OWEN LEWIS ARRIVED AT TAN Y GADAIR before dawn, still trying to come to terms with Fiona’s instructions the afternoon before. “I’d like you to take control,” she had said. It wasn’t that he doubted his ability to do so; by now he’d come to think of the farm as a living, breathing entity he understood. He’d mastered its rhythms, got used to its surprises. He supposed he’d just received some sort of promotion; it would still be David and Fiona’s farm, but apparently he was to manage it. And yet, there had been such affection in Fiona’s voice, as if she were in some fashion making the farm a gift to him. But of course that was impossible. It was a puzzle.
He headed uphill to the meadows. He was especially fond of the farm in the wee hours. The night sky began to soften and a faint light etched the rim of the summit plateau. The birds awakened and began to call to one another. The mist still clung to the grass like a wispy white angora blanket. He walked through the ground fog and watched as it swirled around his wet green rubber wellies. Apart from the bleating of the sheep and, just now, the higher-pitched cries of the newborn lambs, the sounds of the land seemed dampened, muffled, the hills almost in slumber.
A farmer’s hours were long and hard, yes, but there were gifts you could not measure in time or money, gifts the land gave you every day. You got rich on a farm from those gifts, not from the money you made; hill farms seldom did more than break even. If that. When he thought about his school chums and their headlong rush to leave the valley for a “real” job in London or Cardiff, he felt like something of a throwback. But he felt sorry for them, too: as far as “riches” were concerned, he reckoned he’d come out ahead. It was all down to how you defined “rich.”
Jack appeared from somewhere and loped beside him. Owen moved among the sheep, murmuring to the ewes and checking on the progress of the lambs. He could see only one lamb in danger of being ignored by its mother, one he might have to add to the orphans’ pen in the barn. The rest of the lambs and ewes that had been in Alec’s stalls he’d released to the lush lower pastures yesterday.
As the sky brightened, the English daisies scattered across the grass beneath his feet shone like fallen stars. His preliminary rounds done, he leaned against a stone wall, Jack curled at his feet. Owen drank some of the sweet, milky tea his mother put in a thermos for him every morning, getting up before him and then returning to bed when he left.
He thought about meeting Meaghan at the train station in Barmouth, the way his heart soared when he saw her wind-whipped black hair as she stepped down from the train to the platform, and then sank when he saw her turn to address the fellow in the suit who joined her and carried her bag. She had climbed into the front passenger seat next to him and grilled him about her father. Assured that he was recovering, she pumped Owen for news of the valley. Every once in a while she’d remember her boyfriend in the back and try to draw him in to the conversation, but he seemed uninterested.
Owen had known Meaghan for years. She was four years younger than he, and for the longest time that had seemed a vast gap. First, she was a child, he a teenager. Then she was a teenager, he a young adult going off to college. But the older they became, the less significant the years between them seemed to be. Last year, when he came to work on the farm and she was entering university, they had spent more time together—or at least in each other’s presence—than ever before. What she did not know, what he would not let on, was that he was in love with her. Since she was going off to Leeds, there seemed no point in telling her.
But the longer she’d been away, the stronger his feelings for her had grown. A ruggedly handsome and well-built young man with a gentle soul, Owen had no shortage of admirers among the young women of Dolgellau. His easy smile and green-gold eyes seemed to mesmerize them. But with the women who were drawn to him, and whom he sometimes dated, there was always something missing. He didn’t have to tell them; they worked it out for themselves. There was something he was holding back, something they could not reach, and eventually they let him go—not in anger, but in disappointment and, truth be told, with a lasting affection. Several young women in Dolgellau held a special place in their hearts for Owen Lewis, but there was only one who held that same place in his.
He looked downhill to the farmhouse and thought about Meaghan there with her boyfriend. He couldn’t for the life of him understand the attraction. The fellow had sat stiffly on the jump seat in the rear of the Land Rover, in his fancy suit, and hadn’t said a word all the way back to the farm. Owen had a sense that he feigned boredom but was busily taking everything in, as if calculating something in his head. Given her father’s condition, he couldn’t understand why she’d brought the boyfriend at all. It was as if she wanted to flaunt him, maybe to show her mother how worldly she’d become while away at university. Still, Owen knew Meaghan was cut from the same good cloth as her mother, and Fiona had none of the attitude Meaghan currently displayed. Fiona managed to be a perfect lady and a friend all at once, and he had enormous respect for her. He had no doubt Meaghan had the same qualities. He’d seen them; he knew who she really was. And he wondered how he might win her love.
