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The New Coterie  Volume 1   Issue: 2  Spring 1926  Page: 19
 
 A Gift of Death By Rhys Davies
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RHYS DAVIES

A GIFT OF DEATH
 
MARIA came downstairs from her father’s bedroom and in her usual quiet and melancholy way said to her aunt:

“He’s gone.”

Aunt Ann looked up from her Bible and opened her mouth wide with excitement. Then she searched for her handkerchief and wiped her tearless old eyes.

“Going before me they all are,” she moaned in Welsh. Maria took a piece of knitting from a drawer and sat down before the fire, as was her custom in the evening. She began to knit carefully, though she was weary from much watching and nursing of the dead man.

But her aunt looked at her in amazement and displayed a sudden energy.

“Shift yourself, Maria fach,” she exclaimed. “No time for knitting tonight. Get you the sheets for the windows. And laid out he must be.”

Maria did not move. Though her body was limp with weariness, there was a glow of bitter joy in her. Her mind seemed suddenly freed of hot, tight bands. She muttered to the old woman:

“A strict man was my father, Aunt Ann. Stricter than a preacher was he, and every day was a Sunday for him. Like a Sunday-school, too, he made life in this house. There’s hated him I have sometimes. Mam was as bad, also. A horrible life have I had between the both of them.” And as Aunt Ann made sucking noises of distress in her teeth, she continued, “The truth it is. Now that they are dead, judge them I can. An old maid they have made me, and no pleasures have I had. The Bible for breakfast, dinner and supper it’s been. There’s awful religion makes some people.”

She spoke in a hostile voice, quivering with self-pity. Her mind looked with anger upon the corpse upstairs. She wanted
The New Coterie  Volume 1   Issue: 2  Spring 1926  Page: 20
 
 A Gift of Death By Rhys Davies
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to cry, but no tears would come. Her large heavy face hung sullen and proud over her knitting. She went on:

“Now my best years I’ve spent working for them, left I am to be lonely for the rest of my life. If they had let me go out, there’s chances to marry I might have had! ”

“Tut, tut,” Aunt Ann observed, “only thirty-three you are, and now that he has gone, look out for a man you can. Capable you are, Maria, and steady and a good cook. Not like these young flighty bitches of today. Plenty of men there are who want a woman like you for a wife.”

Maria continued knitting silently. Thirty-three! And ugly and stout and staid. What man would want her now? She would not know how to please a man, she had never known any but her father. There had been nothing in life for her but work, religion and a short holiday with relatives in a safe country village. No cinemas, no holiday in Aberystwyth like Maggie Jones had, no dances, no young man bringing her home at nights and kissing her in the darkness of the doorway, as she had seen. . . .

An agonising fear possessed her as she went on steadily knitting. How much she had missed in life! Dimly she was aware of the great passionate world outside. And now it was too late for her to enjoy its delights. But was it? She said:

“Think I’ll sell this house, Aunt Ann, and move to the seaside.”

“Don’t you squander the money your father has left you now,” answered the old woman angrily. “And no thought you take of me.” She cried tearlessly into her handkerchief. “A hard old cow money will make you, Maria. Know your nature I do.” And she crept off to look at the dead man.

Maria’s pale blue eyes began to sparkle softly. The thought of her money and the power it meant brought again a glow of joy to her stout body. Only she wished she were younger. And she knew she was ugly.

“He has set,” Aunt Ann said, coming from the bedroom. “Beautiful and Godly is his face. Now, Maria, which undertaker shall we have? ”

“John Jones,” Maria answered. “Cheaper than Thomas Evans he is.”

“Go on. An old churchman is he. Thomas Evans respectable people have. Smarter are his carriages, too.”
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 A Gift of Death By Rhys Davies
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“John Jones I will have,” said Maria firmly. “I was in school with him, and always very nice he was.”

"A,miserly old bachelor he is,” Aunt Ann remarked spitefully. And looks it.”

