by Babs Horton
“I’m afraid I won’t be here that long.”
“You going somewhere?”
“Aunt Ella’s going to try and get hold of my mother.”
“Is she, indeed?”
“She said she was going to ring the Pope.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Ella to do that. She’s quite mad, you know.”
Catrin gave him a sideways glance.
“Don’t look so worried. She’s not mad exactly, just a little eccentric. Where is she, by the way?”
Catrin shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since she brought me some breakfast.”
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you and I go on a little ride around Kilvenny so that you can get your bearings? You can leave a note for Ella and I’ll meet you outside in, say, ten minutes’ time.”
She was about to turn down his offer but when he smiled at her with that wide, warm smile she couldn’t bring herself to refuse.
17
Meredith Evans stumbled out of the Boot Inn and looked anxiously up and down Cockle Lane. His nerves had been on edge ever since he thought he’d seen someone peering in through the window of his shop a few nights ago. He’d convinced himself that it had all been in his imagination until yesterday, when his anxiety had been further heightened by seeing Ella Grieve staring at him through the dusty window. What a sight she’d been with her mad, glaring eyes and her hair as wild and tangled as tumbleweed.
She was the last person he’d expected to see down here in Kilvenny. He hadn’t set eyes on her since the day Alice had been buried years ago.
He caught sight of the girl standing outside Kilvenny Castle and stopped abruptly, felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead again and his heart squeezing tightly.
For a moment he could have sworn that it was Alice Grieve standing there, as though he had been transported back to his childhood and there she was waiting patiently for him to arrive as she had always done. He chided himself for his stupidity. There was a likeness to Alice, it was true, but unlike Alice this little girl was pitifully thin, as if she’d been struck down with a wasting disease.
He gathered his wits and walked on, watching the girl surreptitiously. She glanced nervously towards him and he took in the vivid blueness of her eyes, the pale skin stretched tightly over the bones of her face.
He yelped in alarm as a hand was laid on his arm, and he turned to face Dan Gwartney.
“Good God, man, there’s a bag of nerves you are!”
“Just a bit jumpy, that’s all. I’m not sleeping well of late.”
“Guilty conscience?” Dan said.
Meredith ignored him and was about to walk away when Dan whispered, “You can tell she’s a Grieve all right.” He nodded towards the girl.
“She’s what?” Meredith gasped.
“Ella’s great-niece, by all accounts.”
“You mean she’s Kizzy’s daughter?” he said, aghast.
“A bit of a turn up for the books, eh? Not much like her mother to look at and of course the father is a bit of a mystery, I gather.”
Meredith, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, was unable to answer. Dan patted him cheerfully on the shoulder and went on his way.
Meredith took a last look at the girl and then blundered into his shop, pulling the yellowing blind down over the door and swivelling the CLOSED sign outwards.
18
As Tony and Catrin rode through the narrow streets of Kilvenny, Catrin wondered what Sister Lucy would say if she could see her now. Lord, she’d be apoplectic with fury. When Tony Agosti had offered to take her on a ride through Kilvenny she’d thought he meant in a car. When he’d turned up outside the castle on a decrepit pushbike she’d been horrified.
“All aboard for the Kilvenny express.” He’d laughed and she’d been too flustered to refuse.
She’d never ridden a bike in her life and certainly never clambered up on to the crossbar, and yet here she was now wobbling up through Kilvenny clinging on to the handlebars with one hand and to Tony Agosti’s shirtfront with the other.
They passed the war memorial and took a left turn into one of the narrower streets of the village, Tony giving a running commentary as they went.
“Here we are in Donkey Lane. On the right in number five lives Tudor Davies, only one eye but he doesn’t miss much, nosy old devil. Old Sarah Pugh in number nine hasn’t had a wash since she was christened, and the last house on your right is empty now but was once a gin palace.”
Tony’s cheerfulness was infectious, and by the time they turned into Goose Row Catrin’s face was flushed with pleasure and she looked about with interest, soaking up all he told her about the remaining inhabitants of Kilvenny.
“Years ago here in Coronation Place there used to be three pubs in a row, the Doghouse, the Bug and Bucket and the Brute and Stone.”
“Why were there so many?”
“Fishing was thirsty work, my girl, and Kilvenny used to be a busy old place.”
“What happened to it?”
“First the fish deserted us and put most of the fishermen out of work, then the smokehouse closed down, and then Shrimp’s shut up shop into the bargain.”
“Did Shrimp’s closing make a lot of difference?”
“Oh yes. It used to be busy nearly all year round, full of toffs and nobs from up England with plenty of money to spend down here in the village. Old Mr Watkins the butcher said his delivery boy used to be knackered from making up to four trips a day to Shrimp’s. Gladys Beynon, who was the cook, used to buy nothing but the best – sides of beef, legs of lamb, mutton chops, chitterlings, pigeons and geese.”
Catrin tried to picture Shrimp’s Hotel full of well-to-do guests, to imagine them walking across the lawns towards the beach, the tinkling of the piano and the aroma of cooking from the kitchen.
“If you look down there you’ll see the track that leads down to the old smokehouse where they used to cure the herring.”
