Chapter 16 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 16.

Funny, I thought; remembering my mother, recalling how she had
similarly washed her hair from a rain butt. But that was as a child
on holiday on a farm earlier this century in East Yorkshire where
the ground water is hard. `I suppose you'd end up a red head if you
used river water round here,' I chuckled.

`That's what I tell him, but he won't have it, determined not
to pay to have mains water installed, he is.'

`Is it expensive?'

`That's not the point. He refuses because he says it should be
free, subsidised by the English for damming our valleys and taking
whatever they want.'

We hesitated, reluctant to be seen as Saxon colonials. `Is it
all right if we put the kettle on for a small cup of tea - whilst
the children are getting ready for bed?'

`Of course it is, but I won't stay for a cup, Morgan will be
wondering where I have got to.'

`He isn't going fishing all night, then?'

She looked puzzled. It was her turn to hesitate, `Oh, yes,
he'll be out all night.... It's the river, you see. Being close to
the house he can see everything. In the morning he'll be worried,
wanting to know why it took me so long. Good night.'

`Good night,' we closed down the lights for the night.

Upstairs, in the darkness, we lay still in bed, and the longer
we lay the blacker the blackness as we stared into silence; the more
silent our stare the louder the river, louder, louder through the
night's cool silk of blackness. `What if the children wake up?'

`They'll let us know.'

`What if they fall down the stairs?'

`They won't. They'll ask for a light first.'

An owl hooted, leaves rustled amongst the still air. The river
flowed on. A screech - an animal's death. The river flowed on.

Tucked away in an attic bedroom, exhausted by the day, the
children slept on, through the dawn and sunrise, untroubled by all
the honking of geese alerted to Morgan returning from fishing.

I was already awake, and quickly outside to explore within the
cool air before day displaced the tail end of twixt-time. How small
the cottage, built of slate with walls climbed over by flowers,
snuggling into a hillside; a hill covered with velveteen grass which
climbed ever steeper until grass became shale and shale became a
towering outcrop. Beyond, far beyond and higher still, the
Snowdonian peaks, hazed in blue mist.

I turned about, towards the sound of the river. `It doesn't
turn, you know,' Morgan's voice carried from nowhere.

`What doesn't turn?' my eyes scanned. Nothing, nobody, what
doesn't turn?

`The water wheel,' his voice sounded suspicious, as though the
answer was obvious. `Use the mill as a workshop, you see, making
spinning wheels for antique shops in Caernarvon.'

I still could not see him, nor the wheel, nor the river. Was
this a passage of rights for the testing of Saxons? `Over here,' he
held up a hand, above the wrist signalling me to approach through
the squelch grass.

`Good morning,' I stumbled from tussock to tussock until all
splattered and mudded.

`Morning...... Don't come too near or make any noise,' he
remained motionless, up to his wrist in water within the scoured
gorge. `Geese?... No,' he scoffed lightly so as to not wake up the
fish. `That was me getting up, not going to bed. What man with the
value of his neighbours' respect would be out all night?'

Funny, that's not what Bronwen said, still, `Mmm,' I agreed,
relying upon judicial caution, not wishing to be left holding the
baby like a Solomon between him and his wife.

`Very interesting,' I nodded, yet to see the wheel, hiding my
ignorance whilst he disgorged a flood of rivercraft knowledge, and
of Wales, and of history, and.....

`Are those your children?' unable to hear over the spate of the
water he caught sight of them laughing, splashing across grass
towards his river. `Stay where you are, don't frighten the fish,' he
tried to hold his rod steady.

`I'm sorry, I'll keep them away,' I apologized, and backed
away, retreating round the side of his mill where a giant wheel had
been restored for appearance yet left unable to turn.

`They're doing no harm,' Bronwen found us, garden trowel in her
hand. `Take no notice, him and his river..... The wheel? No, not
even if he had restored it completely it couldn't turn, all the
water in its race is piped into our plumbing,' then she held out a
hand each to Claire and to John. `Have you seen my cottage?'

At first glance it appeared to be part of the mill, except its
windows were clean, with white net curtains. Shy, uncertain, they
shook their heads.

`Come in, come on,' she invited them into her kitchen. `Have a
biscuit. Go on, take two. They're very good, wholesome, I bake them
when Morgan's away in the town.'

Their eyes were fascinated by the old kitchen range. Cold at
the moment, with logs stacked in a basket. `Look,' she stepped into
her pantry, whitewashed and a floor of cool slate, its shelves also
of slate stocked with home made provisions, a slit of a window
slotted into one wall. A side of bacon hung from the rafter. `Take
this to your mam,' she passed down a jar of home made jam.
`Quickly, before Morgan returns.'

`What do you say?' I reminded them, habit forgotten in the
confusion of a strange environment.

`Thank you.'

`Thank you.'

`And for the biscuits,' Claire remembered. But John had
finished eating. Out of mouth out of mind.

`Come back with us, have a cup of tea,' I suggested. `We're not
going out for a while.'

