Old Flames

by Dewi Griffiths

  Peter pissed off with the time this is taking and the country traffic. The odd tractor and omni-present lorries keeping them in a convoy at under forty miles per hour for dozens of miles. The skid marks on the road telling the story of other vehicles being stuck behind the same trucks who dared to try to pass. Peter praying that the lorries are turning off soon. But they never do. All this and the diminishing choice of radio stations as they travel deeper in country.

  Lunch in the same cafe where she had stopped on the way to see the cottage those couple of months before. But its mid afternoon. Pete grisly after a six hour drive, with at least another hour to go. He wanted, no needed lunch three hours ago.

  Well he should have said so then, instead of clamming up all trip. Carole had calculated the trip in Porsche time, not hire van time.

  The only one happy right now is Sammy with his sausages.

  The hire van climbs up the mountaintop road. The sat nav saying "Unnamed Road", while on the screen it all still looks the same; pink line going through green. Dance music plays on the radio, the only thing keeping him sane.

  No traffic up here. Carole is able to see for miles. Sheep and lambs like white clouds on a green sky of pasture. Luckily Sammy is asleep after his feed.

  Peter seeing only the single track strip of grey tarmac and some broken glass before the road drops away into a world of trees. The sat nav speaks: 'You have reached your destination'. This couldn't be it surely?

  "We're here. This is the valley". Carole's eyes light up as she sees Cwm Celyn spread out ahead.

  She's fucking serious. This is it? You are having a laugh! "There's nothing but trees. I was expecting more of these open mountains. Sheep and shit".

  The van dips into the forestry plantation. The music fades to static on the radio. Peter turns on the van lights. Where the hell did the daylight go? Peter retunes the radio while Carole holds onto Sammy, who is disturbed by the suddenly rough road.

  Another radio station tunes in clearly. The jingle music fades and the announcer speaks in Welsh. Peter listens in amazement. "Blimey! We still in Britain or what?" The announcement over, a folk singer launches into a heartfelt ballad. "Oh come on lads, can’t you play anything remotely funky, even on a Saturday?"

  Peter re-tunes the radio, finding a news report in English, with a heavily Welsh accented announcer. "… and a spokesman for the organisation said that the renewed arson campaign against second homes in Wales would continue until measures were put in place to halt the purchase of holiday homes in rural areas…" Peter is confused. Whatever the hell that headline news was, it had never reached London. Where has she taken him? This is another country alright. He switches off the radio. There is a T-junction up ahead in the gloom.

  "Not far now, Pete. Turn right at the junction".

  Carole taking him down a road with no road sign. No, wrong. 'No Through Road'. Fucking hell its getting worse! The van turns right towards the cottage and the lake.

  The van continues its bumpy way down the forestry road. Would you believe it? A fucking cyclist. On a road to nowhere in the middle of nowhere. With no fucking cycle lane, no lights, nor one of those pratty helmets. And nowhere to pass. Peter changes gear loudly.

  The cyclist hears the roar of the van coming up behind and pulls over to let it pass. The lad, maybe eighteen has a fishing rod and rucksack on his back and a mop top haircut. Geraint from the shop. A couple of inches taller than six months ago, and maybe ten pounds heavier. He's changed enough for Carole not to recognise him as they drive past. But Geraint recognises her.

  The rush of the wind through the pine trees blots out every other sound for that moment. The van seems to arrive at the cottage in silence.

  "This is it Pete. Stop here". Pantyfedwen. The small, single story traditional Welsh cottage is sitting waiting for her like a rescue puppy beside the road.

  Peter brings the van to a halt. His eyes wide in surprise meeting those two dark window-eyes staring back. Aren't the eyes the windows of the soul? These are dark and as miserable as fuck. Peter sits aghast at the wheel, peering into the gloom at that... Shed. Unbelievable Carole. Never in his worst nightmare did he expect this. Unbelievable. The end of the road? Fuck yeah! Pete punches the Add To Address Book button on the sat-nav. No way is he going to find his way back here without electronic help. Jesus wept.

