“Wait here a minute while I go and square things with Mrs Hopkin,” he said, though something told me she would have little say in the matter, and he pushed through the back door into the house.
I wandered over to one of the barns and poked my head in through the door. It was filled with the smell of fresh hay and manure and I pinched my nose to block it out. A ladder rested against the back wall leading to a second floor, though there was no sign of what might be up there, and the walls were lined with various tools and bits of machinery. I felt sorry for anyone who had to lug all that equipment around. Spending all day in the fields doing manual labour wasn’t the life for me, of that I was sure.
“Come on then,” Mr Hopkin called from behind me. I turned to see him hanging out of the doorframe and staring out at the field, once again avoiding any sort of eye contact, and by the time I reached the door he’d already ducked back inside. I exhaled, nervous about what I was getting into and reminded myself that I would be home soon and that all this would be behind me. I just had to keep on hoping.
The back door needed a good nudge to fully open and it let out a long screech as I pushed through it. Inside the room, a kitchen, cabinets and dressers lined the walls and a long table sat at the centre filled with flour and dough and surrounded by eight chairs. There was a basin on one of the worktops, though no sign of taps or running water or any of the modern appliances I’d come to be used to in my own time.
Behind the table, standing in front of a huge metal stove that was set back into an alcove, seven faces stared back at me, all lined up from oldest to youngest like a somewhat poorer version of the Von Trapps.
“Come on, we don’t bite.” A woman that I assumed to be Mrs Hopkin motioned for me to come further into the room and I walked to the side of the table opposite them and offered a nervous smile. I felt like I was in a board meeting about to be appraised and evaluated, though if I were ever faced with this many solemn-looking faces in a boardroom I would probably assume I was about to be fired. None of them, barring Mrs Hopkin, looked very happy to be there.
Mr Hopkin, having done his job in escorting me there, appeared to lose all interest in the matter and sat himself at the head of the table and brought a newspaper up in front of his face. His wife, a short and plump woman with dark, greying hair, had a warmth about her that everyone else in the house appeared to lack, and continued to smile at me as I looked around.
“Hello, I’m Tom.” I sported my best friendly smile as I raised a hand to wave at them but the children’s faces remained unchanged and unimpressed.
“I’m Mrs Hopkin,” the woman said with another broad smile. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She indicated to the girl on her left, “This is Ellen. We call her Nellie.”
The girl looked to be about 20 and was the oldest of the children. She was dressed all in black with a white apron, her dark hair tied up at the back, and she put me in mind of a maid, or those waitresses you see in themed tea rooms. She was tall like Mr Hopkin, though she appeared to suffer none of his harsh facial features and eventually smiled at me once we were introduced.
“This is Elizabeth,” Mrs Hopkin continued, “and we call her Betty. She’s sixteen.” The young girl smiled, then blushed, then dropped her eyes down to the ground in apparent shyness as she clasped her hands together in front of her.
“That there is Edward, otherwise known as Teddy. He’s fifteen and our little labourer. Helps his dad out on the farm, he does.” The young boy looked at me wholly unimpressed then folded his arms defiantly and pursed his lips into a frown. I gave him a slight nod of the head as a greeting but he immediately cast his glance sideways.
“And on the end there we’ve got the twins, Sophia and Howell.” Sophia smiled at me curiously, a cheeky twinkle in her eye as she sized me up, but Howell kept his eyes low, obviously wary of the stranger who’d found his way into his home. Each of the twins seemed to have developed one or the other parent's genes, with Sophia being short and somewhat plump, just like her mother, while Howell towered several inches above her, tall like his father and stern-faced.
“And what do they call you then, little man?” I asked, given that nobody in the house appeared to use their actual names.
“Howell,” he said, as though I’d asked the most absurd question ever put to him. Nellie and Betty both began to laugh and Mr Hopkin shot them a look that made them stop and straighten up again.
“And how old are you two?”
Sophia stepped forward and crossed her arms on the edge of the table, leaning in as she spoke. “We’re ten and Mam says we have to speak English to you, but that’s alright because we have to speak it in school anyway and Mam says it would be rude to speak Welsh if you can’t understand what we’re saying about you.”
“That’s not quite what I said,” her mother replied, looking a tad embarrassed. “Right, you lot, back to your jobs and let the young man sit down. I’ll get us some drinks.”
Nellie, the eldest daughter, took a seat at the table while her siblings filed out into other areas of the house. I followed her lead and sat opposite her and watched as she began to work the flour on the table.
“So, what do you do?” I asked, trying to strike some conversation.
“She’s our big achiever.” Mrs Hopkin beamed with pride as she set some glasses and a jug down on the table. “Got herself a job at the post office after only one application.”
“I’m just a junior postmistress,” Nellie interjected with an embarrassed smile. Her voice was soft but filled with confidence and she had less of an accent than the rest of her family. “I’d rather have liked to train to become a nurse, but…” she trailed off, and both she and her father cast awkward glances at one another.
“You won’t be a junior for long my love,” Mrs Hopkin said, taking a seat beside her.
They both talked as they worked the flour, turning it into a dough with barely a look down at what they were doing and then kneading it into loaves. They must have done it hundreds of times over the years and they made it look easy. I couldn't recall ever making bread. Our loaves always came ready-made and sliced. I’d never considered how much of a luxury that was.
“John tells me you’re from London, Tom. Do you work?”
“I do,” I said. “I work for a publisher in Cambridge.” I stopped short of telling them I owned the business or arguing about the location.
“Fancy. And what brings you to Cwm Newydd?”
I paused to consider what to say next. The truth was out of the question and I obviously had no real business in being there so I was forced to make something up. “I was on my way to see family,” I lied, “but we stopped for some air and I wandered off and got lost. It was dark and I walked for a few miles before eventually falling asleep in Mair’s field.”
I hoped it would be convincing enough to avoid further interrogation but they both looked as though they thought I might be simple.
“That’s very… unfortunate,” Mrs Hopkin said after a moment and Nellie’s mouth curled into a smirk that she tried to contain. They definitely thought I was stupid.