Love and War (32 page)

She’s looking at me, not angrily, I think, but sadly. ‘Every ’appy memory has been destroyed for me,’ she says. ‘I wanted you to know that. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. I wanted you to know that. I wanted you to know how much of my life you’ve ruined.’

‘She knew what she was doing,’ Ilona says. ‘She did it with her eyes open – because she couldn’t help it. Sometimes it’s like that. Sometimes you don’t have a choice.’

I feel as though I’m fighting for air. ‘I had no choice,’ I say, echoing Ilona’s words. ‘I can’t tell you I’m sorry, because though I am sorry – very sorry – for what I did to you, I know I’d do exactly the same again. I don’t regret it. I can’t.’

‘And I can’t forgive you,’ Celine says. ‘I’ll never forgive you. I can’t.’

‘I don’t expect you to.’

We look at each other for a long time in a sadness which is almost despair. I find myself wondering whether I’ll ever see her again. She never did me any harm.

‘He loved you,’ I said. ‘I know he loved you. He told me so when we first became friendly. He said he loved you and that I was someone he couldn’t help... desiring. Later on, though... it was the war, perhaps. If he hadn’t been going away, I don’t think we’d have become so desperate. I don’t know. I’m not trying to excuse myself.’

‘No, I didn’t think you would. I gave you that much credit. I wish I could hate you, but I can’t. I found you good company. It was kind of you to sit for me, though I suppose you did it to be with him.’

‘I suppose I did. Yes.’ The room is swaying.

‘I can’t forgive you,’ she says. ‘But I don’t ’ate you.’

She suddenly gets up and thrusts out her small, soft, almost boneless white hand at me. She was always very formal, shaking hands at the beginning and the end of every painting session.

‘Will you go back to France when the war is over?’ I ask her.

‘No, I’ll stay here.’

‘Won’t you be very lonely?’

‘Yes. But I’d be very lonely anywhere.’

Ilona takes her to the door and when she’s gone, I fall into a rage of weeping, crying passionately, bitterly, painfully, until I have hardly any strength left to draw breath.

Jack doesn’t call until after ten and when he does, it’s to bring bad news: Mary Powell has been found dead, drowned in the river Irfon near her home.

‘We went for a long walk by that river,’ Jack says. ‘Do you remember, Ilona, I told you about it? When I was there in the Easter holiday. It was a lovely day, too, the sun shining very brightly, but cold at the same time, a lovely day for walking. And we talked about swimming – isn’t that strange? – and I promised I’d teach her to swim in the summer. She’d have been a fine swimmer, she had good strong shoulders on her, but she said, no, she’d always hated the water, the cold violence of it. What a tragedy. D’you know, I can’t believe it. I still can’t believe it. The cold violence of it, that’s what she said. I can’t believe...’

He’s talking so fast and furiously that I have to interrupt him. ‘She must have fallen in. She was probably watching out for something, a kingfisher or an otter, and lost her balance. I’ve almost done it myself. And if she couldn’t swim, she’d have panicked, and the current in a river can be really treacherous.’

‘You can’t fall into a river,’ Jack says.

‘What are you talking about? Of course you can. Don’t you think anyone has ever fallen into a river?’

‘Small children perhaps, but not adults. Not unless they’re completely drunk, anyway. No, a human body has natural balance. You can lean over really far, but the body’s centre of gravity stops you falling in.’

‘What nonsense. That’s just theory, Jack. It’s nonsense. People fall into rivers every day. And they drown, too.’

‘Don’t argue,’ Ilona says. ‘There’ll be an inquest, let’s wait for the result of that. We’ve all had a shock and we all feel guilty. I know I do. I only met her once, but nobody disliked her as much as I did. I thought she was a rotten cow and dangerous as well, and I said so over and over again. And if I turned you against her, Jack, well, I’m sorry, but I still think I was right. I’m not going to start whitewashing her because she’s committed suicide.’

‘So you think it was suicide?’ Jack asks. ‘So do I.’

‘It may have been,’ Ilona says. ‘Let’s wait to see what the inquest says.’

