by Laura Kemp
‘Were you now?’ He tutted.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, thinking he was about to rumble her. ‘Look, it’s just, I’m …’
‘Bursting, I get it,’ he said, sighing as he dropped his arms, ‘I wish you’d just asked to use the loo rather than take the Mick about cleaning products.’
Ceri could’ve cried at his innocence: there was the proof she’d needed he had no side. How could she have doubted him? Her heart swelling with elation that he hadn’t let her down, she promised herself she’d do less of the teasing from now on.
‘Oh, thanks, Rhodri,’ she gushed with too much gratitude, hopping for effect. ‘I wasn’t taking the pee. I just need one.’
‘Come on then,’ he said, mock reluctantly, and motioned for her to follow him through the overgrown ferns which brushed her as if they were frisking her for non-recyclables. She wouldn’t stay long, just enough time to convince him he was Dwynwen’s guardian angel. Not a biggie or anything. Besides, she wasn’t sure his place would be very homely anyway. It was bound to be a yurt powered by a bicycle-run generator with a rotting compost heap out the back. The peeling wooden gate engraved with the words Murmur Y Coed suggested as much.
‘One of the jobs I need to do,’ he said, holding it open for her. ‘Varnishing.’
Varnish, her head screamed, wasn’t that a bit poisonous? But she held her tongue because she’d made a vow not to rib him.
‘I make my own. All natural. From beeswax and olive oil. See, I bet you didn’t know you could use household things for everyday purposes? There you are, tip one.’
The urge to shout ‘of course I bloody know!’ was a strong one. She went for the safer option of having a go at pronouncing the name of his house.
‘Murmur why co-ed?’ she tried hopefully.
‘Murmur eeeeee coyd. It means Whisper of the Woods.’
‘That’s just too romantic, that …’ For a hovel, she didn’t say, as she looked up a winding pathway to see something so unexpected she grabbed Rhodri’s arm to steady herself.
‘All right? Did you lose your footing? It is a bit muddy up here,’ he said, unaware she was dying of shame for assuming he lived like Stig of the dump. That and the coolest thing she’d ever seen conspired to leave her speechless.
Contemporary yet in keeping with the surroundings, his house was a long single-storey log cabin, its front made entirely of glass, along which ran a veranda the length of the building, nestled in a garden of wildflowers and palms. It was like something out of Scandinavia: to brand it ‘Ikea’ did it no justice. Instead it was the type of place you’d see surrounded by snow in winter which transformed into a summer house when the warmer weather allowed. Drawn to it, she went closer, seeing now the floor-to-ceiling windows were slide-back doors, imagining herself star-gazing on the wicker lie-back loungers or cuddled up toasting marshmallows in a sunken seated fire pit. Rhodri beside her with his arm around her. Candles everywhere, communions of them, on the decking, two low-slung hammocks and a healthy wood store, which threw up a picture of Rhodri axing logs. Topless.
‘What? This … it’s yours?’
‘Built it myself, it’s been a labour of love, I can tell you,’ he said, hands on hips. ‘Not quite there yet, lots still to do, such as the outdoor shower; you know, for when I’ve caught a few waves, with saloon half-doors so I can feel as if I’m among nature.’
She needed a cold one never mind an outdoor shower at the thought of him soaping himself down, his chin lifted to the sky as rivers of water ran down his back … Maybe there were perks to eco extremism.
‘No outdoor loo, though.’ He winked before leading her up wide wooden steps to the veranda and in through the front door where she kicked off her wellies.
Again she was lost for words. The living space was white and open plan, starting with a high-gloss kitchen then a cloud-shaped dining table. The last third ended with a metallic wood burner and a deep L-shaped sofa facing the view which, because they were much higher than the path, looked over an infinity pool of sea. Somehow the inside merged seamlessly with the outside: tasteful shades of grey, blue and green mimicked the natural world. Behind her four doors ran along the back wall, leading presumably to bedrooms and the bathroom. She could see herself waking up here of a morning, thank you very much.
‘It’s flaming gorgeous,’ she finally said as he pointed her in the direction of the loo. ‘And cosy.’ Not like her flat, which was still in boxes. She wanted a place of her own to cuddle her up like this: only Mum’s had ever done that.
