Chapter 9 - One Last Spring

Gwen and Mabel joined about a dozen other girls who were already lined up at the start of the race, and Mrs. Williams the Shop, the shopkeeper’s wife, handed them each a metal spoon and a hard-boiled brown egg. Gwen set the egg on her spoon, steadying her hand as the egg wobbled precariously. She glanced to her right. Mabel had her egg and spoon ready and was watching Mr. Williams the Shop, who stood at the sidelines, a whistle poised at the side of his mouth.

The moment the whistle sounded, Mabel took off with all the other girls close behind. Within seconds, eggs started rolling off spoons, and cries of disappointment mingled with the cheers of the spectators lining the racecourse. Gwen tried to focus on keeping her spoon steady, but when she took her eyes off her egg to gauge the slight slope ahead, she saw Mabel trip on the uneven ground in front of her. Mabel’s egg landed in the grass, and within seconds Gwen’s egg joined it.

“I can’t believe it!” Mabel cried, picking up her egg. Her shoulders slumped as she surveyed all the cracks in the shell. “I’ve been practicing balancing an egg on a spoon for weeks. I really thought I stood a chance in this race.”

A loud cheer sounded, and both girls glanced over at the finish line, where the four competitors who had managed to finish the course without dropping their eggs had just arrived.

“You were ahead the whole time,” Gwen said.

Mabel’s mouth drooped. “Yes, but that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Maybe you can try another race?”

Mabel shook her head. “I’m not fast enough in the running races, and I just get tangled up in the sack race.”

“What about the three-legged race?” Gwen asked.

“You need a partner for that one,” Mabel said, kicking at an offending tuft of grass as she stated the obvious.

“Well, if you don’t have one, I’ll do it with you.”

Mabel raised her head. “You will?”

“Yes.” Gwen shrugged. “I know we haven’t practiced, but we could give it a go.”

Hope returned to Mabel’s eyes. “All right,” she said, turning toward the starting line. “But we’ll have to hurry. I think it might be next.”

Less than five minutes later, they were standing at the beginning of the race, with Gwen’s right ankle tied to Mabel’s left. Gwen had her arm around Mabel’s shoulders, and Mabel’s arm was securely anchored around Gwen’s waist. Their eyes were locked on Mr. Williams the Shop, and as soon as he blew his whistle, they raised their joined legs and leaped across the starting line.

The six-inch discrepancy in their height had Mabel virtually flying across the grass to keep up with Gwen’s long strides, but her determination to do well more than made up for her short stature, and they crossed the finish line in second place.

“We did it!” Mabel cried.

Gwen staggered backward on her one free leg as Mabel threw her arms around her.

“Yes.” Gwen laughed at her friend’s excitement. “You were marvelous.”

Mabel beamed, then hurried to untie the rope from around their ankles so she could give the winners her congratulations before running off to share the news of her success with her mother.

Gwen entered the sack race next and, once again, benefited from her long legs. She came in first, and when she joined Aunty Jane for lunch and showed her the ribbons she’d won, Aunty Jane gave an unsurprised nod.

“Your mam always won the sack race,” she said as she handed Gwen a bacon butty.

“Really?” Gwen held her breath. Her aunt rarely spoke of the past, perhaps because it was too painful, but when she did let something slip, Gwen clung to every word.

Aunty Jane nodded again. “She was built just like you, long and lean.” She pursed her lips and looked Gwen up and down. “I daresay she was about your height.”

“I’m five feet seven inches,” Gwen informed her.

“That sounds about right,” Aunty Jane said. “I’ve noticed that you’re taller than a lot of the girls in the village, just like your mam was. It seems like she was always taller than me, even though I’m three years older than her.” Sadness filled her eyes for a second, but she seemed to steel herself against becoming sentimental. “She knew how to use those long legs though. She could beat most of the boys in a footrace.”

Gwen smiled. She liked learning of things she shared with her mother. There had been many times she’d wished she were short and pleasantly plump like Mabel Richards. Perhaps now that she knew she was built like her mother, she wouldn’t mind the way she was quite so much. In the past, remembering that her wavy, often unruly mane was the image of her mother’s had helped lessen her craving for Mabel’s raven, silky hair. Gwen made a mental note to be more thankful for her willowy form.

