Black Valley

by Williams, Charlotte

  ‘Bye, Jacob. And good luck.’

  26

  The evening she drove up to Ferndale, Jess was running late. She’d had a stressful day, particularly in her last session with her long-standing client Maria, who was suffering from depression, and whose children had now been sent to stay with a relative. She’d let the session go over length, and had had to stop for petrol on the way. While she was filling up, she’d noticed that one of the tyres on the car was down, so she’d faffed about in the rain with the garage pressure pump, smearing grease over her dress in the process. It was a linen shift, worn with a short, unlined jacket, and as she grappled with the air hose she realized it was the wrong outfit for the weather: it had turned wet and cold, and she’d have done better to wear a winter coat. By the time she started the car and pulled out of the garage, she felt thoroughly irritable.

  The traffic slowed to a crawl as she came out of Cardiff, but cleared as she hit the road up to the valleys. It wasn’t a particularly scenic journey at the best of times, she reflected, as she left the city behind: residential sprawl gave way to industrial estates, then to a landscape that bore silent witness to the ravages created by two centuries of coalmining – the ‘heritage’ of the Rhondda, as it was now called. Rusting iron wheels and ruined red-brick chimneys rose up from abandoned pit heads; quarried mountains and grassed-over slagheaps, dotted with spindly shrubs, created an unnatural horizon; and crouching in their shadow, long, neat rows of terraced houses jutted out into the hillside and came to an abrupt, arbitrary stop, as if, when they reached the middle of nowhere, they’d given up hope.

  As Jess drove along, she began to relax. A calm came over her as the city, the consulting rooms, and her thronging clients with their neuroses, grew further and further away. She wondered whether Isobel and Elinor would be at the launch; probably not, she concluded, since Morris had taken the opportunity of Blake’s death to break with the Powell Gallery, and asked Dresler to be his agent.

  The deeper Jess penetrated the Rhondda, the more compelling she found it. Along the old road, the towns were like a corridor, running into each other, perched alongside the wide, shallow valleys. The squat Victorian chapels and stone terraces weren’t beautiful, but with the ruined mountains behind them, there was a mystery to the place. This was a world where the aftermath of an epic struggle between humanity and nature was on show for all to see. She could see why Morris had decided to call his press conference – intervention, whatever it was – up here in the Rhondda. It was one of the most depressed areas in the country, yet the ravaged landscape had a kind of sombre dignity about it, and the people who still remained here a tenacious way of adjusting to hardship that really did add up to a ‘heritage’, one that the average mollycoddled city visitor couldn’t help but find sobering.

  Towns succeeded towns, one after the other, huddled on the hillsides, until eventually she came to Ferndale. The venue was not hard to find. The centre of Ferndale consisted of only a few streets, and she soon found a space. She parked the car, and walked the short distance to the venue, a community arts centre that had once been a municipal building of some kind. When she got there, the meeting was already in progress, so she slipped in at the back.

  Contrary to her expectation, there were quite a few people in attendance, including a small film crew. Most of them were Londoners from the art world, soberly dressed but sporting the odd, carefully chosen quirky item to demonstrate their membership of the tribe. To her surprise, she noticed Mia, Blake’s former business partner – dressed from head to toe in black, and still wearing the bicycle chain – standing next to Dresler; given the animosity between Dresler and Blake, and her questionable part as Blake’s alibi in the police investigation of Ursula’s death, she would have thought Mia would have stayed away.

  As she’d predicted, Elinor and Isobel were nowhere to be seen. She wondered for a moment if Elinor was all right; since their last session, when she’d been dithering about whether to come back into therapy or not, she hadn’t been in touch.

