by Claire Peate
I managed to find Tretower and traced our journey to here. And felt quite proud of my orienteering skills.
We were, it turned out, in the middle of nowhere.
Which had been exactly the point of our journey.
“No. There isn’t anywhere near. We’re miles away from any towns. Especially Birmingham,” I added, just to let him know I’d found my bearings.
“What about villages then? We passed a couple on the way here. Do you remember seeing a garage when we drove past?”
“No. Oh, there’s a place just north of here called Waenfach, it’s got a little black square on it, what does that mean?” I went to the key on the back cover. “Village – that might be good. It was a village in 1982, so maybe it’s a small town now? The other places we passed only had a round dot which means –” I flipped to the index again – “Other Settlement. That sounds smaller than a village, don’t you think?”
“OK, the black square it is then. How do I get to Waenfach?”
“You go right at the bottom of the track. It’s in the opposite direction to going back, but only by a few miles. Is that OK?”
“It’ll have to do. I didn’t see any garages on the way either.”
I was over the moon. Now we were a team, because I had a job to do! Now I was navigating while Gwyn was driving – he was relying on me. And here we were, travelling together along the roads to get to the place with the black square.
The road wound down into a heavily wooded valley with a few houses dotted along the roadside. As we kept our descent there were more and more houses, which boded well; Waenfach was looking like a sizeable place for mid Wales.
“This is it!” I said, putting the map down as we turned a corner and the sign proudly announced we’d arrived in the village of Waenfach, regional finalist for Wales in Bloom last year.
“Oh it’s lovely,” I said, and it was. A mish-mash of red-brick Georgian townhouses, white painted cottages and Victorian bay-fronted terraces lined the streets.
“But does it have a garage?” Gwyn asked.
“It has a hairdresser’s,” I said, peering out through the rain-streaked window.
“Yes, that’s not much good,” he laughed. “I don’t think we can perm our way out of this.”
“A greengrocer’s?”
“No.”
“Garage!”
“Where?” He slowed down, if that was possible as we were only doing about twenty miles an hour, and looked where I was pointing. On the left just after the row of shops was an old garage with an ancient petrol pump standing outside. The wooden sign on the corrugated building read “G Mason, Mechanic”.
“Da iawn,” he said, “perfect, well done,” and pulled in to the forecourt. He came to a stop beside the pump, the trailer rattling and clanking before finally heaving to a standstill.
“It doesn’t look very open,” I said, ominously. It didn’t look very twenty-first century either. Had they ever mended anything later than a Model T Ford? Would they take one look at Gwyn’s T-reg Land Rover and marvel at the alien space-wagon that had just landed on their premises?
“You stay here and I’ll go and see if anyone’s in.”
“No, I’ll come too. I’ve been sitting down since we left Tretower.”
I jumped out, glad to stretch my legs. It was true, I’d been sitting for nearly three hours now and was probably well on the way to getting deep vein thrombosis.
It was pelting down with rain so we dashed for shelter beneath the roof of the garage.
“Hello?” Gwyn called. “Anyone there? Hello?” It looked deserted.
“Shall we try the butcher’s next door?” I asked, peering into the gloom but not seeing anyone there either.
“Sure.” We dashed out again and into the butcher’s.
And had a shock.
I don’t know what I was expecting really. It’s not as if I haven’t been in a butcher’s shop in my life, but it was very different to the ones I’d been in during my nice suburban upbringing. My kind of butcher’s shop had sausages and steaks arranged in white plastic trays with green plastic grass separating each red line of meat. And there were usually posters up on the wall of a housewife having raptures holding a fork loaded with sausages, with a caption “Make Mine British Pork” or something along those lines.
This butcher’s, though, was the real thing.
I could feel my mouth gape open at the sight of pheasants hanging limply from big metal hooks in the ceiling and, worse still, rabbits dangling from string with their heads in plastic bags, with what was clearly blood pooling at the bottom.
The cat would like it in here.
I hid behind Gwyn and tried not to look too horrified by the carnage, adopting what I hoped was an “oh-
yes-I’m-quite-comfortable-with-this-level-of-gore” look. Honestly, this house of butchery should have an eighteen certificate outside it.
Gwyn and the slaughtermonger with the horribly bloody apron were talking in Welsh so I couldn’t join in. I stood behind and smiled, staring at the packets of gravy mix resplendent with pictures of happy cows and happy hens on the front winking at me. Why do the manufacturers do that? It’s sick.
“OK. Diolch. Thanks. Come on then.” Gwyn turned to me and out we went, to my huge relief. Once back in the rain again, I took a deep breath in, filling my lungs with good clean air that didn’t smell of dead animals.
“He said that the garage is open on Tuesday. The mechanic is his brother so he told me that I could leave the trailer on the forecourt today and give them a call on Tuesday morning.”
