by Mary Grand
‘Oh, it’s Sabrina trying to get everyone organised for my birthday do in Cardiff when I get back. She’s planning it for the Monday after my birthday. We’ll be back by then, won’t we?’
‘Gosh, yes. Definitely. We have this week for the memorial and sorting out the house. Then the following week, I think the sealed bids are due in on the Tuesday or Wednesday. Then Grandad has to accept one of them. He wanted us to stay down there until the Saturday, your birthday, but the next day, the Sunday, we definitely leave.’
‘Good. Sabrina is doing a lot of organising. It’s so complicated, where to have pre’s and then which clubs to go to.’
‘Pre’s?’
‘You know: pre-drinks.’
‘You drink before you go out?’
‘Of course. No-one can get really pissed on club prices.’
‘Bethan, you know what your Dad thinks about drink–’
‘I know. Don’t worry. We won’t hold it at our house.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Mum, everybody drinks. It’s only you and Dad who are so funny about it.’
‘At least, don’t go drinking excessively.’
Bethan laughed. ‘Of course not, Mum. We’ll go for a coffee, home in bed by eleven.’
Catrin sighed. Lowri had never been interested in any of this. For her eighteenth, Lowri had had a group of friends around to the house. They had ordered in a takeaway, watched films. She could see that Bethan’s night was going to involve a lot more stress and little sleep on her part, as she lay at home worrying. Gareth would be very upset if Bethan got drunk. Years ago, he had lost a friend who was killed by a drunk driver and he was ardently anti-alcohol.
Catrin re-started the car and began to drive down the hill, towards Rhossili.
‘Oh that’s it: Worm’s Head. I can see it,’ Bethan shouted, looking out to sea.
Catrin kept her eyes on the road and tried to calm the growing nausea. All too soon they reached the sign post pointing right to ‘Bryn Draig’.
‘Down there is Rhossili village. It’s in that church there that the memorial will be held. Bryn Draig doesn’t have its own church. In fact, most people don’t even know Bryn Draig exists. Catrin turned on to the rough road. Soon they were at the edge of the village. As she drove through it she was aware how small it was, but it looked very content, basking in the sunshine like a cat. It seemed oblivious of its past. She knew there were a few new houses further down, but essentially it had remained the same. They passed the newsagent: still there, she was pleased to see. She was amazed that such a business could survive, but it did, with old-fashioned buckets, spades and fishing nets outside. Catrin had had a brief fling with Harri, the boy who had lived there. She wondered where he was now. A bright, ambitious boy: she couldn’t imagine he was serving behind the counter in the shop. They passed the pub, then the house which had belonged to her mother’s sister, her Aunt Angela. It looked scruffier, the hanging baskets sad with dead geraniums.
‘That’s where my cousin, your Uncle David lives now with Anwen. Aunty Angela, his mother, has a bungalow further down the road.’
‘Oh, right. I hope we see Uncle David and Anwen. They’re both really good fun.’
‘I expect they’ll come to the memorial on Monday.’
‘How far to The Dragon House then?’ asked Bethan, looking intently ahead.
‘We’re along here, hidden away on the left,’ Catrin said. It was then that she could feel her stomach clenching. ‘Here, it is: Ty Draig, The Dragon House,’ she said as she pulled the car on to the driveway. Then she gasped.
Bethan grabbed her arm. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s the stones. It used to be a lawn. What has your Grandad done?’
Catrin looked horrified at the mass of sharp white stones that had replaced the gentle scruffy lawn. The glare from them hurt her eyes. Next to the old wooden front door, incongruously, stood two enormous aluminium pots with spiky plants sticking out. Her mother and Nana Beth would have hated it all.
Bethan, obviously deciding that her mother was making a fuss about nothing, excitedly got out of the car. The smells of the sea, mingled with the gorse and heather, forced their way into the car. Catrin sat back and closed her eyes so that she couldn’t see the stones. She had read somewhere that smell was the first sense to develop and she could believe it. It was a very primitive sense. She breathed in deeply. Then it came to her: a picture of Nana Beth coming out of the house, arms open, waiting for her. It was one of those special times when she had felt warm and loved.
