by Laura Kemp
Her anxiety was peaking and a rage bubbled as she wondered how she could have possibly thought a return here would give her closure. A counsellor had recommended it a long time ago – visiting the scene of a trauma extinguished the fear. The accident wasn’t current, it wasn’t happening now, it wasn’t your fault, you can recover. If she could stay with it, then her panic would subside. But she was retching as she stared at the place where Alwyn’s life had ebbed away. Three weeks from now marked the anniversary of his death but here was where it hurt, where her brain returned in her nightmares, savaging her with explicit replays. If only she had suggested she’d pay for the evening, but he had wanted to treat her: his run to a cash machine was cut down by a car. The poor driver hadn’t stood a chance as he nipped into her path without looking, dizzy with happiness after their first kiss. Melyn turned her back on the road to face the low and lazy river, releasing a howl from her heart. She gripped the wall, placing the bouquet on top, as she felt ripped open all over again. She wanted to go home, back to the safety of the beach, escape the suffocation.
‘Hey, are you okay there?’
She saw hands to her right, held out to help. Kind eyes, of blue thistle, fixed on her from honeyed skin all the way over his shaved head.
‘Are you all right?’ He had a soft lilting voice and his broadness and height gave her shade.
‘Yes … Not really.’ Her knees were buckling and she felt herself sway.
‘Do you want some water? Or tea, sweet tea. There’s a café by the entrance to Bute Park.’ He pointed to an archway. ‘It’s cooler there.’
She nodded and he guided her along the pavement with a hand gentle on her back, letting her dictate the pace.
‘My name’s Carlos, I work at the museum.’ He presented an ID badge hanging on a lanyard on his chest to reassure her he was genuine.
‘I’m Melyn, I am. From West Wales.’
‘I’m from Anglesey,’ he said, and she immediately recognised the accent, as they reached a dappled courtyard filled with white metal chairs and tables. ‘Sit down. Don’t move. Okay?’
‘Yes … thanks,’ she said, trying to produce her purse but he was waving her offer away. Her panic started to subside, helped by being out of the sun, in an open space below rustling trees. Washed out, she felt, and weak. But so very glad she was seated and still. She looked up to see Carlos covering the ground with long strides in flapping baggy linen oatmeal trousers, the cup tinkling on its saucer, which he placed in front of her.
‘They let me jump the queue. Two sugars,’ he said, before producing another sachet in case she needed more.
She took a gulp of the strong, stewed, sweet nectar and felt the stirrings of a revival. Exhaling, she gave him a little smile.
‘Thank you so much. I can’t thank you enough. I needed this, I did.’
‘It must be the heatwave.’
‘Yes,’ she lied, afraid of going backwards yet again. ‘You don’t have to stay, I’m fine now. I’ll give you the money.’ But she only had notes. ‘I’ll get change.’ The last time she’d been here and let someone pay, it had cost him his life.
Carlos held his hands up and she saw spots on his palms and feared her vision was about to go. ‘I might be a failed artist but I can afford a cup of tea.’
‘An artist!’ Of course, dots of paint! She wasn’t seeing things! ‘So am I. Well, I was.’
She took another slurp and reminded him he had no obligation to remain with her. She’d finish her tea then head back to the station. There was no point trying to push herself any further when this was as good as it would get. A day out here and there would have to be enough.
‘It’s okay, I’ll see you’re good first. I don’t have to be back for, what, ten minutes,’ he said, checking his watch, which was also splattered. ‘Feeling better?’
‘Much,’ she said, more brightly than she really felt but she didn’t want to keep him waiting any longer. ‘You’ve been so kind. I feel as fresh as the grass now.’
‘Fresh? It looks scorched to me.’ He did a double-take to show he meant it.
The grass was lush, though – it’d take longer than a week of warmth to turn it to hay.
‘It’s still bright green!’ she said. With bits of blue and yellow. Like his T-shirt.
