about what would happen when the horse went.
She walked around to the front of the cart where David was sitting, reins in hand, Luke firmly tucked in between himself and Matthew.
âThereâs twelve dozen eggs, six pounds of butter, four cheeses, two dozen chickens and a dozen geese plucked and ready for the oven,â she reminded him. âYouâll make sure that Miss Adams, not Cook â after the way she tried to cheat you last time â has first pick at Craig-y-Nos. And youâll double-check everything Miss Adams takes and the money she pays you. Take whateverâs left to the Colonial Stores. With luck we should have at least ten pounds left after youâve bought our goods.â
âI can barter and look after money as well as you, Mary,â he countered irritably.
âTake care of Matthew and Luke. And only buy what we need; no sweets, no bargains, just flour, salt, tea, sugar, oats, chicken feed, soda and soap.â
âI know what to get,â he snarled. âMartha, where are you?â he bellowed at the open back door of the house.
âComing.â Martha ran out in her maidâs uniform.
âYouâll be walking to Craig-y-Nos if you donât climb on to the cart this minute.â
âSee you all at teatime. Youâll be hungry so Iâll make a stew,â Mary shouted as David steered the cart through the arch.
She watched them leave before turning back to the farmyard. Ten gallons of milk â over and above what they were contracted to put out in the churns every morning to be picked up by the cart that went into Brecon â waited to be turned into butter and cheese in the dairy. All the churns needed to be scoured and cleaned ready for the evening milking, the cowsheds cleaned, the pigs fed, vegetables dug up for the stew, the sheep checked, and that was without the housework â and Bob Pritchard.
Sick to the pit of her stomach she put the chores in order of priority. Churns first; the longer they were left after they were emptied, the harder they were to scour. And she couldnât take the risk of sending dirty milk to Brecon. The last thing she needed was the dairy withholding payment to the agent for sour milk.
Harry pushed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the needle on his speed dial creep from thirty to forty miles an hour. The sky had darkened; the air felt heavy and portended rain. Yet he was loath to waste any more time by stopping to put up the hood on his car after losing an hour changing his front tyre, which had punctured on the stony track of the Bwlch Mountain that separated the Rhondda and Afan Valleys.
Heâd left Pontypridd after an early breakfast in the hope that he would reach the sanatorium before lunchtime and, with luck, arrange an appointment with Dr Adams for that day. But the puncture had delayed him and, suddenly hungry two hours later, he had broken his journey at a roadside pub outside Swansea and bought a pork pie, which heâd eaten in the car while travelling up the road that led into the Swansea Valley.
His Aunty Megan had been right. Once heâd left the industrial area that stretched as far as the small town of Pontardawe behind him, the upper valley was beautiful. But as his Uncle Victor had warned, it was also sparsely populated, except for sheep and cows. The few villages and hamlets he passed through were a fraction of the size of those in the Rhondda. He had seen several inns and pubs but only a couple of dozen shops â mainly grocers, seed merchants and butchers â and after comparatively bustling Pontardawe, most of those had been set up in the front rooms of terraced cottages. If he had passed a garage, he hadnât spotted it, and although heâd been careful to fill his petrol tank and the two spare cans he carried in the boot, the supply wouldnât last long with his tourer barely managing fifteen miles to the gallon.
He glanced at the map his
She walked around to the front of the cart where David was sitting, reins in hand, Luke firmly tucked in between himself and Matthew.
âThereâs twelve dozen eggs, six pounds of butter, four cheeses, two dozen chickens and a dozen geese plucked and ready for the oven,â she reminded him. âYouâll make sure that Miss Adams, not Cook â after the way she tried to cheat you last time â has first pick at Craig-y-Nos. And youâll double-check everything Miss Adams takes and the money she pays you. Take whateverâs left to the Colonial Stores. With luck we should have at least ten pounds left after youâve bought our goods.â
âI can barter and look after money as well as you, Mary,â he countered irritably.
âTake care of Matthew and Luke. And only buy what we need; no sweets, no bargains, just flour, salt, tea, sugar, oats, chicken feed, soda and soap.â
âI know what to get,â he snarled. âMartha, where are you?â he bellowed at the open back door of the house.
âComing.â Martha ran out in her maidâs uniform.
âYouâll be walking to Craig-y-Nos if you donât climb on to the cart this minute.â
âSee you all at teatime. Youâll be hungry so Iâll make a stew,â Mary shouted as David steered the cart through the arch.
She watched them leave before turning back to the farmyard. Ten gallons of milk â over and above what they were contracted to put out in the churns every morning to be picked up by the cart that went into Brecon â waited to be turned into butter and cheese in the dairy. All the churns needed to be scoured and cleaned ready for the evening milking, the cowsheds cleaned, the pigs fed, vegetables dug up for the stew, the sheep checked, and that was without the housework â and Bob Pritchard.
Sick to the pit of her stomach she put the chores in order of priority. Churns first; the longer they were left after they were emptied, the harder they were to scour. And she couldnât take the risk of sending dirty milk to Brecon. The last thing she needed was the dairy withholding payment to the agent for sour milk.
Harry pushed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the needle on his speed dial creep from thirty to forty miles an hour. The sky had darkened; the air felt heavy and portended rain. Yet he was loath to waste any more time by stopping to put up the hood on his car after losing an hour changing his front tyre, which had punctured on the stony track of the Bwlch Mountain that separated the Rhondda and Afan Valleys.
Heâd left Pontypridd after an early breakfast in the hope that he would reach the sanatorium before lunchtime and, with luck, arrange an appointment with Dr Adams for that day. But the puncture had delayed him and, suddenly hungry two hours later, he had broken his journey at a roadside pub outside Swansea and bought a pork pie, which heâd eaten in the car while travelling up the road that led into the Swansea Valley.
His Aunty Megan had been right. Once heâd left the industrial area that stretched as far as the small town of Pontardawe behind him, the upper valley was beautiful. But as his Uncle Victor had warned, it was also sparsely populated, except for sheep and cows. The few villages and hamlets he passed through were a fraction of the size of those in the Rhondda. He had seen several inns and pubs but only a couple of dozen shops â mainly grocers, seed merchants and butchers â and after comparatively bustling Pontardawe, most of those had been set up in the front rooms of terraced cottages. If he had passed a garage, he hadnât spotted it, and although heâd been careful to fill his petrol tank and the two spare cans he carried in the boot, the supply wouldnât last long with his tourer barely managing fifteen miles to the gallon.
He glanced at the map his
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