by Laura Kemp
The shoot of trust within Mel’s heart began to bud and she found the strength to begin.
‘Right, okay, so I’m working on this shelf. I know it looks small but—’
‘You have to start somewhere, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I won’t touch anything unless you want me to. It’s your call. All of it.’
Growing in the warmth of Ceri’s patience, Mel explained, ‘I’m doing keep, chuck and donate. I’ll pass them to you as we go. And … you could take away the things if you don’t mind because it … it hurts, it does.’
‘Course, leave it to me.’
Ceri folded her hands on her lap. She was waiting for Mel to walk the walk, to cross the bridge from one side to the other. To accept that not everything here was part of a precious collection; that some of it was a drain on her wellbeing, dragging her back to the past and denying her a future. Mel felt a pain in her head and in her heart at the prospect of making a decision. The time had come and she had to fight to get to the front of herself, to resist the pull of putting it off yet again.
Slowly she reached out for the first item. Trembling, she picked up the burned-down stub of a candle, inhaling sharply because the touch of the smooth wax reminded her of Alwyn’s skin. The crisp wick, she imagined, still smoked from his pinch at the beach party when they’d been sixteen and rolling down sand dunes, drunk on cans of cider. He’d held her hand when he’d walked her home but her dad had come out of the darkness on his way back from the pub and they’d dropped the contact. She felt the absence of him anew and it came out in a sob. How could she regard this as rubbish? This was impossible, she wasn’t able to do this, no way, and her hand squeezed the gem protectively. Mel became aware of Ceri’s hand rubbing her back, soothing her, reminding her of what she needed to do.
Somehow, she found herself thinking ‘this candle is not him’ over and over in a trance which unfurled her fingers. She had to let this go. She had to give herself a chance. Mel couldn’t watch herself do it but her arm stretched towards Ceri as she offered up her sacrifice. As it left her palm, she felt the trace of its weight lingering and a sickness rising in her throat. The agony seized her and she throbbed all over but she knew too well she would feel this way anyway if she didn’t act: it was self-inflicted torture whether she hoarded or shed her skin. This process was going to hurt but ultimately decluttering would hurt less. Clenching every muscle, she waited for herself to splinter.
But incredibly she wasn’t falling apart – she could still hold on to Al’s memory whether she had that candle stub or not. And so it would be with the things representing her childhood before her parents divorced. The flicker carried her through a stack of ancient menus from restaurants long closed which she had saved from special occasions, including the very first Chinese she’d had with Mum and Dad, still tasting the strange lemony chicken and the spicy ribs and the crunch of prawn crackers. How grown-up she’d felt holding chopsticks! She hadn’t known her childhood would end too soon. What she’d considered to be ‘exotic’ food wrappers from the French supermarket when they’d gone camping – a scratched Milka bar, a long ghostly string of empty plastic cases which had contained fizzy strawberry sweets and the flattened rectangle of yellow Carambar caramel sticks which still hung onto the twists at either end.
Postcards from ports across the world where Dad had worked on the cruise ships, sent without fail from wherever he was; Miami, Barcelona, Casablanca, Los Angeles, Lisbon … they had once ignited a wanderlust, a desire which she had later packed away, to punish herself. But then she felt joy as she came across her favourite postcard from Colombo. The edge of the frilly stamp had arrived dog-eared and, just as she did now, she would touch it to feel where his fingers had been: to connect with him if she’d had a silly row with Mum or Huw. The image too mattered: a vivid spectrally pure Sri Lankan sunset of cinnamon and cumin, saffron and ginger, which Dad had said could almost be Dwynwen’s, give or take a few palm trees and thirty degrees. It had comforted her that they were both under the same sky which sported the same shades even though they were thousands of miles apart. What she would do to be able to mix these colours, she thought, as the word ‘recovery’ hovered on her horizon …
‘Keep,’ she said, holding it to her chest, feeling lighter as she handed the rest of the pile to Ceri. Surprise, relief and wonder swarmed inside of her and she took a breath to let it sink in: she’d done it! She’d actually managed to do it!
