The Lost Days of Summer (40 page)

Nain came in from time to time. She and everyone else still hoped that the
Valma
had been driven ashore somewhere in Ireland and that Taid, perhaps suffering from memory loss, was being nursed back to health by the good people of the Irish coast. That hope was fading fast, however, since a fisherman, setting lobster pots in Church Bay, had found remnants of a once sturdy fishing boat with the letters ‘
Val
’ painted on what was left of its prow.

Many visitors came, hoping to see Owain, but the staff turned them away, all but Nain, who once actually spoke to Kath. ‘Get some rest; I’ll keep him safe while you’re gone,’ she said gruffly, and Kath accepted this solitary sign of softening, knowing that it cost the old woman dear. Nain was still convinced that her own man was alive, but though she would not have said so for the world, Kath thought it very unlikely. Taid was an old man and had never learned to swim, saying that a fisherman’s place was on top of the water and not in it. But Kath was far too involved in caring for her Owain to worry about Taid, who had had a full and happy life. If he was indeed dead she would miss him, but it was far more important to her that Owain should recover.

It was three long weeks before Owain regained consciousness, and then it was only for a few minutes. Kath had been sitting by his bed, holding his hand and reading him an article from one of his farming magazines, when she felt the fingers, so limp and apparently lifeless in her own, tighten for a moment. She looked up immediately and saw that Owain’s dark eyes were half open. Heart thumping, she got carefully to her feet and bent over him. For a moment he looked puzzled, as though he could not focus on a face so near his own. Then he smiled. ‘Are you an angel?’ he asked in a slurred voice, but before she could reply his eyelids had dropped once more and his fingers slackened.

Kath rang the bell by the bed and gasped out her news when a nurse appeared, almost breathless with excitement. The little nurse ran for a doctor, but though Kath whispered and cajoled and the doctor commanded Owain to speak to them, there was no response. It was another two days before the patient’s eyes opened once more and this time he gave Kath an unsteady smile. ‘Where am I? What happened?’ He groaned. ‘I feel as if I’ve been run over by one of them trams I saw in Liverpool. Is this Liverpool? Kath, for God’s sweet’s sake, tell me what’s been happening.’

Briefly, Kath outlined what had brought Owain to this point. She told of the storm, his attempts to either light his grandfather into the bay or warn him off, she was not sure which. She told of the struggle to get him clear of the waves and the awful damage he had suffered from being pounded against the jagged rocks. She told of Nain’s help . . . and at that point his face, which had seemed calm, almost indifferent, sharpened into grief. ‘Taid’s dead,’ he whispered, his voice shaking. ‘I tried to bring his body ashore, but the waves snatched it away from me. Does Nain know yet? You must tell her gently. Tell her she can live with us . . . tell her . . .’ His voice faded into silence and Kath saw that the effort of both listening and speaking had been too much and consciousness had left him once more.

She dreaded the thought of telling Nain that her husband was dead, but, to her immense relief, she did not have to do so. Leaving the hospital that evening to return to Ty Hen, she met one of Owain’s elderly uncles. He had been coming regularly to the hospital to get news of Owain and stopped short when he saw Kath. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, Mrs Jones, but Owain’s taid’s body has come ashore,’ he said. ‘Told Eirwen, I have – Owain’s nain, I mean – and promised her I’d tell the lad, if they’ll let me in.’ He jerked his head towards the hospital’s revolving doors.

‘He already knows; he saw the body just before he fell into the sea himself,’ Kath said. ‘He told me so and asked me to break it to his nain.’ She gave the old man a tentative smile. ‘So you won’t have to tell Owain, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you have saved me from having to convey such dreadful news to my husband’s grandmother.’

Anxious not to intrude upon the older woman’s grief, yet mindful of Owain’s wish that she take care of the old lady, Kath left it a couple of days before setting out in the pony and trap on her visit of condolence. The wind was strong, and when she reached the Swtan she turned Jemima towards the shelter of the row of new stone outbuildings which Owain and his grandfather had built the previous autumn.

Once there, she tethered the little mare and provided her with an armful of hay, then walked across to the longhouse. She was nervous, half expecting a rebuff, telling herself that at worst Nain could only refuse her help. She knocked on the door, softly at first and then more loudly. No one came and Kath put her hand on the latch and pushed, suddenly afraid of what she might find. Suppose Nain was ill, had collapsed . . . but before she could so much as step over the threshold Nain, tidily dressed and with her hair in its accustomed bun, tugged the door fully open, almost precipitating Kath into the room. Kath began to laugh. ‘Nain! It’s all right, it’s only me.’

