Chapter 2
In the faraway town of Glan Llanfair, nestling in the lee of the Mid Wales mountains, trudged a man and his hound. The man’s protective trousers and steel toe-capped boots restricted his gait to a lope. The bare chest revealed what was known as a farmer’s tan, the shape of his company shirt being silhouetted on his person. The rucksack that his parents had given him to take his lunch in when he had started working in the forestry, twenty-three years ago, just about managed to carry his flask, water bottle and lunch box, being frayed, frail and faded. But the ability and desire to repair it was relentless and its owner was confident that it had many years left in it still.
He walked through the park, along the avenue of trees that bordered the river. Alfie, his big black Labrador, got new vigour after his day’s sniffing in the forestry and scampered off to meet some acquaintances and join the children splashing each other in the river. Parents, who had long since resigned themselves to another load of washing, sat on the benches chatting and watching their children, pleading with them not to engulf the younger ones in water that was far too cold for adults.
Dougie Ev’s felt as he usually did at the end of the day, tired and a bit sore. Muscles ached and he could feel the chafing from his boots where his socks had slipped down. His job was physical from the moment it started to the moment he laid down his tools. Climbing, attaching ropes and chains, using the chainsaw and throwing the offcuts out of the way was physically relentless. The margins were tight in forestry and didn’t allow for slow work or additional help. However, the job allowed the progress to be tangible and at the end of the day he could survey the work he and his partner had done…far better in Dougie’s eyes than an ever-replenishing in tray of paper.
He cut across the rugby pitch, managing to avoid the lengths of elastoplast and bandage that had successfully held the prop’s ears to his head that weekend. He entered the tranquil churchyard that his parents and grandparents were buried in, and bid them good evening as he always did. Swinging out of the churchyard kissing gates, he no longer noticed that he had no one to kiss.
The daily torment started about this time – to pint or not to pint? A few chuckles and an hour of pointless conversation, or a pot of tea and a long soak? Usually the pint won, as by the time he’d reached the gent’s outfitters that sold every fashion of the nineteen fifties, he had managed to convince himself that he could fit both options in.
But today had been a long day and he and Alfie were in need of a rest. He heaved himself up the railings on the steep slope of Cobbledy Lane. It was a shortcut that wrecked the heels of ladies shoes and provided a resting place for chips and broken glass. Alfie did not help the ambience by cocking his leg in the usual place.
The pair meandered along the last stretch of Stryd y Fachnad, past the stone cottages and the empty shop where old Mrs George lived with her three dogs, seven cats and soiled newspapers. Dougie bid, “Noswaith dda,” to the two old boys sat on the bench and turned into the gate of number twenty-one. As the front door clicked shut, Dougie dumped his bag and shirt on the kitchen table and started the rituals involved in spending another night in alone.