Monday morning and another dry sunny late summer day, and a couple of miles away from the newcomers place, the daily routine had begun. Chris and Keith had moved into the area from the north of England some eight years previously and now raised beef cattle on their 250-acre farm, named Penlan. Keith came from a farming family, Chris from the city, and when they were married he had wanted his own farm and had found land prices in Wales cheap. So had moved to their present place some four miles from Mike and Jan. In the converted old stone barn, now used to house cattle, Keith sat on a traditional three-legged stool hand milking their ‘house cow,’ as she happily chomped on her food. They had other cattle, but this beast was a bit of a pet and kept to provide the family with milk.
‘Those new people moved into the Davis’s old place last Saturday,’ Keith said, his voice somewhat muffled because his head was up against the cows’ flank as he continued the steady milking rhythm.
‘I know, the postman told me this morning. I suppose we should call over and say hello. Be nice to have some more English people to talk to,’ Chris replied cheerfully, busy with her task of throwing straw onto the floors of the other cattle pens.
‘Are you sure they’re English with a name like Jones?’ Keith asked, his Geordie accent making Jones sound more like Junes.
‘Yeah, think so, it said in the local paper last week they were from South Wales but it was written in English so they must be.’
‘Oh aye, but I still think it’s bloody funny, you know, the way its written in English if you’re English, or in Welsh if you’re Welsh.’
‘Well, yeah I know what you mean, but if it was in Welsh they wouldn’t know they were being written about would they. And we couldn’t read it either,’ Chris said with a little laugh.
‘ Aye, Okay we’ll go over some time.’
‘Oh yeah, did you hear Cindy barking last night? Something was outside again, about midnight’
‘A fox, I expect.’
‘It’s funny how the fox is usually here when you’re away.’
‘Just a coincidence I expect.’
‘Does seem a bit odd, though. Perhaps we should stay up and watch out for what ever it is that upsets Cindy,’ Chris suggested.
‘Rather you than me -I like my sleep,’ Keith replied.
‘Typical, though if I remember, you didn’t worry about getting to sleep last night,’ retorted Chris, and stomped off with half-hearted annoyance.
Keith watched her-and her neat, bouncy rump, as she headed back to the house, and he grinned at the salacious memory of his exertions of the previous night.
Shopping in the tiny Market town of Porth was proving an interesting experience for Mike, Jan and the kids. It was so very different from the familiar city of Aberdod, to which they used to travel the eight miles to do their major shopping. It wasn’t that they missed the variety of large shops or the grand Victorian civic centre, they didn’t. In fact they were enjoying the quiet relaxed old-fashioned atmosphere of the place. Here, there was no Marks and Spencer, Woolworth or the like. Come to that there were very few people, well not on this Monday morning anyway. But they supposed on market days it would be a different story with the busy cattle mart on the outskirts of the tiny town, and various stalls cramming the narrow main street.
Most of the shops were local one-man affairs, and the tiny post office, the butcher and general grocery shop, seemed from another age altogether. The problem was that they just didn’t know where to look for what they wanted. But soon their meanderings lead them past a railway station shut by Mr Beeching, and there, amongst the disused sidings, stood a Farmers co-op store. Well, really a middle sized wooden shed with a roof of corrugated iron, and they cautiously ventured inside. And caution was indeed needed because as they stepped through the battered doorway the first surprise was the wooden floor of the place. It had seen much better days and customers and staff had to step over holes and areas patched, either with flattened pieces of old biscuit tins, or ill-fitting bits of wood, and the rest of the old planking wheezed and groaned with old age.
The counters themselves were old-fashioned slabs of wood, polished smooth and glossy with years of use. Goods were stacked everywhere and even hung from hooks hanging from the rafters. There, they espied the much-needed Wellington boots nestling between shiny new stainless steel milking pails, and lethal looking billhooks, all dangling dangerously at head height. This hazard, together with the patched floor meant that everyone moved at a careful pace having to watch feet and head at the same time, and perhaps accounted for the seemingly steady nature of the locals which they had had mistaken for bucolic indifference. More tools, spades, pitchforks, picks and axes were heaped haphazardly along the walls, and on shelves behind the counters, various animal drenches and unguents seeped a pungent unfamiliar odour into the building. David and Mandy gazed with bewilderment at the unfamiliar miscellany and were unusually speechless.
