A Family Christmas

by Katie Flynn

  Mrs Buttermilk nodded. ‘I’ll write a list,’ she promised. ‘But if your good aunt is taking care of you . . .’

  Glenys broke in. ‘I’m only what you might call an honorary aunt,’ she said glibly. ‘The children’s mother and myself were best friends, and when I heard that their father had gone back to sea after her death and not been next or nigh them since, I thought their maternal relations should be told. I knew, of course, that Grace had lost contact with her parents when she married an Englishman, so when I lost my job it seemed the sensible thing to do was to bring the children to Wales to find them, in the hope that they might offer them a home. So any help you can give us would be appreciated more than I can say.’

  Mrs Buttermilk appeared to accept this explanation without demur, and after all, Glenys comforted herself, it was the truth, more or less. The young couple, tucking into the delicious and generous breakfast provided by their landlady, murmured that they too would help if they could. ‘Grace is an unusual name for a Welsh woman,’ Mr Horner said. ‘Tell you what: we’ve noticed in the past that all these villages have a very efficient bush telegraph system. If you start enquiring about a Grace Griffiths at one end of the county it’ll be common knowledge among folk from the other end by the time you go to bed that night.’

  Mrs Buttermilk nodded wisely and addressed herself to Jimmy. ‘If your relatives is local, we’ll find ’em in no time,’ she promised. ‘Just you leave it to us, lad.’

  But Glenys had had another thought. Suppose Cyril Huxtable too did just what Mr Horner had suggested? He must be lodging somewhere, and even if he was sleeping rough he would have to eat, which would mean visiting towns and villages. Suppose he made use of the same bush telegraph? She looked wildly at Jimmy and saw that he was looking wildly at her; clearly the same thought had entered the head of her young charge. She was thinking desperately of ways to counter this latest snag when Jimmy’s face cleared, and he spoke.

  ‘The thing is, Mam’s relatives don’t know she’s dead; it’s bound to be a blow to them, even though they quarrelled, so we’d rather tell them ourselves. Then we can judge whether they really want us or whether they would just be doing their duty, which might be uncomfortable for Mo and me. So if you could put the word around without mentioning us, we’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Mebbe you’re in the right of it,’ Mrs Buttermilk said slowly. ‘Yes, I’m sure you are. But don’t you worry: family is important to the Welsh, so don’t think you won’t be welcome. And Ruthin folk are a friendly lot, so we’ll do everything we can to help.’

  Jimmy had been busy loading his fork with a generous mouthful of bacon and sausage, but at these words he looked up sharply. ‘What folk?’

  ‘Ruthin folk,’ Mrs Buttermilk repeated, puzzled. ‘Folk who live here in Ruthin.’

  ‘But is this town called Ruthin, then? We saw the sign and it looked like—’

  Light dawned on the landlady’s face. ‘Oh, I see – that’s a mistake a lot of English people make. You see, in Welsh the “u” is pronounced like an English “i”, so R-u-t-h-i-n is pronounced Rithin.’

  Jimmy said no more, but the glance he shot at Glenys was so full of excitement that it was all she could do to wait until they had finished their meal and helped the landlady to wash up before demanding ‘Well, Jimmy? What did Mrs Buttermilk say to make you look as though you’d lost a penny and found a pound?’

  ‘Oh, Auntie Glenys, don’t you remember? Back in Liverpool, when we were discussing where we should go, I said that all we knew about our mam was that she lived on a farm near a place called Rith something. It was Ruthin, I’m sure it was – as soon as Mrs Buttermilk mentioned it I remembered as clear as clear. It must mean we really are close to where Mam grew up . . . in a farmhouse with roses round the door!’

  Glenys smiled. ‘You won’t see roses in January no matter how hard you look, I’m afraid, but it does sound as though we ought at least to find someone who can tell us whether your Griffiths relations are still in the neighbourhood. So why don’t you and Mo make your beds and then wrap up in your warmest clothes whilst I nip down and ask Mrs Buttermilk if I can put together a packed lunch for us, and then we’ll make a start.’

