Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner Page 22

  Tom nodded, having read in the paper that some of the early contingents sent to South Africa were returning after their twelve-month assignment. It explained a lot about Hugh’s appearance.

  “The people in the old place told me the family had shifted. I wanted to see where you lived and if ...” Hugh stopped.

  “If what, Mr Powell?” pushed Tom.

  “If Miss Gwenna, um, if the family were well. I should be on my way now, I guess. Thank you for inviting me in, but I should be going.”

  “Where are you staying, Mr Powell?” asked Bethan.

  “In the hostel, Mrs Price, ma’am. Until I find something suitable.”

  “Well, then, you’d better come and see us again tomorrow. In the daylight. After church would be best. And do come to the door, there’s a good chap. There’s a lot to talk about.”

  Throughout the discussion, Gwenna sat in a daze. The last time weird dreams haunted her was leading up to Johnno’s accident. She started to shake, scared her visions meant something sinister would happen again. After all, she’d seen Hugh’s face in her dreams – his old face, at least; not the one she’d seen this evening – and now he’d appeared without warning.

  Her skin crawled as those strange feelings of unease returned.

  Black Jack would be next.

  30

  Happier Times

  Mid-December 1900

  Hugh returned after church the next day, as Bethan had asked. Gwenna had only vaguely taken in his appearance the night before and hoped he hadn’t noticed her shock when she saw him in the light of day. His upper body drooped and his jacket hung loosely on the once broad, strong shoulders. With dark bags under his eyes and sallow skin, he looked ... well, ‘haunted’, was the word, but the vacant expression in his eyes upset her the most.

  Hugh had been back in the country for a month, and while the government talked of returned soldiers being offered a plot of land to farm, Hugh was a townie and he didn’t want to move to the country. Not that he looked fit enough to do any manual labour, to her. Without hesitation, Gwenna asked him to help her again, just like he used to – if he felt up to it.

  Briefly, light entered his eyes and he pulled his shoulders back momentarily before they sagged again. He assured them he was fit and well enough to do whatever they wanted of him.

  Over the next few days, in an effort to fatten him up, Bethan made sure he had more food than he could eat, and Gwenna found that, while not as strong as he once was, Hugh was more than willing. Having been forced to package her sweets into smaller boxes so she and Bethan could lift them, they found Hugh lifted the larger boxes effortlessly.

  They developed a pattern she’d forgotten they possessed. He could read her needs before she asked, placing the sacks of sugar and other ingredients within easy reach, and improved on the system of labelling and order of storing the sweets waiting for despatch. One day, he rescued a pot of sugar Gwenna had left on the heat when she’d been called through to the shop. When she returned, he was working the sugar almost in the way he always had, except she could see he’d adjusted his pull-and-wrap rhythm, as if one arm was not as supple as it once had been. Whatever the problem, his batch of sweets was still as good as ever.

  But he hated noise. If she accidentally banged pots together, or a metal spoon scraped the bottom of a pan, he would recoil. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, he’d step away from what he was doing and, leaning forward in a crouch, would put his hands over his ears. Other times, he’d stand frozen to the spot, staring at something she couldn’t see, or shudder violently. He never explained his reaction and returned to what he’d been doing. Never mind how many times she asked, he refused to talk about what happened in South Africa.

  Whatever his demons, Gwenna was happy to have him back working with her. The difference he made in less than two weeks was impressive, and she hoped for longer-term effects. The one aspect that had hardly changed at all was that he rarely spoke unless spoken to first. She could cope with that, happy to work in companionable silence, knowing he was there.

  * * *

  In the days since the shadow from her dreams had scared her half to death, and Hugh had appeared out of nowhere, she’d been run off her feet in the shop. She’d not had a spare moment to worry or fret over anything, except ensuring the customers were served. The tables were full with ladies ordering teas, coffees and hot chocolate, even though the summer temperatures reached the high seventies.

