A photo of Dad on a shelf. That's enough. Carole bursting into tears. Carole asleep on the sofa, Sammy lying by her protectively. Peter watching Carole sleep. Helpless in the face of this.
Dai's funeral. A Crematorium at the centre of a massive cemetery across town in the East End. Conveyor belt grief. The minister mispronouncing Dai's name. Few able to sing the Welsh language hymn. Mum wanting to keep the ashes, not scatter them in Cwm Celyn as Dad wanted. Not letting go.
Carole's New Year's Eve on the sofa asleep. Followed by a day when the city is as quiet as she is. Then normality returns. Traffic. Noise. Frustration. Tension. Anger.
Back to work. Thank God.
The stinging cold and pervasive wet hitting the back of her nose. The tube station. Sickly yellow light. Thousands moving in and out of small spaces as one. Claustrophobia and an unprotected drop onto those tracks. The hum of high voltage electricity. The whine of the approaching red tube train. The rush of air. The taste of dirt in that air. A guy eyeing her up, moving closer. Carole trying to move further down the packed carriage. No chance of that. Peter stepping around her protectively. Changing to the overground and running down slippery steps. Carole checking behind her; the guy has gone.
Daylight rushing into the large windowed carriage. Blinding for a moment. Docklands gleaming up ahead. Tall glass buildings shining in the winter sun, reminding everyone that there were boom times. Not so long ago. Before Brexit. Before the Financial Crisis.
At the centre of this shining city is a massive fifty storey finger up to the outside world. The New London? No, this is the Old London. Once its docks traded goods to and from the Empire and the World. Now it buys and sells the values of companies, properties, even things yet to exist with the Commonwealth, the EU and the World. Billions changing hands up there behind that shiny glass through digits on computer screens. Thats how money & wealth moves now. Not by ship anymore, but still in and out of the Docklands.
London is its own country. With its own electronic currency. London doesn't need the rest of Britain now it has been rescued by it. That's history. Forgotten history. Here at least.
Carole and Peter enter the office reception together. Frances the office manager rushes forward and hugs Carole.
"Good to have you back Carole. I’m so sorry about your father. You could still have a couple of days of compassionate leave if you need it".
"Thanks Frances. I'd rather get back into work. Take my mind off things".
"Keep it in mind. OK? Pete, TP wants to see you. Something’s up. Altmeier Industries probably".
Across the office TP is in his glass fronted private office, beckoning to Peter. Peter gives Carole a peck on the cheek and heads off to meet TP.
Quiet efficiency all around. People catching up with whatever the hell happened in the ten day Christmas break. The tap of keyboards sending emails world wide in nanoseconds and for the urgent matters whispered frantic phone calls.
Frances at the centre of the rising storm. She looks at Carole with concern.
Carole smiles weakly. "Back to the grind then."
"Yes. First day of the New Year. You haven't missed much. Honestly. I’ve left a brief breakdown of what’s going on, on your email. Team meeting at ten in Room Two. See you there Carole".
The rest of the day is a blur.
The entire week is a blur. Friday evening comes around without warning. And nothing huge achieved. Its that time of year. Minor victories. No real deals. Not enough to make conversation about with Pete on the way home. Nothing important enough to have to take home to work on at the weekend. To fill up her time. So there will be too much time to think. Carole looks for Peter. He is in another meeting with TP. She tries to catch his eye. Fails. Sends him a text and heads out.
A snappy cold early January evening. London lit joylessly against the sky. Just the hint of daylight in that sky. The days are getting longer. Its dank now after earlier rain. The tube train is full of coughs and colds. Carole pulls up her scarf over her mouth. She can't bear to feel any worse.
By the time she is out of the tube, its dark. Queues of traffic trying to escape the city. Walking through the square, passed Peter's Porsche, parked on a permit bay outside the flat. So he won't be going anywhere this weekend unless its essential. Parking here is a preoccupation, not just a chore.
Carole walks through the colonnade and opens the door to the building. Checking the mail. A solicitor's letter. To her. Carole's heart sinks. She doesn't need this. Its been a hard week. She opens the door to the flat. Sammy bounding over, overjoyed to see her. A bundle of energy at the end of a sapping day. Too much energy. Carole grabs Sammy's leash and heads back out with him and the letter.
