Cold Enough to Freeze Cows

by Lorraine Jenkin

  He waved her goodbye as he walked out of the complex. “You know,” he said to the back of her car, “I might just do that…”

  Sima sat in a traffic jam and groaned in frustration. It wasn’t as if she was in threat of being late – she always left plenty of time for traffic – it was just the inefficiency of being sat inside a car in a queue. It wasn’t as if she could do anything; if she got her Blackberry® out, the car in front would shuffle forwards three foot and she’d feel obliged to put everything down and do the same.

  She thought back to what Joe had said that morning; he’d been talking like that quite a bit lately. Not saying, I want to go and be a farmer in Bwlch y Garreg, but more voicing little dissatisfactions about his – or their – life in London.

  She could sort of see his point. Everything in their life worked. It was organised and efficient; even in a traffic jam she could clench and unclench her buttocks and do a seated mini-workout. Both of them were good at their jobs, money was rarely an issue, as there was so much floating around, and her flat, where he pretty much lived at the moment, worked like clockwork – and if it didn’t, having someone else to make sure that it did so pretty quickly was only a phone call away.

  Clothes were washed and ironed and then returned to the wardrobes. Any clutter was put away by a mystery housemaid, bathrooms were cleaned and carpets vacuumed. Shopping was ordered online and delivered when they weren’t there, so that the mystery housemaid put it away in all the right places. All they had to do in the flat was exist.

  Their friends were mostly the same: successful, attractive and hell-bent on enjoying life with no responsibilities apart from to themselves. None of them had children or even pets to muddy the waters and they met for drinks after work or dinner at a restaurant on a Saturday night, all looking beautiful and they would chatter, laugh, drink fine wines, and then disappear home in easily afforded taxis.

  Joe was right: snow never scuppered their plans, neither did sick cows or hobbling sheep. Their coats really were just bloody fashion items, they didn’t need them to do anything else but look great as they did nothing but hop from heated flat to climate-controlled car to heated office spaces. But then, thought Sima as she joined a different queue at a junction, there is no actual pleasure in having a crap shower or mice in your sofa cushions – otherwise she could arrange for it to happen. It was the kind of romantic notion that people yearned for, and yet they all moaned like hell when their bus was late or they tripped over a loose paving slab, then stepped in a puddle.

  Joe might think he missed the farming life, but he also liked good restaurants and the office camaraderie. She couldn’t imagine Isla welcoming him home at the end of a long day with a glass of champagne on a balcony: just the ubiquitous cup of tea and one of those bloody scones.

  Maybe she, Sima, should bake Joe a few humungous scones and pop them in a rusty biscuit tin and then store it in a place where no one could reach it without standing on a rickety chair. Maybe when he gets home tonight, I could just pass him a cracked plate with an enormous curranted offering, she thought, slathered in an inch of butter and then ask him about cows.

  First though, I’ll have to find a decent recipe for scones. And buy a baking tray and a set of scales, she thought. Actually, sod it: I’ll just text the housekeeping company and ask them to bring some over.

  Sima turned into the underground car park at her office building and drove into her space. She reached for her bag and slung her jacket over her arm. Within thirty paces, she was in the lift and zipping her way up to her fifth floor office. Bloody Joe and his need for reality in life. Let Isla and Tomos do an hour and a half of weight-bearing stretches with Work It Bob, then go for a full Hollywood wax. Then they’d understand that there was pain and authenticity in city life too.

  CHAPTER 25

  Mor wlyb â llygoden ddŵr – as wet as a water rat

  When Gwennie Elizabeth was four days old, her mother said that it was time to thank their hosts for their wonderful hospitality and move back home. Tansy had been seen by a midwife who had said that mother and daughter were doing wonderfully well and who had praised Nain for doing everything right.

  Johnny reckoned that Tansy didn’t actually want to go home, rather that she felt that she should. “You can stay as long as you want, you know,” he’d repeated to her just that morning.

  “I know, and thank you, it’s just, well, we’re in your way and we need to get home and get started.”

