Hannah

Angela Edwards It was 1982 and Tom and I had arrived from London - dropping out into self-sufficiency, and living the dream. We painted the inside walls of Y Bwthyn white, hung up a copy of the Desiderata, placed my statue of Shiva dancing creation on a shelf and burnt joss sticks to cover the residual smell of damp. We had three fields, a small patch of woodland and a pond. Arriving in early spring we were in time for white wood sorrel under the trees, violets in the hedgerows, golden marsh marigolds round the pond and masses of frogspawn in the water. We acquired a young jersey heifer which I called Willow, which would, we hope, have a calf and produce milk. But as we were nowhere near being self- sufficient Tom did building work as well. I did a range of crafts which I hoped would sell eventually.

Hannah became a regular visitor, always smiling and laughing, and talking at a decibel level that went above our hearing requirements. Two weeks after our arrival we were invited to tea which comprised ham and salad, bara brith, Welsh cakes and tinned peaches which, I was to learn later, was fairly standard for the area – my surprise being that no matter where I went on a visit the same significant tea was provided making me wonder what happened to the food if nobody called. On this occasion it was just me and the children as Tom was working. Tynewydd was a stone built house with a window on either side of the front door and three windows above. We sat in the room to the right, myself in full length floral skirt, kaftan, beads and long hair, and Hannah in sensible skirt, blouse and cardigan. She saw me glancing round the room. “That’s the dresser my father made for when he got married. He was a carpenter like his father,” she said, nodding towards it. “It’s lovely!” I said, which it was, as well as being stacked with blue and white china and hung with lustre jugs.

“The parlour” she said, waving her hand in the direction of the door, “Was for special occasions, and for the coffin. My grandfather was the first to go in there.” “Your grandfather lived here?” “No they lived in the old house. I’ll show you.” When we had finished drinking tea out of the bone china set with its garlands of tiny flowers and had eaten enough food Hannah took us out to the long low building which stood alongside Tynwydd – also with windows on either side of a door.

“When my grandfather was old,” she said, “He used to sit outside in the sun and people called it Ty Heno then.” She opened the door into a short cold passageway. “They brought up seven children here.” She opened a door to the left, “This was the kitchen and they had their bed in here with curtains.” It was a small room with the old fireplace plus its crane for hanging pots and a bread oven set into the wall. “Then,” she said, moving back into the passage and opening the door to the right. “This was where the girls slept and the boys up in the attic. Except one of them might sleep in the workshop” The workshop I discovered was a room attached to the left end of the cottage while to the right there was a cow house. “Three cows,” she explained “ And they were milked by hand. They didn’t have electricity so everything was by oil lamps and candles. They put the milk churns outside to be collected. My father had to build the new house for us then.”

Our frogspawn turned into tadpoles and then into froglet, and dragonflies and damsel flies visited the pond. Willow was now in calf and we had a dozen sheep. We decided to cut hay from one of the fields for the winter. Not the middle field I specified which now had pink ragged robin , white meadowsweet and singing grasshoppers. We didn’t have machinery to cut the hay but neighbouring farmers came in response to the help Tom had given them at potato digging, sheep shearing and hay making. Hannah came to watch, leaning over the field gate. “We used to take the hay,” she said, “And Jones Islwyn came to help and Dai Pantbach and even John Bach- when he could still see.” I had met up with John Bach several times on the road to town when I stopped to give him a lift. He was now blind but when I dropped him by the Tair Pluen he was able to make an unerring beeline into the bar.

“We took beer out to the men” Hannah continued, “ and the dandelion and burdock mother made, and cakes. We sat in the field and had a picnic. They’d have to go on cutting as long as it took right into the night which was good if there was moonlight and I could watch from my bedroom window.” The may trees were in full bloom and Hannah cut some to take indoors. “It was my mother’s favourite,” she told me, “And when she was ill before the end she used to ask me for it.”

After the hay was safely in our restored outhouse and life was quieter Hannah’s old friend Catrin came on a visit. I was introduced at teatime in Tynewydd as the new resident of the Bwthyn where Catrin’s Aunt Martha lived forty years before. Catrin was a solidly built woman with a forthright way of speaking about the people they had known and the tricks they played on Auntie Martha. “Remember when she brought faggots from the market and we sneaked into the larder and nibbled bits off them and we told her it was the mice. And she gave me a good smack bottom!” They both laughed violently, Hannah rocking sideways. “And when she bought a bag of sweets and gave them to us one at a time,” said Hannah, wiping her eyes, “And we sneaked when she wasn’t looking and took more.” “She didn’t smack your bottom though. You being the visitor!”

