The Lost Days of Summer (5 page)

‘I’d love to, but I’m bleedin’ exhausted,’ Kath confessed. Her mother forbade swearing in the house and tried to persuade her girls not to speak with the nasal Liverpool accent, and for the most part they complied, but not when they were with friends, or with other young people who might accuse them of snobbery. ‘If I could gerra couple of hours’ kip first . . .’

‘Oh aye, why not? You might bring your Lou along an’ all . . . bring the lot, if you want! Well, perhaps not young Trixie – fellers steer clear of gals wi’ kids in tow – but t’others. I mean to get me a feller to buy me dinner, seein’ as I’ve spent me pocket money this week. How’s you off for spondulicks?’

Kath smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve not had a chance to buy so much as a length of ribbon for me hair,’ she admitted. ‘I’m flush, I am. Oh, here comes a tram. Is it . . .’

But before she could so much as examine the tram’s destination board the scene changed, as scenes in dreams do, and Kath found herself at home, ascending the wooden stairs and heading for her bedroom door. It was not her bedroom, exactly, since she shared it with Lou, Carrie and young Trixie, but it was the nearest thing to a room of her own she would possess until she moved out. She slid round the door, closing it quietly behind her. Even in her dream she remembered that Lou and Carrie both had jobs; Lou worked in Woolworth’s as a counter hand and Carrie was a conductress on the buses, so it would not be fair to wake either of them before their alarm went off.

Kath was beginning to undress when Trixie sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. She began to speak and then, to Kath’s horror, her youngest sister’s bright little face began to turn green and grow a covering of scales. Her mouth stretched and stretched, teeth fairly sprouting from it, and smoke curled from her wide nostrils. The Trixie-beast uttered a horrible sound – something between a shriek and a moan – and began to struggle out of her bed, showing short, curved legs with wicked claws, and a green and scaly body. She was a dragon! Kath tried to run, tried to scream . . . and woke, bathed in sweat. She mopped her brow on the sheet and swung her legs shakily out of bed. What a nightmare! It was all the fault of her niece, for the moment Kath had heard that Liverpool accent it had taken her back – oh, back more than twenty years, to the corner house where first her parents and then her mother alone had brought up her daughters.

Still trembling, she went over to the washstand and would have poured water into the basin, except that it was iced over and she simply did not fancy plunging her hands and face into it. Instead, carrying the jug, she stole quietly out of the room and descended the stairs. In the kitchen, she stirred up the fire and pulled the kettle over it. When it was hot enough she poured some of the water into her jug and returned to her bedroom to wash and dress. Only when she was entering the kitchen a second time and beginning to make breakfast for Eifion did she manage to shake off the memory of that horrible dream and begin to plan the day ahead.

Earlier on the same night, Nell lay in the thick darkness and shivered at the empty space around her. It was a feather bed, the only one she had ever encountered, and though it had seemed wonderfully warm and comfortable after the first few chilly minutes, now it simply felt alien, as did the huge room. Somehow, she had expected a bedroom on a farm to be small and cosy, but this one was very different from her imaginings. Like the kitchen it was extremely large, with uneven floorboards, whitewashed walls and a long window, curtained in some musty velvety material which might be black, navy blue or blood red for all she could tell by the light of the candle her aunt had handed her.

Auntie Kath had led her up a steep, uncarpeted staircase whilst explaining that she had not shown her the privy since it was what she described as ‘a fair walk from the house’ and a bitter wind was blowing. ‘But there’s a chamber pot in the cabinet by your bed, and a jug of water and a piece of soap on the washstand,’ she had said, opening the door before them. ‘I won’t rouse you early, not on your first day.’

Nell had begun to thank her aunt and found she was speaking to empty air. Her aunt had disappeared, closing the door softly behind her.

Nell had begun to undress in the flickering candlelight, trying not to be afraid of the long shadows which chased across the walls as she moved. At home, in her small room, candlelight had seemed friendly, familiar. Here, where so much was strange – she doused the candle with relief and climbed into bed – candlelight only served to exaggerate the differences.

