Love and War (6 page)

I turn back towards the house and see all the fields flooded with snow. The evening star is bright. Everything is sacred.

But all’s not well here about my heart.

There’s still no word from Huw. And however hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about Gwynn Morgan; whether it would be so dreadfully wrong for me to be just a tiny bit friendly with him.

In school today he asked me whether I ever went to the Ship in the evening. He knows very well that I don’t, I’ve never been to a public house in my life. I wish I could talk to my mother about him, but I can’t. I love her dearly, but I’ve never been able to talk to her and she’s never been able to talk to me. ‘You know what I mean’ is the nearest she ever gets to anything personal. ‘She was a lovely looking woman, but... you know what I mean.’ ‘They had one trouble... you know what I mean.’

The supper is on the table when I get back; bacon broth with carrots and leeks, fresh, home-made bread. As I eat, I’m still fumbling for words. I’ve got an hour before the last bus to Llanfair.

I take a deep, deep breath. ‘Do you remember my old art teacher?’ I ask her. ‘Gwynn Morgan from Nantgoch?’

‘Of course I do, girl. He painted that picture of you, years ago. What about him?’

‘Well... he’s been... quite friendly lately... you know what I mean.’

‘You don’t say. Whatever happened? Whatever did you do? And him with such a fine-looking wife.’

‘The worst of it is, that I myself...’

She looks at me with narrowed eyes. ‘No, no. I’ll never believe that. You’ve never done anything to be ashamed of.’

‘Oh, I haven’t. I’m talking about feelings.’

She sighs. ‘I suppose there’s no answer to feelings,’ she says. ‘We’ve all had those. But if I know anything about it, you’ll come out on the other side with your love for Huw intact and strengthened. The important thing is that you don’t... you know what I mean.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’

‘No, no. Life isn’t easy. I’d never tell anyone that life is easy.’

That seems to be it. She’s spoken. Life isn’t easy.

We sit silently then, thinking about wars and poverty and illness, about the shortness of life, the certainty of death. My father was old before he was fifty. How long will my mother last here on her own, carrying every drop of water from the pump outside, tending her fowls and her animals, digging the garden, making her own bread, working sixteen or seventeen hours a day like her mother and grandmother before her?

I think of the word delight.

Bus journeys are such a nuisance, all that jolting about giving you... feelings... you know what I mean.

It isn’t right to be twenty-four and living like a nun. I’m thinking about Huw, how it was for us. Very awkward, that first time. He didn’t like to admit that he was inexperienced too; men don’t, I suppose, especially when they’re four years older. Oh, it was pretty awful. If only we could have laughed about it, but that night it seemed the most serious matter in the world.

After the first few times it improved. Well, it had to, it couldn’t
have got worse.

After the first few times, I quite liked it. Having him on top of me, that weight. Oh happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony. Ilona Hughes says that where sex is concerned, a woman has to take charge, but I don’t understand what she means and I don’t like to ask. Does she mean that a woman has to decide whether she wants to have sex or not? If so, I agree with her, of course. But once it’s all started, I don’t see how a woman can be much in charge. Oh, I’m so inexperienced. I didn’t really like being turned this way and that, but I suppose it could have been wonderful. And how do you know unless you try?

Great Heavens, now I’m at least halfway to committing adultery with Gwynn Morgan, Art. And in that particular way I didn’t even like with Huw. And, oh, it’s quite thrilling. ‘This can’t be me – it’s just my body being thrown about on this broken-down country bus. Only another couple of miles. I’m pressing my thighs together and my nipples are hard as peas.

A woman sitting in the front turns round and stares at me. Can she know what’s going in in my mind? Oh, now I’ve admitted that my mind is also involved. Adultery is a frightening concept.

The little staring woman is lurching back along the bus towards me. I recognise her. She’s Miriam somebody and she goes to our chapel at home. Miriam Lloyd, I think.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘and how did you find your mother? I’d have come to sit by you straight away, only I didn’t recognise you in your beret. It was the conductor, Wil Aberbanc, who told me who you were.’

I don’t make any reply. I’m finding it as much as I can do to breathe slowly and evenly.

‘She’s much better at last, isn’t she? It’s taken her a long time, poor thing. Four years isn’t it, since your poor father passed away and left her with those 25 acres and no help. But now... well, who can blame her, I say. I mean, it’s been more than a decent interval, hasn’t it?’

Gwynn Morgan slips away as I try to fathom what this round-faced, curly-haired little busybody is trying to tell me.

I confirm that it is indeed four years since my father’s death and suddenly recall how much prettier and younger my mother was looking. Who can possibly be responsible? Who is there? I try to think of some middle-aged widower or bachelor somewhere in the neighbourhood, there’s certainly no one in our chapel, and where would she meet anyone else?

‘Tell me, now, have you met him, yet?’ she asks me. ‘Being a scholar, I suppose you’d be able to talk to him in his own language.’

Rather prettily, I disclaim all pretensions to scholarship, but decline to offer any other information. She’ll get nothing out of me. Even if I knew anything, she’d get nothing out of me.

I think of Gino and Martino, docile as a pair of sheep in the front parlour. My mother did buy them a scarf each for Christmas.

‘Well, here we are back in town,’ I exclaim in a high artificial voice which I hardly recognise. ‘I’m so glad you came to sit by me. I did enjoy our little chat.’

I smile brilliantly in her direction and hurry off the bus.

The depot is almost opposite the Ship and I’ve never felt so tempted to go in. I can’t see that going to a public house is so sinful. Ilona Hughes and Denzil are sure to be there and there’ll be people smoking and chatting, perhaps even laughing. People do laugh in Llanfair, though not usually when I’m around.

