The Oyster Catchers (35 page)

‘I expect I’ll give Geoffrey a son and heir in my own good time,’ Sarah continued, ‘keep him and the old man happy, then I can have anything I want.’

‘Just be careful,’ Emily said, ‘there’s something about Geoffrey that I can’t quite fathom, I don’t know what it is.’

‘I’ll fathom him, all right,’ Sarah said smiling. ‘Keep a man happy between the sheets and that’s all that’s required.’

‘If you really believe that then I’m sorry for you,’ Emily spoke quite sharply, ‘it means you haven’t had any decent men in your life.’

Sarah felt a flash of annoyance, Emily spoke as though she was much older and wiser than Sarah, but really there wasn’t a big age difference between them.

‘I have enjoyed my life,’ Sarah said, ‘well, parts of it anyway, but now I’m taking your advice and settling down to a good marriage. That
is
what you advised me to do, wasn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ Emily said and then lapsed into silence until the menfolk entered the room. Sarah couldn’t understand Emily, she came alive when John Miller was around and yet to Sarah, John was an old man, but she supposed she could only see him as her father not as a handsome, attractive man.

Geoffrey came to her and took her hands in his. ‘I want to set the date of our wedding,’ he said happily. ‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife as soon as possible.’

‘Of course I will, my darling,’ Sarah said smiling around her. ‘I’m greatly honoured by your proposal and I want nothing more than to make you happy.’ She seemed to have made the correct response because Geoffrey produced a box from his pocket with the air of a magician producing a white rabbit from a hat.

But when Sarah opened the velvet box, her amusement vanished for nestling in the plush interior was a ring with the most gorgeous square-cut emerald surrounded by twelve perfect diamonds.

‘Geoffrey, how wonderful,’ she breathed. He looked down at her with pride.

‘It was my mother’s,’ he said softly and, taking the ring from the case, slipped it on to her finger where it sparkled and gleamed, the dark green of the emerald fired by the surrounding diamonds. Sarah allowed herself a smile, she was going to enjoy being Mrs Geoffrey Frogmore very much.

Fon couldn’t believe how lonely the farm was without Katherine. She devoted her time to looking after Patrick who was growing bigger and stronger by the day and Fon felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that Katherine would have been happy at the way her son continued to thrive.

Jamie was another matter; he was unable to eat or sleep and was distraught almost to the point of giving up everything he had worked for at Honey’s Farm. Fon, coming upon him one night with his head sunken on his chest, the books unopened before him on the table, suddenly remembered the letter Katherine had given her before she died.

Rubbing at his haunted eyes with shaking fingers, Jamie looked up at her.

‘I can’t do nothing right, Fon, not without my Katherine, I can’t.’

Fon moved quietly towards him and held up the letter. It trembled between her fingers and Fon’s mouth was suddenly dry with apprehension. What would Katherine have written? How would it change her life? For change her life it would, Fon felt certain of that.

‘Take it,’ she urged, ‘Katherine said we were to read it when … when she was gone. Open it, Jamie, please, for I can’t.’

He tore it open eagerly, like a man dying of thirst in the desert, anxious for anything at all that was part of his wife. He read in silence and then looking up at Fon as though he had never seen her before, he handed her the letter.

My dearest Jamie and my dear Fon, I know you must grieve when I’m gone from you at last but I don’t want you to be unhappy for too long, remember, I will be at peace. What I want is for you, Jamie, my beloved, to marry Fon. This is the plan I formed from the beginning. This is why I was so fussy about the girl I chose to come and help on the farm and this is why I encouraged you both to be together so much.

I know this will be a shock to you both, but you must realize, Fon, that as a single girl you can not stay indefinitely at the farm with Jamie, it would not be seemly. And Jamie, to be practical, you can not manage alone.

My darling baby loves you, Fon, you have become his mother and this, too, was part of my plan. I cannot write any more, but my last words to you are that you must look after each other and you’ll see that love will come in time.

God bless you both,

Katherine.

Fon found that she was crying, tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and into her mouth. She sank down at the table and put her head into her hands and the sobs shook her so that she was crying out loud.

