Between Evanjob and New Radnor

Radnorshire/Herefordshire border

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Flowers for Mary

  

At first all Mary could see was herself, reflected in the cobalt-blue window over the sink. She adjusted her gaze in an effort to see beyond it, and through the shadow made by her body could just distinguish the garden gate leaning on the hill’s shoulder and beside it, the black silhouette of the rowan, frantically waving to catch her attention. Absently, she saw herself wave back. It was draughty by the window - the autumn winds were boisterous that evening. She turned away, chilly, to stand by the Rayburn.

Richard was reading in the living room, listening to Sibelius. Mary didn’t know how he could do that. She had to give her attention to one or the other - stunning music or the written word. But in recent months she preferred silence. It was partly because her husband was relaxing that she had decided that she would relax too, and not spend the rest of her evening washing and tidying up.

She had breast-fed Ceinwen to sleep, the two of them cuddling in the big, wide bed. It usually took some time for the child to get to sleep as they loved each other’s company. Mary sang and the baby watched her and sometimes made noises to her in return. Sometimes, Ceinwen would laugh, looking up at her mother while holding the nipple delicately between tongue and roof of mouth, her tiny hand splayed across the breast like a little fat starfish. Eventually she had slept and was now lying cosily asleep upstairs in the middle of the broad bed.

Mary stirred the logs in the fire and slid the kettle over to the warmest part of the hotplate, anticipating an hour or so of coffee and conversation before bed. She heard the living room door-latch and Richard suddenly appeared, saying he’d take the dog out now as it might rain later on. Their Labrador, hot from lying so close to the Rayburn, shot to his feet and nudged the ancient door in an effort to push it open. Mary reminded her husband that the batteries in the torch were on their way out so he shouldn’t use it more than necessary. He shrugged into his thornproof, muttering something under his breath, grabbed the torch and went outside, banging the door, much to her annoyance. She immediately listened for the baby’s cry, but breathed out after a few seconds. Still sleeping. She made the coffee.

Ceinwen’s cot lay with one side completely open, pressed up against the bed so that Mary could gently move her into it without waking her up. Smiling, Richard watched as she moved the now luke-warm hot water bottle into their own bed and slid her daughter across into warmed the cot, murmuring softly. They were both besotted with her. The two of them would regularly cuddle up like spoons to watch her as she slept.

Lying on her side so that the light from Richard’s bedside lamp shone onto her book, Mary kept stealing looks at her little girl - she found it hard to believe she was actually a mother. She tried again to concentrate on the book she was reading.

Since moving into their ramshackled Radnorshire farmhouse, Mary had unconsciously accepted the night-time noises. Not the squirrels scampering over the roof in the summer evenings, nor the mice in the walls. This was something which, until now she had dismissed as either a noise in the pipes or a noise in her own head. But now they surfaced to her conscious mind and she lay down her book and actively listened.

It took a few seconds for her to realise what it actually was. Yes. It was people, talking among themselves, like you might hear while standing outside the door of a quiet pub, or in a churchyard after the service has finished. Not an unpleasant noise, nor one to be alarmed at. Just a friendly, soothing, comforting sort of noise. Mary eventually mentioned it to Richard, asking him if he could hear it too. Perhaps it was the pipes making the noise, she said, but it did just sound like people in conversation. Richard, reading the signs wrongly, told her he was sure there was nothing to get anxious about. It couldn’t possibly be anyone. They had a big, black Labrador down there, didn’t they? He told her not to worry. There was no-one there.

Richard said he’d noticed that there was a wind getting up when he’d been out with the dog earlier. They were having a lively autumn. Mary asked him, probably for the hundredth time, if the chimney pot was safe enough. She had heard of chimney pots coming through the roof and knew that their room was right under it. Richard reassured her, rather testily, that it was completely safe. He then put the light off, told her she was turning into a bit of a worrier and said goodnight.

In the blackness, the murmuring of the voices reminded Mary of when she was a child on holiday at her grandparent’s house. She and her parents had moved away from Wales so the school holidays were a time of great happiness for Mary. Seeing her grandparents again after a whole term away meant a great deal to her.

