Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  Lettie sat in her car and absorbed the feel of the place, and she liked it. Groups of old men chattered on the benches outside the small bookshop, enjoying the summer sun and the company that they had known all their lives. Women pushed double buggies along the narrow pavements with great difficulty, meandering between the chicane of A-boards that cluttered the way and impatient drivers tooted their horns to chivvy along the pensioner who had stopped his car outside the butchers to buy a portion of Daisy.

  Suddenly tired after her long journey, Lettie re-started her engine and pulled out, tucking in behind a group of mountain bikers, muddy and battered after a morning’s ride in the hills. Following Doug’s instructions, she easily found the little square outside his house and parked her car under the small crab apple tree. A map of the clutter of houses had a big cross on one of them with an arrow pointing saying “tea available here”. Lettie grinned at the small cottage, feeling she already knew it from their conversations. Not bothering to get her bags, she and Molly went through the small wrought iron gate, retrieved the key from under the pot of dead somethings beside the door (where she would have guessed it would have been hidden – as would any potential thief – even if she hadn’t been told) and opened the door.

  The coolness of the kitchen-cum-dining room felt good and she looked around taking in the cosiness of the scene in front of her. Celebrities on television shows or in magazines, who invite the cameras into their homes, have weeks of notice and the services of interior designers and industrial cleaners to get them prepared for the image they want to portray. Doug had had two days, both of which he had worked long and hard in the forestry. But, in fairness, he had done a fine job and it was the bunch of wild flowers gathered from the garden and arranged, rather poorly, with a twig from the apple tree into a wellington boot on the dining room table with a sticky note saying “sorry, no vase” that caught her attention, rather than the cobwebs in the corner or the pile of correspondence that lay on the sideboard.

  Alongside the wellington was a row of notes with various headings in Dougie’s handwriting, which got comparatively worse as time pressures had taken their toll. The first was headed “Hello, Lettie! Welcome to my home!”

  Dougie was obviously a thoughtful man and the effort he had put into Lettie’s arrival made her smile. She felt glad that he hadn’t bought her expensive flowers or put them in a proper vase. He had read her just right and his efforts both charmed her and made her laugh and scored him far more points than he would have done by buying ready-made gifts – that had been Alan’s method and it had always come at a price.

  What Lettie didn’t know was just how much effort Doug had had to put into getting the house ready for her. He didn’t earn much money; the margins in his type of forestry work were small – but instead, he had plenty of time to think and to plan. Many years ago he had trained himself out of pondering as it had proved to be so painful and futile. Instead he had set himself targets of so many trees in the next hour or he and Rob would sing as they worked – not the rich melodies that the Welsh are supposedly renowned for, but instead Doug’s deep bass and Rob’s resonant tenor would bellow out the songs that they had learnt on the rugby coach, to which they had developed their own harmonies and additional verses that were far more foul than the originals and would earn them a lifetime debenture at the National Stadium, should they have been heard by the selectors.

  However, since he had been corresponding with Lettie, Doug’s head had been filled with messages or amusing comments and by lunchtime he would always have the perfect one ready to text to her or to send later on a postcard. She had said to him that she would always look forward to her after-lunch break with far more gusto than a dried-up Special of the Day really warranted.

  Lettie picked up the first note and read it with a big smile on her face. It said how glad he was that she had got there safely and welcomed her to God’s Own Country. It told her where the kettle and teabags were and not to delve too deeply into the fridge as there were things in there that a woman shouldn’t have to see. The tin beside the kettle, labelled Welsh Cakes, contained Welsh cakes and she was to eat them all. They had been made by his Aunty Betty, who had said that if Doug were to eat many more, he would turn into one. There was a bowl of water for Molly and a dog flap into the garden – although considering how big it needed to be to accommodate Alfie, he might as well have just left the back door propped open. She was to explore the house and treat it as her own. The bathroom had been cleaned, but he apologised in advance if he had missed any strays lurking in there.

