Bron-27

Continued from Chapter 26: https://www.abctales.com/story/ivan-ok-ish/bron-26

The adrenalin surge that had carried her up the hill had worn off by the time she reached Ysbyty Gwynedd, all neat signage and manicured greensward; the old C&A had been all grey stone and mildew.

Panting, she could hardly get the words out at reception.

“Dafydd Jones – Tan  Y Bryn Farm – Llanfair-mochnant. Brought in last night – a fall. Bron – his daughter.”

The receptionist glanced down at her sheet: “Down the corridor, third corridor on the left, fourth door on the right …”

The heels of her steel-capped boots ricocheted off the white-painted walls. She pushed open the door. John-John was sitting on a chair, hands splayed on his parted thighs. Mam was sitting opposite, arms crossed on her chest. The three exchanged half nods; Bron glanced, left and right. They both seemed to be waiting for her. Neither rose from their seats.

Her sister Sian was away, at their Auntie’s in Welshpool. They’d sent a message.

“He’s through there,” said Mam, half-turning her head to the light blue door with its opaque glass window. “Doctor Patel says it’s bad. He’s very bad.”

“Bad? How bad? What happened?” Bron turned her head, left and right, from one to the other.

“Fell off the Menai Bridge; walking along the cable. Must have been reliving his misspent youth. Only this time …”

“Stupid, stupid bugger! Stupid!”

Just then, the blue door swung gently open. An Asian woman, a white hospital coat over her vivid blue saree.

Her gentle brown eyes alighted on Bron, then at the other two. “You must be Bron, his daughter?” She didn’t seem surprised to see a young woman in orange hi-vis overalls.

She sat down on one of the vacant green chairs; Bron continued to stand, legs apart.

“I’m very sorry — I know this is very, very difficult. We’ve done everything we can but the machines are no longer helping David. Now … now, we’ve reached a point where we are - we are only keeping his body going. He has suffered massive trauma. There is no treatment that we can give him to make him better.”

Dr Patel struggled to stop her pounding heart turning her words into a squeak. She was young; she’d only ever had to say this once before in her career. “It would now be in David’s best interests to withdraw … to withdraw the life-support. Of course, we’ll do everything we can - to keep him comfortable, peaceful.” The last sentence came in a gabble as she fought to get the words out.

Nobody spoke, for half a minute. Dr Patel looked from Mam, to John-John, to Bron.

Mam uncrossed her arms, slapped her outstretched palms on the thighs of her dark blue work trousers. She looked at John-John, then at Bron. She breathed in, then out with a sharp exhalation. “OK, then. Turn the bugger off. Pity he never had an off-switch when he was alive. Cytuno, chi’ch dau? -You agree, you two?”

“Sure there’s nothing you can do?” said John-John. “Nothing? He only fell off the bottom of the cable, what, twenty feet? Loads of people have survived things like that, loads!”

“I’m afraid, John-John, that is very much a matter of luck. And your father … he was not lucky. As I said, the trauma was very severe.” Her heart no longer pounding in her chest, Dr Patel’s clipped, precise speech had returned.

“Perhaps you’d like to come through, to say goodbye.”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t …something of a relief,” said Mam, afterwards, when they were back in the little anteroom, the blue door closed. “I mean, he wasn’t what you’d call a good man, not a bit. Duw, I came pretty close to murdering him myself, a few times, I can tell you. More than a few times.”

“MAM!” said John-John. “You can’t say that!”

“Not a good man. Not a good man at all. And Bron will back me up, I’m sure.”

“No, not a good man, Mam – but he was my father,” Bron said quietly

“Practically drove you away from Tan y bryn, he did. Drove you away, all the way to London.”

“Yes, I know that. But I couldn’t wish him dead. Not even after all…”

“There’s a lot of Tad in Bron, I’ve always thought,” John-John broke in. “For better or for worse.”

One day, Mam thought, she’d have to tell Bron about her dalliance with Irish Pete, the itinerant labourer from Donegal who’d spent a few weeks at the neighbouring farm en route from Holyhead to the Midlands, helping out with the harvest. Much, much better looking than Dafydd, on a different plane altogether. She’d always had her suspicions.

Dr Patel came back in, through the blue door. “Mrs Jones, there’s a few bits of paperwork I’ll need to you to sign. Just the usual formalities.”

“Yes, how long will it take? It’s just that, well, the cows need bringing in.”

“We can do that,” said Bron. “We can go in your van, John-John?”

“Er, van’s kaput at the moment. Had to walk here from Maesgeirchen.”

“There’s still a bus to Llanfihangel at four, isn’t there? I’ll go on my own. Just a couple of miles to walk”

“Think so. Ask at reception, they might have a timetable.”

Bron got up from her seat abruptly; the handful of schoolkids and the two nattering women looked up, enquiringly. “Put me down here!”

“You sure love? You’re a mile from Lanfihangel. Middle of nowhere - raining buckets…”

“Yes! Here! I’ll be fine!”

She staggered through the doors and strode across the yellowy-brown grass towards the beach, her boots sloshing through a coal-black drainage ditch. She carried on, half running, stumbling towards the grey sand just visible through the dwindling light. The bus paused for a second, hissed its doors shut and drove off, the lights of its windows becoming smaller and dimmer. Bron trudged quickly on, towards the sea; she could hear the hiss of the waves as they back and forth on the shore.

The rain spattered her orange overalls, driven by the wind. She gasped, slightly. She turned and strode up the sand, along the water. The wind slapped into her face. Her legs crumpled; she sank to her knees. “Tad …Tad … Tad …” she said, whispering at first, then louder, and louder. She beat her fists on the grey sand. “TAD!” she screamed.

To be continued in Chapter 28: Bron-28 | ABCtales