I - 1890
The lady merchant pointed her chin at Owain, prompting his order.
Things moved so quickly here. He felt like the shore itself being ebbed away at by the ancient tides.
As the young man opened his mouth to speak, he found his words echoed behind him.
“Wensleydale.”
Owain chanced a look over his shoulder.
A tall, fisherman-type had walled him in, though he seemed entirely unknowing. It was the very same man he’d spotted on the docks that first evening, swathed in fur and knit, a thick tail of smoke rising from his pipe.
“It’s the last wheel ‘m‘fraid, boys.” The woman looked from one face to the other, her expression showing neither light nor shade.
Had it been any other afternoon, Owain might have surrendered the cheese. What was it to him after all? And yet, that was the very reason he could not falter.
“I must have it for Mrs Alderson. My apologies.” He reached for the wheel of cheese as though it were a closed hand in a game of Old Maid.
The eyes of the lady merchant brightened a notch, fixing on the man behind Owain.
“Mrs Alderson shan’t mind if we split it.” A large, warm hand made its way to rest upon Owain’s shoulder. “Our Kath is easily swayed by a kind word and a cup of tea.”
The man winked, but the merchant seemed immune to his ways. He was not the chauvinist type, more a scallywag of a son, or some infuriating cousin.
Owain seethed at his own envious thoughts. The ease with which this man spoke and felt his way around, testing boundaries and finding them soft to the touch, where Owain met only walls and fences to be scaled.
“With all due respect, Sir…” Owain began, the last word sticking to the roof of his mouth as he inspected the man’s face and deduced that he could not have been much older than himself. “I am following Mrs Alderson’s instructions. That is to acquire all items on her list. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”
“Could I see this list?” The fisherman asked, never quite branching into the impolite.
At this, Owain became flustered, glancing back and forth between the merchant and his pursuer.
“For what reason?” He started, but was interrupted by the woman, whose patience was wearing thin.
“Listen ‘ere, lads. I’ve other regulars lining up. Make yer minds up, will you?”
Owain handed over the list, though reluctantly.
“Now now, we’ll soon settle this.” The fisherman took the parchment without an air of malice.
His eyes followed each line, knowing full well Katherine Alderson could neither read nor write. He studied the young man’s handwriting, finding it much sharper than he expected, the letters scratched firmly into the paper.
“Well?” Owain glared.
“You picked these up, all of ‘em?”
“Yes.” He held his satchel close to his body.
“Then I say you’ve done better than most.” He folded the parchment and held it out to Owain. “Kath won’t miss ‘alf a Wensley.”
With that, the fisherman picked up the cheese with his left hand, slammed down a shilling with his right, and ushered Owain away from the stall.
“What are you doing?” Owain stared up at him, not exactly afraid, just bewildered. His satchel groaned at his side, the strap beginning to dig into his shoulder.
They were walking rather briskly, still connected at the arm. Owain was about to stop and demand an explanation, childish rebellion rising in him like steam. Then their pace slowed.
“Rhett Jamison. Most call me Jamie.” The hand that once cupped Owain’s elbow was now being offered to him.
He gawked at it for a moment, then met it with his own considerably slimmer hand. Jamie’s skin was darker too, he noticed, like honey on a slice of milk bread.
“What’s yer name? And don’t let it be Wensley.”
“Uh…Owain. Owain Green.”
Jamie’s hand gave a small squeeze before he let go.
“Nice to meet you, Owain. You’ll join me for a drink and some cheese? My ‘alf, of course.”
The odd pleasantry threatened to soften Owain’s brow. Who gave this ‘Jamie’ the right to charm those around him as though it were a modest task, already preordained?
And yet, Owain had been mostly alone these past few weeks. Mrs Alderson was a kind old widow, whose home was warmer to him than his own Grandmother’s, but he had cast himself into an isolated role, one that saw him pace the cobblestone all day, lost in a world of his own making, only to haunt an empty attic at night.
Finally, he agreed.
“Good.” Jamie nodded. “I hope your tastes aren’t too refined.”
---
Jamison cottage looked out upon the shallow beck, a line of cobles set ashore there against tracks of mud and sand.
A thin footbridge spliced Owain’s view. The sky was now much darker than when he and Jamie had crossed it, but he didn’t think to check the time.
“Come. Sit down.” Jamie reappeared. He was carrying a wooden tray bearing two small plates, two knives, and the highly disputed Wensleydale.
He was much quieter indoors, like a burning wick, close to snuffing.
“I’ve sent Flo for the key. I can’t be trusted with the tea caddy, ‘m ‘fraid.”
“Flo?”
Weary from his errands, the last thing Owain wanted was to entertain more strangers. The fisherman would be challenging enough.
Jamie took a seat opposite Owain, placing the tray on a stout rosewood table between them. The chairs were a little threadbare, but clean and comfortable. Certainly not a cause for complaint.
