As the dye was given time to take, Esther was passed a drink and a copy of the local paper. She flicked through it, reading a story about a children’s play here and some vandalism there. Then her stomach churned as she turned a page and saw a particular headline and she looked around her to see if anyone was watching her reaction. No one was looking at her, they were all going about their business, sweeping up hair and asking about holiday plans. No, it wasn’t a trap after all. She allowed herself a breath before reading the article.
Tan-y-Bryn seems to be in the grip of an anonymous letter writer! A second anonymous letter has been received, this time Jocelyn’s Greengrocer’s has been the one to receive the opinions of a person who does not have the courage to convey their opinions face to face.
Hang on a minute, thought Esther, putting the paper down and watching colour flood to her cheeks in the mirror in front of her. That’s a bit unfair – it wasn’t that she didn’t have the courage, she had courage galore, it was just that she thought it was fairer to be more direct. It could take months of hint dropping to get things changed. Just look at The Tasty Bite – one discreet letter and the whole business had improved. Everyone’s a winner!
“I feel so angry…” stated Jocelyn who has run the greengrocer’s for thirty-five years, “talking about tattiness, mud on the floor and dated fíttings. Well what do potatoes really need to show them off? Gold shelves? If people want me to refurbish my shop every year with new fittings, my customers will have to pay for it – and I am sure that the majority know that potatoes come with a certain amount of mud on them.”
Esther felt a little uncomfortable. Perhaps Jocelyn had a point – carrot trays maybe didn’t need to be Bauhaus. She had anticipated another Thank You, like the one from The Tasty Bite. She hadn’t really wanted this.
“Nasty business that.” The voice came from behind her and made her jump. Mona had come to check on her colour.
“What? This?” Esther tapped the paper. “Yes – why don’t people just, well, talk? A quiet word is usually enough, isn’t it? And anyway, carrot and potato displays needing new fittings! I ask you!”
Mona smiled and held Esther’s shoulders in an affectionate embrace. “Yes, that’s all people need. Anyway, another five minutes should do it, Esther, love. Everything OK, here? Do you need another coffee?”
“I’m fine thanks, Mona,” said Esther, grasping Mona’s hand with her good hand. “It’s just so nice to sit and soak up the atmosphere here – I always love coming here, just to feel like I’ve really relaxed, you know?”
Mona smiled and walked away. Esther let out her breath, hoping that she hadn’t overplayed it. She didn’t really think so and as she saw Mona discretely blow her breath into her cupped hand and sniff it, she felt redeemed and dived into the Deaths and Marriages page with gusto.
CHAPTER 11
Yn byw lle mae’r brain yn marw – living where the crows die (living frugally or meanly)
Iestyn was sitting on his bed putting his socks on when there was a tap at the door. “Hello,” he called, assuming it was Isla with a pile of washing to be put on the chair next to the other pile of washing. Instead, it was Sima.
“Hi,” she said, peeping round the door with a large holdall in her hand. “Can I come in? Joe’s out with your dad doing the rounds, so I thought I’d bring you these.” Iestyn looked at the bag with interest. “It’s just a few things I thought you might like; I’ve got a friend who has – put on weight – so was chucking them out. I said I would ask if you want them – you know, for work clothes perhaps?”
Iestyn laughed, he knew that she knew that he would only wear such things for work clothes in about twenty years’ time when they were nearing rags. He wasn’t sure where she’d really got them, but his pride wasn’t offended.
“Thanks, Sima, you trying to tidy me up? Surely I can’t get much more up to the minute than this?” Iestyn laughed as he thrust his chest out displaying his acrylic grey work jumper with purple diamonds across the chest. It had ragged cuffs, and holes and stains galore.
Sima looked at it with her arms folded. “Actually, take that bloody thing off. It’s revolting. Come on, off.” Iestyn reluctantly removed it and gave it to her outstretched hand. The action revealed a turquoise polo shirt underneath. “OK, and that, come on, it’s fifteen years old.”
“Maybe, but the cows don’t notice.”
