The Lost Days of Summer (39 page)

Kath was about to leave the kitchen once more when she remembered that Eifion and the other farm workers would be arriving quite soon, possibly before she returned. She went over to the dresser, picked up the slate and chalk by means of which she and Owain often left messages and wrote:
Gone to Church Bay, back soon, get your own breakfast
. Then she propped the slate up on the table and let herself out of the kitchen, slamming the door regretfully on the warmth and comfort, and realising as she did so that the storm had eased considerably. The sky was brighter to the east, and though the clouds still hurried across the sky the wind had dropped and the rain fell less steadily. When she led Jemima out into the yard and mounted the little mare, she felt almost cheerful. Now that she could see morning was almost upon them, she was more certain than ever that Nain would have returned to the Swtan. If I hurry, I can be there soon after she arrives, she told herself. She’ll go by the fields, of course, which is quicker, but once it’s light enough to see any potholes or fallen branches across the lane the pony and I will make even better speed. I must remember to be very conciliatory, tell her I’ve only come to her home because it was what Owain told me to do, and perhaps she’ll realise, at last, that I don’t mean to supplant her, but to succour her in her hour of need.

Buoyed up by these thoughts, she urged Jemima into a trot.

* * *

Owain reached the Swtan at the height of the storm. Rain was streaming down his neck where the oilskin failed to fit, and when he dismounted water simply cascaded from the big horse. Owain stared around him. Where should he tether Prince? The sheds were all far too small, but if he took him round to the side of the Swtan he would at least be out of the worst of the wind.

Tying him up, Owain glanced at the longhouse, but no light showed. He guessed that his grandmother would have damped down the fire before setting out on her perilous cross-country hike, and went indoors to light his lantern. He was still angry whenever he thought of his nain’s mad journey, but his anger was mixed with indulgence, for the old woman had been understandably worried and had turned to him for help. The fact that she had not heard the maroons, or if she had heard them had not understood their meaning, was scarcely her fault. Owain, setting out in the direction of the cliffs, reminded himself that though his grandmother’s tongue was still sharp as a knife, her hearing was dulling with age, though she would never admit it . . .

At this point in his musings, Owain had reached the cliff top. He was just wondering, rather apprehensively, whether he would be able to recognise the little path which led down to the beach when a great black cloud which had hidden the moon scudded away and in the brief, temporary light he saw his way clear; saw also the ferocity of the sea. Waves, white-topped and wicked, were hurling themselves at the shore as though they intended to climb the cliffs and snatch him, and anyone else abroad this night, down to a watery grave.

Despite himself, Owain flinched. If his grandfather really was out there in his tiny boat, his only possible chance of survival was to stay out to sea; trying to get any closer to such a rocky coast was certain death. But Owain hoped that Taid would have read the signs before the storm had overtaken him. It was not uncommon for fishermen from this part of the coast to seek shelter as far away as Ireland. Or he might have pulled in to any one of a dozen little bays, all of which would be safe enough to approach whilst the weather was fairly calm, but would have become death traps when waves towered ten or twelve feet high and the wicked teeth of the rocks were hidden in the crash of foam and spray.

Owain sat down on the cliff top and stared out to sea until his eyes ached. Was there a little dot out there? Could it be the
Valma
? Deciding his best course of action was to go down to the beach, he lodged the lamp in a thick clump of grass and began the descent. As he went he clutched at the noses of rocks and clumps of marram, frightened for the first time in his life of the drop beneath him, for the wind tore at his clothing, ripping open his jacket and forcing him to cower against the cliff lest he be hurled down on to the rocks below.

He gained the beach at last and was immediately soaked to the skin and battered by stones and debris as a big comber came crashing inland. He staggered but managed to keep his feet, though the undertow of the wave’s retreat was truly frightening. Learning from this, he clung to the bottom of the cliff, making his way towards the ridge of rocks which he could just make out by what light there was from the dark and angry sky. The ridge was in the shelter, if you could call it that, of an arm of the cliff, so though the sea surge was violent enough it did not compare with what was roaring in on the main beach. Owain climbed gingerly on to the highest rock in the ridge and turned to gaze seaward just as a large and extremely heavy piece of wood crashed against his knees. He grabbed for it and caught a glimpse, as it hurtled past his outstretched fingers, of three letters:
Val
. . . The rest of the name was hidden beneath the wave, but Owain had seen enough to turn his blood to ice.

