the door shut, saw him, paused with a hand on the latch, mastered her tremors just long enough to slam the door in his face.
***
It was an odd start to Christmas Day. He woke in the front room, curtains drawn, fairy lights dim pinpricks. They called to mind the twinkle of his men’s headlamps. It was comforting to sit in the dark and ponder. Below ground, a man’s thoughts were stronger, more lucid for being wrapped in darkness. Even now, he carried that darkness inside him, fused into his cells, like the coal dust sunk deep beneath his skin.
His stomach growled. He searched his jacket pocket for the pasties bought from the Co-op. A sorry excuse for a Christmas breakfast. He made short work of them, all the same, crumbs and packaging brushed onto the floor. She’d left one hell of a mess, his wife. Had him worried for a while. But he’d found her now. High time she stopped her nonsense and came home.
Minutes ticked into hours, his chest grew ever tighter. The walls pressed in on him. At last the garden gate squealed. He staggered up, edged around the stupid Christmas tree. Cursed the needles that fell into his slippers, as he twitched the curtain. He was too slow. Already, her key grated in the lock and the front door swung open. As he pushed past the tree to confront his wife, the fairy lights snagged on his cardigan button. For a dangerous moment, six feet of knobbled pine wobbled, threatened to crash down on him.
He struggled to free himself, turned to see the girl framed in the doorway. She wore a floor-length, green velvet gown with a fitted bodice and flared Seventies-style sleeves. It wasn’t the outlandish clothes that threw him. She was here, after all the weeks of waiting and hoping. He forgot what he’d planned to say. His mouth opened and closed. She looked fine, pale skin glowing, hair cut short, worn loose and glossy. Put on a few pounds, too, from the look of her. But he saw no softness in the girl’s blue eyes. She came no closer, hung in the doorway and glared at him.
‘I’ve come for Mam’s stuff.’
‘You’ve what—?’
A figure appeared behind the girl, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’re not looking for trouble, Mr Pritchard. Helen’s fetching some things for her mam.’
That boy. That bloody boy. Joy and relief ebbed away. ‘You got a nerve—’
‘Go, Red. For God’s sake, make it quick.’
The boy shoved the girl towards the stairs, blocked the doorway, trapped Gwyn in his own living room. The boy wore jeans and a green sweater, a strange dishcloth affair slung over it. Two rectangles of pool table baize, stitched together at the shoulders. The same green as the girl’s gown.
‘Maid Marian and Robin-bloody-Hood?’ Gwyn asked, incredulous. ‘You dressed up to rob my house?’
Scrapper shifted from one foot to the other. ‘It’s the lodge Christmas party. And no one’s robbing your house.’
‘It’s exactly what you’re doing. Robbery and trespass and false imprisonment, this. I’m calling the police.’
Gwyn tucked his arms against his
chest, barged the lad with his shoulder. But the lad had lost none of his strength. Gwyn staggered backwards, light-headed from exertion.
‘Don’t make this worse for Red, Mr Pritchard.’
‘You don’t—’
‘She misses her dad, you know. Broke her heart when you kicked her out.’
A low blow, that. The nerve of it, bursting into his house, taking his property and now emotional blackmail to boot. He barged Scrapper a second time, his good fist landing one where it hurt. Pure luck, that glancing blow. The boy doubled over. Gwyn dashed into the hall, grabbed the phone and dialled.
The boy recovered breath enough to shout a warning. ‘Red – we got to go. Now.’
The girl dashed down the stairs, duffel bag over her shoulder, a suitcase in her hand as the telephone operator gabbled questions into Gwyn’s ear.
‘Fetch me the police,’ he turned to the girl. ‘You stop right there, young lady.’
The girl slammed her hand down, tried to cut the phone. But the operator kept twittering away.
‘I said, stop.’
The girl went rigid, coldness melting into fury. She looked ready to slap him. Instead, she dropped something on the telephone book.
‘All you care about’s your property, eh, Dad? Well, this is yours. Keep it, Mam says.’
She grabbed the boy’s hand and dragged him down the garden. Gwyn went after them, but they were tearing round the corner by the time he reached the gate. He staggered back indoors, picked up the phone.
‘Send your men to the Miners’ Institute, number one Ystrad High Street. My name’s Pritchard. I’ll meet them there, show ’em the lad that robbed me.’
He dropped the receiver, fighting for breath. That boy had pushed him too far this time. This time, he’d have him. And who would the police believe: a dying man, disturbed at home on Christmas Day, or a striking miner strapped for cash two Christmases on the trot?