by Laura Kemp
Rhodri joined her on his knees and murmured, ‘This is for everyone.’
He was right. It wasn’t about her but all the people who’d pulled together over these rescue packages. If she thought of the bigger picture, maybe she could cope. This would put some colour back in the cottages’ cheeks. She looked up and saw her friends waiting. So she poured her upper body strength into the fingers on her left hand as she dug the spoon under the lid. A suck of a squelch then a hiss of air as the seal broke and out blew a puff of her most favourite smell in the world: wet paint. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply as the scent of chemicals collided with the association in her heart. An explosion of a head-rush of a carousel went off: she was feeling what it had meant to be able to express herself and replicate the shades she saw, which had turned her shameful secretive sixth sense into something real and valid. Mel’s insides bounced around like popcorn as she anticipated what colour she lay beneath. She couldn’t remember, on a high, trying to control her glee as … oh! the purple of regency and Prince and aubergine and Cadbury’s and lavender ran from the lid in thick gloopy globules. It was a riot in which she could see the reds and blues mixed to make this most perfect of shades for the Purple House. She tore through the rest, discovering royal icing and snowdrops for the White House; Cookie Monster and hydrangea for the Blue House; and Granny Smith and Kermit for the Green House. Last was the paint for her own home, and she said a prayer it would meet the hue in her mind … and it did! The thick pool of pink was all Mr Jelly, fuchsia and blancmange! They were the things of her childhood and yet now, miraculously, she felt very far from there: she was smack bang in the present and with gusto she grabbed one of the new huge hairy paintbrushes which took her even further away from the dainty sable watercolour brushes of her youth. The past was receding as she jumped to her feet and made enormous vertical strokes up and down into the air and wondered if it was within her to do a mural on the outside of the cabin …
‘Okay,’ she said to Gwen and Gwil, Seren and everyone. ‘You guys fetch brooms and hard hairy brushes and hoses, take the ladders up and scrub the walls clean. We’ll be able to start painting as soon as they’re dry. This wind will help us.’
She would ring the three owners of the White, Blue and Purple Houses to explain that yes, it was unbelievable and no, there was no catch. Holiday lets all, the properties had been in their families for generations, passed on each time to locals who’d eventually left. Dr Davies, Mrs Llewellyn, Mr Jones and Mrs Lewis’s son would agree to it – why wouldn’t they, if it brought in guests? As for the Green House, it had been on the market forever so Mrs Evans would be thrilled it was getting an eye-catching facelift.
With that, everyone bustled off to get moving and Mel took a second to imagine how beautiful the homes would look on the hill. All five would smile down on the bay like a rainbow, just as they had before. People would come just to take photos of them.
Never mind the question of having faith in herself – she had it in bounds for the village.
24
Rhodri put down the phone and face-planted the table.
Like the village idiot he was, he caught his forehead on the sharp edge of his latest dirty secret, which he was racing through. Normally he would savour the process, handling it ceremonially of an evening or on a Sunday, like today, to wind down from the demands of waste management. This time, though, he thought, rubbing his temple, he’d been working fast – to a deadline he was only now aware of. He was coming to a decision, so he readied himself for a think in the woods.
He zipped up his cycling jersey, because June wasn’t yet flaming, and stalked out of the house and up the lane to find his spot, where the waterfall tipped over the edge, which always gave him perspective and strength.
The call had sealed it, he thought, his calves stretching with every step. Councillor Llewellyn from the planning committee had rung to divulge that CadCon’s development was heading for approval this week. It was hopeless to keep fighting. The support from the village, the petition and countryside campaigners he’d contacted after the disastrous demo hadn’t been enough. As the councillor said, emotion couldn’t defeat housing targets … demand was outstripping supply … thousands of new homes were needed every year … developers who could finance projects were like gold dust …
Where did it leave him? That was the question he had to answer. He reached the crest of the lane and crunched through the undergrowth towards the stump which he’d claimed as his own from his childhood, when he’d flee the madness at Wolf’s Castle, of fights over who was in charge of the TV remote or who’d found and eaten his chocolate stash.
