Chapter 2
‘Dad?’ I shout, getting out of the car, which I’ve parked in the yard, next to his old Land Rover.
The dogs don’t give up their incessant barking, circling me, despite my best efforts at being strict. Matthew hasn’t even got out of the car yet.
‘Dad! We’re here!’ I call again, hauling my well-travelled case from the back seat, and the bag of Christmas presents.
A new jumper and socks. ‘What’s Christmas without new socks?
’ he would always say, when I asked him what he wanted.
I’ve brought festive food and drink for him too, to enjoy after we’ve gone.
Usually he’d be standing on the front-door step, in the open-sided wooden porch, under the lantern light, his smile as wide as his open arms, waiting to hug me.
I may be all grown-up now, but I still want my hug.
The sort of hug that tells you, whatever is going on in your life, it’s all going to be okay.
‘Dad? Where are you? We’re here!’ I call into the rain that’s sliding sideways across the front of the farmhouse, exposed but with a clear view over the fields below and the stock.
There isn’t even a light on outside. Or in the kitchen.
Don’t tell me he’s forgotten what time we’re due and nipped into town.
I say, ‘nipped’: it’s down the drive, then the twisty lane, which holidaymakers attempt to drive along as a shortcut when they’re towing caravans and boats, and onto the main road that finally leads to town.
But the Land Rover is there, so he must be too.
‘Dad?’ I hurry towards the front door, which is part-open, as it often is, the dogs coming in and out.
‘We’re here!’ I call, carrying my case and the festive treats for Dad.
A bottle of his favourite Welsh whisky, a tin of shortbread, some local cheese, a bottle of red from our suppliers, some posh dog treats for the gang, who are still running around barking like they’re possessed, and a jar of spicy, pickled onions with a real kick.
They’re made just down the road and I stopped off to buy them, as I always do when I come home.
‘Matthew, grab your case and the onions and bring them in,’ I call over the rain. ‘And the wine from the boot. This way!’ I point towards the door and run on ahead.
In the kitchen, it’s cold. Despite the front door being open it’s usually warm in here.
The range is always on. I look around. No sign of dinner waiting.
No cawl on the go – he’ll make a batch that lasts him for days.
It’s that or fried eggs on toast when the hens are laying.
I frown. I touch the range as I pass it on the way to put my bags down. It’s stone cold.
Ffion is running to and from the living room barking, as if she’s telling Dad I’m here … or, and I go cold, even colder than I was, telling me that Dad is there.
‘Dad?’ I run into the living room and he’s in his chair. The fire in the grate is dead.
He looks at me, his eyes wide and confused. ‘IshnososurchIfeelingwoof …’
I stare at him in shock. Is he drunk?
No. He’s not drunk, but he is in shock. ‘It’s okay, Dad. I’m here. You’re going to be fine.’
The dogs stop barking. I reach for the landline phone, which is on the table beside him, a letter underneath it. Yes, he still has a landline: the mobile reception around here is generally dreadful.
‘Jem!’ I hear Matthew call my name as I’m dialling 999.
‘In here,’ I call back. ‘It’s Dad. I think he’s had a stroke or something.
’ Then to Dad, ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I say.
‘I’m here … Hello? Ambulance, please!’ I put my hand on Dad’s.
‘They’re on their way, Dad,’ I tell him, as I hang up, feeling his cold hands.
Blankets. I need to keep him warm. Like we’d do with the lambs that struggle when they’re first born.
I run into the kitchen, grab the latch and pull back the internal wooden door to run upstairs for blankets.
My old bedroom is as I remember it – it always is.
But Dad has put on fresh bedding and laid out towels, clearly getting ready for our stay.
I toss the towels onto the floor, yank the duvet off my bed and run back downstairs with it in my arms, my nose in its folds, smelling the comfort of home as I do.
‘There you are,’ I say.
Matthew is standing in the doorway, holding his case, a box of wine and a jar of pickled onions, rain dripping from his neatly cut short hair.
‘Did you hear me calling you?’ I ask.
‘No, sorry, I was in the car, just waiting for the rain to pass. But it didn’t. God, it’s wet out there! Did you say you were calling me? What did you say?’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s Dad!’
‘Oh, yes? Where is he? Looking forward to saying hello.’ He looks left then right, sniffs and looks down at the sole of his smart brogue. The corners of his mouth turn down. ‘But I think I may have stepped in something … unpleasant,’ he says.
But Matthew’s brogues are the last thing on my mind right now.