Make Room for the Jester (10 page)

‘Really?’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘Well – I never…’

‘“Paradise Lost” by Muldoon,’ he went on, ‘“When I consider how my light is spent”, and so on,’ he cried, lowering his voice. ‘That’s what I call my Chapel voice, Mrs Roberts. Have you noticed how people have one voice for work and one voice for Chapel?’

Mrs Roberts’ bosom heaved as she giggled. She couldn’t laugh because her mouth was full of food.

‘Oh, yes – it’s got to be a hollow voice for Chapel – no reverence unless it’s mournful.’ He did some more of his imitation for her. Any minute now, I thought, and it will all go sour, and we’ll be out in the yard clutching a ham sandwich apiece. ‘I wonder why there has to be a different voice for praying, too? A praying voice with a bit of a cringe to it. Chapel…’

‘Now then, who’s talking about Chapel?’ And there was Mr Roberts by the door.

‘Dada bach,’ Mrs Roberts cried, ‘you look tired out. Come and sit down then, cariad.’

Mr Roberts was about eighteen stone, but short. He looked as if he’d been blown up with a bicycle pump – blown up so hard that all the hair had popped out of his head. He sat down, breathing heavily, and began to reach for the bread and the pickles and the boiled ham and the mustard, not saying anything, just filling his plate until it overflowed.

‘Having a tea party,’ Mrs Roberts explained.

Mr Roberts looked hard at Gladstone. ‘So I see…’

‘Having a lovely chat we were, about poetry and music…’

‘Chapel, too? Didn’t I hear someone say Chapel?’

‘We did mention it,’ Gladstone said in a cold voice. He knew Mr Roberts, had been refused tick in his shop more times than he cared to mention.

Mr Roberts grunted. ‘Didn’t know you were a Chapel man, Gladstone?’

‘Oh,’ Mrs Roberts cried, ‘you know him, cariad! A lovely pianist! Played the
Largo
…’

Her husband looked up sharply. ‘Play the piano, do you, Gladstone? Never knew that. We’ll have to get you on the harmonium at the Mission.’ He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Been keeping company with the drunkards lately, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Gladstone.

‘Ashton Vaughan,’ Mr Roberts said flatly. ‘That’s who I’m talking about. I hear you’ve been helping him to drink himself to death.’

Mr Roberts prided himself on always speaking his mind. It wasn’t really a matter for pride, Rowland
Williams said, because there was nothing in Mr Roberts’ mind that was worth hearing.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘Been seen with him all the time. Rescued him from the harbour, didn’t you?’

‘Did we?’ said Gladstone very calmly, but before he could go on Mrs Roberts had jumped up crying, ‘Oh – here’s Eirlys come!’ She ran across to open the back door, talking all the time. ‘Oh – now then, Eirlys come with my dress.’ She opened the door. ‘Come in, then – come in, Eirlys fech.’ The woman who walked in was the woman who had been in the car with Marius Vaughan.

She was blonde and she was like a doll, all colour and warmth, wide-eyed and smiling. She made the rest of the room look grey. ‘Tradesman’s entrance,’ she said. ‘Oo, got a tea party going, Marian?’ Her voice was husky, with laughter in it. She winked at Gladstone and me across the table.

‘Come in,’ Mr Roberts said without turning round, ‘we were just discussing the Vaughans. Not the one you’re interested in, though.’

‘Dada!’ Mrs Roberts cried reproachfully. ‘Come and sit down, Eirlys fech. Sit here.’

‘Only staying a minute, Marian,’ Eirlys said, taking no notice of Mr Roberts. ‘I only wanted to tell you those dress lengths won’t be in till next week.’

‘Sit down,’ Mr Roberts ordered. ‘This is Gladstone Williams, bosom pal of the other Vaughan.’

Eirlys didn’t sit down. She stood there holding her handbag in front of her, calm and relaxed. It was as if she had made up her mind long ago how she felt about things. Although she was pretty and painted and all frills, she was strong too. She put a hand with very red nails on top of
Mr Roberts’ bald head. ‘Musn’t talk with food in our mouths, must we?’ she said.

Mr Roberts shook her hand off. ‘These two rescued Ashton Vaughan from a watery grave,’ he said. ‘Did you know that, Mrs Hampson?’

