A Family Christmas

by Katie Flynn

  ‘Talk about what?’ Glenys asked indignantly. ‘Oh – they think I should go back to teaching and leave the job of helping on the farm to one of them. Is that it? Some people are so nasty . . .’

  ‘Well no, it isn’t exactly that,’ Sam said, looking hunted. ‘It’s more they think I’m the Weathers’ son-in-law and therefore will probably inherit the farm . . .’ He stopped speaking and stared helplessly at his companion. ‘Don’t you see what that means? Oh, Glenys, I didn’t want to have to spell it out, but it’s clear that I must. They think you’re setting your cap at me, and that when I go to sea you’ll . . . you’ll work at making yourself indispensable to Nain and Taid and the children, so that when I come back . . .’ He hesitated, and then, seeing her expression, said quickly, ‘Don’t look so angry, girl. It’s always the same in small communities; people positively enjoy thinking the worst, and—’

  ‘Are they daring to say that I’ve chased all the way across Wales to pin you down and force you to marry me . . . is that what they’re saying?’ Glenys said, unable to keep the fury out of her voice. ‘How dare they think such a thing, how dare they! I’ve never even thought of marriage, with you or anyone else – oh, I’ll make them eat their words!’

  Sam tried to put his arms round her but she pushed him away. ‘Don’t!’ she said sharply. ‘Do Nain and Taid know about these rumours?’

  ‘No-oo,’ Sam said miserably. ‘But Nain has hinted that I should regularise the situation by asking you to marry me. Oh, Glenys, I had meant to wait until we had known each other a little longer, but now that war is a certainty . . .’ Once more he tried to put his arm around her, but again she pushed him away.

  ‘So you were only asking me to marry you because your mother-in-law thinks it’s a good idea!’ she said furiously, feeling the hot blood rush into her cheeks and invade her face. ‘And won’t I be useful? A mother for your children, a nurse for your parents-in-law as they grow older and a worker for your farm, and all free! Well, you can forget it, Sam Trewin. I shall catch the train to Bangor tomorrow and put my name down for a teaching job, or for any job for which I’m qualified, in fact. And failing that I suppose you think I’ll come back here with my tail between my legs and beg to be allowed to take up your very obliging offer after all. Well, you’re out there! Because I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.’

  She flung away from him, but Sam, too, had a temper when roused. He grabbed her by the shoulders, swung her round and kissed her long and passionately. When he pushed her away he was breathless, and she could see by the sparkle in his eyes that he was as annoyed as she.

  ‘I should put you across my knee and give you a good spanking,’ he said, his breath coming short. ‘Just think over my proposal, and the next time I ask you it had better be “yes please Mr Trewin” or I’ll never ask you again.’

  Glenys scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand, a childish gesture, but one she felt fitted the occasion. ‘Don’t bother to ask me again, because the answer will still be the same,’ she blazed. ‘And don’t you dare follow me, Sam Trewin, because I need to be alone. Tell Nain and Taid that I’ll be in for supper,’ and on these words she turned away and ran up the rocky lane, only casting one look across her shoulder to make sure he was not following.

  Glenys walked and walked, and when the lane petered out into a rocky outcrop she simply abandoned it and went across the moors. It took her a good half hour to calm down, and even then the memory of his hard hands gripping her shoulders and his hard mouth clamped on to hers kept reminding her of her grievances. If he had only said he loved her, just once, she could have forgiven all the rest. Well, he had not said it because it wasn’t true. All he wanted was a free mother for the kids, a free housekeeper, and a free nurse for when the grandparents were older. But what about the kiss? That had not felt like something he would have given to a proxy mother, housekeeper or nurse. It made her wonder whether he really did love her a little, but if so why in God’s name could he not have said so? And then there were her feelings for him. True, she had never contemplated marriage, but for several months now she had not been able to imagine being without him. She knew him to be strong-willed and quick-tempered, but he rarely showed either of these traits now that they had – or she had thought they had – a pleasant and friendly working relationship. Marriage had never entered her head, however, and she would have sworn it had not entered his head either. She thought about this as she strode across the moor, scarcely noticing where she was going. If only he had not more or less told her that he was offering marriage in order to save her from gossip and innuendo! Come to that, if only she had not lost her temper, screamed at him like a fishwife and marched away. If only, in fact, she had behaved with dignity and decorum. But she had not, and she supposed, shamefacedly, that she would have to eat humble pie, tell him that, though she had no intention of marrying him, she was honestly ashamed of her behaviour and hoped that he would forgive her so that they might resume their friendship, which meant a good deal to her.

