by Laura Kemp
Or maybe not. Because as she pushed the creaky wooden door, an electric bell buzzed above her head, making her cower, and she peered round it to see total and utter chaos. Trying to get in was a task in itself –something was jamming it on the right-hand side so she had to squeeze through.
Breathing in, she found a wall of cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling. Beyond, it was hard to see because of the gloom. Half of the shop was on that side and yet you wouldn’t wander there for fear of what you might find. Straight ahead was a large wide window which should’ve been a postcard, framing the priceless sea view. But, criminally, it was obscured by a moth-eaten net curtain and a set of basic metal shelves bursting with a riot of junk.
To put it kindly, it was the seaside version of what you’d find on a Saturday afternoon in Primark. A shambolic mishmash of stuff with no order, sequence or method. Spades and towels and buckets and windmills and tat – all shrieking in garish colours – were fighting for air among loaves of bread and packets of biscuits and sweets which might well have been there since the turn of the century. To her left lay the café area. And this was the saddest sight of all. Steel diner stools with bits of cardboard lodged beneath uneven feet here and there had the edge over metal circular tables – you’d have been better off parking your bum on one of them and using the seats to set down your cup. And there were no menus, no decorations, not even a coffee machine. Just a kettle, a ripped box of tea bags on the counter beside a stack of newspapers and an old spike with a handful of customer receipts. It was tragic.
What this place could be with a bit of love and a giant buttered teacake and a good old sort-out. Because there was definitely some character lurking, with its charming exposed-brick walls, shiny multi-coloured spotted tablecloths, cool stone slabs on the floor, the radio playing some sort of folk music and a cheery wood burner in the corner. A rustling and banging sounded and Mel emerged from behind the cardboard tower with a tray piled high with something delicious-smelling.
‘Hiya, Ceri!’ Mel sang, looking very pleased to see her. ‘Just in time for my Welshcakes! Homemade, they are.’ This was not in doubt, seeing as she had a dusting of flour on both her nose and her red pinny which was emblazoned with the cringeworthy words: ‘Every day when I wake up I thank the Lord I’m Welsh’. ‘My own recipe, well, my mam’s it is, made on her mother’s mother’s bakestone …’
She said it as if she was an old maid and yet she was dressed like a teenager with those bunches.
‘… back there in the kitchen.’
Ah, so that’s what lay behind the boxes. Another feature to add to the list of pros – which Ceri wasn’t going to consider. How she wished her stupid noggin would switch off. Like her hands, which had given up checking her phone. They’d accepted that in the dark ages, mobile masts hadn’t been invented yet.
‘Three flavours today,’ Mel said. ‘I couldn’t decide which ones to make so I did all of them! Traditional with mixed spice and currants, coconut and lime and last but not least my heart-shaped ones with chocolate drops, I call these ones love cakes. You know, after Saint Dwynwen.’
Love cakes? And that saint again? It was further evidence of Mel’s eccentricity.
‘Still warm, they are. One of each? With a cuppa?’
‘Go on.’ Why not, she wanted to delay the moment her feet first touched the sand.
‘Take a pew and I’ll bring them over.’
Ceri perched herself on one of the rickety stools and watched as Mel bustled around the counter, humming to herself, blind to the real work needing doing here.
‘Fresh from the popty, they are,’ Mel said, plonking a plate and mug below her.
That word again – the one Ceri had seen at the garage on her drive here. ‘Popty?’
‘The oven, of course,’ Mel said, looking at her as if she should know better. ‘And I don’t mean popty ping either,’ she said scathingly.
‘Popty ping?’ Ceri asked. ‘Is it some kind of table tennis spin-off?’
‘Popty ping is what non-Welsh speakers think we call the microwave,’ she said with irritation. ‘It’s lies. My cakes have never been near a microwave in their lives.’
‘Right, good,’ Ceri said, eyeing up a plastic windmill should she need to defend herself if Mel went doolally.
