Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner Read online

  The next day she began asking questions, lots of questions, too many questions. “I want to know everything,” she said. “It must have been awful for you. You must feel terrible. Talking about it will help, Eli. Truly, it will. Tell me.”

  She meant well, but he couldn’t. He tried, but his anger made him tongue-tied. In the end, he stopped talking altogether. He’d had nothing to do with Johnno’s death but he’d ended up involved up to his neck. His newfound happiness and sense of satisfaction dissolved, and a vacant, unfulfilled void entered his being.

  He’d moved out of the house in North Street, where Gwenna and Bethan were still living, and found a boarding house. He didn’t want to ask Woody if he could move in with him. He couldn’t – not until he and Alice reached an understanding – if they ever did. He’d been too scared to speak to her since, to ask her to marry him, even though he felt sure she would accept him. He believed Woody would approve, but something kept holding him back.

  Alice, upset by his behaviour, kept asking what was wrong, but he had no answers. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything kindly or meet her eye to eye. Now she barely spoke to him. Her eyes beseeched him sometimes when she caught him watching her. He yearned to say something, but couldn’t.

  Fear kept him mute. If his temper still resided at the edge of his control and he lost it every time something went wrong, Alice would suffer. And he couldn’t bear the thought. It would be better she was hurt by his silence than by his fists.

  He turned his attention to the large, turned leg of a dining table he was working on and dismissed all the conflicting thoughts from his mind. When he was under the spell of the timber, he felt at rest. The noise from the planer, the leveller and the saw became a panacea, and the turmoil inside his head faded into the background. Swirling dust tickled his nose and sawdust lay around his feet, clinging obstinately to parts of his clothing and sticking in his hair, but he didn’t notice. The world outside no longer existed. His timber world was all that mattered.

  28

  Learning to forgive

  November 1900

  “Eli. Come through, would you please,” called Woody.

  Elias put down his sandpaper, wiped his hands on his apron and walked through the adjoining door. Woody had created a space at the front of the work area for people to view finished products without having to come through to the dusty workshop. Elias was not convinced about it at all. The working space was now smaller and more cramped, and the larger pieces of furniture they were working on took up more space. It all seemed back to front to Elias, but they were managing. And the furniture was selling.

  “I’d like you to meet Mrs Lewis,” Woody said as soon as he entered. “Mrs Lewis, Eli Hughes is the craftsman who made the particular sideboard you are describing.”

  For a split second Elias didn’t recognise the woman, but something in her expression transported him back to childhood days and, like a series of pictures, memories flooded his mind. Benumbed and dimwitted, he continued to stare at his sister for several seconds before Janetta found her senses.

  “There’s no need for introductions, Mr Woodman. After all, we know each other quite well, don’t we, Elias? Although I confess, I did not know my brother was a craftsman. At least, not with wood.”

  Woody considered it prudent to say nothing, and Elias couldn’t quite get his tongue to work either.

  “How are you, Elias?” Janetta enquired when it became evident Elias wasn’t going to speak. “I haven’t heard much about you lately. You’ve kept very much to yourself, I fear. How surprising to find you here, of all places. But then no one told me you’d become a woodturner.”

  Eli couldn’t decide whether she was offended because she didn’t know, or receptive to renewing their association.

  Clearing his throat he rasped, “Hello, Janetta,” but couldn’t find any other words of welcome. He swallowed again. “What are you doing here?”

  Seeing Eli’s bewilderment, Woody said, “Mrs Lewis was asking if we made furniture to order. She’d seen a particularly fine piece recently and the owner informed her where to come.”

  Janetta viewed the two men with a puzzled expression Elias couldn’t interpret.

  “You want me to make something for you?” he asked, still sounding perplexed.

  “Well, I didn’t know it was you, did I? But yes, that’s why I came here.” Again, Janetta appealed to Mr Woodman to see if he would say something more helpful. “Mr Lewis and I want a sideboard, smaller than the one Gwenna has, but if ...”

