Not Funny Not Clever

by Jo Verity

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘The steelworks,’ Angel replied.

  ‘Crikey.’ She pointed to the outcrop of houses clinging to the sides of the lumpy hills that butted up to the north side of the motorway. ‘Those poor people have to look out on that every day of their lives.’ A whiff of sulphur seeped in through the car’s air vents. ‘And smell it, too.’

  Swivelling to face her sister, Angel pinched her nose. Mimi followed suit and, in unison, they chanted something rousing and guttural in Welsh.

  ‘We always do that when we pass here,’ Angel said. ‘It’s a family tradition.’

  ‘What were you saying?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Ych a fi. It means … disgusting … yucky … that kind of thing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time I learned my first Welsh phrase. How does it go?’

  Angel repeated it slowly, Elizabeth mimicking each syllable.

  ‘Now your turn, Jay,’ she teased.

  ‘C’mon,’ the girls giggled, but Jordan stared silently and stubbornly out of the window.

  16

  WEDNESDAY: 1.15PM

  They skirted Swansea, the road rising behind the city as it veered away from the coastline. Elizabeth glanced frequently at the sat-nav, marrying its computerised directions with the signs at the side of the road. When they’d travelled a little over forty miles, it instructed her to leave the motorway and, after a sequence of roundabouts, guided her onto a snaking B-road running alongside an estuary that was edged by marshland and mud flats.

  ‘Are those cows?’ she asked pointing at a distant group of animals grazing the rushes.

  ‘No. Wild ponies. They’re everywhere.’

  They drove through several small villages – Penclawdd, Llanmorlais, Llanrhidian – delight audible in Angel’s voice as she chanted the names.

  The estuary disappeared behind a ridge of hills, one of which was topped with a ruined castle. Elizabeth would have liked to take a look but the road was becoming narrower and more winding and she needed to concentrate. In places there was barely enough space for cars to pass and she made a mental note of where the road widened should she need to back up. They crested an incline and, ahead, in the distance, she glimpsed a beach, white breakers dividing sand from sea but no sooner was it there than it had disappeared as the road dipped again. Then a sign told her they’d reached Llangennith, their destination.

  ‘Where now?’ she asked Angel.

  ‘Keep going.’

  A village hall, painted pale blue and white. A shop selling surfing gear. A pub on a tricky bend that veered to the right. A string of neat houses and well-kept gardens.

  They seemed to be almost through the village when Mimi unclipped her seatbelt and, grabbing Elizabeth’s seat, pulled herself forward. ‘We’re here.’

  Dafydd’s car stood on the tarmaced area in front of a dormer bungalow. The roof of the house was slate, its walls pebble-dashed with dreary brown and ochre stones. The door was wide open as were the windows, downstairs and up, curtains billowing out like bunting, animating the otherwise lacklustre façade.

  Manoeuvring through the gateway, she stopped alongside Dafydd’s car and in front of a sizeable brick-built garage. She had barely pulled on the handbrake before the girls were out of the car, up the steps and through the front door. But Jordan remained in the back, as if he were a passenger on a bus and this wasn’t his stop. Here they were, a couple of Londoners a long way off their patch, and she felt a sudden – albeit slight – affinity with Jordan Fry.

  ‘We’re here,’ she prompted gently.

  Dafydd was in the kitchen, unpacking a cool-box and several bags of groceries. ‘You found your way okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. It was very straightforward. Angel’s good company. She certainly adores this place.’

  ‘We all do.’ He transferred apples from a polythene bag into the fruit bowl. ‘It’s not the best-looking house in the world, but we’ve spent so many happy days here, had so much fun, that to us it’s more beautiful than…’ He shrugged and held out his hands.

  ‘The Taj Mahal?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

  His earnest response made her regret her flippancy.

  When they went out to get the rest of the bags, Jordan and the girls were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘They’ll have dragged Jay down to the beach, I expect.’ Dafydd slung Jordan’s rucksack over his shoulder and took a bag in each hand. ‘The kids can use the upstairs rooms. I’ve opened the windows to get a bit of a breeze going. I’ll take these up and then we’ll have a bite of lunch. They’ll turn up when they’re hungry. I’m not much of a cook but I can knock up a passable sandwich.’