Whilst they waited to be served, Mike and Jan took in the local ambiance and it’s endless Welsh chatter and felt somewhat out of place. Particularly when friendly chat was directed at them, at which they stared back, apologetically, ashamed at their very limited knowledge of the language. David translated for them what he could, but even he couldn’t follow all of the conversation for all of the time. Eventually, they made their essential purchases of the Wellingtons, a small axe that Mike needed to chop sticks for the fire, and, of course a new chemical toilet - sophistication would be theirs…
By the time they reached home it was lunchtime and Janice busied herself feeding the starving hordes. Mike headed for the ‘lavatory room’ and set up the new toilet. The chemicals ponged a bit, and reminded Mike of the factory where he had worked, but they all agreed it was better than the dark and spidery horror of the shed in the yard. All in all a very successful morning.
‘What you going to do this afternoon Mike?’ Jan asked, as she began clearing up the lunchtime table.
‘I suppose I’d better get on with the marking out in the tunnel field, this dry weather won’t last for ever,’ Mike gulped down the last dregs of his coffee. ‘Are you still off the fags, Jan?’ Mike said as he stubbed out his own cigarette.
‘Yep, none today, not one.’
‘Who’s a brave girl then,’ Mike mocked, Jan ignored him, feeling rather superior about her nicotine abstinence.
‘I think I’ll have a go at getting rid of that old toilet shed this afternoon.’
‘That’s a big job Jan, get the kids to help knocking the thing down. But be careful, those old sheets of corrugated iron are sharp and heavy.’
‘I’ll just do what I can love, don’t worry I’ll take care. I just want to see the dammed thing out of the way, and you’ve got so much else to do it will help a bit.’
‘Mum, Dad, there’s a van coming down the track,’ David stormed into the kitchen shouting breathlessly, obviously excited at the prospect of callers.
‘Oh no, not more visitors,’ Jan groaned.
‘Not much peace out here is there? We had far less callers than this when we were in town,’ Mike said somewhat dolefully, ‘I suppose we’d better go out and see who it is.’
Outside in the yard Mike and Jan stood waiting rather uncomfortably, not knowing who or what to expect. The kids dashed about showing off as kids’ do, while at the same time keeping a watch out for the strangers. They didn’t have long to wait. An old, battered, red ex G.P.O van skittered into the yard, scattering the squawking ragged old hens, in all directions. Out of the small van a man and a woman emerged, smiling broadly, the man approached, one hand held out in greeting, in the other a bottle of wine.
‘Hello, I’m Keith, Keith Bowen and this is Chris, my wife. Welcome to Llanbeth’ Mike and Jan quickly relaxed at the visitors’ cheerful and friendly manner.
‘Thanks, pleased to meet you too, it’s very nice of you to bother to call. How did you know we just moved in?’ Mike was intrigued as how news travelled so fast.
‘Well that’s another story,’ Keith said with an air of mystery, ‘we know all about you, but I cannot tell a lie, it’s not magic, it was in the local newspaper.’
‘The local paper, really?’
‘Aye I know, God knows where they get it from, they must have spies in every village. I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Anyway, Keith, I’m Mike, Mike Jones and this is Janice.’
‘Everyone calls me Jan,’ Jan said shaking hands with Chris.
‘I know what you mean, Jan, hardly anyone nobody calls me Christine either,’ she spoke with a soft gentle voice, which belied her business like nature.
‘Well the place is a mess but come in anyway,’ Jan said leading the way.
‘This is home-made Damson wine- it’s good stuff, make your hair curl,’ Keith said, laughing, as they all followed Jan indoors.
