by Laura Kemp
Gwen had suggested the celebration: ‘We’ve already got the bunting, we just need a few extras.’ The local paper had covered the story yesterday which the BBC had picked up and so today, Friday, the news crew was on its way.
Meanwhile, Ceri had worked behind the scenes to clean the bunting, weed the beer garden and help Mel finish painting the cottages, which shone above Dwynwen, as they should always have done. That was the closest she’d get to the cameras. When they started rolling, she’d tuck herself behind the bar because while it felt like home here now, it didn’t feel like her victory completely. She still had to scatter the ashes and it was a source of shame she had avoided it so far through a raft of excuses. Only when she’d done it would she truly feel she was no longer an incomer. There was also the chance if she was filmed that someone would recognise her when it was broadcast. If she was rumbled, she would be treated differently – back to square one. Money and success would change how they saw her: she might be seen as a hoity-toity cow, subject to side-eye and whispers, a fantasist even, and definitely a liar. And Rhodri would probably never speak to her again. The sunshine in his heart had been warm enough to convince her there were people she could trust. If he discovered her deceit, she would die from the cold. His withdrawal before had been horrible: his absence had made her realise how much she felt for him. Then Rhodri’s departure in September had doubled, trebled her emotions. Her supply was going to be cut off – forever, she suspected, because he wouldn’t come back, his eyes would be opened – and it made her ache inside.
Clearly she was in no state to tell him how she came alive when she saw him: she didn’t feel she could depend on her feelings. Hadn’t she been attracted to Logan and then that had ebbed? Logan still hoped he was on the back-burner and while she didn’t want to lead him on she couldn’t make any promises. There was the issue of her misunderstanding about his parents: after Rhodri told her they were still alive, she’d mentioned it to Logan, had he meant they’d passed away? No, he’d said, definitely not! They went off caravan touring, that’s what he’d said and his reaction made her think she was losing the plot. That had to be the same when she’d thought he’d called her by her real surname. Nothing had come of it, maybe she had imagined it after all. She used to be whip smart, for crying out loud, what was happening to her?
The best thing for her to do was to do nothing. Better to keep Rhodri as a friend and Logan at arm’s length until she had got herself together. Avoid matters of the heart, look for a new venture, whether that was the cabin or something else, and throw herself into the village. Because here, nobody had any side. They were upfront and lived life to the full. Just as they were now, banging the poor BBC van, mobbing it to crawling pace as it tried to park up.
Ceri had never seen Dwynwen this full before – it was rammed not just with locals but with not-so-locals and wildlife experts in I ♥Bats T-shirts, all buzzing around on what was unanimously agreed the biggest thing ever to happen here. Gwen parted the seas with her bosom and pointed the reporter and cameraman in Rhodri’s direction, where he was positioning bins for recycling paper plates. Then it was off to the woods where the interview would take place, pursued by a Pied Piper entourage of people up the path.
‘What if they need you, Ceri? You were with Rhodri when he saw it,’ Mel said, pulling her with her.
‘I don’t think they’ll want my bat poo anecdote, do you?’ Ceri said, not wanting to be anywhere near the filming. ‘Besides, Gwen wants me serving.’
‘But there’s no one left! They’ve all gone up.’
‘You go. I’ll wait here, I’d like to watch it first on the telly anyway.’
Later, when they’d all trooped back down, it was time for the scene-setting shots and everyone squeezed around the table to tuck in. Gwen was chuffed to bits she’d put on her pearls because they’d asked her to say a few words to camera too. And Mel almost wet herself when she was filmed working in the cabin. By the time the crew was ready to leave, the whole village, who’d virtually drunk the pub dry, agreed it had been a day they’d never forget. While the party was dismantled, Ceri took a breather outside where she saw the reporter packing up.
‘Right, I think we’ve got everything,’ the reporter, Felicity Jones, said to her, ‘but if we’ve left anything behind, I’ve given Rhodri my number. I live in Cardiff but I’m from down the road so I can always come back. Any excuse to get my walking boots on round here.’
