Dead Man's Embers (24 page)

At first, Davey's letters had to be written in English to get past the censor, and she remembered her disappointment as she read them. But the content was, she knew, much as other women of her acquaintance had received, the ones who had asked her to read their letters to them – jokey comments about the food and the weather, a longing for the recipient of the letter, a report of meeting with somebody's brother or cousin. They were letters written by rote in a foreign language, not real feelings and thoughts. She picked through them in the hope of finding some nugget of information that she had missed at the time, anything that would help explain Davey's distress. But she could see no connection in his words to anything that she had learnt since she had first read
them about the ordeals men had endured during the fighting. She kissed each letter, in an apology to Davey, before she replaced it in the box.

Davey's voice had surprised her. It wasn't like that at all, Non.

She had not heard him coming home or walking upstairs and had no idea how long he had been standing in the doorway, watching her. He had come into the bedroom and she had looked up at him as he said that everyone wrote letters that would not worry or demoralise the people they had left behind; those had been the instructions they were given.

Non was astonished. This was the first time Davey had voluntarily spoken about the War since he had confessed his – false – infidelity to her. It was the first time since his confession that he had spoken to her without avoiding her gaze. She had risen to her feet and held her hand out to him in delight.

That had been too much for him. He had backed away from her. Burn them, Non, he had said, and returned downstairs. But she could not. She had finished packing the letters and pushed the case back under the bed.

I wish I had known, she thinks, lying next to Davey, listening to the silence. I do not know what I could have done, but I wish I had known then what I know now.

She turns on her side to look at him. He is awake, watching her. She smiles at him.

‘I'm glad you're home, Non,' he says.

Something has happened. Something has changed while she was away in Aberystwyth. She had sensed it yesterday. Davey has not lain with her like this since he told her he was not fit to be her husband. She is almost afraid to speak in case the moment vanishes like one of the perfect little worlds inside Osian's soap bubbles. She is filled with gladness. She does not want to be
anywhere else. This is where she belongs. This is her place.

‘This business of your medicine . . . Are you sure it's safe? Cutting your drops down like that after taking them all your life? Are you sure you wouldn't like to see another doctor?'

She rests her hand on his shoulder as he talks to her, and he puts his own hand over hers, the callouses scraping her skin, his palm like the sandpaper he uses every day. And she feels as she did the very first time he touched her.

‘I feel better already, I'm sure of it. I'm cutting down on them very slowly, Davey.'

‘But, this doctor . . . He will write to you, will he? He will think about it all and say that what he told you was right?'

‘He said he would, and he seemed the kind of man to keep his word. I expect it takes him a while to do these tests in his laboratory that he was talking about.'

Davey shakes his head, ‘Sounds like magic, doesn't it?'

‘I think it was Father who dealt in magic. Mr O'Neill seemed very . . . scientific.'

Davey squeezes her hand. ‘It's difficult when the things we've been so certain about get knocked away.'

She wonders which certainties he is talking about: her father, Wil, Osian, old William Davies? Is it Angela? Or is there something she does not even know about yet? She waits in silence. The Sunday hush is broken by the sound of birdsong, the squeal of a door opening and shutting, somebody softly singing a hymn as the morning brightens.

‘What did you sell to get to London?' Davey says. ‘I hope it wasn't something you didn't want to part with.'

He would know that she had no money unless she sold something. She should have realised that he would be anxious about how she had funded the trip when they were only just managing because of
the money he gave to his mother every week. ‘Mother's ring,' she says. ‘To the pawn shop in Port. So I had a chance of getting it back.'

‘I thought it might be the ring,' Davey says. ‘You shouldn't have had to do that. I have managed to put a bit of money by, Non – in case of an emergency, you know, though I don't know what sort of emergency . . .' He pauses, as if it is a wonder to him.

As it is to Non. She is sure they never used to think there might be emergencies. She supposes it is the War that has made these changes in him, in them all. Davey saving! She moves her hand slightly under his. She can feel his pulse, the beat of his heart in his wrist, and feels tears threatening to overwhelm her. And I never used to be a cry baby, she thinks.