‘I make that fifteen minutes,’ Ceri said, getting up, wasting no time to give Mel the chance to claw back her possessions. The itch was there, definitely, but it felt enough to have picked one thing to hold on to.
‘I don’t know if I’d have been able to do this without you,’ Mel said. ‘Sometimes I wonder, I do, if I feel more things than most people. Not like I’m special or anything, but if I can see a myriad of colours what if I feel a myriad of emotions too? It might make me more vulnerable, less resilient.’
‘It might be true, it might not. But if it is, your super senses might mean you could be happier than most, don’t you think? Because you’ve had your fair share of sadness, love. Right, I’ll put these in the car. You get yourself ready and I’ll meet you outside. You won’t need a coat, it’s glorious out there. For once!’
‘Ceri, would you mind if I didn’t come?’ Mel said, staying put on the floor, as a rush of something hit her. ‘Not to be rude, and I know I’m letting you down. If it was the beach I wouldn’t … and I’m so pleased you’re staying around for a while longer, I meant it when I said you can stay as long as you like. There’s no bookings for … ever … but I’m going to ring my dad.’
It was an extraordinary sensation, like a boldness of heart. ‘There’s something I need to ask him. If that’s okay?’
Ceri balanced the bin bag on her knee to pick up her scarf and gave her a big smile. ‘Of course!’
‘We’ll do the beach soon, yes?’
‘Great.’
‘Oh, thank you! It just feels like I have to seize the day.’
‘You so do,’ Ceri said, as she went down the stairs. Then she added from below, ‘Mums are worth calling too, you know. You’re lucky to have one.’
Mel understood what she was getting at: that she should try to move on with her mam. That would be for another day, though. For now, she only wanted to speak to one person, she thought, reaching for the phone.
‘Dad,’ she said when he picked up, ‘don’t keel over but how do you fancy trying that new place in the harbour for lunch?’
14
With a sweaty forehead, damp squelching wellies and screaming thighs, Ceri was hardly Snow White.
But as she finally reached the peak of the long and narrow steep hill climb up to Dwynwen Woods, it was as if she’d just walked into a fairytale. Panting heavily, she was fighting for breath but not just because she was more unfit than she realised – apparently marching to meetings and out for a sandwich hadn’t counted for much. It was also because she’d emerged from the claustrophobic scratchy brambly path into a huge umbrella of trees which floated on a sea of bluebells. Diagonal strips of sunshine hazy with midges and birds lit up the indigo flowers and a slight breeze made their heads nod which, for a second, made them look as though they were gossiping at her arrival. ‘Not from round these parts,’ they would be saying. Spot on – where she came from, a walk meant popping out to the shop, not a flaming hike.
But she wasn’t there – she was here, in the most magical place. Not wanting to break the spell, she stood still, taking it all in. There was a bank of trees in front of her and to her left. On the right was a small clearing where the thick woodland fell away like stage curtains, the earth carved in two by a busy fast-flowing stream. The effect was like looking through a vast porthole, framed by the tips of touching branches, their trunks leaning outwards as if to admire the view. She could see for miles – the edge of the sandy
beach, dazzling today, lapped by a calm green sea where a figure was paddle-boarding gracefully without a splash. It was the picture of tranquillity. Nature hadn’t meant much to her – she lived in a world of arranged bouquets which looked as though they’d just stepped out of a salon. A yucca in her flat was half-dead and cobwebbed, and as for wildlife, Mum would never have tolerated animal hairs on the sofa. Yet now she was among the flora and fauna, she found it stirring. The tweeting birds which she imagined were whistling while they worked, the scurry of squirrel paws, the rustle of leaves and crack of twigs underfoot. Hang on, a crack of twigs underfoot meant she had company … a spurt of adrenaline made her look for a hiding place and she crouched down behind a tree stump, fearing an armed psychopath, or at the very least Grumpy and Dopey, as voices drifted towards her. A child, it sounded like, and adults. She relaxed, cursing her urban ways, and drew the mossy air up into her nostrils to clear the dusty tickle from Mel’s house. There was a flash of a boy in red and further away a man … no, two.
