The Ugliest House in the World, page 5
"And tomorrow?"
"Will take care of itself, no doubt."
The latch on the kitchen door clattered again and Dafydd burst in, breathless and red-faced. He stopped guiltily and looked at his parents.
"Holiday indeed," Catrin said. "Now I've three of you underfoot instead of one."
"That's easily fixed. I'll take this one down the beach," Thomas told her. To Dafydd he added, "Bring the bike round and fetch your football."
"Do you think the carter will come with the clock if it's a holiday?"
"Don't be daft. The rev can say what he likes about Christ hanging round Bethany since Ascension Day, but he can't declare a holiday for the whole county. Besides, for twelve guineas, Carter would be here on Judgment Day."
"Perhaps you should stay," she said. "You could be here to pay him yourself."
"Don't tell me you need help to spend money now."
"It's a lot of money."
"Make up your mind," he said. "You want me here, or you want me out from under your feet?" He looked hard at her for a moment. "Right. I'll take the boy now and I'll be back early. If I know Carter, he'll do his business in town and head up here last thing. That way he can have a few drinks without his missus knowing anything."
He could hear the boy bouncing the ball on the slate step outside and he gave her a brief kiss and whispered, "Cheer up. It's a holiday." She followed him to the door and watched him swing the boy onto the handlebars. He put the ball in his son's hands and, with one foot on a peddle, pushed the bike off. It wobbled a moment, picking up speed. Then he swung his other leg over the back wheel and settled himself in the saddle. Without looking back, he raised one hand to wave.
It usually took twenty minutes by bike to the beach at Dinas Dinlle, but today, with the crowds of men and boys on the road, it took almost forty. The brakes on the bike squeaked all the way. Halfway down, Thomas found the bowler on his head too hot in the sun and slipped it over his son's ears. From there it soon found its way onto the football, where Dafydd held it in place with his thumbs. Finally, on the stony Dinas beach, Thomas put a handful of smooth pebbles inside it to stop it rolling away in the breeze and sat down beside it.
Dafydd went off with the other lads and Thomas watched 123 Davies join them. Soon the big man was refereeing a game in the distance, the ball flying up erratically off the stones and the boys charging after it in their boots. By the water, a group of smaller children had two umbrellas open and upended in the shallows. They bobbed slowly down the shore. A couple of the men stood nearby in case one of the kids should fall, but otherwise they were all sitting or lying on the beach, in small groups or alone. Some had their shoes and socks off and were rolling up their breeches. A couple of the older men had knotted the corners of their handkerchiefs to put over their heads against the bright sun. Thomas found himself sitting cross-legged with a smooth stone in his hand. He hadn't even been aware of picking it up until he started bouncing it in his palm. It had a pleasing weight, and even when it slipped through his fingers and clacked against the other stones before him it made a soothing sound. He collected a handful of smaller stones and poured them from hand to hand, listening to the noise they made.
After a time he got to his feet and walked down to the shore. He tossed a stone a few more times in his hands and bent and flipped it, underarm, over the water. It skipped three times and then vanished with a small pop. He stooped and picked up another stone and sent that one skimming over the waves as well. Four skips. He began to walk along the water's edge with his head down, looking for smooth flat pebbles. Every time he found a good one he flipped it out across the water. Some promising ones he slipped in his trouser pockets.
123 fell into step beside him with a nod. When Thomas stopped next, the other man bent and skipped a stone six times, almost thirty yards out over the water. Thomas sent one after it, almost as far, but only five skips. Pretty soon they were sending stones one after another, and two or three other men walked down the sloping beach to join them. Some stood, barefoot, in the shallows, some on land. The group of them drifted slowly along the beach as they ran out of good stones in one place. Dafydd and the other boys came back and helped to collect more.
Once, one of the littler lads brought over a handful of shells instead of stones. 123 bent down to him with a smile. "What are these good for, then?" he said, and the child pressed one to his ear with a grin. He held out another to the big man, who laughed.
