The Lost Days of Summer (17 page)

‘No, I’m staying right here,’ Nell said, beginning to smile, though her cheeks were still wet with tears. ‘If you’ll have me, that is.’

Her aunt, never demonstrative, put down the haversack and gave Nell a quick hug. ‘I dare say I can put up wi’ you for a while longer,’ she said. ‘Now just you go off and get yourself straightened out. And don’t forget; be back before dark.’

The weather was far too warm for a coat so Nell slung her haversack across her shoulders and set off. She had studied Bryn’s beautifully drawn maps of the area until she knew them by heart, but nevertheless she popped them into her haversack just in case she went astray. For the first five minutes she just walked, not even considering her eventual destination, but then she stopped short and began to think. Ever since arriving at Ty Hen she had longed to visit the sea, which she knew was not too far distant; had she not seen it through the attic window, looking enticing even on a freezing cold day? But she had promised Bryn that she would not go to Church Bay without him, and whenever she had thought she might make for some other part of the coast something had come up to prevent the expedition, generally the weather. Then spring had come, and she had been so enchanted by the flowers, the birds, even the beasts, that all thoughts of the sea had disappeared from her mind.

Now, however, it was summer and Bryn’s death had made her promise to him null and void. Waiting for him was useless, but why should she not find the beautiful bay for herself? She knew roughly in which direction it lay, she had Bryn’s map, and suddenly she realised that a wander along the beach, climbing the rocks Bryn had talked about, seeing the little pools and the strange sea creatures which inhabited them, would take her mind off her troubles more effectively than anything else. After all, she would be sixteen in a couple of weeks, and she had never actually waded through the waves, dug in the sand, or collected shells . . . oh, there were a thousand things she had never actually done!

Slowly, Nell turned to face Ty Hen, which she could see through the wind-bent trees on top of the banks that edged the lane. Yes, there it was; she could see the attic windows, but which ones were those through which she had seen the sea? A moment’s thought, and she knew the answer. The windows she could see from here would overlook the farmyard; the windows on the far side, which she could not see, were the ones pointing in the right direction. Nell set off along the lane, and presently found the stile drawn in neatly on her map and took to open country. Here, sheep grazed on the short, sweet turf, moving slowly round the great grey rocks which reared up from the smooth green grass like leviathans from a silken sea, making it perilous country for those who walked in a dream. The gorse, which was kept under control at Ty Hen, ran riot here and Nell was continually forced to leave the straight line she imagined would lead her to the sea in order to avoid huge areas of gorse, smelling sweetly in the hot sunshine. A bouncing lamb came round a big nose of rock and bleated with surprise when it saw Nell, then bounded away, its action more like that of a kangaroo, she imagined, than that of a three-month-old lamb searching for its dam. In one gorse bush a tiny bird she had never seen before made a curious noise not unlike that of a sewing machine, and in another a bird she did know, from its habit of always choosing the highest object around on which to perch, swayed on the topmost branch making the tac-tac call of the stonechat.

Suddenly, the sweet scents of summer and the beauty of the surroundings turned the day into a holiday, a day which, Nell knew, Bryn would have commanded her to enjoy to the full. She came across a great many rabbits, old ones, young ones, big and small ones, playing in the sunshine. Some were grazing, some running apparently at random, others bounding into cover, still others sitting back on their haunches and staring at Nell as though she were a great curiosity but known to be harmless.

Nell slowed and smiled with pleasure. She wondered if Auntie Kath might let her have a rabbit of her own, then decided against it, remembering the excellent roasted rabbit she had enjoyed only a few days earlier. Then there was rabbit stew, rabbit pie . . . oh dear, how awful that she could not vow never to eat the sweet little creatures again. Or not whilst the war – and meat shortages – lasted, at any rate.

