Another snort preceded, “When I was your age, well, I had…” Eve knew what was coming; she had heard it so many times before. She felt the rage build up in her that had also built up so many times before, but usually it leaked out before it had chance to pour out as a torrent over the dam. It seeped away via a clenched fist, a discreet rolling of the eyes or pursing of the lips – all of which Gloria would be wilfully unaware of. However, this time it involved Peter and Peter was the only glimmer of a chance of happiness that she could see in her existence at this time.
“Yes, Mam. Yes. I know. When you were my age you had my brothers and I was on the way.” Eve stood up in her efforts to say her piece without dissolving into submission. “But I am not you, am I, Mam? I’m Eve, and I have Peter and I love him and if you won’t help me to, er, help himself, then I’ll do it on my own. Mrs Jones can look after you and I’ll look after Peter and that’s that. I love him, see?” and she dried up, dropping back into her chair, her face covered by her hands that were shaking with emotion and the effort that it had cost her.
Gloria snorted again, but this time kept quiet. A number of times she started to either snigger or harrumph, but the sight of her only daughter, with her face still in her hands, at last brought some of the maternal out in her. This, coupled with the realisation that she would need the toilet in about twenty minutes, ended her exclamations in a “hmmm”.
Chapter 34
The Meat of the Sandwich
Lettie sat on Doug’s comfortable sofa with Molly and Alfie slumped at her feet; Molly gazing up at her, fearing a transfer of affections and Alfie snoring contentedly, as a Labrador should. All three were exhausted by a tramp on the hills, as recommended in one of Dougie’s notes – the one with the footnote saying “PS, please don’t steal my CDs”. She had the sheaf of notes in her hands and was sniggering her way through them, amazed at the thought he must have put into choosing the right words and the efforts he had made to make her feel welcome.
He had described the walk they had just done, saying which spot was his favourite just to sit in. She had taken the sketch pad that went everywhere with her and had bought a small range of pencils from Davies’ Art Materials & Motor Spares in town and had sketched the beautiful lake that nestled comfortably into the small cliffs that surrounded it. She had drawn the dogs in the water with the resulting wakes rippling through the surface behind them, caused by a small and a large stick in each dogs’ mouth. She had then bought a wooden frame and some card and had spent an hour or so carefully mounting it for him, enjoying her work as one of his CDs played in the background.
Reading through Doug’s notes, she mentally ticked off the activities she’d already done and looked to see what else he had in store for her.
Besides cleaning the cooker and weeding the veggie patch, there was the glass of wine in the park and an expedition to the Llew Coch. The Llew Coch was a little more daunting and perhaps better at a later hour, so she read what he had written about the “Glass of Wine in the Park”:
“The park to me is a special place; it is a place where my dog shits (when I am not looking, of course), but it is also the place where I grew up. It was where we made our camps, where I learned to swim, and where I nearly died when I went out on the ice following a dare. It reflects the times of year in Glan Llanfair – it is full of wee and litter the weekend of the fete, it gets flooded in the winter months and is full of families cheating at rounders in the summer.
“It is a great place to go late at night. Sometimes I take my tea down there and while Alfie splashes in the river, I sit and partake of my lobster thermidor, or whatever trifle I have prepared for myself. Loads of people use the park – there are the dog walkers, the bloke who walks round with his cat every night at ten thirty, the snoggers, the skinny dippers and the funniest of all, the worm gatherers.
“The worm gatherers come after rain. They are an old couple who live in a broken down house on the outskirts of town – you know the kind of place – no electricity, only hedgehog water in a well in the garden etc and just living day to day. I am not really sure whether they actually eat the worms or fish with them, but hope you see them, for they will complete your Glan Llanfair experience!
“I have bought a little bottle of wine for you and it is there with a glass (which will no doubt break when you put it down), but picnics require class, you know.
