Peaks and Troughs

by Nick Perry

In every farrowing pen, Rob and I found dead piglets lying in wet straw. As we carried them out and threw them into the wheelbarrow, the misery of it consumed us, while the sows showed no sign of noticing their loss.

  We cleaned out each pen, sweeping them dry, filling them with fresh bedding. Only the strong had survived. By the time we’d finished, we counted thirty-eight who had not made it. We dug a grave using pickaxes and spades, and buried them in a quiet spot away from the buildings. How indifferent Mother Nature is to the destruction she causes.

  We’d lost several tiles from the barn roof. Half-fallen larch trees leant against each other, their branches entwined. Plastic buckets rolled around, to-ing and fro-ing with the monotonous clink of metal handles scraping on concrete.

  After seeing to all the animals and milking Frieda, it was hard to know where to begin. Harry appeared and walked around the place. ‘Could have been worse.’ He got out a chainsaw and cut up the trees blocking the drive. Jack went down to the lower fields where we had sheep grazing. The only damage was to the beehives. They’d all been blown over and were lying on their sides. He picked them all up and reassembled them, without any protective clothing. Never got stung once.

  ‘Where were the bees?’ I asked.

  ‘Climbing all over the hives, thousands of them.’

  The morning was calm and blue, only a few puffs of clouds, like scoops of ice cream, moving from north to south. Evan Evans, anxious to see what damage had been done, called in offering to help. In the boot of his car he had overalls and wellingtons: ‘I’m here to get my hands dirty.’ My mother had telephoned. She too had no electricity and would come up to make lunch. So an army of us worked together, putting everything back in place. After Harry cleared the trees, Jack left to go up to Cesarea. Sam and Lysta busied themselves with their wheelbarrows, sweeping up anything that moved. Evan Evans, not a man used to physical work, held ladders that Harry climbed to begin replacing the missing tiles.

  At four o’clock in the afternoon our power was restored; at last the piglets slept in warmth. At six Ros returned home, and after a disruptive twenty-four hours a word I rarely used, ‘normality’, tiptoed back into our lives.

  I checked the freezer: everything had remained frozen. The meat hanging in the cold store, although no longer chilled, Harry assured me was still fit for human consumption. So we had lost only the piglets, but in four months from now, when they would have been ready for slaughter, a gaping hole would appear in our cash flow.

  Dewi walked into the kitchen at 6.45 p.m. saying he could murder a cup of tea, telling us of the devastation he had seen. Raif Williams, down in Pant Glas, had lost six cows, electrocuted when a power cable came down from a pylon. Caravans in Pontllyfni had been seen somersaulting across the fields. In Penygroes high street a lamp post had crashed into a window of the bank, setting off the alarm.

  How were his Welsh Blacks, I asked him. ‘Duw, they stood single file below a wall all night. Not stupid, you know, a Welsh Black.’

  After he’d carried on for another twenty minutes I said, ‘Dewi, what post have you got for us?’

  ‘No post today,’ he said, ‘desperate I was for a cup of tea. I need the toilet, then I’ll be off.’

  Dinah rang, and I thanked her for making lunch. The children were in bed, and I was alone with Ros. It felt as though I hadn’t seen her for days. She told me she’d had morning sickness at Trefanai. As we lay on the bed I kissed her, felt her stomach. A slight swelling was now visible.

  ‘When is it due?’ I asked.

  ‘The First of April. A spring baby.’

  The day before, the world had gone mad; now everything had given way to its opposite. Not a murmur to be heard anywhere.

  ‘I feel like saying I love you.’

  ‘Well, say it then.’

  So I whispered it. And with the lights still on she fell asleep, while the image of electrocuted cows hung over me, along with somersaulting caravans and a lamp post crashing through the window of the bank.

  In my head I was with Otis, and like him I knew a change was going to come.

  9

  A New Arrival

  Jack and I came down out of the clouds above Cesarea with the Land Rover crammed with ewes and entered the blue October morning, past the barbed wire fencing glistening with frost, knotted fleeces freezing in the biting wind. Neil Young was singing ‘Out On The Weekend’ and we were bringing down the last of the stock for the winter. Jack told me he’d heard that Gethin Hughes’ dog Don had been shot and dumped out on the Carmel road. He thought we should protect ourselves, meaning I shouldn’t let Moss out of my sight. Again Mrs Musto’s words came back to me.

