‘Were you going to say something to me, Jones?’ asked Thomas.
‘I was only thinking.’
A silence fell between them.
‘What will you do, Mr Thomas?’ asked Jones.
And Thomas said nothing, but thought of the dream that was flat on its back.
‘She has no father, and no mother, and no anchor, and no place, and no root. Think of that,’ Jones said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘You came to tell me something?’ asked Thomas, and Jones was somewhat astonished by the eagerness with which he asked the question.
‘She shouted in her sleep one night, Mr Thomas, sometimes she leaves her light on all night. Think of that. A whole night. Once, she locked her door.’ Jones paused, and then said, ‘I haven’t forgotten what you said to me the other day, Mr Thomas. Expect you remember. It was in the afternoon, and your eyes were glued on the front door, expecting her to come out. You said I had a common mind. I liked that, and I didn’t mind. Never do mind very much, really, it’s the split difference. You mind everything. Ah! Sometimes I even think of you, lost in your little study, lonely in a black chair, and all those lonely spiders, and the big books and the little ones. Some people are good, so you don’t even have to find it out. She said you once went up to her room, and you said you didn’t. Who cares, Mr Thomas. Who cares. Once, I heard her saying her prayers. Lovely. She can smile with her eyes shut. And she likes the dark, and the darker the better. Her room’s very friendly. Sometimes I hear her coming up the stairs. Talk about fairy feet.’ And Thomas’s pipe suddenly fell into the hearth, and he stared at the wide grin of Jones.
‘You had better go,’ he said, but Jones sat tight, and very still.
‘You don’t want me to go at all, Mr Thomas,’ he said. ‘I once saw you walking down Gweneth Road, at night, and I said to myself, will those plodding feet press out the big dream? Ah! The uncertainty of not knowing things. Makes the lips tremble. Only yesterday I was very uncertain myself, yes indeed, but now I’m not. It’s the way things go.’
‘Please go,’ Thomas said, and stared into the fire.
‘Raining again,’ Jones said, looking at the window.
Thomas rose to his feet, stood over his chair. ‘Yes, raining, Jones.’
‘What, Mr Thomas?’
And Jones was conscious of the height and weight of Thomas.
‘His paunch belies the words that fall out of his mouth on Sundays.’
‘Yes, Mr Thomas?’ all attention.
‘My sister Margiad says I’m ill.’
‘You look ill.’
‘Tell me about her,’ Thomas said.
Jones sat back in his chair. ‘That’s why I came, Mr Thomas,’ he said. ‘Last night,’ he thought, ‘I was searching in the dictionary for a word. And where was Mr Thomas then? Lying with his head in God’s lap?’
‘Tell you about her,’ Jones said.
‘Please,’ Thomas said. ‘Though you are a man of trifles, Jones, you could be a friend.’
It left Jones speechless, and he saw the Minister return to his chair, fall heavily into it, wait.
‘Can I smoke?’
‘Smoke.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Jones, thinking of the Minister as a good man, a clever man, and here was he, Jones, actually talking to him like an equal.
‘I once looked out of the window and saw her coming up the street, back from her office, and I knew she wasn’t rocking with it, and wasn’t thinking about it, not wanting it, not dreading it, and I said to myself it’s odd, and it’s not right. It should be a beautiful pain, Mr Thomas.’
‘What?’
‘Passion,’ Jones said, ‘passion.’
‘Go on.’
‘Thank you. Another time I saw her walking past the chapel, night it was, one of her walks you see, does sometimes walk at night, Mr Thomas. Talk about rain that night. You could dance in the puddles all the way to the next county. The chapel was dark, too, and God Himself safely locked up for the night. I hurried on past her, and leaped into the next Welsh alley, and then to the road again, and passed by your little kingdom of Ty Newdd, with the light shining. The window was open, and I heard your clock ticking, and your sister and you were sitting looking at each other, and very quiet it was, ’cept for your prattling little clock.’
Thomas rose again, leaned over Jones, whispered in his ear.
‘Did she get my letters, Jones?’
‘Yes.’
‘She.…’
‘Never writes letters, Mr Thomas, never. I know. Mrs Gandell knows. When she goes into her room at night, she leaves her shadow outside. That’s how it is. I think she has some knowledge of another place, Mr Thomas.’
‘Another place?’……
