Cold Enough to Freeze Cows

by Lorraine Jenkin

  Poor Harry? thought David, what about poor David? Homeless, probably soon to be jobless and with a wife that hated him. If she were really that bothered about poor bloody Harry, she surely wouldn’t have been here in the first place either…

  Louisa stood in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of her wardrobe door and turned to the side. That red top – why had she said that she’d definitely wear it? If only she’d double-checked it first. When she’d last worn it, it had looked quite nice, floating comfortably over her stomach and hips. Now it clung a bit, settling around her rounded stomach and then sitting, as if resting on a ledge, on top of her hips. Bloody Mum; she must have put it on too hot a wash or something; she was sure that she hadn’t gotten any plumper – not much, anyway.

  Where the hell was Esther anyway? And her dad? She wouldn’t have wanted them fawning around her, making a fuss about her date – it was only a date after all, but it would have been nice if they could have taken a bit of interest, reassured her that she looked OK and that she’d be fine.

  She hung the top back on the hanger next to her new jeans and went for a shower. She still had two hours to go, but she didn’t want to be in a rush.

  Esther stood at the front desk of the draughty police station while the duty sergeant took all her details. Finally she was offered a seat where she sat and stared at the patchwork of posters that covered the wall, stating the obvious: don’t drink and drive, say no to drugs, don’t be so bloody stupid as to write malicious letters…

  She was shivering from the cold, but also shaking from the various shocks of the day. She felt sick and didn’t know what to do. She would normally phone David. Yet, how could she ask him to prise his penis out of Diane Dawson and come and rescue her from a cell for doing something so unpleasant. When he finds out, he’ll probably be relieved to be able to correct people and say, “No, you mean my estranged wife: we’re not together anymore. I’m now called Scamper and live in my daughter’s flat with a whore.”

  She’d watched The Bill enough times; she should know by now what would be happening, but she felt like a small child sat outside the headmistress’s office. She knew she was going to get told off, but had no idea as to how bad it would be. The clock on the wall ticked to 6.30, then 7 p.m.

  “They won’t be long now,” the duty sergeant had called to her a couple of times but she knew it was a tactic to make her sweat, to wear her down – and it was working. The one consolation was that Louisa had her date tonight and wouldn’t need anything to eat – otherwise, she’d probably have phoned the police by now out of sheer indignation at being left to her own devices. Esther had turned her phone off; she didn’t feel like talking to anyone or answering any questions as to where she was and why.

  She felt like she’d had enough of other people’s input. She knew she shouldn’t be here. She knew she shouldn’t have done what she’d done. Thinking about it, she realised that she’d been feeling manipulated for nigh on the past twenty years and it had all finally boiled over into something stupid, nasty and vindictive.

  She tried to think of the last time that she’d not felt like pulling her hair out. It was probably when Louisa was young, before she’d gotten swept up in her do-gooding, as David used to call it. Before that moment she’d felt like she had a good balance in her life. She enjoyed her job and working just three days a week allowed her plenty of time with Louisa, but still a little autonomy.

  Then, just as she was thinking it was time to put her ceramics plans into action, her phone had begun to ring. Was there any chance she could just pop to number 23? Margaret had taken a fall and needed some shopping. Of course she could. Before long, it seemed that her phone number had been stuck on a card in a phone box, but instead of saying “Oral sex given, 24 hours”, it said, “Domestic and emergency help given for free; no advance notice needed. Please feel free to take the piss.”

  She knew that she had been doing more than her fair share and that it had extended beyond neighbourly helpfulness, but it was very difficult to say no. However, the do-gooding had started to cause a rift in her marriage. David began with little mutterings and tuts, then moved on to remonstrations and finally to asking her what sort of mother she was if she preferred sorting out Mavis Stratton’s fat-roll ulcers to supervising her own daughter’s progress in her spelling test.