  “You’re not in the way, not in the slightest. I – we – love having you here.” Tansy had smiled again and thanked him, but she had been resolute that they should at least try to survive on their own.

  Johnny had offered to drive them home in Taid’s four-by-four as the roads still had snow in places, and his own truck wasn’t in a fit state to drive a lady and a baby anywhere, let alone on their maiden voyage. He would then collect them again in two days time if there were no further snow, and bring them back to the farm so that Tansy could drive her car back.

  At Nain’s suggestion, he had driven up and down the track a couple of times to make sure a clear route was in place. His usual impulse would be to skid and slide his way along it, relishing the action; even at twenty-six, it was still great fun to be driving a 4 x 4 in the snow! This time, however, he had driven sensibly and made sure that a good rut was worn through.

  He loaded all of Tansy and Gwennie’s things into the truck, plus a whole lot more. There was enough food for two days, so all that Tansy had to do was to take foil off plates and put them into the microwave. Gwennie’s new car seat was assembled and installed and eventually she was installed too. Nain gave them a hug goodbye and then she and Taid waved them out of the yard.

  Tansy seemed a bit nervous about heading for home and kept checking for her keys and faffing about with Gwen’s car seat.

  They passed her car sat plonked at the end of the track, now looking a little abandoned as the worst of the snow had melted from around it – it looked as if it had just been dropped from space.

  They drove in silence for most of the journey, both seemed to be deep in thought. Johnny had hoped to use the journey to clinch his relationship with Tansy, to find out her exact marital status and to shoot off a few of his best charm bullets. The trouble was, he didn’t feel like bullshitting her and he didn’t think it would be very well-received; he was on virgin territory and wasn’t sure which way to turn.

  Telling a four-day mum that she was looking great when she really wasn’t, would probably make her cry. Talking about a favourite restaurant in the hope that he could turn an interest into an invitation was tactless as she probably wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time, what with the breastfeeding on demand. Anyway, Tansy seemed quite sad and low: it must be the four-day blues. Nain had mentioned something about those – or was it three-day? Whatever it was, he was probably best just to shut up and let her feel sad about returning to a cold empty house, which would mean that she would miss him and his big warm one…

  *

  Once in the village of Cefn Mawr, Tansy directed Johnny towards her house. He was intrigued to see what it would be like as he realised that he actually knew very little about Tansy, despite which he felt that he knew all that he needed.

  Eventually they pulled up outside an end of terrace cottage. It was built of dark stone and had a varnished wooden door. It was a nondescript little house, the same as the others in the row – apart from the fact that running out from under the door was a little trickle of water…

  “Shit – Tansy, give me your keys!” Johnny cried and dived at the front door. He opened it quickly and went in, squelching on a wet hall carpet and seeing water gently seeping down the beige-covered stairs.

  He heard a cry from behind him and he rushed back to Tansy who was now standing in the doorway with her hands over her face. “Quick, where’s the stopcock?”

  “The what?” she wailed. “Oh, I don’t know. Greg always did things like that.”

  Johnny r
ushed off, he pulled all the half-empty bottles of cleaner out from under the sink – nothing. “Where could it be?” he yelled from inside the pantry. Tansy burst into tears.

  “I don’t know – try the shower room?”

  He ran into the shower room under the stairs and clattered more half-empty bottles of bleach out of the way and to his relief found the stopcock. He turned it slowly and ran the tap until it stopped.

  He gave a huge sigh of relief and stood up from a puddle on the lino, brushing the worst of the water from his knees. He looked around him; everywhere was sodden. Water was dripping through the ceiling, down light fittings, and pooling on the floor. Anything that came into contact with the carpets was sodden; Tansy’s cream macintosh had been hung on a lower peg and the end of the belt just brushed the carpet and had soaked up a foot of grey water. Johnny went to find Tansy, squelching over wet carpet as he walked. She was sitting on a kitchen chair groaning. The kitchen looked like it might have been smart and cosmopolitan in a bland kind of way once. Someone had taken a great deal of care with the décor and the fittings at some point, but these had been covered over by someone who didn’t seem to have the same time or energy as that DIY expert.