  By the time the sun was setting in a glory of tiny pink clouds, Glenys realised that she was exhausted. She stopped by a little stream and splashed water in her face, but knew she was most definitely not looking her best. She would simply have to recover herself a little before facing Sam once more. But where should she go? She could scarcely expect to re-enter Weathercock Farm without running the gauntlet of critical stares as well as questions. She could just imagine Mo: ‘Where’s you been, Auntie Glenys? Did you fall down in a bog? Why, you’ve muck up to the knees, nearly as dirty as Pete the Sheep. And is that hay in your hair?’

  Glenys glanced down at herself, and despite her weariness she had to bite back a laugh. She was dirty, scratched and bruised, and her hair, she guessed, must look like a bird’s nest. She had torn the skirt of her pink gingham dress, and one of her sandals lacked a buckle. Once more, the desire to laugh nearly overcame her. She could not possibly face the family quite yet; she would definitely try to tidy herself up a bit before she went indoors. She needed somewhere private, but definitely not the farmhouse itself. Fortunately, she seemed to have walked in a large circle, because when she looked around her she realised she was less than a mile from the farm. As she made her way towards it she considered its various outbuildings, and finally decided on the tack room. Besides saddles and bridles, the horse brasses which the enormous Clydesdales had worn to shows in the past, and various brushes and combs, it contained a mirror, so that whoever was showing the horses might check their own appearance as well as their charges’.

  In the yard, Glenys filled a bucket at the outside tap, and stole into the shed, closing the door softly behind her. She removed as much dirt from her person as she could, then found a brush and set to work on her pale hair until all the tangles had disappeared. When she had finished she looked searchingly at her reflection in the mirror. Not too bad, she congratulated herself. Now I’ll stroll casually in at the back door and tell them I wanted to be by myself for a bit . . .

  But before she could carry out this admirable plan, someone in the stable next door spoke her name. Immediately, she was on the alert. Was that Sam’s voice? No, and neither was it Taid’s or Jimmy’s. A moment’s listening told her the answer: it was the hated Pete the Sheep, and he was talking to a sharp-faced, spiteful woman who went by the name of Phoebe Smith. She was almost as dirty as Pete himself, with thin, greasy black hair which hung to her shoulders and a whining, unpleasantly nasal voice. She lived in an ancient caravan in the woods and was much disliked and distrusted by all the locals, who swore that Phoebe Smith would thieve anything not nailed down and would lie like a flatfish if it was to her advantage to do so. But Glenys knew the other woman was frequently seen around with Pete, and began to listen without feeling that she was eavesdropping; the tack room was Weathercock property, after all.

  ‘Ah, Pheeb, but you ain’t heard the worst yet, not by a long chalk . . .’

  Yes, that was Pete’s voice, sly and brea
thy. And Phoebe was with him, no doubt couched down in the hay of an empty stall and probably – ugh, ugh – as near naked as time and circumstance allowed. She heard her name again. ‘That stuck-up bitch Miss High and Mighty Glenys ain’t no better’n a poor man’s tart, for all that she gives herself airs. One night last winter, when the snow were down and thick, deep as me knees or deeper, I had cause to visit a sick ewe what I’d bedded down in that old cottage, the one with four walls barely a-standin’. Well, when I were seein’ to the ewe I heard noises comin’ from the next room, the one with a smashed winder. So I nips out an’ I sees someone’s hung clothin’ over the empty winder, so I make meself a spy-hole, and what d’you think I sees? Why, I sees Miss common-as-muck Glenys, nekkid as the day she were born, a-squealin’ an’ a-tellin’ the feller on top of her to do it agin, so acourse he did. And the feller was that Sam Trewin, whose wife ain’t been more’n a year or two dead, a-humpin’ an’ a-wheezin’ while she shouted at him to go faster, an’ she sank her teeth in his neck and clawed at him and yelled till ’twas a miracle they didn’t scare my old ewe to death.’