Davey tightens his hand over hers. ‘But we can use it to buy the ring back, Non. This counts as an emergency. And then . . . Do you think it would be as if I gave you the ring?'

Non nods. She does not know, she cannot imagine, what all this means. She listens to the comforting sounds of the day beginning outside their window.

‘And I've remembered . . . well, you know, Non, I don't know why I thought I had all that nonsense with that nurse. I just can't understand it. These last few days I've known more and more that it never happened. And it is such a relief, Non, to know that it didn't – but why did I think it had?'

Non does not think Davey is expecting her to answer him. She waits for him to go on. The morning is rapidly becoming noisier. The crows roosting in the copse beside the farm across the road have started calling one another, their cries raucous and demanding.

‘See, Non . . .' Davey shifts his position so that her arm is uncomfortable where it is and she slips it around his waist. And he does not pull away and pretend it is not there. ‘See, I've been
trying to puzzle it out. She looked a bit like Grace, the nurse. But I don't think that was what gave me these . . . well, these false certainties. Because – and I never said this to you before, Non, and I don't really know if I should now – but I knew even before Wil was born that I'd made a mistake marrying Grace. So did I dream this nurse thing? Or was it the gas – the gas was bad, Non – or, there was an attack on our trench. Maybe I got a knock on the head or something. I don't know, I can't remember. I think I've forgotten a lot of things, Non. But it has upset me so much, thinking I had been untrue to you.'

The letter, Non thinks, it is Angela's letter that has brought the truth to the surface. She waits for him to mention the letter, but he does not. But then again, neither has she mentioned Angela's letter, and she has not mentioned, and has no intention of mentioning, that part of her visit to London. Does that make them equal? Equal in deception, she thinks. Can they live with it? She does not know what the answer might be.

‘You are all I want, Non,' Davey says. He looks into her eyes.

She curbs a desire to look away in case he can see her deceit. Now, she understands why he found it difficult to look at her when he believed he had wronged her. She puts her arm around his waist and her other arm around his neck and draws herself to him. She feels his limbs relaxing and his breath deepening. And he puts his arms around her and begins to stroke her back with the long, languorous strokes that she loves and has not realised until this moment that she has missed so much.

As she murmurs her appreciation a loud clatter makes them jump apart as guiltily as if Catherine Davies had entered their bedroom. Herman is balancing on top of the open sash, cawing raucously, his beak wide open.

Davey begins to laugh. He laughs and laughs as if he will never
stop, this man who has not laughed since he returned home to her from the War. And then his laughter turns to sobs as raucous as Herman's caws, and Non holds her arms around his heaving body until her own body quivers with the effort.

‘Them crows are a bit loud this morning, missus.' Lizzie German heaves the dolly into the washtub as she speaks, and begins pounding the clothes with it.

‘From first thing,' Non says. ‘And yesterday the same. Herman's around somewhere. He flew in through the bedroom window yesterday morning. What a fright he gave us, Lizzie.'

‘That bird,' Lizzie says. ‘Just like my poor Herman was. Loud and clumsy.'

Non laughs at Lizzie's expression, then begins to scrub in earnest at the cuffs of the shirt on her washboard. The suds float into her face. She can taste the soapiness when she licks her lips to moisten them. We are almost getting used to this heat, she thinks, it is as if we have never experienced anything else. No rain, no wind, no cold, no snow, no sleet, just sun from one year end to the other. She tries to remember how many weeks the heatwave has lasted. It is not tiring me as much as it did, she thinks, this weather.

‘Saw your Davey on my way up here this morning,' Lizzie says. ‘Looks better than he's done in a while.'

‘I think he's feeling better.' Non thinks maybe she ought to
cross her fingers as she says it, touch wood; for luck, just in case. Yesterday she had scarcely been able to think about anything all day except that she had Davey back. She had been unable to stop smiling at him, touching his face or his hand whenever she walked past him, until Meg noticed and began to groan whenever it happened. Non smiles at Lizzie.

