by Mary Grand
She had seen nothing of the Gower commons before. Previously, she had taken a taxi from Swansea station, and missed all this. To Elizabeth it all looked rather scruffy and unkempt. She checked her satnav, and started down the road towards Rhossili. She could see the turning off to Bryn Draig, but decided to carry on down the road and have a walk around before going to her B & B.
On the night of the party she had arrived earlier than this and she remembered asking the taxi driver to drop her down at the car park so that she could see the beach first. She hadn’t realised how far the walk down would be, but she had enjoyed collecting pebbles and shells, and putting them in her large shoulder bag. It had been weeks later that she had found them in there, and then years after that that she had used them in her bird bath. She remembered staying down on the beach for ages and then, of course, being heavily pregnant, having to face the climb back up, which was really hard. She had underestimated how far it was. She had been exhausted by the time she got to the church, but had been lucky that a couple, seeing her walking, had given her a lift to the Dragon House.
All seemed very benign this evening. Elizabeth glanced at her watch: it was just after nine. The younger families had all left long ago. Now the surfers were out in force with their dilapidated campervans. The only building open was the hotel, with groups of people standing around drinking and others eating. It was all very unsophisticated. She suddenly felt rather over-dressed. She put on her sunglasses, and reluctantly left the safety of her car. The fresh air was soft but, as the scent of the salt air seeped into her senses, she shuddered, thinking how a smell can be more unnerving than a sight or sound. It can bring back remembrance of a memory which you can’t quite tie down, but you know makes you feel uncomfortable.
Elizabeth started to walk across the car park. She was nervous as she approached the headland. She wondered what memories would return. Her feet hurt. She realised that her cream leather sandals with four inch high wedges were impractical here. She stood by the gate. In front of her was the headland, to her right in the distance the steep path down to miles of sandy beach and the tiny black spots of surfers that speckled the sea. She waited for a memory, a panic, to grip her, but it never came. It was as if she had never been here before. It was just that the smell unsettled her, but nothing else. It was very strange. She was not a great fan of the sea, but even she could see that was staggeringly beautiful. London seemed light years, rather than miles, away.
Elizabeth returned to her car, reset her satnav, drove back up the road, and turned into the road to Bryn Draig. She kept following the satnav until she reached a small modern bungalow. Surely this couldn’t be ‘The Sea View’? However, there was the sign, boasting bed and breakfast. Oh God, where had she come? It was getting late to find anywhere else that night. Maybe it would be better inside? The front at least looked well cared for and tidy. She parked the car, which looked far too flashy to be parked on the concrete run-in, got out, and wheeled her case up to the front door.
‘Evening.’
She looked around and realised that an old man in next door’s front garden was talking to her.
‘That car, it’s the altered Audi isn’t it? Bet that was good to drive. You come a long way, then?’
Elizabeth scowled at him. ‘Not really.’
‘So, were you able to give her a good run on the motorway?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ she replied and turned away. For God’s sake, why was he talking to her?
‘She’s good with the garden. I’ll say that for her,’ she heard the man say. ‘I’ve asked her to help with mine, but she’s always too busy.’
Elizabeth went quickly to the porch, and was less than impressed to find a discarded trug with gloves, trowel, and a pair of wellington boots covered in dry mud there. There didn’t appear to be a doorbell, so Elizabeth knocked on the door, which swung open. She peeped inside at what appeared to be a normal bungalow. She couldn’t see a reception desk or any of the normal trappings of a hotel. It really was just somebody’s home. She had never been anywhere like it in her life. The light was on. She could see green patterned carpet and rather hideous china ornaments of cats and dogs grinning at her from shelves in the racks on the wall. She could hear a television, and was just about to turn and make her getaway when a short, round woman with tight grey-brown curls and an apron came along the hallway.
‘Hello, come on in. You must be Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘I’m Angela. Come in, come in. Had a good journey?’
Elizabeth found the informality unnerving. It was very odd, disconcerting, to be walking into someone’s home.
