A Sixpenny Christmas (37 page)

Rhys saw the old man’s eyes fill up with tears once more at Molly’s words, saw him turn his head and wipe them away. He said, bracingly: ‘So you mustn’t worry about Cae Hic because we’ll do whatever you tell us to do. At a time like this you must concentrate on getting your wife well again, and leave the farming to us and to Rhodri.’

The old man nodded tremulously, then turned to his son. ‘Good neighbours we do have,’ he said in Welsh. ‘With such friends as these, we’ll pull through, eh, Rhodri?’

Rhodri nodded and smiled. ‘And Mam will get well again,’ he said, though Molly could hear the treacherous little tremble in his voice which told her that the young man did not believe his own words. He began to get up from his seat on the bench, then looked round anxiously. ‘Wasn’t Nonny here a moment ago?’ he asked, his voice puzzled, ‘Could have sworn I saw her, see?’

‘You did; we left her watching your mam while you told us what had been happening,’ Rhys said quickly. ‘She’s a good girl, our Nonny.’

Rhodri’s grim look vanished and he smiled for the first time since they had taken their seats on the bench. ‘A great favourite with my mam she has always been,’ he said. ‘A grand girl is Nonny. Uncle Dewi always says Nonny’s like our mam was as a girl; full of fun yet a hard worker with it.’

Molly saw Rhys smile. ‘Aye, your uncle’s right,’ he said. ‘Nonny will be just like Mrs Pritchard one of these days.’ He peered through the glass panel in the top of the door, then turned to the others. ‘Nonny’s smiling! We’d best re-join her.’

Nonny had sat quietly by the bed, but then it had occurred to her to take the old woman’s hand. She remembered someone telling her that hearing was the first thing to return to an unconscious person, so it seemed only sensible not just to hold the cold, wrinkled little hand in her own but also to chat. She told Mrs Pritchard how her parents had arrived in Liverpool to meet Chris off the big transatlantic liner and how they had received a telegram saying that she, Mrs Pritchard, had been taken to hospital. She was saying that Mrs Pritchard need not worry about Cae Hic since the Robertses would help Rhodri do everything that was necessary until Mrs Pritchard was herself once more when she felt the slightest pressure of the small, work-roughened hand in her own, and when she leaned over the bed she saw that the old lady’s eyes were flickering open, saw she was trying to speak. It was not easy; the whole of the left side of her face was pulled down and her left eye was half closed. When she began to move her mouth, saliva dribbled from the left side of it and ran down her chin, but faintly, very very faintly, a whispered word was forming itself. ‘Nonn . . .’

Nonny leaned closer. ‘Yes, it’s me, Nonny,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Shall I fetch dear Mr Pritchard and Rhodri? They’ve gone outside into the corridor with my mum and dad, but I can fetch them in no time . . .’ But the drawn grey face ignored her words; the old woman was still trying to say something, and it must be something important. Nonny leaned closer. ‘Yes, Mrs Pritchard, what is it you want to say?’

‘Nonny. Look – look . . .’ It was too hard; the words did not want to come. But whatever she was trying to
say was important to her, Nonny knew that, so she spoke quietly but firmly.

‘Don’t try to hurry, Mrs Pritchard; take your time.’ She gave a tiny conspiratorial laugh. ‘We’ve got all day! What am I to look for?’

Mrs Pritchard sighed, then seemed to gather herself for a tremendous effort. ‘Look – after – my – boy,’ she said in a thin, reedy whisper.

Nonny stared. How on earth was she supposed to look after a man so much older than herself, and remarkable for the hard work and self-sufficiency which had always characterised him? But she knew better than to say such a thing to a woman who, for all she knew, might be dying. Now was no time to quibble, and anyway, she told herself, there were ways in which she could sort of look after Rhodri. She had moved back a little as Mrs Pritchard had finished speaking, but now she bent over the bed and kissed the old woman’s seamed forehead. ‘Of course I will; we all will, although Rhodri is very capable and much likelier to look after us,’ she said. ‘But you are going to get better, you know. You’ll be looking after him yourself in next to no time.’ She glanced towards the door and saw it beginning to open, saw her parents, Mr Pritchard and Rhodri quietly entering the room. ‘You can tell them yourself that you’re going to get well quite soon now,’ she said bracingly, but by the time the others had joined her at the bedside Mrs Pritchard’s eyes were closed again and she had let her head fall sideways on the pillow.

Nonny looked up at them. ‘I think she’s better,’ she said in a low excited voice. ‘She spoke to me; just a few words, but she knew it was me.’ She caught Mr Pritchard’s
hand. ‘Oh, I’m sure the doctor’s wrong and she’s going to get better!’

