The Pull of Home

XXIII

Frances slipped her hand into Emyr's as they walked along. He looked at her with a smile of bashfulness, which she returned despite the whispers that followed them as they passed the village market. This only intensified by the scene of Emyr shopping alongside his wife, but these sounds were easily shut out when they reached home.

Their cheeks were reddened by wind and their noses wet by the spray of rain which had started to drench the world. After removing their coats and scarves, he rushed up to the fireplace and set the room alight in that little warmth could be mustered. Jane and Kit both instantly drew themselves to it like moths, hogging the space so they only basked in the heat.

"Cats and children are the most selfish little creatures in the world," Frances remarked  with amusement. But the sounds of their snores alongside the roar of the fire reminded them of the safety they found inside their walls; hiding was fast becoming a part of their lives.

"We should runaway somewhere," Emyr laughed as they settled down by the fire, its roar drowning out the whispers they imagined festering outside.

"To America, perhaps? Become homesteaders in the West and stare out upon the prairie each morning?" she suggested.

"Would be nice to have our own land, wouldn't it?" He sat there for another moment before groaning and hoisting himself up; the fire was difficult to pull oneself away from. "Well, we'd better star' unpackin'."

Frances sat there for just a moment longer. Did he really mean that? In truth, he had little to attach himself to this place anymore, not since Cathy had turned him away. Frank had said nothing about the incident. Instead he seemed kinder to Emyr, as if he felt sorry for him. Emyr needed work and hence did not dare to bring about what Cathy had said or try to defend Frances further. However, the idolisation he once held for the Howes had long been vanquished.

What care did either of them have for the emptiness of the fields, the lost breeze from the faraway sea, the grey skies and the sleepy villages?

Frances had a single friend and Emyr had none anymore, not really, and especially not amongst those he worked with who disdained the way he lived. What if they found a home where no one knew the circumstances of their marriage? They could build a life based on nothing but themselves, as Miss Hayes had done. One day, had she not simply stood up and stole away to somewhere no one could name her?

Or they could go where they were known and love was guaranteed. Home. Frances imagined the letters she received from home coming to life, in the shape of her mother and sister standing before her, being close and living besides her with promises and bold voices and smiles she could see at her desire.

She could live off their letters. She had enough outside of them and did not pretend they were the only things in the world anymore. But how could she pretend it would be anything other than miraculous to be with them once more? They could meet and fall in love with Jane, as she had started to- finally. They could be a full family. She smiled at the cosy thought of her mother being kind towards Emyr, and him glowing at this maternal affection.

"Would you really go elsewhere?" asked Frances.

"I think I'd be a little scared to. I'm so indebted to Frank an' all and I still care about them all even if..." he trailed away. "I still hope we can be friends again if they come round."

"But you can care for them without being by them," Frances said. "We could go live with my mother for a while and then settle down somewhere in Shropshire. I'd so love for you and Jane to be a proper family with my mother and sister." She looked so in earnest when she spoke, her eyes wide in hope.

"Your family," he said carefully, "are you sure they'd like that?" The part of her life she had lived before him, and indeed during their union as well, was a part he had never accessed. He had seen her in her fine clothes, standing in a school which cost more money than he said could ever even comprehend, and heard her discuss art and music and literature in an easy way, as if words on a page were as easy to understand as speaking whereas he still struggled with reading. Words had always been coded to him. Therefore, he was aware of a separation between them.