  She had a choice of bedrooms; he slept in the attic and the sheets were clean there, and he had hidden all his tractor magazines as well as burnt his odd sock collection. Or, if she didn’t like heights or feared for her skull on the low beams, the spare room was clean too. His note also mentioned that he had been broken into a couple of weeks before and thieves had stolen his collection of classic literature and had replaced it with an extensive range of Simpsons’ DVDs.

  Rob’s wife, Mandy, was expecting her that night for dinner and she could collect Alfie if she wanted – but to take Molly along so that their pets could meet on mutually independent territory. Phone Aunty Betty in case of emergencies, number below.

  So, Lettie went to the kettle labelled “Kettle” and switched it on. She noted with a woman’s attention to detail the fairly traded tea and nodded in appreciation. Another point scored. The fridge labelled “Beware, fridge” wasn’t too bad and he had obviously been shopping for her as there was new Welsh butter, cheese and some salad items bought in a way that a man shops – three different cheeses and about three pounds of tomatoes and a loaf of white sliced. On the door of the little wood burner was a label saying, “Fire laid, if you should want it” and the wicker log basket, which had seen better days, was full.

  She went to explore upstairs, treading quietly up the winding staircase as if she were intruding into someone’s private domain. A quick peek into the bathroom put her mind at rest – no strays at all lurking there – and then she climbed the attic ladder.

  The attic bedroom was beautiful and Doug had obviously made all the fittings himself. The ladder was constructed out of jointed pine and the banisters built around the top of the entrance were sanded branches that twisted and turned until they locked into a knotted top frame. A low bed was made in a similar fashion and the sturdy bed ends were made from specially selected pieces.

  The fresh blue and white duvet cover was partially covered by an old patchwork quilt that lay across the foot. Another sticky note said, “Excuse the cars – my mum made me this!” and on closer inspection Lettie saw that some of the patches had cartoon racing cars and others, dinosaurs. On the corner patch was embroidered “Douglas Evans, 7 today!” and when Lettie stroked the cloth, it was soft and warm to the touch. On the blue pillow was yet another note, “Glad you chose up here, if you lie in bed you can see the stars and it is beautiful!” This warmed Lettie’s feminine side, but the PS made her masculine side snigger, “If you lie very quietly you can hear the couple next door – once it was particularly loud and a small crowd gathered outside.”

  Feeling she would almost be expected to, she opened the hand-built wardrobe that fitted into an alcove and noted the piles of jumpers, jeans and T-shirts. She ran her hand across the red brickwork that formed the chimney breast leading from the fireplace downstairs and opened the lid of the wooden trunk that was full of a tumble of work clothes. Mended jeans mingled with darned jumpers and thick checked shirts with odd buttons. The deep wooden shelves above the trunk held a few personal effects – a couple of books, a pile of magazines and a few odd trinkets that Doug didn’t know what else to do with. Tucked amongst them was the prize that Lettie had been looking for – Beano the Beaver – the stuffed toy that she had heard so much about.

  In one of their fact-finding conversations, she had asked what five possessions Dougie would rescue if his house were on fire. Along with a photo of his parents and his biscu
it barrel, he had confessed to Beano the Beaver. Lettie had squealed with delight and made him sheepishly reveal more. She found that, as a child, Doug had been overly attached to the now grubby and threadbare thing and it had become quite a celebrity amongst the shopkeepers in town because it kept getting lost. Dougie’s mum would have to revisit all the shops that they had been in that day until it was found once more and returned to its traumatised owner. Lettie took the beaver from the shelf; she had ideas of her own for Beano…

  After a light lunch of tomatoes, bread and cheeses, complimented by fine Welsh butter, Lettie set off to enjoy the town and explore the park and the other items on Doug’s To Do list. She stopped in the chemist to buy a set of ridiculously priced scented and shaped soaps to replace the one in the bathroom that he had labelled “Sorry, I know that this hairy pig fat soap with extra gravel is not what you women need, but I forgot to buy a melon with asses milk one for you and it is the only one that will clean my hands…” The new soaps would go well with the handful of shells that she had brought with her, following a conversation about their respective bathrooms when he had accurately guessed that hers would have a little pile of shells on the corner of a glossy white bath.

