Bron-48

Continued from Chapter 47: Bron-47 | ABCtales

“You won’t get in trouble for this, Vicar?” said Bron. Reverend Gwynfor Evans lay back further in the battered armchair and pursed his full lips, shaking his head slowly and methodically from side to side. He had his left leg resting on a footstool; gout or some other malady of age.

“Trouble? With who?”

“The Bishop?” supplied Grace.

“No-o-o. He won’t bother us in our little remote corner of his patch. Two delightful young people want to be joined – joined…together and they want old Gwynfor Evans to say a few words in his private capacity. What business is it of his?”
“Well, I really appreciate what you’re doing for us, Gwynfor,” Grace said. “I mean, you say you won’t get trouble from the Bish but, you know, people talk.”

“People are always talking. You can’t stop them. And if it’s not about the old Reverend Evans marrying two dykes in a field – very delightful dykes, I must say – it’ll be some other so-called scandal.”

“Well, I really appreciate your putting your neck on the line for us, Gwynfor. I mean, there aren’t many vicars in London who would do what you’re doing. And Llanfair’s a small place. As I say, people talk.”

“So it’s agreed, Vicar, the service will happen in Dol Fawr, the big field,” said Bron.

“Y-e-e-s…” He took his leg off the footstool and placed it carefully on the tiled floor levering himself up off the chair. He was a good six foot two. Grace thought that, like policemen, you rarely saw a short clergyman. Height lent authority.

“I thought, maybe having it in the parish church might be going a bit - too far. No point in being deliberately provocative, bringing the wrath of the Bishop down on our heads. And anyway, from what you tell me, you’re expecting quite a turnout. More than we could cram into little St Mary’s.”

“Warned you, we’re a bloody sensation … sorry Vicar, didn’t mean…”

“That’s quite alright, Bron. Well, you’re all set to become Llanfair’s answer to the Ladies of Llangollen. You’ll have heard of them, I suppose.”

“Yes!” said Grace. Bron looked blank.

“Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby. Fled from their families and lived together in…well, as the name suggests, Llangollen. The cream of society flocked to see them – Byron, Sir Walter Scott, even the Duke of Wellington…in the seventeen hundreds.”

“Only visitors we’ll be getting are Sian’s little friends from Muckspreaders, sniggering away.”

“Actually, I like the idea of having the service in the field. It’s more…elemental,” said Grace. “The breeze whipping off the Irish Sea, the grass bending in the wind, the trees rustling…”

“You been talking to Georgetta?”

“Did you check the weather forecast?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty kind. At least for Anglesey,” said Bron. “If you can trust what the Sun says.”

“Well, if the Sun says there’ll be sun, we must believe, mustn’t we?”

“Oh yes, indeed Gwynfor. Anyway, I think it’s a lovely idea. Back to nature.”

“We’ll keep the Girls off the field the day before. John-John and me will go round, scrape up all the cow pats.”

“You can see why I want to marry this girl, can’t you Gwynfor?”

“I can indeed, Grace.”

“Can I ask you, Gwynfor? Why are you doing this? I mean, are you pro-Gay rights?”

“Gay rights? Is that something to do with homosexuality? No, not really. You love each other – that’s enough, isn’t it?”

*****

Setting down two carrier bags on the pavement, Sian tapped gently on the window of Rhostrefor, one of the straggle of terraced houses that made up Llanfairyngmochnant’s modest street. The front door opened almost immediately. Nest Hughes beckoned her inside the darkened house, then snapped on the kitchen light. “Mae gen i popeth - Awn ni ati?”

To be continued in Chapter 49