The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ your grandmother,’ Mrs Griffiths said wearily. ‘She’s getting old and she dreams.’

      ‘Her hair is black,’ Gwyn reminded her.

      ‘Her hair is black, but her eyes don’t see things the way they used to!’ Mam picked up the yellow scarf. ‘This too? Did Nain bring this?’

      ‘Yes. It’s Bethan’s isn’t it?’

      His mother frowned. ‘It disappeared with her. She must have been wearing it the night she went, but the police found nothing next morning, nothing at all. How strange! If Nain found it why didn’t she say?’ She held the scarf close to her face.

      ‘You can smell the flowers,’ said Gwyn. ‘D’you remember? She used to dry the roses and put them in her clothes.’

      His mother laid the scarf back in the drawer. ‘Don’t talk of Bethan now, Gwyn,’ she said.

      ‘Why not, Mam? We should talk of her. It was on my birthday she left. She might come back . . . if we think of her.’

      ‘She won’t come back! Don’t you understand Gwyn? We searched for days. The police searched, not only here, but everywhere. It was four years ago!’ His mother turned away, then said more kindly, ‘I’ve asked Alun Lloyd to come up for tea. We’ll have a proper tea today, not like your other birthdays. You’d better get on with your work now.’

      When Mrs Griffiths had left the room Gwyn lifted the scarf out of the drawer and pressed it to his face. The scent of roses was still strong. Bethan seemed very near. How good she had looked in her yellow scarf, with her dark hair and her red mac, all bright and shining. He remembered now; she had been wearing the scarf that night; the night she had climbed the mountain and never come back. Why had Nain kept it secret all this time, and given it to him now, on his birthday?

      ‘If Bethan left her scarf,’ Gwyn exclaimed aloud, ‘perhaps she meant to come back.’

      He laid the scarf over the broken horse, the seaweed, the whistle and the brooch, and gently closed the drawer. He was humming cheerfully to himself when he went out into the garden again.

      Mam kept her word. Alun Lloyd arrived at four o’clock. But he had brought his twin brothers with him, which was not part of the arrangement.

      There were nine Lloyds all crammed into a farmhouse only one room larger than the Griffiths’, and sometimes Mrs Lloyd, ever eager to acquire a little more space, took it upon herself to send three or four children, where only one had been invited. She was, however, prepared to pay for these few precious hours of peace. Alun, Gareth and Siôn had all brought a gift and Mrs Griffiths, guessing the outcome of her invitation, had provided tea for seven.

      Kneeling on the kitchen floor, Gwyn tore the coloured paper off his presents. A red kite, a pen and a pair of black plastic spectacles with a large pink nose, black eyebrows and a black moustache attached.

      ‘Looks like your dad, doesn’t it?’ giggled Siôn, and he snatched up the spectacles, put them on and began to prance up and down the room, chest out and fingers tucked behind imaginary braces.

      Suddenly it was like other people’s birthdays. The way a birthday should be, but Gwyn’s never was.

      Nain arrived with a box under her arm. ‘For your birthday,’ she said. ‘Records, I don’t want them any more.’

      ‘But you’ve given your presents, Nain,’ said Gwyn.

      ‘Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth,’ Nain retorted. ‘Who are these nice little boys?’

      ‘You know who they are. The Lloyds, Alun and Gareth and Siôn, from T Llr. Don’t you ever see your neighbours?’ chided Gwyn.

      ‘Not the one with the specs; I don’t know that one. Looks like your father,’ chuckled Nain. ‘Put on some music, Glenys!’

      ‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ Mrs Griffiths looked worried. ‘Ivor put the record-player away; we haven’t used it since . . .’

      ‘Time to get it out then,’ said Nain.

      Somewhat reluctantly, Mrs Griffiths knelt in a corner of the kitchen and, from a small neglected cupboard, withdrew the record-player. She placed it on the kitchen table while the boys gathered round.

      ‘I can’t remember where to plug it in,’ said Mrs Griffiths.

      ‘The light, Mam,’ Gwyn explained. ‘Look, the plug is for the light.’

      ‘But . . . it’s beginning to get dark.’ His mother sounded almost afraid.

      ‘Candles! We can have candles!’ Gwyn began to feel ridiculously elated. He fetched a box of candles from the larder and began to set them up on saucers and bottles all round the room.

      Then they put on one of Nain’s records. It was very gay and very loud: a fiddle, a flute, a harp and a singer. The sort of music to send you wild, and the Lloyds went wild. They drummed on the table, jumped on the chairs, stamped on the floor, waved the dishcloths and juggled with the cat. The cat objected and Siôn retired, temporarily, from the merrymaking, bloody-eared but unbowed.

      Nain began to dance, in her purple dress and black lace stockings, her dark curls bouncing and her coloured beads flying. She wore silver bracelets, too, that jangled when she raised her arms, and a black shawl that swung out and made the candles flicker.

       Mae gen i dipyn o d bach twt

       A’r gwynt i’r drws bob bore.

       Hei di ho, di hei di hei di ho,

       A’r gwynt i’r drws bob bore . . .

      sang the singers, and so sang Nain, in her high quivering voice.

      The Lloyds thought it the funniest thing they had ever seen and, clutching their sides, they rolled on the floor, gasping and giggling.

      Gwyn smiled, but he did not laugh. There was something strange, almost magical, about the tall figure spinning in the candlelight.

      Down in the field, Gwyn’s father heard the music. For a few moments he paused and listened while his cows, eager to be milked, ambled on up to the farmyard. Mr Griffiths regarded the mountain, rising dark and bare beside the house, and remembered his daughter.

      When the boys had breath left neither for dancing nor laughter, Mrs Griffiths tucked the record-player away in its corner, stood up and removed her apron. Then she patted her hair, smoothed her dress and said, rather quiet and coy, ‘Tea will be in here today, boys!’ and she walked across the passage and opened the door into the front room.

      Gwyn was perplexed. Teas, even fairly smart teas with relations, were always in the kitchen these days. He moved uncertainly towards the open door and looked in.

      A white cloth had been laid on the long oak table, so white it almost hurt his eyes. And upon the cloth, the best blue СКАЧАТЬ