“Well, they should. Come on, off.”
Iestyn sat self-consciously with his naked chest white against his tanned neck, face and forearms. “Well, what can I wear? Come on, I’m bloody freezing.” The curtains blew across the room at that moment as if to make a point. Sima glanced at them.
“And your curtains are vile too; rooms like this should have unbleached Egyptian cotton. Right. Let’s sort this lot out.” She yanked open his wardrobe and found a string of empty coat hangers. Iestyn cringed and pointed at the piles on the chair and the ancient trunk.
“No problem. Nice clean slate to start off with then. Here – put this on.” Sima unzipped the bag and threw a navy T-shirt at him. “Cotton. Will wash like a dream, even if it goes in with Tomos’ wellies.” She ignored Iestyn’s protestations about it being too good for work. “Iestyn, if you keep it for best, it’ll be as unfashionable as that horrible jumper before you even wear it – T-shirts need more use than just one outing per six weeks – and anyway, there are a few here, so you needn’t worry. OK?”
“OK.” Iestyn put it on and had to admit it felt good.
“Right, an overshirt.” She threw a shirt at him and then a casual jacket. “Now, trousers. Get those bloody things off too – come on, Iestyn, is there any of the original jeans left?”
“I’ve, er, actually got two pairs on,” he confessed. “The under-pair have holes in different places.”
“Off! Go on, I won’t look I promise – I don’t think I could bear to see your underpants if this is the state of things you show to the world. I’ll just hang these up.”
Within ten minutes Sima had emptied his chest of drawers and replenished them with an array of folded, quality clothes. The pile by the door was just about fit for a slaughterman’s ragbag. She used a couple of the least stained T-shirts and a container of strong cleaner that she produced from her bag to whip around the surfaces and replaced the clutter of empty aerosol cans and dried-up aftershave bottles on the dressing table with a matching set of toiletries that Joe had apparently received for Christmas but would never wear. “Now you won’t smell like Ed from the pub.”
Iestyn stood up and looked at himself in his newly visible mirror. He smiled and turned around and smiled again. “Thanks, Sima!”
“You’re very welcome. Now you have an arse rather than a pile of ripped pockets and a six pack, rather than a gathering of stains.” She looked at him and softened, “You look great! Makes you feel good too, huh? Wear them everyday, OK? No saving for best as soon as my back is turned, all right? There are plenty more around if you need them. Now, can you help me put this lot into these bags and straight into the boot of the Jeep; I know you Bevans, you’ll be hooking them out of the bin as soon as I’m out of the gate – there’s still plenty of wear in that faded shapeless T-shirt if you look closely, isn’t there?”
Iestyn laughed, knowing it was true. He met Joe in the kitchen as he walked through with the three bin bags that contained his old wardrobe.
“Oh God, you’ve been well and truly Sima’d haven’t you? Is there no one left? Oi, and that’s my old T-shirt, you bastard! I wondered where that had gone. My favourite too…”
“Hush,” clipped Sima, as she walked behind Iestyn with a bag full of rubbish. “You’ve got two new ones to replace it.” Joe conceded, remembering how he’d given it up when Sima showed him in a mirror how it pulled across his stomach.
“OK,” he muttered, “but keep it for best: don’t you dare wear it to muck out those bloody cows…”
Louisa was walking down the high street. It was the start of her lunch hour and she had felt like a l
ittle fresh air. Their staff room was pleasant enough, but she was beginning to think that she needed to get out and about a bit more. Sitting on a slightly different chair than the one she’d been sat on downstairs all morning and nibbling at her sandwiches whilst she read through the pile of magazines that Doreen brought to work with her each week no longer felt enough. If she was going to broaden her horizons, she needed to start actually doing it – and what better way to broaden your horizons than take a walk down your local high street of a lunchtime?
