One Crow Alone (24 page)

He stopped the cart by a gap in the hedge and waved. “Hulloooo!”

Geraint cantered over the meadow to the cut in the road and came clattering up, his pony sweaty-necked and breathing hard.

“Hello there.” Geraint was awkward in his eighteen-year-old body. A soft downy sprouting of dark hairs creeping over his face. A lock of thick black hair hung over his forehead. He pushed it back, reddening slightly.

“Where are you lot off to then, like?”

Callum thumbed back at the boxes loaded onto the cart. “Dolgellau market.”

“I can see you've brought a fishing rod—”

“That too.” Callum smiled. “Might go down to Bontwerduu Pool if I get time. Where are you taking the sheep?”

“Barmouth. Slaughtering the lot of them.”

“Slaughtering them. All?”

“Dad's decided to farm deer now. Got a grant to put a fence up and everything.”

“A grant?” Callum sounded surprised.

“Went up to Manchester and arranged it with DEFRA,” said Geraint proudly. “It's the food shortages. They give you a grant and buy everything you produce. We'll have to get papers and special licenses and all that.”

“Why not stick with the sheep?”

“We've been lambing in the snow for the last six years. Dad's tired of it. We'll end up with the same money for the deer and less work of it.”

“Looks like he needs you,” said Bethan, pointing across the field.

Geraint turned in the saddle, one hand on the pony's rump. His father was waving angrily from the hillside, the flock parting.

“Coc!” Geraint pulled the pony's head up from the grassy verge. “Better get back before he loses his rag proper like.” And they all laughed as he kicked the unfortunate beast up the bank and back across the field toward his irate father.

*   *   *

Down in the valley, rising and falling with the tides that swept up from the Barmouth estuary, was the wide-banked River Mawddach, glinting here and there between the stands of low trees. And from the newly built jetty in Barmouth harbor, the Liverpool boat unloaded its passengers into long, sturdy dinghies that ferried punters upriver to the Dolgellau market.

Callum pulled up on the old stone bridge outside the village.

“Look at that.”

Early as it was, there were already people carrying boxes from the riverbank with baskets and bags and folded trestles and dinghy men shouting and helping women off.

“When we've sold everything, I need to go to the Stag.”

“What is the Stag?” asked Magda.

“It's the pub,” said Bethan. “Callum always gets a barrel of beer from Vince the landlord.”

*   *   *

Vince Price heard the rumbling of cartwheels. He looked out from a small, grimy window in the storeroom of the Stag as a horse and cart passed by on the street outside. He recognized Callum Gourty. Couple of pretty girls up back too.

Vince rubbed the side of his beaky nose. Turned to the tired-looking man with thick reddish hair seated at the table.

“Well, so what are you going to do then?”

“Sit tight, I reckon,” said the man.

“You know they're looking for you, Robin.”

“Reckon they are.”

A grubby little child played with a piece of wood and an old snooker ball under the table.

“And?”

“Reckon I'll keep low. Keep working away.”

“I'm risking a lot for you, you know that?”

“I know.”

“I've spoken to Mr. Ip about the ink. He'll be in here later too. I asked him to bring some. But it isn't going to come cheap.”

The man nodded. “You know where to find me.” He got up, his tall, lean form giantlike next to Vince. The child crawled out from under the table without needing to be told, and Vince opened the door that led out to the dank yard above the cellar where a small pony was waiting.

“You all right up there? Without Sarah?” he said, helping the child onto the pony behind the man.

“We get by.” And without too many other words the tall red-haired man kicked the pony on and went up through the narrow lanes that led out behind the houses to the dark of the Coed-y-Brenin forest, a dark shelter on the distant hills beyond.

*   *   *

Back in the pub there was a loud banging on the door. The Liverpool slaughter-men wanting to get on the grog before the day had started. Big, hard men from the city, come up for cutting throats in the slaughter sheds by the river.

“Oy! Open up!” they shouted.

“Hold your bleedin' horses!” Vince stumped toward the old heavy door and pulled back the bolts. “Patience's bleedin' virtue, mate.”