  Carole looks at the cottage with unbridled excitement. "Well Pete, what do you think? Isn’t it fantastic?"

  "Its... its a bit out in the woods innit?"

  "Come on, park the van up there". She points to some clear ground outside the boundary wall.

  Pete couldn't call it a garden wall. No garden here for decades by the look of it.

  Geraint brings his bike to a halt, almost invisible in the gloom, watching what's going on. Six months have changed Geraint. Hormones mixed with the active life he lives have turned him into a fit young man, unlike most of his class mates who are slumped on a sofa at home. Rugby has been kind to him. Rugby, for years the preserve of the large and loutish, alongside the small and the quick. Now everyone has to be large and athletic. Including the half backs. A bit like the American Football quarter backs, the guys with the brains need to be huge now too. Coaching means weight training and bulking up as well as game skills. Geraint has built himself in the last few months.

  Geraint is going fishing today, to clear his head before Monday's A Level exam. Trying to keep calm and fight off pre-exam panic. His notes are in his backpack in case he needs to check anything. Being up at the lake helps him think. No one around to bother him. His phone doesn't have a signal up there.

  Now there's another reason to pass by this way. Carole. She is gorgeous! No girl anything like her in the whole Cwm Celyn area to be honest. Geraint watches the proceedings at the front of the cottage with curiosity. Or rather he watches Carole. A real babe. It was too much to hope she was single. That man with her looks like a bit of a wanker. Typical Londoner. Why do all the great girls go for the wankers?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Not So Empty House

  Carole and Peter get out of the van and Sammy bounds away rooting around the frontage of the cottage.

  Peter hangs back at the van, trying hard not to show what he thinks of this place. The first time here shouldn't start with a row. But, Jeez what a dump! Fuck!

  Carole fishes in her bag for the keys. Oh God, did she leave them in the flat? No, here they are. She walks up to the front door and pushes the key into the lock. The key won't turn. What the hell? She can't get into her own cottage! The key won't budge. She rattles and moves the key back and forth trying to hit the magic spot.

  Peter joins her at the door. "Do you want a hand with that? Don't break it!"

  "Its OK". Carole manages to turn the key in the stiff door lock. Thunk. Carole tries the door but its jammed. She shoulder charges the door. It won't budge as if someone is leaning against the door. The wood has probably swollen over the winter.

  "Let me try". Peter shoves the door which opens scuffing on the floor.

  Carole smiles at Peter. "Well, are you going to carry me over the threshold?"

  Peter picks up Carole, and carries her into the cottage. Into the musty and untidy living room, untouched since Carole was there last. The beams of light that flood through the door and window illuminate the clouds of dust that rise as the breeze blows through the door. Peter stands in silence holding Carole before Sammy the dog bursts in. Peter puts her down and looks around in undisguised worry.

  "This needs a lot of work girl. You should have had a full survey done. There’s probably damp..."

  Carole's heart crashes as she watches Peter walk around the room, clocking the dust, dirt and rubbish piled in the corners with distaste. He doesn't see what she sees; past the dirt to the yellow ochre walls, the beams, the fireplace. The home Pantyfedwen Cottage should be.

  "Pete, I can make it really nice"

  "But this needs more than a lick of paint. Rewir
ing? Plumbing? Furniture? Some sort of heating system? Its freezing in here".

  In the cold light of this summer afternoon, Carole sees what Peter sees. Months of work. Tears well up. Carole goes into the kitchen, leaving Peter alone, concerned and apprehensive.

  Peter mutters under his breath. "What have you done you crazy bitch?". How could this girl be this deluded? This needs tens of thousands of pounds of work by proper tradesmen. She can't rewire the house. Nor can he. What the hell is she thinking?

