A Sixpenny Christmas (21 page)

Sam took a swig at the Guinness and broke off a piece of the cake, then fingered the cord in his pocket. It was really a good length of binder twine that he had plaited in the form of a rope with a loop on each end. If possible he meant to lure the child up to the ruined cottage, but if she tried to scream or struggle he now had the means to prevent either occurrence. He had found a thick wad of torn-up sheeting which would do very well as a gag, and with the cord round her wrist and his own, like handcuffs, the kid could scarcely run away from him. Satisfied that he had thought of every eventuality, Sam waited.

Ellen had been absolutely right. She and Rhys had arrived at the hospital soon after four, and had not managed to
escape until the clock stood at ten past seven. There had been so much to do! The consultant who had treated Molly’s burns and the surgeon who had set her leg both had to be contacted, so that they might sign Molly off; then they had gone to the pharmacy with the prescriptions they had been given and had waited ages for ointment and medicines, including painkillers, for though the burns were a great deal better they were still painful. After that, to Rhys’s annoyance, they had delivered the meal which Molly had ticked on her menu the previous night, and the ward sister had insisted that she should eat it. ‘I doubt your good man has thought of having a meal ready for you when you get home,’ she had said. ‘Just you eat up this good food, my dear, or it will be wasted, and we don’t approve of waste, do we?’

Poor Molly had to bolt a dish of soup, a plateful of shepherd’s pie and cabbage, and a small bowl of ice cream before she was allowed to leave the ward, and even then, as Rhys put it, there were other hoops through which they must jump.

But at last they found themselves in the car park, with Molly’s little case neatly packed and Rhys in a fever to get them home, though the nurse who accompanied them out to the car, a local girl who obviously knew the area, warned Rhys that he must drive slowly and with care, since though Molly’s broken limb was healing well, jiggling over rough country roads might set her back.

Rhys promised to be careful; he would have promised anything to have his Molly home again, and they set off at a pace so sober that had they continued thus it would have been several hours before they reached Cefn Farm. But in fact all too soon weather conditions forced Rhys
to drive even more slowly. Rain, which had begun to fall even before they had left the hospital premises, began to simply pelt down, so violently that within moments the windscreen wipers on the little car gave up the struggle, though they continued to swish manfully across the windscreen. ‘Good thing I had that meal,’ Molly shouted above the thunder of the rain on the canvas hood. ‘No chance of getting home by suppertime, unless the rain eases as we get near the valley.’

Ellen, sitting in the back with all Molly’s possessions around her, gave a groan. ‘Oh, Moll, I made a grand big rabbit pie because Jacob brought one in especially for you, knowing how fond you are of them. I told the kids not to broach it until we got home – I made three mutton pasties, one each for them, so they wouldn’t be tempted to – but now it looks as though you’ll be eating rabbit pie for breakfast.’

Molly squiggled round in her seat to smile at her friend. ‘Ooh, rabbit pie, my favourite,’ she said. ‘Oh, damn it, the hood’s beginning to leak. It doesn’t matter if the outside of my suitcase gets wet, so you’d better swap places with it, otherwise you’ll be drenched.’

‘We’ll all be drenched at this rate,’ Rhys shouted. ‘All we want now is—’ He was interrupted by a peal of thunder accompanied by lightning so vivid that he jumped. ‘I wish we could get out from under these trees,’ he said uneasily. ‘But it’ll be another four or five miles until we’re clear of the forest.’

Molly thought the little car seemed to grit its teeth, hunch its shoulders, pull its canvas hood down over its eyes and slog grimly on. Soon it was necessary to turn on the lights, though they could scarcely penetrate more
than a few feet because of the driving rain. ‘It’s a flippin’ cloudburst, ain’t it?’ Ellen shrieked. ‘I wonder what the kids are doing? I hopes as they’re norrout in this perishin’ downpour. I disremember ever seeing rain like it.’

Rhys turned his head to smile at Ellen, then chuckled. ‘That’s because it’s mountain rain; for some reason the mountains attract the worse of the weather and it always eases off when it reaches the plain. As for the kids, I shouldn’t worry about ’em; they’ve got a lot of sense and even if they weren’t indoors when the rain started they’ll seek shelter in the outbuildings, so there’s no need—’ His words were interrupted by a fearful crash of thunder, and even through the trees they could see the brilliance of the lightning as it stabbed and circled around the great peaks.

