And you must cross my palm with money.’
There must have been a Mr Prout once, Grace thought, as she followed Mrs Prout up the wide staircase and past the mahogany grandmother clock. Mrs Prout entered a small parlour that was crowded with two glossy mahogany sideboards, a tweed-covered settee with white antimacassars, a glass cabinet and several gold-framed paintings on the wall. There were ornaments too, of china, silver and glass. The old woman went to the window where she opened a carved bible box, unwrapped a huge Welsh bible from a cream linen cloth then set it down on the occasional table in the centre of the room. The table tipped slightly under the weight of the book.
‘Is it the key you’ll be wanting?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Mrs Prout.’
‘Then run to the back door and fetch it from the lock.’
Grace turned swiftly, weaved her way around the furniture and ran down the stairs, coming back with a rusted iron key that was as large as her hands.
‘This will be a question about birth?’
‘No, Mrs Prout.’
‘Death?’
‘No, Mrs Prout.’
‘Then it must be about love. So we will ask a prophet.’ She split open the pages of the family Bible and tucked the key deep into the Book of Jeremiah.
‘Why Jeremiah?’ Grace dared to ask, still standing.
‘Because the prophets were wild and love is wild, isn’t it, Grace?’
Grace knew enough to agree.
‘If you had come to ask me the day on which you’ll die, I would have put the key in the Revelations of Saint John the Divine. Do you want to know the date of your death, Grace?’
‘No. No, thank you, Mrs Prout,’ Grace replied modestly, pulling the sleeve of her cardigan over her hand. ‘I have a question about love, only love.’
Mrs Hilda Prout clamped the Bible shut with a flat thud.
‘Step back,’ she snapped. ‘Ask the key your question.’ Grace did as she was told. She spoke faintly but felt bold. She waited. Then slowly, almost achingly so, the key began to move, twisting itself over. Grace was transfixed. She chilled. It wasn’t right, keys weren’t supposed to turn on their own, not when no one was touching them. How could a key twist in a Bible by itself? It was unnatural. Now the key lay stock-still. It was over. But then it turned again.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Prout said, unsurprised as if she had known the answer all along. ‘You’ll marry him.’
‘Yes?’ Grace exclaimed. ‘Yes, I knew it would be yes! Oh, thank you, Mrs Prout.’ Her anxiety melted within her.
‘Don’t thank me; thank Jeremiah,’ Mrs Prout stated flatly. ‘And how is your brother Madoc? He had a bad war, didn’t he?’
‘He’s well, thank you.’
‘But he wanted to stay in the Army?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he gone back yet?’
‘Not yet. Before long. I’ll go now, Mrs Prout.’ Grace opened her purse and handed over a neatly folded shilling note. ‘I can see myself out.’
‘Aye, aye,’ murmured Mrs Hilda Prout, ‘and take this key. Lock the back door with it before you leave.’
Grace felt confident now she had spoken to Mrs Prout, now she knew what would happen.
Wilfred had to do something about Grace. He scratched the remains of a couple of dead flies from the window screen, lifted up the wipers and sloshed the glass with water before wiping it dry. The Super Ford hearse needed to be clean and ready for the chap he was burying soon: Mr James L. Davies of Dourigan House, Templeton. The newspaper was right; twenty-four was an early age. No wonder there was quite a gloom over Templeton. Deep sympathy is evinced with the bereaved at their loss it said in the obituary.
He knew he would be expected to call on Grace. Wilfred began cleaning the top of the car, leaning over to reach the middle. He had proposed to her. He put the chamois in the bucket of cold water, swirled it about, wrung it out and went back to wiping under the wheel hub, where there was a lot of grit. Wilfred then wiped the mud from the numberplate. How was he going to break it off? He put some more wax on the chamois and gave the headlights a rub.
It was no good being this worried about the predicament with Grace; he couldn’t go around worrying about it all the time – and now he had a rash on his forearms that itched at night. And his stomach was in knots. Wilfred opened the car door and stroked the dashboard – it was varnished burlwood