The Lost Days of Summer (18 page)

Yet somehow Nell felt that she would like to know a little more about the people who lived in such a beautiful but remote spot before approaching them. From where she stood, she could see that the place was definitely occupied; the family kept poultry, a cow and possibly a pig. She thought she could just glimpse an old and rusty bicycle, leaning against the farther wall, but it might have been simply a pile of rusting metal; she would have to look more closely, though not right now. She supposed they almost certainly had a dog, and she knew from the way Fly and Whisky behaved when a stranger approached Ty Hen that dogs could become aggressive, could even attack, when someone they didn’t know got too close to their domain, especially if they realised that the stranger was nervous.

Nell had been peering at the cottage from behind a large rock, and now she moved forward, dodging into the shelter of a gorse patch. Yes, there was at least one old dog; she could just see its head resting on its front paws, whilst the remainder of its body was hidden by a rough kennel. She sighed and drew back into the shelter of the gorse. She was not afraid of dogs – living closely with Fly and Whisky had put an end to any fear she might have felt – but the heavy afternoon hush was undisturbed even by birdsong and she knew what a cacophony of sound would erupt as soon as the dog realised she intended to approach the cottage. She willed someone to come out of the green-painted door; the dog would know better than to kick up a rumpus when its master or mistress could see the danger for themselves.

But no one emerged from the cottage. No one worked on the vegetable patch or was on his way to catch the cow, or feed the pig. No one was collecting eggs; no one even sat on the wooden bench by the door. No one came out of the door to fetch wood for the fire or water from the well. If they’re old, perhaps they have a sleep in the afternoons, Nell thought, and was struck by an idea. There was plenty of cover hereabouts, provided she stayed away from the dip in which the cottage stood; she could keep out of sight – and scent – of the dog, and reach the well without let or hindrance. Water is free, she told herself defensively. Probably they’d prefer me to help myself rather than have the dog kicking up a din and disturbing everybody for miles around.

She reached the well and sat down upon the low stone wall which encircled it with a sigh of relief. The sun was very hot, so she moved until she was in the shade of the small pitched roof, then settled herself comfortably, feeling a cool breeze on her hot face with pleasure. She had managed to get here without alerting the dog, which was quite something for someone who had sometimes been accused of being a city girl. Proud of her achievement, she took out her mug, then leaned over and gazed down into the depths of the well. It was deep; she could just see the water sparkling below, reflecting a slice of blue sky. The bucket which the cottagers would use to bring the water, cold and sparkling, up from the depths hung on a stout rope over a beam. Nell unhooked it and lowered it into the water, then drew it up slowly and cautiously. Water, she knew, was heavy, so she had made sure the bucket was only half full before she began to haul it up. She nearly lost it when it came within reach as she released the rope for a second, but she managed to lodge the bucket on the wall and dipped her mug into it. She was so thirsty by now that she did not wait to uncork the cordial but drank the well water straight down. Only when her thirst was slaked did she uncork the cordial and add it to the last mug of water.

She sat on the wall with one arm round the bucket, making her think of Jack and Jill, and sipped the diluted cordial, looking casually around her. From here, probably because she was sitting down, she could not see the cottage at all, which meant of course that the owners could not see her, either. Thinking back, she realised that this must be the Swtan longhouse, the place Bryn had mentioned when telling her about Church Bay. He had said something else, but for the life of her she could not remember what it was, and after frowning over the problem she gave it up and turned her mind to another: whether to leave the bucket on the ground, for it was still almost half full, or to carry it down and stand it nearer the cottage door. But she knew it was usually children who fetched water, and though it might be exciting if they thought the fairies were using the well, on the other hand it might frighten them into refusing to collect water in future. No, it was better that no one should ever know she had drunk her fill here. Accordingly, she topped up the cordial bottle and then made a bowl of her hands and splashed her face and neck before reluctantly tipping the bucket and sending the water hurtling down into the depths, where it landed with a splash which seemed extremely loud in the hot stillness of the afternoon.

Nell smiled to herself and turned away to glance around her. Had anyone heard? But she doubted if a sound so much in tune with the countryside would bring even the dog running. However, she would just go and take a look at the cottage, make sure she had not disturbed these people by using their well.

