by Karen Clarke
My smile vanished. ‘Something like that.’
Declan’s hand closed round his pint glass. His wrists looked thick and strong, a silver ring on the middle finger of his right hand; a Celtic knot of some kind. I wondered whether a woman had given it to him. ‘Not married?’ He looked at Lily who was staring at a print on the wall of a misty mountain, as though assessing its value.
I shook my head. ‘You?’ I thought of the platinum wedding band Patrick had worn, making no effort to conceal the fact he had a wife, and how I’d fallen for him anyway.
‘Nope,’ Declan said. ‘Not met the right woman yet.’
‘Have you travelled a lot?’
Was there a slight hesitation before he answered? ‘I’ve been to lots of places. I was in the army for a few years when I was younger. It’s a good way to see the world.’
‘Army?’ I felt a flash of surprise. He didn’t seem the type somehow: hair too long, no power stance, no jargon. I was aware of mentally stereotyping. ‘You were a soldier?’
‘Geographic technician,’ he said wryly. ‘Best place to build a helicopter landing site? Most convenient route for a tank? Where would a missile do the most damage?’ He executed a jerky salute. ‘Lance Corporal Walsh at your service.’ There was something regretful about his tone that reminded me of Morag. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago.’
‘You must have been all over the place.’ America?
He took a sip of beer before replying. I wished I had a drink after all; something to do with my hands besides twisting Lily’s muslin. ‘Canada, Germany, Austria, Italy.’ He shrugged one shoulder as though making light of it. ‘Operational deployment to Afghanistan.’
I sensed a but. ‘You didn’t enjoy it?’
‘It was fine for a while, especially the training. I was good at it. Then things got real. Providing key information to military commanders. I didn’t like that so much.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Let’s just say it brought home the whole killing aspect.’ At least he wasn’t pretending to be a hero. And it sounded as though killing was anathema to him – hardly the sort of person who’d willingly terrorise a woman with a baby, if he was telling the truth. ‘I joined the army on a whim if I’m being brutally honest.’ His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. ‘I thought it would be exciting. I’d had enough of school, of living on a farm, but I’d always loved geography, maps, being outdoors. I wanted to travel.’ He paused and shook his head, the wall light catching glints of darker colour in his hair. The atmosphere and the lighting in the pub made it feel as though we were on a date. ‘My mother was terrified I’d get killed and I wanted to be around to see my kids grow up one day.’
‘And now?’
He took a breath, his tone lightening. ‘I’ve moved around a fair bit. Can’t seem to settle in one place. I look for work, stay a while, then move on.’
‘And that’s why you’re here?’
As he met my eyes, my insides lurched again. ‘I have a soft spot for Wales.’ He grinned, revealing a set of even teeth. ‘I met a girl on a camping holiday in Caernarfon with my family when I was fifteen. It was a memorable summer.’
Ignoring the implication, I said, ‘Why Fenbrith?’
If he was fazed by my questions, he hid it well. ‘I stayed in touch with the girl’s brother.’ He traced a finger around the rim of his glass. His nails were short and clean. No trace of mud. ‘He still lives in Caernarfon with his wife and children, runs an outdoor centre there. Walking, climbing, mountain-biking, that sort of thing.’ I relaxed further. I’d been to Caernarfon once on a daytrip with my grandparents. They took me to see the castle, whose walls encased the town. We’d eaten fish and chips on a shingle beach with a name I couldn’t pronounce, and paddled in the sea. I couldn’t remember where my parents were that day. ‘Like me, Hugh’s into outdoor activities. He knows a good route from here to Snowdon and that’s where we’re going today. We arranged to meet here at midday.’
‘So, you are on holiday?’ My tone had lifted. I saw something shift in his expression. Had he felt the spark of energy between us?
‘More of a working holiday.’ His gaze shifted to Lily. She waved her arms as though trying to take off and I dabbed her chin again. ‘Hugh’s looking for someone to guide hiking tours in the area and … well, I’m thinking about it.’ I was aware of him subtly tracking my movements as I picked Lily up and nestled her warm body against my shoulder. ‘What’s her name?’ he said.
‘Little mouse, most of the time.’ I discreetly sniffed her nappy area. ‘What would you call a daughter if you had one?’
