by Katie Flynn
‘Oh, you poor baby; what an absolutely horrid dream,’ Glenys said, very distressed. ‘Did you tell Jimmy about it? Sometimes it’s better not to try to keep frightening things to yourself. But I promise you, your daddy wouldn’t hurt anyone, least of all you or Jimmy. He’s a very kind and gentle man, and he loves you very much.’
Mo looked doubtful. ‘He was horrid to you when you first met,’ she pointed out, and then added with the shrewdness of one a good deal older than six, ‘He’s nice to everyone now, but I can’t help remembering that awful dream.’
Glenys began to clean down the table so that she and Mo might lay it ready for the next meal. She was thinking hard. If Mo told Sam about the dream he would do his best to reassure her, but being only human he might be upset by the fact that she had seen him as a bad person, the enemy rather than the hero. She could not leave things as they stood at present, she must do her utmost to put things right, but how? She knew that Sam’s original jealousy of her had disappeared and they were now good friends, and she did not want to spoil the relationship by mishandling such a sensitive subject. She was still pondering over what best to do when there was a knock on the back door and it was flung open to reveal a scruffy man in working clothes. He gave her a broad grin. ‘All right if I come in, missus?’ he asked. ‘’Tis mortal cold out here and Master said I were to tell you to put the kettle on.’
There was no need for Glenys to assure the stranger that he might come in out of the cold, for he was already inside, slamming the door and making his way determinedly towards the kitchen table, a hand already reaching for the scones.
‘Hang on a minute; don’t touch the baking until you’ve washed your hands,’ Glenys said quickly. ‘I’ll pump you some water and then you can tell me who you are. I can see you’re a farm worker . . .’ Inside her head she was thinking and I can smell you’re one, too.
Mo looked up from her task of laying out the cutlery. ‘He’s Pete the Sheep,’ she informed Glenys. ‘He’s a shepherd and he works for the Evanses ’cos they’ve got a whole load of sheep, but Taid employs him for the odd couple of days when he needs an extra pair of hands.’ She turned from Glenys to the stranger. ‘What do you want?’ she said baldly. ‘I thought Taid said you needn’t come to us until the snow was completely cleared away and spring was coming through.’
The little man gave her a malevolent look. He was small and almost square with eyes like dull pebbles set in folds of flesh and a loose-lipped mouth. He was filthy dirty and looked as though he had not seen water or soap for several weeks, and when Glenys drew another tray of scones from the oven he snatched one without so much as a by your leave and crammed it into his mouth. Then he sat himself down at the table and grinned at her, revealing that he only had one tooth.
‘Any more of them little scones in the oven?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I could do with another one to go with a cup of tea I see you’re a-makin’. And I’ll be bound you’ve butter in the larder; I does like butter on a scone.’
Glenys sighed, but already she had learned that country folk seldom refused food to anyone, so she took one of the scones off the cooling tray, split it and spread it with the butter she had placed ready on the dresser behind her. The little man crammed the buttered scone into his mouth. ‘Master’ll be comin’ along in a few minutes with your young man, missy,’ he said thickly. ‘Them scones is prime. I could do with another.’
Glenys shook her head. ‘I think you’ve had quite enough,’ she said firmly. ‘And now, if you want to see Mr Griffiths . . .’
The man clapped a filthy hand to his mouth and spoke through his fingers. ‘If I weren’t forgettin’! The missus – Mrs Evans – said she were in the grocer’s a couple of days ago when Mrs Weather come in. She telled the missus she were after dried fruit to make farmhouse loaves to sell at the market when the weather clears. Only the chap had run out, but this mornin’ when the missus got a lift into town with the milk lorry, Mr Jones at the shop give her a big ol’ bag of dried fruit for Mrs Weather.’ He plunged a hand into the great flappy waterproof he wore, and produced a large blue bag with the word Sultanas printed across it. ‘There you are, missus,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Payment for your scones, if you like, only Mrs Evans said you can pay her next time you’re passin’.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Glenys said, trying to take the bag of sultanas without coming into direct contact with her visitor’s filthy paw. ‘Tell Mrs Evans . . .’ But the man was hastily slurping a large mug of sweetened tea, and cut across her.