‘Okay. You got what you wanted, though?’ Ceri asked, now seeing beyond her smart suit how attractive the young woman was close up, with silky black hair, big brown eyes and a rosebud mouth.
‘Yes, thanks.’ She smiled, revealing two lovely dimples in her cheeks. She went to get into the van and then stopped, looking bashful.
‘This is rather … embarrassing. But you don’t happen to know if Rhodri is … er … single? God, I don’t normally do this,’ she said, ‘it’s so unprofessional. But he’s so nice, isn’t he? Not to mention lush-looking.’
Ceri’s stomach turned. This lady rambler who loved Wales was perfect for Rhodri. How she would love to spin her a yarn about his wife and kids waiting for him at home. But she couldn’t do it.
‘Yes. Yes, he is,’ she said, hoping to conceal her devastation at setting him up for at worst a last hurrah before Sweden.
‘Single or lush-looking?’ Felicity laughed. And there it was: Ceri couldn’t deny it.
‘Both,’ she said, sighing, unable to contain it.
‘Oh, right … you and him, are you …?’
‘No. Unfortunately,’ Ceri said, surprising herself again. There, she’d admitted it. When she’d thought this tangled mess would sit unknown forever in her belly, a chance encounter with a stranger had been all that was required to identify her true feelings.
‘I was going to ask if you’d put a word in for me but I can’t now, I s’pose!’ Felicity was joking but there was a pleading in her voice for clarity.
But Ceri couldn’t go matchmaking. So she gave a non-commital hum and then turned round – bumping straight into Mel, who was gawping. She’d heard everything, that was clear. What a total balls-up. It’d be round Dwynwen by morning.
‘You can’t tell him,’ Ceri said, full of anguish.
‘But what … what if Rhodri …’ Mel stuttered.
‘He won’t feel the same … please, I beg you.’
Mel wavered, unsure where her loyalties lay and Ceri felt terrible for putting her in that position.
‘He’s leaving. And it’d only make things awkward.’
It took an age, but to Ceri’s relief, Mel finally nodded.
That, Ceri hoped, would be the end of it: it had to be.
26
‘It’s starting!’ Mel yelled across the pub as she turned up the volume on Gwil’s telly and the theme tune of BBC Wales Today blared out.
Immediately everyone went quiet and waited to see where their story featured in the headlines. Fair dos, it wasn’t the first to be mentioned, nor the second, third or fourth … and nervous looks were exchanged because what if it had been postponed or dropped? But hadn’t Rhodri rung Felicity Evans to check it was definitely on tonight? Then at last they were billed as the ‘and finally’ piece – How A Village Has Gone Batty For Love – and a round of applause went up as a shot of the mother and baby bat unit filled the screen. That gave them a few minutes to refresh their drinks and pop to the loo before they came on.
‘This is so exciting!’ Mel squeaked to Ceri, who was navigating her way through beer taps and optics.
‘I hope I don’t look a total dick,’ Rhodri said, joining Mel, who noticed Ceri’s cheeks flare up when he smiled her way.
‘You won’t!’ Mel said, elbowing him.
‘I hope my ears aren’t sticking out on camera. Felicity said I come across well … very well … but—’
Crash. Ceri dropped a glass and followed it to the
floor to clear it up. Oh dear. Mel wished she hadn’t overheard Ceri’s confession that she fancied Rhodri. Then she could carry on oblivious and not worry. Because now she was feeling conflicted by the knowledge, unable to stop herself analysing the pair of them. It was all so silly. Yes, they were chalk and cheese but they were made for each other. Mel had been mulling it over all weekend and the more she considered it, the more she thought they were the yin to the other’s yang. There was Ceri, streetwise and smart, and Rhodri, humble and kind, but they complemented one another like curry and chips. But perhaps Ceri was right: if he felt the same as she did, why would he be leaving? And where did Logan fit in because hadn’t Ceri grown close to him too? This was why she wished she didn’t know – her head was jumbled as if her colours were mixed in with her whites.
