Dead Man's Embers Read online

  ‘Sounds to me as if you’re all hotheads, the lot of you,’ Davey says. ‘It’ll lead to nothing but more trouble.’ He rises from his chair as he speaks and disappears through the back door before Gwydion can reply.

  Gwydion pushes the letter into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it to us?’ Meg asks. ‘We always read our letters out loud.’

  But not our sewing patterns, Non thinks.

  ‘News to me,’ Wil mutters. ‘What letters?’

  ‘Later,’ Gwydion says, ambiguously. ‘I’ll be late if I’m not off out soon. And I’ve just remembered, Non. Davison asked me to take some things to the post for him after work yesterday, and when I got there it was shut, and they’re too big for the letterbox. So please, Non, dear, sweet, pretty Non, will you take them along for me later?’

  Non laughs. ‘Anyone would think you’d been to Ireland already and kissed the Blarney Stone,’ she says. She remembers an Irish friend of her father’s visiting him, and saying to her, Sure, and hasn’t old Osian here been courting the Blarney Stone. And then having to explain to her what he meant and tell her the entire story of the stone. He must have wished he had never mentioned it.

  ‘What’s that?’ Meg asks.

  Non takes a deep breath to tell Meg the story she had been told, and at the same time Wil pushes back his chair and says, ‘Was Tada going to the workshop, just now? Have I got time to drink my tea, Non?’

  ‘Plenty, I don’t think he was going off to work,’ she says, ‘and you, Osian, come on, try to eat some bread and butter at least. And eat the crusts, too – I don’t want to find any more hidden under the edges of your plate when I clear the table.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be able to eat meat with his bread and butter for breakfast every day if he carries on like this!’ Davey’s voice precedes him into the kitchen. He is so loud and jolly that Non is alarmed. Loud and jolly is as unlike the old Davey as morose and far away. Davey never used to pretend anything, and now he is all pretence. Sitting here at the table, she is overcome by such a yearning for her lost husband that it is all she can do not to burst into tears.

  They all, except Osian, watch Davey carry a package into the kitchen. Meg raises her eyebrows and feigns a lack of interest but Non can see that she is as eager as anyone else to see what her father has brought in.

  Davey sets the package on the centre of the table and pushes the breakfast crockery aside. Slowly he peels back the wrappings to reveal a – Non is at a loss to know what to call it – a carving? a statue? a sculpture? It is a young girl seated on a rock with the sea frothing about her feet. The water looks so real that Non almost expects a wave to break and splash onto the table. The girl gazes down at her hands folded in her lap, and her face, that is both centuries old and years young, bears a look of loss and longing that is heartbreaking to see.

  Gwydion is the first to break the entranced silence. ‘It’s you, Meg,’ he says.

  Meg looks more closely at the carving, and obviously, from her expression, is struggling to decide whether to be pleased or not.

  ‘Did you carve it, Osh?’ Wil asks his little brother who sits at the table, taking no notice of what is happening around him, chewing at a piece of crust as if it were a leather shoelace.

  ‘He certainly did,’ Davey says. ‘And while we may know it’s our Meg, your employer, Gwydion, has taken it into his head that it’s Branwen, mourning the loss of her son and homesick for Wales. He wants to buy it to give as a gift to that pal of his, that Ameri can, the one in Cae Besi.’

  ‘That American is a famous – a very famous – photographer,’ Gwydion says. ‘He did that book of photographs from round here last year. Alvin Langdon Coburn. I’ve already met him at Wern Fawr. You must know who he is, Davey.’

  Davey shrugs at him. ‘Oh, I know who he is, he’s another of these—’

  ‘Shhhh.’ Non puts a finger out to touch the carving, to stroke it gently. Osian has brought the wood to life again, and through the wood the girl lives and suffers, the sea ebbs and flows. ‘Is this made from the same wood as the piece you gave him in the workshop, the lime?’ she asks Davey.