‘I’ll tell her,’ he said hastily. ‘But I hear the master and your young feller a-comin’ across the yard, so I’d best be off.’ He had not bothered to remove his boots or overcoat when he came into the kitchen, and now went straight to the back door and opened it, letting in a cold draught of air and a few flakes of whirling snow, and leaving behind him not just the dirt from his boots but a good deal of dung as well. ‘Thanks for the grub, missus,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell your man that the kettle’s steamin’ on the hob, and the scones is out of the oven and ready for eatin’.’
‘Thanks, but . . .’ Glenys was beginning when the little man suddenly turned in his tracks and came back into the kitchen, still leaving the door wide.
‘I’ll take a couple to see me on me way,’ he said, and before Glenys had done more than open her mouth he had snatched two scones from the pile on the wire cooling tray and was charging across the kitchen and into the yard, apparently oblivious of the fact that he had failed to close the door.
Glenys and Mo exchanged startled looks. ‘That’s Pete the Sheep,’ Mo repeated unnecessarily. ‘He lives down in one of Taid’s farm cottages. I don’t like him.’ She crossed the room and slammed the door, wincing as the cold air rushed in.
‘I don’t like him either,’ Glenys agreed. ‘He ate two scones and put another two in his beastly pocket, so now we shall be short when Jimmy and the others come in.’
‘No we shan’t. What about the little scone boys I made?’ Mo said indignantly. ‘Where’s Nain? I expect Dad and Taid have brought the cows in, so she’s probably milking.’
Glenys looked at the clock above the mantelpiece. ‘She’ll have finished by now. Want to put your coat on, poppet, and give her a hand whilst I get on with the cooking?’
Mo did not need asking twice. She dived across the kitchen and grabbed her coat from its peg, but as she began to put it on a thought clearly occurred to her. ‘I’m going to give the biggest scone boy to my daddy,’ she said, just as the back door opened to admit the three male members of the household.
Sam and his father-in-law kicked off their wellington boots and came into the kitchen in their stockinged feet. Taid said, in a tone of deep displeasure, that someone had been trekking mud in, and Mo was just starting to explain that it was Pete the Sheep when Jimmy entered the room and slung his coat at its peg on the wall. He, too, kicked off his boots, then looked around the kitchen with approval, taking a deep breath of the warm food-scented air. ‘It’s brass monkey weather out there, even though Taid says the thaw is coming,’ he said. He pointed accusingly at the dirt and dung on the floor. ‘Who did that? And where’s Nain?’
‘She’ll be along in a minute,’ Sam said. ‘She told me she meant to begin weaning Violet’s calf, and that takes time.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘I’d better go and give her a hand; you can come with me if you like.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll come,’ Mo said, beaming up at him. She had already put her coat on and now Sam did up the buttons for her. He was smiling delightedly and Glenys, realising that Mo had taken her words to heart, felt a great weight lift from her shoulders.
‘Tell Nain to hurry if she wants to have a scone hot from the oven,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose my scones are anything like as good as hers, but they’re the best I can do.’
As soon as they were out in the farmyard, Mo seized her father’s hand. ‘Taid says when the thaw comes Jimmy and me’ll be able to go to school,’ she said. ‘But
it doesn’t feel as though the snow is going to me. It’s still mortal cold, ain’t it?’
‘It’ll be warmer in the cow byre,’ Sam said. ‘When you get half a dozen cows all in a small space they create warmth, you know.’
‘Yes, and their breath smells lovely even though they haven’t been on grass for ages and have had to make do with hay,’ Mo observed as they entered the byre. Her grandmother was at the far end and had presumably just finished feeding the calf, for the big-eyed, long-legged little creature was prancing around the small enclosure, eager to get back to the security of his mother’s side.
‘Hey, Nain, have you finished? I’ve come to help you, and so’s Daddy,’ Mo shouted.
Nain turned at the sound of her granddaughter’s voice and reached for the gate to the small pen, but before she could come out the calf knocked her aside as it darted ahead of her through the gate. The old woman gave a startled squeak and Sam ran forward to prevent the calf from escaping, but it dodged round him and made for the open doorway.
