Honey's Farm (44 page)

‘Go with God, Tommy.' The father nodded and watched as the gangling youth moved away across the farmyard, stopping only to ruffle his sister's dark hair before loping away across the fields.

The father sighed heavily. His eyes met Fon's, and he smiled suddenly, a wan, rueful smile. ‘First time I've had to do that,' he said, and Fon lifted the teapot from the hob.

‘Well, you'd never have thought it, Father. Another cup of tea?' She paused, silent for a moment, and when the father was drinking thirstily, she looked across the table at him.

‘I want your advice about April, Father,' she said softly. ‘I think it's time the girl went to school.'

Telling April that her mother was dead was more difficult than Fon had anticipated. She spoke haltingly, not knowing much about the Catholic faith, but trying to instil some sort of hope in the child that some day she would see her mother again.

‘I knew Mammy was dead,' April said when Fon's voice had trailed into silence. ‘I knew as soon as I saw the priest.'

Her composure was staggering, and Fon realized that April had probably cried her tears alone at night in her bed; the thought was painful, and on an impulse she reached out and hugged the child.

‘Don't be sad for me,' April said, her arms around Fon's neck. ‘I know Mammy wanted to go; she was hurting, and I'm glad she'll be hurting no more. But, Fon, I don't want to go to the funeral. You won't make me go, will you?'

‘Of course I won't make you go,' Fon said stoutly. ‘You will stay by here with me. You'll always be with me and Jamie and Patrick; you're part of our family now, aren't you?'

It was then that April began to cry, large gulping sobs that shook the thin frame. Tears of pity formed in Fon's own eyes.

‘I'll look after you, my lovely, don't you ever doubt it,' Fon said, and it was as though she was making a vow before God, a vow which Fon knew she would simply have to honour, whatever it cost her.

Arian sat on the bed in the new rooms Eline had provided for her. The boarding house was respectable, set along the sea front in Swansea, a large dwelling house with seven lady boarders. Men were not encouraged over the threshold, and that suited Arian; it gave her an excuse to keep the eager Price at arm's length.

And yet Price had taught her a great deal. She knew the difference now between properly cured leather and shoddy workmanship. She had entered the stinking world of the tanneries without blanching and in total ignorance; but now she felt that, at last, she was coming to grips with the whole business of shoe-making.

She glanced in the mirror, adjusting her bonnet. She intended going for a stroll along the sea front, and the damp, misty air would curl her hair into a fuzz of ringlets. She jammed the unfashionable bonnet over her hair impatiently and frowned at her reflection; how she hated to conform.

But, God, did she love the shoe business; the workshop was somewhere she could be herself, without having to act the simpering miss. The only part of the leather world she didn't like was the business side, the interviews with prospective buyers, the dressing up. She was used to riding bare-headed and bare-backed over the fields, used to dressing in loose skirts with no undergarments to hamper her movements. Now she was pushed into stays and buttoned into tight bodices, and the fact that she had chosen to act like a lady did not lessen her sense of discomfort.

The hallway was redolent with the smell of beeswax; the wooden banisters shone with much diligent cleaning. The soft light from the gas lamp washed down on the faded carpet, giving it a gentility that was only an illusion. Still, Mrs Maitland provided a good table, she made sure the bed linen was clean, and, though treating the young ladies in her house as children, she was none the less a sensible, dependable landlady.

Arian let herself out into the street. It was quite warm, in spite of the thin mist coming in off the sea, and she took a deep breath of the salt air. She walked briskly past the Bay View hotel and heard the sound of voices singing inside with a feeling of being an outsider, looking in on the world.

She
was
alone; she had no-one now that Eddie had gone away, no-one to care if she lived or died. Eddie, maybe,
had
cared, but then he was in London, completing his training. His life was mapped out for him now, and it did not include her.

She pondered on her family; the only one remaining was Uncle Mike, Mike the Spud, as he was known locally. She made a wry grimace; Mike wouldn't give a damn for her well-being. In all probability he blamed her for her father's death.

