by Rebecca Bryn
The door gave with a splintering crash and the two men were engulfed by billowing smoke. Nerys’ voice sounded clear in her mind. Rhiannon, these men are innocent.
Her smile faded. No-one had believed Nerys innocent. She hurried forward shrugging off Non’s restraining hand. She should be seen to show concern. A siren sounded, coming ever closer. Cottage windows reflected blue flashes amid the flames as the engine swept onto the green.
A fire-fighter took control. ‘Keep back, stay right back. Is anyone inside?’
‘My husband, Martin…’ Non’s voice was a scream.
Elin Davis echoed her. ‘And Stuart. They went in to rescue Mair and Dai.’
Dai… she hadn’t even known Mair’s husband’s name. He’d been kind to her. Hoses unreeled across the lane: water gushed from nozzles. More innocents went through the front door into the house: the twelve’s fault, not hers. They’d brought this upon themselves.
Police cars and an ambulance sirened into the village. Paramedics rushed towards the burning house. Firemen in breathing apparatus helped figures from the smoke. Mair… Stuart… Paramedics stretchered them away: Harriet comforted Elin and Non. Where were Dai Parry and Martin Richards? She ran after Non and Elin to the shattered door, ignoring Harriet and the fireman calling them back.
Non stopped short of the door and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh my God…’
Non and Elin looked at one another, their eyes wide, their faces pale.
Non crossed herself hastily. ‘Siân… and now this.’
Harriet frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Non’s outstretched finger pointed at the sign of Kaunaz on the door, her voice shaky. ‘Oh, Lord, preserve us all… it’s begun again.’
Chapter Seven
Alana perched on the edge of the worse chair in the Edwardian terraced house in Leicester, did the sums and then did them again. One hundred and fifty thousand, plus fifteen thousand, came to one hundred and sixty five thousand. Twenty percent of that was thirty-three thousand plus another grand or so for solicitors fees and funeral expenses, or was that deducted from her hundred and sixty-five? How much was a funeral? Subtract the eight hundred Mr John still owed her for the painting, and add living expenses until she sold something else, or heaven forbid, was forced to find a job, a proper job… How the hell could she raise upward of thirty-five thousand pounds so she could keep The Haggard? Even Dad wouldn’t lend her that much, tourniquet-applied guilt, or not.
The spectre of Siân’s grave reminded her she’d made no attempt to contact him. She thumbed down to his mobile number, hoping she had enough credit left on hers: she’d run out of goodwill with her landline provider a week ago. ‘Dad… I wanted to say I’m sorry. I was upset. I need to talk to you.’
‘How’s your Mum?’
‘I haven’t seen her since before New Year… I’ve been away and my phone’s been cut off.’
‘I suppose you need money, again?’
‘Yes and no… well, mainly yes.’
The sigh sounded heartfelt. ‘You want me to come round?’
‘You don’t want me to meet your new woman? Where are you living, anyway?’
‘Her name’s Emma. I’ll be there in… say, half an hour? How much do you need? I can’t keep bailing you out now I’ve retired, Alana.’
‘I won’t always be a money-pit, Dad. I have great news… but I need a bit to tide me over. Call it an investment in my future.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll never change, Alana. I’ll see you in a while.’
She carried on packing canvases into boxes. If she could get a gallery interested in them she could raise a bit of cash, though it could take time. They weren’t the right subject to sell to tourists, so it was no good taking them with her to The Haggard; if she couldn’t sell them here, in Leicester, she might as well sacrifice them to the god of bonfires and second-rate artists.
The wearable contents of her wardrobe and drawers were crammed into one case. She was packing up and thinning out her life, the same as she’d done to Siân’s. Four bin bags were crushed into the wheelie bin by the front door, ready for the refuse men. All she had left to pack were last minute things and what little food was in the fridge. A knock came on her door. Her father’s smile swept away her doubts.
He negotiated the stack of bin bags and cases. ‘You going somewhere? More to the point, does your mother know?’