‘I thought you were a musician,’ Mrs Roberts cried, pointing to Gladstone.

‘You can still be a musician and rescue people from drowning,’ Gladstone replied.

‘But – I thought you were a student, or something…’

‘Marian,’ said Mr Roberts sharply, ‘why don’t you get new glasses, woman? This is Gladstone Williams. Martha Davies’ son. Lives on Lower Hill.’ It sounded like a police record.

‘Lower Hill,’ Mrs Roberts gasped.

I was very angry. ‘I live on Lower Hill, too,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Roberts said, her face a deep red, ‘but you’re with our Gwynfor. In the County School.’

Eirlys Hampson laughed so much she had to reach for her handkerchief.

‘Sense of humour, haven’t we?’ Mr Roberts said.

‘Thank God,’ Eirlys said.

‘Right, then,’ said Mr Roberts, speaking only to Gladstone, ‘what about this friend of yours, then? This famous – or should I say norotrious – Ashton Vaughan?’

‘Notorious,’ Eirlys said softly.

Gladstone didn’t say anything.

‘I’m talking to you,’ Mr Roberts shouted.

‘Dada! Please!’

He pointed his knife at Gladstone. ‘I’m talking to you, boy.’

‘You’re not in the shop now,’ Gladstone said quietly. ‘I’m not asking for tick, and I’m not one of your kicking boys.’

Mr Roberts sat there, mouth open, showing his teeth and food. I thought for a moment that he was going to choke, but he managed a swallow big enough for a horse, and sat bolt upright on his chair.

‘Take care, boy,’ he thundered. ‘You’re playing with fire.’ He glanced at Eirlys. ‘Everybody who mixes with the Vaughans plays with fire. Know that?’ Eirlys winked at us again. ‘Those two men are evil. I’m old enough to know when a man’s evil or not. And I’m warning you, boy – it’ll be a bad end for you, keeping company with a drunken reporbate like that…’

‘Reprobate,’ Eirlys said.

‘What?’ Mr Roberts was the colour of a summer thundercloud. ‘What did you say, you cheeky bitch?’

Gladstone stood up, sending his cup spinning, ‘Language, if you please, Mr Roberts. Remember your son is at the table.’

Mrs Roberts nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, that’s right. Gwynfor’s here.’

This time Mr Roberts did choke.

Gladstone bowed to her. ‘Thank you for the tea. Very nice of you to ask us…’

‘Must come again,’ Mrs Roberts said, a little uncertainly.

Mr Roberts recovered. ‘You bloody halfwit!’ he roared at his wife. ‘You silly bloody woman!’

Gladstone led the way to the door. He opened it for me and stood there giving them all a long, cool look.

‘Get out of my house!’ Mr Roberts cried. ‘Get out – you guttersnipe!’

In the hush that followed, Eirlys reached for the milk jug from the table. She raised it up, then very slowly poured its contents over Mr Roberts’ bald head. ‘Nice and cooling, milk,’ she said. ‘Be in the shop, if you want me, Marian.’ Then she joined us at the door and ushered us out.

‘Quick,’ she said, ‘before he recovers. You’d like a ride down, wouldn’t you?’

Eirlys brought the car to a screeching halt outside her shop. She switched off the engine and sat there tapping her hands lightly on the wheel. She seemed to be saying something under her breath.

‘Nine, ten,’ she said aloud. ‘No – it’s no good. I’ll have to have a fag.’

She pulled the packet out of her handbag and lit one. Her hands were trembling, I noticed. ‘There’s nothing like a fag for bringing you round,’ she said, and held out the packet, offering us one. We both refused. ‘Nothing like a fag when you’ve just lost a good customer and made an enemy. But, boys bach, I couldn’t resist it. There was the milk jug, and there was that nasty little man’s head. I couldn’t resist it…’

‘No more than he deserved,’ Gladstone said from the back seat. ‘Nothing but a pig, that man…’

‘Pig is right, but his wife is – was – one of my best customers. Can’t keep customers if you pour milk over their husbands, can you?’ She looked quite serious for a moment, then slowly a smile grew. ‘Worth it, though. Oh, hell – it was worth it and no mistake.’