  He nods. ‘And Davison is offering to pay Osian more money for this than he is going to pay Albert for the cabinet and all the other work Wil and I have done for him put together. And he wants to know if he can carve more.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful,’ Gwydion says. ‘That’s a great talent you have, Osian.’ He puts a hand out to touch the carving, his face full of wonder.

  Osian munches on his crust. Has he no idea of what he has achieved, has he no idea of what this is all about? But Gwydion is right, Osian does have a great talent, a talent that can be put to practical use. A way for him to earn a living when he is older. Non glances at Davey, wondering if he, too, can see what this means for their child.

  ‘See,’ Gwydion says, ‘I was right, wasn’t I, when I said he’d show us he knew more than we thought? Who else of us can do something this amazing? He’s immortalised you, Meg.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Meg is not yet persuaded of the value of this lump of wood in her image.

  ‘It means he’s made sure you’ll live for ever,’ Gwydion says.

  ‘Live for ever?’ Meg sounds dismayed. ‘I’m not sure I want to live for ever. And get really old. Ugh! And I don’t think it looks a bit like me.’

  18

  She had heard Davey rise from their bed this morning and the tread of his feet on the stairs, always light, as he went down. She heard him moving about in the kitchen, glugging water from the jug into a cup or glass to drink. Then she heard nothing for a while, and because she was so tired after yesterday’s events she dozed, thinking that today Davey was not going to have one of his attacks, until a muffled cry made her sit straight up in bed. Then there was silence again, but she quickly mixed and swallowed her draught, rose and dressed and went down to the kitchen. And found Davey under the table.

  Her instinct was to flee into the garden; she thought she could not bear to watch him suffer any more. But instead, she had half-opened the back door to let some air into the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen and sat on the chair from which she could see Davey.

  And while he lies flat on the stone floor, his mind in a far country, she stares past the door out into the garden where the heat of the sun is already releasing the pungent oils in the herbs and plants so that the air is redolent of summer. This early in the morning the birds are still singing, not yet hushed by the weight of the day, and the drone of the bees is so constant as to make her think they must labour all night as well as through the day. How can it stay so . . . ordinary just through that door when this horror is happening in here? She hopes a reply will come from Angela very soon. She is sure to find a way to go to London without anyone knowing. It means more subterfuge, but she will do anything to rescue Davey. She can hear her sister’s voice cautioning her against being headstrong, counselling her to count to twenty, but her father’s voice urges her on, Follow your heart’s desire, Rhiannon.

  She wonders, as she did when Davey used to shout out during his nightmares and wake her, whether it is something someone says or does, or does not do, whether certain words or actions prey on his mind and remind him of whatever it is he re-lives time and time again. Yesterday, for instance – does what happened yesterday have any bearing on Davey’s behaviour this morning?

  The day had begun with more promise than usual. Davey had seemed genuinely proud of Osian’s burgeoning talent, if at the same time he seemed to feel that the skill and the effort he and Wil always put into their work were diminished by it. And Meg had been persuaded, by the time she left for school, that it might be something rather special that Osian had done for her which she was longing to boast about to her friends. It had all left Non to go about her housework with a lighter heart, but by dinner time the day had been turned on its head. Catherine Davies had run – run! – to the house, clutching her heart, or at least – and here Non had uncharitable
thoughts again – clutching at where her heart would be if she had one, and lamenting that William Davies had climbed out of the dining room window – At his age, Rhiannon, how could I have known he would do such a thing? – and escaped. An appropriate word, because Catherine Davies had locked him in while she had a little nap, having been up most of the night trying to make contact with Billy in heaven, a place where she was unlikely to reach him.