‘Well, queen, have you made up your mind what you’re going to do for Christmas? I suppose if you decide to stay in Bethel Street, I’ll be honour bound to stay with you, bein’ as how I’m your mum, but I tell you to your head I’d sooner go to Cefn Farm as we planned!’

Nonny had already left for Snowdonia, tucked snugly in the sidecar of Tugger Hughes’s motorbike and Ellen and Lana were sitting round the fire roasting chestnuts whilst Mr Taplow was busily brewing a jug of punch. And listening, probably with considerable interest, to the conversation, Lana thought. She glanced across at him, then began to peel the blackened shell off one of the nuts, squeaking at the heat of it.

‘Ouch! Oh, Mum, you could leave me here quite safely, you know, while you went off to be with Auntie Molly and the others.’ She grinned at Mr Taplow. ‘You wouldn’t mind being looked after by me, would you, Mr T? I’ve never cooked a Christmas dinner so it would be good practice.’

Mr Taplow’s cheeks reddened and Lana guessed that it was not just the heat of the punch which brought the colour to his cheeks. ‘If your mother goes into Snowdonia for Christmas, I – I might be away too,’ he said. ‘The punch is almost ready. It just needs the juice of that lemon I squeezed earlier to make it perfect.’

Lana stared across the room at their lodger. ‘Do you mean to say you’re going to stay with that old uncle of yours on the Wirral?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘I thought he were dead.’

Ellen sighed gustily. ‘If he was dead Mr Taplow couldn’t very well visit him, could he?’ she said impatiently. ‘If you must know, young lady, your Auntie Molly’s issued an invitation for us to take Mr T along of us. So you see if you decide not to go you’ll be spoiling everyone’s Christmas.’

‘No, no, I’d be just as happy to spend the holiday with you in Bethel Street,’ Mr Taplow interrupted, blushing more fierily than ever.

Lana considered. She was very fond of Mr Taplow, would not have minded had he and her mother decided to marry, but she had only been joking when she had pretended she had changed her mind and meant to spend Christmas in Bethel Street. Now, she wondered when her mother would have told her that Mr Taplow would be coming with them to Cefn Farm. She also wondered what had made Auntie Molly invite him. Did she suspect, as Lana sometimes did, that he and Ellen might marry? But somehow Lana had always doubted that her comfortable, fun-loving mother would settle down with plain diffident Mr Taplow. Despite her age – she was fifty-eight – Ellen had a great many admirers, all elderly men, many of whom she had met in the course of her work at the school. She was seldom unaccompanied when she went to the pictures, or to the dances for conventionally minded older people which were held a couple of times a week, choosing partners for both these events with care. And only the other day she had surprised Lana by remarking that Mr Taplow, despite appearances, was an excellent partner, though he specialised in old time dancing rather than the modern sort.

Right now, however, Lana decided that the time had
come to admit she was just teasing and had no intention of missing out on Christmas at Cefn Farm. And this year it won’t be a sixpenny Christmas because Mum and I have been saving up for weeks to make sure everyone has a good time, and I’m sure Nonny has done the same, she thought.

‘Well, madam?’ Ellen’s voice was distinctly frosty. ‘If you’re determined to have Christmas at home then I’m telling you straight that your pal Harry Wilkinson will not be welcome in my house, and if push comes to shove he’ll not be allowed to take you out anywhere unless he promises to bring you home by ten o’clock.’ She shot her daughter a defiant glance. ‘You ain’t of age so you still have to do what I tell you. I’m just about fed up with your hoity-toity ways, Lana O’Mara, and if you ruin your Christmas by staying in Bethel Street you’ve only yourself to blame.’

Lana tossed her head. ‘If he weren’t such a good dancer . . .’ she gave Mr Taplow an indulgent glance, ‘and I mean smoochy dances, not the St Bernard’s Waltz or the Dashin’ White Sergeant . . . I’d have give him the elbow weeks back. He’s the sorta feller what expects you to pay more attention to him than to the fillum, which is summat I can’t stand.’ She snorted. ‘Thinks he’s more attractive and interestin’ than Cliff Richard and Albert Finney rolled into one. So now you know why I don’t go to the flicks with him.’

‘Oh! I thought . . .’

‘You thought the worst, of course,’ Lana said, grinning at her mother. ‘You thought I was the sort of girl who’d give a feller what he wanted so long as he were handsome and a good dancer. It’s too bad of you, Mum, honest to
God it is. You brought me up to have some self-respect, yet now . . .’