‘Give your grandmother a hand up, Mo,’ Sam commanded. ‘I’ll go after the calf; it could break all four legs if it tries to run across the icy yard. I reckon it knows Violet is in the big barn and wants to join her.’
Mo ran to her grandmother, who was lying motionless amongst the straw. ‘Are you all right, Nain?’ Mo asked anxiously. ‘It were all my fault, shouting out like that and taking your mind off what you were doing. Nain? Are you all right?’ She threw herself down beside her grandmother.
Nain groaned but tried to give Mo a reassuring smile. ‘I’m all right, but we’ve got to catch the calf before it damages itself,’ she said in a thread of a voice. ‘And it wasn’t your fault, cariad, but my own. I should have remembered that the calf would want to go to its mother.’ She sat up, but Mo could see that it cost her an effort to do so. ‘Go and help your father to catch that calf.’
Before Mo could obey she heard a triumphant shout, and smiled reassuringly down at her grandmother. ‘Did you hear that, Nain?’ she asked. ‘That shout, I mean? It were Dad and he said “Gotcher”, so that’s all right. Let me help you up. Auntie Glenys has made a batch of scones and I helped her, so she said to hurry in and have one whilst they’re still hot.’ She seized her grandmother’s hands and tried to pull her to her feet, but Nain gave a shriek of pain and shook her head.
‘No, cariad, I think it will take more than your little strength to get me on my feet,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d better go to your father and get him to come and lend me his strong arm once the calf is safely shut in the big barn with his mother.’
‘Oh, but I don’t want to leave you, Nain,’ Mo said distressfully. ‘Dad’s bound to come over to the byre as soon as he’s penned the calf, to make sure you’re all right.’ She stared anxiously into her grandmother’s face. ‘You’re awful pale, Nain. Where does it hurt?’
‘It’s my bloody leg,’ her grandmother said, then smiled feebly as Mo’s mouth dropped open. ‘I’m sorry, cariad. Your taid and I hardly ever swear, but there’s times when a bad word just pops out, and this is one of them. Fetch Sam, because I don’t want Taid coming out here and trying to move me.’
But even as she spoke Sam’s large figure appeared in the doorway. They saw him look round then turn to leave, clearly unable to see them crouching in the straw. Nain tried to call him back, but it was Mo’s shrill voice which brought her father running. ‘Dad, Nain’s fell down and can’t get up,’ she shouted. ‘I tried to help but she were too heavy and she wouldn’t let me fetch Taid ’cos she said only your strong arm would do. Did you get the calf?’
Sam crossed the intervening space and entered the catching pen, looking down at his mother-in-law with deep concern. To Mo’s surprise he did not immediately try to pull the old woman to her feet but squatted beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. ‘If I fetch Taid . . .’ he began, but was immediately frowned down.
‘Taid’s too old to be lifting heavy weights and I’m not exactly a frail flower. If Mo will run for Glenys, and Taid’s walking stick, then the two of you can get me to my feet.’
But getting Nain to her feet only proved that she was more seriously hurt than any of them had realised. Sam took one look at her leg and commanded that a chair be brought. ‘But don’t let Taid bring it out; Jimmy can do that,’ he told Mo. ‘It’s mortal slippy in the farmyard and we don’t want Taid laid up with a broken ankle as well as Nain.’
Mo shot off, big with news, but she remembered Nain’s insistence that she wasn’t to worry Taid, and merely said that Jimmy and she were to carry the kitchen chair to the byre. Before Taid had finished wondering aloud what had happened to the milking stool, they and their burden were halfway across the yard. Presently Sam and Glenys carried the chair with Nain perched on it into the kitchen and stood it down as close to the fire as they could get, and one glance at Nain’s strained white face was enough to put Taid on the alert. To his anxious enquiries Sam replied briefly that he thought his mother-in-law’s leg might have suffered a fracture. ‘I’ll go along to the Evanses’ and borrow their phone and we’ll have Nain in hospital before you can say knife,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They won’t want to keep her there long, probably just for a couple of nights, but if I’m right they’ll want to plaster that leg. Do you hurt anywhere else, Nain?’