Suddenly she was jolted back to the present, hearing Bethan shouting ‘Grandad.’ Catrin saw her father: tall, dark, looking younger than seventy. She reached for her handbag to find her brush, glanced in her mirror, and sighed. There was little point in trying to look acceptable for her father. She knew she had failed before she even started.
Chapter Four
Catrin watched as Bethan ran towards open arms that hugged her. She tried to think of a time when her father had greeted her like that, even before Aled’s accident, but failed. She saw him looking down and talking to Bethan. He adored Bethan, and at least communicated that very well.
Catrin looked over at the “For Sale” sign, which made the house look disowned and unwanted. She struggled inelegantly out of the car. She was wearing an unflattering cotton skirt and a blouse. Finding clothes that hid the scar on her right arm was even more difficult in the summer, but her father was right: it was ugly and needed covering up. Anyway, she didn’t want to be made to talk about it. If she was forced to wear one of the short-sleeved dresses or tops that the shops seemed to be full of, she would always wear a cardigan, whatever the weather.
The stones dug into Catrin’s feet. As she walked, she could feel the tiny bits of gravel working their way into her flat sandals. She walked awkwardly, trying to kick them out as she went. Bethan went into the house but Catrin’s father started to walk towards her.
‘You came,’ her father said. His voice was strained. It was as if he found it difficult to talk to her. He avoided eye contact.
‘I see you’ve done the front garden already.’
‘Looks tidier, doesn’t it?’
‘How is the house inside?’
‘They’ve kept it clean. Better than I expected. Still, I paid them good money. I’ve started painting the hallway–’
‘Has there been a lot of interest?’
‘Pretty good. The agent tells me there have been a few bids handed in already.’
‘When is the final day?’
‘Tuesday next week. I’m doing an open house on Monday as well, but, of course, those people won’t have time for surveys and things. I had one done when the house was valued. It’s all pretty sound. Nothing major, anyway.’
‘What will you do with your house in Cardiff?’
‘I’m selling that as well.’
‘So, no coming back?’
‘That’s right. It’s why I wanted to have the seat put here: a permanent reminder of Aled. The vicar will bless it, or whatever they do, at the service.’
‘It’s down there already?’
‘Oh yes, finally. It’s taken a lot of emails. Had to use a few contacts. Getting permission was a nightmare; then having the concrete laid and settled.’
‘You’ve been planning it for a while, then?’
‘The seat, yes. The service idea came later.’
‘I shall look forward to it, Dad,’ Catrin said but, not for the first time, she felt a visitor in her father’s life.
Oblivious to her hurt, her father continued, ‘So, I want to make this house look good for the open day, final push–’
‘Prices around here seem to have shot up.’
‘I knew they would. Rhossili, well it’s highly sought after. There are so many building restrictions–’
‘That’s understandable. You wouldn’t want people throwing up buildings all over the place.’
‘It adds to the value of the
house. We have a busy couple of weeks ahead of us. I thought you could concentrate on some of the rooms upstairs. Not Aled’s room, though. I’ll do that.’
‘OK. By the way, Lowri is coming to stay with her boyfriend Mark. I hope that’s OK. They can help out.’
‘Oh. Are they coming for long?’
‘Well, I said for the two weeks. Lowri could do with a holiday.’
‘God knows why she has gone into medicine after she’s seen what it’s done to her father. He’ll be here for the service on Monday, I hope?’
‘I’m sure. Actually, he said he’d try to come tomorrow, it being my birthday.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My birthday, Dad. I’ll be fifty.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
There was a silence that was marginally more awkward than the conversation had been.
‘How are the plans for the memorial?’ asked Catrin.
‘It’s a celebration, Catrin,’ he replied sternly. ‘The plans are going well. I want the world to celebrate what a remarkable young man Aled was. I don’t think anyone ever really appreciated just how brilliant and exceptional he was and what we lost when he died. How are you getting on with that piece for the website?’