Out into the square. Into the communal garden, her key opening the black cast iron gate. Sammy off the leash. Bounding around like a crazy thing. She hasn't taken him out. Shit, not all week! She's not thinking straight. Poor dog. Cooped up in a few dozen square feet with a maudlin girl. Carole flops down on the wet bench in the garden watching Sammy bound around, suddenly feeling much older than she is.
She looks at the solicitor's letter. This will focus her. She tears it open. Holding the letter close in the dim street lighting. A typical solicitors letter. No punctuation within labyrinthine sentences. Reading more like a contract than a letter telling her that her father has bequested her £175,000 on completion of probate on condition that she spends it on a property in Cwm Celyn. "Oh my God!"
Dad so earnest on the day he died. Holding her arm at the lake. "I’ve made sure you’ll be ok when I’m gone. When the money comes through promise me you’ll find yourself down here as often as you can... This is where you’re from Carole. Our blood runs deep in this country, you can’t forget that. Promise me will you?" She remembers every last word.
A solicitor's letter. Dad's way of making sure he gets his own way about this. Being careful. But there's no need. "Dad. OK, I promise".
Peter walking back to the flat. He hasn't seen her in the half light. Carole puts the letter back in the envelope. Into her coat pocket. Watching Sammy as her mind races. Making a To Do List in her phone. Call the solicitor. Look up estate agents. Call Mrs Jones. Check council tax bands. Look up broadband reach.
Until the phone rings. Peter. "Where are you babe?"
Monday lunchtime. Carole walks out of the office, through the shadows and out into the late winter sunshine of Canada Square. One Canada Square towers fifty storeys above her. The buzz of the Docklands Light Railway adding to the hum of a thousand conversations in the air. Numerous languages beneath this inversion of the Tower of Babel, where everyone now speaks the same language. Money.
Carole finds a corner of wall to perch herself. Checking her To Do list on her phone. 'Phone Mrs. Jones'. Carole searches her contacts. 'Mrs Jones, Capel Celyn Shop'. Carole calls the number.
Capel Celyn Shop. Lights on. No one home. The phone starts ringing. Mrs Jones unlocks the front door, rushing to the counter to answer the phone. Geraint brings in a delivery left outside. Both are dressed in funeral black just as Dai saw them in Phillips' toili. He foresaw today down to the detail of Geraint's father's thin black 1980s tie around his son's neck. A tie two decades older than he is. A tie older than Canary Wharf.
Mrs Jones picks up the phone. "Prynhawn da. Capel Celyn Shop".
Carole is thrown by the Welsh. Damn what's the correct reply? "Hi Mrs Jones, it’s Carole. Carole Morris. I’m calling to thank you for all that you did when Dad died".
"Carole bach, it was the least I could do, with you by yourselves here. It must have been terrible for you. I’ll miss seeing Dai around. He’d been a good friend since we were children. I hope I’ll see you coming back here as often as you can".
"You will. Dad made me promise something the day he died, that I’d keep coming down there to Capel Celyn. I intend to keep that promise. I’ll be looking for a place there for myself and Mum to come down to, when we can".
There. Wasn't so ha
rd was it? She may well know of somewhere going. Shopkeepers know everything. Silence for a moment from the other side of the line. Silence can't be good. She's blown it.
"You’re looking to buy a place down here?" Thoughtful. Not angry.
"I know it’s not a good thing to do, with local people not being able to afford places of their own, but if you know of somewhere that may be going on the market, I’ll be grateful if you could let me know".
"Its just… well I’m just back from Mr. Phillips’ funeral. The poor dab died around Christmas in his cottage. I think he was in the shop when you arrived..."
Carole stands up in shock. Dad mentioned a toil. She thought it was nonsense. The grey man. In that cottage where they stopped. Oh God. "The cottage near the lake? Alone out in the forestry?"