In the kitchen glasses were filled, and Mike and Jan began to take in their visitors. What they found the most fascinating were the rich Geordie accents. Jan and Mike had lead quite sheltered lives and had travelled hardly at all, so these foreign voices intrigued them greatly. Keith, with his mop of curly black hair was a tall, strong and muscular chap, and with a pleasing weather tanned face - Mike was a string bean in comparison.
Mike found Chris very attractive. A little taller, and smaller breasted than Jan and with short blonde hair, which Mike thought a little too blonde for it to be real-and he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. She had a cheeky sexy glint in her brown eyes, and whether it was intentional or not, kept glancing at Mike with what he thought was a bit of a come on. Jan surprised herself by finding Keith equally attractive, and found the movements of his large strong hands, sensual and very appealing. Jan had a thing about men’s hands; they had to be ‘nice’.
‘So what are you going to be doing here Mike? We’re beef farming, and just started with some pigs.’
‘Is that with that bloke from the village?’
‘So you’ve met the mad pig man, Josh, already, bloody hell, man, he didn’t waste much time did he?’
‘Yeah, he was here first thing Sunday morning, and he is a bit odd.’
‘I should say,’ Chris interrupted, ‘did you know that years ago his parents owned our farm and the old man, his father, hung himself in the barn. I think it was Josh that found him, he was only a kid; no wonder the poor bugger is a bit odd and has a squeaky voice.’
‘That’s awful, you wouldn’t think that something like that would happen out here, would you?’ Jan said sympathetically.
‘I suppose not Jan, but it just shows it’s not all milk and honey out here,’ Chris answered, rather pensively.
‘And while your at it, don’t forget the mice, pet. She’s got a thing about mice,’ said Keith, his voice full of sarcasm. He seemed annoyed, angry almost, that his wife was giving out all the doom and gloom whilst he was in ‘happy’ mode.
‘Oh yes, the mice. The little so and so’s love these three foot thick stone walls of these old houses, they come in from the fields in winter and can get in through the tiniest of gaps. And you can hear them scratching about inside the walls. Horrible.’
‘ Are you better now?’ Keith remarked with a snide smile.
‘Well, I just don’t like them.’ Chris folded her arms in self-defence.
‘We haven’t heard any thing have we, Jan?’
‘No, I don’t want to either, it sounds awful.’
‘You might as well tell them about the low flying while you’re about it, Chris,’ Keith now seemed to be enjoying winding her up.
‘What, low flying mice?’ Mike laughed, the drink doing its business.
‘No,’ Chris said in rather serious tone, ‘Jet planes. The RAF do low flying exercises over here, they make a hell of a racket and you can’t see them coming. They frighten the life out of me, and the cattle, and then they run all over the place.’
‘Cheer up all of you, and drink up, I’ve got another bottle in the van,’ Keith laughed, trying to liven up the gathering.
‘Smoke, Keith?’ Mike offered his packet across the table.
‘We don’t thanks, Mike, gave it up a year ago,’ Keith refused with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘I’m giving it up too. It’s so expensive,’ Jan said with a slight air of superiority.
‘Miss Goody, bloomin’ two shoes,’ Mike retorted, to which they all laughed.
‘Talking of odd people, have you meet any of the locals yet, apart from mad Josh?’ Keith asked.
‘I’ve had some women visitors; they didn’t seem to bad to me,’ replied Jan.
‘I suppose because you’re from south Wales, and Welsh, you’ll fit in better than we have,’ Chris chipped in, ‘but you don’t sound very Welsh though.’
‘I don’t know about that, Chris’ Mike said, ‘I think because we don’t speak much Welsh, and ‘cos I’ve got a beard and long hair, they think we’re English hippies. Mind you the kids should be okay, they’ve been going to a Welsh school back home, in Barey. And my grandmother was a Welsh speaker. Of course when she was in school she was forbidden from speaking in Welsh, even in the playground.’
