by Sue Nicholls
With her belongings secured, she made a quick plan. Mam would be on the road, but a track along the foot of the mountain ran in the same general direction past stone-walled fields of sheep. After a mile or two, she could drop from it to the shop.
She hobbled as fast as her pain allowed, with her load bumping against her legs. After a mile, she felt safe to slow down. Her lungs heaved under her sore ribs, but she marched on, keeping the mountain on her right. She crossed marshy patches, encrusted with ice and scrambled over rocks, aiming for the red phone box from which she would ring Cerys.
19 CERYS
At last, after four months of pregnancy, Cerys had regained her appetite and was ‘glowing’. Her hair shone under the kitchen light as she and Paul polished off their fish and chips. Friday had become take-away night since she became nauseous. It gave an excuse to put her feet up and let Paul cater. She saw no reason to change things now that she felt better, and Paul would never complain about fish and chips or curry. He showed tremendous enthusiasm for junk food, and she sometimes wondered why she bothered to cook at all.
From the work top her ringtone shrilled, and she lumbered to catch her phone before it vibrated off the edge.
‘Why do you leave the vibrate on?’ Paul complained through a mouthful of chips.
‘I like to feel it if the sound’s off,’ she said, as she had done many times before. It was a waste of breath trying to change Paul’s point of view.
She glanced at her screen and took in a sharp breath. ‘Anwen?’
Anwen’s voice was thin and distant, but her words were clear enough. ‘Cerys! I’ve run away. I’m by the phone box.’
‘What? Oh, my God. What have you done? I told you to wait for me to call.’
‘I couldn’t wait. I kept going over what you’d said. Anyway, you bought the wrong milk and Mam locked me up again. I climbed out the window. I think I’ve sprained my ankle. I’m cold Cerys.’ Anwen sniffed.
Cerys glanced at Paul, who had stopped chewing and was staring at her. She checked her watch. ‘Go to the shop, lovely. The shopkeeper will let you in.’ She weighed up the danger, then continued. ‘Tell him the truth. Explain about Mam and Dad…’ Cerys looked again at Paul; whose eyebrows had risen almost to the ceiling. ‘Ask if you can stay until I can get to you.’
‘How long will you be?’
‘I’ll leave now.’ She had no further need for cloak and dagger. ‘Paul can bring me. We’ll be there in about three hours.’
‘OK.’
Cerys softened her voice. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.’
Her fiancé’s face expressed disappointment at his loss of a Friday evening beer. ‘Who was that?’
‘My young sister.’
‘Your sister? And did you say Mum and Dad? Your dead Mum and Dad?’
‘My parents are dead - to me.’ She was already pulling on her coat. ‘Look, it’s a long way to Mynydd Hen. I’ll explain on the way.’ Her anxiety made the production of tears a simple matter, and Paul had soon threaded his arms into his jacket.
20 ANWEN
At this time of year, darkness fell early over the mountains, and as Anwen replaced the receiver, invisible sheep baaed and mehed from the blackness. A sign on the shop’s door announced that trade had ended for the day, so after letting her bundle fall from her frozen fingers, she hammered on the glass. The noise echoed off the hills, and she waited, stamping her feet, and looking behind her as though Mam might leap from a bush at any moment. The dome of the sky sparkled with a mess of stars, and in the moonlight, frost stiffened and bleached the nearby grass. The adrenalin that powered her here had subsided, and now she was plain scared. She shivered. Nobody came.
From a small, frosted window above her head, a steamy yellow light struggled into the gloom. She kicked at the ground for something to throw and found an egg-sized stone and picked it up. Its icy surface numbed her palm as she tested its weight, worrying about its impact on the window above. But if she was not to die of hypothermia, it must be done. She launched it at the dim rectangle above her head, and a bullet-shot split the sheep-filled peace.