Angela was saying ‘I’ll show you your room, and then you must come and have a nice cup of tea and some scones. I know it’s late, and you’ve probably eaten, but I’m sure you’d like something.’
‘Well not really–’
Angela flung open a bedroom door. Elizabeth was horrified to notice that there was no key. The room was small. There were more horrible ornaments, and a very bad print of some dying flowers in a vase. There was a tiny portable television the likes of which Elizabeth hadn’t seen for a least twenty years. Next to it, a small table with a tray. On this were a cup and saucer, a small kettle, some tea bags, coffee sachets and mini cartons of long-life milk.
‘Now, I hope you’re comfortable. The bathroom’s across the hall.’
Elizabeth tried to hide her horror.
‘Do you have many guests?’ she asked faintly.
‘Oh no, you’re my only one. You see, I just let out the one room. Right. You settle in, and come into the living room when you’re ready.’
Elizabeth looked again around her room. She opened drawers, pulled back the duvet cover. At least it was clean.
After she had unpacked she would have been glad to get into bed, but thought she ought to at least go and say goodnight. It seemed very strange to be walking around someone else’s house so freely. The woman seemed to be very trusting.
Angela had put scones, cream, jam, butter, and chocolate cake on the coffee table. It was a long time since Elizabeth had been presented with such food.
‘Oh, thank you, but I was just going to go to bed actually.’
‘Oh, you must have something’ insisted Angela.
Elizabeth sat on the edge of the floral armchair, took a cup of tea, and one scone, which she cut into quarters.
‘No jam, cream, butter?’ asked Angela, looking concerned.
‘No, no thanks.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No, just watching the calories.’
Angela shrugged and sat down, liberally spreading her own scones with butter, jam and cream.
‘So you’ve driven down from London today?’
‘It’s not too far, actually’ said Elizabeth. ‘The roads were better than I expected.’
‘Still, it’s a long way.’
‘I was talking to your neighbour just now. Or rather, he was talking to me.’
‘Oh, Bill? He’s so nosey.’
‘He liked my car. Obviously knows about them.’
‘He used to run the garage here. That’s why. Never to be trusted, though. No, my husband said he wouldn’t trust him to fix an old bucket, let alone a car. Always on the fiddle, Bill.’
‘Well, he admired your garden.’
‘Bet he said I was a mean old bugger for not doing his.’
‘Well, not quite.’
‘Bone lazy, he is. You know, his wife left him a few years ago. Not sure why she didn’t leave before that. I reckon he’d been playing around–’
Elizabeth was astounded at the gossip Angela seemed to be prepared to share with a total stranger.
‘So what brings you here?’ asked Angela
‘I’m just having a break.’
Angela immediately looked interested. ‘Oh, really? What from?’
‘I own art galleries.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes, and one in New York. I buy and sell works of art.’
‘Now, t
hat is interesting. Is it like paintings, sculpture, or a bit of everything?’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Paintings, watercolours mainly.’
‘Oh, do you like this?’ Elizabeth looked at a small oil painting of heather, of the downs: blazing reds, yellow, like the downs were on fire. It took her breath away. ‘It’s striking. Who painted this?’
‘Oh, Catrin. My niece. Years ago now. It’s the heather here up on the downs. I love it. You know her father, Lloyd, gave it to me. I remember one day seeing his car arrive. He and my sister Isabel owned the Dragon House then. Well, I was wondering why he had come. It wasn’t long after my mother had died. Anyway, I went up to check everything was alright, and he had this pile of paintings. I admired them. I thought maybe they’d been done by Aled, his son. He was the clever one, you see. I was very surprised when he said Catrin had done them. I hadn’t realised she was good at anything really. Anyway, he offered me this one. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
‘You know the family in the Dragon House?’
‘Yes, I said it was owned by my sister and her husband. I was raised there, you know. I lost my sister, Isabel, sadly. You look interested. Do you know them?’
