Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  "And easily identified by their sturdy and sensible socks," put in Sally.

  They laughed. Gil smacked a kiss onto her forehead.

  "Making up Latin before midday … I need coffee!" said Gil.

  5

  "So how did the Pritchards come to sell the cottage to you and Jules?" Sally asked as they trudged uphill along the track.

  Gil was taking her to meet them. It was a nice afternoon, so they went on foot.

  "Liked our friendly young faces, I guess," he replied.

  It was an exhilarating climb. They held hands as they walked. Spike was up ahead on an extendable lead operated by Gil. This was because Spike wasn't a hundred percent trustworthy when it came to farm animals like sheep that always ran away so agreeably.

  Gil was glad he'd thought to use the lead, as they soon discovered the field where the derelict house stood was heaving with sheep. Spike stood at its gate barking.

  "Strange," said Gil, as they caught up, "It's his 'stay back' bark."

  "Telling off the sheep?" asked Sally.

  "Don't think so … quite likes sheep, even though he'd love to get in there and chase them about."

  "He doesn't seem to be looking at the sheep," said Sally, "I'd say he's barking at the house."

  Gil looked concerned for a moment. Then, much to his relief, about two dozen starlings suddenly ascended skywards out of a hole in the roof of the run-down building.

  Spike followed the birds as they soared up into the air and he stopped his noise.

  "Spike's never been keen on our feathered friends."

  Gil and Sally moved off. However, Spike remained grumbling at the gate and Gil needed to give a few sharp tugs of encouragement before he joined them.

  "Who does the house belong to?" asked Sally.

  "The Pritchards."

  "Do they plan to sell it?"

  "I don't think they ever would."

  "Why not?" she asked.

  Gil anticipated the answer might dampen their mood and gave a short involuntary sigh. After this, he had to explain. He began, "Gwyneth and Siriol Pritchard used to live there. Siriol's parents had the main farmhouse … where we're headed." He paused briefly then added, "Gwyneth told Jules about it once. Anyway, after Siriol's mother passed away, the farmhouse became too much for his father … so Siriol and Gwyneth moved into the bigger house, while the old man moved in here."

  "That would make sense."

  "Apparently, the old man started to lose it a bit. They asked him to come and live with them, but he was fiercely independent and wouldn't hear of it. Anyway, one night he accidentally set fire to the kitchen. One of Siriol's sons saw the smoke … they rushed down … managed to put the fire out before the place went up completely … but unfortunately, too late to save the old man."

  "How terribly sad."

  "According to Gwyneth, Siriol wouldn't dream of selling."

  "I can understand that," said Sally.

  The story inevitably brought them down and they walked on for a minute or two in silence. However, they seemed determined not to allow dark thoughts to blight their day. And by the time they reached the gate onto the main road they had recovered their good spirits.

  The Pritchards lived just five minutes on from here. Apart from grazing a few sheep, they were really dairy farmers, and the closer Gil and Sally got to their farm, the more potent became the smells associated with their line of work. The farmhouse itself was unprepossessing, utilitarian, and without a doubt not the domain of hobby farmers. On entering a cobbled yard, enclosed on three sides by buildings with the house directly ahead, a trio of sheepdogs suddenly sprang out from an open doorway.

  Three dogs, all barking at once, are always challenging. Gil and Sally took it from the dogs' stances that they were being instructed to walk to the house, without veering off course. The dogs didn't pay Spike any special attention, him being a dog and all. Poor Spike looked uncharacteristically chastened by their presence.

  A short but powerful-looking man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a blue boiler-suit and black wellingtons appeared in the doorway where the dogs had rushed from, and said commandingly, "Dewch nôl!"

  The dogs ceased barking at once and returned into the building. The young man, Gwyneth and Siriol's middle son Emrys, smiled and waved before disappearing again.

  "Why don't you ever listen to me like that?" Gil asked the unusually humble Spike, who for once looked grateful to be on a lead.

  Having been alerted by the dogs, Gwyneth Pritchard was on the doorstep by the time her visitors had crossed the last few yards to the house.