`No, I'm making a sandwich for Morgan. He'll be back soon, got
to finish a spinning wheel, you see. Urgent order, takes him longer
when it's got to be genuine antique. Another time, perhaps.'

Lena had also made sandwiches, and a salad for me - on acccount
of the glutin. `Caenarvon's worth visiting,' she said, having been
reading an illustrated guide.

`Yes please,' John saw the picture of a castle.

`Yes please,' Claire seeing the sea, wishing to play in the
water next to the castle and the yachts, oh those yachts, how her
imagination wished to sail on a luxury yacht.

More likely mudflats, I thought, but loaded the car, opening
its windows to release its baked air.

`Don't know why mum bothered to come,' Claire grumbled when we
got there, Lena again staying behind in the car. They were older
now, not like the last time at Simon's Seat. No, today their
loyalties were clear, they wished to be left on their own to enjoy
themselves. `Mud,' John exclaimed, being first to the sea wall.

`Don't,' my shout pursued after him, `It might be dangerous,
like quicksand.'

`Let's have ice creams, then,' Claire doubled back to tug at my
pockets.

I smiled. `O.K., what kind do you want,.. and see what kind
your mother wants,.. and whether she'd like to come to the castle.'

Lena declined the climb. Be like that, I thought, staring up at
the walls, more determined than ever to take a shufty and see what
it was like on the inside. `Wait,' again they were racing ahead,
this time aiming for the highest battlements, reaching the top just
as their ice cream cornets ended up empty.

John had sucked his dry, after biting off its base. `I can see
mum,' he peeped through a look-out. She was still where we had left
her reading a paperback.

“Squawk, Squawk, Squawk,” sea gulls soared upon thermals and
breezes as though the castle's walls were cliffs. `Watch,' I threw
my empty cornet through the slit. `Have you ever seen gulls
catching food whilst they're in flight?'

`It's not going to work, is it, dad?' Claire remembering
something from school about different weights being dropped from the
leaning Tower of Pisa.

`That was Galileo, and he didn't carry out his experiment in
conditions like these with items so light they would float.'

`Didn't he use ice cream cornets, then?' John grinned, watching
my demonstration being lifted high over the car park.

This denial of gravity also outwitted the sea gulls. `No,' I
pleaded to the puffy white clouds which were sailing across the sky,
hoping against the laws of chaos that the demon which had replaced
my mustard seed would fail in its mischief as the soggy cornet
swirled in a remorseless curl towards a policeman. `No,.. is
it?... Isn't it going to?' as I watched whilst it hovered for a
brief moment. But seeds of faith are not intended for such occasions
of levity and it dived with missile precision until it struck,
spreading its fallout all over his toe caps.

Claire and John both ended up terrified and laughing all at the
same time, scuttling down the sole staircase, imagining themselves
to be parties to a serious crime, the tips of their shoes barely
touching the worn stone as they spiralled downwards upon the steps,
with me only inches behind, until we emerged breathless into the
sunshine to lose ourselves amongst the crowds milling outside.
Amongst this ocean of faces the threat of the Old Bailey receded and
they again burst into laughter, exhilarated after a close brush with
danger.

The bobby was gone, only the faint silhouette of one boot
remaining. Mother was not amused, `Childish,' she replaced her
bookmark and started the engine, she wanted to get back to the
cottage for food.

`Can we have fish and chips?' John remembered whilst we were
still in the town.

`Please, can we?' Claire leaned between the front seats, `It'll
save you having to cook.'

`Have you some money?' Lena turned towards me.

`Not enough,' my reply evoking a wasted-on-ice cream second of
silence.

`You better pass my purse,' she changed gear and slowed, seeing
the shop the children had seen. Perhaps it ’was“ late to start
cooking, but if she was doing the paying they could do the queuing
and carrying.

`It's not a big queue,' I said on reflection. `Let's hope
that's because it's only half term and not the high holiday season,'
- though going by the glee with which they returned embracing the
hot newspaper parcels close to their chests the contents must have
smelt good.

`Just a moment,' Lena put the brakes on their stampede into the
car. `Not here, not in the main street.'

`Why,... are you parked on a double yellow line?'

`Get in, John,' she started the engine and drove round the
corner with the parcels, tormenting their nostrils, remaining
impatiently balanced tight to their knees.

`Here,' he was quick to spot a suitable car park. Well, not
really a car park, more a disused siding, trackless, purposeless,
where men had once termited away but no longer any more than grey
ballast too recently abandoned to bare more than a single sparse
weed, but somewhere for Lena to steer as the chassis contorted to an
uneven halt.

`I'll share them out,' Lena impounded the parcels.

`They're bigger than the helpings we get from Violent
Violet's,' John referred to the fish and chip shop back home.

`And without soggy chips,' Claire added.

`Anyone for more batter,' I peeled mine away. They shook their
heads.

`Save it for the sea gulls,' John tittered. Lena saw the joke,
her mood better now, with food in her stomach and not on her mind.
Until then we had been so busy in the castle we had forgotten all about their Mother and her melancholias.

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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