Iestyn smiled and chuckled as he watched the Grand Cherokee ease itself down the stone track. He remembered how Joe used to drive in his father’s Land Rover, crashing through potholes and driving with two wheels up the bank to see how steep he could go before it tipped. He obviously understood his father’s irritation now and his careful driving showed that he’d paid for the Jeep himself.
Iestyn watched the Jeep stop at the next gate and waited as Joe got out and stepped into his wellies, opened the gate, went back, put his shoes on, drove through the gate, then repeated the tedious drill to shut it. It seemed as if he was getting more and more anal every time he came home – and obviously Sima wasn’t embracing country mud yet, either.
Iestyn rattled down the rest of the track, looking forward to seeing his brother; Joe always lightened up the farm and brought a little fun and frivolity into a relentlessly practical home, and Sima would breathe fresh life into his fantasies for the oncoming dark weeks…
He bumped into the yard at the same time that Joe and Sima did. Tomos had chosen to open Joe’s gate and so Iestyn had to get out and do his own. Iestyn could see Sima pointing and telling Joe to park as close to the door as was possible – it seemed that she forgot each time she came just how much mud and shite a farm produced.
Isla was rinsing her wellies in the brook that ran along the back of the house as Joe stepped out and shook his father’s hand and attempted to hug him.
“Good to see you, boy,” said Tomos as he patted a dirty hand on the shoulder of Joe’s designer jacket. “Hello, Sima, how are you, my dear?”
“Very well, Tomos, how are you?” she purred from within the Jeep, pulling on a pair of flowery wellies and zipping her white pumps into a bag.
“Come on in, bach,” smiled Tomos, his weathered face softened by the beauty’s charm. “Too cold to be outside on a day like this.” He was oblivious to his wife dressed in three coats and trying to dislodge a stubborn turd from her wellie treads in the brook.
They all moved into the enormous kitchen, Sima unzipping her pumps once more and Tomos waving them away: Sima’s wellies were far cleaner than any of their carpet slippers. She was put into a chair nearest the fire and eventually the chattering of her gleaming teeth began to subside. Joe came in laden with presents, all beautifully gift-wrapped. He placed them under the Christmas tree that Tomos had hacked down from the side of the hill in the Forestry Commission plantation and which had then been decorated by Isla, with Iestyn doing the high bits.
They were the decorations that had adorned the Bevan Christmas tree for decades, many of them crafted at some point by the Bevan boys, but they looked suddenly tatty next to the glorious packaging, all themed with silver ribbons and bows.
Iestyn leant against the Rayburn shifting from side to side as Isla opened the oven door to remove some particularly restrained scones and then returned to fetch the kettle from the hob. The family chattered together as they caught up on the past couple of months’ worth of news.
“So, what’s with the Cherokee?” laughed Iestyn, “London’s roads cutting up a bit?”
“Actually, my road’s got more potholes than your track,” smiled Joe, never minding the teasing about his soft city existence.
“And brought down any more banks recently?”
“Yeah, ruined two banks and squandered a pension fund just last week actually – that’s how I managed to buy the Jeep, you know, with my bonus.”
“What about you, Sima, my love,” asked Tomos, “how’s business with you?”
“Fantastic, thanks, Tomos,” she smiled, “fantastic.”
Iestyn smirked. He knew what Tomos thought about the people who paid Sima to be their life coach, but he also knew that Tomos admired anyone who worked hard and made money – even if it were for a service that was a pile of bloody nonsense. It just seemed a little unfair to Tomos that Sima made more money than the farming Bevans made put together – and they had far more blisters, crushed fingernails and septic blackthorn splinters to show for theirs. Her two-bedroom flat was worth more than their whole farm – and it was paid for.
“Yes, Iestyn,” said Joe, “and she still has a space in her January client list with your name on it, isn’t that right, Sima? On the stage one programme teaching you how to brush your teeth and stop wearing 1980s jumpers.”
“No, he’s already perfect. He would jump straight to the stage five programme – just a bit of tinkering, a little French poetry perhaps.”