‘Thanks,’ he said bashfully. ‘It’s greener than the Eden Project. Most people are surprised it doesn’t smell of farts.’
Ceri let out a honk of laughter, thrilled he was himself again.
‘The thing is, Ceri, what floats my boat is what’s beneath.’
Of course, she nodded, chastising herself for being so taken with the shiny surfaces.
‘It’s as eco as you can get. There are no man-made carbon-footprint-heavy materials. It’s all locally sourced timber – renewable and non-toxic. There’s a green roof, the plants provide insulation. The loo’s flushed by rainwater. The table and chairs are made from recycled plastic such as yogurt pots and bottles. All NASA-approved air-filtering houseplants. Organic veggie garden out the back. And every cleaning product,’ he said, waggling his eyebrows as he opened a cupboard stacked with brands she’d never seen, ‘is free from ammonia, chlorofluorocarbons, chlorine and parabens.’
He gave her a big grin. That was more like the Rhodri she’d come to know.
Then she spied something miraculous. A modem on the worktop and she jabbered, ‘Wifi! Have you got wifi?’
All of a sudden Rhodri spied his laptop and slammed it shut.
‘Oh, Rhodri,’ she said, laying on her disapproval with a butter knife, ‘you haven’t been looking at mucky sites have you?’
‘No! No. Nothing … like that.’ He shook his head until it almost fell off.
‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘Who cares! I thought there was no wifi around here!’
‘There isn’t. Not the kind you’re thinking of. The quick kind. This version is slower than dial-up. You can’t download anything. It takes an age for a website to come up. I just try it every now and again.’
‘Can’t have it all, I suppose,’ she said, letting him off the hook. ‘Did it cost much to build?’
‘Less than buying a house actually.’ He was merrier now his browsing history wasn’t under scrutiny. ‘It was a shack to start with, I could afford it as it was. But I needed a loan off Dad to get it habitable and he never stops reminding me. He thinks I’m a hypocrite. Living off the spoils of his unethical success and criticising him for it.’ Rhodri’s shoulders dropped. ‘He’s right.’
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘that’s what parents are supposed to do. Help you out.’
Glum wasn’t the word. And she was meant to be inspiring him.
‘Look, you’re lucky to have a dad around. Mine died even before I was born.’ Rhodri did the ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ nose wrinkle she had seen so many times in her life before. She waved it away. ‘My mum made up for it. But sometimes I do wonder what would’ve happened if he’d been around. If we’d have moved to Spain … early morning blue sky, siestas, a swim in the Med, tapas for tea …’
‘Well, you might not be as far away from your dad as you think.’
‘You what?’ Just when she had him down as the sane one in Dwynwen, he turned bonkers.
‘Seriously. The Welsh are apparently descended from a tribe of Iberian fishermen who crossed the Bay of Biscay.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘DNA analysis by a geneticist at Oxford University shows we have an almost identical genetic fingerprint to coastal dwellers in Spain. Might explain in very crude terms why you get so many dark-haired and dark-skinned people in West Wales. Like
us.’ He smiled and his chest heaved with emotion.
‘Hang on. Was that what Mel was going on about when she said some of the Armada washed up here?’
‘Christ, no. That’s a load of rot. I’m talking six thousand years ago, there’s real scientific evidence to say we are all Spanish fishermen. Dwynwen, this village, it’s a part of you. I hope you feel more at home now?’
‘Um … sort of,’ she said, not wanting to prick his bubble with the revelation her mum had been a blonde. ‘It’s a lovely thought. Poetic and dreamy. Not quite how I was brought up to see life, though. In Crewe it was never about what ifs. It was always about graft and making the most of what you have. Going for it, you know, with your whole heart.’
Rhodri tilted his head, wondering, so she seized the moment.
‘Like you’ve done here with your house and like you could do with the Village of Love …’
She let it hang in the air, stopping short of exclaiming ‘hint! hint!’ so he could consider it for himself.
