The Snow Spider Trilogy

by Jenny Nimmo

  ‘But I did find a buyer, Dad! I did! I did!’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘Emlyn Llewelyn!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Nia! Fly’s a sheepdog, a good one, too; she needs sheep and a farm.’

  ‘But I promised! I promised!’ Nia sobbed. ‘I can’t break my promise, he’ll never forgive me.’

  Through her tears she saw her father pass Fly’s lead to Mr Griffiths; the door opened; the man and the dog stepped out.

  Gwyn Griffiths, following his father, looked back, concerned by Nia’s outburst. ‘You can come and see her,’ he said kindly.

  ‘It’s not me that wants to, is it?’ Nia snapped.

  It wasn’t the black door that closed then, it was the bright blue door, with golden flowers on it. How could she go back now? They wouldn’t want her without the beads and the violet dress. They wouldn’t want her without Fly.

  ‘Everything’s gone,’ she wailed at the door, though her words were meant for her family. ‘I’ve got nothing left! Nothing, nothing, nothing!’

  ‘Course you have, my love,’ said her mother from the stairs. ‘You’ve got us, and you’ve got a nice new home!’

  Mam didn’t understand!

  ‘It won’t do, will it, Nia Lloyd?’

  Mr James slammed Nia’s exercise book on to her desk. ‘Do you call that writing? My eyes ache with the searching, searching for a word I can read!’

  Nia regarded her messy indecipherable letters. It was the best she could do.

  ‘You’d better buck up, girl, or it’s back to the nursery class for you, isn’t it?’ Mr James turned away to silence, with a stare, the sniggering that had broken out behind him. He had taken an aspirin to soothe his toothache but any relief he might have expected had been destroyed by the sight of Nia Lloyd’s attempt at writing. It was worse than her reading. Was there nothing she could do? Perhaps his long-cherished project would stir some latent talent in the poor girl.

  Mr James, his shoulders significantly braced, his chest puffed out with promise, strolled back to the front of the classroom, where he swung round on his heel and, smiling through swollen gums, delivered his long-awaited announcement.

  ‘And now for the project!’ Mr James exhaled with optimism. ‘I want all of you, all of you,’ he fixed Nia with a cold blue eye, ‘to do for me, a piece of work on our glorious little patch of Wales; our town and environment. Write a story!’ He flourished with his left hand. ‘Draw a picture, make a painting, compose a song!’ Here, several flourishes with his right hand sent papers flying from his desk. Undeterred and in full steam now, Mr James pounded to his climax, ‘And at the end of term, we’ll have an exhibition, a bit of a show, in the library, for everyone to see.’

  If she had dared, Nia would have rested her head on her desk in despair. She could already feel the humiliation that was bound to come when her inevitably messy work was exposed to the world. Mr James was watching her while he rattled on about mountains and monuments, about the Celtic magicians, Gwydion, Math and Gilfaethwy and the heroes of Wales. Nia could not attend to his words. She could neither paint nor draw, her writing was a mess, and she had absolutely no musical talent. Why could he not leave her in peace?

  The bell went and she left the classroom with Gwyneth Bowen.

  ‘What are you going to do, Nia?’ Gwyneth was full of the project. There were not many things that Gwyneth could not do. She was Nia’s friend, and also her tormentor.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Nia mumbled.

  ‘It’s a pity you can’t draw,’ Gwyneth said, as they strolled on to the playground. ‘It’s easier than writing. I’m going to write a story and illustrate it.’

  ‘I expect it will be the best,’ Nia said humbly. ‘Your work usually is.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gwyneth agreed, ‘but this time it’s going to be fantastic, even for me.’

  ‘Well done,’ Nia said prematurely. She had noticed a boy detach himself from a group and look in her direction. Emlyn Llewelyn was coming towards them. She had an overwhelming desire to flee from the conversation that would end either with her lying, or with Emlyn turning his back on her forever. She wanted, so much, to talk to him, and she wanted, above all, to go back to the chapel.

  ‘Hullo, Nia!’ Emlyn’s voice was casual but his eyes were anxious. ‘Did you talk to your dad?’

  ‘Yes!’ That, at least, was true!

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He . . . he isn’t sure.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Gwyneth disapproved of Emlyn; she didn’t know why, unless it was because her mother did, and he didn’t go on school trips or wear the special school T-shirt.

