by Jo Verity
When he’d phoned on Tuesday to reserve his room at The Welcome – as he’d taken to abbreviating it to himself – he’d been surprised to hear a man’s voice. Jack explained that he’d stayed there recently and that he would be most obliged if he could have the same room. ‘On the back, overlooking the garden. Blue walls. Smells of lavender.’
There had been a long silence, and he wondered whether they had been cut off, but he caught the sound of pages flicking over and eventually he was rewarded with, ‘That seems to be in order. Will you be coming on your own, Mr…?’
Could he detect a knowing undertone in the man’s question? ‘Waterfield. Jack Waterfield. Yes, I’ll be alone.’
It was ten o’clock, and dark, by the time he reached Llangwm. The main street, decked with bunting and fairy-lights for some kind of carnival weekend, was thronged with strollers. The tables outside the pub were all taken and overspill drinkers perched on the garden walls of the adjacent houses. He slowed the car and opened the windows, searching the faces and listening to the voices, but there was no sign of Non and he drove on.
The front door of The Welcome Stranger was open but Jack stayed in the car, savouring the moment that he had schemed towards for twelve days. It was as if he were coming home after a long spell as a prisoner of war. Or, better than that, as if he’d completed some rigorous initiation ritual and was about to be accepted by the tribe. He glanced up. A scarecrow, wisps of straw emerging from his battered hat and jacket, was coming down the steps towards him.
The scarecrow leaned down and spoke through the window. ‘Mr Waterfield? We spoke on the phone. I’m—’
‘Worzel Gummidge?’ Jack threw himself into the situation.
‘Hah, hah. Well spotted. No, I’m Iolo Evans. Most of the time anyway. Can we get you installed, then I’m afraid I’ll have to dash off? I’m needed elsewhere.’
This hadn’t been how he’d pictured his arrival and, although it was all very jolly, he felt a bit let down. He’d imagined that Non would be in the living room, reading or doing a jigsaw puzzle and, delighted to see him, she would greet him with a hug and maybe even a welcoming kiss.
Following the trail of straw that Iolo Evans was leaving, he arrived at the bedroom. His bedroom. ‘Thanks. That’s fine.’
‘You know where everything is.’ A statement, rather than a question. ‘Here’s a key. Come along and join us if you like. Just pull the door to.’ And he disappeared down the stairs.
Jack sat on the bed. His plans for the weekend had never progressed beyond this point, because this was where it should go into free-fall. When he entered The Welcome Stranger Guesthouse he was crossing an invisible frontier and journeying into another land, where the inhabitants and their customs were unique, and he was sure that, if he played by their rules, the outcome would be even better than he’d anticipated.
He unpacked his case and the hairs on his arms stood up when he noted that his hanky was no longer in the drawer. The knowledge that Non had found it, held it, maybe carried it in her pocket, went a little way to ease his disappointment that she wasn’t there.
The familiar smell of washing powder clung to his pyjamas, reminding of home, and he checked his mobile. There was one text message: ‘gd lck 4 2moro. S.’ He smiled. Poor Sheila. Friday night and she’d be alone in her little flat, watching a video. Surely one day someone would come along to give her all the love and support she gave to everyone else.
Fay, on the other hand, had neither phoned nor texted and he didn’t know whether to feel resentment or relief. Ten-thirty. Well, she had more or less told him not to ring so he put his mobile on the bedside table.
What had Iolo said? ‘Come along and join us.’ Where, though? Switching off the light he went downstairs and checked the sitting and dining rooms. The house appeared to be deserted so, too keyed up to contemplate an early night, he strolled back towards the pub. As he drew nearer he heard strains of music, punctuated with applause and laughter which was coming from an ugly, flat-roofed building set a little back from the main road. Unable to resist the lure of the music, he went in.
Several low tables and tiny chairs cluttered the deserted foyer. He was in a school of some sort. From the scale of the furniture and the décor – bright red and yellow doors – he guessed it was a primary school. The music and laughter appeared to be coming from beyond the set of double doors, at the end of a corridor straight in front of him. Before he reached them, a woman emerged, chasing a small boy who had taken off like a rocket and was heading directly towards him. ‘Loo?’ she pleaded, spotting Jack.