Maria went to get the white bed-sheets, and she shrouded the front windows with these, the sign that death has come to the house. Ten minutes afterwards began the procession of neighbours to view the dead man. Aunt Ann presided over the corpse, and Maria sat downstairs, listening ironically to the sympathy that was offered her.

"But there s comfortable you’ll be,” observed one woman. This nice house all yours, and a heavy bag he must have left behind him. Always careful he was, Maria, making miser for you.” Maria lifted sardonic lips in a cold smile.

“Earned all there is I have. But there’s nosey you are, Mrs. Howells. Always thinking of money, too.”

“Ho, like you then. And there’s unnatural you look, Maria. Not a tear for your poor father. Sitting there like a block of ice and being nasty.”

And all the neighbours remarked outside on her cold, tearless state. But Maria sat still in her contemptuous hostility, secretly enjoying this publicity and interest in her. She felt independent now.

And that night she got into bed with a sensuous abandonment to the cool depths of the sheets. A spring of strange ecstasy seemed loosened in her body by this chill presence of death in the house. Sudden waves of warmth crept through her blood, and hungrily she laid her hands over the throbbing of her breasts.

Surely there was someone in that wonderful world outside who would desire the passion that burned in her!

* * *


The next morning Maria sent Aunt Ann for the undertaker. The old woman went off with bitter remarks, but consoled a little by the gift of twenty shillings to buy a new black skirt and bonnet for herself.

“Disturb his rest it will, being buried by John Jones,” she complained. “There’s shabby his old carriages are. Ashamed to ride in them I’ll be.”

The undertaker came back with her, and she took him up
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to measure the corpse. Afterwards he came down to the living room, where Maria waited.

“Peaceful he looks, Miss Morgans, dear me,” he began.

“More peaceful than you will look when you are dead,” said Maria with a sudden arch glance of her pale eyes.

“How now?” he asked, cocking his little head. “A good life I’ve led so far.”

“A cunning old rascal you were in school,” she continued archly, dusting a chair for him. “Sit down now and come to business.”

He was a little man, fussy and nervous, bird-like. He rubbed his hands, then placed them on his thin boy’s knees, his head cocked aside. Uselessly he tried to practise the sorrowful and dignified bleakness of the undertaker’s personality. He was too quick and fussy, like a brisk bird, his face too sharply cunning. So he was not the success that tall, sombre Thomas Evans, his rival, was. Thomas Evans was a dignified adornment to a funeral, but John Jones fluttered about his duties like a young tom-tit. Maria looked at him and laughed.

“Elm or oak would you like for the coffin?” he began importantly, but bridling up red and angry beneath Maria’s laughing glance.

“Quote prices, John Jones,” she said.

She sat opposite him and, her thick lips thrust out meditatively and her eyes watchful, discussed prices with a shrewd suspicion that compelled his respect, beneath his anger. After many calculations, he said:

“Not more than twenty pounds will everything cost.” Maria shook her head.

“Too much. Thomas Evans would do it cheaper than that.”

He got up from the chair furiously.

“A proper old Jew you are, Maria Morgans. There’s bad it looks for you to be so miserly over a funeral.”

Maria rose, too, angry scarlet in her cheeks.

“A robber of poor orphans you are,” she shouted. “Taking advantage of a fatherless girl! ”

“Poor orphans!” he scoffed. “A fine old pile your father collected, I’m sure. And little better than a parish funeral his daughter wants to give him.” He snapped his fingers at her furiously.
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Maria gazed at him slowly, her lids lowered, arch again.

“I like to see you angry and upset,” she said. “More of a man you seem then. But too fussy you are for an undertaker.”

“An insulting daughter has a respectable man left behind him,” he exclaimed. “There’s snotty your tongue is!” But remembering his declining business, he added calmly, “Now, now, Miss Morgans fach, be sensible, and a grand funeral I will arrange for nineteen pounds ten.”

Maria called her aunt downstairs and asked her to prepare a cup of tea for the undertaker. She also took out her best fruit cake and gave him a large slice of it.