I said it to distract him, but he appeared to give it some thought. ‘Of course, it would have to be a mutual choice, but I’d hands-down choose Cara, after my nan.’
‘That’s nice.’ I swallowed the urge to tell him I’d named Lily after my grandmother. The ring, still in my jeans pocket, seemed to burn through the material and brand my leg. ‘I prefer simple names.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘You can keep your Zeramiahs and your weird spellings. There was a girl in my class at school called Emily but it was spelt with an a and two ees instead of an i and a y. She was forever correcting people.’
‘I don’t understand why parents do that.’
‘Probably want their child to stand out.’
‘And all children want to do at that age is fit in.’
‘Exactly.’
I became aware of cooking smells trailing through the pub, of the world feeling almost normal – ordinary. The bar was growing busier. A group of anorak-clad ramblers were ordering drinks and asking about the menu. Twenty minutes had slipped by and there was still no sign of Morag. On cue, I spotted her emerging from a door marked private behind the bar, just as Declan said, ‘Whereabouts are you staying?’
To buy some time I jiggled Lily as she grew restless. She was making a fretful noise that would soon escalate into crying. ‘I’m sorry but I have to feed her.’ My breasts felt heavy. Declan’s eyes skimmed my chest and a flush of heat travelled through my body. I knew I looked unremarkable in the baggy sweatshirt I’d put on with my jeans – which I still hadn’t got round to washing – make-up free, my hair shoved up in a topknot, but his gaze suggested otherwise.
‘I should get going.’ He drained his pint and got to his feet. Under his jacket, he was wearing a grey fleece over a white T-shirt. I felt an irrational urge to rest my cheek against it and feel the beat of his heart against my skin.
‘Listen, if you’d like to meet for a drink sometime, give me a call.’ He drew a business-like card from his pocket and slid it across the table. Lily’s fists were flailing and caught me on the chin as I leant forward and picked it up. It simply read Declan Walsh above a mobile number in plain black font. ‘Useful when I’m looking for work,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid there’s no signal where I’m staying.’ All the same, I dropped the card into my bag, attempting a casual smile. ‘And I’m pretty busy with this one most of the time.’
‘If you change your mind.’ His gaze held mine for a moment longer, then someone called his name. He turned, raising his hand in a greeting. ‘That’s Hugh.’ He looked back at me. ‘Nice to have met you …?’
Aware he was waiting for me to supply a name, I looked at Morag. She was viewing our exchange with an inscrutable expression, her hands tucked under her armpits. ‘You were gone ages,’ I said, and Declan moved away with a nod in her direction. Pivoting towards the wall, I awkwardly arranged Lily at my breast as Declan passed the opposite window outside. Unguarded, his face looked unfamiliar; a stranger once more.
‘I was watching you.’ Morag sat where Declan had been moments ago. ‘Looks like you’ve got an admirer,’ she said. ‘Fast work.’
Chapter 14
By the time I’d explained about bumping into Declan outside the pub, defensive under Morag’s forensic scrutiny, Lily had finished feeding. I adjusted my top and rested her against my shoulder, gently patting her back. Morag looked about to say something but
stopped as a smiling woman in her early forties approached, balancing two bowls and a basket of bread in her hands. A mass of curly blonde hair exploded around a zigzag patterned scarf.
‘Lunch is served,’ she sang. ‘Hope you don’t mind me choosing for you, but it’s only vegetable soup and home-made bread and your aunt assured me you’ll eat anything as long as it’s nicely cooked.’ Her accent was soft and lilting, her round face creased with laughter lines. She looked comfortable in jeans and a pink T-shirt, a black apron double-tied around her waist; at ease in her own body. ‘Morag told me you’re a chef, so I expect you’ll be judging my food. You can tell me where I’m going wrong.’ She spoke cheerfully, clearly confident about her cooking ability.
‘It smells lovely.’ My mouth watered as I admired the golden-crusted bread, cut into thick slices and accompanied by a pot of creamy butter, and the stew of colourful vegetables floating in herby stock. Steadying Lily, I wafted a hand above the bowl, inhaling the steamy scent of garlic and leeks. ‘It’s nice to be cooked for,’ I said, thrusting away a memory of Patrick throwing chopped peppers into a pan with some prawns at midnight in my apartment, his shirtsleeves rolled up. It’s my mother’s recipe, you’ll love it, I promise. ‘People get anxious when they know I cook for a living.’