One of the sounds she had loved was the incoherent resonance of adult conversation vibrating up to her bedroom from the room below. After their long journey from Yorkshire and when she had finally gone upstairs to bed she always loved to hear her parent’s tired yet enthusiastic voices, then the softer, more modulated tones of her grandparent’s. She especially loved the laughter - all was well when all five of them were together in the house.

It was a noise she particularly associated with springtime when the walks she took with her grandfather could begin again and they could gather primroses and violets and take them home for her grandmother. Now, facing her daughter, listening to her soft breathing, Mary hoped that one day she would experience such feelings. Mary’s grandfather had died years before, but her grandmother had died only six months before Ceinwen’s birth. It was she who had chosen her great-grand-daughter’s name.

Mary dabbed her eyes with the edge of the quilt and turned onto her back. Yes. It was definitely people downstairs. Chatting away to each other. Not worrying at all, she fell asleep.

It was a crisp, lustrous morning. The breeze tore the withered leaves off the trees and kicked them up into the air. The spikes of grass gleamed in the sunlight and quivered in the gusts. Richard had already left to walk the couple of miles down the valley to catch the train at the nearby Halt. Mary put another couple of logs on the Rayburn, added some coal, let it roar for a few minutes then closed it down - just enough to keep it ticking over.

She had set up Ceinwen in the baby-bouncer in the front doorway in her zip-up, hooded all-in-one and William, the dog, was sitting there beside her. She was chortling at him as he nibbled gently at her hidden toes. She’d be safe and warm enough for a few minutes, her mother thought. The wood-burner in the living room was in need of a raking so Mary took the newspaper and the small handbrush, as well as the bucket for the surplus ashes and went to see to it. Then, she tidied up and re-arranged the cushions on the two small settees and decided to open the window slightly, just to give the room an airing. She smiled, remembering how everyone of her mother’s generation was obsessed with the airing of clothes. Make sure they’re well aired, they always said. Give them a good airing! When she returned to the kitchen Mary chatted to her daughter as she folded Ceinwen’s tiny clothes and arranged them on the rungs over the stove.

The baby, who was still cooing and squeaking to herself in the doorway bounced around excitedly and jerked her arms about when she saw her smiling mother approach. Mary bent down and kissed her and started to undo the safety straps when she noticed the dog was nowhere in sight. Where’s William? she asked the baby. This isn’t like him. She stepped outside for a moment and looked across the glittering fields and up and down the little, breeze-swept valley. No. No sign of the dog. Mary gasped in exasperation and called his name once more. Ceinwen started to chuckle and kick her legs about. Mary squatted down to give her a hug. Where is that silly dog, then? she asked again.

It was then that she noticed the small bunch of flowers at the entrance to the house, just below the baby’s feet. She gasped. They were primroses. There were so many of them, beautifully arranged within a circle of leaves and tied with cord - so many, they resembled a small cauliflower. Frowning, Mary picked them up and quickly looked up and down the valley  to see who had left them. There was no sign of anyone. Mary showed them to her rosy-cheeked daughter who took no notice but continued to experiment with flapping her arms about and bouncing. Pensively, Mary took them inside, put them into the sink and went back to get Ceinwen out of the bouncer. She whistled for the dog and called his name, but he was either nowhere within earshot or he was deliberately ignoring her. Naughty dog, isn’t he? she said.

When Richard returned home that evening Mary told him about William and the bunch of flowers. She asked Richard if he thought someone had taken the dog in exchange for the flowers. He told her that William would have barked his head off if someone had tried to set foot anywhere near. He suggested that old Mrs.Lloyd down the lane must have visited and left the flowers. Probably couldn’t make herself heard and didn’t want to push past Ceinwen, he said. Mary said he was probably right. Perhaps, Richard continued, because William knew her, he hadn’t barked. It wasn’t like him, though.