The storm was so violent that it put Ellen in mind of that other storm, the one that had attacked Liverpool the night that Lana and Nonny had been born. She said as much to Molly, who nodded. ‘Yes, I was thinking that myself,’ she acknowledged. ‘I remember the headlines in the paper the next day: storm of the century, they called it. I should think this one bids fair to rival it, though of course if it dies out before it reaches the big cities no one will even comment.’ She laughed. ‘Us hill farmers are used to being ignored by the press. When our river suddenly trebles in size and comes crashing down the mountain bringing dead sheep, boulders and even trees with it the local people help each other to cope with the damage, but never expect so much as a word in the newspapers.’

This conversation had been carried on above the howl of the wind and the crashing of thunder, and now Rhys
shouted to the girls to keep their eyes peeled since the way ahead was narrow and twisting, and he needed all his concentration and strength to keep Minnie the Moocher on the road. Both women stopped talking and peered ahead and it was Ellen who suddenly shouted at Rhys to stop. ‘There’s a positive perishin’ lake right across the road, and a tree . . .’ she began, but it was too late. The front wheels of the car were submerged, the engine spluttered and died and Rhys jumped out of the car to find himself in two feet of water. Molly would have joined him but he shouted at her to stay where she was, though he was grateful when Ellen pushed forward the driver’s seat and came splashing heavily to join him. ‘Tell me wharr I must do,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Forward or back?’

‘Can’t go forward; it gets deeper, for a start, but the tree is blocking the road anyway,’ Rhys shouted. ‘It’ll be back; I’ve taken the car out of gear, the handbrake’s off and she’s pretty light. But what we’ll do then, God above knows. As soon as we’ve got her back on dry land we’ll see if the engine will start and if it does we’ll drive to the nearest farm. Someone’s bound to have a tractor big enough to clear the road at least down into Betwys. Then we can ring the post office just to make sure there’s been no trouble at Cefn Farm.’

Molly had wound down her window in order to join in the conversation. She wished she could have given a hand but knew she must not get the plaster wet so stayed where she was. However, the thought of the children brought fresh worries to her mind. ‘What if the farm’s been struck by lightning?’ she quavered. ‘Or suppose the river floods really badly and the water reaches the house? Suppose the lightning sets fire to the hay barn? Or the
stables! The kids would rush into a burning building to save the horses . . .’

‘Molly Roberts, stop imagining bogeys and prop your leg up on the dashboard, because I’m afraid water may come in through the floor and you know you mustn’t get the plaster wet,’ Rhys ordered her. ‘Right, Ellen? When I give the word, push!’

At about the time the ward nurse was bidding Rhys to drive carefully, Nonny was entering the post office in the village. All the children loved the post office, partly because it sold interesting things such as sherbet dips, slabs of pink and white nougat and brown bags of treacle toffee and also because Mrs Enfys, the postmistress, was a warm and motherly soul who could always be relied upon to be interested in their doings, and to hand over to a child with a large shopping bag some little extra to eat on the way home. Today, however, the small shop was empty, probably because closing time was approaching, and also because of the grey clouds scudding overhead. Long experience had taught Snowdonians to read the weather signs, and if they knew heavy rain or a storm was approaching they left any unessential shopping to another day. So Nonny made straight for the counter, behind which Mrs Enfys was sitting in a creaking basket chair knitting what looked like a very large, very elaborate pink pullover.

‘Afternoon, Mrs Enfys,’ Nonny said cheerfully. ‘Looks like rain, doesn’t it? Jacob says there’s a storm coming so I just hope it holds off until I get home. Today’s the day they let my mother out of hospital. Auntie Ellen has baked a rabbit pie, Chris will give her a bar of chocolate
and Auntie Ellen and Lana have bought the most beautiful tablecloth, embroidered all over with sweet peas, carnations and all sorts. So I’m here to spend my pocket money on something I know she’ll like.’

Mrs Enfys was a large woman with rosy cheeks and a sweet expression, but whenever possible she remained in her chair, only getting up and searching the shelves when it became absolutely necessary. So now she smiled hopefully at her customer. ‘What are you after, cariad?’ she enquired. ‘Something pretty for Mum? I’m clear out of boxes of chocolates, but . . .’