‘Henry! Don’t run with your penknife!’ a voice called from the depths.
Henry? You can’t have got many of them to the pound in deepest, darkest Wales. Perhaps, she thought with amazement, she was about to witness a lesser spotted bunch of tourists? Or not, her senses recovering, because Rhodri’s head, and only his head, appeared, as the rest of his body was camouflaged in khaki shorts and T-shirt. The boy froze as he caught sight of Ceri appearing out of the bushes and he took a startled step back.
‘All right, kid?’ she said. ‘You with Rhodri? He’s a friend of mine.’
‘Yes,’ he said, relaxing. ‘And Owen. On our way to see Seren.’
‘Oh, right. I’m Ceri, I job-share with her at the pub.’
The threat passing, he nodded then picked up a thick piece of fallen branch and whittled it with fierce concentration. Ceri examined him, fascinated. He was every inch the little boy with sticky-up hair and dirty knees. But instead of awkward clumsy hands, he expertly pared and shaved and carved the wood, his tongue poking out as he worked, and by the time the others had reached him, he had created a mushroom complete with gills.
‘For you, Ceri,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me, where you’d find fungi?’
Shit! She had no idea, not really, not the scientific explanation – she was about to be humiliated by a child in front of Rhodri, who’d just emerged, and his mate, another one of the crazy bunch judging by his biker beard, shaved head and inked Welsh dragon breathing fire down his left forearm.
‘Um … well …’ She played for time by turning the smooth mushroom in her hands.
‘You’d find fungi at a party,’ he said, straight-faced.
‘Sorry?’
It sank in. Fungi as in ‘fun guy’. And she began to laugh, feeling ridiculous for having expected a nine-year-old to—
‘Mushrooms can be used in a process called mycoremediation, which is the process of using fungi to degrade contaminants in the environment.’
Silly her. He was way ahead, this one. It was like listening to a mini-Rhodri – in fact, were they related? She compared their faces but he was the opposite, fair and neat to Rhodri’s generous features.
‘You’ve met Henry,’ Rhodri said, ruffling the boy’s blond hair, before doing the introductions. ‘Ceri, this is Seren’s son and her husband, Owen.’
So he was the child genius! She should’ve known seeing as he’d referred to his parents by their Christian names. She’d seen some do that on a TV show and had found them endearing, their mums and dads not so much.
‘Heard a lot about you,’ Owen said, his voice as musical as a male voice choir. ‘You’re the woman who gave Seren back her life, so she says.’
‘Yeah, not sure how it happened but I’ll take the credit.’
Then he looked at his watch and did a dramatic leap back. ‘We’re going to have to go, Rhod. Table’s booked for lunch and we’re late. Seren won’t be happy if we haven’t finished by the time her shift ends.’
‘I’ll walk you down,’ Rhodri offered.
‘No, no. No need.’ Owen extended a hand. ‘Hope I helped with a few things.’
‘You did.’
‘Sorry it wasn’t better news. Right … maybe we’ll catch you at the circus next week?’
‘Cool.’
As they waved goodbye, Ceri waited until they were out of earshot before she opened her mouth. But Rhodri got in first.
‘He’s a professor, teaches rural enterprise management at St Davids University,’ he said wearily.
‘I thought so,’ she said, trying to coax a smile which usually he handed out for free. ‘Could tell by the tattoo. But the circus? Don’t tell me, is he a strong man or a juggler?’
‘The circus is a craft fair.’ His tone was edged with irritation as if he was fed up with explaining things to her. ‘Seren does one every month. They’re a bit hard up. Henry’s got an international chess competition coming up in New York in the new year. He was the world number one for under-tens last year so … anyway, what do you think?’
He held his arms out wide but where he was usually ramrod with pride he seemed to have wilted.
‘It’s beautiful.’
