by Jenny Nimmo
And then he saw that he was not alone. Someone was standing on the other side of the playground. Someone in grey with long, fair hair and a blue hat. It was Eirlys. The girl began to walk towards Gwyn; she walked slowly, as though she was approaching a creature she did not wish to alarm. When she reached Gwyn she bent down and put her arms beneath his and round his body. Then, without a word, she began to lift him to his feet. She was very frail and Gwyn could not understand where her strength came from. Her hair, beneath his hands, was so soft it was like touching water, and her face, now close to his, was almost as pale as the snow. He had never really looked at her before and realised, with a shock, that he knew her. He had seen her somewhere but could not remember where.
They walked across the playground together, still without speaking, his arm resting on her shoulders, her arm round his waist, and although his legs ached he tried not to stumble or lean too heavily on the girl. When they reached the school door, Eirlys withdrew her arm and then took his hand from her shoulder. Her fingers were ice-cold and Gwyn gasped when she touched his hand.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘You’re so cold,’ Gwyn replied.
Eirlys smiled. Her eyes were greeny-blue, like arctic water; it was as though they had once been another colour, but that other colour had been washed away.
When they got to the classroom Gwyn told Mr James that he had slipped in the snow. Eirlys said nothing. Mr James nodded. ‘Get on with your work now,’ he said.
Eirlys and Gwyn went to their desks. Everyone stared. Dewi Davis was still holding his nose, and Gwyn remembered what he had done. All through the next lesson, through the pain in his head, he kept thinking of what he had done to Dewi Davis. He had hit him with magic. Something had come out of his hand and flown into Dewi’s face, something that had come to him from Gwydion, the magician, and from Gwydion’s son, who had once ruled Gwynedd. And it was the same thing that had turned the seaweed into a ship, the brooch into a spider and the whistle into a silver pipe. These last three, he realised, had merely been waiting for him to release them; they had been there all the time, just waiting for his call. But when he had hit Dewi Davis, he had done it by himself. He had wanted to hurt Dewi, wanted to smash his silly, cruel face, and he had done it, not with a stone nor with his fist but with his will and the power that had come from Gwydion. If he could do that, what could he not do?
While Gwyn dreamt over his desk he was unaware that Eirlys was watching him. But Alun Lloyd noticed and he wondered why the girl gazed at Gwyn with her aquamarine eyes. He was uneasy about the things that were happening.
During the day Gwyn’s aches and pains receded and he was able to hobble to the school bus unaided. When he got off the bus, however, he could not run up the lane as he had been doing, and he felt trapped for Alun was lingering behind the rest of his family, watching him.
‘You OK?’ Alun asked Gwyn.
‘Yes, I’m OK.’
‘D’you want me to walk up with you?’
‘No,’ Gwyn replied. ‘I said I was all right, didn’t I?’
‘Are you sure?’ Alun persisted. He turned to face Gwyn and began to walk up the hill backwards.
‘They didn’t hurt me that bad,’ Gwyn said angrily. ‘I just can’t walk that fast.’
‘I s’pose she’s going to help you?’ Alun said. He was still walking backwards and looking at someone behind Gwyn.
‘Who?’
‘Her!’ Alun nodded in the direction of the main road and then turned and ran up the lane.
Gwyn glanced over his shoulder to see what Alun had meant. Eirlys was walking up towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ Gwyn shouted. ‘You don’t get off here?’
The girl just smiled and kept coming.
‘You’ll be in trouble! How’re you going to get home?’
‘I’ll walk,’ said Eirlys.
‘Oh heck!’ cried Gwyn.
‘Don’t worry!’ The girl continued her approach and Gwyn waited, unable to turn his back on her.
‘It’ll be all right,’ the girl said when she was beside him. ‘I’ll just come home with you. You might need someone, all those bruises.’ She tapped his arm and began to precede him up the hill.
When they turned a bend and Nain’s cottage suddenly came into view, Eirlys stopped and stared at the building.
‘My grandmother lives there,’ Gwyn said.
‘Does she?’ Eirlys spoke the words not as a question, but as a response that was expected of her.
She passed the cottage slowly, trailing her fingers along the top of the stone wall, so that sprays of snow flew out on to her sleeve, but she never took her eyes off the light in Nain’s downstairs window.
