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Authors: Iris Gower

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BOOK: Honey's Farm
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‘Nothing, it's quite all right – please, enjoy the exhibition, Mr Temple.' To her own ears, Eline's words seemed garbled. Calvin took her arm and led her outside to where the sweet, salt air drifted in from the incoming tide.

‘I think it best you have time to compose yourself, Mrs Harries,' Calvin said calmly. ‘It's clear that . . . that person – I won't call him a gentleman – has upset you. Is there anything I can do?'

‘No!' Eline said abruptly, and then added a lame ‘Thank you.' She was aware that she was making a conscious effort to smile. ‘I'm sorry for my rudeness, but today, it seems, I have the knack of doing and saying the wrong thing to everyone, including my fiancé.'

‘Your fiancé, I see.' Calvin Temple smiled ruefully. ‘I am destined to be pipped at the post in the matters of the heart. My loss, I'm afraid. Still, is there anything I can do?'

Not at all annoyed by the question, Eline felt it would be a relief to confide in him. Calvin Temple seemed wise beyond his years.

She sighed. ‘Will's business must close; it's a touchy time for him, and I'm afraid I'm only making things worse for him by being downright hurtful.'

‘By being successful, perhaps,' Calvin said smoothly. ‘That can be hard for any man to take.'

‘Well, no, he doesn't begrudge my success, not really,' Eline said softly. ‘I was angry with him and so I was cruel, rubbing salt into his wounds. I'm not surprised he walked away from me.'

‘We all say things we don't mean, sometimes. I'm sure your fiancé has far too much sense to take any notice of words spoken in anger.'

Eline only wished she felt as confident, but the pain in Will's eyes told her she wouldn't be forgiven so easily.

‘Come back inside,' Eline said, smiling up at Calvin, grateful for his sympathy. ‘I might have made some more sales by now, who knows?'

She cast one long last look down the street, her eyes aching to see the tall upright figure of the man she loved; but the roadway was empty. Sighing, Eline went into the noise and laughter of the gallery.

A week had passed, a long, endless week of long days and even longer nights with no word from Will. Eline stared round the gallery. It was almost empty now of paintings, but then the exhibition had gone well since that very first night, the night she had inflicted such a wound on the man she loved that he obviously found it difficult to forgive her.

She had gone over her words a thousand times, and each time they seemed more harsh and cruel than when she'd spoken them; and though her heart seemed to be breaking in two, and she longed to speak to him, to apologize abjectly for her words, she was too proud to go into Swansea looking for him.

And yet, she reasoned, wasn't it up to her to make the first move? It was she who had uttered the awful words that had driven him away, wounding words telling him that he was a failure. She hadn't meant to sound like that, a woman crowing at her own success; but anger had tipped her tongue with barbs, and they had struck home.

Eline forced herself to concentrate on the task before her. She took one of the few paintings left and moved it from its place on the wall. With her head on one side, she stood it on the easel in the window.

The painting was one of her own, a seascape that captured Mumbles Head rising like a mythical island from the mists. It was a good picture, and she knew it. Perhaps not technically faultless, but the mood evoked by the sky and sea blending in shades of grey and violet gave it the atmosphere of a fairy-tale world, a place of mystery, but also a place of peace. But Eline knew no peace, had known none since the day Will had walked away from her.

She made up her mind quite suddenly. Damn her pride! She would close the gallery and go up to Swansea and face him, apologize on bended knee if need be, beg his forgiveness. She would find him easily enough; he would have gone to Hari Grenfell's house, where else?

Eline took off her apron and wiped her hands on the starched linen almost absent-mindedly. What would she say to Will? Would he even see her? For a moment, her courage failed. What if he'd left instructions that he was not to be bothered?

She must try. It was no good sitting still allowing the bitterness between them to go unresolved. So Eline brushed back her hair, tucking the stray curls into the confining pins, and, after a moment's hesitation, she let herself out of the gallery into the warm sunshine of the day.

The Mumbles train was crowded. Men in tall hats and women in wide-skirted frocks laughed and chattered together as though life was one long holiday. And so it was for some, Eline mused. The rich of Swansea could spend the day at the seaside in Mumbles eating oysters, drinking dandelion cordial, without a care as to where the next penny was coming from. For people like her and like Will, life was a struggle to survive.

