The Year of Surprising Acts of Kindness

by Laura Kemp

  ‘You star. Just while I look for something else. What would I do without you?’ Ceri said, hugging her tightly before setting her free so she could go back to the cabin.

  ‘There’s a barbecue on the beach in an hour, half five, Rhodri’s just decided, he has, so see you down there, all right?’

  ‘Will do!’ Ceri said, waving Mel off and pulling her front door shut. It was only ten or so paces to the house but in that short space Ceri’s jitters had gone from excitement to nerves. The paintwork shone like an apple but as she peered through the front window with cupped hands she could see a layer of dust on the glass inside, giving it a ghostly feel. Was she ready to see inside? An irrational fear took hold of her that she’d sense her mother’s spirit and it would shake her, taking her back to the raw grief she’d felt when she’d first lost her. Calm down, Ceri, she told herself, Mum hasn’t lived there for forty years. The house belonged to someone else now; the only trace she would find of Mum would be imagined.

  Steeling herself, she put the key in the lock where it rattled, only adding to her trepidation, but with a hard turn and a grind, the wooden stable door opened and Ceri pushed it with her fingertips so it swung slowly inwards. The step was tiled and dirty so she squatted down and rubbed it with her dress in an instinctive act to make it gleam as her mother would’ve done in Crewe. As she did so, she looked in and saw a dark hallway leading to wooden stairs, a front room and a kitchen at the back. It was the same layout as the Blue House and it touched her that the life she’d been living metres away mirrored her mum’s childhood.

  Slowly, she went in and felt the floor give way slightly beneath her feet – the terracotta quarry tiles which ran throughout were loose and scuffed but it only made her feel grounded that she was in her mother’s footsteps. There was a definite dank smell and the temperature had dropped from the heat outside to cool within, making her shiver. Garish floral wallpaper peeled at the edges, revealing bubbling plaster, but still she ran her palm across it to connect with the past. To her left was the sitting room, which had a distressed wood burner nestled in the fireplace as its centrepiece. There was neither furniture nor curtains, only naked black beams and brick walls, so the air, which danced with specks of dust in a shard of light coming through the timber sashes, echoed around her, yet still she could imagine lace in the windows and woollen throws on wingback chairs. The kitchen was heartbreaking with its cracked Belfast sink and manky cabinets but she felt it healing when she turned to see an Aga in the corner. No wonder Mum had kept hers in Junction Road.

  Upstairs, she creaked around on floorboards, wondering which of the two tiny-windowed bedrooms had been her mum’s. Fractures zig-zagged like crazy paving on the walls and dents suggested where bedposts had stood. The bathroom was as battered as the kitchen but it wasn’t unwelcoming, more lived-in. Back down she went to discover the dim courtyard, squashed against the house and the mountain, a square of concrete overgrown with weeds. Who needed a garden when there was a beach to play on? A rotten door at the rear caught her eye and she unfastened the latch, suspecting a shed or an outside loo. But stairs ran down – she’d found a cellar. She hesitated, fearing the walls would topple onto her but curiosity willed her on.

  The size of the entire floorspace of the house, it was a bricked area, thick with cobwebs, which contained planks and old tools, a wheelbarrow and a heap of junk. Ceri was a little disappointed that there had been no sign of her mother anywhere but she knew she was being whimsical: it was enough, she reminded herself, to have gone back in time. The dark made her feel uneasy but just as she was about to go, something caught her eye: a shape on a supporting wooden post running vertically in the centre of the room, pocked with holes. Moving closer, she saw it was possibly a letter and she licked her finger to rub away the dirt. A heart appeared, which had been crudely carved with something, inside of which were two initials, A and E. Immediately she knew it had been her mother’s doing, an expression of love for her Emilio.

