The Year of Surprising Acts of Kindness

by Laura Kemp

  It’s time for me to look ahead. I’ll still check in on you now and again. But I won’t forget you. I’ll never stop thinking of you – after all, you’ll only ever be a few feet away from me in the wind or on the beach or among the sardines and mermaids.

  37

  Rhodri dried himself off with his new lightweight anti-bacterial bamboo fibre travel towel, vowing he was going to live it large in Sweden. His flight was a mere twenty-four hours away, he could almost taste the semla cream buns and hear the skål of cheers in a cool craft lager bar. There was so much to look forward to: urban gardening, bonding fika coffee breaks with co-workers, toothpaste-tubed mayonnaise and, in residential areas, never being more than three hundred metres from a recycling station. At weekends, he’d exercise his Allmansrätten right to roam by free camping and foraging for mushrooms and berries. And he’d ride buses powered by food waste fuel. It was going to be immense. He’d packed his rucksack – triple-checking his passport, documentation and krona were sealed away in the genius secret pocket – so today was his own. He was tingling from a couple of hours of surfing in the sun, which was freakily hot, as it was sometimes in September, and he was getting ready for a roast at Mum and Dad’s. ‘God morgan! God natt! Hej!’ he said, practising good morning, good night and hello while crouching to look for his pants.

  ‘Are you talking to yourself? Oh my days, sorry! I didn’t realise …’

  It was Ceri on the other side of his stripy windbreak, which he’d put up as a changing cubicle on the beach.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ he said, frantically cupping his privates.

  ‘It’s okay, I didn’t see anything. Look, I’ve got my eyes covered.’ She was very flustered and high-pitched for a woman of the world.

  ‘Believe me, if you had seen something, you’d be overcome with … hilarity,’ he said, whipping his tight boxers on like lightning.

  She laughed.

  ‘So you did see!’ he said. Oh, Christ, there was no denial. Still, he thought as he got up, she’d have seen goolies before. What was the point in worrying? His pubes only looked ginger in a certain light. Like this light. Bollocks. He’d have to filibuster his way through this. ‘I’m not naked anymore, by the way.’

  Ceri dropped her hands and blinked hard.

  ‘It is a scorcher,’ he said as she appeared to struggle to adjust to the brightness.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sun, it’s bright. Or is that sand in your eye?’

  ‘Yes … no,’ she said, dazed, staring his chest up and down.

  ‘Oh, I see! Have I got seaweed on me?’ he asked, patting himself but feeling only a few drops of water he’d missed.

  ‘No … no. There’s nothing wrong with you. On you.’

  He ruffled his hair to get rid of any more potential drips and she looked away, looked back, then away again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, as concern took him round the windbreak to her.

  ‘Fine. Just a bit … hot.’ Of course. And probably she wasn’t as chatty because she was so tired from working at the pub and the cabin not to mention still coming to terms with her new family here. His quiet farewell drink at The Dragon last night wouldn’t have helped: it had turned into a lock-in and he’d still felt delicate this morning. Perhaps the sight of his gingernut biscuits might have made her feel even queasier.

  ‘Are you going to put some shorts on at some point?’ It was as if a plane had gone overhead with an aerial banner spelling out his thoughts – she was trying to be her usual humorous self.

  ‘In a sec! Still a bit damp.’ He lifted his arms and had a good old stretch, feeling his skin tightening as the seawater evaporated, leaving behind salt crystals. He shut his eyes and groaned, lifting his face to the sun. When he opened his eyes again, she was peeking at him as if he was a madman.

  ‘Just making the most of it before I hit twelve degrees Celcius tomorrow. The closest I’ll get to this in Stockholm will be in a sauna. The travel guides say nudity is de rigueur.’

  Ceri did a good impression of a fish as her mouth fell open.

