Give Us This Day (53 page)

Suddenly, and for no reason that she could think of, she wanted to laugh.
It really is too absurd, she thought, for he’s turned eighty and I’m sixty-eight and here we are driving away from Holloway prison to meet a pair of hot-heads who refuse to grow up. They were far less trouble when they were children, for then either Phoebe or myself were on hand to tell them to mind their manners, and smack their bottoms when they got too tiresome! And really he’s no better, but there’s more excuse for him, for men never grow up and no woman with her wits about her ever expects them to!

But she told herself, none the less, that he was right about her enjoying herself, in an odd sort of way, and she
had
seen Mrs. Pankhurst and Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence in the flesh. That would be something to talk about at her next soiree or garden fete. And it was thinking this that enabled her, in some respects, to come to terms with what she had thought of, until then, as a family scandal. Whatever was going on in the world, you could always be sure that somewhere, in some capacity, a Swann or two would be involved in it, and there was comfort, she supposed, to be derived from that. Most women her age had settled for the lace cap and serenity, but with a family like hers you could put those things right out of mind. She was feeling almost gay when the cab dropped them at the Norfolk and they went in to freshen up and study the menu against the arrival of the gaolbirds.

It was much later, after the girls (as she still thought of them) had been fed, reclaimed, and taken away by their husbands, when they were preparing for bed that looked very inviting when the lamp was lit and the fire made up, that she said, “That ruby necklace you talked about—it isn’t the same really, Adam!”

“Tell me the difference?”

“The difference is,” she said, “you made sure you weren’t caught!” That made him laugh, as she knew it would, and he went on chuckling after the lamp was out and they were abed, watching the shadow play of the flames on the ceiling. It pleased her to score over him in that way once in a while. It proved she wasn’t as rooted in the past as it sometimes pleased him to think.

2

She had another opportunity to recant when the spring came round, and she was faced with the prospect of marrying the last of her daughters to a man she had not even met until Giles produced him like a rabbit from a conjuror’s hat on a sunny morning in early April.

Giles was now accepted as the family ambassador, an amiable broker for all kinds of delicate missions involving the in-laws and the grandchildren. Everybody took his goodwill and tact for granted, and even the Boer War breach between him and Alex seemed to be healing as evidenced by the fact that both Alex and his wife Lydia were careful not to refer to the embroilment of Debbie and Romayne in that fracas on the doorstep of No. 10 Downing Street.

He excelled himself on this occasion, appearing in the sewing-room during the Easter recess and saying, mysteriously, “I’ve got someone I’d very much like you to meet, Mamma. It took a lot of persuasion on my part to get him here, poor chap, but he’s here now, out there talking to Father. We ran across Father down by the knoll.”

She was not immediately aware that he was referring to his prospective brotherin-law, Huw Griffiths, but then his sly smile gave her the hint and she said excitedly, “That miner? Are they
both
here? Is Margaret with you?”

“No,” he said, “I thought it might be easier on both of you if you give him a chance to speak for himself. So did Father. I warned him I was bringing Huw a week ago, but don’t scold him. I made him promise he wouldn’t say a word to you.”

“It’s… it’s quite certain, then? The girl has really made up her mind?”

“They want to be married very soon. As soon as can be arranged.” Then, “She was worried about your reactions, especially after that ‘think again’ letter you wrote her. But at least she didn’t get married in Wales, and present you with a
fait accompli
. They’ve been engaged for over a year now, ever since he came out of the pits.”

“You’re saying he isn’t a miner any longer?”

“Look, Mamma, there’s nothing degrading about being a miner, but it so happens Huw isn’t. He’s my agent, and we pay him five pounds a week and that’s riches in the valley.”

“It can’t be riches to Margaret. Doesn’t she know she’s entitled to a share of her grandfather’s money?”

“She knows, but she doesn’t want a penny of it. Not now and not ever. She says it would destroy Huw’s confidence in himself as a provider.”

“That’s a very silly point of view, isn’t it?”

“Not to her. Not to Huw either. They’ve got a little house near ours at Pontnewydd, and they’re perfectly content to leave things as they are. It’s their decision.”

