Dead Man's Embers (29 page)

Non can hear the crows cawing, their harsh calls echoing from the stone walls of neighbouring houses. Herman has already visited her today, and though she probably will not see him again, she will need to keep an eye out for him in case he takes umbrage at having Catherine Davies in his garden.

Inviting Mrs Davies to tea is part of the strategy that Non has in mind for dealing with her mother-in-law. She knows that she is interfering between mother and son, but Wil's indignation at his grandmother's unfairness towards his father will not leave her. It is not fair, the way Catherine Davies treats Davey, when he is so good to her. Non knows that nothing he ever does will be good enough for Catherine Davies, and she is curious to know why.

Non has not seen her mother-in-law since Wil's leaving supper. She wants to know if she can still see the woman's illness. She wants to know what Seb cannot tell her, for all his experience and his laboratory tests and his badly typewritten letters: she wants to know if she still has her gift, the gift she has inherited from her mother.

Catherine Davies is late, which is unlike her. Non lights the little paraffin stove – the joy of not having to light the range! – and balances the kettle on it to boil. Nedw in the hardware shop had disapproved of her delight when she discovered he stocked them: they were all the rage among the visitors, he had told her, but normal women who had fires and ranges at home that they could use were not interested in such fripperies.

Non feels she ought to wear a placard, like the suffragettes in the photographs that were in the
Daily Herald
before the War, a
placard that says, I am not a normal woman, which she knows is the truth, whatever Seb has written.

At which point Catherine Davies arrives, puffing and panting, and drops into a chair by the kitchen table.

‘Is William Davies not with you?' Non says.

‘I despair of that man.' Catherine Davies fans her scarlet face with her hand. ‘He is deliberately aggravating, Rhiannon. I've had to lock him in the little bedroom.'

Non looks intently at her mother-in-law, searching for those signs of her illness that she usually sees. Non needs to remember that Catherine is ill so that she, Non, does not become too angry with her and her ridiculous way of looking at life with herself at its centre. But she has no sense of the sickness. What does that mean? Does it mean that what she saw was never real, a hallucination caused by the May Lily, or does it mean that she has lost her ability to see what is there, lost her gift? Has she thought all her life that people were dying when they were not? She thinks of all the people she has seen with terrible illnesses and of what happened to them, and she realises that she did possess the ability, but has lost it. She is glad it has gone. Esmé's voice comes back to her, telling her not to push her gift away, to be true to herself. She thinks, What does a child know of these things? But it makes her uncomfortable, as if she is doing some wrong.

‘Rhiannon, Rhiannon.' Catherine Davies thumps the floor with her black parasol. ‘You are not listening to me. I cannot possibly, not possibly, sit out there at that table in the open air with all those dreadful birds flying around. What if that nasty one of yours was among them?' She clutches at her breast. ‘I fear for my life when he is in my vicinity.'

Non takes the big tray outside to the table, loads everything onto it and brings the tea party – tea party! – indoors.

‘What is that contraption?' Catherine points with her parasol at the kettle burbling on the paraffin stove.

‘It saves lighting the range in this heat,' Non says, busying herself with the tea-making.

Catherine Davies sniffs. She leans across the table and takes the cloth off the plate of bread. ‘Butter! You are so extravagant, Rhiannon. You must remember that Davey does not earn a great wage from that menial work he does.'

Non knows this. She also knows that too much of his small wage goes to his mother. So, whose money does Catherine Davies think pays the rent for this house, and bought all the furniture in it, including that chair she is putting so much strain upon this minute? It is a blessing that they have Non's inheritance to draw upon.

‘Maybe he could give you a bit less, Mrs Davies, and then we would have more.'

Catherine Davies stiffens, and puts the slice of bread that was eagerly on its way to her mouth down on her plate. ‘It is his duty,' she says. ‘I am his mother.'

‘He is dutiful,' Non says as she pours the tea, with a steady hand, too, she is pleased to notice. ‘He is the kindest man I have ever known. Don't you think he is kind, and dutiful?'

Catherine Davies sniffs harder. She helps herself to a spoonful of sugar, which she stirs into her tea, briskly.

‘Why are you so hard on him when he is so good to you?' Non says.

‘Hard on him?' Catherine says. ‘What are you talking about, Rhiannon? He is my son.'

