by Nick Perry
I drove to Pant Glas with Moss to deliver half a pig to Rhona Gasgoine, who taught religious studies at the primary school. It was warm enough to lower the windows. As I passed down Penygroes high street the shop doors were open, and Morgan the Butcher, a competitor of mine, was winding down his awning. It was warmer than usual for this time of year. It felt like a summer’s day. As I filled up at the Paragon garage Trevor Ellis came over to me.
‘Well, Perry, you missed out on that Opel Kadett, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘I’m sure it won’t be the last car you try to sell me.’
‘You’re right there. I’ve got a lovely Cortina coming in shortly. One owner, three years old, forty thousand on the clock.’
‘Not yet. I’ll let you know when.’
‘It’s yellow,’ he shouted after me.
‘Yellow doesn’t suit me,’ I shouted back.
In the spring of ’76 we had little rainfall. The arable farmers down on the lowlands were taking water from the rivers. Already the scaremongers on television were warning of a hosepipe ban, unless the heavens opened up. We had the occasional passing shower, but no heavy downpours. It held back the wheat and potatoes, both of which needed a good drink. The water level had dropped in the stream, but not enough to cause us any real concern. The automatic water feeders in the farrowing pens still had sufficient pressure to ensure that when the sows pressed their snouts onto the metal flaps water oozed into the trough.
Every night the six o’clock news showed pictures of half-empty reservoirs, telling us the many ways to conserve water. The long-term weather forecast was for continuing dry sunny days and no rain. What concerned me now was how people’s eating habits change when the temperature rises. Less meat gets eaten. No one wants to cook a joint, preferring salads and cold foods. Pork sales started to fall, and as the warm weather continued, the demand increased for lettuce, tomatoes, onions, everything that we now struggled to grow in the dry earth.
Tom and Agnetta came to get our response to their proposals. There was a subdued atmosphere when they arrived full of expectations. Although Ros and I had spoken about it from time to time, we hadn’t found out what Rob and Jack really felt. Neither of them had turned up, which said it all: they weren’t that interested. Ros apologised and asked for another week. They stayed for supper, telling us more about their plans. Agnetta now wanted to start a school based on the ideas of Rudolf Steiner.
It wasn’t until we were having breakfast the next morning that Rob told me.
‘Kate and I have been making plans. I’ve decided it’s time to leave. I’m going to move in with her, in that town you say no one has ever heard of, Chorley.’
‘For sure? It’s definite?’
‘Yes, it’s definite.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Find a job somewhere.’
‘What do they do in Chorley?’
‘Make cakes.’
Rob was so much a part of the place; through the years we had become close friends. No, more than that, he was like another brother.
‘And Kate, has she got a teaching job?’
‘Yes. She’ll start in September.’
‘So the end of an era.’
‘In some ways, but I’ll be back. Dyffryn’s in my blood.’
There was nothing more to say. Now it really was a matter for only Ros and me to decide, for we knew that Jack would prefer to be on his own. It would be too complicated for my brother to deal with all those relationships. We had a week to make a life-changing decision.
Ros and I talked every evening, agreeing and disagreeing about the several ways we could get involved.
‘Surely,’ I said, ‘there’s no point in joining Tom and Agnetta unless we’re better off? I don’t just mean financially, but as a family.’
The prize for Ros was the children going to a Rudolf Steiner school. She made that quite clear, saying it was me who couldn’t make up my mind.
‘I don’t understand why we have to make such a drastic change. We have a farm that makes enough money for us to live on. We are self-sufficient in food, and we have our freedom. That’s a lot to give away. Let’s send the children to the school, and just help in any other way we can.’
We flopped back on to the sofa, both of us staring at the ceiling. Was that our final decision? We certainly didn’t say so to each other.