It was agreed that Catrin would come to the cottage to look over her old playground. And the following morning she came on her own, Hannah being involved in housework. “There was no electric and no running water” she told me, “Just a well in the field behind the house. But it was covered in after her time.”

After a walk round the cottage and the adjoining field we returned to the kitchen where I made tea and produced my now reasonably successful bara brith. We had a Rayburn now and I had found an old griddle in the field which I’d scrubbed up to make Welsh cakes. Bunches of herbs from the garden hung from the beams to dry, scenting the room. The siphons on my demi-johns of elder flower wine were popping gently. “Auntie just used candles,” said Catrin, “Poor woman – and milking the cow and looking after a pig. And with just the Elsan can outside in the shed so chamber pots in the house for the night or when it was too cold. It was a hard life. I’ve got a new bungalow.”

“Was your aunt married?” I asked.

“Yes, but she buried Uncle Meurig when he was in his forties and there weren’t any children which was why my Mam sent me to keep her company. She was friends with Tynewydd and iSlwyn but it’s not the same. So that’s how I knew Hannah and we grew up together although I went back home I was always here for the summer. Then I got married and didn’t come while the children were growing up. Hannah should have married but being an only child her parents didn’t want to lose her. The last summer I was here there was a young man and as I was courting as well we wanted to go out all of us together. We were to meet at Tynewydd by the gate and Hannah came out. There was a big hedge there then and as we were walking off we heard her mother on the other side calling, “Hannah, Hannah!” and she turned and went back. Then when her father got ill Hannah had to help with the nursing, and after he died she had to help her mother and then there was more nursing until her mother died. And since then she’s lived in that house on her own. And she was always very fond of children.”

“What happened to the young man?” I asked. “He was fed up I think, and lost interest.” Catrin went home and we were left to our usual activities. When I drove to and from town now I always sounded the horn as I passed Tynewydd, and if Hannah was visible she waved. When I walked down the lane I stopped by to say Hello, and if the front door was open the children would run in. Once Star took in a large snail she had found In the hedgerow to show her and came running out again still holding it.

“What did Hannah say?” I asked “She said ‘Ach y fy,’” And I could hear Hannah laughing in the house.

There was a music festival at Hannah’s chapel and she asked us to go with her. It was where Hannah’s Sunday school had been, where she obtained her certificate of proficiency in Tonic Sol -Fa, where she belonged to the Sisterhood all her adult life and where her grandparents and parents were buried. The chapel was a fine building with shining wood panelling and benches. I dressed down for the occasion into smart navy trousers and a long sleeved blouse and did my hair up neatly, and also persuaded Tom to change his red flares for the suit he used to wear for work . There was singing and recitations and I listened intently to catch the odd Welsh word from which I might gather something of the whole, but gave up and listened to the music of the sounds. .

It was holiday time and we talked about going away. Tom would have to stay to look after the animals but I could take the train from Swansea to England to visit relations.

“I’ve never been to Swansea, “ Hannah told me, “Or Cardiff!” “Did you go away in the Summer?” I asked, “No, but we had the Sunday school outing to Aberystwyth. We went by train and had a picnic there on the beach. It was great!.” “Where did you get the train from? There’s no line here.” “Oh there used to be but it was closed down. We had a station and I could hear the trains from here and I liked the sound specially at night.”

I was sitting with Tom that night by the light of our Victorian oil lamp which we felt was in keeping with the cottage. “Such a shame” I said, “Closing the station – it must really have cut them off. I know there are buses but it’s not the same – train lines are like ribbons- they tie places together. Hannah would probably have gone on at least shopping in Aberystwyth. And she might have gone to Swansea. You know when I went on long journeys by train and looked out at farms and little cottages in fields I used to wonder whether they were the ones really living and I was missing it all”

“And now you’re not sure” said Tom, “Whether it’s really living getting your hands dirty growing our own potatoes in the earth, rather than buying them and having the time to read a book or watch TV!”