He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’ Too late. The child, freezing at the sound of a strange voice, vomited noisily and productively over Jack’s shoes and lower trouser legs. The boy, deathly pale and crying now, began to heave again and his mother, gasping apologies, hustled him out of the front door. Jack stared down at his feet, aware of a warm dampness on his shins. He had never been much good with vomit. Occasionally a patient would gag whilst having treatment, but it seldom came to anything and he always had enough time to stand out of the way.
Loud applause came from beyond the doors, followed by the sound of chairs scraping on a wooden floor, as the audience – this had to be some kind of performance – stood up. If they came out now and found him standing in a puddle of vomit, they would obviously assume that he had been sick and, as the smell wafted up from his splattered turn-ups, he very nearly was. He turned and fled.
Once in the fresh air the nausea subsided but, as the moisture on his navy blue trousers cooled, they stuck to his shins. It was unpleasant but he kept moving, hoping that, in the darkness, none of the passers by would notice the mess or the smell and, in a few minutes, he was back at The Welcome Stranger. Outside the front door, he removed his shoes and socks and, holding them as far away from himself as possible, let himself in and shot upstairs where he locked himself in the bathroom.
As he grew calmer, he wondered why he had panicked. Why hadn’t he stood his ground and explained to them? These were people who had spent the evening singing and having fun and there was no question about it, they would have laughed and helped him sort it out. Who knows, he might even have achieved some kind of mythic status? But it was too late for that. He’d blown it and bolted which wasn’t a very mythical thing to do.He filled the bath with water as hot as he could bear, stripped off and climbed in, scrubbing his legs and feet with the lemon-y soap from the shelf. He’d forgotten to collect the towel from his room and did his best to dry himself with the hand towel that was on the rail. Taking a deep breath, he sluiced the gobs of whatever the child had eaten for supper down the sink, then washed his shoes, socks and trousers in the bathwater, again using the soap. He wasn’t sure how this might affect the shoe leather but it was a chance he would have to take. Finally, wringing as much water as he could out of his clothes, he wrapped the scrap of towel around his waist and scurried across the landing.
He was in bed by the time he heard voices in the hall, trousers and socks hanging over the bed-end and shoes, tied together by the laces, dangling over the window latch, fumigating in the night air. He felt satisfied that he had coped with a tricky situation remarkably well and accepted that it was the kind of thing that would often happen in his new life.
When he went back home, Fay and Caitlin would want to know how the conference had gone. He would need to convince them that, this weekend, he’d been ‘Jack Waterfield – Keynote Speaker’ and, if he weren’t to slip up, it would be safer to convince himself, too. He lay on his back, rehearsing the speech which was now becoming as familiar to him as the Lord’s Prayer. How often had he listened to interviews with actors who said that, to give a realistic performance, it was vital to wear the appropriate shoes? His speech was his shoes.
9
Fay woke an hour before the alarm. Without Jack at her side, she had spent a restless night wriggling around the double bed. A fluttery stomach alerted her that this was a special day, although it took a few seconds to remember wh
y, and by that time it was impossible to get back to sleep. Pale dawn sunshine already filled the room but she made herself stay in bed, hoping that horizontality would reduce the usual morning puffiness around her eyes and ensure they were bright and clear.
When they had spoken two days earlier, Cassidy had been planning to make an early start and beat any holiday traffic. ‘I should be there by about noon. Promise you won’t go to any trouble, Auntie Fay,’ he’d said. She’d have to knock this ‘Auntie Fay’ nonsense on the head. ‘Just a sandwich and a coffee.’ So, she had five hours to eat breakfast, bathe, wash and organise her hair, tidy the house, do her nails and makeup, set the lunch out and get changed.
