Dead Man's Embers (33 page)

‘Heart of gold, your Davey,' Lizzie says.

Non wishes she had found an opportunity to talk to Davey yesterday about what he had said to Teddy, and about what Teddy was going to do. Gwydion had returned just before supper from his trip to Holyhead and had spent the evening telling her about his plans, and by the time she went up to bed Davey was fast asleep. She did not have the heart to wake him, and instead kissed his dear face and lay with her arm around him. As if she could keep him safe.

‘Is that all the whites, missus?' Lizzie looks down into her tub. ‘Have I got them all?'

‘There's not so much now we're not doing Wil's washing, is there?'

‘To think of him,' Lizzie says, leaning back to stretch herself, ‘sailing away across them seas. It's a marvel. It really is.'

‘He was ready to go, Lizzie. We gave him a good send-off, though
I think maybe we chose the wrong kind of presents – more the sorts of things we'd like ourselves.'

‘Good to try new things,' Lizzie says. ‘Stops you getting stuck in one place like an old wagon wheel in a rut.'

Non laughs at her. ‘Meg's talking about going away, too. She liked the idea of getting presents.'

‘Go far, that one,' Lizzie says. ‘Looks after herself.'

Meg seems very self-possessed, Non thinks. She seems to know what she wants from life and even how to get what she wants. But she says, ‘She's still a child, though, Lizzie, in many ways. She won't be leaving us for a while.'

‘Help me get the mangle in place, missus,' Lizzie says, and between them they manoeuvre it between Lizzie's tub and the rinsing tub. Lizzie draws the whites one at a time from the tub and gives each a quick wring and shake before putting them between the rollers for Non to turn the handle.

She did not have the strength to do this not so long ago. She has written to Seb to tell him of her gratitude and her growing normality. He will be waiting to hear if there is a baby on the way. Or, more probably, he will have patients with far more pressing needs and have forgotten about her – though she does not imagine he has many patients who are medicating themselves with recipes from the Middle Ages.

‘Keep turning that handle,' Lizzie says. She holds one of Gwydion's shirts between the rollers. ‘I dare say your nephew will be off soon, though. That one's got itchy feet all right.'

‘He's sailing for Ireland this Thursday,' Non says. ‘I can't believe it, Lizzie. Going off to a completely new life, without a backward look.' She hopes that Gwydion will be happy, contented, that everything will be as he would wish; she hopes he will have no regrets. She wishes Branwen would yield a little.

‘The only Irish I know are them pan-mending tinkers that come round,' Lizzie says. ‘Rough lot, they are.' She turns round from her work to wave her hand at Osian who is trying to work up some bubbles in the tub. ‘Stop it,' she says. ‘Here, missus, have you got a saucer I can put some soapy water on for him?'

Non fetches an old saucer from the kitchen and a wire Davey had bent into a circle for Osian to make bubbles when he was younger that had been hanging in the kitchen ever since.

‘But,' Lizzie says as she takes the apparatus from Non, ‘I don't s'pose your Gwydion's going to live with the tinkers.'

‘He's got a job at the university in Dublin,' Non says, ‘and a sweetheart over there he's going to marry. Still, Lizzie, it's hard to see him leave.'

Lizzie stops mashing soap onto the saucer and looks at Non. ‘O' course,' she says, ‘there's some we'd like to see the back of.'

‘You heard about Saturday, then?'

‘Who hasn't?' Lizzie says.

‘Maybe the Constable will just ask him to move on. He did with some of the other tramps.'

‘He's no tramp,' Lizzie says. ‘He behaves as if he's got nothing to lose, that one. Need to tread careful with him, don't want him telling what he knows.'

Non feels the hair prickle at the back of her neck. How does Lizzie German know these things? But the manner of Ben Bach's death is something Non can never discuss even with Lizzie; it is a burden she and Davey have to carry on their own.

Lizzie gives Osian the saucer of soapy water and reminds him how to make bubbles from it. He blows them high and the breeze that has been whispering incessantly through the trees and the grass floats them away.

Non hears sneezes from the other side of the garden wall and
Maggie Ellis appears rubbing energetically at her nose. ‘Stop sending those bubbles my way, boy,' she tells Osian.

