# My People: Stories of the Peasantry of West Wales/The Way of the Earth

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THE WAY OF THE EARTH
III
THE WAY OF THE EARTH
Simon and Beca are waiting for Death. The ten acres of land over Penrhos—their peat-thatched cottage under the edge of the moor—grows wilder and weedier. For Simon and Beca can do nothing now. Often the mood comes on the broken, helpless old man to speak to his daughter of the only thing that troubles him.
“When the time comes, Sara Jane fach,” he says, “don’t you hire the old hearse. Go you down to Dai the son of Mali, and Isaac the Cobbler, and Dennis the larger servant of Dan, and Twm Tybach, and mouth you like this to them: ‘Jasto, now, my little father Simon has gone to wear the White Shirt in the Palace. ​Come you then and carry him on your shoulders nice into Sion.’”
“Yea, Sara fach,” Beca says, “and speak you to Lias the Carpenter that you will give no more than ten over twenty shillings for the coffin.”
Simon adds: “If we perish together, make you one coffin serve.”
Neither Simon nor Beca has further use for life. Paralysis shattered the old man the day of Sara Jane's wedding; the right side of his face sags, and he is lame on both his feet. Beca is blind, and she gropes her way about. Worse than all, they stand without the gates of Capel Sion—the living sin of all the land: they were married after the birth of Sara Jane, and though in the years of their passion they were all that a man and woman can be to each other, they begat no children. But Sion, jealous that not even his errant sheep shall lie in the parish graveyard and swell in appearance those who have worshipped ​the fripperies of the heathen Church, will embrace them in Death.
The land attached to Penrhos was changed from sterile moorland into a fertile garden by Simon and Beca. Great toil went to the taming of these ten acres of heather into the most fruitful soil in the district. Sometimes now Simon drags himself out into the open and complains when he sees his garden; and he calls Beca to look how the fields are going back to heatherland. And Beca will rise from her chair and feel her way past the bed which stands against the wooden partition, and as she touches with her right hand the ashen post that holds up the forehead of the house she knows she is facing the fields, and she too will groan, for her strength and pride are mixed with the soil.
“Sober serious, little Simon,” she says, “this is the way of the earth, man bach.”
But she means that it is the way of mortal flesh … of her daughter Sara ​Jane, who will no longer give the land the labour it requires to keep it clean and good. Sara Jane has more than she can do in tending to her five-year-old twins and her dying parents, and she lets the fields pass back into wild moorland.
In the days of his sin and might Simon had been the useful man of Manteg. He was careless then that the gates of Sion were closed against him. He possessed himself of a cart and horse, and became the carrier between the cartless folk of Manteg and the townspeople of Castellybryn, eight miles down the valley. He and Beca saved; oil lamp nor candle never lit up their house, and they did not spend money on coal because peat was to be lifted just beyond their threshold. They stinted themselves in halfpennies, gathered the pennies till they amounted to shillings, put the silver in a box till they had five sovereigns' worth of it, and this sum Simon took to the bank in Castellybryn ​on his next carrier’s journey. They looked to the time their riches would triumph over even Sion and so open for them the gates of the temple.
As soon as the Schoolin’ allowed her to leave the Board School, Sara Jane was made to help Beca in all the farm work, thus enabling Simon to devote himself almost entirely to his neighbours. The man was covetous, and there were murmurings that strange sheaves of wheat were threshed on his floor, that his pigs fattened on other people's meal.
In accordance with the manner of labouring women Sara Jane wore clogs which had iron rims beneath them, grey stockings of coarse wool that were patched on the heels and legs with artless darns, and short petticoats; in all seasons her hands were chapped and ugly. Still with her auburn hair, her firm breast, and her white teeth, she was the desire of many. Farm servants ogled her in public places; ​farmers’ sons lay in wait for her in lonely places. Men spoke to her frankly, and with counterfeit smiles in their faces; Sara Jane answered their lustful sayings with lewd laughter, and when the attack became too pressing she picked up her petticoats and ran home. Nor was she put out over the attentions she received: she was well favoured and she liked to be desired; and in the twilight of an evening her full-bosomed, ripe beauty struck Simon suddenly as he met her in the close. Her eyes were dancing with delight, and her breast heaving. Sadrach the Small had chased her right to Penrhos.
Simon and Beca discussed this that had happened, and became exceedingly afraid for her.
“There’s an old boy, dear me, for you indeed!” said Simon. “The wench fach is four over twenty now, and fretful I feel.”
​“Iss, iss, Simon,” said Beca.
“If she was wedded now, she would be out of harm.”
“Wisdom you mouth, Simon. Good, serious me, to get her a male.”
“How say you then about Josi Cwmtwrch?”
“Clap your old lips, little man. Josi Cwmtwrch! What has Josi to give her? What for you talk about Josi?”
“Well, well, then. Tidy wench she is, whatever. And when we go she’ll have the nice little yellow sovereigns in the bank.”
Beca interrupted : “The eggs fetched three and ten pennies. Another florin now, Simon, and we’ve got five yellow sovereigns.”
