The Jeweller E-Book

Caryl Lewis

• Herausgeber: Honno Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

That was the horror of love: your sweetheart could stick a knife into your eyeball and sharpen it a notch every chance they got. Mari supplements her modest stock as a market-stallholder with the trinkets she acquires clearing the houses of the dead. Living in a tiny cottage by the shore – alone apart from a pet cat and the monkey, Nanw – she surrounds herself with the lives of others, combing through letters she has gleaned and putting up photographs of strangers on her small mantelpiece for company. Mari is looking for something beyond saleable goods and borrowed memories. As she works on cutting the perfect emerald, she inches closer to a discovery that will transform her life and throw her relationships with old friends into relief. To move forward she must shed her life of things past and start again. How she does so is both surprising and shocking...

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Quotes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About Caryl Lewis

About Gwen Davies

Copyright

The Jeweller

by Caryl Lewis

Translated from the Welsh

by Gwen Davies

Honno Modern Fiction

I Mam, gyda diolch (CL)

Er cof am Gareth Alban Davies (GD)

Acknowledgements

Chapter 3 was first published inNew Welsh Review. Special thanks to Suzy Ceulan Hughes and Mary-Ann Constantine, and to my family for advice and practical help, Sioned Rowlands of the Welsh Literature Exchange, Sally Baker and all at Translators’ House Wales and Tŷ Newydd, Gioia and Ada at the Mrs Carter Italian translation workshop, Kathryn Gray and, above all, Caryl Lewis.

Gwen Davies, Translator

Ah! Happy they whose hearts can break

And peace of pardon win!…

… “How else but through a broken heart

May Lord Christ enter in?”

Poem V,The Ballad of Reading Gaol,Oscar Wilde

Now when Jesus was risen early the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had cast seven devils.

Mark 16:9

Chapter 1

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy…”

Mari opened her eyes. Down on her knees, she saw shapes forming in the dark. There came that fluttering sound again. At the little window, day was close; the wind’s thin breath a cloud on the glass. A flutter, like fingers leafing through pages. She got up to look. Against the cold glass, a butterfly beat a muted prayer for escape. Her pupils got darker, helping her penetrate the grey. When she was a little girl they’d say butterflies were just leaves reincarnated. She’d mulled it over then, her mood lifted on a fancy of fortunes befalling a girl in a world where one small leaf can bloom all colours, sprout wings, up sticks and up up away into the sunset. She shivered.

The noise had awoken Nanw, who stretched out lazily. Mari went over and chattered to her softly to keep her calm. The sea was breathing in the distance, dark against the growing light, and seagulls were being flung across the air like litter. The butterfly nagged gently like an old flame. Should she let it outside, it was sure to die, weak and failing as it already was from a winter in the cottage. But it was desperate to be let go. Nanw sat up, enchanted by the ragged wings. Mari caught it at the corner of the glass, cupping her hands around it as though she were receiving communion. She nudged open the sash with her elbow, the wings pulsing weakly on her palm. She stretched her arms out and a gust snatched the insect away across the garden. Now you could hear the ringing of wind in the rigging of boats below. Fear crept through her. She banged the window shut and drew the loose folds of her nightie around her. She gazed into the gloom, the butterfly’s powder a gold dust on her fingertips.

“Amen,” she whispered.

Nanw was mimicking her by leaning against her cage’s grid, arms clutched round her body. The weak light glowed silver in Mari’s hair, and ruby across the dark face of the monkey.

The chill had crept up Mari’s spine so she fetched a cardigan and hooked it over her shoulders. She let the cat into the bedroom to keep Nanw company while she had her breakfast.

The cottage was nestled on a remote road above the sea, surrounded by crooked trees. Opposite the low doorway, across the road, was an old stile marking the way down to the beach. The three small rooms were filled with clutter. Mari’s treasures choked the narrow kitchen passage, and vintage clothes hung along each wall. Papers were piled all anyhow, while the thick walls were so badly affected by damp that she had to keep a fire going in the bedroom. She went barefoot along the lino to the kitchen and lowered an egg on a spoon into a saucepan of water. She dried the spoon on her nightie, thrusting it into some cranny of an old wireless needing technical TLC after Nanw broke the aerial in a fit of temper. Mari listened to the radio’s far-off voices as she made herself a cup of tea. She left the teabag steaming on the sink.