It surprised her a little to find Huw Griffiths’s determination to take this line. Indeed, it elevated him a little in her estimation, for at least it proved the man was not the fortune-hunter she had assumed him to be. She said, briefly, “Show him in, Giles. We can’t keep him on the doorstep.”

“No. Wait a minute, Mamma,” he said. “I’ve got something I’d like to show you first,” and he unbuckled the strap of a briefcase he had thrown on the sewing-table, extracting what she recognised as one of Margaret’s sketchbooks. “Have a look at these. Particularly the one of Huw Griffiths. He’s changed now but I want you to see both versions.”

He opened the sketchbook and thumbed through a number of drawings, mining village scenes apparently, for the pen, brush, and crayons (Margaret had used all three) portrayed serried rows of narrow little dwellings, looming machinery, dark landscapes studded with debris of one kind or another, and here and there the face of a child that reminded her of Spanish children in a picture by a painter called Murillo that Adam regarded as one of the best in his collection.

“She paints
this
kind of thing down there?”

“All the time. She says it’s more exciting than painting woods, fields, and flowers, subjects that occupied her before she came to the valley. This is Huw, about the time they first met.”

She studied the picture carefully. It showed her a powerfully-built young man sitting on an upturned wash tub in an unkempt garden, and although she knew herself to be no judge at all of paintings or drawings, she was not proof against the impact this one made upon her. It was one of humour, frankness, and powerful masculinity, all caught, magically to her way of thinking, in the subject’s expression, and the set of his shoulders as he turned towards the artist, as though she had called, “This way, Huw! No, not at me, over my shoulder! I’m here but you’re only half-aware of it and are looking at something to my right.”

“This is him? This is Huw?” When Giles nodded she said, “Why, it’s… it’s quite splendid! I mean, I always liked her drawings, even when she was a little thing, but this… why, it might have been done by a real painter!” And at that he laughed and closed the book, returning it to his briefcase.

“I’m glad you think so, for we all do. And now I’ll get in the original, but treat him gently. He’s very shy with the ladies.”

And I don’t believe that for a moment
, she thought as Giles went out, closing the door, and her fingers itched to get at the sketchbook again and take another look. She did not, however, remembering her dignity and the solemnity of the moment, and when Giles returned with the prospective son-in-law in tow she realised that he was shy, despite those merry black eyes and wide smile, one of the widest and warmest, she thought, she had ever seen on a man, especially a man as big and impressive as Huw Griffiths.

It was his size rather than his shyness that impinged on her, however, for she had always thought of Adam as an exceptionally well-made man, and here was someone who could top him by an inch or more and with shoulders a yard wide. Giles said, acting the impresario with just the right amount of light relief, “Well, here he is, Mamma. Your latest son-in-law, and a wild Welshman down to his bootstraps. Don’t let her scare you, Huw, boy. She never did me, for you can talk her round in no time if you set about it the right way!”

Henrietta said, blushing, “Hush, Giles, for heaven’s sake! You’ll have Mr. Griffiths thinking me a perfect dragon! Please sit, Mr. Griffiths, and get the sherry from the cupboard, Giles…”

But Adam, it seemed, had anticipated her and came over with decanter and glasses, saying, with a wink in Giles’s direction, “I’m sure Huw could do with a drink today, even if everybody in his part of the world pretends to be a teetotaller.”

It was surprising after that how effortlessly she adjusted to the situation, a situation that, contemplated in advance, would have promised embarrassment all round. Giles helped, of course, as he always did on these occasions, but Huw Griffiths had begun to shed his awkwardness before his sherry glass was empty and she found herself viewing him as she might have viewed a handsome, well-set-up man forty-five years ago—in other words, as her youngest daughter must have when she first met him—and who could blame her wanting to paint his portrait? Why, it made her feel young and spry again just to be in the same room with him, and she blushed again when she caught Adam’s eye and realised, confound the man, that he knew precisely what she was thinking, even if Giles, for all his book learning, did not. She not only approved his figure and bold good looks, she liked his lilting accent and the way his glance softened whenever Margaret was mentioned. All her early prejudice against him crumbled under the assault of his masculinity, and she found herself comparing him with the Adam Swann she remembered when she was a bride-in-waiting at Derwentwater all those years ago. The upshot of it all was that Huw was talked into spending the night at Tryst, in order that he could make preliminary arrangements for the wedding at Twyforde parish church in early June.