  The chrome vegetable rack was full of rotting fruit, there were piles of newspapers on the floor in the corner that were doing their best to suck up the water. Bags of shopping had been slung next to the storage heater and Johnny could see milk and frozen items popping out over the top that would be ruined now – would have been ruined not long after they’d been put there. The bin was overflowing and was smelling pretty rank, dishes filled in the sink and a breakfast bowl still half-filled with milk and cornflakes was sat on the table next to a half-eaten sandwich and an empty ready meal tub that looked a bit like it might once have held cauliflower cheese. The whole mess was indicative of someone who hadn’t been coping very well for a while.

  Tansy was sitting with her head in her hands. “Oh, just look at it,” she sobbed, “what am I going to do? I can’t sort this lot out and look after a baby. Oh, why did it have to happen now, of all times?”

  She got up and walked towards the lounge, taking care not to slip on the wet lino. “Look!” she cried. “All ruined.” The lounge had a similar feel to the kitchen; it too had been someone’s pride and joy once, but had been taken over by someone who obviously didn’t have the same priorities in life. The spotlights, which had water dripping from them, and the flat-screen plasma television that dominated one wall had the ring of a bloke who liked his drill and shopping at Homebase of a weekend.

  The baskets of ironing, the clothes horse in the middle of the floor and the empty coffee cups on the glass-topped coffee table however, had an inescapable aura of “I’ll do it later…”

  Johnny took a quick look around, “OK… Look, it’s not too bad; just the carpets and anything that’s touching them.”

  “Everything’s touching the carpets,” groaned Tansy, her head still buried in her hands.

  “No, look, the sofa’s got feet, so that should be fine.” He grabbed a pile of sodden magazines from the corner and placed a pile under each foot of the sofa. “There, up another few inches, that’ll be fine now. Right, let’s get these DVDs out of danger,” and he threw all but the bottom few onto the coffee table and then put the wet ones on their sides to drain. He jacked up the armchair with some more newspapers and tied up the curtains, which were slowly sucking up the water from the carpet, into knots.

  Johnny sat next to Tansy on the now-wobbly sofa. He put his arm around her and pulled her towards him, trying so hard not to show his excitement at what had happened. “It’ll be OK,” he crooned, enjoying the warmth of her next to him, “it’s only cosmetic stuff. You insured…? Good, all sorted then. It’ll just have been because of the power cut; your trip switch must have popped at the same time as the electricity – and the heating – went off. It would have got pretty cold in the attic pretty quickly and then, crack – pipes split. It’ll be happening all over. Now, I know that that’s no consolation whatsoever, but what I mean is: don’t worry. It’s all fixable!

  “Right, what is going to happen is this: you check that Gwennie’s still asleep and is warm enough in the truck. Then go and find your insurance documents. Get a load of stuff for yourself and Gwennie to last a week or so and then you can come back to the farm. We’ll sort you a proper room and you can just live with me – with us – until this place gets sorted, OK?”

  Tansy snuffled a thank you and he helped her off the sofa and then trundled round the rest of the house, trying to minimise damage wherever possible, albeit a little after the horse had bolted and floated off down a sizeable stream. However, it felt good to be proactive – even lifting the corner of the duvet off the carpet might make the difference between a ruined duvet and one that could do with a trip to the launderette when someone had the strength to get round to it.

  He lifted the wicker wash basket into the bath and chucked a bundle of dirty washing that had overflowed from it into a pillowcase to take back to wash at the farm. He threw a pile of stuff from the floor in the bedroom into the sink in the corner and then walked around the far side of the bed, but the carpet was wet but clear of further discarded stuff.

  He went into what was obviously intended to be Gwennie’s room and found her crib and a load of clothes in a small chest of drawers; all were untouched by the flood and so he piled every item of clothing into the Moses basket and took it down to the truck. Tansy was just checking Gwennie, “She’s OK,” she said, smiling through her tears.

