Moon is Red, The

By Myrddin ap Dafydd

The bombing school is on fire...! A novel for young people which follows an old woman as she saves a single item from her room at an old people's home, triggering memories about the Fire on the Llŷn peninsula in 1936 and the bombing of Guernica in the country of Basque in 1937.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwasg Carreg Gwalch
• Release date: Oct 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781845244040

Book preview

The Moon is Red

Myrddin ap Dafydd

Translated from the Welsh by Susan Walton

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Gwasg Carreg Gwalch

First publication: 2018

© Myrddin ap Dafydd/Carreg Gwalch 2018

© English translation: Susan Walton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the authors of the works herein.

ebook ISBN: 9781845244040

Soft back ISBN: 9781845276782

Published with the financial support of the Books Council of Wales

Cover design: Eleri Owen

Published by Gwasg Carreg Gwalch, 12 Iard yr Orsaf, Llanrwst, Wales LL26 0EH

tel: [phone]

email: [e-mail]

website: www.carreg-gwalch.cymru

Printed and published in Wales

Dedicated in grateful remembrance of Lydia Hughes (neé Roberts) my first Welsh teacher at Ysgol Dyffryn Conwy, Llanrwst

Prologue

Pwllheli, Summer 2016

Beca arrived in the car park and saw that there were two ambulances and a fire engine there. A ribbon of smoke was rising from the kitchen of the old people’s home. The fire crew’s yellow coats and the green ones of the ambulance personnel bobbed to and fro, criss-crossing each other. She parked beside the exit and started walking briskly through the crowd that was standing about in the car park.

Where was she?

The fire officers were keeping everyone except the officials away from the building’s main entrance. She saw an old boy in a wheelchair being pushed towards one of the ambulances. He looked confused, poor thing. A fire in an old people’s home – who would dream of such a thing.

Beca saw one of the home’s assistants, dressed in blue; Beca knew her by sight – she was a local girl, Welsh-speaking.

Hello, I’m Beca – Megan Richards’ granddaughter.

Of course, I recognise you now. They’re taking everyone to Ysbyty Bryn Beryl. They’ve opened up two wards that were closed to deal with the emergency.

That’s where Nain is?

No, I don’t think she’s gone yet. Those who were bedbound were taken first. Come with me and we’ll see.

Beca followed the blue uniform to a quiet corner of the garden where a row of residents in wheelchairs were lined up.

Well, here she is. Megan! Megan! Someone’s called by to see you!

Nain! Are you all right?

Megan Richards raised her head from the newspaper she was reading. Beca noticed the headline on the front page: ‘Migrant Madness – 3 illegals an hour caught trying to get into Britain.’ Megan Richards looked at the girl as she approached. She assumed a formal smile at first, but when she recognised her granddaughter her eyes lit up.

What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the afternoon? Why aren’t you at work?

Dad phoned to say there was a fire here. He and Mam are on their way. They’ll be here in about three hours.

Well I never did, such a fuss for nothing.

She turned to look at the black smoke.

Something caught fire in the kitchen, did it? asked Beca.

Really, it’s not much of a fire, is it? There aren’t even any flames.

But they have to evacuate the building, just in case.

A load of old nonsense, if you ask me.

How much longer will they be?

We’ll be the last to know, you can depend on that. We’re too old now to be told anything.

I’ll go and ask.

Beca went over to some of the staff of the home who were talking with the fire officers. She made her enquiry and relayed the answer back to her grandmother.

There’s supper in Bryn Beryl for you and then back here by bedtime tonight, that’s what they told me. Everything’s under control.

Of course it is; they control all of us.

You can come with me, Nain.

What do you mean, my dear?

We’ll only be a few hours, won’t we? It’s silly you waiting out here for your turn. Even though it’s still August, there’s a chill in the air, isn’t there? You can come home with me and I’ll phone later to see when it’s OK to bring you back.

Are you sure?

Absolutely. Give me a minute to fetch your walking frame from that pile over there.

Beca returned with a walking frame labelled ‘MEGAN’.

Are you warm enough, Nain? She looked at a cloth the old lady had across her lap. A red and white and green cloth.

Yes, my dear.

Do you want anything else from your room?

No. We were only allowed to carry one thing out with us.

And what did you choose?

Well, this, of course. Megan Richards fingered the colourful cloth on her lap.

That old rag! Not the picture of me you keep on your little cupboard? You disappoint me, Nain!

Nonsense, the pictures are all in your head when you’re … How old am I now, my dear?

Ninety-two. You don't remember us having a little party …?

I remember that all parties are much of a muchness, that’s all. There are too many other things to remember, you know.

And you chose this rag above everything else. Here we are, here’s my car.

Beca draped the cloth over her arm so she could help her grandmother into her seat.

Do you want this here, or can I put it in the back with the other things?

Here. The old woman grasped the cloth and stroked it with her fingers.

That stuff’s a bit threadbare by now, isn’t it, Nain? Beca said after settling herself in the driver’s seat and fastening both seat belts.

Maybe it is.

The colours are terribly faded.

It’s an ancient object, isn’t it, just like me.

But I bet there’s a story attached to it, isn’t there?

It’s a flag – look. Megan Richards opened the cloth, which bore a pattern of a white cross over a green cross on a red background. And even though it’s old, there’s something in the weave that persists, you know.

Beca started the car and before long they were heading for her terraced house in the town centre.

Pictures, books, all the gold in the world, said Megan, to herself as much as to anyone. They count for nothing in the end. Stories and memories are the true treasures.

And the odd rag like that flag. What would you like for tea, Nain?