After a moment, Jamie took her in his arms, he held her tenderly. They clung together for a long time bound by their grief. There was no passion in Jamie’s touch and Fon was glad because passion would have frightened her.

‘We both loved her so much,’ he said at last, ‘that we can’t think straight, not yet at least but perhaps, in time.’ He moved a damp curl away from Fon’s cheek and released her.

Carefully, he folded her letter and placed it in the satin-lined box where he kept his private papers.

‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ he said softly and though
his voice was hoarse, there was an edge of something in it that Fon recognized in herself, it was a feeling of hope that the future, after all, was not going to be entirely bleak.

Eline was seated at the desk in her brand-new office at the back of Salubrious Passage which was a narrow alleyway between two buildings with an arched gas-light over the front.

The building was not quite what she had in mind but she had learned that premises were not easily come by. It was only because of an introduction to the landlord by Hari Grenfell that Eline was given the opportunity to rent the place at all and at least there was a big window shedding in some much-needed light.

She had placed her drawing board under the window and had a new sign painted on a board outside which stated:
ELINE HARRIES BOOT AND SHOE ARTIST.

She smiled to herself. The only order she’d had was one for a painting of a fine old house on the slopes of Kilvey Hill. It was apparent to her at once that the word
ARTIST
was being taken literally.

Still, she had accepted the commission given to her by a gentleman called Mr Frogmore who, it seemed, had bought Kilver House for his son who was about to get married. He had not told her a great deal about himself but it was clear that he was a gentleman of means by his dress and his manner and the courteous way he had given her the address of Kilver House and told her to bill him for all travelling expenses as well as for the painting itself.

As for designs for leatherwear, Eline had been given nothing to do whatsoever except for the work Emily Miller and Hari Grenfell put her way. Eline had decided, however, that along with the cuffed boot she would design matching kid gloves, a plan of which Emily heartedly approved.

She sighed; she missed seeing Will so badly that it was like a pain within her, a pain, she assured herself, that would fade in time. She had once caught sight of him through the window of his shop but, although she thought that their eyes had met, he had turned away without any sign of recognition.

She rose from her desk. It was a fine day, an unusual day when the early December sun was shining with cool clarity, bathing the roof of the building opposite in a mellow glow. Outside in Salubrious Passage, a group of ladies walked by, not noticing Eline’s office at all. She felt disappointed. She certainly wouldn’t make any sort of living for herself this way.

She packed up her coloured chalks and decided to take a walk up to Kilver House, the exercise would do her good and anything was better than sitting twiddling her thumbs.

Outside, it was colder than she had realized and she pulled a woollen scarf around her neck, glad of its warmth. But after walking briskly for half an hour, she loosened the scarf and breathed deeply, glad of the coolness on her hot cheeks.

Kilver House was much further than she had anticipated and when her legs began to ache, she told herself sternly that she was getting soft.

The gently sloping hill of Kilvey was almost barren with stunted unhealthy grass growing in patches like a man going bald. Here and there a camomile flowered but the flowers were bleached white by the fumes from the copper works spread out below her on the banks of the River Tawe.

Kilver House, when at last it came into view, was settled against the fold of the hill. It was a large house with many windows and built of mellow stone that appeared sun-bathed although it stood in the shade of the hillside.

Eline moved up to peer through the windows. The
house seemed unoccupied, no flames glowed in the marbled, ornate fireplace and there was no sign of movement. Still that would make no different to Eline, she was to draw the outside.

She chose a hillock on which she could sit comfortably with her pad on her knee and began to work swiftly with her crayons. The house had good, well-balanced lines and yet the crenellated effect of the end walls gave it the appearance of a small castle.

Eline soon forgot the cold air upon which her breath hung in tiny puffs and although the fingers holding the crayons were blue, she was engrossed in her work, so much so that she didn’t notice a carriage draw up at the end of the driveway and a group of figures alight.

She looked up startled when a hand touched her shoulder, only to see old Mr Frogmore smiling down at her in approval.

‘Dedicated to your work, I see, Mrs Harries.’ He smiled warmly and peered over her shoulder. ‘Excellent, you have caught the spirit of Kilver House and of the hillside behind it very well indeed. I congratulate you.’

