Where the West Wind Blows

by Mary Middleton

  ***

  I have just dried my hair after a shower when I hear a scratching at the door and, running down stairs, I open it to find Huw hurrying away down the garden path toward his van.

  “Huw?” He stops and turns sheepishly toward me and I notice he has combed his hair into a tidy parting. “Did you want something?”

  “Oh, no, no …I thought you were out.” He is backing away and I step into the garden, look up at the sky where the silver moon hangs like a Christmas bauble in the navy sky.

  “Why did you knock then?”

  “It’s a lovely night for a change.”

  “Yes, I was beginning to think it would rain forever.”

  He pauses at the gate. “We do have good weather in Wales sometimes.” He joins me in staring at the sky. “And when we do have it, there’s not a place on earth I’d rather be.”

  We exchange smiles. “Yes, I can understand that.”

  Silence hovers, our eyes sliding about the garden, avoiding each other. I wait for him to say something, something I’m not at all sure I want to hear.

  “I was wondering …” His teeth appear momentarily on his bottom lip, strong yellowish teeth that are slightly overlapping. I capture his eyes, compelling him to speak out or shut up.

  “Yes?”

  He takes a deep breath, the lapels on his best jacket opening and closing.

  “I was wondering if you fancied coming to the pub …for a drink?”

  Where on earth did he find the courage for this? I wonder. “What now? This evening? With you?”

  He shakes his head, backs away again. “You’re probably busy, it’s no problem, I just wondered …” His voice trails off and his hands creep up and into his trouser pockets. I look down at his polished brogues gleaming, his socks so white they must have just come from the packet. Poor Huw, he’s made a real effort.

  “Ok, just wait while I get changed.”

  What are you doing? I berate myself as I pull on clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt. I know I’ve let myself in for a night of gnawing boredom in some spit and sawdust dive. I drag a comb through my hair, the teeth dragging on tangles as I try to tame it. In the bottom of the wardrobe I find a pair of pink sandals, unworn since London and I push my feet into them. My toes, used to the spaciousness of wellingtons and trainers, feel cramped and trapped but, ignoring the discomfort, I grab my bag and go downstairs.

  Huw is still in the garden, perched on the stone gatepost, his arms folded as he looks across the bay. When he hears me close the door he stands up and offers me his arm. I can’t believe I am tiptoeing along the familiar path with soft mud oozing over the sides of my pink sandals, arm in arm with Huw the Log.

  Is this a date? I wonder.

  I do hope not.

  “Pint of bitter, please Dai, and a tonic water for the lady.” He is proud to be seen with me. I smile at the barman, grab the glass and bottle and retreat to a table in the window. The Ship Inn is as quiet as the grave. Two boys, too young to drink, play pool, the gentle click of the balls providing the only sound in the sleepy bar. By the fire an old man dozes, his beer going flat and warm while, at the other end of the bar, Dai retreats to his newspaper and begins to turn the pages.

  Huw smiles at me, raises his tankard. “Cheers,” he says and I mirror his movement, lifting my tumbler, the ice chinking against the sides of the glass.

  “Cheers.” We drink in silence, the flashing lights of the lonely fruit machine reflecting in the dark windows. Huw sucks foam from his top lip while I look desperately around the pub for inspiration. I wish a crowd would stumble in the door and start making a racket. If the bar was noisy we’d be spared the need to wrack our brains for something to say.

  “Where do you get all your wood from?” What? Am I really asking a question like that? God help me get out of here.

  “Oh, hereabouts.” He puts down his glass and places a hand on his knee, straightening his back importantly. “I’ve a chainsaw licence and if a local person has a tree they want taking down, I charge a little less in exchange for the felled timber. Of course, sometimes they have their own solid fuel fire and want to keep it, so then I has to charge them extra for splitting and stacking the logs in the shed.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. It is beyond my capabilities to pretend that his job is interesting. I long for James, suddenly missing his vibrant creativity so much. How he would laugh to see me here with a strange man like Huw.