‘Bloody hell, I didn’t know that.’ Keith sounded really shocked and interested at such an idea, so Mike thought he would continue the tale.
‘If the teachers heard a child talking Welsh then they would make them wear a smallish wooden label with W N on it-Welsh Not- around their neck. If someone else was caught out, then the label would be passed to that kid. The last one wearing it at the end of the day had the cane-good eh?’
‘Man, I know you’re Welsh, –but they’re worse than I thought.
‘But all that was a was a long time ago,’ Jan said, a little surprised at Mikes rather passionate comments.
‘Aye, they can be a bit offhand, to say the least,’ Keith continued, ‘I don’t think it’s because they hate us English, it’s more like resentment, jealousy. We come out here, buy their falling down houses, do them up, and make a living at the same time. The locals don’t want these old places, they all seem to want a nice new bungalow in the village.’ Keith seemed to be getting a little steamed up about the topic.
‘Are pigs a good line then?’ Mike changed the subject, and lit up another cigarette
‘So far they’ve paid well and it’s a quicker turnover than with the beef cattle. It would be worth you having a think about it. That big old barn of yours would be ideal for them, and I know where you can get a sow to start with-let me know-give me a ring. But I don’t sell to Josh and his group any more, we get better prices selling direct ourselves. Mind you he didn’t like it when we opted out, he got quite angry about it. I wouldn’t get involved with him I were you, Mike.’
‘Right, Keith, I’ll let you know, though there’s no phone here, as yet.’
‘You’ll have to wait a while for that, everything takes so long, this area is still living in the fifties - twenty years behind the times. Mind you that can be a good thing, a nice steady pace and all that, but a bit of a bugger when you want something done –or a bag of cement. That’s why all the hippies and Flower Power mob are coming out here, hardly ever see the village cop so they can grow their ‘wacky baccy’ in peace.’
The chat continued and explanations given about the newspaper article, brief family histories, children and all the usual stuff, and of course what ‘wacky baccy’ was. A huge revelation to Mike and Jan and it explained Zac’s behaviour. And the coincidence that they had a neighbour named Keith back in Barey had been another surprise. They had two girls, Alison twelve and Jane who was ten years. In fact Keith and Chris were only five years older than Mike and Jan. All of which gave the proceedings an added air of commonality and friendliness. Added to this was the news that there was a local Amateur Dramatics, outfit. Affectionately known by those involved as Am Dram. In fact there were two, an English group and a Welsh one, both based in a small local theatre some six miles away. This obviously interested Jan greatly as she had been very active with it back in town, but hadn’t thought there would be such opportunities out here in the wilds. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to become involved with all that again but couldn’t resist agreeing to go along at the next meeting.
What are you doing for milk, Jan,’ Chris asked, ‘you can’t get milk delivered to the door out here. I remember when we moved here, the kids were always moaning that there wasn’t any milk in the house.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that, I’ve been buying it in the village shop until I could find someone to deliver.’
‘Well that doesn’t happen out here. Most people have their own milk, if they’re into dairy farming, or a house cow. Have you thought about getting one? A nice little Jersey would be good. And you could make butter and clotted cream.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Mike said, ‘I love clotted cream. And I know how to milk, as a kid I used to visit a mate from school that lived on a farm. And I used to do quite a bit of milking back then.’
Mike took a mouthful of booze and smiled amiable at Chris. She smiled back, convincing Mike, once again, that she fancied him.
‘This wine is strong stuff,’ Jan said with a giggle, not accustomed to afternoon drinking sessions. Mike too was feeling the effects of the alcohol and was feeling a little bit randy-small amounts did that to him, although larger amounts usually had the opposite effect. It had a similar stimulating effect on Jan and on such rare occasions it would be a time when Mike would be more likely to get his evil way with her. Which was why she seldom drank. She didn’t want to create any patterns of behaviour which would lead Mike to expect more than she wanted to give. Of course the reason she gave Mike for not drinking was that it made her fat.