Thomas tired of the game soon enough, but sat close by to watch the others. 123 came over and squatted beside him.
"What's your best?"
"Twelve, I think. It gets hard to count at the end."
"Nine for me."
They were silent for a moment and Thomas could hear the clack of stones as the big man shifted his weight.
"How long do you think the strike'll last, then?" he said at length.
Thomas watched a miner bend his hips and send a stone skipping over the water.
"After this morning's performance?" he asked. The big man shrugged. "About as long as it does."
"I mean, you know Mair Morris and I are engaged, in a manner of speaking."
"You either are or you aren't, I'd say."
"Well, I've been saving up for us," his brother-in-law said. "I started off putting a bit by to take Mother to Rhyl for a holiday, but now she says she wants grandchildren, not a holiday. Not that she doesn't love your lads," he added quickly. "She just wants Tad's name to go on." He paused. "So how long do you think the strike fund will last?"
"'Bout as long as the strike. You know, if I were a bachelor, I shouldn't be in too much of a hurry to marry. You think it's hard work up on that rock pile."
"Ah, there's no romance in you old married blokes. What's a man without a wife, anyway? Hardly a man at all, as you might say. You've been spoiled is what. Having a good trade and being able to marry as young as you did. You never had to wait for nothing."
"Ha!"
"Well," 123 said at last, "I suppose it does no good worrying."
Thomas nodded slowly and stared out at the waves.
"Slates from here get shipped all over," he said. "Germany, America, India. What's the world going to do for a roof over its head without us?" He paused and looked across at the big man. "Mair Morris, eh?" He knew her slightly, her father, Cyril, being one of the oldest slate dressers in the quarry. "What's a lovely girl like that see in you?" The big man grinned. "Be all over by Christmas, you'll see. You can wait for it that long."
He took the chisel from his belt and dug it into the loose stones before him. Finding a promising one, he rested it on his thigh, placed the chisel against it, and began to tap it with another large stone for a mallet. 123 looked at his long fine fingers curled around the chisel and the stone.
"You'll never split that," he said. "That's granite, that is."
"I'm not trying," Thomas told him. "I just want the sound of it."
Before them, at the water's edge, a few of the men stopped their throwing and turned to look. Their arms cocked again and the stones skipped off the water.
It was past five o'clock when Thomas and Dafydd left the beach and it took almost an hour to push the bike all the way uphill to Bethany. Dafydd sat on the saddle and his father pushed. When they arrived it was close to Thomas's normal homecoming time and he felt almost as tired after the long climb from the coast as from a day at the quarry. He was thinking so hard about what to tell Catrin that he only realized in the fields below the town that his pockets were still filled with small stones from the beach and he emptied them at the side of the lane.
The cart was waiting in the street outside the house when they arrived. Thomas leaned the bike up against the wall and lifted Dafydd up to look. There was a coarse cloth made of half a dozen sacks sewn together, and when he turned it down they saw the grandfather clock, on its back, staring up at the sky. At first all Thomas saw was the reflection of clouds in the varnish and he had to shift his position to look at it properly. He pointed out for Dafydd the revolving panel set in the face, with the sun and moon painted in gold and silver, and the intricate carved scrollwork at the crown tapering away to a slender pinnacle. He ran his hand up it and let his finger rest for a moment on the point.
He whistled softly.
"There's lovely, eh?"
When they went inside, he found Carter sitting at the table drinking tea with Catrin.
"There he is," the man cried. "I was just telling your missus, Mr. Jones, that I'd have to be getting home soon."
Thomas nodded to his wife.
"Calm yourself, man. It's only just opening time now."
"I was beginning to think you'd had second thoughts."
"Why's that?"
"On account of the strike."
Thomas looked at him steadily.
"What strike is that, then? All this is is a holiday."
"I didn't mean anything by it," the carter said, getting to his feet. "You know your own business, of course, I'm sure."