“I sometimes see that the trees have faces, but I think that this is a hangover from a rather bad night on mushrooms when I was twenty-three. Other times I have to turn a blind eye to affairs that would shake the town. It is there that I made the decision to contact you and it’s there that Alfie fathered his first litter – although there were too many people watching for it to be truly romantic.
“So, take your glass and your wine and indulge yourself. And, if anyone offers you a chip, realise that, here, chips come at a price…
“I went to London once and sat by the Thames and I remember that the bench had the inscription “Everyone Needs a Place to Sit and Think”. Our benches tend to have “Bethan Lewis takes it up the arse…” but that’s life I suppose. Enjoy it Lettie and tell me what you think! Dougie xx”
Lettie had seen the half bottle of a good Australian red with a corkscrew and a garage voucher wine glass next to it and realised that her evening was already planned.
The kitchen cupboards not providing suitable ingredients for lobster thermidor, Lettie cobbled together a couple more cheese and tomato sandwiches. She called the dogs that were quietly exuding the remnants of a dead badger they had rolled in on the hill that afternoon and they all set off once more, this time heading for the “Great Dolerw Experience”.
They wandered slowly along a tree-lined avenue, the dogs bounding off into the distance having spotted some likely candidates for stick-throwing lurking near the river. The evening was a fine one; the earlier rain having cleared the air and the scents of the park now flowed over her. Wet grass mingled with the freshness of the leaves on the trees and everything felt cleansed, refreshed and happy.
The children that had scrambled over the climbing frames and run the wrong way up the slides by day had been replaced by teenagers, smoking as hard as they could. The girls sat nonchalantly on the swings, desperately cold, but not willing to put their jackets on to cover their burgeoning figures. The boys hung around them like wasps around jam, with no real role. A century ago, they could have held the girls’ parasols, or been concerned for their warmth, but now had to make do with the occasional feat of strength on the swing frames or hurling a ball of spit as far as they could.
Lettie returned the “Hiya,” from one of the girls who hadn’t yet learnt that patting dogs was officially not cool, and carried on along the path, out of the glow of the main streetlights and into the dusk of the evening. She chose a bench that sat her by the river and although Bethan Lewis’s proclivities were not mentioned on it, she did consider ringing Mark Rees on the number scrawled onto the wood as he, apparently, had a big ‘un.
She settled down, watching the dogs sniffing their way along the riverbank in their distasteful quest for fresh urine. She opened the wine and took a sip then carefully put the glass down at her feet so as not to break the fragile stem. She looked quietly around her, just enjoying the evening. It felt like the seafront at home, but without the crowds.
Retrieving her sketchbook and pencils from her bag, Lettie set about preparing to show Doug what she saw. She sketched the fine beech trees, the massive cherries and the elegant oaks. She drew the dogs into the picture, both lying on the ground, crunching on their respective sticks; Molly keeping an eye on Alfie, still a little wary of his size and ability to bundle her into a roll should he wish to get up too quickly.
Squinting her eyes, Lettie was finally able to see the faces within the trees and enhanced these into grotesque yowling masks – the type that would have been used to scare unwelcome intruders from burial mounds in times gone by. Once spotted, these faces were rather like that of t
he man in the moon and she was suddenly surrounded by gargoyles, their deep shadowed eyes burning into hers and she felt that she could almost hear groans that had gone unheard for many years.
The image was finally broken as the dogs stopped chewing and looked up. Emerging from the river mist was an unusually dressed couple, looking more like bundles of clothing than people, despite the relative warmth of the night. They weren’t walking on the path like everyone else, in order to protect their shoes, but were shuffling over the grass, still slightly damp from the earlier rain.
Both were of an indistinguishable age. The gentleman wore a large overcoat that completely masked his size and build. Wellingtons with the tops folded over filled the gap between his coat and the ground and were turned outwards emphasising his bowed legs and slightly painful gait. The lady walked ten feet to one side, as if involved in a police ground search. She also wore wellingtons, but hers were of the more feminine pointy variety and stopped midway up her calf allowing a gap of six inches to display her spindly shins before hitting the shapeless skirt. Obviously a founder of the layered look, she had a number of jumpers on, in various lengths, the longest sticking out below the rest halfway down her skirt and the shortest being a bolero style with a zip that just managed to contain the others. A scarf covered her hair and in her hand was an old carrier bag with a box swinging round weighting the bottom.