  Non had left off fanning her mother-in-law in the parlour’s best chair and raced to the workshop where she met Maggie Ellis’s niece who had been passing over the railway line on her way up to town when she saw William Davies on the station platform, and had called into the workshop on her way up the hill to tell Davey that old William Davies had not recognised her, but asked if she knew whether the Pwllheli train was due any time soon. She said she had left him in the care of the stationmaster, so there was no hurry, Mr Humphreys would not let him board the train. Davey had left Non and Wil in charge of the workshop and run down the hill to the station where his father was waiting to catch the train that would take him home to his mother who would have his supper ready for him and be worrying about him. And who had been dead for more years than Non had been alive.

  William Davies had been returned to his wife who had berated him for his lack of consideration for her. Davey had given up trying to explain to her that his father could not help his behaviour, and gone back to his work.

  How different that Davey was to this one, thinks Non, looking down at the stranger under her table. But it is obvious that he cannot help his behaviour any more than old William Davies can help his; for who would ever choose to suffer like this? It is as if he is fixed in this one place in his mind, this one occasion. She finds this scene he plays out more frightening than when he called out to Ben Bach. In this scene he makes no sound, all his actions are quiet and stealthy, a deadly intent inherent in them. In his mind, she thinks, he is still in France, fighting – it is as if his mind has been injured as well as his ankle. Is it possible to repair damage done to the mind? She cannot recall her father teaching her that particular skill.

  She shivers as she listens to the sounds of the house, creaking in complaint at the already hot air both inside and outside its walls, and is comforted by knowing that none of the children or Gwydion are yet stirring. Maybe this can be over again before they are about; poor Meg certainly needs the rest, a sleep to calm her, because yesterday’s upsets had not ended with William Davies’s safe return.

  Catherine Davies had arrived unannounced as they were finishing supper to say that she had to have Meg return to live with her to help her look after William Davies. Meg had turned instantly to Non, her eyes brimming with tears, and whispered that she did not want to return to her grandmother’s house, did not want to give up her education and the prospect of going to university like Gwydion. Non was not sure whether to laugh or cry, then Wil, dear, dependable and sensible Wil, said that it would be illegal to take Meg from school, and he did not want to see his grandmother incarcerated, too, a barb that missed its target, and that he would stay with his grandparents each night until he went to sea, in case help should be needed. He pointed out to his grandmother, who was still insisting on Meg’s company, that he would be far more useful than a mere girl – he could run after William Davies if necessary and was not afraid of the dark. Meg ceased her sniffling to say that she was not afraid of the dark and could run as fast as anyone until Non kicked her, none too gently, on the ankle, and she realised it was not quite the right thing to say. Non hoped that William Davies would sleep better, too, knowing his grandson was there to look after him.

  She shifts on her chair. She can think of nothing in yesterday’s events that would take Davey back to where he is now. She hopes again that a reply will come soon from Angela. In her mind she reads through Angela’s letter to Davey, and it occurs to her now that the date of the letter coincided with the start of Davey’s attacks. She closes her eyes, she can see the date, written in that flowing hand, as clearly as if she were reading the page – Monday, June 13th, 1921. Davey would have received the letter on Tuesday, the day before his first attack. It was what Angela had told him that started the change.

  She will not wait for him to come out from under the table this morning, she has seen what he does, she does not want to see it again. She slips out through the door and stands in the shade, leaning against the door frame. Herman struts past, pretending not to see her; he has been in a huff since she has shut the door against him in the early mornings, and now will not enter the house at all. She hears dragging noises behind her as Davey crawls from under the table to act out his aiming and shooting. She walks further into the garden; she will not turn around to watch him. She shudders when she thinks of the farmer shooting his horse. He had aimed right between its eyes. The horse had not died immediately, it had kicked out as if it were trying to gallop away before collapsing into a twitching heap of flesh and bone.

  Is that what Davey is remembering? Shooting an enemy deliberately and stealthily, the way the farmer shot his horse? Surely not. Davey would not do such a thing, he would not harm anybody. She does not want to think differently.

  19

  It is barely breakfast time and she is exhausted. Is it what is happening to Davey? Is it the humidity? Her heart? Should she take more of her drops in the morning? Start to take some in the evening? She slumps in her chair.

