by Laura Kemp
Number one, it’s getting myself on the beach. Which is all thanks to my lovely friend Mel, who would have to be number two – she held my hand for ages on the stony edge where the lane ends and the sand begins. I kept looking for rain clouds to give me a get-out but yesterday’s storm blew them away. And shock, horror, the sun was threatening to come out. Mel stuck by me, she told me about her trip to the harbour last week with her dad. It was the first time in yonks she’d left the village out of choice rather than duty. It’s only round the next bay, five miles or thereabouts, but it could’ve been Timbuktu. Her dad said he’d turn around if she wanted but she did it. Mel knew she had to make a change; to stop her past ruling her present. I realised she had crossed a line and I needed to as well: she said I didn’t have to see the beach as where I’d lose you when I eventually built up the courage to scatter you. I could see it as the place where you’d been and where I’d always find you.
I took a step and felt the soft slip of sand. My stomach went with it. But Mel was there, her arm linked through mine, holding me up. The squeak of my wellies took me back to Blackpool, when I was about six, and you’d taken us for our first holiday you could afford in the five years after Tash’s dad had gone. We were so hard up, weren’t we, we went in February rather than the summer and we stayed in one double bed in that tired old B&B, you in the middle, playing hell with us for bringing back half the beach in our boots and making the sheets sandy. That memory made me smile and I began to feel okay. Mel let me go and I kept walking back and forth, imagining I was in your footsteps; and it’s the strangest thing but suddenly it felt familiar as if I knew the place, which is impossible because you never brought us here. And I found myself wondering why you didn’t … when Dwynwen obviously mattered enough to you to be your final resting place. But I can’t ask. I can only presume you were confused. I found a rock to perch on, where I am now, and I watched the waves and their softness made it seem all right, like your hand would do on my forehead and through my hair if I was poorly on the sofa. It’s not quite me mending, but it’s the closest I’ve got to peace.
That brings to me my third blessing. And your head will spin when I tell you … because this is the first day of the rest of my life. Yep, I’ve decided to stay here for a while. Maybe you’ll think I’m mad, and maybe I am, because I was all ready to leave twenty-four-hours ago. But Jade’s call was the final straw – the business isn’t ‘me’ anymore. At least, that’s what made me decide it. I’d been thinking it for a while. I can do the behind the scenes stuff, sure, but I can’t be the public face of it when I don’t feel it. How can I when I haven’t used heated rollers since February and my make-up bag is untouched? Jade is more than capable of that. You see, I love being Ceri Rees. There’s none of the shit of being Ceri Price. Like that party I put on when I hit one million subscribers in that posh bar in Manchester and I put on a minibus for the workingmen’s club thinking they’d be made up to be included, but afterwards nobody said a word of thanks. There was even an anonymous letter saying I was up myself. Or that bloke who wined and dined me, whatsisname Gary something, who ran a sports car garage, who said he was setting up a charity to pay for his four-year-old niece’s flight to Florida for pioneering treatment. Only it turned out he was a panel beater and there was no sick child. The people here are kind and helpful, modest and unpretentious without a pinch of arrogance or boastfulness. They’ve come up with calling Dwynwen the Village of Love to woo back the tourists. At first I thought there was more charm in a cat-litter tray, but there’s a kind of magic here. The way they’ve taken to the bunting which turned up overnight, it’s glorious. No one knows who’s behind it but they’ve accepted it as if it was some divine intervention from the saint! It disappeared yesterday and I assumed it’d been vandalised, like it would be anywhere else, but it was Mel, who’d taken it down to keep it out of harm’s way until the storm passed. If the Village of Love was going to work anywhere, it’ll be here.