Gwyn was tempted to take the girl in to see his grandmother, but it was getting dark and they still had to pass the furrows of snow that had drifted into the narrow track further on. He wondered how on earth Eirlys was going to get home. ‘What will Mrs . . . Whatsername say, when you’re not on the bus?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Herbert? She’s kind. She’ll understand,’ Eirlys replied.
They held hands when they reached the snowdrifts, Gwyn leading the girl to higher ground at the edge of the track, and once again he gasped at the icy touch of her fingers, and when Eirlys laughed the sound was familiar to him.
She was reluctant to come into the farmhouse, and when Gwyn insisted, she approached it cautiously with a puzzled frown on her face, and every now and then she would look away from the house and up to where the mountain should have been, but where, now, only a moving white mist could be seen.
‘Come on,’ said Gwyn. ‘Mam’ll give you a cup of tea.’
He opened the front door and called into the kitchen, ‘I’m back, Mam. Sorry I’m late; had a bit of trouble with the snow.’
‘I thought you would,’ came the reply.
His mother was stirring something on the stove when he went into the kitchen. She turned to speak to him but instead cried out, ‘Your face! What’s happened?’
‘I had a bit of a fight, it’s not anything, really!’ Gwyn said.
His father got up from the chair by the kitchen table, where he had been mending some electrical equipment; he was about to be angry, but then he saw Eirlys standing in the doorway. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
‘Eirlys!’ said Gwyn. ‘She helped me. She walked up from the bus with me, to see I was all right.’
‘That was kind of you, Eirlys,’ said Mrs Griffiths. ‘Take your coat off and have a bit of a warm. I’ll make a pot of tea.’
She began to help Gwyn with his anorak, exclaiming all the time at the state of his muddy clothes and the bruises on his face.
Eirlys came into the room and took off her hat and coat. She drew a chair up to the table and sat down opposite Mr Griffiths. He just stood there, staring at her, while his big hands groped for the tiny brass screws that had escaped him and now spun out across the table.
The girl caught one of the screws and stretched across to put it safe into his hand. Gwyn heard the sharp intake of breath as his father felt the girl’s icy fingers, and he laughed. ‘She’s cold-blooded, isn’t she, Dad?’ he said.
Mr Griffiths did not reply. He sat down and began his work again. Mrs Griffiths poured the tea and brought a fruit cake out of the larder. They discussed the snow and the school and the fight. Mrs Griffiths asked how and why the fight had begun and, although Gwyn could not give a satisfactory explanation, Mr Griffiths did not say a word, he did not even seem to be listening to them, but every now and then he would look up and stare at Eirlys.
When it was dark Mrs Griffiths expressed concern for the girl. ‘You’d better ring your mam, she’ll be worrying,’ she said.
‘She hasn’t got a mam,’ Gwyn answered for the girl. ‘She’s living with the Herberts.’
‘Oh, you poor love,’ Mrs Griffiths shook her head sympathetically.
‘They’re lovely,’ said Eirlys brightly, ‘so kind. They won’t mind. They’ll fetch me;
they said they always would if I wanted, and it’s not far.’
‘No need for that.’ Mr Griffiths suddenly stood up. ‘I’ll take you in the Land Rover.’
Gwyn was amazed. His father never usually offered lifts. ‘You’re honoured,’ he whispered to Eirlys as Mr Griffiths strode out of the back door.
By the time Eirlys had gathered up her hat and coat and her school bag, the deep throbbing of the Land Rover’s engine could be heard out in the lane.
‘Good-bye,’ said Eirlys. She walked up to Mrs Griffiths and kissed her. Mrs Griffiths was startled; she looked as though she had seen a ghost.
She remained in the kitchen while Gwyn and the girl walked down to the gate. The door of the Land Rover was open and Mr Griffiths was standing beside it. ‘You’ll have to get in this side and climb over,’ he told Eirlys, ‘the snow’s deep the other side.’
Gwyn had never known his father to be so considerate to a child.
Eirlys stepped out into the lane but before she could climb into the Land Rover, Mr Griffiths’ arms were round her, helping her up. For a second the two shadowy figures became one and, for some reason, Gwyn felt that he did not belong to the scene. He looked away to where the frozen hedgerows glittered in the glare of the headlights.