She examined the circle of slate before her, immediately soothed because it was the same colour as Mum’s pots and pans. The contents were small and round, about the diameter of the rim of a champagne glass, a sort of bastard child of a scone and a biscuit. But squatter and denser-looking. They didn’t look as pretty as they smelled. Put it this way, even if she had any connection, she still wouldn’t be posting a photo of them on Instagram.
‘I’ve no idea where I’ll store all the stuff. There’s no room in here and the cottage is heaving. I’m going to have to do a sale.’ Mel looked momentarily glum. No wonder, it would be a hell of a job.
Ceri gave her a look of sympathy as she took a mouthful, preparing herself for it to be dry, grateful there was a brew to wash it down. But she ended up moaning in appreciation at the way it crumbled and melted in her mouth. It was as if it’d been made by Willy Wonka, such was the swing from delicate coconut to sharp lime and back again.
‘Bloody gorgeous!’ she said, to Mel’s delight. The other was a tongue-tingling beauty of cinnamon and juicy raisins and the heart-shaped one, well, it turned her to goo, just like the runny chocolate inside.
‘Woman cannot live on Welshcakes alone, though,’ Mel said, sighing, holding her arms out in despair at the bundles of stock.
‘You just need to get the word out, advertise, go on Facebook and Twitter. Update your website.’
Mel picked at a nail. Ceri understood she would do none of the above because she didn’t do any of the above. She had no frigging clue. How did she operate without social media – how had she managed to give the modern world such a swerve?
‘Anyway,’ she said quietly, ‘why would I want to tell the world it’s an everything-must-go clearance? Dad is selling up.’
‘What?’ Ceri said, holding her hand under her chin to stop crumbs spraying everywhere. Jesus, was there nothing here not on the endangered list?
But the klaxon went off again and Mel was all smiles as a woman in her mid-thirties walked through the door, with bum-length wavy light blue hair, in a pair of dungarees which revealed a naked midriff covered in tattoos. Punk had clearly only just reached Wales. Ceri zoned out, knowing they’d start gabbling away in Welsh and she’d just eat up, pay and go back to the cottage and try to read the book she’d started six months ago.
But they were talking in English – and, oh shite, this person was only asking about the new barmaid! Where she could find her …
Ceri froze and stared into her cup. What if it was someone who knew she wasn’t Ceri Rees – how would she explain it? She was supposed to be a brand ambassador for Cheap As Chic – it’d look like she was having a breakdown. What had she got herself into through her own stupid fault? Calm down, Ceri, you daft a’porth, because no one knows you’re here apart from Jade and Tash. Mel, though, was doing the opposite, looking about to burst as she flapped like a chicken.
‘Who wants to know?’ Ceri said suspiciously.
‘It’s Seren, it is!’ Mel crowed. ‘The other barmaid, the one you’re job-sharing with. Seren, this is Ceri. Ceri, this is Seren. At last, you meet!’
Seren clasped her hands to her chest and said, ‘My saviour!’
Brilliant. Another crackpot. Just what Ceri needed. It was time to shoot. She got up and put a fiver on the table, which Mel waved away.
‘Have it on me,’ she said. No wonder this place was in trouble. Ceri left the money there, though.
‘I won’t take it,’ Mel said, reaching over and handing it back with determination. Ceri didn’t want a scene so she accepted the note with a thank you.
‘Lovely to me
et you, Seren. Got to go, a lot on.’
‘Yeah, because there’s so much to do here, right?’ Seren said, poker-faced.
Ceri stopped, unsure of Seren’s tone. Was she having a go? Or, holy God damn, she might be the only person in this place who could see Dwynwen needed not just a revamp but bloody electric shock treatment. If so, she was going to snog her.
‘Why do you think I dye my hair like this? Cabin fever. Hey, why not change the name to that?’
‘Oh, Seren!’ Mel tutted. ‘You love it really, you do!’
‘Er, I’m here because I have to be, Mel.’ To Ceri, she explained: ‘Stuck here by virtue of a husband and son.’
‘But you live in the city!’ Mel said.
‘She means St Davids, down the road. The world’s smallest city. Population of two thousand. Not exactly London. Take my advice, Ceri’ – Seren winked with twinkling crystal-blue eyes – ‘don’t fall for a man here. You’ll never leave.’