“Flo’s my sister. She’ll pay us no mind.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, the slight figure appeared at the door. She was carrying a tray of her own, this one laden with crockery, as well as two fruit scones.
Flo curtsied a little, her eyes meeting Owain’s only for an instant. The girl wore her hair in a tight bun, a few stray chestnut curls grazing her forehead.
“Nice t’ meet you, Sir.” She directed her words to the ground.
The young man smartened himself a touch.
“Oh…no need for the formality. Owain will suffice.”
Jamie watched their awkward encounter with a sort of glazed amusement. He began packing his pipe.
“Are you one of our artistic visitors, Owain?” She asked, placing the tray down on the table.
For some reason, this particular question brought a blush to his cheek.
“I paint, yes. Is it that obvious?” Owain glanced between brother and sister.
Jamie was smiling, and for a moment, so was Flo, but then she restrained herself. The fisherman continued filling his pipe.
“’m ‘fraid so. But tha’s not a bad thing. The people here, you might say we’re all alike. Same upbringing, same line of work.”
“Born from t’ sea, out t’ sea, int‘t’ sea.” Jamie interjected.
“Just so…” Flo’s voice was barely a whisper.
Several moments passed in weighted silence, then the young girl bowed once more.
“I’ve had my tea already, so I best retire. Mother would like to speak with you before bed.”
She shot one final look to her brother, and then was gone.
Jamie gave a small sigh.
“At last. I don’t begrudge her presence or owt, but I need to smoke. If you don’t mind, that is?”
“Tell the truth…” Owain leaned forward, “I would love a puff myself, but I left my pipe at home.”
Jamie’s chair creaked as he rose, reaching for the nearest candle. There was a faint crackle as he lit his pipe, and then the room filled with soft plumes of smoke.
“Cheeky git…” The fisherman smiled; dark blue eyes glistening. “Help yerself.”
He took a few puffs then passed the pipe to Owain.
While the young man smoked, Jamie used a butter knife to slice the cheese in half, before halving his portion once more.
“So, yer a painter?” He asked, placing the cheese onto two serving plates.
Owain had just inhaled, and on exhaling began to cough. He set down the pipe and retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket, using it to cover his nose and mouth.
“Do excuse me…I don’t usually have such a reaction.” His breathing returned to normal, though his cheeks continued to burn.
“But yes…” He gathered himself. “I paint. I don’t yet know how comfortable I am being called a Painter, but I suppose I have no choice in this place. I must wear it for a while and see if the name fits.”
Jamie picked up a scone and sliced it with his knife, gesturing for Owain to join him. By the time both had prepped their scones with cheese and the tea had been poured, the table was dotted with crumbs. Neither man seemed to care.
The tea was darker than back home, Owain noted. Black as molasses. He added a drop of milk, then lifted the cup to his lips. The taste was not unpleasant, but rather bitter. His moustache came away slightly damp, so he dabbed it with the handkerchief.
“And is your work different to the others I’ve seen?” Jamie licked his thumb.
“That entirely depends.”
“On?”
“On the work you’ve seen.”
Finished with his supper, Jamie took back the pipe.
“Seascapes, or women.” He took a short puff. “I’ve nothing against them, but they do all look quite…”
“Similar.” Owain nodded. “You’ll find that most of us studied under the same mentor, in England or The Netherlands, which makes for rather unoriginal work. Though I cannot speak for all.”
An unwelcome heaviness suddenly came upon him. He felt as though he had somehow channelled his grandmother’s presence through careless thought alone.
Jamie noticed the distance in his eyes.
“Your words are safe ‘ere with me. I’ll not surrender you to yer own kind.”
Both men smiled, though Owain’s stomach was still out to sea.
“How kind of you.” He said, voice catching slightly. “You’re irregularly kind, Jamie. Do you know that?”
His grandmother’s image began to fade as he shifted focus, and the relief was almost palpable. Owain peered up at his acquaintance, a little nervous he’d overstepped some line not yet drawn. But nothing seemed to perplex this man, not truly.
“You make it sound like a bad thing.” Jamie sucked on his pipe in short intervals, checking how much tobacco he had left.
“Men our age are not inclined to be warm or kind. We are… bold, ambitious. We seek out power at every turn!” Owain chuckled. “We work and strive to feed and dress our families. Well, you do.”
He rather expected Jamie to agree with him, but the fisherman had stopped smiling.
“Your ‘ands are soft, I suppose? Unscathed?” Jamie asked, prompting Owain to press those very hands between his thighs. Suddenly ashamed. “Hard graft is not the measure of a man. Not even close.”
A small dose of silence, perhaps much needed. Jamie’s pipe was finally empty.
“You were hard to me before, when we first met.”
Owain tried to smile, but his eyes were glossy, and he could not meet the other man’s gaze. Instead he listened.