Inside the house the telephone began to ring. Then the Land Rover’s wheels spun into movement and Gwyn had to back away from the sprays of wet snow. It was too late to shout good-bye.
He turned to go back into the house and saw his mother standing in the porch. ‘Mrs Davis, T Coch, was on the phone,’ she said gravely. ‘She wants to talk to us tomorrow. It’s about Dewi’s nose!’
‘We’ve left Dewi with his auntie,’ said Mrs Davis.
Dewi had many aunties. Gwyn wondered which one had the pleasure of his company, and if Dewi was to be envied or pitied.
The Davises had come to ‘thrash out the problem of the nose’, as Mr Davis put it.
It was six o’clock. The tea had only just been cleared away and Gwyn’s stomach was already grumbling. They were sitting round the kitchen table: Mr and Mrs Davis, Gwyn and his parents – as though they were about to embark on an evening of cards or some other light-hearted entertainment, not something as serious as Dewi’s nose.
‘The problem, as I see it,’ began Mrs Davis, ‘is, who’s lying?’
‘Gary Pritchard, Merfyn Jones and Brian Roberts, all say that they think they saw Gwyn throw a stone,’ said Mr Davis solemnly. ‘Now, this is a very serious business.’
‘Very dangerous too,’ added Mrs Davis.
‘That goes without saying, Gladys,’ Mr Davis coughed. ‘Now, the situation is,’ he paused dramatically, ‘what’s to be done about it?’
‘How . . . er, how bad is the nose?’ Mrs Griffiths asked.
‘Very bad,’ replied Mrs Davis indignantly. ‘How bad d’you think your nose would be if it had been hit by a rock?’
‘Now wait a minute!’ Mr Griffiths entered the conversation with a roar. ‘First it’s a stone, now it’s a rock, and we haven’t yet established whether anything was thrown. Perhaps Dewi bumped his nose, we haven’t heard his explanation.’
‘That’s the problem.’ Mr Davis banged his fist on the table. ‘Dewi says he did bump his nose, but the other boys say Gwyn hit him with a stone.’
‘Dewi’s frightened of him, see!’ Mrs Davis pointed an accusing finger at Gwyn. ‘He’s afraid your boy’ll do something worse to him if he tells.’
‘Bloody nonsense!’ Mr Griffiths stood up, his chair scraping on the tiled floor. ‘Let’s hear your side of it, Gwyn?’
Gwyn looked up. He was unused to having his father defend him. He felt that he could take on any number of Davises now. ‘I didn’t throw a stone,’ he said.
‘There!’ Mr and Mrs Davis spoke simultaneously.
Mr Griffiths sat down and the two sets of parents eyed each other wordlessly.
‘He’s lying of course,’ Mr Davis said, at last.
‘He ought to be punished,’ added his wife. ‘The headmistress should be told.’
‘It’s a pity they don’t thrash kids these days,’ growled Mr Davis.
This time it was Mr Griffiths who banged the table. Gwyn got up and began to pace about the room while the adults all talked at once. He had a tremendous desire to do something dramatic and the knowledge that he probably could, made the temptation almost unbearable. What should he do though? Box Mr Davis’s ears from a distance of three metres? Pull Mrs Davis’s hair? The possibilities were endless. And then he remembered Nain’s warning. He must not abuse his power. It must be used only when there was something that he truly needed to do.
‘It’s not as if your son is normal,’ he heard Mrs Davis say. ‘Everyone’s been talking about his being peculiar, if you know what I mean. Ask any of the children.’
For the first time his parents seemed unable to reply. Mrs Griffiths looked so miserable that Gwyn could hardly bear it. She had known for days that something was wrong, and now she was going to hear about his stories.
‘It seems,’ went on Mrs Davis, ‘that Gwyn has been saying some very peculiar things, if you know what I mean. And why? If you ask me your son’s not normal.’
Gwyn had to stop her. Contemplating the generous curves that overflowed the narrow kitchen chair supporting Mrs Davis, his eyes alighted upon a large expanse of flesh, just above the knee, that her too-tight skirt could not cover. He flexed his fingers, then pressed his thumb and forefinger together, tight, tight, tight!