The couple walked in parallel, separated by their ten feet and Lettie could hear the occasional comment and a returned chuckle. Every now and then, one would stop and stoop, gazing hard at the ground and make a grab for whatever if was they were looking for. The unfortunate object was stuffed into either her carrier bag or his pocket and a little jubilant cry would be heard, usually followed by a chuckle from the other.
Lettie was transfixed by their appearance as they trundled through the park towards her. Alfie got to his feet prompting Molly to grab her stick and retreat from the large paws. He ran over to them and Lettie heard the man’s voice “Well, Alfie! S’mae, hello! Lle mae Dougie, eh, Alfie? Where’s Dougie?” Hearing Doug’s name, but not understanding the Welsh surrounding it, Lettie got to her feet and walked over.
“Hello, I’m a friend of Dougie’s. I’m supposed to be looking after Alfie, but I think he does all right on his own, don’t you, Alfie?” The big dog came to Lettie and licked her hand and then returned to his new friends; their smells being far more interesting than hers.
“Ah, a friend of Dougie’s, eh? Well, well. Hello to you. Yes, yes, we’ve known Dougie for many years, haven’t we, Mother?”
“Oh yes, yes. Yes, Dougie was a friend of our boys; he used to come and play at the house all the time. Taught him how to train dogs. And to fish, didn’t you, Father?”
“Yes, yes. Yes, I did that. A good boy, Dougie. A good boy. Not here is he?”
“No,” said Lettie. “He’s away for a few days. I’m looking after his house and the dog for him.”
“Yes, yes, I see, I see. Do you live round ‘ere then?” The barriers always break down much quicker if a person can be related to a family, a farm or even just a friend, and the inquisitiveness was just a prerequisite to acceptance.
“No,” replied Lettie. “I’m from Dorset. I’ve just come up to stay for a while.”
“Ah,” said the man, the penny dropping. “So you’ll be Dougie’s new lady, won’t she, Mother? What’ll her name be?”
Before Lettie could answer, Mother chipped in, “Lettie Howells.”
“Yes, yes, Lettie Howells. Well, welcome, Lettie, how do you like Glan Llanfair?”
“It’s lovely,” laughed Lettie, “but how did you know my name?”
“Oh, well I think Jon the Yard told me, and I think his son had been for a haircut.” Lettie presumed it made sense, but just laughed and stored the information as the material for another question for Doug.
Meanwhile, Alfie was sniffing round the voluminous pockets of the greatcoat and Father dipped into it, having to lean over slightly to reach the bottom of the pocket and pulled out a pie, home-made, with far more crust than filling. Alfie recognised the routine and sat immediately, before the instruction needed to be given. Molly, sensing that she might be missing out, also sat, but at a respectful distance behind Alfie.
Father laughed, “Oh well, Mother,” he chuckled, “there goes our tea. But, see how he enjoys it, don’t you eh, Alfie? Don’t you, boy. And this little one,” he said, pointing to Molly, “she a border terrier, is she?” Molly was introduced as Lettie stuttered over their wasted tea, seeing that their skeletal frames needed every bit of pie crust that was available to them.
“Look, you shouldn’t be giving your tea to the dogs, theirs is at home waiting for them. Here, have my butties, I’m full of Aunty Betty’s Welsh cakes – I couldn’t eat any more. Here, hold this,” said Lettie, handing Mother the sketch pad as she rummaged in her bag for the sandwiches.
“Oh, look, Father, look at the picture. It’s of the park, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” blushed Lettie, “I’ve drawn it for Dougie; he loves it here.”
“So he does, so he does. Look, Mother, the dogs are in it too!”