Suddenly, Mel realised the room was quiet. Only the newsreader’s voice could be heard. She looked around and saw a figure in the doorway. She tapped Rhodri and he swung round, immediately getting to his feet. It was his father, Alun Cadwalader, as upright as a broom handle in a golf shirt and slacks.
‘Dad,’ he said, pausing, unsure like everyone else what he was doing here. A ripple of ‘What a cheek!’ and ‘Talk about timing’ broke out as backs stiffened and jaws clenched.
But Rhodri being Rhodri rose above the rankling which was surely running through his veins and asked if he wanted a pint.
‘No, son, I’m not staying. I was passing …’
There were a few shaking heads because it was impossible to ‘just pass’ the pub seeing as it was at the end of the road.
‘Right,’ Rhodri said uneasily, shifting on his feet, glancing around to see if anyone had their pitchforks out.
‘So … I wanted to say … first thing tomorrow, CadCon will withdraw its application for the housing development. The land, we’ll give to the people of Dwynwen. Congratulations to you all.’
He stuck out a hand as people reacted with shock. Rhodri’s Adam’s apple rose and fell with emotion. And as he walked up to him with his palm outstretched, Mel saw pride and respect in his eyes. As they shook, his father pulled him in for a man hug and the pub burst into spontaneous applause.
‘Enjoy the news,’ he said to everyone, nodding as he left to the TV which was showing a panorama of the woods. Every head turned in unison to take it in. This was their moment.
‘When a small West Wales village heard its ancient woodland was in danger of being turned into a housing estate,’ Felicity Jones said to camera outside The Dragon, ‘they pulled together to fight the plans. Despite a hard-fought campaign, the proposals were set to be approved last week to meet demand for new homes, much to the disappointment of the people of Dwynwen. But at the eleventh hour, a startling discovery sent the locals into a flap – and batting for near-certain victory.’
A shot of the roost panned away to show Rhodri pointing to them as Felicity nodded, which caused a loud cheer.
‘Recycling officer Rhodri Cadwalader discovered a breeding site of rare and protected Barbastelle bats in the woods which has put the whole scheme in real doubt.’
‘I thought we’d lost and we’d have forty homes on our doorstep, which would ruin our landscape and the traditional way of life here in Dwynwen,’ Rhodri boomed, with not a sticky-out ear in sight. ‘But these little creatures rearing their young here mean it’s very unlikely it will go ahead. We’re delighted.’
The broadcast cut to a scene of the street party and the beach and Mel saw herself in the cabin, making coffee. She covered her mouth at the sight of herself, looking happy and busy – and said a silent thank you to the telly Gods for not including a shot of her bottom.
It was back to Felicity now, who stood before a section of fluttering bunting. ‘The discovery wasn’t just good news for the woods. It also means the villagers can focus all their energy on bringing back tourists after a drop in the number of holidaymakers. Dwynwen has branded itself the Village of Love because of its connections to the patron saint of love, Saint Dwynwen.’
Well, this was a bonus, Mel thought, she hadn’t known the report would include this!
‘The idea came about after a series of anonymous acts of kindness which saw deliveries of bunting, beer garden furniture and paint to spruce up its row of seaview cottages.’
Everyone took in a breath as they saw the pink, white, blue, purple and green of the homes as smart as buttons on the hill. The phones would be ringing off the hook with bookings!
‘Nobody knows who is behind the donations but if you do, then please get in touch. One thing is for certain, though, the village has gone batty for love. Felicity Jones, Dwynwen.’
And then it was over and a roar of excitement went up as Rhodri was hoisted into the air like a champion. Poor Gwen was putting a brave face on seeing as she didn’t make the cut. At that moment, Mel saw her dad at the bar – he never came in here, preferring to drink a beer with his mates at the harbour. This, she knew, was his attempt to sort out this business of Fi working at the cabin. It was his version of an olive branch and while she acknowledged he’d made the effort, she was annoyed it had to be now when she was on a high.
‘Hiya,’ she said, trying not to show her irritation.
‘Can I have your autograph?’ he said, his eyes crinkling with love.