  Carole stands in the kitchen watching Sammy root around. The tears let her see for the first time how the whole kitchen is caked with dirt. Years of dirt. Decades of neglect. Some of the electrical plugs in here are round. That standard went out well before she was born. Peter is right. This is going to cost thousands. Can she afford to fix this place up? The biggest decision of her life taken on a whim. A mistake. She cries silently. Dad's money, gone on this. She shivers in the cold kitchen.

  Peter watches Carole through the kitchen doorway. He can see that she is crying. He steps forward to hug her but then thinks better of it. There'll be a row, and it will be his fault for being negative. He'd be right but wrong. Why do negative and realistic mean the same thing to Carole? She's changed. Life with her used to be fun.

  Peter opens the other door off the living room, the bedroom door and wanders in. Its colder yet if anything in here. And the smell hits him like a slap in the face. Oh Jeez! No air and a stench like something that died in there. Peter puts his hand to his mouth and crosses the floor towards the little sash window to try to open it. His trainers tap on the floor as he crosses but for one spot where the floor sounds hollow. Peter stands still.The floorboards creak ominously. He steps away, not wanting to fall into any rotten cellar down there. This place could be a deathtrap.

  He tries to open the window. Painted shut? What the hell? Who would do that? Peter struggles with the window. Nothing doing. Coughing now, the stench overpowering. Someone behind him. "Carole this window is jammed". No one there. No sign of her. He could have sworn he saw someone move in the corner of his eye.

  There are pools of darkness in this room. Dark enough for someone to hide in. It must be a trick of the light. Is he actually looking for something moving in the room? There's nothing there. He'd be able to see it. Get a grip! For God's sake!

  Peter heads for the door. The hollow sound as he crosses those floorboards again. What the hell? He kneels down to examine the squeaky floorboards. They look the same as all of the others. They've been there since the Ark. Someone behind him. Peter turns around. No one there again. The stench hits him, filling his lungs. Another fit of coughing. What is that stink? Its overpowering now. Peter tries to spit it out. Fuck this! He quickly leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Peter rushes out of the front door. Bile rising in his throat. Oh Christ! Retching. Leaning against the cottage wall to steady himself. His head reeling.

  Carole hears Peter retching. She dries her eyes and follows him outside. Peter is leaning against the cottage wall coughing like an old man. Thats not good. "Pete? Are you OK?"

  A sound behind her on the road. That cyclist. Some young lad smiling nervously at Carole as he cycles up. "Hi".

  "Hello". Carole smiles politely, turning away to hide her red eyes, grabbing Sammy who is making to chase Geraint.

  Carole doesn’t recognise him. Crap. Geraint rides on crest-fallen. Now he can see the wanker boyfriend a little closer. Coughing up his guts outside the front of the house. Obviously not used to the clean air up here. Geraint rides off for the lake.

  Peter catching his breath. "Shall we start getting this stuff off the van then? Or do you want to clear up the place a bit first?"

  "Lets get the stuff inside. I’ll get the kitchen box and make us a cup of tea". Carole picks up a box from the back of the van, carrying it indoors, followed by Sammy.

  Peter left alone. "And I’ll just hump the rest of this in, shall I?".

  Sammy running around her legs. Trying to get close. He must be nervous in this unfamiliar place. Carole at the Belfast sink. She turns the tap. Very stiff, like the key in the door. Black water, then brown. Oh God! The tears well up again, but the water suddenly clears. The water now crystal as a mountain stream. Carole fills the kettle, and plugs it into a newer socket. Nothing blows up. The kettle starts to heat up, making the familiar noise it does in the flat in London. Carole suddenly feeling more at home.

  Filling two bowls with the cold water from the tap, one for Sammy who is pushing himself between Carole and the worktop, and putting a plastic bottle of milk in the other to keep it cool. No need for a fridge for now at least, its very chilly in here. Tea bags. A couple of mugs. Peter's Chelsea mug. He must have had that since he was a child. Carole smiles for the first time since she got here this time. She feels comfortable. The whole room seems to lighten a bit. Sammy whimpering in the corner now. "What's the matter Sammy?" Filling the mugs with steaming water. Swirling the tea bags around with a tea spoon. Adding the milk to both. Tossing the two used tea bags into a plastic carrier bag. Carole picks up the two mugs of tea and leaves the kitchen.