“So, yer not hard in the ways of slog and sweat.” Jamie continued. “But something has hardened you. You have looked after someone…or someone has not looked after you.”
This time Owain did look up at him, taking the time to study his features; the subtle arch of his nose, the freckles that dappled his cheeks and forehead, entirely without sequence, all framed by golden tresses, only partly secured in a knot at the base of his skull.
At the man’s words, Owain felt something akin to anger, but he could not bring himself to embrace it fully.
Jamie took his silence to be a fresh wound and worked all at once to mend it.
“Tha’ was not meant as a jibe, I swear it. I was simply pointing out what I thought you might already know. Now I see you did not, and I’m sorry.”
He watched as Owain swallowed but continued not to speak.
“If you want to go…” Jamie spoke slowly, deliberately. He was not flustered, but a seed of worry had been planted somewhere deep inside.
That’s when Owain began to laugh. It was different than before, a genuine sound and one that he could not supress. He was tired and awake, all at once, and had both the strength to talk to Jamie for hours to come, while at the same time no more energy than a thimble full.
“I do not wish to leave, though I will have to. For both our sakes. Your mother will be awaiting your company, and I…well, Mrs Alderson does not like her boards to return late.”
Jamie began to rise from his seat.
“Do you think…” Owain felt he had stopped him with a single look. “Do you think I might accompany you one of these days?”
The fisherman’s eyes widened just a touch.
“Accompany me, where?” He asked, sitting.
“On one of your trips…it needn’t be far. Perhaps I might find myself painting with more…authority, if I were to experience these things at first hand.”
Jamie was stoic at first, then when he realised his new friend had made a sincere request, his face returned to a smile.
“Ask this of me again tomorrow.” He said, finally rising to stand. “Then you’ll have yer answer.”
-----
The door to his mother’s bedroom opened with a lingering creak.
She stirred, somewhere between slumber and wakeful dream. It was only when Jamie took a seat by her bed that she opened her eyes, and took him in.
“What is it, my son?” She asked, voice charred by something neither of them could bring themselves to speak of.
Jamie had been absent for a moment, his eyes staring through the mattress into the stuffing beneath.
“Hm?”
“You’re not yerself.” She took his hand and squeezed it, trying to bring him back from wherever it was his mind had wandered off to.
“Have you ever known me to be anything other than myself?” He beamed, siphoning a smile from her.
“Then, where were you? It is much later than yer usual visits.”
Before he could answer, she spoke again.
“Our Flo said you had a guest.”
“Then you already know the answer.” Jamie began tucking in the quilt around her chest. His mother did not protest.
She looked different tonight, brighter somehow. Her son did not take this as a sign of recovery, however. He had been fooled by such things in the past, then served with a cruel reminder of her frailty soon after. No, this was curiosity. Plain and simple.
“What is the young man’s name?” She asked, watching as Jamie poured her a glass of water and set it on the bedside table.
His hands were steady, even as he uttered the name.
“Owain Green. He’s a painter, though he might need some convincing of that.”
Mrs Jamison smiled to herself, and her son knew she was picturing this ‘painter’. Her expression suggested she was pleased with what she saw.
“A Welsh boy. You didn’t mention that…”
“You reckon?” Jamie cocked an eyebrow.
“A name like tha’s no accident. Dark hair, curly?”
“Jet black.” He recalled with ease. “Straight, naw curly.”
“Eyes?” His mother shifted, trying to find a comfortable position.
Jamie stared for a moment, then blinked hard. His eyelashes were a light brown, the same as his father, and they cast a faint shadow against his cheeks.
“Can’t say I remember.”
“Can’t yer?”
His mother was trying to capture his gaze, and for a moment, she had succeeded.
Nothing about her tone suggested she was being cruel, nor was she baiting him. She was merely bedbound, and in being so, was able to sense the smallest changes in her kin.
Mrs Jamison knew what made her son’s heart swell, just as she knew her husband’s heart while he was alive. Flo was a mystery; one she could no longer decipher. But her boys, she could always count on them to show their palms face upward.
“You sure you weren’t peeking through that door there?” Jamie chuckled, trying to regain his footing. “I’ll tell you all about him once I actually get to know the lad. Right now, there’s not too much to go on.”
He gave the quilt a small pat, then eased out of his chair.
“You’re to see him again?” She asked, watching as her son snuffed out the candle near her bed.
Tufts of smoke filled the air. The fragrance alone was almost enough to send Mrs Jamison back to sleep.
“He lives here…for now at least. We’re bound to bump elbows.”
Jamie stood in the doorway; he could just make out the shape of his mother’s birdlike frame beneath the covers.
“I should like t’ meet him.” She said as she closed her eyes.
Jamie couldn’t be sure if this was said in earnest, or if sleep had begun to take over her words as well as her thoughts. But he nodded, and gaining no further response from her, closed the door.