‘You saw it then?’ she said, feeling less spiky because she knew he never acted out of spite.
‘Got in just as it was starting. I wondered if you fancied some mackerel for tea? Caught it myself today. Come to the boat, eh?’
‘All right,’ she said, she may as well. Now was as good a time as any to have it out. And she could ask him about the good deeds too because she still had a nagging feeling he was somehow involved.
Dad handed his drained glass to Ceri and Mel remembered her manners.
‘This is my dad, Lyn. Dad, this is Ceri, the one I told you about, who wants to come in on the cabin.’
Ceri smiled and Dad nodded.
‘We’ll have to have a chat,’ he said.
‘Let’s go,’ Mel said, bidding farewell to all her friends. As they reached the door, she recalled something she hadn’t told him. ‘Hey, I forgot to say, Dad, Ceri’s mam, she came from here.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes! Very sadly, she’s passed away. A few months ago. But her name was Angharad. You don’t remember her, do you?’
‘Angharad, did you say?’ he said, stepping out into the light and shading his eyes because the sun was still strong.
‘Yes.’ She got into the van and belted up, thinking he was doing the same. But she saw through the windscreen he was still by the pub, wincing, holding his chest and supporting himself with his other hand on a table. She rolled down the window. ‘You okay? Is that your indigestion? I bet you haven’t eaten since breakfast, either.’
He made it over and got in, his hand trembling as he started the ignition. ‘I’m fine, don’t fuss,’ he murmured but she could still tell he was in pain. It made him look grey and matt, not his usual shiny silver. A rush of affection came to her: she was all he had by way of proper family. There was no one else but her to care for him. Softened, she would keep her temper tonight whatever justification he came up with for Fi’s parachuting into the cabin.
‘Stop at the cottage on the way,’ she said gently as his brow remained furrowed, ‘I’ve got some Rennie tablets in the bathroom cabinet. Okay?’
He glanced at her as if he hadn’t heard what she’d said.
‘For your indigestion,’ she said, as she switched on the radio. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll look after you.’
For he was the one man in her life who had never let her down.
27
From her sun lounger on the deck, Ceri could hear Mel calling her all the way up the lane.
She reluctantly put down her book – she hadn’t made time for reading before, or to put it another way, in her old
life she’d have turned to a screen; but with no wifi, paperbacks had become a passion.
‘Coming,’ she shouted, slipping her T-shirt dress over her bikini and heading inside, where she caught a glimpse in the hall mirror of her healthy colour from so many hours outdoors. While she’d always tanned quickly, it had mainly come out of a bottle in Crewe because of the days she’d spent underneath strip lighting. How ridiculous to think her best bronze in years had come from Wales.
‘You aren’t going to believe this,’ Mel said, holding out a large old fashioned-looking brass key which ran the length of her palm. ‘My dad, he’s heard of your mam!’
‘No!’ Ceri hardly dared to breathe. Mel nodded and pulled up her strawberry-shaped red shades onto her head to spill the beans.
‘She only grew up in the Green House!’
‘Never!’ Next door but one, right under her nose.
‘And I thought you might want a look round …’ Mel pressed the key into Ceri’s hand. It was heavy and scratched, a true vintage of its kind with a Celtic spiral in the bow, a battered shank and proper thick teeth.
‘Seriously?’
‘The owner won’t mind. She likes me to go in and give it an airing every now and again. It’s a bit … musty, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, Mel, thank you!’ She’d see where Mum had lived as a kid, tread the same floor as she had and touch the same walls.
‘I’d come in with you but I’ve got to get back.’
Ceri was fine with that – she’d rather go by herself because she didn’t know how she’d react.
‘The phone has been red-hot all day. The cottages are filling up, and fast, including yours from next week, sorry.’ Mel’s eyes shone with apology in the warm late afternoon sunshine.
‘Don’t be daft! It’s great news! Just in time for the start of July! I’ll find a room somewhere.’
‘You can stay in my spare room if you like; I’ll get it tidy soon,’ Mel offered as if it was nothing. ‘And don’t say “I couldn’t!” because you can!’