She was beginning to settle down when the night sounds began. A dreadful scream made her sit bolt upright. Who in God’s name – or rather the devil’s – was being murdered out there? Then a dog barked and the sound was swiftly followed by an eldritch shriek, then another, and another! By now, Nell was kneeling at the window, peering into the moonlight and sobbing beneath her breath. They said the country was quiet – well this country certainly wasn’t; it was noisier and more terrifying than anything to be heard on the Scottie of a night-time. As Nell watched, she saw a great white bird float on silent wings across the yard, emitting a soft whoo-whoo as it went. An owl! And then another bird, darker and swifter, but still she imagined an owl, plunged down on something below and the harsh shriek she had heard earlier emerged from its beak.

Nell had been holding the curtain back as she stared, fascinated, at the moonlit scene, but now sheer exhaustion made her drop the heavy fabric and lie back down on the big brass bedstead. She burrowed under the blankets and heaved the pillow after her. It were only birds and that, nothing to be afraid of, she told herself firmly. Nell Whitaker, you are fifteen years old, not a scaredy cat of ten or so. Go to sleep or it will be morning before you know it.

Despite her brave words, however, sleep refused to come. At home, with Mam only a thin wall away, she knew she only had to call out and her parent would come running. Here, she had no idea which of the several doors on this landing hid her aunt. And even if I knew, I’d never dare disturb her, she told herself sadly. She doesn’t like me or want me, and would love it if I ran away. But how can I? I’ve nowhere to run to, and no one either.

Full of self-pity she began to sob, burying her face in the pillow and soaking it with her tears, and presently she fell asleep, though her dreams were frightening and uneasy, causing her to weep and cry out. Twice she awoke from dreams in which she was in a great wicker cage whilst an evil-looking man, his long white robe bloodstained, walked round and round it, brandishing a great curved sickle and leering at her tears.

She awoke properly at last and saw with breathless relief that morning had come, or at least the window showed grey instead of black. Lying very still and straight in the big old feather bed, Nell willed herself to go back to sleep, but her mind was too active for slumber. Auntie Kath was so strange! Nell had realised the previous evening that her aunt was not at ease in the English tongue, having spoken Welsh for a great many years, but that did not quite explain her brusqueness. Now Nell thought that the older woman must have been constantly translating from English to Welsh and from Welsh to English. Thank God Auntie Kath still remembers English, she told herself. What would I have done if she could only talk to me in Welsh? As time goes on I’ll learn some words, I expect, but for the time being I suppose we would have had to resort to sign language, and a fat lot of good that would have been! I want to ask her about the noises in the night, but if I were to go down to the kitchen now and start screaming and barking and flapping my arms like an owl, the poor woman would think I was off me bleedin’ rocker.

Nell smiled at the sheer absurdity of it, but she knew it would be hard work to learn and the knowledge caused her to pull a face. It would be school all over again, and she thought she had done with that. Trixie had tried to learn French a year ago, since her boss had said that a second language would mean an increase in her salary, so Nell had signed up for a night school French class with her mam and Auntie Lou. She had found it uphill work, mostly because her mother had simply refused to try. She would not do her homework, learn her verbs or concentrate in class, and after six or eight lessons had simply stopped attending classes.

Remembering Trixie’s many excuses for homework undone and verbs unlearned, Nell began to smile, and the memory of her mother’s blandishments –
do let me copy your stuff, queen, just this once, and you shall have a box of chocolates all to yourself
– came to her mind, bringing with it a feeling of homesickness so acute that tears rose to her eyes. Don’t be a fool, Nell, she told herself; you did let Mam copy your homework, and the box of chocolates never arrived. But that was typical of Trixie. She meant well, but forgot easily. Auntie Lou was better and so was Auntie Carrie, but judging by what she had seen of Auntie Kath so far, the oldest sister was a very different kettle of fish.

The sound of footsteps quietly descending the stairs brought Nell back to the present. She blotted her tears and wriggled down the bed; her aunt had said she might lie in today. But after ten minutes of trying to woo sleep, the memory of her nightmares caused her to push back the covers and swing her feet out of bed. It was no use: she might as well wash and get dressed and go downstairs as soon as she could, and share her aunt’s breakfast. She had gone to bed hungry, and woken hungry too. In her mind’s eye, creamy porridge sprinkled lavishly with sugar and a plate laden with crisp rashers of bacon and a couple of golden-yolked eggs swam enticingly before her. Last night she had pulled on her winceyette nightdress over her underclothes so now all she had to do was strip off the nightie, rifle through her haversack to find her flannel and toothbrush and set about her ablutions.