‘Sorry, Mrs Ellis,' Non says. ‘We didn't know you were there. Nice to have a bit of a breeze blowing through, isn't it?'

‘It'll clear the air a bit, won't it, Non?' Maggie leans on the wall. ‘You all right there, Lizzie?'

‘Fine, Maggie. And you? Got over your accident?'

Non can see a long, raw graze on the side of Maggie's face, which must be sore. But Maggie Ellis does not hear Lizzie, or she pretends not to.

‘I've got a few things to go in the wash. Any chance of putting them in with yours, Non?'

‘Don't you ever do your own washing?' Lizzie says.

‘Of course I do,' Maggie Ellis says. ‘Only one or two bits, Non. Shall I pass them over?'

Non sighs, though she should be used to this by now. ‘Just one or two things then, Mrs Ellis. They'll soon dry for you today.'

‘Don't need much ironing if they get a good blow, do they?' Maggie bends down behind the wall and re-appears with a pile of clothing and towels that she puts into Non's waiting arms.

‘You old besom,' Lizzie German says, ‘you had them there all the time.' She stands with her hands on her hips and gives Maggie Ellis a hard stare. ‘One day missus here'll say no instead of yes, and then where will you be?'

‘Neighbours help each other out, don't they, Non?' Maggie says, then sneezes as several of Osian's bubbles land on her face. Maggie's hands flail at them as if they are angry wasps.

Osian is unmoved by the commotion he has caused. He watches the bubbles, and Non and Lizzie stand still to watch him. His concentration is total. Something is different about him today, but Non cannot put her finger on the difference.

Maggie staggers back to the wall, rubbing her eyes, which are red from the soapy bubbles. ‘Strange boy,' she says.

‘Clever boy,' Lizzie says. ‘Knows not to like people much. Knows not to trust them.'

‘I heard he doesn't like that Teddy your Davey's taken on,' Maggie says to Non.

So Maggie Ellis was listening to her and Meg on Saturday. Non tries to recall what else they had talked about.

‘Did you hear about him on Saturday?' Maggie says. ‘He did upset people, talking a lot of nonsense. As if we haven't all got enough to upset us already. Didn't I say, Non – weeks ago – didn't I say those tramps would be trouble? Not even Welsh, some of them, I said to you. Didn't I?'

‘You did, Mrs Ellis,' Non says. She stirs the contents of the rinsing tub. And Lizzie pounds the washing Maggie handed over the wall, along with the rest of the wash. Non watches the vigour with which Lizzie wields the dolly; anyone would think it was Maggie in there. ‘But he can't help it, you know – some sort of war damage, Davey thinks. And he can't help being English, can he?' Non is relieved to realise that Teddy has not said anything in particular; if he had, Maggie Ellis would have been bound to hear of it. A surge of certainty floods through her: Davey is sure to persuade him to leave before he has another opportunity to tell everyone, anyone, about Ben Bach.

‘Did I say he can help it, Non?' Maggie Ellis says. ‘But he should have stayed in England to do his begging, instead of coming here to cause trouble.' She turns sharply to Osian as he blows more bubbles her way. ‘Stop that!' she shouts at him.

Lizzie German takes hold of the edge of Osian's saucer and draws him away to the other side of the garden. When she returns,
she says, ‘He's taken with them bubbles. They do look like little worlds when you see them close.'

‘I don't expect Non's paying you to look at bubbles, Lizzie,' Maggie says.

‘She's not paying me to do your washing, neither,' Lizzie says, and she pulls Maggie's clothes and towels out of the washtub one by one and slaps them on top of the wall in a sopping wet heap.

Non feels helpless. She has never known how to deal with the altercations and arguments between Lizzie and Maggie. All she can do is stand here watching them. As if they were in a play.

‘At least they're washed,' Maggie says. ‘I can put them through my own mangle here.'

Under her breath, Lizzie mutters, ‘Silly old besom. Like to put you through the mangle, so I would.' Maggie looks at her through narrowed eyes, but Lizzie begins to wring the clothes left in the tub, turning the handle of the mangle as if it really is Maggie Ellis she is wringing between the rollers, and not Davey's faded work trousers.

