A Sixpenny Christmas (39 page)

‘Call me Bob,’ Mr Taplow said. He gave Chris a rueful grin. ‘I’m afraid we arrived at just the wrong moment, but things seem to have got sorted out now.’ He turned back to Molly, who was pouring tea into several mugs. ‘I do trust that tea is meant for us, but before we enjoy your hospitality, Mrs Roberts, I think we should carry our luggage up to our rooms.’

Immediately all was bustle as Chris and Nonny showed their visitors where they were to sleep and then helped them with their luggage. Lana, knowing that she always shared Nonny’s room, danced up the stairs chattering gaily until they were out of earshot of the kitchen, when she turned to her friend, an anxious look on her face. ‘Is it really all right to take that poor old woman all the way up the valley in your dad’s old jeep?’ she said. ‘It isn’t as though it were a proper made up road, it’s really only a track. She’ll get bounced about something dreadful, no matter how carefully that Rhodri of yours tries to drive.’

Nonny, lugging Ellen’s suitcase, pulled a rueful face. ‘Of course it’s not all right, it’s madness,’ she said rather breathlessly as Lana flung open the bedroom door and dumped her bags down in front of the washstand. ‘The trouble is, Mrs P never asked for anything all the while
she was in hospital, except to go home. Apparently, when they told her at the hospital that she was coming home, she took them literally. She knew she was stopping off at Cefn Farm, because we were careful to tell her that, but she truly believed it was just to be . . .’ she giggled, ‘a one night stand, so to speak. Then, she thought, she’d go to Cae Hic. Somehow she’s managed to convince herself that once she’s there her speech will return and the left side of her body will start to obey her when she gives it instructions. I talked to the doctor who specialises in stroke patients and he said quite often the patient knows exactly what they want to say but when they begin to speak the words either come out wrong or won’t come out at all. And it seems the same can be said of movement. Mrs P’s brain says reach out with your right and left hands and take the bowl of soup, and she truly believes that this is happening, whereas in reality it is only her right hand which receives the message from her brain and acts upon it.’

‘Gosh, Nonny, ain’t you clever?’ Lana breathed. ‘And what do you think about her going back to Cae Hic, then? Do you think she really will improve once she’s there? If so, then everyone’s done the right thing.’

Nonny shrugged and was beginning to reply when Ellen came into the room, her arms full of gaily wrapped parcels, which she dumped on the bed. ‘Don’t you look at none of them packets, ’cos they’re all for tomorrer,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Can I stick ’em in your chest of drawers? Your mum says you won’t mind. I won’t unpack until after the meal, which Molly is getting on the table right now.’ She sniffed ecstatically, chin in the air, nostrils flaring, looking so like one of the Bisto Kids that Nonny
had to hide a smile. ‘God, I’m so hungry I could eat a perishin’ horse! Come on down, the pair of you, so’s I can get my teeth into that rabbit pie.’

‘Are we all set then? Are you sure you’re warm enough, Mrs Pritchard dear?’ Molly smiled as the old woman, in a positive cocoon of blankets in the back of the jeep, her husband by her side, nodded and tried to say something, but as usual the words got tangled up and emerged meaningless. ‘I’ve packed a hamper with stuff you might need, though Rhodri swears he’ll have you back at Cefn Farm in time for breakfast.’ Molly turned to Rhodri, sitting behind the wheel. ‘The wind’s getting up. Oh, dear, I hope to goodness we’re doing the right thing. Mind you and Nonny get your mum straight into bed as soon as you reach Cae Hic. She’s got a stone hot water bottle at her feet and the rubber sort roundabout waist level . . .’

Rhodri had slid his window back and grinned at Molly through the aperture. He had come out earlier and started the engine, not wanting to have to crank it with the starting handle whilst his passengers were aboard. Now he revved up and began to close his window. ‘You do worry too much, Mrs Roberts,’ he said reproachfully. ‘You’ve done everything and more for our mam; now you must let Da and me make our contribution to her happy Christmas.’

Molly laughed. ‘I only hope we’re not doing your mam a bad turn,’ she said guiltily, ‘but it’s what she wants and perhaps that can’t be bad. Remember, Rhodri, if you need anything, anything at all, you have only to get into the jeep and come down to Cefn Farm.’

Nonny, sitting on the far side of Mrs Pritchard, leaned across and gave her mother a reassuring smile.

