Awakening Read Free Page B

many-times-mended, Father’s boots intimately remember him. His scent is trapped there, so their neighbour’s labrador bitch told them, nose snuffling into leather innards. Beatrice is still giving away his belongings to the Baptist poor. Good folk with only one pair of boots apiece. Beatrice will not give to every pauper or pariah or Methodist or Irishman down on his luck. How would that further God’s work? Following in Papa’s footsteps, she dispenses charity, exhortations and pious tracts, reading aloud Mr Spurgeon’s sermons to the sick, with a burning face because this is not easy for a woman to do. A husband would relieve her of such duties.
    I have no likeness of you, Annie, Beatrice thinks with a shiver. We should have your photograph made or perhaps a miniature. Never mind the cost. There should be something left of your face. Beatrice kneels at the sofa, head on Anna’s cushion; lavender fails to screen the unhealthy sourness on her sister’s breath.
    â€˜Is Mr Elias still here?’
    â€˜No and good riddance. Wouldn’t you think he could at least offer to pray with you or read to you, Annie?’
    â€˜Well, quite honestly, I can do without Elias reading to me. He gabbles.’
    Anna’s affliction is a stronghold from which she assails the values on which their house is built. Affliction should temper the soul, subduing us to acceptance of our lot. But I’m no better, Beatrice thinks. Principled master of herself though she likes to appear, hardly a day passes without internal rebellion; discontent races like port wine through her veins.
    And part of it is that one gets a kind of nether view of the visiting clergy, in rather the way that Sukey is acquainted with the contents of the Pentecosts’ chamber pots. Subtle and gentlemanly Mr Montagu is distinguished by his surprising avarice, for despite his wife’s affluence, he’s a skinflint. Mr Elias is known for his facile piano-tinkling; Mr Kyffin for nervous tics and the ginger tobacco stains on his teeth; Mr Anwyl for his capers and caprices. And all by their appetites; their guzzling enjoyment of Sarum House’s hospitality.
    Up to the elbows, Beatrice’s hands are swallowed in the chilly insides of Tilly the Goose. Tilly’s mate Hector continues to search for his mate in the pond, swimming in baffled circles. Sukey mixes herbs for stuffing, humming a folk tune, something pretty and profane. Beatrice wants to whistle and refrains. The side door opens: Mrs Elias – bonnetless, hair a muss of greying waves tumbling from its bun, a wide smile.
    â€˜You’ll come tonight, won’t you, dear, to the service?’
    â€˜Of course, Loveday. If Anna feels she can manage without me.’
    â€˜Oh Anna, dear heart, you can’t miss this! You get so few treats, cariad .’ Loveday Elias, seating herself beside the invalid’s sofa, takes Anna’s hand. Can’t they push Anna across very gently in the wheeled chair? It’s just over the road, no distance.
    â€˜Bowels,’ mouths Beatrice. She shakes her head behind her sister’s back. Anna’s bowels close up or they loosen, without rhyme or reason. They are quite honestly hysterical bowels.
    â€˜Mr Elias warned me,’ Anna sings out. ‘Your countryman Mr Idris Jones of Bedwellty and his three ranting, canting sons! Oh no, please. I just couldn’t bear it.’
    Loveday takes no offence; never does. ‘ Dyna ni . But you’ll miss something world-scale . Mr Elias prevailed upon Mr Jones to preach tonight. The chapel will be packed out, if last week at Mickel Green is anything to go by. Weeping they were in the aisles. Stamping and crying out like Methodists. And indeed Wesleyans attended. Souls were touched.’
    â€˜ I ’ d be weeping in the aisle if three youths with conkers on a string and round-button collars undertook to lecture me.’
    â€˜Well, chwarae teg , Anna, the Jones