The Coward’s Tale

  Praise for The Coward's Tale:

  ‘Compulsively readable. She writes with such warmth and kindness and her poetic writing is meticulous in its apt and close observation’ Mari Strachan, author of The Earth Hums in B Flat

  ‘Tender and gripping – a brilliantly written epic’ Maggie Gee

  ‘The unlikely but entirely legitimate child of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Dylan Thomas, The Coward’s Tale invests everyday life with a quality at once whimsical and heroic’ Charles Lambert, author of Little Monsters

  ‘A rich seam of fables conjuring a community bound together by tragedy and secrets. Everyone knows something about someone but only one man knows everything about everyone. The Coward’s own tale is the bravest of all’ Damian Barr

  ‘The Coward’s Tale is a Russian doll of a book, layers within layers, histories, ghosts, superstitions and secrets. It shines a light through the material of human nature, our successes and failings, strengths and weaknesses, pride and vanity and love . . . Timeless. Storytelling at its best. It’s a wonderful read’ Salena Godden, author of Yellow

  For Robert Diplock, 1962–1969

  Contents

  By the Town Statue, Outside the Public Library

  The Woodwork Teacher’s Tale i

  The Woodwork Teacher’s Tale ii

  In the Porch of Ebenezer Chapel

  The Halfwit’s Tale and the Deputy Bank Manager’s Tale i

  The Halfwit’s Tale and the Deputy Bank Manager’s Tale ii

  The Halfwit’s Tale and the Deputy Bank Manager’s Tale iii

  By the Old Sheds at the End of Maerdy Street

  The Baker’s Tale i

  The Baker’s Tale ii

  The Baker’s Tale iii

  In the Porch of Ebenezer Chapel

  The Deputy Librarian’s Tale and the Undertaker’s Tale i

  The Deputy Librarian’s Tale and the Undertaker’s Tale ii

  The Deputy Librarian’s Tale and the Undertaker’s Tale iii

  The Deputy Librarian’s Tale and the Undertaker’s Tale iv

  In the Park, on the Bench Dedicated to Miss Gwynneth Watkins

  The Piano Tuner’s Tale i

  The Piano Tuner’s Tale ii

  The Piano Tuner’s Tale iii

  On the Old Footbridge over the Taff

  The Window Cleaner’s Tale i

  The Window Cleaner’s Tale ii

  The Window Cleaner’s Tale iii

  In the Park, on the Bench Dedicated to Miss Gwynneth Watkins

  The Clerk’s Tale i

  The Clerk’s Tale ii

  The Clerk’s Tale iii

  In the Porch of Ebenezer Chapel

  The Gas Meter Emptier’s Tale i

  The Gas Meter Emptier’s Tale ii

  The Gas Meter Emptier’s Tale iii

  By the Cemetery on the Hill they Call Black Mountain

  The Collier’s Tale i

  The Collier’s Tale ii

  The Collier’s Tale iii

  At Ebenezer Chapel

  At the Top of the Last Hill

  The Kindly Light Generations

  Other Dramatis Personae

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  By the Town Statue, Outside the Public Library

  ‘My name is Ianto Jenkins. I am a coward.’

  Those words have echoed through this town once before. And today, they will be said again by Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins, small and grey now in his khaki jacket and cap to almost match, the beggar who sleeps in the porch of Ebenezer Chapel on a stone bench, his kit bag for a pillow and a watch with no hands dropped to the flagstones next to his boots.

  The words will be said outside the Public Library, to a boy called Laddy Merridew. They will be overheard by the town statue – a collier struck from a single block of granite, a tumble of coal round his boots. Been there for as long as anyone can remember, that statue, standing and dreaming in all weathers, eyes downcast as though he is deep in thought. When it rains, like today, water drips off his hair and off his chin in memory of colliers lost one September day down the pit called Kindly Light, although it was neither. Colliers whose names once lived for evermore until their plaque was unscrewed by the town lads and thrown in the lake up Cyfarthfa.

  But before the words are said, the bus comes down the hill to deliver not only the boy but Mrs Harris and Mrs Price with their shopping baskets and their lists. Mrs Eunice Harris, her hair all mauve and well-behaved under a net, steps down from the bus in front of Mrs Sarah Price, for after all her husband is Deputy Manager of the Savings Bank and Mrs Price’s is not.

  Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins is at the bus stop, not waiting for anything in particular. He is reading the bus times to see if they have changed since yesterday, and they have not, so he raises a finger to his cap in welcome to Mrs Harris, who does not want a welcome from any part of Ianto Jenkins the beggar, thank you very much. The bus starts to move – then it stops. Someone has forgotten to get off.

  A boy of ten or thereabouts comes stumbling down the steps of the bus, his socks round his ankles. His hair is very red and very untidy. His fringe is too long and his glasses have slipped right down his nose. There is no one to meet him. He is clutching a small brown suitcase to his chest, this bright-haired boy in a stained school raincoat several sizes too small, its belt tied in a knot as there is no buckle. He was dreaming on the bus with his head against the window, a bad dream full of the bad words that come up at night through the floorboards when his mam and dad think he’s asleep.

  The bus pulls away again. The boy tries to push the glasses back up his nose, trips on a shoelace and falls before Ianto Jenkins can catch him. The suitcase bursts open on the pavement, spilling out a wooden drum wrapped in a pair of pyjamas, a few pairs of old pants, a toothbrush and a blue knitted jumper. The boy looks at his hands. They aren’t clean. He’s skinned the palms, and skinned his knees. He tries to rummage in his raincoat pockets for a handkerchief without hurting his hands any more than they hurt already, but there isn’t one. Tears come, all quick and hot and angry.

  Mrs Harris and Mrs Price do not know what to do with a boy’s tears. They both take a step back with their shopping baskets, and Mrs Harris opens a black umbrella with a snap, mouthing words that look like clumsy and boys and mess.

  It is Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins who hands something that might be a handkerchief to the boy and mutters words like never and mind before gathering the boy’s things back into the suitcase, not forgetting to give the drum a pat. The small sound echoes off the library wall.

  Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins starts to smile at the sound as he clicks the case shut, and as he straightens up slowly, muttering, ‘Oh my old bones,’ but when he looks at the boy for the first time, properly, the words fade. The smile dies.

  The boy does not see any of this. He sits on the kerb, peers at his knees and dabs at them with the thing that might be a handkerchief, then he takes off his glasses to wipe his face, leaving behind streaks of blood and pavement. Ianto Jenkins, still looking at the boy, shakes his head as if to clear it. He coughs and points to his own nose; the boy half-smiles and rubs at his nose with his sleeve. Mrs Harris and Mrs Price tut, and the boy winces as he pushes the old man’s handkerchief into his pocket. ‘Sorry. Thank you. I’ll get my gran to wash it,’ then he stands up and cleans his glasses on the hem of his raincoat. He pulls up his socks, and when he straightens they fall back to his ankles as if they are more comfortable down there. He sighs and shrugs and looks at the clock that says ten past two on the pediment of the Town Hall, next to the library.

  He says again, to no one in particular, ‘Sorry.’ Then he looks back up at the clock,
‘Can you tell me the time? I thought the bus got in at half past, and where has lunchtime gone?’

  There is a muffled reply from another timepiece, on Ebenezer Chapel down by the cinema, where the bell was once wound with a rag not to wake the minister and no one thought to take the rag away now there are no ministers left. Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins taps at his watch with no hands, ‘Sounds like half past something to me.’

  Mrs Eunice Harris pulls back the sleeve of her good coat and checks her good watch. ‘Indeed yes. Half twelve,’ and waves a hand at the Town Hall clock as if it was hers. ‘Always ten past two. Someone put a nail in the time years back.’

  The boy doesn’t answer, just says, almost to himself, ‘Said I’d meet Gran in the library at half past. She cleans it some days,’ and he bends for his suitcase. But before he can pick it up, Ianto Jenkins is carrying it towards the library, and the boy is limping behind, ‘It’s all right. I’ll take it.’

  The beggar waits for the boy, and says something about the boy’s hands being all scraped raw, and he doesn’t mind carrying it to the library. Because after all, ‘Factual’ Philips the Deputy Librarian has a kettle and he makes a good cup of coffee.

