by Laura Kemp
‘Rhodri!’
Ceri was here all rosy-cheeked and glowing and he was so pleased not to be alone he went to hug her, which was a huge mistake because all she got was a face of cardboard.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, breathing hard, hoisting her placard into the air. Hers was very clever, reading Woods Not Hoods and she’d taken his advice to draw a house next to the last word because he wasn’t sure the average resident was up on gangster slang.
‘Where are the rest?’ he asked, looking behind her to check for the other villagers.
‘Aren’t they here yet? I left after them as well. They were coming in a convoy behind Barri.’
It all made sense now. Barri only ever went anywhere in his bloody tractor. ‘Right,’ Rhodri said, deflated. ‘Well, we’ll have to do this by ourselves then.’
‘Didn’t you put it out on Twitter and Facebook and stuff?’ Ceri asked, grabbing the postcards and switching on a smile. ‘You know, to get the message out?’
She heard his silence and turned to him, shaking her head.
‘It’s on my to-do list,’ he said meekly, ‘I haven’t got round to setting up accounts yet.’
‘It’ll help,’ she said gently. ‘Instagram too. Visuals are so important. Our unique selling point is Dwynwen’s natural wonders.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘I am aware of that.’
‘I know. Sorry. Look, I went to Glan-y-mor and saw what they had there and—’
‘Did you?’ When? She hadn’t told him that.
‘Yes, with Logan, after we went kayaking, and …’ The swine had taken her out for lunch. This just got worse. Defeat was practically his. ‘… it was nice but it’s got nothing on Dwynwen.’
‘Well, obviously,’ he said sarcastically, instantly regretting it because she looked taken aback. But it was so hard, losing the girl before he’d even had the guts to make a move.
‘I know I’m an outsider, Rhodri, but sometimes an outsider can see things that perhaps insiders might overlook because they’re so used to them.’
‘Go on,’ he said, feeling guilty. But she looked unsure now. Her confidence was replaced by a look of uncertainty. ‘Please,’ he said, melting as he noticed the freckles on her nose and cheeks from the last week of sunshine.
‘You’re going to think I’m crackers but when I saw the waterfall from the sea, it was like thunder. Immense and all-consuming and it went on going, no matter what. Like love itself … but the kind I’ve never had before. The type people talk about when you are in so deep, you might suffocate. Like you couldn’t live without that person. My mum had it with my dad. Only briefly. I never understood it before. She’d tell me how it felt when she was with him. Nobody else existed when they were together. It was perfect. This place has brought me closer to the feeling. This is how Dwynwen affects people, not Glan-y-mor or housing developments.’
‘Wow,’ he said, gobsmacked and bewitched, before he realised with doom that she had come under Logan’s spell. One date with him and she was already falling head over heels. Rhodri had spent weeks with her and the only falling had been on his behalf, flat on his face because he hadn’t had the balls to act on his feelings. Any remote chance he’d had with her was now lost.
‘I’d be happy with a life-long companion. Mates for life. Like swans and wolves and shingleback skinks.’
‘Sorry?’ Ceri said, as he realised he’d mumbled his feelings. He had to explain it now. What was the point in backtracking?
‘Making a nest together, rearing young, looking after one another, finding happiness in the ordinary.’ He sounded like some holey-jumpered bird-spotting binoculared naturalist. And it was her turn for a bit of gobsmacking – but he knew hers was out of disbelief that he was so lame.
She opened her mouth then shut it again, her eyes searching his, just as he recognised the bald head and bow tie of Councillor Llewellyn, who was one of the more influential members of the committee.
‘Councillor!’ he said. ‘Rhodri Cadwalader. I wonder if I could have a minute?’
The bespectacled man pumped his hand with vigour. ‘The application isn’t up for a while but full marks for your efforts.’
‘Great! Thanks! I trust we can count on your support?’ Rhodri said, buoyed up by his remarks.
‘It’s a challenging issue. The environmental concerns are pressing and I’m full of admiration for you with the Village of Love …’ Then he rifled in his suit pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and presented it to Rhodri. ‘But economic considerations must be taken very seriously. You have a fight on your hands.’
