Another World, page 14
‘Coming in to see me this week,’ Griffith said.
‘Property is valuable.’
Mr Griffith had called for another half bottle of hock, lit a fresh cigar. ‘You’ve a new typist, Jack,’ he said.
Laughing, Jack said yes he had. Best he’d ever had.
‘I’ve heard about her,’ Griffith said. ‘At Cartref now.’
‘Yes.’
Miss Vaughan was on their horizon, but they would never know if her ears, too, were burning.
‘If you paid her in crumbs she’d say thank you.’
‘Indeed. Must come from the more desperate part of Dinbych,’ said Mr Griffith, his smile suddenly expansive, a convivial evening was bound to follow. Yes he’d heard all about her, and Mrs Gandell, and the orphan of storms, Jones, and that near potty Minister at Penuel.
‘If Gandell agrees to sell,’ Mr Griffith said, ‘she would probably go home to Yorkshire.’
‘Probably. Tough for Jones.’
‘She could throw him in with the fittings.’
And they both laughed.
‘Rather late in the day for Thomas,’ Blair said, and laughed again.
‘Old man,’ Mr Griffith said, and finished off the hock.
‘A nice evening, Cledwyn,’ said Mr Blair, rising from the table.
‘And do some cogitating tonight, Jack, and give me a ring tomorrow.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not indeed.’
They smiled their way out of the hotel, stood for a moment in the dark street, and after more than one convivial good night, they went their separate ways.
Griffith was still reflecting on the evening when the second knock came, and a Mr Hughes put his head in and said that Mrs Gandell had not yet arrived.
‘Oh dear!’ and then more hushed, ‘Damned nuisance,’ and he looked even more anxiously at the clock on the wall. It was at this very moment that Mrs Gandell towered her way into the bank.
‘Here now, sir,’ called Hughes.
Griffith got up. ‘Good. Show her in,’ and he went forward to meet her.
‘Ah! There you are, Mrs Gandell. Nice to see you. Do sit down,’ offering her the large black leather chair. ‘Right.’
He sat down. ‘Seems ages since we met, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ she said, and it surprised Griffith.
‘The worst? Surely you get the quarterly statements, Mrs Gandell?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then what makes you think you’re in the red?’
Mrs Gandell laughed. ‘I’m hardly ever out of the red,’ she said.
‘Some mistake. Your account is here,’ and he handed it to her.
‘Well!’ she said. ‘How extraordinary, Mr Griffith.’
‘You’ve had your black days, we know that. But nothing to worry about, and it was hardly that that I had in mind. No. Something quite different.’
She sat erect in the chair.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Griffith said. And then more slowly, studying her. ‘I heard the other day that The Palms, you know the house, may be started up as an hotel, Mrs Gandell. A guest house before you came here. Might make it difficult for you if that happened.’
‘It might indeed, Mr Griffith, and I would not like that.’
‘The position at Cartref could only be described as precarious, Mrs Gandell .…’
‘Precarious?’
‘Thought I’d let you know,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you ever thought of selling?’ he asked.
It astounded her, and she was half out of the chair. ‘Selling?’
‘Selling,’ Mr Griffith said. ‘Facts are facts. Might be worth thinking about.’
Mrs Gandell thought only of Jones. ‘I wouldn’t sell, Mr Griffith,’ she replied and sat back in the chair. ‘What on earth makes you think I would?’
Mr Griffith didn’t appear to know, and remained silent. She came to the desk. ‘I would never dream of selling Cartref,’ she said.
‘Nobody has been killed,’ he said, and gave her a smile.
‘But I am glad about the account. I was certain I was overdrawn, Mr Griffith. I’ll never know why. There’s been a lot of worry lately, and I’ve had the worst winter .…’
Mr Griffith, too, knew about the winter, but made no comment.
She took out her cheque book. ‘I would like to draw twenty pounds,’ she said.
‘Certainly, Mrs Gandell.’
He took the cheque, called Hughes, and told him to do the usual. He saw her to the door, shook hands, said quietly, ‘All the same, I should think about it.’
