MORNING SERIAL

“IOLA, be ti’n gneud?” asks Efa, standing in the doorway of the room now, seeing all the piles of papers I’m making. Her voice is far away.

“Where is he?” I ask her. “Where is our dad?”

Efa’s quiet. She’s looking at her hands. She comes to sit down. She sits there a long time. Thinking of what to say. I’m holding the postcards like a shield between us. My sister lied to me. Efa lied.

“All Nain would say was ‘He’s left us, love. He’s left us.’” she says after a long while. “It wasn’t until later she told me our dad was ill.”

I sit on our sofa, next to her, listening for more.

“It was a few years before we began to visit him on a Friday. I don’t know why Nain decided to take me. I remember we just went, and Nain didn’t say where we were going. He was in Llanfairfechan, on a ward there, with four other men.” She half smiles, but it’s a sad, scared smile, “When we walked in, I could tell Nain’d been there before. She just walked straight across the ward, sat herself down by his bed, and got her embroidery out of her bag. I remember she was doing this little pink pattern with flowers on it.” Efa’s voice crumples like burning paper. I don’t understand. What does she mean sick? What does she mean? I just wait for more.

“I remember those flowers, they were so perfect.” You can hear the crossness in Efa’s voice. So cross it’s like the smell of burning. It makes you want to leave the room.

“It took me a minute to realise it was Dad. He sat there on the bed, and watched television as if we weren’t there. He looked the same, but less thin. But he wasn’t there, Iola.” Her voice cuts off. Because she’s crying. Efa’s crying.

“He wasn’t there.” She’s sobbing. Efa? “I tried to hold his hand, but he wouldn’t hold back.” She stops again. Watching her. I think it, for the first time ever, Efa had been quite young back then. Just a kid like me.

“We went every Friday, when you were at school. Sometimes I remember he’d look at me, and it was as if he’d seen me somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember.”