Remember her illness. Non's conscience is a small, fading voice. She unclenches her hands and takes up her teacup.

‘If Davey had died in the War, he would not have brought back
that terrible influenza, and Billy would be alive today. And I would not need Davey's money. You see how it is, Rhiannon?'

‘That doesn't make sense, Mrs Davies. And it's unkind. Especially given Billy's behaviour.'

‘I don't know what you mean, Rhiannon. Really!' Catherine Davies's cup clatters down on its saucer.

Non can hear Branwen somewhere at the back of her mind warning her to curb her tongue, to think about what she is saying, to count to twenty, to stop before she has offended. She ignores her sister's voice. ‘I mean the reason Davey has to give you his money,' she says.

‘I've told you, he is my son, it is his duty. And it is not your business.'

‘I think it is my business when I'm bringing up Billy's son,' Non says. ‘Haven't you noticed how like the family Osian is? Everyone else has. Everyone else knows whose son he is.'

‘I'm not going to sit here and listen to this . . . this filth,' Catherine Davies says. ‘You are smirching Billy's good name! He would never have fathered an idiot like that.' She manages to stand up, and leans over the table, her bulk towering above Non. ‘Have you not thought, Rhiannon, that the boy looks more like Davey than anyone? You were a disgrace, setting your cap at him the way you did. So brazen. And with no intention of being a proper wife to him, giving him children. No wonder he had to look elsewhere.' The bulk shakes as the voice rises into a screech, and spittle sprays from Catherine Davies's mouth.

Too late, Non realises this is not a good idea, nor a kind one. She ought to know by now that a sensible conversation with her mother-in-law is impossible. She should have listened to Branwen's voice. Catherine Davies is obviously unwell. Non has been uncharitable. Cruel, even.

‘And no good to him for anything else, either, all that reading, no idea how to do anything in the house, refusing to go to chapel. What kind of wife are you, setting a son against his mother?' Catherine Davies pushes herself upright. ‘I am not a quarrelsome woman, Rhiannon. I have lived in this town since the day I was married and I have never quarrelled with anybody. And I am not going to start now.'

Behind Catherine Davies, on the sash of the open window, Herman is perched with his head on one side as if he is engrossed in what is being said. His feathers ruffle as Non rises to shoo him out, and he flies at Catherine Davies and circles her head, his wings flapping close to her face and hair.

Catherine screams and falls back into her chair and then topples to the floor, a dead weight. Herman lands beside her and begins to pull at her hair with his beak, rapidly loosening the bun she wears at her nape.

Non fails to shoo him away and picks him up instead and runs out with him, throwing him into the air, so that he takes flight with an indignant caw. She runs back into the house and finds the bottle of Sal Volatile in the remedy cupboard, unstoppers it and waves it about under Catherine Davies's nose.

Catherine begins to cough and thrash about on the floor. She opens her eyes and sees Non kneeling over her. ‘Keep away from me,' she screeches. ‘Don't touch me, you . . . you . . . witch.'

Davey had gone to visit his parents when supper had been eaten, at Non's request. She felt guilt for her part in her mother-in-law's collapse yesterday. She had fetched Maggie Ellis to help her lift Catherine Davies and walk her home, by which time Catherine seemed herself again and slammed the door in their faces. Maggie Ellis had dashed into her house, then promptly dashed out again in her monstrous sun-hat and scurried off down the hill to town where she no doubt told everyone she met about Catherine Davies's fainting fit.

But now, Davey is home. Non rests her head on his shoulder. It is not altogether comfortable sitting on his lap in the old kitchen armchair, with one of its wooden arms digging into her back, but she would not change it for the softest of down beds. Davey's arm is around her waist, stopping her from slipping off, and his other hand strokes her hair and her face, his hand rough with callouses, but she would not change that either.

The nights have begun to draw in, and she is sure the air has cooled a little today. The kitchen door is open and the phlox she seeds either side of the doorway each year, which seems to thrive
in the heat, is spilling its scent into the approaching dusk.

Osian has long been in bed and Meg had taken herself off upstairs earlier than usual, complaining that the pair of them, Non and Davey, were too old and long married to be behaving like a courting couple. A courting couple! Non snuggles up to Davey as best as she can in the old chair.

