by Jo Verity
Her whole body tingled, anticipating a farewell kiss, but he turned aside to look at the photographs. ‘Is this Caitlin?’
‘Yes. Last year. She was on holiday in America. Colorado, I think.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘What does that mean? Mmmm.’
‘She has an interesting face. Strong. Masculine.’ He looked at Fay. ‘I don’t go much for girlie girls.’
Fay regretted her choice of pink shirt and curled her fingers to conceal her painted nails.
‘Not gone yet?’ Laura came in carrying a pile of dirty plates.
Fay and Laura went to see him off and he drove away amidst a flurry of instructions and telephone numbers. Fay watched until the car disappeared around the corner.
The two friends stacked the dishwasher then took their cups of coffee into the garden, moving the sun-loungers into the shade. Fay wished she felt more pleased to see Laura, Dylan and Nia but resentment dampened her enthusiasm. They were like three meddlesome guardian angels, hell-bent on saving her from herself. She’d barely had a chance to speak to Cassidy and, when they had been alone, they’d talked about Caitlin.
‘This is lovely.’ Fay hoped she sounded convincing. ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours to ourselves. Is there anything you’d particularly like to do?’
‘I’m easy. After all, I’ve railroaded your weekend.’
‘Don’t be silly. We could go and have a look at Cardiff Bay. It’s quite fun down there. Lots of cheap and cheerful places to eat.’
‘I’m hopeless at the tourist thing.’ Laura hesitated. ‘There is one thing I wouldn’t mind doing, but I’m not sure, after what you said earlier.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve only met Jack’s parents once. At your wedding. Could we go and visit them? But not if you can’t bear the idea.’
‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’
Laura screwed up her face. ‘It’s a kind of project I’m working on. I don’t want to make a big thing of it but it would be really useful. Perhaps we could incorporate it into a trip out. If you wouldn’t mind driving...’
Fay shook her head and laughed. ‘Not my idea of an entertaining afternoon but, sure, if it will help with your mysterious project. I’d better give them a ring to check they’ll be in. Although, heaven knows, they never go anywhere.’
It served her right for asking. It was one of those questions she always asked visitors, assuming that they would leave it up to her. But Laura had never been like other people. Then, as she was phoning her parents-in-law, she remembered. Laura’s father. Death evoked the strangest reactions and it was natural for Laura, an artist, to channel her grief and loss into something creative. Her ‘project’ obviously had something to do with that but she would let her friend tell her about it when she was ready.
10
Jack sniffed his shoes. There was the faintest hint of something, but it might be nothing worse than damp leather. His trousers and socks were okay too – a little creased but pleasantly tangy from the lemon soap.
Whilst he was in the shower, there was a knock on the bathroom door and a woman’s voice – definitely not Non’s – asked ‘Full Welsh for you, Mr Waterfield?’
‘Yes please,’ he shouted above the gushing water, un-fazed by the intrusion. ‘And tea. Thanks.’
The normal B & B rules didn’t apply at The Welcome. ‘Etiquette’ was the word Fay would use but Jack always felt uneasy that, merely because he’d paid some money, another human being should feel obliged call him ‘sir’. ‘You Welsh are all the same. Inverted snobs,’ Fay had snapped when she spotted him sitting with the off-duty waiters at Dylan’s wedding. ‘They won’t respect you for it.’
By eight-thirty he was downstairs, refreshed by nine hours sleep and ready for his breakfast. The dining room was deserted. ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, whistled rather badly, caught his ear and he traced it to the kitchen. Iolo, dressed this morning as a Formula One racing driver in red boiler suit plastered with advertising slogans and a baseball cap worn backwards, was whizzing up a large bowl of something with a hand-held mixer. A PVC apron bearing the title ‘Bosun’s Mate’ broadened the sporty spectrum. Jack wished he’d packed something more original than a denim shirt and khaki trousers. He’d have to try harder when he next came.
‘Morning. You couldn’t pass me the salt, could you?’ Iolo jerked his head in the direction of the cupboard. ‘I thought we’d have pancakes this morning, for a change.’
Jack didn’t know whether to mention that he was already committed to a ‘full Welsh’, but he let it go.