  But, hang on, what was Ceri thinking? They’d met in Spain, not in Wales. Could this be somebody else her mother had loved as a schoolgirl? Her heart raced as did her mind, trying to work out what it meant. Tears came to her when she realised she would never know – it would remain a mystery because Mum’s sister, Delyth, couldn’t remember her shopping list, let alone the details of decades ago. She listened to her shaky breathing, trying to collect herself, confused again why Mum had brought her here. Because there were no answers, only a misleading set of contradictions, which tore the scab off her mourning. Her eyes smarting from the grime, she left the cellar’s secret behind her and made her way to the bay, via a stop-off at home to pick up some beers. It would be a relief to be among her friends, she thought, kicking off her flip-flops, leaving them with the others at the edge of the beach like a local. The squidge of warm sand between her toes began to draw out the stress, as did the sight of Mel surfing with Rhodri, Seren, her husband Owen and their son Henry plus Logan.

  Ceri sat by a coolbox and the smoking barbecue, a neat portable camping one labelled EcoBBQ, which had to be Rhodri’s, and she cracked open a bottle. Slowly she felt herself relaxing as she watched the rhythm of the tide. All she knew, there was no other place she’d rather be on a sunny summer Thursday. Even when it caused her pain, to have this piece of heaven on her doorstep was worth it.

  When Mel was done surfing, she carried her board back up the beach and flopped down beside her.

  ‘How did it go?’ she said, squeezing water from her ponytail.

  ‘Good,’ Ceri said, now she’d had the chance to digest it. ‘I did feel closer to my mum in there. But it’s like a museum piece. It needs so much work done on it.’

  ‘Maybe you should take it on? Buy it?’

  The thought hadn’t occurred to her amid the emotion, but indeed, why not? ‘I could, couldn’t I?’

  ‘I reckon the owner would pay you to take it off her hands!’

  ‘It’s definitely worth investigating. Wow, imagine if I bought my mum’s old house! And Tash could come and stay and it would be full of love and laughter like it used to be. That’s if she starts talking to me properly again.’ Which reminded Ceri. ‘Any conclusions on Fi working in the cabin?’

  ‘I’m still thinking about it. I’m not sure it’ll work between us. We have nothing in common. Dad looked so sad when we talked about it, how it was the kind thing to do. To treasure loved ones. And on a practical level he says I’ll need the help with all the bookings. Perhaps I should give her a trial run,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘The cabin could be what you have in common if you feel you’re so different. It’s worth a go. She might surprise you. Kindness begets kindness.’

  ‘I asked him, Dad, if he was behind the gifts to the village …’ Mel said confessionally. ‘People would think I was silly if I said I suspected him. Because it feels as if it’s coming from someone who knows us, who knows what makes us tick. Not just in terms of what the village needs but us, the villagers, too. He didn’t deny it. He just said, “Why do people care who’s doing it? There isn’t enough magic in the world.”’

  Ceri had thought long and hard about it too. Why did it matter where they had come from? To do something for nothing, behind a cloak of anonymity, showed the giving was pure: no moment of glory was sought, no gratitude was required. ‘I’m an outsider so it’s nowt to do with me really, but I think he’s right,’ she said, from the heart. ‘Whoever is responsible obviously doesn’t want any recognition. They’re just doing it to make people happy.’

  ‘And it’s worked!’ Mel said, a smile returning to her cheeks. She inspected the coals, which were turning white, and got up to head to the shore. ‘Rhodri!’ she called. ‘The barbecue’s ready.’

  He was in the sea, resting on his board, waiting for the next wave. ‘I’ll be in in a sec, whack the sausages on. All of them, I’m hungry!’

  Ceri’s heart went from a trot to full cante
r when she saw him draw himself up by his arms to lie flat, paddling with his powerful hands before he jumped to a standing position and gracefully glided in, delivered to the shallow depths by an adoring sea. He was of this land and it would miss him as much as he’d miss home.

  ‘Got it bad, eh?’ Mel said, catching her reverie. They hadn’t discussed Ceri’s confession and she wasn’t going to go there for fear it’d unleash a full blown unrequited love affair.

  ‘No,’ Ceri lied, swigging some beer, then almost choking on it when Logan came out of nowhere and collided with Rhodri and took him down. He collapsed into the water face first then came back up spluttering with rage as Logan held up his hands in apology. Ceri stood up quickly, shocked by Rhodri’s anger; it had looked accidental and Logan was telling him to chill out. She looked at Mel then at Owen who was just surfing in now to see if they needed to step in if they went nose to nose but she realised nobody else was alarmed.