‘I’ll take care of them all,’ she said gaily. ‘And Christmas breakfast is one of my favourite meals, so you can be sure I’ll get everyone up in good time. We’ll pack dear Mrs P in all her blankets and scarves and shawls and shovel her into the jeep and come bowling home in time to carry you up a nice hot cup of tea.’ She turned to her companions. ‘We’ll do that, won’t we? That way, no one’s Christmas will be spoilt.’

Mrs Pritchard nodded vigorously, though it was impossible to know whether she had understood all that Nonny said, but Mr Pritchard smiled his comprehension. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ he said, and then, as the car began to move forward, he settled back in his seat and put an arm round his wife’s thin, well-muffled shoulders. ‘Off we go, my dear love,’ he said. ‘Your boy will drive slowly and steer clear of the ruts and we’ll be home before you know it.’

Molly crossed the farmyard, heading for the kitchen, trying to banish her fears for the invalid. To be sure the two farms were only five miles apart and the jeep, though elderly, was usually reliable, but Molly hated to think that something might go wrong. But Nonny and Rhodri were sensible; capable too. I’m a fool to worry, Molly told herself. After all, if something does happen they can return here and no bones broken. She entered the kitchen on the thought and smiled at Ellen and Lana, who were doing the washing up with much clattering of plates and dishes. Her friend raised her brows. ‘They got off all right?’ she asked, then tutted, screwing her normally
happy, sweet-tempered face into an expression of disapproval. ‘I don’t agree with her going, mind. It’s mortal cold out there, not the sort of weather to take an old woman half a mile, let alone five. But of course it weren’t in your power to refuse. The pity of it was that she and her husband had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. They thought home meant Cae Hic. Oh well, I suppose it were a natural enough mistake. I remember you telling me that the old feller had told the doctor he and his wife had always woke up together on Christmas morning. Well, they would have been together at Cefn Farm . . .’

Lana threw her tea towel down on the draining board, picked up a pile of clean plates and began to replace them on the dresser. ‘Do stop carping on and on, Mum,’ she said impatiently. ‘You’ve just said Auntie Molly had no choice but to let them go, so why keep on about it? What’s done is done, and I’m sure Nonny and that Rhodri man are quite capable of getting the old people back to Cae Hic.’ She laughed. ‘If you ask me, Rhodri would have carried his mam ten miles, let alone five, on his bleedin’ back rather than disappoint her. Now, is there anything else what needs doing to get ready for tomorrow?’

Molly smiled at her young guest, glad of the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Yes indeed; there are some sticks of sprouts under the pantry shelf, and some mushrooms too,’ she said. ‘If you bring them out, Lana, together with the potatoes you’ll find next to the sprouts, we can start preparing the vegetables.’ She cocked her head, hearing footsteps approaching the back door. ‘Ah, here comes Rhys. Last thing at night he just checks round the poultry
house and the outbuildings to make sure there’s no foxes or other predators on the prowl.’

Rhys entered the kitchen with Bob Taplow close on his heels. They brought a gust of icy air in with them and both headed for the glowing fire, Rhys shutting the kitchen door with a bang behind him before he crossed the room. He grinned at the three women. ‘Well, are you still fretting because our house party has shrunk?’ he enquired genially. He chucked Molly under the chin. ‘I know you, Molly Roberts. You’re a born worrier, you are, and you’ll spend the night imagining all sorts of horrors, but remember, the Pritchards are by no means alone. Rhodri and Nonny will make sure fires are made up, kettles are boiling and beds aired before anyone gets into them.’ He rubbed his hands together, then smote Bob Taplow across the back so hard that the older man reeled. ‘And I’ve found myself a grand worker in your lodger, Mrs O’Mara! He’s just milked Jessie and despite her efforts managed to stop her from kicking the bucket over.’

Mr Taplow smiled and looked pleased. ‘I guess it’s like what they say about riding a bicycle; once learned, never forgotten,’ he said. ‘Ah, I see you’ve got the kettle on . . .’

Rhys peered into the teapot. ‘A cup of tea is all very well, but this is Christmas Eve and merits something stronger, I believe,’ he said. He turned to their guest. ‘Ellen tells me you brew up a remarkably good hot punch; tell me what you need and we’ll have the ingredients on the kitchen table in no time.’

