A Night In Annwn. Owen Jones

you have to be so disgustingly graphic? I haven’t got two pairs of hands, you know! I had to clean up after poor old Kiddy because you were too ‘tired’ to let her out, and this place was too filthy to eat anything out of.

      “And you really ought to take more care of yourself”, she said turning and looking him up and down. “You look a complete mess”.

      William Jones was standing before her in his pyjama bottoms without any slippers. His half a head of white hair was sticking up at all angles and the muscles in his face looked as if they were still asleep. A whiff of his breath as he spoke revealed that she had been right about the whisky nightcaps – probably enough for a full headdress.

      “Why don’t you brush your teeth and swill some water over your face to wake yourself up?”

      “I don’t need any lectures on personal hygiene from you, thank you very much. I have my own routines, established over sixty years and they have always been good enough. I won’t be changing them now, not for you nor anyone else. Your dear old mother never complained and her standards are good enough for me.

      “Anyway, if you must know the ins and outs of a cat’s arse, I was just on my way to use the lavvy. So, if you’ll excuse me…”

      He went outside. He had always washed under the outside tap unless there was snow or ice on the ground, and a shower or a bath were still once-a-week, special occasions.

      She dried her hands on a tea towel, filled the kettle, lit the gas under it, dropped three teabags into the teapot, after checking that it was empty, and went back to the dishes.

      “Go and put some clothes on, Da”, she prompted him when he came back in and reached for the towel hanging on a hook behind the back door. “I’ll make us some toast and the tea will be brewed by then. Go on now, and don’t take too long about it”.

      She warmed the pot, put the teabags in and poured the water onto them, then she pulled the plug from the sink and lit the grill. She had brought her own food as she usually did, because William rarely made it to the shops, and the inside of his fridge was an offence against decency. She would have to tackle it later, but she wanted to have had her breakfast first.

      As the grill was warming up, she remembered the dog, and put the scraps she had brought into her bowl. There would probably be a half-opened, half-used, dried-up tin of dog food in the fridge, but that would have to wait and Kiddy deserved a treat from time to time.

      Just before she heard her father starting to come downstairs, she shook the tablecloth outside the front door, replaced it with a new one and laid the breakfast out.

      “See, you can look nice when you want to, Da”.

      “No-one’s going to see me, so what does it matter? You didn’t put any beer with that melted cheese”.

      “No, you get through enough beer during the day without having to have it for breakfast as well”.

      “Beer in cheese is not like drinking beer, it’s traditional. Welsh Rarebit, that is. It’s a centuries-old Welsh custom, but you likes your melted cheese the English way, without beer”.

      “One day, you will just be grateful, and the shock will be so much that I’ll keel over and go to join Mum on the mountains out the back. Parents complain that children are ungrateful, but old people, or you anyway, are much worse”.

      “I’m sorry, Becky” he said looking up at her. “I do appreciate everything you do for me, really I do… It’s just that old people become set in their ways. My mother, may God rest her Soul, always put beer in the melted cheese for my old Dad, and your mother always did it for me. After sixty years of cheese and beer on toast, you becomes set in your ways. You can see that, can’t you?”

      “Yes, Da, now will you please shut up about the bloody beer!”

      “Ooh! Language, Becky! Your mother would not abide foul language in the house and nether will I in her honour! That’s another nasty habit you picked up in that English college”.

      “No, it isn’t! I get that from you”.

      William wasn’t sure whether that was true or not, but decided not to argue. “It’s a lovely drop of tea, and the cheese is a nice change, if we only ‘as it like this once in a while”, he said.

      “The truth is, I knew there was probably beer in the fridge, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in there until after I had eaten”.

      Her father laughed. “Now that I can understand! I don’t like going in there myself… especially if it’s dark. You don’t know what might be lurking in there. Something might bite your hand off!” and he made a grab for one of her hands.

      She pulled it back in time joining in the fun.

      “Why do you live like this, Da? There’s no need for it, is there? You talk about tradition, but Mum used to keep this house spotless. It was her pride and joy, but I bet she’d be too ashamed to set foot in it now”.

      “Well, that’s where you are wrong, Miss Smarty-Pants with your English college education. I often sit and talk to your mother within these walls”.

      “I know, Dad, but I bet she’s often shaking her head at the state you allow the place to get into. It stank like a cesspit this morning… beer, whisky, dog’s mess and old rotting food. It nearly made me sick!”

      “I’m sorry, I do know that I let the place go too far sometimes. There is just no incentive any longer though. I try sometimes, I really do. The will power is just not there anymore, I suppose”.

      “Why don’t you come and stay with us? We would love to have you and we have asked you many times. This place is too big for one man alone, especially one like you who has never had to run a household for himself. You’re not up to it, Dad, what with your rheumatism, your bad back, and swollen feet”.

      “You make me sound fit for the knackers yard. Look, I know you have, you have all been very kind, but I cannot leave this house. There are too many people and memories here for me and old Kiddy. Anyways, if we moved out, your mother would be here all alone”.

      “I know you believe that, Dad, but I think that if there are ghosts, and I don’t see why there shouldn’t be, then they can go where they like. They won’t be tied to one location”.

      “Well, I am not so sure. You often hear of a spot or house being haunted, don’t you? Now I’m not one for emotive language like haunting and such like, but I think that ghosts, like people, become attached to one place and stay there”.

      “But why would they become attached? It doesn’t make any sense”.

      “Yes, it does when you thinks about it. We with a body become attached to friends, family and our property. If I died tomorrow, it doesn’t mean that you would go and live in Zimbabwe, does it? If a meteor came crashing down on this old farm, I wouldn’t up sticks and move to Scotland, would I?

      “No, of course not. I am emotionally attached to this place. I stay here and if I have to go away for a while, I come back. So do ninety percent of other people. It’s only the weird expats who move away for a long time and most of them die at home too. You take it from me that ghosts, or people without bodies, do things for the same reasons as those with bodies”.

      “Have you actually seen Mum and spoken to her face to face?”

      “That’s a very difficult question to answer, my dear. I was talking to you this morning, but you had your back to me and couldn’t see me. However, that didn’t prevent you from knowing that it was me behind you, did it? In answer to your question though, I have never seen her as I am looking at you now, or had a conversation like this. I think that I have caught glimpses of her though, like when the telly’s on the blink and I hear her voice in my head”.

      “You see Mum on the TV? I’ve seen that in films, but I’ve never heard of it happening in real life. Are you sure?”

      “No, I didn’t