But, badger bollocks, someone had beaten him to it. Ceri. Shit. He’d been avoiding her company because it was too painful to connect with her so easily when it meant nothing more than friendship. The grapevine told him she wasn’t going out with Logan – she’d apparently resisted his charms so far. It was only a matter of time before she did, though. He was surprised by it: one bat of Logan’s eyelashes and women normally dropped everything, mostly their pants. But then that was the Ceri he loved, she wasn’t like other women. Even so, she was the last person Rhodri wanted to see; but a rustle of leaves gave him away and she turned and waved.
As he got closer, he saw she wasn’t looking exactly over the moon. Had Logan upset her? What he’d do if he found out he had … He stopped himself because she was her own woman, her own lovely woman.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, wanting to stick his fingers in his ears and go blah-blah-blah if she started on about his rival.
‘Stuff,’ she said, budging up and patting the space beside her. He hesitated because to be close to her made him feel things he had no business to feel. ‘What about you? You don’t look ecstatic.’
‘Stuff,’ he echoed, sitting beside her because how many more opportunities would he get to look out to sea in the company of this beautiful lady?
‘Quite nippy today,’ she said, radiating heat through her jeans onto his thigh.
‘Unseasonably so,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘thirteen degrees according to my weather station.’
‘Haven’t seen much of you,’ she said. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Work and DIY and that.’ And hiding.
‘Do you know something, your cheekbones have gone David Bowie. Have you not had time to eat?’
He felt his face and it did feel thinner. ‘Funnily enough, I have lost my appetite a bit.’
‘You need some of your mum’s home cooking. What I’d give for a roast with mine, she did the best Yorkshires. Then some sponge and custard for afters followed by a nap on the couch.’
He felt for her: when he tormented himself about what would happen when his mother passed, he’d have a panic like the time he’d wandered off on the beach and he’d turned round to speak to her but all he could see were faces he didn’t recognise. The lifeguard had picked him up and returned him to her, but she’d been so busy telling off Dai and Iolo for hitting each other with spades she hadn’t even noticed he’d disappeared.
‘You settled in then, to life here?’
‘Yeah, I wish my sister would accept it, though. She’s still kicking off about it. She thinks I’m acting irresponsibly, turning my back on Jade. But I’ve still got a hand in at work up there. I’ve found a café with wifi in St Davids and I go up there to do what needs to be done.’
‘She’ll come round. She must feel like she’s lost you a bit. I’m the same when my brothers have gone back to their lives after Christmas. What you’re going through, and so’s she, is about adapting. It might not feel like it but we do cope eventually.’ Where was this coming from? He sounded like a self-help book and he was the last person to embrace change. Then he worked it out – his subconscious had been incubating it all week. ‘Just like I will.’
‘With what?’ Ceri said, eyeballing him suspiciously.
‘This is what I�
�ve been occupied with …’ Here it was, coming of its own accord. ‘I’m going to Sweden.’ There, he’d said it. And it felt okay. Not so terrifying now he’d actually managed to make up his mind.
‘Sweden? Since when? And why?’ Rhodri noted her voice sounded higher pitched than normal and was tinged with panic.
‘A four-month sabbatical job swap to see what we can learn from them about waste management.’ It came out sturdier than he’d anticipated – it was a sign he wanted to do it.
‘Rhodri!’ She looked like the Scream emoji. ‘What about Dwynwen?’
‘The houses are going to be built, Ceri. Economic needs trump environmental ones.’ He sounded cold, he knew he did, but he didn’t mean to. It was because it was a statement of fact and the truth could hurt. ‘I’ve had a call. The council is going to give the green light this week. It really is over. God, how I hate money and what it does to people.’
