Love and War (24 page)

‘Don’t cry,’ I say gently, ‘please don’t cry.’

‘Who’s crying? Would I cry for bloody Ifor Meredyth?’

‘Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth...’

‘And no bloody poetry either, thank you.’

We sit in silence for a little while longer; an occasional sniff from Ilona, an occasional sigh from me. It’s long past midnight when we finally go up to bed.

Thirteen

GWYNN PASSES HIS MEDICAL and has to join up in two weeks’ time. I think he’ll go on trying to avoid me now until he leaves home. He smiles quite warmly at me when he sees me in Assembly, occasionally I catch him looking at me from the Art room window when I’m crossing the playground, but he’s never in his room when I try to see him in the lunch hour. Perhaps it’s for the best as far as he’s concerned, but I’m beginning to feel more and more desperate, as though he’s trying to deny everything that’s happened between us: all the fond words and silences, all the love. I don’t feel I can bear it much longer; today I’m too restless even to sit over a cup of tea in the staff room.

In this agitated state; love and uncertainty gnawing at me like hunger, I make the sudden decision to go to his house. Last week he put me off saying that Celine had a sore throat, today I’ll pretend to think she’s ready to carry on working.

As soon as my last lesson is over, I rush home and put on the blue dress – a dress I’ve still never worn except to go to their house – and more powder and lipstick than usual because I’m so pale, and manage to get to the house at the usual time. My heart is banging against my ribs as I ring the doorbell.

Celine is quite obviously taken aback when she sees me, but I pretend not to notice, walking into the hall as I usually do. ‘I’m sorry you weren’t well last week,’ I murmur, as casually as I can. She’s looking almost as ill as I am. For a moment I feel a pang of pity for her, imagining her worried about Gwynn leaving home. She’s wearing a loose, grey dress, a less bizarre garment than usual. I try to smile at her

She doesn’t smile. ‘Very well,’ she says. ‘Come in. Perhaps you should see what I’ve done. Perhaps it will do you some good.’

I follow her to the studio, disturbed at her words and her manner, knowing now that I definitely wasn’t expected, that I’m definitely not welcome. What’s happened?

The painting is on the easel facing me. I know it’s the painting of me only because I recognise the dark blue dress, the face has been completely obliterated. It looks as though several tubes of paint; green, black and grey, have been squeezed out over it and the resulting mess stirred up together.

Celine doesn’t say a word and neither do I. This is no laughing matter: not an artist’s playful revenge on work which won’t come right, but something different. I feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. I try to say something, my mouth opens but no words come out. There’s a rushing noise in my ears.

I look at the painting again, at the swirling green cow-pat covering the face. The light in the room is a strange blue. I gulp air and realise that I’m going to faint.

When I come round, I find Jack standing above me fanning me with a newspaper. I’m lying quite comfortably on the floor, a cushion under my head. Celine has disappeared.

‘You’re all right,’ Jack says. ‘You’re quite all right. I’m going to open one of the windows now and then you shall sit up.’

I watch him struggling with the window. The portrait has been turned to the wall.

‘Where is she?’ I ask.

He helps me sit up. ‘Well done,’ he says. ‘Take some deep breaths now. Good girl. Yes, your colour’s coming back. Tell me when you feel like getting to your feet. There’s no hurry.’

‘Where is she? Where’s Celine?’

‘Gone upstairs, I think. A bit upset. Don’t worry about her. Don’t worry about anything. Do you feel like sitting in a chair now? That’s the way. I’ll get you a glass of water. If you feel faint again, put your head right down between your knees.’

When Jack leaves the room, I get to my feet, but have to sit down again very quickly. ‘I’ve never fainted before,’ I tell him when he comes back with the water.

‘Haven’t you? Well, you’re quite good for a beginner. Quite promising.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I was fetching something for Gwynn. He’s in my digs. They’ve had an almighty row, he and Mrs Morgan. I suppose you know. Do you feel like trying to walk, now?’

