"Yes, dear." After some thirty years of nagging, Dafydd Thomas had an epiphany fast as bolting horses. Was this all he'd become? An outlet for her waspish buzzing, morning, noon, night? From his bedroom he heard her clucking away below, unaware he'd found sanctuary upstairs in the darkened room, amidst cobwebs and drawn curtains. No more, Gwyneth Thomas! Away with your aggravating babble!

He laced his heavy boots; thumpety-thump, he descended the staircase. How he detested the wallpaper she'd demanded for the hallway, the pea green stripes scaling the walls until the house seemed to fold in upon him like a matrimonial cage. And even now from the hallway he could hear her shuffle closer, feel her wet breath envelop him like moorland fog.

"Dafydd?" Upward intonation, the same way she leaned on her walking stick. "Are you going out?"

"Yes, dear," he said and watched his hand turn the door handle. He'd buried his misery deep in his mind, the one place safe from those prying eyes and poking fingers.

"Dafydd? You've not had your tea, silly man. You're going out walking?"

"Yes, dear," he said.

"Then why, goodness sake, aren't you taking your scarf? Or your hat?" He could hear her gums flap, loosening themselves for another spell of blabbering. "You'll catch your death. Have you forgotten old Father Harris? No older than you he was, and the winter finished him off proper. And there you are, you silly man, without scarf and hat? And on a day like today, of all days! It's cold and wet and you're going out dressed like that? And without your morning tea? Well, what a nonsense."

"Yes, dear." He turned to face her and lowered his gaze. Look at her, the moles sprouting wiry hair, back stooped and bent and those eyes, blinkety blink, cold as valley midwinter. Earth-caked fingers from tending her precious herbs. Why, today, had he seen how haggard she'd become?

"Here." She picked up his scarf and hat from the table by the telephone, thrust them into his midriff. "Now, this walk of yours--would it be taking you through the village?"

"Yes, dear," he said flatly, his blood running faster.

"Well now, that's marvellous," she said, her left hand raised, punctuating air. "Now--listen, please--we need some butter, yes. Call into Bethany's and collect some, there's a good fellow. I don't suppose you thought to check but we're also short of bread, without which there's little point having butter, and I believe the bakers will close at around one this afternoon, yes, on account of there being a birthday in the family. Oh, now, that reminds me, there was something else. Goodness now, what was it?"

He gripped the door handle so hard he felt he could snap it--crack--the way he wanted to snap her neck. Get a firm grip, Dafydd. Squeeze, that's it--see how your knuckles whiten? Hear the gasping, gurgling deep in her throat? Good job, my lad, good job. It would be so--

"Sprouts." A firm wag of the finger. "We need sprouts. Why, didn't I say to you just this very morning, while you were reading that newspaper of yours, we needed more sprouts? Sprouts and cabbage. And a cauliflower. Sometimes, Dafydd Thomas," she said, her finger now less than an inch from the point where his moustache met his nose, "I don't think you listen to a word I say."

"Yes, dear." Oh, but if only! If only I could be struck deaf, he thought, such a miracle would send me dancing to chapel. Why, I'd dig up old Father Harris, waltz his skeleton up the aisle, round the blessed altar and give thanks to Lord Jesus Christ our great redeemer Amen. Calm now, Dafydd, he told himself. Go for a walk.

"So you've got that, have you," she said, careworn fingers fussing with his scarf. "Butter, bread, sprouts, cabbage and cauliflower. That's all now, you understand? Don't forget now, you'll need to be at the bakers before one." She peered at him, rubbed her hands together. "You are alright, aren't you, Dafydd?"

"Yes, dear." Dafydd Thomas walked out of the house and into the drizzle, fists clenched inside pockets as he followed the rugged flint wall that ran the mile to the village, dipping and climbing with the hills and slopes. The dawn mist had yielded to dishwater skies carrying rain so fine it hung in the air. It was as though he'd been sleepwalking blind through his marital life. Why he'd awoken, today of all days, was beyond him, but the weight of thirty years' misery burdened his shoulders like granite.

He passed the butcher's boy, who lifted one hand from the handlebars to greet him with cheery wave, his basket laden with goods. Dafydd let his hands uncurl. As he passed the village green with the sign stood proud over it, the sign he'd helped paint, his shoulders loosened. Past the chapel, mossy gravestones rising from the earth, and he began to hum a tune. Oh, the relief of the murky outdoors! He'd have played rugby on a day like this, far too many years ago.

He stopped in to Bethany Floyd's dairy store and purchased a block of butter wrapped in greaseproof paper. He remembered the time--was it over thirty years ago already?-- the Floyd's flock of sheep had sauntered up the main street, mingling with the confused locals. The returning miners, jet-black from honest graft, laughed as he and Mr. Floyd shepherded the animals back to their grazing pasture with sticks, gentle oaths sworn beneath their breath.

"Give my regards to Gwyneth," Mrs. Floyd sang as he pushed through the beads that rattled in the shop doorway. The warmth of the dairy had misted up his glasses, and he wiped each lens on his scarf before continuing his trek.

To the next rickety store, painted the colour of barley, and who did he see behind the counter? It was Bronwyn, the girl he'd courted long before he'd served his country in the Great War. She'd married Gareth, his schoolday friend, and now their son kept the village in fresh bread. He bought a fresh loaf and added it to the bag. "Remember me to Gwyneth, Dafydd," she said as he tipped his hat to her one last time.

