by Cathy Ace
Returning to the kitchen, Helen knew she should remind her mother she was taking a night off from working in the pub downstairs.
She braced herself. ‘I’ll make sure everything’s in order before I go out tonight, Mum. You didn’t forget to tell Aled Beynon he’d be starting early this evening, did you?’
Her mother looked up, hatchet-faced. ‘No, I didn’t forget. How could I? I’ll have to pay him extra, even though we’ll probably only have half a dozen of the old ones in, just to keep warm at our expense. What I take probably won’t even cover what I give him. If only I were a few years younger I’d be able to manage on my own.’
Helen sighed. ‘Mum, you know you can’t, so that’s that. It’s not often I take a night off, is it? When was the last time?’ Helen realized she couldn’t remember. ‘Besides, I picked tonight because it’ll probably be quiet here. Last night was good; we made a pretty penny on the food, and the hot chocolates raked it in, especially the ones with a drop of Baileys in them. I worked hard to make it all a success. We’ve never had a turnout like that before on Guy Fawkes Night, have we? It could become a regular thing. You can’t say people didn’t enjoy it, despite the weather.’
‘I don’t know how it could go from being so clear and bitterly cold last night, to us having this rain now. It’s a horrible time of year to have a thing like Guy Fawkes Night,’ replied her mother sourly.
‘Well, I dare say he wasn’t thinking about the seasonality of outdoor celebrations more than four hundred years ago when he planned to blow up Parliament, Mum, so the 5th of November it is. We’re stuck with it. Which is why we should be grateful so many people turned up.’
‘The usual crowd would have come anyway. And as for the others? It’s not as though there was anything else they could do around here, was it?’
‘Oh Mum, don’t be so negative. Why are you always like that?’
Helen’s mother stood, tightening the belt of her quilted floral dressing gown around her theoretical waist. ‘I’ll have you know I am thought of as one of the jolliest landladies in the whole of the Gower,’ replied Nan huffily. ‘We might be stuck out here at the most south-westerly corner of this wonderful peninsular of ours, but I’ve often heard people say they’ve come from miles away especially to meet me. So there. Think you’re too good for this place, you do, my girl. Always have and always will. It’s why you took yourself off to university. Which was a complete waste of time, as I told you it would be. If you don’t want to be here, I don’t know why you stay.’
I stay because I’ve cut myself off from the world and any opportunities I might once have had within it – to help you, Helen screamed inside her head. ‘Of course I want to be here, Mum,’ was what she said aloud. She saw her mother nod twice as she left the kitchen, heading toward the bathroom. It was something Nan always did when she felt vindicated, usually at Helen’s expense.
Helen began to clear the table of breakfast’s detritus, focusing on mopping up crumbs to try to distract herself from thinking dark thoughts. It didn’t work. The wind buffeted the small, ancient windows set into the foot-thick, stone walls. Helen hated November; there was only worse to come, with the short days and long, cold nights of winter stretching ahead, interminably. Hands on hips, she considered the damp-stained walls surrounding her; were they protecting her from the filthy weather beyond them, or holding her captive? One thing was certain, they were in need of sprucing up. As was her own life.
As she pushed the dirty dishes into soapy water, and swished them with a fuzzy green square, Helen wondered how different her life might have been if she’d stuck to her guns in telling her mother she should sell up when her father had keeled over with a stroke, from which he’d never recovered. If only she’d done that, by now she might have clambered her way up the ladder in the competitive world of archaeology. Somehow. Somewhere.
Or maybe not.
She admitted to herself she’d all but given up on that hope even before her mother had phoned her in a panic to say she’d found her father on the bathroom floor, unable to speak. So she’d come back, having achieved nothing but a degree she’d never used.
Of course, there was Sadie. Sadie was an achievement.
Helen rubbed moisturizer into her chapped hands as she contemplated the idea that, maybe, the only reason she’d been put on the face of the earth was to allow Sadie to exist. Was that why she’d been drawn to Bob? Just so they could create her daughter, then part, their reason for ever becoming a couple completed?