Catrin saw a narrow lane leading down towards the sea and, out near the rocks, the broken remains of an old building.
They were silent for a while as Tony pedalled up a steep hill, eventually coming to rest at the top and helping Catrin down off the bike.
“Take a look at that view. You won’t see many better.”
Before them lay a wide sweep of deserted bay stretching away as far as the eye could see.
“Isn’t that beautiful?”
It was breathtaking. Catrin had never seen anything quite so wild and spectacular in her life. White-crested waves rolled in from the ocean, crashing on to the line of shingle, throwing up foam and spray, then racing up the pale sands, making patterns of lace. How she would love to climb down there and leave a trail of footprints as she ran across the unmarked sand.
“Is that a shipwreck?” she asked, pointing to where the hulk of a boat lay half submerged in the choppy water.
“Yes, that’s all that’s left of the Flino. She was an old tub heading for Cardiff but she was blown off course in a storm and sank.”
Catrin had a sudden vision of a huge old ship tossing in heavy seas beneath glowering skies. The wind was roaring, people were screaming…
She felt as if her lungs were swelling up, filling with water until she could barely breathe.
She put her hand anxiously to her throat and Tony, noticing the paleness of her face, put his arm around her shoulders.
“Are you feeling all right?”
She nodded, took a deep breath and looked out towards the calm sea, glistening beneath a blue sky. Impossible to imagine what it must have been like for those poor people trapped on the Flino.
“Tell me the rest of the story.”
“Well, valiant efforts were made to save those on board, but tragically only a handful of people were saved, along with a cat.”
“Why was there a cat on board?”
“In the old days ships often had a cat to catch the mice and rats. It was a terrible night for Kilvenny folk, by all accounts, an
d they fought bravely to save the people on board.”
“Who were they?”
“Well, there were sailors, of course, but the others were passengers, poor wretches travelling to make a new life for themselves in a strange land and, sadly, most of them ended up buried in Kilvenny.”
Despite the warmth of the morning Catrin shivered. “What happened to the survivors?”
“They were cared for in the village. In fact Nathaniel Grieve, who they say was a queer old fish, gave some of them shelter in Kilvenny Castle.”
“What happened to them after that?”
“I don’t really know, but not long after the Flino went down there was an outbreak of cholera here and half of the village died of it.”
“Did Nathaniel Grieve die, too?”
“No, but he left Kilvenny and the castle was shut up for years.”
“But the Grieves came back?”
“Yes, one of his children came back eventually and the Grieves have been here ever since.”
It felt strange to think that she came from a long line of Grieves stretching right back into the old days.
“When we were kids we used to spend hours diving near the Flino to see if we could find any treasure.”
“And did you?” Catrin asked eagerly.
“No. It wasn’t a treasure ship, just a cargo ship on its way to the docks with a hold full of fruit.”
“Fruit?”
“Lemons and limes and other exotic stuff bound for the markets. They reckon that the beach was awash with lemons and olives for weeks afterwards.”
Catrin looked away from the beach up to where the land climbed steeply towards a solitary house standing in the middle of the fields, staring out to sea.
“Blind Man’s Lookout,” Tony said.
“How can a blind man be a lookout?” Catrin asked, frowning. “Does anyone still live there?”
“Not any more; it’s been empty for years. They say an old fellow who lived there could tell the colour of things just by touch.”
Catrin looked up at him in puzzlement. “Do you believe that?”
“Well, I suppose it’s possible.”
“It must have been a very lonely place to live,” Catrin said.
“Not for him. He had a wife and a house full of children – a bit like the old woman who lived in a shoe, so they say.”
“No one could live there now. Look, the roof’s half off and there’s no glass in any of the windows.”
“It must have been bleak as hell in the winter. At least Kilvenny gets a bit of shelter from the headland, but here when the winter storms come it takes a real battering. Perhaps we’ll get hold of another bike for you and one day we’ll ride round the coast and I’ll show you the cockle women at work.”
“The what?”
“Over in Aberderi the women pick the cockles – have done since Roman times – and that’s a wonderful sight.”
“Is a cockle one of those yellowish things they have in jars?”
“Ay, but fresh cockles are the best. You never tasted one?”
She shook her head.
“There are all sorts of recipes you can use cockles in.”
“What sort of recipes?”
“Let me see, cockle cakes, cockle pie, cockle soup, all sorts. Do you like cooking?”
She shook her head again.
“My favourite recipe is spaghetti alia carbonara every time. My grandfather taught me to make it the way the shepherds used to make it in Italy.”
“I’ve only ever had spaghetti from a tin.”
“Sweet Jesus, then you haven’t lived. Surely you must cook sometimes?”
“No, I’ve never cooked anything in my life.”
“You’re joking? You’ve never cooked a thing?” he said, scandalised.
She blushed.
“Everyone should know how to cook. What would you eat if you had to look after yourself?”
“When I’m at school the nuns cook, and at home a woman comes in to make my tea.”
“Well, if I was you and you have to stay here in Kilvenny for any length of time, I’d start to learn straight away.”
“Why?”
