The Snow Spider Trilogy. Jenny Nimmo
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‘Dewi’s frightened of him, see!’ Mrs Davis pointed an accusing finger at Gwyn. ‘He’s afraid your boy’ll do something worse to him if he tells.’
‘Bloody nonsense!’ Mr Griffiths stood up, his chair scraping on the tiled floor. ‘Let’s hear your side of it, Gwyn?’
Gwyn looked up. He was unused to having his father defend him. He felt that he could take on any number of Davises now. ‘I didn’t throw a stone,’ he said.
‘There!’ Mr and Mrs Davis spoke simultaneously.
Mr Griffiths sat down and the two sets of parents eyed each other wordlessly.
‘He’s lying of course,’ Mr Davis said, at last.
‘He ought to be punished,’ added his wife. ‘The headmistress should be told.’
‘It’s a pity they don’t thrash kids these days,’ growled Mr Davis.
This time it was Mr Griffiths who banged the table. Gwyn got up and began to pace about the room while the adults all talked at once. He had a tremendous desire to do something dramatic and the knowledge that he probably could, made the temptation almost unbearable. What should he do though? Box Mr Davis’s ears from a distance of three metres? Pull Mrs Davis’s hair? The possibilities were endless. And then he remembered Nain’s warning. He must not abuse his power. It must be used only when there was something that he truly needed to do.
‘It’s not as if your son is normal,’ he heard Mrs Davis say. ‘Everyone’s been talking about his being peculiar, if you know what I mean. Ask any of the children.’
For the first time his parents seemed unable to reply. Mrs Griffiths looked so miserable that Gwyn could hardly bear it. She had known for days that something was wrong, and now she was going to hear about his stories.
‘It seems,’ went on Mrs Davis, ‘that Gwyn has been saying some very peculiar things, if you know what I mean. And why? If you ask me your son’s not normal.’
Gwyn had to stop her. Contemplating the generous curves that overflowed the narrow kitchen chair supporting Mrs Davis, his eyes alighted upon a large expanse of flesh, just above the knee, that her too-tight skirt could not cover. He flexed his fingers, then pressed his thumb and forefinger together, tight, tight, tight!
Mrs Davis screamed. She glared at Mr Griffiths and then asked haughtily, ‘Have you got a dog?’
The two men frowned at her, for the distraction, and then frowned at each other, while Mrs Griffiths said, ‘Yes, he’s in the barn!’
‘A cat?’ Mrs Davis inquired hopefully.
‘A black tom,’ Mrs Griffiths nodded towards a dark form sitting on the sill, outside the kitchen window. ‘We call him Long John,’ she went on, ‘because he lost a leg on the road when he was just a kitten; it’s wonderful what vets can do these days.’
Mrs Davis glanced at Long John then quickly looked away, her cyclamen-pink lips contorted with distaste. ‘I think we’ll go,’ she said, and stood up.
Her husband looked at her but did not move.
‘Get up, Bryn!’ Mrs Davis commanded. ‘I want to go!’
Mr Davis followed his wife out of the kitchen with a bemused expression on his face. He could not understand why the interview had ended so abruptly, and wondered if the situation had been resolved without his being aware of it.
The Griffithses were as perplexed as he. They silently followed their unwelcome guests to the front door, and there the whole unpleasant business might have ended, had not Mrs Davis been heard to mutter darkly, ‘Someone pinched my thigh!’
Mrs Griffiths gasped, her husband roared, ‘What?’ But Mr Davis, having opened the front door, thrust his wife through it, before she could cause the affair to deteriorate further. He then leapt quickly after her and the wind parted the two families by slamming the door.
Mr and Mrs Griffiths retreated into the kitchen and slumped battle-weary beside the table. And then the humour of the situation overcame them and they began to laugh with relief.
‘Thanks for sticking up for me, Dad,’ said Gwyn, when his parents had recovered. He felt awkward and not at all sure that he had done the right thing in the end.
‘If you say you’re innocent, that’s all I need to know,’ said Mr Griffiths gruffly.
Gwyn looked hard at his father; he could not understand his change of attitude. A week ago he would neither have been believed nor defended. In all probability he would have been sentenced to a weekend in his room and a meal of bread and water. ‘I’d better get on with my homework,’ he said shyly.
He was about to leave the room when his father suddenly said, ‘Is that girl coming again, then?’
‘What girl?’ Gwyn asked.
‘You know what girl. The one that was here yesterday. I can always run her home if,’ his father hesitated and then added diffidently, ‘if she wants to come.’
‘I don’t suppose she will,’ said Gwyn. ‘She’s a girl. She only came because I was hurt.’
‘Oh, that was it?’
Gwyn thought he could detect something almost like regret in his father’s voice. What had come over Mr Griffiths? It was quite disturbing. It had nothing to do with him, Gwyn was sure of that. He knew, instinctively, that he could not, should not, use his power to influence thought. The pinch had been satisfactory though.
He remembered that his father’s mood had changed when Eirlys appeared. If that was the case, then she must come again, if only to keep his father happy. And so, although it was against his principles to have girls at T
‘Of course,’ Eirlys replied, and her eyes shone with pleasure.
‘Mam and Dad want it,’ said Gwyn, by way of explanation, ‘and . . . and so do I, of course!’
The weather changed. December brought sun instead of snow. The wind was warm and smelled of damp leaves and over-ripe apples.
Gwyn took Eirlys on his mountain and she saw it in sunshine where before she had only glimpsed it at dusk, through a mist of snow. She saw the colours that he loved, the buzzards hunting low over the fields, and rosy clouds drifting above the plateau. He had not realised that he would enjoy the company of a girl. But then Eirlys was not like other girls.
They leapt, and sometimes slipped, upon wet stones in the tumbling streams; they ran, arms-outstretched, along the drystone walls, scattering the sheep that dozed there, and they chased crows that hopped, like black thieves, behind the leafless trees. And somehow Gwyn’s father always seemed to be there, watching them from a distance, or walking nearby with his dog and his blackthorn stick, listening to their voices. And after tea he began to whistle in his workshop, and Gwyn realised he did not recognise the sound. Even his mother looked up, astonished, from her ironing.
In the evening, while it was still light enough to see the trees, the children walked in the orchard and Gwyn told Eirlys about Nain and the five gifts; about the power that had come to him from Gwydion and how he had hit Dewi Davis without a stone. He told her about the silver ship that had caused all his trouble at school and, unlike Alun, Eirlys believed him and did not think it strange that a ship had fallen out of the sky. Even so, Gwyn did not speak of the snow spider. He was still wary of confiding too much. ‘I’ll take you to see my grandmother,’ he told the girl. Nain would know whether he could tell Eirlys about the cobwebs.
Later, he asked his parents if Eirlys could come again, so that they could visit Nain.
‘Why can’t she stay the night?’ Mr Griffiths suggested. ‘She can sleep in Bethan’s room.’
‘No!’