Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  Alex had received the cheque, the lovespoon and the card in the post the very next morning, addressed in careful handwriting by fingers too cumbersome and calloused from outdoor work to write easily, tidily or quickly. She ordered a delivery of special lilies for the occasion and set time aside on the Thursday afternoon to make sure the bouquet was perfect. Dougie would have been amazed to see what his money had bought him, as a big sister’s indulgent streak had triumphed over commercial sense.

  The three women sat in the bay window, supping their coffee and thinking very different thoughts as the traffic rumbled along the busy road outside. Lettie was in her black and whites, her thick brown hair clipped away from her face, Jill was in a crisp white shirt and neat tailored trousers, her cropped blonde hair slicked to the sides and Alex was in a favourite summer dress, the soft red setting off her tanned shoulders and subtle gold jewellery to perfection. Each was thinking about their own lives and loves and what, if any, advice they could trawl up to throw light on the delicate situation.

  “Do you know what I think?” said Jill finally, blowing her smoke into the air.

  “No?” said the sisters, in unison.

  “Well, in the great woodland of life, you have to decide what you want to be.” The puzzled looks of Lettie and Alex were very similar and this spurred Jill on.

  “Well, do you want to be in a nice safe plantation, standing in a neat row, protected by all the other trees around you? Where you’ll certainly grow well and straight and be surrounded by more trees just like you. You’ll be sheltered from the worst of the weather and you’ll have been planted in conditions that will allow you relative ease of growth. But, you’ll have no view, no excitement. No storms will ever reach you, but nor will the sun.

  “Or, do you want to be growing out of a cliff, clinging onto the rock face with a waterfall crashing down next to you. It’ll be hard work, but imagine the beauty surrounding you, the spray on your leaves and the variations of all the other plants and wildlife around. Yes, you’ll have times when the waterfall threatens your roots and you are dashed with water, but you’ll also have the sun dancing on your leaves, fish to look at in the river and people trekking to see you and bringing picnics to sit in your beautiful surroundings.” She ground out the remains of her cigarette in a dirty ashtray and returned to her coffee cup.

  “When the axe man of life comes to chop me down, I know where I’d rather have spent my time. And it’s not in a bloody tea shop.”

  Alex and Lettie sat, poignant in their thoughts pondering about what she had just said until… “Shit, is that the time? Malcolm’ll be back in five minutes. Shit. Lettie, open that window.” The frantic and futile wafting of the air began as Jill tried to push the smoke out of the small window. It was a pane in the rattly old bay that would only open a crack – gummed up by decades of workmen slapping their paint on with one eye on the traffic below. It signalled a good time for the sisters to take their leave, both still pondering Jill’s unexpectedly wise words.

  Chapter 27

  Flat as a Pancake

  Rizzo sat down to his Hungry Vegetarian in his favourite window seat at the Sea View with a pile of post in his hand. He liked the ambience of the tea rooms at mid-morning. It was after the regulars and their regular chatter that he had never comfortably joined in with, but before the hungover crowd who would bray loudly about who had said what, just how hilarious it was and who had ended up in the sea. He had ordered his usual with a pot of decaffeinated coffee and had spread his belongings out across the table in a way that would make Jill tutt about the ignorance of lone people commandeering tables that should be seating six.

  Lettie had placed the generously overfilled plate gently on the table in front of him and winked, saying, “I’d better have a good tip, you tight bastard, you’ve got two bits of bacon hidden under your fried bread!” and scuttled off to serve more hungry vegetarians. He felt very busy in front of the other customers who were mainly tourists indulging in phase one of their day’s enjoyment and only had to decide as to whether it was to be the beach, the cliffs or the dinosaur museum. But, he, Rizzo, had a pile of post in front of him to sort through. He checked that the collars of his Fatface shirt were sufficiently elevated to give a roguish air and tucked into his breakfast.

