Bron-12

Continued from Chapter 11 Bron-11 | ABCtales

When she was crossing Oxford Circus, walking across the Big Park – she still called it that, even though she now knew it was really Hyde Park. In the backstreets of Fitzrovia, or walking up from the bus stop to Metalmasters for a night shift. It would steal up on her, the scene playing out in her head, the same scene, always. A light drizzle, seeping up from Trearddur Bay, the sky the colour of a faint bruise as the day’s light smudged away into night.

They’d be bringing up the cows from the pasture, back to the farm, she and her sister. A little flick with a stick, now and again, just to keep them from wandering. The long, wet grass rustling and squeaking underfoot. An occasional moo, or spluttering fart. No other noise, apart from the distant swish of traffic on the A5, underscored by the fainter, subdued slush-slush-slush of the sea, just out of sight behind the headland.

Tad would be waiting for them by the cowshed.

An old memory, then. Been a long while since he’d bothered with the farm.

Mam was busy in the kitchen, the yellow light pooling in the muddy yard, an occasional metallic clash of a pot, the mutter of Welsh from her radio.

To be continued in Chapter 13