  ‘A dog,’ Nia explained. ‘Emlyn’s going to buy our sheepdog.’

  ‘You can’t keep a sheepdog,’ said Gwyneth scornfully. ‘You haven’t got sheep.’

  ‘We’ve a field,’ Emlyn said quietly.

  ‘Huh!’ Gwyneth sauntered away to join more congenial friends.

  ‘Will you come and see us after school?’ Emlyn asked. ‘Dad wants to finish your portrait, and can you bring Fly?’

  ‘Mam’s taken the clothes. She doesn’t want me to wear them again.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just bring the dog!’ Emlyn ran off and was lost in the crowded playground before Nia could reply.

  She spent the rest of her break alone. She sauntered round the playground perimeter, pausing to gaze at games that did not interest her. Her mind was racing. How could she get away to the chapel again? Would Emlyn discover her lie too soon? Would Gwyn Griffiths tell? No, he never spoke to Emlyn. And why was that? Why?

  Nia was quite incapable of concentrating on the afternoon activities. Fortunately she was blessed with an hour of singing practice, when she could move her mouth in appropriate directions without making a sound, something that did not require a great deal of effort on her part for she was, by now, quite practised at it.

  At home her abstraction went unnoticed. There was still so much to be done. So many pieces to fit into new places. The ancient dark furniture, which had seemed so much a part of T Llr, looked awkward and overpowering here. Cupboards obscured windows, tables protruded through doorways, jam-jars mounted the stairs like sentinels – no walk-in larder here – no room for pickled damsons and plum jam at number six.

  The old dresser seemed to occupy more than half the kitchen. It regarded the family with sadness and disapproval as they sat, squashed in their chairs, beneath its dark brooding presence. But none of them would have been prepared to do without it, for hadn’t it been made by Mam’s great-great-grandfather Llr, 150 years ago?

  When Nia had helped with the washing-up she informed her mother she was ‘going to see Gwyneth for a bit’.

  ‘Which Gwyneth?’ Mrs Lloyd inquired.

  ‘Her mam’s Mrs Bowen that sells the wool and buttons and stuff like that,’ Nia said happily, for this part was all true. ‘She said I could go and visit any time. Gwyneth doesn’t get on too well with her brother, see, and it’ll be nice for her to have company like me!’

  ‘You’re not going to the chapel, are you?’ Suddenly doubtful, Mrs Lloyd looked at her daughter.

  ‘Why would I? Fly’s gone.’

  ‘Go and fetch your anorak then, the evenings are still cool. And don’t be long.’

  Nia dashed up to her room, grabbed her anorak from its hook, and ran back to the landing. Here, however, she did not descend the stairs, but slipped off her shoes and tiptoed up to the third floor. The door that stood open before her revealed a room bursting with boxes; the new nursery, waiting to be decorated. Nia opened the second door and peeped into her parents’ room. It was filled with their enormous bed. How the bed had reached its lofty, inaccessible position she could not imagine, but there it was, huge and magnificent, with its patterned posts and patchwork cover, taking up all but a few centimetres between the wardrobe and the wall. If she stood on the bed she would be able to reach the tiny scrap of violet that her mother had failed to conceal behind a row of jars on top of
the wardrobe.

  Nia withdrew her head and listened to the house: Catrin practising scales in the front room; the boys making explosive noises in the throes of a war game; her parents watching television in the kitchen. Nerys had gone to the library, open late on Mondays. There was no one to spy on Nia.

  She leapt upon the big bed and stretched upwards. A jar wobbled dangerously and then was still. Nia extended two fingers between the jars; she could feel a piece of material. She gave a little tug; the jars rattled. She tugged again, very gently, and the violet dress slithered past the jars and dropped on to her head.

  Nia jumped off the bed and thrust the dress inside her anorak which she zipped up to her neck. Then she half-ran, half-slithered down the steep and shiny wooden staircase. Pausing on the landing to step into her shoes, she confidently tip-tapped down the second flight of stairs.

  She was about to open the front door when her father came out of the kitchen. ‘You still here, girl?’ he asked, glancing out of the kitchen at her bulging anorak.

  ‘Couldn’t find my anorak.’ Nia answered.