‘Well, I don’t think so,’ I tell Jack. ‘Look, she’d been left this money – two or three thousand pounds, Mrs Lewis told me – and was all set to start a law degree in Cambridge. What a great opportunity for her. She’d have been looking forward to it, she was that sort. She was very ambitious. She had a very good brain.’

Ilona looks unconvinced by my argument. ‘Anyway Jack, remember that it was she who broke off the engagement, not you. You’ve got nothing to blame yourself for. You were always kind to her, soft as butter, as you are to everyone.’

‘But deep down, she knew I wanted to be free, she must have known. I couldn’t be the same towards her once I’d got to know you. She must have known.’

‘No she didn’t,’ I say. ‘She wasn’t the perceptive type, she had a good brain but no sensitivity. With Cambridge in front of her, she probably couldn’t be bothered with you, she probably thought she could do better. Oh, that’s being mean and small-minded again, I know, but I’m sure it was something like that. Look, it’s very sad. Let’s agree to feel very sad because she’s dead, but let’s not go on and on about feeling guilty. It won’t do anyone any good.’

‘I do feel guilty, though,’ Jack says, ‘guilty as hell, if you want to know the truth. I thought I was in love with her and found out I wasn’t.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce, getting to my feet. ‘I’m worn out.’

‘Gwynn’s wife has been here,’ Ilona says. ‘The poor girl’s had enough trauma for one day.’

‘Good Lord,’ Jack says, ‘Mrs Morgan here? What did she want? Was she abusive?’

‘No,’ Ilona says. ‘She was quite civilised. All the same...’

‘All the same, I’m worn out.’

When I’m in bed, I hear them going out. It’s a mild moonlit night and a walk will do them both good.

Poor Mary Powell. I want to stop thinking about her, but I can’t. If she did drown herself, it might have been for Gwynn’s sake rather than for Jack’s. Could she have had it in her to kill herself for love? I almost envy her.

The next day the Head calls me into his study again. He made a brief announcement in Assembly about Mary’s death, and I imagine he wants to know whether I’ll be willing to represent the school at her funeral. I intend to decline.

‘Sit down,’ he says in his gruffest voice. ‘Well, what have you got to say to me? It was all my fault, I suppose, is that right?’

For a moment I’m too bewildered to speak.

‘Marching her to the police-station is how you put it, if I remember. Rather drastic was how you described it, I think. Rather harsh.’

‘Oh, I see. So you’re another one who wants to be held responsible for Mary Powell’s death. Is that it?’

‘Certainly not. I’m merely giving you the opportunity of telling me what you think.’

‘I think she was in love with Gwynn Morgan and became overwrought when he was killed. I think Jack Jones and Ilona Hughes my lodger, and you and I and possibly her step-mother were no more than small irritants. We didn’t do anything to help her state of mind, but we didn’t cause it. That’s my opinion.’

‘I was simply an irritant? Marching her to the police-station and standing over her while she wrote to you would have affected her as much as a gnat bite, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Or a grain of dust in the eye. Yes, that’s what I think.’

He grunts and then stands up. ‘Now then, who do you think I should send to the funeral? Talfan and you have had too much of funerals, and so have I. What about Mrs Lewis, History? Handsome woman. Looks well in black. Yes, I think we’ll decide on Mrs Lewis. Will you send her to me, please? So I’ve dwindled into a mere irritant, have I? Well, well, well. A gnat bite. Well, well.’

What I can’t get out of my mind is the way I attacked Mary on the afternoon of the funeral when she must already have been feeling so desolate. ‘He was never after you, anyway.’ How could I have been so insensitive and cruel? If anyone should feel guilty, I should.

‘How did Miss Powell come to drown, Miss? Was she out swimming?’

‘No, she fell into the river.’

‘Praps she was pushed in, Miss?’

‘No, I don’t think so, Alfie. Nothing like that.’

‘Praps she committed suicide, Miss?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Look here, do you think we could possibly start the lesson now?’

‘Only I wish I hadn’t complained, Miss, that time she clouted me. She left soon after, didn’t she? I never had much of a headache, Miss. Not really.’

