Morning Serial
Morning Serial
0 Comments | Western Mail (Cardiff, Wales), May 22, 2010
Byline: Alun Trevor
Some time later, when Dad was home, we saw the press cutting and heard how the noble Duke had said “You are a credit to Wales.”
“Next week, Winter Gardens, Bournemouth – must make a good impression there. Then Birmingham Hippodrome.
Shall be sending the boys a present. Parcel should arrive soon… ” We cheered. “Keep it a secret – it’ll be a surprise.” “Oh, I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Bet it’ll be a football… ” “Wait and see,” said Mam, trying to suppress Arthur’s premature excitement.
“A leather-case ball!” “Wait and see, wait and see.”
But Arthur began bouncing his rubber ball on the tiled floor, his excitement unsubdued.
“Go and feed the hens. And count them.”
Off he went with his ball. I followed, on the way to the coalhouse. The henhouse was at the back of the house, where we had our only flat field, Cae Gefn (Back Field), of about two acres. His voice almost drowned by the clucking hens, Arthur was counting. I returned, struggling with the full coal scuttle. He was still counting, with some difficulty, standing in the middle of the flock. Then: “Only thirty-one. One missing.”
Back in the house: “Mam, the Rhode Island Red’s missing again.” The last time we saw her she was wandering off towards the hawthorn hedge, which was the boundary of our smallholding. She had her head on one side, not clucking, but making her funny, considering noise; to lay or not to lay… “Oh, she’ll turn up
leather floors
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