Cold Enough to Freeze Cows

by Lorraine Jenkin

  “Oh, let me,” said Katie and she took Esther’s letter from her and added it to a pile pulled out from her pocket, “I have to go too; I forgot on the way past.”

  “But…”

  “It’s no trouble, really! I’ll see you soon for that coffee. Bye for now!” and Katie trotted lightly up the hill, her head down into the sleet and her heels defying the slippery road.

  Esther watched Katie, her hand still out as if trying for a second chance to hold on tighter to the envelope, feeling a little out of control. What if Katie just got round the corner, then opened it and read it? What if she didn’t ever post it, but instead took it home and kept it behind her mantelpiece clock for a year and then sent it? Damn her and her skipping heels…

  Katie trotted up the hill, not noticing the exercise and glad to be able to do something to help her new neighbour. As she neared the postbox, she saw the post van screech to a halt beside it. A man in short trousers jumped out of the van and jogged to the box, his keys rattling in his hand.

  “Coo-ee!” she called and waved her pile of letters in the air. She was out of breath now and walked the last twenty yards. “Thank you for waiting,” she puffed, “I needed to get these in tonight. Oh, look – I’ve got them wet, and I’ve smudged the address on this one. Damn, and it’s from my neighbour too! Can you still read it, do you think?”

  “The – Crusty – Bun – yes, that’s fine, I can read that – it’ll be on my round anyway! Right, best get going: I’m bloody freezing in these shorts!”

  “I’m not surprised!” said Katie, clearly bewildered at his attire. “Thanks then, and goodbye!” and she clattered off back down the hill, her curls now bedraggled and her shoes squelching a little.

  Esther stood in darkness, watching from the window of her lounge. She had a feeling of impending doom. At last she recognised her letters for what they were – spiteful and cowardly and revenge taken on the wrong people. Jan Crusty Bun hadn’t left ironed shirts in a pile on the chair, any more than she’d shaved her stubble off over Esther’s toothbrush. She should have been shouting at Louisa and David, but instead she’d taken her frustrations out on innocent people who were just trying to earn an honest living.

  Was it because she had secretly thought that she would be the one running a successful business in town and that in her establishment there would never have been dead flies left lying amongst the stock? Because she would have cleaned even the darkest of corners, is that why she felt it acceptable to criticise others who didn’t?

  She realised, sadly, that for twenty-odd years she had harboured a vision of a white shop housing a series of gleaming white display units with beautifully-made ceramic bowls or vases perched on top of them.

  She would spend her days dressed in a painty kaftan and with a scarf wrapped around her hair – which highlighted the ageing of her dream – turning pots in the workshop in the back of the building and then firing them in her kiln. She would then sit in the shop window and paint delicate designs over her work and people would watch from the pavement in awe and then pop in, saying that they just had to buy one.

  The trouble was that she had never made a pot… Never painted anything more elaborate other than a picture of a rainbow alongside the child Louisa. She had no money to buy a kiln and no idea of how they worked. She had never looked into premises, business rates, taxation or the position of ceramics on the shopping lists of the average Tan-y-Bryn citizen.

  It was far easier to criticise everyone else’s efforts, but these were the people who had tried to make their dreams come to fruition. They had taken gambles and opened cafés, hairdressing salons and grocery shops. They had done their market research and learnt their trade. Even if they hadn’t got their table legs all the same length, at least they had table legs. She’d done nothing but legitimise her procrastinations: Louisa was too small. The dog needed walking around the block twice a day. The house needed a Hoover-through. She’d had a stroke.

  The irony of the stroke was that of course, that did provide a legitimate excuse for not pursuing her plans. Even the most dedicated artist might find it difficult to make and decorate ceramic pots with her disabilities, but because she’d never tried it, she had never actually found out.

