I am wakened early next morning by a sound I can't quite identify; a soft, rhythmic thumping noise, coming from downstairs. Ruth is nowhere to be seen, but I deduce that whatever the noise is, it is benign; I can also hear her singing softly. I stretch, easing the kinks out of my spine, and can't help breaking into an ear-to-ear grin as I recollect last night. Nothing happened, but everything has changed...I can feel it. Ruth slept in my embrace all night, barely moving or stirring in her exhaustion, her quiet breathing a soothing cadence lulling me into a deeper sleep. I can still feel the warmth of her back curved against my chest and belly, the weight of her in my arms as she gave me her complete trust. To sleep in company with another person is one of the greatest acts of vulnerability any human being can commit, and for people like Ruth and me, reserved and shy by nature, it has more than the usual significance that our more egotistical and extroverted counterparts might assign to it. The only thing more intimate, of course, is the physical act of love itself, but neither Ruth nor I are ready to bare our souls to each other again just yet; this is a tiny, tender thing which has sprung up between us in the night, and I know that I must nurture it with the greatest of care…
Rolling out of bed, I shuffle back into my clothes (daringly, I leave my tie off) and glance at my watch, surprised to see it is only 6:17am. What is Ruth up to? I wonder, once more tuning in to the soft thudding noise, and pad downstairs in my stocking feet to find out.
As I walk into the kitchen, I am surprised to see Ruth raise both fists over her head, then bring them down swiftly on the whitish mass before her on the table, making the thumping noise which has been puzzling me. She gives the lump of stuff a quarter turn, then pummels it again. The unmistakable smell of yeast, accompanied by a fine white dust, rises into the air as she does so, and a memory from my infancy resurfaces: my maternal grandmother, my Nain, making bara brith for tea-time, turning and folding the dough as she kneaded it. Ruth is certainly giving it her all, I think, observing her with her sleeves rolled up, grunting with the effort as she first draws out the dough, before folding it back on itself, and turning it again, completely absorbed by her task, seemingly unaware of my presence as she hums to herself, something that sounds like a chorus from one of Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas… Iolanthe, perhaps… I am so charmed by the sight, I remain standing, leaning against the doorframe, until one of her cats decides to notice me, trotting over to circle around me with a proprietorial air. I love animals, I really do, but unfortunately my asthma has other ideas, especially where cats are concerned; and the morning peace is shattered as I sneeze twice in rapid succession.
Ruth's head snaps up, and when she sees me, her normally solemn face lights up (my stomach performs a complete flip in delight at her response). "Malcolm! Did I wake you? I'm sorry…" I shake my head to circumvent her apology, and continue to watch her movements in fascination, her small, square hands surprisingly strong as she separates the dough into three parts and then rolls each one out into a long rope as she speaks. "We do have bakeries in London, you know," I tell her, as I take a seat at the far end of the table, and she smiles in reply. "Yes, but none of them will make anything as good as this. I've been making bread since I was nine years old…practice makes perfect, right?" I smile back at her and say jokingly, "Nine? Had the child labour laws not been repealed in your home town, then?" Ruth's hands falter for a moment as she expertly braids the three ropes of dough together, before she continues with, "It was the last thing I ever did with my father, before he died…he used to say it was therapeutic, after a long day wrestling with the NHS, and given my experience with the civil service, I tend to agree. Plus, it helps me to think…" Heaven help us all, I muse, if Ruth's thinking can actually be any further improved…she's already the most formidable intellect I've ever met… "Your father?" I prompt, sensing that there's more to be said.
