I gave him some, pretty rough, and he answered me back, delighted, though I thought his accent was Cardie.
“Up here in the saddle, boy,” I said. “We’ll give you a spell.”
“Whee, bloody jakes!” he said and took hold of Tara while I dragged him, and Randy turned with hate in his eye. “Easy on the cloth, Rebecca,” he added. “Sackcloth and ashes if I tear the old girl’s petticoat. Eh, there’s delightful!” and he fingered the lace of Morfydd’s nightshirt. “That come from a real woman, never mind my mam, is she better with it off?”
“Hush, you,” I said, for Flannigan was trotting towards us, face thunderous.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded – “a Rebecca burning or an Irish Wedding? Shut your chops or I’ll damned soon shut them, the pair of you!”
“God, he’s a brute. Who’s he, then, the Spanish torturer?” said Matthew Luke John. “Send him back home for a week with my mam, she’d damned soon settle him.”
“Abel is right,” I said. “Hush.”
On, on, plodding, drooping; feeling like death at that time of the morning after a hard day of it farming. The boy drooped on Randy and I drooped on him; eyes wide open I caught myself snoring.
Big country now, rolling and jagged, the limestone outcrops of a shattered world painted into artistry with the hand of snow. The woods stood loaded in sombre silence and the stars were as fire above the stark outline of Kidwelly; dear little town, this, hit sideways by the Trusts. Dead and gaunt it looked now to my drooping eyes; flat and dreary, strangled into silence by the garrot of the moon. A dog barked, yelping, as frightened by its shadow, for nothing moved in Kidwelly save the sick, denied sleep by weariness; and babies seeking food and fisting at ribbons for the sleeping breast, for one cried plaintive. We straggled past, and I thought of the town and its low, thatched roofs quilting the sleepers; the sharp-nosed widow lying flat on her back; jaw-sunk, eye-sunk, snoring for a grampus with widow weeds behind the door, the high-laced boots with their toe-kissing postures, laces dangling beneath the iron bed. Brass knobs on this one, with clover-leaf railings, romantic one time, holding up lovers, now creaking its sadness at feather-bedding widows. Grey-haired, she sleeps, hands entwined on stomach, third finger left hand being ringed with gold. Sam Lent was his name, girl, thirty years dead, girl, what a waste of loving – knew he was for it the moment they brought him in, girl; knew he was past it when they laid him on the bed. Half past two from the house, girl – knew it the second I saw him – never strong in the ticker, mind, just like his dad, God rest him. Went the same way, girl, didn’t know what hit him, expired without a word. Looked lovely in his box, mind – did him a world of good that week down at Tenby, bless him. Had him done in medium oak, him being in the timber business. God grant him peace, girl, he is happier dead.
Creep on, drooping, snuffling, plodding.
Silent he sleeps, smooth-faced, and mottled, his blood-pressure up with that little tot of brandy, hands as if in prayer flat beneath his head. Smiling, he sleeps, and with every breath exhaling the little bit of pillow-down leans over gracefully, struggling upright as he draws back in. Shiny black coat is hanging on the hanger, trews with seat to shave in are under the bed – creases, see – sharper for pulpit next Sunday, for the matron in the front row gets the best view. Black Book, black cassock, me – very Church of England; John chapter eleven for my sermon next Sunday, got to get it off by heart, the raising of the dead. For Lazarus is my name, and that is my sermon. O, there’s a lovely story of our Jesus of Nazareth! Parson of Kidwelly, me; trying to be decent, but would to Heaven people would give more love to neighbours. Nothing wrong with this town, mind, O, grant the world be like it! Welsh as me this town, but full of Nonconformists – like that little serving-maid living down the way – will have to win her round one way or the other. O, God, she is pretty, that little Rhiannon – not a patch on her is that front pew matron. Wonder if she’d have me if I tried her quiet – married to a maiden as sweet as my Rhiannon! Ten years older, but I still keep my figure … a bit flabby in places though she doesn’t seem to notice. In a little ring of gold I circle my Rhiannon … and Jesus my Master and His raising of Lazarus.
On, on, harness creaking, on …
Parson Lazarus Frolic is lying on my pillow. Dear little man, he is, gentle as a baby. Wonder if he’ll speak to me a week next Sunday? Strange how he’s always strolling past the old chapel. …
Smiling, she lies, arms by her sides, eyes half open in her dreaming sleep, and her nightie is sideways and her breast is mother-of-pearl in moonlight, the leaded lights are prison bars black on her face. Red lips half open, she pouts and dreams: little serving-maid, second parlourmaid; Cook is a bitch, mind, but Butler most considerate. Black cotton dress is hanging on the wardrobe, wrist-lace on the marble slab gravestone to the china, hairpins on the floor, stays on the window sill crumpled at the waist – nineteen inches round, and the laces are swinging in the draught from the window. Bright red garters on the handle of the door. That old black suit he wears, now there is a scandal! I think he sleeps on it the way it is creased. Rhiannon and her flat iron would do something about it; little Parson Frolic, will you never bring it down? And that chap down
