Bells

by Jo Verity

  Unable to suppress a surge of pride, Fay pointed at Jack, ‘Actually, that’s my husband.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That one. In the middle. The one without the beard.’ None of the dancers were bearded and, realising how silly it sounded, Fay laughed. ‘Sorry. You must think I’m mad. It’s just that Jack did have a beard until this morning.’

  ‘Oh, look at the time.’ Pointing at her watch, the young woman jumped down from the wall. ‘I’ve got to get back to work. Enjoy the rest of your day, won’t you.’ And she was gone.

  The Wicker Men danced on for a further ten minutes, their faces growing redder and sweatier, the music more riotous, until Stan shouted ‘Morris Off, Wicker Men’ and to wolf-whistles and loud applause, they danced back in to the pub.

  Fay waited until the appreciative crowd had filtered away before she went to find Jack. ‘You must be exhausted.’

  He nodded, still breathing heavily. ‘What did you think, then?’

  ‘I’m very impressed. Everyone loved it and the girl next to me thought you were all extremely sexy.’

  ‘Really? What did she say exactly?’

  Stan interrupted. ‘Hello, Fay. Nice surprise. I would have persuaded Muriel to come along if I’d known she’d have company. Next time, maybe. Good work.’ He slapped Jack on the back. ‘Fay, the landlord’s put up a lunch for us but I’m sure he can rustle up an extra—’

  ‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t dream of crashing the party, Stan.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Why don’t I meet you at the school, after you’ve finished the next session?’

  ‘I could come and have lunch with you.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’m going to have another leisurely browse around the bookshop. Maybe pop into the flower show. I’ll see you later.’

  She wandered down one of the side streets, stopping to buy two jars of honey – the ménage à trois might like one – from a makeshift stall in the garden of one of the larger houses. Carrying on, she rejoined the main street, coming out opposite a double-fronted villa, its doorway festooned with hop vines and sheaves of corn, very much in keeping with the harvest theme. Fay read the sign above the entrance and smiled. It had crossed her mind that a ‘spur-of-the-moment’ night away from home would, without risking an embarrassing post-mortem, get her and Jack back together in the same bedroom. It would also ensure that she wasn’t tempted to make a fool of herself when Cassidy Ford visited Caitlin. In her experience, spontaneity benefited greatly from forward-planning and, with this in mind, she’d packed an overnight bag and concealed it in the boot of the car, beneath the travel rug. She read the name again, ‘The Welcome Stranger Guesthouse’. How ridiculous, but there was no harm in taking a quick look inside before making up her mind.

  She knew the man in the foyer couldn’t possibly be a farmer because farmers wore green nylon overalls, not calico smocks and battered felt hats; nor did they play the mouth organ. He was concentrating hard, eyes shut tight, sucking and blowing his way through what she suspected was ‘Oh, My Darling Clementine’. Several seconds passed before he registered her presence.

  ‘Hello, there. Not as easy as you think,’ he confided, waving the instrument in the air. ‘I expect you want to book a room.’Fay wasn’t used to familiarity from people in the service industries and this, coupled with the man’s odd garb, convinced her that the shabby guesthouse would not be suitable.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we’re full up for the weekend.’ He flicked through the large diary which lay on the reception desk, ‘And all next week.’ His apologetic smile was disturbingly charming and, despite having decided that nothing could persuade her to stay here, she felt a pang of regret. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘You probably wouldn’t want to share a bathroom. Some people don’t but we think that makes it more like home.’

  ‘Actually, I need a room for tonight. Would you know of anywhere nearby? A hotel, maybe?’

  He studied her, starting with her wedge-heeled shoes then up through her smart wrap-around skirt and boxy jacket to her well-organised hair, before passing her a glossy brochure. ‘Henllys House. Just been done up. Excellent food, or so I’m told. Landscaped grounds. Quite posh. It’ll suit you fine, I’m sure.’ Although she detected no hint of disparagement in his voice, it was as if he’d weighed her up and reached the conclusion that she wasn’t quite up to whatever went on at The Welcome Stranger Guesthouse.

