by Clare Ashton
“Really.”
“Yes. He said there wouldn’t be a problem with catering there. But of course that sidelines your café and rather defeats the purpose of the fair. It is to celebrate the wares and people of Wells after all.”
Poppy’s heart plummeted and the nauseating chill of realisation and humility churned inside. She covered her face, not wanting Cerys to see the drain of good will from her features, and her mind went black with all the negative connotations of Cerys’ words.
She sighed and grabbed her coffee, in need of comfort.
“Do you think Rosalyn was right about Alan?” Poppy said deflated, and she took a sip of her drink.
“That he’s a misogynistic little prick? Yes.”
Poppy spat out her coffee. She inhaled several drops, which induced a coughing paroxysm, and for several seconds her laughter was masked by the efforts of not choking.
“Cerys,” she giggled. “Thank you. You’ve made my day.”
“Well, he’s an odious man. I can’t stand him.”
“Seriously though. Do you think Alan and his associates are sabotaging the fair?”
“You mean Glyn and Gareth from the council?” Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “Those shifty little buggers?”
“Yes.”
“Well, to be honest, I thought Rosalyn’s accusations were far-fetched at the time. But not anymore.”
Poppy’s heart sank again. She hadn’t followed up any of Rosalyn’s accusations, but her instinct knew Rosalyn was right. Years of intimate knowledge of Rosalyn told her she was right.
“Oh dear,” Poppy said to no-one in particular and she shook her head. “I still think the way Rosalyn handled the issue was appalling. But it’s getting very difficult to trust Alan Watkins, or anyone close to him.”
“Too right, cariad. I don’t have any hard evidence yet, but there’s no bloody way I’m having my fair at his hotel.”
Poppy smiled, but it didn’t last long. “What are we going to do?”
Cerys shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s going to disappoint a great many people now. And it was all starting to come together.”
Chapter 33.
The problems of the fair and the sudden change in Poppy’s affiliations occupied her thoughts well into the night. She shuffled and twitched around the bed, blushing as she recalled how harshly she’d spoken to Rosalyn while defending Alan and the townsfolk.
Poppy pampered her bruised pride by reminding herself how arrogant and prejudiced Rosalyn had been towards the entire village, but there was no escaping she was probably right about its less savoury inhabitants.
But Rosalyn was gone and what could Poppy do?
By morning she’d vacillated over so many issues and options she leapt out of bed determined to do something to make her life less annoying.
So she phoned the council offices which, in the short term, would do nothing to ease her irritation.
“Could you put me through to event licensing please?” Poppy said into her mobile.
“Which office is that?” came a sweet female voice on the other end.
“Um.” Poppy frowned, confused. “I was hoping you could tell me?”
“One moment please.”
The woman’s voice and clatter of the background ceased and a synthesiser version of Delilah tinkled in her ear. She gazed out of the porthole across the valley, the hills blurring as her vision grew as weary of the wait as she did.
“Right,” the woman’s voice cut back in. “You want the licensing officer apparently.”
“Excellent. Could you put me through?”
“Oh,” the woman said. “I don’t know about that.” And the keyboard version of Tom Jones resumed in her ear.
A few minutes later the woman returned. “Who’s calling sorry?”
“Poppy Jenkins from Wells.”
“One moment please.”
No. Not the music. Not Delilah again. But she didn’t have to wait long this time before the woman cut in.
“Says he’s out today, I’m afraid.”
“Ok, thank you,” said Poppy. “Hang on a minute. He told you he was out?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Oh.”
An edge crept into Poppy’s voice. “Perhaps you could ask if he’s changed his mind.”
“Right you are,” she said and Poppy’s heart sank at the swelling chorus of Delilah.
The clatter of an office room echoed in her ear again. “No, he’s still out.”
Poppy wondered. “Could you tell me if, by any chance, the licencing officer is Gareth Jones?”
“Yes.” The woman paused. “No. He told me not to say.”