For a moment, anger bit at her with sharp teeth. Will thought he was so hard done by; losing his business was a blow, of course it was, but he was young and strong, he had advantages that she'd never had – the backing of people like Hari Grenfell, for example.

Eline had made a success of things by her own talent and ingenuity. She alone had found backing for the gallery in Lord Greyfield, a fine English gentleman who had been so impressed with Eline's portrait of his bride-to-be that he had decided there was a profit to be made from her talent, profit that would benefit both of them.

Shame washed over her then. She was doing it again, comparing her own success with Will's failure. How could she even think like that? Look what Will had given to the stricken village. He had given the people boots and shoes they would never pay for, had lost his own living in the process; he was a fine, good man, a compassionate man. And what had she done to ease the anguish of Oystermouth? Set up a soup kitchen that was paid for mainly out of the pockets of others.

Eline glanced out of the train and saw the soft sea gently lapping the golden sands of Swansea Bay. Out on the horizon, she could just make out the lines of a paddle steamer, making, no doubt, for the busy docklands to the east of the town.

Eline knew that she wasn't really concerned about the sea or the ships upon it; she was trying her utmost not to think about her meeting with Will, or what words she would find to say to him.

When she alighted at Rutland Street, Eline looked around her and wondered at the size of the town. Swansea had grown very big over the last years; copper and tinplate works dominated the east bank of the river, pouring smoke and grime into the once tranquil air above the houses.

The sun was hot as Eline made her way into Wind Street, pausing to look into the hatter's window as if to admire a fancy creation of crisp feathers and straw. She was trembling in spite of the heat, and she wondered if she could bear to face Hari, to admit to the cruel words she'd used to wound Will.

The Grenfell emporium was impressive in its size and scope, and once within the portals, Eline was overcome with the familiar scent of new leather. It reminded her so much of Will's shop that she felt tears come to her eyes.

She became aware that a young gentleman assistant was bowing politely before her. ‘Anything I can show you, madam?' he asked obsequiously.

‘I'd like to speak to Mrs Grenfell, please.' Eline spoke with as much authority as she could muster, but the young man's gaze barely flickered.

‘My apologies, madam, but Mrs Grenfell is out of town, just for today.' He smiled, and Eline felt a momentary sense of relief. She took a deep breath and tried to muster all her courage.

‘Well, then, I must speak with Mr Davies,' she said, as though Will was nothing more than an acquaintance. But how could she tell this young man that she and Will were betrothed, that they had quarrelled and now she had come to make amends?

‘Didn't you know, madam?' He smiled again. ‘Mr Davies is not with the Swansea branch any longer.'

‘Not with you? I don't understand.' Eline felt the words leave lips that were suddenly numb.

‘I understand that Mr Davies is working out of town, madam. I've no idea when or even if he intends to return.' The words fell like stones into the silence, and Eline heard her own inane question as though from a distance.

‘Gone away?'

‘Yes, madam, gone away, and I'm afraid I don't have his address.'

He had forestalled her next question, and hopelessly Eline turned towards the door. How she got outside the shop she didn't know, but she felt the hard, hot stone of the building against her fingers as she struggled for composure.

Then there was nothing in her but a great emptiness. Will had gone away, and he hadn't cared enough even to leave her a message. She drew herself upright and slowly, very slowly, she made her way back to the train terminus.

CHAPTER FIVE

Within two weeks, Tommy Jones had recovered from his fevers enough to help on the farm again and Fon was free to return to her usual tasks of milking the dairy cows and caring for the chickens. Along with her household chores and looking after young Pat, she had quite enough to do. Often she was needed to work the fields with her husband, and then she tumbled into bed at nights aching in every limb. And yet, she smiled at the thought, Jamie, in spite of working like a dog, was never too weary to turn and take her in his arms and make love to her as though every time was the first.

Ruefully, she looked down now at her fingers. They were calloused and sore, stained from the clover she'd been helping Jamie gather, a backbreaking job at the best of times; but at last, the fodder to feed the sheep and the ewes was secure and dry in one of the big barns.