  They pass in front of the statue of the Kindly Light collier with a tumble of coal round his boots, and the boy looks up at Ianto Jenkins, ‘Thank you very much.’ There is a pause before he says in a small voice, ‘My name is Laddy Merridew. I’m a cry-baby. I’m sorry.’

  The beggar doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t look at the boy, doesn’t really answer. Except to say, ‘And my name is Ianto Jenkins. I am a coward. And that’s worse.’

  And the two of them, old man and boy, coward and cry-baby, disappear into the Public Library with the suitcase.

  Mrs Eunice Harris frowns and nods as if they needed her permission to leave at all, then she turns to Mrs Sarah Price, who is gazing up at the face of the statue, and she does not lower her voice, ‘Did you see that? Pants on the pavement?’

  And before the good ladies wander down the High Street with their baskets, they stand in the drizzle under a single black umbrella to contemplate the statue.

  ‘I am sure that is the Harris nose. I wake up with that nose every morning.’

  ‘Aww indeed, it may be the Harris nose but it hangs above the Price mouth, will you see? No mistaking the Price mouth.’

  Mrs Eunice Harris sucks at her teeth, ‘Hanging in the front room that nose is, sure as anything, in a photograph all tinted lovely. And a real ebony frame as well.’

  But whichever way they look at him, and whichever of the town’s men he is like, the rain wets the statue’s head, and drips off his hair and off his chin. Off the Price mouth and the Harris nose, the Edwards eyes with their beetle-brows, always frowning. It pools in the folds of the sleeves and catches in the crook of a bent middle finger just like the finger of Icarus Evans the Woodwork Teacher who broke his own on a lathe. The widow’s peak and curls are the spit of the Window Cleaner’s, Judah Jones, the ears beneath the curls could be Baker Bowen’s from Steep Street, and are those the long fingers of the Bartholomews, Piano Tuners, or the Littles who like their gardening, and is the way he stands just like Tutt Bevan the Undertaker or more like Philip ‘Factual’ Philips, owner of the Public Library’s only kettle?

  Who is to say? But all over the town, on the front room walls, high in the half-curtained dark, the town’s ancestors watch from their ebony frames, their noses, ears and mouths all mirrors of the statue’s.

  The beggar Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins comes out of the Public Library smartish, leaving Laddy Merridew to wait for his gran in the Reading Room under a sign that tells the world to be quiet. There is no coffee to be had today for Mrs Cadwalladr the Librarian has appropriated the kettle for a meeting. Ianto Jenkins stops to check the face of his watch with no hands and it looks back at him all blank and hopeful. He taps that face to see if might tell him anything different, but it doesn’t, so he turns away towards the bottom of town, pulling his collar up against the chill. As he does the Kindly Light statue seems to nod. Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins nods in return. He waves to Icarus Evans the Woodwork Teacher, pushing his bike and its trailer full of offcuts up the High Street. Then the breeze blows the beggar all the way down to Ebenezer Chapel, its porch and his home, leaving the statue to wait in the rain for something or nothing to happen.

  The Woodwork Teacher’s Tale i

  But sometimes, the breeze doesn’t get as far as the High Street. Sometimes it stops to play with the sheep’s wool caught on fences on the hill above the town. Sometimes, it gets through broken windows into the farmhouse that once owned the fences, and shivers the cobwebs on the bedroom walls. It toys with the frayed ends of string tying the front door shut and wheedles itself under the barn door to send years-old chaff rattling against the tin walls. It shakes the windows of the caravan next to the barn, where the carpenter Thaddeus Evans, who the lads call Icarus, may not yet have woken, for it is early. Then it gives up playing with his windows, and ruffles the feathers of two chickens crooning at the bricks under the caravan. No wheels, that caravan. Never goes anywhere. Just sits and slumps on its bricks in the yard, watching Icarus Evans coming and going to the school down the hill where he teaches the lads to work with wood.

  ‘Mr Evans, Mam says can I make a new mahogany dining table for her Auntie May up Penydarren?’

  ‘Of course – best learn to use a chisel first, is it?’