‘Arian!' The voice jolted her thoughts back to the present. Arian saw the misty seashore, the ghostly image of a sail, and, standing before her, the tall, masculine figure of Price Davies. She smiled with more warmth than usual, her feeling of being disembodied from the world disappearing under his admiring gaze.

‘What are you doing here?' Arian asked. ‘It isn't your day off, is it?'

‘No, boss,' he said laughingly, ‘but I was told to make some deliveries and then go home, so that's where I'm going. Come with me?'

Warning bells rang in Arian's mind. It was dangerous to be alone with a man like Price; he was filled with energy, his blue eyes even now appraising her.

And yet the thought of walking on alone, or returning to the boarding house, did not appeal to her. ‘Who'll be there?' she asked cautiously, and he smiled.

‘Well, my brother and sister-in-law, for a start, and probably their brood of kids: should be enough to chaperon even Helen of Troy, don't you think?'

She felt silly then, as though she was setting herself up as the most desirable woman in town. ‘I'll come home with you,' she said, ‘on condition that you make me a nice hot cup of tea.'

‘Done.' He pulled her arm through his, and Arian, feeling a little self-conscious, walked along the narrow road from the beach into the back streets of the town.

The house where Price lived was typical of the buildings sprawling through narrow courts and cobbled roadways. Ragged children played in the streets, and the smell of rotting garbage pervaded the air.

It was all a far cry from the green fields and open countryside where Arian was brought up, and she could think of nothing worse than to have to spend her life in the poor streets bordering the town.

‘Not quite what you are used to, I'm afraid,' Price said, but he was smiling, in no way apologizing, and Arian liked him for that.

‘Well, I grew up in the countryside above the town,' she explained. ‘I don't suppose I'll ever get used to busy, crowded streets such as these.'

The house was spotless inside, the furniture well polished, the floors swept and scrubbed. There was a smell of cleanliness about the place, and Arian felt a respect for Price's sister-in-law.

‘By the way, where's your family?' she asked, as the silence penetrated into her consciousness.

‘Come upstairs,' Price said, and before Arian could protest he had taken her arm and was propelling her upwards.

It was only when she found herself in his bedroom that Arian realized how gullible she'd been.

‘Your family are not here.' It was a statement, not a fact. ‘You fooled me, Price, you damn well fooled me.'

‘And you knew it,' he said, laughing. ‘Come on, you've wanted me as much as I've wanted you. Don't think I haven't noticed you looking me over as if I was a prize stallion in a show.'

She felt her colour rise; she couldn't deny it. ‘I thought you were going to make me a cup of tea?' She tried changing the subject, but he wasn't having any.

‘Later,' he said. ‘But now just get your clothes off.' His hands were on the buckle of his belt. ‘Let's get down to business. That's what we're here for, we both know that, so let's not have any beating about the bush, is it?'

Arian shook her head. ‘I don't want . . .' she began, but in a moment she felt her arms held in a steely grip.

‘Don't play with me, Arian,' he said warningly. ‘Or is it that you like a bit of rough stuff, is that it?'

‘No!' she said, deciding to play along with him. ‘I like to be treated like a lady, that's what I like. I thought you'd be more romantic in your approach, Price, that you'd show more finesse.'

‘Oh, finesse, is it? Well, pardon me. I'm a man, not a ruddy fop.' He snatched at the buttons of her bodice and roughly pulled at the cloth, sending a button flying to the floor.

‘Damnation!' He cursed when he saw the corset laced around her like an armour. ‘Are you going to take it off?'

She put her arms around his neck and breathed heavily, an idea of how to ward him off springing into her mind. ‘Get me a knife,' she said softly. ‘I'm going to cut the laces, otherwise we'll be here all day.'

He drew a knife from his boot and, to her chagrin, began cutting through the laces himself. After a few seconds, the corset fell from her and her breasts were free.

‘That's better.' He stood back, looking down at her. ‘Very nice, very nice indeed.' He breathed. ‘You're better-looking even than I'd imagined.'

She fell back on the bed. ‘Come on, then,' she urged. ‘Take my skirts off for me; you might as well finish what you've started.'