Two men with drawn faces stumbled across the step and smirked. “Where's the beer, man. I'm parched.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Vince went back behind the high-topped bar and tapped a couple of pints from the barrel on the wide shelf. “Five quid.”

“I'm not paying that for weak fockin' ale, man.”

“Well, that's all you
fockin'
getting,” said Vince, banging the glass down on the counter. “Money—”

Everyone knew that Cockney Vince was as tough as a badger so the slaughter-men handed over their cash and went to drink in silence on the old wooden pew by the unlit fire.

Vince cleaned glasses and kept his watchful eyes on them. He'd seen it all before, few hours of fresh air and lads from the city, on God knows what business, always sucked like water in a drain toward the dark corners of the grog house. The slaughter-men at least had some excuse for watering the cold light of day. And money was money.

Coming out on the boat was a bit of a holiday for him and Irene—good to come back to the old place and air out the rooms for a month or two. Irene, the lazy slattern, still in bed. He went to the doorway marked
PRIVATE
and hollered up the stairs. “Oy, Irene, get yer lazy arse out of bed. We've got customers.”

*   *   *

Callum led the way, stooping his tall frame under the low door of the pub. The room was dingy and smoke-filled. A menacing group of slaughter-men sauntered by the bar with greedy eyes and bloodstained fingernails, clasping glasses of Vince's dark brown ale. They turned and stared at Magda and Bethan. One of the men raised his glass. “Come over here, lass.”

Callum glared. “You two sit down with Alice, out of their way.”

“What's your problem, mate?” one of the slaughter-men shouted over. “You got enough women there to spare one.”

“Do you think this is a good idea, Callum?” said Bethan, pulling Alice onto her lap as they squashed at a table.

“Ignore them. I'll go and see about the beer.”

Callum leaned over the counter. Vince was busy tapping pints and a flustered Irene was taking money.

“Callum!” she exclaimed. “Good to see you. Now then, what'll you have?”

“I'd like to get a barrel of beer.”

One of the slaughter-men banged his empty glass on the counter. “Another ale!”

“You wait your turn, lad. Vince!” She turned to her husband. “Callum Gourty's here.”

Vince swiveled around, still pulling a pint under the barrel. “Callum! Ain't seen you in a while. Saw you go by loaded to the eaves with stuff. Sell it all?”

“Yes,” Callum shouted. “Sold the lot.” He waved a thick wad of cash over the bar with a grin and peeled off a stack of notes. “Enough for a barrel this autumn.”

“Sure, I'll have one for you by Monday. I might bring it up. Just the one?”

“One's enough for me.”

“See you've got the prettiest girls in town,” said Irene.

“I'm not waitin' all day, woman.” The slaughter-man barged in, slamming his empty glass down. Irene scowled, but went to fill it, not wanting the trouble. “So, everything well up at Rathged?” she said, ignoring the uncouth slurping at her shoulder. “Still got the ponies?”

“Yes. We're fine. We'll be well stocked this winter. Are you and Vince staying in Liverpool over winter again?”

“Yes, and we're buying a place up in Manchester. The King Will, down on the canal. Should be good business. Hope we can come out next summer though. I don't like it in town.”

“No, me neither,” said Callum. “See you on Monday then.”

*   *   *

The slaughter-man at the bar watched Callum leaving with his women. He had listened well, and noted the fat roll of money in his pocket. Rathged Farm. Ponies. He turned back to his friends, finished the dregs in his glass, and kept his own counsel. For now.

 

31

“Bontwerduu Pool. I'm going to see if I can catch a fish. The rain will have swollen the river, should be easy.”

Callum unhitched the pony and hobbled it above the bank. It stuck its nose down and began tearing at the grass.

They walked along the path and clambered down through the bushes and rocks toward the sound of the water.

Bethan and Magda lay down in the shade of a tree and Alice poked around on the bank, watching ants and throwing pebbles into the water.

Rolling up his trousers, Callum waded through the shallows with the fishing rod in his hand.

It wasn't long before his cork bobbed down and the line cut a slice through the water. “Got you!” He flicked the end of his rod up and fought the thrashing fish to the water's edge.