To her relief, the windowpane remained intact, and she was scouring the ground for another pebble when a halo of light burst from the small casement, followed by a glistening pate. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Me.’ Nerves strangled her voice, and she swallowed and called again a firmer voice, ‘It’s me. Anwen. From up the mountain.’
‘Hold on, Dear; I’m coming down.’
Light flooded the shop, and the rotund figure of Mr Davies, bare foot and rolled in a brown towel from armpit to shin, padded towards her. When he opened the door, the warmth from inside met her like a hug.
‘I’m sorry it’s so cold in here.’ The shopkeeper’s head shook, making his chin wobble, and he stepped back to let her in.
‘It’s not. It’s lovely.’ Anwen tried not to gawk at his fleshy shoulders. Her own parents were sinewy from hard graft and spartan living. This man appeared to lack any concern for the Lord’s opinion on greed.
The hairs on Mr Davies’s ample arms bristled, and he shivered. ‘Come on up, Dear. You might not be cold; but I am. My poor feet.’ They both studied the ten gnarled white toes, forced to uncomfortable angles by bunions.
Anwen hesitated. Should she be obedient to her sister and take Mr Davies up on his invitation? He was male - a person of danger. But she trusted Cerys and liked this kind man, so she gave a small smile and followed him.
With instructions to make herself comfortable in his living room, Mr Davies headed for the bedroom. Anwen sat in a deep armchair, clutching her carrier to her chest, and taking in the comfortable little space. Squashy seating, a carpet, velvet drapes; she was oblivious to their worn state. In her limited experience, they were the epitome of luxury. She wiggled her icy toes inside her shoes and flexed her fingers to help their feeling return.
In the corner, opposite her, was a small kitchen area and beside it, a table with two chairs. So easy to clean. Anwen could happily live in such a place.
A cheerful whistle preceded her host’s return, resplendent in bright blue pyjamas and an enormous plaid dressing-gown. ‘Hope you don’t mind, Dear. I always make myself comfortable after standing all day in that drafty shop.’
If Anwen was uncomfortable, she declined to show it.
The shopkeeper dumped himself into a nearby chair with a grunt and leaned towards her. Nervously, she curled tighter into the cushions, and he withdrew a little. ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine.’ He cocked his head. ‘Is this to do with your mam’s visit this afternoon?’
At her slow nod, Mr Davies dropped his own head and looked at the carpet between his knees. ‘Thought so. Scary woman your mam.’
She nodded again, and he jerked his head up and slapped both knees. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. You must be frozen. Have you eaten?’ She shook her head, and he crossed to the kitchen and pulled bread, soft margarine and ham from the fridge. ‘Mayo?’
‘Yes please,’ she whispered.
‘Hot chocolate?’
This was a puzzle; hot chocolate sounded messy. At her worried expression, he said, ‘It’s a drink. You know? Hot chocolate, drinking chocolate?’ He mimicked an old TV advert.
She feigned understanding. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, please.’
Another delectable sandwich soon arrived, and marvelling at the sweet and warming properties of a mug of hot chocolate, Anwen relaxed.
The shopkeeper watched the girl tuck into her meal and blow the surface of her drink. Every so often she would slide her eyes across the room to him and he would smile. When she had finished the sandwich, he produced a box of Mr Kipling apple pies, and Anwen demolished two and pressed all the crumbs into her fingertips, sucking them clean. Soon, her eyelids, despite her obvious efforts to prevent them, drooped into profound sleep, and Mr Davies picked up the telephone.
21 CERYS
‘Put your foot down,’ Cerys hollered at Paul.
‘Calm
down, woman. You’re usually nagging at me to slow down.’
‘Yes. Well, this is important.’
‘I can tell, and I’ve done everything you’ve asked. So, what’s going on?’
Cerys had kept her secret for so long that her lies had become glib. The truth was hard to tell but tell it she must.