She waited for the egg to rap out in Morse code that it was ready, and she sat down to eat at that early hour. Mari finished her egg, leaving the shell rocking on the table.

In the bedroom she put on two pairs of socks, and pushed her petticoat into the top of her trousers. Tying her money bag around her waist, she hid it under rolls of jumper. She threw some nuts over to Nanw who set to cracking them, eager for the next one even before she’d had the first. Years ago, the monkey would have gone with her mistress: she had been good for business. But times had changed; one nip and a customer would play hell. Mari crouched to say goodbye, stroking her little black hands, while Nanw tried to filch the bracelets chiming around Mari’s wrists. The cat half-woke and whipped her tail in envy.

“Stay here now, sweetie; the cat’ll keep you company.”

Mari stood up, letting go of the hands which curled back around the bars. Nanw turned her big eyes on her. Mari shut the door and went into the front room. She rummaged among the teddies in the toy chest and found a deep leather box. She held it tight against her breast like a child and carried it out carefully to the car, locking the door behind her.

Squalls stifled the sound of the engine starting up. The clock’s staccato said quarter to five. Dry leaves and rubbish were being blown about the garden. From her cell, Nanw saw the car depart, and she glanced out into the garden at a small colourful leaf clutching at blades of grass. The cat began to purr.

Chapter 2

The market had a real buzz about it, with boxes being hauled up high on shoulders. Wednesday, the traditional mart day, was busiest. Even though the animal auction in town had closed years ago, a dwindling number of local farm wives still kept to custom. Most of the stallholders had already unpacked, priced and displayed their goods and were tucking into bacon sandwiches from Ann Chips’ café where she thrust them at you with big arms marked with a grid of pink scars like streaks in bacon.

As the sun shone higher through the old hall’s roof, so the chatter rose in volume. This time of year, the place looked pretty worn out. Neon starburst signs insisted you appreciate their advertised bargains, while the unforgiving spring light flooded over well-thumbed stock. Even the voices of the marketeers as they fell out – shouting – sounded gravelly, in need of a good sluicing.

Mari greeted everyone shyly as she picked her way towards her stall, feeling herself relax as she melted into the comforting din. Fish and meat smells mixed with fag smoke and steam from teacups, a scent so strong it phased out trespassing thoughts. She fumbled for her keys, noticing Dafydd had kindly opened the heavy doors of her stall already. Next to hers, Gwyn had his already open. They nodded to each other. He was a cobbler: his shoes, stuffed with raffle tickets, were set out shipshape on shelves. He cut keys too, and with a timely tink of his screwdriver would set running again the odd dawdling watch. On her other side, Mo was selling some woman a dishcloth and Lifebuoy soap. She twirled the carrier bag around her wrist and knotted it. When she wrinkled her nose behind her no-frills glasses, the window between her teeth seemed to widen. She winked at Mari, and she smiled back like she always did.

It was getting crowded. Some customers came every day just to fetch meat or bread: they dipped like kingfishers into the maelstrom and flitted off, meal in beak. Others called in on their way to shop in town, to get a key cut or a shoe mended, to buy jam or browse for a gift. Some even came especially to look at the dolls’ house on Gwyn’s stall: someone’s home in perfect detail, down to the last fingernail shoehorn. Today he had Easter eggs in a row of cups along the four-inch kitchen table. Iwan was the type of customer who would stay there all day since retiring. He came by bus and leaned on counters chatting till they kicked him out at hometime. In the café he’d join anyone who was sitting on their own. He gave Mari a grin but had his sights set on Mo.

“Well, Mo, lookin’ fine, lookin’ swell…” A cocked eyebrow in Mari’s direction.

“What’s that supposed to mean then, Iwan?”

“Looking… ‘well-upholstered’, shall we say?”

Mo put her hand on her stomach.

“For your information, Iwan love, I’m like a rake under all these clothes… May look like a bag lady in this get-up but at least it keeps the draughts out.” Iwan laughed. One of the girls from the baker’s smiled as she passed. “Now put me down or Dai’ll be wanting words with you.”

“That old pussycat?”

“Well now, Iwan love, what you want then?” They began ferreting in a box of socks.

