by G. R. Gemin
“No,” I said out loud. “It was a Welsh waterfall.”
I coasted downhill towards the last place marked on the map. I saw a small car park with a sign that said Maes-glas Forest. It was deserted. There was a path that led into some woods. I got off my bike and walked with it.
It was a bit spooky and, to be honest, I was scared, ’specially when I checked my mobile and saw there was no signal. I was miles from home and hadn’t told Mam. She would have asked questions about where I was going and might have said, “No. It’s silly.” I just wanted to get there and see it. The wind was rustling the trees as I walked through the woods, which made it even more creepy. Nothing seemed familiar, but I’d only been that one time, years before. The breeze picked up again, but I heard something else – it was water. There had to be a river or stream nearby otherwise Kate wouldn’t have marked it on the map.
I came to a gate but I couldn’t get the bike through, so I locked it and carried on.
The path became steep, almost like steps, and the noise of the water got louder. When I got to the bottom I walked under some low branches, and then I saw the waterfall. It was the same one, all right. The one Dad and Darren had stuck their heads under. I was there. It seemed smaller, somehow – I remembered it bigger and louder.
But where was the massive tree and the meadow? As I looked around I realised we’d been there in the summer time – the meadow was completely overgrown. I turned and saw that I’d walked right under the big tree. It had no leaves so I hadn’t noticed it.
I put my hand in the water. It was ice cold.
I watched the waterfall tumbling and sloshing, going on forever, and I had the feeling I was in a trance again.
“Where’s the water come from, Mam?” I heard myself ask back then.
“Rain,” she said.
“But when it stops raining the water would stop.”
“It never stops raining in Wales.”
It seemed impossible to me standing there and watching it pouring down, almost as if it would stop once I’d walked away.
“Mam!” I called out. “MAM! DAD!” I shouted as if I was in trouble.
No answer, except the sound of the water falling and falling. I felt the anger rise up in me. I don’t know why – this place wasn’t to blame for anything.
I took out the jewellery box and opened it. I gazed around the meadow where me and Darren had explored and Mam and Dad had dozed. It was overgrown. A different place. I tipped out the dried grass and leaves, back from where they came.
I’d come all the way here, but it wasn’t the same.
Why did I think it would be?
THIRTY FOUR
The Mawr was different. The cows made it different, according to Gran, and I reckon she was right. Loads of people went round for her butter and cheese classes. People were chatting about the cows everywhere you went. They came to offer hay or grass or a blanket, and in return they’d get fresh milk or some butter or cheese. I noticed that the cows were getting more and more pampered as the days went by: fresh hay was put down so that the ground was soft; they were groomed and cleaned, and the backyards were washed and scrubbed. Morris had even painted a mural of trees and grass on his back wall – said he wanted to give Donna something to look at.
People said their cows had their own personalities: some were restless and some were cool; some mooed a lot, others didn’t. Mave’s cow was nosy and stuck her head in through the back window, like she wanted to go into the house. I heard Roger make out that his cow, Rhiannon, preferred opera music.
Mam was curious, like everyone else, and went to Gran’s to see what was going on. I’m glad she did. She joked about the cows getting more attention than a dozen new babies.
People talked about how bad it was that Karuna was attacked.
“Terrible about Mr Banerjee’s grandson. They’re evil, people that did that.”
“Aye, the dregs of the sewers, they are.”
“Scum,” said Darren, with a glance at me.
It was like they were wishing away the bad from the Mawr.
One afternoon a reporter was snooping around and asking questions, but all he got was, “Cows? What cows?”
The biggest change was the kids. People like Roger were saying they’d lose interest, but they didn’t. They kept going round after school.
I once saw Sian having a go at her brother for helping Morris out with Donna.
“What’s it to you?” Ryan said to her.
“Wait till Mam hears you’re helping Mad Morris,” she said.
Ryan shrugged. “Tell her. I don’t mind. And anyway, he’s not mad.”
Sian saw me watching. “What you looking at?”
I stared right back. “Nothing,” I said to her. “I’m looking at nothing.”
She stood there, with Karen, Tracy and Jo, and everything going on around them – kids rushing in and out of the yards and mucking in. They were left out and they weren’t used to it. I saw the same look on the faces of the Tobin brothers too. It was like they couldn’t take everyone mingling together. That was it – there was no “them and us”, it was just everyone.
I realised the Tobins and the Sians all wanted to keep fighting, like they depended on it. They were angry at something and I knew what that was like, but I didn’t want to feel it any more.
THIRTY FIVE
Saraswati is the Hindu Goddess of energy and creativity. That’s what Karuna told me. Goddess, mind you, not a bloke – well powerful, she is. Interesting how many Gods and Goddesses the Hindus have. Durga was my favourite. She was a slayer of demons, rode on a lion and had ten arms – useful or what?
I found out that the statue in Mr Banerjee’s house of the blue boy was Krishna. He’s a God and a cow shepherd. All the cow maids fancied him, apparently. Mr Banerjee told me about cows roaming free in the streets in India because they’re respected over there. I think Peggy was more than a cow to him; he even said she was sent to him from God.