He closed the thermos, roused Jack, and headed back to the barn. He had record keeping to do in the tiny office in the back of the barn, and his rattletrap old Land Rover needed an oil change.
***
MEAGHAN AWAKENED EARLY, as she always did on the farm, and dragged her unwilling beau out of bed to show him around. She dressed quickly in jeans and a sweater, told him to get a move on, and went downstairs to get them both coffee. Fiona was already in the kitchen, making tea, but she set that task aside to make her daughter the coffee she apparently required now that she was a city girl. Meaghan sat at the kitchen table and rattled on about college and about the brilliant Gerald while Fiona waited on her.
Fiona only half listened, still struggling with the image of her daughter sharing a bed with her weedy boyfriend. She wondered where Alec was, longing for his company, and decided he was giving her a chance to reconnect with Meaghan. All hope of that was quashed when the boy shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later and sat at the table. He was dressed in the suit in which he’d arrived, as if it was all he’d brought, although this morning the tie was gone. As he sat blinking in the sunny kitchen, she wondered whether Gerald had ever been up this early in his entire life. It didn’t look like it. She pushed a cup of fresh coffee across the table to him. He wrapped his hands around it and lowered his head as if the steaming cup were a religious relic over which he was about to pray.
“And what are your plans this morning?” Fiona asked Meaghan.
“I thought we were going to see Daddy.”
“Not this early, dear; we need to wait till we hear from the hospital.”
“Well, I think I’ll show Gerald around the farm.”
“I’m sure Gerald will be fascinated,” Fiona said, glancing at the nearly catatonic boy. “Would either of you like something to eat first?”
Gerald looked up from his devotions.
She was sure Gerald was about to say yes, but Meaghan cut him off. “Oh no, we only ever just have coffee in the morning, don’t we, Gerald?”
Meaghan stood and Gerald, as if on a wire, did the same. The two of them took their coffee cups out through the boot room to the farmyard.
“You might want to see if any of the wellies out there fit you, Gerald,” Fiona called after them.
A few minutes later, the phone rang. She dashed into the front hall and met Alec as he descended the stairs.
“Tan y Gadair Farm. Yes, this is she. Oh, wonderful; that is very good news indeed.” She smiled at Alec, then her face darkened. “He does? Yes, certainly we can. Ten o’clock? Yes, we’ll be there. Thank you.”
Fiona rang off. “That was the nurse. David’s awake and we can visit him. But Dr. Pryce wants to see me first. I don’t think that bodes well.”
“Perhaps, Fi, but you don’t know yet, do you?”
“No, you’re right, I don’t. I’ll just get my things. There’s tea in the kitchen. I’d like you to come with me this time, but if you come Meaghan will want that odious boy to come, too, and I won’t stand for it. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I’ll try to keep him entertained. Any suggestions?”
She laughed. “Walk him off a cliff? No, that’s a bit extreme. How about having him clean out the pens you made for the newborns?”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
“Would you round up Meaghan for me and tell her the doctor’s called and we’re leaving?”
“Sure.”
She turned toward her room.
“Fiona?”
She turned back again.
“Good morning, my love.”
Fiona smiled, came back, and rested her forehead on his chest. He slipped his arms around her. She hugged him tight. Neither of them said anything. Finally, Alec eased her away and held her there, steadying her.
“Whatever it is, Fiona, we’ll deal with it. Together. You’re not alone.”
“I know that; I do. I’m just anxious. I have no idea how he is, or will be.”
“That’s a temporary problem.”
“Yes. Yes, I guess it is. Thank you, darling.”
He smiled. “‘Darling.’ Yes, I think I like that better than ‘you old relic.’”
She gave him a quick kiss and was gone.