  “Gwenna! What’s Gwenna got to do with this?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Elias. Will you listen,” snapped Janetta, sounding totally exasperated with him, exactly like she used to get when she still lived at home. “Gwenna has a sideboard I liked in the shop.”

  “What shop?” interrupted Elias for the second time, feeling his head spin with all the new information.

  “The tearooms and sweet shop. Didn’t you know? No, I suppose not. It’s only been open a few weeks. She told me she’d bought the sideboard from Mr Woodman here, so I came here to order one like it.” She turned to address Mr Woodman. “That is, if you are willing to accept an order from me.”

  Further stupefied at the news Gwenna had opened a shop but not wanting to know any more about it, he turned on his heel and left Janetta and Woody talking. Woody would tell him what he wanted him to make. It didn’t matter who bought it. Nothing mattered any more. All Elias cared about was whether the wood responded the way he wanted it to. He couldn’t even bear to think about Alice.

  He’d pushed her away – for her own good, he’d argued – and had crushed the one person he wanted most in his life. The one person he truly loved. All he had left were the remains of something else that once lived – the wood.

  Determined to put Gwenna out of his mind, he picked up his tools and resumed work. Memories of Janetta and growing up before everything went wrong grew into happier and more pleasant images. The five-year age gap between him and Sam didn’t allow for friendship, but Elias had enjoyed his sisters’ teasing and laughter. Sam was the loner, stuck between two older sisters and two younger stepsisters. Those two sisters had been thick as thieves even then, but good-natured and kindly, including Gwenna, despite her stubbornness. Not until his father’s death had things gone bad. Those memories he shut out. But he could not avoid the truth: it was he who had changed, not them.

  As usual, the more he stroked and shaped the wood under his hands, the more contented he became. And the more absorbed he got, the more the world retreated.

  Sometime later, Eli sensed a ghostly shadow behind him, as if a memory had come alive. He spun around to find Alice standing there, hand reaching out ready to touch him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  Unsure of her welcome, a small smile shaped her lips, but when the light reached her eyes, he was lost. She hadn’t come into the workshop for more than a week. Not since they’d argued about his increasing indifference and, in desperation, he told her to leave him alone – an outburst that had torn him apart ever since, but he’d had no idea how to rectify the situation.

  “Eli,” Alice murmured, “can you not find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  Forgive her? She’d done nothing that needed forgiveness. It was himself he couldn’t forgive.

  Alice took a step closer. “I’m not sure what I’ve done or said, but I fear I’ve offended you somehow. I’m sorry, Eli. Whatever it is, please, can we go back to how we were?”

  The unexpected pain in his throat prevented him from speaking, but his eyes piercing hers spoke volumes. He wanted her so much. He loved her. More than anything in his life before – more than he had words for – but doubts overrode his desire. He couldn’t believe he deserved someone so perfect. And he didn’t trust himself. Seeing Janetta brought back all the memories and reminded him of all he’d lost.

  He now recognised the terrible empty feeling of living apart from everything around him as loneliness, and he
didn’t want to live in this bleak void for the rest of his life.

  His arms reached around her waist and he pulled her closer to him until he could bury his face in her hair. She tilted her head back and brought her hand up to touch his mouth, her finger following the outline of his lips. He closed his eyes in rapture and imagined what it would be like to kiss her. To hold her like this in his arms forever more.

  Her hand crept along his jawline and fingers slid through his hair, clasping the back of his head. He lowered his head to hers until his lips touched hers, softly, tenderly, touching again. Deeper and more intensely their lips sought each other; she melted into his arms. Whatever doubts he once had faded with her kiss. No one could be so trusting and not have faith in their own judgement. He would trust her, even if he didn’t believe in himself.

  “It’s you who should forgive me, Alice. I never meant to hurt you. I love you, but you need to see me as I am – I’m not a good person ...”

  “Shush.” She stroked his hair as she spoke, like a mother calming her child. “I know who you are. I know you better than you know yourself. I know what you are capable of, and I love you because of it.”

