Lettuces and Cream (4 page)

They both had a thing about swearing, especially the naughty four letter ones. It wasn’t because they were snobs, they just weren’t used to it. They simply didn’t like it and didn’t want the kids going around cursing this and that.

‘Anyway they said they had just popped in to say hello, so I haven’t done a thing. By the time they left, it was time to feed you lot,’ Jan said cheerfully, banging saucepans about, most of which were still packed in a cardboard box, trying to find the right size for the task in hand.

Mike watched her. He enjoyed seeing her in these energetic happy moods. But it never really seemed right for her. It appeared to him that she wasn’t all together comfortable in this busy role and some how she was acting the part, making an effort, and going against her phlegmatic, steady nature. Of course it could be a case of Mike over analysing the situation. Jan had often told him that he thought too much about things that can’t be analysed. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t had enough to do in town and got bored. Here, she would be very busy indeed. In any event, maybe this was going to be one of the changes their new life would bring. Perhaps she would change in other more intimate ways as well.

‘I’m starving mum,’ David moaned

‘And me mum,’ Mandy added in similar tone.

‘And me mum,’ Mike joked.

‘Baked beans on toast, okay?’

‘Oh, great,’ the kids said in hungry unity.

Monday morning and another dry sunny late summer day, and a couple of miles away from the newcomers place, the daily routine had begun. Chris and Keith had moved into the area from the north of England some eight years previously and now raised beef cattle on their 250-acre farm, named Penlan. Keith came from a farming family, Chris from the city, and when they were married he had wanted his own farm and had found land prices in Wales cheap. So had moved to their present place some four miles from Mike and Jan. In the converted old stone barn, now used to house cattle, Keith sat on a traditional three-legged stool hand milking their ‘house cow,’ as she happily chomped on her food. They had other cattle, but this beast was a bit of a pet and kept to provide the family with milk.

‘Those new people moved into the Davis’s old place last Saturday,’ Keith said, his voice somewhat muffled because his head was up against the cows’ flank as he continued the steady milking rhythm.

‘I know, the postman told me this morning. I suppose we should call over and say hello. Be nice to have some more English people to talk to,’ Chris replied cheerfully, busy with her task of throwing straw onto the floors of the other cattle pens.

‘Are you sure they’re English with a name like Jones?’ Keith asked, his Geordie accent making Jones sound more like Junes.

‘Yeah, think so, it said in the local paper last week they were from South Wales but it was written in English so they must be.’

‘Oh aye, but I still think it’s bloody funny, you know, the way its written in English if you’re English, or in Welsh if you’re Welsh.’

‘Well, yeah I know what you mean, but if it was in Welsh they wouldn’t know they were being written about would they. And we couldn’t read it either,’ Chris said with a little laugh.

‘ Aye, Okay we’ll go over some time.’

‘Oh yeah, did you hear Cindy barking last night? Something was outside again, about midnight’

‘A fox, I expect.’

‘It’s funny how the fox is usually here when you’re away.’

‘Just a coincidence I expect.’

‘Does seem a bit odd, though. Perhaps we should stay up and watch out for what ever it is that upsets Cindy,’ Chris suggested.

‘Rather you than me -I like my sleep,’ Keith replied.

‘Typical, though if I remember, you didn’t worry about getting to sleep last night,’ retorted Chris, and stomped off with half-hearted annoyance.

Keith watched her-and her neat, bouncy rump, as she headed back to the house, and he grinned at the salacious memory of his exertions of the previous night.

Shopping in the tiny Market town of Porth was proving an interesting experience for Mike, Jan and the kids. It was so very different from the familiar city of Aberdod, to which they used to travel the eight miles to do their major shopping. It wasn’t that they missed the variety of large shops or the grand Victorian civic centre, they didn’t. In fact they were enjoying the quiet relaxed old-fashioned atmosphere of the place. Here, there was no Marks and Spencer, Woolworth or the like. Come to that there were very few people, well not on this Monday morning anyway. But they supposed on market days it would be a different story with the busy cattle mart on the outskirts of the tiny town, and various stalls cramming the narrow main street.

