17

The next morning she stumbled over the bundle of grass. Swearing, she put it in a big glass vase she found in a kitchen cupboard. She left the secateurs lying on the ground. Then she hitched the trailer to the back of the car and drove off in a random direction. This was the UK, she’d be bound to run into a garden centre sooner or later. After about an hour she found herself in a village called Waunfawr. There was no garden centre, but there was a bakery. She bought bread, biscuits and a cream cake. She didn’t have a clue where she was, even though the mountain she saw in the distance when she entered the shop looked familiar. To be on the safe side, she told the baker the name of her house.

‘Don’t you know where you are?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she answered.

The baker didn’t say anything, he just shook his head gently.

‘I have a poor sense of direction.’

The baker looked out at the car parked directly in front of the shop. ‘Start the car, drive straight ahead, follow the road, turn left after a mile, then left again.’

‘So close?’

‘So close. And from now on buy bread here.’

‘Pardon?’

‘From now on buy bread here. Now that you know where we are.’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re open Sunday mornings too.’ He turned to an open door. ‘Awen!’

The baker’s wife stuck her head round the corner.

‘A new customer. She lives in old Mrs Evans’s house.’

‘Oh, nice,’ said the baker’s wife. ‘Hello, love.’ She disappeared again.

‘Thanks.’ She walked to the shop door. ‘Do you also know of a garden centre in the area perhaps?’

‘Bangor. Know where that is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘See you later.’

‘When you run out of bread.’

‘Yes.’

‘German?’

‘No, not at all.’ She walked out of the shop and put her purchases on the back seat of the car. She looked around. A few houses, hills, a crossroads. Not even Mount Snowdon was enough for her to get her bearings. ‘Godverdomme,’ she said to the mountain. ‘I’ll have to go home first.’ The baker had taken up position at his shop window and was standing with one arm stretched out like a signpost. The only part of him moving was his hand which, with a pointing index finger, was jerking up and down like a wind-up toy. She nodded, turned her collar up a little to conceal the hot patches on her throat and quickly climbed into the car.

She turned onto the drive and noticed immediately that the field was empty. It was only after taking the sharp curve that she saw the black sheep a good deal nearer the house. The seven geese were gabbling close together. She braked and got out. Six. She counted them again, even though they were close to the fence, and again she got no further than six. If it carries on at this rate, she thought, there’ll be none left by Christmas.

The piece of paper was gone from the front door, replaced with a new message. Called again. I moved my sheep. I’ll try again. Tomorrow morning at 9. Rhys Jones. Fine, she thought bravely. A sheep farmer and a time. I’ve got a cake.

She picked up the secateurs and went into the kitchen. The map was still spread out on the table; she no longer folded it up. She located Waunfawr. Incredibly close by. She stood there like that for a moment with her back bent, both hands flat on the map. After a while, the green dotted lines showing the walking paths all seemed to converge on her drive, on her land. That mountain, she thought, I have to keep an eye on Mount Snowdon, then I’ll know where I am.