The house was close and silent that night, with nothing but the rustle of Grandfer’s newspaper, and I wished him to the devil with his champings and grunts. Tessa was with me, too; strange I could not lose Tessa. Every bark of an otter brought me her face. About then I was losing myself with the mountain meetings where the talk was now growing like a flame to the burning of gates. A gate that would catch me square was going up on the road to Kidwelly, so I got up and left Grandfer to it.
Spring air is like wine, autumn air as old casked ale, with a smell of centuries about it. Night birds were doing themselves proud in the elms that night, late for November, and I stood for a bit on the road outside Cae White and listened to their chirping; their beaks uplifted against the moon and the saliva bubbles from their throats sailing upward in the windless air. Screeches came from Waldo’s woods where things were dying, for owls were hunting with beak and claw. A screech time is late autumn, I think; of round eyes glowing from shadows, as if the winged things have starved themselves with song-making all summer and now squaring up their stomachs for the torrent of winter. But I do like autumn and her glories; the bloodstained edges of the beech leaves, the boles of the alders painted silver. Aye, autumn to me is best, as a perfumed gentle old matron, while winter I think of as a crone, toothless, shivering, nose-jewelled and with frost on her lashes. Summer could be Mari swinging out on the road for Chapel; spring is like Tessa dancing naked on lawns.
Drinking pretty hard these days, Squire; fist to his head, legs thrust out, hammering for bottles according to reports. Never been outside the Reach since Tessa died, grief being as sharp for beggar or gentry. I gave him a thought as I passed the mansion, muffled against the wind. Thought of Tessa then, for the stars were as little moons above Kidwelly and the wind had promises to freeze in his shrieks, buffeting down on the foaming river. Heard the door of Cae White come open in a lull and a sword of light shafted the shippon far below me, with Grandfer stumbling in the hilt of it. This moved me faster and I turned by the bend of Osian’s place and bumped into Waldo Rees Bailiff.
“Well, good evening. Jethro Mortymer, is it.” He peered up into my face.
“Good evening, Waldo Bailiff,” I said.
Carrying twins by the look of him, most expansive, thumbs in his waistcoat holes, fingers wagging.
“Is it well with you, Mortymer?”
“Not since that gate went up.”
“Gate, gate? O, come now, do not be so peevish. You use the roads you must face the tolls, is it? And a trifling amount is sixpence a load.”
“My sister hauls trams for a shilling a day,” I said.
“Mind you,” and he looked at the moon, going secret, dewdrop swinging. “It do seem unjust for some, those just starting. But there is plenty of fair men in the county, remember – and many have influence. So how is your dear little mam?”
“Very clever,” I replied. “You know the tollkeeper?”
“A word in the right place, boy – leave it to Waldo. Come from black, I notice?”
“Who, the tollkeeper?”
“No, you bloody fool, your mam. Setting them alight in Chapel last Sunday, did you hear? Pretty as a picture, too, laughing and chattering, quite at home with Waldo. Mind you, I am choosey about the women, not like some I could mention. Respectability do count every time.”
“Whiskers, too – I give you the tip,” I said.
“Aye?” And he twirled them delighted, sharp as rose thorns, hooked at the end.
Gripped my arm. “Do you think I have a chance, boy?”
“Same as any other,” I said. “You seen Tom the Faith lately?”
“Great God, why mention him? Would she choose a worn-out widower before a man in his prime and lusty?” And he thumped his chest as a barrel. “Three in a bed, it would be, with his dead wife Martha in shrouds down the middle. At least I have never been wedded – single as the day, I am, and free for loving!”
“And never been bedded, counts a lot, for virginity comes uppermost with a lady as my mam. You fix that gatekeeper and I will put in a word for you, but watch that Tom the Faith for he has a deceitful nature. Goodnight, Waldo Bailiff.”
“But wait, wait!”
“Go to hell,” I said, and was away along the road and singing, happy in my soul at the knowledge of his misery, for he knew he had no chance. And round the corner now in the floodlight of the moon I thought of my father, the giant of strength; fervent in love, demanding in purpose, with Waldo Rees in one hand and Tom Griffiths in the other, holding them high to Mam, shaking them in a thunder of laughter, that they should presume to desire her, she whom his body had worshipped and given his kisses of gentleness. I saw my father on that walk in the moonlight. Wide of the shoulders, he was, lithe of step, bright-eyed, quick with words, noble in features, sullen in anger. And these, the dead fish of a county’s manhood were quarrelling and whining over her body. Tom the Faith; well, not so bad. Waldo Rees Bailiff …?
Standing in the road, I listened to his galloping. Waldo of the mantraps, the virgin of the bedposts, running to the arms of Gipsy May; tearing her