  ‘Where d’you want us?’ Diane said.

  ‘You’re in the room on the left, opposite the stairs.’ He pushed his hand through his hair. ‘Can I leave you to sort it out?’

  The room was small. Two single beds with wooden headboards, stripped except for mattress covers, were pushed close together in the centre.

  ‘We should have brought bottom sheets,’ Elizabeth said.

  Diane was investigating the contents of the tallboy. ‘Look. There are some in here. And pillowcases.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we ask?’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘It’ll be okay. He said we were to sort ourselves out.’

  They put the sheets, soft and thin from years of washing, on the beds and unrolled their sleeping bags. Both the wardrobe and the tallboy contained clothes and personal items and they agreed they would live out of their bags.

  ‘I had a quick recce before you arrived,’ Diane whispered. ‘It’s pretty basic, pretty old-fashioned, too. Quite a surprise considering how flash his Cardiff house is. Although it does have a nice bathroom.’

  ‘This isn’t his house. It belongs to his parents. They’re staying in Swansea with someone called Auntie Peg. From what Angel said, it sounds as if his mother has Alzheimer’s.’

  Diane whistled. ‘You don’t hang about, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. She volunteered the information. Anyway, what did you two talk about on the way down?’

  ‘We talked about you, if you must know.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Where you live. What you do for a living. What Laurence is like and why he isn’t with you. I’d say you’ve made something of a conquest.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Elizabeth laughed.

  ‘Time will tell,’ Diane said. ‘I’ll give him a hand with lunch.’

  Elizabeth took stock of her surroundings. Woodchip wallpaper, painted pale blue. A free-standing wardrobe made of dark wood, its oval mirror de-silvering at the bottom. Also in dark wood but clearly not a match for the wardrobe, a tallboy with gold-coloured handles. Blue cotton curtains patterned with sea shells fluttered at the windows. There were rag rugs – home-made by the look of it – on the floor beside each bed. The last time she was in a room like this, she’d been seven or eight, visiting her grandmother in her cosy little ‘prefab’ on the outskirts of Bournemouth.

  Closing her eyes she inhaled, hoping to catch that distinctive smell which spoke so directly to Angel Jones. Mothballs? Warm dust? Wellington boots? Maybe the house smelled of the childhood which only Angel’s limbic memory could decode.

  Diane’s voice came from somewhere. ‘Lizzie? Lunch.’

  They ate in the back garden, at a rickety table beneath a faded umbrella. It was evident that the garden had, until fairly recently, been lovingly tended but now the flower beds were struggling to hold their own against couch grass and ground elder.

  ‘Mum loved pottering out here. She’d hate to see it like this.’ Dafydd nodded towards the garden. ‘Dad drives over a couple of times a week to pick up mail and cut the grass but he’s no gardener. Besides he can’t bear to stop long. I think he knows that she won’t be coming back here, but we’re all still pussy-footing around that fact at the moment. It’s too bloody cruel.’ His voice cracked and he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his s
horts, making no attempt to conceal his tears.

  Elizabeth had seen men cry – usually at funerals and, more often than not, surreptitiously. Laurence had cried when Ben and Alex were born, and, from time to time, he was caught out by a sentimental film. When this happened his strategy was to camouflage his tears in violent nose-blowing. But here was the celebrated Rain Man, crying openly and messily like a five year old.

  Elizabeth looked away, towards a clump of lupins which was being strangled by bindweed. ‘Perhaps we could all muck in and blitz the garden,’ she said, as if his tears had been precipitated by weeds.

  Dafydd took several calming breaths. ‘Sorry. It catches me out sometimes. And, let’s face it, Welshmen tend to cry a lot.’

  ‘I’d rather a weepy Welshman than a tight-arsed Englishman any day of the week,’ Diane said.

  The sound of a door banging was followed by laughter.

  ‘Stand by. The kids are back,’ he said.

  ‘Did you get as far as the beach?’ he asked when Mimi and Jordan joined them in the garden.

  ‘Yes. We had a burger at Eddy’s.’ She peered at him. ‘Have you been crying, Dad?’