  She remembered seeing a small-ads board in the craft shop and made her way back. The board was chock-a-block with adverts for jumble sales, electricians, computer lessons and ‘free’ kittens; there was a six-berth caravan to rent in Tenby and a two-bedroomed flat for sale in Brecon, but no mention of a hotel – posh or otherwise.

  ‘Hello, again,’ the woman looked up from her book. ‘Can I help at all?

  ‘Well … It’s such a beautiful day and I’m having such a nice time here, it seems a shame to leave. I was checking your board – hoping I might spot somewhere out of the ordinary to stay.

  ‘Have you tried The Welcome Stranger? Iolo and Zena are certainly out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Full, I’m afraid.’

  ‘There’s Henllys House-—’

  ‘Mmmm. I saw the brochure. It looks nice but I was looking for something more…more…’ She recalled her coy conversation with the assistant in La Passionata, but this open-faced, literate woman was a different species. ‘I’m actually looking for something more romantic.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Don’t laugh, will you? I want to surprise my husband. Show him that I still can.’ ‘That’s a really lovely idea. And what a lucky man he is.’ No smirk. No innuendo. The woman thought for a moment then clapped her hands. ‘Hang on.’ She rifled through the clutter near the till. ‘A friend of a friend just brought…where did I put it…this in.’ She held up a sheet of paper. ‘She’s had a last minute cancellation. It’s not cheap but it’s definitely unusual.’

  The Wicker Men’s second session was, if anything, more rumbustious than the first and a larger crowd had turned out to watch. Many sat on the grass, picnicking in cheery groups, whilst children and dogs careered around, safe in the confines of the school grounds. This time Fay felt less of an outsider. Clapping along to the now familiar tunes, watching her new-look husband leaping and jingling, she was sorry when the dancers skipped away into the school and the strains of the music faded.

  ‘Thanks for hanging about, love.’ After the merriment and the gaudy ribbons, she was almost disappointed when, ten minutes later, Jack, in navy shirt and khaki chinos, came to find her. ‘Let’s be on our way’ He evidently assumed that she was eager to get back home and she was touched by his consideration.

  Instinct had told Jack to bolt when he saw Non and Fay sitting together on the wall but he concentrated on his hanky-work and, the next time he had chance to look up, Non had disappeared. There was another iffy moment when Iolo’s mate, a ham-fisted chap who’d hindered Jack considerably when he’d helped erect the jumper-rainbow, gave him a quizzical glance then, fortunately, was called away to move his car. Jack also spotted Iolo, in a smock and Zena, looking fetching in a gypsy get up. Both gave conspiratorial winks and raised their thumbs but, apart from that, he was confident that he’d gone unrecognised. He had taken a calculated risk but appeared to have got away with it and he felt heady with success.

  Fay’s last-minute decision to come with him had scotched his plan to spend the night in Llangwm – Sorry love, we’ve been cut off by flash floods. I won’t be able to get back tonight – and join in whatever craziness Iolo had dreamed up for the Harvest Celebrations. He was disappointed, but it wasn’t the end of the world. He’d negotiated a dodgy day, when his two lives had overlapped, and it had given him quite a buzz.

  He’d seen how unfazed Non and her parents were by his visits even when, like today, they were in such peculiar circumstances. Could it be – and why had he never considered this before – that he was just one of a stream of ‘regulars’ who dropped in at The Welcome Stranger? The Evans’s seemed hap
py enough to see him when he turned up, once in a while, and sporadic absences from home should be easy to wangle. It meant that he would be living in a constant state of anticipation – as if he had a never-ending supply of home international tickets stashed in a secret drawer. Bliss.

  Jack dumped his bag in the back of the car and they drove out of the car park.

  ‘Go left here,’ Fay instructed, peering at a piece of paper. ‘Then take the second on the right.’

  ‘But that’s not—’

  ‘Do. As. You’re. Told.’ She tapped his knee in time with her words and looked smug.

  ‘Okay. You’re the boss.’

  The road she indicated, and which he’d never noticed before, left the village and ran alongside a fast-flowing river through gloomy woods. Out of the blue, as if someone had pulled a plug out, his energy drained away and, realising how keyed-up he must have been all day, he was thankful to be putting some distance between himself and potential catastrophe.

