So, she put keys back on the hook, rescued packed-lunch boxes from cars, cleaned shoes and double-checked sandwich flavour preferences. It was a thankless task, but her main mission in this household was to save herself from being driven to wasted tears of anger and resentment.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Louisa and David; it was more that she saw her mission of support being a precursor to her love and enjoyment of them. She took her role as housewife very seriously; she had been taught to clean by a stickler of a grandmother and the rest could come only after her chores were done. The trouble was, there was almost always something else to do. They would play games as a family at some point, but it was not proper and therefore possible before the floors were clean and all the clothes were ironed and put away.
Since her stroke, it had become much harder to carry out her chores, and it became a matter of pride not to ask for help. Therefore although she could probably have legitimately asked her growing daughter to do a little bit more for herself, to do so would have meant that she, Esther, wasn’t coping – and she could – even if it meant that things took her the whole day.
Therefore it often took until mid-afternoon before she had not only cleared up their clutter and anticipated the next flux of disasters, but had also done the washing, the ironing, the cleaning and the peeling of potatoes for tea. The hour before she needed to get up and start preparing for them to come home, exhausted from their toil, was now officially her time. Time she felt she could legitimately spend lounging on the sofa watching daytime television if she wanted to, or to read a book with her feet up. More recently, she had had more pressing business to occupy her…
Esther sat at her computer and spread her clenched hand over the mouse with her other one. She opened the file, now named ANON, that had a different font to her usual one – in case a recipient might trace the use of Times New Roman to her.
This time, there was little consideration or debate about the morality of what she was about to do; it was more of a question of which words she was going to use.
Dear Mrs Mathews,
I am a well-wisher who uses your hairdresser’s occasionally and I enjoy its ambience and the quality of my cut. My reason for writing this is therefore neither spite nor malevolence, but a goodwill gesture for the benefit of your business.
Friends often compliment me on my haircut, and ask me where I had it done. However, when I mention the name of your establishment, some have groaned and said that they would go there too, but for one thing – unfortunately, it is your body odour.
Women of our age do tend to perspire more than we used to and I am afraid to say that, enhanced by your nylon overalls, it can be rather unpleasant.
Might I suggest a shower each morning, followed by the application of a quality anti-perspirant deodorant? A fresh blouse each day made from natural fibres will ensure that the result will last the whole shift.
Please do not be offended by this observation, as it is meant well There is no need to try and guess who I am as I only sporadically patronise your salon and I will never mention this to anyone else, so your secret is safe with me.
Kind regards,
A Well-wishing Customer
Esther read the letter through only once for grammatical errors, then banged print. If she were quick, she could catch the five o’clock post. Mrs Mathews would get it in the morning, buy deodorant in her lunch break and wash the sour pinny by the time Esther arrived for her appointment on the Friday.
Esther wrote the address on the envelope in elaborate copperplate writing, completely different to her usual, economical style. She wanted it to look important, but also a standard design. She fished in her purse for a stamp then took her coat from the rack – the postbox was only two hundred yards away, but her speed of movement meant that she would quickly get cold. She grabbed her stick and hobbled down the drive.
As the only person in Anweledig during a weekday, she was surprised to see the door of The Old Laundry open and a man in a suit step out. He had a file in his hand and a mobile phone in a pouch on his belt. Ha! she thought, as she watched him finger it, there’s no signal for that thing here, far too much of a hollow!
The smile snapped back onto the man’s face as a woman followed him out. She was tall and had a bright red coat pulled tightly in at the waist. Her crocheted beret was the same black as her hair, but her lips matched her coat.
“It’s perfect,” Esther heard her tell the man that she assumed to be an estate agent. “Just what I’ve been looking for.”
Typical, thought Esther, just what Anweledig needs, another executive who works away all week, then comes home for weekends behind closed doors. Of the five houses in the hamlet, theirs was the only one that had normal people in since dear old Uncle Bob of The Old Laundry died two months ago. She’d known it would go on the market, but there hadn’t even been time for any signs to be erected, yet someone seemed interested already!
