by Jenny Nimmo
The kitchen table was laid for tea when they reached home. Tins, bowls and messy ingredients had vanished.
‘A genius you are, Glenys,’ Ivor Griffiths told his wife.
Rows of cakes in plastic packaging were stacked on the dresser, neat as soldiers on parade.
‘Wow!’ breathed Gwyn. ‘You’ll break a record with this lot.’
His mother beamed and poured the tea so Gwyn couldn’t be unkind and run upstairs just then. He knew now why he’d slipped a chisel into his pocket.
His father relaxed after his meal. He sat in his big armchair and read Iestyn Lloyd’s newspaper.
Gwyn went up to his room. He stared at the rug beside his bed for a full minute, then he rolled it up, revealing five dusty floorboards. The centre board had been replaced, long ago by three short planks, one only half a metre long. The nails securing this board were obvious and shiny; they were only four years old. The others, scattered across the floor, brown and invisible, were more than two hundred.
Gwyn eased his chisel into a narrow gap at one end of the short board, and began to lever it up, wondering, as he worked, why he was invading the hiding place. Was it only for reassurance? The thing that he’d imprisoned there four years ago could surely not have escaped.
It was easier than he had imagined. Two nails suddenly snapped free, then the others. The board was loose. Gently, Gwyn lifted it away.
Dust covered the hidden object in a thin grey film but did not conceal it. He experienced a tiny jolt of fear, but forced himself to bring into the light a small four-legged wooden creature.
He blew the dust away and it drifted into the warm air, some settling on his hands. It was smaller than he remembered and even more hideous; a mockery of a horse, with severed ears and tail, blank lidless eyes and teeth bared forever in what could only be despair.
And Gwyn felt pity as he had four years before and a longing to do what he must never do, to set the captured demon free and take away its pain. But the injunction still remained on a scrap of dappled paper tied to the creature’s neck, ‘Dim hon! Not this!’ scrawled in a witch’s hand.
If he’d been rational then, he’d have replaced the horse in that safest of hiding places, but panic and his aching fingers distracted him, caused him to hover about the room, rumbling in drawers and cupboards. At length he chose a beam set high into the back wall but protruding twenty centimetres from it; a narrow shelf where he kept his most precious possessions.
He climbed on to the bed and pushed the horse between a lump of glittering quartz and a crowd of pearly shells. The other gifts were there too; the yellow scarf, folded tight; a dry stick of seaweed and the pipe that his ancestors had flung to Gwyn through time so that he might hear voices inaudible to other mortals. Once, he’d heard a sound he wished he could forget.
The last gift was resting in a tiny circle of gossamer at the end of the beam; Arianwen, the spider, sent by his lost sister from another world, in exchange for an ancient metal brooch.
‘What d’you think, Arianwen?’ Gwyn spread his fingers invitingly along the beam. ‘Will I grow? Is the magic shrinking me? I’m tired of it, see. It hurts. I don’t want it any more!’
The spider crept towards him and, as she moved into deep shadow beneath the beam, a cloud of glowing particles spiralled round her.
Gwyn took her into his hand. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it!’ She was part of the magic and he would never reject her. He could hardly feel her, but the coolness of her silvery body soothed his tingling fingers.
Gently he dropped her on to the broken horse. ‘Guard it for a while,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
But the little spider ran away from the dark creature and Gwyn couldn’t blame her. Something writhed in there, someone glared out from the dead eyes: a mad, imprisoned prince. But what had it to do with that lost voice clutching at Catrin through a telephone receiver?
Gwyn stepped away and jumped off his bed. ‘I’m not sleeping with you there,’ he told the horse. ‘I’ll move you later.’ He left the room, closing the door tight.
Behind the horse’s terrible injuries, someone smiled to himself. He had waited for two thousand years; what did a few days matter? The man he had summoned was drawing closer.
Catrin withheld the message. It was the beginning of a time when she was to keep more and more of herself away from her family.
It isn’t my message, Nia thought. It isn’t mine to pass on. Perhaps there was no telephone call. She didn’t want to think about the lost voice stealing into the house and catching at her sister. If she had answered the phone the message and the voice would have been hers, but Gwyn Griffiths had come between her and Evan Llr. She knew it was Gwyn, sitting there, bent over his fingers like the wizard he was. He had done it before. She knew the feeling now; he had stopped her from doing things, saved her! He hadn’t stopped Catrin though!