  Dresler was running over more or less the same speech about Morris that he’d given at the museum when Jess had first met him. He delivered it with confidence, his eyes shining with enthusiasm, and once again – although she’d heard most of what he had to say before – she was impressed. He was dressed casually, in a cord jacket with a Nehru collar, a chambray shirt and jeans, but he looked distinguished, and she couldn’t help feeling proud of him. There was a future to this relationship, she thought, as he talked on; whatever minor problems they had at present would be ironed out in time. She was looking forward to introducing him to the girls; they’d like him, she thought. Nella would find his world interesting, and she could imagine that he would be sensitive and kind to Rose. She wondered what his son, Seth, was like, and whether he’d get on with her daughters; they might find him rather glamorous, as a London boy. He might even, in time, become something of a brother to them . . .

  She brought her mind back to the present, realizing that she’d wandered off into a bit of a daydream. She looked around her. The staff working at the centre were standing by the tea urn they’d set up at the back of the hall. They were listening attentively, some of them with a perplexed look on their faces, others evidently trying to fight off boredom. She turned her attention back to Dresler, and found herself feeling a little uncomfortable. Ostensibly, he was singing the praises of the mining communities of the Welsh valleys; yet in reality, there was a subtle air of entitlement about him that contrasted strikingly with the deferential demeanour of the staff. For Dresler and his crew, Jess realized, as he talked on, the actual people of Ferndale were entirely invisible.

  ‘And now I come to why we’re gathered here today.’ Dresler put down his notes and addressed the assembled company directly. ‘I’ve received a communication from Hefin to say that he cannot be with us this evening.’

  There were cries of dismay. Angry voices were raised, and people began to complain to each other.

  Dresler held up his hands in an effort to mollify them, pausing to let the fuss die down, then continued, raising his voice slightly. ‘My sincere apologies. However, what I can tell you is that he is planning a number of new large-scale works. These will be site-specific, and will be shown at different locations in the valleys. The first of them is to be unveiled in a few weeks’ time, not far from where we’re standing today.’

  The crowd were not impressed, but Dresler hid his embarrassment and soldiered on, discussing the virtues of these ‘site-specific’ works, until he brought the speech to a close. There was a feeble round of applause, and some booing. At the back, the urns started to hiss in readiness for the refreshments to be served. Then people got up from their chairs and began to move around the hall.

  Dresler stowed away his notes, came over, and gave Jess a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘God, what a fiasco,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He just didn’t show.’ Dresler gave a sigh of frustration. ‘Still, we’ll have to try and make the best of it.’

  He took Jess over to his party and introduced her. There was Mia, the gallery owner, a young man named Jake who worked for her, a journalist called Giles, and Akiko, the Japanese woman she’d seen at the computer in the magazine office below his London flat. Mia was friendly, but evidently completely obsessed with her work; she talked animatedly about Morris and a number of her other artists, all of them ‘politically engaged’, as she called it, without ever asking Jess a single question about her. Giles, Jake and Akiko were less intense, but no less immersed in their own worlds; they, too, talked shop, and took little interest in their surroundings.

  The community workers served up the refreshments, along with a selection of biscuits ranging from bourbon to rich tea. One of them, Rhys, a dreadlocked outreach worker with boundless enthusiasm, came up and chatted to Jess. He was excited about the project, and had been hoping to meet Morris so that he could get local people to visit the site-specific work, and perhaps ge
t them involved. She took him over to talk to Dresler, but he was preoccupied with the film crew, who were about to leave. They stood around waiting for a while, but then the staff began to clear up, and Rhys had to go off and supervise the washing-up.

  ‘Right. Let’s go.’ Dresler gathered together his things. ‘I’ve booked us all into a hotel just off the M4. It’s on a golf course, I believe.’

  Jess knew the one. It was where all the football teams stayed when they came to Cardiff. Not Dresler’s cup of tea at all, she’d have thought.

  ‘We should be able to get a decent meal there, anyway,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘There’s nowhere else around here.’

  They made arrangements to leave. Jess would drive over to the hotel, since she knew the way, and Dresler would follow with the others in his car. Mia didn’t offer to accompany Jess, and neither did any of the others. Jess couldn’t help feeling slightly miffed, but at the same time she was somewhat relieved. The thought of talking to Mia about her newest artist’s coruscating work with Palestinian refugees as they drove down the country lanes to a four-star hotel for a slap-up dinner wearied her more than a little.