* * *


Rain poured from a black and vicious sky the day of the funeral. This angered Maria, who had squandered a great deal of money on a smart black dress and a striking hat.

“See they shall that even shabby Miss Morgans has got taste,” she had told herself, running amok in the shops. But the rain upset her.

“I will have to go and buy a raincoat,” she said angrily to Aunt Ann, the morning of the funeral, “and a new umbrella. There’s unlucky I always am. Miserable the day is going to be.” But in spite of the rain a respectable crowd gathered outside the house. Maria observed the people from the window of the front bedroom while she waited for the moment to descend, and was mollified. Downstairs the house was full of bustling relations and friends, all speaking at once, until the minister raised his voice for prayer and in the usual sing-song Welsh style recited the virtues of the deceased.

Maria stood before the wardrobe mirror, quite filling it, and put the last touches to her mourning but up-to-date person. She had been unable to decide about the black beads. But finally she slipped them over her head and left the lovely pear-shaped earrings which were to match. Those she would put on after the funeral.

When she was called, her face paled a little and her heart beat loudly. They had begun to sing as the funeral formed outside. But after glancing again at her fashionable figure in the mirror she descended, proud and dignified, into the expectant crowd below and sailed calmly, like a black ship, through the avenue of peering women’s faces, disappointing them with
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her untearful eyes and look of cold ease. No, her eyelids were not red even, and she sat composed and queenly in her corner seat, proudly unconscious of the women’s disgusted glances and comments. Aunt Ann followed Maria into the carriage and sank, a heap of sobbing black grief, at her side. Then came the distant cousins, their washed faces resigned, but ashamed, as though they concealed something unworthy

The rain fell and the wind blew fiercely at the graveside. Maria, reposing on the arm of a cousin, stood large and meditative under her new silk umbrella and, staring at the tossing chrysanthemums, thought bitter thoughts of her bleak youth. Ah, but she would have a good long holiday when all this was over. And she wouldn’t sell up and live away — she would not be known in another place. She would buy lots of clothes and lead fashion in the Valley, astonishing her friends. She saw herself walking down the aisle of the chapel, wonderful, envied.

But as the people sang the last sad hymn she thought again of the joys that had been withheld from her, and at last wept, to the great relief of Aunt Ann.

After she had taken her seat in the cab, the undertaker appeared with a rug and there was an affectionate expression on his face as he laid it over her knees.

“Cold it is in this cab,” he said. “How well and brave you keep up, dear Miss Morgans! ”

“Thank you, John Jones,” she replied with dignity. “A shilling extra for the rug, I suppose? ”

As they drove back Aunt Ann turned to her angrily:

“There’s like a block of wood you’ve behaved. Spoilt the funeral for me you have. Ashamed I’ve been.”

“Dear, dear,” said a sympathetic cousin, “cried she did when we sang Calfaria.”

“Tut, when everything was nearly over. There’s talk they will in the chapel.”

“I do not care,” said Maria proudly, “what they say. And an old hypocrite you are, Aunt Ann. Know you well I do.” And she added jeeringly, “Only jealous of my money you all are.”

“Now then, Maria fach,” wheedled penniless Aunt Ann, “only thinking of your good name I was.”

Maria went upstairs when they arrived at the house, to take off her pointed shoes, which hurt her corns. A crowd gathered
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downstairs, waiting for the meal that was to end the ceremony and discussing with hungry voices the details of the funeral. Maria unlocked a drawer, an excited little smile on her face, and drew forth a box of face-powder, which she had purchased since the decease of her father. Delighting in this new sin, she dabbed a little on her shining nose and leathery cheeks. Afterwards she fixed the earrings, fingering them tenderly. Then, exultant and her neck stiffened like a queen’s, she stepped on to the landing, ready to descend in glory once again.

But the voices of women talking softly below in the passage reached her, and she stopped to listen. She had heard her name spoken.

“Always foolish and half-soaked was she though. But, ach y fi, disgraceful she was today. Flaunting her disgusting clothes as though it was a wedding.”