‘Pity you didn’t make it to the show. It’s on again tonight if you’re stuck for something to do.’
‘Ahhhh…’
‘I know. Amateur dramatics are dire. Much more fun for the cast than the audience. Anyway, see how you feel. In the mean time, you couldn’t give me a hand with these, could you?’
They were tossing pancakes when Non appeared at the back door. ‘Promising start. Poor follow through,’ she laughed as Jack’s pancake, descending after an ostentatious flick, slithered off the rim of the pan onto the floor. ‘Mum said your breakfast’s in the bottom oven.’
‘Hi.’ He bent to retrieve the pancake, his face burning.
She spotted the mounting pile keeping warm on top of the Aga. ‘You’d better be hungry.’
This woman was perfect. Today, with her hair loose and wearing a simple cotton shift, the colour of fading bluebells, she looked like a woodland sprite, tanned and mischievous. Such natural grace. Such strong, white teeth.
‘Having fun?’ An older version of Non – same shaped face, same stature, maybe a little broader in the hip, iron grey hair and shining eyes – appeared in the doorway.
‘Yes, we are, aren’t we?’ Iolo looked to Jack for confirmation.
‘Ummm…’
‘That’s not fair, Dad,’ Non laughed. ‘Jack needs a decent breakfast before he gets embroiled in a family argument.’
Iolo put down his pan and wiped his floury hands on a tea-towel, before taking the woman into his arms and planting a noisy kiss on her lips. ‘Argument. I never argue with my soul mate.’
Instead of pushing him away, she drew him to her and kissed him back, whilst Non rescued a burning pancake. ‘Where are the other guests, Dad?’
‘The Bevans are having a lie-in and Freya’s gone off to photograph the preparations for the parade.’
Mrs Evans stopped kissing her husband and advanced towards Jack, and for one second he dared to hope that she was going to kiss him too. ‘I’m Zena. We met through the bathroom door.’
Jack beamed. What an excellent start to a Saturday.
‘I shan’t need another thing all day.’ Jack placed his empty pancake plate on top of his equally empty breakfast plate, and took them to the sink.
‘That’s the point of B & B, isn’t it? You’re paying for it, so you might as well stoke up for the day.’ Non poured him a third cup of tea.
‘Did you think I’d done a runner? I was almost home when I realised I hadn’t paid my bill.’
She looked up. ‘I wasn’t concerned. When you didn’t send the money, I knew you intended coming back.’ There was no guile in her remark. ‘And I couldn’t forward your hanky because you didn’t leave an address.’
On his previous stay, he had revealed little about himself. He’d mentioned that he had to get back to Cardiff, once the car was fixed, but no-one had asked him anything about his job or his family. The Merediths’ tales of country churchyards, the hard-fought Scrabble match and red kites had eliminated any need for that ‘what do you do for a living?’ stuff.
‘I’ve a confession to make about that,’ she said and he waited for her to tell him that she’d worn it in the left cup of her bra, next to her heart. ‘I cut my hand on the vegetable knife and I grabbed it off the washing pile to bind the wound.’ She held out her hand, displaying a red scar at the base of her thumb. ‘I’ll buy you another one, of course.’
He shook his head and took her hand, running his forefinger across the scabby scar. ‘Does it hurt? Perhaps it needed a stitch.’ She showed no embarrassment or annoyance that he was holding her hand. But something about her child-like scrutiny of the injury made him realise that she’d hardly registered his touch.
The long-case clock in the hall struck the half-hour and she withdrew her hand. ‘I must get on. Festival Saturday’s one of our busiest days.’
‘Are you involved with the celebrations?’ Iolo had already told him a bit about the village carnival and craft fayre.
‘No. I’ll have to miss all that. I’ll be on duty.’
‘Duty?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? We’ve got a little garden centre. Mostly herbs. About a mile in that direction.’ She pointed away from the village centre.
‘But you work here.’‘I help out, now and again, when Mum and Dad busy. Last time you came I was filling in because they were away.’
‘But you live here.’
‘No. Sorry. Wrong again. My partner and I live in the cottage next to the garden centre.’