‘I shall,’ she replied, and walked out, her thoughts a ferment. Sell? Why? All very sudden. What did it mean? Perhaps there was something behind it? Totally unexpected. A surprising morning. Half way down the High Street she stopped, turned back and made her way to the back door of The Lion, and knocked.
‘Oh! Well indeed! Mrs Gandell!’ exclaimed a surprised Mrs Hughes.
‘Your husband in?’
Mrs Hughes seemed to gulp as she replied, ‘Yes, he is. I’ll call him. Tegid!’
Hughes came, was even more surprised, and Mrs Gandell pushed her way into the bar.
‘Your account,’ she said, and placed some notes on the counter.
‘Oh! Thank you, thank .…’
‘Hardly necessary,’ said Mrs Gandell, and hurriedly left, leaving husband and wife staring each other out.
‘Well!’ said Sarah. ‘Just think of that.’
‘She’s actually paid up,’ Tegid said.
‘Tell you something,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘He won’t come here again.’
‘Who?’
‘Her fancy bloody man,’ Sarah said, and she rushed back to the kitchen. Tegid put the money in his pocket, and gave it a good pat.
Mrs Gandell meanwhile shot round corners and when she reached Cartref went straight to her room, and unlocked the top drawer of the bureau, and took from it the unopened letters from Mr Griffith. It was as though a flash of the sun came put of each one. ‘Fancy my not opening them. I was so certain. The relief! The relief.’
She went straight to the cupboard and got herself a drink and sat down. ‘I wonder why he thinks I’d sell.’
She heard Jones return. ‘I’m up here, Jones.’
‘Coming, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Ah! You got them.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell,’ and he opened the parcel and took the sheets to her, and stood waiting whilst she examined them.
‘No trouble there,’ she said, handing back the sheets. ‘Put them in the room.’
When he returned she told him to get himself a drink.
‘Thanks, Mrs Gandell,’ and she smiled, and said, ‘Tut, tut.’
‘Davies was very nice about it, Mrs Gandell,’ and Jones sat down.
‘The Davies people are always nice,’ she said.
And only then did he notice she was dressed to go out.
‘Going out?’
‘I’ve been out, Jones.’
‘Have you?’
‘I went to The Lion and settled the account there.’
‘Did you?’ The Jones eyebrows went up. ‘Oh, I am glad, Mrs Gandell.’
‘I saw Mr Griffith,’ she said.
It astounded Jones. He stared at her, mouth half open, and then exclaimed, ‘Saw Griffith. You mean the bank? What happened?’
She nodded. ‘We’re all right, Jones,’ she said.
‘All right? You mean … he’ll let you .…’
‘Nothing to do with that, Jones. Quite another matter altogether.’
He crossed the room immediately, stood over her. ‘What matter?’
‘He asked me if I’d care to sell the hotel?’
‘Sell? Oh no. Christ no, you’re not going to sell, Mrs Gandell, you said you wouldn’t, you promised .…’
‘Here,’ she said, handing him her glass, and she saw his hand shake as he took it. It shook more violently as he returned it to her, and she said irritably, ‘Careful, Jones, careful.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Gandell.’
‘There’s some talk of The Palms being turned into an hotel, Jones.’
‘The Palms.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s falling to pieces, Mrs Gandell,’ Jones said, and then he dropped his glass, seemed unaware of it as suddenly he knelt down, took her hand, said, ‘You wouldn’t sell, Mrs Gandell, you wouldn’t .…’
‘I wouldn’t know what to do without you, Jones,’ she said, and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘If I took you back to Yorkshire, the wind would blow you back to Wales. No, Jones, I said I wouldn’t sell, and I won’t.’
There was no need for Jones to speak, for in his face she read the message, the familiar words. ‘Wouldn’t know what to do, Mrs Gandell, if you left here, left me .…’
‘It’s all right, Jones.’
‘Iesu Grist,’ he said, ‘for one awful moment I thought it wasn’t.’
‘There’s nothing else to get closer to, Jones.’
‘No, Mrs Gandell,’ he said, stroking again, and at last the smile.
‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘oh, I am glad, Mrs Gandell,’ and hugged her.
She pushed him away, got up and removed coat and hat. ‘Come along, Jones,’ she said, and everything was normal again, and he followed her out. In the kitchen he took her hand again.