‘Let me see.’ The young, feminine voice was familiar, But the light was in Eline’s eyes as the woman bent forward. ‘Very good, I like it.’

Eline rose to her feet, not enjoying having her half-finished work poured over by curious eyes. Then she recognized Sarah Miller, she was clinging to the arm of a young man, looking like the cat that had stolen the cream.

‘This is my son, Geoffrey Frogmore,’ old Mr Frogmore said politely, ‘and his wife-to-be, Sarah Miller.’

Eline mumbled something polite but non-committal and Sarah smiled at her in an infuriatingly patronizing manner.

‘Oh, I recognize you, of course, you used to work the oyster beds, didn’t you?’ Her remark was apparently innocent but it put Eline at a disadvantage inferring that
she had come up from humble origins and had set herself up as an artist.

‘My husband was the master of two oyster skiffs, yes,’ Eline said, ‘but unfortunately Joe was hurt in an accident at sea and now I do my best to make an honest living.’

‘Laudable indeed,’ old Mr Frogmore said heartily, ‘and a very talented artist you are. If I can recommend you to any of my aquaintances then I will, my dear.’

Far from harming her image, Eline thought in satisfaction, Sarah’s spitefulness had enhanced it, at least in Mr Frogmore’s eyes.

‘Come along,’ Sarah said, gazing up at Geoffrey Frogmore, ‘let’s step inside and see our beautiful home at close quarters, shall we?’

Mr Frogmore smiled at Eline. ‘Please accompany us, my dear and then perhaps I might offer you a ride back into Oystermouth.’

Eline packed up her crayons, she was too cold to work any longer and, in any case, the temptation of not having to walk all the way home was too much to resist. It was even worth enduring Sarah Miller’s smug satisfaction at her rise into wealthy society so long as she could sink back into the warmth and comfort of the gracious carriage that waited at the end of the drive.

Following the little trio, Eline smiled to herself. Sarah’s efforts to embarrass her had come to nought, but Sarah, it seemed, was about to make up for it by rubbing in the fruits of her good fortune.

As Christmas drew nearer, Fon, though settling into the routine of the farm without Katherine, began to feel despair at Jamie’s continued gloom. Katherine’s letter, initially, had seemed to make him content, if not happy, but lately, he had become quiet and morose again.

Fon made paper chains to amuse Patrick and hung them around the walls. She decorated the mirrors with holly, the polished leaves and bright berries making a
colourful splash against the drabness of the walls that badly needed repainting.

She knitted Jamie a thick wool scarf and wrapped it in bright paper and spent hours in the kitchen baking pies and boiling puddings so that the house was redolent with the smell of fruit. But still Jamie moved about the place as though he himself had died and become a ghost.

The day before Christmas Eve, Fon made the journey home to Oystermouth to see her mother. She had accumulated a clutch of small presents, embroidered handkerchiefs for Sal and Gwyneth and some stockings she’d bought for Mam while she’d still been receiving wages. Since Katherine’s death, Fon hadn’t the heart to remind Jamie she’d not been paid.

The little house was empty; the fire was laid, the floors swept but there was no sign anywhere of the Christmas festivities.

Fon searched for some newspaper and cut it up into strips pasting the edges together with flour and water. Outside was a hedge of holly from which she cut some sprigs and hung them over the dour old pictures in her mother’s kitchen.

She waited about an hour and then made her way reluctantly to Joe’s house further along the village street. Fon heartily disapproved of Joe Harries, he had treated her mother shabbily enough in all conscience, but now that he was confined to his bed it wasn’t Christian to bear a grudge.

A greatly different picture to that in Mam’s own kitchen met Fon’s eyes as she stood in the doorway of Joe Harries’s house. Cheerful flames roared up the chimney, flickering through the black-leaded bars of the fireplace and crackling with the scent of apple boughs.

The succulent smell of roasting meat and the sound of it spitting in the dish made her realize how hungry she was. A huge plum pudding stood on the table, still
steaming from the pot, and Joe and Mam were seated side by side drinking a glass of port.