Presently, she came to a stream bubbling along on its pebbled bed. It was overhung with mosses, its banks home to more wildlife as well as to stunted trees all bent in one direction by the almost never-ceasing wind. Nell saw a kingfisher, its colours so vivid that she recognised it at once from a picture in one of the children’s books she had found in the attic. When she bent over the water she saw the flash of fins and tiny, incredibly fast-moving silver bodies. Baby fishes . . . fry, weren’t they called? Oh dear, that conjured up more images of food, not that she had ever eaten fish so tiny. Nor wanted to do so, she reminded herself severely. Nature might be red in tooth and claw but she was not! And was that a frog, doing the breast stroke close to the overhanging bank? Oh, and a water vole, swimming unconcernedly along, totally fearless and uninterested in what must seem, to the vole, like a great giantess standing on the bank above him.

Nell watched the stream for a while, then took off her sandals and dabbled her toes in the water. Auntie Kath had once implied that only kids paddled and played on the sand, but she had probably been in a bad mood on that occasion. Indeed, thinking back, Nell realised that when she had first come to Ty Hen her aunt had almost always been in a bad mood. She was better now, but in any case, Nell reminded herself, this is
my
day, so if I want to paddle . . .

In seconds she was in the water, and it was delicious . . . she waded out into midstream, where it was still very shallow, scarcely reaching her knees. She bent to pick up a brightly coloured pebble, then stood very still and watched the little fishes, as curious in their own way as she, come cautiously approaching to investigate her toes.

It was thirst which drew her out of the stream in the end; thirst and the recollection that her aunt had included some of her delicious homemade ginger nuts in the packet of food she had given her. She clambered out on to the bank and sat down on a lichen-covered rock. There was no point in trying to dry her feet and legs on her small pocket handkerchief; the sun would dry them quickly enough. She produced her food and fished out the bottle of raspberry cordial. She pulled out the cork and took a hearty swig, then choked and pushed the cork firmly into place once more, returning the bottle to her haversack. She had quite forgotten that the cordial needed to be diluted with water; that was why her aunt had included a mug when packing up Nell’s picnic. It would have been rather nice, she thought wistfully, to have used the clear and sparkling water swirling past her to dilute the cordial, but she was still too much a city girl to feel comfortable about doing so. Suppose sheep or cows piddled in streams? Reluctantly, she gave up the thought of having a drink. She ate two ginger nuts, but they only made her thirstier. Never mind; she was bound to come across a farmhouse sooner or later, and when she did so she would explain her predicament and beg some water from their well.

Two curious lambs, clearly indulging in a game of chase, appeared round the nearest gorse patch, saw her sitting there and bleated, more than a little startled by her presence. She held out one of the ginger biscuits and the small, woolly creatures came a little closer, but as soon as she moved they turned tail and tumbled out of sight behind the gorse once more.

Nell looked up at the great golden disc of the sun and realised that it must be dinner time. I’ve wasted half the morning and I’ve still not reached the sea; I really meant to go down to Church Bay. She remembered Bryn saying that it was also called Porth Swtan, and wondered what the name meant. Porth was bay, clearly, but she knew very well that the Welsh for church was eglwys . . . she must ask someone to explain. In the meantime, Bryn had said it was a grand place and that she would love it, as he did. He also said he had learned to swim there. She looked up at the blue sky above her and wondered if he were watching from some remote heaven. If so, he wouldn’t think much of her resolution. She could almost hear his mocking voice telling her to get a move on or she would have wasted her day’s holiday.

Nell pushed the remaining biscuits back into her haversack, did up the straps and set off once more, grimly determined not to allow herself to be diverted from her main purpose, which was to reach the sea. As she walked, she thought back to the couple of times she had visited Seaforth Sands. Her mother had never taken her there, always pulling a face and saying she hated the sand, which got into everything, the wind which never seemed to stop blowing, and the oil deposits from the shipping heading up the Mersey. As she often said, Seaforth Sands was not truly the seaside, being on the estuary of the river.

Blinking in the sunshine and leaning back against a convenient rock, Nell remembered her first visit there, when she was four or five. On that occasion, her aunt Beatty had taken a group of them and Trixie had supplied her daughter with a fine bucket and spade and a shrimping net. When one dug in the sand, however, one reached horrid smelly oily stuff, and despite most diligent searching nothing alive was foolish enough to swim into her shrimping net. Still, she had enjoyed the trip and afterwards the fish and chip supper which Beatty and a couple of her sisters had provided.

