POSTCARD - A SHORT STORY / TARJETA POSTAL - UN RELATO CORTO

Hi my dear friends. Today we are going to read a short story. Do you usually write postcards? Let's read...

Hola mis queridos amigos. Hoy vamos a leer un relato corto.  ¿Soléis escribir postales? ¡Leamos!

Info: from Speak Up magazine

Photos: Snowdoniatourism.co.uk  /  Eyri.gov.wales  /  The.postal.museum  /  Surface.Gallery  /  Liverpool.Echo  /  Wikipedia.2.  /  Tripadvisor

A SHORT STORY by Rachel Roberts.

POSTCARD

There is something fascinating about postcards. I've always loved collecting them, especially when they are old and faded.  They are short, personal letters with no envelope. The writer often uses abbreviated sentences or even words, initials for names, so that a personal message will fit into the small space and can only be understood by the recipient.

I found an intriguing postcard once while on a walking holiday in the Brecon Beacons in Wales.  It was in a box outside an antiques shop in a tiny village, where I had stopped to have lunch.

Most of the cards showed faded, black and white scenes of the Welsh countryside.  The greetings were just the usual, "Having a great time" and "Wish you were here!"  Then one postcard caught my attention.

It was not as old as the others and the image, which showed a view of a high street, was coloured. The title read "Aberfan Road, Aberfan."  When I read it, I had a sudden flash of memory. I had heard that name before, but where?  

There was no address on the back of the card, and instead of the usual holiday greeting, I read the following words:

-"Noreen, don't run away from B. The children need you at PG. Remember your promise. Your loving father."

"Noreen", not "Dear Noreen" and no kisses. In spite of the ending, there was little love in the message. It was an order. Noreen's father sounded like some strict Welsh minister from a country chapel.

The almost illegible postmark read 15 Oct, 1966. That wasn't so long ago. Girls were wearing miniskirts. Would a 1960s dad give his daughter orders? I had no idea. I wondered who "B" could be. Her husband? Fiancé? Could it be the name of a place? Brecon? If so, where was P.G.?

I looked for my location on Google Maps. Perhaps there was a village nearby with some strange Welsh name beginning with P and G.  Port something?

There was nothing, not even on the coast. I couldn't see Aberfan either, so I did a search and by mistake, instead of searching for it in Maps, I did a general search.  The first item that came back was the Wikipedia entry for "Aberfan disaster".  I sat up straight.  I knew I'd heard of the place before.  2016 had been the fiftieth anniversary of the disaster and I had seen the memorial service on television.

On the 21st of October, 1966 after a long period of wet weather, a coal tip above the village of Aberfan had collapsed, crushing the local Pantglas Junior School in an avalanche of mud and rocks. 116 children and 28 adults died in the disaster.

Pantglas. Could that be P.G.?  The children could have been the pupils at the junior school. Had Noreen been a teacher? I looked again at the date on the postcard -the 15th of October-  six days before the disaster.  I felt suddenly anxious for the unknown Noreen.  Had she kept her promise and remained at Aberfan? Had she been inside the school when it was crushed?  I had to find out!!!

It wasn't difficult to find the cemetery in Aberfan, just south of the Brecon Beacons.  The children's graves were all together, over a hundred of them, with their identical white memorial stones shining in the sun and the loving messages from grieving parents.  It was heartbreaking.  They were all so young.  I walked along looking for Noreen, but she wasn't among the children's graves or among those of the adults who had died on that terrible day.

I was relieved. I had obviously invented a very dark story around the message on the postcard.  But then, just as I was leaving, I noticed a larger family monument in a corner of the churchyard.  There were several names on it, but the instription on one side made my heart sink.

"In loving memory of Noreen Davies, nèe Jones. Beloved wife of Brian Davies and dutiful daughter of the Reverend William Jones. 28th February 1938 -21st October,1966."

She had died on the day of the disaster. I knew nothing about the dead woman, and yet I felt sad an angry on her behalf.  She had been forced to stay and meet her tragic fate.

"You all right, Noreen?"

The words shouted from somewhere in the road, made me look up in surprise. And elderly lady was climbing into a small van with the words "Park Grange Farm -Fruit and Vegetables" written on the side.  She stopped and waved to another woman on a bicycle, who had called out to her.

"Fine, thanks, Lily."

"Bill, OK, is he?"

"Much better now" answered Noreen. ¿You?

GLOSSARY

FADED: descolorido  /  ENVELOPE: sobre  /  TINY: diminuto  /  WELSH: galés  /  HIGH STREET: calle principal  /  SUDDEN: repentino  /  GREETING: saludo  /  TO RUN AWAY FROM: huir  /  IN SPITE OF: a pesar de  /  POSTMARK: matasellos  /  MINISKIRT: minifalta  /  TO WONDER: preguntarse  /  TO SIT UP STRAIGHT: incorporarse  /  MEMORIAL SERVICE:  funeral  /  COAL TIP: escombrera de carbón  /  TO CRUSH: aplastar  /  MUD: barro, lodo  /  GRAVE: tumba  /  STONE: lápida  /  GRIEVING: afligido, de luto  /  RELIEVED: aliviado  /  CHURCHYARD: cementerio  /  NÈE: nombre de soltera  /  DUTIFUL: diligente  /  ON HER BEHALF:  en su nombre  /  VAN: furgoneta