  Mrs Turner had called again, bringing two acquaintances. Gwenna later found out one was the wife of Mr Ernest Yates, the seed merchant, and prominent in social circles, and the other, Mrs Annabella Geddes, whom Maude Turner referred to as Mary. Gwenna had met Mr John McKail Geddes once or twice in passing after purchasing coffee and tea supplies from the firm still known as Brown Barrett, even though Mr Geddes was the sole owner. The Geddeses were a wealthy, influential couple. Mrs Geddes was known for her patronage of the welfare of women even if her Maori heritage was often a topic of discussion. A simple word from either Mrs Yates or Mrs Geddes would make all the difference to Gwenna’s clientele.

  Apart from that pleasing but singular episode, Gwenna recognised several women from church. She hadn’t noticed their absence until they started to become regulars but had no idea why they hadn’t come in the first place.

  Gwenna asked Janetta about it as they left church together after the Christmas service.

  “Because of Louisa.”

  “Sorry, Janie, you’ll have to explain better than that. What’s because of Louisa?”

  They paused in their conversation to shake hands with the minister and comment on the sermon before continuing their walk down the path and onto the street, where they waited for Bethan and the others. Percy Lewis stood talking to three gentlemen, Tom and Tillie were passing time with another couple Gwenna didn’t know, Bethan held Janetta’s two youngsters by the hand, while Charlie, excited by what the rest of the day would offer, bounced alongside.

  “Really, Gwenna, sometimes you are so clever, but other times you’re too gullible. Louisa is the leader of the Ladies Committee.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  Janetta rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Gwenna. You’re too good to be true. Do you remember the day we came to the shop when you first opened and Louisa was all snippy?”

  “Yes, but then Louisa can be difficult when she wants to be.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. She took it into her head that you didn’t deserve to have so much luck. She was jealous. Like she used to get sometimes when we were kids.” Janetta moved them further down the street in case they were overheard. “I don’t know what she said, but I suspect she threatened the other ladies with their position on the committee. Saying it was in jeopardy if they patronised your shop.”

  Gwenna couldn’t believe her ears. “Surely not? Louisa isn’t spiteful. I know we haven’t always got on, not since she married Mr Evans, and I get so cross with the way she treats Mam, but I can’t believe she’d deliberately do something quite so mean.”

  “Well, she did, Gwenna. She did. But, much to my surprise, she also did the reverse.”

  Now Gwenna was utterly confused. “You mean she’s since told them they can come to the shop?”

  Janetta nodded. “Word gets around and your name – or rather the shop’s name – has come up a few times at meetings. You know, someone said they’d overheard someone else say how good it was, and so on. Lately, she’s basked in the associated glory of telling everyone she’s related to you, and suggesting they were, indeed, missing out if they didn’t patronise the place.”

  “Why would she do that? And didn’t anyone take her to task for her about-turn?” Such behaviour was beyond Gwenna.

  Janetta shook her head. “Some of the ladies value their social positions, however false they may be, and follow the most vocal opinions in order to be part of the crowd. I’m just not sure what’s happened to change Louisa’s mind. But something has. And something is de
finitely wrong. I’m certain of it.”

  * * *

  Sitting around the dining table later on Christmas day, Gwenna admired the miniature pine tree Charlie had decorated. Its aroma filled the room. Fresh foliage interspersed with the clusters of red stamens of the pohutukawa flowers festooned the mantelpiece. Other more traditional decorations sat on tabletops and cabinets, and Bethan’s precious cards and letters from the home country hung on a string above the fireplace, to be read and reread many times.

  “You’ve excelled yourself, Mam. The place is very festive,” Gwenna congratulated Bethan, thankful to be surrounded by her family who helped block out memories of the Christmas she and Johnno had shared last year. Still euphoric and wrapped in new love at the time, she’d pretended it didn’t matter, never mind how bleak and cheerless their day had been. She hadn’t fooled herself and she doubted she’d fooled Johnno either. “And the food is magnificent,” she added, in an attempt to rid her mind of the past.