And then he was gone, leaving Rhodri with an A5 sheet, a flyer, it looked like, which featured a headshot of his father and the CadCon logo of a house and a hammer. It cried Jobs for the locals! Homes for the people! with a bullet-pointed list of the so-called benefits of the proposed estate. An artist’s impression, computer-generated in the style of a watercolour painting, sold an idyllic country home with children playing in a generous sunny garden with sea views and dolphins. He looked down at himself and realised there was no way a cardboard costume could compete with this heartwarming whimsical CGI fantasy.
‘What is it?’ Ceri said, peering at it as Rhodri felt himself reeling. He knew now he’d been chasing something he would never catch. Not just with the woods but in life and love. What was that definition of madness people said? When you did the same thing over and over but expected a different outcome. That was him, what his brothers and even his mother had implied he was doing. He was moving towards a decision, although he was still too much in denial to admit what about.
‘A death warrant,’ Rhodri said grimly, ‘for the woods. And Dwynwen as we know it. It’s over, Ceri. It’s over.’
21
There was so much nastiness going on in the world, it was easy to think that’s all there was, Mel thought as she stared into her cupboards for teatime inspiration.
But the good deeds bestowed on Dwynwen were breeding more good deeds. When a bit of bunting became twisted, someone would straighten it out. If a packet of crisps was tucked in between the slats on one of the pub beer garden tables, a passer-by would dispose of it. English Dick was working on setting up an outdoor cinema at the caravan park to show weepies in the summer and Seren had delivered her first batch of love-heart forks to the cabin. Love would conquer all! She’d told Rhodri that enough times since the demo. He had forgiven everyone for getting there at five to two – eventually. But days later, he remained downcast, predicting the apocalypse or worse, the pub being converted into a Harvester once the housing estate was built.
He had also taken to nursing a pint by himself inside when everyone else was outdoors. Especially if Ceri was talking to Logan. For a while Mel hadn’t been able to work out if Rhodri had been sweet on her because he was the same happy guy with everyone. They didn’t talk about relationships really, their friendship was about day-to-day things and they both knew love wasn’t their favourite subject, so they skirted it out of respect. But as soon as Logan went near Ceri, Mel noticed Rhodri became withdrawn or made his excuses. It wasn’t news the two blokes weren’t mates, they’d fallen out a few years ago over something or other. Rhodri, being Rhodri, had never bad-mouthed his former buddy so no one knew what it had been about. Mel was confused, because she’d once thought Ceri fancied Rhodri. But then what did she know? Whatever, Rhodri was in the doldrums as if they were in the depths of winter and not on the cusp of summer.
Having said that, May had got under way with forty-eight hours of solid rain which had made the hedges shoot up and the flowers explode and it was still pouring now. What she needed was a big bowl of something hearty to revive her. It looked like it’d have to be soup, seeing as that was all she had in, she thought, as the phone rang. She made her way across the lounge, on the actual floorboards rather than over her clutter, after a concerted effort every evening for a fortni
ght. You’re getting there, Mel, she told herself.
‘Oh hello, is this the right number for the White House?’
By the sound of the man’s Birmingham twang it was from the electricity board’s call centre and he’d be after a meter reading.
‘Yes,’ she sighed, her attention wandering to the next job of tidying: rows of stacked sketch pads lined up against the wall on the darkest side of the room, which she’d kept from her first pencil drawings in her last year at primary all the way through GCSE, A Level and uni. She’d need a very full stomach to tackle those.
‘Great,’ said the caller.
‘Right,’ she said, wondering if she had any sourdough bread left. It didn’t matter if it was a bit solid, all the better for toasting and no excuses were needed for an inch of butter …
‘I’d like to check the availability of the cottage for July if possible?’
‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’ Because it couldn’t be true. The bookings diary was as empty as her fridge, it was.
‘I’d like to book for a week in July. Do you know if it’s free?’
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right place? It’s in Dwynwen and …’ She stopped herself from saying ‘nobody comes here for their holidays’.