‘Ah, right. Stupid me, I forget. I’m colour-blind. A colour blind artist. Hilarious, eh?’ He snorted and she laughed.
‘I know how you feel but I see lots of colours, millions. I’ve got tetrachromacy.’
‘Woah! I’ve heard of that … it’s rare, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But to me, it’s normal.’
‘Same here, well at least now it is, most of the time. At school I felt like a freak, I always mixed up my crayons. Not a good combo when you’re different anyway,’ he said, pointing to his face. ‘I was the only black kid in the village. My father’s originally from Brazil. Met my mam in Liverpool; he was a docker, and they moved to the island when they had me.’
‘Brazil!’ she gasped, imagining a riot of feathers and sequins from Carnival, Havaianas and bright-beaked birds.
‘I’ve never been! One day … I think the colours would confuse the hell out of me! At first, I’d only paint in black and white. Then I realised I could see light and shape better than others so I felt braver about experimenting and … shit,’ he said as a clock chimed two. ‘I’ve got to go.’
He went to leave but paused, checking yet again she wasn’t about to flop.
‘Honestly, I’ll get a bite to eat now. Let me reimburse you.’ She needed to. She could walk with him and pop into a shop for coins.
‘It was only a few quid!’
‘Please!’ She knew she looked mad, that’s what he’d be thinking, yet she didn’t care.
He rolled his friendly eyes. ‘If you insist. Come to the museum, I’m in the contemporary craft section.’
‘I’ll break a note and bring it up.’ Resolution suddenly didn’t seem so far away.
‘Cool. I’ll show you round if you like?’
‘Okay … I’d like that.’
He gave her a dazzling childlike grin, coaxing one from her, too. He was only being nice, but nice was lovely. And then he was off, cutting across the park, but turning every now and again to make sure she wasn’t on the floor. Just before he disappeared from view, he put his thumbs up and raised his eyebrows to see if she really was recovered. She gave an emphatic response, then drained her tea and realised with delight that she had done it. She had actually conquered Cardiff, not with a flag, but by surviving. Not dying. Moving on. She had to call home to let them know she was safe. But not Dad. It had to be Mam. The one who’d carried her, not just in the womb but all the time when Mel had hero-worshipped her father, even though Mam had been there every day. Her mother picked up on the first ring.
‘Melyn?’ she said quickly, with concern.
‘I’m fine, Mam, I’m okay.’ She got up and walked away from the café.
‘Do you need picking up from Fishguard because I can come in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
‘I do … but tomorrow. I’m going to stay tonight.’ She hadn’t even realised she was going to say it but it felt right even so.
‘Are you sure? You don’t need to prove yourself, Melyn. We love you, we do.’
‘Positive, Mam. I’m blinking thirty!’
‘So you are! Do a bit of shopping then? Treat yourself.’ Mel looked down at her black knee-length jumpsuit dotted with mustard foxes who were beginning to look rather mangy. Her lime sandals were scuffed too. ‘Yes, I might. And Fi wants a new dress, she said last week at the cabin, so I could look for one for her too?’
‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Is she doing okay in the cabin?’
‘Yes, love. I’ve rung and your friend, Ceri, she said she was a natural in the café, very helpful and polite
. Hardworking too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! I know! Perhaps she just needed some responsibility.’
‘Maybe. Well, that’s great news.’
‘So what will you get up to now?’
‘I’m going to walk round the stadium. Visit the boutiques in the arcades. Then the museum. And I’ll go back to the hotel and have room service. And a bath.’ She’d made her itinerary up on the spot and it was thrilling.
‘I’m so proud of you, love. Oh … before you go, I wasn’t going to say if you’d had it bad but listen to this … Alwyn’s mother telephoned about Betsi.’ Al’s sister, whom Mel had hidden from because of the pain. ‘She’s had a baby, born just after one o’clock this morning. She’s called him Alwyn, Melvyn. Like you two. In a way!’
‘That’s beautiful, that is, like a circle. I must visit her. I’ve avoided her for so long.’
