From Tales of Wales
Aunt Lizzie was no giant of a woman but enclosed in her well rounded frame-one which had effortlessly borne nine children in as many years-there was a remarkable source of explosive energy. Much of this energy was utilised in her kitchen, a workshop and centre of a little world which lay inside the boundaries of the broad Maesyfelin farm. From inside this domestic powerhouse there often came a discordant clatter that repeatedly disturbed the tranquility of the lazy farmyard. Her oversized wooden clogs rattled like jack hammers on the cobble stones as she scurried in and out of her kitchen busily attending to her many duties. Each abrupt intrusion into the yard startled the restless hens who took to the air in a frenzy of dust and feathers.This unsettled the lazy sheepdogs who crept away to seek calmer havens.The explosive redistribution of the farm’s domestic animals occurred many times a day and it was only the pet lamb Myfanwy who remained unperturbed and continued to trot devotedly behind her. Mafanwy, a sickly orphan of the previous winter, had been reared by Aunt Lizzie at the back door to her kitchen.
Aunt Lizzie, a good natured farm wife, toiled harder and longer than any one else on the farm. The first thing one noticed about her, other than her strength of character, was the power of her voice. Its ringing tones which could be distinctly heard on distant farms dotting the surrounding hills, were employed to persuade the cattle to return to base for morning and afternoon milking sessions. Never in Maesyfelin was there a need to struggle to distant pastures. The docile beasts readily responded, as mariners did to the siren call, and shuffled homewards towards the comfort of the milking sheds.
Tuesday was known on the farm as ‘Dydd Cawl Newydd’ because Tuesday was the day when the traditional Welsh dish ‘Cawl’ was served. In its simplest form, cawl was no more than mutton soup but as all cawl aficionados well knew, there was much more to it than that. It bore no standard method of manufacture or recognised lists of ingredients and most of Ceridigion's cawl chefs were reluctant to divulge their recipes. But for all that it was regarded as a dish of considerable delicacy by the inmates of Maesyfelin. One could be forgiven for speculating that mutton soup served in a fashionable restaurant would have offered little appeal to its sophisticated diners. But in contrast, the aroma from a single bowl of the ’devil’s broth’ brewed by Aunt Lizzie would have had the establishment heaving with diners baying for second helpings.
The production process was a long one and work began the previous day. On Monday morning a large joint of fatty mutton was selected and committed to a cauldron of boiling water. The joint was allowed to simmer the whole day, cooled over night and the fat layer removed next morning.This offered the base to which Aunt Lizzie applied her culinary magic-a magic which was the subject of much good humoured speculation in local pubs.There they claimed that any mortal who made cawl as exquisite as that produced by Aunt Lizzie was obviously in league with the devil. This, of course, was discounted by those who new her for a God fearing woman who frequently read one or the other of the farm’s three large family bibles which together weighed, at least, half a hundredweight. Another mitigating factor in her defence was the omnipotent prescence of Uncle Dai, a part time preacher lay preacher, whose anaesthetic sermons invariably installed a sense of anodyne vacuity within his inattentive congregations. He, more than anyone, would have detected the presence of evil and driven it out of the shadowy corners of gloomy Maesyfelin farm.
Midday Tuesday, Aunt Lizzie's voice spanned the broad fields to call her hungry toilers to lunch.This was a remarkable achievement for Maesyfelin, as part of the war effort, was assembled from many small farms cobbled together to make a major food production unit. It was big and consisted of several thousand acres on which Uncle Dai grew corn, roots and many tons of potatoes as well as fodder for his livestock.To achieve this, he employed many workers who came from all walks of life. Aunt Lizzie reigned supreme in house and kitchen and dealt with poultry and sickly livestock which were temporarily based in the vicinity of the farmyard. Ceinwen, a statuesque red headed landgirl from Swansea, worshipped by men, tumbled and laboured enthusiastically in the fields with farmhands Tom, Gwyno, Euros, little Luigui the prisoner of war and any others who came her way. Their number and Ceinwen’s sphere of interest was augmented from time to time by the employment of casual workers arriving at Aunt Lizzie’s back door. She astutely interviewed this mixed bunch of itinerants and rarely let a ‘wrong one’ into the fold. With such an army to feed, her role was pivotal to the productivity of the farm and her main priority was always to “fill all bellies with good warm wholesome grub”.
Tuesday was her favourite day and she dressed herself in a plum red skirt, long and tight enough to impede her rapid movements and exaggerate her generous form. Her humour was at its peak and she enjoyed saucy but harmless banter with the men while, at the same time, scolding them for delaying the meal. Her jet black hair was tied back with a wide white ribbon and her face shone with a scrubbed cleanliness. The plum red skirt was protected by an attractive starched pinafore and supported by a silver band which encircled her body just below her lively and provocative breasts. She was the centre of attention and-what was more important to her-complete in command. The world was her stage and she, well aware of the attention afforded her, responded with her very best performance.