Fon never ceased to be amazed at the amount of work Jamie and young Tommy got through in a day. It seemed there were never enough hours. The summer crop of potatoes had to be lifted soon, and then Fon would be needed to help in the fields once more. She groaned at the thought.

Last year Jamie had taken on two casuals, but they had proved to be townies, with little or no interest in the country, and in the end Jamie had given them both their marching orders.

Fon sighed inwardly. Used as she was now to farm work, she hated the early mornings on the dew-wet land, bent double over the rows of stubborn vegetables that refused to part company with the rich soil. But it had to be done. On a farm, every hand was necessary. Even the faltering baby fingers of young Patrick would contribute to the picking this year.

She sank down on the milking stool and, cheek against the warm flank of one of the dairy cows, began to squeeze the full teats. Having recently calved, the animal was rich with milk, which spurted readily into the ridge-bottomed bucket. In the byre on the other side of the fence, the cows in calf were kept aloof and segregated from the rest of the herd. Big and cumbersome and with no milk to yield, these animals were in a favoured position, cherished until the precious calves were born.

Patrick leaned against Fon's knee, chewing at his thumb, his eyes still glazed with sleep.

‘Fon will put you down for a nap in a minute – right, boy?' she said softly, troubled at the necessity for rousing the child so early in the mornings. Perhaps she should leave him in bed while she milked the cows; after all, she would be only a stone's throw away from the farmhouse, Patrick could come to no harm.

And yet, the thought of her duty to Katherine hung heavily on her shoulders. Fon was always conscious that she must live up to the faith Jamie's first wife had placed in her. There were dangers in a farm kitchen, where the fire was kept stoked to facilitate the cooking of huge meals. Water boiled constantly on the hob, and a small boy could find no end of mischief to occupy his time should he wake and find himself alone.

The milking over, she led Patrick across the dusty yard to the farmhouse and tucked him back into the warmth of his bed. He closed his eyes, lashes brushing plump sun-kissed cheeks, and was immediately asleep. Fon smiled down at him; he was a fine boy, his skin shining with health. Katherine would have been so proud of him.

Sometimes, Fon found herself resenting her memories of Katherine. She was always there, a persistent ghost of the past, and Fon felt it was as though she was constantly measuring herself by Katherine's stringent rules and finding herself wanting.

She heard voices in the kitchen below and hurriedly made her way downstairs. The men would be hungry; having worked for hours already, they would want good food to fill their empty bellies.

Jamie smelt of earth and grass and the fresh sunfilled air, and Fon resisted the temptation to put her arms around him and hold him close, reasserting her possession of him. Instead, she brought out of the deep pantry some crusty fresh bread and a plate filled high with cold ham and pickles.

‘How are you feeling, Tommy?' Fon asked, pushing a thick mug towards him. He grinned lopsidedly.

‘My belly is all healed now, missis,' he said, breaking off a chunk of bread and chewing on it with gusto.

‘Good little doctor is my wife,' Jamie said, his eyes meeting hers, holding her gaze with a hint of laughter.

She looked away, not knowing if he was making fun of her. ‘I did only what I could.' Her voice sounded prim, cold even, and Fon quickly lifted the heavy pot and poured more of the fragrant, steaming tea into the waiting mugs.

The silence in the kitchen lengthened. The sound of a bird singing in the trees outside the window gave the day a feeling of laziness, which was quickly belied by the briskness in Jamie's voice when he spoke.

‘I want you to make a proper meal later on,' he said, leaning big arms on the table. Fon was stung, wanting to ask him what he meant by a proper meal: wasn't ham and fresh bread and butter good enough for him? The people of Oystermouth would be glad of such fare, even now, when the worst of the hardship caused by the lack of oysters was over.

He must have caught something of her mood because, lazily, he leaned across and touched her cheek. ‘I mean a meal fit for hearty farmers, my love,' he enlarged. ‘Hot spuds, a roast joint, plenty of vegetables and rich gravy.' He pulled at a small curl that hung down from the pins that held her hair. ‘And perhaps an apple pie to follow?'

BOOK: Honey's Farm
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