The Meifod Claw

One

One

Mornings pressed hardest upon Derek – chiefly the difficulty of remaining warm. Having dragged his bed to sit opposite the Aga in the kitchen, he found himself with an increasing desire to stock the wood burner and remain in bed for great periods of his days. These periods ran to weeks, and Derek wondered if he might have been forgotten to the world entirely. Some days he thought that was the case and others not, but regardless, the white-capped hilltops of North Wales bore down hard upon the man whose needs were the oils and vigour of summer.

With effort and a heave, Derek yanked his left leg to meet his right over the edge of his bed. He breathed heavily, slowly, deeply, down beyond the ridge of his great beard, where one hundred thousand serpentine hairs wove themselves into his woolly jumper. He waited for the morning to find pathways through his body, and in half-pained twitches and contortions, life began to move inside him again until it coursed with great pressure into the fibres behind his eye, and with a start, he stood heavy upon his slight frame. Throughout the kitchen there was stillness.

He looked across and saw the kitchen windows that opened into the courtyard were thick with condensation and bites of frost, while the worktops were littered with the flora and fauna of one hundred days of winter. Gloves, glasses, papers and tools, everything reflected upon the chrome kettle that sat on the hob of the Aga. Derek thought he had found himself within a snow dome that waited for life to be shaken upon it. Not that he even liked to be shaken any more, and so today Derek simply held himself upright as best he could and imagined the chances of him not being mad.

Herbert and Benjamin weren’t coming, he concluded. Of course they weren’t; he was too old and they were both too young to recognise folly. That’s why he hadn’t heard from them in over a month. Perhaps it was two months, he thought.

A fold in his left knee sent Derek craning over then, and with a half-fall, he twisted into his wheelchair and caught his breath slowly in careful measures.

Once again there was stillness.

‘Plots and schemes are not plans,’ he told himself quietly and at once felt alone, old and a fool.

By chance then he heard a vibration.

He looked up and peered towards the windows as a single pane danced with irritated jolts inside its frame. A dense sound of humming followed and then the sharp bang of a door closing. The postman, he guessed. Boots stepped onto fresh snow outside with a sweet crackling compression in every step. Then in two groans, the wooden kitchen door banged to attention, and within an hour, Derek was sitting on a chair, taking considered pulls upon a joint while five open boxes sat on a rectangular table next to him. Three of these boxes contained a multitude of provisions – enough for several weeks of careful consumption. Another contained a letter and a highly wrapped plastic container of ready-ground cannabis. The last box contained an item that he began to stare at while he rolled up another paper. It held a coil of copper with two wires running through it that led into a plug. He smiled a little and pulled on his beard. If the letter he had been given would reveal the object’s purpose, it would be all the more satisfying still for him to figure it out himself, he reasoned. After all, he had been, without certification, trained as a mechanic in his early years, flirting with motorbikes before he settled into engine rooms at sea. Somewhere between his knowledge and his tales had always been the truth – to everything.

Carefully, he placed what remained of his joint onto the rim of an ashtray and pulled again on his beard while his studious eyes pondered the coil. He blew a lungful of smoke onto the object and was equally amused and disappointed that this approach had failed to entice the object to life. Reaching for the letter, he took another pull and unfolded the A4 piece of paper before reading.

Derek,

A delay in our plans . . . and my apologies . . . it really is one thing or another, isn’t it? Hope these parcels will see you through till we arrive. What’s that about the coil, you say, Uncle? Ben’s gift. Plug her in and tell your regional electrical provider to swivel. Sure you’re enjoying the smokes already – sent you thrice the ounce.

Anyways, we’ll both be with you by two weeks Sunday.

Much to do then.

Much to do before then.

See you soon, lots of love, cluck-cluck,

Herbert xx

PS! Benjamin urges you to unplug all appliances in the vicinity that you do not want running when you plug in that gift. That thing runs hot!

Otherwise have a safe and pleasant journey.

See you soon, Uncle.

Derek placed the letter down, took the coil and plugged it into the nearest socket. Immediately, both overhead light bulbs fired to life and burst. The microwave started but was drowned out by the sound of Jim Croce blaring sentiment from the radio.

Derek stared into the distance. Herbert would be with him by two weeks this Sunday.

So what day of the week did that make today?

Derek thought on that for the rest of the morning.