Mari’s stall was long and narrow, with glass cases in front and shelves behind to display the bigger items and vintage clothing. Just looking at the leather box spread a warm feeling through her veins. This was her favourite time of day. Like opening a beehive, she pulled out the velvet trays from its belly and let the jewels flood out their own light. The glass necklaces and the cameos with their milky faces stayed at the market, locked up overnight. But the valuable stones would come and go as she did. Each morning she would wake them, spread them out under a glass altar, waiting for them to lure their worshippers.

She let the gems come alive and germinate: diamond and emerald, bloodstone and ruby. Their beauty was something she never came to terms with. All the earth’s power had gone into forming something this stunning. Sometimes in a deep seam of her dreams, rocks were locked in a cosmic duel, their sweat dripping off as jewels. She had black pearls from some exotic lakes, too: little globes with a sheen across them in the gentle light. When a stone had been well cut, you didn’t need bright electric lamps to show it off.

Mari took out a huge sapphire ring which she had just bought at an auction. She rubbed it with an old rag to warm it up. Its blue-green was deceptively deep like the sea; she could see fleets out there, sunk in its watery hall of mirrors.

“New, is it?”

She jumped. Iwan liked to keep an eye on her stock and would buy a watch at the market now and then, even though he didn’t have many appointments to attend. She showed him the ring and he held it awkwardly.

“Sapphire,” she said, “the stone of wisdom.”

“Well, well…”

She leaned over the counter, happy to see him absorbed in blue depths.

“They used to think the world was set in a huge sapphire and that’s why the sky is blue.”

“Pretty,” he said, giving it back, “but a bit out of my league.”

“But you’d be the wisest man here, then… All the answers to the world’s big questions in there, you know.”

“Well,” he said, tapping his temple, “my noggin’s nearly hollow, but I’d rather stay a numbskull if being clever costs that much!”

He laughed and pushed his new socks into his suit pocket, limping over to the café. Mari rubbed the sapphire again, considering it a reasonable price for all the world’s answers. She placed it in among the other pieces which cast a prism of colour across the faces of passers-by.

Chapter 3

“We’d better kneel down then,” Mari said.

Mo grumbled as she sought some clear space in the middle of the floor. You could see the shape of her horseshoe brooch through her jumper. It was Maundy Thursday and Mo had fetched Mari to help her, as her husband was at auction. Mo sold knickers, bloomers, vests and aprons by day. She’d tried lately to keep up with the fashion by stocking the occasional tiger-print bra or snaking a purple feather boa around the flannelette and Y-fronts. But it was by night she made her money. She did “nest clearance” as she put it: pecking like a magpie over the pickings of empty old houses, clearing them and sorting out their relics into piles for sale or burning. Every week she’d sift through old lives and tidy them away into black bags and auction lots. Mari often went along to keep Mo company, and, in return, she got first refusal on clothes and jewellery.

Tonight, the women were in a house high above the harbour. Below them, seagulls strutted with sour faces through the empty harbour’s black shale. The rain was slapping testily at the windows of the old Georgian residence.

Hands clasped, the pair prayed on the carpet in the dark until their knees ached.

“Watch out, now.”

There being no electricity, Mo got up and lit a lamp. She pulled Mari to her feet.

Every nook of the cavernous living room was crammed, with just a sheep’s track picking its way through. It stank too; when it had got too much to bear, Mari had muffled her mouth in her scarf. Dozens of empty sugar packets were in one corner; in another, carrier bags of milk bottles.

The light flashed in owl eyes, their owner perched in a cabinet by the fireplace. Mari felt coldness clutching. Mo marked its case with a chalk cross, a system for her husband to see which items to collect for auction. She marked a corner cupboard in the same way. Mari got out her torch and switched it on. She heard rustling from the chimney: probably a bird nesting up there. On the mantelpiece were black and white photographs. A girl riding a bike, hair done up in a Marcel Wave and ribbon. Her check blouse was knotted at the waist, and her long legs were working the pedals to speed her past happily while she looked back laughing. A soldier. A wedding photo. The same woman on the beach in middle age. Another of her, sixty, on her birthday. She hadn’t had time to have children. That was why it had been left to strangers such as her and Mo to comb through her life.