by Clare Ashton
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ve been so morose.”
Her mother tightened her lips in a way that communicated her sympathy rather than any burden.
Poppy sighed. “Rosalyn’s gay, and I didn’t realise. I didn’t know until a few days ago.”
“Ah,” her mother said softly. “That explains a great deal, a very great deal.”
“Yes, it does.” Poppy faced her mother. “Did you know? Did you suspect? I mean when we were growing up?”
“No…perhaps.” Her mother frowned while she considered. “I wondered. And I suspected you were in love with her on some level; perhaps not a romantic love but a deep passion none the less. But Rosalyn,” she shrugged, “she was always more guarded than you and often difficult to read.”
Poppy stared at the current swirling through the waters. “Rosalyn knew when she was twelve.”
“That early?”
Poppy muttered confirmation.
“I imagine,” her mother paused, concern wrinkling her features, “that had great potential for hurt and misunderstanding.”
Poppy laughed harshly. “Yes, it did.”
“I also assume you have borne the brunt of it on more than one occasion.”
“Yes,” Poppy whispered.
Emma held her hand. “You are a very positive and forgiving woman. It’s wretched for you, but you will find a way through.”
“I just…oh.” Poppy growled with frustration. “I can’t help thinking, if she’d told us when she was sixteen, it would have saved so much anguish for me, her parents and herself.”
Her mother nodded. “Yes, it would have been simpler for all, except maybe Rosalyn.”
“What do you mean?”
“People live a lie for good reasons. Why would they not when the burden of secrecy is so great.”
“But there was so much to gain by being open and I’ve never had any problems being a lesbian here.”
“But you’re not Rosalyn.” Emma squeezed her hand and looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m so glad you realised you were gay and came out when you were at university. Times were more tolerant than even a few years before. Everything changed when they brought in civil partnerships.” Her mother smiled at her fondly. “I don’t imagine coming out is easy for anyone, and don’t want to imply it was for you. And it is partly to your own credit and positive disposition you found it painless. But a different time? With different friends and family? A different place? People and circumstances vary. I know it must be the most frustrating thing in the world Rosalyn didn’t come out to you, but can you understand why she didn’t?”
Poppy bowed her head. “I can, up to a point. But she is so filled with hate, it taints her view of everything and everyone.”
“I imagine not being able to acknowledge who you love and crave, not even to yourself, must do terrible things to a person. Love and desire are so powerful a force, how could you contain such a thing without breaking?”
Poppy felt a stab at her heart – the thought of Rosalyn’s love for her tormenting her friend all those years.
“Did you know Cerys Mathews was a lesbian?”
“What? No.” Poppy laughed out of surprise.
Emma nodded. “Yes. Been in the closet all her life. You know, she admires you for being out, and not so much proud, but simply comfortable.”
Poppy was struck with a wave of guilt. “You’re right. I was lucky. I had you.” She looked at her mother with a heart full of love and the realisation it was serendipitous indeed to have this patient and kind soul as her parent. “You and Dad were so accepting. I couldn’t have had a better start.”
Her mother smiled by way of thanks. “I think we did what any parent should. Cerys’ family weren’t as accepting and of course she was from a different generation.”
“I don’t know if I suspected Cerys.” Poppy frowned. Perhaps there’d been the occasional look or trait which sparked some kind of recognition. “I’ve never seen her with anyone like a partner. Has she ever been in love?”
“Very much,” Emma replied. “She fell in love with a girl at school – Eleanor Jones. They were the best of friends and most bewitched of lovers.”
The name tickled at Poppy’s memory then it flooded through. “Mrs Morgan Morgan?”
Her mother nodded. “They were in love and planned to move to London. But Cerys’ sister told her parents and, in the end, she couldn’t face their condemnation.”
“And they split up.”
“Yes. They haven’t exchanged anything beyond a brief pleasantry since.”