  Tom ceremoniously carried the roast turkey, surrounded by potatoes and carrots from the garden, and set it on the table next to a bowl of peas and a jug of gravy. Expertly carving slices from the bird, he placed two on each plate, until everyone was served.

  “Can we pull the crackers now?” asked Charlie, once Tom had sat down.

  “Course you can,” said his mam.

  Bethan had made them herself, and Charlie would find the best gifts inside his – a whistle, a marble or two and a miniature puzzle, at least – on top of the comics she’d given him earlier.

  Tillie had given him a new set of clothes since he’d grown again, and he adored Gwenna’s box of toy soldiers, but his favourite present was the hand-painted, cast-iron fire wagon Tom had given him.

  “Look, Mam. The wheels turn and the ladder can be swivelled around and extended. And look at the little firemen sitting up top. Even their buttons are painted on. Oh, thank you, Tom. What fun.”

  After they said grace, Tom raised his glass. “To family, to posterity, and to you, Gwenna.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Gwenna. You. Despite all the setbacks, all the hardships and all the anguish you’ve suffered, you have risen above it all and come out on top. I’m honoured to know you and call you sister-in-law. May the coming year bring you both joy and success.”

  Bethan and Tillie echoed Tom’s praises, and the clink of glasses tinkled amid the laughter and babbling from Georgie and Olwen. Gwenna smiled through eyes wet with happiness, relief and optimism.

  Maybe the tide had turned.

  31

  New love overshadows the past

  New Year 1900

  At precisely midnight, Elias handed Alice a small, flat packet wrapped in plain brown paper. While the crowd stood in awe of the fireworks, entertained by the blast of sound coming from ships’ horns, clanging bells, harsh whistles and chiming clocks, Elias and Alice only had eyes for each other.

  “What’s this?” she shouted into his ear.

  “Open it and see.” He held his breath, waiting, eager for her response.

  Pulling the string tie open and unfolding the paper, she gasped at the sight of the intricately carved lovespoon lying in her hand. The Welsh tradition of a lovespoon, proof of the carver’s skill as well as a gift of love, said more than any words he could have used. Each of the symbols had a meaning: a horseshoe for luck, a cross for faith, bells for marriage, hearts for love, a wheel, supporting a loved one and a lock for security – and he’d used them all.

  Alice’s hair bobbed up and down as she bounced on her toes, and she flung her arms around Elias’s neck, ignoring the stares and sniggers from people around her. “Oh, Eli. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

  As soon as the fireworks finished, the Garrison Band, under the baton of Mr Hunter, picked up their instruments and started playing again, while the paddle steamer Eagle continued its excursion around the harbour.

  The open top deck was crammed almost elbow to elbow, but Eli couldn’t have been happier. He’d booked two places aboard the boat on the second trip of the night so Alice could see the fireworks. He’d wanted, no, needed, to tell Alice how much he loved her and explain how guilt-ridden he felt about his earlier detachment but, unable to put any of it into words, he had to come up with a different plan.

  The newspaper advertisement for the New Year’s Eve excursion had sparked one idea, but the lovespoon had been entirely his. Out of the blue, a memory had come to him one day of the simple lovespoon his father had given his mam when they wed – the one he, their son, had snapped into pieces in a rage and thrown in the fire when his mam married George Price.

  He’d watched the tears trickle down her face, but she said nothing. She had never reprimanded him or mentioned it since, even though she must have been heartbroken. Only now was he beginning to accept the power of love over the potency of hate. He never wanted to feel hatred like that again. It had nearly destroyed him and everything he once loved.

  He had much to regret, and even more to make amends for, but the mythical folklore surrounding the custom became significant. Whether as an act of contrition, a form of retribution or as a pledge, Elias couldn’t decide, but the urge to make a lovespoon for Alice was too strong to resist. Like her.