The afternoon rolled on and suddenly and simultaneously they all realised the fact. ‘Aye, man, is that the time? We better be getting back home. Stock to feed, cow to milk…’
Chris laughed at her husband’s rather mournful, downtrodden expression. ‘The way he goes on you’d think he does everything on his own wouldn’t you? Of course, what he doesn’t tell you is that I do most of the work.’
At this, they all laughed, got up from the table, and trooped back out into the yard.
‘Well that’s the afternoon gone, still, I suppose it was good of them to call,’ Mike said as they walked back into the kitchen, still smiling from giving cheerful farewells to Chris and Keith.
‘Yeah, it was – they seemed nice people. Mind you, I had a job understanding Keith half the time. His Geordie accent was very strong at times wasn’t it? Nice though. She wasn’t so bad, very quiet spoken really,’ Jan said, and started clearing the table ready for the evening meal.
‘Yeah, he was a bit loud at times,’ Mike lit up a fag, he smoked a lot when he’d been drinking. ‘I thought they were a bit harsh on the locals-still, they’ve been here longer than us; they probably know them better than we do.’
‘And they might not smoke, but they certainly like their drink,’ Jan declared, ‘but I liked Chris. And she’s very forthright, well so is he, but I still like her. She’s invited me over at sometime to look at what they’ve done to their old place.’
Mike gave a non-committal ‘um,’ and thought that he certainly wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Jan too had been stimulated, or was it reminded about sex-she didn’t actively think about it as much as Mike, certainly not in the same way, but nevertheless she had sexy thoughts about Keith. He was big, strong and maybe a little dangerous-she found that exciting - in a safe way – in her head. It’s strange how sex can work. Even if one doesn’t actually want to be with someone, the thought of doing so can be exciting. In Jan’s case, her sexuality responded to this sort of safe, distant, outside influence.
The kids spilt back into the house on their usual quest for nourishment.
‘Is it food time yet mum?’ David moaned.
‘Yes, we’re starving mummy,’ whined Mandy.
‘Starving? That will be the day,’ Jan replied cheerfully, ‘do you want some cake or bread and jam, or something, until I get food ready?’
‘Oo, yes please mum’
Since they had moved here the children had hardly been in the house. Building ‘dens’, tree climbing and wandering around the woods had kept them extremely busy. They were having a great end to their school holiday, but soon they would be starting a new adventure, in the village school.
‘Food ready in about an hour, Mike, is that okay?’
‘Yeah, I’ll go and do a bit more in the field for now. Pity, I couldn’t have finished the marking today, but such is Life.’
‘Don’t moan, we had an interesting afternoon didn’t we?’
‘I suppose,’ Mike said a little more happily at the memory of their visitors. ‘I’m off then,’ Mike gave a little wave of goodbye to the children, whose faces were already stuffed full of cake, and headed for the door, but as his hand reached for the handle, Jan called.
‘Mike.’
‘Yeah.’
‘This old cooker isn’t getting hot.’
‘Is it switched on at the wall?’
‘Yes of course it is.’
‘Well I suppose it’s had it then. Huh, they must have known it was on the blink, that’s why they left it here,’ Mike lit yet another cigarette, frustrated at yet one more problem-and expense.
‘We’ll have to find our old camping cooker and hope we can find some gas for it as well. Could you be a love and look for it Mike, while I get things ready?’
‘Yeah, okay.’
‘And make that two hours, the camping cooker takes ages to cook anything.’
Another unusual and busy day came to a close and bedtime beckoned for Mike and Jan. It was a time of day that nearly always caused Jan a touch of anxiety. The bedroom was where she would be in close contact with Mike, which in turn brought her inner uncertainties into focus. She didn’t want to think about them-they would, she thought, never be resolved. And except on very rare occasions, she dreaded the idea of Mike wanting sex - she preferred to call it love making. It wasn’t that physically the act was a horror, he wasn’t rough or inconsiderate, quite the opposite in fact.
