by Laura Kemp
Dear oh dear, she might have a Welsh mother – according to Mel and Gwen – but she was as ignorant as … well, the English.
‘Today is March the first,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s St David’s Day, when children wear national dress, and you’re in St Davids, which is the final resting place of Saint David. And over there,’ he said, pointing at the cathedral in the distance, ‘is one of Christendom’s most sacred shrines. A popular place of pilgrimage ever since the Middle Ages. Because of St David.’
‘Right. Got you.’ She looked as if she was holding back a smirk.
‘And the boys aren’t doing Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. They’re miners. We’re quite famous for coal. Or at least we were.’
‘Quite the educator, aren’t you?’ she said, releasing the smirk. You could really go off someone. ‘While you’re at it, you may as well fill me in about this other saint everyone bangs on about.’
‘This other saint,’ he said pithily, ‘is Saint Dwynwen, Wales’s patron saint of lovers. She was the prettiest of King Brychan’s twenty-four daughters—’
‘Twenty-four? What a goer he was!’
‘The legend goes,’ he said, ignoring her comment, ‘she fell in love with a man her father wouldn’t let her marry. She prayed to God to ask for help to forget him and an angel gave her a potion to erase her memory. Afterwards, she devoted her life to God in thanks. She set up a convent off the coast of Anglesey. The remains are still there. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he sighed.
It was clear, though, she wasn’t as affected as him.
‘But Anglesey’s up north! What’s the connection with the village?’ She sounded exasperated, as if it wasn’t neat and tidy enough for her.
‘She passed through on her way, she was from South Wales.’
‘Hmm. It all sounds a bit … tenuous to me. Like calling, I dunno, Crewe, for example, Bruce because Mr Springsteen once got a train there.’
He bit his tongue. She clearly had no soul. Rhodri felt the final spark of interest in her go out. It meant his nerves disappeared and he was able to seize the moment.
‘I’m glad I saw you, actually, because in accordance with the local authority waste management and recycling initiative 2016, which targets individuals who do not adhere to recycling objectives, such as yourself, I am inviting you to attend an awareness course next week. The very first of its kind in the United Kingdom.’
‘Mel said you were funny.’ She spoke with an edge, which irked him.
‘I’m serious.’
‘You flaming what?’
She took off her sunglasses and his heart skipped a beat when he saw her eyes – they were the same colour as his favourite Fair Trade chocolate. Burnt Toffee by Green and Black’s. But he wasn’t going to be thrown by appearances, no way. What counted was underneath. Values. Environmental ones.
‘I checked your orange bag this morning and you’d put a glass Dolmio container inside it rather than in the appropriate green box. And you hadn’t flattened your loo rolls for space-saving.’
Ceri gasped. ‘You’ve been snooping in my rubbish?’
There was no need to make it sound like that.
‘Not snooping, no!’ he said, horrified at the suggestion, ‘Supervising your waste management.’
‘Are you taking the piss? Because it sounds like you are. You’re flipping off the scale.’
Abuse. Just as he’d expected. In his experience it was best to let them vent until they’d run out of steam.
She obliged, furious. ‘You’re lucky I even remembered to do it! I trust you’re aware the international market for recyclable commodities has taken a nosedive? And what’s so “green” about sending our cans and plastic abroad, millions of miles away, on a belching ship?’
So this one thought she knew better.
‘Do ye the little things in life,’ he said, feeling riled. ‘Saint David, those were his last words. We can’t all do great things but we can do small things well. Look, I’m just trying to do my bit for our little corner of the planet. Harmful chemicals and greenhouse gases are released from rubbish in landfill sites. If we recycle, we protect the rainforests because we don’t need so many raw materials. And we don’t use as much energy.’
‘Thanks for the lecture,’ she smarted.
‘I just care. A lot. And … these courses, they’re my initiative. If I can make them work they could be rolled out across the country.’
‘Oh, self-interest is it?’ Ceri said, lifting an eyebrow.