‘Yeah,’ he said wistfully, ‘I suppose it is possible the council might vote in our favour if it sees what we’re building here. We’ve just got to get a move on with it.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ she said, full of relief he’d taken the bait. With that, it was time to go. Gwen would’ve plated one up for her before she started work so she put on her wellies and skipped down the steps just as Rhodri remembered the reason for her visit.
‘You haven’t been to the loo!’ he shouted to her from the decking.
‘It was a false alarm,’ she called back. Probably just like the feelings she was having for Rhodri, she realised as she ambled down the last section of the pathway to the pub. She loved his company and every time she saw him, she’d think he was a little bit more gorgeous than the time before. It was a good job she did have to get behind the bar because she could’ve spent the rest of the afternoon up there with him, if he’d have had her. That was the thing, she didn’t get any vibes from him that he liked her more than a friend. And anyway, what was she even thinking going down this path? She was here for only a few more days and holidays weren’t real life. Crushes burned themselves out, as this one would do. She was just coming out of loneliness and he was there. They were opposites too – completely. They couldn’t be more different; him with his country ways and her an urban socialite. The trouble was, though, she wasn’t seeing herself quite like that anymore. Rhodri’s house was a revelation, making her see more possibilities here. Even though they were just friends, her feet were beginning to take root beside his. This bond made her see what she was lacking at home. Ceri wasn’t sure what lesson it was she was learning here but she had the sense that the direction of her life was turning. And being here was something to do with it. Rhodri needed her to keep him from losing confidence in the village. Mel needed her to help her break her cycle of self-destruction. The business could manage for one more week under Jade’s expert eye. That was all there was to it, there were no counter-arguments: after her shift she’d go and see Mel and extend her booking.
15
‘Did ye know, Cap’n Henry,’ Rhodri said in his best pirate voice, ‘in them there coves of West Wales, smugglers did hide their loot. But a terrible end did come to some o’ those swashbucklin’ scallywag scurvy dogs o’the sea before they could reclaim it, and people say there still be treasure waitin’ for landlubbers to find.’
Crouching low on the sand, he waited to see if Henry was going to bite: he was so intelligent he sometimes gave him a look which clearly stated he was not going to demean himself with silly games. To be fair to the boy, Rhodri did look an absolute buffoon with his trousers tucked into his socks and his belt tied diagonally around his head so it covered one eye. But other times, he would be the nine-year-old he was.
‘Aarrrrr!’ Henry shouted, slicing the air with a stick. ‘Out o’me way, Gingerbeard, ya stinkin’ pox-faced swine!’
It was excellent role-play but he could’ve done without being poked in the ribs while being reminded of his ostentatious facial hair which he’d grown once and no one had let him forget it.
‘There be the spirit! Now,’ Rhodri said, putting on a scowl, ‘shall we go alookin’ for the booty?’
‘Aye!’ Henry bawled, picking up some seaweed and draping it over his head like it was a Jack Sparrow wig of dreads.
This was the bit Rhodri loved the most – he distracted Henry by asking him to look out for a Jolly Roger at sea, took a handful of coins out of his thigh pocket on the left side of his trousers and threw them onto the sand, which he covered up with a scuff of his performance-meshed aqua-lined eco-lite boot. It always descended into a scrap when he did it for Dai’s kids, his three nephews reminding him of his own childhood when Dad had performed the same trick. Eldest brother Dai had dropped to the floor like a commando, covering as much surface area as he could to prevent usurpers from stealing the money. Rhodri would jump on him only to be tickled under the armpits by Iolo so he’d roll over, at which point Dai would punch him, kick sand into his eyes, dangle spit-strings over his face and fart on his head until he surrendered. The spoils were Iolo’s, who would calmly walk up to Rhodri and whisper in his ear everyone hated him and he was secretly adopted. And would casually pocket the lot.
Happy days, they were, if you didn’t mind getting called a chicken when you ran to Mum in tears and the others stuck their fingers up behind her back and you ended up getting sent to the side because you’d gone mad and shouted ‘shitheads’ at everyone. While Dad was cited as the ultimate threat, he never got involved in the discipline. Rhodri had once overheard him tell Mum it was good for the boys to engage in fisticuffs because it prepared them for life. But it had just reinforced their birth order. Dai remained the leader, Iolo developed his own tactics and Rhodri was the wet one. If he ever had the fortune to be a father, he’d do it all differently, he swore. Be more involved rather than playing them off against each another.
