The Lost Days of Summer (6 page)

‘I think you mean in kind,’ Nell suggested, ‘if you’re going to give him his meals, and perhaps some farm produce to take home when his work is over.’

‘That’s right,’ her aunt said. ‘I’ll be feeding him three good meals a day, and giving him a small wage as well.’

‘But how long is he here for?’ Nell asked. ‘Does he live nearby? Only he won’t be able to teach me much in a few days.’

Bryn tutted. ‘Speak for myself, I can,’ he said reprovingly. ‘I’ve put in for a berth on one of the Irish ferries – I’d like to sail on the
Scotia
, because I’ve an uncle who’s a steward aboard her and I’ve met many members of the crew. It would be nice to sail with fellers I know.’

‘But hasn’t the
Scotia
gone off somewhere?’ Eifion said, knife and fork poised. ‘As I recall . . .’

‘Aye, that’s right,’ Bryn said at once. ‘She’s been taken off the Ireland run for the time being and sent to Southampton to carry troops to France. That means her home port will be down south, but I dare say by the time I get aboard she’ll be berthing in Holyhead again. But I’ve agreed to work at Ty Hen until my papers come through.’

Nell found herself hoping that Bryn’s papers would be long delayed. If she had to learn to speak Welsh – shades of her classroom back in Liverpool came into her head – then she would rather have a handsome young man as teacher than a fusty old schoolmaster.

However, it would never do to say so, so she turned to the old man. ‘Does Bryn live with you, or is he like me, just staying with a relative because of the war?’ she asked. She was pretty sure, by the look on the old fellow’s face and by the fact that his mouth began to open, that he had understood at least some of her question, but Bryn answered for him.

‘Taid’s English is a bit slow to come; he prefers the Welsh,’ he explained. ‘As for me, I live with my mam in Holyhead, but she’s joined the WRNS and is away on a training course, so I’m staying with Nain and Taid. He turned to Auntie Kath. ‘But until my papers come through you’re going to feed me, which will be grand ’cos you’re the best cook on the island, and in return I’ll talk in Welsh to your niece as we muck out and milk and see to the stock.’ He turned back to Nell, grinning. ‘Don’t you fear; I may not be an old greybeard but I’m good at languages and I reckon you and me will get on.’

‘I believe you,’ Nell said fervently, looking at the well-piled plate which had just been placed before her. At a word in Welsh from her aunt, the boy said grace and the four of them settled down to eat, Bryn clearly relishing every mouthful. When they had finished, he and Eifion returned to the yard whilst the women cleared away and washed up. Rather to Nell’s dismay this was done in silence, but when her aunt emptied the dirty water into a bucket which stood below the sink she spoke at last.

‘Follow me,’ she said. ‘Bring your slops.’ As she spoke she thrust her feet into a pair of wellingtons, similar to those owned by Eifion but not nearly so muddy. Nell was about to point out that she had no boots when the back door was thrown open by her aunt’s impatient hand and a gust of wind blew into the kitchen. Lacking boots, she tried to grab her coat, but Kath was striding across the yard and Nell did not wish to be left behind. Shuddering, she clanked along in her wake, the bucket seeming to grow heavier with every step. As they reached the corner of what must be a stable or cart shed, her aunt turned to her. Most of what she said was lost as the wind whipped the words from her lips, but Nell caught ‘muck heap’ and saw what she was supposed to do with the contents of the slop bucket as her aunt approached a huge and very smelly mountain which was roughly fenced in on three sides with ancient, rotting planks. Nell stood back as her aunt went round to the side and hurled the slops at the top of the muck heap. Then she gestured to Nell to follow her example, saying something to the effect that the wind was strong and spiteful so Nell should look out.

‘I’ll do my best but I don’t have any boots,’ Nell began, but she realised that if she had been unable to hear her aunt’s voice, her aunt would be unable to hear hers. Instead, she took a couple of steps nearer the muck heap and followed her aunt’s example . . . only to find herself soaked as the wind caught the slops and hurled them straight back at her.

‘Oh . . . ugh . . . how horrible!’ poor Nell stammered, pushing wet hands through her wet hair and trying to squeeze some of the water out of her thick, much worn jersey and skirt. Too late she realised that her aunt had been trying to warn her not to throw the contents of her bucket straight at her objective because of the wind. She turned to the older woman, but before she could speak a new sound came to her ears. Her aunt, empty bucket in hand, coat still not buttoned, was laughing; laughing as if she would never stop. She pointed a trembling finger at her niece and went off into another burst of merriment, then seized Nell’s arm and began to hurry her back to the house.

