Riding the Storm Read online

  Perhaps he said something out loud because the nurse came over to him and asked him if he was all right. He said he was and shut his eyes so she would go away again. She said something else, but it was Tony’s voice he heard, bringing him in from the back yard. ‘Hey Alun, what shall we call her, eh?’

  ‘Up to you.’

  ‘You meet plenty of girls,’ said Tony clumsily.

  ‘Schoolgirls,’ said Alun noticing that the baby’s pram blocked the little patch where he used to play ball against the wall and practise juggling.

  ‘Isn’t there anywhere else to put the pram?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Tony. ‘Catrin, what about Catrin?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Alun.

  The baby was hidden under the clothes. A little frill of pink bonnet was all that showed. He didn’t know babies could be so tiny. Or so huge, so they filled everything, all the garden, all the house, all the conversation. So huge there was no more room for him or Dad. He left Tony simpering over the pram and went through the dark narrow corridor that smelled of damp and food. Out in the front his mountain bike was waiting for him. He took off the black dustbin-bag cover, folded it neatly and put it under a stone. Then he took the key from the pocket in his jeans and unlocked the padlock. He made sure the padlock and key were back in his pocket before he wheeled out his bike. Maybe Dad had come back to the ticket office and he could tell him about the baby and how there was no room any more.

  The thing was still on his chest and he didn’t dare to move in case the nurse came over again and saw it. It wouldn’t be fair to Huw if it was taken away. So he lay there for what seemed an eternity. It was only when the heavy rain turned into a pounding downpour that he thought he could bear it no longer. For at that moment something tore open his mind and he met his terrifying memories face to face.

  Chapter Three

  HURRICANE

  He saw it as clearly as if it was happening before him:

  They were leaning over the cot and Mam was smiling at Tony.

  ‘Fast asleep,’ she said, and turned to Alun who was standing at the bedroom door.

  ‘We won’t be long, Alun. A quick drink down at the Falcon. Nice and cosy there and Lammas Street isn’t that far. Do us both good. We haven’t been out for ages, have we, Tone? You’ll know where we are, Alun.’

  Of course he knew. That was where Dad used to take her. He was small then and the lady from up the road kept him company.

  ‘It’s really windy tonight,’ he said.

  ‘What do you expect in October?’ said Mam, smiling and cooing into the cot.

  ‘If there’s any trouble you’ve got the bottle. I’ve left it in the Milton on the draining board. But she should sleep. She’s only just been fed.’

  Alun peered at the baby. She was wrapped in a white shawl from the lace shop and covered with a pink blanket. The smell of talcum powder hung over the cot. Cosy and warm, he thought, as the windows rattled.

  ‘It’s a bad wind,’ he repeated.

  ‘We don’t go out that often,’ said Mam sharply, ‘and we’re only down the road. You’ve got your homework, haven’t you? If you leave your bedroom door open you’ll hear the baby without any trouble.’

  Tony had greased his black hair and put on his black leather jacket. He put his hand in his breast pocket, drew out a wedge of notes, and flicked through them.

  Darkness had already fallen and the wind spattered the window panes with spurts of rain. Alun waited for the front door to bang before he crossed into his own bedroom where he turned on the light and opened his secret drawer. He took out the key of his padlock and put it in his pocket. The wind seeped into the room and shook the bulb so shadows on the wall trembled like leaves.

  After a while he felt as if the wind had got into his head so he went downstairs and switched on the television. He flicked from channel to channel but he received nothing but jagged lines and a crackling noise.

  The wind was louder than he had ever heard before. It boomed like a missile that was aiming straight at the house. He pulled back the curtains to make sure everything was the same, and in the lamp light he saw a dark figure bowing in the wind, coming down Priory street towards him. His heart leapt.

  ‘Dad,’ he called out, but the figure passed into the shadows. He turned off the living room light so he could see outside better. It was like a wind in a picture book, he thought, cheeks out, hair standing on edge, blowing over the whole world. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t on his own, but it was getting louder, spreading into his ears and eyes and nose, suffocating him.