‘You, too,' Lizzie says.

‘What?'

‘Looking better.' Lizzie stops the pounding and leans on the dolly to watch Non. ‘And feeling better? You're not having to stop every two minutes to draw breath.'

‘It seems to be working, Lizzie, cutting down the medicine, drop by drop.'

‘Two-edged sword, missus.' Lizzie surprises Non with her insight, as always.

‘Yes. I can't help feeling I'm somehow letting my father down.'

‘Hmm,' Lizzie says. ‘You look to the living, missus. You've got plenty of them to look after without worrying about the dead.'

‘Life goes on, you mean, Lizzie?'

‘It does that. Full of life, your lot, too. I saw young Meg this morning after I saw your Davey, running down the hill. Looked a bit cross.'

‘Poor Meg,' Non says. ‘I'm surprised she didn't have steam coming out of her ears. The boys had been teasing her because she had a letter from her French penfriend.'

‘French!' Lizzie begins to work the dolly again, as if she's taking out her astonishment on the tubful of washing.

‘Yes, she thought it was a girl she was writing to, but it's a boy, and he sent a picture of himself. She turned scarlet when she saw it, and those boys wouldn't let up. It's a good thing she had an excuse to go out – she's working at the St David's, she's a chambermaid.
And they're teaching her to serve at table, too. Just imagine, Lizzie – Meg having to be polite to people!'

‘Won't do her no harm,' Lizzie says. ‘Bit of hard work. Having to mind her manners.'

‘They're all working,' Non says, ‘even little Osian, with his carvings. I'll show you his latest, Lizzie, when we stop for dinner. Meg is secretly pleased, I think, that she's his model for almost every carving so far.'

‘I saw him going off with your Davey,' Lizzie says.

‘He's going to spend his days at the workshop during the holiday,' Non says. ‘I think he'll like that. Though it's hard to tell with Osian.'

‘Told you he'd surprise you all,' Lizzie says, echoing Gwydion's words.

Non smiles and passes Lizzie the shirt to drop into her tub. She blows the suds from her arms and smoothes back her hair with her forearm. Gwydion, she thinks. I hope he goes soon to tell Branwen about what he is thinking of doing. The letters from Aoife and from his friend in Ireland seemed to arrive more and more frequently. Jackie Post had complained to her that morning that her family kept him busier than any other in the town. She wonders how long it will be before Gwydion begins to prepare actively for his departure. It is all talk at the moment, but he really needs to tell his mother. Non sighs. She knows how difficult that is going to be for him. She pulls another shirt from the soak and begins to rub the cuffs on the washboard. Every item of clothing Wil possesses has to be mended, washed and ironed, or sponged and pressed, over the next two days.

‘When's he off, then?' Lizzie nods at the shirt Non has in her hands.

‘Thursday,' Non says. ‘He only heard yesterday. Eddie brought
him a note from the Captain. They finished the work on the ship quicker than they expected. It's just as well, Lizzie. It keeps us all too busy to think about him going. Meg and I thought we'd make a special supper for him on Wednesday, to wish him well on his travels.'

‘Your Davey'll miss him in the workshop,' Lizzie says. ‘What's he going to do for an apprentice?'

‘Albert's dragging his feet a bit,' Non says.

‘That's Albert all over,' Lizzie says. ‘Too mean for his own good, let alone anyone else's.'

‘Davey can't think of anyone who'd make a good apprentice,' Non says. ‘He's thinking maybe one or two of the tramps would be glad to take on a bit of casual work for a roof over their heads and their food. They could sleep in the loft at the workshop. Just for the summer, you know. It wouldn't cost Albert much.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were Davey.' Maggie Ellis's voice comes floating over the garden wall.

Lizzie rolls her eyes at Non, who tries to keep a straight face.

‘No, I don't know if any of them can be trusted,' Maggie says. ‘I could tell you some tales, you know. Oh, the stories I've heard!'

‘I think most of them are looking for work, Mrs Ellis,' Non says, ‘not out to make mischief.'