Mrs Davis screamed. She glared at Mr Griffiths and then asked haughtily, ‘Have you got a dog?’
The two men frowned at her, for the distraction, and then frowned at each other, while Mrs Griffiths said, ‘Yes, he’s in the barn!’
‘A cat?’ Mrs Davis inquired hopefully.
‘A black tom,’ Mrs Griffiths nodded towards a dark form sitting on the sill, outside the kitchen window. ‘We call him Long John,’ she went on, ‘because he lost a leg on the road when he was just a kitten; it’s wonderful what vets can do these days.’
Mrs Davis glanced at Long John then quickly looked away, her cyclamen-pink lips contorted with distaste. ‘I think we’ll go,’ she said, and stood up.
Her husband looked at her but did not move.
‘Get up, Bryn!’ Mrs Davis commanded. ‘I want to go!’
Mr Davis followed his wife out of the kitchen with a bemused expression on his face. He could not understand why the interview had ended so abruptly, and wondered if the situation had been resolved without his being aware of it.
The Griffithses were as perplexed as he. They silently followed their unwelcome guests to the front door, and there the whole unpleasant business might have ended, had not Mrs Davis been heard to mutter darkly, ‘Someone pinched my thigh!’
Mrs Griffiths gasped, her husband roared, ‘What?’ But Mr Davis, having opened the front door, thrust his wife through it, before she could cause the affair to deteriorate further. He then leapt quickly after her and the wind parted the two families by slamming the door.
Mr and Mrs Griffiths retreated into the kitchen and slumped battle-weary beside the table. And then the humour of the situation overcame them and they began to laugh with relief.
‘Thanks for sticking up for me, Dad,’ said Gwyn, when his parents had recovered. He felt awkward and not at all sure that he had done the right thing in the end.
‘If you say you’re innocent, that’s all I need to know,’ said Mr Griffiths gruffly.
Gwyn looked hard at his father; he could not understand his change of attitude. A week ago he would neither have been believed nor defended. In all probability he would have been sentenced to a weekend in his room and a meal of bread and water. ‘I’d better get on with my homework,’ he said shyly.
He was about to leave the room when his father suddenly said, ‘Is that girl coming again, then?’
‘What girl?’ Gwyn asked.
‘You know what girl. The one that was here yesterday. I can always run her home
if,’ his father hesitated and then added diffidently, ‘if she wants to come.’
‘I don’t suppose she will,’ said Gwyn. ‘She’s a girl. She only came because I was hurt.’
‘Oh, that was it?’
Gwyn thought he could detect something almost like regret in his father’s voice. What had come over Mr Griffiths? It was quite disturbing. It had nothing to do with him, Gwyn was sure of that. He knew, instinctively, that he could not, should not, use his power to influence thought. The pinch had been satisfactory though.
He remembered that his father’s mood had changed when Eirlys appeared. If that was the case, then she must come again, if only to keep his father happy. And so, although it was against his principles to have girls at T Bryn, the following day he asked Eirlys if she could come to the farm on Saturday.
‘Of course,’ Eirlys replied, and her eyes shone with pleasure.
‘Mam and Dad want it,’ said Gwyn, by way of explanation, ‘and . . . and so do I, of course!’
The weather changed. December brought sun instead of snow. The wind was warm and smelled of damp leaves and over-ripe apples.
Gwyn took Eirlys on his mountain and she saw it in sunshine where before she had only glimpsed it at dusk, through a mist of snow. She saw the colours that he loved, the buzzards hunting low over the fields, and rosy clouds drifting above the plateau. He had not realised that he would enjoy the company of a girl. But then Eirlys was not like other girls.
They leapt, and sometimes slipped, upon wet stones in the tumbling streams; they ran, arms-outstretched, along the drystone walls, scattering the sheep that dozed there, and they chased crows that hopped, like black thieves, behind the leafless trees. And somehow Gwyn’s father always seemed to be there, watching them from a distance, or walking nearby with his dog and his blackthorn stick, listening to their voices. And after tea he began to whistle in his workshop, and Gwyn realised he did not recognise the sound. Even his mother looked up, astonished, from her ironing.