‘You’ll have all the ministers in town calling on you,’ Gladstone said.

‘Don’t forget the deacons,’ she said.

‘Queuing up at the door…’

‘And the police as well. The entire force. I’ll be put in jail, drummed out of Chapel, branded for life I shouldn’t wonder. But – still worth it, though.’

She smelled nice, of scent and powder. There were tiny golden hairs along her round, smooth arms. She
was
like a doll, with her waves set and shining in her blonde hair, her frilly silk dress, her painted fingernails. I thought she was very beautiful, like the film stars were at the pictures, even if she wasn’t very slim like them.

‘You should have asked him if he took milk,’ Gladstone said.

‘Now, then,’ she said, arching her brows and opening wide her eyes, ‘perhaps he only took cream?’

The little car shook with our laughter. Eirlys laughed so hard she had a coughing spell. ‘Bloody cigs,’ she said, ‘they’ll be the death of me yet.’ Then she turned to me. ‘Lew Morgan,’ she began, ‘I can guess what this one feels, but what about you? You look a proper dark horse.’

I was shy. ‘Feel all right,’ was all I could say.

She turned in her seat with a rustle of silk and looked at us both very steadily. ‘Ashton’s friends, eh? The whole town’s heard about you lot. You
are
his friends, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ Gladstone replied, but stiffly.

She nodded and was silent for a moment, examining us each in turn. There was nothing shy about Eirlys. ‘What’s he like, then?’ she asked. ‘All right, is he?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Gladstone said, stiffly still. ‘It’s all over the town.’

‘That’s a shirty answer,’ Eirlys commented with a smile. ‘I’m not asking the town, though. I’m asking you.’

‘They’re all waiting for the worst to happen,’ Gladstone said heatedly. ‘It’s a disgrace, that’s what…’

‘It’s the Porthmawr hobby,’ she said. ‘They call it waiting for the fall.’ She flicked ash through the open window. ‘Don’t get me wrong, will you? I wasn’t asking about Ashton in order to tell his brother…’

Gladstone looked very stubborn. I found myself wishing he was nicer to her, more polite. ‘If his brother wants to know…’ he began.

‘He can find out for himself,’ Eirlys finished it for him. ‘I know, I know…’

‘He can take him home and offer him some help…’

‘That’s right,’ Eirlys said, ‘but I’ve heard the world is littered with people who tried to help Ashton Vaughan. That’s the trouble with Porthmawr – there’s always
some
truth in what they say…’

‘Look,’ Gladstone said, ‘never mind what they say. He’s just a helpless, drunken man. He can’t help the way he is…’

‘I wonder,’ she said softly. ‘I wonder if anyone can…’

‘But he can’t,’ Gladstone insisted. ‘It’s – well, he can’t.’

I sat there, my hands clasped tightly between my knees, not daring to join in. All I could see was Ashton’s face, and that mouth twisting….

‘I’m not trying to warn you off him,’ Eirlys went on. ‘My God – it isn’t up to me to warn anybody. And I’m no tale-carrier, either. You can bank on that. I was only wondering why he’d come back here all of a sudden.’

Gladstone shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t he come back? He belongs in Porthmawr. Maybe there was nowhere left for him to go.’ He drew breath in deeply then asked, ‘Doesn’t his brother mention him at all?’

‘Who’s being nosy now, then?’ she said. Then she shook her head slowly. ‘No – not so as you’d notice.’ She flicked her cigarette through the window. ‘Maybe that’s why I was asking…. Anyway, let’s get out. Bet you the news has reached town already. No police about, are there?’

We got out of the car and stood with her by the shop window. ‘We’ll swear he made it up,’ Gladstone said with a grin. ‘Tell them you never poured milk…’

‘Hush,’ she said, ‘walls have ears.’ She opened the shop door. ‘Pop in and say hello when you’re passing,’ she said. ‘We’ll buy a gallon or so of milk and make a christening list. All right?’

‘All right,’ we said.

‘And if you run into any trouble, like – or if you want to tell me anything about our mutual interests – know what I mean? – well, pop in, like. All right?’

We said all right and went down the street smiling.

‘She’s a case,’ I said.

‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘Tell you what – Marius can’t be so bad if she goes with him.’ Then he stopped in the middle of Market Street and roared with laughter. ‘His shop,’ he said. ‘Roberts’ High-class Grocers. Did you see the milk run down his face?’

We laughed so loud that one of the assistants came out of the shop and told us to move along.

‘Tell you what,’ Gladstone said, ‘we won’t be asked up there to tea again.’

That night we gathered, the four of us, around the fire in Gladstone’s house. The children were in bed, but not yet asleep. Now and then there was a scream and a cry of ‘Glaadstoone’, but he didn’t go up to them.

‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘they’ve been the limit. I got home this evening and do you know what they were doing? They had poor old Walter standing there with his little thing in his hand, and they were making him wee into jam jars. Honestly, he was
pale
with it. Shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t wet his bed for the next ten years.’

‘Doctors and nurses?’ Maxie inquired.

‘Playing public houses, they said. It’s that Dora. She starts them off. Look at this, will you?’ He handed me a crumpled page from an exercise book. ‘I find them all over the house.’

I looked at the letter:

‘I used to do that,’ Dewi said, looking over my shoulder. ‘I used to write letters all the time. Just remembered that now. I used to want to leave home, too. Still do…’

‘Wants to join the Navy,’ Maxie explained. ‘Dewi wants to be a bloody captain…’

‘Do I bloody hell,’ Dewi said.

‘Language,’ Gladstone warned, taking the note from me.

‘I’ve found dozens of these, but when I ask her what’s the matter, all she says is Catherine…’

‘Who’s Catherine?’

‘Her friend,’ Gladstone said with a smile. ‘The one who isn’t there. She talks to Catherine all the time. Even in the lav. She says Catherine wants to go. Catherine’s an Asiatic Princess, I think. Dora’s the Lady in Waiting…’

‘Like the May Queen,’ Maxie put in.

‘Yes,’ Gladstone sighed, ‘like the May Queen. I wish I
could
take them all away. Somewhere nice. Somewhere we could be by ourselves.’ He looked around the kitchen. ‘Somewhere nice. The way I see it this place is a little house on a beach, where the sun is shining all the time, like it does in the South Seas, and where everything’s clean.’ He clasped his bony knees and stared into the fire. ‘One day we’ll go. Just wait…’

We didn’t make any comment. This was private, what Gladstone was saying.

‘Anyway,’ he went on suddenly, ‘I asked you over because we’ve got to plan a visit…’

Dewi sat up, interested as a terrier promised a walk. ‘A job?’

‘A kind of a job.’

‘No more boats,’ Maxie said. ‘My dad will kill me.’

‘No boats,’ Gladstone said.

‘There’s plenty of lead piping in that house on Bridge Street,’ Dewi said. ‘Mind you, it’s not so clever with the light nights and that, but if we don’t move in quick someone else will…’

‘No lead piping,’ Gladstone said.

‘But we’re going to pay a visit somewhere?’

He nodded.

‘I’ll buy,’ I said. ‘Where then?’

‘The Point…’

‘Oh, good God!’ I said.

‘Never, man,’ Dewi joined in. ‘Them dogs…’

‘We’re going to take a look at Marius Vaughan’s house,’ Gladstone declared flatly.

Oh, no, I thought. It’s the wrong thing to do, I felt it instinctively. But Dewi was suddenly converted to the idea, wanted to go there and then. Maxie was still saying his father would kill him.

‘They were telling me,’ he added in his slow fashion, ‘about some boys that went to have a look at the Point one night. He caught them – and you know what he did? Took them in the house and made them bend over and gave them the cane across the ass. Never got the police or nothing. Just did that…’

‘Jack Bach’s brother,’ Dewi said. ‘Said it hurt like hell…’

‘And there’s dogs,’ Maxie went on.

Gladstone shook his head. ‘There
was
a dog. It died last winter. Postman told me…’

‘What are we going for?’ I asked him, trying to catch his eye.

He ruffled my hair. ‘Just a visit. A tour of inspection, you might call it…’

‘But why?’

