A Sixpenny Christmas (42 page)

Chris was already struggling out of bed. ‘I’ll dress, and go on foot. If the tractor broke down and Dad’s walking he’s bound to take a good deal longer than you’d expect,’ he said consolingly. ‘Don’t worry any more, Mum; that’ll be it. I know the tractor’s fairly new, but engines are unreliable things. Is the storm bad, then? I can hear how the wind’s got up since I came to bed.’

‘It’s frightful,’ Molly said with a shudder. ‘Do you think you’ll be quicker on Wanderer, Chris, or on foot?’

Chris shrugged, and added the thick Guernsey Molly handed him to the clothing he had already put on. ‘I’ll take a look at the conditions and make up my mind when I see how bad it is,’ he said.

The two of them made their way through to the kitchen, and Molly seized the kettle and made another cup of cocoa. ‘Drink that; it’ll warm you up,’ she said. ‘I think I ought to go with you.’

Chris was about to reply when they both heard someone descending the stairs, and Lana’s face appeared round the door. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘I can hear Mam snoring through the wall. I tried and tried to go to sleep, but what with Mum’s snoring and the storm it’s been just about impossible.’ She looked curiously at
Chris. ‘You’re dressed! But you went to bed even before the rest of us did, because you were so tired.’ She looked wildly around the room. ‘It’s not morning, is it? Oh crumbs, don’t say I’ve been awake the whole perishin’ night!’

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but Chris was ahead of her.

‘Dad went off on the tractor to the Pritchards’ to take some medicine which got left behind by mistake,’ he said. He grinned reassuringly at the two women. ‘I’m afraid I was fast asleep or I’d have gone in place of my dad, and now Mum’s worried because . . .’

Lana’s eyes, which had been half closed, opened to their fullest extent and she glanced up at the clock over the mantelpiece, which read just past one. ‘I should think she would be worried; it must be a couple of hours since we found the medicine amongst your Christmas presents, Auntie Molly,’ she said. ‘But of course if the tractor has broken down and Uncle Rhys is having to walk, it could be ages before he gets home.’

Chris nodded. ‘That’s what I’ve been telling Mum,’ he said. ‘So I’m going to take a flask of hot cocoa and a snow shovel and make my way up the lane until I either find Dad and the broken down tractor, or reach Cae Hic. I know it isn’t likely, but if the tractor broke down anywhere near the Pritchards’ place Dad may well have gone back and taken shelter there.’

‘I don’t think he would,’ Molly said doubtfully. ‘He knows what a worrier I am, and he knew I’d wait up for him.’ Her tone suddenly sharpened, ‘Lana, where are you going?’

Lana was heading for the stairs, but turned back to
smile at the older woman. ‘I’m going to get dressed, Auntie Molly,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’ll wait for me, won’t you, Chris? I shan’t be two ticks.’

‘Oh, but I don’t really think . . .’ Molly began, but she was speaking to empty air; Lana was already out of hearing. Sighing, Molly turned to her son, who was employing himself by making the flask of cocoa he had mentioned earlier. ‘You don’t really want Lana with you, do you, Chris?’ she asked hopefully. ‘She’ll hold you up . . . you’ll be quicker without her . . .’

Molly stopped speaking, aware suddenly of Chris’s intent gaze. ‘What makes you say that, Mum?’ he asked. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you know something about Lana which the rest of us don’t. It’s not that you dislike her . . . oh, I don’t know . . .’

Molly put her hands to her hot cheeks. ‘I’m very fond of Lana, it’s just that I don’t think that she’d make a very good wife for a hill farmer,’ she began rather feebly, only to be swiftly interrupted.

‘For God’s sake, Mum, who’s thinking of marriage?’ Chris said crossly. ‘I’m certainly not, and neither is Lana. She’s a good time girl if ever I met one, but great fun to be with and I think a good friend in time of trouble. As for not being a suitable wife for a hill farmer, how can you say such a thing? Are you trying to tell me you knew all about sheep when you married Dad? You’ve often told us you were a city girl, but you learned all right. Why shouldn’t Lana? I know you imagine that you might come with me and be more use than Lana, but you’re wrong, you know. She’s young and strong; cheerful too. You know very well that if you came with me I’d have to slacken my pace, but Lana will keep up.
She may not be as useful as Nonny would be but it’s a close run thing.’

Molly felt abashed by her son’s words. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t be much use. If Lana really wants to go . . .’

