The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  Nan decided to ask Alis some questions herself. ‘Can you lock up, Mair? I have to get going. You’ll be alright getting home, won’t you? You’ll be wet through by the time you get there, I’d have thought. Better put the kettle on and get into some dry clothes as soon as you can.’

  Mair threw Nan a baleful look. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself, thank you very much, Myfanwy Jones.’ Nan hated it when anyone used her full name. ‘It’s coming down alright, but my skin doesn’t leak, so it can’t go further than that. By the way, those flowers you put on your Jack’s grave are looking a bit sorry for themselves in this weather, aren’t they? Funny to think you’ll be under that slab yourself one day. Is that why you keep it looking so nice? It can’t be for love of Jack, can it? Not with the way you two were.’

  Nan turned away from Mair, pretending to fiddle with the button of her collar. Mair was right, the silk flowers she’d put on her late husband’s grave just a week earlier no longer looked jolly in the dim winter light; now they were a floppy, soggy mess atop some lurid bits of green plastic. And they were still too good for the likes of bloody Jack Jones.

  ‘I’ll be putting poppies there tomorrow,’ replied Nan as sweetly as she could. ‘I always put poppies for Remembrance Day.’

  Mair pulled her hood over her head, and bent even lower than her normal stooping posture as she stepped into the rain. ‘I don’t know why you would. It’s not as though he ever served. My Dewi, he was in the Welch Regiment and he had a terrible time in Sicily . . .’

  ‘I know all about Dewi’s war record, Mair,’ snapped Nan, pushing past her friend and heading along the path, which wound through the graveyard, then toward the shop. ‘It’s not as though you haven’t told me about it a hundred times. Now I’ve got to go. See you on Sunday.’

  She didn’t wait to hear if there was a response. Cursing Mair’s late husband’s wartime exploits, she made her way carefully over the uneven road surface, until she reached the easier going of the newly-laid path to the front door of the village shop. She sloshed through the garden area set with wooden tables, which were packed with visitors enjoying ice-cream cones and fizzy drinks in the summer months. At that precise moment, the rain was bouncing off them, and rivulets of rain were pouring from the scalloped edges of the blue-and-white striped shop-front awning that had been rolled away for the winter months. She noticed it was beginning to blacken with mold.

  Pushing open the shop door, which stuck a bit in its frame, Nan didn’t mess about. ‘What’s all this about the police being here, and something being found up on the hill by Hywel Evans this morning?’

  Alis Roberts was perched on a tall stool behind her cluttered counter. She looked up from the magazine she was reading, closed it carefully and placed it on the display shelf beside the packets of crisps. Nan thought she sounded unnecessarily pleased with herself when she replied, ‘Not like me to know more than you, is it, Nan?’

  Nan shook her mac’s hood forward, over her feet, creating a small puddle on the floor. Alis tutted.

  Using her ‘don’t muck about with me’ voice, Nan said, ‘I know Hywel Evans found something he wouldn’t tell you much about, phoned the police, and that two more police officers have just arrived. What else is there I don’t know?’

  Alis took a swig from the bottle of Lucozade beside her. ‘Nothing, Nan. That’s all I know. Keeping mum, was Hywel. I don’t know why, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. Which – as we all know – is not at all like Hywel. From the little he did let slip, I thought at first maybe someone had done something nasty to a sheep. We all know that’s happened before. But at this time of year most of them are inside shelters, if they’ve got any sense – not that most sheep have, mind you. I don’t know what else he could have found. Somebody’s poor dog? But we’d have heard about a dog going missing, wouldn’t we? And you’re hardly going to find someone’s dropped dead from walking up that hill, are you? I mean, who’d be up there in weather like this anyway?’

  ‘Hywel was. Someone else could have been.’ Nan cast her eyes along the shelves crammed with an assortment of everything a person might need in a pinch, and be prepared to pay through the nose for. She wondered how many of the products on offer were past their sell-by dates, or at least close to them; Alis had a reputation for keeping foodstuffs on display which should have been discarded, then claiming she hadn’t had her glasses on to notice they were out of date when she sold them.