The prospect of another family wedding exhilarated her. She would have thought that she was past the age when this could be so, for it was years now since she had seen one of her sons or daughters married in the old flint church down the road. Stella, her eldest, had been married there as long ago as 1881, and after Stella, Alex. Then Helen and finally, when she was turned thirty, Deborah. George had married abroad, Giles in the city, and Hugo at that fashionable church in Belgravia. Joanna, silly girl, had not had a real wedding at all, just a churching after her runaway match with Jack-o’-Lantern, whereas Helen’s second marriage (performed in what Henrietta thought of as a Papist church) took place in Dublin. Now there was only young Edward left and she supposed he would be married wherever his wife happened to live, so she was determined to make the very best of the occasion and spent many happy hours choosing Margaret’s gown and her own ensemble.

She wept a little at the ceremony—just for convention’s sake—but admitted afterwards that Margaret had proved the prettiest bride of them all, whereas when it came to sons-in-law, Huw Griffiths finished a long way ahead of Denzil Fawcett, poor dead Rowland Coles, and his brother, Jack-o’-Lantern.

The occasion roused romantic echoes that persisted long after the wedding breakfast and excitement of the departure. The renewal of youth, bestowed upon her by the advent of this big, smiling Welshman, remained like a benediction, so that when Adam (surely he must have been subtly aware of her feelings!) mooted the idea of a sentimental journey into the past she could have hugged him, for nothing could have suited her mood more exactly.

It was a brilliant June morning, a day or so after they had all dispersed, that he said, over the breakfast table, “How do you fancy retracing your steps for a week or two, Hetty? It’s grand weather, and this place seems as empty as a mausoleum now that every last one of them has moved out. Suppose we do one of our network tours, the way we did those summers after I learned to walk again?”

“Oh, I’d
like
that, Adam!” she said eagerly. “I’d like that very much indeed! We need a change, both of us, and there’s nothing to keep us here. But where would we go, exactly?”

“Wherever you like,” he said, eyeing her merrily, “the west, for you always liked it down there, and then up north to the Lakes, looking in on Bryn Lovell’s boys in the Mountain Square en route. Then up into Scotland if you’ve a mind to, for it’s years since I was there and George tells me Higson and his sons are still scooping up the groats in the Lowlands. I’d like to see just how he goes about it, for I always had faith in that young rascal ever since we rescued him from the brute of a sweep in this very room.”

It was clear that his mind was working along similar lines and that Margaret’s wedding had struck chords in his heart that conjured pleasant melodies out of the past. Like him, she thought of the people he mentioned, not as they were now but as they were in his heyday, when the network was battling for its life in all corners of the land, and he was always hurrying to beleaguered sectors to give aid to his hard-pressed lieutenants. Bryn Lovell’s boys must be approaching their thirties now and she knew they were doing well in the Mountain Square, where George had installed them after his reorganisation of the territories. And Jake Higson— she remembered him well, as the one asset salvaged from that frightful shambles on the Tryst hearthrug in the early ‘sixties, when Jake’s fellow apprentice had been dragged dead from her flue. And since they were travelling north she had other stopping-off places in mind, but thought it wiser to say nothing of them now lest he should tease her as a sentimental old biddy, just as if he wasn’t as bad in his own special way.

One of the agreeable characteristics of Adam was that, having made a decision, he never lost a single moment implementing it. His holiday proposal had been mooted on Monday. By Wednesday midday they were off, travelling by Southern Railway as far as Salisbury, where they spent a pleasant night with the Rookwoods in what was still called, on the company’s maps, the Southern Square.

She had heard a great deal about Young Rookwood, the very first of Adam’s Thameside scavengers to make his mark, and looking at the solemn, portly man over his impressively-laid dining table she wondered why, in heaven’s name, Swann viceroys still referred to him by that silly name, for she judged him at least twelve years older than Alex, her eldest son, and that would make him fifty-seven. He and Adam talked little but business, booming about here it seemed, with Rookwood’s full quota of mechanically driven vans on the road, but she took a fancy to his gay little wife, another Hetty, and when the men were lingering over their port made so bold as to ask her how she and Young Rookwood had met and married.