  “Well, you’re here; Louisa does have you…” she would mumble, “if I hadn’t gone to Mavis tonight that dressing would be black by now and she’d be back in hospital…”

  “Maybe then someone would be able to give her the attention she needs!” he would yell in frustration.

  “But then I’d still have to look after her cat…” David would storm out and Esther would wash the dishes or get Louisa’s clothes ready for the next day in silence.

  As she sat on that hard chair in the police station, Esther tried to think about what benefits her charity had brought her. It was obvious really that David had as good as insisted that they move to Anweledig to call a halt to her constant running around. The irony was, of course, that her stroke would have stopped it anyway – and maybe she would have had a little of her investment in her neighbours paid back. It was as if the gods were about to take care of it, but David forgot to tell them he was making alternative plans and so she was given a stroke, but in a place where no one else lived, where she had no friends or support mechanisms and the bus only went past twice a day.

  The stroke had been a bolt from the blue. She’d always tried to look after herself; she’d never smoked and rarely indulged in anything that might encourage such a condition. Unlike the old guys, the ones whose pissy bathroom floors she’d been cleaning, who smoked twenty rollies a day, had thick butter on their toast and went down the Legion six nights a week for a few nips. It all seemed so unfair.

  The saving grace – if there could be such a thing – was that David was so good with Louisa. And what could she have said? She couldn’t have offered to do more herself, so it would have been a pretty pointless conversation.

  They’d never really spoken much about her stroke. Yes, they’d had conversations about the medical prognosis, the rehabilitation and the practicalities of general living, but they’d never really discussed how it made her feel or what he thought about it. It was as if they were living with a diseased dog – there was lots of debate about how to keep the sofa clean, but not a lot about having a dog in the house in the first place.

  “They really won’t be long now,” said the duty sergeant as he walked past with a tray filled with steaming cups of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Esther only just managed to stop herself bursting into tears and pleading for a cuppa herself…

  Menna stood in the shower and let the water flow over her. Her face was turned to the showerhead as she rinsed the day’s grime from her body. She had her hair slathered in deep conditioner, she had already shaved her legs and had removed all the old nail varnish from her toenails. Her bathroom was wonderfully warm and Marvin Gaye was being piped out from the speaker in the corner. It was as if all the pampering that she had given herself in this room over the months had been just a trial run: this time other people were going to see the outcome.

  She was nervous about the night ahead. She was nervous about her new dress and she was nervous about how she was going to manage to walk in her new shoes. “Wear them about the house for a couple of weeks,” Sima had suggested, “you’ll soon get used to them!” But what if people laughed at her? What if her efforts made her look worse than usual? What if Iestyn preferred her dressed as a waiter?

  Tonight felt as if it were the start of a new chapter in her life. She felt like a caterpillar that was starting to nibble through her chrysalis. Sima had said to just act as she normally did. Accept the compliments, as there were sure to be dozens, and take them all in her stride. “People will no doubt look at you, but if you act as if, well of course I look beautiful tonight; it’s a big party then you won’t feel uncomfortable. Make it their big deal, not yours.
And just enjoy it; it’s all going to be fine!”

  At last she was free from soap suds and so she stepped from the shower, wrapping herself in a huge towel and then sitting on the chair. She had plenty of time and she wanted to get everything right. Make-up first, then hair, then finally dress. And what of Iestyn? Was he going to look all dashing and suave in his dad’s funeral suit again, or would Joe have brought him something else to wear? Would he seek her out, or would he be too busy at the bar?

  She felt that after the cringing lunch that he’d had at her parents’ place and the fact that he was so embarrassed and desperate to explain about the rabbit ears night, that surely he must fancy her? She knew that he had in the past and – well, she’d blown him away for reasons that he would never know – so, maybe tonight, she might be able to take another step towards re-kindling something?

  Softened by body lotion, she stepped into her bedroom and sat down at her dressing table.