Bob Taplow agreed and actually went to his room and fetched two lemons which he had brought in the hope,
he said, that he might be invited to brew his punch, and presently Chris came in, having checked that all seemed well with the sheep, to find his parents and their guests laughing and joking over an enormous bowl of steaming punch. He had had to go halfway up the mountain to check on the ewes whose lambs would be born in the spring, and took the mug of punch which Lana handed to him with real gratitude. ‘The sky is clouding over, which means it won’t be quite so cold tomorrow,’ he remarked, taking the proffered mug. ‘Are those mince pies I see before me? Chuck us a couple, Auntie Ellen.’

Molly had intended to have an early night, and hoped that her guests would follow suit, but because of the punch, the preparation of the vegetables for the next day and a game of Pelmanism which caused much hilarity, and went on for longer than one would have believed possible, it was eleven o’clock before Chris and Lana collected up the playing cards and said that they would do a last round of the yard and outbuildings before they came to bed.

‘It’s not necessary for you to go out into this cold, Lana my love,’ Molly said quickly. ‘I’m boiling the kettle for hot bottles and cocoa, so why don’t you join the queue?’ Lana shot Molly an odd sort of look and once again Molly wondered whether Lana suspected that she was not loved. It was not true, of course; Molly loved the child, she was just afraid that given the slightest encouragement Lana and Chris might . . . but she was being ridiculous! Circling the freezing farmyard on Christmas Eve was scarcely the sort of inducement to lovemaking which Molly was imagining. So she watched the two young people changing slippers for boots,
struggling into their coats and enveloping themselves in scarves, woolly hats and gloves. There was much hilarity as they did so, but when Chris pushed open the back door and gestured to his companion to go out, all laughter ceased. Snow whirled past the doorway, driven almost horizontally by the wind, which had scarcely disturbed the branches earlier in the evening. Molly gasped and snatched at her son’s arm. ‘How long has this been going on?’ she asked wildly. ‘Oh, Chris, suppose the jeep got caught in this storm? Suppose . . .’

Chris had wound his scarf round his mouth, but he pulled it down to answer her. ‘Don’t be daft! They’d have been home and probably fast asleep in bed before this little lot started. I heard the wind getting up earlier, but it wasn’t more than an hour ago at the most.’ He turned to Lana. ‘Perhaps you’d better stay indoors . . .’ he began, but Lana just laughed and plunged into the snowy farmyard.

‘You start on the left and I’ll start on the right,’ she shouted. ‘Your dad closed the hen house earlier, so the poultry should be all right. In fact, it’s the foxes that I feel sorry for.’

Back in the kitchen, Molly filled hot water bottles and made mugs of warming cocoa. Rhys had assured her that the depth of snow in the farmyard proved without doubt that the snow could not have started to fall before ten o’clock at the earliest, which meant that the Pritchards and Nonny would have been safely tucked up in Cae Hic long since. Armed with this knowledge, Molly made her preparations for her guests’ comfort, but she was glad when the back door burst open and Chris and Lana, snow-covered, came back into the room.

‘All serene out there,’ Chris said, beginning to brush snow off his outer garments whilst Lana pulled off her borrowed wellingtons and beat the snow off her coat before hanging it on its hook behind the door. Chris crossed the room and gave his mother a hug. ‘And now you can just stop worrying,’ he instructed her. ‘You’ve had a hard day and tomorrow, knowing you, you’ll be working from dawn to dusk, so you
must
get a decent night’s sleep.’

Ellen, fetching biscuits out of the pantry, seconded this remark. ‘We’ve done the veggies and I’ve made the stuffing. Lana is going to do the bread sauce and Nonny will scrape the carrots,’ she reminded her friend. ‘What time do you want us up tomorrow, Moll? Only let’s have a bit of a lie-in, eh? It’s not as though we were kids, dying to get at our stockings!’

‘Well, it isn’t really light at this time of year until around eight, and if I know our Nonny she’ll have hustled and bustled them into the jeep by then,’ Molly said. ‘If the blizzard goes on blowing, of course, it may well change things. But for once in my life . . .’ she smiled affectionately at Rhys, ‘I’ll try to do as my husband tells me, and stop worrying.’

‘Good,’ Rhys said, but Molly saw that he was looking guilty. She raised her brows at him, wanting an explanation. ‘Well, Chris and I will probably get up pretty early, if the blizzard has stopped, that is, to check on the sheep. If any of them are in trouble . . .’

Molly sighed, handed out bedroom candles and stood on tiptoe to turn out the hissing pressure lamp. ‘Who’s talking about being a worrier now?’ she asked, smiling fondly at Rhys, stretched out in his favourite chair in
front of the range. ‘But I think the wind’s dropping; perhaps we can both stop fretting for a few hours.’