  Icarus Evans will shake his head and smile to himself as he pushes his bike back up the hill after school, with its trailer carrying offcuts from Tutt Bevan the Undertaker, too good to waste. The town is graced with those offcuts. A nursing chair for number eight Tredegar Road, passed from house to house when four babies appeared exactly right. Sets of mahogany and pine dominoes on the shelves of the Working Men’s Club at the bottom of the hill, and perfectly matched bedside tables for the Deputy Manager of the Savings Bank and his wife, but their bedroom floor is uneven so both glasses for the false teeth go on one table, where they can smile at each other until morning.

  Making a boat, Icarus Evans is now, a rowing boat, its ribs sitting bare on a pallet behind the caravan, each rib a different wood, each plank for the sides. Mahogany, birch, hornbeam, ash, and all their cousins. Covered with an old tarpaulin to keep off the rain.

  Over beyond the caravan and the boat and the barn is the single stony field left of the farm, for the rest have been swallowed by the Brychan estate on the edge of town, and its noise. There are no sheep in this field now, all sold at market for mutton, but wild ponies sometimes come to graze. And in the furthest corner, under the roots of rowan trees fenced round by wire long rusted, there is a spring. A spring that sends its water into a stream that once ran free down the hillside to join the river in the valley, but now which disappears into a stone culvert by the track. A spring where the boys from the Brychan come at weekends to play and to watch the growing of Icarus’s boat.

  ‘There’s lovely, Icarus, that boat. Who’s it for then?’

  Icarus may not reply except to say, ‘Mr Evans to you, lads,’ and will carry on planing and shaping the boat’s ribs as curls of wood tumble across the yard.

  And the lads will go laughing to drop pill bottles into the spring. Little brown bottles that once held aspirin or something for stomachs, half-forgotten behind packets of Paxo in kitchen cupboards, with no pills in now, but messages to girls they may never meet: ‘Mine’s floating, going see? Going to Australia!’

  Some are taken. Off to Australia they go, bobbing under the tree roots and into the tunnels under the town for the water to chuckle at their profanities. And others are swallowed, the words never read except by the earth. They are sucked under when the spring stops bubbling like it does now and then and goes still and dark. Like the water is from a pulsing vein and there’s a halt in the heartspring.

  Then the lads run off back to their streets, leaving just one, the new boy Laddy Merridew, who has not sent messages. He just hung back to watch the
rest, sent out to play by his gran when he was happier not playing at all. He picked at the bark of a tree with a dirty fingernail, then perhaps he waited behind to peer into the spring to see what it might tell him. Maybe the water stopped bubbling again, and just looked back at the boy, reflecting not just his questions but the rowan berries over his head.

  In the blear of morning, Icarus Evans may sit on the bench in the yard with a mug of hot tea and some bread spread with jam from the bullaces that grow near the spring. And when he has eaten, he may go back into the caravan and return with a small cage made of rowan twigs stripped smooth and green as fingerbones. A cage no bigger than the cupping of his two hands. And he will be talking soft, whispering to the cage while he sits with his bare toes drawing runes in the dust. Then he places the cage on the earth and bends to unlatch the door, winding a thin string round one finger. A string tied light but strong round the leg of a small bird.

  Icarus Evans clears his throat, ‘Morning, Bird.’

  Perhaps the bird will come out and stand with its head on one side to think about how big it is, this new cage. And with one wing dragging, in small runs and starts it will search the dust for food. Maybe a few rowan berries brought for the purpose from the spring. Icarus Evans will keep watch from his bench, letting out the bird’s string, scanning the yard for cats, until there is the bark of a dog on the track, ‘Come here, Bird,’ and he winds the string in slow, then bends to take the bird up in his hand. It comes to him easy, eye bright, and back in the rowan cage it goes as the dog comes snuffing into the yard before running through the field to the spring to find a drink.

  Icarus Evans washes in that spring every morning, for it is the only running water left at the farm. He will splash his face, his beard, shaking like the dog shakes, then smoothing his hair down neat for school. He will cover the boat with its tarpaulin, just in case. Before tying up the door of his caravan with string, he will look round inside. At walls covered in pictures of places he has never been, cut out of brochures from the travel shop in the High Street. Paper palaces on paper canals and mountain cities hung with flags that flap their messages to a paper wind.