  I was sure it must have been Arfon taking his revenge, but I wasn’t going to let the pristine beauty of the day be tarnished by the act of a callous heart. We descended into the autumn light of soft blues washing over the metallic-grey sea as the white foaming waves broke along the shoreline of Dinas. The heat from the woollen throng behind us wafted over the back of our necks.

  Floating up over Cwm Silyn a flock of birds emerged from the spilling cloud, speeding away towards the Wicklow Mountains.

  I told Jack, as I had the previous week, that we needed to sort our mother out, that we should say something. She had read me a letter from her Cypriot fisherman Stavros in which he asked her again to give up her life in Wales, to come and sit on a beach helping him mend his nets. He was ten years younger than she was, and I dared not tell her he was only after her money. Dinah was prone to falling in love; Stavros was not the first. She was attractive, though not in a Rose Tobias way, flirty and leading from the front. My mother had a girlishness about her, and a sensitivity that appealed to men with an extrovert nature who would take on the world, then cry like a child when defeated. To this type my mother offered sympathy and a listening ear.

  ‘She’ll be unhappy in six months,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to say something.’

  ‘Hatch a plan, you mean, to keep her here?’

  ‘Yes, so she doesn’t make a fool of herself.’

  ‘Well, we need to think about it.’

  I could tell by that remark it was the last thing Jack wanted to do. It would be me who would have to talk her out of it. I doubted whether she would listen, especially as I had told her once that holding back will get you nowhere in life.

  Rob certainly wasn’t, now disappearing every Saturday to be with Kate in Chorley. I couldn’t let him have the Land Rover at the weekends so Ros gave him the Hillman Imp whenever she could. Now I was really waiting for a change to come; not only might my mother disappear, but Rob as well.

  Meanwhile, our four geese patrolled the farm, hardly goose-stepping, but certainly with a threat about them. They were constantly out on manoeuvres, hassling everyone who came to Dyffryn. If they annoyed Frieda she would throw her head about and kick out with her back legs. Moss would have none of their nonsense, but they provided excellent practice for her, because she could not scatter them, only turn them this way and that, zigzagging up the drive.

  They chased Dewi’s van every time he delivered the post, and terrorised Evan Evans, who never got out of his car until the coast was clear. I told him they were harmless, but he went on about his high blood pressure. They would rush up to him, their necks stuck straight out, honking, their wings flapping.

  ‘I really don’t like coming here any more. Can’t you shoot them?’

  Poor Evan, having to deal with that, and then being told I was going to trial some food with Spillers. At the end of his protestations, accusing me of turning my back on him, he said, ‘I thought we were friends.’

  ‘We certainly are,’ I said, ‘but Evan, they are eight pounds a ton cheaper.’

  Hughie would only come to Dyffryn if it was important. It had to be a serious matter.

  ‘Perry, in all the time you’ve been here, I’ve never seen you plough a field.’

  ‘That’s because I haven’t.’

  ‘Well I have a plough that will do the job for
you. Three shears.’

  ‘Harry does all the ploughing.’

  ‘Duw, boy, how can you call yourself a farmer if you can’t bloody plough?’

  Maybe I couldn’t, but Hughie was there to give me the hard sell. I remembered that first deal with him, Gethin’s words: show you’re not interested. So I half turned away, stuck my hands in my pockets, stared at the ground.

  ‘Fifty-five is all I’m asking.’

  ‘I’ll think on it. I’m not ready to do a deal now.’

  He shook his head, wiping his brow. ‘You’re not the man you were. Know what they call you around here now don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘The housewives’ farmer.’

  It was true, that was where we made our money. It was said as an insult, but I felt no need to defend myself. All I said was, ‘I consider that to be a compliment.’

  After we’d got the children to bed I told Ros I was going to see my mother, to tell her not to throw her life away on a Cypriot fisherman. Ros thought it was best to let love run its course. It was odd how I felt about it, as if I were dealing with a teenage daughter, not my mother at all.

