Chapter 5
The next morning, Sunday, when I wake up in my old bedroom in the big brass bed with the thick eiderdown, it’s still freezing.
Under the covers, it’s warm as toast, but beyond the warmth of my bed, I can feel the cold nipping at the tip of my nose, making it itch.
I remember these mornings only too well.
Sometimes there would be ice on the inside of the glass. Today it’s just cold and dark.
I steel myself, push back the covers quickly and dive straight to my case, pulling on as many layers as I can. Matthew seems to have gone to bed in all his clothes, including a smart grey beanie hat, and is still in them, fast asleep.
I take a look at his sleeping face. Dad may not be here, but I really do want to show Matthew where I grew up and why I love this place so much.
Hopefully, after breakfast, I can take him out and introduce him to the land, particularly Gramps’s field.
It’s the big one just below the house. That field made Gramps want to come to this farm.
The views are amazing, and there is a wooden bench where he would sit to look out over the sheep and feel that all was well.
It’s always been a special place. It’s the perfect spot.
Now, though, my head turns to hospitality. Breakfast. The last of the bread, and maybe more eggs.
I consider the café in town. Beti’s. That was the place to go around here. She always did a brilliant breakfast. I remember Dad telling me that Beti had died, but her son had taken it over. I hope it’s still as good as it was.
Downstairs, I’m shivering as I pull on Dad’s coat, my old wellingtons, pink with flowers, that have seen better days, a woollen hat, and a head torch that’s hanging on the hooks.
I go to check the flock and deliver hay to them from the back of the old Land Rover, which is as reluctant as I am to get going this morning.
The rain is back and relentless. I do a tour of the fields, checking for any fences down in the wind last night, and prop them up as best I can.
Others will need new stakes and stock fencing and I’ll tackle them when it’s light.
I check the water butts, but they’re running clear, no ice yet.
After I’ve fed the ewes, Bertie the ram, his field mate Harriet, a small Welsh mountain pony, and the three chickens that Dad still has, I drive back to the farmhouse with the dogs. When I was growing up, Dad had lots of chickens and Dad did an egg round.
In the kitchen, it’s still cold. Not like the early mornings I remember as a child, when I would run downstairs and the range would be on, opening its arms and giving me a great big hug.
There’s no fancy coffee machine here, I think, with a smile, remembering the joy of the one Matthew bought me for my last birthday that now sits pride of place in our small apartment at the hotel.
I love turning it on in the mornings. Now I stand with my back to the range, wishing it would warm my backside, while waiting for the electric kettle to boil.
I watch the clock, wondering what would be a reasonable time to ring the hospital to ask how Dad is.
The puppy is chasing Ffion’s tail, playfully tapping at it and biting it but she doesn’t mind or even notice, just looks at me as if waiting for news.
His energy is boundless, running in and out of the living room, pulling blankets and cushions onto the floor and tossing them around with carefree abandon.
I stare out of the window overlooking the yard, as it starts to slip from darkness to daylight, wondering what today will bring.
Wondering if Dad has had a good night, if and how he’s going to recover from this …
and where to start trying to help while I’m here.
The fallen gate, the swinging sign, checking the flock.
And what happens to Dad when I leave? I look down at the puppy playing.
How’s Dad going to cope with all of this when he needs to take it easy and recover?
I decide to go and keep an eye out for the oil tanker.
I slip into my boots, pull on Dad’s jacket and a woolly hat from the hooks beside the back door.
There’s always an odd selection there. I’ve no idea which belongs to whom, but I pull one over my ears, grab the head torch and go to open the door.
There’s a knock and the dogs jump up, barking. I’m hoping it’s the oil delivery.
‘Hi!’ I say, looking at a man in an expensive countryside coat, thick gloves and polished yard boots. He’s fully prepared for the weather by the look of it.
‘Hi,’ he says, raising a hand, and smiling. It’s actually an alarmingly good-looking smile.
‘Er, the tank’s over there. You know it, right?’ I point at the oil tank. He glances over his shoulder. ‘Hang on, I’ll show you,’ I say, glad of the distraction right now.
‘Er, actually, I came to see how Edwin is. Are you his daughter? Jemima?’
That stops me in my tracks. I’ve no idea who he is.
‘Oh, he’s …’ I look at the clock. It’s nine. ‘I’m about to phone the hospital.’ I note the lack of signal on my phone – it’ll have to be the land line. Then I look back at the stranger. ‘Sorry, who are you?’
