Cold Enough to Freeze Cows

by Lorraine Jenkin

  He muttered his greetings to the group at the table and when he had finished sorting himself out, he suddenly felt desperately awkward. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “I only popped round as I was passing; I had no idea of the time. I don’t want to interrupt your lunch…”

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” cried Jean, “always pleased to see a neighbour – and you’ll remember Menna’s Aunty Sadie, won’t you? Come and sit down, we’ve plenty for another one!”

  “Yes!” called Aunty Sadie. “Come and sit yourself here. How are you, Joe, bach, I’ve not seen you for years?”

  “He’s not Joe, he’s Iestyn, Aunty,” said Menna. “Joe’s the one who works in London?”

  “Well, dieu, dieu Iestyn, you have grown! Last time I saw you, well, you were shorter than me! Now look at you! Turn around, turn around!” Iestyn obligingly turned around, his arms stuck out at the side and as he did so, he caught Menna trying to hide a giggle. “Well, well, what a fine figure of a man. Isn’t he, Menna?”

  “Yeah, Superman – without the clean pants,” she smirked, taking the elastic band out of her ponytail and re-fixing it. “Or maybe Batman without the decent car.”

  “Sit down, lad,” said Bill, “make yourself at home.”

  Iestyn thanked him and gladly walked towards the table, but in doing so, caught a glimpse of himself in the large mirror over the fireplace. His hair was no better than it had been five minutes before in the truck, his over-jumper had last week’s breakfast down it and the warmth was making his cheeks glow even more than they usually did. He took his jumper off hoping to get it out of the way before he reached the table. He was then faced with his second jumper, a stripy acrylic number that mother had brought home one day from God only knows where. He stripped that off too, to calls of “And the rest!” from Sadie.

  Finally he sat himself at the table, directly opposite to a giggling Menna, in a T-shirt with a ripped neck and a stain of sheep dip across its front. He could smell his own feet, so he tucked them backwards under the chair and hoped that the smell of the chicken pie would overpower them.

  “So,” said Bill, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?” It was only said in conversation, but Bill knew as well as Iestyn did that Glascwm was the last farm on a road that led only to a few more cottages and a dead end.

  “Oh, just passing, you know, doing a few errands,” said Iestyn and he thanked Jean for the large plate of lunch that she put on the table in front of him. He tucked in, finding it easier to eat than to make conversation. Menna had reached her last potato and Aunty had finished hers and having put her cutlery down, she settled to watch the fine figure of a man choke on his chicken pie.

  “That was lovely thanks, love,” said Bill, “any more?”

  “Oh. Sorry. No there isn’t, now,” said Jean.

  Everyone looked at Iestyn’s plate, which was already half empty. He looked up. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ve eaten your seconds – look, have that bit of pie, Bill. I haven’t touched it.”

  “No, no. No problem, boy, you keep going,” said Bill looking around at the other plates. “You want that potato, Menna?”

  “No, you have it, Dad, I’m full,” and Menna passed her last potato over to her hungry father who cut slithers from it, as if trying to make it last.

  “How’s business, Iestyn?” asked Jean.

  “Good, good thanks,” he replied, his mouth just full of Bill’s delicious second helping of pie crust. “Could do with a break in the weather, though.”

  “Yes, it’s foul isn’t it?”

  There was silence, but for the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and for the creaking that was coming from Iestyn’s chair as he squirmed.

  “What about you? How’s it going?”

  “Yes, good thanks, boy, good – apart from the weather, as you said.”

  Iestyn couldn’t eat fast enough. Damn Johnny Brechdan and his stupid ideas. Why had he listened to him? These things should be planned, thought through – you shouldn’t turn up at someone’s house to ask them for a date when you have BO, smelly feet, bad hair, a red face and then proceed to eat their father’s dinner; it was never going to work.

  “Oh, you’re a good eater,” smiled Aunty. “I love a good eater. My Alf, dieu, he could eat…”

  “Most people can,” said Bill. “Keeps them alive.”