Casting caution to the winds, he tried to hurry towards what he now saw was not just a dark blob of flotsam but a man, being carried by the next wave towards the wicked rocks. Fear lent him strength, and despite the conditions he was reaching out a hand towards the bundle of saturated clothing when a violent movement of the water turned it over and for the first time Owain saw its face, or rather what had once been its face, for now it was unrecognisable, horrible. It might have been his taid or a total stranger; it was impossible to tell. Then for an instant he saw a pale hand, the fingers crooked as though still desperately holding on to something, and on the third finger of that hand Owain saw the big, old-fashioned signet ring which, he knew, his nain had given to her man on their wedding day.

Shock must have made him loosen his hold on the rocks for one instant, but that instant was sufficient for the sea to catch him, drag him down and whirl him away into its dark depths.

Kath had seen the Swtan from afar as she and the pony came fast along the lane and realised at once that it was unoccupied. No light showed, not even the glow of a fire. She was clearly well ahead of the old woman and could go straight to the cliffs, for she was pretty sure that Owain would have made for the beach. She felt she needed to speak to him, to explain that she had done her best, that Nain had fled whilst the two of them were saddling Prince. Glancing at the lightening sky, she decided to tie Jemima’s reins up so that the mare could not put a foot in them and leave her to graze until it was time for her to be ridden home.

She was about to set off when she hesitated, then turned towards the Swtan. She would nip in, make up the fire and put the kettle on to boil. Even if the old woman resented what she would no doubt regard as interference, Owain – and Taid too, if he had come safe ashore – would be glad of a decent fire and a hot drink. As soon as she reached the longhouse, however, she saw Prince, tethered against the end wall, and knew for certain that her husband had gone down to the shore. For a moment she was tempted to make straight for the beach, then chided herself. What could she do down there that Owain could not? No, it was her duty to make the Swtan a comfortable refuge from the storm.

Inside the cottage it was the work of a moment to make up the fire until it roared satisfactorily and to hang the filled kettle over it. Then Kath set out, battling against the wind which, though it had eased a good deal, seemed spitefully determined to prevent her from reaching her objective.

As she fought the elements, Kath spared a thought for Nain; she might not like the old woman – could scarcely be expected to do so – but she had to admit that she had courage. I’ll just check Owain doesn’t need me on the shore and then I’ll set off across the fields to see if I can give Nain a hand, Kath told herself. Obstinate old devil that she is, I wouldn’t like to think of her in trouble. She’s Owain’s gran, after all.

When Kath reached the cliff top, the wind still roared and spatterings of rain made it difficult to see what was happening below. But she thought that the tide had turned and guessed that as the waves receded the sea would grow calmer. She dared not go too near the cliff edge but could see no sign of Owain, Taid or the
Valma
. However, if they were close against the cliff she would be unable to see them, though why they should linger in such a dangerous spot she could not imagine. On impulse, she dropped to her knees and began to crawl towards the edge of the cliff. It was not a pleasant journey, for the grass was long and wet and strewn with sharp little pebbles, but then she saw the lamp and knew that Owain had come this way. She made it at last and, peering down, suddenly remembered the caves which she and Owain had once explored. They would, she supposed, offer temporary shelter to two men who needed to rest before tackling the steep cliff path.

She was about to turn away to begin her search for Nain when she saw something in the heaving, restless waves which sent her standing upright, despite the elements, and stumbling towards the cliff path. She had feared the descent in fine weather, but now she almost ran down it, heedless of the drop, the danger and everything but the need to see what it was that the waves were casting on the rocks. She reached the shore just as a comber surged around her, soaking her almost to her waist before it began to ebb, but Kath fought against it until she gained the rocks and the figure slumped across them. She had no need to see the face to know that it was Owain, for in the pearly dawn light she recognised the thick guernsey she had knitted for him the previous winter.