Autumn came and Willow’s calf was born. It was a bull called Cupid and we kept it for future beef. We had a single metal milking machine and Tom milked Willow morning and evening. We had cream and I made butter and yoghurts and milk puddings and soft cheese and still the milk kept coming. It was no longer possible to put churns outside for collection as regulations required a special tank from which the milk marketing board lorry could gather it via a pipe – and it wasn’t worth it for one cow.

“So” I said to Tom, “Auntie Martha couldn’t have had her house cow. It’s the end of a way of life isn’t it? We could put some geraniums on the old stand outside!” As evenings got darker Tom would fetch Willow from the field and in doing so passed Tynewydd on the other side of the hedge and lane, at which the light went on in the porch and we knew Hannah was listening out for him and helping with extra light. Christmas came and Hannah caught the bus to town to buy flowers for her parents’ grave. As did everyone who had a grave to remember so that the whole churchyard was like a flower show. There was snow in January and Hannah laughed her way through it as usual while Tom made an ice castle for the children and! went down to her each evening to make sure she was okay. Then she got a bad cold and asked me if when I went down to the village I could pick up her prescription, which I did. The chemist couldn’t have made the bag sufficiently secure and when I got back into the car the little brown bottle inside fell out. I caught it quickly and recognised the name as strong anti-depressants.

I didn’t mention it to Tom but tried to go down more often to Hannah. Apart from her possible state of mind I also felt concern at her method of cooking on the open fire in the sitting room which was apparently the family way of saving electricity. Cawl I could cope with but the pan of chips was frightening. “It’s alright,” she exclaimed, laughing, “We never had an accident!” It was an evening in February when Tom was safely in the cottage with the children that I walked down to Tynewydd to check on her and didn’t get an answer at the door. I went to the nearest window where there was light and saw her lying on the floor, but could see that she was breathing. I ran back to the cottage and we phoned for an ambulance. Hannah had had a heart attack and was taken to Aberystwyth. I visited as soon as I could but she was asleep when I arrived. i sat beside her and spoke softly. She woke but clearly didn’t know me for several minutes, then caught hold of my arm. “I dreamt I was at home,” she said beginning to cry, “And it was my mother coming up to see me.” I held onto her.

There was a second heart attack and she dropped into unconsciousness from which she failed to recover. The coffin was put in the parlour of course and friends and family arrived to mourn. The minister from the chapel gave a brief service in the house, describing Hannah as always having a cheerful heart, and I hoped my expression didn’t change. The main service in the chapel was in Welsh except for a few words to acknowledge our presence as neighbours. Then Hannah was buried with her parents.

Two years later we left the Bwthyn, having discovered that the dream was just that- it didn’t work in an age of electricity, cars, rates, TVs etc-and all the other things that Auntie Martha had gone without. On the last day I drove the car ahead of the furniture van on its way to England. And as we past Tynewydd I sounded the horn as loudly as I could.

… sugar, charcoal if you could get it. The charcoal wasn’t essential but made the stuff look more like gunpowder. The sodium chlorate, (non selective…only to be used as a garden weedkiller…ground treated will remain unsuitable for cultivation for several years) was best pinched from your dad’s garage – if you bought it new it usually had some sort of fire suppressant added to it. On the other hand the packet in your dad’s garage was sure to be set in a solid lump through sitting in the damp for years amongst oil cans and jars of rusty washers, so you’d have to scrape at it with a spoon until there was enough to make a mix that would fill a length of copper pipe. One end of the pipe hammered flat, the other stuffed with an old rag, jammed in with a nut or bolt, then finished with another rag.

Saturday afternoon in the park; sure to be a few of the boys there. I met Mari off the bus. Beautiful, troubling eyes she had and in faded jeans and a white cotton top I could happily have forgotten about the plans and spent all day walking the canal bank with her. But I’d promised the boys we’d do this; some of them had already spotted me from their bench by the climbing frame and were picking up their jackets, fags, the younger ones with Chrissie Gibbs leaving their footie game. There’s a radio on somewhere, Dave Lee Travis talking over the new Human League track.

“You fancy going down the woods with the boys? It’s the Free Wales Army see, has to carry out a test detonation. Ah c’mon it’ll be okay, we can go somewhere else after.”