Maggie begins to pluck at her washing, pulling away one item after another into her basket. She nods at Osian. ‘Look – he's blowing those bubbles as if his life depended on it.' She watches for a moment, then says to Non, ‘At least it's safer than carrying that old knife of his around the garden. Used to give me the shivers, that did.'

Non realises what it is that is different about Osian. It is a long time since she has seen him without his penknife, whittling obsessively at a piece of wood.

The heat has definitely broken. A breeze blows over them through the open door, carrying the scents of the phlox and roses in its pleasant warmth. The washing had dried beautifully by the time Non had fetched it in. Maggie Ellis was right – it will be a great deal easier to iron it all tomorrow than it has been for weeks.

‘It'll probably rain soon,' Meg says. She looks towards the door and grimaces. She and her friends have taken to going down to the beach in the early evening; rain would put an end to that.

‘We could do with some rain,' Davey says. ‘And thank goodness that great heat is at an end. It'll be easier for everybody.'

‘Not for me,' Meg says.

Davey looks up from his supper plate. ‘Maybe it's time you started thinking about other people a little bit, Meg.'

‘I am,' Meg says. ‘I'm thinking about my friends, too.'

Davey does not reply. Sometimes there is no arguing with Meg, she has an answer for everything. But Davey is subdued this evening. Non wonders if he is weighed down by the memories he has recovered. In some ways he seems like his old self, what she has always thought of as his true self, but she supposes that now
his true self will be part the old Davey and part the Davey that fought the War. He and she will have to become used to one another all over again. And that is not necessarily a bad thing, she thinks, watching him concentrate on eating his supper. It will be . . . an adventure.

She looks around the table. Gwydion is also subdued this evening, no doubt thinking about his impending move to Ireland. And Osian is always quiet, his face inscrutable, there is no telling what his thoughts are. He has been watching Davey since they sat down to have supper, Non realises, and she wonders if something is troubling him. She is reminded of his penknife. ‘Has Osian left his knife in the workshop?' she asks Davey. ‘Or has he lost it?'

Davey stops eating. ‘I'm going to have to get him another one,' he says. ‘Maybe we can go to Port on the train, Osian. We'll go to Kerfoots – they always have a good selection.'

‘Port on the train! You're getting a bit adventurous, Davey.' Gwydion raises his eyebrows in mock amazement.

‘I've had enough of adventures, Gwydion. It's your turn now.'

‘I'm looking forward to them,' Gwydion says.

His tone causes Non to look more closely at him. He does not sound so sure. Or is she imagining it?

Davey also looks enquiringly at Gwydion. ‘It's not too late to change your mind, you know.'

‘Don't do that,' Meg says. ‘If you change your mind, I won't be able to come to stay with you and Aoife.'

‘I didn't know you were planning on staying with us, Meg. You'd always be welcome. All of you. The Irish are hospitable people, you know.'

‘Maybe I won't be coming until I go to university,' Meg says. ‘You can find out what Trinity is like. Find out if they teach French. Maybe I'll go there. Maybe I'll stay with you. And Aoife.'

Meg is not so much following her destiny as making it. And her destiny looks to become more expensive every day.

‘You'll have to work hard at school,' Gwydion tells Meg.

‘Why is everyone always telling me what I know?'

They laugh at Meg. Except Osian who stares at his father without blinking. Osian is not eating, his food barely touched on his plate. What is this about? Non says, ‘When can you take Osian to Port, Davey? I think he misses his knife.'

‘Tomorrow,' Davey says. ‘How about it, Osian?'

Tomorrow! Non has never known Davey take time off from his work.

‘You're not going to leave that Teddy on his own to work on your precious coffins, are you?' Meg says.

‘There are no more coffins to be made, Meg, not at the moment anyway. And long may the moment last! And you'll be pleased to hear that Teddy has gone.'

Non stops eating, her knife and fork poised above her plate. Teddy has gone. Without making any more trouble. She knew Davey could do it. She smiles at him. She wants to get up from the table and hold hands with him and dance around the room until they are reeling, the way her father used to do with her whenever he received good news.

Meg gives an exaggerated shudder. ‘Osian and I are very glad about that. We didn't like him one bit. Did we, Osh?'

Osh. Meg has taken him under her wing. Non did not expect that.

‘Wasn't he up to much, then, this Teddy?' Gwydion says.