Love and War (36 page)

‘Write to him. Say you feel very annoyed that he thinks you’ll marry him as soon as he snaps his fingers. But say we both miss his company and that he can come up for a day in the Easter holidays.’

‘The Easter holidays? In a fortnight’s time? Well, perhaps so. Yes, perhaps I’ll send him a short letter, a cold and careful few lines.’

It takes her three days to get the letter written to her satisfaction and he comes up the following Saturday.

He’s changed, I think; he seems older and more self-confident. He’s got the deputy Headship, he tells us; perhaps that’s made the difference.

He’s annoyed when I suggest taking Tommy out for a walk in his pram. ‘I’m not a schoolboy here for a quick kiss and cuddle,’ he says, ‘I’m here to talk and listen and make plans for the future. I suppose you know how Ilona feels, Rhian, so stay and hear how I feel. I’m thirty-one now, and I take a serious view of the world. Perhaps you think that five and a half years of war haven’t affected me, because I’ve been lucky enough to be out of the fighting, but you’d be wrong. I’ve suffered as well. Three of my closest friends have been killed. I’ve read accounts of horror and torture. Have you seen the pictures of those people who’ve been rescued from the concentration camps? They’ve made me realise that Gwynn was right not to listen to you, Rhian, when you tried to persuade him to be a conscientious objector. God knows, I hate Churchill’s non-appeasement policy, but the cruelty of that pales beside what the Nazis have done. I’d be proud, and so would Gwynn, I’m sure, to be a member of the Allied Forces now. I suppose you think all this isn’t relevant to a relationship between a man and woman, but it is, I think it is. We’re all part of the society we’re living in, and I want to make my contribution to the rebuilding process. For a start, I’m out to change the school. The Head knows I’m not going to be another Talfan, ready to put up with anything for an easy time. And I’ve got plans for the community, too, seeking election to local government as my first step. I’ve got work to do and I want a wife to help me, not some frivolous girlfriend.’

I think Ilona and I are equally astonished to hear him speaking so passionately. But I can’t really think of anything but his reference to Gwynn – I’m quite overwhelmed by the realisation that he may be right. I can’t help re-living the quarrel we had, the letter of apology I sent him, the trouble it caused when it got into Celine’s hands. That’s all I can think of. I need to consider it all, all the implications. I suddenly want to be out walking on the moors in the wind, the grim peaks of Snowdon all around me. I need to be alone.

‘You two have a lot of talking to do,’ I say at last. Ilona doesn’t seem able or willing to say anything.

At the sound of my voice, though, she pulls herself together, walks up to Jack and slaps him hard across the mouth. ‘Marry someone else,’ she says, ‘save the world with someone else. Don’t bother me again.’

He grabs her hand and looks as though he’s about to retaliate.

‘Stop it, stop it,’ I shout, tugging my coat from the back of the chair where Jack’s sitting and rushing out, slamming the door behind me.

I walk in the bitter March winds, going back, step by step, over my quarrel with Gwynn, our reconciliation, all the passion of our short time together and my scorching loss. I can’t bear the thought of going back to Ilona’s cottage. I don’t want to go back anywhere.

I must be several miles from the village when the storm blows up. I shelter in the hedge, not knowing where I am or which way to go. As the snow covers me, I think of Gwynn and me last summer on Celyn sands, how he used to lie on top of me, shutting out the world.

I’m rescued next day by a party of local men. For a time I’m fully conscious, aware for instance, that it’s Ifor Meredyth who’s carrying me, growling and cursing whenever he loses a foothold. The drifts are twelve foot high; everything is white and hard and glittering.

When Ilona lights a fire in my little bedroom, the flames terrify me.

I develop pneumonia. For days I’m delirious. I hear Ilona telling Dr Jenkins about Gwynn, how he was killed by a flying bomb after only six weeks in the army.

He takes hold of my hand. I try to focus on him; he’s a large man, elderly and gruff. ‘You must leave the dead in peace,’ he tells me. ‘You’re on the mend. It’s your life that matters now. You’ve been given a second chance.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘You do. Millions have died but you were saved. Strive to deserve it.
Live
.’ His grip on my hand makes me cry out.

‘Leave the dead in peace. Live.’ His words echo at me through the tunnel of my fever.

Slowly I begin to recover.

When the weather breaks, my mother comes to see me. She makes me some chicken broth and says that Tommy has a better notion of eating than I have.

I’ve forgotten Tommy. When they bring him to see me, I hardly recognise him, he’s grown so big. He doesn’t recognise me; when I try to hold him he struggles and cries. He can say mama, mama.

Jack comes to visit. He and Ilona seem shy and awkward together; he says it’s because they feel guilty about me. I was gone for hours, it seems, before they noticed. I feel that they’re making plans to get married but neither of them will admit it.

Ifor Meredyth comes to see me, grunting as he climbs up the narrow stairs. He seems very proud of me, keeps saying I’m doing very nice. Apparently ewes often panic when they’re separated from the flock, whereas I bowed to fate and conserved my strength.

‘What strength?’ Ilona says crossly. ‘She’s weak as a white mouse. Feel her wrists, they’re like sticks. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘No, I’d best be off. I don’t want to be in trouble for nothing, do I? You’ve got another bloke, I hear. Well, it’s time to settle down, isn’t it? Feel the same myself. Time changes and we change with it, more’s the pity. The little lad’s getting on champion, anyhow. I’ll fetch him a pet lamb next year, he’ll like that. Good about the war, isn’t it?’

‘What about the war?’ I ask Ilona, when she next comes up with Bovril and offers of an egg.

‘It’s over. Mr Churchill is going to make a speech at three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll bring the wireless up if you promise not to get too excited.’

The war is over; all the bloodshed and destruction. The church bells ring out and later that night we watch bonfires on the hills, even as far as Anglesey.

‘Will you phone my mother-in-law to ask after Huw?’ I ask Ilona the next day.

‘Do you think I should? She may read into it more than you intend.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I must know he’s all right. It would be such a load off my mind.’

‘Do I tell her you’ve been ill?’

‘I suppose so. It might make her feel kinder towards me. I wish my mother was on the phone... I wonder when Fredo will be going back to Italy. She’ll be so lonely. I wonder if he’ll come back?’

‘Of course he will.’

‘I don’t know. He’s got another life in Italy, hasn’t he? His three sons and all his relatives. His farm.’

‘He’ll come back to your mother.’

I get up to sit in the small armchair Ilona has put by the window. My legs buckle under me as I try to walk. I can’t think when I’ll get back to school; Dr Jenkins says not until September. I open the window and watch Ilona walking back from the telephone kiosk. It’s a sweet spring day and Tommy is sitting up in his pram waving his arms. Ilona smiles up at me and nods her head. Huw is safe and well.

Huw is safe and well. Gwynn is gone, and all his beauty, but the war is over and I’m alive. And for the first time for almost a year I find myself glad to be alive.

Seren is the book imprint of Poetry Wales Press Ltd

Nolton Street, Bridgend, CF31 3BN, Wales

www.seren-
books.com

© Siân James, 2004

First published, in a slightly different version, by Piatkus, 1997.

ISBN 1-85411-358-5

The right of Siân James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

978-1-78172-122-3

The publisher works with the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council.

Cover: ‘Solva 1934’ (detail), Cedric Morris