Nain looked furious, but then her expression changed to a smile which touched her lips but did not reach her eyes. She hesitated, then said, ‘Come in. The kettle’s on the boil; we’ll have a cup of tea. But I haven’t much time: a relative is coming presently to give me a lift into town. I need to buy mourning clothes . . . You’ve heard? My poor darling, the man who meant everything to me . . .’ Her voice broke and she turned away, hurrying over to take the kettle from its hook and pour boiling water into the waiting pot. ‘There’s a little cake in the pantry . . .’

‘Oh, Nain, if I’d known you needed to go into town I’d have come for you myself,’ Kath said eagerly. ‘Is it too late to come in the trap with me? There’s something we must discuss – Owain told me to ask you if you would like to move into Ty Hen—’

‘No, to change my mind when my brother-in-law has offered to take me to town would give offence,’ Nain said immediately. ‘As for moving in . . . but I’ve no time to talk about it now.’ She tilted her head and Kath heard the sound of a horse and cart approaching. ‘I’ll not linger for a paned; you make your own, there’s a good girl.’ She snatched her coat off its peg, looked quickly round the room, then buttoned the garment and tied a black head square over her thin grey locks. ‘Damp down the fire before you leave, would you? And it would be a help if you’d feed the hens and the pig. I’ve got to go. You’ll be gone by the time I return.’

As she spoke she was lifting the latch and letting herself out of the door, and through the window Kath saw the old woman climbing into a cart driven by a man Kath did not know. Before she could so much as go to the door to wave, the equipage had driven off.

Frowning thoughtfully, Kath damped down the fire and made herself a cup of tea, then sat down by the table to drink it. She was puzzled; running the scene through her mind again she realised that none of it made sense. Why had Nain not invited her relative in? She had flown to the door in a fury when Kath herself had arrived . . . but then had come the change of attitude, the smile, the soft words, the invitation to come inside and drink a cup of tea.

I believe I know why she behaved the way she did, Kath decided after some thought. Nain must have known that her brother-in-law would be arriving at any moment and for some reason she didn’t want me to meet him. Why, she made certain I wouldn’t do so by telling me to feed the poultry and the pig after she left, which would hold me up for some time . . . so that I couldn’t overtake them on the road. Now that I’ve had time to consider, she had a downright crafty look on her face when she was telling me to see to the stock.

Kath went over to the sink and rinsed her cup, stood it on the draining board and headed for the door. She had not taken off her coat, and now, glancing round the kitchen, she checked that all was in order. The clock on the wall showed that noon was approaching, and she decided not to bother feeding the stock, a task which she realised now Nain would have performed several hours ago.

Instead, she left the cottage, went over to Jemima and untied her rope halter, climbed into the trap and turned the pony’s head for home. Pointless to wonder why the old woman had behaved so oddly. I must simply accept that grief has made her even more difficult than usual, Kath told herself. I won’t mention it to Owain, because what is there to mention, after all? I’ll say, truthfully, that she asked me in for a cup of tea, but said she was too busy to talk about what help she might need. She was off into Holyhead to buy mourning clothes, though since she almost always dresses in black that doesn’t seem terribly important when compared to discussing her future.

Kath returned to the farm, checked that the workers had done all that was necessary until evening milking, and set off for the hospital. She knew that Owain would be anxious to hear his grandmother’s reaction to the suggestion that she might move in with them, but when she entered his small room he looked as much surprised as delighted. ‘I didn’t expect to see you today,’ he said in the thin, creaky voice to which she had become accustomed. ‘How did it go?’ Kath began to give him the little speech she had prepared about her visit to the Swtan, but Owain frowned and shook his head. ‘No, cariad, I was talking about Taid’s funeral. I’m surprised you managed to get here – or did you not go to the church hall for the funeral tea? I hope you did, or I’m afraid people will be upset.’

Kath stared at him; she could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘Funeral?’ she whispered. ‘No one told me the funeral was to be held today. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I didn’t know myself until my uncle came in last night, after you’d left. I said you’d not know, but he said that was all right, he’d get a message to you somehow, although he was sure Nain would have told you already.’