Tash will think I’m cuckoo for staying – she’ll say it’s typical of me, going from the sublime to the ridiculous, but she’ll be glad to be rid of me. My emotions are too messy for her. I either catch her at a bad moment, say it’s Lola’s ballet class or she’s at soft play with Gracie, or it’s the answerphone. She hardly returns my calls. She’s done her usual – dusted herself off and got on with things. You know, I only ever saw her upset twice after you’d died. The first time, at your bedside when you’d passed. She’d missed you by three minutes and ran over in her dressing gown just after midnight and howled. Then at the funeral. Other than that, she’s not leaned on me at all. She didn’t even let me know the house was sold. God, I’m still upset about that – I heard that from Jade. That’s why the villagers’ warmth matters so much. Like last night; it should’ve been a disaster. We had no power and it was so windy we wouldn’t have been surprised if chunks of Ireland had crash-landed on The Dragon. But we had a great time drying off like wet dogs in front of a blazing fire, scoffing bowls of stew, having lots to drink and plenty of singing. Technically that was yesterday but I didn’t get in until two a.m., so I’ll count that as my fourth blessing.
My last … hmm … well, I suppose I can trust you not to say anything to anyone. It’s Rhodri. Don’t get excited, I haven’t found The One. For him to be that he’d have to like me back, because I do like him, a lot. But there’s no chance of it going anywhere – it’s a little window shop, that’s all. Same with Logan, he’s another hottie, although I’ve not seen much of him – there must be something in the water here! We’re too different, poles apart – his idea of a dirty weekend is perving over puffins on a windy Welsh island, for goodness sakes. But Rhodri’s a nice person, that’s all, he’s funny and serious all at once, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Almost like one of those fairytale heroes, good and true, proper and principled. He’s taking on his father, who’s planning to build forty homes on the woods. Most people would shrug and think of the inheritance. But not him. He cares so much for Dwynwen and it’s catching. And I’ve caught it – I mean, how else could you explain a woman like me, who would never leave the house without heels or eyelash extensions, being outside in flats minus slap in a water-repellent fleece?
17
‘Delivery. Sign here, please. And make it quick, it’s taken us all day to find you.’
‘Delivery? We’re not expecting anything.’
‘Says here The Dragon, Dwynwen. No returns.’
‘Well, I never … hang on, I bet it’s my husband. He’s done this before, got a hot tub, thinking it’d bring in punters; but I made him send it back because I couldn’t bear the thought of Barri in his budgies. What’s he ordered this time?’
‘Furniture.’
‘Furniture? But we’ve only just had a new lazyboy recliner.’
‘Loveseats, the invoice says.’
‘Loveseats, is it? Oh my days … I knew I shouldn’t have let Gwil read Fifty Shades of Grey.’
‘Right, so if everyone agrees, I’ll ring the Cambrian News and let them know we’re ready for a photographer to come in the morning. Okay?’
A loud cheer went up from Barri and English Dick, who’d been sinking pints since lunch at a guess, but Rhodri didn’t doubt their support or the others who murmured theirs. It was everywhere, it seemed. The petition calling on the council to protect the woods had amassed an incredible one thousand signatures, thanks to volunteers dropping them off at village shops, libraries and petrol stations. He himself had collected a few hundred in his lunch hour. Mel had handed in fifty signatures from the cabin; it wasn’t much but she was stuck there day and night with the same old faces so she had tried her best. Ceri had been the biggest hitter, though, with a door-knock up and down the estates around the area. It had been a terrific effort and proved he’d been right to wait till they had enough names before they went public with the Village of Love. It gave the news piece two jabs: it showed they weren’t only complaining, they were doing s
omething about it. Plus, the start of April meant more people were thinking about the summer, which felt as if it was just around the corner. The story would be live by lunchtime tomorrow; then he would email it personally to every councillor on the planning committee. Victory would be theirs!