‘Not well. Why don’t you do it?’
‘Firstly, you should be proud to write about him and, secondly, it can’t always be me. We need to show the family are proud of his memory.’
‘I suppose so, but I’m finding it difficult to write. I don’t know that much about his time as an architect, particularly his time in America.’
‘I’m sure you can manage.’
Catrin looked down and noticed a long thin shell on the ground, a perfect razor shell. She used to collect them on the beach here with her Nana Beth. The sun glinted on its smooth surface. She wondered how it had got there. She bent down to move it somewhere safe but, as she did so, her father turned and, without realising it, stepped on the shell. She pulled her hand away quickly but, as her father walked away, she looked down at the delicate shell, now cracked and splintered into hundreds of tiny pieces. Oblivious, her father continued to walk to the house. Catrin bent down and tried to pick up the fragments, but they were tiny and sharp.
Catrin stood up. Suddenly, she became aware of the seagulls screeching overhead, the fresh sea air calling for attention. She turned and looked up for the first time since she had arrived. As the house was on a slope of Rhossili Downs it was possible, even from the driveway, to look down at a wide strip of sea. The sea air stroked her face and the sea reflected the brilliant blue sky, the sun glistening on its surface like stars. She closed her eyes, and the stifling heat of the car and her father’s harsh words were briefly blown away. She could smell the salt, the gorse, the heather. The air was filled with an undercurrent of sound, the shushing of the waves washing the line of pebbles and shells at the water’s edge way down on the beach.
For a brief, wonderful, spellbinding, moment the place hugged her. It became real; she saw it in colour. She really had forgotten how spellbinding and extraordinary it was here. She breathed in deeply and slowly opened her eyes. She looked down at the sea and the stretch of beach just visible. But then she looked further into the distance, and saw it. Stretching out, cold and solitary: ‘the dragon’. She shuddered. It would always be there, silently haunting her.
Catrin determinedly crunched back over the stones to her car. She had to take the bags to the porch in two shifts. She had brought food and basics for the kitchen, not sure what her father would have brought with him. She went back, fetched their cases and took them into the house.
‘So what’s that husband of yours doing today?’ her father asked. His voice startled her. He had come back to the front door.
‘Gareth is working. They have a Saturday surgery now.’
‘When did he last have a day off?’
‘Oh, he’s involved in some very big research project they asked him to head. Something to do with the changing role of the G P. He’s very highly thought of, you know. They place students from the hospital with him all the time.’
‘So when does he take time off? Hasn’t he got any hobbies?’
‘Not really. He always loved cricket, playing and watching it, but he hasn’t done that for years now.’ Catrin quickly added, ‘So, you look well.’
‘I look after myself. That’s why.’
She felt his eyes inspect her disapprovingly.
‘Of course. That’s great.’
‘Time Gareth replaced that old banger,’ he said.
‘It goes, which is the main thing.’
‘It’s a thankless job being a G P. I told him years ago to go to America. That’s where the money is. He’d have some time to be with his family then. If he is coming on Monday he can stay the week. He can help decorating. I expect to get over the asking price for this house. It needs to look like its been cared for.’
‘Maybe he’ll arrive early enough tomorrow to do some painting.’
Without speaking, her father turned and walked into the house. Catrin followed him, carrying her bags.
The first thing that struck Catrin when she went inside was the smell of paint. The photographs, and her Nana’s crucifix that had hung on the wall, had been taken down. The mellow cream paint had been replaced with startling bright white. She couldn’t see the familiar stone floor as it was covered in dust sheets. In the corner she saw, peeping out from under a cloth, the old cream push button telephone. Catrin thought how seldom their landline at home was used nowadays. She peeped in the front living room. The television was on for the Olympics. The old television looked large, but not the screen, which was relatively small. It stuck out so far from the wall. Underneath it was an enormous video recorder. On shelves beside it were piles of old video cassettes: her father’s favourite James Bond films, and her mother’s musicals. On one shelf was a pile of small cassettes, mainly classical music which her mother had liked.
