Bred of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page B

language.
    The room looks full. Of women mainly, mainly of a certain age. Standing at the front is a thin youngish man of medium height with fair red hair. ‘Sh’mae,’ he says in a Welsh accent as I push open the door. From my
Rough Guide
vocab list I know that is some sort of greeting.
    â€˜Er, hello.’ Why on these occasions does one feel oneself flush? ‘I … I’ve come along for Welsh Module 1, er …’
    â€˜Well, the class is full actually.’ The voice sounds uncommiserating.
    â€˜Oh, I was told there was one place left.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜Oh.’ This is a face-off. Having shelled out ninety quid, I shan’t be backing down.
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜Jasper Rees,’ I say, laying heavy stress on the surname. I am clearly Welsh, with a name like that. The less said about the first name …
    â€˜James dw i – croeso.’ Thus the first sentence of Welsh ever uttered specifically to me: he is James and I am welcome. And so, after twenty-three years, I resume my education.
    â€˜Iawn,’ says James, turning to the class.
Iawn
means OK, another word I already know. ‘Last week your homework was learning the days of the week. So let’s run through them again together. Dydd Llun …’ The class embarks on a slow recitation. ‘Dydd Mawrth.’ Ihave of course missed the first two lessons. ‘Dydd Mercher.’ A sudden memory taps me on the shoulder: this is what it was like arriving at boarding school, being behind in Latin and French. ‘Dydd Iau.’ I detest being behind. ‘Dydd Gwener.’ What else have they already conquered? They seem practically fluent. ‘Dydd Sadwrn.’ Hm, that sounds like Saturday. I glance across to my neighbour’s textbook, open on the days of the week. ‘Dydd Sul.’ Some of these words are not so far from French or Italian.
Dydd Llun
must be Monday,
Dydd Mercher
Wednesday. It’s all doable actually. Why was I worried?
    â€˜Da iawn.’
Da
must mean good – as in
bore da
(good morning),
iechyd da
(good health/bottoms up). It’s like embarking on a crossword, filling in the clues.
    â€˜Now remember that in Welsh they also have words for the
nights
of the week. So let’s go through those.’ The class draws a collective breath and …
    This time they seem more hesitant. ‘Nos Lun.’ Clearly they can’t pronounce the tricky double
L
on
Llun
. ‘Nos Fawrth.’ Eh? What happened to
Mawrth
? The class leaves big gaps after each
Nos
as they read James’s lips. ‘Nos Fercher.’ Why isn’t it
Nos Mercher
? What’s with the
F
s? ‘Nos Wener.’ And now Friday –
Gwener
– has gone and lost its
G
. It’s completely missing its initial letter. The nights of the week are disintegrating before my very ears.
    â€˜Has anyone noticed something odd?’ This from James. I’ll say. A woman raises a cautious hand.
    â€˜The letters have changed?’
    â€˜Yes, good. And why is that?’ With ill-suppressed cockiness, one of the class’s few men pipes up.
    â€˜Mutation.’
    â€˜Oh, here we go.’ A woman at the back wall is already fatalistic about mutations.
    â€˜Da iawn. Because “nos” is a feminine noun it triggers a soft mutation.’ James grimaces. ‘Nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.’ My uncle pulled the same face and said the same thing. He wasn’t lying. They really do alter the
fronts
of words. For anyone used to forming an opinion of a word by its first syllable, this seems almost wilfully obstructive. It’s like encrypting your face with a false moustache, or collagen, or a burqa. These slippery mutations are shapeshifters and not to be trusted.
    I look around the class to see who’s coping with the news. They seem outwardly calm, apart from one woman with rodenty cheeks and suffering eyes. Who are these