Not Funny Not Clever

by Jo Verity

  ‘Angel tells me that you all speak Welsh,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. We brought the kids up to be bilingual.’

  ‘Patriotism?’

  He shook his head. ‘Job opportunities. Not so relevant now they’re living in England. But I’m hoping they’ll keep it up.’

  He made England sound as remote as Italy.

  ‘I speak Welsh with them as much as I can. Not when we have visitors of course, that would be impolite. But they need to use it every day if they’re to stay fluent. It’s up to Gwenno.’

  ‘Would you speak some Welsh now? I like the way it sounds.’

  He laughed. ‘What would you like me to say?’

  ‘Anything.’

  He thought for a few seconds then began, his voice melodious and hypnotic. Whatever he was saying had a poetic lilt but she guessed it wasn’t poetry. Maybe it was something he’d learned at school. Or a passage from the Bible.

  When he stopped they sat in silence for a while, only speaking after the sounds of gulls and children’s laughter had swept his words away.

  ‘What was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He was flirting again and she needed to be careful. Although she was growing to enjoy the promise behind his innocent remarks, she needed to be sure that, were she to encourage him, she could deal with whatever might follow.

  ‘Yes it does, as a matter of fact.’

  He met her gaze, his eyes lingering on hers a fraction of a second too long and she had the feeling that he was weighing something up.

  ‘Have you heard of the Red Lady of Paviland?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, early in the nineteenth century, a local reverend found a human skeleton buried in Paviland Cave – just along the coast from here. The bones had been stained with red ochre and there was a stash of ornaments and jewellery in the grave. The assumption was that it was a woman who had been buried there some time after Noah’s flood. This was before Darwin, don’t forget, so every archaeological find had to conform to creationist parameters. Because of the jewellery and red bones they decided that the Red Lady was a Roman courtesan or maybe even a witch. But now they’ve discovered that the she was, in fact, a young man – possibly a tribal chief – who died twenty-nine thousand years ago. His are the oldest human remains to be found in the United Kingdom.’

  While he’d been speaking, he had been tracing swirling patterns in the sand between them, coming closer and closer to her thigh with each sweep of his hand.

  She drew up her legs, hugging her shins and resting her chin on her raised knees.

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ she asked.

  ‘I fronted a telly on it, not so long ago.’

  A television script. Serve her right.

  He was looking at her, she could feel it, but she kept her eyes on the horizon.

  ‘It’s okay, you know,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  He skimmed her leg with his fingertips. ‘This is.’

  Yes. No. Yes.

  Diane came plodding up the beach, something dangling from her fingers. As she drew nearer, Elizabeth could see that it was a strap of seaweed, puckered and wrinkled like the seersucker cloth her grandmother had draped over the card table when visitors called unexpectedly.

  ‘A present,’ Diane said, flopping it on the sand at Dafydd’s feet. ‘In case you need a weather check.’

  They strolled along the damp sand, watching surfers bobbing around in the slow swell looking like so many seals as they waited for a decent wave.

  They were making their way back towards the dunes when two middle-aged women approached them, one holding out a paperback book, its cover folded back to reveal the fly sheet.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ the book-holder said. ‘Can we have your autograph?’

  Her companion held out a pen. ‘We really love your weather.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He smiled, taking the pen. ‘There you go. Down here on holiday, are you?’

  They nodded, happily.

  ‘Well enjoy the rest of your stay, ladies. And you can leave your umbrellas at home until at least the weekend.’

  ‘See,’ Diane said when they were out of earshot, ‘he really is a celebrity.’ She turned to Dafydd. ‘Lizzie didn’t believe me.’

  Ignoring her, Elizabeth said. ‘D’you mind strangers accosting you like that? I can’t imagine what it must be like.’

  ‘In their eyes I’m not a stranger. I join them in their living rooms every night and they really do think they know me.’ He shrugged. ‘The way I see it, if you accept money – good money – for appearing on the telly, it’s part of the deal. People are generally pretty considerate. They’re happy to leave it at a smile or a “hi”. It’s not as if I’m…’ he shrugged.

  ‘George Clooney?’ she suggested.

