Make Room for the Jester (17 page)

‘Ha, ha,’ said the Minister, still holding his hands to the fire.

‘A. H., a prayer if you please.’

‘Of course,’ said the Minister, ‘a lovely idea.’

He turned to face us, smiling still, then he clasped his hands and closed his eyes. Mrs Meirion-Pughe immediately fell to her knees. Capel Mawr knew her as a great prayer at all the meetings. She always took a long time at it, and always became very emotional, and wept.

‘Our Father,’ said the Minister. I looked across at Gladstone. He winked at me then lowered his head. His eyes weren’t closed, though. He was watching the
broad-shouldered
, kneeling woman, and his face looked very sad. ‘Guide us in all our ways about the world,’ said the Minister. ‘Let us always do that which is right in your eyes….’ He didn’t say anything after that for what seemed a long time, then he said ‘Amen’.

Mrs Meirion-Pughe came floundering up to her full
height. Only Gladstone was taller than she, but since he was so thin she seemed to dwarf him, too. ‘Very short, A. H.,’ she said, ‘But down to business, eh?’

‘Ha, ha,’ said the Minister. ‘Yes, of course.’ And he sat on the chair nearest the fire. He held his hands out to the blaze again and said what a night, what a dreadful herald of a long winter.

Mrs Meirion-Pughe sniffed very loudly, then fixed her eyes on me. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are in the way.’ She was well known for her directness. ‘Don’t live here, do you?’ Close to, like this, I could see the thin, black moustache running across her upper lip. It fascinated me.

‘Matriculated,’ the Minister said to the fire. ‘A brilliant brain.’

‘Why don’t you run along and see if your mother wants you?’ Mrs Meirion-Pughe suggested. ‘We have important things to discuss.’

‘Then Lew will have to stay,’ Gladstone broke in. ‘If anybody likes a discussion, it’s Lew. He’s got a flair for it – especially on theological themes.’

‘Cut along, boy,’ Mrs Meirion-Pughe commanded.

‘You should hear him on the Prophet Jeremiah,’ Gladstone went on. ‘And I’ve always thought he has a real feeling for the Song of Songs, which is the “Song of Solomon”.’

Mrs Meirion-Pughe swung round on him. ‘You mind your tongue, boy,’ she said very fiercely, but very quietly.

‘Sorry,’ Gladstone said, ‘thought you’d come over for a little discussion on such matters.’

‘We’ll tell you why we’ve come – soon enough. As soon as this little boy has gone home to his mother.’

‘Matriculated,’ the Minister said to the fire, ‘done
very
well.’

‘And he’s not going home,’ Gladstone said flatly. ‘Lew stays. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of him. He’s the soul of discretion. In fact, he was christened Lew Discretion Morgan – though he rarely uses his middle name, for reasons that will no doubt be obvi…’

‘Enough!’ Mrs Meirion-Pughe roared. ‘Quite enough of your cheek!’ Her nose twitched angrily. ‘So – you do realise, Gladstone Williams, that it is time someone spoke to you?’

‘I only assumed you’d come to talk,’ Gladstone said. ‘I could be wrong. After all – neither of you has been farther than the doorstep before…’

Mrs Meirion-Pughe reared up, almost the way swans do, except that swans are more graceful. ‘
Watch your tongue
, boy,’ she warned in a hollow voice. ‘That tongue of yours will get you into serious trouble…’

‘Impossible to see everybody,’ the Minister protested. ‘Many sheep in my flock…’

‘How true,’ Gladstone said, and I feared for him. These two weren’t like Gwynfor Roberts’ mother and father up there on the Hill.

‘Beautifully put, A. H.,’ said Mrs Meirion-Pughe, but there was a bit of irony creeping up on her, too, when she added, ‘Perhaps you’d like me to begin?’

‘Well – perhaps – yes.’ The Minister gave her a little wave.

‘I know,’ Gladstone said, ‘you’ve come to give me a row because I got up at the inquest, because I spoke to the crowd from off the police station wall, and because I got my picture in the paper. Is that right?’

‘Not a row,’ the Minister broke in. ‘No, no – we are not the police force, are we, Mrs Meirion-Pughe?’

‘The police force came this morning,’ Gladstone said. ‘They suggested the British Army as a way to salvation. What do you recommend?’

Oh, careful, careful, I thought.

‘Gladstone,’ said the Minister reprovingly.

‘Gladstone Williams!’ barked Mrs Meirion-Pughe.

Ever since that night at the Band of Hope when Gladstone had done his sermon on the Parable of the Sower – using real grass seed which he cast over the children – Mrs Meirion-Pughe had watched him very carefully.

‘Blasphemer!’ she cried. ‘Sacrilegious fool! Son of darkness! Wicked, wicked boy!’

