The Woman who Loved an Octopus and other Saint's Tales Read Online Free PDF

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    He rang from his office, spoke to my mother and told her to prepare an extra special dinner, then told me to get my best frock out and wear it that night.
    In the evening, he brought the man home, a business associate, much older than me, not much younger than my father. I don’t think I said a single thing to him all evening except How Do You Do and More Sauce? And Good Night.
    I don’t think he noticed. He and my father talked throughout the meal – of business, of golf, of hunting and politics. He held muteness to be a virtue in a woman. He told my father that he thought I’d make him a good wife.

    It should have brought me nearer to her, having an unwanted fiancé of my own. But it didn’t.
    I could feel her sliding away from me; feel my dream – of getting away, of going to meet her one day – slide out of my grasp and flow away, out of reach, almost out of sight.
    Almost.
    This is the end of me I thought when my father rang again, some weeks later, to relay the man’s proposal.
    His words, not mine.
    He has asked me to relay his proposal to you.
    You wouldn’t think it happens these days, but it does; oh, it does.
    I found my tongue shrivelling in my mouth. I found I was incapable of pronouncing the word No.
    I said nothing, which my father interpreted as consent.
    This is the end I thought. He will marry me and I will cease to be me and become his wife. I will cease to be me and become a Good Christian Woman.
    I did not believe in her miracle any more.

    D
    My rage and my determination grew stronger and stronger.
    The stronger they grew, the smaller they became.
    I could feel the strength grow until it was nothing but a tiny dot inside me, as white and as hot as iron in the village blacksmith’s fire.
    I felt a thunderbolt grow inside me the way I could see children grow inside women’s bellies; although I was not supposed to know how they got there.
    The stronger it grew, the smaller it became. I grew white and silent while the thunderbolt increased its strength. I thought I would have to burst with it when its time came, burst and fly asunder like a ball of fire, showering destruction.

    I met Maelor Williams one evening at a dance where mothers took their daughters to be sold into marriage.
    He was charming enough as men go, left my toes almost intact and occasionally even made me laugh with his stories.
    He said he liked me. Maybe he did.
    But when he asked could he court me, I said No.
    It was not a word he was familiar with.
    And it didn’t stop him, of course. He kept trying, with his dancing and his pleasant words, his chest puffed out like a cockerel’s. And when even he could see that that was no good, he led me into the rose garden one night and pinned me against the romantically crumbling old wall.
    I asked you a question once, he said, and you gave me the wrong answer. This is your chance to get it right. Will you marry me?
    I didn’t know what to do.
    First I tried to laugh.
    Then I tried to reason.
    Then I tried not to be very frightened.

    The thunderbolt inside me went white cold with rage.
    I freed myself from his grasp and froze him with a glance.
    I mean literally.
    From one minute to the next, Maelor Williams was encased in a block of ice.
    I was free.

    M
    I did not believe in her miracle any more, but there had to be another way. In the end I chose the simplest. I ran away.
    I did what hundreds and thousands of Irish girls must have done. I crossed the sea and went to Britain.
    I found a small ‘green’ community in the Welsh hills, far away from civilisation. I stayed there for months ­– which turned into years. They grew their own produce; they had goats for milk and cheese, and sheep for wool. The resident herbalist ran a weekly class – women only – in natural remedies.
    I had never heard of women’s shelters, or of women’s rights.
    I had never even heard of the Ladies of Llangollen.
    I