He should have known this delightful woman would have a fascinating job and a ‘partner’. For two weeks he’d been picturing her here, at The Welcome Stranger Guesthouse, cooking breakfasts and changing sheets but, in fact, she’d been pricking out seedlings and potting things on – when she wasn’t making love to a handsome horticulturist.
‘You must come and let me sell you some plants, if you’ve got time. What are your plans for the day?’
‘I’m flexible. I expect I’ll watch the parade. Try my luck on the hoopla stall. That sort of thing.’
‘I may see you later. Did Dad tell you about the party? They always throw a party here after the last night of the show. He should have warned you. It gets a bit wild but we can fix you up somewhere else if you need a quiet night. There’s always room at our place.’
Jack went to his room to collect his jacket, and sat for a while. He could see how, to the outside world, he might appear an old lecher but it really wasn’t like that. He’d never expected to become Non’s lover – well – but he would give anything to spend time with her. In her company, he knew he could do anything and be taken seriously. She could help rescue the Jack Waterfield who had wandered off the path and was now floundering, up to his knees in the mire. The fact that she had a partner needn’t change that one bit.
Llangwm was more complex than he had appreciated. For a start, many of the buildings were multi-functional. One displayed a small sign, ‘Honey & Beeswax Polish – Local’, directing customers around to a stall in an immaculate back garden. Another sold hand-knitted garments, in bold colours, from a front room. Fay would have condemned the clothes as being hippy-ish and very badly finished. The grand stuccoed house on the corner had a comprehensive selection of second hand books, devoted to cricket, displayed on bookshelves arranged along its garden wall. He was flicking through ‘Pavilions of Splendour – a guide to corrugated iron cricket pavilions’ when Iolo tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Got a minute, Jack? We could use an extra pair of hands with the float.’ He spotted the title of the book. ‘You don’t play do you?’
With the prospect of something interesting on the go, Jack’s mood lifted and he followed Iolo, at a brisk trot, to the school playground. Dotted around the tarmac were a dozen or so vehicles and trailers, each with a team of people decorating them. The scene buzzed with conversation, laughter and children’s voices, all to the accompaniment of the Beach Boys over the public address system.
‘I used to play a bit. Bowler,’ Jack answered when he finally caught Iolo up. ‘Which one’s ours?’
‘Over there.’ Iolo pointed to a trailer. ‘LADS.’
‘Pardon?’ Several women were looping yellow fabric along the side of the trailer but there wasn’t a lad in sight.
‘El-Aye-Dee-Ess. Llangwm Amateur Dramatics Society. We’ve got the Oz costumes until Monday so we might as well get our money’s worth.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Typical LADS scenario. Bags of enthusiasm but sketchy on the details. We need a rainbow by two o’clock. Any ideas?’
All over the car park, local organisations were putting the finishing touches to their efforts. The Young Farmers had done something spectacular with big bales and the WI members were, for some reason, dressed as bumble bees.
‘Brilliant.’ Iolo, back in his scarecrow outfit, handed Jack a mug of tea and a cheese sandwich, ‘Bloody brilliant.’
Jack beamed. ‘It just came to me. As soon as you said ‘rainbow’ I had this kind of flashback.’ It was one-thirty and they stood looking on as Gareth backed the tractor up to the LADS float. The Wicked Witch of the West – Zena – was sorting out a band of Munchkins, whilst an energetic woman pegged brightly-coloured jumpers on a clothes-line rigged up to span the trailer. ‘I promised that we’d give her a credit.’ He pointed to the piece of card gaffer-taped to door of the tractor. ‘Rainbow courtesy of Harriet’s Handknits.
He watched Cowardly Lion, Tin Man and the rest clamber up onto the rickety benches and gave them the thumbs up as the vehicles manoeuvred to form a convoy. It crossed his mind that perhaps Non might find time to come to see the parade, but he didn’t care either way because he was having such a wonderful time. After his busy morning, in the course of which he had made at least a dozen new acquaintances and also promised to bowl a few overs in the evening match, he was content to wander round to the pub and watch his rainbow pass down the main street.
