Dafydd

There was a definite ‘thump’ overhead. Seamus looked up, “Did you hear that?”

     Miss Williams gave a non committal grunt, “Eat your supper.”

     Supper was a thick lumpy broth of unidentifiable chunks in a watery sludge. “Lamb stew,” Miss Williams had told him, eyeing Seamus until he began to cautiously spoon it into his mouth. It was hot and tasted nice if you didn’t think too much about what was in it. And there was bread. He didn’t get bread at home, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Mam would snap.

     “Who’s upstairs?” asked Seamus.

     “That’ll be Dafydd,” she replied.

     “Who’s Dafydd? Has he been evacuated like me? Can we play together?”

     “Aye, I daresay. Eat up.”

     Since being handed over to Miss Williams at the railway station, Seamus, carrying no more than his little cardboard suitcase and gas mask, was getting used to these one way conversations. As the train had pulled away and the handful of other children were rounded up and handed out like raffle tickets he’d been led away by this short, stern woman towards her waiting van and collies, Gammon and Spinach.

     “I’m Miss Williams. You’re staying with me. I don’t like mess and I expect you to help out.”

     “Where are we?”

     “Betws-y-Coed” she’d replied.

     “Bet it’s cold?” Seamus asked, confused.

     “Near enough,” she’d grunted.

Next morning Seamus yawned as Miss Williams paced impatiently, lips pursed, foot tapping. Gammon and Spinach sat in the back of the van, patiently waiting. It was still dark.

     “I don’t have all day. I'm bringing the ewes to the low meadow.”

     Seamus had never seen a sheep, had no concept of where lamb or mutton came from. He was more curious about Dafydd. “It’s so cold,” he said.

     “Aye, that’s because it’s winter.”

     The van began its juddering progress along the lane. Small flakes of snow caused Miss Williams to mutter.

     “It’s snowing,” said Seamus, rubbing his hands together.

     “That’s why I’m moving the flock, so I can feed them.”

     “Can we build a snowman?”

     Miss William’s expression suggested not.

     “I could build a snowman with Dafydd,” he persisted.

     “You’ll be lucky.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he’s dead, that’s why. Now shut up, I need to concentrate.”

     Turning sharply before climbing, the engine screaming with effort, Seamus was considering the dead Dafydd when a figure stepped into the lane. Braking hard the vehicle nearly collided with the robust man.

     “Who’s that?”

     Miss Williams didn’t answer, instead flinging her door open and clambering out, “What are you playing at, Gareth?”

     ‘Who’s Gareth?’ thought Seamus. The man appeared solidly built so he presumed he wasn’t a ghost. The idea of Dafydd haunting the cottage was making him uneasy. He’d definitely heard noises in what was, he learned, Dafydd's old room. Other things had happened too, during the night. Miss Williams didn’t seem to be in the mood to listen to his concerns. A terse exchange was taking place, Miss Williams gesturing at the man, who, in the beams of the headlights, seemed to be made of granite and shadows. He shouted and shook his fist.

     Slamming the door, Miss Williams, decorated in a dusting of snow, continued muttering to herself as she passed the man who reluctantly stepped aside. Seamus caught the man’s expression.

     “He looked angry.”

     “My brother is always angry.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he wants my land for his dairy herd.”

     Seamus lived in a tiny tenement with Mam and big brother Patrick who was fighting the Germans somewhere. He wasn’t sure what ‘land’ meant, nor a dairy herd.

     “Right. Out you get. Open the gate and mind none of the sheep get out.”

     Seamus’s fingers were numb by the time he’d fiddled with the rusty latch. Gammon and Spinach leapt from the van and into the now white field. It looks nice, thought Seamus, as Miss Williams began whistling strangely. He stomped his feet and slapped his sides as the sheep were rounded up, the dogs chasing them into one large group.

     “Miss Williams, who’s Dafydd?”

     She went quiet and he instantly thought he’d receive a slap. It happened all the time at home.