  ‘You haven’t grown up with brothers or gone on rugby tours, have you?’ Women, he’d never understand them. He laid out his wetsuit and towel to dry then sat down and dug his toes into the warm sand.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked, as she joined him, taking off her trainers and socks and wiggling her feet.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, not sounding it. ‘Good last surf?’

  ‘Epic. As if Dwynwen knew it was my final chance for a while.’

  ‘You all set?’ She was inspecting the grains by her ankle so he couldn’t see her expression.

  ‘Yeah. Can’t wait, actually.’ He meant it. He’d never been readier to put an end to a chapter in his life.

  ‘Great. You’re doing the right thing, going.’ But she didn’t sound that enthusiastic.

  ‘It’ll be like heaven, living in a country where ninety per cent of aluminium cans are recycled and only one per cent of household waste ends up in rubbish dumps. I heard my recycling courses have been dropped – I know where I’m not wanted. But I’m leaving Dwynwen in safe hands – my dad, would you believe, is thinking about diversifying into eco-homes, Dai let it slip. So it’s all good.’

  ‘You’ll have to let us know how it’s going out there.’ Her voice caught and he turned to examine her. Her back was rounded and her fingers were twiddling.

  ‘You’ll be sick of my daily bulletins after a week.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ she said, now drawing figure eights with her middle finger between them in the sand.

  ‘No?’

  She shook her head. He laid back on his elbows so she had some space and waited for her to elaborate.

  ‘I’m going to miss you.’ She glanced at him warily then looked out to sea.

  ‘I’ll miss you too!’ he said brightly, because he didn’t want her to be sad.

  ‘No. I’m going to really miss you.’ Her correction that he’d got her wrong and then the emphasis on the word ‘really’ made him fluster. What was she getting at? He was confused because it made it sound like she liked him, liked him. He refused to believe it. There’d been no vibes at all. This was her fear talking: he understood it. When people left, it made you consider your own circumstances. Maybe she was having doubts about staying now the holidaymakers had dropped off.

  ‘It’s just because I’m going …’ he tried.

  Silence. Okaaaaay.

  ‘And you’ve been through a lot.’

  Nothing. Strange.

  ‘I’m part of the furniture. But you won’t notice I’ve gone.’

  Still she kept quiet.

  He couldn’t read her at all; he only saw the wind throwing her hair around all over the place. All over the place, that was how he was feeling in this moment. What was going on in her head? And what was up with him? Because his heartbeat wasn’t mellow like before. It was thudding fast and he felt his armpits prickle with heat. His stomach felt heavy but light as did his head and he became aware of the waves, amplified, crashing, closer. A pang of anger and frustration came to him because the easy air they shared had changed direction. He needed more oxygen so he sat up, which made him dizzy. His vision flickered with a brief surrealism: the horizon was shaking and the sea was a sharp green. Then it returned to normal and he saw her right leg jigging. She was thinking things and he was uneasy, unsure if he wanted to know what those things were. Because he had squared the circle and he’d taken so long to get there. It came out in a burst.

  ‘Is it because of Logan? Grassing you up?’ Even though it wasn’t her fault, he guessed it would’ve left her feeling foolish.

  ‘No.’ She said it as if she was a bit cross, as if he should be a mind-reader.

  This was ridiculous! Was she hinting again there was something else going on? He felt stupid, as if he’d failed somehow.<
br />
  ‘The last few days, then. You’re just feeling vulnerable.’ His irritation gave way to compassion and he went to put his arm around her. But she swung round, her eyes glowering.

  ‘Don’t you tell me how I’m feeling!’

  She was blowing hard, passionate with conviction.

  ‘Well, why don’t you tell me?’ he said, pleading. ‘I mean, it can’t be any worse than being obsessed with Lego, can it?’

  His attempt at lightening the mood provoked an exasperated groan through her gritted teeth.

  ‘It’s pointless. You won’t understand,’ she said, still heated.