She’d made up her mind what she would wear several days ago. The navy linen wrap-round skirt and dusky pink raw silk shirt, gifts from Jack when they visited Bath last weekend, were pressed and hanging on the picture rail. Lunch was in the fridge, cling-filmed and ready to go. She must remember to chill the white wine, although Cass wouldn’t be able to have more than a couple of glasses.
At seven-thirty the alarm released her from bed. Whilst the kettle boiled, she phoned Jack. If she spoke to him now it would be another thing she could cross off her list. His phone was switched off and she left a short message. ‘Jack? It’s me. I expect you’re having breakfast. Good luck with the talk. Hope it goes well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you. ‘Byeee.’
And she supposed she did love him. He was gentle and funny, kind and loyal. But so were Labrador dogs and favourite uncles. He reminded her of a Catherine wheel on bonfire night, blue touch-paper smouldering, whizzing round a few times, raising her hopes then stopping, needing another prod to get some action. Fay was a great prodder and chivvier, and she didn’t object to that role, as long as he played his part and followed through. But recently Jack’s touch-paper had fizzled out altogether and nothing she did could activate him. Look how pathetic he’d been at the wedding, wandering about the place as though he were concussed, leaving her to organise everything, when he knew how distraught she was at Kingsley’s failure to show up. The only thing that he ever enthused about was the Wicker Men. Could he not see how ridiculous they were? A sort of cavorting Dad’s Army of misfits and oddballs. If he felt compelled to go out and perform weird rituals in fancy dress, he might as well have joined the Masons and done himself a bit of good. Yes, she did love him but he had failed to come up to scratch. Before they were married her father had warned, ‘Jack Waterfield may be a dentist, Fay, but don’t forget, Taffy was a Welshman.’ This made no sense but nevertheless it caught the essence of Jack’s failure.
The morning went smoothly. Her attempt at the new hairstyle, only the third time she’d tackled it since her visit to the hairdresser, worked out well. Caitlin had introduced her to wax, the secret to achieving and retaining the windswept effect. Her new bra was doing its job of increasing the space between breasts and waist and the sleep-bloated look had gone from her face.
After pondering the pros and cons, she had invited Dylan and Nia to drop in. Scarcely unpacked after their honeymoon, the newlyweds were completely disorganised and Fay was confident that they would forget to come but she would not need to feel guilty about failing to include them. As noon approached, she had little left to do but plump cushions, wipe work surfaces and make frequent trips to the lavatory.
The bell rang and she went to the door, wishing that the tell-tale noise of the filling cistern wasn’t coming from the cloakroom. This needn’t have concerned her. The four people standing in the front porch, talking and laughing, were making such a racket that they wouldn’t have heard Niagara Falls.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Dylan hugged her then held her at arms length. ‘You look … different.’
‘Loo? I’m desperate.’ Laura – what on earth is she doing here? – pushed past her, pointing upstairs and raising her eyebrows. ‘Up?’
Nia sidled in. ‘Hi. We’re on time for once.’ She hovered in the hall, waiting for direction, fragile and Bambi-like.
‘Hello, Auntie Fay.’ There he was, tall and calm, above the confusion.
‘Fay – please. Hello, Cassidy.’ It’s all going wrong.
‘Hi.’ He brushed her cheek with his lips. ‘Dylan hasn’t changed a bit. I’d have known him anywhere.’
‘Your mother…?’
‘We didn’t tell you she was coming in case something cropped up at the last minute.’
By this time Laura was back in the hall. ‘That’s better.’ She hugged Fay. ‘A bit childish, but I thought it would be fun to surprise you.’ She assessed Fay’s expression. ‘But if it’s not convenient, or you have other plans, I can easily go on to Carmarthen with Cassidy.’
‘It’s a wonderful surprise. I don’t know why I didn’t think of suggesting it myself.’
Fay watched Cassidy as he followed Dylan and Nia into the back garden. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but it was evident from the laughter and shoulder punching that they were getting on well. Nia, hugging herself even smaller with her own folded arms, smiled and looked on.
‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’ said Laura.
‘I suppose so.’
‘What does she do? You told me but I’ve forgotten.’