  Iestyn caught Menna’s eye, she was nearly purple with the effort of not exploding into laughter. It was as if she were enjoying his discomfort. Iestyn crammed his last forkful of carrots into his mouth, just as Bill nibbled his last sliver of potato.

  “That was delicious, Jean. Thank you,” Iestyn said. “Gosh, is that the time, I really must go now, folks, thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome, lad, you’re welcome. Are you sure that you won’t join us for some pudding? Spotted dick and custard?”

  It was Iestyn’s favourite. “No, no, I really must go, but thank you anyway.” He nodded at Aunty, who wiggled her fingers back at him. “Oh, and Menna, we’re going for a pint in the Bull tonight if you fancy? Only if you’re free, like?”

  “OK,” she said. “Might see you there then. Thanks,” and she raised her eyebrows at him, still with that urge to laugh written across her face.

  “Go on, Menna, see him out,” said Aunty, “it’s obvious it’s you he’s come to see!”

  “No, no, just passing,” Iestyn said as he scrambled to his feet. Please, Aunty, don’t make this any worse than it already is…

  She did: “Come on, Menna, come past me,” said Aunty, making it all worse as she scraped her chair forward and leant into the table. Menna muttered that there was no need and Iestyn pleaded that there was no need, but Aunty insisted and Menna squeezed past her and reached Iestyn at the door just in time to pass him another tissue.

  “Sorry about that,” muttered Iestyn, as he struggled to keep his balance whilst he pulled his wellies on.

  “Wrong foot,” said Menna, fidgeting as she untucked her rugby shirt from her jeans and then stuffed it back in again.

  “Eh?”

  “You’ve put them on the wrong feet.”

  “It’s OK; this is how I wear them. They’re a bit big you see and this makes them fit…” Iestyn knew he was talking rubbish and that Menna knew he was talking rubbish, but he couldn’t face being in that kitchen a moment longer.

  “Thanks again, folks, and sorry to eat your dinner, Bill.”

  “Any time, boy, any time,” said Bill, waving his hand at him.

  Jean walked to the door, her arms laden with plates. “Don’t forget your hat,” she said and plucked it from the hat hooks. Iestyn dragged it onto his head, pleased to be able to hide at least one of the day’s worst features. “Iestyn – aren’t those boots on the…”

  “Wrong feet,” said Menna, “yes, they are. But apparently he likes them like that, don’t you, Iestyn?”

  “Thanks again,” he called and he bolted for the door, skidding in a puddle that his boots had left earlier and having to make a fifteen-stone grab for Menna to stop himself crashing to the ground.

  “Oh Christ, Menna, I’m sorry, are you OK?”

  Menna giggled. “I’m fine, don’t worry! Now are you sure you’re in a fit enough state to drive?”

  “Just let me out of here…” he groaned, half – but not quite – giggling. “Maybe see you tonight?”

  “Oh, actually now I’m thinking about it, I don’t think I can. Think I’m going over to Mandy’s. Sorry,” she said. “See ya.”

  A text did arrive on Johnny’s phone before dusk. It read, “Last time I listen to you, you bastard.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Fel ci yn llyfu ei ddolur – like a dog licking its wounds

  Hi! Rachel here, diligently doing my computer homework. My flatmates, Rosie and Sam and I have just been having a heated debate/blazing row about aerodynamics. Luckily, just as Rosie and Sam were about to come to blows, the doorbell rang and it was our new neighbour from three doors down, come to introduce himself. Turns
out, he is an engineer and was able to explain it all to us. Then he took us for a ride in his new BMW convertible to prove the point. How lucky was that!

  Louisa felt her stomach roll over in anger and jealousy. She’d called the bloke from three doors away, Uncle Bob, and he’d had a Montego with dog hair in it. She could barely bring herself to skim the next section, but saw that it mentioned swimming, a new swimsuit, fifty lengths and coffee afterwards with the dishy new lifeguard, Jaff.