     “He was my younger brother. I raised him when Mother died. When Father passed I took the cottage and some land, Gareth took the farmhouse and fifty acres. Follow me down the lane.”

     She set off through the thickening blizzard, directing the chaotic, panicked sheep. Seamus caught the shape of a faint figure in the lane. Was that Gareth again?

     “Close the gate,” yelled Miss Williams.

     Hands now aching with cold, the figure appeared closer, a slender shape no taller than he was. Seamus went to speak but the boy, because that’s what he was, faded away. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine and a creeping fear grew within. “Wait for me,” called Seamus.

Sat beside the fire, thawing and sipping hot tea, Seamus listened for any unexpected sounds. Miss Williams was busying herself at the stove, the radio playing dance music interspersed with war news. More overnight bombings of Liverpool. Was Mam alright? Was Patrick still alive?

     A sharp rap at the door made Seamus start. Miss Williams opened it and stepped backwards as the giant man, Gareth from the lane, pushed in. He spoke in a language Seamus didn’t understand in a tone he did. Mam’s ‘friends’ often used the same threatening pitch before they lashed out.

     The exchange was brief, Gareth slamming the door behind him, Miss Williams trembling with anger and fear.

     “What did he want?” asked Seamus.

     “What he always wants. The land.”

     Miss Williams returned to the stove and Seamus recognised the gentle shaking of her shoulders as controlled sobbing. Mam was the same. A knife on the scrubbed oak table slid purposefully then clattered to the flagstones. Alarmed, Seamus rose, “Did you see that?”

     “I’m busy. Go upstairs and read. I need to think.”

     “The knife…”

     “Leave me be.”

The next few days passed uneventfully, if, as Seamus pondered, doors opening by themselves, thumping sounds within the walls and books disappearing then reappearing could be considered uneventful. He’d started at the village school with the other evacuees, outsiders huddled together for camaraderie in the yard whilst the local children played and chattered in their own language.

     The snow now lay in thick drifts across hills and fields and rooftops. Each morning Seamus was tasked with pushing the creaking wheelbarrow stacked high with feed to the meadow where Miss Williams’ flock crowded together for warmth. At the far end, sloping ground led to a fast flowing stream, crisply frozen at its edges where Seamus cracked the ice with his new boots. “These were Dafydd’s, you’re about his size.” They were warm, waterproof and welcome. Beside the rattling brook, Seamus sensed rather than saw a figure close by, at the dark flat rocks on the water’s edge. Turning to catch sight of it, him, the shape vanished.

     Returning to the warm kitchen he’d built up enough courage to ask Miss Williams, “What happened to Dafydd?” then instantly regretted it, fearing his ears would be boxed.

     Miss Williams simply sighed. “There’s two stories. Dafydd was feeding the lambs beside the stream. The police said he must have wandered down to the water’s edge, slipped, banged his head and fallen in. Drowned. ‘Accidental Death’ the coroner’s verdict.”

     Seamus let Miss Williams pause. She appeared sad and angry all at once.

     “I know that Gareth had been there. A man’s footprints led from the gate. Gareth had told me more than once that Dafydd needed to watch himself. Gareth wanted that field for his cattle, but I said no, my land, my flock, hands off. And if anything happened to me Dafydd would inherit. Then he’s found with his head battered in, face down in the stream, with Gareth’s tracks leading away.”

     “Did you tell the police that?” Seamus’s voice was barely a whisper.

     “Things are different here, the police don’t like fuss.” The bitterness in Miss Williams’ voice was like Mam’s when one of his ‘uncles’ had cleared off. “No, they concluded Dafydd had fallen. And Gareth knows that if anything happens to me now, this land is his.” A thump came from the panelling beside the fireplace. Then from the door to the staircase. Then the pantry and the shelves and the framed paintings hanging on the rail round the room. “Let’s change the subject shall we?”

Seamus woke to a sound, no, more than that, the sensation that he wasn’t alone. Sitting up in the darkness, the only light from a bright moon, he saw the figure spotted in the lane and at the stream.