“That’s so sad,” Poppy whispered, “to live alongside the love of your life, but never together. Did Cerys find anyone else? I know Mrs Morgan, Eleanor, did. But what about Cerys?”
“No. And I don’t think Eleanor really did either. I think that’s why she wears black. Apparently, after she married Mr Morgan she never wore another colour.”
The thought of Mrs Morgan grieving for Cerys a whole lifetime made Poppy desolate and fearful she faced the same misfortune.
She smiled. Her mother always had a nice way of getting to her, questioning until Poppy worked herself through an issue.
“I do understand people are different and I was lucky, but I can’t forgive Rosalyn’s attitude.” Poppy looked at her mother in desperation. “She assumes everyone is bigoted – a large part of the reason she never came out – but she’s arrogant too. Dai’s right, she always had a superior attitude. You should have heard the things she said about people in the village.”
“I did, from others. But I don’t think she ever thought she was superior to you.”
“I don’t know. No. Who knows?” Poppy tutted.
“It’s true Rosalyn has an unforgiving manner and is a very bright woman. That means she can be impatient with those who are less perceptive. But I wouldn’t dismiss what she says without consideration. You never used to.”
Poppy grumbled and hid her head in her hands. Her mother’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.
“You know,” Emma said, “I’ve always admired Rosalyn. She’s one of those perceptive people who have an ability to see through an issue to its crux, whether it be injustice or simply recognising when someone is talking rot. I don’t have that ability, I wish I did. But at least I listen when someone like Rosalyn talks. I think you’re the same.” She peered at Poppy. “Even as early as ten years old Rosalyn had the nous to sort out the Scouts and Brownie situation.”
Poppy blushed. At the grand age of 32 years old, the mention of the Brownie hut inferno still gripped her with the panic of a naughty school girl. “Mum, that’s just Nain’s supposition. You know how she loves to gossip, especially about the Thorns. No-one ever proved it was Rosalyn.”
Emma raised her eyebrow. “And they wouldn’t have done, would they? Rosalyn was at her piano lesson when the smoke went up.”
Poppy tucked her chin into her chest and peeped up through her hair. “That’s what I remember.”
Her mother smiled. “And do you know what I recall?”
Poppy looked blank and innocent.
“A ten-year-old daughter suddenly interested in the whereabouts of the matches and learning how to light the stove.”
Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “You suspected me? You thought I did it?”
Emma grinned. “I know you did.”
Poppy’s eyes shot wide. “What do you mean?”
“You made such an issue about retiring to your room early that evening, I knew something was up.” Emma giggled. “You, my sweet girl, were a terrible liar. I watched you sneak out of the house towards the village and kept watch for your return from the kitchen. And when you did, your face was a picture of trepidation and in the distance a curl of smoke stretched up into the sky from Wells.”
“You knew?” Poppy stared at her mother. “All these years, and you knew.”
Emma nodded.
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“I knew, but that doesn’t mean I disapproved.”
Poppy smiled. “Mum. I can’t believe you never punished me.”
Emma shrugged. “Of course I couldn’t condone what you did, but I was proud of you. I don’t think I’d have had the gumption at your age.”
“It was Rosalyn’s idea,” Poppy admitted.
“I assumed it was. But I thought it so clever of you both to realise Rosalyn would be the suspect and provide her with an alibi.”
“Some of that was my planning, but realising how unfairly the Brownies were treated compared with the Scouts was all Rosalyn.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, Rosalyn was a brave and bright girl, but only because you were her rock. You were the one who listened and supported her.”
Poppy closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh I don’t know, Mum.” Poppy shook her head. “I don’t know who to listen to. So many things have happened, and too many harsh words have been said, and people have been hurt.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “You were always a bright one too. You’ll find a way through it.”
Chapter 32.
Poppy hummed as she walked into Wells, swinging Pip’s hand with her own. Even though her feelings about Rosalyn were still unreconciled, sharing the reason for her melancholy with her mother and the breakup of her childhood friendship was a weight off her heart and mind.