  She was putting the telephone down when I entered the sitting room at Hendy.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, with a gleaming smile. ‘All done. That was Stavros. Do you know, he rings me from the taverna, and has to book the call four hours in advance.’

  ‘What have you arranged?’ I asked, knowing full well I was too late to stop her.

  ‘I’m going next Tuesday. You will look after everything, won’t you? Here, I mean. I’ll be gone for the winter.’

  So I never said a word about what I felt. It was pointless, and would have caused a rift between us. I didn’t stay for the cup of tea she offered me. I felt a mixture of anger and sadness. But how did I know what goes on in a fifty-four-year-old woman’s mind? Was I being judgemental, or maybe just disappointed that my mother was not content living here with us, and Ros with a baby on the way. Then I realised I was just being selfish. ‘Let her go,’ I said to myself. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  I don’t know the origin of the word ‘bodge’, but we certainly used it a lot. Harry mentioned it often when coming down a ladder. I would ask him, ‘How’s it gone then?’ and he would say, ‘You know, I’ve managed to bodge it.’ Make do, is what he meant; nothing permanent, something for now. That’s what held Dyffryn together. I wondered when it had entered everyday language.

  Much of life on the farm was spent doing running repairs. Since the night of the storm we had cut down the uprooted larch trees, and the old hovel was completely full of logs.

  We saw more of Gwyn since his retirement. He would come over in his VW Beetle, after Sam and Lysta were home from school. He loved being with his grandchildren, walking with them round the farm if the weather allowed. Although he did some locum work, sometimes standing in for a colleague, he had time on his hands; after mornings in the library he took the air along the Menai Strait. He wrote essays on spiritual matters, attended Quaker meetings. Eryl continued to play golf, leading her own independent life. He still pursued his interest in the occult world. But it must have taken some adjustment, making changes from a way of life he had followed for thirty-odd years.

  Ros detected a sadness about him, and why on earth wouldn’t he, a man who had given everything, regret finding himself no longer useful. He would stay as long as he could, the time dictated by Eryl’s demands, which he conceded to without complaint. Sometimes when I watched Ros and the children waving him goodbye, I thought it would be for the last time. I don’t know why; it would float up in me, a little cloud of its own making. There was no reason for it.

  I was now trialling my new ‘grow fast’ pig nuts from Spillers, a controlled experiment on a batch of ten weaners. It required self-discipline on my part to record the daily feeds, writing down the exact amounts. Spillers offered me discounted rates, and their rep Arwel Jones, a progressive thinker who spoke with a fast tongue and a self-assured cockiness, said the result was a foregone conclusion. He was careful not to criticise Crosfields, instead elevating Spillers as market leaders, ahead of their competitors not only in scientific research, but also in the all-important factor, price. He was one of those new breed of salesmen who didn’t offer you a cigarette when they turned up but a Wrigley’s spearmint gum.

  Evan Evans, still somewhat subdued, paid his weekly visits, but was a wounded soul now. He told me head office were reviewing my account, and Reg Dyer was intending to call on me, no doubt to offer a better price. Rob thought I’d been hard on the man, and maybe I was, but I had to do what was right from a financial point of view. I told Evan how things stood, that at the moment I was a Crosfields customer, and hoped that’s how it would stay. But I had to try new products, to find out if I could improve my food-conversion rates. I was sounding like Josh Hummel again.

  ‘I can’t go blindly on; sometimes we all have to make changes.’

  Then the geese caught sight of him, and he was back in his Austin Maxi, winding down the window. ‘You’ve changed, Perry. You’ve developed rough edges, man.’

  ‘No longer a pushover, you mean.’

  As he drove off, Rob said he felt sorry for him. So did I, but I wasn’t going to let it rule my head. Crosfields was a large nationwide company; they were bound to come back and offer me something. Besides, we wouldn’t know the result of the trial for nearly three months.

  Dewi handed me an envelope addressed to Mr and Mrs Perry, hand-written in italics using a fountain pen. ‘Very smart,’ Dewi said, hoping I would open it in front of him. ‘It could well be from the Queen, asking you to attend one of her garden parties.’

  The geese surrounded him, but he stood his ground.