  If she, Louisa, had posted her blog the other day, very little would have changed – what could she blog about apart from Doreen’s new blouse that was sent from Head Office being two sizes too big and Barry the golf pro who had told her about his kidney stone investigation.

  Rachel ended with a request for advice on how to break the fifty-length barrier, as she was simply unable to do any more and thus invited the interaction that Herbie had desired. Two people had already replied and both messages had lots of exclamation marks and references to their own lengths…

  Louisa got up and paced about the room. She noted the dutiful family photo of her and her parents taken on some boring day out. She looked with distaste at the range of glass animal ornaments – why on earth had she decided to collect them?

  Her room was immaculate. The cream carpet had only ever had slippers traverse it and her satin bed quilt was removed each night and replaced – for show – each morning: just the same as the one in her parents’ bedroom.

  She looked in the mirror and saw her round face and her sensible shoulder-length bob. Her work blouse was in the wash basket and she had replaced it with a round-neck t-shirt and comfortable jeans with elastic inserts at the side. Rachel had worn skinny jeans and biker boots at the last session. Rosie had had a woollen dress and tonged curls.

  Louisa had always felt a bit awkward around people of her own age. It was as if she wasn’t quite on their wavelength. She could be chatty and even flirtatious with the older people at the golf club, but with anyone of less than forty she felt tongue-tied and nervous. However, she also felt resentful. She felt as if she was actually much more interesting with much better conversation skills than they had – if only they’d give her a chance, and shut up and listen for a while. They just never seemed to give her the break that she needed to show off her wit and wackiness.

  At school she’d always felt that she should have been in the incrowd. She should have been at the back chatting and giggling with Sarah Stroud and her cronies, rather than being at the side of the front row, sharing a desk with the near-silent Isabel Roberts. But Sarah Stroud had never shut up and listened to her for long enough to appreciate her sense of humour and her turn of phrase.

  Sadly, it seemed that this was still the case in her adult life. She was sure that she could make Rosie and Rachel laugh out loud as she nudged them and pointed at something, making a little comment about it being surreal or random. Yet, as usual, they hadn’t seemed to have even noticed that she was in their class, let alone looked at her as a potential great friend.

  Louisa had always assumed that life happened to people and it would be the one that they rightly deserved. She had been well behaved and worked hard at school. Her reward for that was a good job at her local bank. She had a clean car and she showered each morning. Her figure wasn’t exciting, but it was reasonable. Surely all these things should add up to being married by now?

  She had presumed that she would have met a hard working bloke, a nice chap who also played a bit of golf and liked meals out. They should have got wed, or maybe not – maybe lived in sin for a while. She should actually be enjoying a series of foreign holidays for a few years before starting a family. They would have a boy and a girl, she would work part time and they would alternate Sunday lunches at her parents and his.

  Instead, these things seemed to be happening to other people instead of her. She’d kept her side of the bargain, surely it was the rest of the world’s turn to keep its side?

  There was a tap at the door and a cup of tea with Esther attached loomed. “Here you are, love; a cup to help you get your homework done – and your dad says to tell you that part two of Silent Witness starts in ten minutes!”

  “Thanks, Mum,” said Louisa and accepted the cup and put it on the coaster on her desk.

  Esther seemed to want to stop and chat, but didn’t have any chat in her. She peeped into the wash basket and removed the work blouse and shuffled off. Louisa was sitting at her desk, left alone in her pink t-shirt and her comfortable jeans with a cup of tea made to her exact requirements within an arm’s length.

  Just why hadn’t she gotten round to creating herself a life? An interesting, enviable life that would make an enjoyable blog? Could she really write about her and her dad’s reckonings that the murderer was the man in the red coat because of the insurance scam? Would anyone bother to have interactions about Silent Witness theories? And if they did, would their thoughts have lots of exclamation marks on?

  She shook her head in frustration. This was pathetic! She’d allowed herself to become a boring, uninteresting, dull woman who dressed twice her age, yet was scathing about people she secretly thought she deserved to be.