Hughie was stacking his churns on the stone platform beside the Carmel road, waiting for the milk lorry to take them to the creamery in Bangor. It was yet another cloudless day as we watched the slow progress of the school bus climbing the hill. Every morning I listened to it groaning round the bends, wondering if that day would be its last. One day it would give up the ghost, stop in the middle of the road, its engine expired. Hughie told me in all the years he had farmed, this was the driest he had ever known it.
‘We’ll have no harvest if it continues like this. Prices will soar, hay will go through the roof. Everyone will sell their cattle, cut their losses.’
We had now been over a month without any rain. There was a nationwide hosepipe ban, not that it meant much to us. Farmers short of grass had started to bring their cattle to Bryncir market and each week saw a further drop in prices. The summer of ’76 was a hard time for pigs, who suffered in the extreme temperatures. I could feel the resentment building up amongst the herd. After long periods of close contact they would turn nasty and bite each other. All of them sought a cool spot, which is hard to find under a hot tin roof. They had become disgruntled sunbathers. As soon as they had eaten, Rob and I would run from either end pouring water along the trough. Their antisocial behaviour had got worse since we had stopped hosing them down. They were simply overheating. Pigs burn easily; Dave’s skin I could scratch off with my fingers.
From the cities of England, people made their way to the coast to enjoy the novelty of a summer holiday full of sunshine. I’d never seen so much traffic passing through Penygroes, on its way to Butlins in Pwllheli. However, at Dyffryn our situation was worsening. The stream that we relied on was drying up and we were having to restrict our water, which was now coming through the taps discoloured and undrinkable. Every day I drove to Trefanai with ten-litre plastic containers, which Eryl let me fill from a standpipe outside the garage. The government appointed a minister for drought, showing the country how seriously they were taking the situation. Rob suggested that at the next full moon we should go out into the fields and perform an ancient Inca rain dance. The gods needed to be appeased.
That summer a lethargy set in. By midday our brains were cooked and we started to take after-lunch siestas. We went Mediterranean in our routine, doing all the physical chores whilst we still had the energy, humping sacks of food and moving pigs before the sun had climbed too high. In the searing heat of the day, Frieda lay in the shade of the larch trees chewing the cud, rather than grazing the yellowing grass. Her milk yield dropped away. Only in the morning, when there was some dew in the fields, did she show an appetite. We carried twelve gallons of water to her trough twice a day. Every night we listened to the weather forecast predicting nothing but sunny days for the foreseeable future, with temperatures up in the eighties. Harry was keen to dig a well, convinced there were gallons of cold, clear water just beneath our feet. ‘Hey, maybe we’ll strike oil.’
For the first time in years Gethin Hughes climbed the stile, coming with Spider at his side. We had decided to dredge the stream. Jack and Harry loosened the stones with pickaxes, while Rob and I shovelled out the mud.
‘Hope you’re not going to blame me for this,’ he said.
I had neither the time nor the inclination to make the effort for conversation with him. We knew where we stood with each other; we acknowledged one another’s existence from a healthy distance.
‘You need to dig at least two feet,’ he said, removing his cap, wiping his sweaty face with a handkerchief. ‘I’ll tell you now, dig a trench, let the water run down to its lowest point. Then sink your holding tank beneath it.�
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This was Gethin giving friendly advice, being helpful, making an effort. I eventually asked him the purpose of his visit.
‘Only to tell you I’m getting a digger tomorrow to clear the stream.’
‘Thanks for letting us know.’
‘Well, the water will run dirty for the day. Don’t want you turning on me.’
Then without a goodbye he made his way back over the stile, calling Spider who had been having fun with Moss. At least our dogs got on well together.
All week we dredged the stream, sinking a hundred-gallon circular tank at the top of the vegetable garden. The water poured in, and when the tank was full we closed it off. This was our lifeline during the months of drought. Only when there is a shortage of something do you realise how dependent you are on it.
Tom and Agnetta were coming the next day and I needed to confirm with Jack what he wanted to do. We went to the Quarryman’s and over a bowl of chips and a couple of lagers I sounded him out.
‘It’s not for me, is it? I’m my own man. Best leave me out of it.’