Megan turned towards her granddaughter.

D’you know what I fancy more than anything else just now? A custard tart from Gwalia Bakery. Haven’t had one since I don’t know when …

OK, we’ll go down the high street and I’ll see if there’s somewhere to park.

Then we’ll have a spot of tea, and I’ll tell you the story of this flag, Megan Richards promised.

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Part 1

Rhydyclafdy, Llŷn, Wales – Summer 1936

Chapter 1

Megan Richards’ story starts in the village of Rhydyclafdy in Llŷn, in the summer she moved there to live.

Excuse me, could you tell me in which direction the sea is, please? Megan asked.

The old man, who was coming down the road from the chapel, towards the bridge, paused when he heard the question. He turned his head in the direction of the voice. He came one step nearer to the garden wall, placed his hand on its coping, pushed his head forward from his shirt collar and almost imperceptibly turned his ear towards the young girl standing in front of the door.

W … Want to go to the seat, do you, my dear?

No, the SEA. Which direction is it, please?

Oh, the sea … and the old man shook with laughter. He pointed to his left ear. This one doesn’t hear much now, you know. But the other one’s still fine. You’ll have to speak into the one on the right, you see. And … You’re looking for the sea, is it? … On your holidays in Llŷn, are you?

No. We’ve moved here to live.

The old man looked at the terraced house behind her.

Moved to live in Craig Afon? Well, I never. And who are you, then, my dear?

Megan.

And where did you come from?

From Tywyn Bach farm.

‘Tywyn’ you say? That must be by a beach, then – and which beach is that?

Porth Neigwl.

Hmmm. Porth Neigwl, or ‘Hell’s Mouth’ as the English say. And now you’re living here?

Yes. All of us.

And … And who are ‘all of us’? The world and his wife?

Mam and Dad and Robin, my little brother, and my big brother Humphrey too, when his ship comes home.

And when did you move in?

This morning, first thing.

Well, I’m not an early riser these days. I sleep on my good ear, you see. I hear nothing and so I sleep the sleep of the just.

Oh.

And you were asking about the sea?

Yes. Where is it?  There was a slight edge in Megan’s voice now.

And … And asking very politely too, if I may say so. The first time, anyway. Been properly brought up, I see. And who is your mother, I wonder?

Morfudd Huws.

Well, you tell her that I say you speak very nicely. And … And you’ll be wanting to know who I am now, won’t you, so you can tell her. I’m Tom Williams and I live up the road in Bryn Ffynnon. It’s in that terrace over there, you see. And … And who is your dad, then?

Ifan.

Ifan Huws, Tywyn Bach, Porth Neigwl, yes? No, I’m not familiar with that name either. Well there we are, I’ll get to know him bye and bye.

Excuse me – the SEA?

Ah! Of course. And you said your brother Humphrey’s at sea?

I did.

Big ship?

"A steamer – the St Winifred."

And where is he now?

Somewhere between south Wales and Spain and Bordeaux.

Well, I never did! He’s getting to see the world, isn’t he?

And I’d like to see the sea.

Oh, yes, that’s what you said, didn’t you, my dear. Do you want just to see it, or go in it? If you want to go in, go over this bridge and to the left along the school lane. Straight on for two miles or so along the path, and then turn down to the lower part of the village of Llanbedrog, past the Plas and down to the beach. And a very nice beach it is too, but it’s rather far for someone your age … How old are you, by the way?

Eleven. And no, I only want to see it.

Oh, that’s much easier. Over the bridge and up the main road over there in the Pwllheli direction. Past the pub called the Tu-hwnt-i’r-afon and the stables, and a bit further on you’ll see a kissing gate on your right. Through that, and follow the path up that slope that you can see over there. Take care – it’s very steep. Then there’s the bull path going off to the right along that ridge there. You’ll see the sea stretching out in front of you as you walk along it.

Is there a bull?

No, no! It’s only a manner of speaking, my dear! It’s a direct path. Straight as an arrow. Well, there we are, we’ll have to have a chat someday so I can find out about you all. And good day to you for now!

Off Tom Williams went, across the bridge towards the post office and the shop. So, people like this live in Rhydyclafdy, Megan thought to herself. She didn’t linger; she too crossed the bridge and walked on towards the kissing gate.

The old gentleman wasn’t wrong about the steepness of the slope from the floor of the shallow valley to the top of the long hill that was between her and the sea, Megan thought, panting. The path zigzagged between gorse bushes, then the brow of the hill appeared.

Any second now, the girl thought, picking up speed as she reached the level ground at the top. She stopped. She could see a craggy headland to her right with a flat top and a few rocks extending out to the beach. Pwllheli’s houses to the left. Several farms and a row of houses. Mountains in the distance across the bay and the occasional town and beach strung out below them. But there, in the middle, in front of her, moving, choppy, catching the sun and the grey and blue of the sky and weaving them together on its surface – the sea.

She gazed at the horizon. The summer heat had created a haze so that neither the sea nor the sky quite ended, they just lazily merged together.

There were one or two white sails and a few red ones dotted here and there. Summer sailors, maybe, or an old-fashioned fishing boat.

Turning to the right along the ridge of the hill, she followed the ‘bull path’ straight across a field until she reached a gate. She went through that and into the next field. She could see a little village nestling in at the base of the rugged headland and yellow sands fringing the bay. This must be the Llanbedrog that Tom Williams had told her about, thought Megan.

Another view opened up before her eyes now. She had reached the furthest point of the long hill and the land fell away in a steep slope beneath her. A path led down between blackthorn hedges to some wooden huts below, where the land levelled out. In front of them was a wide