Most of the shops were local one-man affairs, and the tiny post office, the butcher and general grocery shop, seemed from another age altogether. The problem was that they just didn’t know where to look for what they wanted. But soon their meanderings lead them past a railway station shut by Mr Beeching, and there, amongst the disused sidings, stood a Farmers co-op store. Well, really a middle sized wooden shed with a roof of corrugated iron, and they cautiously ventured inside. And caution was indeed needed because as they stepped through the battered doorway the first surprise was the wooden floor of the place. It had seen much better days and customers and staff had to step over holes and areas patched, either with flattened pieces of old biscuit tins, or ill-fitting bits of wood, and the rest of the old planking wheezed and groaned with old age.

The counters themselves were old-fashioned slabs of wood, polished smooth and glossy with years of use. Goods were stacked everywhere and even hung from hooks hanging from the rafters. There, they espied the much-needed Wellington boots nestling between shiny new stainless steel milking pails, and lethal looking billhooks, all dangling dangerously at head height. This hazard, together with the patched floor meant that everyone moved at a careful pace having to watch feet and head at the same time, and perhaps accounted for the seemingly steady nature of the locals which they had had mistaken for bucolic indifference. More tools, spades, pitchforks, picks and axes were heaped haphazardly along the walls, and on shelves behind the counters, various animal drenches and unguents seeped a pungent unfamiliar odour into the building. David and Mandy gazed with bewilderment at the unfamiliar miscellany and were unusually speechless.

Whilst they waited to be served, Mike and Jan took in the local ambiance and it’s endless Welsh chatter and felt somewhat out of place. Particularly when friendly chat was directed at them, at which they stared back, apologetically, ashamed at their very limited knowledge of the language. David translated for them what he could, but even he couldn’t follow all of the conversation for all of the time. Eventually, they made their essential purchases of the Wellingtons, a small axe that Mike needed to chop sticks for the fire, and, of course a new chemical toilet - sophistication would be theirs…

By the time they reached home it was lunchtime and Janice busied herself feeding the starving hordes. Mike headed for the ‘lavatory room’ and set up the new toilet. The chemicals ponged a bit, and reminded Mike of the factory where he had worked, but they all agreed it was better than the dark and spidery horror of the shed in the yard. All in all a very successful morning.

‘What you going to do this afternoon Mike?’ Jan asked, as she began clearing up the lunchtime table.

‘I suppose I’d better get on with the marking out in the tunnel field, this dry weather won’t last for ever,’ Mike gulped down the last dregs of his coffee. ‘Are you still off the fags, Jan?’ Mike said as he stubbed out his own cigarette.

‘Yep, none today, not one.’

‘Who’s a brave girl then,’ Mike mocked, Jan ignored him, feeling rather superior about her nicotine abstinence.

‘I think I’ll have a go at getting rid of that old toilet shed this afternoon.’

‘That’s a big job Jan, get the kids to help knocking the thing down. But be careful, those old sheets of corrugated iron are sharp and heavy.’

‘I’ll just do what I can love, don’t worry I’ll take care. I just want to see the dammed thing out of the way, and you’ve got so much else to do it will help a bit.’

‘Mum, Dad, there’s a van coming down the track,’ David stormed into the kitchen shouting breathlessly, obviously excited at the prospect of callers.

‘Oh no, not more visitors,’ Jan groaned.

‘Not much peace out here is there? We had far less callers than this when we were in town,’ Mike said somewhat dolefully, ‘I suppose we’d better go out and see who it is.’

Outside in the yard Mike and Jan stood waiting rather uncomfortably, not knowing who or what to expect. The kids dashed about showing off as kids’ do, while at the same time keeping a watch out for the strangers. They didn’t have long to wait. An old, battered, red ex G.P.O van skittered into the yard, scattering the squawking ragged old hens, in all directions. Out of the small van a man and a woman emerged, smiling broadly, the man approached, one hand held out in greeting, in the other a bottle of wine.

‘Hello, I’m Keith, Keith Bowen and this is Chris, my wife. Welcome to Llanbeth’ Mike and Jan quickly relaxed at the visitors’ cheerful and friendly manner.

‘Thanks, pleased to meet you too, it’s very nice of you to bother to call. How did you know we just moved in?’ Mike was intrigued as how news travelled so fast.

‘Well that’s another story,’ Keith said with an air of mystery, ‘we know all about you, but I cannot tell a lie, it’s not magic, it was in the local newspaper.’

‘The local paper, really?’

‘Aye I know, God knows where they get it from, they must have spies in every village. I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Anyway, Keith, I’m Mike, Mike Jones and this is Janice.’

