Chapter 19
The following morning, after a freezing start with the ewes, I run into the farmhouse kitchen. Dad is in his armchair, with a blanket over his legs. ‘I’m going to the café, Dad.’
‘For the sit-in?’ His eyes dance with excitement.
‘Yes. I’m going to take some more cawl and some of Myfanwy’s Welsh cakes. I’ve made sourdough too. I don’t think it’s come out too badly – hers is better, of course.’
‘I can come!’ he says, pushing the blanket off his legs.
‘Evie wouldn’t approve of that.’ I adjust the blanket. ‘You still need to rest.’
‘But I’ve been sitting here for bloomin’ ages! It’s been nearly two weeks! How do people do it? Just sit and watch TV all day?’
‘It’s not for much longer,’ I say, without knowing how much longer, but I do know I must keep him safe and well.
He’s all I have, apart from Matthew and work.
And suddenly I’m thinking about a different life, a million miles away from this one.
A life I used to live. I’m not sure I want to go back to it.
I put the key into the Land Rover and it seems to take even longer than usual to start. ‘Come on, come on!’ I cajole the vehicle.
I have the pot of cawl on the front seat, with the seatbelt around it.
The engine growls but doesn’t ignite.
‘Woof!’ Ffion barks.
Dad is standing outside, dressed and wearing a pink hat he’s clearly just picked off the hooks. It could be an old one of mine or even Nan’s, with a bow at the front. He’s wearing a big coat, which he used to fill but which now hangs from his shoulders.
I push open the Land Rover’s stiff door. ‘Dad? What are you doing out here?’ I call over the wind and the rain that is freckling my face.
I jump out and run across the yard to him, coat flapping.
‘Coming with you,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘I told you. I can’t just sit around any more.
It’s not good for me or my mental health.
I saw it on one of those morning TV programmes.
You have to keep physically and mentally active.
I’m going mad with boredom just sitting in the farmhouse.
I could do with a bowl of cawl and some company. ’
‘You can’t! The café isn’t open. Remember, I told you!’
‘I know. I may have had sepsis, but I’m not going doo-lally. You’ve taken over the café. And if there’s a sit-in going on, the one thing I can do is sit.’ He gives a wonky but familiar smile.
‘Dad, you’re—’
‘Ill? Or sick? Sick of worrying about what I’m going to do with this place? Sick of thinking about solar bloody panels? Or how I’m going to pay for the next oil delivery and feed bill?’
I drop my head.
‘I’m not stupid, Jem, I really am out of options. I don’t know how to make the farm pay any more.’
‘Does that mean we’re going to have to sell Gramps’s field?’
‘I can’t see any other option. I may be a bit creaky in the joints, but my mind is still going. Still whirring. It’ll be good to take it elsewhere for a little while. Be good to see some people. Conjure up a bit of mischief!’
I can’t help but smile: the Dad I know and love is back. ‘Come on, then. But you have to promise to sit and not do anything taxing. Apart from carry the cawl on your lap.’
‘Promise!’ He grins.
I take his arm and steady him to the Land Rover, open the passenger door and help him in, then lay a blanket over his legs. He tells me to stop fussing but lets me do it anyway.
I pull the seatbelt over him and place the pot of cawl on his lap. It’s warm – it’ll be like a hot-water bottle.
‘Right, come on, old girl.’ I pat the Land Rover’s steering wheel, take a deep breath and turn the key again. I press the accelerator and she roars into life.
‘Stay there, Ffion! Guard the house – especially against solar-panel salesmen,’ I instruct the dog, standing in the covered porch. She lies down with Dewi next to her, not minding the wind or rain. She has a job to do.
As I manoeuvre the Land Rover out of the drive, the rain eases and, on the horizon, the other side of the valley, the sun makes an appearance, reminding me of the beautiful days I spent here on the farm growing up.
When I imagine it covered with solar panels, my teeth grind, like the gears of the Land Rover.
We bump down the drive to the gates. I get out to open them, drive through, then shut them firmly to keep Bertie and Harriet where they’re supposed to be.
‘Um, talking of Bertie. He got out.’
‘Did he?’
‘That annoying woman in the cottage told me he’d attacked her before. But I’m guessing he’s been getting out and in with the ewes.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Some of them could have been pregnant before they were meant to be.’
Dad goes silent.
‘Don’t worry,’ I comfort him, as he owns up to one of the balls he’s dropped lately. ‘I’ve mended the fence.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been meaning to do it. But with so much else to manage, and it being just me …’
‘I can stay on, Dad,’ I say.
He shakes his head, and the pink hat wobbles. ‘No, Jem, I can’t let you. You have a job to get back to and a trip you’re going to tell me about. You don’t want to be here looking after me. I’ll be fine.’
