Peach Perfume - A Short Story
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I sprang with excitement and scrambled up through the scratching brambles again. Jack cried: "I see you! I see you! He refused to fall, so I climbed too, and we clung to the top branches and stared down at the lavatory in the corner of the field. Gwilym was sitting on the seat with his trousers down. He looked small and black. He was reading a book and moving his hands. He snatched his trousers up and put the book in his pocket.
We stretched our arms out like wings. Our jackets were torn and our stockings were wet and our shoes were sticky; we had green moss and brown bark on our hands and faces when we went in for supper and a scolding.
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Annie was quiet that night, though she called me a ragamuffin and said she didn't know what Mrs Williams would think and told Gwilym he should know better. We made faces at Gwilym and put salt in his tea, but after supper he said: "You can come to chapel if you like. Just before bed. It was a small light in the big barn.
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The bats were gone. Shadows still clung upside down along the roof. Gwilym was no longer my cousin in a Sunday suit, but a tall stranger shaped like a spade in a cloak, and his voice grew too deep. The straw heaps were lively. I thought of the sermon on the cart: we were watched, Jack's heart was watched, Gwilym's tongue was marked down, my whisper, 'Look at the little eyes,' was remembered always. Jack and I stood bareheaded in the circle of the candle, and I could feel the trembling of Jack's body. I said: "I haven't done anything bad. He was frowning down at me.
I can't! I won't! Gwilym opened the chapel door and we followed him into the yard, down past the black, humped sheds, towards the house, and Jack sobbed all the way. In bed together, Jack and I confessed our sins.
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Jack's tears had dried. I found a lot of poems in his bedroom once. They were all written to girls. And he showed them to me afterwards, and he'd changed all the girls' names to God. He knows Corinne Griffith.