A pine table with benches, enough for sixteen people, stood on the terrace which extended from her kitchen door. This was separated from the yard by a short run of steep steps designed to prevent animals from disturbing mealtimes. On the one side was the orchard from which fugitive trees had invaded the terrace and which, partially filtering the sun, deposited textured patterns on the terrace surface. To the right of the terrace stood three majestic elms that dwarfed the house. These towering columns were noisy home and playground to many birds who chattered, sang and scolded each other from dawn to dusk. On a more sinister note, it was also the launching pad for predatory crows who fancied the taste of a young chick or two.
At midday, the long table was set with well worn bowls expertly turned from beach wood by a long gone village craftsman. Along side the bowls were placed a mismatch of wooden spoons and crude knives.The knives had been a prize purchase by a young Aunt Lizzie from an old Irish tinker who many years previously had called at her back door.The only other items on the table were three massive earthenware jugs of sparkling spring water, a set of plain drinking glasses and a large wooden platter of freshly baked bread accompanied by a pat of salty yellow butter. When all were expectantly seated, Aunt Lizzie burst out of her workshop and a little impeded by the clinging restriction of her tight skirt, moved with a series of staccato like steps towards the table. She carried a steaming black cauldron which, with a triumphant swagger, she heaved onto the table with a resounding crash. A little of its potent contents splashed on to the table, the air was filled with a mouth watering aroma and all eyes turned turned towards Uncle Dai willing him to to get on with it and get grace over as soon as possible. They knew well that he, usually a man of few words, could become a veritable Christmas Evans on such ocassions. Previous experience had convinced them that he favoured quantity over quality in respect of his sacramental deliveries and a simple lunchtime grace could easily evolve into an extensive exploration of the Good Book. But Aunt Lizzie always insisted that it did little harm for he was doing nothing more than testing the trickier passages of his next sermon. However on this occasion, the will of the convocation was recognised, the grace was gracious and proceedings were allowed to start with little delay.
The almost clear broth, seperated from the brew, was ladled into wooden bowls and quickly dispatched with thick slices of home made bread smeared with salted butter.Then Aunt Lizzie heaped the steaming vegetables onto the plates. From that moment all conversation dried up and the only sounds evident were the clicking of Uncle Dai’s ill fitting dentures and murmers of genuing appreceation. Aunt Lizzie ate nothing but stood at the head of the table in absolute command. There she responded to the needs of the hungry horde. She did not leave that post because she believed that a captain’s place was on the bridge where decisions were to be made and commands delegated. But her only real act of delegation was to appoint myself, as the youngest diner, to fetch and carry for the rest of the meal. This was not a difficult task for her healthy fourteen year old nephew but from that moment my meal was constantly interrupted by the stream of commands that flowed from their hyperactive source. “Giraldus will you fetch……. Giraldus will you take……” and so on…on, and so on.
The meal progressed towards its conclusion and everyone seemed contented, even mellowed by the good food. Some, in busy conversation, left the table and ambled along the yard to return to their tasks. But at the lower end of the table Ceinwen, Tom and Luigi were engaged in vigorous argument which contrasted with and threatened to spoil the congenial atmosphere. Then things took an ugly turn when a squeal of pain from Ceinwen was accompanied by the clatter of raised voices from that corner. The powerful Tom was standing menacingly over the diminutive Luigi and looked as if he was about to launch an attack. However, Aunt Lizzie, quickly intervened and before a blow was struck, she separated the men before chastising the lightly wounded Ceinwen for acting her familiar role as tempress. Ceinwen, who was well used to Luigi’s deft groping, normally absorbed his explorations in silence but on this occasion the attack had taken her by surprise and had been a little more ferocious than usual. It had hurt and she was in no mood to accept a lecture from Aunt Lizzie or anyone else for that matter. She swung around to face her opponent with eyes blazing and ready to do battle. In her rich contralto tones she began a scandalous salvo of invective,
“Now listen you me you interfeering old busybody. I can take care of my self and if I ddn’t want Luigi to goose me then I would n’t let him. Anway it is only good….. “
Her adversary and rival, in their a male dominated little world, stood firm with hands pivoted on her hips. With her face rouge red with anger, she silenced the outburst with, what could only be described as a bellow followed by a bewildering flow of words. An outflow which became more and more indiscernible as the pace of delivery and degree of pitch increased. When Aunt Lizzie ”lost her rag’ she dominated conversations and Ceinwen soon realised that there was no way in which she could edge her way back into such a flow of verbiage. She stood there as silent as the startled spectators who were scattered in small groups around the yard. It was not the first time that they had been witness to a battle between the collosusses of Maesyfelin and had enjoyed every minute of their previous tussles.This time, however, there was only disappointment for them when Ceinwen with head bowed failed to reply as Aunt Lizzie’s voice trailed into silence.There was a simple reason for this and all present knew of it. Ceinwen, a bold and hot spirited girl who could hold her own with any one else on the farm, was very aware of the supreme power that Uncle Dai had conferred upon his wife. He, devoid of the skills needed to communicate with those with their feet firmly planted in this world, had delegated all administrative duties to her. She, beeing the pragmatist she was, took her duties seriously and applied them fairly but ruthelessly. Though much of what Ceinwen had heard was indiscernible one thing was clear to her- her boss was on the verge of sacking her and had the absolute right to do so. This she did not want. What she wanted was to stay in the company of Tom and Luigi and the many others with whom she tumbled hehind the thick hedges that seperated Maesyfelin’s innocent meadows.