She looks uncertain. She’s about to speak but Mike Ev has reached us and is patting me down with his shovel hands, shaking the side pockets of my army surplus jacket. He reaches to the inside pocket and his big lips grin wide. “Here it is lads – alright Mari? – and it’s a big one, a big one…” He draws the length of shiny copper out slowly and holds it in front of him, two handed, like a sword. “Griff butt, that’ll take the roof off if it don’t take your hand off first.” The others are laughing, excited. We start crossing the park and head for the lane that skirts the village and leads to the woods. We are purposeful, expectant, noisy with anticipation. There’s a footpath leading to a style, then fields, a barbed wire fence, a wooden bridge across a stream and we’re among the trees. Ash, beech, oak. A stray crab apple. A solitary yew, the ground around it spattered with blood red from the poisonous berries, eaten and spewed by blackbirds.

Glyndwr’s army passed this way; after the revolt he wouldn’t surrender but took refuge in our forest, never to be seen again; the last wolf in Wales was killed on an island in our pond; the island has gone, disappeared, but the pond is still there…

It’s shallow enough to wade in wellies for newts and frogspawn. We believe the stories, knowing they’re untrue. Chrissie and his mates go on ahead in short staggered runs; crouching, flattening themselves against a trunk, running on.

Mari walks next to me, in a quiet space. She lets go of my hand for a moment and touches her stomach with her palm flat. My hand goes to the smooth metal inside my jacket and when I touch her again she seems to flicker as if it hurts her. Her pace is slowing and after a while she lets go and doesn’t take my hand again. Mike Ev, smirking sideways at the others, parodies the Human League song from the park - “Don’t you want me baby..?” - and the others join in.

* * *

The hut is solid, windowless. Kreosoted timber with a corrugated metal roof and a stove, built for the forestry commission workers. There are larches here and the sunpatched ground is brittle with their cones. Some of Chrissie’s lot are taking turns throwing a knife into the door. Chrissie appears from the trees pulling up his jeans and struggling with his zip.

“Been for a wank is it?” says Mike Ev.

“No Mike, just a wazz.”

“Mari don’t wanna see your kex does she? Not like showing your pants is ever gonna be in fashion is it?” Chrissie shrugs over to his mates, embarrassed and angry. While the attention is on him Mari puts her hand in the crook of my elbow. “We need to go,” she says. Her eyes are on my face, intent.

“Why? They’re only messin.”

“What? No it’s not that. I need to go.”

Mike Ev shouts over to me. Rumours, claims, stories about Griff’s pipe bombs need proving. I look at Mari and she motions her head for me to come away with her. “Why, Mari?” My voice is strained, irritated. “I can’t…I’m not telling you. Not here. Can’t you just believe me?” I look at her eyes; have to look away. Her hand has moved to her belly again. “I need to go now.”

Another shout, jeering now, from Mike Ev. I slide the smooth length of pipe out of my jacket and hold it, shining, above my head. There’s a cheer and Chrissie’s lot make action movie dives for cover. Mari has started to walk away, back towards the wooden bridge. She looks clenched around herself, her shoulders hunching slightly. I start to follow her then stop abruptly as the shouts from the boys - disappointed, sneering - snag me like hooks. Her white cotton top is caught by the sunlight; the faded denim of her jeans is smooth, tight to the rounded neatness of her. And between her thighs is a dark stain.

Terrified, I turn away from her and towards the hut, the expectant boys. “Fuck off then!” I shout, squaring my shoulders, striding.

I ram the pipe furiously into one of the corrugated folds at the corner of the hut roof. The fuse, a length of string dampened with petrol, is coiled in a tobacco tin in my jacket. I take it out and poke one end into the touchhole punched through the copper with a nail. …hang the string horizontally or the flame will leap the whole length of it before you’ve got … As the wheel on my lighter throws out sparks from the flint, I am strafing the woods, saturation bombing the whole area, my village, her village.

I step away backwards, waiting for the silent flame to start spitting at the touchhole. Chrissie’s lot are well hidden, foxholed, climbing on top of each other like puppies in a basket; like refugees in a ditch. The older ones, doubting, are loitering at the edge of the clearing. There’s a hiss and a spray of sparks; an awful silence for a moment then a rush of brutal noise as the flame takes hold and penetrates the compound in the pipe. …time to run…

The pressure builds, builds, as a rigid jet of sparks arcs ten feet out from the hut roof, until the final, shattering concussion and the clearing is opaque with white smoke. It thins, breaks, drifts, and the roof, a triangular arms’ width of it bent backwards, ragged and buckled, is flapping slowly under a new tension. I’m off my feet in a bear hug from Mike Ev and the others are whooping and wheeling around me, their voices already telling the story, building the legend.