  She hated to admit it – but perhaps Rachel and Rosie had decided to move out of their parents’ homes and get a flat together. Perhaps they’d invited Sam to join them. Perhaps it hadn’t been financially astute or sensible; perhaps it had just been for – for fun?

  Louisa remembered back to the sixth form when she had turned down the offer of a date; she’d known that Pete Blanche would never have been the man she would marry – he was shorter than her for a start and that would never have done, so she turned him down. Shame really – he’d gone out with Cheryl Bainbridge instead and they’d gone to Camp America for the summer. He’d actually been all right really.

  Then she’d quite liked that John Hamish who’d come down from St Andrews in Fife to help tend the golf course last summer. He’d brought a little excitement and a few dirty jokes into the dusty environment of the golf club, and he’d even leant on his roller and told her how good she would look in a tam-o’-shanter. Louisa had immediately changed from being a once-every-couple-of-months kind of golfer to a once-a-weeker. She wore red jumpers and bought a better pair of sunglasses. But then she’d overheard him telling Margey Harding the same and she’d gotten a wink despite the fact she was pushing fifty. Somehow his rakish Scottish charm had worn a little thin after that and Louisa had felt ashamed to have been taken in by his guile and had seen him for what he really was – a fraud.

  As she sat slumped at her desk, Louisa felt a life-changing moment beginning to dawn. She could hear the credits that signalled the end of the snooker echoing up the stairs. Soon she would be listening to the beginning of Silent Witness, and then her dad’s footsteps would clomp up the stairs. She had about two minutes to make a decision. Was it really time to start kick-starting a life, start being someone who could write an interesting blog or was it time to settle next to her dad, snuggle under some chenille and throw another night at the TV?

  Footsteps were heard on the stairs. She had thirteen stair steps to decide.

  “Louisa! Are you coming down? I’ve just popped out for chips!”

  Well, it would be rude not to…

  CHAPTER 5

  Rhwng y cŵn a’r brain – between the dogs and the crows (going to rack and ruin)

  It was a cold Christmas Eve with clouds rolling in from the east and Iestyn was out banging his fingers with a claw hammer half way up a hillside, trying to fix the hinges of a knackered old gate. It had been in poor condition for years, tied shut with string and with an old fence post tied, swinging, underneath it to stop the cleverest of the sheep from crawling under it. Last week it had finally collapsed and Iestyn was determined to get it mended before lambing started. Having seen Jean’s parking allocations, he was having one of his – usually shortlived – drives towards efficiency: a stitch in time and all that.

  He had just re-hung the gate with an
air of triumph and was pushing it open and watching in pleasure as it swung gently back until clicking quietly shut on the new latch. Brilliant – only 37 more gates to go: perhaps he’d save the rest of them until he’d marked out the parking bays…

  As he gathered up his tools and slung them in the back of the Land Rover, he took a moment to look down the valley to his parents’ farm. He could see his father limping across the yard with his familiar but strange gait, holding two buckets and bundled up against the weather. His mother was another pile of coats ducking in and out of the shed that held the sheep dogs and scraping the worst of the muck out of the pen and into the wheelbarrow.

  Iestyn knew that he and Johnny joked about their families, but he would never knock them. They were only doing what farming families did. No generation ever felt entitled to sell the family silver, so that meant that someone from each generation had to slog day in, day out, every day of the year. No one ever managed to properly retire, they just did jobs that fitted their current levels of physical strength, passing on the earlier and later shifts to the younger ones and trying hard not to baulk at newer methods.

  Pencwmhir was a hill farm of some 150 acres – mainly scrubby pasture with grazing rights over the open hill. As the name, Pencwmhir suggested, their farm was at the head of a long valley and their access track snaked parallel to the stream for a mile until it hit the public road.

  Iestyn looked up the valley from his vantage point as the waves of sleet started buffeting across the land. He saw the sheep crouched on the lee side of the hedges in a way that would have his father sucking in the air through his teeth. He squinted through the weather and saw a glinting four-by-four bumping over the first cattle grid.