In the kitchen, Alec poured himself a mug of tea and looked at the clock. It had just gone eight thirty; they wouldn’t have to hurry. He stepped outside to a sparkling morning redolent of damp earth and new grass. He saw that Owen’s Land Rover was parked in the barn and walked across the farmyard. Jack rounded a corner of the barn and bounded up to him. Not for the first time, Alec noticed that something in the shape and coloring of Jack’s jaw made him look like he was always smiling. He ruffled the good-natured dog’s coat and guessed that wherever Jack had come from he’d find Owen, and he was right. The young man was leaning against a sunny corner of an outbuilding, drinking from his thermos and looking off across the fields. Alec followed his eyes and saw Meaghan leading Gerald through a far meadow filled with scampering lambs. Gerald walked with exaggerated care and gave the ewes wide berth, as if the skittish animals were razor-fanged wild dogs.
Owen heard him approach and turned.
“Morning, Owen.”
“Lot of opinions, that fellow has,” Owen replied, tilting the thermos toward the distant couple.
“Really? I don’t think I’ve heard him speak a complete sentence yet. I thought Meaghan did all his talking.”
“Oh, yes, lots of opinions, about how the farm should be run. Like he’d know anything about running a farm ...”
Alec put his arm around Owen’s broad shoulders. “Patience, Owen. Meaghan’s not stupid, just a bit full of herself, I suspect. She’ll sort him out soon enough.”
Owen relaxed and smiled. “Yeah, reckon she will.”
“Fiona’s heard from the hospital. The doctor wants to see her at ten o’clock. She’s taking Meaghan, but I get to spend the morning with his nibs over there. Fiona suggests I invite him to muck out the pens.”
Owen burst out laughing. “Not bloody likely!”
“No, probably not.”
Alec put two fingers between his lips and let loose an earsplitting whistle. Meaghan’s and Gerald’s heads snapped upward, as did those of the ewes. It was almost comical. He waved the couple back, and they came quickly.
“See you a bit later, friend,” Alec said.
“I’ll be in the upper pastures; got a gate to mend before I let the sheep up there for the summer.”
The note of proprietorship was unmistakable and Alec smiled. Yes, Owen would do very well indeed.
Fiona came out of the house and across the farmyard just as Meaghan and Gerald arrived. She told the two of them what the doctor’s nurse had said.
“You boys relax; we shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”
Alec watched, fascinated, as the two women conducted a wordless negotiation with their eyes. Meaghan looked at Gerald and then back at her mother. Fiona gazed at her placidly. The message was clear: Alec wasn’t coming, despite his role in helping save David; therefore, Gerald wasn’t coming, either. Finally, Meaghan nodded and Fiona gave her the car keys.
“Why don’t you drive, darling; I know you love to.”
***
LIKE A MAN banished to an island with cannibals as his only neighbors, Gerald watched the car descend out of sight. He looked bereft.
“Right then,” Alec said with exaggerated heartiness. “Why don’t we do something useful while they’re gone, eh?”
“Um, what?”
“Right this way.” Alec led Gerald to the barn. All but one of the pens, the one holding three orphan lambs, were empty now, the lambs and ewes having been put out to the lush lower pastures.
“I tell you what, Gerald, you should have been in here a couple of days ago. Barn was filled with bleating ewes and lambs. Just the weakest ones, you see; the rest stay out in the field. And noise? My God, it was deafening. But all those lambs sure were cute. Tiny little fuzzballs. Hard work making up all these pens, but it was wonderful to see them warm and protected in here.”
“You come from farming?”
“Me?” Alec laughed. “New York City born and bred. But I guess that saying is wrong: you can teach an old dog new tricks, at least this old dog. Anyway, what needs doing now is cleaning out the pens. We should be able to finish up before lunchtime.”
Gerald looked at the manure-splattered straw with horror. Alec struggled to keep a straight face.
“Uh, I’m not exactly dressed for this sort of thing.”
“Oh, I’ll bet we’ll be able to find something for you to wear.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Attaboy! I like a man who isn’t afraid of a little sheep shit on his suit.”
“No, I mean, I think I’ll take a walk instead ... if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Hell no, that way I get to have all the fun. But you don’t know what you’ll be missing.”
“Yeah, maybe not.” He was already backing out of the barn.