She watched as he placed the knife back in his boot and pulled at her petticoats. She would make a pretence, she thought, of caressing him, and then, when she had a chance, she would take the knife and show him just where he stood with her.

He fell upon her then with such ferocity that the breath was knocked from her body. She tried to reach down, to grasp at the knife, but he was ruthless, forcing her back on the bed, his mouth pushing at hers, his tongue probing.

She tried to twist away; she heard her petticoats tear; his arm was across her throat, holding her down. She felt her eyes begin to mist, she could scarcely breathe.

There was no time for thought, or action, he was forcing himself upon her defenceless body, plunging, bruising, violating her without mercy. She gasped with the pain and indignity of it all, her mind refusing to believe what this monster was doing to her. She tried to struggle away from him as one of his hands bruised her breast. She managed to get her arm up and to pull at his hair, but he reared above her and lunged at her, a demonic glow in his eyes.

His hand caught and held her arms in a cruel grip as she would have pushed him from her. ‘Don't pretend you are not enjoying it,' he gasped, increasing the power of his movements so that she cried out in agony.

Outrage filled her, rising like a tide of blood to her head so that she wanted to kill him. She wanted to be free of this torture that he was inflicting on her, but she could do nothing except endure the brutality that seemed to go on endlessly. But at last he fell away from her, his clothing in disarray around him. His mouth was twisted in a grin of triumph as he turned his head to look at her.

‘Give me a minute,' he said, ‘and I'll give you the treat of your life. I'll show you things you never dreamed of. I'll make a real woman of you before you leave here tonight, and you'll be begging me for it.'

She was on her feet in a moment. She had the knife in her hand, poised above his heart. Her arm plunged downwards, and he moved sharply, crying out in surprise at her action.

The knife grazed his arm and drew blood. She plunged again and it caught his wrist, held up in defence. Again she lifted the knife, and it sliced his cheek from eyebrow to chin.

‘You bitch!' he cried. ‘I'll swing for you!' He was up from the bed then, his powerful cobbler's hands gripping her throat. She felt a blackness spin around her; breathing was impossible, and then she fell into a dark, merciful oblivion.

Fon watched as April curled up in an armchair, her nose buried in a book. The little girl was engrossed in the story, and Fon marvelled that, without any schooling, April was so bright and intelligent, so clever at her letters and figures.

‘Who taught you to read, April?' Fon asked, putting down her sewing and staring across at the girl.

April looked up at her with sombre eyes. ‘My mammy showed me letters and numbers when I was little,' she said, with dignity. ‘Mammy came from a rich family, mind, but she married beneath her.' She frowned. ‘At least, that's what my posh grandmother used to say. What's “beneath her” mean, Fon?'

If Fon was surprised at the revelation that Mrs Jones had been born of a ‘posh' mother, she concealed it well. ‘It means that your gran thought your father wasn't good enough,' she said gently, ‘but lots of mothers think that, it's quite natural really.'

‘Gran ran the big house for the priests,' April said. ‘Mammy used to take me there when I was only a baby. The priests taught Mammy to read and write and she taught me.'

She chewed her nail thoughtfully. ‘I don't suppose Gran was posh really, but she talked nice, all English-like. I don't remember Grandad at all. A sailor he was, so Mam said. Never came home one day, and that was that; Gran had to go out to work to keep her family.'

‘So your mother married a farmer,' Fon said, smiling, ‘and came to live up on the hill. That's where you were born, April, a real little country girl.'

April studied Fon for a moment, as if suddenly seeing her as a person for the first time. ‘Are you a country girl, Fon?' she asked, her head on one side.

Fon laughed. ‘Oh, no, far from it. I was born Irfonwy Parks, down in Oystermouth, alongside the sea. I used to sort out the oysters, put the little ones on perches to grow, and take the rest for market.'

‘That sounds lovely,' April said wistfully. ‘I'd like to see Oystermouth.'

‘I'll take you there,' Fon said, ‘one day when we're not too busy on the farm. You can meet my family, then, my mam and my sister Sal – they're all I've got left now.'