  17

  WEDNESDAY: 5.50PM

  ‘I’ve booked a table at the pub,’ Dafydd said when they got back to the house. ‘I hope that suits everyone. I wouldn’t want to subject you to my culinary inadequacies.’

  ‘But you’re a great cook, Dad,’ Mimi said.

  ‘Not everyone appreciates corned beef hash, cariad.’

  Jordan was sitting on the floor in the living room, hat on, playing a guitar. Elizabeth, on her way to the bathroom, paused in the hallway to listen. He was absorbed in the music – something slow and melancholy – and she wasn’t sure if he was aware that she was standing there. He played confidently, his fingers picking out the melody whilst his thumb kept up a rhythmic strumming. She had never learned to play the guitar – second flute in the school orchestra was the pinnacle of her musical achievement – but, having endured years of her sons’ enthusiastic, if mediocre, attempts, she knew that Jordan was rather good.

  Diane joined her and they listened together until, looking up, he saw them and stopped.

  Diane clapped gently. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just…’ he shook his head.

  ‘Well it was terrific.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Heaving himself to his feet, he took the guitar and leaned it carefully against the wall.

  ‘Have you been playing long?’ Elizabeth asked.

  She sounded like the Queen speaking to a guest at a Buckingham Palace garden party.

  ‘Since I was five.’

  ‘Did you have lessons?’

  Queen Elizabeth the Third.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Dad.’

  She noted the shiny patch of skin on his elbow, evidence of a recent fall, the faint scrawl of Layla’s phone number across the back of his hand which had resisted soap and water for several days. A leather bootlace and a wide yellow band, indented with a message that she couldn’t decipher, encircled his right wrist. He had taken his trainers off and she saw that he was wearing odd socks – one black and one navy blue.

  Until last Saturday Jordan Fry had been an insignificant form, somewhere in the background of her son’s life. But she could no longer keep him there. There was no getting away from it, he could well figure in her life way beyond the end of the week. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. Or him. (Were you only allowed to start disliking someone when they reached the age of eighteen?) Jordan had mentioned his father and camping expeditions and visits to Manchester. He might have half-brothers and sisters, hosts of aunts and cousins. He must have (or have had at some point) two sets of grandparents. For all she knew, he was in contact with the lot of them. (So where the hell were they when Vashti needed childcare?) If Alex had ever given her the low-down on Jordan Fry, she’d made a point of not remembering. Clues were there but showing an interest implied acceptance of the Alex-Vashti ‘thing’ and its attendant lifestyle. She didn’t expect her son to give up his music – merely to keep it as a means of relaxation after a hard week in the office. (Didn’t they warn that it was a mistake to have the thing you most loved doing as your job? She just might mention that to Laurence if he returned from France with some grand plan
to open a restaurant.)

  She wasn’t ready to abandon hopes of a qualification and a more structured life for her son. Occasionally she detected in Laurence’s tone the intimation that, had Alex followed him to Eton he wouldn’t now be in thrall to an oddball woman ten years his senior, scraping a livelihood by playing the fiddle and existing in a three-roomed flat above a butcher’s shop in Stoke Newington. And occasionally she felt like hinting back that it had been Laurence who’d encouraged Alex to take up the wretched violin in the first place (although he’d had Fauré not folk music in mind). But none of this was explicitly expressed because… well, because they were broadminded liberals, weren’t they, whose only ambition for their children was that they should be happy.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  They walked up to the village. In places the arching branches of the hedges formed a green tunnel through which swallows dipped like miniature Spitfires, scattering swarms of midges. Wild honeysuckle and barbecueing meat scented the air. Lawns and porches were strewn with buckets and spades and shrimping nets. Wetsuits, like black shadows, dangled from rotary clotheslines and surfboards leaned against garden walls.

  The pub was a long, low building, resembling a terrace of stone cottages. Opposite the pub, four sturdy but unkempt ponies grazed a triangular patch of coarse grass, barely bothering to raise their heads as the girls rushed to pet them.

  ‘They’re a menace,’ Dafydd said. ‘If you leave the gate open, they wander in and demolish everything in the garden.’

