Howell Jones

Conchetta was waiting on the porch as Ieuan turned along the path towards home. She had her coat on, which was a message rather than a necessity, given the heat. She unfolded her arms, picked up her blue string bag, and marched to meet him.
"Ah Con.."
"That child." She interrupted, having pointed back to the house, then unable to use the language she wanted, to describe Ieuan's son, repeated herself with an exasperated shake of her head, "That child." 
"I'm sorry," Ieuan was unsurprised by this greeting, "what did he do today?" 
"Today, today, he will not eat, not a thing, and I cook him what he eats. Then, when I tell him off Pshah! he throws away the plate, breaks it. Wastes good food."
"I'm sorry Conchetta. I will tell him to behave."
"Behave. Ha! He does not understand how to. He needs a good beating." She poked Ieuan's chest with her finger and pushed by, Ieuan watched her haughty stride take her away.
"We'll see you tomorrow?" He called, in fearful hope. She stopped, the back still to him.
"I cleaned up the mess." She half turned and they exchanged sad smiles and she left, swinging her bag, her shoes clack clacking down the street.

"Howell!" Ieuan called, pushing the door shut with his foot and hanging up his coat. He waited and receiving no response, knew where to find his son. 
Inside the bedroom he saw a lump under the bedspread, the net curtain caught in a lazy warm draught from window to door and slowly drifted inward, settling like a soft cloud on a row of silver aeroplanes displayed on the cill. Ieuan kicked aside a ragged leather football and sat on the edge of the bed, placed the music box on his lap and closed his tired eyes.
"Conchetta said what you did." There was a muffled sniffle from the lump. "We need her Howell. I need her here so I know you are looked after while I'm at work, and you need her to get you off to school and back, and then get you some dinner."
Ieuan turned the key on the music box and the notes tumbled out, casting a glow of serenity. The lump wriggled and Howell's thick red hair, scrumbled in different directions emerged first and then his red rimmed eyes, which found the music box. His cheeks were wet and he was still wearing his school uniform, creased white shirt and grey shorts. They sat silently until the tune spent its last sounds and Ieuan rewound it but shut the box to keep the music waiting. 
"Mama used to sing a song like that." Ieuan closed his eyes again. The boy was like an armadillo at a termite mound, armour plated and always digging, causing no end of damage.
"I'm tired Howell." A warning. He looked at the boy, into those wary green eyes and saw how tired he was too. Ieuan laid a gentle hand on his son's shoulder.
"Do you like the music box?" Howell nodded dumbly.
Ieuan leant forward, his forehead pressed against the side of Howell's coarse hair, encouraging the boy within his arms. Howell gratefully rested his head on his father's chest.
"This is no good Howell. No good for any of us. No more breaking plates or being rude to Conchetta eh?" He felt the boy slowly nod and a little voice spoke muffled in his shirt.
"She says you're going to give me a paddling." Ieuan sighed.
"Who says?" Silence. "Who? Howell. Not the cat's mother. Speak her name respectfully." Silence. A fly buzzed a sedentary circuit of the room.
"Conchetta." Howell whispered.
"Sorry?"
"Conchetta, Conchetta says you'll paddle me." Ieuan gave him a hug.
"I'm not going to paddle you. But everyday you disappoint me with bad behaviour will be another day without dinner." Howell extracted himself from his father's arms with a  shocked expression.
"No tea?"
"No tea. Any tantrums tomorrow Howell, and it's no tea then either. I've told Conchetta." He lied. Howell considered this. "You'll either get very good or very thin." Howell buried his head back into his father's chest with a tired sob. 
Ieuan opened the box and allowed the music to work its magic, and slowly the boy began to droop sleepily, so Ieuan slid him gently to the covers and laid a protective kiss on each of his hands.
He pushed aside a grubby collection of cigarette cards on the bedside cabinet and left the box still playing. As he made his way to the door, Howell rolled over and called after him.
"Is Mama happy where she's gone?" Ieuan puffed out his cheeks, the armadillo was at work again.
"I don't know Howell. Go to sleep."

(For beginning of story see Madigan)