by Katie Flynn
Sam shrugged himself into his duffel coat, pushed his feet into his boots and held open the door for her to pass into the yard. Then he turned to his in-laws. ‘The snow may have stopped but there are a couple of inches on the ground still, so it’s as well I’m accompanying our friend here,’ he said. ‘When snow lies on ice like that, one wrong step can mean a broken ankle, so you may be sure I shall be careful.’
‘That’s a good fellow,’ his mother-in-law said approvingly. ‘We’ve got enough on our hands without having to nurse an invalid. If I were you I’d link arms; that way you can hold one another up.’
‘That way we can pull one another down,’ Glenys said humorously, making no attempt to take the arm Sam was offering. ‘Goodbye, Mr and Mrs Griffiths, and thank you so much. I promised Jimmy I’ll keep in touch but I doubt I’ll be able to visit. However, it’s been a pleasure knowing you. Now, Mr Trewin, off we go!’
They crossed the yard cautiously, Glenys uneasily aware how extremely slippery snow on ice is, and Sam swung the big dilapidated gate open. He ushered her through, then took her hand in a firm grip, saying as he did so: ‘Better safe than sorry, Miss Trent. This is treacherous weather and I imagine quite treacherous country when the snow hides the pitfalls one could easily avoid in fine weather. Now, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.’
Glenys raised her eyebrows and looked up at the dark face above her own. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but despite the way he had treated her she thought him an attractive man. He might look grim, but when he smiled his whole face changed, and not only could she see a likeness to Jimmy, but there was a gentleness in the way he smiled down at her which gave the lie to his previous behaviour. Mrs Weather had been right; it was shame over the way he had neglected his children which had made him behave so unpleasantly towards her. ‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ she admitted. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your life? It has to be more exciting than mine because you’ve travelled. You’ve seen New York, Mexico – even the place where you were attacked – Malvonia, wasn’t it? As well as Ireland, Portsmouth, Norway . . . oh, a heap of different places, all of which I should love to visit one day.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen a great deal of the world, more even than I’ve told my children about,’ Sam admitted. ‘But if you want the truth, Miss Trent, a seaman sees very little of the countries he visits, as a general rule. You see, one pulls into a harbour, the dockers swarm aboard to unload your cargo, you may have a meal in a quayside restaurant or a few drinks in a pub, and then you’re off again. But you have led a very different life. In short, Miss Trent, you are an enigma and one which intrigues me. Are you hiding some dark secret? But there is an honesty and openness in your face which makes me think not.’
Surprise tricked Glenys into answering more frankly than she intended. ‘I’m a foundling, so I have no knowledge of my relations,’ she said. ‘When I was found on someone’s doorstep and taken to the orphanage there was a note in Welsh pinned to my shawl and when I went to college a friend translated it for me, and then and there I decided that one day I would travel to Wales and see the country for myself.’
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’d never have guessed it; you seem far too intelligent for the product of an orphanage,’ he said, thereby putting Glenys’s back up, for she resented any criticism of the home which had taken her in.
However, she spoke calmly. ‘Well, the orphanage saw me through college and supported me until I got my first job. Then, when I met Jimmy and Mo and we talked over what would be best to do, I told them that I, too, wanted to trace my Welsh relatives so that the children should not feel that I was only coming here for their sake.’
‘That was very good of you,’ he said. ‘You must know that unless you have a name, the chances of your tracing anyone who by now must be in her mid-forties at least are pretty slight. Obviously nobody tried to claim you, so for all you know she might have moved far from Wales, or even out of Great Britain altogether. So where will you go when you leave this area, Miss Trent?’
Glenys shrugged. ‘I don’t mind where I go so long as I can find a teaching post which will pay me enough to keep body and soul together,’ she admitted. She looked up at him again, this time with a twinkling smile. ‘So don’t be afraid that I shall hang around here or make any claims on Mr and Mrs Weather or on you. If I can’t find work in Rhyl, or perhaps Llandudno, I suppose I shall have to try Liverpool or London. I’m very independent, you see.’