“You be careful of those ewes out there, now, won’t you, Gerald?”
But the boy had vanished.
Alec chuckled and went to work. By noon, he’d raked out the straw, hosed down the concrete floor, and stacked the hurdles behind the barn.
***
AT THE HOSPITAL, Fiona and Meaghan were taken immediately to Dr. Pryce’s office. The doctor rose from his desk, greeted Fiona warmly, and introduced Gemma Barnes, the hospital’s social worker. Fiona introduced her daughter. They gathered in a seating area in front of his desk. Fiona noticed that in addition to the usual medical diplomas and certifications, the walls of Dr. Pryce’s office were decorated with photographs of climbers hanging from cliff faces. She realized they were pictures of the doctor himself.
Once they’d settled in their chairs, he began.
“Mrs. Edwards, your husband is a very lucky man. Put simply, he’s come very close to dying three times in the past forty-eight hours. I’d like to walk you through your husband’s last two days. There are aspects of his case you should know about for the future. Do you feel up to that?”
Fiona nodded.
“First, your husband was not on that mountain by accident or misadventure. He went up there to commit suicide.”
“What?!” Meaghan blurted.
Fiona held up her hand but did not turn toward her daughter.
“Please continue, Doctor.”
“Mr. Edwards’s blood alcohol level when he arrived here was consistent with someone who has consumed a great deal of alcohol—nearly a lethal dose in and of itself. The chap who found him”—here he checked his notes—“a Mr. Hudson, reported to the Mountain Rescue Team that there had been a storm and David had been covered with hailstones. To be honest, I don’t know how your husband survived that one-two punch, but he did.
“The alcohol your husband ingested dilated his blood vessels. That helped protect him from the most severe forms of frostbite, but it also accelerated his hypothermia. Curiously, just before losing consciousness, hypothermia victims often feel too warm; that may explain why your husband’s jacket was found tossed aside.
“Reviving someone with Mr. Edwards’s degree of exposure is a tricky business. We do it very slowly. In this case, we began pumping warm liquids into David’s stomach, warming the core organs gradually. Nonetheless, the risk of ventricular fibrillation was still very high and, as I told you last night, that happened twice as we warmed him.”
Fiona interrupted. “Have you a sense of what effect these events have had on my husband?”
“Hypothermia and the brain have a curious relationship, Mrs. Edwards. Researchers have recently found, for example, that inducing a degree of hypothermia in cases of brain trauma or stroke reduces further brain damage. But between the initial hypothermia and ischemia—sorry, the interruptions in the flow of blood and oxygen—during fibrillation, your husband’s brain has been challenged repeatedly and not, I am sorry to say, without effect.”
Even though Fiona had expected it, the doctor’s words still felt like a blow to the chest.
“Your husband is conscious and alert, Mrs. Edwards. He will, I believe, recognize you and be able to converse with you fairly normally. The principal cognitive effect of these challenges so far seems to be an impairment of what I will call, for simplicity’s sake, his ‘mapping ability.’ What I mean by this is that he has difficulty moving correctly in the direction of his desired activity. If he wants to go to the bathroom, for example, he may walk toward the window instead and be confused to find himself there. There appears to have been some damage to the area of his brain that controls these activities. How much, we don’t know yet; because of his chemical sensitivities, we haven’t let him wander around much. It might be wise for you to arrange to have someone care for him full-time for a while, if that’s possible. You may have to make other adjustments; there’s no way to tell at this point. I’m afraid it’s just wait and see from here on.
“Overall, his demeanor is cheerful, almost bemused; he seems to think he’s had another heart attack and that’s why he’s here. He does not appear to recall what he tried to do, and, if I may, I’d like to suggest you not tell him. He could not possibly be helped by that knowledge. I should stop there and ask if you have any questions.”
“Only one,” Fiona said, her voice calm and strong. “When can he come home?”
“He could go home today, actually. But with your permission, I’d like to keep him under observation for another day, so one of our neurologists can determine whether there are other impairments. Beyond that, and barring any further complications, he is free to return home.”