Iestyn glowed warm inside. Sima always made him feel like that – how on earth had she fallen for an arse like Joe? Tall, dark and exotic, her long black curls looked like they just tumbled wherever they wanted to, but Iestyn now knew enough about Sima to know that every single one had been commanded into position and told to stay right there. Perhaps he needed to move to London or find out whether she had a sister or an ugly mate?
Isla handed out the tea, remembering that Sima didn’t have milk, but forgetting that she didn’t do carbohydrates as she handed round a plate of her not-quite-so-enormous-as-usual scones. Sima noticed that Joe picked the biggest one. “I thought you were off the carbs for a while, Joe?”
“Well, I have to keep the cold out somehow,” he grinned, “and a gut like this doesn’t look after itself – needs a lot of maintenance!” Joe wobbled the jelly that hung over his belt. Iestyn laughed – it was a joke between them that Joe’s first bonus had bought him a soft belly.
“So, how’s the love life, Iestyn?” Iestyn’s love life was always a topic of interest to Sima and Iestyn was embarrassed to report that little had changed since the last time.
“Well, you know, bit lean like, being winter and all that…”
“Lean?” laughed Joe. “Since when did nothing happening become lean?”
“Saw Johnny Brechdan on the tops the other day,” said Iestyn changing the subject that to him was well and truly exhausted. “Sends his regards.”
“Johnny who?”
“Brechdan,” explained Joe to Sima, “means sandwich in Welsh. As dry as an old sandwich is Johnny, so he’s called Johnny Brechdan – has been since he was about five.”
“But why not Johnny Bone or Johnny Desert?”
“Oh, you couldn’t call a boy Johnny Bone or Johnny Desert,” said Tomos incredulously, “wouldn’t be right. Anyway, is their Gemma due yet?”
“Gemma?” asked Iestyn.
“You know, Gemma, married to Paul Thomas’s son.”
“What, Paul Thomas the Pentwyn?”
“No, Paul Thomas the Bryn. You know, Hywel Thomas’s lad.”
“No, not Hywel Thomas,” joined in Isla, “Arwel Thomas.”
“Arwel? Was he the one with the puncture?”
“Yesss, that’s him.”
Joe put his head in his hands and groaned. “Sima, take me home – I don’t think I can take a whole Christmas with this going on; I’d forgotten what Bevan conversations were like.”
Sima laughed and winked at Iestyn, “So, has Gemma had hers yet?”
“No,” said Isla, “she’s not due ’til March, surely? I know it’s after Bethan’s.”
“Bethan? Bethan the Park?”
“No, Bethan Harris, over Fairclough’s way…”
“Right! Stop!” shouted Joe. “Change of conversation please. No more Bevan talk whilst Sima is here – she hasn’t a hope in knowing who Bethan Harris is…”
“Bethan Harris? Bethan Harris is dead. Must be twenty-five years now…”
Esther Harrison sat at her computer and pressed print with a triumphant click of her mouse. To her delight another whirr came from the printer at her feet and it scrolled out a sheet of paper. Esther
Harrison, ESTHER HARRISON, Esther Harrison it read in different sizes and styles of font. She really was getting the hang of this now.
However, it was no surprise to her when the sound of the printer awakened a tut and a call from the sofa. Those bloody two, she cursed to herself. Sitting there like Lord and Lady Muck, demanding what wa
s it this time – hot chocolate?
“Well, you can make it yourself,” she began, but backed down to a “Come on, love, she’s had a hard day! First day back to work after Christmas is always tough,” tirade from her husband. Although Esther couldn’t imagine that working in Tan-y-Bryn’s only bank then slumping on the sofa could have got that difficult since she herself had left, nor could she imagine that David’s job in the local paint and building supplies factory was much harder, but she knew that they both thought housework did itself, and that she spent her days lunching with Marjorie and doing crosswords in front of the fire. Therefore, she reluctantly pushed her computer chair backwards and went, muttering, into the kitchen. At least if they stayed on the sofa, she wouldn’t have to spend twice as long clearing up after their efforts.
