“Jethro,” Mam whispered, helpless.
“You mind, now!” said Morfydd in panic.
“Weepings and Readings will not bring him back!” I said. “God, if he could see you sometimes. Ghosts walk this house, not people – Richard; my father, and Iestyn – even Grandfer has his own pet ghost. Is it courage, is it living?”
“One day you will lose somebody, Jethro,” said Mari.
“I am losing somebody now. And when once she is gone nothing will be gained by weeping and moaning.”
It is bitter to see someone you care for making no fight of it. My mother had courage once, when she fought Nanty; when she scraped night and day to keep her family alive. Arrogant was her grief when she lost Edwina, as if she had made a fist of sorrow and brandished it in faces. No patience in me for this milksop weeping, singing the Song of Solomon, twisting herself to tears.
“You finished?” asked Morfydd, cold.
I turned away.
“Good,” said she, “now let me have a say. It do so happen that I have lost a man, too, and though I may not show it his loss turns like a knife, and we do not need the likes of you to tell us how to bear it lest you tell us with your fist in the fire till the sinews stretch and snap. Women have tears and men mind their business. Damned cruel, you are, to our little mam.”
“I am going,” I said, and got up.
“And damned good riddance, forgive me, Mam.”
“Wait,” said Mari. “Somebody is coming.”
“Hearing things,” I said.
I was not heartless, just bitter that my mother should torture herself, and I knew why. The visions of my father returned with greater power, she had said, since Morfydd had started coaling in Ponty; as if the grime of the washing-sink had restained her; the galleries of Nantyglo making echo in the dust of Morfydd’s hair and her coal-rimmed eyes. Bitter. I could have taken the name of my father just then and hurled it over towns, over the smoke-grimed roofs of Nanty where he died, battered it on the walls of mansions. Bitter, bitter, and I spit at grief. I got up, swinging on my coat, knowing a morgue better than this one, Black Boar tavern.
“I said somebody was coming,” said Mari. “Listen,” and a footstep scraped on the flags outside and a fist came on the door. I opened it.
Ben, Tessa’s servant, come down from the Reach.
“You Jethro Mortymer?”
“Know damned well I am.”
“Squire wants you up there, it’s important,” and he wept.
I closed my eyes and turned, looking into the room, and there came to me a song that was mine, the song of Tessa.
Left them alone with their Song of Solomon.
Queer is life and its sweet, sad music.
Never been up to the mansion before save for kisses and poaching, strange going up as a guest. And I went in the front way to Lloyd Parry’s credit, old Ben standing aside. Parry was awaiting me in the hall, the hall I had seen so often through windows. Narrow waisted, six feet odd, handsome in his black frock coat and cravat, he was waiting.
“Tessa is calling for you, Mortymer,” he said, and gripped my shoulder.
This was the ogre of the Trusts, a man broken, grey with grief. This was the one they had over every night in the taverns now, roasting him alive, drawing his name in ale. A fine as soon as he looks at you, they said, six months gaol for the leg of a rabbit. If his mantraps don’t get you Squire Parry will. Land in prison for sure if you stand before his bench; enter his Reach and you don’t come out alive.
“O, Jethro,” he said, and gripped me, sobbing against me. Just two men now. I held him, giving the nod to Ben over his shoulder.
“All I’ve got,” he said.
Just held him, nothing more I could do. Then he straightened, bracing himself and his head went up, bringing out the breeding.
“Tessa is dying,” he said.
Words come like fists swung in anger and you cannot ride or duck them, but stand square to the smack, as rooted.
He ran his fingers through his hair, lost, and I pitied him.
“For some time she has been asking, it seems, but we could not make it out till old Ben listened.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You will see her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will be good to her.”
I nodded, screwing at my hat.
“Come,” he said, “I will take you up,” and turned to the great white staircase and its thick, crimson carpet. I followed him up the stairs to the landing where peak-faced servants rustled to a great white door as the gateway of Heaven. Silently, he opened it.
“I will leave you alone with her,” he whispered.
The room was musty, every window shut tight against the chance of draught, with a smell of burned tallow. A great log fire burned in the hearth, leaping, spluttering. An ocean of a bed with a silk panelled head and blue counterpane, and the ship of its sea was Tessa’s face; stark white that face, her black hair flung over the pillows. Tiptoed in and stood beside her, looking down. Beautiful. Her skin was transparent in the light of the bedside candles; one hand on the silk, as wax; and the long, slim fingers were moving, seeking. Kneeling, I pressed them.
“Tessa,” I said, but she made no sign.
Just knelt there beside her, watching, remembering summer, and I bowed my head. When I looked again her eyes were open and she smiled, but not with her lips.
“Tessa.” I bent nearer. “Jethro, it is. You asking, girl?”
An otter barked down on the Reach and its mate replied with a whistle and I saw her eyes move to the window.
“You hear the otters, Tess?”
She nodded. No sound then but the sparking of the candles and her gusty breathing. The barking came again and she moved her eyes, listening. I leaned closer.
“You hear them?” I whispered.