  “You’ve lived here all your life then?”

  “Oh yes. Though once, I went to Spain. Didn’t like it at all, it was far too hot for me.”

  I have the sudden image of Huw and Mrs Davis sitting on striped deckchairs on a Spanish beach, Huw has a knotted hanky on his head, his trousers rolled up to his knees. Mrs Davis is still in her raincoat, with her handbag clutched on her lap. I hide my smile.

  “Have you been?”

  “Where?”

  “Spain.”

  “Oh, yes. James, my husband, liked Andalucia; we went a few times on painting holidays. We had a Spanish exhibition once. It was very successful.”

  Go on, I think, ask me about my life, about my work. But it doesn’t occur to him.

  “Oh, that must have been lovely.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Silence falls again and I look about the bar, still seeking something to stimulate conversation but there is nothing. Even the walls are bare, apart from a yellowing schedule for the darts tournament and a poster with details of a coach trip to Bangor that had taken place in June.

  As the evening progresses Huw slowly consumes three pints of beer. I shake my head when he asks if I would like a third glass of tonic. Already I feel full of gas, another glass would be fatal. It is just nine-thirty when Huw finally puts his glass on the bar and suggests it is time we left. I let out a silent sigh of relief.

  “Hwyl.”

  “Nos da.” The barman gets up and we hear the bolts sliding across when the door closes behind us. There is no late opening in this village. All twenty houses have their curtains drawn, upstairs lights gleaming behind most of them. This village is peopled with early risers and you are more likely to bump into a neighbour at six in the morning than ten at night.

  “Watch your step now.” Huw shines his torch along the soggy path and I am so careful to watch where I step that I almost miss the moonlight slanting on the sea, the glutinous waves like mercury against the sand. At my garden gate he waits, shining his light along the path while I get the key in the door and switch the hall light on.

  “Coffee?” I ask, praying that he will refuse.

  “Oh, no, no thank you.” I can see I have shocked him. He probably imagines my intentions to be dishonourable so I do not press the invitation.

  “Well, thanks for the drinks, Huw. It was nice to get out.”

  “And thank you, Fiona. We must do it again.”

  “Yes,” I agree, with my fingers crossed behind my back. “Good night. Mind how you go.”

  Ten

  The shop bell makes a tinkling sound, heralding my entrance and Mrs Davis looks up from her customer. To my surprise she puts down the sausages she is wrapping and bustles around to the front of the counter. “Ooh, Hello bach.” She links my arm conspiratorially and leads me forward. “Have you met Mrs Japp?” she says to the curly haired woman, “Fiona, this is Mrs Lloyd from Fferm Heol.”

  I smile as the woman takes my hand and wonder what I have done to warrant such a warm introduction. Mrs Davis continues to babble, the words rising and falling like a swelling sea, her high-pitched, sing song voice too sincere to be credible. “Fiona doesn’t know many people hereabouts yet, I was thinking of asking her to come and join the W.I, Mrs Lloyd. Do you think she’d enjoy it?”

  The W.I? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I fix a brittle smile on my face while Mrs Lloyd launches into the thousand ways that joining the W.I changed her life. As she chats on I move away a few paces and begin to flick through a display of brightly coloured
greeting cards. It isn’t anyone’s birthday. I realise I don’t have anyone to send greetings to.

  I progress toward the canned produce and pick up some beans and tinned tomatoes, slip a bar of chocolate in with them while the voices of the women rattle at the back of my head. “Fiona is walking out with my grandson, Huw …” I drop another tin into my basket and spin round, horrified. Both women are staring at me, Mrs Lloyd appraisingly and Mrs Davis with smug satisfaction. I hurry toward the counter.

  “Mrs Davis, I am not walking out with him!”

  She waggles her head, dismissively. “Oh, you don’t have to be so coy. We are all friends here and I am so very pleased. Huw is a lovely boy, you could do much, much worse you know.”