"Right enough. Let's have a look at her, shall we?"
He watched the carter knock back his tea and move toward the door. Thomas was about to follow him when Catrin touched his arm.
"I'll just have a look at it and tell him I don't want it," she whispered. "Say I've changed my mind."
He couldn't look at her then. He just squeezed her hand.
"It's yours if you want it," he said gruffly, and he was glad when the carter shouted from the door, "Mr. Jones. Today, if you please."
"Righto."
They carried it like a long body between them from the cart to the gate, white-faced with the effort but saying nothing of it to each other. In the gateway, Thomas got down on his haunches and the carter began to tilt the clock to a standing position. Thomas pressed his cheek to the front panel and took the weight onto his fingertips. The wood felt slippery against his face, damp with sweat, and he could feel his fingers beginning to slide against the veneer. He shifted quickly to get a better grip and the clock lurched. The lock on the pendulum inside came unclasped and the street was suddenly filled with chimes. With his ear against the clock, it felt to Thomas as if the chimes were striking inside him, but he held steady, his heart racing at the thought of dropping the precious thing. He was dimly aware of people coming out along the street to see what the noise was and of Arthur burying himself in his mother's skirts at the sound, but for those moments until it rested on the slate of the path his whole world was the clock, its smoothness, its scent, and its ticking like blood in his ears.
"Here," he said to Arthur once he had caught his breath. "Come and listen to this." He gripped the boy's arm and pulled him to where Dafydd already had his ear pressed to the clock. He looked up, smiling, and saw Catrin's face. He reached up and took her hand and placed it on the door of the clock. "Feel that," he said. She ran her fingers over the surface lightly, but he placed his hand over hers and pressed it flat. She looked at him for a moment uncertainly and then she too felt the beat of the pendulum and she smiled at him. "It's beautiful," she said, and then frowned quickly, but he leaned across to her and whispered, "You want it. It's yours."
He looked up and saw the carter grinning broadly. Behind him their neighbors were looking on enviously. Thomas suddenly wanted to get rid of the man and to have his front door closed. He straightened up and nodded to the carter. "Shall we get her in then?" But Catrin was after whispering something to him and he turned back to her.
"Just as far as the hallway, mind."
"What?"
She pulled him aside.
"Just let him bring it as far as the hallway. You and Dafydd can manage it from there."
"It's as big as Goliath's coffin and as heavy as if he was in there himself. Why shouldn't he help me with it into the parlor?"
She leaned against him and put her mouth to his ear.
"Look at his shoes," she said. "He's around that horse of his all day long."
"Well, we'll get him to take them off."
"No! I'm not having that man's naked socks in my house. He's not setting foot in my parlor and neither are you for that matter, all hot and sweaty in your dusty, salty clothes."
He looked at her in disbelief.
"Go on. If you're doing it for me, do it my way."
He turned back to the carter, shaking his head like a dog.
When they'd got the clock inside the front door, he motioned the other man to follow him and the two of them squeezed down the hall into the kitchen. Dafydd heard the clank of the big biscuit tin kept on the top shelf of the larder and Catrin had to put a hand on his shoulder to stop him chasing after his father. In a moment the two men, silent now, came out again. She watched them shake hands in the street. "Remember," the carter was saying, "wind every week, oil every month, and she'll never lose a minute. And mind you boys don't run or jump anywhere near her." He nodded toward Catrin, said, "Mrs. Jones," and led his horse away up the street.
Her husband came back to her.
"All right?" she said.
"All done." He smiled so that she would know that he felt fine about giving up the money, although as he stood in the street now he felt light, as if he might float into the sky at any minute. He wanted to look up the street after the carter, but he closed the door. He stared at the clock, and in the gloom of the hall it looked so much heavier than him. He wondered how he would ever lift it.
"So what do you think of your mam's new toy, lads?" he said.
"Great," Dafydd said.
"What about you, Arthur?" But the little boy kept his eyes on the clock and wouldn't look at his father.