“You’d think she’d have cried though from being grateful for the nice lot of money he’s left her.”

“She’ll want it, too, being an old maid. Not much chance is there for her now. Not the sort men like is she. Staid and peevish and plain.”

“Like someone funny in a pantomime she was. That hat she wore. Awful gumption for a funeral, too.”

Slowly and ponderously Maria went downstairs. Hearing her coming, the women talked mournfully of the funeral and looked at her with compassion. Maria gazed at them, her teeth bared.

“Out of my house, backbiters and villains,” she cried. “Shift your stinking bodies out. Sick you make me feel.”

The women shrank away from her snarling face. But one of them called back from the door:

“Ach, you conceited bitch, take that old powder off your sluttish face.”

Maria went into the kitchen and said to Aunt Ann: “Have they fed yet? ”

“Just cutting the ham John Jones is.”

“Hurry them then and clear the house. Weary I feel.” And she was in such a fury that the glances and respect of the people in the parlour gave her no pleasure at all.

* * *


Then a week later John Jones brought his bill. Maria took
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The undertaker counted the money carefully, then turned to her a red face.

“Another ten shillings, Miss Morgans, please,” he said, his voice bridling.

“Go on, discount you must give on a big lump sum like that,” she answered. “Shabby was the funeral, too.”

Maria was dressed in black velvet, and she wore her beads, earrings, and a watch, which was pinned on her smart tight frock. She got up from her chair and said in a superior English manner.”

Maria was dressed in black velvet, and she wore her beads, earrings, and a watch, which was pinned on her smart tight frock. She got up from her chair and said in a superior English manner:

“I am not one to quarrel with undertakers over ten shillings. A gentleman I thought you, but now I am disappointed.”

John Jones calmed himself; it was as though he remembered something suddenly. He looked at her mournfully with his bright monkey eyes. But Maria went icily out of the room and returned with a canvas bag from which she took a large roll of notes. John Jones looked at the money, and his voice was wet as though with tears as he said:

“Forgive me, dear Miss Morgans, for losing my temper. Forgetting your sad loss I was for a moment. Dear me, how lonely you must feel. No companion for a young woman is your aunt. Made any plans, have you, for the future? ”

His fiery little heart really beat with warmth and pity for the bereaved Maria. And she smiled a little as she unrolled the notes beneath his affectionate eyes.

“No hurry am I in,” she replied. “Comfortable I ’ll be with my money.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, “and a good price would you get for this house and the other four in Mines Road. Freehold are they? ”

“Thinking of offering me a price for them, are you, then?” she asked, smiling subtly. “And how did you know four houses I have in Mines Road? ”

“Told I was,” he answered, looking at the floor.

“Nosey!” she laughed. And, taking the canvas bag with her, she went out again, and came back presently with a bottle of port and a dish of biscuits.

“The first in this house,” she cried triumphantly, holding up the bottle.
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“ Strict T. T. was your father,” he said, laughing.

While they drank, Maria gazed dreamily out of the window. But she was aware of the undertaker’s nervous glances. He sniffed and coughed uneasily. She said:

“No, no plans have I made yet. Move away I ’d like to, but there’s lonely a single woman would feel in a strange place. Now, if I could find a man to marry me. . . .” She turned languorous eyes to him. He looked into them.

It was more than he expected. Drinking his port hastily, he lay down the glass with a shaking hand and was suddenly on his knees before her. Grasping her hands, he spluttered passionately:

“Take me, dear, dear Miss Morgans. A lonely bachelor I am, too. And loved you I have since I saw you looking so cold and alone in the funeral. Yes, indeed now. Love. There’s beautiful I feel for you.”

She began to laugh and continued to do so.

“Well, well, this is a surprise. Too mean to love I thought you were, John Jones. Love me for myself you do? ”

“Bitter and unkind you are,” he said sorrowfully.

“Ho,” she said with a sudden vehemence, “no love have I got for any man. Marry you I will so that respected I ’ll be. And there’s a surprise it will be for those women.”