Shrieking his name at the top of her voice, she saw the next wave curling in and grabbed his shoulders, and here at last the sea helped her, picking up the pair of them as though they weighed no more than a wisp of hay and carrying them far up the beach before dropping them on the hard sand and beginning to retreat. Desperately, Kath hung on to a rock with one hand whilst the other clutched fiercely at Owain’s shoulders, and somehow, by the grace of God she told herself, she managed to prevent the wave from carrying him out to sea once more.

Dragging him across the hard wet sand called for every ounce of her strength, but Kath did not even notice the pain, the cracking muscles, buried as they were beneath the fear which dogged her every movement. Suppose she could not get him above the tideline? Suppose – and this was even more likely – she could not carry him up the steep and narrow path? She dared not leave him here whilst she went for help, for she had ascertained that he was only just breathing. Once clear of the water she saw with horror that he was bleeding profusely from a variety of wounds, his mouth, brow and one cheek deeply gashed . . . but he was alive.

Kath put a trembling hand on his brow, and it was cold as ice. She looked around wildly; what in God’s name was she to do for the best? She thought she might be able to drag him into the nearest cave whilst she went for help, but the fear of returning to find him dead was too strong.

She began as gently as she could to pull him towards the foot of the cliff, but stopped with a squeak of surprise when another pair of hands seized his shoulders and began to tug. The movement forced a groan from Owain’s lips and Kath said sharply: ‘Careful! He’s badly injured. Can you go for help?’

She looked up at the owner of the hands and it was Nain. Kath could not tell if it was tears or rain pouring down the old woman’s cheeks, but it really did not matter. What mattered was that she could send Nain up the cliff again, tell her to mount the pony and fetch help from the nearest village to get Owain to safety.

The old woman began to pull once more, but Kath plucked her hands away and gestured to the cliffs behind them. ‘Go for help,’ she said briefly. ‘Ride Jemima up to the village and explain. Can you ride the pony?’

‘No, so I’ll stay with him while you go,’ Nain said, her voice coming out as a croak. ‘You’re younger’n me—’

Kath interrupted her without compunction. ‘If we don’t get him warm, he’ll die of exposure. I’ll go up to the Swtan to fetch blankets. If we can roll him up in them, then between us we should be able to carry him into a cave. The tide’s on the ebb, so there’s no fear that the water will penetrate that far. Once he’s safe there, I’ll go for help, if you prefer to stay with him.’

The old woman nodded and Kath set out at once, scrambling up the cliff path, wrapping blankets in a piece of rough canvas and returning to Owain’s side. It was the work of a very few minutes for the two women to roll Owain gently on to the blankets and carry him carefully into the cave. ‘Will you be all right here?’ Kath asked the older woman. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Only I don’t think he should be moved again because he’s broken several bones and his breathing’s not too good.’ She looked doubtfully at her companion. Nain was soaked to the skin and filthy; her skirt was torn and there were fragments of gorse and bramble embedded in her long mackintosh. She looked a poor little thing, with her white face and draggled hair, but Kath noted with satisfaction the martial gleam in her eyes. Nain would do everything in her power to ensure that her grandson lived and she, Kath, would do everything in
her
power to fetch help with all possible speed.

Satisfied that she was doing the best for her husband, she turned away from the cove and began the climb to the top of the cliffs.

They took Owain to the Gors Hospital and Kath knew from the look on the doctor’s face and from the attitude of the nurses that they did not expect their patient to live. ‘Multiple injuries of this sort may mean internal injuries as well,’ the doctor in charge said gently. ‘The next few days will be crucial. We shall have to operate and then, I hope, we shall know a little more. We’ll need to pin and plaster and generally deal with his broken bones and then see what happens when he regains consciousness . . .’

But he did not. For several weeks he lay very still and straight in his hospital bed, arms and legs in plaster, head, neck and shoulder swathed in bandages. Kath scarcely moved from his side, talking to him quietly of how he would soon be well, must not give up, must not dare to leave her who loved and needed him so much.