  ‘Of course not. I had a fly in my eye. Busy down there?’

  ‘Teeming. But the sea’s flat calm so the surf dudes aren’t too happy.’

  Dafydd looped an arm around his daughter’s shoulder and pulled her towards him. ‘I was thinking. We should pop over and see Gran and Granddad in the morning.’

  A shadow passed across Mimi’s face. Before she could say anything, her father continued, firmly but gently, ‘I know, I know, cariad. But it was part of our deal, wasn’t it? You know how Granddad loves seeing you. And, who knows, Gran may be having a good day. We’ll go straight after breakfast. We needn’t stay long.’

  Mimi sighed then nodded. ‘Okay.’

  It wasn’t long before the tent appeared. The youngsters insisted that they needed neither help nor guidance putting it up. Elizabeth watched Jordan who was, in turn, watching Mimi. She detected interest and admiration in his gaze. Occasionally she caught him smiling. He would have plenty to boast about to Charlie when they got back to London.

  When, after half an hour of giggling and arguing, they stood back to admire their saggy handiwork, it was obvious that their standards were less rigorous than Carl’s.

  ‘It’s going to be our gang hut, isn’t it Jay? For when we need to get away from you lot,’ Mimi said.

  Jordan nodded. His silences had in adult company appeared loaded with sullen discontent but now, masked by the girls’ non-stop chatter, they were hardly noticeable.

  ‘Why don’t we leave them to it and stroll down to the beach?’ Dafydd suggested. ‘It’s a stretch but I promise you it’s worth it.’

  ‘I’m up for that,’ Diane said.

  ‘Do we need to bring anything?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Nothing. Unless you fancy a dip.’

  She shook her head, thankful that her swimming costume was in the drawer at home.

  He jingled the coins in his pocket. ‘I’ll treat us to an ice cream.’

  They left the house and set off down the road, vehicles forcing them to walk in single file close to the hedge. Many of these sported stickers – Old Boys Rule, Free Willy, No Fear – and had roof racks laden with surfboards. The proximity of the traffic made Elizabeth feel vulnerable and she was relieved when Dafydd pointed to a stile in the hedge.

  ‘We pick up the footpath here.’

  Dafydd led the way, guiding them through a network of gates and stiles, across an expanse of moorland criss-crossed with ditches, most of them dry following the recent hot spell. Stunted hawthorns and elders, permanently bowed by the wind, punctuated the sparse, wool-snagged hedges. Although it was four o’clock, the sun had lost none of its intensity. Elizabeth calculated that they were heading south-west, the sun full on their faces, and she wished that she’d brought a hat to stop her nose burning.

  ‘God, that’s unsightly.’ Diane pointed to their left where a sprawl of static caravans ranged across the lower slopes of a steep escarpment, crammed together like scores of shoe boxes.

  ‘Mmmm. I’m in two minds on that one. They look horrible, I grant you. But do I have the right to breeze in and pass judgement? Deny those folks their slice of paradise? If I didn’t have somewhere to stay, I might be tempted to buy one myself.’

  ‘Would you? Honestly?’ Diane asked.

  ‘Maybe not but you see what I’m getting at, don’t you? And it isn’t just about how they look. The folk who buy them support the local traders. Dad’s a plumber-cum-jobbing builder. A few years ago, thanks to TV makeover shows, all that lot,’ he waved towards the caravans, ‘decided they needed decking around their little palaces. He picked up stacks of work.’

  So his father’s an odd-job man.

  ‘You’re saying that under Emperor Dafydd’s régime the masses would be placated with bread, circuses and caravans?’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Why not?’

  They ambled on, reminiscing about childhood holidays, Diane treating them to a hilarious account of the Shapcotts’ visit to Butlin’s holiday camp at Minehead. ‘Mum and Dad spent their evenings at the bingo and they made us – my brothers and me – enter every contest that was going. The talent show, the painting competition, the sack race. Anything with a cash prize. As far as they were concerned it was a money-making opportunity not a holiday.’