The weight of her young sister’s body pressed against fifteen-year-old Cerys’s leg. Anwen’s small hands clung to her skirt, impeding her movement. Cerys pushed the child behind her and faced their father, Owen, who was lunging across the kitchen towards them on the chilly flags. The buckle end of a coiled belt swung from his fist.
‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ Cerys screamed. ‘Hit me if you must, but she’s still a baby.’ A desperate note crept into her voice. ‘If you hurt her, I’ll leave, and I’ll take her with me.’ She fixed him with a glare. ‘Then who would do all your cleaning and mending, eh?’
Owen shot out a hand to grip Cerys’s upper arm in his bony fingers, his mouthwas an angry gash across his face. The pain of his grip, and his strength, forced Cerys downwards, and with Anwen screaming and clinging on, the two tumbled to the frigid floor.
The little man hauled Anwen to her feet, and Cerys screeched her objection. From the floor, she reached up to the dresser for some kind of projectile. Her groping fingers met an earthenware jug, and with every gram of strength, she sent it flying.
It bounced off Owen’s shoulder and crashed to the tiles, and he howled, still clutching Anwen. His eyes swept the room for a means of retaliation.
Meanwhile, Cerys was on her feet. She snatched a huge meat plate and raised it high above her, bearing down on him, prepared to crash it onto his head. He hunched his body and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact, but the door opened, and Mam strode in.
‘What on earth?’ She halted. ‘Cerys. No!’
Cerys glared, her face suffused with sightless fury, and the little woman drove at her, shouting in her reedy voice, ‘Cerys. Calm down… Calm down!’
Cerys’s arms slackened, and she lowered the plate. With a drooping head, she replaced it on the dresser and wrapped her body in her arms.
Dad released his hold on Anwen, and the child threw herself on Cerys, sobbing and rubbing her arm.
‘Go to your room. Now!’ her mother snapped at Cerys.
Cerys tried to take Anwen’s hand, but Mam batted it away. ‘Leave her here,’ she ordered.
With brimming eyes, Cerys threw her little sister a helpless look and dragged herself up the bare wooden staircase.
Their shared bedroom was the very one fifteen-year-old Anwen had, until this morning, still occupied. Nothing in it had changed in the intervening years: The tallboy, the yellowing paint and the drab curtains. Hunched on the bed now, teenage Cerys concentrated every ounce of hatred on her father and plotted her escape. Soon Anwen’s piercing scream echoed from the kitchen, followed by the clop of her father’s feet, and the sobs of Anwen being dragged up the stairs. Cerys positioned herself beside the doorway with a flimsy wooden chair poised in the air.
The door exploded inwards, and Anwen flew over the threshold. Dad had time for a flicker of surprise before Cerys brought the chair down hard on his head. The edge of the seat met its target with an ugly ‘thunk’ and the little man dropped onto the landing without a murmur. Cerys grabbed hold of Anwen and covered her small, snotty mouth with a hand. The two crouched, frozen, straining their ears for Mam’s arrival, one eye on Dad, who was out cold on the floor. But the noise Mam was making below must have blocked out the sound, and Cerys released Anwen. ‘Come on Lovely, we’re leaving. You and me. We’ll find a new home.’ She swept Anwen up and stepped over her father. He groaned which, although terrifying, was a relief. At least she was not a murderer.
With Anwen in her arms, Cerys slogged her way down the stairs, her eyes fixed on the front door and freedom. While Mam laboured out of sight, she shot from the house and, with Anwen jolting on her hip like a sack of bones, pelted away.
They made it to Mold before Cerys realised that she could not meet her sister’s needs. The child was hungry and frightened, and they had no money. With Anwen slowing her down, they would both be caught. In deep sadness she dropped to her knees and hugged her sister tightly. ‘I can’t take care of you, baby girl. I have to leave you. But listen.’ She put her forehead on Anwen’s and held her gaze. ‘I promise to come back for you. You hear me? I promise.’
Anwen’s small face crumpled, and Cerys hugged her tight, combing her mind for a way to protect the only person in the world she loved.
