And down he went, Adam’s apple leaping.
Damned good, I thought. Must have rehearsed it for months, word perfect.
Up got Morfydd then, she being eldest. At Sunday School she was, fingers entwined, eyes cast up, shoulders rocking.
“Mr Tom Griffiths,” said she. “Me being eldest it is up to me to reply. Of all the men of this village I do like you most. Industrious you are, for I have been inside your house and seen it. Clean as a new pin, if I may say,” and here she bowed to him, “although there is no woman about yet,” and she smiled down at Mam who was coming pretty hot, I noticed. “And when you are left here, Tom Griffiths, I will advise my mother that she do think of you kindly, and more, because you are good to the needy and speak the true word of God.”
Down with Morfydd and I noticed Mari was a bit bright in the eye with a secret sniffing and wiping, for it is touching when older people present themselves in this fashion, I think; being sincere and humble, with little thoughts of marriage beds and the breathless kisses of midnight. So we sat in silence now and there was no awkwardness in us, no shame at this counselling, for the purity of it had filled us, and made us at peace.
But that was all he had coming just then, of course, for a woman cannot make up her mind on the spot, so we just sat a few minutes in quiet with the wind doing his falsetto in the eaves and buffeting in the chimney, till Mam gave Mari the eye.
“I will read from the Book,” said Mari, and rose, drifting across the room, her black skirts held between fingers and thumbs, and she sat down in rustles and opened the Book of the King, and read:
“‘I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse: I have gathered my myrrh with my spices; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey: I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved. I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night …’” and she closed the Book.
“Amen,” we all said.
Usually made me pretty hungry, this one, but the others found it touching, with handkerchiefs turning out and dabbings from the women and a good strong trumpet from Tom.
“Now to food,” said Morfydd, recovering. “Starved, I am, and the body must be fortified as well as the soul. A good little man you are, Tom Griffiths, with speeches like that last one you ought to be in the Parliament.”
Out with the cups and saucers then, cups of tea and bread and a two pound cheese that had set me back a fortnight, and we chattered and feasted, and Mari fetched Grandfer down in his nightshirt for his supper and congratulations all round. Well after ten o’clock before Tom left, jaunty and confident, bowing himself out, but I didn’t give a lot for his chances by the look in Mam’s eyes. Bit of a comedown, mind, when you’ve been used to two yards of a man and drop overnight to a bald five feet. Morfydd and me got into the crockery. The house was quiet save for Grandfer’s snoring, and there was a silence in Morfydd as she handed them from the sink. I knew she had something under her apron.
She handed me a cup.
“Jethro, boy, you keep from Abel Flannigan.”
I grunted, wiping.
“This county’s going on fire soon, and Abel is doing the kindling in this part of the world – he will lead you to trouble, mark me.”
“Do you think Mam will take Tom Griffiths?” I asked.
“Not for a moment; we were talking about Flannigan.”
“So what do we do – sit down and whine?”
This turned her. “The Mortymers haven’t whined yet, Jethro, and not likely to start now, but this Rebecca business fair stinks of danger.”
Unlike Morfydd this. Even six months back it was go to the foot of the scaffold rather than bow to injustice. Now she was swilling the cups and saucers and smacking them down on the board. We did not speak for a bit, then:
“You keep out of it – leave it to the county men, it is their county. I do not like this Rebecca movement.”
“Six months from now you won’t get a cart to Carmarthen market,” I said. “County people or not, we still have to live here. Move or starve, just as you like.”
“Who builds the gates, Jethro?”
“Gentry – landowners, squires, squireens.”
“Who else?”
“I do not know what you mean,” I said.
“I will tell you – magistrates. The people who build the gates fork out the sentences to those who burn them. So expect no mercy if you are caught in white petticoats and happen to be a foreigner – they will make an example of the foreigners because of the bad blood coming in.” She looked at me. “Special, you are, so watch it. And talking of petticoats, I have missed one. When did you take it?”
Worn out, ragged old thing. God, she didn’t miss much.
“Night before last,” I said.
“My property, Jethro. I will have it back, if you please.”
“Slit over the shoulders now,” I said. “The thing wouldn’t fit me.”
She flung the rag into the sink, dried her hands and turned to the dying fire. The lamp was low, flinging soot into her eyes as she sat down. “Eh, Jethro, come to me.”
I went, standing before her.
“Down by here, boy,” and she patted. “Now, listen. Time