  ‘What is it, Non?’ Gwydion stops behind her as he makes his way to his place at the table and puts his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s this heat,’ she says. ‘And I was up very early because I couldn’t sleep.’ A glance at Davey as she says this elicits no response. She is unsure again whether it is a pretence that he does not remember these attacks he has, or if he truly does not remember.

  Gwydion pats her shoulder and leans down to kiss her cheek. ‘You do feel a bit warm,’ he says. ‘Shall I get you a drink of cool water instead of your tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, Gwydion. Really. Sit down and have your breakfast. It’s bread and jam and tea. It’s simply too hot to even hold bread by the fire to toast.’

  ‘There’s no bilberry jam left, only old blackberry full of seeds that stick between your teeth,’ Meg says.

  ‘My favourite,’ Gwydion says. ‘Smile at me,’ he commands Meg and when she grimaces at him showing her teeth, he says, ‘Not a single seed in sight, Meg!’

  Non feels as if she has stepped back a little from the table, as if she is watching her family from afar. It is not an unpleasant sensation, this dreaminess. She is able to listen to Meg’s complaint about the jam without needing to respond. Meg has been remarkably quiet since her panic at the thought of having to return to live with her grandmother. Maybe it has made her realise that living with Non is not as bad as she has persuaded herself it is. Though Meg will probably never acknowledge it to anyone.

  The conversation ebbs and flows around Non, rather like the sea, she thinks, a background to the things that really matter, though she feels so lethargic that she cannot quite summon these things to mind, either.

  ‘You’re not listening, Non,’ Meg says. ‘I said, is Wil coming home for his breakfast?’

  ‘Your grandmother might feed him,’ she says. ‘But if she doesn’t, I’m sure he’ll be here any minute now.’

  ‘He’s sort of gone away already, hasn’t he?’ Meg says. ‘So, when he goes to sea we might not really notice.’

  ‘How would you feel, Meg, if we said that about you?’ Gwydion says. ‘That we wouldn’t notice if you weren’t here?’

  Meg turns scarlet and tears start in her eyes. ‘I don’t mean it nastily,’ she says, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I only meant . . . maybe it will be easier not to miss him when he goes if he’s gone a bit already. That’s all I meant.’ She turns to Gwydion. ‘I shan’t miss you when you go. I don’t care if you go to Aberystwyth or Ireland or . . . or anywhere else!’

  Gwydion laughs. ‘Sorry, Meg,’ he says, ‘I asked
for that, didn’t I? But I’ll miss you when I have to go away.’

  Meg begins assiduously to spread the blackberry jam and its seeds on her bread, right up to the crusts and into every curve and corner.

  Non watches Davey’s face during Meg and Gwydion’s argument. He is not listening to them, his mind is elsewhere. When she had walked out into the garden earlier, leaving Davey in the throes of an attack, she had despaired of finding a way to help him, and her trip to London seemed as impossible as . . . as going to the moon. She thought of the heat hanging over the huge city, she had read in the Daily Herald about people dying there in the heat. And the crush of thousands of people, their noise filling her ears, the height of the buildings leaning over her – a thousand times worse than Port, she reminded herself. She didn’t know how she would do it, this task she had set herself. And she is fearful – she, the child who had never feared anything! – she is fearful that she might not find the answer to the mystery of her lost Davey, and she is beginning to be fearful of what the answer might be.

  Her ramblings are interrupted by Wil’s arrival and the announcement that he is starving and that he had to stay up half the night waiting for Billy to get in touch with his grandmother and that he has also brought a letter just this minute pushed into his hand by Jackie Post outside the house. ‘For Gwydion,’ he says.

  ‘You have all the post,’ Meg says.

  ‘But you don’t write to anyone so who’s going to write to you?’ Wil says as he spreads butter, then jam, on what looks like half a loaf of bread.