  Phoebe gave a snicker of amusement. ‘I wouldn’t ha’ believed it, an’ her so prim and proper,’ she said. ‘Now what say you an’ me takes ourselves down to your cottage an’ a proper bed?’

  There was a short pause, presumably whilst Pete considered the question, but then he grunted what was obviously agreement. ‘I got the rest of the food what the old woman gimme last night,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We could have us a little party, and then . . .’ He chuckled, and even without being able to see him Glenys could easily imagine the lascivious look on his face.

  The woman agreed that this would suit her fine, and with a great rustling of straw and some hoarse laughter the two trespassers left the stall in which they had been disporting themselves and headed, Glenys assumed, for Pete’s cottage. After their footsteps had faded away, there was an interval of silence and Glenys suddenly realised that while she had been listening she had somehow managed to get right across the tack room, as though physically distancing herself as far from the disgusting couple as she could get. She was crouching by the door, and could not understand how she had got there. Horror, and the lies which had tripped so readily off Pete’s spiteful tongue, must have propelled her. She had always disliked Pete the Sheep, had known that she had roused his enmity, and now she realised that the previous winter, all unknowingly, she had played into his hands.

  Glenys cursed beneath her breath. She had feared that taking shelter in the abandoned cottage might lead to unpleasant rumours, but what choice had they had? And now she remembered the boot prints they had seen in the fresh snow when daylight came and they left their refuge. She got slowly to her feet. Was this why Sam had asked her to marry him? Was this the kind of ‘talk’ he had wanted to spare her? She wondered whether he could have heard this particular rumour, but then she remembered that Pete had always been in awe of Taid, and guessed that the shepherd had held his tongue, if only because he must have known that if it came to Taid’s ears Taid would undoubtedly sack him and throw him out of the farm cottage.

  Outside, it was growing dark, and if she did not go in soon someone might come and search for her and that someone might be Sam. The thought galvanised her into action. She dusted down the skirt of her pink gingham dress, tucked her fair curls behind her ears, cast one glance around the tack room to make sure there was no sign of her recent presence, and set off across the farmyard.

  As she had guessed, the family was at supper. One of Nain’s pasties sat forlornly on a crumb-spattered plate in the centre of the table, alongside two large platters of sandwiches. Everyone but Sam looked up and smiled as she entered the room; Sam kept his eyes studiously lowered to his plate. Jimmy and Mo said accusingly, in chorus: ‘You’re late!’ but though Taid murmured a greeting, his wife looked at her long and hard.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear? I saw that dreadful Phoebe Smith cross the yard a while back. She’s a nasty piece of work, always out to do mischief. I wondered if you’d fallen foul of her.’

  Glenys assured her, airily, that she would never take any notice of anything Phoebe said since the woman lied as she breathed, but inside she was thinking trust Nain to pick up on one’s emotions! None of the others have noticed that I’m not feeling quite myself.

  Jimmy, chewing busily, jerked a thumb at the empty chair beside his own. ‘We’ve saved you a pasty, and the sandwiches on the blue plate is cheese and pickle, and the ones on the plate with the pattern of green leaves is egg and lettuce,’ he said thickly. ‘There’s tea, cider or homemade lemonade . . .’ His face clouded. ‘It ain’t fair, Auntie Glenys. Nain won’t let me have cider but you can have it, even though you’re a woman.’

  Glenys smiled at him and hesitated, not knowing whether to take the offered seat, but Sam made up her mind for her. He pushed his own chair back with a loud squeal and got to his feet. ‘I’m going out to put the milk into the churns,’ he said gruffly. ‘If you’ve finished, Jimmy, you can come and give me a hand.’

  Jimmy stared at him, eyes rounding with astonishment. ‘I haven’t finished,’ he said. ‘There’s some of Nain’s bara brith for afters, and I love bara brith.’

  Mo, sitting opposite him, leaned forward and took a piece of the richly fruited bread. ‘I loves it, too,’ she confided. ‘Why don’t you take two pieces, our Jimmy, and then Daddy and you can eat it outside?’ She turned to Glenys. ‘Jimmy and I never did find the nest of the hen who lays away, Auntie Glenys, so if you eat your pasty up quick we can go out too and take our bara brith with us.’