  The first two letters were from the bank and therefore he skimmed them both briefly and then efficiently redirected them to his father. He tried not to notice that he had exceeded his month’s expenditure limit for the past two months – well, it wasn’t his fault that books were so expensive. The third letter was from a catalogue offering a bale of towels the size of face flannels if he would spend another £50 that month – he kept that letter safe, such things were always useful for wedding presents. The fourth and most interesting letter was from his university and the real justification for the breakfast out.

  He reached into the leather attaché case that his parents had given him when he had once started his own business and shuffled a few items. A pen was put behind his ear and an open notebook at his side so that he could jot down a list of important things to do when they occurred to him.

  Rizzo cut up his food as a mother would for her child, into bite-size chunks so that he could fork them into his mouth and read his letter at the same time. To his dismay, those tourists sat around him watching the obviously intelligent young man dealing with post from his university wouldn’t have been hugely impressed by the content of the correspondence. Rizzo’s squares of fried bread, egg and hash brown with white pepper were not quite as delicious to him as they might have been as he read the letter in front of him:

  Dear Charles,

  I hope you are well.

  As you will be aware, one of the requirements for you to graduate from your Psychology course is the completion and submission of a twenty-thousand word research thesis. You were initially keen to carry out this study in the minimum time available in order to gain your qualification, hence I am curious to know that everything is satisfactory and that you are not having any problems.

  Your initial thoughts for your dissertation were about the study of low self-esteem and after our last conversation, you were going to construct a hypothesis that we would discuss further. I hope that you are still at this stage and that you have not progressed into your study before the subject is agreed by the Board as being suitable and ethical.

  May I suggest we meet to discuss your project and any problems you may be having with it?

  The Professor gave a list of dates on which he was free, all of which were horribly near, and signed the letter with an “I look forward to hearing from you soonest, Professor George.”

  Rizzo folded the letter and took a sip of the decaffeinated coffee that he really didn’t like, but felt went well with the vegetarian option, and read the letter again, feeling a little sick in his stomach.

  He felt rumbled, exposed and guilty as charged. His original plan, and the reason for his silence, had been to simply avoid the stage of discussion and acceptance of subject by the Board. He had reluctantly acknowledged that it would be extremely difficult for him to convince the Board of the ethics of such a thesis. It was his intention to joyfully present the finished document with the surety that it couldn’t help but be accepted and admired by all that would look at it and consider it one of the groundbreaking studies of its era.

  Rizzo had always thought of himself as somewhat of the wildcard. If he had been a cop, he would have been the one sat at the back of the briefing room, quietly distilling the information, preferring to work alone. It therefore stood to reason that his career as a research academic should follow the same lines. A little unorthodox perhaps – but he’d produce a piece of work that would make people raise their eyebrows, suck in air and nod their heads with a wry smile.

  He imagined the head of department coming up to him on his graduation day and saying, “So, you’re the Charles Riser that everyone has been talking about?” He would then pat him on the back and mutter, “Good work, so
n, good work,” and then saunter off chuckling to himself, thinking that some of these kids never cease to amaze me.

  However, as usual, things hadn’t gone exactly to plan and the whole study had been somewhat stunted and stalled by matters beyond his control. Lisa had certainly grown as a person under his assistance and guidance and unbeknown to her, he had had far-reaching affects on her life. He had also managed to pull her back when it suited his study and she had retreated into her shell at his beck and call.

  The problem, as far as the thesis went, was that in reality, she had begun to outgrow the confines of his experiment and was pushing the barriers under her own steam. He was more than happy to concoct results, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ascertain the methodology that was producing such an effect. In addition, he had missed a few weeks when he had been busy investigating the possibility of being an architect instead and therefore hadn’t kept pace with the developments and somehow, even he was finding it difficult to accept credit for all that appeared to be happening.