‘Accountant. Works at the same firm as Dylan. She was his boss when he started there. I do like her but she’s too quiet. I have no idea what’s going on in her head.’
‘It’s not easy coming in on a mother-son thing, and you’re a hard act to follow, Fay. It’s bound to take her a while to find her feet. Remember what it was like with Jack’s mother when you were first married?’
Fay thought back to her first encounter with Violet Waterfield. Jack had been living in a flat with Dafydd Morgan and a couple of other students, near the city centre. She had a room in one of the halls of residence. It was a Sunday, about six months after they had started seeing each other, and Jack had mentioned that he was going to visit his parents. ‘D’you fancy coming with me? We might as well get it over with.’
An only child, Fay had spent a great deal of her childhood in the company of adults. She preferred the predictability of their world and was more comfortable sitting with her mother’s friends than joining their children in boisterous play. At an early age she had learned the art of small-talking to strangers, so she’d had no qualms as they set off up the valley that Sunday afternoon in Jack’s little car. He hardly spoke and she assumed it was because, being a shy young man, he was feeling his way in their relationship. Nothing prepared her for the Waterfield’s ugly little terraced house. She was furious with him for not explaining their circumstances and dismayed that these ill-educated people were his parents; this dreadful place his home. Throughout their courtship, whilst being perfectly civil, they seemed merely to tolerate her, as if waiting for their son to come to his senses and find someone of his own kind. Even now, all these years later, when she had given them three grandchildren, they made her feel as if she were a temporary aberration.
‘That’s not very encouraging,’ said Fay, in reply to Laura’s question. ‘They’ve always seen me as some stuck-up English woman, hell-bent on setting their beloved son against them.’
‘That seems a bit strong. D’you have much to do with them?’
‘Not really. The last time I saw them was at the wedding. They seem so uncomfortable when they come here and, quite frankly, I find it totally depressing when we visit them.’
Dylan came to the open window. ‘Can we start lunch, Mum? Cassidy has to get on his way.’
Cassidy joined him. ‘Please don’t hurry on my account. A coffee will do me fine and then I’ll get out of your hair.’
It was Fay’s first opportunity to look at him. Apart from his height and deliciously sensuous voice, there was nothing to mark him out from dozens of young men that she passed every day in the city streets. He wore a white tee-shirt with some kind of Aboriginal design on it – a crocodile or a lizard. Clean but faded cut-offs reached below his knees. His tanned limbs sprouted a fuzz of
bronzed hair and his cork-soled sandals showed a salt-water tide-line. Just a run-of-the- mill young man.
By the time the five of then were eating lunch, and because of this same ordinary young man, she was suffering breathing difficulties. He sat across the table from her, next to Nia, coaxing more from the girl than Fay had ever heard her say. She wanted to reach under the table and run her hand down his leg, to feel if the hairs were as soft as they looked. From time to time he glanced up, holding her gaze a little longer than was necessary and, once, she was sure he winked at her. She blushed and busied herself, pouring more wine and pressing the remaining food on everyone. Laura, who had been having a gentle disagreement with Dylan about a film they had both seen, looked at her watch. ‘D’you think you should be off, Cass?’
‘S’pose so. It seems a shame to break up the party.’
‘No, we’ve got to go, too. IKEA calls, doesn’t it?’ Dylan looked to his new wife for affirmation.
‘Lampshades and picture frames,’ Nia directed this at Cassidy, as if he were the only person worth talking to.
They left the table and, whilst the others strolled to inspect the pond in the corner of the garden, Fay led Cassidy into the house.
‘Can I use the loo before I get on my way?’ he asked.
She showed him to the cloakroom and pottered about in the hall, straightening the rank of photographs on the wall and checking if the pot plants needed watering. ‘Sorry if lunch was a bit chaotic,’ she apologised when he emerged. ‘We didn’t really have a chance to chat, did we?’
‘Well, I’ll be back again tomorrow to pick Mum up. It was great to see Dylan again and meet Nia. And lovely to see you, too, Fay.’