  By the time they had visited half a dozen farms Glenys could see that Mo was beginning to despair of ever succeeding in their quest. The trouble was the farms tended to be some way apart, and sometimes when they knocked at the back door it was answered by a young girl who could tell them very little, save the name of her employer. Even when this was Griffiths – and they found two such quite early in their search – neither of them knew anything of Grace. It was a bitterly cold day, and when they sat down in the lee of a tumbled-down elm to eat their packed lunch, Mo had reached the whining stage, wanting nothing more than to turn for home, and even Jimmy remarked morosely that he suspected that when he took off his boots his feet would come with them.

  It seemed to Glenys that some of the farms were in a state of dilapidation which must make them almost unworkable, but Jimmy, who had spent much of the last fortnight visiting farms in the vicinity of their first stopping place, said that farmers didn’t care about appearances; sometimes the dirtier the farmyard the more comfortably situated was the family who owned it.

  But winter days are short and the sky had a threatening look; Glenys suspected that there would be snow before many hours had passed, so she gave in to the children’s pleas that they should only visit two more farms and then turn for home. The time she had earmarked for ringing Frank was approaching, too, and she did not want to miss it.

  The first farm they visited was called Ridgeways, and turned out to be owned by an Evans family. It was a prosperous-looking place, reached down a narrow lane with high banks on either side which must, when spring came, be starred with primroses and violets. And no doubt in June with wild strawberries, Jimmy said longingly, and added that if his mother’s family owned a farm like this they should certainly be willing to take on a couple of kids who would cost them almost nothing.

  Mrs Evans herself answered the door, and said at once that there was another farm a couple of miles off. ‘But I believe a bad state it is in,’ she warned them. ‘The Depression has hit farming families cruel hard; cheap imports, see? If they’d had a big family of lads, same as us, they could have weathered the Depression, but as it is the old folk couldn’t cope. I believe they’re living just in the back of the house, and my good man says if it weren’t for their vegetable garden they’d have likely starved.’

  ‘Did the family have a daughter what ran away with an English seaman a dozen or more years ago?’ Jimmy asked eagerly.

  Mrs Evans shook her head. ‘We wouldn’t be knowin’ about anythin’ what happened more’n five years ago, when we bought old Mr Davies out and moved up from our small farm in the Vale of Clwyd to this ’un. I can’t tell you anything about the Weathers’ family.’

  ‘Weathers? We’re looking for folk named Griffiths,’ Jimmy told her in a disappointed tone. ‘My mam was a Griffiths before she got married.’

  Mrs Evans was a plump and jolly woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She had been smiling, but now her face grew thoughtful. ‘Weather isn’t their proper name, just what we call them. You know how it is in Wales when you’ve got four or five families all with the same surname. It’s quite possible their real name is Griffiths.’

  Jimmy and Glenys both nodded their comprehension, but Mo looked curious. ‘Why do you call them the Weathers?’

  Mrs Evans laughed. ‘Because their farm has a weathercock on the roof of the big old barn. And they call me Mrs Redhead because my husband has red hair. But I’d best not keep you, as you have a fair walk ahead of you. Be sure to give the Weathers the good word from myself and my family.’

  ‘We will; and thank you,’ Mo said blithely. She seized Glenys’s hand. ‘I do hope it’s our mam’s relatives,’ she said as they returned to the lane. ‘Oh, Auntie Glenys, I’ve got a feelin’ in me bones that soon as soon, me and Jimmy’s goin’
to have a grandma and grandpa, and a proper home of our own; I can’t wait!’

  Glenys smiled at the little girl, but she too was growing tired, and suddenly she realised her own position. At present she was the nearest thing to a relative the two children had, and they treated her with affection and respect. But if this old couple really were her charges’ grandparents then they were bound to look upon her in a different light. Glenys, who had always known she was a foundling, realised that once the children were settled in this beautiful countryside they would have no further need of her. Oh, they had kind hearts and a great many good intentions, but things would change, and she was not at all sure that, for her, it would be for the better. But though she hesitated for a moment she chided herself for so doing. It would be shabby indeed to grudge the children success, so she pinned a bright smile on her face, took Mo’s hand, and set off at a smart pace along the high-banked lane. ‘I think you’re right, Mo,’ she said. ‘Best foot forward, troops.’