She and Bob had got on well. He was in his late seventies, but they’d enjoyed each other’s company in a bland kind of way – coffee every Tuesday and Thursday morning at eleven, at alternate houses. He’d brought the Harrisons produce from his lush garden and David had cut his hedges in return. Without Uncle Bob, Anweledig had been a sad little place midweek – David and Louisa at work and the four other little cottages being either holiday homes, or homes to those that worked away so often that they might as well be holiday homes.
The agent nodded respectfully to Esther, then returned to his client who had mouthed hello and waved at Esther, presumably in case they might need to be friends one day.
The postbox at the top of the lane leading from Anweledig was a difficult walk for Esther. For some reason the camber got to her, as did the roughness of the broken-up road surface. Her rehabilitation had been to make it to the postbox each day and, at first, it had been tortuous. She still made sure that she walked at least that far on a daily basis and so it was a point of principle that she never gave any letters to David to post – not that she would let this letter out of sight until it reached the confines of the postbox: David was not a suspicious character, but he might have expressed a vague interest as to why she was writing a letter to her hairdresser when she was going to see her later that week…
As she neared the postbox, leaning heavily on her stick, she saw the postman Tommy Brand’s van screeching to a halt beside it. He scrambled out and trotted round the van to the box. She saw him see her and wince: the posties at the Tan-y-Bryn branch seemed to compete in every aspect of their work – who got back to the depot first, who could wear shorts longest into the winter, who could wear out their van the quickest. It grated on Tommy to have to wait for Esther to reach the postbox, but he knew better than to trot to meet her – he’d been told off for that before.
“Hi, Esther, how are you today?” he called, hopping from one foot to another in the cold.
“Very well thanks, Tommy – surely you can get your long trousers on in this weather and not lose face? Your legs are blue!”
“Nope, still two boys in them – I lost last year as I copped out for a ten below, so I’m determined not to this year, even if my van ices over.”
“Well, here’s another letter for you. I suppose you can always put a spare sack over your knees if it gets really cold?”
Esther saw Tommy’s confused look and felt silly – fit young postmen don’t put things over their knees to help keep them warm, unless those things breathed heavily and were called something like Lolita – and even then, warmth wouldn’t be the overriding factor.
Tommy grabbed the letter and darted back into his van and sped off in a sprinkling of little stones, leaving Esther facing the long totter back down the hill. She was forced into the hedge twice, first by the estate agent and then the black-haired lady – hers was the silver Boxter. Great, thought Esther, hopefully that would mean that she would pester the Council about the state of the roads too.
Louisa felt pleased with herself as she dro
ve to her computer class that Thursday. Not only had she done her homework, she’d bought herself a new pair of jeans and some funky boots. She’d nearly veered back to her elasticated-waist ones that came in at a third of the price but the assistant in Tan-y-Bryn’s only vaguely trendy clothes shop, assured her that the more expensive ones looked great and were well worth the extra investment. They had been a slightly larger size than Louisa had imagined that they would need to be, but the girl had said that comparing them to her previous style would not be an accurate comparison.
“That’s why fat people wear elasticated-waisters,” she’d said, nearly blowing her only lunchtime sale. “It’s because they can get away with two sizes smaller!”
As Louisa parked outside the college, she was pleased to see Rachel’s Beetle already there. Good, she thought, now I can make an entrance.
Herbie seemed very pleased to see her and welcomed her into class. “I got your email regarding your blog, Louisa – or Lulu should I say – thank you. Sounds like you’ve got a really exciting life going on at the moment, yeah?”
Louisa nodded guiltily and scuttled to her seat, darting a quick look at Rosie and Rachel who were sat in their usual spot, chatting. Damn, Rachel had tracksuit bottoms on and trainers – surely jeans weren’t going out of fashion, meaning she would have to buy a pair of those towelling trackies next?