Mr Banerjee made us tea and sandwiches while Karuna finally gave me my flute lesson. At first he had me blowing across the top of a bottle, which was embarrassing. Karuna was so patient, like he wanted to teach me, which made him even more gorgeous.
“Play me something,” I asked.
“What would you like me to play?”
“Anything.”
He thought for a moment and talked about this flute music he was studying, by someone called Bark. I nodded as if I knew what he was on about.
He closed his eyes as he played. His head rocked gently but the flute seemed to stay in the same position the whole time, as if his body moved to the flute and not the other way around. I regretted asking him to play, because after about ten seconds I started to cry. I don’t mean bawling away, but tears started falling down my cheeks.
That music made me think of everything. It was sad, but warm and cosy too. Everything was squashed into that couple of minutes of him playing. I thought how different me and Karuna were, like we were from different planets. As soon as he finished I stood up. “I got to go.”
“Are you all right?”
I nodded. “Thank you,” I said. “That was…” The only word I could think of was a word I couldn’t ever remember saying. “That was beautiful.”
Mr Banerjee smiled at me, like he understood.
When I was outside I rubbed my cheeks dry, and breathed deeply. I could smell cow poo, but it’s not a bad smell – it just smells of countryside.
Peggy eyeballed me. I touched her and realised again how soft cows feel, like velvet. I stroked her and stroked her.
Who could be scared of cows? They’re beautiful.
I felt good, like everything was going to be all right. Then Morris went and took Donna on to the Common.
THIRTY SIX
By the time I got down to the Common there was a small crowd around Morris, who had Donna on a tether. My heart was banging in my chest, as I was expecting the police to show up any second.
“What you doin
g, Morris?”
“Getting frustrated, she was,” he said. “Needed a walk. Loads of fresh grass here doing nothing.”
“Is this one of the Bryn Mawr dozen?” a woman in the crowd asked.
“Aye, that’s right,” said Morris. “Done her a power of good, this did. Maybe she misses being with the others too, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But let’s get her back now, Morris.”
Everyone was looking grim at Gran’s house. Kate had come down, and there was Mr Banerjee, Roger, Polly and a few others.
“It might only be a matter of time now before they’re found,” said Gran.
“Bloody Morris!” muttered Roger. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” snapped Gran. “He was thinking about Donna. Those cows are doing us a service, and we owe them a lot. It’s been lovely having Jane, but I’ve been guilty of thinking of myself.” She looked at Kate. “You say the word and they can all go back up to that field of theirs.”
“Oh Lil, no!” said Mave. “My Maisy’s settled in lovely now.”
Everyone started chipping in.
“They’re not ours to decide,” shouted Gran. “Those cows belong to Kate and Mr Thomas, and if the best thing for them is to take ’em back, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“No, Gran!”
Darren ran in from the backyard. “Don’t give ’em back, please. They’ll be killed.”
That did it for me – the last time I saw Darren that upset it was because Mam had banned him from his video games for an evening.
“Shush now, Darren,” said Gran. “I’ve been pleased as punch the way you’ve taken to that cow – you’ve been a different boy – but this can’t go on forever.”
“Why don’t you speak to that reporter, Gran?” I said. “The one that was hanging around.”
“Why?”
“Well, maybe it would help if more people knew about the cows … ’specially if they knew they’d be killed?”
“I don’t know, Gemma. It might rub people up the wrong way. Shall I have a word with your father, Kate?”
She shook her head. “He’s too angry,” she said. “He’s not even talking to me at the moment. Besides, the cows are here now. We won’t do them any favours moving them again.”
“But they’re still yours, Kate,” said Gran. “We haven’t forgotten that.”
We went out into the alley. Me and Kate stood watching everyone going in and out of the backyards. She looked lost.
“D’you want to borrow my bike to get back up?” I asked.
“No.”
“It’ll take you ages to get home.”
“No!” she snapped.
I was going to snap back, but as I watched her plod off up the alley I realised we had her cows and she was just left with a bad atmosphere at home. I wanted to help her and then I remembered what that woman had called the cows.
“The Bryn Mawr dozen,” I said out loud.
It was like they were famous.
THIRTY SEVEN
We were on the train to see Dad and all I could think about were the cows.
I usually liked the train journey but I didn’t want to be away from the Mawr, and that was a first. Mam had the South Wales Echo spread on the table because there was an article about the cows. She read it to us – “The Mystery of the Bryn Mawr Dozen”, it was called.
“‘The cows have made a big difference to the Mawr since they arrived,’ the anonymous caller claimed. ‘And people love them.’ No one would say where the cows are, but Local Councillor Rhys Morgan admitted, ‘Things are strangely quiet on the Bryn Mawr. The police informed me that domestic incidents are down and we’ve had no burglaries in a while. I’ve not seen any cows, mind you, though I have heard the odd moo late at night…’”
Mam shook her head. “Your gran’s upset about this. She reckons it was probably Roger who told them, but he swears he didn’t.”
I felt myself blush and hoped Mam didn’t notice.