  ‘Nip was out up there. Hywel just followed him,’ replied Alis huffily.

  ‘Well, there you are.’ Nan nodded twice, having being proved right. ‘So not a clue then?’

  ‘Nothing. Did you want something, by the way, Nan? Or was it just a chat you came in for?’

  ‘Those lamb and mint sauce flavored crisps will be out of date in three days. I’ll take them at cost price if you want me to shift them over the road at the pub.’

  Alis stood, sighed, counted the packets in the box, and pulled a calculator from beneath the counter. As she tapped away, Nan decided she’d get back to the pub as fast as she could to phone Hywel; there wasn’t anything she couldn’t winkle out of a person, when she put her mind to it.

  Helen

  ‘Mum, the Corries have started arriving.’

  Helen had climbed to the top of the stairs to encourage her mother to come down to the pub, to join her group of fellow Coronation Street aficionados. She was surprised to find Nan wasn’t in the kitchen, but sitting instead in the small living room, in the dark, with her feet up on a stool and a cigarette in her hand. Helen was instantly worried – her mother never put her feet up until after the pub had shut for the night.

  ‘Are you alright, Mum?’ She placed her hand on her mother’s forehead. ‘You feel a bit hot to me.’

  ‘Stop fussing.’ Nan batted her daughter’s arm away. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be the right side of the grass for a good few years yet, my girl. And able to jump over your head, too. Is everything ready for them? Telly on? Seats arranged?’

  Helen tried to sigh silently, but the expression on her mother’s face told her she’d been heard. ‘Yes Mum, everything’s all set up for them. And you. I know you don’t watch and discuss the program with them afterwards just to be hospitable; you really enjoy it. Will you come down? Or don’t you feel like it? You could watch it here with your feet up, then come down afterwards, maybe. How about that? I’ll put the telly on here, shall I?’

  ‘I’ll be there now, in a minute.’

  Helen thought Nan sounded less certain of herself than she usually did. Which was another worry. She tried to not lend a helping hand as her mother rocked herself up off the sofa; it seemed to take her longer than usual.

  Oh God, is this the beginning of the end? Helen hated that the idea had flitted, unbidden, through her mind, but she couldn’t deny she felt less lighthearted when she descended the stairs than when she’d run up them. Someone on one of the online support forums she belonged to had mentioned the ‘cliff’ of ageing she’d seen her mother plummet over, transforming her from a nimble-minded, able-bodied woman at eighty, to someone who needed help with almost every aspect of her daily life just two years later.

  Is that what’s going to happen to Mum? To me? Helen wondered as she reentered the lounge bar. She looked at the faces dotted around; all of them over sixty, many over seventy. Was this her life already . . . surrounded by only older people? All of them gradually becoming more frail, then dying. With a feeling of dread she realized she herself wasn’t far off fifty.

  If they aren’t legally old enough to be your parent, then they aren’t really old, Helen told herself, smiling too brightly at the glowingly youthful Aled Beynon who was pulling a half-pint.

  She caught sight of Sadie’s back disappearing into the kitchen. Had she been serving drinks? She shouldn’t be, she was still under age. If anyone saw her there’d be trouble; several of the more vocal locals had made comments about Sadie needing proper adult supervision if she was going to serve alcoholic drin
ks. Sometimes people just didn’t know when to mind their own business.

  Helen lifted the flap in the ancient Welsh oak bar, carefully replaced it, and popped her head into the kitchen. Sadie was pouring beer from a glass into a pot on the stovetop.

  ‘Just adding a last bit of flavor to the mix for the steak and ale pies, Mam,’ she said cheerily. ‘I got a drop of Guinness, alright? Aled pulled it for me. I didn’t do it myself; I know you don’t like me to do that.’

  Helen nodded, relieved, and cast her eyes around the cooking area. Unlike their own kitchen upstairs – which looked cozy and homey with its cluttered countertops and eclectic décor – this was a symphony of stainless steel fittings, and gleaming, empty surfaces.