“Because Ella Grieve can just about boil an egg but she can’t cook for toffee. She’ll be serving you up some disasters, I can tell you,” he said with a laugh.
“She never learnt to cook, either?”
“No. Mind you, she used to go out in that boat of hers and bring back all sorts of fish. She wasn’t a bit squeamish. I’ve seen her gut a fish and slaughter a chicken without batting an eyelid.”
Catrin blanched. “That’s a funny thing for a woman to do.”
“She’s an unusual woman, your Aunt Ella. Anyhow, we’d better get back in case she thinks you’ve disappeared.”
“I think she’d be glad if I had.”
“Oh, don’t be thinking that. Ella’s bark is worse than her bite.”
“Does she bite, then?”
“No, that’s just an expression. She makes a lot of noise but she’s not dangerous.”
They were silent as they clambered on to the bike and freewheeled down the hill towards Kilvenny. The sea breeze caught Catrin’s hair, blowing it round her face so that she could hardly see. She surprised herself by laughing out loud with utter joy, and by the time they squealed to a halt outside the Café Romana she was red-faced and weak-kneed with exhilaration.
“Thanks, Tony,” she said breathlessly as he helped her off the bike.
“My pleasure. You’ve been like a breath of fresh air, and I’ll be sorry to see you go if you’re determined to leave.”
She smiled. No one had said anything that kind to her in ages. She’d be sad to say goodbye to him, too. He was such fun, and she hadn’t had much fun in her life before today.
As he was about to open the door of the café, Catrin said hurriedly, “I don’t expect I will be, but if I am here for a bit longer, would you do me a big favour?”
“Fire away, Catrin Grieve. Your wish is my command.”
“Well, seeing as I’ve never cooked anything in my life, I’d like to try out a recipe I found in a book.”
“What do you want to make?”
“Fock…focaccia bread – I think that’s how you say it. Only I don’t have any of the ingredients.”
To her consternation Tony threw back his head and laughed gleefully.
“Wonderful! The first thing you want to make is Italian bread, eh? You say you have a recipe?”
“Yes, I found one in an old book.”
“If you take the trouble to make the bread, will you eat it?” Tony asked, looking steadfastly into her eyes.
She returned his gaze warily.
“Only, I noticed that the birds made a fine meal of your toast this morning.”
Catrin blushed and stared down at her feet.
Tony smiled. “Give me a list of the ingredients and I’ll get them. Maybe we can make a cook out of you while you’re here. I’ll tell you something, too. Ella always used to love her food. Maybe if you become a good cook she’ll want you to stay.”
“I doubt it.”
He went into the Café Romana. As she turned to cross the road she saw a man in the doorway of the photographer’s shop watching her intently. He lifted his hat to her and she was sure he was the man she’d seen sneaking out of Aunt Alice’s room. She turned her face away and hurried into the castle.
Part Two
19
Ella and Catrin settled awkwardly into life in Kilvenny Castle and established a routine of sorts in the first few days. They rose at roughly the same time in the mornings and made their separate ways down to the kitchen, where Ella busied herself making tea and usually burning the toast. Then they sat in uncomfortable silence on opposite sides of the enormous kitchen table, avoiding eye contact. Usually Ella turned the wireless up loud so as to discourage any conversation between them, and Catrin drank her tea, toyed with her toast and, when Ella’s back was turned, hid it in her handkerchief to
be disposed of later.
Throughout the daylight hours they skirted around each other warily. When Ella was indoors Catrin made a point of going out and she trailed dolefully around the castle gardens. If Ella took it into her head to go outside, Catrin retreated indoors. Sometimes as they crept along the dim corridors they would turn a corner suddenly and come face to face and each turned tail.
As the days wore on Catrin grew restive, embarrassed by the heavy silences. Sometimes she hovered on the threshold of speaking to Aunt Ella, but her courage always failed her and she was left tongue-tied and ill at ease. Sometimes she was aware of Ella sneaking a glance at her from behind a book as if she, too, wanted to break the silence but couldn’t bring herself to. It became a constant game of avoidance and furtive glances between two people who didn’t want to be anywhere near each other.
One sweltering afternoon, as Kilvenny withered under a blinding sun, Catrin made her way along the narrow lanes and alleys. The village was hushed, the rooks sleeping soundly in the tall trees of Gwartney’s Wood, and the grasshoppers in the long grass by the creek worn to a frazzle. The air was heavy, tinged with the smell of baked earth and wilting flowers, the road beneath her feet erupting here and there in suppurating blisters of melting tar, the choked drains exhaling the stench of rotting leaves and bad eggs.
The streets were deserted and an air of exhaustion hung over everything. The faded blinds were pulled down over the windows of the Café Romana, and on either side of the door the geraniums slumped drunkenly in their terracotta pots. All around were the scents of sweet peas, rapidly ripening tomatoes and drying seaweed.
She looked curiously in through the darkened doorways of the tiny houses that were still inhabited, inhaling the peculiar smells of Kilvenny: Brasso and eye-watering disinfectant, mothballs and Welsh cakes sizzling on a griddle mingling with the smell of old linoleum and scalded tealeaves.