When they entered the cottage hospital, she had a plan. In one hand she held a note, written with a stolen pencil on a scrap of rubbish from a bin. Anwen’s small hand held hers with a trust she did not deserve. A straggle of outpatients, including a youthful woman in a wheelchair, waited with various degrees of patience for two solemn females behind a counter. Cerys hesitated, wondering whether to join the queue, but then an efficient-seeming nurse hurried past.
‘Please help us.’ Cerys whispered, and the nurse paused. Cerys pressed the note into her hand and pushed Anwen at her before running at the exit shouting to Anwen, ‘I love you, Anwen. Don’t forget what I promised.’
Outside, she pelted past a blur of ambulances and wheelchairs, into the car park.
The note told their story. Their violent parents and Anwen’s vulnerability, and that she, Cerys, could not yet care for her little sister, but hoped the authorities would find a place to keep her safe. After some thought, she added her parents’ address and the contact details of the local shop. She asked that someone keep her informed via Mr Davies but begged that her parents should only know that Anwen was safe. Under no circumstances must she return to them.
As she ran towards freedom, Cerys offered a silent prayer that Mr Davies would not mind helping. He seemed like a kind man.
‘So, what happened? How did she end up back there?’ Paul eyes were on the motorway and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
‘I’m not sure. I was on the streets for a while. That was frightening, and I had to look after my own safety. Eventually I got a place in a hostel, and they helped me into a job. Once I had money, I could find a place of my own. I moved into a bedsit and bought a mobile phone. All that took time. Occasionally I rang Mr Davies, but he’d heard nothing. Then one day he rang to say Anwen was back home.’
‘Poor kid.’ Paul was silent for a while. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this?’
She hesitated, hugging her bump. ‘I wanted to deal with it on my own. I didn’t feel good about abandoning her.’
Paul concentrated on the white lines flying towards him in the headlights.
Cerys’s phone rang, startling her. ‘Oh, Mr Davies. I’m sorry to land you with this.’
‘She’s fine, Cerys. Fast asleep in the armchair.’
‘I’m so grateful. We’ll be a couple more hours yet, but we’re coming as fast as we can. Give her my love.’
‘I will, Dear. Drive carefully. She needs her sister alive.’
22 SAM
‘I found them.’ Kitty dumped a lumpy carrier bag onto her dining table in front of Sam. ‘I knew they were there.’ She sat beside him. ‘Good thing Cerys wasn’t aware of them. I mean, would you want to keep something like this if you were planning a fresh start with someone?’
There was only one person Sam wanted to make a fresh start with, and he would not give two hoots what she had in her attic. ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got long to look at these; I’m going to Dad’s at two.’
Kitty upended the dusty bag, and bundles of well-thumbed Filofax inserts tumbled out. One of the perished rubber bands snapped and pages skidded across the tabletop. Sam caught hold of one, a date in May. Written in Fee’s neat hand were the words, Beach hut.
Fee had inherited a primrose-coloured house on stilts in Tankerton. Sam had not thought about the place in years. Now, he found a memory of them all outside it: Kitty, Lucas and Olivia, J
osh and Sam, playing hopscotch on the promenade, while their mothers laughed down from the veranda. Sam searched among the pages for the front of the diary - 1993.
Beside him, Kitty held another bundle and her expression mirrored his own: nostalgia, sadness, and apprehension.
~~~
Sam pushed the little wooden front gate of his fathers’ garden, and it lolled from its hinges into a leggy rose bush. The dirty-white render and the scrubby flower beds were evidence of Maurice’s dearth of homemaking skills.
His father was reading a newspaper at the kitchen table, but in response to Sam’s tap on the window, his face split into a wide grin. He pushed himself up with both hands and let his son in. ‘Hello Boy. How are you?’
‘I came to talk about the weekend.’ Sam hugged his old man, and Maurice patted him awkwardly on the shoulders.