‘That’s what you always say,’ I remind him crossly.
‘And, clearly, it’s not fine! Besides, it’s not just a trip, Dad.
It’s not a holiday. They want me to move out there.
Take over a new hotel. Extend the brand.
Me and Matthew. I know you wanted me to spread my wings, see the world, Dad, and that’s what this is.
But I don’t want to leave. I’m not Mum. And I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to Mum. ’
I notice Llew Griffiths’s car has gone and wonder if he has too.
‘Okay, so maybe fine’s pushing it a bit. But I’m getting by, Jem. I can’t let you stay for me.’
‘Getting by, but only just, with money from the potatoes you’re selling to the café.’
‘I know, I know,’ he says, brushing me off, and peering out of the window as we pass the flock.
This place, the sheep, the way of life, makes him happy.
And if people like Dad aren’t producing food to put on our tables, who is?
Super-farmers from the States or elsewhere, and the last thing on their minds is the welfare of the animals. I get cross all over again.
I put the windscreen wipers on as the rain returns.
‘It’s just it’s not easy for one. I don’t have the same energy to do it just for me. But I’ll do better when you go, I promise,’ he says, not catching my eye.
We drive in silence for a while, looking at the hedges still heavy with berries.
‘Going to be a cold one,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that what you always said if the hedges were full of berries?’
‘Or maybe just a tough one,’ says Dad, thoughtfully. ‘But Mother Nature seems to find ways of providing.’
If only she would for Dad and the farm.
I pull up outside the café. The blinds are drawn.
For a moment I think about the new job in Seattle.
I should be thinking about it. I know Dad thinks I should take it.
But I can’t stop thinking about this place, the big companies taking over the independents, the farmers who can’t feed their families.
I get out of the Land Rover and pull my coat around me.
I knock on the café door. There’s no reply. ‘Mae, it’s Jem.’
The blind is pulled back, just a bit. There she is, the shy girl from school, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose but has taken on her bosses. She waves and beckons me in. She opens the door a little way.
‘Are you okay? Cold?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine. The fire’s in.’ She points to the wood-burner.
‘Anyone been here?’ I ask
She shakes her head. ‘It’s just me. Owen’s gone to check on his heifers. He’ll be back soon.’
‘I brought you some cawl. Thought we could take some to Twm Bach as well for lunch.’
‘Good idea! I’m starving – I’ve eaten all the ice-cream wafers and the cheese and onion crisps.’
‘I’ve got Dad in the Land Rover. Can he come in too?’
‘Of course!’
She holds the door while I run back to get Dad and the bowl of cawl. ‘Looks like I came at the right time,’ says a voice from beside Dad.
‘Owen!’ I smile, as does Dad.
‘Good to see you, lad. You doing okay? I’m still feeling so bad about having to lay you off.’
‘We’ve all got to take care of ourselves now, Edwin. You included. And you know if you need anything you can always ask.’
‘I was just embarrassed, having had to—’
‘No need. We’re old friends. We go way back. You just ask.’
‘Diolch, son. Thank you,’ says Dad, a little choked.
Tears spring to my eyes and, just for a moment, I wonder how it would have been, if Owen and I … What would life have been like? Would we have made the farm work?
‘Come on, let’s get you in,’ he says, leading Dad to the café door, and I watch them go in.
Mae is beckoning. ‘Come on, quick!’
I hurry after them and she locks the door behind me, then pushes the sideboard over it.
‘Here, let me!’ says Owen, helping her. ‘But hang on. I’ve got something in the truck.’
‘Dad, you sit here.’ I point to one of Beti’s armchairs by the fire. ‘Mae, this is my dad. Mae and I were at school together Dad, but we didn’t really know each other then.’
‘She was one of the older, cooler kids,’ Mae says.
‘Who’s the cool one now?’ I giggle.
‘Pleased to meet you. And well done on what you’re doing. We all need to find a way to be heard right now.’ He does as he’s told and sits in one of Beti’s chairs by the fire.
I put the cawl on the table. ‘Now what?’ I answer myself. ‘Well, first off, I wish we could have a cuppa. I should have brought flasks.’
There’s a knock at the door. Owen is there carrying something big. We push back the sideboard. ‘A generator. Thought you could use this for leccy! Get some spuds on the go, that sort of thing. And make tea.’
‘Brilliant!’ says Mae.
And we do.
There’s another knock. Mae looks out and so do I.
‘It’s Myfanwy!’
Mae shoves back the sideboard.
‘I’ve brought bara brith – I heard what you were doing. Well done!’ Myfanwy says, with a grin.
‘Come in,’ says Mae. ‘Have a cup of tea.’