‘I didn’t know. He should have told me. He hasn’t spoken to me for days. I only heard about his medical from Mrs Lewis.’

‘Rhian, I don’t think you’re fit to walk home yet, I’ll phone for the station taxi.’

‘The taxi? Are you sure? Sam Jones will think I’ve been away for a dirty weekend... How long did you say Gwynn had been in your digs?’

‘Since Mrs Morgan got the letter. I’ll just go to make the phonecall.’

I follow him to the hall. ‘What letter? What do you mean?’

He orders the taxi before turning to me again. ‘You’ll have to ask Gwynn about it. I thought you knew.’

‘Please tell me, Jack. Gwynn hasn’t told me anything. I only came here because I was feeling so desperate. Jack, you must know how I feel about him. Take pity on me. Please tell me about this letter.’

‘Let’s go outside then and wait by the gate.’

He holds my arm as we negotiate the steps; I feel as weak and helpless as an old woman.

‘Do you remember writing Gwynn a note at the end of last term and asking Mali Vaughan to take it to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Apparently she didn’t know where to find him, and being more than a bit backward, she put it in her blazer pocket, hoping everyone would forget about it.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Her mother found it during the holidays, questioned her about it and in her great wisdom brought it up here last week.’

‘And Gwynn’s wife read it?’

‘And Gwynn’s wife read it. Yes.’

‘I think I’m going to faint again.’

‘No you’re not. Here’s the taxi, look.’

‘Whatever did the letter say? I can’t remember. “I’m sorry. All my love, Rhian.” Only that, I think. I can’t remember.’

‘Don’t rack your brains about it. I suppose Gwynn didn’t want to tell you, in case you’d feel guilty.’

‘I do feel guilty. Of course I feel guilty. It’s all my fault.’

The taxi driver, old Bert Owen, can hardly believe that he’s been called out to take us less than a quarter of a mile. To placate him, Jack spends the entire journey talking about the International they’d both been to at Twickenham in 1936.

‘No charge, mun,’ Bert tells him as we get to the house.

‘Have this for a drink, then.’

‘Are you sure now? Well, thank you, mun.’

What am I going to do? No wonder Gwynn isn’t talking to me. How could I have been so careless?

‘Jack, don’t come in,’ I say when I’ve unlocked the door. ‘Go back to Gwynn’s wife. Please. Tell her I’m ashamed of that letter. Tell her I admit to being in love with Gwynn, but that he’s not in love with me. That’s what she should know. That’s all she should be concerned about. Tell her he hasn’t been in touch with me for a whole week. Will you do that for me, Jack?’

‘She probably won’t let me tell her anything. She only let me in before so that I could see to you. She left you in a dead faint on the floor and rushed to the door as though she knew it would be someone with a First Aid diploma, Grade One.’

‘Oh Jack, you’re the only one who can help me. Please do this for me.’ The scent of lilac drifts down from next-door’s bush. There’s a blackbird somewhere singing his heart out. ‘Please.’

I lie down on the sofa, feeling faint again. There seems no way out of this mess. Gwynn has to leave home in less than two weeks... and how can he leave an estranged wife? I never wanted this to happen, I never wanted to endanger his twenty-year-old marriage and he never, for a moment, let me think that he would countenance it. He told me he loved Celine and that I was, what did he say, the object of his desire. And that was enough for me. How could I have written that silly, careless letter? How could I have sent it to him? Why didn’t I realise the danger when Gwynn told me he hadn’t received it? I suppose I took it for granted that it would turn up on his desk the next day and didn’t even take the trouble to check that it had. What can I do? What if Celine won’t see Jack?

There’s a knock on the door and I rush to answer it without even putting my shoes back on.

It’s the Head. Old Smiley himself. We look at each other warily. I have to ask him in.

‘Expecting someone?’ he asks as he follows me into the sitting room. He’s never seen me dressed-up before.