‘Cap’n Henry!’ Rhodri said, curling his fingers up and placing them to his seeing eye like a telescope. ‘I spy some pieces of eight!’
With a yelp, Henry jigged about and fell on his knees, scrabbling for the shiny swag. Now he could get to the educational bit. About time too because he could see brooding black clouds in the distance. After this, they’d go back and do the secret stuff Henry was sworn not to divulge to anyone.
‘West Wales really does have a history of smuggling, Henry,’ Rhodri said, settling down cross-legged next to the now empty picnic basket. ‘Three hundred years ago, whole villages would be involved, storing goods such as wine, salt and soap, providing lookouts and lighting warning beacons so the smugglers didn’t have to pay taxes at the ports. People were so poor they helped out because crime paid.’
‘Found one! It’s a pound! I’ve found a pound!’ Henry’s little face was alight before it became fierce with focus as he returned to digging like a dog.
‘It still happens today. Modern-day pirates are at large,’ Rhodri went on, not wanting to go into drugs, tobacco and people-trafficking. Even though that included the story of Welshman Howard Marks, an international cannabis smuggler who became the FBI’s most wanted after foiling them with up to forty-three different aliases, including Mr Nice, which became his nickname. Rhodri felt himself curdling at the memory of Logan calling him the same term. Except he hadn’t been referring to his cunning or guile. No, Logan had gone for his boring, dismal, dull jugular.
‘And another! Oh. It’s only 2p, this one,’ Henry said, pulling Rhodri back from the brink of self-flagellation.
‘But it’s nothing to worry about. Customs ships patrol the waves. We’re all perfectly safe.’
‘Fifty pence this time!’
‘Afternoon!’ a voice said. It was Ceri’s, full of bounce, which gave him so much pleasure.
He got up and brushed the sand off his legs and asked what she was up to.
‘Me? S
houldn’t you be explaining why you’re wearing a tea towel bandana on a Monday afternoon? You do make me laugh.’
Shit. He’d forgotten.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his hands reaching to the edges of his impromptu headgear to pull them down so they covered his ears. ‘Well, Henry’s on an inset day. I offered to look after him so Seren could get on with preparing for her craft fair. I’m his godfather. And I was owed time so I took it. Spontaneously. Like the mad devil I am. We’re being pirates.’
‘So sweet!’
Sweet? He wished he wasn’t. Exciting! Daring! Irresistible! That would’ve been better to hear.
Henry piped up. ‘Is it you?’
‘Is it me what?’ Ceri answered, getting down to his level.
‘Who did the bunting?’
Befuddled, Rhodri looked from Henry to Ceri and back to Henry, wondering how on earth he’d come up with that idea.
‘Me?’ Ceri said with a screech. ‘Why on earth would you say that?’
Henry put his hands behind his back as if he was presenting the case for the prosecution. ‘Because it happened since you got here.’
‘Henry!’ Rhodri said, taken aback by his forthrightness although Henry was right about things having happened since she’d arrived, namely in his heart. ‘Just because there’s a causal link doesn’t make it a correlation! Besides, Ceri’s a barmaid, sorry, bar person, and they don’t earn much money, apologies, Ceri.’
‘It’s okay, Rhodri. It’s a good theory. Henry is obviously a big thinker, aren’t you?’
Henry nodded. Then he frowned. ‘So who would it have been?’
‘I just think of it like Father Christmas. Does he visit you?’
Rhodri caught himself turning gooey at the way she related to him.
‘Santa? Really?’ Henry said in a mocking tone. Rhodri and Ceri swapped sad eyes over his lost innocence. ‘I’ve looked into it and he’d never get round to deliver all those presents in one night. No, it’s the elves who do it, they’re the ones who come down the chimneys because there’s millions of elves. Santa just directs it from the North Pole. So perhaps it’s elves? What they do when Christmas is over.’