Bethan was curled up on a red velvet armchair texting. Catrin’s father was now staring at the TV. Bethan looked up and Catrin silently signed ‘drink’ to her. Bethan shook her head, but her father glanced at her. ‘A cup of coffee would be nice.’
Catrin left the cases in the hallway and carried the shopping into the kitchen. She had forgotten how much she used to love this room. The walls of the kitchen were light sunshine yellow and, like the smells outside, the room enabled the feelings of light and warmth to push their way through the darkness of more recent memories. It was an odd, dated, mix of furniture: the same old ‘New World’ gas cooker and long wooden table, with a variety of chairs, an old-fashioned fridge, and a washing machine. The white painted cupboards looked chipped and dated. The only thing of real beauty was the large Welsh dresser which had been made years ago by her Grandad Hugh. Of course, this room was also the room the policeman had talked to them in. It was strange that one room could have such a mixture of memories, but maybe life was like that. The main thing was that she could feel her Nana Beth here. Catrin hadn’t expected to, and she was grateful.
The back door was open, so Catrin went outside and into the large garden, which was to the side of the house. It was the same scruffy lawn and, in the borders, random poppies and dwarf sunflowers grew. The perimeter was a low dry stone wall so that you could sit on the old metal chairs and look straight out to sea. After breathing in the salty air Catrin returned to the kitchen. She checked the cupboards, which were still full of crockery, all of which had been kept clean. She noticed the original striped glasses, and remembered her Nana pouring lemonade into them. She took out some brown patterned Wedgewood mugs. They seemed heavy, and the rims thick compared to the bone china she had at home.
Catrin put the kettle on. She had started to unpack the shopping bags when her father came in. He took an opened bottle of white wine from the fridge, and poured himself a glass.
‘I think I’ll have this instead,’ he said.
‘How was your last visit to New York, then?’ she aske
d, aware of speaking over-brightly.
‘Good. Yes, very good. I’ve always loved New York, and working with the practice we’re associated with out there. So much excitement. I love the people, so much more optimistic than over here.’
‘It’s a big move, Dad. You know, at your age.’
‘I’m not that old. I’m fit. There are plenty of people still working at seventy out there. And, as I say, I feel I have more friends out there now than over here.’
‘Aled loved it out there, didn’t he?’
Her father took a large gulp of his wine. ‘He did very well.’
‘But you persuaded him to come back?’ Catrin spoke quietly. It was something she had often wondered about but somehow never liked to ask.
‘It was for the best. There was a major project over here I wanted him to head.’
‘And he was pleased to come back?’ Catrin was aware that she was pushing her father.
‘Of course.’ He turned away. The subject was closed.
‘By the way, how is the trust thing going in America?’ she asked, to try and make amends.
‘It’s going well. I’m getting backers together. You know, there aren’t many people out there now who even remember Aled, but they are very supportive.’
‘And it’s for young architects?’
‘That’s right. Bright, promising students. I shall call it The Aled Foundation.’
‘That’s lovely, Dad.’ Catrin fiddled with her necklace and looked away.
Her father took another long swig of his wine and then looked more closely at Catrin’s necklace. ‘That’s a good sapphire.’
‘Thank you. I’ve had it for years. Gareth gave it to me. Actually, he gave it to me the night of Aled’s party.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it before.’
‘I didn’t wear it for ages. Then I decided that I’ve got so little jewellery, I might as well get on and wear it. How do you know about sapphires then?’
‘My mother had a beautiful ring. My father had brought it back for her from Ceylon, for her fortieth birthday, I think. I remember her telling me about it. It was nearly a five carat sapphire: royal blue; not too dark, not too light. And the clarity was meant to be fantastic. My mother had it insured for at least five thousand pounds. She left it, with some other things, to your mother, you know, and then, of course, your mother gave it all to you.’