I shuffle into my shoes, pull my bag of books off the armchair and ask him to sit down.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he says. ‘I received a letter this afternoon from Mrs Gwynn Morgan and in it she enclosed the little note you’d written to her husband.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Of course.’

He gives me the note and one of his deadliest smiles. ‘Naturally I was aware that you and Mr Morgan were spending too much time together. I believe I warned you about it.’

‘Yes.’

I read the letter. ‘
I’m sorry for all the harsh things I said. You’re right, I am immature and over-emotional and too much in love and too fearful of your safety
.’

It’s more revealing than I’d remembered. I put it on the table between us and look up at him.

‘I must answer Mrs Morgan’s letter,’ he says. ‘What shall I tell her?’

I watch him looking round the room, taking in yesterday’s ashes in the grate, the dust and the clutter. Why should I help him with his reply?

‘Mr Morgan’s leaving school at the end of this week. May I assure his wife that you undertake not to...’

‘No. I’d rather you didn’t commit me in any way.’

Before he came, I’d felt totally in the wrong; now that Celine has made a move, and a rather spiteful and vindictive move at that, I feel altogether less remorse.

‘Mrs Evans, I can’t have insubordination from my staff.’

‘Mr Williams, I’m a loyal member of your staff. I’m a conscientious teacher and I get good results.’

‘I don’t deny it. But you also involve my pupils in your... in your love games.’

Mali Vaughan’s little face, her nervous eyes and blank expression, is suddenly before me.

‘I suppose I did. I’m very sorry about that. It shouldn’t have happened. It won’t happen again.’

The Head’s eyes are small and shifty, but certainly not stupid. He realises that he won’t get more out of me by heavy-handed tactics and I can see him deciding to shift gear.

‘Mr Morgan is an excellent art teacher, but as a member of staff he’s often been thoughtless and troublesome.’

I meet his eyes, steeling myself for the next gambit.

‘I have to tell you that he has repeatedly caused unrest amongst my young women teachers.’ He sounds so ridiculously pompous that I have to make an effort not to smile.

He realises that his thrust has missed. ‘And now his wife is... not so young,’ he says, in such a completely different voice that I feel wretched again, tears burning my eyes.

‘Mr Williams, I’ve already sent Mrs Morgan an apology. As you suggest, she must be used to young women falling in love with her husband. I’ve assured her that, in my case again, it’s completely unreciprocated.’

He looks hard at me for several moments. ‘Why couldn’t you have said so in the first place?’ he asks me, his voice still unrecognisably mild.

I take a deep breath. ‘I would have, if you’d spoken to me as you’re speaking to me now.’

His chest starts to rise again, but he seems to decide that it’s not worth the effort. He nods his head at me several times. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he says. I show him to the door and he leaves with another quick nod.

I have the feeling that he’s accepted me as a worthy adversary.

I stand for a while, my eyes closed, filling my lungs with the scent of next door’s lilac. If Sam Jones knew how much I was taking in he’d charge me for it. It’s beginning to rain. There’s no sign of either Jack or Ilona.

‘So that’s that,’ Ilona says later when I tell her all that’s happened.

‘Is it?’ I ask her. ‘Is that the end of it all?’

‘Well, he’s off to the army, isn’t he? I can’t think much else will happen before that. After two or three weeks he’ll write to you: a short, bitter-sweet letter. “So we’ll go no more a-roving.” That sort of thing.’

‘We didn’t even do much roving. I really wish we had... you know... since all this has happened. As it is, I feel I’m being hung, drawn and quartered for a lamb. For nothing. If you see Jack tonight, ask him whether he managed to talk to Celine... I don’t suppose he did or he’d have come back by this time.’

‘Sometimes I wonder whether it’s Gwynn or his wife you care most about. If Ifor’s wife tried to get me into trouble, I’d get someone to throw a brick through her window. Why are you so concerned about Celine? She’s had a good run for her money.’

‘Ilona, she’s getting old. She must be very nearly as old as my mother. I would have done anything in the world to avoid her getting hurt.’