  ‘Please help me,’ he found himself saying, ‘please make Dad come and help me.’

  He thought he heard a cry and stood at the foot of the steep stairs listening for the baby. But it was only the wind wailing down the chimney. A draught skimmed under the front door and it rattled as if someone was knocking on it.

  ‘Dad?’ he called as he struggled to open it. He peered through the small gap but there was no one there except the wind. He shoved the door to and stood with his back to it, listening to his own pulse and registering a weird trembling in his limbs.

  After a little while he heard the crying but for a long while he didn’t move. Then suddenly, as if the wind was behind him, he rushed upstairs and stood over the cot. He stared at the baby then picked it up and held it high and watched it fill the room with its breathless wail. He hated its red, wrinkled face and its shrivelled cry that mingled with the noise in his head and the giant wind that was pushing at the window.

  He shook it and shook it as if it was a rag doll. The door rattled and he turned round, distracted.

  Then he was conscious of nothing but the baby lying at his feet, curled up on the ground.

  The wailing had stopped, the creature lay still. He looked at it coldly, observing the little knot of blood that seeped into its shawl. The noise in his head froze and he heard himself saying as clearly as if it was somebody else speaking to him, ‘She’s all right. She’s asleep. She’s fast asleep.’

  He picked up the silent baby and placed it in the cot.

  Then he went down and sat on the bottom stair and looked for a long time at the rattling door.

  Would Dad never come home?

  After a while the icicle in his head unfroze and his anger became the wind outside. It gathered strength as it hurled itself at the front door. The pane of glass shifted and scattered to the ground. Now his anger lay in little sharp triangles that glinted as the hall light swung to and fro. It shouted at him through the hole in the door. Through the lips of the letter-box it shouted and screamed at him. On the other side of the door it hid the stars and scooped out the street as it went on its way down to the ticket office, looking for Dad. It hollowed out the ticket office and swirled the tickets into the air. It took hold of Dad’s crumpled jacket, whirled it back to the house and stuffed it in the hole in the door.

  Now his anger, like a whirlwind, was back in the house, rattling the television, the cupboard, the knives and forks. He took another coat off the stand and wrapped it round his head but there was no escape. So he ran up to bed and hid under the bedclothes where he thought of his bike, chained to a hook in the front wall, ready to take him away. He flung back the duvet, pulled on his anorak and ran downstairs. Mam’s voice stopped him so he rushed into the kitchen, took the bottle out of the Milton, ran upstairs and placed it in the cot beside the baby’s mouth. Like that she would have her milk when she woke up.

  At last he was free to go on his bike and find Dad where he always imagined him, down by the station on the other side of the river Tywi, chatting to his mates who were laid off in the summer. He would tell him to come back because things had gone badly wrong and his anger was as big as the wind.

  Outside, the dustbin bag that protected his bike had swirled away and the bike itself was dangling from the padlock. With difficulty, he pushed the key into its little hole. The bike scraped to the ground and he pulled it up. Then he thought he heard a c
ry so he ran back into the house and up the stairs. He listened from his bedroom but there was no sound. He put his padlock and key in the secret place under his tee shirts. They could guard the baby like they guarded his bike. He listened again but there was still no sound from the other bedroom and when he went in and looked at the cot the baby lay there as white and still as the sheet they pulled up over Mamgu’s head when she died. He brushed the thought aside. The baby was cold, that was it. He pulled the shawl and blanket round her and ran out. He picked up the bike and pushed it round to the left, then mounted it and pedalled fast, down towards Castle Hill. The wind was behind him and he was confused. He knew the lorry in front of him had stopped because cars were queuing at the traffic lights. But he also thought the lorry had stopped because of the wind and it would never, never stop him. He swerved out.

  The black night speeded him towards morning.