It was cold and so she stopped to rearrange the scarf around her neck and to pull her mittens on. There was a knock from the window at the side of the pavement next to her. She ignored it, assuming that it was from kids taking the mickey out of her. The knock happened again and then again. She took a breath and turned to look. Instead of kids leering out of the window at her and puffing out their cheeks as if to mock her BMI, there were Rosie and Rachel sat at a table, smiling at her and waving at her to come on in.
She checked behind her to make sure that they were not motioning to someone else and then smiled back at them and hurried round to the café door.
“Hi,” Rosie called over, “we saw you looking a bit cold, so we thought that you’d be better off in here with us drinking hot chocolate! Want one?” and they held out ridiculously large mugs topped with whipped cream, marshmallows and shakings of cocoa powder.
“Thanks, actually I would,” she grinned and self-consciously slipped into a chair beside Rachel.
The waiter came over and Rosie giggled at him, “I think our friend wants one too – I think we need to be on commission! Perhaps I should get mine for free?”
“No,” replied Rachel, “it was my suggestion. I’ll get mine for free and maybe Rosie can have another marshmallow or something…”
The waiter laughed. “Perhaps I can stretch to a free marshmallow all round. What colour would you like? Pink or white? I’ll just run it past my boss…”
The girls laughed and Louisa laughed too. She soon struggled out of her coat and all her wrappings and enjoyed the humid warmth of the café. It was somewhere she’d never been before, thinking it was a bit of a ham, egg and chips with a mug of tea kind of place – and although she loved ham, egg and chips served with a mug of tea, her parents pretended not to, so she had taken on their thoughts on the subject.
She beamed at the words, our friend, and hugely enjoyed sitting at a table with Rosie and Rachel. In the corner, the waiter made her hot chocolate and then brought it over with a small saucer of extra marshmallows. “Ooh, thank you,” she smiled, “that looks good.”
“Best hot chocolate in town,” grinned the waiter.
“Only bloody hot chocolate in town,” said Rachel.
The girls carried on chattering about nothing in particular and Louisa laughed with them and smiled and was even able to join in occasionally.
Sometimes she felt gauche; she wasn’t as good at flirting with the waiter as they were and she was unable to demand a further marshmallow as compensation for her chocolate being a bit cold, but Rosie and Rachel laughed at the prospect and she felt welcome as their guest.
She sat for ten minutes or so chatting about the course and answering their questions about what she did and did she like it and why the hell did she live there and such like. She remembered what she had read about in one of Doreen’s magazines about if you are feeling shy in company to ask questions back.
She was halfway down her hot chocolate when Rachel looked at her watch. “Shit! I’m gonna be late; Rosie, we’d better go.” Warning bells rang in Louisa’s mind – they had seen her coming and were going to leave her with the bill…
“Sorry, Lulu, we’ve got to go; I’ve got to get Rachel back for half past. Shit, we’ll have to dash – look, nice to see you again and we’ll catch up with you again soon, yeah?”
Louisa felt sick; it was back to being taken for a fool. “Er, OK,” she stammered, “no problem.” Should she ask whether they’d paid? Should she offer to pay anyway and thus dispel any embarrassment or should she jump up and say that she had to rush too and therefore the waiter would have to collect the money when they were all on the premises.
She looked into the remains of her hot chocolate to try and take hold of herself whilst she decided how to make a stand. Just as she had decided that the best thing might be to pretend she was in a rush too as she had some more mates to call on, Rachel called over the waiter, her voice muffled through her scarf.
“Off ladies?” he asked as he arrived at their table.
“Just us two I think,” replied Rosie, “are you staying here to finish your hot chocolate, Lulu?”
Louisa’s heart leapt. “Only if I can have another marshmallow…” she smiled and the others all laughed.
“Here,” said Rosie, handing the waiter a ten-pound note, “my shout – for all three. I was paid on Friday, so you might as well have it whilst it’s there – next week, I’ll be back to climbing out of the toilet window.”
“Thanks,” replied Rachel.
“No, no, I can’t possibly let you pay for mine,” began Louisa, “here, how much was it?” and she fumbled in her coat for her purse.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rosie, “my treat – you can get the next one!”