  * * *

  Elias felt like a new man. His heart felt lighter, and a sense of urgency stirred within him. He wanted to make up for lost time, for lost moments.

  “Thank goodness you sorted yourself at last,” said Woody, watching Eli work, “and asked that lovelorn girl of mine to marry you. I was getting desperate I’d have to do it for you, the rate you were going.”

  Elias laughed, but his reply was serious. “It was all her doing. And yours. I’m grateful for your faith in me. And I will repay you both, I promise. You have my loyalty, and she has my love. I won’t let you down.”

  Woody clapped Elias on the shoulder. “I’ve known that for a long time, Eli. It’s yourself you’ve let down, lad. Now you’ve found your will again, greater success and greater rewards will come your way. And it will show in your work. Just you wait and see.”

  Alice couldn’t stay away from the workshop. She swept and tidied, helped hold pieces she didn’t need to hold, brought more food than they needed and took every opportunity to be near him, to fleetingly touch him like a feather floating past in the air. They hadn’t set a wedding date yet, both wanting to nurture and strengthen the bond between them before they declared it to the world. His happiness soared every time she came near him.

  One day at the beginning of December, Woody came through from the front shop. Elias had been busy with a range of small items again: consoles, bedside tables, occasional tables, bookstands and davenports, all which sold well as Christmas presents.

  People rarely ordered custom-made furniture any more. Not now machinery had sped up the process and ready-made furniture could be bought from the likes of Tonson Garlick’s massive store in Queen Street. Thomas Woodman was a small operator by comparison, but by limiting the use of machinery, his point of difference was the quality of his handmade products. He liked the old ways. It might take longer, but the finished product was more personal.

  “Eli. Take a look at this, will you?” He handed Elias a photograph of an elaborate chiffonier. “There’s a man out front who wants to know if you can make something like this.”

  Elias studied the photograph and shook his head. “No, I can’t do all that fancy carving, but I wouldn’t, even if I could. It’d ruin the line and colour of the wood. And I don’t like those overly ornate spindles everywhere propping up the out-of-balance top section.”

  Elias handed the photo back to Woody searching his face for a reaction. Had he overstepped the line? After all, it wasn’t his choice, it was what the customer wanted that mattered.

  “Fair enough,” said Woody, surprising Elias. “What would you do instead?”

  “I’d do something plain with curves rather than curlicues, with a back to it. I’d keep the panels simple with a bit of moulding.” He took a pencil from behind his ear and crossed the floor to one of the work tables. Ripping a sheet of paper from a pile tied together on a peg, he drew a rough sketch to show Woody what he was talking about. “Drawers here just under the top, and more inside one of the cupboards and shelving space for platters and terrines.”

  Woody took it without saying anything. A few minutes later he came back. “Eli, come with me.”

  Again, Elias laid down his tools and followed Woody out to the front shop.

  “This is Mr John Court.” Woody introduced Elias. “Mr Court, Eli Hughes is my craftsman. He is a fine carpenter and turner, and I respect his opinion.”

  Elias didn’t like it when Woody sang his praises. He was aware of how many mistakes he made, and that he had a lot more to learn. He and Woody worked well together. Sometimes one of them made the legs, or fashioned drawers or fitted hinges to doors, while the other sanded and shaped and cut the door fronts or table tops. Never mind how many times Woody told him he was a natural, Eli knew Woody fixed up his errors without comment. If anyone was the master, it was Woody.

  Elias shook the extended hand. “Mr Court,” he said with a nod.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr Hughes,” acknowledged the man. “My wife speaks highly of your skill. She has bought several articles of yours, which others have admired, and now wishes something larger.”

  Elias said nothing, hoping it would not be construed as rude, but embarrassment tied his tongue. Woody must have told the man Elias had refused to copy the picture.

  “Mr Woodman tells me New Zealand woods do not lend themselves to anything as ornate as this.”