Poppy’s prime concern this fine morning was that Pip seemed disinclined to her usual playful gallop and clung to her hand.
“Good morning, Mrs Morgan,” Poppy said, as they passed the first cottage.
“Bore da, cariad.” Mrs Morgan waved and rolled her hips in a motion towards the garden gate. “Another fine morning.”
“It is indeed.”
“And you, Pip bach? How’s school?”
“Ok,” Pip grumbled.
“Ah well. I’ll interpret that as the most exciting times of your life mixed with the tortuous trials of being almost a teenager.”
Pip stared at Mrs Morgan, surprised. “Yeah. That’s right.”
“You have some incredible years ahead. I won’t say ‘enjoy it’ because that’s not quite the right word. But these are important years. You’ll meet first loves, be shaped by books and discover music that will move you for a lifetime, all while being dismissed as subhuman by the rest of society. Those years shape your heart and make you the person you are on the inside. Doesn’t matter how old and wrinkly you get, there’s always a large-hearted teenager deep down. I both envy and fear for you, Pip bach.”
Pip nodded and looked glum, but didn’t dismiss the elderly woman with her usual insolence.
“See you later,” Poppy said, with a not insignificant pang of loss for her own teenage self.
“Ta ra,” Mrs Morgan said and turned back into the house.
It did occur to Poppy that Pip had been glum these past few days, in fact intermittently over the last weeks.
Poppy smiled at Pip, not wanting to lose her sister to teenage angst and solemnity yet. “Come on,” Poppy said, a spark of energy igniting inside. “Race you to the shop.”
“Aw, Poppy. I don’t wanna run.”
“Then you’ll lose,” Poppy shouted with glee, and she took off into a sprint.
It wasn’t long before Pip’s willowy legs caught her. The girl made a sport of imitating Poppy’s adult panting then laughed and flew off, errant limbs somehow clawing at the ground in a canter.
Pip was already shovelling sherbet lemons into a paper bag when Poppy burst through the shop door with a beetroot face.
“Oh dear,” Dai sniggered. “Looks like big sister needs a head start.”
“Tell me about it.” Poppy tutted in good humour and approached the counter. “How are you, Dai?”
“Good, good, you know.”
“But…?”
“Oh no buts. Just good.”
“Apart from…?”
Dai frowned and put his hands on his hips. “How do you know something’s up? Tell me that.”
Poppy smiled. “Because I do.”
Dai leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do I twitch or something?” He pointed at his eye, which had in fact started spasming. “Because Mary does the same. Can’t keep a secret from either of you.”
Poppy laughed. “No, you don’t twitch, but you seem on the verge of saying more.”
“Oh. Well, as a matter of fact, there is something.” He stood up and crossed his arms. “I’ve booked the wedding with Alan Watkins at the Bryn Mawr hotel.”
Poppy opened her mouth but issued no reply, and she stood frozen in a heavily pregnant pause.
For a few moments Poppy had managed to forget Rosalyn Thorn and the multitude of feelings for her. But here Rosalyn was again, causing turmoil.
“I know you’ve had your doubts, but—”
“No, Dai. You go ahead.” Rosalyn was gone, there was no substance to her prejudiced accusations and Dai had a wedding to plan. “It’s your big day and if you want Bryn Mawr please don’t delay. Let’s forget everything anyone’s said about Alan.”
Dai frowned.
“Please?”
“Good.” He nodded.
Poppy gave him a reassuring smile. “Let me know if I can help.”
“Thank you, Poppy, but you concentrate on the stag do.”
“Oh that’s all in order,” she said. “So long as keeping it local is fine.”
“We’re all a bit strapped for cash to be honest. If we go on a bender to Amsterdam the girlfriends and wives will be fuming.” Dai smiled.
“And well before the wedding is still ok?”
“That’s best I suppose. Don’t want to be one of those grooms who look green around the gills. Mary wouldn’t be too impressed for a start.”