  The children were grouped between Alun’s and Bryn’s bed. Sara’s newly washed hair was a fine silky gold. She wore a long flowery dress that covered her legs. Her elfin face was alight. She was giggling and making Olwen laugh so her whole body shook. Girls! It was not often Olwen laughed like that but the joke was not for sharing, and Mrs Parry smiled sympathetically at Alun.

  Laughter. The nightmare stood between him and their laughter. For surely it was a nightmare? Of course he couldn’t remember it very clearly – he never did – but whatever he had been thinking about last night left him with a sense of darkness that kept him outside all the laughter in the world. He listened on automatic pilot, as he had done for many weeks.

  ‘. . . a little play based on our legend, “The Lady of Llyn Y Fan Fach” or maybe on its sequel, “The Physicians of Myddfai,”’ Mrs Parry was saying in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Alun shut his eyes. What are they talking about? Who are the Physicians of Myddfai? Then he remembered the end of the story, where legend turned into history and the sons of the lady became physicians and their sons after them. In an odd way they gave him a little hope. After all, Rhiwallon was the first of those physicians.

  Mrs Parry was smiling at him. ‘You can stick to the story or use the theme of healing to make up your own. In pairs and no longer than five minutes. Sarayou work with Bryn, Morgan with Huw. Olwen with Alun.’

  Painfully he pulled himself up. Olwen placed her crutches against the chair and sat beside him. They looked at each other blankly until Mrs Parry fired titles at them: ‘The Cattle. The Lake. The Christening. The present – but something better than unbaked bread, perhaps.’ She laughed.

  ‘Let’s do the present,’ said Olwen. ‘We are poor parents with a son who won’t leave home – just like my brother. We’ve had enough and decide to bribe the girl next door so she’ll take him out to a rave-up – we get her, um, a watch?’ She began to giggle again, her small white teeth showing and her oval face growing pink. But Alun didn’t laugh. He watched her as if she were in another world from him. Abruptly she stopped laughing.

  ‘What’s the matter, Alun? You look in a bit of a daze. Can’t you think of anything?’

  He tried to smile but had nothing to say so after a while she went on: ‘Listen! We have a present we don’t want and try to get rid of it. Like those presents at Christmas you wouldn’t be seen dead with.’

  ‘What is it?’ he managed to ask. She shrugged her shoulders and they came to another halt.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said for at last his mind had stirred. ‘We’re orphans and we make presents for a lady to make her stay with us. But she abandons us and her son, Rhiwallon, comes instead and in exchange for our presents he makes us better. But then we find we are not really here on earth; we are in a ghost world . . .’

  For that is how it seemed to him now, as if he were a ghost and all round him there were other ghosts, haunting him, giving him a sense of unease and blankness.

  ‘The bundle from the cupboard will do for a present,’ said Olwen, opening his locker and picking it up before Alun could stop her. Huw had asked him first thing this morning if he could look inside and Alun had bitten his head off. Olwen smiled at him now, and Alun felt she was protecting him from the darkness.

  ‘Undo it then,’ he said, feeling it was safe in her hands.

  The dirty white cloth turned out to be a piece of old sheeting. Inside it was a paper bag done up with string.

  ‘Look, it really is a present,’ said Olwen, as she bit the string in two. The brown paper was thick and beneath it was a layer of white tissue. Olwen shook it out excitedly.

  ‘You never know,’ she said and suddenly, there it was in her hands, a small black china calf with little drooping ears and a sort of smile on its mouth. ‘Why, it’s like Rhiwallon’s calf,’ she said in surprise. ‘After the play you can keep it. It will look nice on your locker. I have so many cards on mine I really haven’t any more room.’

  Alun couldn’t help smiling. He had been so afraid of the bundle and now it had turned into a baby calf – like the one the ghost was holding, maybe from the herd that belonged to Rhiwallon’s mother. At least, that is how it felt and with the discovery of this amazing creature the darkness lifted as if it too were nothing but a bundle of filthy old rags hiding something small and beautiful.

  When they acted their play Mrs Williams said it was the best. They had made good use of the legend and said their words as if they meant it.