After lunch, the men’s competitions started. Gwen was glad to see that Lewis and his brother, Rowland, were on the winning side of the tug-of-war, and she was quite sure that most of the villagers were secretly elated that one of their own—Huw Fawr, a local farmer whose strength and stature were legendary—beat out all the navvies, including the burliest quarryman, in tossing the traditional seventy-five-pound stone the farthest.

The competitions concluded with a giant football game, the English and Irish navvies joining the local Welshmen until there were over a hundred men chasing the ball around the field. Even though men exchanged angry words several times when the tackling got rough, the game concluded without a single punch being thrown, and the villagers breathed a collective sigh of relief that despite the inclusion of a few pub-frequenting navvies, they’d averted an all-out brawl.

At the end of the football game, everyone dispersed to their homes to put young children to bed or to prepare for the dance. Aunty Jane was too set in her nonconformist ways to deign to attend any kind of dance, even one that included youth as young as thirteen and fourteen, but given the fact that their minister, John Ellis, had not specifically preached against going, she was allowing Gwen to attend for the first time. Gwen had been filled with excited anticipation for weeks, but now that the time had come, she found herself standing in front of the small mirror in her bedroom, overcome by anxiety.

After changing into her Sunday-best dress, she’d taken her hair out of the long braid she usually wore and, in an effort to appear a little older, had pulled her hair up into a loose bun. To her chagrin, however, her bun didn’t look anything like the tidy chignons she’d seen on other young women in the village. The unfortunate combination of her desperately lacking hairdressing skills and her thick, wild curls had proven to be her undoing. Wispy tendrils were already falling out of the many hairpins she’d tucked around her bun, but a glance at the small clock on the dresser told her she had no time to redo it.

Taking a deep breath, Gwen placed her hand on her stomach to calm the butterflies inside. She’d always planned on attending her first dance with Robert beside her. She’d been depending on him to guide her through any unknown protocols and to be her partner or moral support should it seem as though she was destined to be a wallflower for the night. But as much as she wished it were different, his reassuring presence was not going to be there, and Gwen knew she had to face this new experience alone.

She squared her shoulders and gave her reflection an encouraging smile. She could do this. It would help prepare her for all the things she would have to face on her own in Llanfyllin. This was part of growing up, and she was ready.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door. “Gwen?”

She opened the door.

“Mabel is here for you,” Aunty Jane said.

Gwen couldn’t help smiling at the fact that the same Mabel who was consistently late for school had arrived early to accompany her to the dance.

“I’m ready,” Gwen said.

Aunty Jane gave her a scrutinizing look. “You hair is already falling out of your bun,” she said.

Gwen gave a defeated sigh. “I know. I couldn’t seem to get it quite right.”

Her aunt walked around her. She brushed out a couple of small wrinkles in Gwen’s dark-blue dress and studied her hair with a frown. “I daresay it will stay together for a couple of hours. It’s too late now, but next time, ask for my help.”

Gwen glanced at her aunt’s graying hair that was, as always, scraped back into a tight bun at the base of her head. It was not exactly the look she had been trying for, but she had to concede it was tidy.

“Yes, Aunty Jane,” she said quietly.

“I hope you will have a nice time,” Aunty Jane said, facing Gwen once again and clasping her hands in front of her. “Remember, no excess frivolity. I expect you to behave like a well-mannered young lady.”

“Yes, Aunty Jane.” What little self-confidence Gwen had had in her appearance was now gone, and her enthusiasm for attending the dance at all was diminishing rapidly, but she put on a brave face and forced a smile. “I’d better not keep Mabel waiting any longer.”

“Very well, then,” Aunty Jane said. “Off you go.”

Gwen swallowed her disappointment. Perhaps her aunt didn’t realize how nervous she was. Perhaps she really thought Gwen was completely confident when it came to interacting with young men or her skills on the dance floor. Neither could be further from the truth. But it seemed a little late to admit to those things now. No matter how much she wished it otherwise, she would be setting out for her first dance without an encouraging word or reassuring embrace from anyone.