  Wrapping his arms around her, his heart soared and his mind cleared. For the first time, Elias truly believed he could make something more of his life – with Alice beside him, and a new century ahead of him.

  * * *

  A few days later, taking a break from the oppressive heat inside the workshop, Elias sat in the shade in the courtyard reading the newspaper. Since Woody had built the display room out the front, the workshop had become unbearable in summer. He would have to hint to Alice they should find better premises one day soon.

  Elias read about several remarkable and unremarkable events, but the editorial in the Observer saying farewell to the old year and ‘the death of the Nineteenth Century’, and welcoming the twentieth, held his attention and he read from beginning to end.

  It is a momentous moment in the history of the world. Looking backward upon the records of history, it is impossible to view the passing away of the Nineteenth Century with other than feelings of regret, for it has been a hundred years unparalleled for marvellous scientific discovery, for the rapid evolution of religious and political freedom, and for a wonderful improvement in the social condition of the peoples of the world.

  It is sad to think that the closing hours of the century should be embittered by bloodshed and strife, but so it is for, with all our advancement and enlightenment, we have not yet reached that idealistic era when the sword shall be beaten into the ploughshare and racial hatred and carnage shall give place to universal love and brotherhood. However, let us hope that the new century may see an end to war and its horrors and bring about that happy period when international quarrels shall no longer be submitted to the arbitrament of the sword.

  To us in New Zealand, far removed from scenes of bloodshed, the closing year has been gratifying and prosperous, and we must always look back to it as one of the brightest and most progressive periods in our history. Whether the credit is due to the prevailing administration, or to the better conditions of trade and commerce, the fact remains that New Zealand finances were never more buoyant than they are today, and the people were never more prosperous and contented. Let it be hoped that this condition of things will be maintained, that the wellbeing of the people will continue to advance, and that the destinies of this young and self-reliant country will be moulded into a noble and glorious future by the wisdom and sagacity of our legislators.

  We in Auckland have every reason to think well of 1900, for it has increased our prosperity, and left us vigorous, happy and hopeful. During the twelve months our city has advanced by leaps and bounds, the development of our natural resources has been profitably proceeded with on an expanding scale, while the last few months has witnessed the gradual recovery of the mining industry, upon which we so largely depend. Emplo
yment is plentiful, wages are good, and the working classes in this country never lived in greater comfort or more free from poverty.

  Under these circumstances, there is a peculiar sadness associated with the death of the Old Year. We owe it much, it has been a kindly friend to us, and we cannot part from it without a pang of regret

  The Old Year must die, and all that is left to us is to speed the parting, while we welcome the coming guest.

  Elias, of course, couldn’t agree with half of what he’d read. He was never more pleased to see the back of a year. Despite whatever scientific and social advances had been made during the last century, his life had been a series of disasters. He hoped a new century would bring about the changes and prosperity and comfort, the writer so ardently championed, but he doubted it. Nor, in his view, would mankind learn any lessons from the ravages of war.

  Of more interest were two other announcements taking effect from 1 January 1901 – the Federation of Australia, that New Zealand had stood apart from, which mattered little to Elias, and the release of the Universal Penny Postage, announced by Joseph Ward, which mattered a lot.

  According to the newspapers, both inland and overseas postage were now set at one penny throughout the British Empire, and Postmaster-General Ward would be opening new post office buildings in celebration up and down the country throughout the coming year.

  Exempt from the new penny postage would be Australia, now it had become a federation of its own, and other foreign territories such as the United States of America, France and Germany, who chose not to take part and who were accused of protecting a falsely perceived fall in their postal revenues. Telephone connection numbers were expected to boom.

  If the fact that Woody had recently installed a new telephone connection was anything to go by, the papers were right. Woody didn’t like modern inventions, he liked to do things the traditional way. Alice had been responsible for persuading him otherwise. She could cajole both of them into anything she wanted.