“I apologize for my children,” said Mam sorrowful as I climbed the stairs with Morfydd following. “God knows I have done my best to bring them up decent. A grown woman, but she acts like a child, and the other. Well …”
Into the bedroom now, swing the key, and the handle goes round as Morfydd tries it. Nothing but the black of her dress the other side of the keyhole.
Silence, then:
“Jethro,” she croons.
“Aye, girl?”
“I will have you, mind. If I wait six months I will have you for that.”
But I know she will not because of Willie O’Hara.
CHAPTER 5
CHRISTMAS NIGHT!
The family circle now, all trespasses forgiven, sitting round the fire with the lamp turned low, the windows rimed with frost and the snow falling vertically as big as rose petals against the white dresses of the mountain. All was silent save for Mari’s voice as she shivered us to the marrow with ghost stories from way back in history, then a bit of a prayer for the Christmas dinner and a Reading from Grandfer, all very holy. Must have been nine o’clock, for Richard and Jonathon were abed, I remember, and I was thinking of Tessa and spring when the tap on the door brought us all upright.
“For Heaven’s sake,” said Mam. “This time of night?”
And then it began!
Sanctus. Full harmony from the back. In glorious song came the old Welsh hymn flung by soaring sopranos, blasted by bass, with the tenors doing a descant over the top, and the sudden glory of the sound froze us into wonder and we got to our feet as with cramp and stared at the back door.
‘Round the Lord in glory seated, Cherubim and Seraphim Filled His temple, and repeated each to each the alternate hymn …!
Lord, Thy glory fills the heaven, earth is with its fullness stored;
Unto Thee be glory given, Holy, Holy, Holy Lord!’
And my mother cried out in joy and flung open the door to the great choir of neighbours and we formed up before them and joined in the hymn that breathes of my country. Last verse now, with my mother’s rich contralto in my ears, Grandfer’s squeaky tenor and Mari and Morfydd going like angels. O, good it was to be accepted by neighbours at last with this, their seal of friendship. Biddy Flannigan front rank with her son Abel a foot above her; Tom the Faith grunting and growling and Dilly Morgan and Hettie Winetree holding hands and singing to the stars. Pleased to see Dilly there for she was heading for a haystack midsummer though she didn’t know it. Osian Hughes and his mam back row; Toby Benyon and missus, Dai Alltwen Preacher, Adam Funeral, gaunt and black, come for measuring up; Willie O’Hara, his eye on Morfydd; Justin Slaughterer with his eye on Mari, and I hated him. Thick and strong and handsome, this one – cutting throats spare time to labouring and enjoying every minute, and he’d had his peeps on Mari from the second we’d come to Cae White. Cut a throat or two myself if this continued: waylaying her from Chapel and happy I am to know you, girl – Mari first name, isn’t it? Justin be mine. Permission to call would be very tidy, Mari Mortymer, me being friends with Grandfer. Thank God she sent him about his business, her a decent married woman. He could even sing well, the swine, booming bass, and I closed my hand as he winked at her now. Last chord to strip the whitewash, and the crowd suddenly parted, cowering back in mock horror, for the terrifying Mari Lwyd was shoving a path through them. Now it stood on the threshold, its lower jaw champing, glass eyes flashing. This, the horrifying Mari Lwyd – a man clad in a white bedsheet wearing the skeleton of a horse’s head where his own head should be.
“God save us,” whispered Mam.
Glass eyeballs on this one, its skeleton head covered with gay rosettes, and its coloured rein streamers were flying in the wind. Jawbone champing like the bell of doom, it surveyed us, gaze sweeping right and left – fixing on Morfydd now, bringing her hands to her face. Then, in a shrill falsetto, the horse began to sing, though I knew it was Waldo Bailiff by the size of its boots. Enough to frighten decent folk to death.
“O, Mari Lwyd so jolly has come all the way from Kidwelly,” sang he. “So will you invite us to sing, good people. And if we are not welcome then please let us know with your singing,” and he flung up his skeleton head and neighed like a soul in torment. “O, please let us know with some singing.”
Dead silence.
“For God’s sake give it a penny and shift it,” whispered Morfydd, but Grandfer, grinning, faced the apparition, flung his arms wide to it and replied in his squeaky tenor:
“O, Mari Lwyd so jolly, come all the way from Kidwelly to visit friendly neighbours. If you are friendly too, then welcome to this house.”
“Friends and neighbours indeed!” bawled the Mari Lwyd, tossing and neighing. “And we beg entry mam – is it in or out?”
And Grandfer bowed low and touched Mam’s arm, leaving it to her. Would have died scalded for Grandfer at that moment.
“Open to friends and neighbours!” cried Mam, going damp, and she flung her arms wide. “Come in, people, do not starve to death in the cold!”
A hell of a thing it is to be accepted, mind.
And in they came, the Mari Lwyd leading, snapping and snarling left and right at the men and bowing to the women. Waldo Bailiff in his element, holding the stage, and Mari and Morfydd were dashing round shouting for cups and plates and digging out the larder for the Christmas cake which was damned near finished. But they need not have worried for the neighbours brought things with them, specially cooked
