And in the blaze of Rebecca, Grandfer died.
In the kitchen now, two days after Christmas, all the guests gone.
“What you say his name is?” asked Mam, spinning.
“Hugh Williams,” I said.
“There’s a lovely Welsh name,” said Mari, smiling at her sewing.
“Aye,” said Mam. “I know a good English one that led us to hell in Monmouthshire. John Frost, is it?”
“Frost had no chance,” I said. “We shifted him before he was ready,” and I gave Morfydd a glance.
“Should have had Vincent for the march on Newport. No Queen on the throne now if we’d had Vincent,” said she.
“O, aye?” said Mam. “A finger on her and I would have a hand in it.”
Spectacles on the end of her nose, she was, spinning away. Revolts came and went but Mam just went on spinning. “And what does he do for a living?” she asked.
“Hugh Williams?”
“That’s who I’m after.”
“Solicitor,” I said.
“History repeating itself,” said Mam. “Another with a tongue, it seems.”
“Frost was a draper,” said Morfydd.
“A cloth-cutter,” I said. “Hugh Williams is a leader.”
And Morfydd turned her eyes from the fire. “Like a damned parrot,” said she. “Repeating the rumours. Where did you learn such nonsense?”
“Never mind,” I said.
“Aye, never mind!” Disdainful now, she rose. “Half chit revolutionaries, the lot of them – they wouldn’t have lived with Frost. But no discredit to Mr Hugh Williams, mind. Mam is right. He is a solicitor, nothing more. There is no single Rebecca, nor could there be one for he would dare not show his face in defiance of the law. Williams might defend Rebecca at the Assizes, but it ends at that – too much has happened to men like Frost – a life sentence in Van Diemen’s Land, so don’t talk nonsense.”
I did not reply. Expert, Morfydd.
“Now that we’ve had a revolution do you think I might have a cup of tea,” said Mam. “I’ve been promised one six times an hour back.”
“I will get it, Mam,” said Mari.
Mam sniffed. “Pray God the world could be governed by women,” she said. “Women like that.”
“Damned fine state we’d be in then,” I said.
“And a damned fine job you’ve made of it to date,” replied Morfydd.
“But not so much greed, mind,” said Mari, fetching the kettle.
“Tongue-pie in Parliament,” I said. “Morning till night.”
With the kettle on the hook Mari went back to her needling and Richard, Morfydd’s boy, climbed up on her knee, knowing it was bedtime. She kissed him and bent again to her darning. Socks most nights for Mari, very calm, serene, smiling over the potato holes, mine chiefly, fingers spread, examining her art.
“Prancing round Parliament with the latest in hats,” I said.
“The country could only starve, though,” replied Mam. “And the country is doing that now, God bless the Members. Hey, you,” she stirred Richard with her foot. “Time for bed, nippy,” and he clung to Mari.
“Up,” said Morfydd, jerking her thumb at him.
“Before you start shooting Members of Parliament – we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of the children,” said Mam. “Bed.”
“This minute,” said Morfydd.
“Is somebody coming up?” Great were his eyes in his little man’s face; six years old now, handsome, strong, and I loved him.
“O, God,” said Morfydd. “No peace for the wicked, is there?”
“Them old ghosties be roaming, Mam,” he said. “They are always out and doing about Christmas. Another five minutes?”
We wavered.
“Not much control, is there,” said Mam, treadling. “Feet first they went in my day, mind – no argument.”
“I will take you,” said Mari, kissing him.
“Give him here,” I said. “I am going up, anyway. Come on, Dick boy, we will give them old ghosties,” and I hooked my arm under him and turned him in a circle for kissing.
“Richard, if you please,” said Morfydd. “There are no Dicks here.”
In the bed beside Jonathon I put him down and covered him.
“Uncle Jethro?”
“Aye, Dick?”
“Where do the old moons go when they sink over Carmarthen?”
“Chopped up into stars and put over Tenby,” I said at the window.
“O, aye?” He fell to silence.
I stood looking through the window. The country was white and misted and the snow caps of the hills were spearing at the moon like hunters. Away to the east the clouds flashed in strickening brilliance and I heard the faint plopping of the powder-guns of Rebecca.
“Uncle Jethro?”
I grunted.
“You out again tonight, Uncle Jethro?”
“Never go out,” I answered. “Too cold to be roaming.”
“There’s strange,” said he. “I see you out there most time, for the slightest sound do wake me. A secret, is it?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Will you tell on me?”
“Swear honest,” said he. “Wait now before you tell me while I fetch out the china or I will wake my mam later and then there will be a palaver.”
“Right,” I said, “but hurry.”
Down with him, under with him, heaving it out, kneeling now, nightshirt held up, eyeing me excited.
“Please turn away,” I said. “It is not a public exhibition, Dick.”
“To the wall, turn round, is it?”
I nodded.
At the wall he said, “You courting then, Uncle Jethro?”
“Aye, a lady, but keep it secret, remember.”
“Cross my heart, man,” and I toed the thing under as he climbed into bed.
“What lady, Uncle Jethro?” His eyes were as jewels in that light.
“You never tell the lady’s name,” I replied.
“Sixpenny Jane?”
“Who said that?” This turned me.
“Is she