As Esther waited for the kettle to boil, she looked at the piece of paper still in her hand. What she really needed was to be the secretary of something, so that she legitimately had some letters to write. Perhaps she could breathe a bit of life back into a few old plans and start forging a career for herself. She could do that; she had the time and now she had the skills too. Esther was sure that she would make a good secretary – perhaps she’d ask at the golf club to see if they wanted a bit of administrative help?
She warmed the teapot, and then began spooning leaves into it. Damn. Hot chocolate was what they’d wanted. She rinsed out the teapot and reached for the milk instead. As she heated three cups’ worth in the small milk pan, she thought back over her day and wondered where she might be able to use her new skills. Marjorie was lucky: she had a part-time job in a double glazing firm’s office. She typed and filed all day for two days a week and she loved it.
Yes, Marjorie had loads of contacts in town and plenty of ideas. What had she said just that lunchtime as they’d sat in The Tasty Bite, talking about letters? Esther pondered as she spooned chocolate powder into three cups. Ah, it had been about the menu, the naff decorations, and the service. And the toilets. Oh, and the wobbly tables.
As they’d sat waiting for their desserts, Marjorie had gotten increasingly frustrated with the table and had stuffed a folded napkin under it in annoyance, tutting about how the place had gone so far down hill so quickly.
“Perhaps we should tell them?” Esther had smiled.
“Hmph, write it on a brick and then chuck it through the window,” Marjorie had snarled and then proceeded simply to not tip.
Esther poured the last of the milk over the chocolate powder and stirred. Perhaps she should tell them. They had one of those signs that said, “If you like what you see, tell others. If you don’t, tell us!” stuck on the wall.
She got the mini-whisk out of the cupboard and frothed up the milk in the cups. Maybe if she typed just a short polite note to suggest a few changes and posted it to them, they might appreciate her honesty?
She took a chunk of milk chocolate from Louisa’s selection box in the cupboard and absent-mindedly grated it over the tops of the drinks.
Yes, a short, pleasant, constructive note would do the trick. No one could object to that and if it were anonymous, then there would be no need for embarrassment when she next went in.
She put the drinks on a tray, wiped down all the surfaces and went though into the lounge, rolling her eyes at the tirade of comments about whether she’d been milking the cow herself.
Esther could be a little bit cunning when she needed to be. She fussed around asking questions about the programme, what had happened and if the hot chocolate had enough sugar in. She soon got on their nerves and retired to her desk knowing that they would leave her in peace rather than risk having her fuss some more. She reckoned she had about half an hour to carry out her task – nature would probably take its course about then and until that time, it was unlikely that either of them would move. Mind, if they could find out a way that she could do that for them, then she would have probably a whole hour’s peace…
She slowly started to type. Her address first, then she slowly deleted it, and then put it in italics. Then she deleted it again: such a letter didn’t need an address…
Dear whomever it may concern, she began: it was as if the room had grown silent. No one breathed. Even the sipping was being done quietly. She carried on, typing as quietly as the keys would allow and looked again, sure that there would be a projector shining her words onto the screen of the television, instead of it showing Silent Witness.
She felt guilty, she felt dirty and she felt a little bit unkind. However, she thought again of that notice – if you don’t like it, tell us – well, wasn’t she doing just that?
My friend and I recently visited your establishment and partook of a… She halted, keen to keep her anonymity from an eagle-eyed waitress… coffee and a mince pie. Although it was pleasant enough, there were a few points that made our visit less enjoyable than it might have been and, seeing your notice, I thought it might be beneficial to let you know…
Esther took a breath and ran her hands through her hair and was surprised to find that she was perspiring. She read back through her letter and felt more confident – it was succinct, yet polite. No, it wouldn’t offend anyone, and any proper business should be pleased that she’d made the effort to give it some feedback.
Reassured, she rubbed the moisture from her palms onto her jeans and carried on with renewed vigour. She was just signing off as “a well-wisher” when the television credits began to roll. She gave a quick look around and as Louisa began to yawn, and David gave a stretch, she quickly pressed print. The noise of the print head zapping slowly back and fore made her jump as it broke the silence.
“What are you printing, Mum?” yawned Louisa.