  ‘Open it, Perry. Duw, man, aren’t you curious?’

  ‘It’s not from Her Majesty. It’s got a local postmark.’

  ‘Feel it, there’s a card inside. It’s an invitation to something.’

  ‘Dewi, it’s a personal private letter. Now leave me alone.’ He had this trait, when he got his mind set on something; he couldn’t resist worrying away at it like a terrier. It made me think he must have been a horrible child, pestering his parents if they refused him something. His eyesight was deteriorating even further; I’d noticed we’d been receiving other people’s post. He read everything with his glasses pushed back on his forehead.

  ‘Dewi, your eyesight’s getting worse. When did you last go to an optician?’

  ‘It’s only close up stuff. I can see for miles.’

  Ros took the letter and opened it in front of us. Dewi’s curiosity was satisfied. ‘Oh, how lovely. It’s an invitation to Tom Felce’s wedding.’

  ‘Well, man, what did I tell you? I said it was an invitation.’

  Ros grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, Dewi, come and have a cup of tea.’

  Sam came and asked me, ‘Dad, what’s a bra?’

  He was at that age now, noticing the differences between the sexes.

  ‘Your mother knows. It’s something women wear under their blouse.’

  ‘Why don’t men wear them?’

  ‘Ask your mother, she’ll have a good idea.’

  Frieda let me know it was milking time, repeating her party piece of kicking out her back legs and scattering the geese, who had gathered around the gate when Dewi and Ros went inside.

  When I got back to the house, Dewi was still at the kitchen table. Ros had removed his glasses and was holding up a piece of cardboard on which she had written letters of the alphabet like those you see at the opticians.

  ‘Duw, I’ll be honest with you, they’re all a blur.’

  ‘Dewi,’ she insisted, ‘you must take an eyesight test. You might well be able to see for miles, but close up you can’t see further than your nose. What happens if the post office finds out? You’ll lose your job.’

  Sam told me he now knew what a bra was and why girls wore them. Lysta had told him.

  ‘Oh, good. Tha
t clears up one of life’s mysteries. Dewi,’ I said, ‘you do know it’s twenty to six?’

  ‘Duw, man, is it? I had no idea of the time. Your wife really knows how to talk.’

  ‘There, it fits you perfectly,’ said Mrs Mostyn, her hands smoothing down the front of the pullover she had knitted for me. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I like it,’ I said, though I was doubtful about the sheep.

  ‘That’s a ram. Masculine like you.’

  Mrs Mostyn, who occupied her time knitting various garments in exchange for cuts of meat, was one of my regular customers. She was a lonely widow who shuffled around her bungalow in her slippers, her ankles swollen because of water retention. She was a cheerful soul, housebound most of the time, apart from a weekly trip to Caernarfon to play bingo. She had fast hands. In the bottom of our chest of drawers lay the results of her previous efforts: a bobble hat that I was sure I would grow into some day; a scarf that would make a Christmas present for someone. Her family, who lived in Chester, were coming for Sunday lunch and she looked at me pleadingly. ‘Could you stretch to a leg of pork?’ Of course I could. ‘I’ll start on some thick woollen socks for you. There’s cold weather coming, we don’t want you getting chilblains.’

  I left, wearing the pullover until Brian the tiler, the Talysarn Celts centre forward, saw me and burst into laughter. ‘You look like one of those half-vacant geeks out of the asylum.’ So I took it off and put it in the glove compartment of the van.

  Friday was always a demanding day. Selling required an enormous amount of energy; you’re on show, an entertainer. I would get in and out of the van at least fifty times, going round to the back to open the doors as the housewives came down their garden paths with their shopping baskets. And there the chinwagging would begin, the unfolding stories of their lives. It was difficult to break away and despite my best efforts the round was taking longer each week. It never ceased to amaze me what people had to endure, and the good humour they showed. Living on the breadline, counting the pennies. The sadness of a loss, or a loved one going downhill. The more I got to know them, the more I cut the price when they came up short, rather than let them owe me. I didn’t want to call with a notebook of names that were running up a debt. It was a social thing, but now I understood why Dewi would turn up late having been held up chatting. I was not one for gossip, telling Ros only some of what I had heard.