Ceri gave a big belly laugh because she immediately loved this Seren. Not even because she’d been starved of sane company but because Gwen was right – there was something about her, something a bit magical and creative, as if her head was filled with ideas and inventions.
‘There’s no fear of that.’ No way would she get involved with a man from here – every morning would start off with a weep over the national anthem.
‘Not if Saint Dwynwen has her way!’ Mel wagged her finger.
That saint was beginning to get right on her nerves. Ceri would have to find out more, if only to prove to herself she wasn’t making a rash judgement that Mel was off her rocker.
‘Or Logan!’ Seren laughed. ‘Has he tried it on yet?’
‘No!’ Ceri said. She’d only spoken to him twice – at the pub and then this morning when he’d knocked with a signed-for delivery from Jade detailing the new ‘OMG’ Cheap As Chic range which she’d glanced at then chucked on the side for another day. ‘Really. I won’t be here long. I’m not looking for love, thanks.’
‘Oh, we all say that.’
‘Well, I like it here,’ Mel said defensively and Seren put an arm round her.
‘I know. And what would we do without you? Anyway, I’ve got something for you, Ceri,’ she said, rustling around in her chest pocket. ‘Because if you hadn’t showed up, I would be even more stuck here. But you’ve halved my hours. Been wanting to do it for ages – my son’s highly gifted, they say; nothing to do with me, his father’s genes. And he needs ferrying to extra tuition and things, so I can do it now. All I want is for him to see there’s life beyond the green, green grass of home. Fulfil his potential, see the big world. And the rest of the time, I can get on with this …’
She produced a beautiful silver ring, which curled once, twice and signed off with a cluster of ornate flowers.
‘My little bit on the side. My jewellery business, called Fork Off. I make things out of old cutlery. Nice for things to be reused and remembered. This piece is from the handle of a teaspoon from the 1940s.’
‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ Ceri said, feeling unexpectedly touched by the blend of old and new.
Seren’s hand moved towards her. ‘Take it, it’s yours.’
Ceri stared at her. She didn’t get it.
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. Thank you, though, it’s … perfect. You made it? Wow. But … I can’t.’ She shook her head decisively. This was making Ceri feel awkward and embarrassed.
Seren looked at Mel, confused, and back at Ceri. ‘Why not?’
Such a simple question Ceri was battling to answer. Because it had to mean she wanted a trade-off – a favour. And she’d come here to get away from that.
‘Well, it’s just … it’s very nice of you but what can I do for you in return? You know, I won’t be around long. I just got sucked in here. This is just a pit stop.’
‘You’ve already done something for me, I told you!’
Ceri was astounded. She hadn’t intended to do a good turn or to help someone out. She hadn’t been able to say no, that was all.
‘I’ll pay you for it,’ Ceri said. ‘I love it. That’s what I’ll do. Because you can’t just give me, a stranger, this when you don’t know me or …’
She winced as she said it – it made her look like some kind of suspicious freak who wasn’t familiar with the concept of a no-strings gift. Which was true, actually – people gave her presents for a favour down the line. A crushed look crossed Seren’s face: where her eyes had been a blue lagoon on a sunny day, they misted over with hurt.
‘Oh, God, listen, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘No, no,’ Seren said, covering it up, pulling her hand away.
Ceri felt it then – the moment when she had to either remain closed off or open herself up. Stay as she was, as she had become, protective and cautious. Afraid. Full of grief and self-pity, an orphan now, with a business which was so far from what she’d first created. Or take a chance and trust in a simple act of kindness that could define her future … It was time to choose. Kindness, the world needs more of it, Ceri could hear her mother say. Slowly she reached out and Seren’s fingers unfurled. Ceri took the ring, slid it onto the middle finger of her right hand. Instantly, she felt lighter and happier as a glow spread around her body. And as she thanked Seren from the bottom of her heart, she vowed to herself that somehow she was going to repay this gesture a thousandfold.