Richard had taken off his walking boots and thornproof and was playing, This is the Way the farmer Rides, with Ceinwen, who was sitting astride one of his feet. Mary showed him the small bouquet which she had placed in her grandmother’s white, china jug. He expressed his delight and astonishment. But they’re primroses! Spring flowers, Mary, he said. I know, she replied. A scratch at the door caused Mary to hurriedly put the jug on the table and open it. William oiled his way into the kitchen. Richard asked the dog where the hell he’d been. Ears flicking back and forth, William went immediately and quietly to sit, trembling, in his basket. Mary said nothing but wondered if it was not guilty behaviour but rather the behaviour of an unsettled animal. She gave him some fresh water.

Richard put Ceinwen on the seagrass mat, placed a cushion behind her and went out into the lobby. He put on his wellingtons and said he wouldn’t be long. He was going to chop wood while it was still light.

Mary picked up her daughter and they watched as Richard walked down to the old barn. She moved across to sit in the rocking chair by the Rayburn. The dog came and head-butted her elbow, anxious for attention, forgiveness and his supper. She chatted to him and Ceinwen automatically. She always confided in her daughter. She told her stories. Stories she was now, at last, allowing herself to remember , about springtime and going for walks and singing songs and rolling down Daisy Hill and jam tarts on the table and the little bunches of primroses for her grandmother that her grandfather tied up with cord and which always looked like cauliflowers.

That night Mary heard the voices once more. Comforting, gentle voices. Voices murmuring and joking, there was laughter and conversation. She could hear the heavy-budded trees by the barn, outside in the busy night, semaphoring to their kin across the valley. The woodland whispered back the secrets of trees. Flotillas of oval clouds navigated their way by starlight across the soundless sky. The Plough cartwheeled over the roof of Mary’s house.

A trip to Montgomery

I drove to Montgomery today, to continue my course on Photoshop Elements. It was a stunning day - the distant views were really clear and I stopped somewhere south of the town and looked East, toward the Shropshire hills.

Montgomeryshire has always seemed, to me, to be a gentler, more 'giving' part of Powys than where we live - Radnorshire. Parts of Montgomeryshire are like scenes from a Rupert annual - always a plus to my way of thinking, growing up as I did with Rupert Bear. My husband thinks the area is like another well-known place to readers of fiction - The Shire.
It's very beautiful - always a joy to visit.

Llangwyn

Llangwyn

The lane was fringed with grasses and 

the frank gaze of speedwell

bold and open as a child’s stare.

Tiny butterflies wavered by your face

and because the grass,

alive with leaping insects, slapped and stung your knees,

you stepped between two dusty wheel-tracks,

where tussocks brushed the car.

           

Those days the sky held too much light,

the colour leached, the distances exposed.

Half the fields were butter-yellow slabs,

their hedges dark and heavy with birds.

Summer, still and warm, left ewes

ragged in half moulted wool; the lambs grown 

fat with their first coat.

The lane came to nothing at the meadow’s southern edge,

peppered with mole-hills and the droppings of sheep. 

Flies, the colour of cowshit, pestered us

and a band of dusty sheep, gasping in tree-shadow,

cracked the quiet valley with their bleating,

wary of the dog. 

We paused in shade and looked –

tiny freckles had floated slowly to the surface

of our skin.

And there you saw them, tiny glowing coals,

shy in the hedgerow’s dim - the strawberries;

destined for this long hot day,

the touch of your small fingers,

the press of your parched tongue.

Back to the house

we spoke of cups of water

and crayons

and Daddy coming home. 

Sentinel

My very first blog!

Hi!

I've always wanted to have a go at this and so here I am!
My main reason for starting a blog is to show off my newly found love of photography. I'm very much the learner but have always had an appreciation of the landscape. In the past I enjoyed painting and drawing but photography is so immediate that I find it extremely gratifying to see my results as soon as I get home.
I also enjoy experimentation with images, until recently using Picasa and PaintShop Pro, but since buying our new computer I have been using Photoshop Elements. In order to further this compulsion to 'mess about' with images, I've been taking a class on how to use Photoshop.
Living as I do surrounded by the stunning landscape of the Welsh borders, I have no end of material on which to focus.