‘Everyone calls me Jan,’ Jan said shaking hands with Chris.

‘I know what you mean, Jan, hardly anyone nobody calls me Christine either,’ she spoke with a soft gentle voice, which belied her business like nature.

‘Well the place is a mess but come in anyway,’ Jan said leading the way.

‘This is home-made Damson wine- it’s good stuff, make your hair curl,’ Keith said, laughing, as they all followed Jan indoors.

In the kitchen glasses were filled, and Mike and Jan began to take in their visitors. What they found the most fascinating were the rich Geordie accents. Jan and Mike had lead quite sheltered lives and had travelled hardly at all, so these foreign voices intrigued them greatly. Keith, with his mop of curly black hair was a tall, strong and muscular chap, and with a pleasing weather tanned face - Mike was a string bean in comparison.

Mike found Chris very attractive. A little taller, and smaller breasted than Jan and with short blonde hair, which Mike thought a little too blonde for it to be real-and he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. She had a cheeky sexy glint in her brown eyes, and whether it was intentional or not, kept glancing at Mike with what he thought was a bit of a come on. Jan surprised herself by finding Keith equally attractive, and found the movements of his large strong hands, sensual and very appealing. Jan had a thing about men’s hands; they had to be ‘nice’.

‘So what are you going to be doing here Mike? We’re beef farming, and just started with some pigs.’

‘Is that with that bloke from the village?’

‘So you’ve met the mad pig man, Josh, already, bloody hell, man, he didn’t waste much time did he?’

‘Yeah, he was here first thing Sunday morning, and he is a bit odd.’

‘I should say,’ Chris interrupted, ‘did you know that years ago his parents owned our farm and the old man, his father, hung himself in the barn. I think it was Josh that found him, he was only a kid; no wonder the poor bugger is a bit odd and has a squeaky voice.’

‘That’s awful, you wouldn’t think that something like that would happen out here, would you?’ Jan said sympathetically.

‘I suppose not Jan, but it just shows it’s not all milk and honey out here,’ Chris answered, rather pensively.

‘And while your at it, don’t forget the mice, pet. She’s got a thing about mice,’ said Keith, his voice full of sarcasm. He seemed annoyed, angry almost, that his wife was giving out all the doom and gloom whilst he was in ‘happy’ mode.

‘Oh yes, the mice. The little so and so’s love these three foot thick stone walls of these old houses, they come in from the fields in winter and can get in through the tiniest of gaps. And you can hear them scratching about inside the walls. Horrible.’

‘ Are you better now?’ Keith remarked with a snide smile.

‘Well, I just don’t like them.’ Chris folded her arms in self-defence.

‘We haven’t heard any thing have we, Jan?’

‘No, I don’t want to either, it sounds awful.’

‘You might as well tell them about the low flying while you’re about it, Chris,’ Keith now seemed to be enjoying winding her up.

‘What, low flying mice?’ Mike laughed, the drink doing its business.

‘No,’ Chris said in rather serious tone, ‘Jet planes. The RAF do low flying exercises over here, they make a hell of a racket and you can’t see them coming. They frighten the life out of me, and the cattle, and then they run all over the place.’

‘Cheer up all of you, and drink up, I’ve got another bottle in the van,’ Keith laughed, trying to liven up the gathering.

‘Smoke, Keith?’ Mike offered his packet across the table.

‘We don’t thanks, Mike, gave it up a year ago,’ Keith refused with a dismissive wave of his hand.

‘I’m giving it up too. It’s so expensive,’ Jan said with a slight air of superiority.

‘Miss Goody, bloomin’ two shoes,’ Mike retorted, to which they all laughed.

‘Talking of odd people, have you meet any of the locals yet, apart from mad Josh?’ Keith asked.

‘I’ve had some women visitors; they didn’t seem to bad to me,’ replied Jan.

‘I suppose because you’re from south Wales, and Welsh, you’ll fit in better than we have,’ Chris chipped in, ‘but you don’t sound very Welsh though.’

‘I don’t know about that, Chris’ Mike said, ‘I think because we don’t speak much Welsh, and ‘cos I’ve got a beard and long hair, they think we’re English hippies. Mind you the kids should be okay, they’ve been going to a Welsh school back home, in Barey. And my grandmother was a Welsh speaker. Of course when she was in school she was forbidden from speaking in Welsh, even in the playground.’