“Well, perhaps you could tell Gareth that rejecting the Wells fair on the grounds of sale of food is a mistake, because our café has a permit to serve in the square. And if he won’t talk to me, I’ll complain to his manager.”
“Right.” The woman paused. “I’ll pass it on.”
The woman returned swiftly. “His manager says he’s out as well.”
Poppy growled down the phone. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. No wonder Cerys had fallen foul of bureaucracy. This could go on all day and she’d still be no better off.
What would Rosalyn do? This was the kind of thing she excelled at. A tingle of rebellion stirred inside Poppy.
“Well that’s a shame,” she said with a veil of sincerity over thick sarcasm. “I wanted to warn them of their mistake, because as well as several small cottage industries there are larger businesses who’ll suffer with the cancellation. I think they’ll sue you know.”
“Really?” The woman paused. “Right. Hold on a sec.”
Poppy was treated to a Manic Street Preachers cover on an instrument she could only describe as a kazoo.
“Miss Jenkins.” A deep male voice came on the line. “Thank you for the warning. Could you resubmit your application? If you give me your address I’d be happy to post the relevant documentation.”
“Of course we could, but it’s too late for this year.”
“I’m afraid that’s the process. We might be able to fast track it.”
“Perhaps you could fast track it by reading your copy of the original application and my permit – they’re all in order.”
“I’m afraid to say, madam,” his voice became deeper and more intractable, “we have mislaid your application.”
Poppy slapped her hand to her face and looked skywards. “So as well as being negligent in your decision-making, some might say corrupt, you’re also incompetent record keepers.”
The line was silent.
“Thanks for your attention,” Poppy said, the Rosalyn-inspired delivery intact. “I’ll tell the stall holders to go ahead and sue and also write a newspaper article apologising for the cancellation with details of the reason. And when I say newspaper, I don’t mean the County Times. There are others.”
The end of the line buzzed. Poppy’s ear ached in the silence. “Could you give me a moment, Miss Jenkins? My colleague has found an application that might be relevant.”
And, at last, the wheels of bureaucracy were oiled. After another painful half hour, Poppy tapped the phone call to an end with a satisfied smile on her face. She immediately selected another number and listened to the intermittent ring with rising excitement.
“Cerys?” she said. “We’re back on.”
It was a week later when an animated Cerys Mathews scuttled towards Poppy and Pip as they strolled into Wells. Cerys brandished a newspaper and sported the kind of look reserved for lottery wins.
“We’re in the paper,” she shrieked. “They’ve published it.”
“What’s that?” Poppy grinned.
Pip tutted beside her. “It’s just The Shropshire Express.”
“Sh,” Poppy whispered. “Don’t take the wind out of her sails.”
“Is that a polite way of saying don’t piss on her fire?”
“Pip!” Poppy shook her head and questioned what had got into her young sister of lat
e.
Cerys caught up with them and stopped, gasping for breath. “Look at this.” She opened the paper to a colourful two-page spread. Familiar figures stood in the photographs and the title boasted: A Fair to Remember, Wells Promises.
“It’s Mum,” Pip said, a smile creeping onto her reluctant face. She pointed to a photo of Emma in the studio, working on a fluid blue picture of the river. “And you.” Poppy stood beside her pride and joy, the cake counter – a sumptuous spread of cakes on display.
“I see you wore your cream dress.” Pip grinned.
And Poppy blushed, realising how much she was on display too.
“Don’t embarrass your sister, Pip,” Cerys chided. “If I was that lush I’d show it off too. I think Poppy looks fabulous.”
Pip turned a paler shade and studied her shoes. Poppy giggled at her sister’s horror then focused her attention on the piece, trying to ignore her blooming bodice in the spread. “It’s brilliant Cerys – fantastic advertising and great timing too for the weekend.”
Cerys turned and accompanied them, still holding the article in front of her.
“I’m so pleased. I think it’s beautiful. We only just managed to get it in time for this week’s edition.”
“Good,” Poppy said as they approached the first cottage of Wells. “And who’s we?”