‘Understandable, love. But you can make it up to her because she’s asked if you’ll be godmam. You don’t have to decide yet because—’
‘Yes,’ she said, bursting. ‘I’d be delighted.’
‘There’s lovely. Right, you go and enjoy yourself. I’ll ring your father, tell him you’re okay?’
Yes, she thought, as she put her mobile away and emerged into the sunshine where horns blew, where car radios blared, where life carried on, yes, I am going to be okay. With that, she reached into her pocket and as she passed a bin, she threw away her outward train ticket. She didn’t need to hold on to it anymore.
31
Ceri was slumped on a damp bench overlooking St Davids Cathedral a little after 7 a.m. with just a polystyrene cup of coffee for company. She’d kicked the sheets all night so when dawn seeped through the curtains, she’d got up and got out, suffocated by secrets.
The weekend in the cabin had been a struggle but then hadn’t work always been her saviour? She’d kept it together because she hadn’t seen Mel, who’d got home late last night and Ceri had made sure she was in bed.
Beneath sultry August clouds as grey as the church, Ceri still lolled with sickness at her own naivety, for believing she was the daughter of a Spanish fisherman when Emlyn was a Welsh cruise-ship engineer. Talk about hook, line and sinker. It was an impossible situation. The only person who would be able to explain was Mel’s father, but that would mean more pain and not just for her. It’d crush Mel’s new-found happiness, too. She looked down and she’d absent-mindedly been ripping the rim of her cup. White chunks floated in her drink – if they were icebergs, she was the flaming Titanic. What the hell was she going to do? Stay and keep shtum or leave in the night, without telling anyone she was going? The pocket of her fleece vibrated. She ignored it, not wanting to talk to anyone. The only person she would’ve spoken to was her mother, if there’d been such a thing as a hotline from heaven. But it went again and this time she sighed and took out her phone. There were a load of missed calls and voicemails from unknown numbers but this was Jade. She had to pick up.
‘Pricey,’ she said urgently, ‘the papers are after you. They’ve come to me for comment. You haven’t spoken to anyone have you?’
‘No. What story?’ Her shoulders sagged lower at the weight of another worry.
‘It’s ridiculous, I’ve told them it is, but they’re saying you’ve had a celebrity meltdown – you’ve changed your name and jacked it all in to be a barmaid. I mean, what the jeff is that all about?’
Ceri felt the sucker punch of another blow. She doubled over and hid her face in her free hand. She’d been rumbled – it was just a matter of time before people in Dwynwen learned the truth. Her mind raced, wondering who could have done it – but no one here knew she was really Ceri Price, the beauty blogger who’d made a pretty penny from her own make-up range. Neither Tash nor Jade would’ve grassed her up. It could only be that she’d been recognised by a holidaymaker. Yet nobody had come out and said it and she hadn’t picked up on any whispers and pointing.
‘And that’s not all. They’re also saying you’re—’
‘Stop! Enough!’
She knew what Jade had been about to say – it would be the icing on this huge pile of shit.
‘Ceri? Are you all right?’
She began to rock on the seat in despair. ‘Oh no, no, no, no.’
‘Ceri? Is there something you need to tell me?’ Jade’s voice had developed an edge. She could hear her cogs whirring too. Ceri was going to have to come clean and take the consequences.
‘It’s true,’ she said quietly, shutting her eyes, knowing Jade was about to go ballistic.
‘True?’ she yelled. ‘Which bit?’
She gulped. ‘All of it.’
‘You what? You better start talking, lady. And fast! Because I’ve got photographers outside and my phone’s red-hot. Once this gets out it’ll be all over Twitter. OMG will go beserk.’
Ceri felt insignificant enough in the shadow of the cathedral – now the shame of having to admit she’d been living a fantasy made her shrivel even smaller.