‘No! No! Well, kind of. But not for my own gain. For the environment’s.’ He really meant it. He wasn’t after recognition. Although how nice would it be to be the first back-to-back Waste Management and Recycling Officer of the Year?
Ceri let out a groan. Was this the moment she would agree, and become the fourth offender on his course who would see the error of their ways?
‘Do I have to come? Or can I pay a fine instead?’
Money. He hated the stuff. It created arrogance and excuses. Why did people think they could throw it at their problems?
‘We don’t issue fines. We don’t have the legislation in place and I think—’
‘They’d backfire?’
She got it! He was delighted. On a professional basis. Not on an emotional one. He was definitely not thinking they were on the same mental wavelength.
‘Yes, absolutely. We’d rather encourage people to recycle through education than criminalise them. And by the way, even if we did do fixed penalties, I wouldn’t take your wages off you. You’ve only just started at the pub! So … will you come?’
She was silent now. And shaking her head, biting her lip and her eyes were moistening. Oh no, he’d only gone and upset her.
‘You okay, Ceri? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’
She looked at her feet and back up at him.
‘It’s nothing. I’m fine.’
Then she burst into proper tears. ‘I wanted to do good here too.’
She said it to herself, not him and he wondered what she meant. He couldn’t ask so he searched for something else to say – a bit of empathy usually helped.
‘I know what you mean. You were there on Saturday, when no one bothered with my Village of Love idea. They think I’m an interfering arsehole who has nothing better to do than irritate them from my soapbox.’
‘They’re right,’ she said cheekily. ‘But I don’t want to make any trouble. So …’
‘You’ll come?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Brilliant! Oh, I’m chuffed to bits. Honestly, it’s not an awful all-day thing. Just two hours of your time. Refreshments included. It’ll be fun. There’s a quiz too!’
She didn’t look convinced. In fact, if anything she looked even worse. He started fussing round her, apologising but promising her it would be worth it.
‘I’m not crying over this,’ she sniffed. ‘It’s something else. It comes in waves. My mum, she’s only recently passed.’
Now he felt a thundertwat and presented her with a hankie, which she refused.
‘It’s the grief. And the confusion. How I’ve found myself here. She was from the area. I’m just overwhelmed. Like, I brought my phone with me to catch up on anything I might’ve missed.’
‘No reception in Dwynwen,’ they both said at the same time. Which he ignored, or tried to, because he didn’t want to read anything into their great minds thinking alike. It would feel like he was taking advantage of this poor damsel.
‘And I knew there’d be a few things. But I had four hundred emails, seventy-seven missed calls, twenty-four Facebook and WhatsApp messages and a thousand texts.’
‘What? I don’t even get that many in a year.’
‘Stuff at home and … a few things I’m working on.’ She seemed reticent now. Like she wished she hadn’t said anything. But she gave
him a defeated look as if she might as well just explain herself.
‘I’m so confused. Home, it feels so far away.’
‘Where is home, if you don’t mind me asking? Mel mentioned a Welsh border town.’
‘No. Near Manchester,’ she said.
‘In a town called Bruce?’ he asked, guessing that’s why she’d brought up Crewe as an example.
‘Yes.’ She gave a wry smile.
So she was English, he should’ve guessed. He felt the familiar disappointment of being let down.
Her despondency returned. ‘But it hasn’t felt like home for a while, either. I came here, thinking, maybe it’d be a way of getting closer to my mum. But she never did the Welsh thing, like you all do.’ Ceri gave him an apologetic glance. ‘She didn’t speak the language or even have an accent. It feels so strange here. Like, how can I explain? My dad, he was Spanish, and I’ve been a few times, mostly Ibiza and Fuerteventura, and I understood the paella and sunshine and castanets. Yet Wales, it’s got hardly any vowels and your religion is rugby and where the hell are the department stores?’
‘Precisely why I love it.’
‘It’s just so … foreign.’
‘But we’ve made you welcome?’ he said, thinking that was the main thing.