Cerys didn’t get a chance to answer before Mrs Morgan Morgan popped her head above the wall in a break from a spot of weeding. Her smile was as friendly as usual when she spotted Poppy.
“Bore da, Poppy and Pip. Lovely weather again. Oh…” Her felicity slipped away when she noticed the company they kept.
She couldn’t maintain her jovial manner and looked away. “Miss Mathews,” she said with a nod.
Cerys lifted her chin. “Mrs Morgan Morgan.” She was awkward and took a few moments before she could manage, “You’re right. It’s a lovely day again.”
Mrs Morgan studied a fleshy green caterpillar on a dahlia, perhaps to avoid catching anyone’s eye. “It’s been a good summer this one. Best since seventy-six I reckon.”
“I imagine you’re right,” Cerys replied.
The stiff exchange was obvious now Poppy knew their background, and the awkwardness excruciating. Poppy chided herself for having never noticed the painful frostiness between the pair.
“And I hope the sun lasts for many more months,” Poppy said, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Yes, cariad,” Mrs Morgan smiled sadly. For a moment she peered towards Cerys, but the wiry woman avoided her gaze and strode on with purpose.
Poppy’s heart sank for Mrs Morgan. The elderly woman turned to hide her expression and waved over her shoulder, pretending some errand in the house.
Poppy and Pip caught up with Cerys and silently fell into step. When they walked beyond Mrs Morgan’s earshot, Cerys relaxed her pose.
“As I was saying… What was I saying?”
Poppy laughed, out of sorrow and mirth. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve forgotten too.”
“You’re too young to be losing it, Poppy bach.” Cerys wagged her finger. “However, my brain’s so full of things, I worry it’ll all fall out before the fair on Saturday.”
“You’ll be fine.”
As they reached the centre, Cerys gave the article one last look of admiration. “It could be good this you know.”
Poppy grinned and gave the spritely woman a hug. “I think it will be.”
They waved farewell and Cerys scurried away up the square.
“Right Pip, I’ll see you tonight... Pip?”
Her sister stared towards the bridge and a steady but sparse stream of children crossing on their way to school. A large boy faced the oncoming traffic. He stood with his hands behind his back and nodded every so often to children he recognised. He looked towards Pip and said, “Sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Pip?”
Her sister backed into Poppy and felt for her hand.
“Pip, what’s going on?”
The boy had turned back and was scanning the oncoming stream with a contrite look.
“That there,” Mrs Morgan had ambled up behind, “is a boy who’s been making life miserable for many at school.”
“Pip?” Poppy asked. “What’s happened?”
She avoided Poppy’s gaze.
“Pip?” Poppy bent down to her sister’s height. “Has he hurt you?”
Pip shuffled and peeped through her fringe. “Nah, I’m all right,” she said. “He didn’t hurt me. Just nicked some money.”
“When?”
Pip grunted.
“How long’s this been going on?”
“Few weeks I bet,” Mrs Morgan interjected.
Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Pip.” Poppy grabbed her sister by the shoulders, wanting to cuddle and protect her. “Why didn’t you say, sweetheart?”
“For a start, because I thought you’d treat me like a two-year-old.”
“Oh.” Poppy was filled with sorrow and dropped her arms, realising it was exactly what she would have done.
“And I didn’t think you’d listen. You’ve been distracted lately.”
Pip may as well have stuck a red-hot knife into Poppy’s heart and twisted it for good measure.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Every glum moment Pip had suffered over the last few weeks was now crystal clear in Poppy’s mind. “I knew something was up. I should have asked outright.”
Pip swung her arms around and her bottom lip pouted. “I could have told you as well. And it wasn’t too bad for me. Not as bad as the others; especially the primary school kids.”
“But it’s all right now, isn’t it, bach,” Mrs Morgan said and she squeezed Pip’s shoulder with reassurance. “He’s been made to see the error of his ways,” she said, satisfied. “I knew there was something up with the sneaky little beggar. I’ve seen him hanging around, looking like he’s up to no good. But I never managed to catch him in the act. But she got him. And I don’t know what she said, but it scared the bejeezus out of him.”
