The Earth Hums in B Flat Read Free Page B

floor. And there’s a plate that matches the cup from the dresser in pieces on the floor between the table and the door. The children will have to be careful not to tread on the bits. What a mess everywhere. My stomach clenches. Tada says I have the family stomach. Whenever anything makes me feel queasy he says: It’s that old family stomach, Gwenni.
    â€˜Where are Angharad and Catrin?’ I ask. ‘Are they with Mr Evans?’ But Mrs Evans rocks herself backwards and forwards on the chair and a high-pitched hum comes from her throat and she doesn’t answer.
    I hold the cup under the tap and fill it with water. I can’t see a clean spoon anywhere so I give it a good stir with my finger until the salt has dissolved. The water is icy and my finger turns white. Then I wash my hands under the tap; there won’t be any blood on them now. I pick up a blue bowl that’s drying on the draining board and take that and the cup of salt water to Mrs Evans.
    â€˜Here you are, Mrs Evans,’ I say. ‘If you rinse your mouth with the salt water it’ll stop the bleeding and clean out the old blood. You can spit it out into the bowl.’
    Mrs Evans lowers the apron from her mouth and takes the bowl from me and rests it on her lap. She trembles as she holds the cup and puts it to her lips. The skin on the back of her hand is scraped into little curls, and her mouth is swollen and purple.
    â€˜Nain always says that Mr Price is brutal. Alwenna says it’s when he’s run out of whisky,’ I say.
    Mrs Evans sips the water and I try not to hear her spitting it into the bowl. I look at the photographs hanging above her on the wall next to the range. Here’s one of Mrs Evans when she was younger, holding two babies, one on each arm. They’re alike as twins. I wonder who they are. Mrs Evans’s dark hair is loose and reaches down to her waist. Beneath is a picture of Ifan Evans; with one hand he holds a long gun over his shoulder and from the other hand he dangles a fox by its tail. It looks just like Mrs Llywelyn Pugh’s dead fox. I look away, but not before I notice the hole in the fox’s head and have that old family stomach again.
    Mrs Evans holds her empty cup out to me and I take it and put it in the sink. She drapes her apron over the bowl and waves away my hand when I offer to take it from her. Then, she pushes herself up from the chair as if she’s worn out and takes the bowl to the sink and empties it. When she turns on the tap the water whooshes down into the bowl and then up again in a fountain and sprays me and her and the window behind the sink so that the whole world looks as if it’s crying. Mrs Evans doesn’t notice; she bends down, holding on to the sink, and starts to pick up the pieces of broken plate. I lean across and turn off the tap, then wipe my face with the sleeve of my mackintosh.
    â€˜I’ll do that if you like,’ I say to Mrs Evans. ‘Shall I use a broom?’
    She nods at me. ‘In there, Gwenni,’ she mumbles, and points to the cupboard under the stairs in the back hall. As I unlatch the cupboard door I glance into the parlour and see Angharad and Catrin huddled together on the back window-seat sharing a large picture book that’s open on their laps.
    â€˜Hello, you two,’ I say. ‘You’ve been very quiet. Have you been sitting in here reading? Don’t worry about your mam, she’ll be fine in a little while. My mam bled a lot, and cried a lot too, when Mr Price took her teeth out.’ They both look up at me and Catrin leans a little closer to Angharad and reaches up to whisper in her ear.
    I pull the broom and dustpan out of the cupboard and go back into the kitchen to sweep up the broken china. I try not to tread on the sticky jam. But what if it’s not jam? What if it’s Mrs Evans’s blood? I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t look at the stickiness as I sweep the