Miss Barnes now spoke. “That’s where I come in, Mrs. Edwards. My job is to make sure you and your husband have the kind of help you need at home. I’ve already contacted the Gwynedd County Council office in Dolgellau, and they’ll be sending a care assessor to visit you sometime tomorrow. Home health care help is available and you may wish to consider it, especially for the first few weeks until we know the full extent of your husband’s impairment. If you have questions about his care—or if you just need someone to talk to—call me. That’s what I’m here for.”
Fiona thanked her.
“Will Daddy get better?” Meaghan asked.
“I’m afraid I have no way of predicting that, Miss Edwards,” the doctor said. “The brain is such a delicate instrument, but it also can be remarkably resilient. I have seen stroke victims, for example, whose brains have managed to create new neurological pathways to accomplish tasks, bypassing damaged areas, as if the brain were rewiring itself. But the simple answer, I’m afraid, is that I don’t know. And, of course, your father’s health had been compromised long before this latest event.
“In that regard,” he went on, directing his attention again to Fiona, “David’s heart is very weak; his previous attacks have taken a toll. I cannot promise he won’t have more. I suspect a cardiologist would advise you to try to help him curtail strenuous activities, but I’ll leave that to the cardio people.”
“I understand, Dr. Pryce,” Fiona said quietly. “Thank you for saving my husband.”
“Don’t thank me, thank this Hudson chap.”
The doctor rose and they did as well.
“By the way,” the doctor added, “we’ve moved your husband out of intensive care to a private room. Miss Barnes can take you there.”
Fiona thanked the doctor again, took her daughter’s hand, and said, “Let’s go see Daddy, shall we?”
***
ALEC FOUND GERALD sprawled in a chair in the guests’ sitting room, watching television.
“I could use some lunch, how about you?”
“Works for me.”
In the kitchen, Alec prowled through the refrigerator.
“What do you eat, besides shrubbery?”
“Beans, mostly.”
Alec laughed. “Better you than me, pal.”
He found a large piece of sharp cheddar in the fridge. “What about cheese?”
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Does sometimes include now?”
“Sure.”
“Beer?”
“Uh-huh.” Gracious, Gerald was not.
Alec found a cutting board and a loaf of crusty bread, cut a few thick slices, poured two cans of ale into dimple-glass pint mugs, and they began to eat.
“You seem like you know your way around the place,” Gerald ventured. “How long you been here?”
Alec smiled, enjoying the game of Gerald trying to gather intelligence. He considered several responses and decided to go with shock value.
“Just a couple of days. I came here to scatter my late wife’s ashes up on Cadair Idris.”
“Whoa, no shit? Way up there?!”
Alec just smiled. “It was her last request. We climbed it years ago. I’d just taken care of it when I found David.”
He’d caught Gerald completely off-guard, a state in which he suspected the wily young man seldom found himself. He wondered what sort of story Gerald had imagined to explain Alec’s presence at the farm.
“With David in the hospital, I’ve just been helping out.”
“Oh.”
“So tell me,” Alec said, lobbing the ball into the other court, “how long have you and Meaghan been together?”
“Few months. Took a course together. She was different from the others ... classy, like. Older seeming than she is and all. Mind you”—Gerald winked—“I think I was her first.”
Alec leaned in, conspiratorially. “Always a triumph, eh?”
“You got that right.”
“Still, this hasn’t exactly been a romantic weekend in the country, has it?”
“I don’t know; last night wasn’t bad,” Gerald shrugged.
Alec despised the boy, but not because of this coarseness; he’d already figured out there was less to Gerald than met the eye. No, there was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
“What’s your family think of Meaghan?”
“Family? Haven’t got much. Mum died years ago; the smoking got her. Dad works in the Potteries, in Stoke. Paints flowers on dishes and stuff. Hasn’t met her. Probably be all over her if he did, filthy bastard. No, a self-made man is what I am. Figure to be a director at Colliers in a few years.”
“Very admirable,” Alec said, draining his pint.
Gerald munched on the last piece of bread. “This thing about her father is really gonna fuck Meaghan up.”
“Inconvenient, isn’t it?”
Gerald shot him a look that evolved swiftly from smirk to suspicion. Alec could tell the boy had just realized he’d revealed too much of himself.
