“Too damned old, you,” I said, ducking her swipe.
Wandering about now, hands pressed together. Gunpowder, this one, dangerous to a flame. “The Devil take me,” said she. “When I was his age I was spinning six days a week and hymning in Sunday School the seventh. …”
“O, aye?” said Mam, pins in her mouth.
“And here he is cooing and sweeting on gentry lawns with the people who starve us!” Dead and buried, me, with her looks.
“Not much starved you look from here, mind,” said Mam.
“Not yet,” said Morfydd. “But give them time. A tollgate went up on Flannigan’s road last week and another’s going up on the road to Kidwelly. Wait till lime-carting time – cost more for the tolls than the lime.”
“Eh, agitators,” said Mam. “God save me.”
“And it is long past time somebody agitated. For where does the money go? On road repairs? Aye, on road repairs after it has paid a nice fat profit – on the backs of gentry or buying new plate for Church.” She jerked her thumb at me. “And here is a worker playing silk purses and sows’ ears and snobbing with people who are bleeding the county.”
“Please do not refer to Jethro as sows’ ears or I will be having a hand in it,” said Mam.
“Trouble is coming,” whispered Morfydd, tightlipped.
“If it doesn’t you’ll soon fetch some,” I whispered, but Mam did not hear. She lowered the new backside she was putting on to Richard.
“Too old I am for fighting, Morfydd, too tired to get hot. Been flogged enough, I reckon. I have a man in a grave and a son in transportation. The gentry have the whip and they use it. Leave it, there’s a good girl.”
“This county is a bitch to nothing,” said Morfydd, rising again. “My brother gets seven years transportation for a rebellion against Queen and State but Killarney is joining him for poaching.”
“Hush you when Grandfer gets in, mind,” said Mam. “And the rivers are owned by the gentry.”
“The rivers are owned by God,” shouted Morfydd, swinging to her. “And by God we will have our share. Salmon are so thick at the Reach that Lloyd Parry can’t cast a fly in season, and the children of Killarney will grow legs like beansticks.”
“Do not remind me,” whispered Mam.
“O, Morfydd, shut it,” I said.
“Shut it, eh?” She leaned, peering. “You ever seen a child die of hunger?”
“Saw them back home,” said Mam. “No need to travel for that.”
“With their bellies as balloons and the bread whooping up as fast as you push it down?” Morfydd straightened, and I saw tears in her eyes. “God, I have seen them – six died the week I came here and another three at Whitland a week after that – on the poor rate, mind – two shillings a week, with reverend fathers rooting round the sty for the last little chicken and hauling down the last scratch of bacon to pay Church tithes.” Colder now, her voice breaking. “God, I would give them God if I were God Almighty. Too much jolting on the knees has driven the Church loopy, the ministers in the pay of the gentry and the gentry in the prayers of the ministers – walking into the City of Judah seven days a week while helpless children starve. Eh!” Deep she sighed. “The trouble with hassock-bumpers is that they forget the poor and needy, but God’s people will remember them. Wait and see.”
“Talking about chickens and bacon you’d better get the potato soup back on,” said my mother. “Grandfer and Mari will be in directly.”
“God forgive you, Mam,” said Morfydd, eyes closed.
“God grant me peace,” said my mother. “I cannot feed the county, I can only cast it from my mind.” Rising, she kissed my sister. “O,” she said, “afire was my womb when it brought forth you. Please God you find peace, like me.”
And the door came open and Mari came in.
“There is a miserable set of old faces,” she cried, smiling. “Tollgates again, is it?” And she danced in with her basket.
“It is Jethro courting little Tessa and Morfydd handing hell to hassock-bumpers in the name of the poor and needy,” said Mam. “Come you in, girl – got anything decent?”
And she looked at me and smiled, did Mari, bringing low my eyes.
This was my sister-in-law, wife to Iestyn my brother in seven years transportation. Months he had been gone now, leaving her with Jonathon, her son. To this day I cannot explain the sweetness her presence brought me. Church of England, was Mari, from hooded bishops to gilded altars, and Christian. She blunted the edge of Morfydd’s fire, forgiving trespasses in her every word and glance. Four years the younger, I had once shared her kisses, till I grew a head the taller and too high for her lips. Now she winked.
“At last we know why the boy’s off his food.” Eyes dancing, with her baby cradled against her now, and Mam reached up, taking him on her knee.
“No laughing matter, Mari,” said Morfydd at the window.
“O, come,” said Mari, hooking the door shut. “Do a little boy’s courting put the house untidy when there’s three grown women by here and not a man in sight save Grandfer?”
“Daughter of a squire,” said Morfydd, gentle. In love with Mari, like me.
“And crumbs on her mouth from her tea. O, girl, they are children!”
“And not so much of the children,” said Morfydd. “Nigh twelve stone is that thing and hair on its chest. Before we know it we’ll be washing gentry napkins and I’m full to the stomach with gentry.”
“And my stomach is empty and howling for supper,” said Mari. “Where’s my Grandfer?”
“Black Boar tavern, as usual,” said Morfydd. “Drowning his sorrows – the house is plagued with drunkards and lovers.”
“Morfydd!” said Mam sharp, but Mari only smiled.
“Strange he should drink at a time like this,” said she.
“He drinks because of a time like this,” answered Morfydd. “The man has lived alone for over half a