Sam squeezed her hand. ‘I’m certainly not afraid that you’ll stay in the area – the children would be delighted – but suppose I could find you a job? Or perhaps it would be better to say that I would like you to consider living at Weathercock Farm until you find something more to your taste. ‘I don’t like to think of you trudging round the countryside searching for work, when you’ve saved my children’s lives . . . no, don’t deny it. But for you they might have fallen into the wrong hands and believe me, I’m grateful.’ He squeezed her hand again. ‘You did what I should have done and because I’m ashamed of my behaviour I’ve been very rude to you. But all that’s over, so can we call friends?’
Glenys was only too glad to agree and was surprised when Sam pulled her to a halt in order to shake her hand. ‘Pax!’ he said. ‘And now I shall tell you how I knew you were on your way to Weathercock Farm? It’s a pretty complicated story so listen hard.’
Glenys giggled. ‘It can’t be as complicated as ours,’ she assured him. ‘There was scarcely anyone in Liverpool who didn’t either help or hinder us. Carry on, then!’
‘Well, when Harry Theaker told me he’d left the children at the Salvation Hall, I went straight there and spoke to Major Williams, who seems to have been especially kind to Mo. He told me that the children had made friends with another Salvationist, Frank Bloggs, and took me to meet him that very evening. Frank, of course, knew all about you setting off for Wales with the children, and said you were going to let him know how you were getting on, so I stayed in Liverpool for a couple more days to see if there would be any news. But you didn’t ring, so I decided to swallow my pride and come down to see whether I couldn’t make my peace with Grace’s parents and wait for you here.’
‘And of course, being the lovely couple they are, they welcomed you with open arms,’ Glenys said, smiling.
‘Well, not quite that, but I think they are starting to forgive me,’ Sam said. ‘And then you rang Frank, so he contacted me and told me you were going to Deniol, but he’d looked at the timetable and was pretty sure I’d be able to meet you at Llanerch – the puppy station! – but of course we didn’t know about the two-hour delay. I’d almost given up when I saw Mo . . . and the rest you know. I returned to Weathercock Farm to wait, because I was certain, now, that you would turn up there.’
Glenys had begun to say that he had been proved right when he gave an exclamation. ‘How far would you say we’ve walked? Only it’s been some while since I saw the moon, and those dark racing clouds look pretty sinister. Surely we should have reached the outskirts of Ruthin by now?’
Glenys looked round her, but before she could reply the wind snatched the words from her lips and it began to snow in earnest. In two minutes what had been a calm night was calm no longer. A vicious wind whipped the surface of the snow and before either of them could remark upon it, they found themselves in the heart of a blizzard. Snow was coming at them horizontally and within moments they both looked like snowmen, and the intense cold made Glenys accept without question the arm Sam slung around her waist. ‘Hang on to me,’ he shouted, for the noise of the storm was so great that even the strongest voice had to be raised. ‘Did you recognise where we were before the blizzard struck?’
Glenys shook her head and ice trickled down the back of her mackintosh collar, causing her to shrink even closer to Sam. ‘How could I possibly know where we are when I don’t know the country at all?’ she shouted. ‘Oh, Sam, this is horrible. Is that a house on our left, or just a thicket?’
Sam swu
ng her round until they both faced the direction she had indicated. ‘It’s just a thicket,’ he said, speaking directly into her ear. ‘The fact is, Miss Trent, that I haven’t been here long enough to be sure of my way even in good weather. But if we keep walking along this track we’re bound to come to a labourer’s cottage or somewhere similar where we can seek shelter.’
‘But which way shall we go? Can’t we go back to Weathercock Farm? If we’re walking towards Ruthin surely we should have come across some sort of dwellings by now.’
Sam sighed. ‘I think you’re right. I wonder how long it is since we set out? We seem to have been walking for hours. I think we might try turning right here.’ They fought the blizzard to make the turn, which at least meant that the wind was coming at the back of them, but after ten minutes Sam pulled her to a halt. ‘We’ve gone wrong somewhere,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go in the opposite direction and see how we get on.’