When the letter came, two days later, Mrs Lloyd was unprepared and quite flustered at the news. ‘Evan Llr!’ she exclaimed over the buzz of eight children munching breakfast. Her voice had such an unnatural ring it managed to penetrate the noise and even to subdue it.
‘Who is Evan Llr, Mam?’ Nerys asked.
‘Your cousin!’
‘Our cousins are girls,’ said Gareth, grimacing.
‘Rotten girls,’ Sîon repeated, always derisive where the opposite sex were concerned.
‘He says he telephoned,’ Mrs Lloyd went on, ignoring the twins. ‘Gave someone a message!’
‘I forgot,’ said Catrin, vigorously buttering her toast. ‘I’m sorry.’
You didn’t forget, Nia thought. You wanted to keep it all to yourself, Catrin Lloyd.
‘He wants to come . . . dear, dear . . . I wish I’d known . . . well, of course,’ Mrs Lloyd brought the letter closer to her face.
Nia leant over the table for the butter dish and peered into Catrin’s face.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Catrin said sharply. ‘I forgot. Why didn’t you remind me?’
‘It wasn’t my message and, anyway, how was I to know you’d keep it to yourself?’
‘Oh, no . . . and he’s been wounded!’ Mrs Lloyd announced.
‘Wounded?’ The twins looked up.
‘Yes, wounded. He’s a soldier, didn’t I tell you?’
‘A soldier?’ Three boys brightened at the word.
‘I can hardly read this bit . . .’ Mrs Lloyd ran her fingers through uncombed morning curls.
Nia abandoned her breakfast and ran behind her mother. It was strange to read the hand that belonged to that deep disturbing voice. Gwyn wasn’t there, this time, to keep Evan Llr from reaching her.
The letter was written in black ink. At the top of the paper the words sprawled huge and forceful towards the right hand margin, but after a few sentences the character of the writing changed, it dwindled as though the writer had lost confidence; either the ink was not flowing or the pen hardly touching the paper. And through and about the uneven, hesitant pattern of lines, Nia caught something of the unknown cousin behind them and was, at the same time, entranced and infinitely saddened. The words at the end could hardly be deciphered: ‘Forgive me; if you’ve no room, I’ll go elsewhere.’
‘No “Love from”,’ Nerys remarked. ‘Do we really know this man?’
‘Anyone would think he was a stranger,’ muttered her mother. ‘Of course we know him, though it’s been ten years, and of course he can come. There’s a bit of space in Iolo’s room.’ Then she dropped the letter on the table and exclaimed, ‘Oh, but he wants peace and it’s such a tiny room. He must have a place to himself.’
‘Iolo can come in with Bethan and me,’ Nia offered.
‘No!’ moaned Iolo.
‘Please, cariad. I’m sure it won’t be for long,’ Mrs Lloyd gave Iolo one of her special winning smiles. ‘It’ll be nice, three quiet ones together!’
‘And three noisy down below,’ said Nia. She wouldn’t have shared her room with Alun or the twins.
‘It’s half past eight,’ Mr Lloyd informed his children from the kitchen door. ‘You’ll be late for school, get on with it. Betty, those boys haven’t even brushed their hair.’
‘I’ve had a letter, Iestyn,’ Mrs Lloyd jumped up, guiltily, ‘from Evan. You remember, Evan Llr.’
‘I remember,’ said Iestyn, none too warmly.
‘He’s coming here!’
‘Is he now?’
All at once, hairbrushing conveniently forgotten, the kitchen was full of boys’ excited questions. ‘Would Iolo’s room be large enough for a soldier? Where would his boots go? Would there be weapons under the bed?’
‘Not if I’ve got anything to say about it!’ Mr Lloyd might be a butcher but his lust for blood did not extend beyond his trade. He regarded soldiery with suspicion. ‘Now, up those stairs and make yourselves tidy!’
So the children had to wait until tea time before they could squeeze further information from their mother.
‘Who is Evan, really?’ Nia asked for the second time.
‘I’ve told you, my brother’s son,’ her mother sighed, patiently.
That was no answer. ‘Yes, but who . . .?’ Nia persisted.