  ‘This happens every now and again,’ Mel said as if it was normal behaviour, concentrating instead on browning the bangers. ‘It flashes up and then goes as quickly as it came.’

  She looked back and it was already over: Rhodri had stabbed his board in the sand and Logan was waist-deep in the water, heading back out.

  ‘What’s up with those two?’ Ceri cried, glad she had pressed pause on getting involved with Logan when he and Rhodri had this unexplained beef with each other. Logan was as lovely as ever, still reminding her now and again over parcels and pints that he would wait for her. She guessed he thought she was playing hard to get and he liked her all the more because he wasn’t used to being resisted. But it was all about Rhodri: she couldn’t think beyond his departure.

  ‘They used to be big mates. I don’t know what happened.’ Ceri prompted her for more with accusatory eyebrows. ‘Rhodri’s never said. Honestly. P’raps he’s jealous? Logan has had a few notches on his bedpost.’

  ‘But lots of people have! If you don’t meet anyone when you’re young, you end up with more notches as you get older. It’s not a sign you’re, you know, easy or whatever. And why would Rhodri care?’

  Mel pinched the air with her tongs as if she was trying to catch the elusive answer. ‘Logan came here, what, fifteen years ago, about the time Rhodri was at uni, but he came back after and they hit it off. They were surfing buddies, always out there, inseparable, they were. One summer, about two years ago, they stopped talking. Rhodri would literally get up and march out if Logan came within five hundred yards of him. There’s rumours it was over a girl but Rhodri has always said his ex Ruth ended it because she didn’t want to live here. Neither of them has ever explained why. And we got fed up with asking.’

  A shadow fell upon Ceri and she looked up to see Rhodri even taller and broader than ever. Droplets of water sat on his skin like jewels and he was grinning, his fury forgotten. Back to his fresh-faced self. Perhaps he would explain now, Ceri wondered. But he only said, ‘Get the burgers on next, Mel. I could eat a cow.’

  This place was unbelievable. Just when Ceri thought she had it sussed, Dwynwen boggled her mind.

  28

  ‘Gwen! Come quick! It’s a sign!’

  ‘Of what, love?’

  ‘An actual sign!’

  ‘Will you stop playing silly beggars, Gwil! I’ve just asked you what it’s a sign of. Are you going to tell me or not?’

  ‘Gwen. It is a sign for the village. A village sign. To let tourists know they have arrived at their destination of Dwynwen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just say so, then?’

  The summer of love was in full swing.

  A heatwave which showed no signs of stopping had begun a fortnight ago at the start of July, completely transforming the village into the Costa del Dwynwen. Everyone had wilted, shorts and flip-flops were uniform, although Gwil still insisted on wearing slacks. He couldn’t command the respect of his clients with his knees on display.

  ‘I can’t believe this weather! In Wales!’ began every conversation, conducted in accents which had not been heard here for years. The timing of the village sign couldn’t have been better: tourists no longer arrived cross and weary, wondering if this was the right place. The metal post at the crest of the hill held a cast-iron square, which was the black of bakestone, quartered into four cut-out silhouetted images. There was the rolling sea, a fire-breathing dragon, a love heart and Dwynwen, in plaits, as her saintly fingers performed a blessing on all who entered. Beneath was the word Dwynwen, which sat atop The Village of Love. It was like a wand being waved so visitors relaxed happily into their holiday, knowing they’d reached their destination. There had been a fuss when the fourth act of kindness was dropped at the pub by a lorry – but no sooner had it gone up, the pilgrimages began and no one had the chance to mull it over. Still sunrises unwrapped smouldering days where the horizon wobbled and the sand was too hot for toes. The sea, as refreshing as ever, was full of visitors cooling off on bodyboards and the beach was awash with umbrellas, UV shades, camping chairs and kids eating cones of chips. As shadows stretched, people unable to get a table in the pub lit barbecues and early evening games of cricket and football commenced. At sunset, the bay was illuminated by small fires as crowds gathered to watch what became known as the western lights, like the northern ones but in pink, orange and purple. There was even the odd dolphin sighting from fishermen way out at sea but the Dwynwen Dolphin Watch blackboard had no new markings yet.

