A Sixpenny Christmas (20 page)

He had once visited a logging company in Canada, and now recognised the dam for what it was, assuming, however, that the kids had been making themselves a bathing pool, since he had no idea that sheep had to be washed before shearing. Then, having satisfied his curiosity, he had returned to his hide-out.

Now he waited for an outcry from either Ellen or one
of the others when they discovered the theft of bread and eggs, but if there was such a discovery there was no sign of it from here. Sam chuckled to himself, visualising the scene inside the dairy: Ellen’s puzzlement at the missing loaf and her conclusion that she must have miscounted the day before. He was sure she would not notice the loss of the eggs, though he did wonder about the pats of butter. They had been laid out in two neat rows, so he had taken one pat off each and thought that with luck they would not have been counted and the loss would not be remarked upon. He doubted very much if anyone would miss the jam or the brightly burnished little pan, but if they did, what would it matter? Ellen, he knew, was a somewhat careless housewife; she had been known to throw out two or three of the best teaspoons when she had not noticed them lying in the bottom of the washing-up water, and he had had to give her an absent-minded clack once or twice for running out of bacon or tea. He remembered she had once turned quite nasty when he had suggested she should run down to the corner shop and buy him a bottle of Guinness instead. No doubt she’d be equally careless here.

Sam had finished his breakfast by this time, rounding off the egg sandwich with a large slice of bread and jam. He had taken a long drink of milk from the blue and white jug while he was in the dairy so was not thirsty, and now that the early morning bustle in the farmyard below had settled into silence once more he lay back on his bracken couch, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and telling himself that Ellen did not deserve such a wonderful way of life and that, very soon now, she would get what she truly did deserve: worry, misery, and his ransom note.

He gazed up into the brilliant blue of the sky and decided to have five minutes before beginning what to him was a daunting task: writing the ransom note. Overhead a white dove winged its leisurely way across the blue. Sam’s lids drooped; his five minutes became ten . . . fifteen . . .

With a smile curling his loose lips, Sam slept.

Ellen carried the full buckets of milk into the dairy and glanced around the room which had become her domain, thinking that she would really miss it when her friend came out of hospital later that day. She had told both Rhys and Molly that she had never baked bread in her life, and this was true, though whenever she had sufficient time at home she baked cakes and pies, knowing they were better value – and tasted better – than the shop-bought ones. Despite her initial fears, however, she had taken to breadmaking like a duck to water. To begin with she had one or two failures, but once she had grown accustomed to the length of time it took for the loaves to prove her baking had, Rhys told her, become every bit as good as Molly’s.

So now, as she entered the dairy with her two full buckets of milk, her eyes went straight to the three loaves which she had baked the evening before and had left in the window embrasure to cool. She went across to the cooler and poured in the contents of her buckets. Then she turned to stare at the three loaves, then stared again. There were only two. She remembered perfectly getting the tins out of the oven, each with its burden of perfect bread, shaking the loaves gently from the tins on to a wire tray – there had just been room for the three of them
– and carrying it through to the dairy to cool. She had come through what Molly referred to as the still room, and now she wondered whether she had absent-mindedly taken one of the loaves off the wire tray and stood it on the shelf with the jars of jam and bottled fruit. She opened the door to check that no loaf lurked there, and the swiftest of glances showed her that she had done no such thing. No, her memory had not played her false: three loaves of bread she had baked, three loaves of bread she had carried through into the dairy, and three loaves of bread should now be standing in the window embrasure, waiting for her to take one of them back to the kitchen for breakfast.

When Lana entered the dairy a moment later, she found her mother still staring at the loaves of bread, a puzzled frown on her face. She returned Lana’s ‘Good morning’ rather absently, and went on, ‘Lana, something very odd has happened. I baked three loaves last night, didn’t I?’

Lana, who was laying the breakfast table and had come into the dairy to fetch some butter, shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ she said vaguely. ‘Why d’you ask?’

‘Because there are only two loaves on the windowsill now,’ her mother said. ‘The window wasn’t really open – well, just a crack – so I don’t think it was an animal. Was it one of you kids?’