‘When I first got here, they misheard my name as Ceri Rees and thought I’d come about a job at the pub.’ It sounded worse out loud. ‘Somehow, because I was knackered and they were so welcoming and nice, I couldn’t refuse, I agreed to do a few shifts.’ Jade was responding to her gabble by chucking expletives like bombs. ‘Look, I know it all sounds so …’
‘Insane? Off your rocker?’
‘Yes … but I began to like it here, no one knew me, there was no one after me for anything …’ Ceri had slowed down, feeling the depth of her love for Dwynwen, ‘and it was such a sad place but full of good people. I felt this pull to the village …’
‘I’m sorry, cocker, but I don’t understand. Why?’
‘Because I wanted to be part of something real,’ Ceri wept, as a defensiveness rose in her.
‘To be part of something real? But it’s all a big daydream!’
‘It isn’t, Jade,’ she cried with passion. ‘Well, it wasn’t.’
‘Oh, Ceri, there’s not more is there?’
‘My dad … He wasn’t Emilio. And he isn’t dead. He’s called Emlyn, he’s here and I’ve only just found out.’
The line crackled as Jade blew out her astonishment. ‘It doesn’t bloody rain, does it?’
Ceri felt the breath of hope running out beneath the load of her woes. ‘I just don’t know what to do. My mum lied to me. I worshipped her. I can’t understand why she hid it. Denied me a father. How can I forgive her? My head’s pounding, Jade, everything’s closing in on me.’
There was silence apart from Jade’s nails tapping in concentration.
‘Right, I’ve got it. I’ll stall everyone, say we’ll be making an announcement, this evening. I’ll draft a statement – you’ve had an OMG moment, everyone has them, you’ve been suffering from exhaustion brought on by your best-selling range and the death of your mum. All it is, you’re human. And once it’s died down, you can make your comeback, tits and teeth, sales will go through the roof. What do you reckon?’
What did she reckon? It was like listening to herself a few years ago – on the ball, driven and pretty much what Ceri would have devised once upon a time.
‘Jade, you’re the one with the fire in her belly now. Not me. You go ahead, do what you said. I’ve got to sort out the mess here with all the people who trusted me but who’ll want rid of me when it comes out. I resign, Jade. The company, it’s yours.’
‘Don’t talk soft, Pricey. Take a breath, will you. Get packing, come home and don’t for God’s sake get photographed.’
Ceri tugged her hood down to her nose, got up and started fast-walking to her car.
‘Jade, I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into this mess of mine.’
‘Just come home.’
Ceri’s phone beeped from another call waiting – it was an unknown number trying to get th
rough. Her chest constricted because the search for her had started – she was a hunted woman. She shoved her phone into her pocket and felt disgusted at herself. She had been a shitty friend and boss, burying her head in the sand, thinking only of herself while Jade was running the business. What mattered now were the ones who’d let her belong no questions asked. She put her foot down all the way, needing to get back to work out how she was going to break it to them and screeched to a halt outside the Pink House, grateful Mel had already gone to the cabin. Inside, she put the kettle on and tried to formulate a plan. She’d have to go to the pub tonight, confess her sins to those lovely people, take it like a woman and run before they chased her out. It was the last place she wanted to go to but she had no other option: she’d have to return to her old life with her tail between her legs. As for confronting her father, she’d done enough damage here – even though her heart screamed for resolution, she couldn’t put Mel through it. Ceri had survived this long without him, hadn’t she? She’d have to get things back on an even keel with Tash, her true family.
A rap at the door made her jump. It’d be the bastard press after her. She tiptoed through the lounge and took a peek from the window, expecting to see a pack of reporters with notepads and dictaphones, ready to tear her to shreds. Instead, it was Logan in his postman uniform of red polo shirt and shorts. At least it was a friendly face. She went down the stairs and opened the door, managing a smile.
‘Morning, Ceri!’ he said with a lopsided grin, presenting a parcel and a screen for her to sign. ‘Got something for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Any plans tonight?’ he asked in his casual way, his blue eyes suggesting possibilities.