  Inside Caban Cwtch, Ceri found Mel closing up, looking tired now she was open seven days. Mel switched off the fan on the counter; the swish gave way to the sploosh of waves and chatter in the beer garden. Straight away the air became thick and muggy and perspiration prickled on Ceri’s back.

  ‘I give in,’ Mel said, blowing up into her fringe to cool herself. ‘I’ve asked Fi to come in from next week on a trial basis. I can’t do this on my own. There’s too much to do, I’m not complaining, mind, just stating the facts.’

  The acts of kindness had inspired Mel to put on extra shifts too – once a week, she opened up late for anything the community came up with, from book swaps to a repair café where people brought broken bits and pieces to be fixed for free. Barri’s agricultural question time was in the diary and he was talking about donating a patch of land for a village allotment.

  ‘Good for you,’ Ceri said, ‘I’d be stuffed if it was just me behind the bar.’

  Business was so good, Gwen had brought in a new part-time barmaid plus a young chef who’d just qualified from catering college. He had ripped up the old menu and was creating sublime dishes of fresh fish and local meat which had earned Gwen and Gwil a load of five-star reviews on Trip Advisor and a pardon from the brewery because they’d turned things around. It was the same for Dwynwen’s ratings too – Rhodri had finally sorted Facebook, Instagram and Twitter accounts for @TheVillageofLove and their mentions, likes and retweets were steadily growing.

  ‘Can I retire yet?’ Seren said, walking in barefoot, her dungarees slashed to cut-offs with a lilac bra top peeking out from underneath. Her hair, now white blonde, was piled on the top of her head like a Mr Whippy. She went to her Fork Off display cabinet to check what needed replenishing.

  ‘There’s been a run on your rings and bracelets,’ Mel said, ‘so I reckon you’ve got half a flight to New York.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Seren beamed, giving her jewellery a shine with her ever-present polishing cloth. ‘If this carries on I’ll be able to finish at the pub for good. You going to watch Casablanca tonight?’

  English Dick’s outdoor Cosy Cinema Club had only started two weeks ago but was already legendary; he directed each showing as if he was Stephen Spielberg with deckchairs, bean bags, blankets and fairy lights, even selling tubs of ice cream and popcorn from an old-fashioned usherette tray.

  ‘Can’t!’ Ceri said. ‘I’m moving in with Mel tonight!’

  Since she’d left the Blue House, Ceri
had stayed in the pub while Mel got the spare room ready for her. It had taken Mel longer than she’d planned – her art supplies were stored there and the process of clearing it had seen her sink again. Living with Gwen and Gwil had been like staying with family but Ceri yearned to be up in the cottages. And it’d be great to spend time with Mel – girly chats made everything all right. It had always worked in the past with Jade and with Tash and Mum, when they’d chow down a Chinese and have a good mither.

  ‘Ooh! Girls’ night in, is it?’ Seren said.

  ‘There might be an ice-cold bottle of bubbly in my bag!’ Ceri laughed. ‘I thought we could have a toast to my roomie! And,’ she said with a fanfare, ‘because I’ve had my offer on the Green House accepted!’

  The cabin went up in cheers. Ceri couldn’t wait to have a place of her own and fill it with her things. She’d start again with traditional cosy furnishings in keeping with the period look of the building, which she’d have restored. She had decided to sell her flat in Alderley Edge to help pay for the mammoth task which she was sure would be unearthed by a surveyor.

  ‘When will you move in?’

  ‘Within a couple of months, I hope. Contracts are about to be exchanged on my mother’s place so it’ll be all systems go.’ The crush of losing Junction Road was tempered now by the thought she’d be in her mother’s childhood home.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Seren said. ‘Have fun tonight, won’t you. I’ve got to rush or I’ll be late for Dick’s flick.’

  Ceri cackled and helped Mel finish off, by turning chairs onto the tables and sweeping the day’s remains of crumbs. Then they locked up, walked past the heaving pub and climbed the hill, sweating cobs.

  ‘Do you want to unpack straight away?’ Mel said at the door of the Pink House.