‘I’m Llew. Llewelyn Griffiths. Your dad and I are talking through some options … for the farm.’
I stare at him blankly. ‘With an oil delivery?’ I look around for the delivery truck.
‘Sorry, no. Erm … Just came to see how he was.’
The dogs give a bark but quickly settle and sniff around his feet, around his clean but well-worn ridgeback ankle boots. Clearly a man used to being outdoors, just not working in it.
‘Oh, no news yet, but I can give you my number if that helps.’
‘Sure.’ He pulls out his phone and types as I say my name and reel off my number. And then, as he’s confirming the details, he says, ‘Actually, sorry, but did you know that your ram is out?’ He points over his shoulder.
I frown. ‘The ram?’
‘Yes, big bugger. Seems to be having a fine old time in with the ewes. I’m thinking he’s not supposed to be there, but I wasn’t sure.’
‘The ram’s in with the ewes? But how? The gates were shut!’ I must have missed a fallen fence in the dark. ‘The ram’s in with the ewes!’ I realize what this means. ‘He can get in … and they could get out! Quick!’
The man on the doorstep doesn’t need asking twice. He throws his phone onto the work surface, with a bag of something that smells warm and delicious. I pull the door open and run down the drive, with him in step beside me.
As we reach the field – I’m wearing the head torch – I call instructions.
‘You go left,’ I say ‘I’ll go right.’
Ffion is beside me. There are sheep all over the drive and, clearly having a fine old time, so is Bertie the ram.
At last, with Bertie back in his field, the ewes in theirs, we click the final gate shut, breathing heavily.
‘Well, it’s been a while since I’ve rounded up any stock,’ I say, panting.
‘And a first for me!’ he says, leaning on the gate.
‘Thank you. You were good. Fast.’
‘No problem. But maybe make sure your gate gets fixed at the end of the drive and check for any fallen fences.’
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
His breathing calms quicker than mine does. ‘That would be very welcome,’ he says, and again gives me his very attractive smile.
I can’t help but smile back as we turn to walk towards the farmhouse. It’s cold now, and the wind is biting.
‘So, you’re here visiting your dad?’ he asks.
‘Well, I was. But then he had this turn. Not really sure how long I’ll be here.’
‘It’s a lot for him to manage on his own.’
‘It is,’ I say, worry creeping into my voice.
We head for the farmhouse, where the light is on over the door, as it always was. Not like when we arrived the other night.
I pull off my boots and hat. ‘Thank you again for spotting Bertie and helping,’ I say.
‘No problem. I may not be a farmer, but I’ve worked with a few.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘I expect your dad’s told you about me.’
I frown and shake my head, blowing on the tea and wrapping my hands around the cup.
‘We’ve been in conversation. I was due to meet with him over these couple of days. It’s why I’m in the area.’
I frown again. ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’
‘Llew. Llewelyn. Your dad doesn’t really do things by email, so I thought I’d visit in person. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’
‘Well, how are you with a hammer and screws to fix a fallen gate?’
He laughs. ‘Not as handy as I’d like to be!’
I laugh with him.
‘Sorry, you said you and Dad were talking through some options for the farm?’
‘Yes, I’m’ – he corrects himself – ‘we’re working with him, as you probably know.’
‘Working with him? What do you mean?’
‘Well, maybe you’d better speak to your dad.’
‘Okay,’ I say, confused. ‘I’m just waiting to call the hospital. Find out how he’s doing. I’m hoping they won’t keep him in too long. But I do need oil so I can get the heating on before he comes home,’ I say. Heat will make things a lot better.
‘Tell him I sent my best.’ He raises a hand and turns to leave. ‘I brought these,’ he says, handing over the bag and the tray of cups from a big-brand coffee shop he had been carrying when he arrived.
I take them from him. ‘I didn’t even know they had a store here!’
‘Just outside town,’ he says. ‘Drive-through. Quite a few of them popping up nowadays. People like the convenience.’
‘Wow! That’s progress here,’ I say. How different things are since I was growing up: drive-through coffees compared to Beti’s, where the fire would be lit and there’d be the hubbub of chatter, the steamed-up front window and no need for social media because nothing got past Beti: she knew everything that was going on.
He turns to leave, holding up a hand. ‘As I said, let me know if there’s anything I can do.’