  He looked up dolefully and caught the eye of an interested tourist. Therefore, he took the mobile phone from the leather pouch attached to his belt and made a quick confirmation phone call to his close friend and confidant, the Professor. Then the intelligent young student, who was pushing the boundaries of modern science, absentmindedly threw a note that far exceeded the bill from his wallet onto the table. He gathered together his belongings and, checking his watch, made a rapid exit, no doubt to throw himself into great studies, forgetting to eat as he strove to discover the reason why.

  The tourists would obviously not have cared what Rizzo was up to. They were only, if anything at all, slightly bemused by the seemingly earnest young man who felt the need to steal a prize bay window table, that would so easily seat six, in order to spread out two bank statements, a flyer and a letter that rightly reminded him that he was a lazy shite. But within seconds of the door slamming behind him and the little bell tinkling his exit he was completely forgotten. The party decided on the dinosaur museum, followed by lunch on the front and then a brisk walk to the next village to justify the consumption of a proper Dorset Cream Tea.

  Rizzo walked purposefully home, stopping only to buy some juice drinks with lots of Omega 3 compounds in. He stepped inside the empty house and decided that today was indeed a work-only day.

  Chapter 28

  Entrée

  Lettie was packing her car. The small boot was full of bags, ranging from a neatly packed suitcase to carrier bags with last minute thoughts stuffed in. In her hands she had the envelope containing the instructions of how to get to Doug’s house. The sun was shining and her heart felt light as she packed as quickly as she could, knowing she was as good as blocking the narrow street. She had taken extra care with her appearance, wearing a long denim skirt and her new pink top, stretched in just the right places. The thong sandals retained her casual look as she reminded herself that she wasn’t actually going to see anyone.

  Doug and Rob were going on a course to upgrade their woodland management skills in order to add another qualification to their business’s profile and would be gone for four days. Jill’s sister was coming to stay and had offered to waitress, being the best way to help and spend time with her sister. Therefore, Lettie had been offered a few days’ unexpected holiday and had jumped at the chance. It had been Dougie’s suggestion that she spend it in Glan Llanfair. It was a good way for her to see into his world before they actually met – already rearranged for three weeks hence, when she had a whole weekend off – difficult in a town that makes all its profits in the summer.

  She had been surprised at the offer and had declined at first. It had been Rich who had suggested that she go.

  “Most blokes aren’t like women about their privacy, Lettie,” he had explained. “You would hate anyone going in your bedroom, especially someone you didn’t know as you’d think that they would be going through your things, judging you because you had big flowery pants under the bed or had a book on irritable bowel syndrome in your top drawer. Blokes don’t give a shit. On the whole someone else has bought their pants and they won’t bother to find out why they keep shitting themselves, let alone buy a book to solve it. So, there is no embarrassment; their house is an open house. I’d go. Give yourself a holiday. We’ve got his address and phone number. If you don’t return after a week, we’ll call in the police to search the drains.” Rich had returned to his paper.

  Alex had agreed. “Why not give it a go, Lettie? If you feel uncomfortable, you can always not go in or just leave straight away. You know what will happen if you stay in Lyme, a summer waitress will take the opportunity to go on a massive bender and you’ll get called back in to cover. Go on, you don’t get many holidays in the summertime. You never know, you might even enjoy it!”

  So Lettie had re-considered and rung Doug to see if the offer was still on. “Course it is,” he had laughed, “but you realise, you have wasted two days of potential cleaning time for me. I’m not sure I can muck it out to your standard in the time left! Perhaps I’ll just try and get most of the animals out and leave the rest…”

  Therefore, for the last two days Lettie had been quite excited. She had packed and re-packed her bags. She had enough clothes for a fortnight and accessories for longer. She’d checked the instructions time and again, left a copy with Alex and arranged to ring as soon as she got there.

  She took a last minute look in the hallway and slammed her front door. Molly hopped into the footwell of the passenger seat and settled excitedly onto her blanket. Lettie didn’t use the car much; having to park it in a residential street on the other side of the town prevented her from using it lazily and her daily needs were more easily met on foot. Therefore, just as the bell meant food to Pavlov’s dogs, so getting in the car meant a trek in the woods to Molly. Waving in apology to the two waiting cars holding people who had tried to use the street as a rat run, she jumped in her car and set off.

