Hosts of Rebecca

the dead lie in peace, she said, but Mam still laid the places. Strange are women who treasure the dust of memories, eating at table with dead men, sleeping with them in the beds. Strange was Cae White with its three longing women, their make-believe love-making, their intercourse of ghosts. And upstairs was Grandfer, hop-soaked to drown other memories, it seemed, puggled with his past.
Me of the lot of them the only one normal.

CHAPTER 4
VERY STITCHED up are the Welsh when it comes to neighbours, till they know you. Most prim was everyone, bowing very formal when we went out for Chapel or market, and, being strangers, we were doing our best to make a good impression, though we were at a disadvantage with my sister Morfydd in the house. For it was not only rebellion that stirred in Morfydd’s breast, said Mam; at thirty she is old enough to know better. Most fanciful for the men, was Morfydd, with the lips and eyes that drove the chaps demented. I know that the loss of her man was unstitched within her but she still had an eye for trews. And it soon got round the village about the beautiful women at Cae White, one prim, the other improper. Very alike were Mari and Morfydd – could be taken for sisters being both dark and curled, lithe in the step and with dignity. Long-waisted, high-breasted, they swirled around Cae White, and the men were hanging on the gate like string beans for a sight of them, which shocked my mam, put Mari dull, and painted up Morfydd’s cheeks with expectation.
“Willie O’Hara again,” said she, lifting the curtain. “Must be keen, see, in four degrees of frost.”
“Shameful,” said Mam. “Down with that curtain this minute.”
“And Elias the Shop all the way from Kidwelly. There’s a compliment. Did you invite him, Mam?”
“No fool like an old fool,” Mam replied. “If my Hywel was alive he’d soon clear them.”
“O, look now!” cried Morfydd. “Old Uncle Silas from the Burrows – coming very jaunty, too – life in the old dog yet.”
“Let’s have a look, girl,” I said, getting up.
“Back you,” cried Mam. “Objectionable, it is.”
Pretty wrinkled was Uncle Silas; buried two wives and looking for a third, said Grandfer, and his eye was on Morfydd, strange enough. Every Sunday regular after Chapel he was pacing the end of our shippon with his starched collar round his ears and his bunch of winter flowers. Queer are old men looking for wives, for ten minutes with Morfydd my sister and anything under five-foot-ten went out boots first, I had heard. But Willie O’Hara, now here was a difference. Topped six feet, did Willie, big in the shoulders and sinewy, with mop-gold hair on him, strange for Welsh Irish. Come down from the industries, it was said, but not long enough in iron to be branded. And he leaned on the gate now, broad back turned, settling for a fortnight’s wait by the look of him.
Lucky for me having my woman inside.
The old log fire flamed red and cosy in the kitchen that night near Christmas. Sitting crosslegged before it I would watch Mari’s hands; long, tapering fingers white against the black braid of her dress, with her needle flashing through my dreams.
“There now, that’s you,” and she flung me the socks.
They landed in my lap but I did not really notice, for her eyes were staring past me into the fire and she took a breath and sighed, telling of her longing for my brother.
“Irish potatoes, is it?” said she. “I know some good round Welsh ones. Easy on the socks, Jethro, you will wear me out.” She smiled at the window where Morfydd was standing. “Still at it, are they? Do not blame me, Mam, I do not give them the eye.”
“No need to tell me who does that,” said Mam, treadling at the wheel. “Damned criminal, it is, when you have no intentions, and Dai Alltwen Preacher swimming the river Jordan every night down in the Horeb. God help you, Morfydd, if Dai finds out.”
“Can’t let Willie starve,” said Morfydd, lifting her bonnet. “Solid ice he will be in another ten minutes. I will not be late, Mam.”
“At this time of night? Morfydd, it is indecent!”
“Now what is indecent in a bit of a walk?”
“Nothing,” said Mam. It was the way she looked.
“I am thirty years old,” said Morfydd, eyes lighting up. “Do I have to account to you for every minute?”
“Every second while you live here,” replied Mam, sleeves going up.
“At thirty I am past those damned silly capers!”
“Count yourself lucky,” said Mam. “When I was thirty I wasn’t.”
“Don’t do as I do but do as I say, is it?”
“Morfydd, hush!” whispered Mari.
“Do not be rude to our mam,” I said.
“Quiet, you, or I’ll clip that damned ear,” said Morfydd, swinging to me.
“And I will clip the other one,” said Mam. “But a boy, you are, and you will keep from this conversation. You will be back at eight o’clock, Morfydd, understand? Nine o’clock otherwise, but I do not stand for rudeness.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And you keep walking with that Willie O’Hara, understand?”
“O, Mam,” said Mari. “She would not breathe on Willie O’Hara.”
Under judgement stands Morfydd and I gave her a wink.
“You may kiss me,” said my mother, taking the wish for granted.
Kisses all round except for me, and off Morfydd went under her black poke bonnet. I waited till she had gone then stretched and sighed.
“And where are you off to, pray?” asked Mam.
“Not in front of Mari, please,” I said.
“I am sorry,” said my mother. “But do not bait your sister, remember.”
Cold round the back with the stars all Venuses and the Milky Way dripping with cream in the frost. I whistled, and Morfydd paused, a black witch against the stars, and came back.
“And what do you want, little pig?”
“Back home at eight, remember,” I said. “Eh, there’s delightful, and Mam don’t know. Do not make a meal of it – tin