  He couldn’t work out why Fay had wanted to come with him. For days now she’d been going out of her way to be agreeable and the atmosphere in the house was a lot more relaxed. But what if that were part of a plan? What if she had put two and two together about Sadie? Or discovered that there was a large dollop missing from their savings? What if she was, even now, luring him in to a trap? Hadn’t he come home the other evening to find her watching ‘Fatal Attraction’? He shivered. A lonely road; secluded woods; a raging river. He shook his head. His wife did not have one devious bone in her body. Were she ever to plot revenge, she’d place a large advert in the Echo, inviting everyone along to watch him suffer.

  He drove on, gaining height and leaving the river behind.

  ‘We’re looking for a turning on the left.’ She studied the piece of paper, then rotated it through one hundred and eighty degrees. ‘No. On the right.’

  He was too tired to speak; too tired to disagree.

  ‘Here. Down this lane.’

  Jack turned off the road as she instructed then stopped the car. ‘Okay. What’s this all about, Fay?’ He massaged his forehead. ‘To be honest, I’m pretty knackered.’

  She swivelled round to face him. ‘I’ve been thinking. We’ve had a…a difficult summer, what with one thing and another.’

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘And I was thinking…a night away from home…might be...I don’t know.’

  He said nothing, unwilling to sign up for anything until he’d heard the small print.

  ‘On the spur-of-the-moment I tried that guesthouse. Did you notice it? The one with the twee name—’

  ‘Any good?’ Jack was wide awake now.

  ‘Strange, to say the least. There was the weirdest man behind the desk. At first I assumed he was simple, but I think he was anything but. He was playing a mouth organ, would you believe?’

  Playing a mouth organ. Brilliant. ‘What was the tune?’

  Fay smiled, as if he’d made an amusing observation. ‘Anyway, the nice woman in the craft shop put me on to this,’ She pointed down the lane. ‘I thought, why not give ourselves a treat? Why not try something…different?’ She seemed unsure and he sensed that she wasn’t only talking about a night in a hotel.

  As they drove on, the sheep, grazing in the fields beyond the hazelnut hedges, raised their heads in mild interest, their wool taking on an orangey-pink tinge in the late afternoon sun. There was still no evidence of human habitation and Jack prepared to make a ten-point turn once Fay owned up to her navigational error. The lane came to an abrupt end, widening out into an area large enough to park a couple of cars. A chunky wooden gate gave access to a footpath, leading around the belly of the hill, towards a copse. Carved in to the top rail of the gate, in bold letters, was ‘Y Clochdy’.

  ‘Well, this is it.’ Fay opened the car door and stood looking over the gate. ‘Listen.’

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Exactly.’Jack pointed to the gate. ‘What d’you reckon that means?’

  ‘Be patient,’ Fay raised her finger. ‘All will be revealed.’

  It was a beautiful, peaceful place but, in the school changing-room, folding his crumpled gear into the bag, he’d been looking forward to an evening at home; pottering in the shed; reading the paper; watching rubbish on the television. Fay lifted the back door of the car, flicking aside the tartan rug to reveal the holdall that they used for holidays. He felt a prickle of curiosity.

  ‘Could you bring the bags, Jack?’

  He followed his wife along the footpath. Down to his left, he could make out Llangwm, nestling in the valley; the place where he could catch his breath. Somewhere down there, Non would be cashing up at the nursery; Iolo and Zena togging up for the ‘Tramps’ Supper’; Llangwm preparing itself for yet another night of fun. He sighed.

  Suddenly, up ahead, he could make out a building, half-hidden amongst the trees. A diminutive, stone-built tower with an open gallery at the top. Were they not sixty miles from the sea, he might have taken it for a lighthouse.‘What d’you think?’ Fay beamed, as though she’d popped up here and built the thing herself whilst he’d been lunching in The Fox. She lifted the flower pot that stood near the entrance, removed a large, ornate key and unlocked the oak door, ‘Come on.’The room they entered – a sort of living-dining-kitchen – was equipped for two. Bold, modern décor; lots of wood and metal; no chintzy covers or fitted carpet to be seen. Scandinavian, was Jack’s immediate thought, with hints of boat in the ingenious use of space.