  They set off, Jess leading the way, the others behind. She drove slowly, so that they wouldn’t lose her. On the way, she put on Radio 3, hoping it would calm her growing impatience with Dresler and his crowd. She liked practically everything that the station played, apart from a certain type of modern orchestral music featuring flurries of woodwind, stabbing horns and rolling timpani. What came on was exactly that, so she switched off again, and drove on in silence.

  By the time they got to the hotel, it was beginning to get dark, but it was ablaze with lights. Coaches were lined up outside it, and the place was full of handsome young men in tight-fitting shirts and jeans, brandishing mobile phones. Beside the entrance was a huge gym, lit up to display rows and rows of enormous weights. Jess was immediately cheered by the sight: after the squat, dark chapels and terraces of the Rhondda, this shining pink palace told another story. Here was where the young lions of the valleys, the footballers and rugby players and rock singers, celebrated their victories; where people came for a taste of luxury, of glamour; where they got married, played golf, sat about in dressing gowns, ordered themselves massages, champagne breakfasts and ‘sumptuous banquets’. As she got out of the car, Jess was excited: she had no responsibilities for the evening, except to have fun. Nella was over at Gareth’s place for the night; Rose was with Bob at his flat in the Bay, and happy to be there. When the wine began to flow over dinner, the Londoners would warm up, and they’d all have a good time.

  She parked the car, picked up her overnight case, and walked over to the entrance, where Dresler and the others were waiting.

  ‘God, this place is awful,’ he said in a loud voice as they went in. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of.’

  Mia laughed, and Jess realized that his comment had been directed at her, to somehow impress her with his good taste. She wondered for a moment if anything was going on between them, but put the thought out of her mind.

  They went over to the reception desk, got their room numbers, and went up. They were all on the same floor, just one storey up. Dresler had booked a table for dinner and they were slightly late, so they didn’t hang around in the rooms, simply parking their suitcases, nipping to the loo, and reassembling downstairs.

  The meal was a disappointment. The food was good, if not spectacular, but no one seemed to have any appetite for it. Morris’s non-appearance had cast a damper over the proceedings. Nobody except Jess and Dresler seemed to be drinking. Mia ordered sparkling water and picked at a salad, Jake spent most of his time texting on his mobile phone, and Akiko remained polite but silent. Only Giles made an effort, engaging Dresler and Mia in conversation about an artist Jess had never heard of; yet he too eschewed the wine, saying that he had an early start in the morning. Don’t we all? thought Jess, but she didn’t comment.

  As the evening wore on, she began to feel tense. She wasn’t used to this kind of social occasion. Nobody laughed; nobody told funny stories; nobody got tipsy; nobody got to know each other. It was all serious discussion, or silence. By the end of the meal, with the peppermint teas ordered, Jess was half minded to go and sit at the bar, where a raucous crowd had convened; within minutes, she knew, this being Wales, she would have got into conversation with someone – preferably one of those modern-day Greek gods in their tight pink shirts and fitted jeans and pointed shoes.

  ‘Well, I’m going up to bed.’ Mia dabbed her lips with her napkin, and got up. ‘Jacob, I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight. OK?’

  She didn’t offer to pay her share of the bill, or thank him for the meal, Jess noticed.

  ‘Me, too.’ Akiko rose from her seat.

  Jake looked up momentarily from his phone. ‘Oh. Right. OK.’ He stood up, too. ‘Goodnight all. See you in the morning.’

  They went off upstairs.

  Jess glanced at her watch. It was only half past ten. What was the matter with these people?

  The waiter brought over the bill. Dresler gave it a cursory glance, then produced his credit card. Evidently, he was picking up the tab for the whole shebang.

  Jess got out her credit card too, but Dresler waved it away, as he and Giles continued their conversation.