‘Everything in the soup is home-grown by your aunt.’ Annie looked at Morag as though seeing her in a new light. ‘We were so excited when she told us her niece – and great-niece – had come to stay.’
‘Thank you so much for the baby things.’ I’d seen her eyes light up when she looked at Lily. ‘I couldn’t bring all her stuff with me,’ I added, driven to offer some sort of explanation. ‘I was going to buy what she needed when I got here.’
Annie waved a dismissive hand. ‘Glad to be shot of it all.’ Her casualness didn’t quite convince. ‘I’m pleased it’s gone to a good home.’ She cast Lily a yearning look. ‘Wish my Gwynn was that age again, she’s a total terror at the moment. The terrible twos have lasted nearly an extra two years, now.’ Her tone grew wistful. ‘Bryn’s parents have got her for a couple of days to give us a break. She loves it there because they let her do what she wants.’
‘Which makes her worse when she gets back.’ Morag shook her head as she thickly buttered a chunk of bread before dipping it in her soup. ‘They spoil her.’
‘Ah well, we just want our children to be happy, don’t we now?’
Morag paused before biting into her soupy bread, her dark gaze sliding to Lily. ‘I suppose so.’ She said it so quietly, I wasn’t certain Annie had heard.
‘Oh, I’ve got a car seat you can have too,’ Annie said brightly. ‘It tips right back so it’s safe for a tiny one to sleep in if you’re travelling. We only used it once to take Gwynn to Cornwall to see her great-grandma when she was a baby. She slept all the way, perfectly safe.’
‘That’s so kind of you.’ I thought of visiting Mum in Berkshire. Not that I had a car. I hadn’t driven for years, hadn’t needed to in New York.
‘You don’t have postnatal depression, do you?’ Annie’s smile faded. ‘I was terrible for a while. No one knew what was wrong with me,’ she said. ‘It’s important to ask for help if you’re feeling down.’
I remembered the numbness of a month ago, the constant flow of tears, the lonely hours of sleeplessness. ‘I’m OK, but thanks.’ I wasn’t OK. The knowledge that I was being watched, probably followed, was like an icy prod in my heart. How long is it going to go on for?
‘Well, if you fancy helping out here on a Saturday night, there’s a job for you if you want it.’
It took a moment to realise that Annie was being serious. ‘A job?’
‘I had a chef but he was lured to the bright lights of Cardiff and I’m desperate for a night or two off, which might not be possible with the schools breaking up for half-term next week. We’re always busy on a Saturday night, but once the visitors arrive …’ She pretended to tear at her hair.
I laughed, allowing myself to breathe a little easier. Could I really stay, even work, here, in Fenbrith? Would it prove to Patrick that I was moving on, keeping my promise? ‘I might take you up on that.’ Laughter blossomed against a hum of chatter and clink of glasses. ‘Thank you for asking.’
Annie nodded. As she turned to a customer trying to attract her attention, I picked up my spoon, flooded with a tentative sense of hope. If I didn’t give in to the fear that threatened to overwhelm me, didn’t react in the way Patrick must be expecting, maybe I could make it work here.
*
‘I need to pick up some groceries,’ Morag said, once we were back in the van.
‘From the village store?’
‘There’s a supermarket a couple of miles down the road. They have the cereal I like.’
‘OK.’ Smiling, I settled back in my seat, replete after lunch, Lily burbling happily between us in the plush car seat Annie had produced. My little girl had been a huge hit at the pub, attracting smiles and questions about her progress while she responded with smiles as though trying to impress her audience.
Ifan had come over on his way out, to ask whether we’d enjoyed the rabbits, looking downcast when Morag told him we hadn’t got around to eating them yet.
