Bron-39

Continued from Chapter 38

Grace levered herself out of the front seat of the van; John-John and Bron had insisted that she take pride of place in the ‘comfy seat’. Bron pushed open the back doors; she was glad to escape from the clinging embrace of the superannuated mattress. 
Mam was already outside the front door. “You must be Grace! Bron’s told me SO much about you…”
“Some of it good, I hope, Mrs Jones?” Grace proffered her hand. 
“Mrs Jones? It’s Mam; or Myfanwy if you insist!”
“Well, welcome to the ranch!” said Bron, humping the bags and Petouche’s pink carrier. “Hopefully, we’ll all settle in.”
Mam flung open the door to the porch. “Croeso! Croeso! – that’s welcome in Welsh. 
“O, Mam! Mae'r ieir yn ôl…” Bron exclaimed. Jackie and her little troop of bantams squawked, scurrying ahead of them.”
“They’re my little family now. No one to tell me what to do. They can have the run of the house as far as I’m concerned. And no Welsh in front of our visitor, Bron…”
“It’s really quite alright, Myfanwy. I really like to hear it.”
Bron snorted. “You must think you’re among the lost tribes of the bloody Amazon, here. Well, if you listen carefully, you should pick up all the rude words by the end of the fortnight. Be very careful where you sit, by the way…”
Grace levered herself slowly down onto the battered sofa. Bron dropped down beside her; Sian occupied the armchair opposite, or rather the edge of the seat, unable to take her eyes off the visitor. Mam busied herself in the kitchen with the teapot.
“Er, Bron,” said Grace in an undertone. “Do they – Sian and your Mam…er, know about us. That we’re … an item?”
Bron exhaled, sharply. “Thanks to the efforts of Little Miss Town Crier here, not only does everyone in this house know about it, but so does everyone in Llanfair – and half the population from here to Holyhead, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Oh, right. Well that’s OK. Cool.”
“You’ve been sniggering and snickering with all your silly little friends at the Muckdiggers, haven’t you?” said Bron, cocking her chin aggressively at her sister.
“I may have mentioned it to one or two, in passing…”
Bron exhaled again, half raspberry, half snort. “Bollocks! One or two, my arse…”
“What’s Muckdiggers?”
“The local agri college; she’s supposed to be learning useful stuff – crop rotation, animal welfare, organic farming. Only Sian spends all her time ogling the lads – God knows why, they’re an ugly enough bunch…”
“They’re not! And I’ll have you know, Vaughan Davies asked me out, the other night…”
“Out where? A sophisticated nitespot in Llangefni?”
“Oh, listen to Miss Hoity-toity from London. I’m amazed you even deign to speak to us peasants, here in little old Tan-y-Bryn.”
“Oughtn’t we let Petouche out?” said Grace. Bron half-unzipped the front panel of the pink holdall, under the table. Petouche thrust her small triangle of a face out cautiously, then slowly squeezed her thin black body through the gap, crouching down like a commando on the mottled brown-and-yellow carpet. 
Just then, Nena, the little dark brown Barnevelder, thrust her bright red comb through the door. She gave a yelp of alarm and scuttled back into the yard, shrieking her alarm to the rest of the flock. Petouche likewise bolted back inside the carrier. 
“Oh well, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” said Bron.
“Strange, she’s not scared of anything else.”
“Never seen a chicken before.”

 
It was quiet, and very dark. Bron had suggested the cowshed, more private and secluded than her bedroom. 
“You only get peace like this when you’re in the real country. Can’t hear a thing.”
“Mmmm…,” said Bron, drifting off. 
“It’s so dark, too.”
“Mmmm…yeah…”
“Georgetta would say it’s romantic.”
“Yeah. S’pose she would. She thinks everything’s romantic. Even flushing the bog.”
“Farewell, oh brown jobbies, on your infinite voyage to the Wide Sargasso Sea, fare thee well!”
Bron snorted, Grace giggled. “Don’t joke, could happen …”
“Bron? Are you feeling romantic?”
“Me? No. Just knackered.”
“Not even a teeny-weeny little bit romantic? What if I were to rub your back, just like this…”
There was faint rustle from the depths of the shed. Bron sat bolt-upright. “Heard something.”
“Probably just a little mouse, or something. Nothing to worry about, Bron…”
“SIAN! I know you’re there, you little SOD! Where’s the torch?”
She snapped it on, just in time to catch a grey pyjamaed figure emerge from behind a haybale and scurry towards the top of the ladder. Bron leapt out of bed to intercept, grabbing Sian by the collar of her pyjamas. “Fochyn bach! Fochyn!”
“Sori! Sori! AIIIEEEH!”
“You’re not sorry. You’re only sorry you got caught, you little COW!”
“””AAARRGGHHH! Leggo me!” 
“Bron! Bron! Hitting your sister’s not nice …”
“Hitting her’s lovely, when she’s a little sod like she is!”
The two women grappled at the head of the ladder, Bron’s left arm around Sian’s neck, hitting her across the chest and stomach with her right. The torch, now lying on the floor, illuminated the combat. Then, with a stumble and a scuffle, the two grappling women disappeared as they stumbled through the hatch. There was a muffled crash from down below. Grace screamed, grabbed the torch and shone it downwards, fearing the worst. The light revealed Bron astride Sian, who twisted and turned on the hay bale on which they’d both landed.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” yelled Grace. “Bron! Get off her!”

To be continued in Chapter 40