Searing is the sadness that hits you in the face of such courage; when words are empty, useless things. Sick to death she looked at that moment, but with a spirit that would have taken her twenty rounds and stripped to the waist with Justin Slaughterer. She smiled then, her red lips fevered against the paper whiteness of her cheeks and her fingers brushed old Ben’s knee. He drifted away, as did the gentry. Saw Squire move then, pressing his fingers to his forehead, his face turned down.
“There now!” I said, and sat down beside her.
Her hand sought for mine and found it, gripping, unashamed.
“Jethro, when are you coming again to the Reach?”
“Been up six times,” I said. “No sign of you, girl.”
This sat her up. “God bless you,” she said. “O, Jethro, I do love you so. I have been off colour a bit lately, but I will be there again now, for they say I am better.”
“Truly better?”
“And this is the best day of all. Wonderful I feel today, every scent, every breath …”
God help her.
“Jethro.”
“Yes, girl?”
“You … will come to me again?”
“Every Sunday. I promise.”
“And you will wait for me there – no other girls?”
“Just you,” I said.
“O, I am terrible,” she whispered. “Jethro, I am ashamed!”
I thought she was going to cry and longed to hold her.
“Tessa, people are watching.”
“I do not care. Jethro, you are still my boy? There is nobody else? Sometimes when a girl is away …”
“Still for you, Tessa,” I said.
She laughed then, and I saw her father give us a queer old look and a smile.
Strange are gentry. Boiling oil for me twelve months back.
“Before the autumn goes I will meet you,” she said. “I will come down to the river again with Ben, and you will kiss me again as you did in summer?”
“Hush, you are making me wicked,” I said. The woman leaped into her face at this and she clutched at my fingers and closed her eyes, gusty in breathing.
“Jethro.”
“Yes?”
She turned away her face.
“Nothing,” she said, but I knew what she was thinking. Then:
“One day I will love you, Jethro. Truly. One day …”
“Aye,” I replied. People were watching us now. Didn’t give a damn for them, except for Tessa. Gentry eyes were switching, hats coming round.
“One day you will touch me, I promise,” she whispered.
“Tessa, I must go.”
“Yes. Goodbye, my darling.”
I do not remember going back to my family, but I know I went without pride, and Morfydd touched my hand when I got back, and smiled.
“Good boy, you are,” she said. “He can have his old pig. Poor little Tessa.”
Dancing now, in the midst of joy, for the wind had blown up sudden and cold and Tessa went home with a waved goodbye. Just couldn’t have danced with Tessa there.
Dancing to the Irish fiddles now, with the bright red stockings going up in a thrill of lace petticoats, Biddy Flannigan in the middle beating the time, and the leather-jacketed men turning in circles, hands on hips, poaching caps at jaunty angles, linking arms with the maidens, breathless, singing.
“Come on in!” cried Morfydd, whirling me into it, dragging at Mari, and the three of us went into the Gower Reel, taking partners, backwards and forwards, and I noticed Justin Slaughterer prancing away opposite Mari and Abel Flannigan bowing to Morfydd and handing her round. Fiddles were soaring, harps twanging and the drums beating in a medley of joy and movement. The crowd surged round us, laughing and clapping to time. Little Meg Benyon, up with her skirts, handing on to Osian Hughes; Toby and Mrs Maudlin, Gipsy May and Betsi, even Grandfer and Mam now, skirts swirling, boots tapping, O, joyful is the dance! The longer it runs to the rhythmic beat the wilder and wilder it comes, throbbing at the heart, swinging at the senses, and the last, breathless chord comes when you kiss your partner. Biddy Flannigan nearest, so I grabbed her, fighting another man off, and a good old smacker I gave Biddy, bringing down her bun and making her scream, and then I saw Mari. Justin had her – kissed her once and pulling at her again while she fought him off, shrieking and laughing. But her laughter died in the crush of his lips as he hooked her against him when everyone had finished. As a bear he had her then, laughing, his hair ragged while she pushed at his chest and yelled for Morfydd. Fun, of course.
“Oi, Oi, Oi!” shouted Morfydd, coming up, tapping him.
“Oi, Oi,” said Justin over his shoulder and bent to Mari again.
Fun no longer. In a stride I was at him and yanked him away from her.
“No, Jethro, no!” screamed Mari. Too late, for I had him; seeing the swing of his hands as he turned to face me and the square of his jaw. He fell against me, scraping down the front of me, landing at my feet. Just stood there, aware of eyes, and silence, and the searing pain of my hand, for Justin was cast iron. Whispers now. Men bending to pull him off; lay him out tidy, snoring happily. Strange how a man unconscious snores. Stranger his face, alive one moment, lifeless the next. Caught him right – everything right for me, a three inch hook and him running on to it. Didn’t know what hit him, just dropped. Then Mam came up and swung me round, her face blazing, her arm pointing.
“Home,” she said. “Home this minute!”
“Mam,” said Morfydd, her hands out, and I saw Mari weeping.
“Home!” My mother brushed Morfydd aside; tongue-tied, white with fury.
“Mrs Mortymer,” said Biddy Flannigan. “You cannot blame the boy.”
“That is no kind of kissing,” said another. “And she a young married woman. Isn’t decent.”
“And it is not decent to resort to fists. Jethro, I said home!”
“Count me, then,” said Morfydd. “I go with him.”
“Go, then. O, I am ashamed, ashamed,” whispered Mam.
People crowding round her