“Think the cows’ll still be there when we get back?” Darren asked me.
“Yeah,” I said, but I wasn’t sure.
I was feeling funny on that train, all tense like, but it wasn’t just the cows.
When Mam took out sandwiches she’d made for the journey I was worried they’d all be meat. I didn’t want an argument, ’specially the way I was feeling. She handed me a foil-wrapped sandwich and said, “I did you cheese and tomato, as you’re a veggie now.”
Surprised, I was. “Thanks.”
I gazed out the window and saw cows in the fields. The first time I’d gone to see Dad I wouldn’t have given a thought to them; but here I was, me, Gemma Matthews, looking out for cows like they were lions on a safari.
When we arrived we had to go into the waiting room, which was always full of other relatives and friends waiting to see whoever was inside. I’ve never got used to it. I’ve always felt like we were all being punished, and I didn’t want to be there, not now. Then they started calling out names and we went through.
Dad was grinning at us as we entered. We each hugged him and sat down. Mam showed him the newspaper article. He laughed. “The Mawr never ceases to amaze me,” he said. “Your gran ought to sell her cow while she’s got the chance.”
“How d’you mean?” I asked.
“Well, I bet she could find someone to take it off her hands,” said Dad. “Worth a few bob, I reckon.”
“No, Dad,” said Darren. “Fantastic, it is.”
“I don’t think she’d sell it for a million, Rob,” said Mam. “She’s really taken to it, and her neighbours – some of them have got one an’ all.”
“Oh aye,” said Dad, but he wasn’t interested.
Mam started talking about this and that, then she went on about a big gas bill she’d had to pay.
Dad nodded. “That’s a lot, isn’t it?”
“It is, Robbie. You’re telling me it’s a lot,” said Mam. “We gotta keep warm.”
“Course you have – never said you shouldn’t.” He glanced at me. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” I said, but I was feeling funny, kind of shaky.
“Gemma’s learning to play the flute,” said Mam.
“What for?”
“To play it, Robbie,” she said. “Why else would you learn an instrument? She’s getting lessons off Mr Banerjee’s grandson – he loaned her the flute.”
“Banerjee?” said Dad.
“Aye,” said Mam. “Nice of him, I thought.”
“How old is this boy then?”
I didn’t like him asking that. The trembly feeling got worse.
“Fourteen, fifteen,” said Mam.
“Should she be going round on her own?” he asked her, as if I wasn’t there.
“It’s fine, Robbie,” she said. “They’re all right.”
I could really feel myself getting wound up.
“Gran’s making cheese now, Dad,” said Darren.
“And butter,” said Mam. “You ought to see her.”
He nodded. “I’m not happy about Gemma going next door on her own.”
“You can’t stop me, Dad.”
I said it loud and people looked round.
“What did you say?”
“Mam can stop me, sure, but you can’t because you’re in here.”
He was shocked. “Gemma, don’t talk to me like that.”
I didn’t care he was annoyed – in fact, it pleased me. “What are you doing here?” I said.
“What?”
“I don’t know anyone in school whose dad’s in prison. My bike was nicked the other day and Kate got it back for me. Not you, Kate did.”
“Who’s Kate?”
“Doesn’t matter!” I stood up. “Someone nicked my bike, but I couldn’t ask you to help because you’re in here.” His eyes went wide. “You’re missing it all, Dad. The Mawr’s different now, but you wouldn’t know because you’re in here. You
get food and you’re kept warm. Mam’s working. She’s paying the bills. She’s getting the food in. She’s doing what mams do, but you…!”
I pointed at him, my hand shaking. I was so angry – angry at him being in prison; angry that Mam was always wound up and on her own every night; angry that cows have a short life; and angry because the waterfall wasn’t the same. Angry, angry, angry.
“Gran called you useless,” I said. “And she’s right – while you’re in here you’re as useless as a teat on a bull!”
I walked out.
I fell asleep on the journey back, and dreamed about cows roaming free in India, like Mr Banerjee had told me. When I woke I looked at Mam and she smiled. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her smile at me. Darren was quiet, just gazing out the window. Then Mam got a text message. “I don’t believe it,” she said when she read it.
“What is it?” me and Darren asked. “Is it the cows?”
She nodded.
“Ah, no,” said Darren. “Are they gone?”
“No,” said Mam. “Your gran … she says they’re on the telly!”
THIRTY EIGHT
We huddled round the TV at Gran’s house. She’d already seen it earlier, but we had to wait for the BBC Wales news at six o’clock.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when it came on.
A reporter was walking across the Mawr Common.
“The Bryn Mawr estate is often in the news for all the wrong reasons,” he said. “Ask anyone on this estate and they’ll tell you about petty crime, burglary, joyriders, graffiti and intimidation. One elderly lady I spoke to said she was too frightened to leave her house alone. But recently a change has come about on this estate – it’s quiet, the crime rate is down and, if rumour is to be believed, that change has been brought about by an animal. Not a cat or a dog, but a cow, a dairy cow.”
He walked up to an alley doorway on the terrace. Children were surrounding him. “There’s Jamie!” Darren shouted.