‘No, not at all, but it’s very good,’ Elizabeth said, quickly.
‘She had great potential, looking back. It’s a shame she never went to college. But, well, my sister Isabel, she was very clingy. You know, poor Catrin spent half her life looking after her. But then, that’s Catrin. Always looking after everyone.’
‘Catrin sounds a very good kind of person.’
‘Oh, she is. I never felt her parents appreciated her like they should. It was all Aled this and Aled that with them.’
‘Aled?’ Elizabeth tried to still her voice as she said his name.
‘Oh, that was their son, my nephew. Terrible it was. He died here, you know, out on Worm’s Head. He was twenty seven. Tragic. They worshipped that boy, and to lose him like that, well, it was devastating.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, it was a terrible accident. So sad. I was at the party. That night, there was a girl Aled went off with. It turned out the girl was pregnant, but she didn’t want the baby. Catrin and Gareth took the baby on.’
‘What about the girl, the mother of the baby?’
Elizabeth knew she was taking a chance asking. After all, why should she want to know? But Angela, in full flood telling a good story, didn’t seem to think it was odd.
‘As I say, she wanted nothing to do with the baby. Still, it was as well Catrin and Gareth took the baby on in the light of what happened to the girl.’
‘What was that?’
‘The girl, the baby’s mother: she died in an accident a few years later. It was so sad. Still, the little girl, Bethan her name is, she’s had a wonderful upbringing with Catrin and Gareth. Now, you really should have another scone.’
In the whirl of chatter, the words nearly washed over Elizabeth, but she grabbed hold of them.
‘Hang on. You said the mother of this baby died?’
‘Oh yes. My sister Isabel told me. She said the girl had been in an accident.’
‘What kind of accident? Do they all think the mother is dead?’
Angela frowned at her. ‘Well, yes, of course. I can’t remember now how she died.’
‘Are you sure she died?’
‘Oh, yes. Someone told my brother in law, and he told Isabel. She was upset, but then, well, that’s life, isn’t it? You look upset. Are you sure you don’t know them?’
Elizabeth realised that she needed to backtrack quickly. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course, and here I am keeping you up gossiping about people you know nothing about. Now, there are towels at the end of your bed, and we just sort of take it in turns for the bathroom. What time would you like breakfast?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ll pick something up.’
‘Oh don’t you want a full Welsh? That’s what I call it. I do lava bread; buy it from Swansea market, and Glamorgan sausages, the lot. It’s very good.’
‘Oh no, really. I usually just have fruit and toast.’
‘If you’re sure. I’ll make sure they are set out ready for you.’
‘Thank you, and good night.’
Elizabeth returned to her room, and threw her case on the bed. She was very angry. She was sure her aunt would never have told such a lie. Her aunt, like her parents, was deeply religious. She had come to the hospital the night of the accident and had obviously been very shocked that her niece was pregnant. She had been as determined as Elizabeth that her parents should not be told, and had been relieved that Elizabeth wanted the baby to be adopted. To her, the solution of the baby going to Catrin and Gareth was ideal. When her aunt had collected just Elizabeth, taken her home to recover, she had said firmly that the matter would never be referred to again, and Elizabeth was sure she would have kept to that. No, the lie had not come from her aunt. Where had it come from, then?
Elizabeth felt like going at that moment up to the house and telling them the truth. She stopped herself. She had come here simply to see Bethan and know she was well, know she had done the right thing all those years ago. Why do anything else? She looked out of the window, into the blackness and knew she couldn’t just ignore what she had been told. Bethan had a right to know her birth mother was alive and if one day she wanted to contact her it would be her choice. Elizabeth decided that on Monday she would speak to Lloyd on his own, get his assurance that Bethan would be told the truth. Yes, that would be the right thing to do, she would do that and then she could return to London knowing she had done the right thing.
Having worked out a plan of action Elizabeth felt better. She needed to get ready for bed, calm down and then think. She put on her silk pyjamas and gown. She picked up her soap bag and towel.