8
Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Rhodri’s mouth froze mid-chew on his sandwich as he saw someone that looked very much like her. Squinting from his promotional stand in St Davids city centre, he sized up the person heading his way in a tugged-down cream bobble hat and huge dark sunglasses. Slightly unnecessary, seeing as it was a dismally dull day. But … Shit! It was Ceri Rees. He was in no doubt – he recognised the mathematical perfection of her nose with its one-hundred-and-six-degree nasal tip rotation. He’d been taken with its economic no-waste beauty from the morning she’d cracked the YMCA joke.
Two immediate concerns presented themselves: first, he was eating a dirty BLT on #meatfreelunch day because it was the only cure known to man for a home-brew hangover. He had to get rid of it before he had a word with her. Because when he was informing those like her who were unfamiliar with recycling parameters, they would look for anything to discredit him as a weirdy beardy eco-warrior. And second, he needed to hold it together because his body and mind had ignored instructions not to take a liking to anyone who was not around permanently. He’d tried a long-distance relationship before and Ruth, oh Ruth, the one he’d thought was The One, had ended it because she didn’t want to relocate from London to Wales.
But not even the memory of that could stop his cheeks reddening. Attending to the first matter, he threw his bap into the bin – apologising under his breath for not saving it for his compost caddy – and ran his tongue around his mouth in case of lettuce in his front teeth. As for the second, he unzipped his council fleece and took off his beanie hat so he would cool down. Relax, he told himself, because Ceri is a) not your type, too polished, b) out of your league and c) as likely to remain in Dwynwen for as long as an ice cube in a soup bowl of Welsh cawl. He braced himself because she’d spotted him and she was walking over, smiling, carrying a bag. A plastic one. He’d give her one of the council’s branded hemp bags for life to soften the blow. If only he was off-duty, then he wouldn’t have been compelled to give her his helpful advice. Oh, who was he kidding? Of course he would’ve done. The environment was for life, not just for forty-three-point-six hours of his working week.
‘Ceri!’ he said, rocking on his heels like a bloody estate agent. Close up, he could see what Mel meant about her looking Spanish: gorgeous, she was, with that dusky complexion and long black hair. I bet she smells of lemons.
‘Hi! Rhodri, isn’t it?’ she said, clearly not sure, which made him feel utterly foolish for having gone to the trouble of ‘ca
sually’ finding out about her.
‘Yes! Yes, it is …’ Sounded a bit desperate there, butty. ‘So … how are you enjoying life in Dwynwen and the surrounding area?’ And now he was a sad dad. Kill me now and bury me in a biodegradable cardboard coffin.
‘Yeah … good,’ she said cautiously, then bolder, ‘Dead good actually.’
He was usually quite decent at spotting if someone genuinely meant something – that was because more often than not they didn’t. And fair dos, she came across naturally enough.
‘A nice change from … the usual,’ she said vaguely. ‘You working?’
He was tempted to make a joke that no, he liked to spend his free time in reflective waterproof trousers, getting laughed at by the public. But actually, he did spend his free time in reflective waterproof trousers getting laughed at by the public.
‘Yes. It’s one of my outreach days, when I come out into the community to inform them about recycling. As the sign says there.’ He indicated, pointing to the sign saying exactly what he’d said. Oh fuck this, he was just going to be sarky. ‘And as you can see, I’m snowed under with altruistic citizens who are desperate to preserve the blessings bestowed on this most glorious of nations.’
Pleasingly, he’d made her laugh. A throaty one. That, for God’s sake, man, made him excited. Fortunately, the stirring was brief thanks to an elderly lady shuffling up to ask if he was giving away anything for free. He saw her off with a pencil made from local timber.
‘See? They’re recycling crazy,’ he said once she’d gone. ‘Can I interest you in a bag, too?’
‘Sorry, hands full and, to be honest, I’m not one of those “save the whales” types.’
How immensely disappointing. But all for the better for quashing his romantic aspirations, he supposed.
‘Can I ask you something,’ she said suddenly. ‘Why are people wearing leeks on their coats? And I just saw a load of kids in the most ridiculous outfits. Boys dressed as chimneysweeps and girls in shawls and big, tall bonnets.’