She slipped in next to Moira, who smiled warmly at her. “Hi,” Louisa smiled back, practicing being friendly, “how has your week been?”
“Not as exciting as yours by the look of things! I got here early and Herbie showed me your blog – all go for you at the moment, isn’t it? I’m surprised you made it here with life so hectic!”
Louisa cringed and settled into her chair – perhaps she’d been a little over the top? She’d decided that her blog would be the start of the new her. She had decided that her new identity needed a more exciting name – Lulu: still Louisa in many ways, but just a little more interesting. And, boy, was Lulu already having adventures! Louisa had reckoned that the things that were happening in her blog were things that would bound to be taking place over the next few months, but as she only had a month that she needed to blog about to complete the course, she felt it prudent to stuff all the news into it now – and the actual happenings could follow later…
However, as she saw Moira’s look requiring her to expand on her adventures, perhaps in hindsight it would have been enough to have just visited the estate agent without having claimed to have looked at five flats – and gone out for a drink with a potential flat share?
“Right then, everybody,” said Herbie, calling the class to attention, “I thought tonight we’d do a bit of a round up, y’know? Have a bit of a rap after our holiday break, yeah? Find out how we’re all getting on with our blogs and seeing what we’ve learnt from using them. I want to hear how you’re all interacting with strangers in cyberspace, yeah?”
The class jumped at the thought of sitting in a circle chatting, rather than being taught something and so shuffled their chairs to the front of the room. Louisa was still feeling confident about her exciting new boots and jeans and so scraped her chair across the floorboards as if it were turbo-charged. To her delight, she made it next to Rosie, just as the circle closed in on itself.
“Hiya,” said Rosie.
“Hi,” said Louisa, feeling like she had in school when she’d managed to wangle it to stand next to one of the in-crowd in the dinner hall queue. She sensed that Rosie didn’t think it such a big deal as she was leaning forward in her chair humming to herself. Louisa took a risk and stuck her boots out in front of them both.
“Nice boots,” Rosie said, “I saw some like that in the shoe shop in town.”
“Yeah, I spotted them too and had to have them!” said Louisa. Then she felt bad in case she had made herself sound spoilt and indulgent.
Luckily, Rosie laughed. “I know what you mean – I felt I just had to have these ones – mind, that was a few years ago; I’ve only just finished paying for them!” and she stuck out her biker boots. “See, look the heel is coming away again; I’ve mended them three times, but they keep coining unstuck.”
“Oh, that’s a pain,” replied Louisa. She was feeling almost thrilled with herself; she was actually having a conversation with someone that she had been completely in awe of and, to be fair to her, it wasn’t her that was being too boring this time, it was the other person who was talking about mending boots with glue. “Have you tried Stuck to Glue? I’ve mended loads of shoes with that.” It was only half a lie; her dad had mended loads of shoes with that.
“Really? Hang on, let me write that down…” and Rosie scribbled Lulu – Stuck to Glue on the inside cover of her file. Louisa beamed as Herbie rolled up his shirt sleeves revealing his pale wiry arms and clapped his hands for attention.
*
Iestyn, Joe, Sima and Johnny Brechdan shouldered open the door to the Bull and walked up to the bar. It was a Thursday evening and therefore Darts’ Night. The Christmas decorations were still up, but then they’d probably be up for months yet if previous years were anything to go by.
“It’s so quaint,” whispered Sima looking around and the others nodded, thinking she must be talking about the flagstone floor, the horse brasses tarnished and covered in ash from the fire, and nicotine still staining the ceiling. “You still have old farts in your pubs here – those old boys would be in a glass case in our bars.”
She nodded at the elderly men in the corner, shirts buttoned up to their scrawny necks and tank tops on to keep out the draughts. The men wilted and beamed back at her.