“Don't say then! Pity that is. Am I not taking the old Schoolin’s pig to Castellybryn on Friday too? Went you to all the old nests, woman fach?”
“Iss, man.”
​“What is old Rhys giving for eggs now?”
“Five pennies for six. Big is the fortune the cheater is making.’
Beca dropped off her outer petticoat and drew a shawl over her head, and she got into bed; an hour later she was followed by Simon. In the morning she took to Shop Rhys three shillings’ worth of eggs.
This was the slack period between harvests, and Sara Jane went with Simon to Castellybryn; and while Simon was weighing the Schoolin’s pig she wandered hither and thither, and going over the bridge which spans Avon Teify she paused at the window of Jenkins Shop General, attracted thereto by the soaps and perfumes that were displayed.
“How you are?” said a young man at her side.
“Man bach, what for you fright me?” said Sara Jane. She was moved to step away, for she had heard read that the corners ​of streets are places of great temptation. The young man—a choice young man and comely: he wore spectacles, had the front of his hair trimmed in waves, and his moustaches ended in thin points the young man seized her arm.
“Free you are, boy bach,” Sara Jane cried. “Go you on now !”
“Come you in and take a small peep at my shop,” said the young man. …
When Sara entered her father’s cart she had hidden in the big pocket of her under-petticoat a cake of scented soap and a bottle of perfume.
That night she extracted the hobnails out of the soles of her Sabbath boots. That night also she collected the eggs, and for every three she gathered she concealed one. This she did for two more days, and the third day she purchased a blouse in Shop Rhys. For this wastefulness her parents’ wrath was kindled against her. The next Sunday she secretly used scented ​soap on her face and hands and poured perfume on her garments; and towards evening she traversed to the gateway where the moorland road breaks into the tramping way which takes you to Morfa-on-the-Sea. William Jenkins was waiting for her, his bicycle against the hedge; he was cutting the letters of his name into the gatepost. On the fourth night Sara Jane lay awake in bed. She heard the sound of gravel falling on the window-pane, and she got up and let in the visitor.
The rumour began to be spread that William Jenkins, Shop General, was courting in bed with the wench of Penrhos, and it got to the ears of Simon and Beca.
“What for you want to court William Shinkins, Shop General, in bed for?” said Simon.
“There's bad you are,” said Beca.
“Is not Bertha Daviss saying that he comes up here on his old iron horse?” said Simon.
​“Indeed to goodness,” answered Sara Jane, “what is old Bertha doing out so late for? Say she to you that Rhys Shop was with her?”
“Speak you with sense, wench fach,” Beca said to her daughter.
“Is not William Shinkins going to wed me then?” said Sara Jane.
“Glad am I to hear that,” said Simon. “Say you to the boy bach: ‘Come you to Penrhos on the Sabbath, little Shinkins.’”
“Large gentleman is he,” said Sara Jane.
“Of course, dear me,” said Simon. “But voice you like that to him.”
The Sabbath came, and people on their way to Capel Sion saw William Jenkins go up the narrow Roman road to Penrhos, and they said one to another: “Close will be the bargaining.” Simon was glad that Sara Jane had found favour in William's eyes: here was a godly man and one of substance; he owned a Shop General, ​his coat was always dry, and he wore a collar every day in the week, and he received many red pennies in the course of a day. Simon took him out on the moor.
“Shall we talk this business then at once?” Mishtir Jenkins observed. “Make plain Sara Jane's inheritance.”
“Much, little boy.”
“Penrhos will come to Sara Jane, then?”
“Iss, man.”
“Right that is, Simon. Wealthy am I. Do I not own Shop General? Man bach, there's a grand business for you!”
“Don't say!”
“Move your tongue now about Sara Jane's wedding portion,” said Mishtir Jenkins.
“Dear me, then, talk will I to Beca about this thing,” answered Simon.
Three months passed by. Sara Jane moaned because that her breast was hurtful. Beca brewed for her camomile tea, ​but the pains did not go away. Then at the end of a day Sara Jane told Beca and Simon how she had done.
“Concubine!” cried Beca.
“Harlot!” cried Simon.
“For sure me, disgrace is this,” said Beca.
Sara Jane straightened her shoulders.
“Samplers bach nice you are!” she said maliciously. “Crafty goats you are. What did the old Schoolin’ use to say when he called the names in the morning? ‘Sara Jane, the bastard of Simon and Beca.’ Iss, that’s the old Schoolin’. But William Shinkins will wed me. I shan’t be cut out of the Seiet.”
Simon and Beca were distressed.
“Go you down, little Simon, and word to the boy,” said Beca.
“I’ve nothing to go for,” replied Simon.
“Hap Madlen Tybach need coal?”
“No—no. Has she not much left? ​Did I not look upon the coal when I fetched the eggs?”
“Sorrowful it is you can find no errand. Wise would be to speech to the male bach.”
“Dear little me! I'll go round and ask the tailor if he is expecting parcels from the station.”
“Do you now. You won't be losing money if you can find a little errand.”
