The Life of Rebecca Jones by Angharad Price

Author:Angharad Price [Price, Angharad]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2013-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

Bob, second from left, shearing

It was the children too who had the privilege of pressing a distinct pitch insignia on the sheep’s shoulder. The women wrapped the wool, folding the border of each fleece inwards and rolling it tightly into a soft white ball.

In my mind’s eye, I bury my face in the smell of lanolin and feel the softness of the newly shorn wool.

For the women, shearing day was exhausting. They had to make space for thirty men in the kitchen, ensuring there were enough plates, knives, forks, spoons, bowls and cups for everyone, not to mention all the food. The potatoes they must have peeled! The bowlfuls of rice pudding they must have cooked in the bakehouse. The currant cakes they must have griddled. The bread they must have baked. All to satisfy the hunger of men. And how many times did they refill the kettle dangling over the fire, or run to the pantry to fetch milk, to make enough tea to quench the shearers’ thirst?

The women were the key to a successful shearing day.

Bob became an excellent shearer, chosen by everyone who wished to take a prized specimen to be exhibited at a show. His talent was passed on to his son, and in due course to his son’s son, who later traveled to the other side of the globe, to New Zealand, to practice his craft.

But shearing time was not for everyone. Indeed, it was a detestable time for William, who was confused by the mess of makeshift pens in the farmyard, the barred gates which hindered him. He was bothered by the braying and the endless to-ing and fro-ing of so many people. He’d lose his way and lose his temper.

Of course, the disorder of shearing day was nothing compared to the anarchy of snow. William would lose his way in any layer of white. Unable to feel the free movement of his feet, the echo of his footstep muffled by snow, he often got lost.

Once, on his way toward the farmhouse, he was caught in heavy snow and got lost. There was no sign of him. We searched every field and path all the way to Maesglasau, shouting his name, whistling, called out to him again and again. Our voices echoed throughout the cwm.

Finally, Bob chanced to look toward the mountain, and he was spotted. From the midst of snow-covered bracken a red-gloved hand was seen waving; we knew it belonged to William. We listened and heard his voice. He was calling for help.

It’s a mystery how he got there, high on the flanks of our snow-banked mountain.

William never ventured out at night—not for his own protection, but for ours. After all, night and day were one to him. He stayed indoors because he knew that if he got lost in the dark we wouldn’t find him. With eyes wide open, we’d be blinder than him.

Indeed, we often took advantage of his “other” sight when we needed to escort the children at night from my parents’ new bungalow at the foot of the mountain, back up to the farmhouse.

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