‘I’ll tell you.’ Mrs Lloyd, easier now that all ten plates were filled, sat down and embarked on a history of Llrs, past and present. ‘As you know, there were three of us girls: Auntie Megan, Auntie Cath and me. Well, I was the youngest and your Uncle Dai was fifteen years older. He was a half-brother, my mother’s child but not my father’s!’
‘So he’s not a Llr!’ Nerys put in.
‘Well . . . no . . .’
‘Nor is Evan then!’ Nerys went on. She was always one for grabbing at little details. She liked backgrounds to be neat.
Her mother didn’t want to linger on complications but she knew Nerys would give her no peace until she had every bit of the puzzle. ‘Dai was only a baby when my parents married,’ she explained, ‘so my father adopted him, legally; gave him his name.’
‘Who was Dai’s father then?’ Nia asked.
‘I don’t know!’ Mrs Lloyd seemed surprised by her own answer. ‘I never knew. I never asked.’
This piece of information fascinated Nia.
So there’s a part of Evan that we’ll never know about, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘Go on about Uncle Dai.’
Relieved to have got off lightly this time, Mrs Lloyd continued, ‘Well, Dai never did like farming, so he was off to work in the bank, in Wrexham. Did very well, too. Must have been quite a catch in those days. He was handsome, too, your Uncle Dai.’
‘What’s a catch?’ asked Iolo, grasping at the only point of interest in his mother’s story.
‘Like a fish,’ Alun said quickly.
‘Is he dead, then?’ Iolo inquired.
‘Dead? Why should he be dead?’ Mrs Lloyd was in danger of losing her thread.
‘He means like a fish being caught,’ Nia cheerfully came to the rescue.
‘I do not!’ Iolo said indignantly. ‘You said was, Mam. You said he was handsome!’
‘Oh, in those days. He’s quite old now.’
‘Where is he?’ Nia asked.
‘Where? In Australia. Where was I?’ Mrs Lloyd looked at her eldest daughter. Nerys could usually be relied upon at such times, but she was polishing her spectacles. Catrin was gazing into a space that was probably occupied, Nia thought, by a boy on a black horse. Catrin was in love with Michael McGoohan, the doctor’s son.
Nia had not lost the thread. ‘Uncle Dai, who was handsome and rich because of being a bank manager, went to Australia,’ she said. ‘But what about Evan?’
‘There were two of them,’ Mrs Lloyd said absently, then all at once she seemed to regret having launched herself thus far.
‘Two what?’ Nia prompted eagerly.
‘Evan had an older brother, Emrys, but he died when he was only eight.’ Mrs Lloyd disclosed this sad and dreadful fact as though she intended to end her story there, and for most of her family it had the desired effect. The awfulness of dying when you were eight had to be respected in silence.
The twins managed a mumbled ‘Aw!’ and glanced at Iolo, but Nia needed to know more about the survivor. ‘And then what?’ she asked.
‘Then what? Then what?’ Mr Lloyd mimicked irritably. ‘It’s like a pound of flesh you’re wanting, Nia Lloyd. Haven’t you had enough Llr history?’ It was clear that he had had a surfeit; his own family was not so numerous, nor as interesting as his wife’s.
‘But I want to know about Evan,’ Nia stubbornly persisted.
‘Go on, then! Go on, Betty! I’ll get my own cup of tea!’ Mr Lloyd made a great to-do about squeezing himself out of his chair at the end of the table.
‘Sit down, Da,’ said Nerys, reaching for his cup.
‘And go on, Mam,’ said Nia. ‘Emrys died and then what?’
‘Then, sometime after, your aunt and uncle went to Australia, but Evan wouldn’t go. He wanted to be a soldier.’
‘A soldier, and he’s coming here,’ the twins yelled at each other.
‘A soldier, yes, but one that’s been to college.’ Mrs Lloyd was proud of her nephew. ‘Duw, he was bright, that Evan. He’s a major now, it seems, and still only in his thirties.’
‘He’s getting on, then,’ Nia began to be disappointed.
‘He’s younger than I am,’ her mother laughed. She wasn’t old, Nia thought, her curls were still golden-brown and her eyes as blue as Catrin’s.
‘But for a cousin he’s old,’ Iolo said. ‘I mean, he’s past playing, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a soldier,’ scoffed Gareth.
‘A fighter,’ added Siôn.
