Days of Grace

A Story by James Wallace

DAYS OF GRACE

by James Wallace

PART ONE

When wind moves trees at dusk

And tungsten lamps

Throw weird shadows on rain-soaked walls

Day quickly turns to night. The deep Atlantic ocean, lifted by the wind, churns green and cuts its way in, around and out of the sheer granite cliffs, its fingers of white foam reaching high up onto the rocks; caressing, soothing. The waves lift high, monstrous in their intent, capped off white on their tips by the wind. It blows through them, boils them all into a mass of spray and total water. It is a frightening, yet beautiful thing, the sea with the wind lifting as one; the unpredictability of power. It pounds again against the cliff and against itself, blind in its fury but resolute in its purpose. Little boats, laying alongside the big yachts in the old harbor, strain and snap at their moorings; they bend against them, showing their undersides painted red. The metal halyards along their masts click rapidly, the only voice against the wind. A lone herring gull fights against the wind, streaking low over the water, its feathers flash gray-white against the graphite clouds; dexterous wings powerful when faced with the ever changing directions of the tempest. The bird spots the cliffs, and is going home.

The streets of the small coastal town are empty. Most here know when it’s a good idea to stay indoors. The wind howls its salt breath through the narrow passages and alleys, searching for ways into the buildings themselves; but it is a strong town, built from the same stones of the cliffs on which it sits - almost an extension of them. There are few trees in town because the people kept those in the valley below where they belonged. A cold and piercing rain begins, hard from the start. It is incessant, penetrating every crack on every wall that grew from the cliff, running fast in multiple, uncountable waterfalls, joining together into the torrent of the few streets. It was just another small and very old town, one of many that kept its doors shut this night, content to let the weather go by. In Wales, time does not move very fast. The people of the country, the small towns and villages, see the new ideas, see the changes that come and ponder them, putting off decisions always till tomorrow; and the tomorrows turn to years. The faces are set, the eyes narrowed and there is humor in the minds. When the sea rises and the streets become rivers, the faces raise a little, maybe the eyes will open some; but the shoulders are shrugged, the curtains drawn and isn’t the television a warm thing? Tomorrow is always another day.

The town’s center is The Square, but really in the shape of a circle, and the only light tonight coming from there is burning so bright in the fish and chip shop. Whatever the weather was, it never closed until the proper time. It is a necessity, a staple, and what if someone wanted something quick? The smell, even through the rain, is pervasive. It is the smell of warmth and security from the ravages of the elements. It is the smell of food you maybe didn’t need, but wanted because it was good to eat with your fingers sometimes and wipe them secretly under your coat. The shop had been on The Square as long as anyone could remember; not as long as St. Mary’s Church of course, or the Farmer’s Pub that laid some claim to an existence back to the Napoleonic Wars, but all the same, it had certainly been there a long time. The owners, husband and wife, had grown old with the business and rather large; large because it had often been easier to eat what they sold and there was little exercise involved - their living room opened right into the shop. On nights like this, when business was anything but brisk, they would retire into their living room to watch television, often closing the door. They never worried about the till; no, this town was too small for that. Perhaps they closed the door because even for them, in their contented fatness from the samplings of their wares, the smells sometimes got too much, and the smells, as has been said, were very pervasive indeed. On nights like this, when the door was closed and the television on and loud, the rare customer would often have ten minutes or more to ponder his selection. He would even have time, if his thoughts should wander in such a direction, how the owners could afford to make so much food and sell so little. The selection, as fish and chip shops go, was large. Of course, there was the chips; everything came with the chips. You didn’t have to have them but everyone did, so it was a given. There were two kinds of fish, Cod and Haddock, both breaded and deep fried. There was sausage, also treated the same way and strange looking - but you got used to it. Several kinds of meat pies (not breaded and fried) and recently added, to everyone’s delight, breaded and deep fried chicken.