“Nothing really,” said Esther a little bit too quickly, “just practising. There, all done.”
She reached down, grabbed the page and tucked it behind her previous practice sheet. “I’ll just take the cups out to the kitchen,” she said, jumping up. Two cups were dangled over the back of the sofa and Esther was able to grab them and scuttle off without anyone being any the wiser…
It was gone eight when Menna pushed open the door of her bungalow. She was absolutely shattered. She was pleasantly filled with turkey curry, but also soaking wet and cold from the five-minute trot between the big house and her own home. She stood in the hallway and let herself drip onto the mat for a few seconds. She clicked on the lamp in the corner and then removed her wellies and put them into the wire boot stand. Her coat was placed on the ornate hooks that lined the wall over the radiator and she took off her wet trousers and hung them up too, ready to be climbed back into in the morning.
She went into the kitchen and the light shone pink over the room. She pulled the pink curtains to and the room felt snug and warm. She filled the Rayburn with logs from the basket and put the kettle on to boil; she would do the ash and replenish the log basket in the morning. Menna stood in front of the shelf and scanned her CDs, finally picking one out and putting it into the CD player. Soon the room was filled with Aretha Franklin as she wandered off to the shower.
Her bathroom was the archetypal girl’s room. The white suite that had had blue paint slapped around (and over) it, was now complemented by a pale peach. She had ripped out the pale blue lino and laid a warm laminate and covered it in rugs. The mirror was heart-shaped with rosebuds round the outside and one wall was hung with a cascade of white plastic flowers. An old shelving unit had been transformed into one of waxed wood and was stocked with ornamental bottles of potions and creams. Her shower was filled with colourful sponges and brushes and her white towels hung from large daisies fixed onto the walls. Throughout, the bathroom was washed with the sound of ‘Chain of Fools’ that cooed out of the humidity-proofed speaker hanging in the corner.
Menna removed the rest of her clothes and stepped into the shower to wash the remains of the day from her skin and replace the scent with that of white lily shower gel.
Wrapped in a long, embroidered silk dressing gown, Menna wandered into the lo
unge and stoked the wood burner. She put a pile of kindling onto the embers and watched as they glowed and finally burst into flames. Then she piled in more wood from the basket and walked to the sideboard, a sizeable hunk of dark oak that her mother had dumped in the barn and Menna had lovingly restored by scraping off the old varnish and polishing it until it shone.
She loved her home, her own little domain. Living with her parents had been an experience in pragmatism. Other girls her age had had pink princess bedrooms or funky purple ones with pop stars lining the walls. Hers had always had white paint and she had not been allowed Blu-Tack.
When she’d finally been given the keys for the bungalow, her heart had rejoiced – at last she’d be able to live a bit more like she wanted to. She still ended up at the big house for meals and for her washing, but that was fine, it was practical and she worked hard enough without having piles of washing-up to do.
The bungalow had been lived in for thirty years by Tal, the ancient farmhand, who had eventually gone to live with his sister. Tal hadn’t been into interior design and had washed every wall in a pale blue that made the place feel cold and damp, even in the middle of summer. Menna had set about transforming it as soon as he’d moved the last box out.
She’d spent many hours scouring second-hand shops and packages regularly arrived from eBay and over the last couple of years, she’d transformed the blue iceberg into a den of luxurious femininity. She didn’t have a lot of money for fripperies, but she had an eye for a bargain and loved retro-chic.
No one had ever really seen the bungalow as it now stood. Her friends and parents had helped her move in and some had helped with a bit of painting, but as their excitement had dwindled, so had their offers of help and that was fine. Menna had enjoyed her foray into domesticity, and she had been happy to shut the doors of an evening and paint or rub down or drill holes in all the doorways so that her speakers filled the whole house with sound.
She saw her parents every day, so all their interaction was at the big house with no need for them to call by. If friends wanted to find her, they went to the house first, as her bungalow was half a mile further up the track, but also she tended to meet them out of an evening – in the pub or at someone else’s house, which might have more than just half a pint of milk in the fridge.
Cold Enough to Freeze Cows Page 5