“For God’s sake, don’t encourage them. You do not want to smell that guy’s breath,” muttered Iestyn, who called over, “All right, Ken? All right, Derri?”
“All right, boy,” the men replied and turned back to their warm halves.
“Well, well, Iestyn. Joe, welcome back, lad – been skiing for new year, I hear? Very nice. Johnny, you here again? Haven’t you got a home to go to?” The landlord worked his bar and was pleased to see the group on a dull midweek night. “And, who is this lovely lady that you’ve brought with you to be sacrificed for the benefit of the darts’ team?”
“Ed, this is Sima. Sima, Ed.” Sima shook his hand over the bar and Ed melted. “What will it be then, boys? And one on the house for the lady.”
“Christ!” laughed Joe. “That’ll be the first time that those words have ever been uttered in this place! Usually, Sima, I get told to stop hogging the fire like a namby-pamby office boy and start flashing some of my city wealth.”
“Now, I’ll have to warn you, Joe,” said Ed, hurriedly polishing a couple of glasses and only just stopping himself from breathing on them to improve the shine, “we don’t have any champagne on ice, no fancy cocktail shakers and definitely no umbrellas – well, there is that one in the porch that no one’s claimed, but I don’t think anyone would want that in their drink. And Johnny – no banana milkshakes for you today either, I’m afraid.”
They gave their order and the fact that Sima asked for something that wasn’t behind the bar didn’t faze Ed and he said – another first – that he would go and look in the cellar and then bring the drinks over.
“Bloody hell!” laughed Johnny, “normally he puts a deposit on the glasses so that I have to bring them back to the bar at the end of the night – says that it saves him getting off his fat arse.”
Ed eventually returned with the four drinks on a tray. He saved Sima’s until last and then sat beside her.
“So, Sima, what brings you here to us then – surely to God it’s not Joe Bevan?”
“Of course it’s Joe – but if it weren’t for Joe, then I would travel this far just to sample a night of your fine hospitality!”
Ed flushed; he was used to banter and spent his evenings batting witticisms across the bar, but Sima’s hooded charm wrong-footed him. “So, Sima, what do you do for a living then, bach?”
“Life coach, Ed.”
&nb
sp; “Life coach, eh? Is that how Joe met you – he must be first in the queue for needing a life coach – well, not now, and perhaps not in front of young Brechdan here, but, well, well… So, what advice can you give me then?” Ed stood up, threw his arms to his side, “Fine specimen that I am!”
Joe smirked and winked at Iestyn. Iestyn cringed, knowing that Sima took her profession far too seriously to fob him off with some cheap remark. Instead, she pushed her chair back and assessed him and his surroundings. Ed was beginning to look uncomfortable. She walked a few paces back and looked again at the package that was the middle-aged landlord of the Bull.
“Come here,” she signalled. He trotted over, now beginning to regret the request. Sima leant over and Ed put his ear up to her. She cupped her hands so that no one else could hear and whispered to him. The others watched, giggling, as he flushed, looked confused, then cross, then embarrassed. Then he started to nod. Sima pulled away and held his shoulders and looked into his eyes and smiled. “OK, Ed? You understand what I just said? You’ll be OK with that? Here’s my card, so if you need to chat it over at all, just phone me, OK? Good.” She hugged him and the man that hadn’t been hugged in years drank in her advice and her perfume and her beautiful softness. He immediately stood six inches taller and walked back to the bar, trousers hiked up to lift his stomach.
Once back behind the bar, he looked at Sima, received her wink and looked at his next customer. “Yes, sir, now what can I get for you?”
“Another satisfied customer, Sima?” asked Iestyn, laughing at Joe who was sitting with his head in his hands.
“She just can’t help herself,” he groaned, “mind, Ed could probably use a bit of direction!” Joe looked around the pub. “So, nothing’s changed here then has it? See that cobweb, Sima, that’s been there since I had my first half of cider at fourteen!”
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