The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

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      ‘We’ve left Dewi with his auntie,’ said Mrs Davis.

      Dewi had many aunties. Gwyn wondered which one had the pleasure of his company, and if Dewi was to be envied or pitied.

      The Davises had come to ‘thrash out the problem of the nose’, as Mr Davis put it.

      It was six o’clock. The tea had only just been cleared away and Gwyn’s stomach was already grumbling. They were sitting round the kitchen table: Mr and Mrs Davis, Gwyn and his parents – as though they were about to embark on an evening of cards or some other light-hearted entertainment, not something as serious as Dewi’s nose.

      ‘The problem, as I see it,’ began Mrs Davis, ‘is, who’s lying?’

      ‘Gary Pritchard, Merfyn Jones and Brian Roberts, all say that they think they saw Gwyn throw a stone,’ said Mr Davis solemnly. ‘Now, this is a very serious business.’

      ‘Very dangerous too,’ added Mrs Davis.

      ‘That goes without saying, Gladys,’ Mr Davis coughed. ‘Now, the situation is,’ he paused dramatically, ‘what’s to be done about it?’

      ‘How . . . er, how bad is the nose?’ Mrs Griffiths asked.

      ‘Very bad,’ replied Mrs Davis indignantly. ‘How bad d’you think your nose would be if it had been hit by a rock?’

      ‘Now wait a minute!’ Mr Griffiths entered the conversation with a roar. ‘First it’s a stone, now it’s a rock, and we haven’t yet established whether anything was thrown. Perhaps Dewi bumped his nose, we haven’t heard his explanation.’

      ‘That’s the problem.’ Mr Davis banged his fist on the table. ‘Dewi says he did bump his nose, but the other boys say Gwyn hit him with a stone.’

      ‘Dewi’s frightened of him, see!’ Mrs Davis pointed an accusing finger at Gwyn. ‘He’s afraid your boy’ll do something worse to him if he tells.’

      ‘Bloody nonsense!’ Mr Griffiths stood up, his chair scraping on the tiled floor. ‘Let’s hear your side of it, Gwyn?’

      Gwyn looked up. He was unused to having his father defend him. He felt that he could take on any number of Davises now. ‘I didn’t throw a stone,’ he said.

      ‘There!’ Mr and Mrs Davis spoke simultaneously.

      Mr Griffiths sat down and the two sets of parents eyed each other wordlessly.

      ‘He’s lying of course,’ Mr Davis said, at last.

      ‘He ought to be punished,’ added his wife. ‘The headmistress should be told.’

      ‘It’s a pity they don’t thrash kids these days,’ growled Mr Davis.

      This time it was Mr Griffiths who banged the table. Gwyn got up and began to pace about the room while the adults all talked at once. He had a tremendous desire to do something dramatic and the knowledge that he probably could, made the temptation almost unbearable. What should he do though? Box Mr Davis’s ears from a distance of three metres? Pull Mrs Davis’s hair? The possibilities were endless. And then he remembered Nain’s warning. He must not abuse his power. It must be used only when there was something that he truly needed to do.

      ‘It’s not as if your son is normal,’ he heard Mrs Davis say. ‘Everyone’s been talking about his being peculiar, if you know what I mean. Ask any of the children.’

      For the first time his parents seemed unable to reply. Mrs Griffiths looked so miserable that Gwyn could hardly bear it. She had known for days that something was wrong, and now she was going to hear about his stories.

      ‘It seems,’ went on Mrs Davis, ‘that Gwyn has been saying some very peculiar things, if you know what I mean. And why? If you ask me your son’s not normal.’

      Gwyn had to stop her. Contemplating the generous curves that overflowed the narrow kitchen chair supporting Mrs Davis, his eyes alighted upon a large expanse of flesh, just above the knee, that her too-tight skirt could not cover. He flexed his fingers, then pressed his thumb and forefinger together, tight, tight, tight!

      Mrs Davis screamed. She glared at Mr Griffiths and then asked haughtily, ‘Have you got a dog?’

      The two men frowned at her, for the distraction, and then frowned at each other, while Mrs Griffiths said, ‘Yes, he’s in the barn!’

      ‘A cat?’ Mrs Davis inquired hopefully.

      ‘A black tom,’ Mrs Griffiths nodded towards a dark form sitting on the sill, outside the kitchen window. ‘We call him Long John,’ she went on, ‘because he lost a leg on the road when he was just a kitten; it’s wonderful what vets can do these days.’

      Mrs Davis glanced at Long John then quickly looked away, her cyclamen-pink lips contorted with distaste. ‘I think we’ll go,’ she said, and stood up.

      Her husband looked at her but did not move.

      ‘Get up, Bryn!’ Mrs Davis commanded. ‘I want to go!’

      Mr Davis followed his wife out of the kitchen with a bemused expression on his face. He could not understand why the interview had ended so abruptly, and wondered if the situation had been resolved without his being aware of it.

      The Griffithses were as perplexed as he. They silently followed their unwelcome guests to the front door, and there the whole unpleasant business might have ended, had not Mrs Davis been heard to mutter darkly, ‘Someone pinched my thigh!’

      Mrs Griffiths gasped, her husband roared, ‘What?’ But Mr Davis, having opened the front door, thrust his wife through it, before she could cause the affair to deteriorate further. He then leapt quickly after her and the wind parted the two families by slamming the door.

      Mr and Mrs Griffiths retreated into the kitchen and slumped battle-weary beside the table. And then the humour of the situation overcame them and they began to laugh with relief.

      ‘Thanks for sticking up for me, Dad,’ said Gwyn, when his parents had recovered. He felt awkward and not at all sure that he had done the right thing in the end.

      ‘If you say you’re innocent, that’s all I need to know,’ said Mr Griffiths gruffly.

      Gwyn looked hard at his father; he could СКАЧАТЬ