“Who?” said Poppy, half attending Pip and half feeling twenty tonnes of guilt.
“Spotted him by the river she did. Two of the little ‘uns were having a paddle while he stripped their bags. She caught him good and proper.”
“Sorry,” Poppy said, standing up straight. “Who caught him?”
“Well, Rosalyn.”
“Rosalyn?” Poppy gasped. “Did you say Rosalyn?”
“Yes, she arrived back this morning. She popped in to say hello and at the shop for your mam too.”
“Rosalyn?” Poppy stared in disbelief.
“Yes, cariad.” Mrs Morgan Morgan smiled.
Poppy staggered back from the double shock of first Rosalyn saving her baby sister and second being there at all.
“But… When… Why…? ”
“I love Rosalyn.” Pip sniggered and a big grin cheered her face. “I think she’s brilliant.”
Poppy looked down at Pip with flummoxed goofiness.
“Wake up, sis,” Pip coaxed.
“But…?”
Pip sighed and hugged Poppy round the middle, kissed her chin when still she failed to respond and galloped off over the bridge.
Poppy stared with an open mouth after Pip, who disappeared beyond the church.
“Rosalyn,” she whispered. Her heart thundered in her chest and perspiration burst in a chill on her back. “Rosalyn’s here.”
“She’s a good girl that one,” Mrs Morgan observed.
Poppy shook her head and came to. “Pip? Yes she’s brilliant. I know.”
“Pip too. She’s a little star. But I meant Rosalyn.”
“Really?” Poppy forced herself to focus on Mrs Morgan.
“Definitely. She’s full of surprises.” Mrs Morgan had a glint in her eye. “Good ones too.”
“Oh.” And all Poppy could do was frown and avert her gaze. She was still tender from the things Rosalyn had said and done, but she felt a good dose of guil
t too.
“I’m off,” Mrs Morgan said. “I need to give Mr Morgan his seventh cuppa of the day.”
Then Poppy remembered herself. “Me too.” A sense of dread washed over her. “I’m meeting David Thorn.”
With Mrs Morgan gone she turned in the direction of the Hall.
“Oh god.” Poppy clasped her hand to her chest. She swore she could feel her heart pounding through her ribs.
Poppy had assumed she’d never see Rosalyn again and wasn’t in the least bit ready for a meeting. Whenever she thought of Rosalyn, indignation would burn at the memory of her behaviour, but uppermost at this moment was the dread she’d aggravated the strained relationship with David and Lillian by outing her.
“Ok,” she breathed.
She stepped forward at a slow, reluctant pace. She dawdled along the river. The florets of hogweed drew her attention and she stared into the fractal flowers, hypnotised in her own thoughts.
She flushed with humiliation one moment and chilled with guilt the next. She wanted to run to Rosalyn and apologise for doubting her, and outing her, but at the same time she had an overwhelming urge to flee.
She tore herself away from the flowers and the river and by the time she approached Rhiw Hall she was unforgivably late.
She ran along the stable block, sprinted around the back garden, leapt over the fence and rushed to the door, where she found no-one. The doors were locked. Inside was uninhabited and the iron bench empty, except for a crisp note weighted by a conch shell.
Poppy slid her finger inside and opened out the paper.
“I hope all’s well and you’re only caught up with the cafe. I’m heading to the lodge with Rosalyn. Please do join us. David.”
Poppy clutched the note and wandered onto the lawns. She peered along the edge of the wood and up the hill path, beyond which lay the lodge.
There they were, strolling at a creeping pace up the slope, David stooped from his illness and his tall daughter walking alongside. Their backs seemed stiff and tense and Poppy couldn’t see their faces. She stepped forward, crumpling the paper in her fingers and holding the note to her mouth, anxious at the distance between daughter and father.
David stumbled but caught his own fall. Rosalyn rushed beside him and looped her arm through his. They turned to face each other and at last Poppy could see them.