‘Don’t let them spoil,’ he’d said. I had to resist telling him that, in my view, they’d already been ruined. I didn’t want to sour the air of goodwill that sprang up once Morag had introduced me to a couple more locals, as well as Annie’s husband Bryn, whose bear-like appearance was belied by an easy-going manner and gentle smile. He left most of the talking to his wife, but it was clear they made a good team and were well liked by their regulars. What had surprised me a little was how highly regarded Morag seemed to be, despite her less than sunny nature and refusal to be drawn into local gossip. I’d always enjoyed her sporadic visits growing up, but they’d been tainted by Mum’s view of her sister as selfish, their father’s ‘favourite’ – a woman only interested in doing what she wanted to do.
Isn’t everyone, Gail? Dad remarked once, apparently amused by Mum’s tears when Morag left straight after dinner because she had a plane to catch. To be honest, I envy her. On some level, I’d understood Mum resented being the one responsible for their parents, who knew which daughter to call whenever they needed something. At least Mum got to do what she wanted in the end. Sourness rose to my throat as Morag slowed at a set of lights and sped up again when they turned green, murmuring an apology when Lily’s arms flew out. ‘Got to get used to her,’ she said. ‘I’ll slow down.’
The supermarket was on the outskirts of Caernarfon, a squat building with a red-brick roof that seemed out of place after all the grey stone and slate I’d seen so far. The car park was crowded, people jostling trolleys and umbrellas as the rain returned, pelting the tarmac with a vengeance.
‘Wait here, I won’t be long.’ Morag parked under a dripping oak tree at the furthest point from the store, in the only available space. She threw the hood of her jacket up. ‘No point us all getting soaked.’
The van door opened, letting in a mist of damp air. Once Morag had jumped out, she was quickly swallowed by the deluge. The windows began to steam up, rain on the roof rattling like tiny hammers. Lily seemed fascinated, eyes tracking the sound, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise.
‘You’d better get used to it, sausage.’ I turned and clapped her hands together, smiling when her eyes met mine. ‘It’s even wetter in Wales than it is in New York.’ I’d been surprised by how much it rained there, even during the summer. I remembered last year, when storms had caused havoc across the city, flooding streets and subway stations. Recalling the scenes, my mind flew back to a June day, when I was crouched in the toilets behind the kitchen at the restaurant, Ana staring at me with startled comprehension as rain battered the window above the sink. She’d swung by to invite me to her cousin’s birthday party and was told I wasn’t well.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Grace?’
‘I don’t know.’ I slid to the fl
oor, cradling my head in my hands. The signs had been there for weeks: tender breasts, a vague sick feeling, a metallic taste in my mouth that made tea and coffee undrinkable. When it finally registered, I did a test, then another in the bathroom upstairs, staring at the pink line until it blurred, wondering how it could have happened when I’d always been so careful. I hadn’t told anyone yet, could hardly take it in. Apart from Patrick being out of the picture now he was back with his wife – also pregnant. Well done, Grace. You picked a winner there – I wasn’t prepared for this.
‘Are you ready to be a single parent?’ Ana squatted beside me, the musky scent of her perfume making my throat close up. ‘Or are you going to call him, tell him he has to step up?’
‘You know I can’t do that.’ She was the only one who knew about Patrick, about why we were no longer seeing each other. ‘His wife’s having a baby too, remember?’
‘God, what a creep.’ Her lip curled with disdain. ‘I don’t care if he’s going to be the next DA and all the grannies love him and he’s got a lovely head of hair, or whatever, he’s an asshole.’
‘So am I for sleeping with him.’ Sickness swirled through me. ‘And, Ana, you can’t tell anyone about it, ever. Or about this. About the baby being his.’ I pressed a hand to my stomach. It was still flat; no hint of what was happening inside me. ‘I don’t want to be with Patrick and I don’t want him to know.’
It wasn’t as if he was going to leave his wife. She was an alcoholic, he’d told me, after the first time we slept together. I’d traced the contours of his face with my fingers, wanting to wipe away the pain that tightened his features. He’d known she liked a drink – a rebellion against a tightly controlled upbringing – but hadn’t realised how much until after they were married. She hid it well, but her father had recently funded a secret trip to rehab. She’d quickly relapsed, leaving Patrick floundering, uncertain how to help. A trip to Canada to visit her sister had seemed like a temporary solution, a change of scenery, a break from everything. It hadn’t worked. She’d carried on drinking until she discovered she was pregnant.