Ceri leapt up and took him by the shoulders, her nose very close to his. He hoped he didn’t smell of last night’s curry. ‘Rhodri, listen to me, we can do this. The Village of Love is part of the reason I wanted to stay here. You can’t leg it now.’
‘The Village of Love can go on. It doesn’t have to stop. And I’m not legging it. I’m spreading my wings.’
She dropped her arms to her hips. ‘But you’re the leader! It was your idea!’
‘It’s time I left. I’ve done the most I can do here. This might be the best thing for me. Get me out of my comfort zone. I’ve been here my whole life nearly and I love it, but what’ll happen if I stay here? I’ll have forty new houses as neighbours. It’ll kill me every time I open my door. And …’ he paused, because here was another reason he’d only just admitted to himself, ‘I want to meet someone, have a family. I can’t see it happening here.’
Ceri threw her hands up. ‘You’re talking as if you’re not coming back.’
‘I might not.’
Ceri’s spine slumped and she sniffed. ‘You’ve thought it through, have you?’ She was less shouty now.
‘Over and over.’
‘But you could meet someone local … get a promotion, run the whole waste shebang for Wales.’
He shook his head. I can’t stay when I can’t have you, but he didn’t say that bit out loud although he was shouting it in his head and he was amazed she didn’t hear it.
‘When do you go?’ she said finally, sitting back down next to him.
‘The end of September.’
‘Oh my God, I thought it’d be next year. That’s so soon. Who will I turn to with my recycling needs now? Like, I’ve got a load of clothes I brought with me which are just plain stupid, going-out things and dresses and whatnot. Which I’ll never wear again. What am I going to do with those?’
He felt her head bend onto his shoulder and he let himself dream for a second of fulfilling her every recycling need. He stood up and faced her. ‘There’s a textile bin up the top road. It goes to charity.’
‘Right,’ she said, not actually interested. But she’d asked and it was something to say other than I love you.
‘On the St Davids road, by the estate of old age pensioners’ bungalows. Where the post office used to be.’
She was trying to recall it but she was frowning.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘where Logan’s house is.’ He flinched saying his name and he looked for a glimmer of pleasure on Ceri’s face. ‘Well, not his house. His parents’. They’ve got a caravan on the drive. Although it’s not always there as they go away for weeks at a time.’ She looked interested at that – obviously she couldn’t contain it. He continued out of environmental duty. ‘The bin is orange. Which to my mind is very confusing because orange is the colour people associate with the bags for plastic, cans, aluminium foil, newspapers, magazines and cardboard. But there you are. Local authority bullshit for you.’
Ceri scratched her neck and held her chin, quiet now, and they listened to the breeze tickling the branches.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said quietly.
He was touched she cared enough to pretend. If only it was true – if only it was on a more romantic level.
‘I don’t go for a while,’ he said, crouching down to touch her knee. ‘We can write. It’s only until January.’
‘I could visit,’ she said. Which was a bit unnecessary.
‘It’ll be winter. Cold and dark.’ There, he’d give her an escape route.
She took a quivering breath and nodded. Just as a splat of something highly pungent landed on her trousers.
‘Ew,’ she said, pulling a face as if she’d never seen shit before. ‘Still, it’s supposed to be lucky, eh? To be hit by droppings.’ She bent down for a leaf to scrape it off.
‘Birds, yes, but never bat poo.’
Bat poo? Rhodri looked up and lifted a hand to his mouth.
‘Wise move, that,’ Ceri said, ‘you don’t want one of these in your gob.’
‘No,’ he said, breathless. ‘Look!’
He pointed to a bundle of bats roosting in the crack of the tree above them.
‘It’s a maternity hospital … they’re pregnant and huddling together for warmth and safety … and I hope I’m right, because they’ve got wide ears and pug-shaped noses … I think they’re Barbastelle bats,’ he whispered.
‘I saw those on Countryfile on my first Sunday here! They’re rare, aren’t they?’ she said, making more yuck noises as she wiped off the guano.