  ‘Is that where your artistic prowess came to light?’ Dafydd asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No. But I did tap dance my way to third prize in the talent contest. I got a pair of roller skates and a certificate. Mum wasn’t amused. She had her eye on the twenty quid first prize.’

  ‘What about you Elizabeth? Did you tap dance?’

  ‘Sadly, no. The Fieldings were – are – a conventional lot. Every summer we spent the obligatory two weeks at the seaside. Top of the range B and B. Deckchairs on the prom. Trips round the bay. It was okay but I always felt that we were doing it because it was something that had to be done. So that we had the right set of photos to stick in the family album.’ She nodded towards him. ‘The Joneses?’

  ‘We lived down west. Beyond Carmarthen. My father’s family were farmers – still are, some of ’em. We spent our summer holidays helping on the farm. It was technically child labour – not that we actually did anything useful. We went totally wild. It was magic.’

  ‘So when did your parents move?’ Diane asked.

  He looked puzzled. ‘Move?’

  ‘To Llangennith.’

  ‘Ahhh. Crossed wires. My fault. The house here,’ he pointed back towards the village, ‘belongs to my in-laws – Gwenno’s parents.’

  Elizabeth was thrown. ‘But you call them Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Yes. Always have. My parents are “Mam” and “Da”. They still live in the house where I grew up. My dad’s a milkman. They’re in the States at the moment. Doing Route 66 on a Harley, would you believe.’

  So his father’s a milkman.

  ‘Good for them,’ Diane said.

  ‘It’s not as bold as it sounds. Da’s always ridden a motorbike and they’re with a group, on an organised tour. One hundred and two of them, in all.’ He laid a clenched fist over his heart and raised his chin. ‘God help America.’

  Now and again they passed people traipsing in the opposite direction, loaded down with buckets and spades, beach bags and windbreaks, cajoling reluctant children. More often than not they were acknowledged with a smile and sometimes a cheery ‘nice day for it’.

  They continued in single file. Dafydd led the way, Elizabeth behind him, her gaze falling involuntarily on his muscular legs and the tanned nape of his neck – there for everyone to see yet in some way intimate. It was surprising (and touching) to realise how deeply he cared for his ex-wife’s parents. He’d even cried for them. They would always be his daughters’ grandparents, she appreciated that, but all the same… If she and Laurence were to split up, it was unlikely that she and P
hyllida would even exchange birthday cards.

  The soil became sandier as the path crossed open ground, following a slow-flowing stream which cut through a rank of sand dunes and led them onto the beach.

  To the south the beach was backed by cliffs, to the north by dunes running away to a headland and what looked like a small island. The tide was out, exposing a vast expanse of sand which sloped gently to the sea. A line of seaweed extended along the beach into the distance, following the curve of the bay. Above it, the sand was pale and powdery, below, dark and damp, corrugated like the sea beyond.

  It was a perfect seaside day. Families had staked out their claims with striped windbreaks which billowed in the cooling breeze. Children were digging holes, building castles, tearing around and screaming merely for the joy of it. Closer to the sea, on the firmer sand, games of cricket and football were in progress. Apart from improvements in deckchair technology and the discovery that UV rays are lethal, a day on the beach hadn’t changed much since Elizabeth, hampered by inflatable armbands, had dug halfway to Australia with her new red spade.

  Dafydd held his arms wide to encompass the sweep of the bay. ‘Isn’t that something?’

  Diane shucked off her flip-flops and set off jogging towards the sea, turning to shout ‘Last one in’s a sissy.’

  ‘Not taking up the challenge?’ Dafydd said as Elizabeth sat down on the warm sand.

  ‘I’ve never been one for challenges. Besides, Diane always wins. I think I’ll sit in the sun and enjoy being a sissy. But please don’t let me stop you.’

  He dropped down beside her. ‘I’m fine here.’

  He spoke with a marked Welsh accent but it was different from the strident tones she’d heard in the shops and on the buses in Cardiff. His voice climbed and dipped, now and again almost coming to a dead stop at the end of a phrase, as if he were reining in the sentence before giving it its head for the final gallop. His wasn’t the manicured voice of Richard Burton or Anthony Hopkins. It was broader and freer than that and, from their first encounter, she had been enchanted by it.