Satisfied with the meeting, he thanked everyone and went about finishing his pint. He had a nice Monday night tea planned – a locally caught bit of pollock which he’d turn into Thai fishcakes – and then he was going to dig a trench for his runner beans: he’d saved all of his tea bags, peelings and egg shells for weeks to give the soil the best start. But most exciting of all he was almost done building his own outdoor wood-fired pizza oven. He’d created the base, laid firebricks, made the dome out of clay and sand and cut the entrance at the weekend – all that was left was the final insulation layer. He wanted to do a grand pizza evening: his dream scenario would be sharing a margarita and roasted artichokes in the glow of the fire with Ceri, licking olive-oiled fingers and toasting each other with posh Italian lager. The reality would be a scrum of locals and the stink of singed eyebrows. Because he’d never get away with inviting her alone. It would look as if he had designs on her. Which he had, but he didn’t want everyone to know in case she felt uncomfortable. But then how would he ever be able to make a move if he didn’t make a move? This was one of the drawbacks of living in such a small place. The inevitable knock-back would make things awkward and he’d be a laughing stock. Perhaps if he got her on her own and dropped it into the conversation: you, me, pizza, then he might summon the courage.
He drained his glass and took it back to the bar, where Ceri was lit up like an angel by the evening sun which streamed through the windows. She was so lovely, he thought, watching her flip a tap just at the right moment before the beer spilled over the top. He could just ask her now, casually …
The heavenly vision shattered when Gwen raced in at fever pitch through the front door.
‘ALL HANDS ON DECK!’ she yelled, going bananas. ‘SANTA’S BEEN AGAIN!’
A chorus of ‘What?’ and ‘Talk sense, woman!’ went up and she was forced to take a breath.
‘It’s another surprise! Quick! Come see!’
A collective gasp went up and the pub emptied out onto the courtyard. Rhodri couldn’t believe his eyes. An assortment of beautiful hand-carved dark wooden chairs and tables, heavy sacks and towering palms in huge pots were on the tarmac and a van was halfway up the hill. Gwil was looking stunned, holding a slip which Rhodri bent closer to read. It was addressed to the Village of Love and specified no returns under any circumstances!
‘It’s a beer garden,’ Gwil said. ‘For us. For free. Five pairs of loveseats, six sets of tables and chairs, gravel for the floor and plants and flowers. And some solar lights … love heart ones.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Rhodri said. ‘Saint Dwynwen has struck again! What’s the flat-packed stuff?’
‘Some planters, it says here,’ Gwil said, quite overcome. Rhodri had only seen him this emotional when Wales were playing rugby.
‘We’d better get some spades and rakes and screwdrivers and things!’ Ceri said, whooping next to him, as the locals crawled over the goodies like ants. On closer inspection, each loveseat, which was joined by a table in the middle, had slightly different designs but all had intricate hearts chiselled into their backs. Who could be behind it? Immediately he thought of Seren, who wasn’t here and had said she’d been working very long hours on some new designs. She’d sold nothing at her craft fair – the storm had stopped people coming out. It certainly was craftsmanship of the highest standard – it reminded him of the lovespoon she’d made for him. But would she be capable of producing all of this in a matter of weeks? He just didn’t know. And right now, he didn’t care because all that mattered was that it gave the Village of Love another boost. Once word got out – and it would tomorrow – people would come to watch the sunset in this most charming of beer gardens. It was another step towards Dwynwen’s revival, he thought happily.
He turned to mention it to Ceri but Logan had slinked up beside her. And, oh God, his wetsuit was peeled to his belly button, revealing a muscular chest that was fresh from the cover of Men’s Health. The utter wanker. Not only that but he was holding a screwdriver in her face like some kind of exhibitionist.
‘I’m well equipped if nothing else,’ he heard him say.
Rhodri’s toes curled at the innuendo and he waited to see how Ceri would react, praying she wouldn’t stoop so low to make some naff retort. She hesitated, though, before she took it. Rhodri wanted to scream at her, ‘Don’t touch his screwdriver, you don’t know where it’s been! I’ll get mine instead, I regularly clean them.’ But he kept his mouth clamped shut because if he mentioned his well-oiled tools, he knew he’d be the one who came off worst.
