by Nick Perry
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Don’t take cash, take travellers cheques.’
‘I’d better go now. Just off to have an injection against yellow fever.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll be in touch. Goodbye.’
How strange it was, those last few days walking around Dyffryn. Everything seemed to blur into one great sunset, dispersing colours over the vast Irish Sea. The solitude I felt, having farmed these fields and poured myself into a way of life that was now behind me. My belief in everything we had tried to do at Dyffryn remained the same. Organic farming had to be the future if the planet was going to survive, but many more would have to take up the cause than a few little groups on remote hillsides. I remembered again the note Mrs Musto had left, warning me to watch out for those neighbours of mine. How right she was. Somewhere I still had that envelope.
I wandered around the buildings, the empty pens, the chewed doors, the stained concrete walls where the pigs had rubbed themselves. It was the hush, after so much physical energy had been spent. All the effort involved in controlling a pig herd. I could hear them whining in the silence, as if it was the end of term, the dormitories now quiet, all the boys gone home. A surge of sadness came over me for all of them, not just for those who had succumbed, but for all who had been here, including the dearest of them all, Rattlerow King David the Fifty-seventh.
On the night before we left, Hughie came over with Myfanwy to say goodbye.
‘Duw, boy,’ he said, ‘it’s goodbye then, something I’m not too good at saying.’
‘Well, you’ve said it.’ Myfanwy handed us some boiled sweets for the children. ‘And here’s some penny ducks for your journey.’ Welsh meatballs she had made herself; still warm in the paper bag. ‘They’re just as nice cold, you know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Won’t see you again, not at my age.’
‘Goodbye.’ I bent down and kissed Myfanwy’s white cheek, smelling her cheap perfume.
I had talked everything through with Jack, given him the cheque book, Winford Hook’s telephone number. I told him I would ring when we reached our final destination, wherever that might be. ‘See you then, brother. Who knows when.’
‘You could say we’ve been on a journey together.’ We hugged one another.
‘Thanks for looking after Moss.’
In the morning Harry drove us to Bangor station in a hire car from Trevor Ellis at the Paragon garage. Ros and Lysta were tearful, Sam shook Harry’s hand, wanting to appear grown up, but Harry threw his arms around him anyway. He squeezed Seth’s cheek, whispered in my ear, ‘You should never have given me that much.’
‘You bugger, I told you not to open it until we’d gone.’
‘Dad, no need to swear,’ said Lysta.
‘Oh bollocks, sorry.’
‘Dad!’
I watched Harry as the train pulled away and to be fair to the man he stood there waving until I could see him no more.
And so we went on our way to a Greek island. But that’s another story.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people who have all helped in different ways. Especial thanks to my wife Arabella – without her dedicated help and enthusiasm this book would never have been completed. Heartfelt thanks to many friends, particularly Ingrid Lacey and Leslie Smith who gave the book so much time and consideration, Rob and Kate Marshall, Paul Sharpe, Judith Mather, Nathaniel Mobbs, Elsa Peters, Barbara Hennell, Marc Wilson, Mike and Jo Saffell, Pat Booth, Ruth Cleaver, Lucia Dhillon, Tom and Sasha Sykes, Claire Kenward, Candida Hubbard, Melanie Wilde and Lucinda Knight, some of whom read every draft and came back for more, and all kept the wheels turning. To Jan, Martin, Corinna and Gavin Perry and my sister Dale for their support. Andrew Hobden of the Welsh Assembly Government and Andrew Gurney of Farmers’ Union of Wales for animal and hay prices in the 1970s. Ros Monteiro, not only for her illustrations, but also her unerring encouragement. And a huge thank you to Teresa Monachino who always believed in the book, gave it style, and found its rightful home with Neville Moir and Alison Rae at Polygon – and of course editor Nancy Webber who made my day.