Moving slowly, for the heat of the sun did not encourage haste, Nell returned to a point where she could look down on the cottage, then frowned and shielded her eyes with one hand. Odd! The dog had disappeared, and when she stared very hard indeed it seemed as though a slight mist lay between her and the Swtan longhouse. Then, even as she watched, the green-painted door was pushed slightly ajar and an old man, grey-haired and clad in shabby working clothes, came out. Behind him was a bent old woman, wearing a dark dress and a very large white pinafore, who hovered in the doorway for a moment, looking out towards the rise upon which Nell stood.

Nell rubbed her eyes, then looked again, and the door was closed; the slight mistiness which had accompanied the scene had disappeared and the afternoon was ordinary again. Even the old man had gone, either back into the house or into one of the outbuildings. Heat haze, Nell told herself firmly, returning to where she had dropped her haversack and settling it across her shoulders. Odd about the dog though; she was sure she had seen a border collie, yet now there was no sign of it. Nell was pretty sure that the dog would not have been allowed in the cottage, nor presumed to try to enter. I suppose it must have gone in search of shade, Nell told herself, and tried to forget the kennel she thought she had seen. It was certainly not visible now.

With her body leaning against the wall of the well and her head comfortably settled on the haversack, Nell hesitated. I wonder if I should go down after all, and explain that I’ve had a drink of water from their well, she thought, but even as she framed the explanation in her best Welsh she knew she would not. Instead, she relaxed and let her thoughts drift; away from the shade the sun burned down, but here, with the soft birdsong and the gentle breeze easing the heat from her tired limbs, she was so comfortable, so content, that she could easily sleep . . . easily sleep . . . sleep . . .

Nell dreamed. She was curled up by the well, on the soft grass, but instead of the midday sun the moon beamed down on her and a voice was speaking.

‘Said you’d like it, didn’t I? But it’s the beach, the sea, that I meant, not the perishin’ Swtan. That’s just a house, a house for old men and women when they can’t do the work of a real farm no more. Get off your fat bum and explore, why don’t you?’

Still in her dream, Nell’s eyes shot indignantly open, and there was Bryn, grinning down at her, wearing nothing but a pair of much patched trousers and a cap pushed to the back of his head. He looked about ten years old, and the grin he gave her was taunting. ‘Don’t you start ordering me about,’ Nell shouted at him. ‘Nor don’t you say my bum’s fat, because it isn’t! And anyway, you’re dead!’

‘Do I look dead? I’m bleedin’ well nothin’ of the sort,’ Bryn said, and now he no longer sounded Welsh but had the genuine Scouse accent with which Nell had been surrounded all her life until she had come to the island. He looked at her critically as she jumped to her feet. ‘All right, all right, don’t get all uppity wi’ me, cariad. One of these fine days you and me’s goin’ to get wed, ain’t that so?’

‘No it is not,’ raged Nell, and realised suddenly that in the way of dreams the dark and the moonlight had gone and it was a hot and sunny day once more. ‘And you
are
dead, even though you don’t want to admit it. I wish you weren’t, because you were my pal and I liked you, but facts is facts, Bryn. Your ship blew up.’

Bryn pulled a disdainful face. ‘Girls don’t know nothin’,’ he announced. ‘Particularly English girls. I can swim like a fish so I can, and I’m tough as old boots . . . old boots . . . old boots . . .’

His voice faded, and Nell found herself lying on the soft grass which surrounded the Swtan’s well, with her head pillowed comfortably on her haversack and her limbs sprawled in considerable abandonment. Hastily, she sat up. She had dreamed that Bryn was alive, and had had the cheek to insult her, call her fat . . . Slowly, Nell got to her feet. She supposed that it was natural to dream of her old pal when she had come to this very spot because he had wanted her to do so, had followed his instructions on how to get here, using the very map he had made for her. And it had been a pleasant enough dream, because Bryn had been alive and on dry land, for a start. So often, since the sinking of the
Scotia
, her dreams had been of Bryn being dragged down by the undertow of the great ship, going deeper and deeper into blackness, unable to help himself . . .