  ‘Don’t go into Llewelyn’s chapel, girl,’ Mr Lloyd said earnestly. ‘No good will come of it.’

  ‘But why, Dad? What’s the matter with it?’ Nia had to ask.

  ‘Something happened there, didn’t it?’

  Before Nia could question him further, Mr Lloyd had escaped into his shop.

  She opened the front door and stepped out into the quiet street. Bowen’s Wool Shop was only three doors away, next to the house where tiny Miss Olwen Oliver turned truants into choirboys, and skinny girls into stars of the opera. Nia decided she would visit Gwyneth, just for a moment, so that if she was questioned later, she could truthfully answer that she had seen her friend.

  Gwyneth was not at home and there was no answer to Nia’s insistent knocking. She would have to risk a lie.

  There was a light in the chapel, but Nia’s first timid knock went unheard and, reluctant to intrude, she climbed on to the lowest rung of the pink and gold railings and peeped into the window. Emlyn was kneeling on the floor beside an oil-lamp; he was absorbed in one of his animals, in an attitude of such repose he might have been a statue himself. The only movement came from a small knife in his hand, that flashed now and then, in the lamplight. Mr Llewelyn was nowhere to be seen.

  Nia stepped down from the railings, climbed the steps that led to the blue door, and knocked again. The door was opened, a few seconds later, by Emlyn. He seemed pleased to see her. ‘What did your dad say about the dog?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s thinking about it.’

  ‘Good.’ Emlyn held the door wider to let her pass.

  Nia looked uncertainly at the figure, hunched by a window before his easel.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Emlyn drew her in and closed the door. ‘He’s in a bad mood. Work’s not going well.’ He spoke as though his father were not aware of them.

  Nia decided to adopt Emlyn’s attitude. ‘What’s he painting?’

  ‘I don’t know – patterns. Someone commissioned it, someone from London. So we’ll have a feast when it’s finished. They’re paying a thousand pounds. I’ll get new trainers.’

  Nia regarded the worn straps of leather stretched across Emlyn’s bare toes. She had thought that he wore sandals from choice. ‘Will you have roast beef for your feast?’ she asked. ‘There’s beef hanging in our place, and pigs, all slit open with the blood dripping out.’

  A look of horror passed over Emlyn’s face. Nia realised how grim her words must have sounded. She hadn’t meant to shock; she just wanted to voice her disapproval of Mr Lloyd’s new trade.

  ‘We don’t eat meat!’ Emlyn said.

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ Nia said quickly. ‘It smells, doesn’t it?’ she added for good measure. ‘But I have to eat it, Dad being a butcher an’ that.’

  Emlyn looked relieved. Nia could not be held responsible for the food that was forced upon her.

  ‘Pwy sydd yna?’ The Welsh words came low and weary through the darkening chapel. Nia had almost forgotten Mr Llewelyn.

  ‘It’s Nia!’ Emlyn said. ‘The girl with the dog.’ He crouched back on to the floor and picked up his knife.

  ‘Ble mae’r ci? Where is the dog?’

  ‘I – I couldn’t bring her today,’ Nia grasped for words that would not utterly condemn her when her treachery was discovered.

  ‘And where are the pink shoes that you promised with stardust on them?’ Mr Llewelyn’s dark features were not fierce. He seemed more like a tired but kindly beast, ambling towards her through his jungle of exotic animals.

  ‘Mam hid them,’ Nia said, ‘and the hat and the beads. I’ve brought the dress though.’ She unzipped her anorak and proudly displayed her loot.

  ‘It’s too dark now,’ Emlyn’s father sighed and looked over her head. ‘What a sky. Like slate it is.’

  They don’t want me, Nia thought; don’t need me without the dog. The dress is not enough.

  ‘Have some soup! It’s ready!’ Emlyn, absorbed in his carving, seemed to make the invitation as a matter of course, rather than a genuine desire for her company.

  Undeterred by his indifference, Nia said, ‘Yes, please!’ and just in case she seemed too eager, ‘I didn’t have much tea; it was ham, see!’

  Mr Llewelyn went to the stove and poured three bowls of soup. It was hot and thick, and rather too green for Nia’s liking, but she decided she could get used to it.