She had been ten before she visited the Sands again and she chiefly remembered the occasion because cousin Alfie cut his foot on a broken bottle, half buried in the sand. The aunts had insisted upon taking him, with his shirt wrapped around his foot, back to the Stanley Hospital, where he had been haled off by a doctor and nurses to have the cut, which was both long and deep, cleaned and stitched. Unnerved by his shrieks of protest, Auntie Beatty had gathered up the children and taken them by tram back to Kingfisher Court, leaving Auntie Ethel in charge of Alfie. The young Nell had run home, eager to tell Trixie of Alfie’s dramatic wound, only to find the house locked.

She had stood for a moment, baffled, but then her cousin Fanny had appeared. ‘Oh, Nelly,’ she had said breathlessly. ‘Mrs Adenbrook from number nine just telled our mam that Uncle Tom’s ship docked an hour ago. He’s took your mam off on the razzle-dazzle. They didn’t know you’d be back early.’

‘Oh, Fanny, wharrever am I to do?’ Nell had quavered. ‘Mam hasn’t left the spare key out or anything; I can’t gerrin.’

Fanny had put a comforting arm round the younger girl and given her a squeeze. ‘Our mam says I’m to bring you back to our place,’ she had said. ‘She’s give me money to buy us all a fish supper later, and I’m sure Auntie Trixie and Uncle Tom will be back before your bedtime.’

Trixie and Tom, however, had not returned until the early hours, so Nell had been told to share Fanny’s bed, where she had lain awake, miserably worried, until she heard her parents’ noisy and probably drunken return. Then she would have turned over and slept at last save for the fact that her mother had loomed up over the bed, breathing alcoholic fumes and telling her in a slurred voice that they had come to take her home, so she’d best gerrup, purron some clobber, and accompany them back to No. 15.

I should have known then that Mam wasn’t to be relied on . . . nor Dad neither, Nell thought sadly as she toiled up a grassy hummock and down the other side. I remember someone saying that a loving mother doesn’t simply walk out and leave her child to another’s care, but Mam did it often – well, whenever it suited her, I suppose – especially after Dad’s death. Only this time she’s done it in a more final sort of way. This time, whatever Auntie Kath may say, there’ll be no going back. Do I care, though, in my heart? Or am I secretly relieved, just a little?

But before she could answer this question, she topped a rise and, for the first time, saw the Irish Sea at close quarters. But how different it looked from the sea she had glimpsed through the attic window! That sea had been the colour of slate, forbidding, unwelcoming. Nell could not imagine bathing, or even paddling, in that sea. This sea, however, sparkled blue and promising, reminding Nell of postcards, pictures in children’s books and her own secret imaginings. From here she could not see white-topped waves, nor golden sands, but she was suddenly sure that when she got nearer such things would meet her gaze. Oh, the delights that she was about to encounter! Nell began to hurry.

She had still not reached the sea, which proved to be a good deal further off than it had seemed, when she came across the cottage. It was down in a gentle dip, a sort of miniature valley, and had trees to one side of it, a couple of outbuildings, and a straggly sort of low stone wall round what she assumed to be a vegetable patch, since even from this distance she could recognise broad beans, peas and summer cabbage laid out in neat rows. It was a strange sort of cottage; Nell had never seen anything like it before. It was very long and had been whitewashed, only the last coat must have been applied some while ago for it was flaking off, showing the grey of stone beneath. Unlike the other cottages which she had seen on her way to and from Llangefni and Holyhead, this one was not roofed with slate, but was thatched. It also looked somewhat tumbledown, or at any rate in poor condition. The thatch needed repair, the entire cottage needed repainting, and somehow it had a sad and solitary air, as though it was abandoned to the wind and weather, and longed to be cherished as it had once been.

Nell, who was still extremely thirsty, saw that there was a well some way from the cottage and wondered why it had been built such a distance from its water supply. She supposed it could have something to do with the closeness of the sea – salt water would make well water brackish, she knew – and decided on impulse to ask at the cottage if she might take some water from their well. She would have to ask in Welsh, of course, but since she and Eifion almost always conversed in that language now it would be an easy matter for her to frame her request so that the inhabitants of the cottage would understand her.