to set foot in the Albion Drapery, in case she squandered money on embroidery silks. And when news came of the Reverend Tuke’s death – from pneumonia, after falling in a salmon-pool – he stopped her sending flowers to the funeral.
‘He was my friend,’ she said.
‘He was a heathen,’ he said.
‘I shall leave you,’ she said, but had nowhere else to go – and her other friend, Sam, was dying.
All spring, he had complained of ‘gatherings’ down his left side, and was too weak to move from his garret. He lay under the greasy quilt, gaping at the cobwebs, or drifting off to sleep. Once when Benjamin came up with his food on a tray, he said:
‘I’d like my cup. Be a good lad! Run over to Rosgoch and get her to give you the cup.’
By June, the pain of living was more than he could bear. He suffered for Mary and, in a lucid interval, tried to reason with his son.
‘Mind your own business,’ said Amos. ‘You stupid old fool!’
One market day, when they were alone in the house, Sam persuaded his daughter-in-law to pay a call on Aggie Watkins:
‘Tell her goodbye from me! She’s a good old girl. A nice tidy person as never meant no harm.’
Mary slipped on a pair of galoshes and squelched her way across the boggy pasture. The wind moved over the field. The grassheads flashed like shoals of minnows, and there were purple orchids and heads of red sorrel. A pair of plovers flew off, screaming, and the mother alighted by some reeds and stretched her ‘broken’ wing. Mary said a silent prayer as she untied the gate into Craig-y-Fedw.
The dogs howled and Aggie Watkins came to the door. Her face registered no emotion, and no expression. Bending forward, she unleashed a black mongrel tied up beside the water-butt.
‘Git,’ she said.
The dog crouched and bared its gums but, when Mary turned for the gate, it bounded forward and sank its teeth into her hand.
Amos saw the bandage and guessed the cause. He shrugged and said, ‘Serves you right!’
By Sunday the wound had turned septic. On Monday she complained of a swollen gland in her armpit. Grudgingly, he offered to drive her to the evening surgery – along with little Rebecca, who had a sore throat.
The twins came back from school to find their father greasing the hubs of the trap. Mary, pale but smiling, was sitting in the kitchen with her arm in a sling.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. Do your homework and keep an eye on Grandpa.’
By sunset, the twins were speechless with grief, and Old Sam had been two hours dead.
At five in the afternoon, the boys were scribbling their sums at the kitchen table when a creak on the landing made them stop. Their grandfather was groping his way down the stairs.
‘Sshh!’ said Benjamin, tugging his brother by the sleeve.
‘He should be in bed,’ Lewis said.
‘Sshh!’ he repeated, and dragged him into the back kitchen. The old man hobbled across the kitchen and went outside. There was a high windy sky, and the mares’-tails seemed to dance with the larches. He was wearing his wedding-best – a frock coat and trousers, and shiny patent leather pumps. A red handkerchief, knotted round his neck, made him young again – and he carried the fiddle and bow.
The twins peeped round the curtains.
‘He’s got to go back to bed,’ Lewis whispered.
‘Quiet!’ hissed Benjamin. ‘He’s going to play.’
A harsh croak burst from the ancient instrument. But the second note was sweeter, and the successive notes were sweeter still. His head was up. His chin stuck truculently out over the sound-box; and his feet shuffled over the flagstones in perfect time.
Then he coughed and the music stopped. One tread at a time, he heaved himself up the stairs. He coughed again, and again , and after that there was silence.
The boys found him stretched out on the quilt with his hands folded over the fiddle. His face, drained of colour, wore a look of amused condescension. A bumble-bee,
‘He was my friend,’ she said.
‘He was a heathen,’ he said.
‘I shall leave you,’ she said, but had nowhere else to go – and her other friend, Sam, was dying.
All spring, he had complained of ‘gatherings’ down his left side, and was too weak to move from his garret. He lay under the greasy quilt, gaping at the cobwebs, or drifting off to sleep. Once when Benjamin came up with his food on a tray, he said:
‘I’d like my cup. Be a good lad! Run over to Rosgoch and get her to give you the cup.’
By June, the pain of living was more than he could bear. He suffered for Mary and, in a lucid interval, tried to reason with his son.
‘Mind your own business,’ said Amos. ‘You stupid old fool!’
One market day, when they were alone in the house, Sam persuaded his daughter-in-law to pay a call on Aggie Watkins:
‘Tell her goodbye from me! She’s a good old girl. A nice tidy person as never meant no harm.’
Mary slipped on a pair of galoshes and squelched her way across the boggy pasture. The wind moved over the field. The grassheads flashed like shoals of minnows, and there were purple orchids and heads of red sorrel. A pair of plovers flew off, screaming, and the mother alighted by some reeds and stretched her ‘broken’ wing. Mary said a silent prayer as she untied the gate into Craig-y-Fedw.
The dogs howled and Aggie Watkins came to the door. Her face registered no emotion, and no expression. Bending forward, she unleashed a black mongrel tied up beside the water-butt.
‘Git,’ she said.
The dog crouched and bared its gums but, when Mary turned for the gate, it bounded forward and sank its teeth into her hand.
Amos saw the bandage and guessed the cause. He shrugged and said, ‘Serves you right!’
By Sunday the wound had turned septic. On Monday she complained of a swollen gland in her armpit. Grudgingly, he offered to drive her to the evening surgery – along with little Rebecca, who had a sore throat.
The twins came back from school to find their father greasing the hubs of the trap. Mary, pale but smiling, was sitting in the kitchen with her arm in a sling.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. Do your homework and keep an eye on Grandpa.’
By sunset, the twins were speechless with grief, and Old Sam had been two hours dead.
At five in the afternoon, the boys were scribbling their sums at the kitchen table when a creak on the landing made them stop. Their grandfather was groping his way down the stairs.
‘Sshh!’ said Benjamin, tugging his brother by the sleeve.
‘He should be in bed,’ Lewis said.
‘Sshh!’ he repeated, and dragged him into the back kitchen. The old man hobbled across the kitchen and went outside. There was a high windy sky, and the mares’-tails seemed to dance with the larches. He was wearing his wedding-best – a frock coat and trousers, and shiny patent leather pumps. A red handkerchief, knotted round his neck, made him young again – and he carried the fiddle and bow.
The twins peeped round the curtains.
‘He’s got to go back to bed,’ Lewis whispered.
‘Quiet!’ hissed Benjamin. ‘He’s going to play.’
A harsh croak burst from the ancient instrument. But the second note was sweeter, and the successive notes were sweeter still. His head was up. His chin stuck truculently out over the sound-box; and his feet shuffled over the flagstones in perfect time.
Then he coughed and the music stopped. One tread at a time, he heaved himself up the stairs. He coughed again, and again , and after that there was silence.
The boys found him stretched out on the quilt with his hands folded over the fiddle. His face, drained of colour, wore a look of amused condescension. A bumble-bee,
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