"He's not talking to you," Dafydd explained.
"How's that?"
"Because we didn't take him to the beach."
Thomas looked at Catrin. "I tried to explain," she said.
"Haven't we been through this before?" Thomas asked, squatting down to Arthur's level. "%u're too big to fit on the bike with Dafydd. I have to take you in turns. It'll be your turn next time. Besides, someone had to stay home with your mother."
Arthur looked at his shoes and pressed closer against his mother. Thomas sighed.
"All right," he said. "Who's for marbles?"
"What about my clock?"
"It's not going anywhere, believe me." He pushed past her toward the kitchen.
They followed him and watched him reach into the pantry for the pail he kept his beer in. There were three bottles bobbing in the cold water, one higher than the others. Thomas pulled out the half-empty one. He swilled the beer around, making the round glass stopper trapped in the neck of the bottle clatter. Then he took a swig. The marble allowed just a mouthful into the neck and then, as he tipped his head back, it fell down, blocking the neck where the glass was pinched, stopping the beer. It took four tips to drain it.
"Very nice," Thomas said, wiping his lips with the back of his hands. Then he got to his feet and stepped into the yard. "Keep back," he told the boys, and he tapped the bottle gently on a stone by the door until it cracked and the marble rolled out. He held it up between his fingers and squinted through it in the evening sun. "Should make a good shooter." He held it out to Arthur. "Quits?" he said. "Friends again?" The little boy nodded solemnly and his father put the marble in his hand. "Go off and see if you can't beat your brother with it."
When he went back in the kitchen, Catrin was filling the washbowl from the bedroom for him, and he followed her upstairs with it. He heard the water slap in the basin and he watched her body move as she carried it before him. She set it on the stand, and he pulled off his shirt and soaped his body while she laid out his Sunday best.
"What about you?" he said when he was finished, and she said, "Help me, then." He went to her and unfastened the buttons of her dress when she turned her back to him.
"Are you pleased with it?" he asked.
"Oh yes," she said. "It looks even finer than in the shop. You're sure you don't mind about it?"
"What's to mind? This is what we've been saving for. No reason we should change our plans." He pulled the dress down off her shoulders.
"How long do you think the strike will last?"
"We'll be back tomorrow. Fellas like me can't take two days of sunshine in a row. It's not healthy. We want to get back underground." He cupped her breasts in his hands and kissed her neck. His hands pushed the dress down to her hips.
"I have to wash," she said.
"You will have to."
"Not now."
"They're happy playing downstairs for once. Come on.
"It's too risky. It's not a good time."
"It's never a good time."
"No," she said. "No. You know we couldn't afford another one now."
He let his hands lie still on her for a moment. His face hardened and he turned away and began to pull on his suit so roughly she feared for the stitching.
"You can't predict," she said as she bent over the basin. "It's not worth the risk. What if this strike goes on longer? You just can't tell."
They came down together in silence, she in her best black dress with the shawl and he in his frock coat and best linen with the new collar cutting into his neck. They were dressed for chapel, which was the only way anyone was allowed into Catrin's parlor.
It was the front room of the house, visible from the street, and as in every house in town it was the show room. The boys stood ready to feast their eyes when their mother opened the door. There was the huge dresser with the best china service stacked high on its shelves. There was the embroidered firescreen with the peacock design that lit up as if it were alive when the fire was going behind it. There were the firm horsehair armchairs and chaise, with the velour covering and the antimacassars draped over the backs and the arms like spiderwebs. And finally, there on the small round table at the window was the glass bell with the stuffed weasel rearing up inside it—their mother's pride and joy. Ever since Mrs. Roberts had started the vogue for such things with her little stuffed canary, no parlor in town was complete without a mounted bird or a rabbit or a fish. The boys were entranced by the weasel, with its bared teeth and glinting glass eyes. They half believed that it, and not their mother at all, would tear them limb from limb if they ever set foot in the parlor without shined shoes.