Glenys gave an exclamation. ‘I think I see a cottage a couple of hundred yards ahead on our left,’ she said. ‘Whoever lives in it is bound to offer us shelter on a night like this.’
Halfway to the cottage she began to wonder if they would ever arrive, for the wind was in their faces now and despite trying hard to be brave she couldn’t help a little moan escaping her lips. Sam stopped immediately. ‘Are you all right, queen?’ he asked anxiously. ‘If you can’t go on I’ll carry you over the last few yards.’
Glenys wiped the snow off her face and glared up at him, though she knew he could not see her, what with the dark and the snow. ‘You will do nothing of the sort!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t make me an excuse to linger; best foot forward, Seaman Trewin!’
She heard him give a muffled snort of laughter and then they were in the shelter of the cottage and making their way around to the porch, which they could just make out through the whirling flakes. There was no light coming from any of the windows, but Sam beat a tattoo on the wooden front door and did not seem particularly surprised when it gave under his onslaught. With a grunt of satisfaction he pushed it wide and bundled his companion into the darkness inside. Then he produced a small torch from his pocket and swung it round to illuminate their haven. ‘It’s abandoned; there are a good few cottages like this now that farming has almost ceased to pay dividends,’ he said. ‘It’s lucky for us it still has a roof and four walls to protect us from the weather.’ He pushed open a door on his right, then backed out hastily. ‘Sheep dung,’ he said succinctly. ‘Give that other door a push, would you? I reckon it’ll be the kitchen – or was, rather.’
He was right, for as soon as they entered the room with its low sink and earth floor Glenys saw that this had indeed been the cottage kitchen, and by the look of things was now being used for general storage. There were piles of old newspapers and sacks as well a mound of dusty hay, and though outside the storm raged on more fiercely than ever she realised that she felt almost comfortable. She went over to the low sink, suddenly aware that she was very thirsty, but there was no tap or pump so she turned away with a disappointed sigh and looked towards Sam, who was spreading newspapers on the floor and covering them with piles of hay. The glassless window was small and at knee height, but when she commented that this seemed strange Sam shook his head. ‘Not strange, convenient,’ he said firmly. ‘We don’t want a view; we want to keep the weather out. There’re cardboard boxes stacked up over there which will fill the gap quite nicely, and this . . .’ he indicated the result of his labours, ‘will make a very good bed for two, because if you ask me this weather is going to last for the rest of the night and I’ve no intention of venturing out into it whilst we can stay in this convenient shelter. I’ve put newspapers down for a mattress because tramps always tell you newspapers make excellent bedding. Take off that soaking wet coat, that thing you’ve got on your head and your boots, and we’ll snuggle up in the hay like a couple of little dormice and won’t poke so much as our noses outside until we can see where we are.’
Staying out of the blizzard seemed sensible enough, but Glenys was quite determined not to share a bed with him even if it was made out of newspapers and hay. She took off her short boots and then hung her coat and sopping headscarf over the window, which made Sam Trewin give a crack of laughter and tell her she would make Robinson Crusoe proud. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be quite happy curling up on what’s left of the hay,’ she said, turning towards him. Then she gasped. ‘Oh! Are you – are you very wet? Only my dress isn’t too bad at all, and I certainly don’t intend to take it off.’
‘My trousers are soaking,’ Sam said equably. ‘And very likely your dress is in the same state. Look, you silly girl, no one is likely to walk in on us, and tomorrow we’ll have a long walk ahead of us, because I’m pretty sure we took more than one wrong turning and have ended up a long way from Ruthin or Weathercock Farm. We both need a good sleep, so stop being ridiculous! Do you imagine that I’m going to ravish you?’ He was laughing, but the look he gave her was friendly and not mocking. ‘I promise you I’ll stick to my own side of the bed, trousers or no trousers. Will that satisfy you?’ As he spoke he was hanging his own clothing across the window. Then he snapped the torch off, plunging them into almost complete darkness, and the next thing Glenys knew she was being lifted up and dumped unceremoniously in the makeshift bed, with Sam’s broad chest against her back and his warm arms about her.