A tall man looms out of the darkness, comes towards me and takes my elbow. It’s Gwynn Morgan. Thank goodness it’s dark and he can’t see how my cheeks are burning.

‘Ilona Hughes said you’d been up to see your mother,’ he says, ‘so I thought I’d meet the bus and walk home with you.’

‘Were you in the Ship?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh, please go back there, Gwynn. I don’t mind walking home on my own. Honestly.’

Why do I always have to sound so ungracious? Why can’t I just say thank you and try to be pleasant? After all, he doesn’t know why I’m feeling so hot and embarrassed.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. Why do you ask?’

‘You seem on edge. I thought we were friends. Aren’t we? Can’t we be friends?’

‘Oh Gwynn, I don’t know.’

Great Heavens, now I’m crying. But if I just let the tears roll down my cheeks and into my collar, he might not notice. As long as I don’t sniff. Thank goodness for the blackout.

‘And now you’re crying,’ he says. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Come on, I want to know. Bad news at home? Look, I’m going to walk home with you. What’s the harm?’

He’s still holding me by the elbow. It’s a great comfort.

I give one quick sniff. ‘I met this silly woman on the bus. Miriam Lloyd. She comes from Tregroes and goes to our chapel. She told me some rotten tale about my mother.’

‘Good Lord! What sort of rotten tale?’

‘Oh, you know... she hinted she’d got some man-friend.’

There’s a moment’s silence.

‘But what’s wrong with that? Why shouldn’t she have a man-friend? What could be more natural? Oh Rhian, are you against
everything
?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a lovely girl, that’s what I mean. You’re very intelligent and... well... everything else. But you’re not going to make anything of yourself, you’re not going to realise half your potential, if you let your whole life be dominated by chapel rules. What’s wrong with your mother having a man-friend? What’s wrong with you coming with me to a pub?’

‘Oh, you don’t understand.’

‘Then explain it to me. Why shouldn’t your mother have a man-friend? Why should she have to be lonely for the rest of her life? She’s still young, Rhian.’

‘She’s forty-seven.’

‘That’s not old. Five years older than me, and I’m certainly not ready for the scrap heap.’

‘But why hasn’t she mentioned him to me? She must be ashamed of him. Ashamed of
something
.’

‘Not at all. Perhaps she just wants to keep him to herself for a while. Why can’t
she
decide when to tell you? Why can’t you trust her? You see everything in black and white, Rhian, and life isn’t like that. Isn’t it better to compromise about certain things? Isn’t it better to be fairly good and fairly happy than to be entirely blameless and miserable?’

I pull away from him and blow my nose. My voice is thick with crying; there’s no point in further pretence.

‘Cheer up, Rhian. Are you any the worse for having had a coffee and a chat with me last Saturday morning?’

His voice is suddenly very gentle and smooth. I think of sin.

‘Are you any the worse?’ he asks again. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I am. You know perfectly well how I used to feel about you years ago – you must have known. So you should have realised how vulnerable I am. You shouldn’t have led me on. Now I think about you all the time. And I’m miserable to have to do without you.’

‘Oh Rhian.’ He puts his arm round my shoulders and propels me towards the high wall outside the Infants’ school. We lean against it.

‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ I whisper into his overcoat.

‘Why not? Don’t you think I’m miserable, to have to do without you? Yes, I did realise how you used to feel about me and now I feel the same about you. I think about you all the time, I watch out for you all the time at school. I know where you’re going to be, I’ve worked out exactly when you’ll be crossing the playground from one block to another so that I can look out and see you. Yes, I’m like an adolescent again. And you’re the...’

‘Go on.’

‘You might not find this flattering.’

‘I don’t want flattery. My heart’s racing already.’

‘You’re the object of my desire, Rhian.’

I let that sink in. It’s certainly a very ungodly thought.

‘But I’m married to someone else. Of course you are, too, but I expect you’ve become used to...’

‘Yes? Used to what?’

‘You know. To dividing your life up into fairly happy and fairly good. So far, I’ve only been very good and, well, very bored.’

‘That sounds as though you mean to change.’

‘Does it? I don’t know.’

All I know is that I’m very happy at this moment. I think I’ll probably remember this moment for ever: the moon rising in white gauze, the tumbled clouds, the bruise-dark hills, the roughness of the wall behind my shoulder, the faint sigh of the sea in the distance. Will he kiss me? Do I want him to? No, I only want this cold peace, this clean truth and innocence we may not have again.

How long do we stand against the wall, quite still? It seems like several minutes. Or hours.

What will happen? Nothing. What can happen?

The town clock striking nine brings us back to some sort of reality. We sigh and set off up the hill; his house is in the same direction as mine, but a further ten minutes’ walk out of town. We walk slowly, as though our feet are weighted.

We don’t seem to have anything more to say to each other and in no time at all we’re at my front door.

‘Good night.’ My voice sounds strained and despondent. ‘Thank you for meeting the bus.’

Isn’t he going to say anything in reply? How can I turn and leave him when he’s said so much, confessed to feelings I wouldn’t have dared dream of! Oh, I must have some final word.
Please.

‘Listen,’ he says at last, his voice sounding harsh and as desperate as mine. ‘Listen, my wife would like to paint you some time.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, she noticed you at the Carol Service. She’s anxious to start portrait painting and she thought you had an interesting face. Do you think you could spare the time? To sit for her?’

I struggle to answer. I’ve no idea what to say, no idea how I feel about the prospect of meeting his wife; pleased or apprehensive – or both. ‘I really don’t know,’ I say at last, trying not to sound as overwhelmed as I feel. ‘I’m really not sure whether I’ve got the time this term.’

‘Think about it,’ he says.

‘I didn’t know your wife was an artist.’

‘She hasn’t been painting long. But I think she’s going to be good.’