  He raised his voice making sure that his daughters heard. ‘I’ve suggested to Ken, more than once, that he put them on his specials board.’ He chalked imaginary letters in the air. ‘Pony. And. Chips.’

  ‘Daaaad.’

  The half-dozen tables on the pub’s terrace were fully occupied and, as they climbed the steps, Elizabeth noticed that several of the customers smiled at Dafydd and raised a hand. He responded with ‘Hi’ or something in Welsh. As he’d explained, he joined these people in their sitting rooms every evening which made him an honorary member of families across the Principality. Tomorrow at work or over the garden fence they’d say The Rain Man came into the pub last night, and everyone would feel a togetherness because Dafydd Jones was one of their own.

  The restaurant was hot. Two ceiling fans made of brass and rattan looked bizarrely colonial as they rotated ineffectually above the knick-knacks that decorated every surface and covered every inch of wall space.

  ‘Evenin’ Dafydd.’ The paunchy man behind the bar pointed towards an empty table at the far end of the room. ‘I’ve put you down there. Bit more private.’

  ‘Thanks, Ken. Much appreciated.’

  They ran the gauntlet of the diners. What did they make of the Rain Man and his entourage? Did they think she was Dafydd’s wife? Surely not. Diane, in her baggy print trousers and chunky jewellery, looked much more the part of celebrity partner.

  They shuffled around the table and she found herself sitting between Diane and Jordan, and opposite Dafydd who had chosen to sit with his back to the room so he could ‘eat peas off my knife without it being reported to the nation’. Sets of cutlery, wrapped in red paper napkins, rested alongside raffia placemats. Salt cellar, pepper pot (the ready-ground variety) and stoppered vinegar jug were contained in a small metal crate next to the bottle of brown sauce and the plastic tomato which she presumed held ketchup. The menu – a laminated A4 sheet crammed with neat, rounded handwriting – was defiantly unfashionable. There was no mention of jus or coulis, no crushed potatoes and nothing at all served on a bed of puy lentils.

  Diane was the first to make up her mind. ‘Bangers and mash, please.’

  Dafydd, Angel and Mimi went for chicken curry – ‘It’s a Jones family favourite’ – and Jordan chose fish and chips.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Dafydd said.

  ‘Ummm.’ She ran her finger down the list, searching, in vain, for something low-fat accompanied by fresh vegetables. ‘Ummm. Let’s see.’

  He came to her aid, covering up her feeble indecision. ‘One golden rule. Never order anything that includes the word surprise. Or medley.’

  To hell with it.

  ‘I’ll have fish and chips too.’ It wouldn’t kill her to skip her five portions once in a while.

  The food arrived quickly, without ceremony. Everything was delicious and obviously ‘home-made’, and Elizabeth was surprised how hungry she was. They talked and laughed and sampled each others’ food. They shared horror stories about ghastly meals and pretentious restaurants. The girls bemoaned the looming exam results. Dafydd told a tale about a visit to his dentist who had tried to recruit him to his Morris-dancing team. Jordan, when coaxed, revealed that Stuff the Goldfish was changing its name to Ffish, thus necessitating the purchase of a new T-shirt.

  Elizabeth furtively unbuttoned the waistband of her trousers and wondered what Laurence would make of the evening. He would be scrupulously polite, of course, but a host who allowed his guests to sit where they liked? Lemonade shandies? Ketchup in a plastic tomato? Tut, tut.

  When they could eat no more, Angel asked, ‘Okay if we go back, Dad? You three stay and have coffee. Talk about us if you like.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourselves.’ Dafydd handed her a bunch of keys. ‘Mind the road. Folk are still driving back from the beach.’

  Elizabeth watched Jordan as he followed the girls out of the restaurant. ‘Jordan’s smitten.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Oops. I mean Jay.’

  ‘Things always slip out when you’ve been eating chips. It’s been scientifically proven that they loosen the tongue,’ Dafydd said. ‘Apparently it’s something in the saturated fat.’