  They followed the twistings and turnings of several small lanes, and would have missed the farm altogether but for the weathercock twirling on top of the big old barn as the wind caught it. Glenys saw that both Jimmy and Mo were looking tired, but as she pushed open the rickety gate which led into the neglected front garden Mo tugged at her hand. ‘Look!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Auntie Glenys, look!’

  Glenys’s eyes followed the little girl’s pointing finger, but her brain could make little sense of Mo’s excitement. The front of the house was clad in shining ivy, whilst the ground at their feet was scattered with the scarlet and gold leaves of a Virginia creeper. But when she stepped forward to examine the door more closely, she saw what the child had been pointing at: a tiny white rose, paper thin on its bare twig. Not the rose of high summer, indeed, but none the less a rose for all that.

  Chapter 11

  GLENYS REACHED UP to an old brass knocker, a bull’s head, green with neglect, and rapped sharply. Then she turned to Mo. ‘You’re a very observant little girl. I’m sure you really are right, and this is your mother’s old home. But why are we standing here waiting for someone to open the door? Mrs Evans told us that the old couple had moved to the back of the house. Come on.’

  The three of them left the door and turned into an overgrown pathway which led to the farmyard itself. There they paused, looking around them. What they could see was shabby but not neglected; Glenys glanced towards the farmhouse and noted that the red-and-white chequered curtains that hung at the windows of what she guessed to be the kitchen were faded but clean. Then a dog, a black and white border collie who had been lying on the cobbles, jumped to its feet and gave a warning growl, wagging its plumy tail.

  Jimmy laughed. ‘His tail says “come in”, and his mouth says “stay out”,’ he remarked. ‘Shall I knock on the back door, Auntie Glenys? I’m sure I just saw movement through that window.’ Without waiting for an answer, and ignoring the dog’s low growl, he stepped up to the door and beat a tattoo upon the blistered paintwork with his knuckles.

  They barely had to wait thirty seconds before the door swung open to reveal a large black-bearded man with a scar etched across his forehead. He was grinning. Glenys’s heart jumped into her mouth. ‘Sorry, wrong house,’ she gabbled, and turned to run, but Mo was ahead of her, streaking across the cobbles. But Jimmy, to Glenys’s astonishment, gave a shriek and leapt forward.

  ‘Dad! Oh, Dad!’ he cried, clasping the man around the waist and burying his head in his broad chest. ‘Oh, Dad, where have you been?’ He twisted in the man’s grasp. ‘Mo, you little idiot, don’t you recognise your own father when you see him?’

  The man let go of Jimmy and held out a hand. Mo had stopped and was staring back at the house, eyes round with fear. ‘That’s not our daddy,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Our daddy didn’t have a beard; nor he didn’t have a horrid cut on his forehead. Oh, Jimmy, it looks awful like Cyril Huxtable to me; and awful like the man who chased me at the puppy station.’

  The man sat down on the step and smiled at Mo. ‘Don’t tell me my bright little button still doesn’t recognise me,’ he said. ‘It was understandable on the railway platform, but now that you’ve had a good look at me . . .’

  Mo gave a strangled sob and threw herself into his arms, pushing Jimmy aside. ‘So you recognise me at last,’ her father exclaimed, in a voice somewhere between elation and tears. ‘I’m so sorry I frightened you at the station, but I’ve been hunting for you for what seems like weeks, and then, when I saw you at last, I wasn’t sure it really was you. You’ve grown, queen, and it’s over a year since I saw you last. Now we’d best go indoors, because explaining what’s been happening to us all is going to take some time. And I can introduce you to your grandparents.’

  Glenys looked at them. Sam Trewin had risen to his feet with Mo still in his arms, and Jimmy was leaning against his shoulder. They looked so happy, such a complete family group, that envy flooded her, and she spoke more sharply than she intended. ‘How do you come to be here at all, Mr Trewin? For all your children knew you might have been dead.’

  Sam Trewin looked her up and down, and it was not a friendly look. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘When I first arrived home I learned that the children had disappeared. Are you a Huxtable? Because the neighbours told me the Huxtables must have had something to do with it.’ His gaze swept her again, his inspection insultingly thorough. ‘I suppose you posed as a friend when you took them away from Solomon Court.’