     “Are you Dafydd?” Seamus’s voice was tight and hoarse. The boy didn’t reply. “I’m Seamus. I saw you by the water.”

     The shadowy shape drew closer, bringing with it a light icy breeze that tickled Seamus’s face, making him tremble, his heart pounding so he could feel the pulse in his throat.

     “I like your books. My books come from school, I don’t have my own.”

     As the figure grew closer Seamus could make out a pale impassive face although the eyes were unreadable and black. Dafydd, if this was he, didn’t attempt to speak, but lifted a thin hand, a finger pointing towards the window.

     “What?” Seamus asked in a faint whisper. He turned his head and peered outside, the snow laden fields and trees lit by the moon, and the sheep meadow and stream just visible.

     “What is it?” he said, turning, but the figure was gone.

     Seamus slipped to the bare boards. In the near distance, beside the gate to the meadow, he saw a large man at the meadow gate. There was a bleating of alarm from the slumbering sheep as the man pushed through them, sending them scattering wildly, several streaming into the lane.

     “Miss Williams,” called Seamus. “Miss Williams quickly, there’s someone letting the sheep out.”

     He heard a thud and a grumble followed by footsteps stomping along the landing. Wild haired and bleary she arrived with a flickering candle, “You seen it?”

     “There,” Seamus pointed.

     She glanced at the sight, more sheep were now spilling through the open gate and the man was waving his arms, urging the animals on.

     “Damn!"

It had taken until dawn to round up as many of the sheep as they could, although by Miss Williams' account they were seven heads down. Gammon and Spinach lay snoring by the fire as Seamus, wrapped in a blanket, steamed gently. Snow had begun falling again.

     “The ewes will be dead by now, driven off the dyke into the quarry,” Miss Williams said. “There’ll be no prints of his I’ll be bound.”

     Seamus nodded, “Was it your brother?”

     “Aye, that was Gareth. Why did you wake up and spot him?”

     Seamus considered his words carefully, “I heard something and it made me look through the window.” The questioning look Miss Williams gave him made him return to staring at the fire.

     “Go get ready for school. I’ve got to get a new lock for the gate."

Seamus was wary of grown men with hard fists and short tempers as his Mam seemed to know most of them. Gareth’s now constant presence on the land, at the cottage, in the small barn, around the lanes, was wearing Miss Williams down. Her temper too was short.

     “Can’t you watch what you’re doing?” she’d snapped as Seamus had stumbled pulling on Dafydd’s boots. “I don’t know why I said I’d take you in. Better off down the village not under my feet.”

     The ewes welcomed him though as he approached, wading through the snowdrifts with their feed. His eyes were alert for sightings of the ghostly boy who'd occasionally appear at the water’s edge, watching him with shrouded eyes.

     Trudging back along the lane Seamus’s heart sank as the giant Gareth loomed over a field gate.

     “You still there?”

     Seamus simply nodded.

     “Not for much longer. Accidents happen in our family. What happened to Dafydd might happen to my sister.”

     The harsh laugh made Seamus squirm and he scurried back wondering what Gareth had meant by accidents happening? Inside, Miss Williams was at the kitchen table, staring at the wall. “Are you alright?”

     She nodded. A poker rattled in the fireplace and a cupboard door slowly opened. “I’ve spoken to Mrs Llewellyn about finding you a new place to go. Not that I want to see you leave, it’s been nice having young bones under the roof. You’ll have to go though, it’s not safe for you round here.”

     Before Seamus could reply a chair skittered backwards before toppling with a clatter.

     “It’s no good you causing a ruckus. If Gareth has his way I’ll be with you soon enough.”

     Seamus felt the familiar brush of cold air across his cheeks and then a thin voice, almost beyond hearing, whispered, “Be there...”

     “Be where?” Seamus asked.

     “Who you talking to?” Miss Williams asked.