Poppy laughed and turned to retrieve Pip and her sweets.
Dai’s choice of venue did weigh on her mind, but she pushed it far back to sit with a troublesome person and several other issues, and stepped outside determined to resume her cheerful life.
“Have a good day at school, Pip.” Poppy kissed her sister on the cheek, which bulged hard with a boiled sweet.
“Shee woo waiter.” Pip grinned a yellow smile of translucent sweet and loped off to school.
At least the café’s fortunes were still on the rise, the glowing positive feedback far outweighing the puzzling negative. When she stepped through the door, a handful of tables were already occupied, the diners indulging in fresh baked rolls with melting butter and bacon.
Weekend numbers remained boosted by the publicity in the national paper and the county blog had reminded locals how highly they’d always rated it and they now wished to show their good taste by frequenting it during the week.
In a moment of respite, Poppy tucked behind the cake counter for a short coffee break, but she spied Cerys Mathews scurrying in, her face as alarmed as that of a mouse between a kestrel’s talons.
Poppy peeped over the bank of coffee machines. “Are you all right, Cerys?”
“Poppy. There you are,” she sighed. “Do you have a minute?”
“Yes, I do. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a coffee over.”
“Oh, diolch cariad.”
Cerys perched on a seat by the counter, flicking through a large notebook, failing to read any of the pages that sailed by.
“What’s happened?” Poppy asked as she slid a chair beside Cerys.
“Well, I can’t believe it,” Cerys blurted. “Just two weeks before the fair and the council have pulled permission for the event from right under us.”
“What?”
“And I had two major businesses signed up. Montgomeryshire Ice Creams was all ready to go. He wants to come and see the café, by the way, and to ask if you’re interested in keeping a fridge of local ice creams here.”
“Well of course, but—”
“And Rhys from Aberrhiw Cider, it turns out, is a very nice gentlemen and keen on a real ale and cider stall. He didn’t know why he hadn’t attended before, in fact.”
“But—”
“And I’d just pe
rsuaded the school to host their play at the town hall so we’d have an instant crowd afterwards. I was about to ask you and Derek if you’d organise a cake decorating stall for the little ’uns. Oh!” She clenched her bony fists. “I’m so bothered I could stamp.”
“But what’s happened?”
“I didn’t give you the details, did I? Well, the original description of the fair covered a smaller event with no outside catering from the likes of the café. We can’t just cover the pavements with tables and chairs apparently.”
“But we have that provision anyway. Mum and I included it in the scope of the café when it was built.”
“Oh.” Cerys stretched up her neck like an indignant emu. “I didn’t know that.”
“We haven’t taken advantage of it yet, but we’re planning to. We’ve been booked up every weekend recently and Dad’s building the additional seating for that and the fair.”
“Hmm.” Cerys’ beady eyes locked on to Poppy’s. “See, when I contacted the council originally, all those years ago, I applied for a bigger fair – about the size of market day, or how it used to be.”
“So there shouldn’t be a problem with an expanded event?” Poppy conjectured.
“Well, that’s what I assumed.” Cerys pulled down her lips in pique. “I thought the sticking point was the outside catering you see. But if what you tell me is true, I don’t understand why it’s been rejected.”
“Can you reapply?”
“Yes, but it won’t be appraised in time. The office told me to try again for next year.”
Poppy sighed in distress and rubbed her temples. “Who did you talk to at the council offices?”
“Oh I don’t know, sounded like a receptionist relaying a message. She wouldn’t put me through to any of the officers.”
“Really,” Poppy muttered. Her head was beginning to throb. “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
“Just Alan Watkins.”
“Alan Watkins?”
“I bumped into him on the way here.”
“And what did he have to say?” Poppy couldn’t help a strong note of cynicism from tainting her voice.
Cerys fixed her eyes on Poppy’s. “He very generously suggested I host the event at the hotel complex.”