  Sammy watches Mari, Ifan's wife, spectral in the half-light. Dressed in her summer dress from the turn of the last century. The browns of the dress melding into the semi-darkness of the kitchen. A brown shape, hardly there, but moving now, watching Carole leave the kitchen. Sammy whimpers. Mari's head snaps around to stare at him. Sammy runs out.

  The dog runs straight out of the front door. Carole passes a mug of tea to Pete, who is depositing another box of stuff in the living room. Carole sees that he has placed the bottle of champagne on the fireplace. A gesture at last.

  "It’s June and it’s bloody freezing in here!".

  Carole looks for the positive. She is not going to lose this argument. Anyway, there's no going back now. "I'll get the fire going soon... it’ll be great, you’ll see…"

  "Ok, I know it's your money, but is there nowhere better than this?"

  "I’ve almost a month before my new job starts, I could do wonders in that time..."

  "We could, perhaps, though I doubt it. The state of this place! I've got to get back to London tomorrow. Can you afford to get builders in? Do they even have builders out here?"

  Carole is losing the argument. "Oh Pete, please don't spoil it. I want us to be happy here. This is my first place of my very own". Oh no! The wrong thing to say.

  Peter explodes. "What about the flat! You and me? Back in the real world?" The look on Carole's face tells him all he needs to know. This relationship isn't going to be fixed. Peter walks out of the cottage raging.

  Carole watches him go. She's lost the argument. Maybe more. No! She can put this right! She mumbles under her breath. "It's something to remember Dad by... It's got nothing to do with you..." Mari's brown shape moves out of the kitchen behind her.

  Carole picks up a framed family photograph from the box Peter has just brought in. Herself with her Father and Mother. At the place she called home. Not there for her any more. Just like Dad.

  Mari beside her, watching, feeling Carole's mood. Carole's mood softening. Tears again. For a happier time. A time she can't return to anymore.

  Mari watches her intensely then something draws her attention. At the door. Fear. Mari backs away and is gone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Oppression

  Peter leans on the van. Gathering his thoughts the best he can as the wind hisses through the trees. The hiss, that static clouding his mind. He is so angry and so disappointed. He knew today could be a tough day, but he always expected Carole to have chosen a cool cottage. No wonder she never showed him any photos of this place.

  This all started at Christmas when she wanted to be with her family. Up here in the mountains rather than with him. Then her dad dying on the trip. Maybe it is his fault, he should have spent more time with her afterwards. Gone away somewhere. Losing your parent is something you need time to get over. He ga
ve her time, he should have given her his time.

  This can't go on. Its time to get her back to reality. Back to London. Away from here. But how to do that now she owns this... This pile of shit?

  A swift movement near his feet. What's that noise? Peter crouches down and looks under the van. Sammy staring at him wide eyed and whimpering. "Hey, come here. You love me don't you feller?" Pete picks up Sammy, having to drag the dog to him. The dog is struggling, kicking in his arms. Peter puts him back down, and Sammy scuttles away back under the van. "So now you don't love me no more!" What the fuck is wrong today?

  Sammy lying under the van, seeing the dark shape in the cottage doorway watching. A black shadow. Sammy backs off further, out of sight.

  Peter tries to reach Sammy under the van. "Come here you little fucker!" Now there's a bad smell too. Drains? This place is a fucking tip.

  Peter's mood darkening. The dark shape approaching behind him now. Peter gets to his feet. The dark shape against him. Taking the edge off Peter, blurring him and his reality. Another whimper from that bloody dog. "Shut the fuck up will you?"

  The dark shape surrounding him now. Changing his world. Oppressing him. Peter alone. Hurt. Anger and resentment flowing through him even more strongly than before.

  Carole walks out of the cottage towards him, arms outstretched to hug him. "Come on, hon, let’s not fight".