Ten minutes later she was washed, dressed and ready to go. She made her bed, shaking and punching the huge feather mattress before smoothing the sheet and tucking it in neatly. After that, she looked round for somewhere to hang the few garments she had brought with her, but there was nowhere suitable. Shrugging, Nell shook the contents of her haversack out on to the bed. She would ask her aunt for some hooks or clothes hangers when she got downstairs, or perhaps there might be a wardrobe in another room which she could use.

She cast a valedictory glance around the room, picked up her slop bucket and descended the stairs, looking curiously around her when she reached the ground floor, for she had seen very little the previous night. Now she saw that the stairs ended in a large square hall. Directly in front of her was the front door, with a coloured window light above it. To her right was the kitchen, she was pretty sure of that, and to her left two other doors. One will be a parlour, she told herself, but I wonder what the other is? She would doubtless find out soon enough, so, repressing an urge to take a peep, she opened the kitchen door and stepped inside.

For one moment she wondered if she had made a mistake, for seated at the scrubbed wooden table was an elderly man in a cloth cap, a faded tweed jacket and rough serge trousers. He was in his stockinged feet, and she saw two extremely muddy wellington boots and a pair of overalls by the back door. She guessed that this must be Eifion, the farmhand; good manners had caused him to remove his rubber boots and overalls before seating himself at the table. Nell crossed the room and stood her slop bucket down by the wellingtons, then glanced up at the clock on the mantel. Its hands pointed to half past six.

Her aunt had turned from the stove to stare at her as she entered the room, her eyes flickering over Nell’s thick grey jumper and droopy brown woollen skirt with what seemed like disparagement. Nell, eyeing her aunt, thought indignantly that she must look downright well dressed beside the older woman, who was wearing a dowdy black dress and a calico apron, liberally stained with food. She appeared to be frying a quantity of cold potatoes, thinly sliced, in a large black pan, and the smell of them made Nell’s mouth water. She looked enquiringly from her aunt to the farmhand, wondering why they were about to sit down to what looked like their dinner before the sun had risen, and saw a tall, thin boy of about her own age, or maybe a year or two older, with crisply curling fair hair and round hazel eyes that just now were fixed unwaveringly on her face sitting beside the old man. As her eyes met his he grinned, obviously amused by her puzzlement. Nell thought he was the handsomest boy she had ever seen and his smile enhanced this impression.

‘Good morning,’ she said politely, and all three answered her at once. The boy would have said more but Auntie Kath forestalled him. ‘Just in time for breakfast, you are, Nell,’ she said stiffly. ‘We always have a good meal before doing the early milking and mucking out. Oh . . .’ she gestured at the old man, ‘this here’s Eifion Hughes, what I told you about; the lad’s his grandson, Bryn.’ As she spoke, she was sliding piles of golden potato discs on to three plates and now she reached over to the dresser and took down a fourth, then began to fry bacon. ‘Eifion, this is my niece; her name’s Nell Whitaker. She’s come to help us . . . oh, drat it,’ and she broke into Welsh, not one word of which could Nell understand, save for her own name.

The old man grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. He nudged the boy and spoke to him in rapid Welsh. The boy nodded, then turned to her. ‘My taid says glad to meet you,’ he said in excellent but strongly accented English. ‘Mrs Jones wants me to help you to learn the Welsh, just while I’m staying wi’ my nain and taid – that’s grandmother and grandfather, you know.’ He addressed Auntie Kath. ‘Do I have that right, Mrs J?’

Auntie Kath nodded. ‘Aye, you’re a bright lad,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the time to keep thinkin’ in two languages and it’s mostly Welsh as is spoken round here, which me niece hasn’t a word of.’ She turned to Nell. ‘Bryn will help you whilst he’s here. A young thing like yourself will pick it up quick enough.’

‘He’ll be an interpreter,’ Nell said, much amused. She giggled at the look on her aunt’s face. ‘I do hope he’s getting paid for this work?’

Nell had been joking, but her aunt shook a reproving head. ‘Not in money, no, but in . . . oh, what d’you call it?’