They held the St. John’s Day dance in the village hall. Someone had decorated with tall vases full of gladiolus flowers, which helped cheer up the drab, functional room. Wooden chairs had been placed against the wall, leaving the center of the room completely clear. In one corner, there was a table with an enormous steaming tea urn and a pitcher of water surrounded on either side with rows and rows of cups. On the small wooden stage, Rhys Jones, the tailor, was tuning his fiddle and Huw Fawr, still glowing from his victory in the stone toss, was discussing the order of the dances with him. Gwen could hear Huw’s deep voice all the way across the room, which was why he was the most requested country-dance caller in the county.

Men and women dressed in their Sunday best were flowing into the hall. The sounds of talking and laughter filled the air. Gwen stood at the door and looked around. Even though familiar faces surrounded her, she felt completely out of place and very alone.

Beside her, Mabel was busily scanning the room too. “Come on, Gwen,” she said happily. “I see some of the boys from school.”

Without a backward glance, Mabel hurried across the floor toward the table in the corner. Gwen was quite sure that standing by herself at the door was preferable to maintaining stilted conversation with a group of young men, but as people filtered into the hall behind her, she realized she was going to be forced to move out of the way. Reluctantly, she trailed after Mabel.

She was halfway across the hall when she heard her name being called. “Gwen! Gwen Humphreys!”

Turning to her right, she saw Ioan Llanwddyn sitting cross-legged on the edge of the stage. The elderly man beckoned to her. Gwen wasn’t anxious to revisit her last humiliating encounter with Ioan, but talking to him seemed less intimidating than facing the crowd of young men now buzzing around Mabel. She stepped closer.

“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “But I did hear you got word from your brother.”

“Yes.” Gwen smiled, remembering the kind things Ioan had said about Robert. “He found work on a ship captained by a Welshman. They sailed for India several weeks ago.”

“Well now, that’s grand!” Ioan said. “Won’t he have some stories to tell!”

Gwen laughed. “I daresay he’ll be more than happy to share them all with you too.”

Ioan gave his characteristic toothless grin. “And I’ll be mighty glad to hear them.”

“Are you ready over there, Ioan?” Huw called over to him.

“Just say the word,” Ioan called back.

“What are you going to do?” Gwen asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

Ioan lifted one of his walking sticks. “Ah, well now, I may not be much of a dancer, but there’s plenty of rhythm in me. Young Huw Fawr, over there, rather likes to have a bit of help with keeping everyone where they need to be.”

“What do you do?”

The twinkle was back in Ioan’s eye. “Just you watch,” he said.

On the stage, Rhys played a long, piercing note on his fiddle, and Huw stepped up to the edge of the stage. “Take your partners, ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “It’s time to dance the Jac y Do!”

The lull in people’s chatter when Huw spoke was suddenly replaced by a flurry of activity as several men led women into the center of the room and lined up facing their partners. At a nod from Huw, Ioan raised his walking stick and tapped it against the stage floor in a smooth, regular beat. With the nodding of his head, Rhys picked up the beat and began to fiddle, and Huw’s voice followed immediately after, calling out the first dance steps.

Fascinated, Gwen watched the couples step together, step apart, and follow the lead through arched arms. The fiddle music swelled, and she caught herself humming along to the familiar tune and tapping her foot in time with Ioan’s rhythmic beat until the last note sounded and everyone on the dance floor turned to face the stage and clap.

“That was wonderful,” Gwen said, smiling broadly.

“Not too bad for a farmer, a tailor, and a cripple, eh?” Ioan said with an answering grin.

“Can I stay here and watch?”

Ioan chuckled. “You can stay here until some young man comes and sweeps you onto the floor. I don’t reckon you’ll be here long, mind.”

“I’d rather watch.”

“What you’d rather do may not play into it,” Ioan said sagely, but he didn’t have time to elaborate because Huw was already calling for the next dance.