“Oh yes!” she chuckled. “Here, do you want us to pose for it too? That’ll give him a laugh, eh, Father?”
“Hey, that would be brilliant!” laughed Lettie, brushing away their reluctance and claims that it was only a joke. “Go on, he’d love it. Please? It’ll only take five minutes.”
She pushed a chunky sandwich into each of their hands and stood back and quickly sketched their outlines into the picture. Although Lettie usually felt that portraits were not her forte, these two had no real distinguishing features, being really only piles of clothes and she was able to sketch them quickly and without the need for characterising those that were already caricatures in their own right.
They were perfect models, stirring only to munch the sandwiches that they held and Lettie was soon able to show them the finished result with a flourish. New waves of chuckles broke out and cackles of “Eh, Father, look at you!” and “Mother – will you look at yourself. About time you had a new hat!” Lettie was delighted with the picture and promised to ask Dougie to send them a copy of it.
After a few more chuckles and shy comments about their images, they bid Lettie good night and went wandering off into the night, waving the remains of their sandwiches at Lettie and bidding her, “Nos da, cariad, nos da! Good night, love, good night!”
Lettie sat back on her bench and put the final touches to her picture, sipping the remains of her wine. She took out her darkest pencil and titled the drawing “The Worm Gatherers” in an artistic font, packed up her belongings and made her way back towards the house, smiling with the warmth she felt inside her passed on by the couple that seemed to have nothing, but actually had everything.
Chapter 35
Sampling the Local Fayre
Walking back through town, Lettie heard music from an open window and turned to see the faded sign of the Llew Coch swaying gently in the breeze. The pub didn’t look anything special from the outside, but was freshly painted and the owner had attempted to pretty it up with a couple of window boxes – although these were full of cigarette butts as the windowsill was obviously a good place to perch and enjoy the breeze as it struggled to air the hot, sticky pub.
The red lion on the sign was intended to be a cartoon lion enjoying a fine pint, but the artist had failed somewhat in his task and the result was a rather mutated Llew, more of a much-loved cuddly toy with a flattened nose, than a masterful lion. But, never mind, it did the job and it achieved its purpose of enticing Lettie in. She tied the two dogs up outside to digest their pie and cautiously opened the door.
Inside, a typical weekday night was going on and men in rigger boots and dirty jeans mingled with men in suit trousers and loosened ties. A couple of the people standing at the bar were snacking on plastic baskets filled generously with chips that they were eating with one hand and jealously guarding with the other.
The usual banter of nonsense was going on, much of it to do with an unfortunate soul called Skinny Twat who apparently was going to be suffocated by someone called Tits and it was enough to make a man turn to drink.
Lettie saw a gap at the side of the bar and sidled up quietly. A man sat on a stool in the corner moved his legs slightly to give her more room and she smiled and thanked him. “Barman’s just gone to change a barrel, he’ll be back now,” he said reassuringly.
“Oh, thanks,” said Lettie. “Actually, what is the good local bitter – I’ve been told I have to try it.” The man pointed out the pump with the dodgiest tag attached to it with an elastic band.
“It may smell like beef stew, but it’s actually very nice. So, who told you to try this then?”
“Oh, my friend. I’m staying in his house for a few days. I’m from Dorset.”
“Ah, so you must be Lettie?” said the man, removing his pipe and extending his hand to shake hers and for the second time that day, she burst into laughter and asked how he knew.
The barman returned and the man caught his eye. “A pint of your finest please, mate, and fill this one up, too,” and ignoring Lettie’s protestations, he pushed the money across. “Welcome to Glan Llanfair, Lettie. I’m John Haskins. I know Dougie well. A good lad Dougie is, a good lad. Sit yourself down,” he said, pulling up a bar stool for her and raised his pint to hers, “iechyd da!”
“Yuckid da?” she repeated badly and raised hers in return, laughing as she did so. “So, this is the Llew Coch – I’ve heard a lot about it.”
Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 18