  Fay squeezed the arm of the black leather chair; ran her hand across the top of the birchwood table; lifted a stainless steel pan from the hob. ‘It’s spotless.’ She opened the fridge. ‘Wow. Look at this. Pâté. Olives. Smoked salmon. Strawberries. And champagne. If this is self-catering, I’m a convert.’

  They climbed the spiral staircase to the first floor. The bedroom was not much bigger than their room at home, but the off-white walls and pale oak floorboards gave it a spacious and airy feel. In place of curtains, the recessed windows had wooden shutters, flick-flacked back, the deep sills padded to create window seats. There were fresh candles in unfussy iron candlesticks. Slap in the centre, and the unavoidable focal point of the room, stood the largest bed that Jack had ever seen. This, too, had white covers, making it appear wholesome yet tempting, like a bowl of porridge, sweetened with a swirl of syrup. Not feeling quite ready to confront bedroom issues, Jack pointed at the holdalls. ‘We ought to unpack these.’

  ‘Leave that for a minute. Look, there’s another flight of stairs. It must go up to the roof.Jack led the way this time. At the top of the stairs was a door. This opened on to a lookout platform which was exposed to the elements, with a solid wall to waist-level and a stone pier at each corner, supporting its pitched slate roof. He shook his head. ‘What the hell is this place?

  ‘Y clochdy means the belfry. It’s terribly romantic. Originally it was a folly, in the grounds of a faux Italian villa. The house must have been down there somewhere.’ She pointed, vaguely, down the hillside. ‘A rich Englishman built it for his Welsh mistress.‘Colonialist pimp.

  ‘There was a bell…up there, I imagine.’ She pointed up into the roof, at remnants of a cast iron housing. ‘The legend is that she used to come up here and ring the bell to welcome her lover.

  ‘A bit of a giveaway, wasn’t it? And, don’t tell me, she threw herself over the edge, when the bastard did the dirty on her.’

  ‘Of course. All the best stories are about sex and death.

  They spent a little while admiring the view then Fay went down to the kitchen to see exactly what the landlady had provided for supper and Jack took the opportunity to see how prepared Fay was for their ‘spur-of-the-moment’ night away. He eased open the zip of the holdall. Two toilet bags – she’d forgotten a razor but that was understandable; his dark jacket, white shirt, tie, underpants and socks; some sort of wispy dress and the gold sandals she’d worn to Dylan’s wedding. A bit formal for a folly. She’d obvio
usly planned it but maybe not down to the fine detail.

  Digging deeper, he came to her underwear – white with an edging of soft lace. He was sure he hadn’t seen it before but he wouldn’t have, would he? He was still sleeping in Dylan’s room. Chic. French. Very sexy, anyway.He sat on the bed, holding a pair of knickers in one hand, a bra in the other, running his thumbs back and forth across the silky fabric. Women might wear this delicate stuff but they were the tough ones. Look at them. Fay, Laura, Non, his mother – all ‘sorters’ and ‘stickers’ and ‘fixers’, in their own way. Their men – his father, Iolo, himself – would have gone under if they’d been left to their own devices. Wasn’t what he’d considered Kingsley’s courage, in reality, spinelessness? A daughter wouldn’t have run away.

  Fay appeared with the champagne and two glasses, blushing when she caught sight of her underwear, but saying nothing as he pushed it back in the bag. ‘I thought we might have a drink.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He opened the bottle and filled the glasses, bubbles spiralling up through the pale liquid.

  ‘Jack, I wanted to say…I wanted to tell you…I’ve really enjoyed my day. The dancing was great and I loved the music.

  ‘It can’t have been—’

  ‘Can I just finish?’ There was no reprimand in her voice. ‘I know I’ve been a bit…but I think I can see… I’d like to come with you again sometime.

  Listening to her stuttering words, he understood that she was struggling to convey something more important than a conversion to Morris dancing, ‘Thanks, love.’

  Fay drained her glass. ‘Now I’m going to take a long, hot shower. Make the most of all those white towels and swish toiletries.’

  Jack unpacked his dancing togs. It was silly really. They’d be going straight in the wash when he got home. But, whenever he spent a night away, it felt right to hang a shirt in a wardrobe, lay a book on a bedside table…or leave a clean, folded handkerchief in a chest of drawers. He was the male of the species, marking his territory.