See my mam dead first.
CHAPTER 14
MEMORIES FADE on most things with the passage of the years, but never will I forget the day Tom the Faith called to ask for Mam’s hand, bringing references with him ranging from Squire Lloyd Parry, who thought he was hones; to his marriage lines, and his Martha’s death certificate entered as natural causes.
“It is what Dada would have wanted, Mam,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said she, “but I do not intend to be rushed.”
“Rushed?” said Morfydd. “The chap has been at you two years.”
“And another two if I will it,” replied my mother. “Taking a bit for granted, he is, coming a bit previous,” and she bustled about the kitchen.
“Look,” said Morfydd. “It is all right starting that business now, but you must have given him the eye, Mam.”
“And I did no such thing. Heaven forgive me if I have given any man just reason …”
“Do not heed her, Mam,” I said. “A lonely old life it is being a widow and you are entitled to company, so give it careful thought – a nice little man is Tom Griffiths, as long as it isn’t that Waldo Bailiff.”
“Eh, that thing? Wouldn’t be seen dead with that.”
Morfydd said, eyes slanting, “But still rivers run deep, girl – not such a fool as he looks, old Tom – might expect more than your company, mind.”
“O, Morfydd, hush!” whispered Mari.
Blushes and looks at boots at this. Devil, that Morfydd.
“Are you raising them in singles, Mam, or settling for twins?” said she.
“Not very considerate the way you are behaving, I must say, Morfydd.”
Had to giggle myself with Mam trying not to laugh. In front of the mirror now, pushing and patting her hair, straightening her neck lace. “Indeed, I do not know what the present generation is coming to – no respect for parents, is there? Only just turned fifty I am, remember. In oak and brass knobs you would have me half a chance.”
“And very beautiful you are, too,” said Mari, kissing her. “Do not mind old Morfydd, Mam. An old torment, she is, and jealous. Can’t find a man for herself and determined you won’t have one,” and she clipped at Morfydd’s ear going past.
“Two minutes to go,” I said.
“Lace on the head, is it?” asked Mari.
“I will stick to my bonnet,” said Mam. “Now listen, listen all of you. This proposal of marriage do not mean I am going to accept Tom Griffiths, understand? I am giving him a hearing out of politeness, but nobody is sewing me in bridal sheets before I am ready, so I want no interference, especially from you, Morfydd Mortymer.”
“Heaven forbid!”
“Aye, well don’t look so damned innocent. Very embarrassing it will be for Mr Griffiths with me pushing him out and you pushing him in, and you will have me to contend with afterwards, remember. Get the old pot on the go, Mari girl, parched I am at the thought of it.”
“Half a minute late,” I said, looking at the clock.
“Left at the altar, Mam – probably changed his mind. Quick now, first impressions count most. Line up, all of us, quick. I can hear him coming.”
And the door burst open and through it came Grandfer, a bunch of flowers held high, whooping and cackling.
“A damned fine proposal of marriage this will be,” cried Mam. “Mari, get the old varmint out of it.”
This even shifted me and the four of us were pushing and flapping at him but he rose up like a dog hackled and threw us off. “Am I not the head of the house?” he roared. “Am I to be rushed to bed because of a chit of a man coming courting?”
“Grandfer,” begged Mari. “It is not decent. Away now!”
“Now rest your hearts my pretties,” said he. “Just a little seat at the back to watch the capers, I promise to sit quiet. Tom the Faith, is it? God, there’s a selection.”
“He is coming,” I said. “Quick, the tableau,” and we all formed up opposite the door to give good impressions to the suitor.
Tap tap at the door like the brush of a butterfly’s wing.
“Come on in,” called Mari, and in came Tom the Faith, all five feet of him with a stook of flowers up to his ears and his little bald head shining above his high starched collar; funeral black proposal clothes, very gallant, and down with him, then, bald head gleaming, very elegant, and Grandfer lifted a knee and swung his face to the wall, slapping it and howling.
“O, God,” said Tom, white as a bedsheet. “Not Grandfer!”
“Do not mind him, Tom Griffiths,” said Morfydd. “In with you now and welcome, he is just off to bed, anyway,” and she took the flowers and swept him in.
“Most welcome, if I might say,” said Mam, looking rosy. Young and happy she looked standing there with the flowers now. Pleasant to know she was wanted, I expect. Official introductions then, though everybody knew everybody else, and the chairs were brought up to the fire while Mari dragged Grandfer to bed shrieking. We all sat down when Mari came back; backs like ramrods, most formal, expectant, for it was up to Tom to make the first move, he being suitor. And never in my life have I seen an Adam’s apple like Tom’s for travelling, creeping up under his chin one moment then diving out of sight, but to his credit he rose and spoke.
“Mam Mortymer,” said he. “Nigh sixty years I am, living the last ten of them alone, and the loneliness is upon me, having lost my Martha. God-fearing I have always been, strict Chapel, and if I take a couple at times it is only for the company, you understand. Childless I am, too, with no fine children like yours to bring me company. I have little money, but I am industrious and will work for you and keep you in gentleness