  ‘Shall we go over to the bar for a nightcap?’ Jess ventured.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m whacked, to tell the truth. Let’s go on up.’ Dresler smiled at her and took her hand. It was the first time he’d acknowledged their relationship that evening, she realized.

  Giles excused himself and left. They waited a few moments, finishing their teas, and then followed suit.

  In the lift, they stood side by side, waiting for it to reach their floor. When they got out, Dresler opened the door of their room, and turned on the lights. Jess went into the bathroom, shut the door, and went to the loo. Then she cleaned her teeth, took off her make-up, squirted some scent on her neck, and went back out to the bedroom. Dresler then took her place in the bathroom, while she undressed.

  Just as she was about to get into bed, his phone went off. She looked around for it, and saw that it was on the bedside table on the far side of the bed. She leaned over and picked it up, but it stopped ringing. When she peered at the screen, she was surprised to see that the caller was named as Isobel.

  She put the phone back down on the table. She was perplexed. Dresler had told her that Morris had ‘broken with’ Isobel and the gallery after Blake’s death, and that he himself had taken over as Morris’s agent. Those were the exact words he’d used, she was sure of that – paying attention to such details was part of her training as a therapist. So if that were the case, why would Isobel be phoning Dresler at this hour of the night? Surely they wouldn’t be on friendly terms after he’d poached her most successful artist? Something odd was going on, and whatever it was, Dresler hadn’t filled her in on it.

  He came in wearing only his boxer shorts, and got in beside her. He glanced at the phone, registered the call, and put it back on the side table, without a flicker of surprise. Then he leaned over and switched off the light.

  For a few moments, they lay staring up into the dark. There was a faint noise coming from the bar – the sound of people laughing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ There was no note of concern in his voice, only irritation.

  ‘Nothing.’ Jess was determined not to respond in kind.

  ‘It’s not really a problem. This will all be OK.’ For a moment, Jess thought he was talking about their relationship, but then realized that he was still preoccupied with the event. ‘The film can be edited. Giles is going to write it up for the magazine. The important thing is, we’ve announced the exhibition. Mia’s also very enthusiastic . . .’

  He began to burble on about Mia. That’s odd, too, thought Jess. Mia was an associate of Blake’s. If Morris had parted company with the Powell Gallery, what was she doing here? Most probably she’d switched sides
, loath to give up her stake in Morris’s career.

  It was when Dresler came to eulogizing Mia’s commitment to radical politics in contemporary art that Jess’s impatience finally got the better of her.

  ‘Oh, stuff Mia,’ she said. ‘And her fizzy water. And her bloody salad.’

  The minute Jess said the words, she regretted them. Mia had been getting on her nerves all evening, but it was only now that she realized how deeply she’d been irritated by her.

  There was a pause.

  ‘You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ There was a note of amusement in Dresler’s voice.

  Jess thought for a moment. ‘No. I really don’t think so.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing going on between us.’ Dresler’s tone was placatory. ‘It’s strictly business.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jess paused. The conversation seemed to be going awry. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude about her. I think perhaps I’ve drunk a bit too much.’

  Dresler didn’t reply.

  ‘But I don’t know,’ she went on, doing her best to make amends. ‘Here we are in this swanky hotel, with a bunch of your friends. I just thought we’d have more fun this evening. More of a laugh.’

  ‘We’re all busy people, Jess. And it’s not exactly the right kind of place, is it?’

  Jess was annoyed by the snobbery of his remark.

  ‘You know, there’s something I don’t understand about you left-wing intellectuals.’ She could feel the wine going to her head. ‘You’re all so worried about the fate of the working classes, the unemployed, and so on, but when it comes to actually meeting one of them, you’re not the slightest bit interested.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘I mean, take that guy Rhys at the centre.’ Jess decided it was time to speak her mind. If they had a row, she reasoned, it might help clear the air. ‘He was dying to meet you. He runs an art workshop for young people in the area. He really wanted to get involved. An artist like Morris could be so inspirational up here. But you totally blanked him.’