He looked over to the others. “Alice! Don't go too far. Don't go further than we can see you.” There was a flash of a tail in the pool and Callum concentrated his efforts once more. And soon there were three shiny trout on the bank.

*   *   *

“Mummy!” Alice slipped down the bank. “Mummy! Pony gone!”

Bethan sat up. “Callum—”

Callum waded over and threw his rod down. “What?”

“Pony gone,” Alice said.

They scrambled up the bank and raced along the path to the road.

The cart was there, traces and yoke hanging over the shafts as they had been left. But the pony was not.

Callum leaned down and retrieved the leather hobble that had been cast aside onto the grass.

“It's been cut. Someone has stolen Mill Boy.”

“What are we going to do?”

There was a clopping on the lane and from around the bend Geraint and his father, Huw, came trotting down the road on their tired horses with their sheepdog close at heel, his tongue lolling out with the run.

“You lot look like you've seen a ghost,” Huw Thomas said, pulling up his horse and seating himself back in the saddle.

“Some bastard's stolen the pony,” said Callum. “Did you see anyone on the road?”

“Not a thing, Gourty.” In an instant, Huw was all seriousness. “But Geraint can get the women back to Dolgellau and you can ride down the Barmouth road with me. Right—Geraint lad, you hear me, get those women and that cart up to the Stag and no arsing around.”

He leaned down and pulled Callum up onto his own pony, then kicked it on in the direction of Dolgellau with Callum bouncing, ungainly, behind the saddle.

Geraint was shy to be left alone with the women, and so he busied himself energetically with unsaddling his horse and getting it between the empty shafts of Callum Gourty's cart.

“Now don't you cry, Alice. Here, have an apple.” Geraint took a small red apple from his pocket. The pony pricked its ears, but Geraint pushed its nose away and gave the apple to Alice, sitting up on the seat. She stopped her snuffling and took it in her hand.

“Come, boy,” said Geraint, and he led the pony on and up the road with the dog zig-zagging across their path, snuffling about the hedgerows and verges as it went.

*   *   *

Back in Dolgellau at last, the girls sat and waited in the empty pub. When Irene had finished cleaning, she came over and sat down on the bench beside them.

“I reckon it'll 'ave been one of those slaughter-men. They're a rough bunch and no morals either.”

Bethan was very glum. “It's a bad loss for Callum. For all of us, I suppose.”

“I know, love. I bet it is. But Huw will help. He's not as hard as he looks when there's the taste of being a hero in the air. I remember once when my car broke down, years ago up near his place when we were still living out here. He had his tractor towing it back to the village in no time.”

“Mum will be wondering where we are by now,” Bethan said.

The men came ducking in under the open door.

“No. Nothing,” said Huw. “We can't do a thing more. It'll be dusk soon.”

Callum sat, a frown between his eyes.

The pony was gone and nowhere to be seen. Not on the Barmouth trail nor in any direction they could make out, even though they had ridden Huw's tired horse as hard and as far as they reasonably could.

“Now then, don't you worry, ladies,” said Huw, looking at the downcast faces. “Geraint will get the cart back and you on it. And we ought to leave soon. Don't want to be out in the dark, Gourty. Not with thieving townies around.”

“Are your horses fit enough for it?” said Callum.

“They may be tired,” said Huw, “and us as well, but if you can't help a neighbor in need and the women there and the kiddy too … No, the ponies can rest well enough when they get home. Now, Geraint, you get these people home and then straight back.”

It was a very sorry end to an otherwise successful day, and they all sat silent on the journey home that seemed thrice as long as it had on the way down, with dark thoughts creeping in the mossy dusk and all of them wondering what sort of people there were abroad.

“You know it's the last day of summer,” said Bethan, looking out across the fields at the dropping sun. “I just remembered.”

It was indeed.

 

AUTUMN

It was plain to see. In the cold light of day. That the walls of Crow's Hall were only bare branches, and the girl's bed was just a mossy bank, with the ceiling vaulted by trees and the sky her roof.