‘Mrs Meirion-Pughe,’ the Minister protested, ‘steady!’ Then he spoke to Gladstone, but his eyes were fearfully on the woman all the time. ‘We’ve come for a chat – just a little chat, that’s all…’

‘Come to tell him in the sight of God to mend his ways,’ she broke in harshly. ‘Come to tell him to have no farther association with men of evil character, men who can pervert the mind, twist the soul…’

‘Dead men,’ Gladstone said.

Mrs Meirion-Pughe had started to froth a little at the mouth. ‘One of them,’ she cried in a strange, high voice, ‘dead by his own brother’s hand. The other one a murderer. Does that mean nothing to you?’

‘A dead murderer,’ Gladstone said.

Mrs Meirion-Pughe leaned forward, her face very close to Gladstone’s. ‘Death excuses everything, is that right? You silly boy! You’ve spent the summer in the company of
murderers! You’ve made yourself a party to their evil ways. You’ve been their servant, their tool – the tool of sinful men. They’ve
used
you! And now you’ve brought shame on your Chapel by making an
exhibition
of yourself – walking at their funeral, interrupting the processes of the law,
posing
for that picture…’

‘That,’ Gladstone said flatly, ‘I didn’t do…’

‘Posed for it,’ she insisted. ‘Trying to be smart. You always try to be so smart, don’t you? Foolish, foolish boy!’ Her voice dropped now to a curious, flat monotone, her eyes were closed, and the saliva ran from the corners of her mouth. ‘Without shame,’ she went on, ‘corrupt, without fundamental decency. You have chosen the ways of darkness – scoffer, blasphemer, sinner that you are…. Your mind is warped….’

‘Steady now, Mrs Meirion-Pughe,’ the Minister said. ‘Oh, steady, steady…’

I looked at Gladstone as she continued. Her long beak was barely six inches from his averted face. ‘It’s a stony road you’re on,’ she said, ‘and all is black around you.’ Gladstone’s mouth was clenched tight. ‘The night is dark and you are far from home – and there is nothing, nothing to guide you, except for one, small light up there on the hill…. Do you see it, foolish boy? Answer me – do you see it?’ I knew by Gladstone’s eyes, by the movement of muscle in his throat, that he was inwardly convulsed with laughter. ‘The one solitary light that can save you….’ Her hand came up in a dramatic wave, and Gladstone had to move his head to avoid it…. ‘See it? See it now? That one small light on the hill? Do you know what it is? Do you, foolish boy? Answer me! Answer!’

Gladstone swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t pose for the picture,’ he said, and had to clamp his mouth tight again to stop the laughter.

Mrs Meirion-Pughe stepped back from him. ‘Well, you
stupid
boy! You silly, stupid boy,’ she said. ‘You must be blind!’

‘Not blind,’ Gladstone said. ‘Simply in the kitchen of our house, with the electric burning up the meter…. And stop calling me stupid….’

Mrs Meirion-Pughe swung round on the Minister. ‘Speak to him,’ she commanded. ‘Can’t you see how far gone he is?’

The Rev A. H. Jones clasped and unclasped his hands, got up and sat down again. ‘Well – yes. Yes. Ha, ha!’

Mrs Meirion-Pughe glared at him, then advanced towards Gladstone again. ‘Since no one else will speak to you, Gladstone Williams, then I shall. Answer me a few simple questions, please. Now – do you know the difference between Right and Wrong? Do you?’

Gladstone looked bewildered. ‘On a Sunday-school level, do you mean? I mean, are we talking about basic right and wrong, or what is right and wrong for the world around us?’

‘Did you hear that?’ Mrs Meirion-Pughe flung the question at the Minister. ‘Boy,’ she said, ‘boy – answer me this. You do know that there is Good and Bad in the world, don’t you?’

Gladstone nodded very emphatically.

‘And you realise that in the words of our Lord Jesus Christ we are told to cast aside the Bad and clasp our arms tight around the Good?’ She hugged herself to illustrate the point.

‘Mrs Meirion-Pughe,’ Gladstone said gently, ‘they were both good men. I only spoke up at the inquest…’

‘Good men?’ she cried. ‘A murderer! Is a murderer a good man, boy?’

Gladstone sighed. ‘It’s possible…’

Mrs Meirion-Pughe seemed to do a kind of dance of rage. ‘What are you saying, boy? You’ve been baptised, haven’t you? Been received in as a full member of the House of God? Been taught in Sunday school, if nowhere else, that we must live by the principles He laid down, He who died for us….’

‘The pity of it,’ Gladstone said. He was very serious now. ‘That is the pity of it…. The poor man…’

Mrs Meirion-Pughe flailed her arms. She was as near to being out of control as she ever would be. ‘What did you say?’ she cried in a voice that wasn’t far off a scream.