  "Mr Harper … long time no see … welcome back," she greeted, taking Gil's hand.

  "It's lovely to see you again, Gwyneth," he replied, before making an introduction perhaps a little more formally than usual, "I'd like you to meet Sally … Sally Curtis."

  "Very pleased to meet you," said Gwyneth, solemnly shaking Sally's hand, "Miss Curtis."

  "Sally."

  "Oh!" said Gwyneth uncertainly.

  "Please call me Sally. I wouldn't know who you meant if you called me Miss Curtis," she said warmly.

  Gwyneth smiled, "Sally, then. Come inside both of you. Welcome. The kettle's just boiled."

  Gil, leading Spike, followed them in with a bemused expression on his face. He couldn't quite work out how Sally had got Gwyneth to call her by her first name in under a minute, after he'd consistently failed to do the same thing in nearly a decade.

  Gwyneth Pritchard was every inch of her a farmer's wife. When you met her you felt her genes and chromosomes had been filtered through layers of Cambrian rock over generations. She was tall, broad, large-breasted and carried a little extra weight around her middle. Her shoulders looked so strong you felt she might easily pop a sheep or two under each arm. Two of her three sons, not Emrys, who was slighter and took after his father, had inherited her build and played rugby at a fairly high amateur level. Despite Gwyneth's ample proportions she was every bit a lady too. Her voice was softly feminine with gentle Welsh cadences that Sally immediately adored listening to. In her early-sixties, Gwyneth had succumbed to the modern pressure to remain youthful by dyeing and perming her naturally brown, now greying straight hair, strawberry blonde, which didn't really suit her.

  "Siriol said you'd drop by today, so we were expecting you!"

  Gwyneth led the way into the large farm kitchen, where she'd been baking. Gil could not recall calling on the Pritchards at any time when Gwyneth had not been baking. The smell of bread and cakes was mouth-watering.

  "Gil's told me lots about you," said Sally.

  "Really," said Gwyneth, with a tiny twinkle in her eye, "I'm sure there's not much to say about us. Mr Harper told me on the phone you're in the theatre, Sally, that sounds exciting!"

  "I'm not an actress or anything," said Sally, "I make costumes for shows."

  "Mmm, sounds a lot more glamorous than anything Siriol or I have ever done."

  They were directed to sit at the large oak table which might easily have accommodated a dozen more. Gwyneth, her senses highly tuned over half a century to the smells of baking, exclaimed, "Something's burning!" and excused herself while she went over to the cooking range and skilfully attended to a batch of Welsh-cakes that were browning on a round black griddle.

  Despite this disruption, within five minutes of being seated they had cups of tea placed before them. Gil had never left the Pritchards' house without drinking at least one cup of tea and eating something. He had forewarned Sally about the need for stomach space when on a Pritchard visit.

  After pouring the tea, Gwyneth explained her husband's absence by informing them, "Siriol is doing the dreaded paperwork!"

  After this she left them briefly, went into the hallway and called upstairs. She spoke in Welsh, seamlessly gliding from one language into the other. The family only ever spoke their mother tongue between themselves.

  A man's voice immediately replied back in Welsh. Shortly afterwards, in his stockinged feet
, Siriol came down to greet the guests. He was accompanied by his best sheepdog, Sian, the only dog ever allowed inside their house with the exception of pets like Spike.

  Siriol's first words to his guests were, "Welcome … sorry for not being here to greet you, it's the afternoon for the dreaded paperwork."

  Siriol Pritchard was a head shorter than his wife, built on a wiry frame with grizzled hair, his complexion ruddy and weather-beaten. He spoke in Welsh rapidly, but clearly found such unguarded fluency in English more difficult. Although he was always polite, he was less formal than his wife. He had a dry Welsh sense of humour, and you always had to look beyond an impassive face to catch the twinkle in the eye.

  Sally took to him immediately. And he too, like his wife, called her by her first name from the start. Over her second cup of tea Sally told him, in praise of the large slice of homemade sponge she was eating, "I'm sorry to say I'm a dreadful cook me, absolutely hopeless. You're a lucky man to have a wife who's so expert in the kitchen."