‘Move yourself!’ she bawled above the wind. ‘You’ve a great many things to learn, and you’ve just had your first lesson: chucking pee into the wind is definitely one way of gettin’ your own back!’

Nell was so angry that she threw caution to the winds. As they slogged side by side across the yard, heading for the back door, she gave vent to her feelings. ‘Really, Auntie! I notice you can speak bloody good English when you want to say something nasty; it’s just polite conversation that you can’t manage!’

They had reached the back door and as she flounced in ahead of the older woman she received a ringing slap round the ear. Too startled for a moment to do anything but regain her balance, for the slap had nearly knocked her to the ground, Nell gave a stifled sob. ‘What was that for? Speaking the truth?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Don’t you ever hit me again or – or . . .’

‘If you’re rude to me again you’ll get another clack, harder too!’ her aunt said between gritted teeth. ‘You’re just like your ma was when we were girls together. Hot to handle and ungrateful, always wanting what wasn’t hers . . .’ She had thrust her niece into the kitchen and now she followed, slamming the door behind her. ‘As I’ve already said, you’ve a lot to learn, Helen Whitaker!’

Nell spun round, feeling the hot blood of fury suffuse her cheeks. ‘How dare you hit me! You called my mam names, but I know better than to hit you. Come to that, Mam’s never hit me in my life, or not without reason at any rate. Well, that’s it; I’m going home on the first train and you can empty your own damned slops!’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, since I don’t mean to lend you a penny and you told me last night you’d no money for the fare,’ Aunt Kath said, her voice thin with spite. ‘You’re here to work and to do as I say, so put that in your pipe and smoke it!’

Nell gave an angry sob. It was so unfair! Just because she was only fifteen and her aunt many years older, she would have to put up with whatever dreadful treatment the older woman handed out until she could beg, borrow or steal enough money for the fare back to Liverpool. And when she got there, what could she do? Auntie Carrie had not suggested that she stay with her whilst her mother went off to join the WAAF. What would she say if she turned up on her doorstep, penniless and weeping, having flouted her mother’s plans for her and run away from her sister Kath? The aunts might not have much time for their eldest sister, but in her heart Nell knew that they would fight shy of taking her in. They would say that the only person who could make arrangements for her was her mother, and she had sent her to Kath, who lived in the country on a lovely farm, where Trixie’s precious one and only child could be safe for as long as the war lasted. And there she must stay, Carrie would say, and Mam’s cousins in Bootle would agree, Nell concluded sadly, heaving a deep sigh.

Better get it over with then; eat humble pie and promise to be good and await my chance to . . . to what? Run? Go to the nearest town and find work? But the humble pie bit must come first. Or I could try the only other option . . . you never know, Auntie Kath’s harsh exterior might, just might, hide a soft centre, like the chocolates Mam likes so much.

Without saying another word, she ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. In her room she took off her dirty things, rinsed hands and face in the water left over from her earlier ablutions, and put on clean clothing. Then, without giving herself time to reflect, she went back to the kitchen and put her wet clothing on the draining board before addressing her aunt in a small voice.

‘Auntie? I’m sorry I was rude, but you laughed . . . and I know you’re right, really. I can’t possibly go back to Liverpool now Mam’s not there any longer, nor Auntie Lou. The other relatives might take me in, but I just know they’d tell me to return to you and thank my lucky stars I wasn’t living down by the docks, like they are. Will . . . will you forgive me? Can we start again?’ She let water collect in her eyes and then squeezed her lids tight shut for a moment so that the tears ran slowly down her cheeks. ‘Auntie? I’m sorry, honest to God I am.’ She had been watching her aunt’s face, which seemed to be made of granite, but suddenly it changed. What have I said
now
, Nell asked herself despairingly; she soon found out.

‘Take not the name of the Lord in vain,’ Auntie Kath said angrily. ‘I’m a God-fearing woman I’ll have you know, so don’t blaspheme in my house. Your ma never went to church if she could get out of it, but whilst you’re under my roof you’ll do as I do and act godly. Understand me?’

‘Sorry, but honest to God is just an expression, not a – a blasphemy,’ Nell said quickly. ‘All Liverpudlians use it. And Mam does go to church sometimes, only she’s often too busy. But I’ll do as you say, of course . . .’

