good.
“Handwriting Competition,” he read, and my heart bumped almost to the roof of my mouth.
“Boys under twelve years of age. First prize of Two Guineas is awarded to Master Huw
Morgan, son of Mr. Gwilym Morgan, for an entry of great merit.”
Well, everybody was dumb with it.
My father put the paper down and took off his glasses and started to tap them on the
chair.
“And that boy,” he said, “have been lying there for going on three years and no sound
from him but laughing and no words but cheerful. I am afraid,” he said, looking over
at me, “I will have to stop by here to tell you what a good son you are, Huw, my little
one, because if I went to you now, I would be acting very silly, I am afraid. Bless
you, my son. You are a comfort, indeed.”
Well, then, they all started. They read the few words in the paper over and over,
as though to get more from it each time, or to see if anything was hidden that had
been missed. Gwilym ran down to fetch Ivor and Bronwen, and of course that was the
cap for the evening.
“There is clever you are, boy,” Bronwen said, pretending to be fainting and smiling
in her own way. “You are making me feel like Red Riding Hood in front of the old wolf.
Have you got big, strong teeth with you?”
She put her finger-tip in my mouth. My jaw was better now, though a little weak, but
I gave her finger a good nip and held on and she screamed.
“O, dammo,” she said, “jaws he has got like an old mule, here. Right, you. I will
have you for that. You shall eat your dinner tomorrow by yourself.”
Davy came and sat down by me when Bronwen went to get supper ready with the girls,
and he looked at me for a moment, saying nothing.
“You are a clever boy, Huw,” he said, “and the first in the family to have your name
in the paper. Good. Now then, let us turn this to good account. You shall have twopence
every time you write a letter for me. How does that suit you?”
“I would rather write for nothing for you, Davy,” I said.
“No, no,” he said. “You shall write for the Union. And the twopences shall pay for
your school and for a holiday when you are better. Is it?”
“Yes,” I said, for to be able to pay for myself was a good thought to me.
Bronwen gave me my supper that night as usual, but a piece of pie instead of bread
and milk. There is good it did taste, too.
“If you have trouble with the meat,” she said, “tell me, and I will put the old man
back on his old baby’s food.”
She knew I would chew all the more for that, and chew I did, resting back in the crook
of her arm, with the smell of lavender and thyme about me, and her warmth near me,
and her face made gold in the lamplight and laugh in her eyes. Perhaps it was wrong
for a boy to feel in love with a woman ten years older than himself, but nobody ever
knew, even Bronwen down to this day. So no harm was done, though she has been a sanctuary
to me all through my life. And she would have been seventy-two next month.
So the years do go.
But I never knew I was in love, of course, until much later. There is a lot of nonsense
talked about love, and most of all by people who have never known it, who have no
spirit within them to inspire it in others. Talk of love in such mouths is a grossness,
indeed.
I had my first taste of it when Owen met Marged Evans. Marged was daughter of one
of my father’s oldest friends, and she came to us because her mother thought she should
learn how to run a house for a family. My mother was still too weak to do a day’s
work properly, so she stayed on in bed. My father’s orders, and sensible, too.
Marged had quiet prettiness with dark blue eyes that would change colour when she
laughed, and make you feel so pleased you would want to laugh more than you knew you
should. For the first week she was so shy no one would have more than four words from
her, and they were yes, please, and thank you.
“Handwriting Competition,” he read, and my heart bumped almost to the roof of my mouth.
“Boys under twelve years of age. First prize of Two Guineas is awarded to Master Huw
Morgan, son of Mr. Gwilym Morgan, for an entry of great merit.”
Well, everybody was dumb with it.
My father put the paper down and took off his glasses and started to tap them on the
chair.
“And that boy,” he said, “have been lying there for going on three years and no sound
from him but laughing and no words but cheerful. I am afraid,” he said, looking over
at me, “I will have to stop by here to tell you what a good son you are, Huw, my little
one, because if I went to you now, I would be acting very silly, I am afraid. Bless
you, my son. You are a comfort, indeed.”
Well, then, they all started. They read the few words in the paper over and over,
as though to get more from it each time, or to see if anything was hidden that had
been missed. Gwilym ran down to fetch Ivor and Bronwen, and of course that was the
cap for the evening.
“There is clever you are, boy,” Bronwen said, pretending to be fainting and smiling
in her own way. “You are making me feel like Red Riding Hood in front of the old wolf.
Have you got big, strong teeth with you?”
She put her finger-tip in my mouth. My jaw was better now, though a little weak, but
I gave her finger a good nip and held on and she screamed.
“O, dammo,” she said, “jaws he has got like an old mule, here. Right, you. I will
have you for that. You shall eat your dinner tomorrow by yourself.”
Davy came and sat down by me when Bronwen went to get supper ready with the girls,
and he looked at me for a moment, saying nothing.
“You are a clever boy, Huw,” he said, “and the first in the family to have your name
in the paper. Good. Now then, let us turn this to good account. You shall have twopence
every time you write a letter for me. How does that suit you?”
“I would rather write for nothing for you, Davy,” I said.
“No, no,” he said. “You shall write for the Union. And the twopences shall pay for
your school and for a holiday when you are better. Is it?”
“Yes,” I said, for to be able to pay for myself was a good thought to me.
Bronwen gave me my supper that night as usual, but a piece of pie instead of bread
and milk. There is good it did taste, too.
“If you have trouble with the meat,” she said, “tell me, and I will put the old man
back on his old baby’s food.”
She knew I would chew all the more for that, and chew I did, resting back in the crook
of her arm, with the smell of lavender and thyme about me, and her warmth near me,
and her face made gold in the lamplight and laugh in her eyes. Perhaps it was wrong
for a boy to feel in love with a woman ten years older than himself, but nobody ever
knew, even Bronwen down to this day. So no harm was done, though she has been a sanctuary
to me all through my life. And she would have been seventy-two next month.
So the years do go.
But I never knew I was in love, of course, until much later. There is a lot of nonsense
talked about love, and most of all by people who have never known it, who have no
spirit within them to inspire it in others. Talk of love in such mouths is a grossness,
indeed.
I had my first taste of it when Owen met Marged Evans. Marged was daughter of one
of my father’s oldest friends, and she came to us because her mother thought she should
learn how to run a house for a family. My mother was still too weak to do a day’s
work properly, so she stayed on in bed. My father’s orders, and sensible, too.
Marged had quiet prettiness with dark blue eyes that would change colour when she
laughed, and make you feel so pleased you would want to laugh more than you knew you
should. For the first week she was so shy no one would have more than four words from
her, and they were yes, please, and thank you.
Similar Books