Ruth sighs, then glances at me, her eyes shadowed with sadness. "Yes, he died when I was eleven. Car accident. It was awful. My mother just went to pieces, couldn't cope with anything, so the doctors doped her up on Valium for weeks…my uncle persuaded her to send me to boarding school, he said it would be better for me to be away from the house, and with girls my own age, doing normal activities…I loved my father, Malcolm, more than anyone else in the world, and I couldn't believe that I was being sent away from everything that reminded me of him…something happened to me, when I got to that horrible school, and I just sort of went dead inside for ages. I did my lessons, I went to prep, I went to games, I went to bed when they said to and got up when the bell rang…but I wasn't really there. It was like the real me had stayed at home, with Dad, and just the shell of me was walking around at school. When I went home for exeats or holidays, it was as if Dad had died all over again…then Mum started to see new people, and I didn't want to go home at all. I felt like I had been shunted off to this awful place so that Mum could get on with her life as if Dad and me had never existed at all…of course, I realise now that I was wrong about that, but at the time, all I could see was that what I wanted didn't matter, I didn't matter…the other girls were vile, at first, no-one else in the school had lost a parent, so no-one could understand what I was going through…it was the worst year of my life, and somehow, it changed me forever. I became less sure of myself, more melancholy, and I've struggled with loneliness and depression ever since…I dread being abandoned again. I don't think I could bear it…"
Her voice trails off, and in the ensuing silence, I reach across the table and take hold of one of her floury hands. I can't think what else to do or say, so I just hold her hand until she gives herself a little shake and says, "Thanks for listening – I don't usually tell people all my deep, dark secrets…but then, you're not just people, you're Malcolm." She doesn't withdraw her hand from mine, though, and I feel my heart swell until it seems to be knocking against my ribcage at these last words…softly, now, ever so carefully…oh, Ruth… "It's never easy to lose one's father, at any age. I was close to my father, too, and when he died, I thought the world had gone on and left me behind…it was the same year, you see, that Sarah broke off our engagement, and like yours, my mother didn't cope very well with the loss of my father, either…and there was no-one else, just me…so I think I understand, just a little, what it must have been like for you, and I'm sorry." I give her hand an affectionate little squeeze as I say this, and follow up with a smile. She smiles back, then reclaims her hand and reaches for the braid of bread on the table between us.
Ruth carefully slides the loaf onto a baking tray, and reaches for a damp cloth to cover it with. I raise an enquiring eyebrow, and she explains, "It has to rise, now. I'll just sit it on top of the Aga, where it's warm, then I'll make us tea." Once the bread has been set to rise and Ruth has poured tea for both of us, she takes a seat across from me at the table, and raises her mug in salutation. "Good morning to you, Malcolm," she smiles at me, and I gravely return the greeting, before winking at her to show I understand she is making a joke of my rather formal way of speaking. Ruth seems to be a woman transformed this morning, and I would like to think that last night had something to do with it. I sift back through her words, and frown as I wonder what it is that she so badly needed to think about, that she felt the need to get up at a very early hour, in a cold house, and start making bread. Ruth, facing me, sees my puzzlement, and before I can ask, she takes a deep breath and says, "Us. I needed to do some thinking about us".
With those words, I suddenly feel that I can barely breathe, much less speak; my chest feels as if there is a great weight crushing it, and it is only with a supreme effort that I manage to remain sitting at the table, and not go staggering to the hall for the inhaler in my coat. I close my eyes for a moment, willing the air into my lungs, and then I wrap both hands around my mug to disguise their trembling. Ruth watches me with those clear, candid eyes as she says, "I've been a bit silly lately, first about John Fortescue, and then A…Andrew, because I've been so very lonely. I really envied Danny and Zoe, having such a close bond – they'd have done anything for each other. This job doesn't make it easy to meet anyone like that, does it?" I can't speak, so I nod and make a noise which I hope she will construe correctly as agreement with her statements. She continues, "And I suppose there's been another reason too, one I've only just admitted to myself…but I suspect that you might know what it is." Like Banquo's ghost, the spectre of Harry bloody Pearce appears in front of my appalled eyes, grinning horribly…I wait, unable to breathe, until I hear her next words. "It's just that I was so busy looking elsewhere, I couldn't see what was right in front of me, but…after the last two days, something has changed…" Ruth pauses, gathering herself for the final foray, and then in her gentlest voice she asks me, "Malcolm, how long have you been in love with me?"
A/N: Bara Brith is the traditional fruit-studded tea bread of Wales. Malcolm's grandmother is making the old-fashioned, yeasted version, not the Harlech version, which is more cake-like.