And that’s where, pint in hand, he bumped into Stan Colley and his wife. Stan still had his wrist bandaged after the car accident and he was sitting on the wall of the pub, whilst Millicent helped him out of his jacket. ‘Jack. Good Lord. Jack Waterfield.
‘Stan. Millicent.’ Jack first instinct was to melt into the gathering crowd. This might have solved his immediate dilemma, but it would certainly make for a few tricky questions when the Wicker Men convened again at the start of September, so he raised his pint in salutation and gathered his thoughts.
‘What on earth are you doing in this neck of the woods, Jack?
‘I might ask you the same thing, Stan.’ Superb delaying tactics.
‘Millie and I always come up for the Festival, don’t we, love? Been doing it for years. Is your good lady with you?’ Stan peered around the crowd. It was unlikely that he would have recognised her if she had been, because Fay had met Jack’s dancing friends on very few occasions during his dancing years.
‘She’s popped back to the car. And then I think she was going to have a look at the stalls.’ Anything to avoid explaining why he was here alone. Now all he had to do was shake them off and make sure he kept out of their way. ‘When are you off back?’ he asked hopefully.
‘We usually make a day of it. Get a meal in the pub. Maybe go to the show in the school hall.
Millicent, who up until now had done nothing but smile and nod, squeaked and pointed to the parade appearing around the corner. Jack shuffled across behind the privet hedge as the floats moved slowly, oh so slowly, past. Scouts and Guides. Attwoods the Seed Merchants – ‘Seeds that grow faster than weeds’. The Local Chamber of Trade. Then, there they were, with Gareth at the wheel of the scrubbed and sparkling tractor, and Jack’s jumper and cardigan rainbow swaying to the strains of ‘We’re off to see the Wizard’.
He sagged lower behind the hedge but the elevation of the trailer enabled all his new friends to see him quite clearly. The singing stopped and they waved, shouting, ‘Great rainbow, Jack’, ‘Coming to the party tonight?’, ‘Gareth’s got some whites you can borrow for the match.’ Everyone on the LADS float had a message for him and, because they were in thespian mode, they enunciated beautifully and projected well.
Millicent pointed at the float. ‘Got family connections here?
‘Watch out. Wasp.’ Jack swiped at the air around Millicent’s perm, feeling not the slightest twinge of guilt as her attention switched from
the float to her imaginary assailant.
‘And you’ll never guess who we bumped into the café. Richie Turner and his wife. Small world, eh?’ Stan beamed.
‘Sure is. Good grief. Is that the time?’ Jack, making great show of checking his watch, gulped his beer. ‘Well, lovely to see you both.’ And he was off down the hill, heading for the sanctuary of The Welcome Stranger.
The house was quiet and cool. Jack went up to his room and opened the windows as wide as they would go. It was only three o’clock but, after his double breakfast and busy morning, he felt exhausted and it was all he could do to slip off his shoes and climb on to the bed. There, in the lavender-scented calm, he drifted in and out of sleepy shallows, like a cork on the tide-line. He wondered what Fay was doing. How was she spending the weekend without him? Of course Laura’s son was going to call, wasn’t he? But Caitlin was away and the newlyweds were still so immersed in themselves that they wouldn’t think that their mother might appreciate some company.
He sat up and stared out of the window at the round-topped hills and saw a straggle of people, wearing coloured shirts and white sun hats, toiling up the worn path. And there, at the highest point, the silhouette of ant-humans broke the smooth arc of the summit. Those tiny blobs, those insignificant dots moving in the vast landscape, were as important to someone – wife, father, lover and even, to be sentimental, God – as Caitlin, Dylan and Kingsley were to him. Yet if one of them, say that one on the very top, fell off the edge, he could turn over and go back to sleep without even missing a heartbeat.
He swung round to sit on the edge of the bed and fished his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket. He listened to the message that Fay had left early that morning, wishing him well for the conference. She sounded cheery and full of beans, and suddenly a wave of love or guilt or panic swept over him. He listened to her message twice more before deleting itIt took him no time at all to pack his case. Ripping a sheet of paper from his notepad he wrote:
Dear Iolo, Zena and Non
Called away suddenly. Sorry I can’t play in the match or see the show or come to the party. Thanks for everything. See you soon