Chrissie has found the burst end of the pipe, still hot and tarnished with residue. Splayed like an open flower, its petals are curled into astonishing coiled forms. He hands it to me - a trophy, a garland, a conch.

After a bit Chrissie’s lot slope off like a tracking party and the rest of us stretch out in the patched sunlight. I’m offered chewing gum, fags. Mike Ev opens a can of Colt 45 and gives me first swig. But I’m thinking about Mari walking beside me, Mari looking at me with those eyes and asking me to come away with her…

“Never thought I’d hear you tell Mari to fuck off though butt.” Mike Ev’s big lips are grinning into his can.

“Thought she had you proper, like a puppy on a lead.”

…of Mari walking away with me shouting my fear after her, shouting the choice I was making. In the broken shadow of the larches I feel I’m close to knowing, to getting it…

“You told her though, big man. Stupid bitch.”

…my fear, a fantasized atrocity, brute destruction, winning the conch…

Big man.

I’m on my feet and swinging the twisted copper at those grinning lips. The can spins onto the brittle cones. Beer spurts and foams and Mike Ev holds his hands to his face, howling. Blood and snot bubble between his fingers. The others are on their feet but I’ve still got the pipe and they keep their distance. I back away. When I get to the wooden bridge Chrissie’s lot emerge like assassins from the stream bed; Chrissie appraises the scene under the larches, the brandished copper, as if he’s been expecting this all along. “Mari’s by the pond,” he says flatly.

* * *

I sprint the width of the first field. When I get to the barbed wire I can see Mari framed against the gleaming afternoon light spilling from the pool’s surface. Her top is pulled loose, brilliant in the low sun and her hair is glowing. When I call she doesn’t turn around; she just walks on towards the spilling brightness. I call again; she keeps walking.

My eyes strain against the light washing over her and she’s gone.

The Llanelli Writers’ Circle was founded twenty-eight years ago. A group of us who were enrolled on a WEA Creative Writing Course, led by Phil Carradice, had come to enjoy the friendship and support during these sessions and found we missed the company in the interim periods. The first meeting was held on the 21st March, 1990 in the Llanelli children’s library.

In May 1990 we held our first Writers’ Day when Pembrokeshire writer, Robert Nisbet, ran a short story workshop. These became an annual event with writers from other groups and individuals taking part. I soon learnt to work around rugby fixtures. In 1994, a writer was booked for Saturday, 19th March. I couldn’t have known that Wales would be playing England at Twickenham, for the Championship, in the final game of the 5-Nations. Much to this writer’s relief, I’d asked if he’d mind postponing until the following week.

A good rapport was forged with Bridgend Writers after attending their Writers’ Day in 1996. On a wet November morning we had set off in a mini-bus down the M4 to the Court Colman Hotel in Penyfai. Despite ‘the map’ we got lost and arrived ten-minutes late. Hoping to creep in quietly and sit at the back, the door into the room faced the assembled writers and our hosts had kept us front row seats.

The Circle’s anthology ‘Athena’ is published, funds permitting, to showcase members’ work. Many of the contributors are published writers in their own right and the anthology has been successful in a number of awards. The name Athena was suggested by John Edwards, our founder president, writer and local historian. Besides being the Greek Goddess of Wisdom and of the Arts, we were meeting in a building originally called the Athenaeum.

In March 2000 Athena 7 received a First Prize and was selected as one of four semi-finalists for the David Thomas Charitable Trust - Writers’ News Anthology Trophy – a national award. The presentation took place in Harrogate, Yorkshire. We didn’t win the trophy but the certificate in recognition of our work was something to treasure. In August that year, Athena went on display at the National Eisteddfod in Llanelli. In April 2005, we donated a cheque for £200 to the Ty Bryngwyn Hospice from the sale of Athena 8.