‘Well, my brother said so. The place near St Davids, he lives there. We’re coming to visit him but want to stay somewhere quiet, you know, get away from the city. He sent me the link to the paper, the love thing. The pub looks right up my street, and my wife, she liked the sound of all the bunting. My brother says it’s a good beach for the kids too. Am I right?’
Mel felt faint with shock. ‘Yes. You are.’
‘So are you the one who deals with reservations?’
‘Yes.’ It came out small and her mouth was dry, so stunned she was. She tried again and this time her voice was louder and it jolted her into life.
‘Let me just get the book,’ she said, as her face began to beam. ‘It’s in the drawer behind me. Hang on a second while I put the phone down. It’s a gorgeous little cottage and Dwynwen is a wonderful place. I’m sure we can squeeze you in!’
Once Mr Norton (for that was his name) had rung off, Mel couldn’t help but do a victory lap round the lounge. It was so exciting! This would cheer up Rhodri, she thought, as she jigged about on the spot, deciding whether to nip up to his to tell him or eat first.
But, what a coincidence, her front door went and she skipped to the top of the stairs, where she shouted, ‘I was just about to come and see you, Rhod!’
Her grin slid off and lay dying on the top step when she saw her mother looking up at her from the hall with a hopeful smile.
‘Hi, love! You busy? We’ve brought fish and chips if you fancy some?’
‘We?’ Oh God, not Huw. She did not want to listen to his skittles league stories on a Friday night.
‘Ffion and me!’ her mother said, brightly as her half-sister sloped in, connected to earphones, giving Mel daggers through her heavy henna fringe. Huw’s skittles league stories were suddenly more appealing than listening to Fi’s grunts. There was no time to invent alternative plans because they were on their way up – all she could do was move back to allow her visitors in as they wafted past, trailing the scent of vinegary paper. She was so hungry, she would suffer this invasion.
Mam gave her the biggest cwtch and deliberately looked nowhere but at eye level. Dad must’ve told her she’d been struggling – that was why she was here, Mel groaned. Fi did exactly as she had been told not to and gawped at the molehills of stuff dotted around the room. Mam gave Fi a stern look and then went to the kitchen for plates. The awkward silence was interrupted by a clatter of china, the rolling sound of the cutlery drawer and a rattle of knives and forks.
‘Ketchup, Melyn?’
‘In the fridge. I’ll clear the table,’ she said, feeling herself curdling with embarrassment as she began to pick up piles of old photographs, which she’d put there to sort through later. Fi pulled a chair out and sat on its edge as though it was contaminated.
‘Want me to take your coat?’ Mel asked, bracing herself for a dose of lip. But she shook her head and brought her sleeve to her mouth to chew it like a child before she realised it and crossed her arms. What was up with her? Usually she was chopsy. But on closer inspection, her blue eyes, which were the same shade as Mel’s and Mam’s, lacked their edge and the thick liner she normally used was faded, probably from crying. There had obviously been a telling-off. Fifteen years old, Mel remembered it well and she felt sorry for Fi then: hormones going off like a pinball machine, no longer a kid but so far from adulthood, feeling misunderstood and trapped. All when exams were looming. It was a pressure cooker, that was for sure.
Mel went to help her mum. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked in a low voice, picking up the hot parcel, her mouth watering at the prospect of crispy batter.
‘Yes, fine,’ Mam said, her greying bob kinking at the shoulder from the rain. Mel severely doubted it but she knew she’d spill, give it a minute or two. ‘Any news?’
‘Yes, actually, I’ve just had a booking for the White House in the summer. Takings have gone up slightly and I’ve been clearing the house. I’m okay. For once!’
‘Oh, good. I am pleased,’ Mam said, stopping to smile at her and rub Mel’s back.
‘Where’s Huw?’
Mam suddenly looked weary and frail. Here it came. ‘Out. For a pint to calm down. There was a set-to. Shoplifting. My God, my own daughter. Luckily it was a local shopkeeper not a chain store otherwise she’d have been prosecuted. We had to beg. All for a pair of sunglasses for two pounds ninety-nine. Two ninety-nine, I ask you! She said it was a dare. I knew this crowd she was hanging around with were trouble.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Mel said, putting an arm around her. ‘That’s hard on all of you.’ A tiny bit of her was relieved she wasn’t the source of trouble this time.