  Jimmy wrenched himself free from his father’s grasp, and Mo turned in his arms and seized a handful of his strong black beard. ‘You shan’t say nasty things about Auntie Glenys,’ they shouted, almost in chorus, Jimmy adding, ‘If she hadn’t taken us away from Liverpool we’d likely have been dead by now, because Cyril Huxtable got it into his head we’d stolen something of his, and he nearly broke Mo’s arm once just because he thought I’d eaten a bit of his pie.’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, thank you, but it really doesn’t matter,’ Glenys began, turning to retrace her steps along the path, but she was stopped by Jimmy’s hand grabbing her arm.

  ‘Don’t go, Auntie Glenys; our dad doesn’t know the truth and we need you to tell it,’ he said urgently. ‘And if he sends you away he can send us away as well, because we know you’re our friend, and have done nothing to hurt us in any way.’ He turned to look defiantly up into his father’s bearded face. ‘And if you think she’s like the Huxtables, what have starved and beaten us and never give us so much as a penny of the money you sent, then Mo and me don’t want to have anything to do with you. So there!’

  Sam Trewin heaved a sigh. ‘All right, Miss whatever your name is, you’d best come into the kitchen. My in-laws won’t mind hearing the story again, and we need to hear your version of events. Come along.’

  Glenys opened her mouth to say that she would do no such thing, but Mo seized one hand and Jimmy the other. ‘He don’t mean to be nasty, Auntie Glenys,’ Jimmy said urgently. ‘And you’d like to meet our mam’s parents, wouldn’t you? You must want to know the truth as badly as we do, and besides, where would you go? Back to Mrs Buttermilk’s?’

  Glenys felt a sob rising up in her throat and choked it back. Jimmy had put his finger on the nub of the matter. She had talked about finding her relatives, but knew it was just a dream. She was alone, as she had always been, and unless she found a job within the next month to six weeks she would be in a parlous state indeed, with no money, no home, and no prospects. Unhappily, she followed the Trewin family into the kitchen. It was a large room, shabby but clean, and lamplit, for it was growing dusk outside. There was a blackleaded range in which a good fire burned, a square wooden table, a number of ladder-back chairs, and a low stone sink with two wooden draining boards. Glenys thought it felt homely and pleasant.

  As they entered the kitchen, two elderly people seated on either side of the fire got shakily to their feet. They both smiled at the children, then turned to Sam. ‘So you were right, Sam; you thought they’d come here,’ the woman
said. She turned back to Jimmy and Mo. ‘I’m your granny – your nain, as we say in Wales – and I welcome you to Weathercock Farm. This is my husband, your taid, and we’d be happy for you to live with us for as long as you should wish. Indeed, since you will inherit the farm one day, the sooner you move in here and get to know our ways the better. We’ve plenty of bedrooms.’ She smiled sadly and put out a caressing hand to ruffle Mo’s hair. ‘I can’t believe you are actually here, because until a few days ago we didn’t even know we had grandchildren. We knew Grace had died because your father sent us a telegram, but he didn’t mention you and he forgot to include your address, although we couldn’t have come to the funeral anyway, because Taid was in hospital with pneumonia, and far too ill to be moved.’ Nain wiped a tear from her eye as she remembered that terrible time.

  ‘I think it might be quite nice to live here,’ Mo said cautiously, ‘but what about our dad? And what about Auntie Glenys? We wants her to live with us, doesn’t we, Jimmy?’

  Glenys was about to reply that she did not wish to be a burden when old Mr Griffiths spoke, his voice heavily accented and his breathing wheezy. ‘Jumping ahead of yourselves you are,’ he commented. He turned to Glenys. ‘No disrespect, miss, but we’ve yet to hear how you come to be travelling with our grandchildren. Sam here told us Jimmy and Maureen had left Liverpool with a woman he’d never heard of. So before we make any more plans for the future I think we must hear your story. Sit yourselves down – you too, Sam – and we’ll start as we mean to go on, please. Whoever is speaking must be allowed to do so without interruptions. Questions can come at the end.’

  His wife laughed but patted the couch, indicating that the children should sit beside her. ‘I think we should start with the children, and Miss Glenys can pick up the story at the time she entered it in real life,’ she said. ‘Off you go, Jimmy and Mo!’