Twenty
Sophia’s funeral took place on a sunny Tuesday morning, a day before what would have been her and Howell’s eleventh birthday.
Arrangements had been delayed by over a week due to the sickness lingering in the house, and many other homes in the village had also suffered outbreaks and deaths, bringing another wave of sadness and despair over Cwm Newydd.
That morning we’d all gotten ready in relative silence. Sophia’s body had been brought back to the farm in a small wooden casket the evening before and Mr and Mrs Hopkin had kept a vigil at its side for the whole night. It was the first time since Sophia had died that Mrs Hopkin hadn’t slept in her daughter’s bed, and may have been the only time in over a week that she and her husband had been able to bear being in the same room together. They hadn’t been arguing, at least not in earshot of any of us, they just both fell into silence and avoided the other at all times.
Howell was hit particularly hard by his twin’s death. He was on the mend, healthwise, though his voice remained hoarse, and he wandered aimlessly around the house having lost the other half of himself. It was easy to relate to, being a twin myself, which made it difficult to be around him sometimes. I could easily imagine his pain and grief, and it made me miss Lee more than I ever had.
When they brought Sophia’s body home he was inconsolable and refused to go near her coffin. Every time he needed to get from upstairs to the kitchen, he would go out the front door and in through the back one, avoiding the living room and her tiny wooden casket entirely. During the few times that he would speak to any of us, he would tell stories about how Sophia was at school or visiting friends, not willing, or perhaps unable, to truly acknowledge his loss.
Nellie and Nan had taken over the running of the house when it became evident that their mother was in no mood for chores. She would come to sit at the table each day, dressed and ready for the day’s work as though she had the intention of doing it, and then she’d stay there until the evening in near total silence until it was time to go to bed again. They cooked and cleaned and tried to keep as normal a routine as possible, working around their mother to keep the house in order while she sat and stared at nothing, lost in her thoughts. They tried several times to get her involved so that it would take her mind off things but she had lost all interest in anything and during the few occasions when she would break her silence it was to ask to be left alone.
Betty, who had been the last of us to fall ill, was taking the longest to recover. She’d been bed-bound for five days after that first night, fighting off infection and fever. It took another two visits from the local doctor before she began to show any signs of improvement. Nobody said it out loud, but none of us thought she was going to make it and now that she had it didn’t seem like she would ever be quite right again.
Gone was the healthy teenager who spent her days rushing around after the children and blushing every time someone spoke to her. She had now become thin and frail, always short of breath and too tired to concern herself with embarrassment or shyness. The doctor had deemed her too unfit to attend the funeral but she had joined us in the living room as we gathered to say a prayer.
“We need to be making a move,” Gethin said when the private service was complete. He began to usher the family out of the house but Mrs Hopkin wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” Nellie said, wrapping an arm around her mother’s shoulder.
Mrs Hopkin shrugged her off with such force that Nellie stumbled backwards, catching her elbow against the fireplace and letting out a yell. Gethin rushed to her but she shook her head to let him know she was ok as she rubbed her arm. She tried again with her mother, but there was no budging her, and she held on to the coffin tightly.
“They can’t have her,” she cried as she stared down at the wooden box that contained her daughter. “We’re not going.”
Gethin looked as though he was going to try again but Nellie ushered him from the room towards the front door and I followed them outside, unsure of what would happen next. She took her father aside for a word and then he disappeared back into the house.
I watched through the open door, unable to hear what was being said, but he slowly began to inch towards his wife as they spoke. Eventually, he put an arm around her and she collapsed into his embrace, letting out loud sobs that caused us all to look at the ground, uncomfortably avoiding each other’s gazes as we listened to her grieving wails.
A crowd of mourners met us outside the church and lined the path from the gates to the doors before following us inside. So many people from the village attended that the pews were filled out and people were forced to stand at the back of the room to pay their respects.
Unlike the other funerals I’d attended since I first arrived in the village, this one was personal and we all struggled to keep our emotions maintained. Surprisingly, it was Mrs Hopkin who managed to hold it together best out of all of us, maintaining her composure throughout the whole service while the rest of the family wept for Sophia.
It was only when we got outside that she finally broke down. On the other side of the church wall was the school, and to honour their classmate, all of the children had lined up in the yard to pay their respects as we walked to the graveside. When she saw them, Mrs Hopkin became inconsolable and had to be escorted the remainder of the way by Teddy and Nan. Her wails continued until Sophia was lowered into the ground.
Over the next few weeks I busied myself in the fields, using it as a distraction from grieving and allowing myself to truly consider what it was that I wanted to do with my life. Sophia’s death had made me realise how much I was leaving behind if I was never able to return to my family, but I’d come to love the life I had made for myself and didn’t want to leave the farm. And then there was Gwyn.
I knew that I wanted to be with him, and perhaps my stubbornness was getting the better of me, but I didn’t want to go through that pain again if he changed his mind a second time, and it wasn’t fair to him if I ever found the ring again and faced the option of going home. I hated how torn I was.
Every time I felt like I was set on a decision, something would happen or someone would need help, or I’d see Gwyn and I’d convince myself that I should stay. And then I’d think about my family and how they must be feeling and I’d be filled with a determination to find a way home. A month after the funeral I was still no closer to making my mind up.
I'd spent much of the morning on the cart dragging the back field when I noticed Betty walking across the yard. She’d been coming out to the fields to sit with me while I worked quite a lot of late. Sometimes she would talk but mostly she just watched in silence as I completed my jobs. I enjoyed the company, even when nothing was said, but when she did speak, she was different. More mature. Out of all of us, she’d changed most of all.
I pulled the cart up next to her and jumped down, patting the horse on the rear and leaving it to graze as I joined Betty on the wall.
“It’s getting warmer,” she said, looking off over the fields. “Spring is almost here. The lambs will be due soon.”
“More work,” I replied. “Your father and Teddy will have lots to do.”
“He has lost his love for the farm,” she replied, talking about her father. She was right.
Mr Hopkin had relinquished most of his duties in the days leading up to Sophia’s funeral and just sort of stopped caring, leaving the bulk of the work for me and Teddy to carry out. He’d join us occasionally if the mood took him, but it was rare and he spent most of his time in his armchair in the bedroom, looking out over the village and nursing a bottle of whiskey.
“It takes time,” I said. “He will be in better spirits soon.”
“And what of you, Tom? Will it not be more work for you, too?”
She turned her gaze to me, curious about my reply. I’d opened up to her during our discussions about how I was struggling to decide my future, and she would periodically enquire about the outcomes of my deliberations.