‘I knew that’s what you’d say.’
‘It’s probably a good idea, but it would all be too complicated for me. Besides, I prefer my own company.’
Once Jack made up his mind, that was it. I had no intention of trying to sway him. I asked him what plans he had; we’d been at Dyffryn over six years. But he hadn’t any, content to be out in the wild places with his sheep and Meg. He said he liked the arrangement we already had, was happy living nearby, up at Rose’s cottage. He had no wish to change anything.
‘Don’t you want a woman?’ I asked him.
‘Sometimes I think about it, but not often. It seems to be more of a concern to our mother than to me.’
Ros wasn’t surprised when I told her of Jack’s decision.
That night, as I walked up to look in on the pigs, the sky darkened, heavy with cloud. The air had cooled. Was there a thunderstorm coming? No one had talked of it. Wind stirred in the trees, and as I entered the farrowing pens I felt the first few drops of rain. Often, no matter how quietly I moved among them checking on the litters, the sows would get to their feet grunting, coming to say hello. They knew the smell of me. Sometimes I would bring them treats, letting them chew a carrot, giving them a few extra nuts. I liked the feel of their wet snouts as I fed them. But whilst I lingered the rain got heavier on the asbestos roof and suddenly the night lit up. The thunder directly overhead crashed so loudly that it shook the building. All the sows were agitated and on their feet. It sounded as if the ceiling of the world had cracked open. Torrential rain was falling and unable to leave the building I opened the door and watched the zigzag lightning move across the landscape, sudden flashes of brightness silvering the raindrops. I hoped we wouldn’t lose our power. But in twenty minutes all died down, and as quickly as it had come so it departed. The immediate effect was to clear the air; standing there I could smell the earth again. The freshness of grass, the dust taken out of the atmosphere, the sweet smell of pine reaching me from the larch trees. It was as if a dormant sense had returned. The whole place was still, dripping with water, rumblings of thunder fading away in the distance.
Sam and Lysta watched it all from their bedroom window. The electrical storm had charged their batteries, firing them up and they were far from wanting to go to sleep. Ros thought reading them a story might calm them down. It didn’t; they were wide awake for an hour.
‘Tell us a joke, Dad,’ said Sam. ‘I want to laugh myself to sleep.’
‘That’s impossible,’ I said.
In the morning, when the sun had risen high enough to warm the damp earth, it seemed the fields were smouldering. Clouds of steam hung in the air and swallows were weaving through the mist, feeding on the wing. The soil was as hard as clay that’s been fired in a kiln. We needed steady rain; we were desperate for it now. We ran a hose down from the holding tank into the vegetable garden. Now we could water in the mornings and again as the sun was setting. Still we carried water to the porkers, never letting their troughs run dry.
Rob heard on the news that some pigs housed in a shed in Norfolk got so dehydrated they went berserk, broke out onto a disused aerodrome and ran amok, eating the tyres of an old Dakota that the firemen used to practise on.
I walked Dave down to the lower fields where there were several muddy springs he could roll around in to cool himself down. I couldn’t leave him there, although it took an hour out of my day; it broke the monotony of lying in his pen. The mud stuck to him, protecting him against sunburn. When we walked back he looked more like a bison than a pig. Dave always ignored the geese, which would suddenly appear in the midday sun to hassle us. It was never hot enough for them to take a siesta. Always on patrol, the only time they amused me was when I found them one afternoon swimming in Sam and Lysta’s paddling pool. They had no regular routine, although during this prolonged hot period they would often drink from the same spot in the stream.
Meanwhile my mother was making plans; my sister was returning from Canada in two weeks. Dinah was looking for somewhere for them to live in Westbourne. She gave me the keys to Hendy, asking me to look after the place. It all happened very quickly, and we didn’t know if she was going to return or put the house on the market.