Dafydd wiped his glasses clear again and called in on the greengrocer across the way, the one with boxes of fresh vegetables stacked neatly outside, the prices written in chalk on a blackboard. He purchased sprouts, a cabbage and cauliflower, and made small talk with the young lad at the counter. Yes, he'd heard the rugby score. Yes, it was wonderful to teach the English a thing or two. Yes, he'd played a little in his day. No, only the Welsh second team. Scrum-half. Thirteen caps. He left the lad with two shillings in his young hand and admiration in his eyes.

And who should he meet leaving the store than Dai Price the chemist? Not that he liked being called a chemist. He made his own remedies from roots and bushes and goodness-knows-what else he had growing in his garden. Round-faced and ruddy-cheeked, he couldn't have aged a day since arriving in the village all those years ago. Young and old alike, the village's women all swore by Dai Price.

"Afternoon Dafydd," said Dai. "I thought I might find you here."

Dafydd frowned. "Really?"

"Yes," Dai said. "I had a telephone call from Gwyneth. She wants you to collect something for her."

"Really? What's that?"

"Oh, just some medicine. She says she's feeling a bit flat, you know."

"Her and me both," Dafydd said.

The bell above the creaking door tinkled as they entered Dai's store, wooden shelves well-lit by corner lamps.

"Here," he said, fishing a dark green bottle from a cupboard beneath the counter. "I've been serving Gwyneth for, oh, it must be thirty years you know. You've been married for how long?"

"Thirty years," Dafydd said. Today he felt the weight of every single day.

"Oh," Dai said. "Thirty years?" He checked the bottle.

"Yes. Only I couldn't tell you much about them, to be honest."

Dai's cheeks folded to dimples as he beamed a smile. "I know what you mean. One minute now. I think the bottle Gwyneth needs is up here." And he walked through the back room and creaked his way up the stairs.

Dafydd looked at the bottles, arranged higgledy-piggledy beneath the glass-fronted counter. Blue, blue as the deepest ocean. He remembered the boat, his comrades, the thrill of holding a gun for the first time. Where had these memories been hiding?

The labels on the bottles were indistinct, numbered in tens. He'd seen these bottles before, somewhere in the house perhaps. Gwyneth's doing. She swore Dai had cures for everything. Presently, Dai returned. "Here," he said, passing Dafydd a thick blue bottle of liquid. "This is the one."

"What do I owe you?"

Dai waved his hand. "No, that's fine now. I'll add it to Gwyneth's bill. She'll pay me next time she's here."

"Fair enough," said Dafydd, putting his hat back on. "Thank you." The bell tinkled again as he left the store. He turned back after a few paces to ask Dai about Gwyneth's bill, but the chemist was deep in conversation on the telephone.

Outside the drizzle had relented, though no sun could penetrate the cloud hanging so low as to kiss the hilltops. Dafydd began the weary trudge back, a bag in each hand. The village was silent and damp and the greengrocer's lad was carting boxes inside, one at a time. Dafydd walked on, deep in thought. A strange day, today, when he'd been visited by so many memories. And the anger toward Gwyneth--where had that sprung from?

He passed the chapel, welcomed the sight of the undulating flint. As he neared the end, his house just beyond with the sloping thatch of roof and the windows set askew, he felt his shoulders begin to tighten, hands tight around the necks of the bags. Oh, how she'd better stay quiet for a while! With luck she'd be in the garden, tending the herbs or the flowerbeds.

He let himself in and stomped in his boots through the little living room to the kitchen. He put the bags of vegetables in the scullery and set the bottle Dai had given him on the worktop. It was then he felt warm wet breath licking the back of his neck.

"Dafydd," she said. "Well, thank heavens you're back safely. I was beginning to worry. You're all wet, bless you. Go sit yourself down and I'll bring you some tea."

"Yes, dear." He uncurled his fists. No chastising for walking through the house in boots? He settled into his armchair by the fire, half-read newspaper by his feet, and let the heat from the hearth warm his bones. The kettle whistled from the next room, and in she shuffled, mug of tea in hand.

"Thank you for getting the shopping," she said. "Here."

He slurped at the tea. Strong and sweet, just the way he liked it. The tea had a strange aftertaste, but warmed his insides. Perhaps the milk had turned. Well, she hadn't asked him to get milk, had she? He kept drinking to the sound of reddened coals hissing from the hearth.

He must have drifted off; when he opened his eyes next, a full fire crackled in the hearth and he could hear chopping sounds from the kitchen. It was good to be home again in their little house. He took the mug through to the kitchen where Gwyneth stood, her back to him, cutting the cauliflower.

She turned around as he put the mug into the sink, and smiled at him. "Awake now are we, Dafydd? Feeling alright, are you?"

He nodded. "Yes, dear." Thirty years of marriage, and still he adored her! And there, on the side, an empty bottle the colour of the ocean. He picked it up and held it to the light and couldn't remember why and put it down again.

"Ah now," she said, "I've a bill to settle with Mr. Price. I'll be needing the money you'd be spending in the pub for a few weeks. I thought maybe we could stay in together the way you like to?"

He nodded. Such a pretty woman. And so considerate. Of course he'd stay in with her, just the two of them together by the fire.

"Dafydd," she said, youthful face set in stern expression. "You're still wearing your boots. How many times have I told you not to do that indoors? Goodness, I've lost count. Take them off before you tramp dirt all the way through the house and up the stairs. And before you do that, there's coal that needs fetching and logs that need chopping for the fire. They don't chop themselves, you know."

"Yes, dear." Dafydd Thomas looked at his lovely wife in their lovely house, planted a kiss on her leathery cheek, and went to fetch the woodcutting axe.