  Even now, she’d put it off again in order to write some spiteful letters. If she’d spent her time phoning up about ceramics or fine art courses, rather than writing to people about their pinnies, she might by now be on her way to an evening course. Instead, she was more likely to be on her way to gaol…

  Louisa slipped through the door of Chez Nous and started leafing through the sale rail. She slid hangers along the rail, noting, but not inspired by the clothing on it.

  “Can I help?” asked the shop assistant who’d mocked elasticated waistbands on Louisa’s previous visit.

  “Um, just looking thanks…”

  “Well if you need anything…” she murmured as she glided back across the room to her other customer who was struggling in the changing room.

  “Do you have the silver one in a size ten?” Louisa heard a voice call from behind the curtain and then she saw Rachel’s face popping round the curtain, waving a black top at the assistant. “Oh, hi again, Lulu! Out shopping?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a, er, date tomorrow night and I thought I might get a new pair of trousers – jeans, y’know.”

  “Wow, lucky you! A date, hey? Yeah, you’ve got to get a new something for a date; it helps you feel all special!”

  The black top was swapped for a silver one and put on. Rachel came out and stood in front of Louisa and the assistant; she looked stunning. She looked at herself in the mirror, “Hmm, don’t know. What d’ya think?”

  “Perfect,” purred the assistant automatically.

  “You look fantastic,” whispered Louisa, almost in awe of how the halter neck top looked on her new friend.

  “Thanks! Well, in which case, I’ll have it! We’re all going out tomorrow and I wanted to wear something a bit more, y’know, special?” She quickly got changed again and then dumped the top on the counter and the assistant started to pack it. “So, Lulu, what are you looking at?”

  “Oh, I’ve only just started looking,” said Lulu, walking away from the sale rail.

  “Jeans is it? What about these? They’re nice,” and Rachel pulled out a pair of ripped jeans with a low waist. Louisa knew that if she bought them, she would need to buy some new underwear as well as her pants would be visible for at least six inches above the waist. And also a flesh-coloured girdle.

  “Umm…”

  “Or these, these are a bit more – classy,” and a pair of indigo jeans were pulled out. “They would look really good with those great boots you had on the other night – really funky.”

  Louisa walked over to them. “Yeah, actually they’re really nice!” She desperately looked for a size label; she certainly wouldn’t be shouting for a pair in size ten. To her relief, there was a row of the same jeans all in different sizes.

  “Go on, try these on whilst I pay for that top! See what they look like!”

  Louisa grabbed a pair of the size she thought she might in her wildest dreams be, a pair in the same size as her elasticated-waist jeans and then a more realistic allowing her to eat a pudding size, and nipped into the changing room.

  She put the largest size on as quickly as possible, desperately hoping that Rachel wasn’t the kind of shopping friend who was so confident with her own body that she would whip the curtain open, regardless of the occupant’s state of dress. Luckily she wasn’t and Louisa had a few moments on her own to get used to the idea of the jeans. They were – nice. They looked – OK.

  She opened the curtain and stepped out. “What do you think?” she asked shyly. Rachel and the shop assistant stopped what they were doing and looked her up and down. “I know they won’t look great with my work blouse,” smiled Louisa.

  “No, nothing would look good with that much nylon.”

  “Turn around,” said Rachel. Louisa did
what she was told, hoping that no one would mutter, “Jee-sus” when they saw the size of her arse. They didn’t.

  “They’re really nice,” said Rachel in a considered way. “And they would look good with those boots. What do you think?” she asked the shop assistant.

  “Perfect…”

  “What top will you be wearing?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a top sorted. A red one. A low-necked red one.”

  “Atta girl! What about accessories?”

  “Oh. Don’t know.”

  Rachel picked a chunky string of indigo coloured beads from the rack. “What about something like this? It would link the top and the bottom together?” Rachel was the queen of accessories and it was a lovely piece.

  “I really like that,” said Louisa. “Right. I’ll have the jeans and the necklace!”

  “Good for you!” called Rachel as Louisa ducked back into the changing room and the shop assistant upped her tempo as five-thirty neared. “Anyway, who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Well, not met him yet” Louisa said from behind the curtain, “I, er, met him online!”