She’d only ever put up with his treatment of her for Sadie’s sake. But she’d finally had to face the fact it would be better for Sadie to not have a father in her life at all, than to have one like him.
Maybe, if her mother hadn’t fallen down the stairs and broken her leg so soon after her dad had died, Helen wouldn’t have stayed to ‘hold the fort’ until Nan had recovered sufficiently to be able to get the pub up to snuff to attract the best possible sale price.
Maybe, if her mother hadn’t taken that overdose, in her deep depression and grief so soon after she was back on her feet again, Helen would have taken Bob’s advice and they’d have left when the pub was on the market.
But the pub hadn’t sold, so she’d stayed, putting her head down and getting on with whatever menial task had been required at the time. Then Sadie had been born, and along with the joy of her arrival came the sourness of it all going horribly wrong.
After four long years of suffering, Bob had left. She and Sadie had stayed.
She felt the familiar feelings of helplessness as she reflected on how Bob had changed as the years had passed; each homecoming from his sales trips had become more dangerous than the last. He’d become ever more angry with her inability to break from her mother, the pub, and the village.
Maybe, if only her mother hadn’t . . .
‘Stop it, Helen Jones,’ she said aloud in the empty kitchen. ‘This isn’t getting you anywhere. He’s gone. That’s all behind you. Pull yourself together, get your work done, and make sure everything’s set up right for Mum and Aled tonight before you go. Then you can concentrate on having a nice time.’
Somehow the prospect of meeting a man for a drink at a pub in the Mumbles – a man with whom she’d so far only exchanged emails – didn’t lead Helen to hold out much hope of having a ‘nice time’; she found it difficult to settle in any pub without bringing her professional eye to bear upon the place. At least The Pilot had a reputation for good beer and no tellies or music. But the chatter was likely to get raucous as ten o’clock approached, because it always did in most lively pubs.
Stop it, Helen, she told herself, silently. You’re trying to talk yourself out of going. And you are going. Gryff seems very pleasant in his emails. You both enjoy classical music, you can talk about that.
She turned from the sink, pleased to hear her mother’s daily call of, ‘The bathroom’s empty,’ signaling her chance to shower and get ready to face the day ahead.
Gryff might turn out to be nice. The entire evening might be nice. And sometimes ‘nice’ was all you could hope for.
Nan
Nan Jones dragged herself into her bedroom to get dressed. Even something so seemingly simple took forever nowadays, and involved a good deal of pain and other annoyances she could well do without. She sat on the edge of what had once been her grandparents’ wood-framed bed to pull on her long woolen socks, but didn’t seem to be able to get her toes up to where her hands could reach them. She wriggled about a bit, and made a supreme effort to stretch down, then felt dizzy, so had to sit up again.
‘Bloody spots in front of my eyes,’ she hissed quietly. ‘I won’t be stopped by spots.’
She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the nausea would pass with the dizziness. It took a few moments, which she used to wrestle with her bra.
By the time she was fully clothed, Nan Jones was feeling anything but fresh. None of her body moved the way it used to; annoyed with herself, she had to admit that at seventy-eight she
wasn’t as young or lithe as she’d once been. She pulled a brush through her bobbed white hair, which had at least retained its thickness as she’d aged; she’d been proud of her hair when she was young, and Jack, her late husband, had enjoyed watching her brush it every night.
She finally put on her glasses and glanced at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Did her pain show on her face? Would Helen know? She didn’t want her to; she wouldn’t allow herself to appear to be weak.
She pulled her container of special painkillers from the secret drawer where she kept them hidden, and made some spit to get them down. If Mair Bevan, at ninety-two, could still kneel to take communion, she wouldn’t moan about her aches and pains, she told herself.
She limped to the top of the stairs and shouted, ‘Are you down there, Helen? Did you remember to wash the tea towels?’
‘They’re already in the drier, Mum,’ shouted her daughter from the lounge bar, where Nan knew she’d be making a poor job of polishing the tables.