  Huw is forty if he is a day. “I am not ‘being coy’ Mrs Davis. I don’t know what he has told you, but the extent of our friendship is one drink at The Ship on a Tuesday night. That hardly constitutes ‘walking out’.”

  I shove a fresh loaf in my basket and wave my hand, indicating that she should tot up what I owe her. “He will ask you out again, bach. Don’t worry on that score. Why not ask him if he will bring you over to my place for tea.”

  “I will probably be too busy. I work very hard. It leaves no time for socialising.” Thumping the money onto the counter, I transfer the shopping to my re-useable bag and turn to leave. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Lloyd. Good bye Mrs Davis.”

  “Call me Gaynor, bach. See you soon.”

  Grrr, the woman is infuriating. One drink, two lousy bottles of tonic water and it’s all round the village that me and Huw are courting. ‘Walking out?’ Where on earth did she dig up such an antiquated phrase?

  I stomp along the path, for once the sun is shining and the unaccustomed feel of it on my face helps my irritation to wash away. I wish I’d left my coat off. It flies behind me in the breeze, flapping like great wings in my wake. The autumnal light dazzles off the dancing sea making me squint my eyes, screw up my face. If I keep peering into the horizon like this I will develop more wrinkles than I have already.

  At the highest point I stop to look around. The beach is empty, apart from a lone woman with a black Labrador. She throws a stick and the dog bounds off into the surf, tail wagging, his barks silenced by distance. When he comes lolloping from the waves to drop the stick at his mistress’s feet he is streaming seawater. He shakes himself, scattering droplets that sparkle like diamonds.

  Dogs have no problems. Gossip doesn’t affect them. Their only concern is the next stick, the next bitches arse to sniff, the next biscuit, the next walk. I wish I were a dog.

  I drop my bag in the usual place and perch on a rock, enjoying the view. The air is fresh, the sky, clear of cloud, is like a bright blue handkerchief stretched across the earth. Sniffing the salty tang in the air, I am suddenly glad to be here, glad to be alive – almost. But the longer I sit here the more aware I become of being alone. I long to share the view with someone, discuss the multitude of ways it could be represented on canvas. I miss James so much. I sigh and look down at my scuffed trainers, the edging of light brown mud decorating the hem of my jeans.

  A footstep scuffs the path beside me and I look up to find Mr McAlister blocking out the sun. He gives a wry smile and begins rolling a cigarette. “Enjoying the view?”

  “I am. It’s even lovelier in the sunshine. It puts a whole different perspective on it.”

  “Aye.” He runs the tip of his tongue along the cigarette paper and rolls it between fingers and thumb. “Are you no going to sketch it?”

  I shift a little on the rock, my bum numbed by the hard surface. “I’ve been shopping. I don’t take my sketchbook everywhere.”

  “No? I thought artists never went anywhere without a notebook, or is that a writer?”

  “Must be a writer because I am empty handed.”

  “Tell me, did you take it with you on your date? I’d like to see pictures of that.”

  “What date?”

  “With Huw the Log”

  “For God’s sake, does everyone know about that? It wasn’t a bloody date, it was one drink!”

  He blows smoke into the air and laughs softly. “That constitutes an engagement round these parts.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, it’s ridiculous. We barely even spoke. Well, he hardly spoke to me anyway.”

  “The poor fella was probably terrified.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re a woman aren’t you? It’s the closest Huw the Log has ever been to a woman in his life.” He puts a foot on my rock and leans on his knee. “He probably thinks you’re his sweetheart now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He stands up, still laughing at me. “Since I’m going your way, shall I carry your bag?”

  I snatch the carrier of shopping from the ground. “I am perfectly capable.” I say as we begin to head away from the village.

  “Yeah, you’re probably wise. I’d not want to compromise your reputation further.”

  Piss taking bastard. He mocks me all he way to the beach, where we part company. I walk swiftly across the wet sand, scrunch through the shingle and turn at the garden gate. He is still watching me, still laughing softly. Then he gives a mock salute and turns away.

  That bloody man, I think as I begin to stow away the shopping, that bloody, bloody man!