‘That tsunami is yet to be unleashed. I’m expecting a huge ice-shelf to detach from Antarctica in about four hours’ time.’
‘Ah. You’re doing the right thing, Alana… I know it isn’t easy but there was never going to be a right time, was there? Where are you going?’
‘I’ve come into money… sort of… Aunt Siân left me The Haggard, her cottage in Pembrokeshire. Painting there is going to be fantastic, Dad.’
Dad turned a pale shade and sank into the worse chair with a wince. ‘Why the hell did she have to do that? Alana, you mustn’t go there… Please, sweetheart, promise me you won’t go there.’
‘I’ve already been. The house is run down but… it has character. It’s an investment. The only trouble is I have to find thirty… thirty-five thousand pounds to pay Mr John’s twenty percent.’
‘Who’s Mr John?’
‘The heir finder. He gets twenty percent for finding me.’
‘How… I wish he hadn’t. Jesus, Alana, you have no idea.’
‘Mum wouldn’t tell me what happened. Why she never talked about Aunt Siân. If you’re so dead set against me keeping The Haggard, why don’t you fill me in?’
‘You don’t want to know, really you don’t.’
‘That’s what Mum said. Come on Dad, I’m a big girl now.’
‘Then why don’t you damn well act like it? Don’t think I’m giving you thirty-five thousand pounds for that place.’
‘Please, Dad.’
‘You might as well ask for a million… and no bank will lend you a penny without a proper job. That village… that woman… they ruined our marriage.’ He rubbed a hand over his brow. ‘We had to cut Siân out of our lives, had to… It’s an evil place. Sell The Haggard and be rid of it. Please, Alana, promise me. For once in your life do as I ask and don’t go back there.’
She pushed away the uneasy memory of a soft tapping in the night, and the dream of gravestones. Just an overactive imagination, like Dad’s. ‘Dad, please… This is my future you’re asking me to sacrifice. You have no idea how I feel about living there… how it inspires me. I can be everything you ever wanted for me there. I know I can.’
He held his head in his hands and muttered beneath his breath. ‘I never wanted…’
He thought she hadn’t heard? ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘You never wanted what? Never wanted me to succeed? Never wanted…’ That child… ‘Me? That’s it, isn’t it? You never wanted me. Is that why you won’t lend me the cash?’
‘It’s not like that…’
‘But you won’t lend me the cash… You don’t believe in me. What kind of father doesn’t believe in his own daughter?’ His eyes shone with tears. She’d gone too far, way too far, but she couldn’t stop: that child… the rows, the silences, suddenly made sense. ‘You’re not… are you… you’re not my father.’
‘I always loved you. I always will.’ He closed his eyes, as if willing himself anywhere but with her. ‘No… I’m not your father.’
Her legs gave way and she sat down with a thump. ‘So who is?’
He rose unsteadily from the worse chair and stumbled to the door. His voice was bitter. ‘Why don’t you ask your mother?’
***
Half an hour to major sea-level rises around the globe: when the tsunami struck she had her defence prepared. Mum had had an affair: that was the only thing that explained Dad’s anger. It explained more than that, in fact it explained almost everything: the acrimonious years… the final divorce, and all because of her presence in the house. S
he’d been right to leave Tony or all this could have played out again, a generation later, with Saffy.
No wonder she’d always felt guilty, and she didn’t want that for Saffy. Well she wouldn’t feel guilty anymore: Mum had lost her advantage. Tsunami warnings were out and she was moving to higher moral ground.
Mum’s house didn’t look like a hotbed of vice. The front door was unlocked; she walked in unannounced.
Mum looked up. ‘Alana, I’ve been calling you all week.’
‘My phone’s off.’ She kept her voice carefully neutral. She would not feel guilty about wanting her own life. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, you know… not sleeping. The doctor’s given me anti-depressants.’
‘Do be careful, Mum. I know… you need something to help you through this, but… are they the answer, long-term? They can be addictive, and some people react badly to them.’ She studied the sallow face. She didn’t look well but telling her so would be playing straight into her hands: an own goal. ‘Do you have a follow-up appointment?’