‘Mrs Gandell,’ he said, shyly, whispering it, ‘Mrs Gandell?’
‘What Jones?’
He looked up at her. ‘I know that sometimes you laugh at me,’ he said.
She laughed now, saying, ‘Well, you are sometimes funny, Jones.’
‘So long as you don’t laugh all the time, Mrs Gandell. That’s all.’
She shook her head, gave him another smile. ‘Come along, Jones.’
‘Yes, Mrs Gandell.’
And in silence they began to prepare the lunch. ‘It’s late,’ she said.
And Jones thought, ‘I know now. She won’t go. She really means it; and I’m not lost.’
And not for weeks had Mrs Gandell heard him singing to himself.
‘Mrs Gandell?’
‘What, Jones?’
‘Can I go out this afternoon?’
She tossed potatoes into a pan. ‘If you want to,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Where are you going, Jones?’
‘Nowhere,’ Jones said, and after a pause. ‘I want to think.’
9
Jones walked quickly away from the hotel, and, having turned the corner, slackened his pace, walking leisurely in the direction of the bridge. Jones talked to Jones every bit of the way.
‘She’s lying. She’ll sell. No, she won’t sell, she couldn’t. Said so, swore to it, can’t do without me, she knows it, she does know it.’
He halted a moment, took a precautionary look at the sky. ‘Never even told me she was going to the bank. And last time I went. Even went to The Lion. Settled up with Hughes.’
To Jones it seemed a lot to happen in a single morning; on so many others nothing at all happened. He took another look at the sky. He cursed Garthmeilo. ‘Almost have to cry for the sunshine.’ He leaned over the bridge, watched the swirling waters go by. ‘I’ll close my eyes,’ he said, and closed them. The waters below roared in his ears. Somewhere in the distance he seemed to hear the Lancashire shouts, saw the bright mornings, and the feet that trailed from the beach to the hall, the sand on the carpet, the sand on the stairs, the cries of a fisherman with one lone trout, and busy Mrs Gandell rushing anywhere and everywhere, and Jones handy twenty-four hours of the day. It cheered Jones up, and when finally he opened his eyes he had a feeling of giddiness, and he turned away from the bridge. He did not notice the approaching figure of a man. The first thing he saw was an advancing umbrella, and when it reached the bridge, the man beneath it. And as the figure drew nearer, he exclaimed, ‘The man from The Labour.’ It was.
‘Hello,’ Geraint said, ‘and what are you doing all alone here?’
‘Hello,’ Jones said. ‘You’re a bloody long time finding us someone for Mrs Gandell. Six weeks now.’
Geraint came close, put down the umbrella.
‘It’s not raining.’
‘It will,’ Geraint said, ‘any minute now.’
‘Any hope?’ asked Jones, ‘it’s nearly March.’
‘That Mrs Gandell is very hard to please,’ Geraint said. ‘We’ve sent her two already.’
‘The last one was terrible.’
‘Gone back to Ireland,’ Geraint said. ‘Remember that one. Bone lazy.’
‘Time’s getting on,’ Jones said.
Geraint guffawed. ‘It’s always getting on, Jones. That’s the trouble, it won’t stop for anybody. By the way, heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘Mervyn Thomas’s sister has up and left him.’
‘Left him?’
‘That’s right. Walked out this morning they say, and took a train back to Hengoed where her sister is.’
‘Gone?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Count of the way he’s going on,’ Geraint said.
Jones stuttered. ‘Going on, going on what, where?’
‘God Almighty, Jones. Surely I don’t have to give anybody like you the news. You almost seem surprised. I thought you knew it all.’
‘You really mean that?’
‘Some silly bitch that’s come to work for Blair and Wilkins in the High Street. Lodging at your place, isn’t she?’
‘Poor Thomas. He thinks she might fall in love with him.’
Geraint laughed, and said, ‘What a hope. Some people are plain blind,’ and laughed again, and with an abrupt ‘Ta ta,’ rushed away leaving Jones staring after him.