  “Wow! You’re brave! Sorry, Lulu, I’ve got to rush off again, but have a great time – and, look, a few of us are going to the Dog and Duck before we get picked up for a party at about eleven. There won’t be room on the bus for the party, I’m afraid, but if the date is naff and finishes before then, call in for a drink! Let us know how it went!”

  “Thanks! Thanks for the offer – I might do – if it is naff.” She actually hoped that she would be walking hand in hand along a moonlit riverside path after the meal, but it was nice to have a backup plan.

  She paid for her goods with a big smile on her face. “Have a good night,” the assistant said in an unconvincing monotone as she prepared to lock the door and turn the sign the millisecond that Louisa was over the threshold.

  Louisa nearly danced down the pavement to her car – new clothes, the possibility of looking funky, accessories, and a backup plan that involved going to a pub to meet some friends! Fantastic! Maybe, finally, she was actually sorting her self out – and her dad hadn’t organised any of it!

  CHAPTER 31

  Chwain y gof - the blacksmith’s fleas (the sparks from an anvil)

  It was Friday morning and the Crusty Bun was having a mid-morning freshening up. A broom swept most of the crumbs and fluff off the floor and pushed the rest into the corners for the mythical pixie that would surely come and finish that bit properly later. The proprietress, Jan, wiped a cloth over most of the surfaces, swerving not so neatly around the tray of bagged doughnuts, five for a pound, on top of the counter.

  Sally their delivery driver pulled up in her white van outside and Jan went to greet her. “OK? All done?”

  “Yes, all fine,” called Sally, opening the back doors and grabbing the massive bread trays.

  “Stick them there,” said Jan, pointing to the shop floor, “I’ll just go and make room for them out the back.”

  Sally grabbed the trays two at a time and clattered them onto the tiles. Then she grabbed the broom and went to sweep out the back of the van.

  A lady wearing a black shiny coat with brilliant white spots on it walked into the shop and pulled her belt tighter around her waist in the attempt to keep the warmth around her.

  “I’ll be there now!” called a voice from the back.

  “No rush; I shall just enjoy browsing!” the smart lady called back. She stood by the trays on the floor, her black patent shoes on tip toes to allow her to peer over them into the counter.

  There was a noise behind her and she turned to see a postman with purple-blue legs encased in thick woolly socks walking in. She smiled and turned back to observing the cakes, then turned back to him, having remembered who he was. “Hello again,” she smiled and he nodded to her as he assessed the clutter on the floor.

  Jan came back into the shop, wiping her hands on her pinny. “Sorry about that. Now: how can I help you? Oh, hi, Tommy, do you want to pass those over?”

  “Here, let me,” said Katie and she took the small pile of post from Tommy to pass over the trays to Jan. “Oh, look!” she exclaimed, looking at the top letter in the stack, “isn’t that funny! Here is the one I gave to you last night – look, there’s where I smudged the ink! How strange is that; I could have kept it, steamed the stamp off and brought it with me this morning!”

  “Don’t do that,” Tommy said, “you’ll have me out of a job!”

  Sally came into the shop. “Sorry, folks, let me just move those from the floor, get them out of your way. Hi, Tommy, cup of hot chocolate for you? You must be bloody freezing!”

  “I am, and yes please,” he grinned, adding to Katie, “this is the real reason I wear shorts – people who own cafés take pity on me!”

  “Ooh, hot chocolate; that sounds perfect,” said Katie, “just what I need in this weather.”

  “Well, sit yourselves down and I’ll get you both one if you like,” Sally said and motioned them to the small tables in the corner.

  “Wonderful,” said Katie and sat down, removing her coat and revealing a black woollen dress.

  The trays were moved away and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate were brought in, their sides sticky with overflowing milk. Sally stood chatting to Tommy whilst Jan had another whip around with a cloth and then started on her pile of post. She was clearly intrigued by the envelope with the ink stain on the front and so opened it first.