‘I am sorry, Davey,' she says. ‘You have enough to worry about without me upsetting your mother.'

‘She's difficult, Non. It's the way she is.'

‘Maybe she's not well, Davey, have you thought about that?'

‘She's like she's always been, Non. No way to do anything except her own! A bit worse because she's older, perhaps. I tell you – I wish Katie and Bess lived a bit nearer so they could help out.'

Non smoothes Davey's tufts of hair flat, then ruffles them again. ‘They are rather far away,' she says.

‘Well – who can blame them, really, for wanting to get as far away as they could from Mother. She was always telling them what to do.'

‘I think your father used to miss your sisters, you know. But he doesn't even remember them now, does he? I was so glad when he came back to us for that short while when we were having Wil's leaving supper. Wil said he appreciated the advice not to get his hair wet more than anything!'

‘Mother wasn't too glad,' Davey says. They smile at each other at the memory of Catherine Davies trying to take the money bag back. ‘Poor old Father. I don't know what to do for him, Non. We need more help, really, to keep an eye on him, and to follow him and bring him home if he wanders off. I can't let Mother go on locking him up.'

‘Lizzie German could do with more work. Now the English
families aren't coming here to their big houses in the summers like they used to, the work isn't there. Which means she'll be short of money. And none of her grandchildren are old enough to earn much except a few pennies on the golf course. She's too proud to take anything without working for it.'

‘Lizzie,' Davey says. ‘I don't know what Mother would say about that.'

‘Well, if you pay her she'd be working for you, not your mother. And she's no gossip, you know – she knows when to keep her mouth closed. And—' Non yanks at a lock of Davey's hair. ‘You could pay her with the money your father gave Wil.'

‘But that's Wil's money. Father meant Wil to have it.'

‘Yes, but you know what Wil said about it. He'd be far happier knowing that you weren't struggling and his Taid was well looked after than he would be thinking he had a nest egg in a drawstring bag at home.'

Davey squeezes her waist. The dusk deepens until the firelight casts flickering shadows on the kitchen wall and the moths come fluttering through the door to play in the flames. Is this happiness? Is this contentment?

‘I'm sure it's cooler this evening,' Non says. She gets down from Davey's lap to close the door and turn the key in the lock. People have started to lock their doors since the tramps began to appear in their dozens in the town. ‘Perhaps this heat is breaking at last.'

‘That'll mean fewer coffins,' Davey says. ‘That must be good.'

‘Maybe you could manage without Teddy, then.'

‘I'm managing without Teddy as it is,' Davey says. He pulls her back onto his lap. ‘Seriously though, Non, I think he's got a bit of a problem – he's a drinker. I can smell it on him, even in the mornings. He rambles on, you know, and something he said made me think he'd been in hospital for a while, I don't know if that
was to do with the drink. Anyway, I don't let him near any of the woodwork now. He does the polishing. And he's not very good at that. He let slip he knew Robert Graves the other day. I wonder if he was an officer, you know. It would make sense.'

‘Is that why he's here? Something to do with the Graves family?'

Davey shakes his head. ‘I really don't know, Non, what he's doing here. He maunders on and on, as if he's dropping hints, but I don't know what he means by them.' Momentarily, his hands clench into fists.

‘Why does it bother you so much, Davey?'

‘Because I don't know what he's on about. Something about him – something about the way he talks about what happened, but not really telling you anything. I don't know. It brings things back, things I'd forgotten.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘Little bits of things, parts of things. Like – it came back to me that I couldn't remember Ben Bach being with us that last night in the trench, before the attack. I've gone over it and over it, Non, like watching a film. It was bedlam. The night was pitch black, the duckboards were long gone under the mud and . . . other things, so we were all slipping and sliding everywhere, and so exhausted I don't know how we kept going. And the stretcher parties were running backwards and forwards along our trench as best they could, so it was hard to keep track of people. Everyone was terrified there'd be a gas attack, the wind was just right for it, and we all knew the gas masks weren't much use by then. But see, Non, what was missing was Ben calling out to his mother. There was no sound, we were keeping quiet as we could, even the stretcher-bearers, pretending we weren't there – the blooming rats were making more noise than we were, squealing when we trod on them. But no Ben. No Ben.'