  Diane placed her elbows on the table and leaned – too close, Elizabeth thought – towards him. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Okay.’ He took a discarded chip from Elizabeth’s plate, chewed it theatrically then, shielding his mouth with the back of his hand, whispered loudly ‘They called me “Quack” at college. Can you guess why?’

  ‘You studied medicine?’ Diane said.

  ‘No. I did meteorology, surprisingly enough.’

  ‘Cricket?’ Elizabeth suggested. ‘Were you always out for a duck?’

  ‘Nope.’ He folded his arms as though he were about to offer the proof to a complex theorem. ‘Dafydd … Daffy … Daffy Duck … Quack, quack.’

  Diane laughed. ‘That’s so sweet.’

  ‘Maybe. But, when you’re nineteen, “sweet” is the last thing you want to be.’ He pushed the plate towards Elizabeth. ‘Your turn.’

  She masked her face with the palms of her hands. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘There’s no point in asking Lizzie,’ Diane intervened. ‘She’s led a blameless life.’

  Elizabeth was startled to feel the slight pressure of a knee against hers beneath the table.

  Dafydd raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Diane has more than enough secrets for both of us,’ she said, waiting a second or two before moving her leg.

  When they got back, the house was in darkness but the front door was on the latch. A note on the kitchen table explained ‘Party at Hills End. Won’t be too late. A, M & J ×××’

  Dafydd crumpled the note and tossed it towards the bin. ‘They have to push their luck, don’t they?’

  ‘What’s Hills End?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘It’s the campsite down by the beach.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘There was … a bit of bother down there last year. Which is obviously what makes it so attractive.’ He massaged his forehead. ‘I noticed Mimi talking to a couple of lads near the bar. I should have twigged.’

  ‘They’ve only gone to a party,’ Diane said. ‘The girls aren’t going to do anything silly. And Jordan’s with them.’

  Elizabeth turned to Dafydd. ‘What sort of bother?’

  ‘Loud music. Drinking. Nothing terrible but people on the campsite com
plained and the police got involved.’

  He checked his watch. ‘It’s ten-fifteen. I’ll ring Angel. Tell her that if they’re not back here by eleven-thirty, I’ll be down to fetch them.’

  He pulled a sleek mobile from the pocket of his shorts and thumbed in a number. Within a second they heard a snazzy ring tone coming from the living room.

  ‘Dammit.’

  He tried again only to discover that Mimi’s phone was within arm’s reach, on the dresser shelf.

  ‘Very clever. It usually takes a local anaesthetic to detach them from the bloody things.’

  ‘I’ll try Jordan,’ Elizabeth said.

  After several rings Jordan’s phone, wherever it happened to be, cut to voicemail.

  ‘Hi. It’s Elizabeth.’ She shrugged and looked at Dafydd, unsure what tone to take. ‘Got your note. Could you be back here in an hour or so? Eleven-thirtyish? Dafydd’s taking the girls to see their grandparents in the morning and he wants to make an early start. See you soon.’

  He nodded and raised his thumb. ‘Thanks. I’d probably have blown my top but the diplomatic approach just might work. I’m still going down at half eleven if they’re not back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a quick shower.’

  ‘That’s a weird thing to do,’ Diane said after he’d gone.

  ‘He’s on edge. He’s keeping out of the way because he doesn’t want us to pick up on it. I expect he feels bad that Jordan’s involved. Actually I am a bit concerned.’

  ‘They’re sensible kids,’ Diane insisted. ‘I think you two are getting steamed up over nothing.’

  ‘Possibly. But, like it or not, Jordan is my responsibility and this is the third time he’s gone AWOL in four days.’ She glanced at her phone. ‘I don’t blame him for going with them, but I do wish he’d get in touch.’

  They took mugs of tea to their room. Elizabeth stretched out on her bed, unable to relax, wishing that her phone would ring or the front door would bang.

  Diane, evidently bored with the unaccustomed role of parent, was rooting through her bag. ‘I’m sure I packed my pastels. I thought I might go down to the beach tomorrow and work up some colour sketches. Did you notice the banding of sky … against sea … against sand?’ She swept her hand through the air in broad strokes, emphasising each element. ‘And how the dunes look like reclining human forms? Giant sandmen.’