She began to protest, to say that people would talk, but Sam Trewin just chuckled. ‘Shut up and go to sleep. I promise I’ll take the greatest care of you and not do anything to frighten or upset you,’ he said, and now his voice was serious. ‘Goodnight, Glenys. Remember, you saved my children, so I could never harm a hair on your head.’
Glenys gave one last despairing wriggle and managed to put several inches between her back and Sam Trewin’s chest, but the cold draught which whistled into the gap was so unpleasant that she hastily returned to her former position. Sam chuckled. ‘Good girl. We have to share our warmth or we’ll end up frozen solid,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if there’s a soul for miles around who could offer us any better shelter. Just relax; morning will come soon enough.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Glenys said dreamily. ‘Goodnight, Sam . . . oh!’ Her neat, schoolmistressy bun of hair had come loose as soon as she removed her headscarf, and now she felt Sam’s hand smoothing it away from the back of her neck.
‘Why oh?’ he asked.
‘Because – because you called me Glenys and I called you Sam, and I was determined to stick to Mr Trewin,’ Glenys said after a pause. ‘Oh, Sam, I’m so sleepy!’
And Glenys Trent, schoolmistress, was fast asleep.
Glenys awoke. It was still dark and for a moment she wondered where she was. Then she remembered vaguely that yesterday she and someone else – she could not remember who – had been fighting their way through a blizzard. She had been so cold! But then she and her companion must have reached both shelter and safety, and now she felt warm as toast and happier than she had felt for many a long day.
It was tempting to put the blizzard out of her mind and let herself sleep once more; after all, it could not be very late, for there was no sign of stirring from the house around her. But which house was it? Was it the house with eight steps owned by the woman with the funny name, or was it the farm that she and the children had found at the very end of a long and tiring search?
Glenys sighed. She was too tired to struggle out of bed just to find out which house she was in. She was sliding down a pleasant hill into sleep once more when somebody, somebody close to her, gave a tremendous yawn. At the same moment she realised she was not alone in what she had believed, only seconds earlier, to be a large and comfortable bed. She frowned in an effort to remember just where she was. She knew Mo was quite capable of climbing into bed with her, had done so several times, but the yawn had not sounded as though it came from a little girl. Suddenly she realised that the arms which were holding her did not belong to a little girl either. Shock, like a bucket of cold wat
er, washed over her and she struggled upright as memory flooded back. She had been trying to get back to Mrs Buttermilk’s tall house in Ruthin, and Sam Trewin had insisted on escorting her. Now she remembered. Within perhaps thirty minutes of leaving Weathercock Farm the blizzard had caught them unawares, and they had lost their way. Unable to see the weathercock on the old barn which had guided Glenys and the children straight to the farm on the previous day, they had tried one direction and then another and had finally sought shelter in an abandoned cottage.
Glenys tried to pull herself out of the bed, which meant freeing herself from the confining arms which held her. What on earth had possessed her? She remembered telling Sam that she would sleep on what little hay was left after his bed-making activities; what had changed her mind? She was a well brought up young woman and should have known better than to share any bed, whatever the circumstances, with a man. So now she twisted in Sam’s embrace, wrenched herself out of his arms and woke him by the simple expedient of punching him in the chest and then tugging at his thick mop of curling black hair, hissing as she did so: ‘Wake up, Sam Trewin. How dare you make me sleep in the same bed as you, even if it is made out of hay and newspapers?’
‘And sacks, and a couple of cardboard boxes,’ Sam said dreamily. ‘But it’s better to be warm together than cold apart.’
Glenys sniffed and scrambled to her feet, shivering as the cold air struck her and horrified to find that she was only wearing her white cotton petticoat. ‘Did you . . .’ she began indignantly, but then she remembered removing her soaked dress and, with chattering teeth, hanging it beside her equally soaking coat. Trembling with the cold, she crossed to the window and took it down. It was not dry but it was no longer sodden, only damp, and she began to struggle into it, turning to where Sam, without any of the embarrassment she felt, was stepping into his stout denim trousers and pulling on his thick navy blue jersey over his blue shirt and what she blushingly supposed to be his underwear.
