Hosts of Rebecca

Saw Hettie Winetree near the cider barrels with something under her apron, feet itching, hands screwing for a sight of me, then found she was looking at some other chap, could have killed him. Nobody taking a blind bit of notice of me so far, except Sixpenny, and she was man-mad. And then, O, joy! I saw Tessa watching me from Squire’s party in the middle of the field. Pale and thin she sat in her wheelchair, scarfed and rugged against the wind while old Ben, her servant, bowed and grey, stood behind her, watching every move. On, the procession – straight up to Squire Lloyd Parry, and full marks to Squire despite his Trusts. Surrounded by gentry on all sides, he came out and waited – didn’t give Grandfer a glance, but he bowed back low to Mam as she stepped aside and held her skirt wide to her headdown curtsy. Don’t like scraping, mind, but I like good manners between man and maid, and so pretty it looks when they bow to one’s mother. Morfydd next after Mari went down. Stripped naked she would have faced tigers before lowering a knee to a man, least of all Squire, but she inclined her head, and I saw a few gentry ladies whispering behind fans. Ten thousand pounds for a face like Morfydd’s, this, the hauler of gentry trams. Harps and singers were rolling up now, Irish fiddles being tuned, drums beaten, horses neighing and a roar from the crowd as a dead pig was hauled up. Could have wept, for I thought of poor Dai Two back home in Nanty going to his ancestors like a saint. Did it myself, too, God forgive me, had to eat something. A little sucking pig came next, first prize by Squire for the wrestling contest, and I saw Justin Slaughterer smack his backside to send him screaming and then wipe the spit from his chops in anticipation, for he was reckoning to win it.

“Is he getting away with that?” asked Morfydd after the reception.

“Who, now?”

“That Justin Carver, wrestling.”

“Never wrestled in my life,” I said.

“O, aye? What was that look from Sixpenny Jane, then?”

“Heisht!” I said, for Mari was in earshot.

“Big and stupid enough, mind,” said Morfydd. “All backside he is. If you fetch him low enough he’d never get up, and I would like that pig. You see to him later or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Justin would cripple me,” I said, weighing him.

“Doesn’t matter what he does to you, just get me that pig. Hey, look now!”

“Where by?”

“Over by there, man, you are getting the eye. Mind you don’t waste it.”

“And what is this about wrestling and sucking pigs?” asked Mam, tapping.

Asses ears, this one, whispers being shouts to her.

“Eh, nothing,” said Morfydd.

“And you the instigator? Being watched today, so I will not have violence. Wrestling, indeed!”

“Do you think I would throw him to Justin Slaughterer?” asked Morfydd. “For the sake of a sucking-pig? And me in love with the family?”

“I am happy I misheard, then,” said Mam. “Sorry.”

“You get me that pig, mind,” said Morfydd, moving away, “or I might drop a word out of place.”

“A lady is waving to you, Jethro,” said Mam, coming back, and her face was flushed with pleasure.

“Tessa!” I whispered, straightening my stock.

Gentry now, a rise in social standards, with the ladies and gentlemen all looking our way and Mam nodding and bowing and he won’t be a minute he’s just coming over.

“Squire is asking for you, Jethro,” said Mari, running breathless.

“Away,” said Morfydd, “and don’t make a pig of yourself.”

“Mind your manners, mind,” said Mam, flushing with pleasure. “Pleases and thank you’s if you are offered anything, remember.”

“And straight back, too,” whispered Morfydd. “None of your Sixpenny Janes.”

“There’s a good boy,” said Mari, brushing at me. “Try to make a good impression. O, there’s an honour for the Mortymers, that proud I am!”

Over the fifty yards or so to where the gentry were standing, with glasses going up and fans coming down and look at that fine young man, good God. As a man to gallows, me, with me going one way and my suit another and my feet all hobnails, red as a lobster, for a hell of a thing it is to be called over to gentry. Nearer they came, grouped and dignified, the ladies on one side of Tessa, gentlemen on the other, all polished bellies and chins and gold-topped canes, and lovely were their women haughty and drooping under their lace-fringed parasoles, sweeping the grass with their long, white dresses. Heard Morfydd’s giggle as I stopped short, and I put my hand to my breast and bowed to Tessa, and the men bowed back.

“Good day, young Mortymer.” Squire now, his voice bass music.

“Good day, sir,” I said.

O, what is it that bites and tears in the breast when you feel unequal? I fought it down in Tessa’s radiant smile, and then my world was made.

“Handsome boy,” whispered Squire to a lady. “And from a handsome line, I would say. Have you noticed his sister? Most respectable people, also.”

“And Tessa appears interested, I can see,” and the fan came up to hide the kind smile.

“Jethro!” Hand out, was Tessa, her eyes burning in her thin, grey face.

“Good day, Miss Lloyd Parry,” I said, going down again. Up and down like a bloody ninepin me, that Fair Day, but it had its compensations, for every eye in the field was on me and Mam coming a bit damp with her and dabbing with pride, no doubt.

“Well mannered, most collected, d’you notice?” whispered a man.

If I looked collected I didn’t feel it for my belt had stopped my breathing minutes back and my new oiled boots were killing me.

“How is your mother, Jethro?” Poor Tessa, a whisper for a voice.

“Most pleasant, I may say, Miss Lloyd Parry. I trust you are better?”

This put a couple of them sideways. Give hobnails a chance and they soon match gentry.

“I have never felt better,”