For answer her daughter turned and shouted over her shoulder, ‘Me mum says someone’s took a loaf of bread off of the windowsill in the dairy. Did someone fancy a snack during the night?’

Chris came in and peered curiously at the two remaining loaves. ‘If there really is one missing, it’ll be a tramp,’ he announced. ‘They don’t take stuff as a rule,
’cos they know that if they come to the door and ask our mum will give them grub and maybe a bottle of cold tea. But if one of them came to the farm late, after we were all in bed, I guess he’d of helped himself. Anything else missing?’

Ellen cast a quick glance round the room, then shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Oh well, that’s a relief; when I saw two loaves where three should have been I thought I were goin’ light in the head. Now, let’s get on with breakfast.’

During the meal she told Rhys about the missing loaf, thinking that perhaps he had moved the bread to another spot for some reason, but it was Nonny who provided the most understandable clue. ‘The moon was at the full last night, wasn’t it?’ she remarked, porridge spoon poised. ‘The light fell on my face and woke me up so I hopped out of bed and went very quietly to draw the curtains across. I stood there for a moment, looking out, because it was so beautiful, all black and silver; a bit like the cowboy films they show in the village hall every month.’

Rhys raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s that got to do with the missing loaf?’ he enquired. ‘Or are you about to tell us that you saw one of the fairy folk sliding down a moonbeam and ending up just under the dairy window?’

‘Don’t be so horrid, Dad; it’s years since I believed in fairies,’ Nonny said hotly. ‘No, it wasn’t anything like that. I thought I saw the shadow of someone heading out of the farmyard; I couldn’t see a person, mind, just a shadow. So if Chris’s right and it was a tramp I reckon he must have made the shadow I saw.’

‘Well, so long as he wasn’t after the hens,’ Rhys said
absently. ‘Your mum is so proud of her Rhode Island Reds, and the way her flock is increasing, that I’d hate to admit we’d lost one in her absence.’

Nonny, now eating porridge with gusto, shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. When I let them out of their hut this morning every single one came out alive and kicking. Well, all except the broody; she stayed stuck to her eggs and made that sort of growling purr when I went in so I knew she was fine. I put my hand under her to see whether the eggs had started to crack, and she pecked so hard at my fingers that I’ve got the scars to prove it. I wouldn’t have interfered with her, only Mum’s coming home today and it would be a lovely surprise if she could see fluffy yellow heads poking out from under the broody’s wings.’

Lana and her mother had decided that Molly should be welcomed home by a present from them, and had agonised over what to buy, finally deciding on an embroidered tablecloth for when Molly entertained the members of the local Women’s Institute to tea. Now Nonny decided that she too would welcome her mother home with a gift. In the village the previous day she had noticed on the post office counter some boxes of chicks awaiting either delivery or collection, she was not sure which. If she hurried down to the village again today she might be able to buy half a dozen of the dear little things, and present them to her mother as soon as Molly reached the farm once more. She would say nothing about it to Chris, or he would insist on a half share in the gift and she wanted it to be just from herself. However, she did tell Lana, in strictest confidence, about her cunning plan, and the other girl thought it a wonderful idea.

All through the morning Nonny worked at her chores, and when Ellen called that the midday meal was ready she joined the others round the long kitchen table. Jacob was in high fettle, getting as excited over Molly’s return as her own family. He had searched the countryside for something to give as a welcome home present, and had ended up with a rabbit, skinned, jointed and ready for the oven, since he said he knew the missus was rare fond of rabbit pie. Old Mr Williams, who had come to the farm almost every day during Molly’s absence, had been excited as well. He had cut a grand bunch of Mrs Sinkins pinks from his own garden, and the Pritchards, who had dispatched Rhodri to help Rhys and Jacob in any way he could, had also sent a gift. The previous evening the young man had turned up on the doorstep, grinning shyly. ‘My mam’s done a big bake and thought you might find a use for this,’ he said, putting a parcel down on the kitchen table, and opening it to display an enormous fruit loaf. ‘My mam knows Mrs Roberts is rare fond of bara brith, so a welcome home present, it is, from us all.’

He was heartily thanked and invited to share in the supper Ellen was putting on the table, but had regretfully refused. ‘Kind of you it is, but I’d best be off home. Tomorrow I’ve promised to go over to Beddgelert, to help my dad’s pal to earmark his lambs, so I’ll get an early night.’