Recovering her composure, Aunt Lizzie with steel in her voice closed the episode with a mild rebuke. She knew Uncle Dai to be a gentle caring man who could be very upset by any staffing unpleasantary. She also realised that like all male encumbents on the farm, he had fallen victim to the redhead’s enchantment. An aggrieved appeal to him from the devious girl could be of grave embarrassment to her, especially if it was to be successful. She could ill afford to loose a single battle of the long war between them and concluded that her easiest course was to bring the episode to a gentle face saving close.
“If there is going to be anymore trouble” she lamely threatened. “I shall have to treat you in the same way as I did my kids in their early days. See if you would like to eat your meals on your own on separate tables at the bottom end of the yard. Any more trouble and that’s what you’ll do.”
A broad smile replaced the scowl that had latterly disfigured Ceinwen's handsome features but, somewhat chastened, the little group offered hurried apologies to Aunt Lizzie and disappeared through the kissing gate that lead down into long meadow. Aunt Lizzie walked with them for part of the way, gesticulating wildly, and was still bristling with indication when she returned to my side. With hands anchored on her hips, feet wide appart, she stood watching the little group as they crossed the paddock adjoining the yard. Then without warning she gave me a sharp dig in the ribs and with passion cried out,
“Ufern Diawl Giraldus. Do you see what that redead is doing. Hasn’t she got any shame”
With obvious disgust she turned her back on all of them, and with a vigorous shake of her head, retreated into the sanity of her powerhouse. Slightly startled, I turned to gaze at the last two figures on the trail to the fields and was amused to see that Ceinwen had one hand snugly tucked down the back of Tom’s trousers-passing Luigi’s message on I thought. But Aunt Lizzie had not finished and was soon back to continue her grumbles about her challenger but in a more objective way,
“There is going to be lots of trouble with that over sexed landgirl and one day she’ll get more than she bargained for. Playing that hot blooded Italian against Tom is a dangerous game-what with Tom and that temper of his!”To this she added with a snort,
“That greasy little Luigi does not help by pinching every bottom that comes within range of his twitching fingers. I can’t see what she sees in him. Though I suppose she’s a tart through and through and nothing willchange that”
She stopped her work,turned her attention to me and continued,
“Did you know that he tried it with me when he first came here! Only once mind you. Never a second time for I gave him such a whack with the washing ladle he had a lump like an egg on the head and was crosseyed for a month.” Then she fixed me with her penetrating blue eyes and offered me some advice,
“Keep well away from her my lad! She’ll drop her land army pants for anyone and has a great taste for the young ones. So be warned! She could swallow you up whole and spit you out in bubbles! ”
I was still trapped within that period where I blushed for the slightest of reasons and on hearing her graphical description of rustic seduction, I glowed like a sugar beet on a frosty morning. Though young and without experience of the world I was just entering, I knew why Aunt Lizzie had grown to dislike Ceinwen intensely from the moment of her arrival at the farm. She hated the ease with which she could turn a man’s head and the way she exploited every feminine trick in her feline armoury to attract, tease and trap her prey. Aunt Lizzie, still a very attractive lady, was profoundly jealous of the haughty landgirl who took all and gave little in return. It could be argued that she had good reason to regard her as a dangerous rival since, prior to her appearance, Aunt Lizzie enjoyed the undivided attention of a dozens of men embedded in the monastic state of Maesyfelin. She, queen of all she surveyed, was not going to allow any woman to take that away from her. The two contending ladies, though a generation appart, were similar in so many respects but despite the guile of the landarmy lass, I knew that if open warfare was to be declared, Aunt Lizzie would be the clear winner.
By then he terrace was deserted, save for a few panting dogs and one or two sly cats searching for discarded scraps beneath the scattered benches. We busied ourselves clearing the table and prepared for what she called “Y Golchi fawr,” But prior to this herculean task she stepped forward with one of her staccato movements, wrapped her strong arms around me and crushed me to her lithe body with its odorous blend of cawl camphor and rose water-all of which which failed to disguise the overbaring proximity of good honest stale sweat. This was the second time that I reddened like a beet on a frosty morning and all in the matter of a few minutes. To save my blushes I dashed into the anonymity of the dark kitchen where they soon were forgotten when I saw the pile of dirty dishes awaiting my attention . Then I knew exactly what Aunt Lizzie had meant when she uttered the phrase, “Y Golchi Fawr”.
