Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  As if sealing the debate, the kettle on the hob began to whistle quietly as it reached the boil – always the sign for another cup of tea in the Pryce house. Mrs Pryce poured out the remains of the last pot, now lukewarm, added another teabag and refilled the pot. The crocheted tea cosy was placed on top, the kettle topped up with cold water from a jug in a bucket sat on the draining board and returned to the hob to complete the cycle. Every morning, the teapot would be emptied as the teabags mounted up, but in the meantime, the tea was as good as the welcome in the Pryce kitchen.

  To enter Tyn-y-cwm Fach was to step back in time in many ways. Its original purpose was as the home of the head farm hand that worked in the larger Tyn-y-Cwm Fawr. It had been a tied house for the Pryces for a peppercorn rent since they were married and Mr Pryce took the job of farm labourer for the big house and Mrs Pryce, as cleaner. The farm that once had seven labourers, had dwindled to rack and ruin and one by one the workers had been laid off, leaving only Mr Pryce working the vast sheep farm. The ancient owner of the farm had died ten years previous and, as thanks to Idris and Heulwen Pryce, who had been hard working and loyal throughout their employment, and out of spite to his remaining family, who had never come to visit before he was seriously ill, he had bequeathed Tyn-y-Cwm Fach, plus one five-acre field to them. The distant nephew who had inherited the rest had no interest in running the business and broke up the farm. He sold the land to its neighbours and the house to a wealthy family who lived and made a fortune in Birmingham and wanted to justify having a four-by-four by having access to the occasional weekend in the country.

  A working life of paltry wages, rent on a tied cottage and four hungry sons had left the Pryces with no capital, aside from their home and a measly state pension. They worked their land as best they could and were self sufficient in many ways. However, there had never been any spare money to modernise Tyn-y-Cwm and the previous owner had certainly never considered it one of his priorities.

  Electricity had been reluctantly connected in the late nineteen seventies, but the Pryce’s landlord had not stretched to an internal water supply. Therefore, the inhabitants were served by a tŷ bach, meaning a “little house” in Welsh, and in this instance it was twenty yards down the hill, away from the house and fed into a cesspit that overflowed occasionally into the river. The set-up had never really been a problem to the Pryces and if the cesspit ever played up, as it did when some overenthusiastic, cleanliness-obsessed sister had come to stay and poured a bottle of bleach down the toilet, a dead sheep would be slung in and nature’s status quo would be established once more. Therefore, the little stony path to the tŷ bach was trodden day after day – often by someone carefully carrying a po if the weather had been particularly nasty during the night. Basically, it had never seemed to be a big enough issue to warrant the daunting ordeal of opening a bank account in order to take out a loan to rectify it.

  Drainage from the kitchen sink had been connected to the cesspit, but the builder had ruined so many drill bits getting through the two-foot stone wall, that he had refused to do another hole for the in-going water for less than four times the original estimate. Therefore, another little path was trodden two or three times daily, this time up the hill to a tap leading from a pipe to the spring.

  “It means you don’t waste water,” Mr Pryce would say. “London wouldn’t be sinking if all they city folk had to go out in the rain before they filled their baths.”

  The Pryce children had once had a get together and costed building an inside bathroom and installing central heating, but it would have meant heavy loans for each of them, and when Mr and Mrs Pryce caught wind of the scheme, they were adamant that the work shouldn’t go ahead. “It was fine for us forty years ago when everyone had to do it; on which day exactly did it become too much trouble?” said Mr Pryce. “You spend your money on yourselves and your families; that’s your duty now.”

  Therefore the tin bath continued to hang on the wall in the scullery and a quick stand up bath with a hair wash in the sink kept Mr and Mrs Pryce as clean as they wanted to be.

  Yes, thought John, forget Hannah of the Dales – anyway, didn’t she move into a semi in town? Whereas this, this is real, and to cap it all, the two are still chuckling. It wasn’t difficult to find a couple of dates in the Pryce’s empty schedule so John said his goodbyes and left, clutching a paper bag full of scones and releasing a gallon of tea into the tŷ bach as he went.