  She also bought some wine to take to Mandy’s house and a small bunch of flowers and then returned to the house for a shower and to prepare for the evening. Although Doug had insisted she would get on fine with Mandy, she felt, rightly, that it would be a test for his points chart and therefore she was keen for the evening to go well.

  Chapter 29

  Tasting the Soup

  Lettie and Molly walked the mile or so to Mandy and Rob’s smallholding, easily following Doug’s instructions, which sent her along the back road out of Glan Llanfair. She turned into the track leading to Pen Cwm Fach and was greeted by a barking black Labrador that she rightly assumed was Alfie and a white and brown spaniel that she presumed must belong to Rob and Mandy. Alfie soon stopped his barking when he heard his name called and he approached the arrivals with a wagging tail. Molly was sniffed all over by the two dogs who soon dismissed her as non-threatening and allowed her to sniff back.

  “I’ve often wondered what a human would do if I greeted them by sniffing their arse. Perhaps it should be a requirement at peace talks over the world,” said a voice. “Maybe it’s the key to international diplomacy?” Lettie laughed and turned to see a woman coming out of a barn with a wheelbarrow of muck to put on the garden. “Hi, I’m Mandy; you must be Lettie? Pleased to meet you – I would shake your hand, but I am covered in shite and I am sure you wouldn’t want me to transfer it all to you.”

  “Perhaps we could just sniff each others’ bums instead and test your theory,” replied Lettie, and so a great friendship was born.

  Lettie followed Mandy into the old farmhouse, small in comparison to Pen Cwm Mawr, which Mandy pointed out on the hill as she kicked her wellingtons off at the door. Mandy was a small woman, petite but sound. Her curly brown hair fell prettily around her face and her freckles disappeared into crinkles as she smiled. She was dressed in old denim jeans and a baggy T-shirt that proclaimed the great benefits of a particular sheep drench. Her strong hand clutched at the door jam as she pulled her socks out of the toes of her boots and put them back on. It was a worker’s hand, engrained with soil and cut and scratched from her outdoor work.

  “Sorry,” said Mandy, “I’m a bit behind schedule; there’s always so much to do and I thought I would just do one more job before you came. Sit down! Make yourself at home – oh, are these for me? They’re beautiful! Thank you!” Lettie handed Mandy the flowers and this time, a vase was found and Mandy laughed at the wellington boot story. “Yes, he’s very resourceful, I will give him that!”

  Lettie sat down at the large table as Mandy scrubbed her hands and arms at the big old Belfast sink with her version of hairy pig fat and gravel soap. She chattered away as she did so, answering Lettie’s questions about the smallholding that the couple worked – sheep, and also trying to establish an organic veggie box scheme, hard work, but beginning to pay off. Lettie was given a bunch of mixed lettuce leaves to wash and chop whilst Mandy checked the lasagne that was bubbling away in the old Rayburn.

  “Dougie didn’t know if you were a vegetarian, so this is a spinach and wild mushroom one, just in case. We pick cep mushrooms from the woods, just up on the hill there – they are delicious in a lasagne, but whilst they are drying they smell a little too much like Rob’s work boots for my liking.”

  Lettie felt very comfortable in the old kitchen; the practical stone flag floors and the pile of washing on the chair gave it a homely feel and soon the two women were chatting away as if they had known each other for years. Lettie opened her bottle of wine, and jobs, Dougie, Glan Llanfair and Lyme Regis were discussed over the first bottle and Alan was started on with the second.

