“John!” Mrs Hopkin looked deeply upset by his comment but he didn’t turn to acknowledge it. He took a big gulp of the whiskey from his glass, slammed it down on the table and then stood, tucked the bottle under his arm and stormed out of the room.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Nellie asked as she crossed his path entering the kitchen, but she didn’t wait for or expect an answer. “Are you able to stay long?” she asked Gethin as she took a seat opposite us.
“I’m afraid not, darling. School tomorrow.”
Gethin’s job as a teacher meant that we didn’t see much of him throughout the week. He lived a few miles away in the next village and worked in a school that was even further afield but he was hoping to move to Cwm Newydd once he and Nellie were married in the spring and would then commute until a post opened up in the village school.
Aside from the Morgan’s, he was the only person I’d come into contact with in the village who showed any sign of having a significant amount of money, and he travelled back and forth in his very own small carriage. I couldn’t quite understand why he wanted to move here but until they were married Nellie had to suffice with infrequent visits.
“Are you ok, Mrs Hopkin?” I said as she came to sit with us at the table. Her husband's words about their son seemed to have upset her more than I think any of us realised they would and she leaned on the table with her head in her hands.
“Nan, finish those potatoes,” Nellie commanded. Her sister rose from her chair with a sulk but didn’t protest.
“Can we get you anything, Mrs Hopkin?” Gethin asked.
“I’ll be alright,” she said, mustering a smile, “I just need five minutes. Tom, could you be a dear and go and ask Mr Hopkin for the key to the coal shed?”
I got up from the table with a nod and made my way across the kitchen and into the sitting room. With no sign of Mr Hopkin, I went through the passage, past the front door which I’d still yet to see ever be used, and up the stairs to the second floor.
I’d been staying at the farm for nearly a month and in all that time I’d never ventured upstairs. In fact, I’d only ever been beyond the kitchen into the sitting room one time. Despite having more space in their house than most people in the village, the Hopkin’s seemed to live entirely in the kitchen.
The stairs creaked and groaned as I climbed them and I had to be extra careful not to lose my balance on the steep, thin-cut steps. At the top I was faced with three doors, each leading off to different bedrooms that I assumed were distributed between the sons, daughters and parents. At full capacity there would be nine people living here, and even though it was bigger than most of the other houses in the village I still found it hard to believe that they could fit everyone in.
“Mr Jacob?” I called out, not sure which room he might be in. I waited for a moment and the door to my left creaked open and Sophia poked her head out.
“He’s in there,” she whispered. She pointed to the door on the other side of the stairway and then brought her finger up to her lips indicating silence. “He’s sad.”
“Thank you”, I whispered back to her and she closed the door again.
“Mr Jacob,” I said again, knocking on the door Sophia had pointed to. I reached for the doorknob, turning it gently in case he was asleep, and pushed my head through the opening. Staring straight back at me, Mr Jacob sat in an armchair at the bottom of the room next to the window. He motioned with the bottle of whiskey for me to come in, and I edged into the room.
I came to a stop beside the bed and stared out of the window at the view down over the village. Rain was coming down against the glass but the sun still managed to peek through the clouds, casting a golden shimmery hue over the fields as it began to set. It was quite a spectacular view and I couldn’t imagine there were many better ones in the village.
“Mrs Hopkin needs the key for the coal shed,” I said. I eyed up the bottle he was cradling. In the short time he’d been gone he’d already drunk more than half of it.
“She thinks I don’t care,” he said then took another swig, his monotonous tone unchanging despite the alcohol.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied.
“I’m not a cold man, Thomas. I care very much.”
“Do you want me to go and get Mrs Hopkin?” I asked, unsure what to do.
A silence filled the air between us as we both contemplated what to say next. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded weak. “I just want him to come home.” He lifted the bottle and took another swig then shifted his gaze to the wall behind me. “Why won’t he come home?”
I turned to follow his stare and saw, hanging over the bed, an old black and white framed photograph of Mr and Mrs Hopkin surrounded by their children. Something about it was immediately puzzling to me and I could feel my brow furrow as I tried to work it out.
I crooked my head and took a curious step forward as my eyes darted between the solemn-looking faces of the Hopkin family. It took a second for my brain to register exactly what I was seeing and I wasn’t sure I even believed my own eyes at first, but there, standing proudly at the back of the photograph with his hand on Mrs Hopkin’s shoulder, my father stared back at me.