‘Honestly this feels like staying in a bloody youth hostel,’ she grumbled to herself, cringing at the memory of a terrible school trip.
She opened the door gingerly, went to the bathroom, and tried the bathroom door. She assumed this room at least would have a lock. The door opened easily and she went in. Although basic, this was fortunately also very clean.
Back in her own room she went through her rather involved skin cleansing and moisturising routine, squinting in an inadequate dressing table mirror. Then she took off her gown, turned off the main light and looked out of the window. So black. There were a few lights on in houses but they were surrounded by blackness. It was never like this in London. She opened the window and fresh, clean, air blew in. Then she heard the sea. It was louder and more threatening than she expected. She remembered that she was in a bungalow. Of course, anyone could creep out of the darkness and get in. What was she thinking? Quickly, she closed her window. She was horrified to see that there were no locks on it. It was so different to her gated house, no protection from the outside world: no walls, and no security guards; there were no burglar alarms. Elizabeth got into bed, nervously lay down, and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Nine
Sunday 29th July 2012
Catrin woke very early the next morning. ‘Happy birthday,’ she said to herself. She looked around the room. Even though the yellow sunflowers on the wallpaper were faded now, she still loved them. Her Nana Beth had decorated the room especially for her. It was much prettier than her room in Cardiff had ever been. Her Nana had also put the little white dressing table and chair in here. Catrin smiled at the photograph which stood proudly on her dressing table of her with her Nana Beth on the beach.
She had actually celebrated some of her previous birthdays here. They had been wonderful. She had had a cake and candles and Nana Beth had made a pass-the-parcel. Back in Cardiff her birthdays had always been a bit fraught, and she had stopped asking for parties when she was quite young.
Her phone pinged. She picked it up: a text from Lowri.
‘Happy birthday Mum. So excited to see you later. Just wait
until you see your present. Make sure you are in at 11. Mark is coming. Be great for you to meet him. We are coming ahead of Dad. Lots of love Lowri xxx’
Catrin loved the excitement she could read in Lowri’s words. She sounded so happy. One of the great things about being a mother was the warmth you felt when you saw that in your children. Conversely, of course, their tears and heartache could, as quickly, eclipse the sun, leaving you bereft and miserable.
Catrin started to flick through the photographs on her phone, and found one of her favourite photos of Lowri. She had long curly fair hair like she herself used to have. Her face was pale with freckles and she had serious grey eyes: a thoughtful studious, undemanding child, frequently over-shadowed by Bethan’s exuberance or tantrums. It would be good to see her.
Catrin dressed and went downstairs. She went out though the back door. It was a beautiful morning. She remembered how, when she was little, her Nana Beth used to make a picnic breakfast just for the two of them. They would eat it in the garden or sometimes go down to the beach.
She saw no reason not to go out. She walked down through the heather, birds rustling in the hedges, a robin singing. It was idyllic. It warmed Catrin. She walked until she reached the climb down on to the beach. The sand lay before her, virgin clean. She took off her sandals, excited to make the first foot prints in the sand. The wonderful thing about the beach was that every day started fresh and new. She walked down until she reached the sea, and stood in the shallows, the sea lapping over her feet. The sound of the ripples got louder, the ebb and flow over the shells and pebbles at the edge. Catrin had read that the sound of the waves altered patterns in your brain, lulling you into a state of relaxation. Maybe that is why people meditated to the sound of waves; she knew she felt calmer. The sea was cold, but she could feel the heat from the early morning sun on her. It seemed so peaceful and serene. Despite the cold, she longed to go deeper, even wished she had brought a swimsuit, not that she had swum for years. As it was, she decided to be daring, to take off her blouse, as she had a T shirt underneath, and tuck her skirt into her knickers. She walked out further, going deeper and deeper, and the sea water seemed to get warmer. It was a wonderful feeling of leaving the world behind. She shut her eyes and lifted her head to the sun, bathing in its warmth. Suddenly the spell was broken.