  In the Bevan household, things were a little more confused than usual. Joe and Sima had their party clothes all ready in a plastic travel sleeve, but Sima wouldn’t let them be put on until the last minute. “They’ll be filthy in no time,” she’d glared at Joe as she sat with her face perfectly made up and her rollers still in, wearing a pair of jeans and a button-down-the-front blouse.

  Tomos was still in the far barn and hadn’t been seen for hours. Isla was running round in an ancient dressing gown muttering, “Where the hell is he? Why’s he taking so long? Iestyn, love, go and find him. Tell him to get his skates on, we’ll never get there at this rate – and he should really have a shower too before he goes…”

  “Should?” laughed Joe. “Even Dad can’t go to a dinner covered in cow shit and straw, surely! I’ll go and find him; Iestyn’s on a date, he can’t risk being late and keeping a lady waiting.”

  Sima glowered at him, “Don’t you dare get stuck into something. Promise me? Promise!”

  “It’s OK, I’ll just wander over and drag him back by his wellies – although he did ask for a bit of help with that tractor gearbox… Only joking,” he laughed, hands held up and he grabbed his coat and the torch and barged out of the door into the night.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Sima, love, what is it about men that they can’t get themselves ready for a simple night out? Now,” she said, before Sima could reply, “where on earth might my best shoes be? I was certain that I put them back in the box after last year’s dance…” Sima rolled her eyes: she thought the Bevans were wonderful people, but my goodness they were useless at some things…

  *

  “Mrs Harrison?” PC Taylor put her head round a door. “Would you like to come in now? We’re ready for you.” Esther nodded and got to her feet. Her leg was aching from the strain of so much more walking than she usually did and also the effect of all the stresses on her soul that day. She was sat at a cold table next to a draughty window overlooking the car compound. She could see the backs of the properties that lined Market Street. Louisa would be making her way to the retaurant pretty soon. Esther was sure that the red glow from one of the windows would be the back rooms of the China Palace.

  Sitting across the table from Esther was a smartly-dressed man in his fifties and also PC Jan Taylor. Esther was cold, she needed the toilet and she was desperate for a cup of tea, but she didn’t feel that any of her requests would be looked on favourably.

  PC Taylor turned the tape player on to record and stated the circumstances of the interview. The smart man turned out to be Detective Arnold. Esther was reminded that she wasn’t arrested, but under caution. Her miserable nods were pounced on with a “Please speak up for the benefit of the tape.”

  “Right then, Mrs Harrison, what’s been going on?”

  “What do you mean?” Letters? Affairs? Useless daughter? “Mrs Harrison, we have twenty-seven malicious letters in our possession all posted from within Tan-y-Bryn to properties within the Tan-y-Bryn area…”

  “Twenty-seven?” Esther was flabbergasted: she’d only written, what twelve, thirteen tops!

  “Yes, although we don’t believe that they are all from the same person, Tan-y-Bryn seems to have, I am afraid to say, a bedrock of spiteful people who, once the idea was put into their minds, found it the ideal outlet for their small-minded prejudices.” PC Taylor shuffled a pile of bagged letters, all individually labelled. “And yours, Mrs Harrison, we believe started it all off.” She found a plastic wallet with Esther’s first letter to the Tasty Bite Café. Esther went pale.

  “Envelope A11. One of yours?”

  Esther nodded, tears now rolling down her face.

  “For the tape, please, Mrs Harrison.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this one, A12?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this, A13?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about these two, A15 and A16?”

  Esther didn’t recognise the font or the pink paper. “No, those aren’t mine.”

  “Didn’t think so…”

  The list continued and Esther winced her way through it, now aware of the human misery that she had caused; a café closed with a hardworking couple losing their livelihood, a family moving house, a hairdresser unable to work because of OCD.

  When she could bear no more, Esther picked her bag from the back of her chair. “I received some too…” she whispered. The PC and the detective exchanged smirks and Esther wished she’d kept quiet.

  “The other is at home…” she said.