  They sat cross-legged on the floor to drink their soup, even Mr Llewelyn, and it didn’t matter that no one spoke. They didn’t grasp for words, search for a subject with which to entertain each other; and Nia felt so comfortable in the silence, she began to wonder at her contentment, and in wondering broke the spell and remembered the project. She began to cough and couldn’t stop until Mr Llewelyn patted her on the back. Even then she still gulped for air, red in the face and breathless.

  ‘Hold on, girl. I’ll get you some water!’ Emlyn’s father went to the sink.

  ‘It isn’t just the soup, is it?’ Emlyn looked hard at her. ‘Something came into your mind to spoil the taste. It does that with me, sometimes. What was the thing that made you cough?’

  Nia sipped the water that was handed to her, and while Mr Llewelyn knelt to give them slivers of coarse brown bread, she said, ‘It’s the project, Mr James’s project!’ And, with a sigh, she unburdened herself and told her hosts of all her problems with Mr James and his desire to exhibit the classroom’s work on their environment.

  ‘He’s a real pain, that Mr James,’ Emlyn remarked sympathetically. ‘He’s always on about exhibitions; can’t leave you alone. I’m glad I’m in Miss Powell’s class now.’

  ‘I’m hopeless,’ said Nia wistfully. ‘They’ll all laugh whatever I do. Nia-can’t-do-nothing, that’s what my brothers call me.’

  Mr Llewelyn threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ Nia said, offended.

  ‘It is, you know.’ Mr Llewelyn was still chuckling, but seeing the children’s reproachful glances added, ‘Not you, though, Nia. It doesn’t make sense, you see, Nia-can’t-do-nothing. If Nia can’t do nothing, then Nia can do something, see!’

  Nia thought she saw, but knowing that her brothers used bad grammar didn’t solve her problem.

  And then Emlyn repeated, ‘Nia-can-do-something; everyone can do something!’

  ‘Not me!’ Nia said gloomily.

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. You grow flowers, you said. You can see colours, feel them. I know you can.’

  ‘What d’you do at home, girl?’ asked Mr Llewelyn, inspired by his son’s enthusiasm. ‘Can you knit, make things? What d’you do to help your mam?’

  ‘I darn the socks,’ Nia said doubtfully. ‘I’m quite good at that, actually!’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Mr Llewelyn. ‘Sew a picture, make fields and mountains from cloth and cotton.’

  ‘Something silver for the river, tinsel maybe, an
d wool for the clouds,’ Emlyn went on eagerly.

  ‘And flowers,’ said Nia. ‘Mam’s got dusters, bright yellow, and old sheets cut up for rags, but still white as anything. Perhaps I can do it.’

  ‘Of course you can, girl. You’ve got imagination.’ Mr Llewelyn leapt to his feet, and gathered up their empty soup bowls. ‘I’ll find you a piece of canvas, big enough for a masterpiece, and you can sew your shapes to it.’

  He dropped the bowls into the sink and began to search among the empty frames and unfinished paintings that leant against the wall, six or seven deep. Suddenly, in the shifting and searching, one of Emlyn’s paintings appeared. Nia found herself looking at a woman hanging in the moon; not hanging, perhaps, but stretching up against the lower half of a crescent, as one might do when clinging to a fairground creature on a roundabout. Her hair was black and her long pale dress floated out and round the moon like a cloud. Nia knew who it was, but all the same she asked, ‘Who is that?’

  And Emlyn answered, as she knew he would, ‘It’s my mam!’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘Yes, I did; after she went, two years ago.’

  Nia wanted to ask about the moon and why the woman was hanging there, but the painting vanished under another and Mr Llewelyn stepped towards them with a long roll of something. He held one end and unfurled two metres of dusty canvas, filling the air with tiny lamplit particles that glowed and drifted round their heads.

  ‘Here it is then; the background for your picture, Nia.’ Mr Llewelyn laid the canvas beside her and stepped away.

  ‘But it’s so big!’ Nia exclaimed.

  ‘A masterpiece must be large,’ he replied. ‘I have a feeling about this canvas,’ Emlyn’s father went on. ‘I think you will find yourself here. But keep it out of sight until it is complete. It must be yours, all yours. If you need help, ask us; no one else. And one day, we will see here the true and special Nia!’

  ‘Thank you!’ Nia stood up and stared uncertainly at the huge rectangle at her feet.