‘Margiad Thomas left her brother. How odd. Very odd. Always so strict she was, and he could see her now, in many places; the front bench at Penuel, the best tent at the Festival, the perennial collector for the African missions, the eternal enquirer after everybody’s health, the brisk, healthy trot through the town, the smiles. Jones once thought of Miss Thomas in heaven, serving tea, and wearing a big newly ironed white apron.
‘Poor Mr Thomas,’ he said. ‘So helpless. Couldn’t even cut himself a slice of bread, she was so close, so attentive, the hours and the minutes spent for him, so that he would be ever free to do his duty placing the word on the tongues of all. Her only brother, her good brother.’
And Geraint’s words passed in and out of Jones’s ears.
‘Just come by Ty Newdd now, their door wide open, nobody there, and then I saw Mervyn Thomas at the bottom of the garden, and his collar off, leaning on the wall.’
‘Well indeed,’ thought Jones. ‘Well indeed.’
Leaving her own brother high and dry. Just like that. Awful. Such a strong family they are, skin close you might say, just getting up and going back to Hengoed. Can’t believe it, really.
He thought of Thomas, he thought of his chapel, he even thought of Jones.
‘Used to go there myself one time,’ thought Jones, and a distant echo of the Word in his ear.
‘Gone. Separated. After all those years. Perhaps for good. What’ll Mervyn Thomas do? And he thought of God’s runner, and the chariot flying in his head, leaning on a wall in an empty house, and no collar, and the door wide open. This was news. A strange world indeed. Didn’t he, Jones, know, he’d only just managed to hang on to his own, clinging, clutching.
‘The last time I passed their house, I looked through the window, and there Margiad Thomas was, as she always was, sitting knitting by the fire, and her brother sat opposite her, smoking his pipe, just like all was right everywhere, and nothing had ever happened. It was a message to the town, it was the flag half mast. Garthmeilo would talk its head off.’
‘I came out here to think about my life,’ thought Jones, ‘to think about the hotel, about tomorrow, about Mrs Gandell, the place where the root lay. His life would now be altered. Perhaps Thomas will go to Hehgoed, too.’
He left the bridge, took the short turn, and walked on in the direction of Ty Newdd. He wanted to see the house; the whole thing was suddenly dramatic. ‘And only yesterday, I laughed at Thomas.’ And there it was. The once peaceful villa. Jones stood staring at it from the opposite side of the road, the open front door, a curtain flying wildly out of an upstairs window, and no smoke from a chimney, a garden gate wide. He crossed the road, peeped over a hedge. He listened. He looked down the garden, the wall was there, but no man leaned on it. He walked slowly down the path and stopped outside the door. Looking in he saw the sitting-room door open, the study door likewise. It was as though a great wind had suddenly passed through Ty Newdd.
‘Well indeed! No smoke, no fire, no sound, empty,’ and he stepped into the house, stood in the hall, looked stair-wards, listened again. ‘Empty. Dead. I can’t laugh now.’
He stepped into the sitting-room. Peeped into the study, and then he saw him. Thomas was sat with his back to Jones, and his heavy hands were clasped and lay on the desk, his head was bowed. He sat motionless. He was wearing only trousers and a vest, his hair was uncombed. He stared at the broad back.
‘Weakest part of any man,’ he thought. Thomas defenceless. Used to sit upright at that desk every morning, reading, studying, working it all out, asking the questions, getting the answers, planning the journeys, thinking of the souls, keeping the net tight. A course for the new day, and, after the meditation, striding the town, remembering the flock, and the names in it, forgetting none. Jones, at home with empty mornings, knew this was emptier still. A word could be warm now, any word. He moved nearer to the door. Thomas was still; Thomas had heard nothing.
‘Mr Thomas.’
The words were hushed, but they made Thomas jump.
‘Who is that?’ he asked.
‘Me,’ Jones said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Islwyn Jones.’
Thomas turned slowly round and stared at the visitor.
‘You,’ he said.
‘Me,’ Jones replied, and took a step into the room.
‘I was just passing, Mr Thomas, and I saw a door wide open, not usual it isn’t, and no smoke from a fire. And then I heard the news.’
‘News?’
‘Only one piece of news in the world this morning, Mr Thomas.’ He noticed the uncombed hair, the slack jaw, the bloodshot eyes. ‘Sorry to hear it, Mr Thomas.’