  Whilst they were talking, Lettie knew that what she said would at some point get back to Dougie, but it didn’t bother her. It was as if saying it to another woman would save her the trouble of explaining it to a man who really wouldn’t see anything in quite the same way. She felt close to Mandy in the way that one does to friends of friends. It is as if the weighing up has already been done by someone else and the person is just accepted as sound. Groundwork is rarely needed and the conversation can jump straight to the hot topics.

  Lettie was soon folding washing from the basket and adding to the giant pile on the armchair while Mandy was doing the washing-up from the previous night. Lettie looked around her and noticed the photo of a small baby in a younger Mandy’s arms.

  “Oh, is that little Daniel?” she asked tentatively. “He’s beautiful.” Mandy stopped washing-up and then stood upright and dried her hands.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “You know he died don’t you?”

  “Yes, Dougie said. I am so sorry; it must have been awful for you, so, so sad. But, what a lovely looking baby.”

  “Mmm, isn’t he?” said Mandy, gaining a little confidence. “That’s not a great photo, although it is my favourite. Would you…would you like to see some more?”

  “I’d love to,” said Lettie, “if that is OK with you.”

  “Of course,” smiled Mandy, “I am allowed to show you these I think – trying to get Doug into a photograph is nigh on impossible since, well, it’s just impossible. I think we have a few of his hands and arms with Daniel in, but even at the christening, he kept taking the camera off me and insisting on taking the photos himself. ‘You don’t want my ugly mug cluttering the photos up,’ he said, ‘far better to have your ugly mugs instead.’”

  Mandy took the well-trodden path to the cupboard door of the old Welsh dresser and pulled out a pale blue photo album with “Baby’s First Photos” on the front. “Bit grim, considering that they were his last photos, too,” she said sadly, but she soon got caught up in answering Lettie’s questions – “How old was he here?”, “Did he have a second name?”, “Who do you think he looks like?”

  As the wine was consumed and the lasagne slowly dried out, Mandy gradually told the whole story, the pregnancy, the difficult premature birth and the resulting damage that prevented him from living for more than just a few weeks.

  “At least they let us bring him home. When they knew there was nothing more that they could do for him. He died in Rob’s arms, in that chair by the fire.” The silence hung heavily in the room and Lettie watched Mandy’s face intently, trying to understand the pain within it. “I suppose it was far better that way, than in a hospital incubator?” Lettie nodded into the silence, patting Mandy’s arm as a few tears slid out.

  “Do you know?” said Mandy, suddenly brighter. “I think you are the first person who has ever talked with me about these things – apart from Rob and Doug of course – who was great through it all. People just don’t know what to do – so they do nothing.”

  “And that is the worst thing to do, isn’t it?” replied Lettie, “I remember when my dad died. I was just seventeen. It was really quick –
cancer of the lymph glands. Dead within two months of diagnosis. After he had gone, it was as if he had never even existed. People just avoided talking about him or if they did mention death or cancer, they just told their own story of grief. I just felt like screaming, ‘This is my story – not yours! Let me tell my story for a change!’ But I never did. I suppose eventually that part just shuts down and you learn not to open that drawer as no one else wants to see inside.”

  Mandy nodded slowly. “That’s exactly it. Exactly. Everyone seemed to have a story that they would bring out if I mentioned Daniel – something that had happened to a friend of a friend, or something they had read about in the paper, as if to say ‘so don’t worry, you’re not the only one’!” The large old antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked on as both women thought about their respective losses, silent and lost in their memories.

  Lettie eventually grinned to herself. “My mum reckons that is why I went off the rails; went off with ‘That Old Hippy’, as she calls him. Said I was looking for a father figure.” Mandy looked up and smiled.

  “I reckon it was a decent bonk I was after though; I’d had enough of teenage fumblings in bus shelters that smelled of wee.” Both women broke into laughter, breaking the heavy atmosphere of the room.

  “Come on,” said Mandy. “Let’s get this lasagne out before it dries to a crisp.”

  Chapter 30

  The Dog Hair in the Sandwich