MORNING SERIAL

AN HOUR or so passed. The bar was fuller, but still appeared empty as if it was waiting for the Cattlemen’s Convention to roll up. I kept the bar and its attendant in my sight. It was early evening when Haf was relieved. She checked out her till. I checked her out as she said her goodbyes and exited via the servants’ quarters. At least I presumed that’s what the door at the side of the bar was. I followed as discreetly as I could, and into the car park behind the hotel.

She walked over to a dented Renault with red trim and the puckered look of a veteran boxer, and the name of a Muse. I moved a hundred yards behind her as she searched in her pocket. The rain was back but softer now. It made water droplets glisten in her black hair. The hair was jagged, off her neck, and spiky on top, fuller on the side, an ugly frame that still couldn’t spoil her face, though one that seemed more fatigued than her age deserved. She wore jeans and a shapeless red Puffa jacket and she cursed as she scrabbled for the car keys. I moved closer. She turned the keys in the lock and opened the door and looked up to see me at the passenger side. I was afraid I might startle her but she said “Hello” even before I did, and told me to get in. So I did the same.

She ran her fingers briskly through her hair to shake out the drops that had clung to the thick, short strands. She gave me a long inquiring look. I seemed to be attracting a lot of those lately. She saw my bruised face and my puffy eyes, and said nothing But I was not being dismissed. What I saw was how lovely she was. More Bran than me. I stayed silent. Her mouth was turned down at its corners. More me than Bran. I wanted to hold her, to kiss that pursed mouth’s hurt away and tell her I was sorry. She could see that anyway, and I was no longer being thoughtfully silent, just struck dumb. She fired up the damp cold car at the third attempt and we jerked out of the car park onto the empty road to the south.

I asked where we were going. She said, “Home”, as if she meant it. I was all for that.

> The Crossing by Dai Smith is published by Parthian in the Modern Wales series www.parthianbooks.com

CONTINUES TOMORROW