***
FIONA AND MEAGHAN were back at the farm by midafternoon. Alec was feeding the orphan lambs when he heard them coming up the lane. Fiona was walking slowly to the house when he appeared in the barn door. She saw him and gave him a limp wave.
In the kitchen, Fiona slumped into a chair and stared at the window. Alec was just coming through the door as Meaghan put her hand on Fiona’s shoulder and said softly, “You look ghastly, Mum.”
“Do I? Yes, I suppose I must.” She smiled at Alec as he entered the room. Gerald drifted in from somewhere else in the house.
“Have you two eaten?” she asked Alec.
“We have. Can I make you something?”
“Thank you, no; we stopped on the way home.” Fiona rose. “I think I need to rest for a bit.” As she passed him, she patted Alec’s arm.
“Why don’t I go into town and rustle up something nice for supper?” he suggested.
“That would be very kind, Alec,” she said, pausing briefly to look at him. Then she slipped out of the room.
He watched the empty doorway for a moment, then turned to Gerald.
“I don’t suppose you eat fish?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Right. I’ll see what I can scare up.”
The boy just shrugged. Meaghan, he noticed, ignored the entire exchange.
“Anything special you’d like, Meaghan?” Alec asked.
“Fish is fine,” she said, without enthusiasm, but at least with a smile.
Alec left the two of them in the kitchen. He longed to look in on Fiona but could find no way to do so without drawing attention, and he suspected she needed to be alone for a while. He climbed into the red Golf and drove out of the farmyard, thinking yet again about how perfectly at home he felt in Fiona’s house, in her car, in her valley.
***
IN DOLGELLAU, ALEC stopped in at the butcher shop. John was behind the counter.
“Mr. Lewis, if I were looking for nice fresh salmon steaks, where might I find them?”
Lewis grinned. “Salmon steaks, you say; why, I’m not sure we carry that particular cut. We have rump steak, and loin and rib eye steak, and filet steak, of course. Let me ask my brother. Harold!” Lewis called back to the freezer room. “Have we any salmon steak?”
“Never heard of it!” the invisible Harold shouted.
By now both Alec and John were laughing. John leaned across the counter and whispered to Alec.
“Now don’t tell Harold I’ve let on, but I hear there’s some of them salmon steaks at the fishmonger’s, which you’ll find in the alley back behind the Royal Ship Hotel, though, of course, we’ve never been there ...”
Alec gave John an exaggerated wink. “I’ll keep it under my hat.”
As promised, the fishmonger’s was right behind the hotel. The shop was brilliantly lit, a place of spotless white tile, slick marble counters, and that impossibly sweet smell of very fresh fish. The fish themselves, whole and filleted, finfish and shellfish, and including some he’d never seen or heard of, were presented like artwork on beds of crushed ice edged with fresh green parsley. They sparkled and shone like jewels. Alec settled on a large fillet of fresh Scottish salmon, rather than individual steaks, paid the rosy-cheeked woman behind the counter, and walked across the square to the greengrocer’s. Here, too, the proprietress remembered him.
“How was that lemon, then?”
Alec spread his arms wide. “Splendid, madam; redolent with the tang of the Iberian Peninsula the moment the knife pierced its golden rind.”
“Oh, go on, you,” she replied with a blush. “What’ll it be today?”
“How about some new potatoes, a fennel bulb, and ... hmm ... a bagful of these lovely fava beans.”
“Would that be a metric bagful, or just the regular kind?” the woman countered.
“Regular will be fine.” Alec loved the fact that in Britain shops still specialized: the “family butcher,” the fishmonger, the greengrocer, the baker, the cheesemonger. He knew their time was probably running out, that the supermarkets would soon squeeze them out, but he was glad to support the shops to the extent he could.
He moved on to the Wine Rack and picked out three bottles of an inexpensive French white burgundy, some of which he would use to poach the fish. On his way back to the car, a pear tart in the bakery window caught his eye, and he stopped in to buy that, too.
As he started up Cadair Road toward the farm, Alec thought about how the making of food always seemed to bring peace to moments of crisis. People had to eat, no matter how unhappy they were, and the simple communal act of sharing food seemed to reestablish the pattern and balance that had been disrupted by strife or tragedy.