Ellen heaved herself out of her basket chair, not without difficulty for she had put on a deal of weight since the far-off day when she had bought it. She put her arms round Lana and kissed her cheek. ‘Ain’t you horrible to me, queen?’ she said reproachfully. ‘It ain’t what
you
do what worries me, it’s what that horrible Harry does. You’re an innocent girl, years younger than him . . .’

‘Oh, shurrup, Mum,’ Lana said impatiently. ‘You’ve known me all me life, so you should know I were only takin’ a rise out of you when I said I might not go to the Robertses’ for Christmas. Nothin’ would keep me away. I’ve still got a soft spot for Chris, though of course I wouldn’t dream of marrying him. Well, I might if he’d move into the city, but if I had to live at Cefn Farm I’d die of boredom within a month.’

At this point Mr Taplow poured his punch into three mugs and handed them round. Lana sniffed the delicious aroma of lemon, brandy and wine and smiled dazzlingly at her mother’s elderly admirer. ‘Thanks, Mr Taplow; it smells delicious. And now Mum and I have stopped squabbling, you’d better make your plans for a Christmas in the hills!’

Going to bed that night Ellen pondered on Molly’s invitation to Mr Taplow to join them for Christmas. She just hoped that her old friend had not got hold of the wrong idea. She liked Bob Taplow, of course she did, but not . . . well, not in the sort of way which Molly might have imagined. He was her favourite companion for old time dancing and the cinema, but she felt none of the
palpitating eagerness for his caresses which she remembered from her early days with Sam. Not that she had had any experience of Mr Taplow’s caresses; far from it! He was both shy and respectful, had never even kissed her cheek, and probably never would.

He was the ideal lodger, she told herself now. Not only did he hand over his rent each week, he also included a little present: chocolates, flowers, a pretty ornament for her china cabinet, a book she had said she would like to read. The chestnuts and the punch had been the little extras this week and as he gave them to her he had said, with the shyest smile, that he hoped his gift would put them all in the mood for Christmas, being as the holiday was so close.

Ellen sat down at her dressing table and began to brush out her thick mass of greying hair before braiding it into its night-time plait. Most of her other men friends took it for granted that she would allow them to kiss her goodnight after they had taken her dancing or to the cinema, and Ellen thought that this was fair enough; they had spent money on her, after all. Perhaps she liked Mr Taplow so much simply because he was different. Perhaps it was because she knew him better, through living in the same house, than she knew her other admirers. Now, looking at her reflection in the mirror – sparkling brown eyes, rosy cheeks and the great mass of her hair as she wielded the brush – she told herself that despite her years she was still an attractive woman.

When Molly had issued the invitation, suggesting that Mr Taplow might like to join them for Christmas, she had been delighted. Although, like her daughter, she could not even imagine living so far from civilisation and the
things she loved, she still thought there was no better place for a holiday. And Mr Taplow had astonished her when she passed on the invitation by the revelation that he had spent a good deal of his youth on his uncle’s farm just outside Great Sutton on the Wirral. Indeed, after his father’s death, when he was ten years old, his mother had taken over the job of housekeeper on the farm and he, young Bob Taplow, had looked after the poultry, milked the cows, fed the pigs and of course assisted at both haymaking and corn harvest. ‘Mind, there’ll be nothing like that to prove my worth over Christmas,’ he had admitted. ‘And I dare say they wouldn’t want me interfering anyway. But if they should need a hand you could say I’m not inexperienced in country ways.’

Ellen had reported these facts to Molly and been assured that her friend would now be doubly delighted to welcome the extra guest for the festive season. Rhys had offered to come and collect them but Ellen had told him that this was unnecessary. They would get public transport as far as Betwys-y-Coed, if Rhys would pick them up there in the old jeep and take them the rest of the way. They would, of course, be burdened with baskets, bags and a great many packages, but Ellen and Lana would not have dreamed of arriving at Cefn Farm without all their Christmas presents wrapped and ready and a great many items of food to help spread the expense of the great day itself. Molly would cook a couple of chickens which had been fattened to bursting point, but Ellen would bring sweets, chocolates, jars of mincemeat, and a big bag of oranges as well as such luxuries as Brazil nuts, a packet of Woodbines for Rhys and a bag of fudge for Chris, as she knew he had a sweet tooth. Mr Taplow
had already bought four bottles of wine which he said he knew to be a good vintage and Ellen, who was not fond of alcohol, had crammed into the luggage a bottle of egg nog with which she intended to make herself the drink she called ‘snowballs’.