‘Shhh! They mustn’t be disturbed. Extremely rare. And … protected!’ he said as they both silent eureka-ed at the same time with mouths wide and hands in the air.
‘This will stop the development!’ she said, tiptoeing around in a muted celebratory jig.
‘I’ll have to get the bat people out to check but I’m pretty certain.’ He shook his head and let out a breath at the enormity of it. ‘Planners have a legal obligation to consider whether bats are likely to be affected by a proposed development. Treelines have to be retained.’
Ceri punched the air in delight. ‘Have you got your phone? Take a picture, quick!’
‘Good idea!’ he said, sneaking it out and being careful not to flash the bats in case they were startled. ‘I’ll send it to the council!’
Ceri’s arms were suddenly around his waist and he considered he would be quite happy if he died there and then.
‘This means you don’t have to go!’ Ceri said, squeezing him tight as she looked up at him, bright-eyed and beaming. Her eyes resembled smoky brown quartz, the gem regarded by Welsh druids centuries ago as a stone of power for its ability to fight negative energy. Just like her. And just like its chemical compound silicon dioxide, which could be both hard as a diamond but soft as a grain of sand.
‘I wish it were so simple,’ he said, fighting every cell telling him to stay. Because he would if he could be with Ceri. Feeling her against him was the most wonderfully awful thing: it sent his biology wild and his brain mad. He couldn’t live this way. ‘I’ve made up my mind. I have to go.’
He shrank from her embrace, making his excuses, he had to ring around to get a number for the bat people. He had to go. Not just at the end of summer but now because he wanted at least one piece of unbroken heart to keep safe for someone, if there was anyone out there waiting for him.
25
The closest thing Ceri had witnessed to this drama was when Mum’s road had held a Union Jack street party for the Royal Wedding of William and Kate.
This version, though, was Welsh through and through with dragon flags and inflatable leeks – aside from the balloon bats, courtesy of a children’s entertainer, dressed as Batman, who’d been stretching and squeaking all morning for the visiting schoolkids. Running down the lane between the pub and the cabin were trestle tables filled with streamers and napkins, jugs of squash and plastic cups, iced party ring biscuits on foil platters
and clingfilmed sandwiches. Sneaking hands got slapped and little faces reprimanded because they had to wait until BBC Wales arrived. Hopefully it wouldn’t end in fisticuffs as it had in Crewe when our Brian from number seventeen accused our Steve from three doors up of eating all the sausage rolls. Mum had been healthy then, throwing herself into cooking quiches and organising egg-and-spoon races. She’d loved a bit of a do, especially fancy dress: she’d gone as Princess Di, in a charity shop gown with blue eyeliner and a flicky fringe. Ceri, still a barmaid and on face-painting duty, had gone with Dave as Shrek and Princess Fiona. It was lovely how her memories were shifting away from the bad ones of Mum’s crackling chest and bed pans to the happier times, as if her mind was resetting itself, as if she was being given a chance to scoop herself up and recover.
From her position by the cabin, Ceri felt her mother’s presence now, flitting between the crowds gathered for this most momentous but hastily arranged event, which had been blessed with gorgeous blue skies and sunshine. There’d been a flurry of activity ever since the Barbastelle maternity roost had been uncovered. Once the villagers had calmed down on Sunday afternoon, they’d been escorted one by one by Rhodri to the woods on the condition they didn’t make a sound. A bat survey on the Tuesday had led to an application for a protected species licence, which led in turn to the council putting the housing application on hold on Wednesday. CadCon was taking advice on what to do next, whether to challenge it or drop the plan, but Rhodri was sure his father would see sense and withdraw. His dad, he said, was a pragmatist, he wasn’t going to throw the company’s money away on useless appeals. Part of what made him successful in business was that he understood when to push forward and when to cut his losses. He also liked winners and he’d appreciate Rhodri had won the battle.