The problem was in Jan’s brain. She felt that she was performing and somehow being judged. She had a deep and caring concern – love, for Mike, which made her self generated anguish over her conflicting ideas about lovemaking all the more, well,confusing. Perhaps it was little wonder she was so perplexed. Brought up on a diet of romantic films and stories – the old Cinderella syndrome, in which girl meets Prince,fall in love, marry, and everyone lives happily ever after. And her misconception,always stronger after meeting someone slim, like Chris, that her own body was grossly imperfect further damped her interest in intimate physical contact.
Their everyday day life together and with the children was happy and friendly and it seemed to Jan, that sex was a threat to this. She sometimes worried that Mike, with his questioning ideas on love, sex and marriage would eventually leave her for another women. An idea which cut her to the quick, yet did nothing to change her nature. Complicated indeed. Because she didn’t see the point of sex with Mike unless she enjoyed it, got as much satisfaction as she did when pleasing and controlling her own fulfilment. She had once made a promise to herself that she would be a good wife and refrain from private activity, but promises to ones self are so very easy to break. True, since their ‘adventures’ Mike had learned something of her needs so she was free to stimulate and satisfy herself when love making with Mike. And he was quite happy about it. If she was content then so was he. But all too often she would think to herself what is the point of that; I can do that on my own. Why can’t I be normal, like other women?
Whatever confusion there was between them, to Mike, marriage, and love, meant sex. Isn’t that why they married, in case Jan got pregnant? In any event, people have many facets to their personalities and present themselves in different ways to different people, and in various situations. For all Jan knew Chris and Keith might also have less than perfect lives - and secrets…
‘God this bedroom is cold. What’s it going to be like in winter, Jan?’
‘Well, for the time being, until the alterations are done, we could get some cheap carpet and when I’ve got time I’ll make some curtains. That would make it a bit warmer,’ Jan suggested, as practical as ever.
‘Doesn’t seem much point in having curtains out here does it? There’s no one to look in anyway.
‘That’s true, and anyway, it’s nice seeing the stars when we’re in bed, instead of street lights.’
Mike was already in bed, and watching Jan undress. After many years of marriage he was still enthralled by those sensual and subtle feminine movements of hands and limbs as the coverings were removed. Or indeed when dressing, and he was always amused by the way in which she adjusted her breasts into a comfortable position when putting on her bra. It’s interesting to think that usually ones own body is, just a body, but to someone else it can be an object of allurement and pleasure. As he watched he recalled their unexpected visitors, especially Chris. She had brought back memories of those ‘adventures.’ Good God, they had only been here for five minutes and he was already thinking about possible play pals. Though in truth he doubted that either of them would ever want to get involved in that way again, it was too complicated, too dangerous. After all, it was only a couple of years ago they had nearly split up and he felt guilty about having such thoughts. But of course, people you meet become part of you-in your mind, in the memory, and intimate moments with others cannot easily be eradicated. Indeed why should they be?
‘Ooh, it’s a bit nippy,’ Jan shivered, slipping her nightdress over her head.
Once in bed Jan turned her back to Mike and he snuggled up to her, pushing his body against hers.
‘Why are you always so lovely and warm.’
‘It’s my manly body heat,’ Mike joked, fondling Jan’s breast through her nightclothes.
Jan was enjoying the warmth radiating from Mike and didn’t want to pull away. Instead, she wriggled her bottom against him, a signal that Mike knew. He eased the nightdress up to her waist, and his fingers began gently touching and exploring, his hardness growing awhile until, eventually, he entered that warm and sensual place, giving a low moan of pleasure as he did so. Jan liked this position; she could let him have his way and didn’t have to make any effort or pretence. He would be content, and she could, if she wanted to, satisfy herself at another time.
He was well muffled against the cool night air, and as the light from the bedroom was extinguished he clambered down from his vantage point high up on the hedgerow bank, zipping up his trouser front as he did so. Carefully, and as quietly as a spiders whisper he crossed the silent yard and disappeared into the intense countryside darkness.