‘They can take a while to work. I’ll go back to the doctor if I don’t feel any better, soon. Are you staying for tea?’
‘I came to tell you I’m moving.’
‘I always did think Trafalgar Street wasn’t you.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you? You’re going to move in here, with us?’
She eyed the approaching tidal wave and climbed to still higher ground. ‘I’m moving to Coed-y-Cwm. Aunt Siân has left me The Haggard.’
Mum grabbed at her sleeve. ‘You mustn’t, Alana. Please, for my sake.’
‘For your sake?’ She shook Mum’s hand away. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a tad selfish?’
‘Me… selfish? I’ve given my life to you.’
‘But who did you give it to before me… before I was born. For example, the night I was conceived? Not Dad.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know Dad isn’t my real father. He said to ask you who was.’
Mum’s voice trembled. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘You won’t tell me… God, don’t say you don’t even know…’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Then tell me what it is like. I’m not a child, Mum. I don’t need protecting.’
Mum laughed, a short, sharp, sarcastic little laugh, like when she’d been small and Dad had said the wrong thing. ‘Don’t you? How little you understand.’
‘Tell me, Mum. I won’t tell Dad, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘He never wanted you, you know.’
‘Who? Dad or my real father?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me.’
‘You didn’t want Saffy.’
‘That’s different. Don’t you dare compare me to Dad. I would have had a termination but for you.’
‘And that’s a terrible thing to do when there are women who can’t have children. You’re a very selfish girl, Alana.’
‘You can’t dump your guilt on me, not anymore. I’m not the one who cheated on their husband. I was raped. Mum… Just tell me.’
Mum turned away, as if she still found the ugly truth hard to deal with, and stared across the garden. ‘Saffy will never know the name of her father, will she?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t reached that bridge.’
Mum faced her again, appearing to come to a conclusion; the muscles in her cheek tightened. ‘Your father was Dafydd. Siân’s husband, Dafydd Ap Dafydd.’
‘Dafydd…’ She couldn’t take it in. ‘But Dafydd’s dead. My father’s dead and I never knew him. I put flowers on his grave.’
‘I’m sorry, Alana.’
She stood beside Mum, in her living-room, but the cold wind of the graveyard on the hill blew through her mind. ‘Siân must have forgiven him. She wanted to be buried with him.’
Mum showed no emotion. ‘It was a long while ago.’
‘That’s what caused the rift?’
‘Dad insisted we cut them out of our lives. He did grow to love you, Alana, as you’ll grow to love Saffy. It wasn’t easy for him, being presented with someone else’s child. He did his best for you. It was me he could never forgive.’
The tsunami, power spent, lapped gently around their feet. ‘All my life I thought it was me… I thought it was my fault.’
Mum squeezed her hand, her eyes wet with tears. ‘You are the most precious thing in my life, Alana. The fault was never yours, never, but yes, I’m afraid you were the cause.’
***
Alana dabbed a third coat of acrylic paint over the Indian ink on the wall: it would look okay when it dried. The terraced house was devoid now of her personal possessions which, along with a lump of limestone she’d meant to begin carving before Christmas, were straining Minnie’s springs to their limit. She washed her brush, and put it and the paint in the car praying it wouldn’t be the last straw.
She was doing the right thing. What had happened in Coed-y-Cwm had happened years ago, and was nothing to do with her. That woman… why had Dad blamed Siân when it was Dafydd who’d slept with Mum?
The carpet… She repositioned the worse chair to cover the paint marks, and hoped. She needed her bond money from the landlord, so she could pay her back rent, and he could be here any minute to inspect the premises. The eight hundred pounds from Mr John, who’d taken delivery of his painting, wouldn’t last long and the potentially life-threatening bill from him could drop through her letterbox at any time. She needed to get out of here, and she wasn’t leaving a forwarding address.
A car stopped outside: the landlord. He didn’t have to worry about worn-out springs… his home probably didn’t have a worse chair, either.
She smiled more confidently than she felt. ‘Come in.’