  Glenys smiled, though it was an effort to do so. ‘I’m afraid it’s too dark to go out nest-hunting now, poppet. And I’ve got a shocking headache, so the only thing I want to do is go up to my bed and sleep. Is that all right, Nain? I know from experience that the pain in my head needs darkness and quiet even more than it needs tea and sandwiches.’

  ‘Of course you must go. You could take a couple of sandwiches and a piece of fruit loaf up with you,’ Nain suggested, but Glenys shook her head, and was surprised when Taid got to his feet and came round the table to where she sat.

  ‘I mebbe don’t notice as much as Nain, but I can see today’s upset you,’ he said kindly. ‘It don’t do to take all the troubles in the world on your own shoulders, cariad. Things will work out, see if they don’t.’

  Glenys was grateful for his solicitude and would have said so, but fortunately Jimmy had ignored Mo’s helpful suggestion and was tucking into his bara brith at the table, and now he piped up, ‘I ‘spect most of the troubles are still on Mr Chamberlain’s shoulders,’ he said, and Glenys realised that she had completely forgotten what day this was. Even the fact that Britain was now at war with Germany had shrunk into insignificance beside the emotions of the afternoon.

  Jimmy, Mo and Taid were all looking at her sympathetically, obviously thinking that the coming war was on her mind; only Nain shot her a twinkling glance before helping herself to another sandwich.

  ‘You’ll get over it,’ she said cheerfully, and Glenys could not decide whether she was referring to anxiety about the war or to the quarrel with Sam. But she did not intend to give herself away and merely smiled her gratitude at the offer of refreshment whilst still shaking her head.

  ‘No, thanks, Nain; I can always come down later and make myself a snack if the headache eases off,’ she said. ‘But in case it doesn’t, I’ll say goodnight now.’

  Once in the security of her own room, Glenys lay down on the bed and let peace encompass her. She had invented the headache but now, lying quietly in the dark, she could feel the stirrings of pain in her temples and knew she was probably in for a restless night. She tried to make herself relax, to put the events of the day out of her mind, but she soon realised she would have to face up to making a decision. As she saw it she had three options: to stay where she was and let people believe what they wished to believe, for she had no doubt that there were those who suspected what Sa
m had spelled out, and would pass on the gossip as fact; to marry Sam despite knowing that he did not love her; or – oh, God, and this was the course she knew it would be wise to take – to leave the farm, with no promise of a forwarding address. It might look like running away, it might even be running away, but at least it would scotch the rumour that she had set her cap at Sam and had come all the way across Wales to Weathercock Farm in order to feather her nest. How she was supposed to have known that the Weathers had anything she wanted she could not imagine, but the more she thought the more she favoured the option of leaving the farm.

  There were several good reasons for this. Nain might have prompted Sam to offer marriage, but what was marriage without love? It would be a millstone around both their necks, and much though she loved the children and admired Nain and Taid, she could not stomach being thought the sort of person who would scheme and plan simply to get a ring on her finger. Furthermore, although most young and fit men would go into the forces now war had been declared, surely the government would leave one reliable person in charge of every farm. On Weathercock Farm that person would be Sam, unless he were married and his wife still on the spot, in which case she would be expected to take over in his absence. And Sam must stay, for the children’s sake even more than for Nain and Taid’s.

  Glenys’s head thumped, adding to her misery. She lay on top of her bedclothes, wrestling with a problem which had now shrunk to one stark choice: to go or to stay. It broke her heart to think of the children’s unhappiness if she left; they had gone through so much, had sailed such rough seas, and now they believed they had come into a safe harbour. Glenys was not conceited, but she knew the children loved her, and was determined that they should never have cause to think she did not love them too. She would leave a letter for Nain and Taid, explaining that she had gone in order that Sam might stay, and she would write to them regularly, but would never put an address on her correspondence. And anyway, she told herself, she had been a teacher for long enough, to know that children’s memories are not long. She could imagine Mo, in a year’s time, saying innocently; ‘Miss Trent? Who’s that? Oh, I know, it’s the new lady at the post office . . .’