     “No one,” he replied and headed to his room where he fell upon his bed and stared at the ceiling. Seamus was afraid of Gareth. He was a bully and a thug and if what Miss Williams said was true he was a murderer too, but what good would Seamus be against a grown man such as Gareth? A clicking sound made him turn his head. On the wall the faded crude painting of a cascading river was excitably quaking. With a crash it fell from the nail and hit the boards.

     “What’s this about?”  Seamus asked.

     A thin chill caught his neck, his face, his scalp and with his flesh taut he grew aware of the boy, about his age, about his height, standing only feet away. In all other matters the boy seemed quite ordinary except for his eyes, which were no more than dark depthless voids in his face.

     “Dafydd?” Seamus croaked.

     The apparition slid forward with no sign of effort and stopped at the fallen picture. Seamus looked to a pointed finger and cautiously kneeled to take a folded sheet of paper from behind the painting. Unfolding it, his heart starting to race.

     Dafydd Williams 1938 First Prize

The stream! The boy, Dafydd he presumed, was gone when he leapt to his feet and raced downstairs where he found the door wide open and the dogs tied to a chair, whimpering.

     “Miss Williams?” he called, tumbling into the boots and hauling his coat on, setting off into the deep snow. His cheeks felt pinched and his lips sore as he urged himself forwards, each step an effort, onwards until he was in the lane and approaching the buried meadow. At the gate he spotted footprints. Two people had come this way, one much larger and heavier than the other.

     “Gareth, no!”

     The voice carried on the bitterly cold air prompted Seamus to pick up speed, desperately trying to reach the stream. Another cry, definitely Miss Williams, nearly had him wailing, she sounded so distressed and his eyes prickled with tears that began to freeze. “Come on,” he pushed himself until there, as the ground sloped and the near frozen brook ran, he saw them. Gareth, bulky in overalls was holding Miss Williams down, her head pushed into the racing water.

     “No,” shouted Seamus, trying with all his might to reach them, to stop it, to save her.

     Gareth turned and growled, “Get back indoors, this is family business.”

     Seamus became gripped by inertia, terrified, when a familiar faint gust brushed his face.

     Dafydd appeared, as solid as he’d been in the bedroom, all but his vanished eyes visible. Gareth shook his head in disbelief and let go of Miss Williams who dragged herself, coughing, onto the rocks. Gareth’s face contorted in confusion and he stumbled as Dafydd approached, placing a thin pale hand on the man’s great chest. “Na!” he bellowed, slipping on the icy rocks, falling heavily, his head cracking on a frozen outcrop before sliding into the fast moving stream. “Na!” he cried again, then his throat filled with frigid water and he was silent, face down, twisting, carried downstream.

“Let me get this right,” said the policeman who was scratching his head with the tip of his pencil. “Gareth Williams fell on the ice at the edge of the stream?”

     “That’s right,” said Miss Williams, wrapped in towels, accepting hot tea from Seamus who’d carried her back through the storm.

     “We saw the tracks alright,” said the officer. “Large boots, a smaller pair I presume are yours Miss Williams, and two other small trails. Children?”

     “That’ll be Seamus. He’s a good boy. He heard we were in trouble but when he got there Gareth had already slipped and gone.”

     Seamus avoided Miss Williams' grim expression.

     “And the other pair of children’s tracks? The only tracks leading back from the meadow were yours and this boy's. What happened to the other child?”

     “There is no other child,” snapped Miss Williams.

     “I saw the footprints in the field, clear as day.”

     “Now covered by more snow no doubt?” she said.

     Seamus sniffed and refilled the kettle. A light thump from upstairs, followed by gently padding footsteps that stopped overhead. The policeman looked up, brows furrowed, tilting his head like Gammon and Spinach when dinner was served.

     “What’s that? Is there someone upstairs?”

     “No. Now I need to be getting on,” said Miss Williams. “Hadn’t you better go hunting for what’s left of my brother?”

     Seamus felt his heart would burst from his chest when what sounded like a boy’s voice began singing in Welsh.

     “Did you hear that?” asked the policeman.

     “No, we didn't hear a thing,” replied Seamus and Miss Williams in unison.