It breathed new life into her and she gripped my hand.
“And Bill Stork is still on one leg, down on the estuary – old Grandfer Badger’s rooting round Bully Hole Bottom – remember Grandfer? Had him out by the tail again last Sunday when I come up. And the curlews are crying from here to Kidwelly – you heard them?”
She smiled then, her eyes coming alive. Excited, I drove on.
“And the hayricks are burning right down to Tarn – remember Rebecca? Rockets most nights, too, but beautiful are the fires, as glow-worms, just as you said. Rebecca like I told you, done up in petticoats, looking for bad men to carry on poles. O, Tess, when you get better I will take you down to the Taf, and I will kiss you and you will weave a rush hat for me just like you did last spring, remember?”
But she was not really listening now, though her eyes were full on my face.
“O, God,” I said, and wept.
Just once she spoke, scarcely heard it:
“Jethro,” and she took my hand and held it against her breast.
Wearing the birthday brooch, too, just seen it.
Soft her breast on the tips of my fingers, cold her lips in that autumn of fire.
I kissed her.
Dear little woman.
CHAPTER 13
THE TIME for lovering is spring but they do things different round our way. The blood heats up in November, it seems, and thins itself down for May, though Morfydd reckoned the sport was all the year round.
One or two going daft in our village. Tom the Faith for one – dying for our mam, pitiful to see him, and Waldo Rees Bailiff likewise, the pair of them losing weight. Very rarely apart, these two, which is strange for chalk and cheese, with only one thing in common – the Black Boar tavern ale, though Tom the Faith went there for pints and Waldo for Gipsy May.
A maligned man was Tom Griffiths the Faith, with a wedded-all-over look since my mother came to Cae White. He lived on the banks of the Tywi in a cottage old enough for savages. Grandfer’s height but big in the stomach, Tom’s pipe was his only friend; his music the clatter of his dead wife’s teacups, his memories the swish of her shuttle when spinning. Sitting by his winter fires with the rushes of the river tapping his window, Tom’s short life with Martha was the past, present and future in the hands of the Lord. For Tom the Faith knew it all, from Genesis to Revelation and back return journey, and every Sunday at dawn he would stand up to his neck in the river for an hour to atone for the sins of the village. Cherubim and Seraphim mated, was Tom, till he sighed at our mam and went on the hops.
Different was Waldo Rees Bailiff; most sure of himself, this one, with the spiked moustache and fob watch and all the things that go to make up gentry save gentility. Virgin pure, too, saving himself for the right lady, he said, though Morfydd reckoned she was safer with Grandfer’s stallion than trusting herself to Waldo, who spent a shilling a week on Gipsy May.
Tom Griffiths first. Did things properly, give him credit; very spruced up and collared was Tom, fortified well by the smell of his breath. And he stood at the door in splendour, did Tom, bowing double, his hat sweeping the doorstep.
“What the hell does he want?” asked Grandfer, peeping over the top of the Cambrian.
“It is only a social visit, mind,” said Tom, and the heels of his boots were hitting like clappers.
“Wants our mam,” said Morfydd.
“Good God,” said Grandfer. “Honey and Hornets. Grant me release. This is a house of virgins, Tom Griffiths, and I will not have it otherwise. I know you biblicals.”
“Never mind Grandfer,” said Morfydd, “come you in, Tom Griffiths,” she having a sneaking regard for Tom because he worked among the poor.
“I will not come in, never mind,” said Tom, crimson. “Just passing, I was, and hoping for an appointment with Mrs Mortymer, no offence, she being a widow lady.”
“God help us,” said Grandfer. “I will be sheltering four generations. Make no mistake, Tom Griffiths, you are not living here.”
“O, Tom!” cried Mari coming in, and she hooked Morfydd out of it. “In with you, bach, and welcome. Is it Mrs Mortymer you are after, man?”
“Just passing, I was, and …”
“For an appointment, is it? O, yes, now.” Finger under her chin, working things out. “Let me see. She is out tomorrow, down at Chapel. Thursday she is visiting Dai Alltwen Preacher, being he has people coming. Friday she is down with Mrs Tom Rhayader, the baby expected, you understand …”
“Eh, grief,” said Tom, “she is a very busy woman. Saturday, is it?”
“Saturday she is bathing me,” said Grandfer.
“Do not notice him,” said Mari. “Saturday would be convenient, say half past seven?”
“’Tis private, you understand,” said he, mystic.
Private all right now Grandfer had it.
“And … and you will tell her I visited, mind. Expect you guess the reason?”
“Got a fair idea, Tom Griffiths, you leave her to me.”
“God bless you, Mari, girl. Goodnight, now.”
And Morfydd exploded as the door closed.
“Enough of that,” said Mari, severe. “The man is entitled to a hearing.”
“About all he will get,” I said.
“Mam’s business, please. A good little man is Tom Griffiths. I could think of a few worse, I expect,” and she shot Grandfer a look that brought up his Cambrian.
“Hey, you know about this!” said Morfydd, giggling. “Matchmaking, is it?”
“Ask your mother. I am nothing to do with it,” replied Mari.
I had often wondered if my mother would marry again, too good a woman to stay single with decent men in loneliness. And I was partial to