‘So they should be, at this time of day,’ replied Nan, pleased that Helen at least kept things moving along as she would have done herself, if only she were still able. ‘I’ll be down now, in a minute. I just want to find out how Dilys Watkins is doing. I’m going to phone Mair. She’ll know.’
‘Okay, Mum.’
Nan pulled the greasy length of string to turn on the standard lamp beside the telephone table and settled herself on the little sofa in the sitting room. It creaked as she sat; at least the board over the broken springs was holding well.
She wasn’t surprised Dilys had suffered a heart attack, and said as much when Mair answered the phone. ‘She’s never been a healthy woman, hasn’t Dilys,’ she opened. ‘So, has anyone told you if she made it?’
‘Good morning to you too, Nan,’ replied Mair, her voice cracked with age. ‘She’s alive. At least, she was an hour ago, I know that much. The son phoned me. She’s in Morriston Hospital. Cardiac Unit. He’s over from Australia for the diamond wedding thing. They’ll cancel, of course. Poor Reverend Thomas, he put a lot of preparation into the service, I know.’
‘He did, Mair. Went up to their farm and talked to them for hours about their life together. He told me last week, when I was polishing the pews. But there, if she goes, at least he’ll have the eulogy ready.’
‘And all the family would still be here for the funeral, if they can have it that quick,’ replied Mair solemnly. ‘Is she going into our graveyard, do you know? Or will she be a crematorium job, then the cemetery?’
Nan gave it some thought. ‘The Watkinses haven’t got any family in the graveyard as far as I know. I don’t know where we’d put her, do you? There’s only that little area over by the memorial for unknown sailors, and I don’t think they can dig there because there might be some old graves from back in – what, was it the 1500s, or something? Not like you; you’ve got your place with your Dewi all ready and waiting. Like me and Jack; I’ll go in with him, and my mam and dad. No, I don’t think there can be any Watkinses there already. After all, these two only got here . . . when was it? In the seventies?’
‘Later than that, I think. They already had the boy when they came here. Big Wig in banking in wherever he lives in Australia now, Dilys reckons.’
‘So is he going to keep you in the picture then, Mair? The son.’
‘He said he’d keep the vicar updated. The son only rang me to get the vicar’s phone number. John knew mine off by heart; didn’t know the vicar’s. The son says John’s not too good, neither. I’ll phone Alis at the shop in a bit, to let her know. She’ll be wondering what’s happening. I’ll let her get herself sorted out first.’
Nan pounced. ‘Don’t bother, I’ll tell Helen to go over the road and fill Alis in when she opens up.’ She checked her watch. ‘Look at the time. It’s so dark this morning I never thought for a minute it would be nine o’clock already. I’ll tell Helen to go over now.’
‘It’s no bother for me to phone her, Nan,’ pressed Mair.
‘I insist,’ replied Nan firmly, and hung up.
She heaved herself off the sofa and made her way slowly to the bannister to shout down to the pub. ‘Helen? I need you to go over to the shop to tell Alis that Dilys Watkins is in Morriston. Alive. At least she was an hour ago. The son’s going to keep the vicar informed.’
Helen poked her head around the bottom of the staircase. ‘You want me to go over to the shop now? Can’t I just phone Alis? Or maybe you could?’
Nan felt instantly annoyed. ‘It’s important information, Helen. It should be delivered personally. Alis and Dilys go back a long way. But, if you can’t be bothered, I suppose I can put my mac on and do it myself.’ Nan let out a little squeak of pain as she started down the stairs.
Helen pulled on her waxed cotton coat. ‘No, Mum. You take your time up there. I’ll go. I’ll be quick.’
‘Don’t rush back. I’ll be fine on my own. Well, you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be going out on the town tonight, would you?’
A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind her daughter. Nan made her way to the kitchen table, sat down on the chair that didn’t wobble, and lit a cigarette. She reveled in the fact she was alone, at last. She was never alone anymore, it seemed. Helen, or Sadie, was always there. She missed being alone in the old place. It reminded her of the few years when Helen had been away, when it had been just her and Jack – and he used to make himself scarce quite a lot of the time. Then the entire place had been all hers, just like it was for these precious minutes. She smiled as she smoked, looking out of the small, square-paned windows at the grey light trying to pierce the rain. She loved the sound of rain. It made her feel safe.
