Bron-52

Continued from Chapter 51: https://www.abctales.com/story/ivan-ok-ish/bron-51

Blindly Grace threw herself forward, into the wind, like a diver launching herself off a high board. The force of the wind knocked the breath out of her lungs. Her arms flailed wildly, like a swimmer caught in a torrent. Something caught her hand; instinctively, she gripped it. The hood of Bron’s jacket. Jarring pain in her shoulders, her arms almost wrenched out of their sockets as they took Bron’s weight. I –must-not-let-go. I-will-not-let-go. Behind her, she hooked her right foot against something – a piece of rock, a tree stump. The pain in her shoulders was unbelievable, like no pain she’d ever felt in her life. “AIIIIEEEEE!” she screamed.

Suddenly, the pain in her shoulders eased. Bron had punched a fist into the mud of the cliff, grabbed a clump of sedge with the other. She kicked her feet into the crumbling soil. “OK, I’ve got you! Grace reached down and put a hand under Bron’s right shoulder and pulled. There was a wrenching of material as her jacket disintegrated but suddenly she was there beside her, panting, palpitating.

 

They lay there, side by side, for five minutes. “Maybe that guy was right about the devil,” said Bron.

“Nonsense. Superstitious nonsense.”

“Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just now. Thank-you. Don’t know what else to say.”

“Any time.”

“People always say that when they’re embarrassed about being thanked.”

“They do. Must be a British thing. But, I mean, if I had to do it all again, I would.”

“I know.”

“Good thing you only weigh seven stone.”

“Seven stone six pounds.”

“Sure felt that six pounds in my shoulders.”

“You OK?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. By the way, I didn’t say thank you for pulling me out of the Liffey, night before last.”

“Any time.”

“Bron?”

“Yes?”

“You said, one day, you’d tell me about you and your Dad.”

“My Dad.”

“Yes. Your relations with your Dad…did it get a bit...difficult?”

“He was a bad guy. But he wasn’t all bad. Not all the time.”

“Bad how? Like, did he ever try to…”

“Tried to, yes. But Mam, she was … she was, I mean, she’d stay awake, keep herself awake, all night if she had to. If she heard him sneaking into my room, she’d sort him out. Hit him over the head with a china dog, once. Smashed it to bits.”

“So, your Dad never managed to, you know. Oh shit! Never managed to…”

“No, not quite. Came close a couple of times, when he was out of his tree. Guess I should be thankful for the drink, in a way.”

“Drink increased the desire, but took away the ability?”

“Yeah. Something like that. Most of the time, couldn’t even get up the ladder.”

“How long did this go on for?”

“Started when I was about sixteen; then I went away, to London. So…, three, four years? I mean, he wasn’t always like that. Up till then, he was great. Showed me how to look after the animals, the milking, herding the cows, all the jobs on the farm. Had me driving the tractor when I was eleven. Really, he was a great Tad. Really, really great…until…”

“Bron?”

“Sorry..”

“Was it Dad that drove you away to London?”

“Maybe. Probably. I dunno. Mam hated him.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“You were upset when he passed away?”

“Passed away? Fell off the Menai Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“Cried my fuckin’ eyes out. After they switched off the machine in the hospital.  … I just had to get away, said I’d go and see to the cows. Got off the bus in the middle of nowhere. Wandered about, screaming like a fuckin’ loony. Walked into the pissin’ sea. I was out of my fuckin’ mind.”

“Oh Bron, Bron, Bron. I’m so…sorry. Was it the old Dad you were crying for? Before he started all that stuff?”

“I don’t know. I guess, for all of him. You know, Grace, funny thing is, he may not actually be my Tad.”

“Not your Dad?”

“After the wedding, after all the fuss with Sian’s cake, Mam and me, were just talking in the kitchen; everyone else had gone to bed. Mam said there was this Irish guy. They’d had …had…”

“Had an affair?”

“Yes. In the hayloft, when Tad was out with the cows.”

“Do you think Dad suspected anything?”

“No idea. No idea. He was still my Tad, though.”

 

 

They walked, arm in arm, down the mountain, occasionally slipping and stumbling on the mud. “Duw! Fuck!”

“Bron?”

“You said, up there, something about adopting. What’s going on?”

“Oh. Yes. You know, there was a letter from Tommy’s grandparents waiting for us. Only address they had, couldn’t write to us in London.”

“Yes, you said.”

“Tommy’s mother. She’s very ill. Cancer. She’s going to die – quite soon. That’s why the grandpops took him on holiday, she was in the hospital.”

“And Tommy’s mother…she wants us to…?”

“She wants to meet us. The grandparents said what a great time Tommy had at Tan-y-Bryn, that we were… decent, like.”

“But the grandparents…Marjorie and Timmy. Won’t they be able to look after Tommy?”

“They will. But they’re old. I mean, they could peg out before he’s ten, fifteen. People do.”

*******

It was dusk by the time they got to Tan-y-Bryn from the ferry. Even before they tapped on the door, it creaked open. Mam beckoned them inside, putting a finger to her lips. “Gwelwch! Under the table. Arrived the day after you left for Ireland…”

Under a heat lamp, in a shoebox lay Petouche, surrounded by six little fluffy balls – black, black and white, white and light brown - Pork Chop’s colours in miniature.

“Ohhhh!” said Grace. “Lovely! Lovely!”

“Look at that one in the middle, shoving the other one off the teat. That’s our next mouser.”

To be continued in Chapter 53