Shuddering, Nell picked up her haversack once more and slipped her arms into the straps, then adjusted the weight of it until it rested comfortably between her shoulder blades. The sun was already past its zenith and she had come here, after all, to visit the seaside, and to remember Bryn, which she had already done if you could count the dream; best get on or she would still be trudging back to Ty Hen when the sun had gone and the moon ruled the sky. As for the dream, it had been just that. Now she must tackle real life again.

She turned away from the cottage and began to descend the long hill up which she had climbed earlier, and as soon as she left the hollow a delightful salt breeze lifted the hair from her hot forehead and sent the delicious smell of the gorse blossoms wafting towards her. She began to walk faster, then turned for a last look round and saw . . . someone . . . behind a large rock.

For a moment her heart missed a beat; was it Bryn’s ghost, come to haunt her? ‘Bryn!’ She thought she had shouted it, but a moment later realised she had scarcely spoken above a whisper, and what a good thing that was. She would have made the most awful fool of herself, for this youth was most definitely not her pal. This was a young man, maybe as old as twenty, at any rate a good deal older than her friend, and whereas Bryn was angelically fair this young man was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with very short black hair, and was trying not to be seen. But even so, though she only caught a glimpse of a narrow face whose mouth tilted at the corners with secret amusement, her heart gave a great, uneven thump. She was almost sure she recognised him, and, far from being Bryn, it was the person who had been spying on her at Llangefni market before Christmas! And it looked as though he was still anxious not to be seen, for he had dodged behind a rock as soon as she had turned towards him. Well, if he did not wish to be seen she would pretend to have noticed nothing, then would suddenly turn when he least expected it and confront him. And not only with spying on her now, she thought with satisfaction, but also with his behaviour at Llangefni market.

Only what was he doing here? The only dwelling she had passed as she made her way seawards was the thatched cottage in the hollow, so she supposed he must have come from there. Suddenly she remembered what it was that Bryn had told her – hadn’t he said that a friend of his lived hereabouts? She tried to remember whether he had mentioned a name, but after all that had happened the trip to Llangefni seemed a lifetime ago, and she couldn’t recall any more details of their conversation. Whatever he was called, the boy must have seen her snooping and followed her silently, no doubt using the gorse and the rocks as cover; in fact he had probably behaved just as she had.

Remembering Llangefni market, she concluded that he had decided to take a good look at her before accusing her of trespass. But why should she think ill of him, or he of her for that matter? He was probably shy. She decided that the next time he appeared she would wave, shout, ask him how she might get down to the beach, explain about her visit to his well.

Nell settled her haversack more comfortably upon her shoulders and set off in the direction she thought the watcher had taken. But though she searched for a good half-hour, examining every gorse bush, every rock, every stand of the little, wind-stunted trees, she saw no more of him that hot afternoon.

Nell told herself not to waste such a perfect day and set out to find her way down to the shore, for she had a great longing to eat her picnic on the beach, with the smell of the salt sea all around and the sea itself, always moving, to watch her. Sighing, she started to walk towards the cliffs Bryn had mentioned, and as she went she looked about her at the close-cropped, sheep-nibbled grass, at the great gorse patches and the rocks; not easy land to cultivate, she concluded, with the knowledge she had gained both from her aunt and from her hidden farming books. The dwellers in the cottage must work very hard indeed to make a living, and it would be a pretty poor living at that. She would ask Auntie Kath about it when she got back to the farm.

Soon she reached the cliffs and saw below her the enchanting little bay with its bite of golden sand and dozens of sky-reflecting rock pools. To her right stretched a much bigger bay, with what looked like caves in the cliff face. How right Bryn had been to enthuse over this place! But to her disappointment it seemed impossible to descend from the cliffs here and reach sea level. She had almost turned away when she saw that what at first she had taken to be a peculiarly shaped rock was in fact a boat. It had been turned upside down, but even so she could glimpse both oars and a stumpy mast; clearly it was very much in use. Fishing! That was one means of making a living for which, no doubt, the cottagers were grateful, because fish would be a very nice addition to their diet, unless they chose to sell their catch to neighbours who had no boat. To Auntie Kath, for instance.