‘Oh, yes, absolutely. Too much, actually! Look, Seren gave me this ring just for helping her out.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s what we do.’
‘I know and it’s lovely. But it’s quite … overpowering.’ She looked teary again and he felt very sad for her. He couldn’t imagine not belonging somewhere or feeling confused by a helping hand. He didn’t know what came over him but he hugged her. Quite incomprehensibly. He never did things like that. It felt very nice to have her tucked in under his chin.
Once she’d pulled away – probably after two seconds but it had felt like hours, so long it had been since he’d touched a woman – she gave him a brave expression. ‘Thanks, Rhodri, I really needed a cuddle. Or a cwtch, as Mel taught me.’
He was impressed she’d tried some Welsh.
‘Absolutely my pleasure. Anytime,’ he said, then realising he might’ve sounded like a pervert: ‘Not anytime, obviously. But you know, if you’re lonely. I get lonely too. Oh God …’
He covered his face with both hands but when he peeked through his fingers he saw she hadn’t run a mile. Extraordinarily.
‘Don’t worry,’ she laughed. ‘You’ve helped me. Made my mind up about something.’
‘Oh, great. I think?’
She didn’t expand, even though he was all ears. Shit, his ears. They were sticking out. He could feel spots of rain on them at the same time as he heard the jeers of his brothers. He should’ve kept his hat on.
‘Right, well, I’d better get on. I’ve a load of shopping to do.’
‘I’ll let you know about the course,’ he said, adjusting his hair to cover up his jugs as she turned to go.
‘You do that,’ she said, her shades back on, the barrier back up. ‘And don’t give up on the Village of Love, eh, if it matters to you.’
Mel was right – she was an enigma. He watched her bobble hat until she was swallowed up by the crowd. And Rhodri cursed himself. Because how could he be fascinated by an English ignoramus who didn’t even know about St David’s Day, let alone who pooh-poohed recycling?
9
‘Gwil … I think I heard something … Gwil! Wake up!’
‘Oh dear God, Gwen, can’t a man sleep?’
‘Outside! There’s rustling. There … did you hear that?’
‘No.’
‘What if we’re murdered in our own beds?’
‘Then a man might get a night’s rest.’
‘Suit yourself, it’s your fault if we’re robbed blind.’
‘Robbed? We’re not in Merthyr any more. And what would they take? A box of smoky bacon and your Royal Wedding tea towel?’
This morning was all about her feet. Taking off her pink iced-doughnut bedsocks with her big toes. Pointing her size fours into a pair of smoky tattoo tights adorned with Hello Sailor girls and anchors. Stepping into her polar-bear-paw slippers until she was ready to leave for work in her tan-and-turquoise cowboy boots. Looking down, not wanting to look anything in the eye.
This was how it went when Melyn could see the anniversary of Al’s death on the horizon. That day, nine years ago, when he’d come to see her in Cardiff where she was at art college and they’d gone for cheesy chips in the arcade and he’d told her he had a surprise. He’d held up some keys and said he was joining her in the big city: he’d got a job here at last and … and … he’d wanted to tell her something else. The firework display of happiness, in all the brightest colours, should’ve been the start of it. Her adult life. But it had all gone monochrome.
The counsellor said that grief was a long process and while you never got over it, you learned to accept it; get used to it, adapt. And she had, kind of, getting on with things here. But not all the time. Like now, when she was in full stare-at-the-floor mode. Lifting her head to see her surroundings only reminded her of the mess she was in. Better to keep her eyes down and the curtains closed and wait for it to pass.
Her feet were shuffling reluctantly now as they approached the front door. How tempting it was to go back to bed. But she wouldn’t be so selfish as to deny the villagers their papers and milk and bread. So her hand felt for the latch and she saw her right boot step forward … as a honeyed light seeped in through the crack and spread up her legs and body. It was a pure and unadulterated brightness, like Al’s kiss had been, blinding in that moment. And despite herself, she let it all in, shutting her eyes as she lifted her face, seeing white spots on her inner eyelids, feeling the warmth of almost spring. The promise of the season starting, the bustle of customers in the shop … that feeling from times past, it was there in the sky now as she finally allowed herself to look up. And, oh! What a sky it was!