“Thank you! I will, yes, I’ll get the next one.” They waved to her and scuttled out of the door and the waiter chattered as he gathered their mugs and wiped their spillages from the table.
“Take your time,” he smiled, “the bottom half of a hot chocolate is always the best…” and off he went to the kitchen, collecting a few stray teaspoons and a mug from another table as he went.
Louisa glowed. She sat at her table watching the townspeople scurrying by along the pavement outside and she finally felt as if she were one of them.
All her life she had felt on the outside of any group activity. As a child, she had assumed that she must be more fragile, a bit more poorly a bit more often than the other children. She was the one who would have to forgo birthday parties as she had a bit of a temperature, when other children would have made any fever better through the medium of jelly and screaming games.
She was never allowed out after dark, or when it was too cold. She must have been more delicate as cold apparently went to her chest, yet didn’t bother going to the other kids’ chests. Saying that, she had rarely been taken to the doctors.
She had never really been bullied, more just ignored as the sap in the corner who wasn’t much fun.
As an adult it was easier. You made your own choices about what you did and you didn’t need to give a flimsy note to a teacher who would raise her eyebrow and look over her glasses at her and say things like, “Louisa can’t do the sponsored walk because she has a sore foot, eh? Which foot is sore, Louisa? I haven’t seen you limping?”
“My dad thinks it’s too far, Miss.”
“Does he indeed…”
As an adult you just didn’t put your name on the list in the first place.
She’d never really been pestered by a bloke – well, maybe Overbearing Charles occasionally at the golfie, but he was more of a bore than a letch. She wouldn’t be confident enough to tell someone that they were boring her now and could they move on to the next poor soul please, as Rosie had apparently done on Friday night. Instead, she would be the one being chatted to all night about football knowing inside that the bloke was so pissed he wouldn’t remember if she were rude to him or not by the morning.
Her warm glow began to slip and she started to feel – what? Angry? No, perhaps not that strongly. Cross? Yes, cross. She instinctively knew that her father’s limitations for her had been something to do with getting one over on her mother, rather than it being simply for her safety and well-being, but she had never understood the reason. So, was it her dad’s fault that she had no social skills? Or maybe it was her mum’s fault? Was all that rushing around with no thought for her family really such a bad thing? Louisa had always assumed that it was, but act
ually was helping a few neighbours in need really so terrible?
The sad thing was, that regardless of any initial unhelpfulness, Louisa was very aware that, as an adult, it was now officially her problem. Her responsibility, her loss if she didn’t get it sorted. She felt as if she were at the beginning of a mammoth task, with a sofa waiting comfortably at her side in case she stumbled and fell.
CHAPTER 12
Blingo hwch â chyllell bren – to skin a sow with a wooden knife (to attempt the impossible)
Sima pulled her office chair to her desk and lifted the lid from the Carrot and Orange Sunrise that she had just bought from the juice bar on the corner. She checked her schedule on her Blackberry®, already knowing that she had fifteen minutes before her next appointment arrived. Sophia Barnard was fifty, recently left by her husband and in need of re-invention. Well, she’d be coming to the right place.
Sima had so many recently-divorced fifty-somethings on her books that she had devised a programme especially for them: weight loss, new haircut, move from family home to riverside flat, shopping and researching the viability of running their own business in something completely different to their previous job. Twenty sessions for starters, plus ten per cent of any personal shopping done through her recommended outlet, her personal trainer or her hairdresser.
The phone rang out just as she was trying to determine one of the lesser flavours in her juice.
“Good morning, Sima Arshad.”
“Oh, hello. Sima?” came a nervous little voice.
“Yes, good morning?”
“My name is Menna Edwards; you may not remember me, I’m a friend of Joe’s – we met at the pub that time? In Bwlch y Garreg?” The Welsh accent brought a red-faced woman with a rugby shirt tucked into her jeans to Sima’s mind.
“Hello, Menna – yes, of course I remember you! How are you?”
Cold Enough to Freeze Cows Page 11