Kath had been standing, but as the import of his words struck her she dropped down on to the bed, scarcely heeding Owain’s gasp of pain. ‘My God, that was why your grandmother was so cross this morning,’ she said. ‘When I went round to the Swtan she told me she was going into town to buy mourning clothes. She said nothing whatever about the funeral, and asked me to do some small jobs for her whilst she was gone. Oh, Owain, how could she be so wicked?’

Owain sighed. ‘She’s always been a strange woman. Oh, my poor love! When I get out of here I’ll do my best to undo the harm she’s caused. I’ll tell folk that you’d not been informed when the funeral was to take place—’

He stopped speaking as Kath put a gentle hand across his mouth. ‘Never mind, dearest Owain,’ she said softly. ‘It really doesn’t matter. What matters is getting you right, and back to Ty Hen. The people who are closest to us, the farmhands and so on, will know me well enough to disbelieve spiteful stories. But I think it would be a waste of breath to suggest that Nain should move back in with us.’

‘Don’t worry, I shall do no such thing,’ Owain said grimly. ‘You must ask the parson to come and see me. I’ll explain to him exactly what has happened, and hope he will reprimand the old cythraul and explain to the congregation why you didn’t attend the funeral. Then I shall make Nain apologise.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Kath said. ‘If she has to say she’s sorry – which I’m sure she isn’t – it will simply be another black mark against my name. I’ll ask the parson to come and see you, though, and trust in his goodwill to explain to as many people as possible that I didn’t know the funeral was today.’

‘I hate to think of her getting away with it,’ Owain said in a small, tired voice. ‘But I suspect you’re right; sometimes making waves simply starts a storm.’ He gave a weary sigh. ‘Come to think of it, the worst punishment I could inflict is to simply not visit the Swtan, because after the way she’s behaved she’ll not come within a mile of Ty Hen, and I will never cross her threshold again. I’ll have to see that one of the men helps out when she needs a hand, but other than that . . .’

Kath thought of the old woman alone in the longhouse with memories of her dead husband and no one to talk to, or share in the work, and her heart smote her. Nain hated her, had done her best to ensure that she was shunned by the community, but she was old and her prejudices were immovable. Yet if Owain did go to the Swtan she would consider it a victory and tell folk that Owain was on her side against me. I suppose it would be best to let her go to perdition in her own way, but she’s Owain’s grandmother . . . oh dear, what to do for the best? If only Taid were alive . . .

Owain must have been thinking along similar lines, for he suddenly put out a heavily bandaged hand and laid it on top of his wife’s. ‘What about old Bleddyn Jones? He’s a cross-grained old fellow, but if I pay him a good weekly wage to work for Nain until her death he’ll not refuse.’

‘Oh, Owain, that sounds grand. But would your nain accept it?’

‘She’ll have no choice,’ Owain said at once. ‘After all, we’ve been supplying them – her and Taid, I mean – with all sorts, including labour, ever since they moved out of Ty Hen. But so much as put a foot over the threshold I will not, and neither will you.’

‘She wouldn’t let me near nor by, no matter what,’ Kath said ruefully. ‘But you’ve hit upon the ideal solution, I’m sure. When I visit you tomorrow I’ll bring a notebook and pencil and you can dictate a letter to this Bleddyn, outlining your offer. But right now, dearest, you must rest; you look worn to the bone.’

September 1940

‘And did it work?’ Nell asked eagerly, watching her aunt’s face in the increasing light. ‘That Nain sounds a dreadful old woman. But Owain’s plan was a really good one, because though folk might guess Bleddyn was being paid by someone other than Nain they couldn’t be sure, so the old woman didn’t have to admit she was your pensioner.’

Auntie Kath smiled grimly, then went and pulled the kettle over the flame once more. ‘It’s time we had another brew,’ she observed. ‘And yes, Owain’s plan worked well. Nain never attempted to visit Ty Hen, and very soon Owain could not have endured the journey to visit her even if he had wanted to, for chronic rheumatism, arthritis and other such ailments – all the result of the many injuries he had sustained – had crippled him. He tried to make light of his pain and still kept his finger on the pulse of the farm, but it was I and the farmhands who carried out the actual work. Then he slipped coming down the stairs, and though the doctor wanted to send him to hospital he refused to go, insisting that he would rather be nursed in his own bed. The doctor told me privately that he doubted my poor Owain would last until Christmas; he had fractured his hip in the fall and was in a very bad way.