"Yes. That’s the one. He had no family locally. The cottage will need to be sold. His poor wife’s brother was telling me that was what they were going to do with the old place. I can put you in touch with him if you like. He'll probably want to put it on the market straight away".
"That’s so very good of you. Thank you so much!"
"That’s OK Carole bach, I’d rather see someone we know get the place, rather than some stranger".
"So I’m not a stranger?"
"No, you’re Dai Morris’ daughter. That makes you one of us".
CHAPTER SEVEN
Doors Opening
A Facebook message. 'Hi Carole. Lunch tomorrow? Pret? 12:30? Jenny x'
Reply. 'Cool, see you there :) x' Add it as a diary item. Done. Carole's first meet up with any friends in the ten weeks since the funeral. Where did her friends go?
Carole opens her 'To Do List' on her phone. Plenty of ticks in those little boxes. A box ticked but bothering her. 'Contact owners Pantyfedwen'. Done almost two months ago. Mrs. Jones predicted they would be super keen to sell the cottage near the lake. Obviously not. A pity. There's nothing much else in the area in her price range, and nothing with the character. Carole makes a new To Do item: 'Chase Owners Pantyfedwen'
Lying on her London sofa thinking about a dilapidated cottage in mid Wales. An escape from million pound bijou luxury to densely forested isolation a mile from the nearest village. Absolutely. Bliss. Pantyfedwen apparently means 'Birch Valley'. Pretty. A name from an earlier time before those pine trees were planted. It could be a pretty cottage again with a bit of TLC.
Sammy climbing on the sofa to join her. She searches Capel Celyn on her browser to see if there are any estate agents listed. Its time to move on with this.
Top result. The online version of the local paper. In Welsh, and far beyond her abilities to comprehend.
OK, next. A national online paper for the whole of Wales. Run hours away in Cardiff, so there won't be anything, surely? Oh! Mr. Phillips found dead in the cottage. He had been dead for a week before anyone found him. The tale tied into a 'Lonely this Christmas' campaign. Fair enough. What a miserable end, even for such a miserable man. No one reading this report would want to make an offer for the place, would they?. What if the wife's brother had already accepted an offer? And when would Dad's money hit her account? A few weeks. Months maybe? One thing she has learned from her projects at work. Nothing happens within in the timescale you want. This whole project is out of her control. All she can do is hope it all comes together.
The next item on the browser. Same newspaper. 'Fire Sparks Reigniting of Holiday Home Arson Campaign'. Sounds like its written by their football reporter. Making puns seeming inappropriate here. What's this about? A suspicious fire at a remote cottage some ten miles from Capel Celyn. Way up in the mountains. No one hurt. No one living there. A holiday let. OK. So what? 'This fire will strike fear into all of those owning holiday homes in Wales, bearing a striking similarity to the Meibion Glyndwr holiday home arson campaign in the 1980s and 1990s. Over two hundred properties were damaged...' What the hell?
Searching on her browser quickly. 'Did you mean Meibion Glyndwr?' Yes, obviously! Sammy up and off the sofa. Peter is home. Carole shuts off the phone.
Queuing for an ethical coffee and an off-the-shelf-made-on-the-premises sandwich. Having a chat with Jenny in the over-crowded seating area. The first time Carole has been out with a friend in such a long time. And months since she last saw Jenny. So here she is squashed up against the best boss she ever had. Its nice to catch up, but there's something brewing here. Carole knows Jenny too well. There's never a free lunch even if you paid for it yourself. Jenny never gossips unless there's a plan.
"I was worried about you. I hadn't seen you since your father died. No sign of you out and about for a couple of months. Thought I should track you down".
"I've just been going to work and going home. And Peter's been working all the hours".
"You need your friends to give you a bit of perspective. Are you OK Carole?"
"I just feel on my own. Pete is being worked into the ground. I'm not even stretched. I'm home at a decent time. He's home late. There's things I'm planning he doesn't even know about. We never talk".
"Minor stuff though, right?"
Carole bites into her sandwich. It means she can't answer that one. She hasn't even asked herself that question. What is she doing? Considering a major life decision and she hasn't even mentioned it to Pete. "Where would I be on my own?" Oh crap. Where the hell did that come from?