Athena 10: Tales from Wales and our 25th Anniversary edition have both been shortlisted in the National Association of Writers’ Groups awards. Athena 10 was also the only anthology from Wales to be one of fifteen short-listed in the Writers’ News Anthology Award. To celebrate the Circle’s 25th anniversary a launch was held in Theatr Ffwrnes, Llanelli for Athena - 25th Anniversary edition. Carwyn Matera Rogers, the manager, arranged for us to have the main auditorium and invited civic dignitaries from Carmarthenshire, Llanelli Town & Rural Councils. Eleanor Shaw (Artistic Director PeopleSpeakUp) in her role at the theatre then, was a great support to us that evening compering the event. It was a wonderful occasion which we were able to share with the many friends we’ve made over the years.

The dragon that features on the front cover of Athena was designed by Gareth Smith, my son, when he was nine-years-old, and became the Circle’s logo. It was originally designed for the calendar we produced from 1996 to 2003. The cost of printing the calendar was to outweigh the selling price, despite it selling well locally.

The Circle arranges annual awards for members in the categories: poetry, light verse, short fiction and non- fiction. Entries are adjudicated by a professional writer who is not a member of the Circle. We present the trophies and certificates at an annual awards dinner in January.

Last year, John Edwards, our highly regarded president, decided at the age of ninety he should retire, and announced that he’d found his replacement! The Circle’s new president is Jon Gower, good friend of John Ed and also from Llanelli, who we welcomed at our AGM in March 2017.

Besides those who live in Llanelli, our members come from as far west as St. Clears, Carmarthen, Kidwelly and Burry Port. From Ammanford, Crosshands, Mynyddcerrig and Cynheidre, and across the Loughor from Gorseinon, Pontarddulais and Clydach.

The aim of the group is to encourage and support writers in their craft and to raise the profile of writing in the area. Meetings are held monthly where members read their work, sometimes on the monthly theme, offering and receiving constructive feedback. The Circle provides friendship and encouragement, as writing is sometimes a lonely business.

I love this quote by author, Joanne Harris. It sums up the feeling I’m sure many of us have about writing:

‘If you can still write in spite of the fact that you’re not getting paid, that nobody cares about what you’re writing, that nobody wants to publish it, that everybody is telling you to do something else, and you still want to and you still enjoy it and you can’t stop doing it … then you’re a WRITER’ .

Carole Ann Smith

Enquiries: email: [email protected]

Copies of Athena – 25th Anniversary edition £6 including postage. Six months ago, I was given the most unusual gift; it was a house-plant. The reason it was unusual is that it was almost unheard of for me to receive flowers of any kind. I’ve never been one for gardening and all that faffing about with pruning shears. I’ve never even had a garden. Bill and I have always lived on the twelfth floor of God’s very own compost heap - the flats on Station Approach. There are no gardens suspended from the balconies of ‘Station Cockroach’ as it is known locally. Surprising really. The amount of verbal manure produced by some of the flats’ occupants would otherwise make it a fertile oasis for any gardener.

I was given the house-plant by a stranger. Though, no surprises there either. No-one in my family ever gave a present that didn’t begin its life as a fairground prize or free with supermarket tokens.

This gift was from some poor woman I found in a rigid heap in the doorway of Futures Finance; that’s the offices where I do a bit of cleaning in the evenings. I thought she’d had an accident or something. She was breathing noisily - sort of an ‘Rrr… Rrr’ sound. She was trying to say something, but her voice had gone hoarse. I knew straight away she wasn’t drunk. I’ve had enough practice with Bill.

I went up to her, reassuring like. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her (though I could see she wasn’t). She pointed a trembling finger in front of her. It was dark, so it took a while for me to see anything. I started to feel a bit nervous. What if it was a drug-crazed mugger? I clutched my Lottery ticket a bit closer.

Then, I saw it lurking in the entrance - a cat. Its eyes glowed in the limited light. To be fair, it did look a bit threatening - you know, the way cats do when they spot another cat on their territory. I thought it had probably seen its own reflection in the glass door. ‘It’s only a cat,’ I told the woman. ‘Here, puss-puss.’ ‘No,’ she shrieked. ‘I hate them.’ ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ I said. I’d seen people like her on Richard and Judy. Phobic, they call them. ‘I’ll send it away.’ I walked quickly up to the cat, clapped my hands, and said ‘Shoo!’ loudly. With a final hiss, it turned around and ran away into the night. It was all black, so it had disappeared in a second or two. ‘It’s gone now.’ I told the woman. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked in a trembling voice while trying to peer into the distance over my shoulder. I checked and nodded.