  “Mrs Harrison is handing over a letter,” said PC Taylor for the tape, but Esther could see that she couldn’t wait to read it. The WPC read it out for the tape, knowing that she was delighting the man at her side. Esther suspected that this could well be the lowest point in her whole life.

  CHAPTER 32

  Taflu’r llo a chadw’r brych – to throw the calf and keep the afterbirth

  The Lamp had done itself as proud as it was ever likely to bother to do; the floor tiles were shining as throngs of people in out of date finery hurried into the hall. The air was filled with the sound of farming ladies used to wearing plenty of layers, now having to suffer with naught but a sequined shrug to protect themselves from the chill, and gents whose dress shoes wouldn’t fit over their usual two pairs of woollen socks. Although the snow was thawing fast, there was still a biting wind to whip up under their net petticoats or through the cloth of their threadbare party and funeral trousers.

  “Blo-ody hell, it’s cold out there!”

  “Evan! Language!”

  “Well,” now a whisper, “it bloody is…”

  “Jee-sus, there’ll be brass monkeys with no bollocks all over tonight!”

  “Hywel! Please! You said you’d behave!”

  “Sorry, love, but there will be.”

  “Fuck it’s cold.”

  “Yeah, it fuckin’ is.”

  Menna’s parents, as usual, had been the first to arrive. When an invite said seven o’clock, they would be there at seven o’clock. It meant that they had plenty of time to look around, comment on everything, and to welcome every single person into the large hall.

  “Evening, Alice, cold tonight!”

  “Evening, Cled, cold enough for you?”

  “Evening, Alun, cold, eh?” And so on.

  To her mother’s dismay, Menna hadn’t wanted to travel with them. “But, Menna – it says seven o’clock, look!”

  “Mam, that’s just a guide. No-one’ll be expecting you to be there at precisely that time.”

  “But, Menna, you don’t want to be late…”

  “Mam, m’n, I’ll follow you down. Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”

  Menna had been getting more and more cagey about what she revealed to her mother recently. She’d shrugged when Jean had asked her what she was wearing. She hadn’t let her iron it, whatever it was and she’d resisted her calls to “hang all our things up together”, or “put them next to each other to make sure we won’t clash.”

  “W
e won’t, Mam, don’t worry,” Menna had grumbled.

  She was up to something, Jean thought. She would never normally hide outfits or keep secrets.

  “I’ll follow you over in the truck,” she’d said. Follow them over! What point was there in that? An extra ten miles in diesel – twenty if you included fetching the truck the next day if she decided to have a couple of drinks and get a lift back with them. Madness!

  Jean loved the Annual Sheep Breeders’ Dinner. It was her one glamorous occasion of the year and she wouldn’t miss it for the world. It was a last fling before the onslaught of lambing, which kept people tied to their farms for a good six weeks. It was the chance to meet up with all her neighbours and have a good old chinwag and to catch up on the gossip of the last year. Jean was a sociable person, but she worked too hard to spend much time visiting people or going out for lunch with friends. Ladies that lunch? Not her: more like a lady that washes, irons, bakes, cleans, feeds, mucks out and makes sure that all around her have everything they need to go about their jobs on the farm.

  The hall was filling up. Jean was getting a bit nervous; if Menna didn’t arrive soon, she’d be late and there’d be nowhere for her to sit and she, Jean, couldn’t hang on to an empty seat all night as they were trying to sit opposite the Burtons…

  Iestyn stood in front of his mirror frowning. He was dressed in one of Joe’s shirts with a pair of Joe’s jeans on. He had Joe’s silk socks on, last winter’s good shoes and Sima had even thrown him a pair of Joe’s Calvin Klein boxers “in case you get lucky!” She might have been joking, but he’d popped them on anyway and they were a hundred times more attractive than his old raggedy turquoise ones…

  He’d had a haircut and Sima had slicked his hair into shape with some hair wax that gave results a million miles from those he used to get from the dusty can of mousse on the bathroom windowsill.