  ‘Oh, cheers! Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ He lay back down, cursing himself for even thinking she had something meaningful to add to this conversation. Frankly, he thought, it’d be a relief when he got to Sweden – there’d be none of this ‘talking in code’ crap, just straightforward translation problems. He heard her sigh but refused to bite. She could keep dangling her fishing rod for all he cared.

  ‘Look, Rhodri,’ she started, only to make another noise of frustration. ‘I think … what I’m trying to say is … I want to be a shingleback skink.’

  Dear God, what was she on about now? ‘You want to eat slugs?’

  She slapped her thighs and cried, ‘No!’

  He’d had enough now. He sat back up and she turned to him and their eyes met.

  ‘What, then?’ he said, baffled. This was so stupid. They were good at communicating. It had never been easier with anyone else ever. Or so he thought.

  ‘Remember when we talked at the demo and I said I thought it was about thunder and being all-consumed but you said it was more like being a swan or a wolf or a skink?’ She was looking at him with such intensity he felt under pressure to understand.

  ‘Yeees,’ he said, inching towards a feeling that she was talking about love but desperately not wanting to go too close because he would wipe-out when he’d spent so long getting to standing.

  ‘Finding happiness in the ordinary. I didn’t get that then. But ordinary is beautiful, I see that now … and …’ She was on the cusp and his heart was banging and he had to look away.

  ‘… I didn’t want to say this … not with you going because you’re going to have an amazing time but I have to say it …’

  He didn’t want to hear it because he was losing his strength.

  ‘Rhodri, I fell in love with Dwynwen because of you. Dwynwen is you, Rhodri.’ She was searching his face for recognition, had he got it? Did he know what she meant?

  His mind was scrambling, though – was she saying she loved him? Because that’s what it sounded like. But no, no, it couldn’t be. She didn’t mean it. She was vulnerable. But she was wearing a face he’d never seen before, as if she’d been taken over by something powerful. He was trying not to believe it but there was an electricity between them and how easy it would be to touch her soft neck and to put his lips on hers. She was moving towards him and while they had always had a tactile relationship he realised now, when this was happening, they hadn’t even brushed fingertips. He couldn’t do this, not now. Even though every part of him wanted to lie with her and never let go. How he wanted to tell her he’d been fascinated by her from the minute they’d met, how he’d fallen head over cycling shoes in love with her. But it wasn’t equal. It was too risky. Too quick. Not for him but for her. He’d dive in from the top board and she would be paddling: he’d plunge in deep, scare her off. He had to get out of here.

  ‘I’m running behind,’ he said when the truth was he was galloping mentally into a partnership and a forever. He raised a hand to his hair to form a physical barrier to stop this. It was killing him, though, seeing Ceri nodding, biting her top lip, pulling her hair up into one of those pony things so the tail bit curled like a seahorse on her bare back. She was so beautiful and lovely. He should explain but he would falter and take her in his arms and he would have to go away tomorrow. Or maybe he wouldn’t go at all. It was too dangerous. So he stood up and dusted himself off, his feet staggering because he was so off-balance. His shorts … where were they? There, and his towel and wettie, his board under his arm. The windbreak he didn’t need, he’d only drop the poles and then he’d be done for because hesitation would be fatal. He had to leave right now. And not look back. He set off hard, pushing himself away from her, his soles scorched by the sand but on he went, getting closer to the lane.

  ‘Rhodri!’ she yelled up the beach. He ignored her and wished he could cover his ears. Again she called. And again. He couldn’t bear it – he shouldn’t have but he turned to see her waving her arms like a banshee. He took a moment to check he was doing the right thing. Or that he wasn’t doing the wrong thing. Fuck, he didn’t know. The timing of this made him spin out and he wanted to scream, ‘Why now? When I’m just in my pants?’

