Not my People

Not my People

A short (fictional) story

The tail back was from the village of Llanfarian to Rhydyfelin. Roadworks again in this non descript village 'ar y bont'. Walking passed the little kings and queens parked up on their thrones, twitching for the stop sign to turn to go, their attention turns to a man in bright blue trousers "Is he French or a Docker, perhaps?" "Hey, stop gawking" shouted the middle aged man with no hair and shuffling, old farmer's gait. "If I had tits and arse then fair enough but I'm not asking for it am I?" Everyday Sexism. Don't look. Just keep your knuckles flexed white on the steering wheel and your CO2 emissions locked on high. Who was the self conscious guy in sun glasses and azure blue trews? He was a towny all right. He'd be a Hipster if he had hair and was twenty years younger. The reality was that nobody had looked at him and that's the way he liked it. Please pretend that I don't exist. You won't have to pretend too hard. He'd got a reluctant "all right" from the Postman and that was 'feat' enough. Those masters of passive-aggression. The men that hate all other men. "Mae fe'n boeth heddiw" thought Bryn, because despite the best efforts of the 'mewn-lifiad' he still thought in Welsh. They can take my tongue away from me but they can't take my  thoughts. That's why he wore shades, even inside on Christmas Day. He didn't want anyone to read his mind. So what was he thinking today? Planning his escape as usual, thinking that being somewhere else might make his life better. An 'all in' day return to Shrewsbury perhaps? steep roads but gentle, decent people, cold, cerebral people. Shrewsbury was civilised. On the cycle path, a sharp intake of breath when he passed the old British Rail sign to Aberystwyth. He wanted to put off the visit to the Co-Op and Matalan as long as he could. Matalan would be full of men who looked like him. Men from Aberaeron. Why? because there is nowhere in the Regency seaside town that used to be spelt with a Y 'Aberayron' that you can buy cheap, decent socks and underpants. The fact that they are made by slave labour was a side issue for these portly white privileged males chugging up the A487 in their 4 by 4s. Bryn plonked himself on some sort of rustic bench made by 'neets' on a woodworking apprenticeship course. 'Poor Bastards' he thought as his arse fat hit the wood. "It was bad enough when I was young and unemployed. It was a Tory Government back then, perhaps I shouldn't be wearing blue pantaloons in case people get the wrong idea". They were all Liberals round here anyway but he couldn't wear yellow. It would clash with his teeth. Yellow Teeth? wear a Brown tie. He looked over at Plas Tan-y-Bwlch which had been turned into flats. Onward and downward he thought as he trudged on. Passing the Marina which had just been turned into the Law Courts. A cushy number for the judges and magistrates. He eyed the boats up enviously. Could I get as far as Ireland on one of those? Full Tank? Doubtful! I would have to abandon 'Dunroamin' and swim for it. The clouds today looked like handlebar moustaches and he imagined the 'Barnwr' sporting one as he bought his gavel down on the wood with a £500.00 fine and a 3 year prison sentence. Perhaps he could jump on the tailgate of one of the Group 4 security vans transporting Mid Wales cons to Swansea nick. He could jump off at Carmarthen, have a good look round before the lights turned back to green, and jump back on again. That's how desperate he was to get away. He was willing to travel via Carmarthen. People eulogised Aberystwyth but he just couldn't see it. You've seen one Poundland, you've seen them all. He was glad that he was on foot because if he could afford a car, there was nowhere to park. The mobile library had refused to stop at his home, citing budgetary constraints and a lazy arse driver so a trip to 'Y llyfrgell' was uppermost on his mind. Free Newspapers and the Internet. Walking near the tatty gift shop on Great Darkgate street his heart sank at all the tea towels, love spoons, inflatable daffodils and postcards of big hats. Bryn was trapped by Wales and trapped by circumstance. Bryn would have to get away before Wales suffocated him. Maybe he could stowaway in the boot of parents who had just dropped their progeny off at the top of Penglais Hill. He might get as far as Oxford, another cold, cerebral place. His blue trousers would fit in well there. This was not a spur of the moment thing. He had been planning his 'Wales Break' for some time. Now the reason for him to stay had gone, the world was his 'wystrys' but now he felt too old. Bwgan Brain wore better clothes than Bryn. Wales was as safe and dependable as traffic jams. Same faces, same people. He could hitch up with one of his ex girlfriends. He was sure about that but the reason for them wanting him would be more complex now.  He hadn't had children. Being a Step Father would be straightforward enough but he didn't want anybody else's kids. He wanted his own. There was always a complication when it came to his relationship with women. Nothing was ever straightforward. They couldn't accept him the way that he was. He always had to make compromises. So what was it going to be? stay at home homie or bugger off Bryn? Taking his middle aged existential angst with him to Aberdeen was pointless. If he was the same person there as he was in Aberystwyth there would be no point. His thoughts turned again to suicide. September was suicide prevention month but who and what was to prevent him now from killing himself. He was surrounded by the living dead anyway, in a seaside town, cold fish and chips and seagull shit. A pint in Wetherspoons and wipe your arse on the Cambrian News as the highlight of your week. If he couldn't live life on his terms, if he had to live it on their terms, then ending it seemed quite a feasible option. It was the rigmarole of planning it that was the put off. He could fly to America and do a Hemingway perhaps. He wouldn't have to sit through another 90 minutes with the arse kissers in the Black Lion, stroking their Prince of Wales feathers. He hated Wales, he realised that now. He could become an expat and pretend to love it "Cymro gorau, Cymro oddi cartref" and all that Jazz. He had borrowed a copy of Caradoc Evans 'My People' from the library and like the conscientious off spring of non-conformist parents he would have to take the book back so Shrewsbury, Ireland, Oxford, Aberdeen, Suicide and America would all have to wait...for another 3 weeks at least.   

     ar y bont - on the bridge
Mae fe'n boeth heddiw - It's hot today   

Mewn Lifiad  - In Migration

Barnwr - Judge

Llyfrgell - Library

Wystrys - Oyster

Bwgan Brain - Scarecrow

Cymro Gorau Cymro oddi cartref - The Best Welshman is a Welshman away from home