Dead Man's Embers by Mari Strachan Page B

for the many things her father taught her?
    With the back of her hand she sweeps back the strands of hair that are sticking to the sweat on her forehead, leaving a trail of soapsuds, and catches sight of Osian watching the bubbles that rise from the tub where Lizzie is still pounding with more energy than Non ever experiences. He studies the bubbles where his world is captured in rainbow colours, as if he is trying to work out how to climb inside one of them, the way he clambers into his own little world inside the coffins in Davey’s workshop. Lizzie’s dolly beats like a drumstick against the bottom and sides of the wooden tub. Non is certain the wood at the bottom is thinning more rapidly than it should; Lizzie does not know her own strength. She watches the bubbles with Osian as they float up into the air and tremble before vanishing with a pop. The vanishing makes her think of Wil.
    â€˜Won’t be doing Wil’s workclothes much longer is what I hear, missus,’ Lizzie says.
    Non is often surprised by Lizzie’s prescience. She has more clairvoyance in her little finger than that Madame Leblanc had in her whole body. But she has to smile when she thinks again of the journey back from Port, with Catherine Davies in a deep sulk because the spirits had snubbed her when she had taken so much trouble to arrange the whole thing, and Elsie overjoyed that Ben Bach was with her again, repeating over and over that he wouldnot leave now that she had told him to stay where he was. Non thinks, Never again. But she wonders about Madame, who was as shocked as any of them with what happened. The fright might make her give it all up, this fooling of gullible people.
    â€˜He’s a good lad, young Wil. Quiet, like his father, but he won’t take no nonsense. He’ll make his way just fine, don’t you fret. O’ course, Meg takes after her mother.’
    â€˜I never met Grace. I remember her being talked about when she died,’ Non says. She hands Lizzie a pair of Davey’s trousers after making sure there is nothing in the pockets. ‘What was she really like, Lizzie?’
    â€˜Pretty,’ Lizzie says, ‘to look at.’
    Non thinks of the photograph of Grace hanging above the mantelpiece, the photographer’s name embossed on its corner –
H Owen, Barmouth
. Grace had never lived in this house, but Non had felt obliged to have her photograph there so that her children would not forget her; though Meg was too young when her mother died to have any memories and Wil’s memories are of being smacked for no apparent reason. Grace had been pretty, fair-haired and fine-boned, and so young. ‘I know,’ Non says, more sharply than she means to, ‘I’ve seen her photograph.’
    â€˜Ah, but her character don’t show in a picture, do it?’ Lizzie says. ‘Bit too much like your mother-in-law for my liking. A troublemaker.’
    â€˜Like Mrs Davies?’ Non is surprised. She has not heard this about Grace from anyone. ‘Grace wasn’t family, was she?’
    â€˜No, but she were more like Mrs Davies than Bess and Katie ever were. Odd, isn’t it? Anything else to go in here, missus?’ Lizzie stops heaving the dolly up and down and leans back to ease her spine. ‘Yes, Mrs Davies met her match there. It were quite funny to watch them sometimes.’
    Another photograph that does not tell the truth, Non thinks. It shows someone angelic, soft and tender, who needs to be cosseted and looked after, unlike Non herself with her straight brown hair and brown skin and the dark brown eyes that Branwen used to complain looked right through people and made them feel queer. Davey’s little wren. What did he call Grace, a more rarefied bird altogether?
    â€˜Right,’ Lizzie says. ‘Time to put this lot through the mangle.’ One at a time she draws the clothes out and hands them to Non who places them between the rollers and