‘Softly, if you please,’ Gladstone said. ‘You’ll waken the children.’

‘Blasphemy!’ she cried out.

‘No, no, no,’ said Gladstone. ‘It’s just that you’re approaching things wrongly…’

She leapt at him and seized him by the shoulders. ‘Blasphemer!’ she cried. Her mouth was wet with spit, and the spit came as she talked, too. Her eyes were wide and glaring, like the eyes in the Boris Karloff films at the Palace. I felt I ought to be afraid, but this wasn’t the pictures: this was real.

‘Where is your mother?’ she cried.

‘Stop it,’ Gladstone said. ‘Stop it!’ She was a powerful woman, and was rocking him none too gently.

‘Where is your mother?’

‘Steady, steady,’ the Rev A. H. Jones said.

‘At the Harp, waiting on,’ said Gladstone. ‘Give over!’

‘Waiting on!’ Mrs Meirion-Pughe shrieked. ‘Consorting with drunken, lustful men!’

‘Quite so,’ Gladstone said. ‘She’s a very sensitive person who needs love…. Now, give over!’

He shook her hands away. ‘
You
need beating,’ she said. ‘You need beating until you are senseless. The Evil needs beating out of you!’ She charged back at him, then with a terrible swiftness struck him across the cheek. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was loud.

The Minister leapt up. ‘Mrs Meirion-Pughe,’ he called. He pulled her away from Gladstone. ‘What are you doing, my dear woman? You mustn’t strike the boy.’

She was beyond control. ‘Must beat the Evil out of him,’ she was saying. ‘Beat him and pray for him… I’ll pray for him. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll pray. She fell to her knees, hands clasped, head lowered.

The Rev A. H. Jones looked down at her, and the distaste was obvious in his face. ‘Mrs Meirion-Pughe,’ he said softly, but very distinctly, ‘get up, woman!’

Her head snapped back so sharply that her hat fell off. She unclasped her hands, then picked up her hat. With a terrible, menacing slowness she got to her feet, and with the stiffness of a soldier turned to face the Minister. Her chin stood out, hard, rock-like, and above it the long beak quivered, examining the air.

‘Were you speaking to me, A. H.?’ she asked in a frozen voice.

The Minister’s hands fluttered. ‘Now, now, Mrs Meirion-Pughe, please…’ He was trying to take her arm –
he always liked holding on to people when he talked to them – but she was rigid and unyielding.

‘I asked you a question,’ she said. ‘Were you speaking to me?’

The Rev A. H. Jones was hopping nervously from foot to foot. ‘I did – ha, ha – well, I did speak to you, certainly…’

‘In
that
tone of voice?’ She was a good two feet taller than him, and she hung over him, somehow, as if preparing for the pounce. ‘Whilst you have been
warming
your hands at the fire I have been doing your work.’

‘I was going to…’ the Minister mumbled.

‘Exactly!’ she cried. ‘Going to. But
when
? Tell me
when
?’

‘Now then, Mrs Meirion-Pughe, ha, ha,’ was all he could say.

‘I saw it as our duty,’ she went on, ‘to come here on this dreadful night to try and show this misguided youth – get me my cloak, Gladstone Williams – point out the path of righteousness’

‘Quite so, Mrs Meirion-Pughe. I was going…’

‘But what
did
you do?’ she went on, and it wasn’t really a question at all. ‘You made yourself comfortable. We can be
too
comfortable, can’t we?’ She snatched her cloak from Gladstone’s hands and swung it over her shoulders. ‘You warmed yourself by the fire,’ she said as she rapidly buttoned the cloak all the way down: it nearly reached the floor. ‘Warmed yourself,’ she said again as she stamped to the door. ‘What does self-denial mean, I wonder?’ Then, before she went on, she delivered the parting shot. ‘I shall see you again, my boy.’ This was to Gladstone, but she used exactly the same tone when she
said to the Minister, ‘I shall call a meeting of the deacons in the morning. I shall make a full report.’

As the door closed, the Minister sat down with a thump. He remained there for some time without speaking, his hands tightly clenched in his lap. Gladstone and I looked at each other: we were both sorry for him.

‘Cup of tea?’ Gladstone suggested, but the Minister was too stunned to hear.

Then, suddenly, he was on his feet. ‘I must go,’ he said as he clamped his hat on his head. He bounced across the room to the door. ‘Think about it, Gladstone. Think about what the good lady said,’ he cried. He kept his back to us. ‘I must go.’ He opened the door. ‘A terrible night, terrible…’ And he was off into the street.

Gladstone went to the door and closed it. When he came back to the fire he had a smile on his face which I took to mean that we were going to discuss his visitors.

‘She’s a religious maniac,’ I said.