He was looking directly at me now, speaking to me as if in a private language. ‘I’m curious. I’d go alone – only
having you with me might be handy. Lookouts and that. But I want to see. I – I can’t explain, Lew, but I want to see what it’s like…’

‘Bloody great big house, our Tada says,’ Dewi broke in. ‘Great big rooms and that…’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Gladstone said. ‘Saw it from a boat when we were out after mackerel.’ He stretched his arms high above his head. ‘I want to see how the other brother’s going on,’ he added.

‘Ashton asked you?’

‘No – nothing like that. He did say tonight that he bet his brother was having something nice for supper – not chips from the shop. That’s what set me thinking. No, Lew, this is for myself…’

‘To spy around?’

‘Have a look, that’s all,’ Gladstone said. ‘Are you game?’

I hesitated. It wouldn’t work out, I knew – couldn’t possibly work out. But I said all right.

‘Dewi?’

‘Draw one of your plans,’ Dewi said.

‘Maxie? Coming?’

Maxie was occupied with another worry. ‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘when you rub yourself and that – is it right that you’ll go blind?’

Dewi laughed. ‘Only three hundred times you’ve got and that’s a fact. You’re getting near it, so watch out.’

‘Never mind about that,’ Gladstone broke in. ‘Are you coming or not?’

Maxie nodded. ‘My dad will kill me, though,’ he said.

Gladstone got up and stretched himself. ‘All right, then. We’ll try it tomorrow night.’ He looked hard at me, his face
very pale and serious. ‘I’ve got to
know
, Lew, haven’t I?’

Know what? I thought. There didn’t seem to be any reason that I could see for taking a chance with Marius Vaughan, but I said yes just the same.

We didn’t go the next night, however. There was a thunderstorm in the afternoon and rain heavy enough to wash all of Porthmawr into the ocean. Lower Hill was flooded, as usual, and I helped Meira bail out. Even the lav in our yard rose like a fountain.

We didn’t go on the following night, either – although it was a fine, warm one, after a fine, warm day. That night Ashton Vaughan went missing, and we had to comb the town for him. Up to us, Gladstone said: we couldn’t go to the police. But we didn’t find him until the following afternoon. He was sleeping it off in one of the railway carriages on the sidings. There was an empty bottle of gin next to him on the seat.

Gladstone went to work on him straight away, but it was a long time before he opened his eyes. At first I thought he was dead; he was so still there on the seat, the skin falling away from his nose leaving a line of white bone. But it was all lines, that face, as if it had been pinched and pressed and twisted, God knew by what. ‘Best bloody advert I ever saw for Temperance,’ Dewi remarked. ‘Want to prop him up next to the pulpit – the pubs will be out of business in no time.’

It was a relief to hear Dewi say that. Now and then he came out with something that surprised you, made you look twice at him. I laughed, but Gladstone showed a grim and angry face.

Ashton Vaughan came round. We helped him with his boots and got him looking fairly presentable, then we took him along the back streets to his room.

‘Better have an aspirin,’ Gladstone suggested.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Ashton groaned. ‘Not enough in the wide world for a head like mine,’ he said. ‘Look at my hands.’ They were shaking badly. ‘I’m a sick man – that’s what I am. I’m a very sick man.’

Dewi said what I wanted to say. ‘Why not pack in the drink, then?’

There was a silence you could have touched after that, then Gladstone started giving Dewi what for. ‘No right to be saying that,’ he said. ‘You ought to be ashamed…’

‘I still think he wants to give up the drink,’ Dewi went on. ‘It’s no use crying when you’re killing yourself, is it?’

‘There’s reasons for everything…’

‘No!’ Ashton cried, in a voice so loud that I jumped. ‘No! He’s right! He’s dead right. The drink’s killing me. I’m telling you, the drink’s killing me!’ I forced myself to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot and full of tears. ‘I know what I’m doing to myself…. Boys, I know!’ His shaking hands punched the air. ‘Last night I had them. I had the visions, I tell you. All the crawling, slimy, filthy things you ever saw – all spewed up from the swamps of hell itself. And they were coming for me – coming for my throat!’ He raised his hands as if to ward them off. ‘Crawling out of the dark, coming for me… you see them and you don’t see them… come and go, like that… but you can hear them all the time, purring like cats, see… and you try to get your hands on them, but they slide away, twist out of your fingers…. Oh, lads bach, they were after me!’