She stopped speaking as Lana came crashing down the stairs and burst into the kitchen, beaming at mother and son. Molly reflected that the girl must be wearing every garment she had brought with her. Chris stoppered the flask and turned to grin at Lana. ‘You’re round as a balloon in all those clothes, but you’re very sensible because we’ll be bitterly cold before we’ve gone half a mile,’ he observed. He was in his stockinged feet, but went over to pull his boots on, then donned his waterproof, helped Lana into hers and turned to smile reassuringly at his mother. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be long, but just remember, there are two of us. In the unlikely event of my breaking a leg then I’ve got Lana to run home and fetch help,’ he said breezily. ‘We’ll go via the big barn and persuade Eggy to join us. I don’t know what use he’ll be but I’d like to have him with us, just in case. See you later, and don’t worry if it takes us longer than you expect, because if the tractor has broken down we’ll want to do our utmost to mend it.’

He tugged the door open on the words, gave Molly a pat on the head and a cheerful grin, then took Lana’s arm as the pair stepped out into the swirling snow. ‘See you!’ he shouted over his shoulder, kicking the door shut behind him, leaving Molly a prey to her own thoughts. What an idiot she had been, to try to stop Lana accompanying Chris! Whatever was it that she feared? The two youngsters had always behaved like brother and
sister, joking and laughing, pushing and shoving, mocking and insulting. The fact that they were now young adults did not seem to have changed their attitude to one another in any way. The trouble is, Molly told herself, I’ve got into the habit of trying to keep them apart and it’s a silly habit and one I ought to break. And really it’s most awfully good of Lana to go out in this fearful weather. Oh dear, I pray that the tractor has broken down and that Rhys and the children will soon be home!

It was tough going as Chris had anticipated, and he reflected that though his mother seemed to have doubts about Lana’s strength she was keeping up without hanging on to his arm, though he did offer to give her a hand as the track steepened. As they slogged along she chatted of her work and her friends in the city, asked intelligent questions about Canada and was the first to see, ahead of them, the bulk of a large object almost blocking the lane. She grabbed Chris’s arm, for he had had his head lowered against the gale, and bawled into his ear at the top of her lungs. ‘What’s that, Chris? It looks as though your guess was right and the tractor has broken down. I can’t see Uncle Rhys, so perhaps he’s gone back to Cae Hic – or maybe he’s gone across the fields and is back at Cefn Farm already . . .’

But Chris, peering ahead now, suddenly broke into a shambling run, which was the only gait possible in snow so thick. ‘The tractor’s on its side; almost upside down,’ he shouted, his voice sharp with fear. ‘Hurry, Lana, hurry!’

They arrived beside the tractor at the same moment, and despite the dark and the snow, which was driving almost horizontally, it was immediately obvious to Chris
what had happened. Something must have gone wrong with the steering so that the tractor had veered up the steep bank, which would have been invisible in the deep snow, and overturned. His heart, which had begun to pound as soon as he saw the dark shape of the tractor against the snow, redoubled its rate as they drew level with the vehicle and he saw his father. From the waist down Rhys was pinned beneath the tractor, and the snow around him was bright with blood.

Chris dropped to his knees and began the fruitless task of trying to heave at the vehicle, but it was impossible to budge it and he turned a desperate face to his companion. ‘I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead, but we’ve got to get the tractor off him,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Go to the village Lana, go as fast as you can and bring help. Don’t go to Cefn Farm – our mothers couldn’t do a thing. Get hold of all the able-bodied men and tell them to bring planks, wheelbarrows, snow shovels, anything that might help.’ He had rooted out a strong and sturdy branch from the bank and now he began to push it under the tractor wheel. ‘I’m going to drive this branch in alongside Dad to see if I can take some of the weight off him.’ He turned to glare at his companion. ‘Why the devil haven’t you done as I said? Get to the village! Fetch help, damn you!’

But Lana, who had seemed so sensible, such a good companion, was kneeling in the snow a couple of feet from Rhys’s body and retching miserably. At Chris’s words, however, she pulled herself together and spoke in a wavering voice, scarcely above a whisper.

‘Oh, Chris, all that blood! Blood makes me sick, the sight and the smell of it! Oh, poor Uncle Rhys . . .’

Chris interrupted, his voice rising. ‘Fetch help!’ he
shouted into her white and frightened face. ‘If you don’t go now and he dies, his death will be on your head. Bugger off, Lana.’