He didn’t return the smile. ‘Miss Harper… Shall we begin upstairs?’
Upstairs was fine, wasn’t it? She’d cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed.
‘I shall have to redecorate.’
‘It would have needed doing by now, anyway.’
‘You’ve cleared the shed?’
‘Yes.’ She steered him away from a cracked mirror. ‘And tidied the garden and got rid of all the rubbish.’
‘I’ll check when I’ve examined downstairs.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find everything in good condition. Only normal wear and tear.’
He looked in all the cupboards and drawers, and then glanced through the kitchen window at the garden. ‘Seems okay. Let’s talk money.’
She beat him to the worse chair and the spring stuck in her buttock. ‘So I get my bond money back?’
‘I’ll set it against the back rent, which according to my calculations means you owe me two hundred and forty pounds.’
‘I can’t afford…’
‘You should be grateful I don’t hold you to our agreement: one month’s rent in lieu of notice. As it is, I have a tenant lined up.’
‘And you should be grateful I didn’t trash the place, and do a moonlight with half your stuff.’
‘Two hundred and forty pounds, Miss Harper.’
‘How about an original painting, instead? Two paintings… these walls could do with brightening up. Three paintings?’
‘Where are these paintings?’
‘In the car. I’ll fetch them.’ She ran out to the car and returned with a box of canvases. ‘Look, a nice scene of the market… Tugby church… Greyfriars… Woodhouse Eves… Bradgate Park…’
He picked through the paintings. ‘Are these all yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll take the whole box and call it quits.’
‘Deal.’ She gave him the box and the keys, and left the house with a last glance at the worse chair: it had become a familiar, if uncomfortable, adversary and she’d miss it, but it would be the only thing. She’d come to the house Alana Harper. She left it Alana Ap Dafydd, in more than spirit.
Eight bumpy hours later the springs of the Mini
creaked and groaned up the steep hill. She tried not to think of the drop to the valley, a mere yard away and hidden by the dark. If the car packed up now, the brakes wouldn’t hold and she’d slide backwards into the river with it. Who was the god of knackered cars? ‘Keep going, Minnie. Keep going.’
She crested the hill and rattled into the village. Home… She opened the car door and climbed out stiffly. There was an odd smell in the air.
She woke late the next morning and the smell of last night still pervaded the cottage. She needed coffee, and she’d been too tired to unpack more than the bare essentials. She opened the curtains and stopped, staring. The house next door to the chapel was gutted and blackened. Smoke still rose from the ruins. Harriet was on the green, walking Bramble. She hurried outside. ‘Harriet. What happened?’
Harriet’s brow furrowed. ‘A fire, early Saturday morning.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘Four people are in hospital. Mair and Dai Parry, who lived there, were upstairs in bed. Stuart Davis and Martin Richards tried to get them out. I haven’t seen anyone to ask how they are. Non Richards and Elin Davis haven’t been home from the hospital yet, so things must be bad.’
‘The house looks wrecked.’
‘And Mair’s so house-proud… It will break her heart to see it.’
‘Houses can be rebuilt. Lives are more difficult.’
‘That’s true. Non and Elin looked white as sheets. Something about a sign… Superstitious lot.’ She looked across at The Haggard. ‘I expected you to have a sale board up by now. Are you keeping the cottage?’
She smiled and shrugged off Mum and Dad’s warnings: fires happened. ‘I’ve decided to stay.’
Chapter Eight
FRIDAY NIGHT LIVE
Greg Anderson and Maddy Wilder live at The Flying Horse 9pm to Midnight.
Eight o’clock Friday night, the Flying Horse’s first regular live music night, and the pub was packed almost to capacity. Greg leaned his instruments in the corner. Maddy was late. Would she even turn up? It had taken him an hour to persuade her it had to be Fridays, and she’d refused to explain why Friday wasn’t a good day for her. She hadn’t offered another kiss, in fact she’d behaved as if it had never happened. He’d been rejected once in his life, he didn’t feel like risking it again, not yet.