  Chapter 53

  Ready-Prepared Carrots

  Matt Fitz-Hughes sat with the phone in his Cardiff Bay penthouse and recounted his day at Tyn-y-Cwm to his old college friend, Jed Appleby. “The guy had two pairs of trousers on!” he laughed. Jed alternately chuckled and then cringed as he was told details of the tea cosy, the dead mouse in a pool of cold cat sick just outside the back door, and Matt’s trip to the tŷ bach – “bloody great wet dog came in with me!” he laughed.

  When the details were compared to the deluxe flats that the men lived in, the escapade was time travel. Matt’s slate-tiled wet room, with its three shower nozzles powerful enough to extract china clay from a cliff face, was compared to the tin bath. Jed’s chef’s stainless steel range was compared to the old multi-fuel Rayburn that churned out heat and dust summer and winter alike. Both men had twice-weekly cleaners and their homes were a delight to be in.

  “And it’s not just the place; I suppose there are still loads like that about, but these people – not a bitter word between them, from them or about them. They slog away in their field, catch rabbits for the pot, breed rabbits for the pot and the smile he gave me when he said, no, they never fish – despite the picture’s title The Worm Gatherers, meant that they poach too. No, there aren’t many of these folks around anymore – well, apart from your mate Mark, whose family ate their horse when his dad lost his job.”

  Matt took a sip from his bottle of beer and Jed snaffled a few nuts from a bowl beside him. “Nope, the punters are going to love these people; it’s who we really think we are when we get embarrassed by all this nonsense we surround ourselves with. You know, the massive telly, the cream leather sofa and the walk-in fridges.”

  “Hey,” said Jed, “talking of which, has yours got an ice compartment? I can’t get ours to bloody work…”

  Chapter 54

  Boiled Sheep Lips and a Generous Helping of Potatoes

  “When the winning piece of a national art competition is called The Worm Gatherers, the subjects of that drawing require a closer look. It was for this reason I travelled to the outskirts of Glan Llanfair in Mid Wales, to meet the people who had inspired the work, simply by doing what they always do.”

  The article went on to explain the visit, not being able to avoid using clichés such as “stepping back in time” and “salt of the earth”, but that didn’t really matter as the piece was completely upstaged by the photo above it. In it, the Pryces were standing, Father by his chair with his hand on its wing, and Mother beside the table with her hand on the cloth. Neither was smiling and it gave the impression of a Victorian photo that had a shutter speed of seconds, rather than fractions of seconds.

  Mr Pryce had his white shirt with the turned collars buttoned up to the top and a hand knitted V-necked jumper that just met his high-waisted trousers. His face was polished by the spit and hanky of Mrs Pryce and his hair was combed with a side parting that ought not to be there. Mrs Pryce stood in her floral summer dress, reminiscent of the lean years of the nineteen thirties. Her pinny was still in her hand and her hair had been given the same treatment as her husband’s. It looked as if a strong breeze were coming from right of stage.

  Cleverly, Matt had managed to include the pile of newspapers on the dresser and a 1990 calendar on the wall (they had liked the kittens in the pictures). The teapot was on the table, the tea cosy was on the pot – the volume of which was consumed that afternoon meant that Matt had to visit the tŷ bach at least twice. He took his camera with him the second time to record the square of carpet and the jam jar o
f wild flowers that had been put in there for the occasion. And, to cap it all, the airer above the fireplace showed a fine pair of Mr Pryce’s grey underpants tucked alongside the faded tea towel that had been slung up there and hidden its less attractive neighbour from Mrs Pryce’s sharp eyes.