It was July, and in two months Rob would be gone. I had no idea who would replace him. For sure it meant employing someone; I couldn’t run the farm on my own. Should I ask Harry? He had always been a free agent; there was never a day when he was not turning his hand to something. It was a loose arrangement with no set hours. Every week after I finished the meat round I slipped him some cash. The amount varied, offset against the meat and vegetables he took. It didn’t feel right to offer him a full-time job; it would have changed the dynamics of our relationship to become his employer. Harry working a forty-hour week with overtime would suit neither of us.
Changes were coming, and Jack, unaware of the plans I was making, was following his own independent life; although we were still partners in the farm, he drew off only what he needed. Nothing had ever been written down. It was an agreement between brothers, and had never caused any difficulties. Whatever we did would have to be OK with him. If not, I was in no position to buy him out. Maybe it was time to get Dyffryn valued. All this, while the earth baked and the endless summer remained hot and dry.
Again on the news we were shown pictures of tankers delivering water into the towns, people queuing in the streets waiting to fill buckets and containers. We were advised to use bath water on the garden, to save every drop. Washing your car was banned; all were covered in a layer of dirt. It felt as if we lived on the edge of a desert. When the wind blew, dust clouds rolled in like a sandstorm. The whole countryside was parched and fire crews were kept busy, warnings put out to picnickers not to drop a careless cigarette end. In those summer months of ’76, all we got was the occasional thunderstorm, never enough to raise levels in the reservoirs, although the crops lifted their drooping heads for a while. Then the clouds would vanish and back came the clear days. No one had ever known a year like it.
An hour before Tom and Agnetta came to hear our final decision, I told Ros I didn’t want to go through with it. I had made up my mind. Dyffryn was our way of life. It was me who decided what we were going to do on the farm. I couldn’t hand that over to anyone else. For the first time in our marriage we were seeking separate directions. Ros was adamant she wanted a new beginning, something that took her away from Dyffryn.
‘If you aren’t interested, then I’ll do it on my own.’
After we gave them the news that Rob was leaving and that Jack and I would not be getting involved, Ros still spoke enthusiastically, telling them she was keen to give the children an alternative education to the one the state offered. When she agreed to oversee their vegetable garden, I realised we were in danger of drifting apart. There was nothing left to say, and I could sense their disappointment. We all tried to lighten the mood, to pick ourselves up with other t
opics of conversation, but the decision I had taken hung in the air for the rest of the evening.
Progressing quietly in the background of our lives, and now coming to fruition after many months of trial and error, which was the only way you ever found out anything at Dyffryn, our first sheepskins were being delivered as finished garments. The cleaning and curing of them we now understood. But the problem had been how to get them made up into something that people would consider wearing. Then Ros had met Celia Foxton, a batik artist and fashion designer. She was well off and could pursue her creative desires without the stress of having to earn a living. She and her boyfriend owned a smallholding in Waunfawr. He bred shire horses and took black and white photographs of the Scottish highlands. Celia converted a barn into a studio, where she had an old-fashioned loom. She had whitewashed the walls, hung her batik blinds of coloured landscapes in the windows. When the light shone through them, they had an iridescence like stained glass.
It had been many months since she had taken up our challenge. Having filled some old whisky vats with different coloured dyes, she now had a range ready to show us. She pulled up in her Volvo estate with a pile of sheepskins in the back. Celia wore swirly, ankle-length dresses of her own design. She liked poppies on a dark background. She hennaed her hair, wore heavy black mascara. There were physical similarities to Mary Quant. What I didn’t know was that Ros and Celia had organised a fashion show, and we were the models.
Celia had created various styles for both adults and children. Lysta, somewhat self-consciously as you would expect of a child, was the first to enter the sitting room, wearing a purple waistcoat with gold trimmings.
‘Do a twirl,’ said Rob.
‘Oh yes, I do like that,’ enthused Ros. ‘It fits perfectly.’
‘Those imitation tortoiseshell buttons are very fashionable at the moment,’ added Celia.
‘Thank you, Lysta,’ I said. ‘Very nice movement you have.’