  Health and safety down here, the realities of never having enough space, and always being too rushed to have a good old clear-out in our home upstairs. Fair enough. She thought.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ she said. ‘You’re just making enough for a dozen, right?’ Sadie nodded, stirring. ‘Good. When you’ve filled the basins leave them out to cool; I’ll freeze six of them, make the lids tomorrow morning, and freeze those too. We’ve got a couple ready for tonight, haven’t we?’ Another nod from her daughter; more stirring. ‘Good. I can’t see us selling them, but you never know. We’ll have them for tea tomorrow if they don’t go tonight, alright?’

  ‘Yes, Mam. But no lid for me. I’ve got to watch my weight.’

  Helen’s heart broke a little.

  ‘Come on Sadie,’ she said, reaching out to touch her daughter’s shoulder, ‘you’ve got a lovely figure. You don’t need to lose anything. Unlike me,’ she patted her hips. ‘I need to get out and do a bit more walking. Like I used to.’

  ‘And don’t eat so many crisps. Nan brought almost a whole extra box over from the shop this afternoon. Why would she do that? We’ve got loads out the back already.’

  ‘Did she?’ Helen hadn’t noticed. ‘Where are they?’ Sadie used her elbow to indicate the corner of the kitchen. Helen inspected the box. ‘Lamb and mint sauce flavor? I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Still, they might go down well. We could have a bit of a rush on Sunday, if people decide they don’t want to cook for themselves after going to some of the special services taking place.’

  ‘Nan said that,’ said Sadie with a smile. ‘Two peas, same pod.’

  Helen chuckled wryly. ‘Don’t say that, love. Promise you’ll tell me if I ever get like her?’

  ‘I promise,’ replied her daughter, with an air-kiss. ‘Is Nan coming down to have a drink with the Corries?’

  ‘She said she would,’ said Helen. She heard her mother’s voice calling out to one of her cronies. ‘Yes, she’s down. I’ll go in and tend to them. You’re sure you’re alright here? Homework done?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit left to do, but I thought I’d finish it after you’d got that lot settled, when you probably won’t need me.’

  ‘Good plan, love. You finish that, I’ll do this. We make a good team, don’t we, Sadie? You and me, together whatever.’

  ‘You and me. Together forever, Mam,’ said her daughter, shrugging off her mother’s hug with a, ‘Hey, I’m stirring.’

  The Dragon’s Head being a traditional pub, customers were expected to get their own drinks at the bar, but Helen made an exception for the Corrie lot. It was much easier for her to ferry drinks from the bar to their tables, rather than have a gaggle of elderly people hobbling about the place, bumping into stools, chairs and tables; it was like having a pub full of oversized toddlers when they arrived.

  Finally all settled, with ten minutes to go before their program started, Helen was surprised the conversation didn’t turn to the cliffhanger at the end of the last episode, as it usually did. Instead, the entire group peppered Nan with questions about the sudden – and surprising – arrival of so many police and official vehicles in the village. Helen couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the activity they were all buzzing about, so listened with genuine interest.

  ‘It’s all because Hywel and Nip found a dead body up at the old RAF ruin this morning,’ announced Nan with authority. ‘The police were here all day. It’s all taped off up there now. No one can go anywhere near it. A crime scene, here in our village.’

  Helen was completely taken aback by this news. Why on earth hadn’t her mother mentioned this to her earlier? Because she’s loving being the center of attention here in the pub, Helen answered herself.

  Of course she wanted to hear all Nan’s news, just like everyone else, and even took some delight in the relish with which her mother did what she was best at – showing off that she knew it all.

  ‘I spoke to Hywel, who found it,’ pronounced Nan brightly. ‘He said it was definitely a human body, and he should know, having been a butcher. But he said it was burned . . .’ She paused, to great effect. ‘No flesh left on it whatsoever.’

  Gasps and groans and a few ‘Ych a fi’s’ followed. Helen could tell her mother was loving every minute as she continued, ‘Yes, it was just bones, all crushed under a load of rocks. Piled up on top of it they were, in the middle of the old control room up at the RAF listening station. Hywel phoned the police, and they sent that young bloke they’ve got over in Lower Middleford. He called in the big guns. Detective Inspector Evan Glover from Swansea HQ, and some woman with him. I’ve seen his name in the papers before now. Funnily enough, his grandmother used to live in Lower Middleford. Vi Pritchard, she was. Her daughter Shirley was his mother. You’ll remember her, Eleri, I’m sure.’