  ‘Dolphins!’ she shouted, now jumping up and down, pointing out to sea. No. It couldn’t be … they hadn’t been here for years. He ran his eyes across the sea, seeing only crests of waves and flashes of birds, and then – yes! A fin and another! Two, three more! Their bodies like half-submerged wheels, arcing a crescent over and over, shining in the sunshine. He couldn’t move, he was so transfixed. They’d come back. It was a miracle. The Dwynwen dolphins had come home. It was a sign … And then his heart began to ask to stay, begging him to run to her. But his head was firm with a no, hissing the moment had passed: he had to dance to his own tune, not Ceri’s. He fought for his breath, his mind battling two options, because it was now or never. His decision was the hardest of his life. And he took the first step into his future.

  Four and a bit months later

  Epilogue

  St Dwynwen’s Day Eve

  Ceri had only picked them up ten minutes ago but already she felt a right gooseberry.

  Mel and Carlos were so inseparable they’d insisted on going in the back of the Fiesta together – their continuous stream of giggles and titters ever since was making Ceri feel like she was chauffeuring the Chuckle Brothers.

  The three of them were on their way to Llanddwyn Island, a half-hour drive from Carlos’s parents’ house, where Mel had stayed three days for the official ‘meeting mum and dad’ visit. And judging by the long goodbye, she’d been a hit. Ceri had offered to bring the lovebirds home because she was on Anglesey to pay her respects to St Dwynwen for turning her life around. It wasn’t going to be a drawn-out thing: she’d driven up yesterday afternoon, stayed in a pub and would be home again within twenty-four hours. It had to be a quick turnaround because tomorrow, Friday, was St Dwynwen’s Day – and Mel’s thirty-first. The village was fully booked for the Weekend of Love extravaganza, a brainwave she’d had in the autumn to make the most of the Welsh version of Valentine’s.

  It would kick off with a lovers’ breakfast of heart-shaped poached eggs and fizz at Caban Cwtch before Ceri unveiled an exhibition of lovespoons which Seren had just finished ahead of jetting off to New York with Owen for Henry’s international chess competition. Later on, the local choir and orchestra were putting on a concert of love songs at the rugby club – with a surprise rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ for Mel. Friday night’s headline act was dress-up-as-a-duet karaoke at The Dragon – Gwen and Gwil were still squabbling over whether to go as Sonny and Cher, which was his choice, or hers, John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. On Saturday, Barri was leading ‘In the Footsteps of Saint Dwynwen’ walking tours, English Dick was to stage an afternoon of romantic poetry at the caravan park and then it was back to the rugby club for the gala ball. Sunday would start with a 10 a.m. hangover-busting sea swim followed by bacon butties on the beach. Then the pub was hosting a three-course lunch of the finest regional produce and the finale was Gwil’s afternoon quiz on the world’s greatest couples. Right on cue, there was yet more whispering from behind.

  ‘You two!’ Ceri snorted, eyeballing them in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you going to come up for
air at some point?’

  It was a typically sisterly thing to say and Ceri had delivered it with relish. This sort of teasing came so naturally to the two of them it was as if they’d grown up side by side.

  ‘We’re just excited, we are!’ Mel grinned, playing with her St Dwynwen-inspired plaits.

  Aw, Ceri thought, bless her! She was dead happy for Mel – gorgeous Carlos was a regular visitor to the village now. They were perfect for each other: loved up and laughing in their own crazy world of art and colour. They even had their own way of communicating: she would speak to him in Welsh and he’d answer in Portuguese, which she was learning. Carlos being five years younger than Mel seemed to work, too. She’d been stuck in her early twenties for so long and meeting him had matured her, but not too much – she’d always be younger than her years. But it was Mel’s transformation that was even more amazing: she was out-adventuring Bear Grylls, spending her days off in Cardiff with Carlos, working as a consultant for Dulux paints, headhunted after she took part in a university study about tetrachromacy, and preparing for a trip to Rio for next month’s Carnival. They were going to stay with his relatives and then tour Brazil for four weeks when the cabin was quiet.