  The journey was a good one and the motorway was clear, with the added bonus of seeing a jam of caravans travelling in the opposite direction. Beside Lettie were Dougie’s instructions, which made her smile. His amusing phrases told her of a fine roadside café for a break and a cup of tea, to ensure she arrived safely, and a nice healthy row of gorse bushes where she might need to stop for a wee about forty minutes after her tea stop. The two, surprisingly intact, custard creams wrapped in cling film were to accompany her tea (as, unfortunately, the cakes were not good) and the five sheets of toilet roll were for her gorse stop, one of which had written on it “For God’s sake don’t bob too low; gorse prickles are difficult to remove”.

  As she left the towns and hit the Welsh hills, Lettie felt overwhelmed by their beauty and grand bleakness in comparison to the softer hills of home. Sheep nibbled at the Long Fields, as the local farmers called the roadside verges, unperturbed by the traffic that rolled past them. Salt bins appeared regularly at the side of the roads indicating the harshness of the winter in the area and flowers that had finished a couple of weeks previously in the warmer southern climate were blooming at the roadside. Being stuck behind an old tractor dragging a muck spreader allowed Lettie to slow down and absorb the atmosphere of the deep valleys. She smiled at the way the sheepdog managed to stay upright, perched with his front legs on the mudguard of the tractor, tongue out, enjoying the ride.

  She recognised Doug’s description of the Chwefru Valley, through which Glan Llanfair’s River Chwefru flowed, with its steep hills rising from the rocky river-bed. Small farms clung to the hillsides, their barns and shelter belts providing essential reprieve from the winter weather for the sheep that covered the hills. She stopped, as recommended, on the Llanstephan Bridge, its wooden slatted surface rumbling as she drove across it, fearing for her wing mirrors on the metal struts that seemed to hug her car.

  She got out and gazed over the side, looking for the fish that Doug said were bound to be there. There were none, but there were a few children floa
ting past in inflated tractor inner tubes and, resisting the urge to pretend to spit on them, Lettie waved and they waved back, relaxing back in their tubes, glad of the witness to their adventure. For the second time that day, Lettie waved apologetically to the cars waiting behind her and, jumping back in her car, she drove on, eventually glad to see the road sign that said, “Croeso i Glan Llanfair – Welcome to Glan Llanfair.”

  The sign to the town was situated in a neat little rockery and summer bedding was blooming peacefully around it. The nurturing and cared-for image projected by this entrance was somewhat negated by the traffic cone that someone had placed on the post to which the sign was attached – perhaps more accurately portraying the nature of a town with seven pubs to its three thousand occupants.

  To her right, the much used flood plains of the Chwefru stretched out; the cows that munched happily on them as the river wound gently past gave no indication of the torrent that could arise within hours and be the bane of the town’s cellar owners and riverside dwellers. She pulled up at the junction, recognising the beautiful stone bridge in Doug’s postcards to her right – it being one of the things Doug insisted she needed to investigate further. Driving into the main street, she pulled over to unfold Doug’s more detailed notes and to get a feel for his town.

  She smiled at his first words: “For God’s sake don’t stop! It’s like Longleat here and you’ll have your wing mirrors and wiper rubbers ripped off in no time. Whatever happens, keep driving or you’ll have a baboon, or at least a cold kebab, on your roof before you know it.” But, instead, she saw a pretty little market town stretching out before her. “Proper shops”, which have been pushed out by charmless multinationals in areas of greater population, lined the streets. Independent clothes shops nestled beside butchers who had signs up saying “Today’s beef – Daisy, Davies, Pen-Uchaf” to inspire confidence in buying locally-farmed produce. Shops doubled up in odd combinations to allow a living to be made – videos and sports clothes, rugs and insurance, children’s clothes with electrical repairs.