‘Yes,’ Iolo sadly agreed. He lived in the hope of finding someone who could share his games. His older brothers were into violent activities where he was always the victim.
‘There was another side to Evan, as I remember,’ Mrs Lloyd told Iolo, but she refused to be drawn further.
When tea was over and Catrin had carried Bethan away for her bath, Nia surprised her family by demanding to take Alun’s turn with the drying up. She wanted to be alone with her mother.
‘What was on the other side, Mam?’ Nia probed while she gently dried her father’s favourite mug.
‘Other side of what, cariad ?’ Mrs Lloyd was thinking of beds now.
‘You said there was another side to Evan Llr.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Lloyd became suddenly wary. ‘Well – I meant he wasn’t all soldier.’ She caught sight of the kitchen clock. ‘Is that the time? I want to watch the news!’ She peeled off her rubber gloves and left the kitchen for the front room.
Nia dogged her. She wasn’t going to let it go at that.
The news hadn’t started. They remembered the kitchen clock was ten minutes fast. Mrs Lloyd switched off. She sank on to the sofa and drummed her fingers on one arm. Nia wriggled in beside her.
‘Go on about Evan, Mam!’
‘What do you . . .’ Mrs Lloyd began and then something caught her eye in the street beyond the lace curtain.
A horse and rider came into view. The horse was huge and glossy black, the young man on his back had attractive youthfully rounded features, thick brown hair that curled over his collar, and skin that seemed permanently flushed, giving him the appearance of someone always on the edge of a violent emotion.
The sight of the boy and the horse seemed to irritate Mrs Lloyd. ‘That Michael McGoohan,’ she muttered. ‘Thinks he’s grand, doesn’t he, loafing about on a big black horse.’
‘You can’t loaf on a horse, Mam,’ Nia said. ‘Anyway, they ride horses a lot in Ireland.’ She felt she had to defend Catrin’s interest. ‘They think nothing of it.’
‘Why doesn’t he get a job? He’s left school.’
‘He’s waiting for the right one. Catrin likes him.’
‘I know. She could do better!’
Michael McGoohan glanced towards their window, hoping perhaps for a glimpse of Catrin. Nia and her mother, safely con
cealed behind the lace, stared out at him. The young man looked up and scanned the second floor windows. Disappointed, he moved his horse on.
Nia waited until the rhythm of hoofbeats had receded then prodded her mother. ‘Mam, about Emrys. How did he die?’
‘Oh, Nia,’ Betty Lloyd gave a long, sad sigh, ‘I’ve kept it to myself for so long. It’s something I’d like to forget.’
‘No one else knows, then.’
‘Of course they do. When a boy dies, people have to know. You can’t keep it a secret.’ She took a breath. ‘He fell out of a tree. There!’
Nia had annoyed her mother and it was the last thing she’d intended. But she felt compelled to pursue the subject. If she let go of it now, she would never know the story as it should be known.
‘Oh Mam, please tell,’ she begged. ‘I know that isn’t all of it. It can’t be. There’s more. The bit that hurts you.’
Mrs Lloyd gripped the arm of the sofa. Nia thought she’d pushed too far and that her mother was going to fling away the subject of Evan and Emrys, in favour of the television news. Then Mrs Lloyd relaxed, she put her arm round Nia and said, ‘Emrys was the one we watched. The one everyone loved for his brave ways. Evan was quiet; a kind little boy, always behind Emrys, always following, and a bit of a coward. Emrys loved to climb trees; Evan would watch, too frightened to climb, and Emrys would taunt him.
‘They were gone a long time that day. It was autumn, the conkers were ripe. Emrys had climbed the chestnut tree to reach the best . . .
‘I was sent out to find them. I was twelve. When I saw them I thought it was a bit of play-acting, but they were too quiet for that, and so still, and all at once I knew why. I’ll never forget that day, not as long as I live. He never cried, see, Evan, not once, just walked away and left me calling to his mam. And the next day, when we were all wandering about, still shocked, I suppose, and hardly knowing what we were doing, he slipped out, that strange child, and climbed the very tree that had killed his brother, almost to the top. I followed him and waited till he came down, all serious-looking but somehow satisfied and when I asked him, “Why did you do that, Evan? How could you?” he just said, “I climbed higher, Betty, higher than Emrys.”