On nights like this, a customer not feeling rushed by the person behind, had time to make an informed decision, letting his mouth water in the proper direction, and on this night, a man has run into the shop, has made an informed decision and stands shivering, still brushing the water from his coat, still stomping his feet looking for the feeling to return through his sodden socks. Finally the wife (the larger of the two) checks through the closed door, sees her customer and smiles a somewhat greasy smile. As she comes in, she leaves the door ajar; the television half-way through an American police show on the BBC. She is slow in her walk, her smile genuine. Her husband cranes his head and moves to get up; but he sees it is only the one customer and settled back in with a cheerful wave. The order is taken, the obvious and compulsory pleasantries exchanged. Cold it is; wet too. Ah, it seems to be always the same doesn’t it? Terrible night to be out. Oh, just a short run, meeting Rhodri at The Farmers. Rhodri is it? Then I’ll just be putting in some extra chips shall I? The greasy sweet smelling bundle, smothered in salt and amber vinegar is sealed in newspaper and tucked securely under the coat. Then it’s back out again. The woman hurries as fast as she can back into the living room and closes the door; there’s a car chase on now and she hates to miss those.

The rain has set itself up into a gigantic howl now, plunging out of the blackness with cold and stinging accuracy. The man shudders and increases his run, hanging his head into the storm, tasting the salt of the ocean from where it came and noticing the multiple droplets of water that fly with every step from his sodden feet.

The warmth of the pub is a wash. The low ceiling, with its exposed and darkened beams closes the occupants in, nestles them in sweet comfort and perfect security. Friendly and loud greetings are exchanged as the wet coat is removed, face dried and hands warmed against the open yellow fire. The smell of the fish and chip order, as it is hungrily freed from its newspaper, catapults into the air already rich and heavy with the odors of cigarettes and beer. Pints are pulled with reverence under watchful eyes; laughter and boisterous voices fill from the younger men; huddles of older ones more silent, confident in each other’s silence. The walls at home will close in, especially during a night like this. The cold will leak into the cracks, the windows will rattle, the television cannot drown out the lack of voices. Grab the coat, ask the wife if she wants to come (know the answer) and brave the elements for the pub - the ever welcoming, warm and wide open pub. It is a place of divine resurrection of knowledge; it is the place that vindicates a life and answers the question of why anyone is here at all. Here, everyone is of one mind and all lift the elbow, sing with one voice and hope as one, that closing time is still a long way off.

But the storm waits and it persists and eventually the pub must close. ‘Time gentlemen, please’. Moans and protests, slow to rise, bartender ignored. ‘Time gentlemen, please!’ he shouts again, more forcefully. Some will then leave, allowing the storm to dart momentarily into the warm place, cementing harder in the minds of the slow ones to move even slower.

Soon there are just a few left. The bartender isn’t really mad; after all, isn’t it the same every night? The stragglers are the old men, the professionals, a few younger ones, the novices. They will all be finally hustled out in good humor: ‘Go on with you’ - ‘One more please, Huw ’- ‘No’; ‘Just for the road, a nip to keep out the cold’ - ‘I have to close’ - ‘You wouldn’t be throwing your friends out on a night like this’ - ‘Go home to the wife, boyo’ - ‘That’s precisely what I don’t want to do’. Laughter, the holding of the door, the closing tight of the blinds and the shutting down of lights: closing time, go home. The door is bolted.

The outside has an instantly sobering effect. Coats are pulled tight, the young novices bolt. The old men shuffle and orientate themselves to their new environment. They put their heads to the storm, but the storm comes from all directions so they’ll all be fighting no matter where they live. They are the only ones out; there is an uncomfortable silence through the wail and the good-byes are short. Homes are waiting and the only reason to be out has closed. Cold rain stings the face, they wish they could still run like the young men; one wet foot in front of the other, the sparsely spotted streetlights glowing ghostly through the fierce precipitation.

The drab houses are reached. They’re all similar, all attached; all the color of stone. Is that the television still on, at this time of night? Coats are removed, wet hair smoothed back, a tremble of bodies and go and poke some life into that coal fire. Coal smells good on a miserable night. The televisions are switched off, just snow now anyway, and the wives, dozing in the chairs, wake up. ‘Did you have a good time?’ ‘Ach, the same.’ ‘Well, I’ll just be going up.’ ‘I’ll be there soon; night luv.’ Now the houses are still. They are good houses, a little drafty and small true, but solid. These houses and this town are all they know. They were children here, married and raised their own here, drink and sing here and somewhere there’s a graveyard here. The coal fires are stoked for the night, the lights are off - one last look out the storm lashed windows into the blackened gardens. All the faces of the ones who are late to bed, all reflected by feeble light; all gazing as one, looking one last time for nothing.