The woman got up and brushed down her clothes. She seemed calmer already. She walked with me to the bus stop where I catch the Number 51 home and she told me how she had always been afraid of cats, especially black ones. Funny really, because she had eyes like a cat herself. She’d been to the local Necromancers meeting she said. I didn’t press her on that - I’m not one to pry into other people’s medical problems! Anyway, she thanked me for helping her, said that she had to fly and that was the last I saw of her.

The next night I was cleaning at the office when I saw a potted plant in the room where I keep the Hoover and mop bucket. There was a gift label attached to it. ‘To Myrtle McGuire’ it read. ‘Thank you for your help’. There was no signature or anything, just a little squiggly drawing of a broomstick. I suppose she thought that was fitting seeing as I’m a cleaner. Don’t know who gave her my surname though, but I was quite impressed that she’d gone to so much trouble to say thank you.

Well, I was dead chuffed! No-one had bought me flowers for a long time. Not that there were any flowers on this plant. To be truthful, it was pig ugly. (Fuggly, Bill would have called it on one of his politer days!). But it was a lovely thought and I took it home as proudly as if it had been a dozen red roses.

Eventually, I found out what kind of plant it was. A Venus Flytrap. I saw it in a magazine while I was waiting at the doctors to have my varicose veins looked at. The article said it didn’t flower very often. There was a picture of the flower, too - a beautiful, delicate-looking white bloom with tiny black spots inside.

I kept it in the kitchen where I could see it. Bill hated it. What did I want with such an ugly plant, he asked. I told him it ate flies and that it was more useful in the kitchen than in any other room. He shrugged his fat shoulders, grunted, and took another can of beer from the fridge.

‘I hate flies.’ I told his retreating, sweat-stained back. I turned back to the sink and heard a loud ‘Snap!’ as I did so. I swung around again. The Venus Flytrap’s head was closed like a jaw. Bill had already gone back to his telly. ‘Well, I never!’ I thought. It really did eat flies! That was handy.

A few weeks later I got up to find the remains of a takeaway that Bill and his mates must have brought home the night before. It had gone all gluey and greasy and the smell had gone right through the flat. ‘Ugh!’ I said. ‘He always leaves this stuff lying around. Why can’t he just clear it away afterwards.’

I turned to open the bin wide. ‘Snap, snap, snap!’ went something behind me. I looked around and there was nothing on the work-top! No takeaway remains! No foil carton! Nothing! The plant had its jaws clamped shut the way it had done with the fly and there was a faint trace of vindaloo sauce on one of the spikes.

Sometimes, you can’t quite believe that something has happened, and you end up wondering if it had been a dream or something. That’s what happened to me. Good thing too! I know what happens to women who go around saying things like their house-plant has eaten an Indian takeaway! Nothing special happened for a while and I just concentrated on getting the plant to flower. I hoped it was healthy enough. I’d become quite fond of it and I didn’t want it to die on me. So, it was like an answer to a prayer when I saw the advert that the local radio station was holding a Gardening Question Time in the community centre. Off I went and sat amongst dozens of those green-y types who clutched posh looking pots on their laps. It was rather a big event, with three well-known celebrities sitting on a slightly raised platform facing the audience.

One of them was ‘Dahlia’ Smithson, whom you must have seen on telly. Funny how the celebrities all had horticultural sorts of names too - Jack Rosebloom was there, and Violet Perry-Perkins who’s written loads of gardening books apparently. Hopefully, her books were more informative than she was. Whenever she was asked a question, every answer seemed to end with ’Prune, prune. My dears, you must prune!’ while she mimed a scissoring gesture with her fingers.

Eventually, my name was called. I stood up and clearly said, ‘I gotta Venus Flytrap wha’ ’asn’t flowered.’ ‘Aaah!’ said Jack Rosebloom knowledgeably. For the benefit of the audience, he then explained that the Venus Flytrap works by having movement-sensitive hairs in the upper part of the leaves and that the trapping mechanism in the base of the leaf reacts to that movement. Very straightforward, the way he said it. He never said anything about it reaching out and munching things off the work-top. I thought it best that I didn’t mention it either.