Lana began to whimper. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you went, Chris? You can speak Welsh . . .’

Chris turned on her again. ‘Have you got the strength to thrust this branch under the tractor wheel? Of course you haven’t. And you’re sick at the sight of blood,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Get going.’

Lana gave a strangled sob, but turned back the way they had come. ‘I’m sorry, Chris, it was just the shock . . .’ she began, but Chris was too busy to heed her and presently he was aware that she had gone and he was alone with his father in the still falling snow.

Working desperately, Chris managed to get the branch under the tractor wheel and began to ease another larger branch alongside it. He was aware that he had been hard on Lana – pretty, delicate Lana – but told himself that he had been forced to frighten her into obeying his command. She would have been no use here, but if she reached the village in time and brought back help she would have atoned for her reluctance to leave the scene. He knew he must have hurt and worried her but felt no compunction, telling himself that Nonny would not have argued. But then his father groaned and Chris fell on his knees and began to scoop out snow from around the captive legs. He prayed Lana would hurry but knew in his heart she would do everything possible, not just for his sake, but for his father’s.

Digging like a dog, Chris was grateful that the snow was fresh enough to be easily penetrated, yet he had to proceed with great care. He told himself that the moment
the tractor moved he must stop digging for fear that its weight might shift to an even more dangerous position. He laboured on.

Lana sobbed as she ran, slogging through the soft snow, her misery twofold, for she had grown to love her friend’s quiet, dependable father, and was ashamed that she had not immediately obeyed Chris’s instructions, but had argued; argued when the fate of Rhys Roberts hung in the balance. How could she have done such a thing? And by arguing, she told herself miserably, she had probably lost Chris’s regard, worse, his affection, for she had begun to think recently that he was becoming fond of her. Lana was not aware of precisely when her own feelings of admiration and friendship had turned into something stronger, but now, drily sobbing with misery and exhaustion, she told herself that Chris would never regard her in future as anything but a silly girl, too wrapped up in her own feelings to give the help which he had so desperately needed from her. If she had forfeited any chance of his love, it was her own fault.

Lana reached the first cottage on the outskirts of the village. The wind was still whipping the snow into her face and there were no lights in the windows, but she did not hesitate. She ploughed her way up the path and battered on the door, shouting at the top of her voice that help was needed; that Rhys Roberts’s tractor had turned turtle, pinning him beneath it, that he was on the track between Cefn Farm and Cae Hic. Then, without waiting to see whether her shriek had been understood, she ran back into the road and headed for the next cottage.

The men from the village came, fighting their way through the blizzard, arriving at the scene of the accident looking like animated snowmen. They realised at once, as Chris had done, that actually moving the tractor might easily cause more damage to the man pinned beneath it unless they took their time and acted with extreme care. The men had brought spades and shovels, planks of wood and a gate, taken off its hinges, to carry Rhys to an ambulance, for Lana had dialled 999 from the telephone box in the village and the voice the other end had promised that the rescue vehicle would set out straight away. Dr Llewellyn turned out too, brisk and efficient as always, despite his years. He listened to Rhys’s laboured breathing and announced that they must keep him warm at all costs, for though the icy conditions had probably helped to stop the bleeding what he needed now was warmth.

It was two in the morning – Christmas morning – before Chris watched his father being loaded into the ambulance, and by the time it trundled off towards the hospital everyone was exhausted. Chris invited the workers to return to Cefn Farm, his voice flat with despair, for he had seen his father’s horribly mangled legs and thought it would only be a matter of time before his mother had to face up to the worst news of all. No one accepted his invitation, but they all sent their good wishes to Molly and told Chris that they would pray for Rhys when they attended morning service later that day.

Chris and Lana peeled off from the rest and returned to Cefn Farm. Ellen was there, pale-faced and hollow-eyed, to tell Chris and Lana that the ambulance had picked Molly up and taken her to the hospital with her
husband. ‘She said he was her reason for living, and she was his,’ she told them, with tears in her eyes. ‘They’ll take him to the hospital in Bangor; perhaps when he’s stronger he’ll go to some specialist place . . . I don’t know, I suppose it’s too early to say.’ She put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘You’ve done all you can, you two. Now you must get to bed, because you’ll want to see your father tomorrow, Chris, and the hospital won’t want you turning up and passing out from lack of sleep.’