  After school Tony came through the door at the same time as Huw’s family. He was wearing a new jacket and his hair looked a shade darker. Huw’s little sister Ffion came running down the aisle and passed him.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she said, picking up the little china calf that Olwen had placed beside Alun’s fruit bowl.

  ‘Hey,’ called Huw, ‘you haven’t said hello.’

  Ffion put the china calf back on the locker and now Tony was standing at the foot of Alun’s bed, waving and smiling.

  ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘All right. A girl from my school who’s down the ward gave me this.’ He pointed to the calf.

  ‘Popular with the girls, eh?’ said Tony, laughing. He fumbled in his jacket and pulled out an envelope: ‘I’ve got something for you as well. It’s a message from your Mam. Come on. Open it up.’

  ‘Later,’ said Alun, putting it on his locker. ‘Why hasn’t she come?’

  ‘You must know that,’ said Tony, innocently, ‘even you must understand that.’

  It was strange, thought Alun, this swinging from one feeling to another. It was the way Tony said ‘you’, shrinking him, kicking him into a corner. Once again the darkness drew over him like a curtain. It forced him to shut his eyes and wriggle down the bed. For a while Tony went on talking to him, something about an accident down Morfa Lane and you had to admit all that road building was wrecking the traffic system. But that was Wales for you. New roads everywhere. Alun kept his eyes shut, hoping sleep would come over him. Some time later he heard the chair scrape back, the muttering, the heavy footsteps, sounded lighter and lighter as they went away. He felt as if Tony was walking through his heart, tramping all round it, kicking him with every beat. And he still couldn’t understand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ffion.

  ‘Tippetty, tippetty, tippetty tip.’ She ran the cool little feet of the china calf over his cheek and along his nose. In his head he could hear Rhiwallon’s footsteps coming nearer and nearer.

  He opened his eyes and watched Ffion put the little calf into the palm of his left hand. He looked at it, standing beside the dangling padlock as if it was waiting to be locked up.

  ‘There’s something I can’t remember,’ he told her. Laughter rose round Huw’s bed and for a moment Ffion was drawn into it, then she turned back to Alun.

  ‘I couldn’t remember how to do my sums today.’

  ‘I don’t mean that sort of thing.’

  ‘Like forgetting to say thank you?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  After a moment’s
silence he said, ‘I don’t think Dad knows I’m ill or he’d have come.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘The calf might help you to remember,’ she said. ‘What are you going to call him?’

  ‘I haven’t thought,’ said Alun.

  Huw was leaning over, watching. ‘What about Myddfai – the village where Rhiwallon came from?’

  ‘It seems a funny name to me,’ said Alun, ‘but if you like. . .’

  When he woke up in the middle of the night, his head ached, his legs and arm were sore, his mouth was dry. He was clutching Myddfai, tight, under the pillow. He reached out for the glass of water on the locker and listened to the wind rolling down the window. He looked at Huw who was turned away from him, humped up like an animal.

  He suddenly remembered everything again.

  Beyond Huw the cupboard was dark and the mirror glinted. He wanted to get up and walk to the cupboard, touch the mirror, touch the past that stretched out behind the wind, behind the baby he must have killed, behind Dad, perhaps as far back as the time of Rhiwallon. He might be safe then. He sipped the water and put Myddfai back on the locker, then eased himself down the bed and shut his eyes tight.

  When he was better they would send him away. Whatever happened, Dad mustn’t know. Then he caught sight of Mam’s note on the edge of the locker. It was thin, like Mam’s lips. He didn’t want to know that she hated him, that she would never forgive him. He took hold of it and tore it up into little bits. He scattered them on the floor where they lay, white and small, like pieces of ice. Nothing could save him now except – he looked back at the cupboard mirror and thought he saw the shadow of Rhiwallon pass across it, though it might have been a reflection of the curtain shaking in the wind. But when he looked at the window and back at the mirror, the shadow had gone and there were only fragments of light scattered like the message Mam had sent him.