At dawn Simon rose and went to Castellybryn. In going over the bridge of Avon Teify he halted and closed his eyes and prayed. This is his prayer: “Powerful Big Man bach, deal you fair by your little servant. And if Shinkins, Shop General, says, ‘I am not the father of your wench’s child,’ strike him dead. We know he is. Ask you Bertha Daviss. Have we not seen his name on the gatepost? This, Jesus bach, in the name of the little White Jesus.”
Outside Shop General he called in a loud voice: “William Shinkins, where he ​is?” Then he came down and walked into the parlour where Mishtir Jenkins was eating.
Simon said: “Sara Jane is with child.”
“And say you do that to me,” said Mishtir Jenkins.
“Iss, iss, man. Sore is Beca about it.”
“Don”t you worry, Simon bach, the time is long.”
“Mishtir Shinkins. There’s religious he is," said Simon, addressing William Jenkins in the third person, as is the custom in West Wales when you are before your betters. “Put him up the banns now then.”
“I will, Simon.”
“Tell he me, when shall I say to Beca thus: ‘On such and such a day is the wedding’? Say him a month this day?”
“All right, Simon. I’ll send the old fly from the Drivers’ Arms to bring you and Sara Jane. Much style there will be. Did you voice to Beca about the matter?”
​“What was that now, indeed, Mishtir Shinkins?”
“Why was you so dull? Sara Jane's portion, old boy.”
"Well-well, iss. Well-well, no. We're poor in Penrhos, Mishtir Shinkins. Poor.”
“Grudging you are with your money, Simon Penrhos.”
“Don’t he say like that. Make speech will I again with Beca.”
Mishtir Jenkins stretched his face towards Simon, and said:
“What would you say, Simon, if I asked you to give me Sara Jane’s portion this one small minute?”
“Waggish is his way, little Shinkins bach,” said Simon with pretended good-humour.
“My father had a farm and sovereigns and a cow when he wedded.”
“Open my lips to Beca I will about this,” answered Simon.
“Good, very,” replied Mishtir ​Jenkins. “I will say about the wedding, man, when you bring me Beca’s words.”
“Shinkins! Shinkins!”
“Leave you me half a hundred of pounds of Sara Jane’s portion and I’ll stand by my agreement.”
“Joking he is, William Shinkins. Deal well we will by Sara Jane on the day of her wedding.”
William Shinkins spoke presently. “I am not a man to go back on my promise to Sara Jane,” he said. “And am I not one of respect?”
Simon went home and gave thanks unto God Who had imparted understanding to the heart of William Jenkins. But folks in Manteg declared that designing men crossed the river in the search of females to wed. Sara Jane was no longer ashamed. She went about and abroad and wore daily the boots from which she had taken out the hobnails.
On the appointed day the fly came to ​Penrhos, and Simon and Sara Jane went away in it: and as they passed through Manteg Bertha Daviss cried: “People bach, tell you me where you are going.”
Simon told her the glad news.
Bertha waved her hand, and she cried to the driver: “Boy nice, whip up, whip up, or you’ll have another passenger to carry.”
Mishtir Jenkins met Simon and Sara Jane at the door of the inn.
“Sara Jane,” he said, “stop you outside while me and your father expound to each other.”
He took Simon into the stable.
“Did you ask Beca about the yellow sovereigns?” he said.
“Iss, iss. Many sovereigns he will get.”
“How many?”
“Shinkins bach, why for he hurry? Bad it looks.”
“Sound the figures now, Simon.”
“Ten yellow sovereigns, dear me.”
​“Simon Penrhos, you and your wench go home.”
“William Shinkins, he knows that Sara Jane is full. I’ll inform against him. The law of the Sessions I’ll put on him. Indeed I will.”
“Am I not making Sara Jane mistress of Shop General? Solemn me, serious it is to wed a woman with child!”
“There’s hard he is, Shinkins. Take two over ten sovereigns and a little parcel of potatoes, and a few white cabbages, and many carrots.”
“Is that your best offer, Simon?”
“It’s all we have, little man. We’re poor.”
“Go with the wench. Costly the old fly is for me.”
Simon seized Mishtir Jenkins’ coat.
“William Shinkins bach,” he cried, “don’t he let his anger get the better of his goodness. Are we not poor? Accept he our daughter——”
​“Simon Penrhos, one hundred of pounds you’ve got in the bank, man. Give me that one hundred this morning before the wedding. If you don’t do that you shall see.”
Simon shivered. He was parting with his life. It was his life and Beca’s life. She had made it, turning over the heather, and wringing it penny by penny from the stubborn earth. He, too, had helped her. He had served his neighbours, and thieved from them. He wept.
“He asks too much,” he cried. “Too much.”
“Come, now, indeed,” said William Jenkins. “Do you act religious by the wench fach.”
Simon went with him to the bank, and with a smudge and a cross blotted out his account. Then he witnessed the completion of the bargain in Capel Baptists, which is beyond the Sycamore Tree.
The bridegroom took the bride home to ​Shop General, and he gave half of the dowry to a broker’s man who had been put in possession. Some of the remaining fifty sovereigns went to his landlord for overdue rent, and on the rest William Jenkins and Sara Jane lived for nearly a year. Then the broker’s man returned, wherefore William Jenkins gave over the fight and fled out of the land.