  She read it with a growing frown on her face and her eyes jumped back to the beginning a couple of times. She considered it, re-read it, then tossed it to Sally. “Read that,” she said, then watched Sally’s face as she too read it with increasing incredulity.

  “Bloody hell!” Sally exploded when she reached the end. “Someone was in a bad mood!” She tossed it onto the table, and then looked at the woman in the black dress. “Hang on, you said you posted this – you wrote this? And you sit there, drinking my hot chocolate after you wrote us this?” and she pushed the letter towards her.

  “Oh no,” Katie said, “it’s not from me; I posted it for my neighbour…” but she picked up the letter all the same and read it:

  Dear Proprietor,

  I am writing this with the best intentions to tell you about your shop. Sometimes I believe that it is useful for a purveyor to know how their customers see it. I hope that you will find it constructive and helpful.

  Your shop is filthy and the corners are full of flies. The bread is hard, the croissants are stale and the bread puddings are days old. Your pinnies are stained and your fingernails need trimming. You chatter away to people when you have customers patiently waiting and the handles on your carrier bags rip or cut into your customers’ hands.

  As I said previously please be sure to take this in the constructive manner it was intended.

  With very best wishes,

  A loyal customer

  By now, Jan had tears rolling down her face and Sally stood to give her a hug. “Take no notice,” she said, “it’s spiteful and cruel.” She turned to Katie. “I think you’d better go now, please.”

  Katie looked horrified, “No, no, you don’t understand. I said that this isn’t from me; it’s from my neighbour. It was sleeting and the post was due, so I took it from her and ran. You remember,” she turned to Tommy, “I’d smudged the address with my thumb from the sleet and asked you if you could still read it.”

  “It’s true,” Tommy said, distracted as he too was now reading the letter. “Yeah, she did say she was posting it on behalf of a neighbour. Bloody hell,” he said as he passed it back to Jan, “she must have had a jam-less doughnut…”

  “Or a Chelsea Bun with no currants in…” Sally said, beginning to smile.

  “Yeah, or even a ham roll with no ham – or roll…” Jan said dryly.

  “Seriously though,” Tommy said, “I’d take that to the police. Ask this lady to write a statement; I will as well if it helps. Was it Esther Harrison?” he turned to Katie.

 
; “I don’t know her name – fifty-ish, with a stick?”

  “Yeah, that’ll be Esther. No one else really lives there in Anweledig anymore. Well, well, I didn’t think she was the type. Got to report it though – been a few sent out and they’re terribly upsetting for people. And gives us posties a bad name, you know, shooting the messenger and all that. Right,” he said, reluctantly standing up and grabbing his keys, “thank you very much for that; let me know if you need anything, OK?”

  Jan and Sally nodded and they all watched as he left the shop, the hairs standing straight out on his mottled legs. Katie finished her hot chocolate and stood up, reaching for her purse. “Do you want to go to the police?” she asked quietly, “my car’s outside – I can take you now if you want?”

  Jan looked at Sally. “Yeah, you go, my love,” Sally said, “I can look after here. Shop the nasty old bitch. Dirty floors – bollocks! Mind, saying that, maybe that corner is a tiny bit grubby…”

  The post dropped through Esther’s door just as she was vacuuming the hall carpet for the fifth time that week. Sometimes she would relish having a few bits on the carpet – made it more rewarding to make it clean again; vacuuming was pointless when you couldn’t see where you’d been.

  She clocked the two-for-one offers from the supermarket and the double-glazing leaflets on the mat, cursing that she’d have to make the journey to the recycling bin in the back porch. She gathered together the rest of the letters scattered across the mat and set off towards the kitchen.

  On the top of the pile was a strangely-shaped quality cream envelope with beautiful handwriting scribed across the front, addressed to Mr and Mrs Harrison. It was thick and had the look of a wedding invitation: they hadn’t been to a wedding in years and it would be just what they needed.