  “Good. Look, I’ve got all Gwennie’s stuff. Just get a load of your own and that insurance document and we’ll be off. We can always come back if you forget anything.”

  Tansy sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Thanks, Johnny, I really appreciate this,” and she gave his hand a squeeze that made him feel he could carry her, Gwennie and all their stuff over the mountain to the farm if that was what was required.

  He followed her back in and popped into the third bedroom to see if he could rescue anything in there.

  It was a small room, painted in silver-grey with black wooden blinds at the window. It was a very male room with racks of CDs all over one of the walls. Shelves neatly lined with technical books sat within reach of a computer desk, with an empty space where a computer probably once sat. Everything about the room was neat, catalogued and expensive, in stark contrast to the rest of the house.

  However, because everything was so neatly installed on its correct shelving unit, Johnny didn’t need to do anything: the carpet was ruined already, as would be the freestanding lamp unit that bent over the table, but at least there were no personal personal possessions. As he was about to turn and leave, he saw a box file labelled Household Utilities – current and he took it down and leafed through it. Perfect: there behind a divider marked Insurance were letters and documents for up-to-date insurance. He turned to see Tansy behind him.

  “Don’t bother with anything in here,” she scowled, “this was Greg’s domain. If he hadn’t spent so many hours a day in here, farting about with his computer, we probably wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

  “I’ve got the insurance details.”

  “Good,” Tansy said wearily, “let’s shut the door on this room, even with Greg gone, it’s still not mine, y’know?”

  “Greg? That your husband?”

  “Yeah. Was – is – whatever. Come on, let’s just go.”

  Tansy had a holdall and a stuffed bin bag at her feet. Johnny gave her the file and took the bags from her.

  Iestyn walked into the Bull and stamped his feet on the mat.

  “Shut the door!” came cries from several directions. He fumbled for the door handle, but his cold hands slipped off it.

  “Shut the fuckin’ door, you prick!” shouted an old guy from the corner. Iestyn realised that Grumpy Drunk looked even colder than he, Iestyn, felt after a journey in a truck with the window wound down; alcohol must be thinning Gr
umpy’s blood. Iestyn muttered his apologies and shut it quickly.

  “All right?” he muttered to Johnny who was already sat at the bar, listening to Ed debating the merits of reverse-arm push ups as opposed to straight forward press-ups.

  “Evenin’ Iestyn,” Ed said. “Good to see you. What do you think of the welcoming committee, tonight?”

  “Very nice, Ed. I’d not seen Grumpy Drunk for a while: I had been thinking of calling round to his house just to check that he was OK. All right, Johnny?” Johnny looked agitated and was wriggling on his bar stool.

  “Yeah, yeah, great. Ed here’s been telling me about press-ups – is that right? Ed, mate, all I can say is that if you did some proper work, rather than just talking shit for a living, you wouldn’t need to do any press-ups.”

  “Talking shit is an art, Johnny; it’s something I’ve had to work at. It’s just that now I can talk shit whilst wearing a belt two holes tighter than I wore three weeks ago – thanks to that lovely Sima. How is she, Iestyn? Still perfect? Does she talk about how she’s priming me for being the next great love of her life? Oh, she’d look wonderful standing next to me behind this bar, both of us doing squats as we greeted our new customers – not you bloody two, mind, we’d get rid of this shower straight away, and have a new cosmopolitan crowd. We’d rename it too. Oh, I don’t know, The Ivy or Numero Yuno or something classy like that…”

  “Christ, Ed, you do talk some shit. Can I have a pint please?”

  “And he’ll top this one up too,” Johnny said, “and— F’fuck’s sake, Ed, have you farted?”

  “Oh, sorry, yeah. Sima wouldn’t like that would she…”

  “No she bloody wouldn’t – I think we’ll take them over there. Put one behind the bar for Menna will you? She said she might come over, too.”