  I am in the garden, collecting the last blackberries and a few sticks of rhubarb to make a pie when I hear a footstep behind me. I straighten up and turn to find Huw, his hair plastered to his head, his new shirt still bearing the creases of the packaging.

  “Huw. What a surprise.” I say it without enthusiasm. “Just picking the last of the fruit,” I add unnecessarily as I add it to the basket.

  “Lovely. You’ve a tidy harvest.” He hovers at the edge of the path, watching me pluck a few more berries. “Erm?” He hesitates until I look up. His face is puce as he fumbles for words. “I have the van with me. I thought you might like a trip into town. I’ve to pick up a clutch of chicks and well … I thought we could maybe … have lunch. There’s that nice little teashop on the corner that my gran is always talking about …”

  His voice trails off when he sees the refusal on my face. When I shake my head he looks so woeful that I feel like a heel. “I’m sorry, Huw. I don’t want people to get the wrong idea. Let’s just keep it as friends shall we? I – I’m just not ready. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

  He has never asked me about James and I guess he has heard some garbled tale from his grandmother. Nodding his head slowly, sorrowfully, he retreats to his van and starts up the engine. I follow him to the gate. “Sorry, Huw,” I call after him, “see you next week, as usual?”

  He gives me a ghost of a smile and the van bounces along the track toward the village. Damn that woman, I think to myself as I collect my basket of fruit. If she’d kept her nose out of things I could have gone with him. Huw would never have plucked up the courage to be anything other than platonic but I couldn’t carry on, not with the whole village watching and talking about us.

  As winter takes a deeper bite I grow lonelier, spending more time indoors, less sitting in the garden or sketching al fresco and more time stoking my ever-temperamental fire. I am not happy but neither am I so sad. Resigned, I supposed you could call it. I order thermal underwear from town, warm fleecy tops and a hat to pull down over my ears. With the woodpile stacked high and the cupboard well stocked with soup and beans I prepare to hibernate until spring.

  Eleven

  November the thirtieth is James’ birthday. I wake from vivid dreams of him, as I knew I would, to pain, the loss suddenly livid and bleeding again. Shunning breakfast, I swig black, unsweetened coffee and dress anyhow in a shapeless cotton skirt over yesterday’s leggings. Then I thrust my feet into wellies, drag on a baggy cardigan and, after hastily knuckling my eyes dry, I set off across the sand.

  I plan to walk; walk until my hips break and my feet bleed. I need to shake off the memories and try to find myself again, or at
least rediscover the woman I am lately become, the half-mad hermit woman that lives by the rhythm of the tide.

  Although the freezing wind cuts through my inadequate clothing, I pay no heed to it, nor do I acknowledge the pain that stabs my ribs at every step. I am running at a walking pace, my mind racing before me, moving as quickly as I can, eyes closed, teeth clenched, sinews stretched, my mind torn and bleeding, before the memories have time to settle and form into pictures that I don’t want to see.

  But on the cliff top, I am forced to stop to catch my breath. I bend over with a hand pressed to my side while the pain stabs like a knife and the air is torn from my lungs.

  It is two years.

  Two years and I have made no progress.

  I haven’t moved on.

  Just a few weeks before his death we were happy.

  I can stop the memories no longer.

  I book a surprise stay in our favourite hotel, stock it with our favourite treats, bottles of champagne and chocolate truffles. We stay there for three days, making love, laughing, sketching each other and planning our next joint project.

  NO, stop it, don’t think of it, don’t even think, don’t …ever …think!

  It is raining harder now. I breathe deeper, trying to calm my racing pulse and my banging head. I concentrate on the landscape. Paint it with word pictures; anything to stop my teeming thoughts. The sea is bottle green today, topped with breakers and the lowering sky bends down to kiss the choppy surface. Below me, the surging waves rush in to crash upon giant, granite molars while above me, the grieving gulls tear out their hair, banging their heads in sorrow.

  I miss him so much.

  I need him so much.