Blue, blue, through and through. Not quite blueberry, which was too concentrated. Not as light as the colour of water in a swimming pool, though, either. Sapphire, it was, and not a cloud up there to dilute its wonder. Why was it people said they ‘felt blue’ when they were sad? It was such an uplifting shade! She tried to work out what colour she’d call her sadness. Brown? Because there were plenty of horrible things which were brown, it was scatological and dated, Seventies and … but she couldn’t see brown as sad when it was also chocolate and leather and rich, warm earthy soil. No, more appropriately, people should maybe say they felt grey. Never blue, though. Blue always made her feel closer to happiness. And at half past seven, there would be nobody at Caban Cwtch yet so she could dawdle down the hill and pretend this vista was all hers to enjoy. The stillness too, hardly any wind. Cold but only just. It was almost as if life was good again …
Which only reminded her of the uncertainty of her future. It weighed heavily on her once more – what would happen to the shop, to the woods, to Dwynwen? – and her vision was dragged down again. Stones scattering and scratching as she walked, her ears filled with sound, serrated and filthy. Like a saw in her head, it felt, as she approached the left turn which took her to the beach. The quicker she got to the shop, the sooner she could put on the radio, switch on the kettle, slam the papers on the counter and clatter the frying pan for bacon. That’s it, busy your mind, Mel told herself as she swung into the lane, but hang on … what the fudge was this?
She stopped dead. There were hundreds of love hearts suspended in the air! As red as phone boxes and strawberries, peppers and roses! Hanging in swags of cheery bunting, fluttering in the breeze, between the posts and railings on both sides of the lane, as far as she could see. Past the pub – and on the pub! – and yes, even on Caban Cwtch! It was the most charming thing and look! the love hearts and red trim of tape were made of shiny cotton-coated PVC, like her wipe-clean tablecloths in the café. She was tickled
to realise whoever had done this had made sure the bunting was waterproof. It was such good thinking!
Whoever had done it? And when? Because it hadn’t been there yesterday – it must have been put up in the dead of night. Mel felt her breath catch because it was such a jaunty sight. Gay was the word; smart, too, and she picked up the pace to see how The Dragon and Caban Cwtch looked close up. Circling round, her head up and whirling as she took in the continuous line of decoration, she felt as if she was on a film set, like it wasn’t real. Swooping swathes of hearts were draped on the empty hooks for hanging baskets around the pub door. On the car park gates as well! What would Gwen and Gwil make of it? She’d love it, for sure; so would he, eventually, because first he’d have to inspect how it had been attached, mumbling about damage to their facade, but it had been cleverly looped so he couldn’t possibly complain.
As for the shop, well, it was so merry, it reminded Mel of Christmas – and she loved Christmas. So strange how a bit of bunting zig-zagging from old rusting brackets which Dad had put up many moons ago for buckets and spades made it look so inviting. This place was posh enough for the Prince of Wales, she thought, suddenly aware now of her aching, smiling cheeks. She wanted to run around until she was dizzy. But the shop wouldn’t open itself, girl!
A few minutes later, the locals started flying in. Mrs Morris from the top cottages glowed with surprise on her daily stop-off after her morning dog walk on the beach for a pint of milk and a Daily Express. Cheers Drive, whose real name was Carl but who had been rechristened because he worked for the local bus company, was even more scarlet in the face than normal when he came in for a takeaway fry-up bap and his Daily Mirror. And Carys the Chop, who was collecting her chat mags, well, she was beside herself because she’d be first with the gossip on her hairdressing rounds. They’d all asked the same thing: who was behind it? Was it because of Rhodri’s speech in the pub after the game on Saturday? In fact, was it him?