He picked up a dead branch and snapped it with force. She wasn’t one for macho acts but she couldn’t help admiring his bulging biceps. ‘The perfect spot for forty houses, eh?’
So that’s what was up.
‘I was talking to Owen about it. This is ancient woodland, supposedly protected by law. Planning authorities are meant to refuse developments which would lead to the loss of irreplaceable habitats. But that flies out of the window if the need for and benefits of the development outweigh the loss. The government wants a million new homes in the UK within a few years. Guess which way it’s going to go.’ His frown cut his forehead in two. God, even when he was cross, he was still adorable.
‘Not necessarily. It’s remote here, not everyone’s cup of tea.’
‘It’s not about what’s here now,’ he said, obviously agitated by this ignorant townie before him. ‘It’s what comes after new housing. Hard to imagine now but in a decade there’ll be a Starbucks and a supermarket up the road. Super-fast broadband.’
‘Count me in,’ she said drily.
But if looks could kill, she’d have been throttled by a pair of angry eyebrows. There was something different about him today: he didn’t want to play. It made Ceri want the normal Rhodri back.
‘There’ll be litter, pollution, no trees, no wildlife …’
‘But what about the Village of Love? You said the other day it could be the answer! Why’ve you changed your tune?’
‘Because after hearing from Owen, I don’t think a few hearts and an ageing fucking saint is going to stop it, do you?’
Ceri flinched. He was the equivalent of Professor Stephen Hawking here; the rest of Dwynwen were on the way to barking. If he gave up it was game over.
‘Don’t lose faith,’ she heard herself say needily. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a pint at the pub. I’m taking over from Seren at two p.m. so I’ve got time.’
‘Nah. Thanks, though.’
He turned and walked away and she felt a keen sense of rejection. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. And it unsettled her: he was the one the village was depending on to survive. Why did she care? A fortnight ago she’d been blissfully ignorant of this place. But now it mattered to her, she realised, because Dwynwen was the way it had been when her mother lived here. It needed to be preserved. Otherwise it would be like losing another piece of her mother.
‘Rhodri!’ she called to his broad back which right now looked like a slammed door.
‘What?’ he said gruffly, pausing at the pathway.
She had to convince him that until the plans had been rubber-stamped, there was still a chance. And she could only do that if she could spend some time with h
im. What would happen when she left on Friday? Maybe she had better think about stopping on. In the meantime, she had to do something about it right now.
‘I need some advice,’ she said, making it up on the spot as she trotted to him.
‘Right,’ he said, setting off again. ‘Make it quick because I’ve got stuff to do.’
He walked faster and she was breathless keeping up but it did give her a moment to think of something to ask him. He stopped when they reached a break in the hedgerow just before the pub, which she hadn’t noticed on her way up.
‘So this is me. What is it then?’ His amber eyes weren’t enquiring and helpful as usual but guarded by his lowered brow which spelled out that she only had a small window. He’d crossed his arms to make it clear there was no invitation to join him for a brew. Quite disproportionately, it was like a punch in the stomach. It set off a moment of insecurity and self-doubt. She was going to make a fool of herself. Scarier, what if this was the real him? Perhaps she’d been sucked in by his nicey-nice act. In her previous life, it would’ve been something she’d expected but here, it mattered to her. And she knew why now as she looked up at him, willing him to be the person she’d thought he was: he had become part of her rehabilitation from a miserable mourning moneybags into an ever-so-slightly happier and contented soul. His openness, his glow, it had been infectious. He’d made her laugh and he had listened to her problems. He was good and true, she still believed it, and she needed him to prove it. So she began to speak before her brain was in gear.
‘The best environmentally friendly cleaning products to use in the house,’ she said, feeling as lame as a three-legged donkey. ‘What do you recommend?’
His eyes examined her with scepticism. He’d seen right through her flimsy desperation, she could tell by his unimpressed stare. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t stop.
‘Because my mum, she was one of those “if it doesn’t move, bleach it” types and I was brought up on Domestos.’