‘I’m always busy, but that don’t stop me from churchgoing,’ her aunt snapped, but her mouth was no longer so grimly set. ‘Oh, get on with you! The lad will be in in a minute – he can show you round the farm. I’ve better things to do.’ She picked up Nell’s dirty clothes. ‘I’ll run these through the wash and dry ’em on the clothes horse in front of the fire. You’ve not got many clothes, so best get these ready for the next time you need a change.’ She cocked a dark eyebrow at her niece. ‘A decent dress for Sunday, do you have?’

Nell nodded. ‘Yes; and white stockings and button shoes. I’ve only got one coat – coats are expensive – but Mam put in a couple of thick jumpers. I suppose I could wear them one on top of the other . . .’

‘No, no, that will never do,’ her aunt interrupted. ‘But I’ve an old coat which will keep you dry. I’m no hand with a needle, but I can turn up a hem and shorten sleeves. I’ll do that tonight, but in the meantime . . .’ She crossed the room to the pegs by the door and took down a waterproof cape. ‘Wear this for today.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘There’s a market held in Llangefni a couple of times a week. When I’ve time we’ll take the pony trap and see what’s available in your size.’

‘Oh, but I don’t want to put you to any expense,’ Nell said hastily. She could have said, with more truth, that she did not wish to be beholden to her aunt, but though she said nothing Kath must have read her thoughts, for she looked knowing.

‘Actually, your ma sent me a bit of money because she guessed you’d need working gear,’ she said. She went over to the back door and flung it open, shouted, then closed it hastily, for the wind was strong, and blew a scattering of leaves into the kitchen. ‘The lad won’t be far away . . .’ Aunt Kath glanced at the clock, ‘you’ll have time for a tour before we have our elevenses. You’d best borrow my boots for now.’

Nell was promising to take great care of both the boots and the waterproof cape when the back door opened a crack and Bryn sidled into the room, clad in his own well-weathered garments. He gave a snort of laughter at the sight of Nell in the huge cape and equally large boots, then led her out into the yard where the force of the wind seemed strong enough to blow both of them off their feet. Despite his appearance, however, Bryn was sinewy and stronger than he looked and together they stumbled towards the nearest doorway, which proved to be the stable. Once in its warm interior, with its comforting smells of horses and hay, Bryn introduced her to the animal which had drawn the cart the previous night. The great creature turned dark, enquiring eyes on the two young people and accepted, with gentle eagerness, the carrot which Bryn offered him. ‘Hal, his name is,’ Bryn told her. ‘He does everything that needs strength; he ploughs the fields, fetches and carries, spreads the manure in the autumn and carts the crops as they come ripe.’ Bryn gestured to the stall next to Hal’s, in which stood a very much smaller animal. ‘She’s Feather; she pulls the pony trap, takes the missus and her produce to market, does all the light jobs.’ Bryn produced another carrot, hesitated, then snapped it in two. ‘Give this bit to Feather, but keep your hand flat so she don’t mistake your fingers for food,’ he instructed.

Nell took the carrot, but shook a reproving head at her companion. ‘What sort of an idiot do you think I am? Liverpool’s full of horses pulling milk carts or coal wagons or brewery drays, and we always give ’em sugar lumps or bits of carrot. If we didn’t know to keep our hands flat, there wouldn’t be a kid in Liverpool with a full set of fingers.’

Bryn smirked. ‘Sorry,’ he said, leading her out of the stable and across the yard. He lowered his head protectively but raised his voice above the howl of the wind. ‘Pigs next . . . see ’em? Us don’t name pigs – not the baconers – but the sows are Polly and Princess; they’re the huge critters in the big sty at the end.’

After the pigs Bryn took her to the big, roomy hen house, taking her right inside and pointing out the nesting boxes and the long perches. ‘You’ll be collecting the eggs when I goes away, so you might as well start now,’ he said, and showed her how to move an indignant hen from her comfortable straw-lined box and take the eggs thus revealed, which he put carefully into his mackintosh pocket.

After that they fought their way over to the pond where in better weather, Bryn told Nell, a number of ducks and geese disported themselves, though today nothing disturbed the dark waters save for the wind. ‘Mrs J uses goose and duck eggs when she makes lardy cakes and that,’ he shouted. ‘She sells the hens’ eggs at market in Llangefni, along with her butter and cheese.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Oh aye, a grand cook is Mrs J.’