  Siriol responded by telling her, "Yes, Gwyn's very good, fair play … but of course here in West Wales we all take cooking very seriously. I'm a very good pastry chef myself. In fact, Gwyn and I tend to bake on alternate days."

  He said all this with such a completely straight face that Sally replied earnestly, "That's very interesting."

  "Don't listen," interrupted Gwyneth, "He's pulling your leg … couldn't boil an egg to save his life!"

  Sally narrowed her eyes and gave Siriol, who was sat beside her, a nudge in mock annoyance.

  "No," chuckled Siriol, "I burn water, me."

  The Pritchards were clearly quite taken with Sally. This was strangely important to Gil, as they had been so very fond of his wife. When Jules had died, despite always being extremely busy on the farm, they had insisted on making the journey to Kent for the funeral. Up until today, that had been the last time he'd seen them.

  Gil had talked about the Blatts and everything that had happened during a long telephone conversation with Gwyneth. And, of course, every detail had been covered and minutely analysed by the papers. So, that afternoon, much to Gil and Sally's relief, only oblique references needed to be made to recent troubles. The Pritchards were not the sort to pry.

  Sally found them every bit as charming as Gil had described and particularly loved their old-fashioned formality. They stayed comfortably chatting around the kitchen table for nearly two hours. Only Spike felt uneasy, observed by Sian the sheepdog as she lay flat to the floor at her master's feet, her alert eyes carefully watching him the whole time.

  6

  The days ahead provided the much-needed opportunity to relax. Inevitably, Gil was sometimes drawn into the dark memories that lurked in his mind. Sally instinctively stepped back at these moments and gave him space to work it out. It would never be possible to completely forget, he knew this, but he hoped that with time the horrendous pictures in his head would fade, and he'd be able to live his life with less intrusion from them. Quite often, especially when he stood under the stars at night, he found himself wishing to thank whatever universal force was in charge of everything for providing him with Sally.

  Each day they rose early and enjoyed brisk walks along the cliffs. It never failed to amuse Gil, how, once Sally had climbed over the stile, she invariably verbalised her descent down the bank with, "Ah … Ah … Ah!" in the hope she'd be able to apply the brakes and stop her legs before careering over the edge. Of course she always knew she would stop, and after the first time this display was only repeated for Gil's amusement. Actually, once safely on the path, holding onto Gil for added courage, she couldn't resist stealing cautious glances down at the rocks and sea. An almost vertical drop was only interrupted by a faultline, which had produced a narrow ledge that ran about ten foot below the top of the cliff.

  "I suppose if my legs didn't stop in time, I'd have one last chance to save myself if I grabbed hold of that," Sally joked.

  "If you're a bit scaredy-cat, you can always bring a parachute out on walks."

  "You don't think I'd look silly?" asked Sally playing along with the idea.

  "You could never look silly!"

  They had an appetite for long, vigorous walks. They tended to get back in time to drive off to a pub for lunch. In the afternoons they generally visited a town, historic site or sometimes took another walk. They made any necessary phone calls in the afternoons too; there had been no improvement in reception over five years. Occasionally they went out for an evening meal, but more often preferred to eat simply at home.

  Each day, the decision whether to take the coastal path north or south was usually made on the spot, after crossing the stile. They tended to go south mostly, when they would walk along the cliffs down to Llangrannog. It became their special walk. The sea and air at Llangrannog was always spectacularly potent. They loved to simply stand before the surf, and watch the broad field of charging white horses as they came thundering down onto the beach.

  The very first time Gil had taken her there, the sea was uncommonly placid and he'd felt a little disappointed. It was the wildness of the West Wales coast he loved most and he'd wanted to share it with Sally.

  Sally, however, was utterly enthralled even by this relatively gentle day, "It's wonderful. What's the word Hindus use … prana?"

  Gil nodded and smiled.

  "It makes me feel so alive!"