  All around the country people settled down to what was usually the most relaxing part of their day. Reading the newspaper keeps one informed and up to date, as well as blocking out the miserable morning spouse or the breathless fellow commuter and makes the morning cup of coffee last far longer than it needs to. On that particular morning there were the usual items about this company doing well, that one doing badly, that star wearing a new dress, this one behaving badly. But it was the item about the Worm Gatherers that caused the occasional chuckle between commuters, the unexpected comment to the miserable spouse and the revelation that the office worker wasn’t solely checking the business pages.

  It reminded them of stories that their parents had told, of the older generation that they had once revered, of childhood holidays staying with remote relatives on farms in order to educate them where milk really came from. It was a life in which extra layers were put on rather than the heating cranked up, where everyone congregated like a proper family around the fire to keep warm, probably telling tales and discussing the events of the day.

  It was a romantic story of happiness championing over poverty, a tale that, if they were honest, would actually be a bitterly cold, inconvenient pain in the arse in reality, but it moved people and warmed the heart. Matt’s readers were glad that there were still people like that out there somewhere, even if, well, they themselves didn’t actually have time to heat a tin bath full of water and just let the Pryces try getting their Tara to wee in a tŷ bach in the mid of winter; she’d be hospitalised within days.

  Chapter 55

  Lifting the Pie Lid

  Two days after the article had appeared Matt sat in his study flicking through his emails. Seeing one from Jed he went straight to it: always more of a laugh than ones about Viagra.

  Hi again Matt,

  Got your article, mate – much better than the usual crap you churn out. I’ve had a chat with the others and we reckon that we could use this pair for our reality show Rags to Riches. In case you haven’t been arsed to watch my fine work, our usual is Little Old Lady in Dingy Council Tower Block Flat and we film her “before” struggling away with dripping taps, inefficient and dangerous heating, slipping in the shower etc. We then send in the professionals and sort it out, cost it up, show her savings etc and then film her afterwards all nice and clean and happy.

  Obviously five grand wouldn’t touch that place, so this would need to be bigger than usual, but we want something for our Christmas Special and this may well fit the bill. Can we meet to discuss, please? Our scriptwriter is off on long term sick (bloody shyster) and the distance between the site and us would mean that an intermediate link, such as you, could be what we are after – so perhaps you can do some proper work for a change.

  Gis a bell when you’ve had a think and before you can say Dog Hair in Your Tea Cup, we’ll have an award on our hands.

  Your idol,

  Jed Appleby

  Chapter 56

  Hold the Muffin

  The lights were dim in the beachside bar and the smoke swirled its way down from the vaulted ceiling alcoves. The music was loud and the Spanish waiters and bar staff moved in rhythm with its beat. The tables were covered with plastic red and white checked tablecloths, and nightlights were set in stained jam jars along their lengths. The room was packed; a few families munching their way through enormous pizzas, but mainly the crowds who were happily whiling away the hours until they moved on to the local nightclubs.

  At a small table in the corner of the room, a smart lady sat alone. Her sun-kissed hair and relaxed face attracted attention, but she was engrossed in something, and so people left her in peace. “Grácias,” she nodded to the waiter as he put a glass of wine onto the table. He felt it wobble and made as if to secure it with a folded serviette. “No need,” she smiled, “es bueno!” He gave a small bow and collected a saucer left over from the previous occupant. “Grácias,” she smiled once more and pushed the empty ashtray over too. “Can you take this also, por favor?” She returned to the page in front of her and read it through once more.

  Malcolm,

  I hope you are well – genuinely I do. I can’t believe that it has been so short a time since I left – somehow it seems both much longer and so much shorter. However, everything has changed. Everything.

  The first week I was here I was depressed and trying to think of ways we could “work it out”. Then I met a few people and, suddenly, I don’t want to work it out. For too many years I have played second fiddle to your, rather crappy, first fiddle, fighting to understand what is going on and how I can make you happy. Well, I have decided I can’t – or rather I won’t. Your screwing Lettie’s lodger with the big tits was just the final straw – and this camel doesn’t want a broken back.