‘Yes, I hurt all over and want nothing more than my bed,’ Nain said crossly. ‘What a thing to happen, and just when we’ve been getting on so well! And if I know hospitals they’ll want me under their eye for days, and the doctor will try to insist that I keep to my bed when I do get home. Oh, damn, damn, damn, why couldn’t it have happened to somebody else? Why was I such a fool? I should have guessed that the calf would rush forward as soon as the gate was open.’ She turned to her husband. ‘I’m that sorry, Gethin. I’m pretty sure I shan’t be able to help on the farm for a few days at least.’
Taid smiled grimly and then, to Mo’s astonishment, bent over and kissed his wife’s weathered cheek. ‘Don’t you worry, lass,’ he said bracingly. ‘Why do you think I’ve let these young people make themselves at home in our house, eh? It’s ’cos I knew in me bones we were going to need them.’
Nain gave a watery little laugh. ‘You always were a bit of a joker, Gethin Griffiths,’ she said. ‘You know very well that our visitors would have been welcome under any circumstances.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘I could just do with a hot cup of tea and one of those scones, and whilst someone’s providing me with that little snack you, Jimmy, can brush up all the mud and dung I see on the kitchen floor.’ She tutted. ‘There you are, I only have to turn my back and rules about taking dirty boots off go by the board. Why are you putting on your duffel, Sam? No need to go ringing for an ambulance. If someone can help me up the stairs to my bed I’ll be fit as a flea by morning. I don’t want you breaking your leg trying to telephone, because now I’m in the warm with folk round me I’ll be just fine.’
Taid began to protest, but Sam cut across him. ‘We don’t know what you’ve done to your leg, Nain, and you’ve a fine big bruise on your forehead as well, so don’t you go trying to stop me from either fetching a doctor or getting you to hospital,’ he said firmly.
‘The Evanses are newcomers but they seem kindly, and I know Mr Evans has got one of them baby Austin cars,’ Taid put in. ‘If an ambulance can’t get out to us, Myfanwy, I reckon he’d give you and me a lift to the hospital.’
As they talked Jimmy was struggling into his coat and winding a large, rather ragged scarf around his neck. ‘I’m going with you, Dad,’ he announced. ‘It’s a fair walk to the Evanses’ farm, and Nain’s accident should have taught us a lesson: it’s dangerous to go out alone when the weather’s so bad.’
‘I’ll go too,’ Mo piped up, but then she hesitated. ‘Only Nain didn’t fall through slipping on the ice, she fell because of me and the calf.’
Jimmy chuckled, but insisted upon donning his boots and following his father as Sam opened the back door and began to
cross the farmyard. Mo rushed to the door to close it for him, shouting that they must be careful and to take Flush the sheepdog with them. ‘If you breaks your legs you can send Flush back with a message,’ she shouted. ‘Do you want a pencil and a piece of paper to write SOS on?’
Her father laughed and shouted back that it was not necessary, and then he and Jimmy disappeared into the lane, carefully shutting the five-bar gate behind them.
Chapter 14
GLENYS AWOKE TO find bright sunshine pouring in through her bedroom window and sounds of movement drifting up from the farmyard below. For a moment she was puzzled; why did she feel so happy, as though something really nice awaited her? And then she remembered. It was the second of September and the weather remained brilliantly sunny. Rain would have been most unwelcome, for it was the day Nain was going to leave the house for the first time since her accident. Her injuries had proved to be more extensive than they had first thought, and she had been hospitalised for three months and then under what she called ‘house arrest’ for months more, meaning that Glenys’s presence was indispensable, and much appreciated. But by now Nain was doing a good deal of the cooking and some of the housework, and was eagerly looking forward to collecting the eggs and scattering corn for the impatient hens, perhaps tipping the pigswill into the troughs and certainly picking bunches of flowers from her beloved garden. She had promised the doctor that she would be sensible and not ‘overdo herself’, as she put it, and in return the doctor had agreed that her house arrest could end on this particular date, for it was Nain’s seventieth birthday and the family were going to give her a surprise party to celebrate both her anniversary and her return to normality.