‘Oh, no, not chocolates,’ Nonny said eagerly. ‘It’s – it’s something alive, Mrs Enfys. I saw them when I came yesterday; lots and lots of them, cheeping away in special cardboard boxes. Chicks!’ She looked around her as she spoke but could see no sign of the boxes which she had noticed on her previous visit, and Mrs Enfys was shaking her head.

‘Oh, cariad, them chicks was all ordered. No one can’t go keeping chicks for more’n a few hours on food premises; ’twouldn’t be right.’ Her round and happy face had fallen, mirroring the disappointment she saw in her customer’s. ‘Oh, love, I’m that sorry! Tell you what, though; I can order you a box. They come in dozens and there are all sorts, but I reckon your mum would like the Rhode Island Reds ’cos she’s got a Rhode Island flock; am I right?’

‘Yes, you’re right, but I guess it’ll be days before the chicks arrive and I wanted to give Mum a present now,’ Nonny said regretfully. She glanced hopefully around the shop but could see nothing which would please her mother the way the chicks would have done. She turned
to the fat little postmistress. ‘What’ll I do, Mrs Enfys? I know how much chicks cost so I’ve brought the right money for a dozen; suppose you wrote a card out saying something like . . . money paid for twelve chicks to be delivered as soon as possible. Could you do that?’

Mrs Enfys was beginning to agree when she clearly had another thought. ‘I can do it, but I’ve had an even better idea,’ she said excitedly. She fished under the counter and produced a large cardboard box. Opening it, she plunged both hands inside, saying, ‘Remember last Easter, cariad? I decorated me window with toy chicks; just bundles of yellow fluff with little wire legs and tiny buttons for eyes. They was realistic-looking, I’ll give ’em that. Now what I say is you take a dozen of my Easter chicks, put ’em in a box and give ’em to your mum, saying that she’ll have the real ones in a day or two. What do you think, love?’

Nonny was thrilled with the idea. She would explain, of course, that she had wanted to get real chicks and would be doing so in no time, and she could visualise not only her mother’s delight but how she would laugh and arrange the chicks in a line across the kitchen table, and tell Nonny that she was the cleverest girl ever.

Thanking Mrs Enfys from the heart, and graciously accepting a sherbet dip as well as a dozen balls of yellow fluff, Nonny had been so busy in the shop, that she had not realised the rain had started, but she very soon did so. She opened the door and stepped into the street, then hesitated in the face of the rain which was beginning to fall now in earnest. She could go back in the shop, but even as she considered doing so she heard Mrs Enfys slowly and ponderously walk across the floor, flip the open sign to
closed and turn the mighty key in the lock. She can’t have noticed that it was raining so hard, Nonny guessed, and then she shrugged. What was a bit of rain, after all? She might get pretty wet but she had got pretty wet the day before, making the dam. Why should today be any different? So she set off, head down, hands in pockets, telling herself that the rain was bound to stop presently.

Within the first mile, however, far from stopping, the the rain had increased in force. The wind got up and she could hear the thunder rolling round the peaks. Telling herself that she did not mind thunder – although she was not too keen on lightning – Nonny kept her eyes on the ground, which was growing steadily more and more saturated, as, indeed, was Nonny herself. Once or twice she considered seeking shelter in one of the little cottages but dismissed the idea. How absolutely awful if her mother reached home only to find her daughter missing! That would never do. It was a pity she only had toy chicks whilst Chris had a real bar of chocolate, but she knew Molly well enough to appreciate that her mother would understand and be as pleased with the toys as with the real thing. The road she was following was a typical country road; a few words of a poem she had recently learned in school came back into Nonny’s head.
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
Nonny giggled to herself. This was a Welsh road, but a Welshman could get just as drunk as an Englishman and from the way this road behaved the original maker of it must have been very drunk indeed. Smiling to herself, soaked to the very skin, her hair plastered to her head, and the sherbet dip no more than a memory, Nonny plodded on.

Sam had descended from his hide-out as soon as the rain began in earnest. He had taken shelter in the cart shed, settling himself quite comfortably in a large cart with red-painted wheels. Had it not been for the rain he would have had a perfect view of the door through which the inhabitants of the farm came and went; as it was he had to peer to see anything at all, and when the thunder rolled and the lightning stabbed he began to wish he had never found Ellen, the child, or Cefn Farm. He did not like thunderstorms, never had, never would. A pal of his had been killed by a lightning strike on board ship, and he had no desire to find himself cut down in the prime of life by a freak of nature.