  Helen noticed that Eleri didn’t look as though she did.

  Nan pressed on, ‘They wouldn’t have sent someone like him if it wasn’t a crime, would they? Then a whole lot of those special types turned up too, the ones who wear funny paper suits. They built a big tent, and they were taking photos for hours. And they started taking stuff away too. In that black van that’s been back and forth all day. You must have seen it.’ Silver heads nodded. ‘They’ll be back tomorrow they said, and they’ve even left someone on guard up there. Can you imagine it, being out there all night, in weather like this? Poor dab, whoever it is. I offered to send up refreshments, but they said not to because he already had a Thermos with him.’

  Helen marveled at Nan’s ability to have gathered such a wealth of information, thereby ensuring she was seen as the fount of all knowledge. The questions came thick and fast, and she enjoyed seeing her mother field them with an expert quip here, and a practiced glance there. She noticed her mum seed ideas about black magic, a serial killer, old tales about the wrath of the ‘dragon’ against those who wished ill of the villagers, and a nasty accident. All in five minutes.

  During the lively conversation that ensued, it was generally agreed that any human remains couldn’t possibly be of a person connected with the village, because no one was missing, that anybody knew of. As talk turned to people who hadn’t been seen for a few days, Helen was impressed by her mother’s ability to imply she knew more than she was telling, but had been sworn to secrecy.

  You always like to have the upper hand, don’t you, Mum? thought Helen to herself.

  One of the group shouted, ‘It’s starting!’

  All conversation stopped as the trumpet played the plaintive introduction, and the Coronation Street fans ceased to exist in the real world of The Dragon’s Head pub in Rhosddraig – the possibility of a local dead body notwithstanding – moving in their minds to the cobbled streets of Weatherfield and the Rover’s Return, hands reaching absently for drinks and packets of crisps, eyes fixed on the screen high above their heads on the wall.

  Helen noted the look of complete satisfaction on her mother’s face; like the Cheshire Cat licking cream off her paws.

  No need to worry about her, she’s in fine form, she thought to herself, moving behind the bar to give Aled a break.

  ‘Off you go,’ she said cheerily. ‘Half an hour. You’ve earned it. Going home to make your Grannie Gwen her cocoa, and give her her tablets as usual?’ Aled nodded. H
elen watched as he headed for the back door, and the wind-whipped rain beyond it.

  ‘Did you leave your bike outside?’ asked Helen, annoyed she hadn’t thought to ask earlier.

  Aled told her he had, but assured her it wasn’t a problem; he always left his bike outside his gran’s cottage too, because there was no room for it inside. She was pleased to hear he’d kept it dry by covering it with his big old yellow rain slicker, which he reasoned would get wet during his ride in any case.

  ‘Bye Aled,’ called Sadie, popping her head out of the kitchen. ‘See you later. Maybe we can talk about our history homework?’

  Aled shrugged as he left.

  ‘Is he good at history?’ asked Helen. ‘I know it’s not your favorite subject at the moment.’

  ‘He’s better at it than me. Mr Hughes said he’s got a real feel for the Tudor period. Leaves me cold, it does. I hate all the dates, all the acts. I wish we were doing proper history – you know, the sort we like.’

  Helen nodded. She’d managed to instill a passion for ancient times in her daughter at an early age. ‘Well, give it a go for yourself before he comes back, and see how you do, alright? I’ll need him in the bar when that lot want their drinks for their post-episode natter,’ said Helen, indicating the rapt customers.

  She’d also hated all the dates, battles, and treaties in her history classes, much preferring the more lyrical Paleolithic, Mesolithic, and Neolithic periods, so knew she wouldn’t be much help to her daughter.

  As she tidied behind the bar, and gave a selection of glasses a good shine with a clean tea towel before replacing them on their storage shelves, Helen watched the Corries with interest. How could they find the imagined lives of a group of Mancunians more interesting than a dead body on their own doorstep?