David Roberts

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.

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