Bron-49

Continued from Chapter 49: Bron-48 | ABCtales

The sun burst out from behind the grey cloud as the Grace, Bron, Mam, John-John and Sian pushed open the door of Tan y Bryn and picked their way carefully across the farmyard.

John-John was careful not to let the mud splash on his brown winklepickers, which he’d polished up to a mirror shine the night before.

Sian, in the light blue dress she’d worn for her confirmation a couple of years ago, carried a posie of dock daisies and buttercups that she’d plucked that morning.

Dol Fawr was crowded. Bron was right; the promise of a free feed had certainly drawn the crowds. Or maybe it was just curiosity.

The guys from New Birch were there; they’d commandeered a platelayers’ minibus at Holyhead station when they’d arrived that morning. They’d given a lift to Avi from Metalmasters, or rather late of Metalmasters. The place had closed down after finishing the big order and the demolition men had already flattened the site.

Grace’s family had turned out in force, dad, mum, sister, gran. Her dad looked puzzled; the others beamed approval. Uncle William, of course, Nain – Tad’s Mam -resolute trying to look as if her granddaughter marrying another woman in a field was an everyday occurrence. She rested her hand on William’s left shoulder.

There was Georgetta, standing like a huge off-white battle cruiser in her white taffeta dress. “This is so impossibly romantic!” Grace and Bron looked at each other, nodding.

And the Reverend Gwynfor Evans was in the corner of the meadow, standing tall and upright in his white surplice. The wind cracked the tails of his cassock around his legs. For a moment, he didn’t look like a man of 80.

The guys from New Birch made a guard of honour from their shunting poles. Bron and Grace stooped and made their way down towards the Vicar, flanked by Grace’s Dad and Bron’s Mam.

“Rydym wedi ymgynnull yng ngolwg Duw…if you could please make your way into the field, ladies and gentlemen…

“We are gathered here today, in the sight of God, all friends and family together to witness the joining together of Bronwyn Jones and Grace Watkins. Grace, in the cream linen suit she’d picked up at the Oxfam shop in Acton, glanced quickly across at Bron, trying to pick of fragments of cow parsley from the huge mail order white wedding dress. The hem already browned with the sticky mud of Dol Fawr.

“I told you one of them would be the man!” Sian said to Nest.

“Strange, I’d have said Bron was more butch,” Nest replied.

“A thug in female form, that one,” said Geraint Hughes, earwigging as usual.

 

“Repeat after me…Bron: “"I gael a dal, o'r diwrnod hwn ymlaen… “

"I gael a dal, o'r diwrnod hwn ymlaen…”

“I gael a’i ddal, o’r diwrnod hwn ymlaen, er gwell er gwaeth, er cyfoethocach er tlotach...”

“Cymeraf di yn wraig i mi ...Gyda'r fodrwy hon, priodaf di"

“And Grace…”

“Igal a dal, o di-diwi-diweernod hoon um-line…”

A murmur went up from the crowd. “She’s brave that one,” someone muttered.

“Especially as she’s marrying that Bron Jones.”

“Mad, if you ask me.”

Bron looked across to Grace and smirked: “You can say it in Saesneg if it’s too difficult.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Girls, girls! There’ll be time enough for bickering when you’re married…”

The wind snapped at Bron’s white dress, for an instant wrapping it around her legs, then almost turning it inside-out. For a split second she looked as if she was about to take off.

 

“Grace, a wyt ti'n cymryd Bronwyn Jones yn wraig i ti?”

“Er…Ud…Ud…Udda!”

Bron hid her smile, this time.

 

“Rwy’n awr yn eich galw yn ŵr a gwraig - man and wife? Wife and wife?”

“What’s the Welsh for soulmates?” said Grace.

“Enaidau?” “

“Rwy’n awr yn eich galw yn enaidau.”

A ripple of applause came across the field, deepening, slowly gathering force, then shouts and cheers. From his paddock, Bronco joined in with a loud bellow.

 

They walked back, arm in arm under the shunting poles. Grace squeezed Bron’s hand. “I shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”

“Nothing to apologise for. I wouldn’t have done.”

“You’re a very nice bitch.”

 

The wedding guests filed into Llanfairyngmochnant’s little village hall, stopping to congratulate Bron, Grace and Mam, standing in a line at the porch.

“Lovely ceremony!”

“Been lucky with the weather – just about.”

“You’ve mastered Cymraeg already. Congrats!”

“Love your hair, Grace! Afro, is it?”

“It’ll be its last hurrah. Getting it straightened out for the film next month.”

“Whoo! Listen to her!” said Bron.

 

 

Sian smiled sweetly. “Hyfryd! Hyfryd! Maen nhw'n hyfryd. Ydyn?” Sian turned to Nest for confirmation.

“I want those two frisked! Pat them down, Mam!”

“You’d frisk your own sister at your wedding?”

“If the sister’s you, yes, I would.”

“Bron! Really!” said Grace.

Mam ran her hands uncertainly down the pale blue dress, then motioned the two girls inside.

 

 

The speaker crackled, then faded uncertainly away. Emryn Williams, who had taken on the role of master of the ceremony, called for silence. It was his stereo, after all. “And now, it’s that moment when we play the happy couple’s song. What’s it to be, girls?”

He didn’t need the help of the mike; his voice echoed from the rafters of Neuadd yr Eglwys.

Bron broke off the conversation she’d been having with the New Birch guys about brake valve settings. Grace looked at her expectantly.

Bron coughed, cleared her throat. “Before we do that, I want to play two other songs - for two people who can’t be here today. The Boys are Back in Town, for XXXX, from New Birch Moor depot. And The Wild Rover. That’s for Tad. You’ve got them, Emryn?”

He rummaged through his box of records, then nodded.

 

 

Grace squeezed Bron’s hand as the last notes dissolved unevenly away as Emryn’s turned down the volume on the stereo. “You said, one day, you’d tell me about Tad.”

“Yeah. One day.”

“Sure.”

Then Bron looked at her mother. “Sorry, Mam. Had to”

 

 

‘Oh, such a perfect day.

You keep me hanging on…!

Grace unclasped her hand from Bron’s waist, slowly, letting the palm of her hand brush gently down her thigh. Suddenly, she felt Bron tense, through the folds of her huge white dress. Sian and Nest, carried something on their shoulders, on a steel platter, concealed beneath a blue and white tea towel. They placed it gently, ceremoniously, on the fold-up table in the middle of the hall. Then Sian, taking one of the tea towel between thumb and forefinger, slowly, slowly drew it aside, revealing the contents of the platter.

Bron gave a bellow, worthy of Bronco and, half tripping over her dress, lunged wildly at her sister.

To be continued in Chapter 50