CHAPTER 17
I rode back in a state of hyper-awareness, my mind locked on memories of a miserable ginger bastard high on the Slabs.

What the fuck had I been doing? What on Earth would the police have said to Keith and Pen? I pulled over halfway down the long road to Bethesda, by the old ruin, and sat the bike, thighs threatening to cramp as I tried to force some sort of sensible interpretation into my head.

‘What had I been thinking?’ was the obvious question, quickly answered by the twin revelations that (a) I hadn’t actually been thinking, and (b) that there hadn’t been any obvious difference between my own thought processes and those I presumed that miserable ginger sod had experienced.

Idiot.

I popped the side stand down and slithered off the bike, turning to look back up towards the looming bulkiness of Y Garn and Tryfan, the Slabs well-hidden from my view. I could still feel that space under my feet as I had soloed the final tower on Tennis Shoe, and suddenly I was shaking in a mixture of relief and the fear that hadn’t made itself manifest as I had done the moves. Keith and Penny, indeed, as well as a little girl who I had yet to meet in any meaningful way. The sudden tears were no surprise, but the raw sobs were. The feelings of loss, though, they would always be there.

It took a few minutes, but finally I found a safer state of mind for riding, and set off back to the bunkhouse, where I took a shower in order to wash away the fear-sweat and give me an excuse for my face.

Yeah, got shampoo in my eyes, that’s why they’re so red…

Keith had got some beers in for the evening, as the pub was a bit out of the question for the new arrival, and as Pen sipped her own pint, I found myself laughing. She paused mid-sip.

“What?”

“Oh, just my warped sense of humour!”

“Yeah, nothing new there, is there? And I’m just having the one”

“Yeah, well; thinking about the littl’un. What with her drinking from you, while you drink Marston’s, I was wondering if the taste gets passed on. Get her used to drinking the real stuff before she even cuts a tooth”

“Yup. Warped as ever, [something in Welsh]”

“Eh?”

Pen shrugged as well as she could manage, with a glass in one hand and an infant in her arms.

“We decided we would start her in the local language rather than English, Mike. This is… We’re cutting off that other place as much as we can, because this is our home, now. This is going to be our daughter’s home, and we will give her as good a start as we can, as many ways to fit in as possible”

Keith was nodding along.

“That’s the key here, Mike. We aren’t natives here. We never will be. But if we show enough respect to the place, then Enfys has that opportunity.”

He looked at his glass.

“Maybe I’ve had one too many of these, but it was just one of those thoughts you get. This isn’t our world, mate, but somewhere we hold in trust for our kids. Our responsibility not to leave it in shit state”

That cut me less than it might have done, probably because Enfys was there with us. My ride back to Sheffield the next day wasn’t as frantic as it might otherwise have been, and for a few days I was able to lose myself in work rather than brood. I decided to stay off the ale for a while, as I spent what would have been pub hours straightening my own head out.

Penny had shown the depth of her love for her husband with her ultimatum, and that could so easily have been my own situation, mine and my wife’s. Things had happened. Things would always happen, for that was how the world worked, but I didn’t have to live in thrall to them, dance to their tune. The pain and loss I felt each day wouldn’t leave me, as I knew full well, unless I did something even more stupid than those moves at the top of the Slabs, but that option--- well, a world held in trust for a tiny bundle.

I still found myself weeping some evenings, at stupid things like songs on the radio, words in a newspaper or book, or even just the sound of birdsong that Caro had taught me to recognise and name, but that was done alone, in private; just for the two of us.

As the months flew by, my little girl became far more real, rather like the myth that bear mothers literally licked their cubs into shape. Her first smile purely for me stole my heart, confirming my choice to stay with the world, and as months became years, she became a human being, a personality showing itself in a mix of laughter and acute stubbornness. I read later that while the first word for many children is the obvious ‘Mam’, the second and third ones are often ‘Mine’ and ‘NO!’. Enfys was most definitely in that camp, in one sense, but the words that she used were the Welsh versions.

I was never good with the language, but I did my best to learn a few phrases, recognise the words that are important to little people, and as night becomes day, so I became ‘Unca Mike’ and she became ‘The Carrier of Gloves’ whenever I arrived on my bike, the formal handing over of which was always preceded by her demanding a sit on the bike so she could pretend to ride it.

We did get down the pub, along with Vic, Nansi and their own ‘Davvy’, as I heard it, who was a lot quieter than Enfys but more than happy to play with her. Kul and Dal were also regular visitors, and it was after one of the folk club nights that Kul mentioned something I had missed as I had doted on the two kids. We were all in the bunkhouse having a mug of hot chocolate each before turning in.

“Not normal, that. I don’t meant that: more not typical, yeah?”

“Sorry, what’s not normal?”

“The kids, Mike. Didn’t mean it in a bad way. Wrong word choice. What I mean is… Dal?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Remember Mr and Mrs Handknit?”

“Oh! At that Martin Simpson evening?”

I was impressed at the lad’s musical knowledge yet again, and Dal took over.

“It’s a couple we’ve seen a lot, at concerts. They come in a great big Rover, three and a half litre thing, but they’re all patchwork trousers and floppy jumpers and pewter tankards hanging from their belts. Posh as posh, they are, but they do the whole folky thing”

Kul snorted.

“Overdo it, in my view. Tell them about the concert, son”

“Oh, yeah. They brought their kid, about two years old. Tou heard of Martin Simpson, Mike?”

I laughed out loud.

“Just slightly, lad! Go on”

“Yeah, well, this kid, it just wouldn’t shut up. All ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’. I thought Mr Simpson was going to get up and smack them, or at least say something. I would have. That what you meant, Dad?”

Kul nodded.

“Yup. Just that. These two, Enfys and Davvy: they just listen, like really listen, when the music’s on. Never shut up the rest of the time, but all attention to the music. Don’t know how their parents have managed that. I couldn’t, not with this one, anyway”

“Dad! I’m not like that!”

Kul turned a very obvious Dad Stare onto his son.

“Lad, you sometimes even think you can sing. You not hear the stampede when people see your mouth opening?”

“You are a right sod sometimes, Dad!”

“I am indeed, son. All part of the valuable lessons I impart to my offspring in order better to equip him to navigate the perilous and uncertain squalls and tempests of---”

“And you talk an awful lot of rubbish as well!”

As they continued their sparring, I found myself laughing so hard I spilled some of my hot chocolate, my choice to stay with the world so utterly and completely the right and proper thing.