Now, as they ate their midday meal, Rhys asked who would be accompanying him to the hospital. Everyone wanted to be of the party, but Rhys had to shake his head. ‘There wouldn’t be room for all of us,’ he pointed out. ‘Mum’s case will go in the boot and she’ll sit in the passenger seat on the way home, so there’s really only
room for Auntie Ellen and one of you kids; which shall it be?’

Chris sighed. ‘It can’t be me,’ he said regretfully. ‘Someone’s got to look after the farm. And it shouldn’t be Nonny because she’ll get our dinners and give an eye to the house. Which leaves dear little useless Lana – sorry, sorry, only joking – who’d probably be afraid to stay at the farm anyway once the workers have gone home and there are no grown-ups left.’

Lana stiffened. She had honestly believed that Chris had looked upon her with more favour since the building of the dam, but now it appeared she still had to prove herself, so she said: ‘I’ll stay and help Nonny with supper and that. I’ll help with the chores too. I’m not frightened of the hens any more, so I’ll chase them into the hut, count them, and close the pop-hole when they’re all safe inside.’

‘Are you sure, queen?’ Ellen said doubtfully. ‘I can tell you mean to be useful and to help Chris and Nonny in any way you can, but I’m sure they’ll understand if you’d rather come with me.’ She turned to Rhys. ‘I’ve worked as a hospital cleaner in Liverpool, so I know what I’m talking about when I warn you that it takes rather a long time to discharge someone from hospital, especially when they’re on crutches – hospital property crutches – and need to return for prescriptions and appointments and so on. Even if we set out in the next half hour I bet it’ll be dark before we’re back at Cefn Farm again.’

Lana, however, was adamant. Apart from anything else she guessed that Rhys would drive fast on the outward journey, if not on the return, and when the little car swayed and leapt over the poorly maintained
mountain roads she always had to fight an urge to throw up. No, she would be better staying with Nonny and Chris and giving what help she could.

Rhys beamed around the table; it was clear he could scarcely hide his excitement and delight at the thought of having Molly home once more. ‘Right you are, then,’ he said breezily. ‘Well, if that’s settled we’d best get off or Ellen will be proved right and it’ll be midnight before we can seek our beds.’

The children waved the baby Morris off, proud of the trust that Rhys had placed in them, for there had not been one suggestion that Mr Williams or Jacob should stay beyond their allotted time. As soon as the car had disappeared round the bend into the lane, Chris went to fetch the pigswill and the girls returned to the farmhouse. ‘We’ll make up Mum’s bed with clean sheets and put Mr Williams’s flowers beside it,’ Nonny said importantly. ‘Do you know how to make Welsh cakes? I’ll show you; it’s ever so easy, and Mum loves them. Then we’ll go and see if there’s anything we can do to help Chris. Oh, it’ll be so wonderful to see Mum at Cefn Farm again!’

From his hide-out well above the farm, Sam watched with lazy interest as the small figures below him came and went. When he saw Ellen and the dark-haired man drive away he went down to the post office in the village and bought a slab of fruit cake, two bottles of beer and four thick slices of ham as well as half a dozen floury white baps, explaining to the girl who served him that he was on a walking holiday in the area. ‘Well, the right weather you have chosen for it,’ the girl remarked. ‘Though my dad, who’s a rare weather prophet, says it’s
too hot; sultry like. He reckons we need a storm to clear the air. And he says we’ll get one before very long, too.’

Sam muttered some reply and hurried out of the shop, pulling his cap even further over his low forehead. Then he returned to his hide-out to wait for dusk. Of course it was possible that the odd little car might return any moment, and then he might have to reconsider his kidnap. But he hoped for the best; he had been lucky so far, finding Cefn Farm so easily, managing to steal food without being spotted, and above all discovering the ideal hide-out from which to spy on his erring wife and daughter. Sam was sure, now, that his luck would hold. He had noted that the w.c. was in the little hut right at the end of the long vegetable garden. When bedtime approached, every single one of the inhabitants of the farm visited that hut; that would be the moment for Sam to make his snatch.