"Carole? Are you really that unhappy?".
Another question Carole hasn't asked herself. Why not?
"Want a change of scene?" Jenny leaning forward, conspiratorial. "There's a job coming up on my team at DIG. Starts in July. I know its a little way off. A much better package than you have right now. I should know, right? Why not send me your CV. I'll get it to the right people. I can put you in the frame before they even think about head hunting."
Carole swallows her sandwich. "I'll get it over to you tonight".
Jenny smiles, necking her coffee. "Do that. And meet me at O'Neal's on Friday evening straight after work. I'll introduce you to a couple of people you should know from DIG".
Carole arrives back at her desk, mind racing, distracted now. Is she happy here? Facing an afternoon of hassle and not the day of getting stuff done she had planned at the start of this morning. Never seeing the man she lives with, here in work or at home.
She hacks in the password for her computer. Her phone buzzes on the desk. Email. 'Interest in potentially purchasing Pantyfedwen Cottage, Cwm Celyn'. Carole opens the email and stares at the screen. Everything is happening at once!
Carole on her laptop. Why did she ever bother buying this piece of crap? An operating system seemingly designed to piss her off. As glitchy as hell. Items flying around or opening on their own. She's making the final adjustments to her CV. She hasn't updated it in the two years since she moved in with Pete. She hasn't needed to. Its taken hours but its done now. Save As a pdf and email to Jenny. Hurry up! Jeez. Bloody computer. Done. Why is everything so bloody complicated on this thing?
Where is Pete? Its passed nine thirty now.
OK. Next. LinkedIn. Edit. Oh man. That photo has to go. This all needs some work too.
Sammy on his feet. Pete is back. "Hi Pete. You're late. Been out?"
"As if. Fucking conference call with Altmeir's LA office. It went on for hours and they wanted to break for lunch. Fucking Americans think the world revolves around them".
"What time are you going in tomorrow?"
"The usual. I need to write this shit up".
"I'll heat up something from the freezer for you."
"Don't bother".
"It's not a bother. If you're hungry I'll make you something". Carole gets to her feet and goes to the kitchen area. "What shall we do for the weekend Pete?"
"You go out with your friends or something. I'll have to go into work".
"Seriously?"
"Seriously".
"Can I borrow the car?"
"Why?"
"Well you won’t be using i
t, and I promise I’ll look after it".
"Where are you going to go?"
Carole thinking fast. "I thought I'd go to see my mother". Carole opens the freezer and looks through the ready meals.
"Yeah. I’m best off being in work then".
"Do you want Thai Chicken or Butter Chicken?"
"Neither. I'm off to bed". Peter heads off into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Carole puts the ready meals back in the freezer, any chance of a conversation over. Back to the sofa to update her LinkedIn profile.
Friday evening. Jenny and two men from DIG at a table in O'Neal's. No one there from work tonight, thank God. Chit chat doesn't last longer than two minutes. Probing questions. One of the men, putting his phone on the table mid-question, the screen showing Carole's LinkedIn page. Time well spent the other night!
This is serious. Mineral water because its an early start tomorrow turns into mineral water because this is a job interview. Laughter. Nodding. Going well. Jenny leading the conversation as she is so good at doing. And these people are actually fun. Talking shop yes, but really clever, insightful. Not a single bit of bitching. When Carole hits the March night air she feels a little drunk on it.
Back to the flat. Peter already asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Visitation
The far-too-early-for-Saturday alarm wakes Carole with a start. Pre dawn light creeping around the blinds. Peter rolls back to sleep. Carole leads Sammy to the car. The Porsche shining in the dawn light. Its 6am. The streets are practically deserted. London sleeping in on a Saturday morning. Sammy falls asleep right away in the passenger footwell.
The car roars as it rises out of west London on the motorway. When her Dad used to take her out of London as a kid there would be a Lucozade sign with the date and temperature to draw her attention. Now there are one hundred foot high TV screens advertising Korean cars and video game characters for today's children to remember. Then buildings seem to stop. Flatlands. Jets stacked up shining in the morning sky ahead as if ready to land on the motorway.
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