  Elias glanced at Woody, whose slight smile disappeared almost before it had begun. It wasn’t entirely true, of course – any good woodworker could create whatever he wanted from any wood, New Zealand or not, but native wood naturally lent itself to plainer finishes. The ruse was clever, nevertheless, and provided a reason for Elias’s point-blank refusal.

  “Well, I ... that is ...” Elias stammered.

  Mr Court continued. “I like the style of this drawing. I know it’s a rough sketch, but it sits far more comfortably with me than this thing my wife found. I’d like to commission you to make it for me.”

  Elias glanced at Woody for the second time. An imperceptible nod confirmed he should accept. “Thank you, sir. I’m honoured.”

  Elias talked with Mr Court for a short while about the specifics of height and length, and left Woody to negotiate the price and delivery time.

  “Thank you, Mr Hughes,” said the man, “I will ask Mrs Court to provide the details of her requirements for the size, but rest assured she will adore the idea of a one-off piece made just for her.”

  Later that evening, over a drink in The Edinburgh Castle, Woody congratulated Elias on winning his second commission.

  “Second?” queried Elias.

  “Oh yes. Didn’t I tell you?” Woody swallowed a mouthful of ale and pondered for a moment or two. “No, I don’t suppose I did.”

  Elias could tell Woody had deliberately not told him about it.

  “Well? Out with it, what’s the other one?”

  “A sideboard. But not on the scale of the one Mr Court has ordered, but you should be able to cut the sections at the same time.”

  “So, who’s it for?”

  “Never you mind for now, just be happy your work is being noticed and people are asking for you by name. It’s not doing me no harm either,” added Woody. “It’s bringing in the cash, I can tell you.”

  Eli tried to find out who the commission came from, but Woody wouldn’t be drawn.

  “It doesn’t matter right now. You make it, I sell it. Who buys it makes no difference.”

  He recalled Janetta coming into the shop six weeks ago. Could it be her? Eli shrugged. He didn’t care.

  The men chatted convivially over another couple of beers before Woody got around to telling Elias his next plans. “After the success of last year’s Auckland industrial exhibition, I’ve put your name forward for the next one.”

  The man n
ever ceased to surprise.

  29

  The burden of responsibility

  December 1900

  Close to two months after the shop had opened, the women had settled into a regular system, but Gwenna was working far more hours than was healthy. And the paperwork was starting to overwhelm her to the point that Tom offered to tackle it.

  “Gwenna. Don’t be stubborn. You can’t do everything yourself. Let me help. I can do invoices over a few evenings, and it’s one less task for you to worry about.”

  Tom had offered before, but Gwenna always refused. Now she gave in. She wasn’t so keen on getting someone else to help, though.

  “Honestly, Gwenna. You can’t keep going like this,” said Tillie one evening as they sat around the table after supper.

  “I don’t know why I bother cooking sometimes,” said Bethan, staring at Gwenna’s plate. “You eat less than a sparrow these days. It’s not good, I tell you. No good will come of it.”

  “You need someone to help,” echoed Tillie. “Either in the shop, so you can make the goods, or in the kitchen, so you can run the shop. You can’t do both. You could do with someone to help with the distribution, too. And you shouldn’t rely on carriers you have to pay. It’s ridiculous when you have a perfectly good delivery van – and horse, might I remind you – sorely neglected in our backyard.”

  Tom rode the horse to keep it exercised, but in all honesty, he wasn’t much of a rider and chose to walk to and from his job at Smith & Caughey’s on a daily basis. He occasionally hitched up the van and did a few deliveries on a Saturday afternoon for Gwenna, but he preferred to spend his half-holiday with Charlie, when the women were working. And he refused to use it for personal use when it was emblazoned with G Price & Family, Confectioners.

  “I know that,” Gwenna snapped, “but it can’t be helped right now. I can’t afford to employ anyone else yet – some days we don’t take enough to pay for the ingredients, let alone make a profit. If it wasn’t for the wholesale orders coming in, we wouldn’t be able to continue.”