It was times like this when she felt most content, and glad she’d allowed Helen to hang onto the fantasy that her late father had been a perfect man; she knew Helen was happier because of it. It had taken its toll, keeping the truth from her daughter, and the only way Nan could cope was to not talk about the man with whom she’d shared her life for four decades. At all. Ever. If it could be avoided.
She never liked to speak ill of the dead.
7th November
The rain had let up a bit, making it a slightly less-unpleasant walk than it would have been the previous couple of days. Hywel Evans let Nip off his lead knowing he’d head up the hill; during their last few walks he’d been kept close to heel. Nip made the most of his freedom by tracking down scents in the wet grass. Hywel followed his trusty companion, bedraggled and somewhat wind-weary, but glad that at least the wind was a little less biting than it had recently been.
Hywel loved the whole of the Dragon’s Back area; he felt sorry for people who’d never experienced it for themselves, even on a day such as this, when the view was reduced to several feet in front of him. It didn’t matter to Hywel that he could hardly see where he was going; born and raised in the village of Rhosddraig, he was one of the true ‘People of the Dragon’ – as the locals were referred to by outsiders – and knew his surroundings intimately.
The hillside path was crossed by narrow, winding sheep trails, but it rose ever upward despite these potential diversions. The still-heavy rain meant it was more like a trickling rivulet than a path, but he and his beloved dog pushed on, regardless – Nip with his nose down, Hywel with his collar up.
‘Don’t go too far,’ called Hywel, unheeded by his keen Jack Russell. ‘Oh buggeration,’ he grumbled, conceding he’d have to go much further than he’d have liked. He whistled and called, but Nip didn’t reappear, so Hywel battled on.
When he reached the old brick-built RAF listening station, now no more than a collection of crumbling walls and a once-flat concrete floor, he spotted Nip, dashing about, circling something at the center of what had once been the main room of the long-abandoned building.
‘What’s that, Nip?’ enquired Hywel. The dog stopped, and turned his head toward his master.
Hywel was convinced Nip was saying ‘No idea’, because he certainly couldn’t
work out for himself what he was looking at. A mound of bricks and rocks was heaped on the floor, and the blackness of the concrete around them told him a fire had burned there at some point.
‘Come away now, Nip,’ he called, but the dog looked determined to stay; he sat down, his paws stretched out, sphinx-like. Hywel bent down to hook the lead onto his collar. Nip looked quite disgruntled.
‘I said, come on, let’s go home.’ He shoved his hand into his pocket, then allowed Nip to sniff his fingers. ‘Treats.’
Nothing.
Hywel decided to poke at the pile of rocks with his boot to prove to Nip there was nothing to keep him there. However, his boot dislodged a stone, which led to a mini-landslide. Inside the mound was a collection of what he immediately knew to be pieces of bone. A jumbled, blackened pile of bone shards that would have once formed part of . . . what? A sheep? A dog? No, too many bones for that. A wild moorland pony come all the way across the peninsular from Cefn Bryn? No. He let Nip’s lead go slack as he pulled out his mobile phone and opened his jacket to provide cover so he could dial 999.
As he waited to be connected, he walked around the rock pile. He couldn’t be certain, but he reckoned he could make out a bit of a crushed large joint. He shuddered, and it wasn’t because of the icy rain.
Nip and Hywel were chilly and thoroughly soaked by the time the local community constable arrived.
Hywel wasn’t surprised the officer hadn’t rushed; after all, what he could see and describe sounded so . . . unusual.
But when the policeman replaced Hywel on guard, thanking him and telling him to go home but to speak to no one about his discovery, Hywel knew he’d done the right thing.
He carried Nip’s shivering, wriggling body down the hillside under his arm, contemplating the brevity of life, and knowing in his heart that he’d been guarding something that had once been human.