  "Believe me, this is soft core for Llangrannog," he said. "I love this place. My grandparents used to bring me here with my bucket and spade … it meant escape!" He broke off for a moment before adding, "My grandparents were always a lot more fun to be with than my mum and dad."

  "What makes people be like that?" she asked. "Do you think it's fear … makes them deny themselves the best life has to offer?"

  "I guess it must be," said Gil, "a kind of fear at least. I think my parents were restrained by a deep-seated belief that they weren't quite good enough. They were dreadful suburban snobs … aspired to be part of a class they didn't feel worthy of."

  "What a waste of life," said Sally, "to impose such limitations on yourself," she paused almost imperceptibly, before going on, "I can't talk. I stayed with Michael even though he treated me like a piece of rubbish. I know what it's like to be afraid … to feel not good enough … to feel that you're unlovable."

  "How could you of all people believe that of yourself?" asked Gil.

  "Easy I suppose, if you've had the right schooling."

  Gil nodded, "Makes me feel grateful I'm nobody's father … can't be held responsible then for fucking up anyone else's head but my own!"

  Sally had a look of deep sadness in her eyes as she turned and looked at Gil. The conversation had made them both feel a little maudlin.

  They returned their attention to the sea as it undulated and bobbed beneath a clear blue sky. The waves that day dramatically materialised only about ten yards out. They appeared to grow in strength and power as they surged forward, before crashing with a profound energy onto the beach.

  After a few minutes of watching, Gil said, "Let's get a coffee," pointing to the café just above the beach.

  7

  The first week at the cottage passed quickly. During this time they enjoyed phenomenal luck with the weather. For eight days in a row the sun beamed benevolently down on their daily walks.

  It was 3 pm on Sunday afternoon. They had returned home after consuming a large Sunday lunch. Gil was keeping at bay any soporific yearnings by working on his laptop at a small plastic table in the cottage's tiny rear garden. Sally was fast asleep, gently snoring on a reclining chair at his side, while Spike, also asleep, lay with shameless abandon in the crook of her arm.

  Gil had just written in his diary:

  In the intimate moments we share, like after love making, or during our walks together, it often feels like we are one person and not two; however, there are also times when I sense Sally is distracted and troubled by her thoughts; at these moments she seems overcome by a deep unhappiness. My
selfish worry (paranoia?) is that she is being kind, just sticking it out with me. And one day, when she senses I'm strong enough, she'll suggest we see less of each other. I fear that she'll go on some long theatrical tour and our relationship will gradually fade away.

  Perhaps it was these anxious thoughts that triggered the idea that the house above was watching him again. He knew it was only foolishness, but he knew too, that he would need to put to rest his disquiet. After all, it wasn't the first time the empty house had troubled him.

  Sally and the dog looked like they would remain sleeping a while. So, without any more thought, he found himself trudging up the lane. He went through the gate, passing what remained of the outbuildings until he stood before the house. The herd of grazing sheep from a week ago had been removed.

  The house's ground floor windows were boarded up with galvanised sheeting, as was the front door. All the upstairs windows were open to the elements, the glass they once contained long gone. It was the front of the house that looked down onto the cottage. And from where Gil now stood, he could make out Sally and Spike asleep in the garden. It was when searching around the back of the house that he noticed the galvanised sheet concealing the door was loose. It required very little effort to lever the sheeting back far enough to allow him to enter.

  Gil hesitated before going inside.

  The interior was quite dark, and it took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust before he could see much. The floor was covered in fallen plaster and debris. The whole building reeked of damp and decay. Gil found his way out of what must once have been the kitchen into the hall. Here it was possible to see a little easier, because part of the roof was missing. The staircase had been removed, offering no means of access to the floor above. Gil was able to form a picture of how the place must have looked in times past from the wall light fittings and faded red flock wallpaper that had once ascended the stairs.

  It was at this point that Gil noticed the wooden ladder lying on the floor next to the longest wall. Before he considered the sheer foolishness of looking around the upper storey of a derelict house, Gil had raised the ladder, which seemed quite sound, and placed it against a ceiling joist.