‘Look Alfie, however Miss Powell drowned, whether she committed suicide or not, had absolutely nothing to do with you. All right? Nothing. Her fiancé was killed out in Burma if you want to know the truth. Alun Brooke his name was. He was a Second Lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps. All right? It had absolutely nothing to do with you.’

‘I’ve forgotten my homework, Miss. Is that all right, Miss?’

Twenty

ON THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, I’m called forward to the platform during Assembly, praised for my hard work and dedication and presented with a black fountain pen and propelling pencil.

In private, afterwards, the Head tells me that it’s now my clear duty to look ahead to a new and exciting chapter of my life; new challenges and new responsibilities, then descends from the high ground by giving me a photograph of Gwynn taken on a school trip to London in 1936. As I leave his study, he leans forward as though to kiss me, but recovers himself in time and frowns fiercely at me instead.

I don’t have much to pack; two suitcases of clothes, a trunk of books – mostly my father’s – and a cardboard box full of china and linen, yet it seems too much to take by train. Ilona has roughly the same amount; fewer books but more clothes.

‘Ifor can come down to fetch us at the weekend,’ she announces one morning after reading her letters. ‘He’s got a new van and he says it won’t be any trouble, he can tell his wife he’s going to look at some sheep. What day shall he come? Saturday or Sunday?’

I have a moment’s panic. I’ve managed to get a good post in the Grammar School in Caernarfon and decent lodgings in Brynteg, about half a mile from Ilona’s grandmother, but now that the move is imminent, I’m full of pain and misgiving. All my most precious memories are tied up in Llanfair; in this house, in the Art room at school, in the Ship, on the hill, on lovely Celyn sands. How can I leave? On the seafront, by that wall outside the Infants’ school, leaning against those railings, the richest moments of my life occurred. Should I be trying to forget them? What would be left? Only something thin and dark rattling about in the emptiness.

I take some deep breaths. ‘Sunday, then. Then I can go home again on Saturday. I think my mother would like that.’

‘Try not to be upset, Rhian. Damn it, girl, you’re not going far.’

‘It is far. North Wales is like abroad. I won’t even be able to understand people talking.’

‘You’ve understood me.’

‘You’re a very simple person.’

‘Look, would you like me to come with you to you mother’s? You talk such a lot about her and I’ve never clapped eyes on her yet.’

‘No, I don’t think so, thank you. She’ll find out soon enough that you’re pregnant, but I don’t want to overwhelm her with the evidence.’

‘Is it as obvious as all that?’

‘Well, it’s not written all over your face, but once the eye travels downwards... yes, it’s fairly obvious.’

‘No wonder Jack and I are getting funny looks in the Ship. I really shouldn’t be seen with him now.’

‘They probably think you’re married. You look like an old married woman.’

‘Old now, as well as simple.’

‘And rather fat about the middle.’

‘Well, what do you expect? I am seven months pregnant. Do you know, I worked out that I probably conceived on Christmas Eve. Rather nice, I think.’

‘Yes.
So hallowed and so gracious is the time
. But doesn’t that make you eight months pregnant?’

‘Does it? Well, it doesn’t mean much. First babies are usually late and I suppose it will come when it’s ready. I’m in no hurry.’

‘I suppose your grandmother knows about the baby?’

‘Of course she does. She doesn’t mind at all. Her first was born out of wedlock. Isn’t wedlock an awful word. Fancy being locked into a marriage.’

‘I don’t know that I’d mind it... if it was to the right person.’

‘I’d mind it. I’d rather be tied to a shop. There
is
room for another shop in Brynteg, Nain says. When she was a girl, her mother had a bit of a shop in the front room, faggots a penny each and rice pudding, ha’penny a portion. I think I’ll go in for newspapers and tobacco, something for the men. Cheer up Rhian. You’ll love it in Brynteg, I promise you.’

As we’d already said our goodbyes on Wednesday evening, my mother’s surprised to see me again and concerned that my new landlady might be worried at my change of plan. When I tell her that I’m staying with Ilona’s grandmother for the first few weeks, she’s happier and immediately fetches me some eggs and a fruit cake for her.