  I am not naive enough to think that it will all be sun and sangrias on the beach here, so I have been doing some investigation. The place I am staying at is run by a little old lady who wants to retire. She will sell me the place for a good price, pay a peppercorn rent for the annexe and help me out in return. This is perfect for me for the time being.

  Therefore, basically, I want out. This may sound harsh, but really you set this in train all those years ago when you took your first floozy, so I feel I can be quite business-like about it. I suggest I take all the remains of our savings and shares, and then you can remortgage a third of the value of the Sea View to pay the rest, and you and your chosen fluff can pay it off over time. I think this more than fair and if you will agree to it, I shall disappear into the sunset and not bother you. If you don’t, I shall be down on you like a ton of bricks and will play the abused wife with every bone in my body.

  Jill

  Yes, that seemed to have all the detail that she needed it to have. The tone was business-like because she felt that she had no personal relationship with the man. It just amazed her that one evening could flip her whole life in the way it had.

  She had felt devastated, humiliated and enraged, but in all honesty that hadn’t lasted long. She’d realised that her love for Malcolm had waned many years ago and really it was like been offended by the bloke down the road – just four weeks later and her overriding thought was what had all the fuss been about.

  She folded the letter into an envelope and wrote her old address on the front. She took the right amount of stamps out of her bag and stuck them into the corner. As she licked the glue on the envelope, she paused for a little while and wished that she could enclose a little of the contentment that she felt. If the best revenge is living well, she had all the revenge she needed…

  Chapter 57

  Meat and Two Veg

  A spit and polished Dougie, and a brushed until he shone Alfie, arrived in Lyme Regis on Saturday morning, just in time for a seafront lunch. They walked down the steep, busy high street, enjoying the hustle of a seaside town. A-boards thrust Dorset Cream Teas at them and locally-caught fresh crab, about which Lettie might splutter, “Local? Fresh? My arse… I’ve seen the packaging of our locally caught crab and let’s just say that the opening instructions aren’t written in a language that I can understand.”

  Doug bought a bag of mixed fudge and went into Alex’s shop, as arranged, to introduce himself. The shop was quiet. “Oh, they always leave it to closing time,” Alex laughed. They shared a pleasant pot of coffee, him perched on the stool in the corner with Alfie sitting neatly at his feet, whilst Alex put together a beautiful bouquet. They chattered easily about Lyme and how he might spend a couple of hours. Alex pointed out Lettie’s restaurant and a handy bench outside it where he could wait for her to finish work.

  Alex wished him goodbye and good luck and watched as the tall, strong man, dressed in jeans and a neat navy blue T-shirt, wal
ked off down the pavement with his faithful dog at his side, sharing the last few pieces of fudge. Then she immediately phoned Rich in order to squeal, “He’s gorgeous! He’s lovely!” at him.

  Dougie sat on the seafront at a rickety little white table, in a chair that would not cope with any sudden movements. Alfie had been petted and indulged by the waitress and now had his own plastic container of water and a serviette with a few T-bones in, from the last diners’ plates. Doug had chuckled over his locally-caught crab sandwich, bought to regale Lettie with later. Hmm, the only crabs caught locally here are in those in damp nightclub toilets.

  He had a perfect spot, looking over the sandy beaches to the beautiful old Cobb. He could just hear the tinkling sound of the rigging rattling against the masts of the boats wedged into the harbour and the squeals of delight and victory coming from the mouths of those playing a giant game of rounders on the beach. He watched the skateboarders, delighting in their illegal stunts, until the footsteps of officialdom came to move them on. He smiled at the young couple with their new baby taking it in turns to check it and rearrange its sun hat. All around him were happy people and happy families and Doug just felt content to be sat amongst them.

  After he had paid his bill and Alfie had secretly received a potato smothered in gravy, they carried on walking along the promenade to the historical Cobb. Apart from the disappointingly unsympathetic signs that seemed to be necessary to remind modern man that such a vast structure may be dangerous (something that pre-2000 man would have taken as common sense), Doug felt he was looking at a view that hadn’t changed much for centuries.