‘I’ve another in the van,’ Logan said, persuading her, referring to his sleek black VW parked oh-so-handily next to him with its boot indecently wide open, flaunting an oar.
‘Ooh, you paddle board, then?’ she said. Rhodri contained the urge to yell, ‘Yes, but I taught him! I’m much better than him!’
‘Yes, perfect day for it,’ Logan said. ‘No waves. You get a different perspective on things out there. It’s so quiet.’
‘Oh, wow. It must be like having the sea to yourself.’ She was smiling her dazzling smile and hang on, there wasn’t one of her trademark smirks to be seen. Clearly, she reserved those for idiots like himself.
‘Almost,’ Logan said, pulling on a long-sleeved T-shirt. Phew, he was getting dressed. ‘A couple of seals joined me.’ Not this line, Rhodri groaned, he’d heard this one before.
‘Wow, did they come up close?’ And Ceri was falling for it.
‘Quite close. But they didn’t stay for a chat or anything. They’re shy.’ Unlike you, he hissed inside. ‘The sea will warm up now April’s coming, you should try it if you haven’t already?’
No! No! He knew where this was going.
‘I’m more of a lay-by-the-pool person. And before today, before I decided to stay on even, it always looked too cold and rough.’
‘I’ve got some kayaks, much more stable. Come out with me,’ Logan said, finally acknowledging Rhodri with a nod which had a distant whiff of smug about it. As if he hadn’t known Rhodri was eavesdropping. This was brinkmanship. In the language spoken by Neanderthals, Logan had gone and cocked his leg on him. All he cared about now was her. He didn’t have a chance with her – she was way out of his league – he just didn’t think Logan was worthy. He hoped Ceri would see what Logan was like before she got hurt. He just didn’t get it: she was one of the most switched-on people he’d ever come across. She must’ve met Logan’s type before.
‘I’ve got life jackets if you’re nervous.’
Rhodri clenched his backside as he waited for her to agree – because she would, women always did with Logan – and when the inevitable happened, he decided he’d heard enough. He marched off to get his tools, grumbling all the way back to his shed. How the hell could Logan just walk in and ask her out like that without even making it sound like he was asking her out? Because that’s what it came down to, since Logan didn’t do anything without an ulterior motive. Yet had Rhodri dared to do the same, it would’ve come out in a very unnatural stumble and a stammer. It just wasn’t fair. Then he ran back down the lane as fast as he could to make sure Logan didn’t have Ceri to himself, stopping to walk just before he popped out by the pub so he didn’t look desperate. He had to remember to adjust the sour milk expression on his face, too or Ceri would wonder what had got his goat.
When he got to her, she was watching Logan rip open plastic sacks of gravel with his teeth and deposit them onto the ground in great dusty clouds with a flick of his wrists. It was quite sickening. Still, he managed to give her a smile. She returned it and gave his arm a friendly squeeze. Her attention made him fluster and he fussed about with his beige utili
ty belt. At least it made him look manly, he thought.
But Ceri just laughed. ‘Come on, Batman,’ she said, pointing at his pouch which made him die of embarrassment, ‘let’s go and build this pub a beer garden.’
18
There were people in the cabin Mel had never seen before. Complete strangers. Ordering food and drinks and perusing her shelves. It was fabulous – and all thanks to the news story which had broken online on Tuesday and then made the front page today, Thursday, in the print version. She’d pinned it up on the community noticeboard in Caban Cwtch and smiled every time she saw the headline Village Makes Love Not War. The piece featured a photo of Gwen and Gwil in a loveseat beneath the bunting, each waving a thick wad of petition signatures against the housing development. Rhodri’s dad, who’d been asked to comment, had spoken like a politician, trusting the council to do what was best for the declining local economy. Poor Rhodri. But it had made him even more determined to press ahead with the demo next week. She’d read the article so many times she knew it word for word, yet still she felt a thrill each time it caught her eye on her way back and forth from the kitchen.