‘She’s told you then,’ Fi said, as Mel returned to unwrap the fish and chips and dish them out between three.
‘I am here, Ffion,’ Mam said sharply, as she took a seat.
‘Unfortunately.’ Fi glared and pushed her plate away.
‘Come on, guys, it’s okay.’ Both of them looked smaller tonight, as if they were weighed down. ‘I know what it’s like to be messed up, Fi.’
‘You don’t say.’ She eye-rolled. But Mel didn’t feel any anger – instead she was touched that Mam had come to her when she was in need, as if she was a grown-up and not the eternal teenager she’d always felt in her company.
‘Mam is only trying to help,’ she said softly, tucking into her delicious flaky cod. ‘Those people, they don’t sound good. Stay away from them. You’ve got to listen to Mam.’
‘That right?’ Fi crowed, giving their mother a defiant stare.
Mel didn’t understand and looked from one to the other for explanation.
‘In which case, Mel,’ Fi said with venom, ‘I’ll be starting at the stinking cabin as soon as my exams finish, all right?’
‘Sorry?’ What was she on about?
Mam speared a chip then put down her fork. ‘She needs a job to keep her out of trouble. I said perhaps you could help. Your father said it would be okay.’
Oh, did he? The fish turned to stone in her stomach and there was a bone scratching her throat. This was a damn cheek: to off-load Mam and Huw’s responsibility onto her. She wasn’t a bloody nanny, let alone a probation officer. They hadn’t even asked her. And Dad, worst of all, had gone along with it.
‘Water,’ she said hoarsely, getting up rather too aggressively, making the table shake. Mam took the opportunity to lob more ammo her way.
‘I mean you said yourself things were going well … the season’s going to start soon, you could do with a hand, couldn’t you? She can help in the kitchen or spring-clean the cottages, save you a job? It’ll just be for the school hol
idays.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Fi spat.
How was Mel going to afford her wages? How was she going to put up with a surly and idle sister all summer? She’d frighten off the customers. Mel filled a glass and then let the tap run, leaning into the sink to watch the stream go down the plughole. That was where the cabin would be heading if she had to employ her half-sister. Nobody had thought to consult her. Nobody had thought to warn her. Her livelihood would be gone and she’d be all at sea once again. No better off than she had been nearly a decade ago. Except it would be worse because she was thirty now and would have a failed business behind her as well as an unfinished art degree and no money. Everything she’d been working towards these last few weeks, this slash and burn of her dead branches, would be for nothing. Mel heard raised voices then an almighty crash of a shattering plate. She held her breath and listened.
‘See?’ Fi screeched. ‘I told you this would happen.’
Then footsteps, thumping down the stairs. And just before the front door slammed, her half-sister shouted, ‘Not even the fucking family freak wants me around.’
22
Ceri had been to a film premiere before. She’d worn skyscraper heels, a silver-sequinned strapless dress, smoky eyeshadow and lash extensions – her own brand of course – and the pop of cameras on her dress should’ve carried a flashing images warning, she looked so sparkly standing on the red carpet. Which movie she’d gone to see she didn’t recall, who gave a fig? It was about being seen mixing with footballers and soap stars. The video she’d made of her getting ready with a make-up tutorial, the chauffeur-driven limo which had taken her to Manchester and her wobbly, self-conscious ‘I can’t believe I’m here, guys!’ had been one of her highest ever viewed vlogs on her YouTube channel. What working girl up and down the country didn’t dream of having a Cinderella moment? It captured everything they aspired to – glamour, escape and recognition. But, crucially, they hadn’t perceived it to be out of their reach, for Ceri was one of them, from an ordinary street in an ordinary town. What they hadn’t seen was the elbowing going on behind the scenes by Z-list celebs to get in the right shot with the hottest people, the suspicious snorting in the ladies and the cubicle grunt of a Premier League player with his keks round his ankles. The following day, sales of her range had exploded and she’d become a household name to beauty-obsessed teens and twenty-somethings. It had created its own problems, but overall she was very glad she’d had it.