‘The Venus likes a humid place,’ he continued. ‘Dry conditions stop the plant from flowering. Try changing its location. Though, some say that the presence of a flower can weaken the jaw growth of the plant, so you may want to snip it off fairly soon once it begins blossoming.’

Well, that set off Violet Perry-Perkins with her scissor-like fingers and mutterings of ‘Prune it, my dear.’ When I got home I put the plant in the bathroom. It was always humid in there.

I looked every day for signs of a bud, but the leaves remained bare. Then one night, Bill came home roaring drunk. It happened fairly regularly when he and the other bin-men finish their shift on a Friday. I was in bed when he threw open the door and veered at an angle across the bedroom. With some difficulty, he undressed and rolled into bed. A waft of beer assaulted my nostrils and a big ham of an arm came over my waist. To my horror, I realised that I could feel his wobbly flesh and that he had not kept his shorts and vest on. ‘Myrtle,’ he slurred in what he probably thought was a seductive tone. ‘Myrtle, wake up. How about some rumpy-pumpy?!’

I pretended to sleep. At my stage of life I’ve had enough of that nonsense! I’ve seen people like that on Jeremy Kyle. Divorced, they call them! ‘Come on, Myrtle,’ he wheedled and then tried to roll his nineteen-stone frame on top of me. ‘Get off!’ I growled at him, but he giggled and took no notice.

That was it! Something snapped in my mind and I swung my elbow hard against his ribs. Or where I thought his ribs would be, the ribs themselves having long gone into hiding behind years of beer and takeaways. It was like elbowing a soft mattress. My arm sunk into a doughy recess and I quite expected it to pop as I pulled it away. ‘Oow!’ yelled Bill in obvious pain before retreating to his side of the bed. ‘And in future, you can keep that thing away from me.’ I said.

Bill muttered some familiar farmyard insults – cow, old bat and on and on. When he gets in that mood, he can name more animals that a Countryfile presenter! Luckily for me, it wasn’t long before the anaesthetic effect of the beer took over and he was soon snoring beside me. About three in the morning his movements woke me. I was instantly alert, expecting another romantic re-run from Bill. Instead, I was relieved to find that he was going to the bathroom. It’s the usual procedure when he’s got a bladder-full of beer.

I listened to make sure he was going in the right direction (I’m not being disloyal when I tell you he has made mistakes in the past!) and in a few moments came the reassuring sounds of Bill’s gushing flow accompanied by several loud farts. I turned on my other side and had just closed my eyes when there was a horrible scream from Bill followed by the command, ‘Call an ambulance, quick!’

I ran into the bathroom. There was blood everywhere and Bill was clutching his groin. He was still drunk, of course. Rambling on about something that had bitten his todger off.

‘There, there, love,’ I said, giving him a cold compress. ‘You must have shut the toilet lid too fast.’

He didn’t seem to remember that he had never put the toilet lid down since I’ve known him. I could afford to be nice to him. It was plain to see that ‘that thing’ would not be bothering me anymore. There hadn’t been much of it to start with, but in the blink of an eye he had gone from ‘Bill I Am’ to ‘Willy I Haven’t!’. I’ve done the odd First Aid course, too, so I knew that Bill wasn’t going to bleed to death or anything. The Venus Flytrap sat on the bathroom window looking smug and, as a reward, I gave it a few drops of Baby Bio before the paramedics arrived.

A few weeks later it produced its first flower - high above the jawed leaf. A funny little bud to start with, but then it grew... into a strangely familiar ugly pink thing that I couldn’t bear to look at.

Naturally, I did the logical thing and followed Violet Perry-Perkins’ advice to ‘Prune, my dear, prune.’ and cut it off with a pair of scissors later that day!

The weird thing was that Bill yelled in pain as I was doing it, but he’d had a curry for tea, so I expect it was just a bit of indigestion!

DELPHIN E RICHARDS

Featured Authors Autumn 2018

David Roberts www.daverobertsartist.com

David Roberts iodaverobertsartist.com

David Roberts e

David Roberts www.daverobertsartist.com

David Roberts www.daverobertsartist.com

David Roberts www.daverobertsartist.com

David Roberts www.daverobertsartist.com