“That’s very trusting of you. Are you going to do that?”
“Of course! Who would steal it anyway?”
“True. And I suppose you haven’t got much choice, have you? But what about getting back here tomorrow? It’s a long journey to have to make three times.”
“I asked about that too,” he said lightly, “and there’s a bed and breakfast place just down the road apparently…”
He left it hanging in the air. We stood in the rain facing each other. I could feel myself smiling.
“I don’t know whether you have to get back to Cardiff tonight, with your work and everything?”
“Oh that.” I waved it away. “I can take a day off. It’ll be fine.”
“Well, I don’t want to inconvenience you by making you stay up here…” He was grinning now, his face shiny in the rain, his hair plastered to his head. He was so absolutely gorgeous standing there in front of me that I just couldn’t help myself any longer. I took a step towards him and as I did he took a step to me, cupping my face in his warm hands and kissing me softly on the lips. I responded, kissing him back, gently at first but as he pulled me to him there was more urgency. We stood there, pressed tight together, the rain falling all around us but I didn’t feel it.
“Come on,” he said, pulling away gently and running a hand through my soaked hair. “Let’s get out of the rain and see if there are any vacancies.”
I nodded, heart pounding away in my chest, and we headed back to the Land Rover. But not before I glanced over at the butcher’s shop and saw the butcher watching us, grinning, with a plucked chicken dangling limply in each hand.
35
We walked back to the Land Rover, Gwyn holding my hand and making me feel more rapturous than the woman with her fork full of pork sausage.
Together we managed to disentangle the battered old trailer from the Land Rover, our fingers touching every so often as we unwound the twine from the tow bars. Neither of us said anything, too caught up in being next to each other and enjoying the moment.
Within a few minutes we were back in the vehicle and heading further north to the bed and breakfast.
I checked my watch – it was three o’clock. The Hen House would be vacant now, just a lone cleaning woman no doubt cursing us for trashing the place, shaking her duster in anger. The girls would have gone their separate ways home: Louisa going back to more long, arduous conversation
s and a possible wedding, Henna returning to write a very entertaining article for her paper on big cats, Laura probably berating herself for failing to take charge sufficiently, but no doubt entertaining herself by coming up with various elaborate ways to discipline me. The police marksmen would be stalking through the valley, guns held out in front of them, radios at the ready, paracetamol and alka seltzer close to hand. The media would be busy asking everyone about their experiences with the big cat – and Tomos? Who knows where Tomos would go to look for comfort in his hour of need?
And where was the girl with the Dull Life Crisis who had driven up the road from Cardiff a few days ago? What had happened to her? Well, she had gone on the adventure of a lifetime. She’d helped farmers in distress, she’d braved horses and big cats and anti-English Welshmen and now here she was, somewhere in mid Wales with her lovely farmer heading off to a B&B. As Santa so aptly put it, ho ho ho.
I could start to worry about things like toothbrushes, pyjamas and other practicalities, but really, that was so DLC. Far better to sit back and enjoy the scenery – albeit rather wet – and hope the place didn’t disappoint.
36
It didn’t. Myrtlewood Grange was a beautiful three-storey Georgian house set just off the road in the next village we came to. It must originally have been some sort of a watermill, as a giant wooden wheel was suspended on a whitewashed building beside it. A rambling honeysuckle climbed over the front porch and twisted around the wooden sign, which announced we’d arrived at the B&B and that there were vacancies to be had.
Gwyn pulled up in the car park to the side and we sat for a moment, the rain still beating down on the roof.
“OK?” he said, looking over at me.
“Absolutely,” I said, and leant over to kiss him again. Now that I’d started I just couldn’t stop myself. The man was fantastic.
“Shall we go in?” he said after a few moments of sheer bliss.
“Sure.” I composed myself and hopped out. Gwyn went round to the back and got my bag out of the back.
Hold on.
Why was that here?
I looked at him, nonplussed.
“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “I worried that something like this might happen and thought, you know, you’d probably like to be prepared…” He petered out and hid his sheepish grin by diving into the back and getting out another bag. His bag.
I nodded, suppressing a grin and grabbed the bag from him in a mock-angry way.
“You were presuming an awful lot!” I said as we headed to the porch.
“Do you mind?” He suddenly looked uncertain.
“Not at all!” I laughed. “Very sensible.”
The owner of the B&B was a short, stocky, ruddy-faced woman called Mrs Jones who smiled a lot and was enormously cheerful. She welcomed us in straight away and sat us down by the fire in one of the large sitting rooms while she went to get us cups of tea.
“But you’re soaked!” she said, coming back with a tea tray laden with scones and jam and cream. “Here’s a couple of towels for the worst of the rain.” She handed over two towels after she’d put the tray down on the sideboard. “Well, it looks like the weather’s set in for the next couple of days, the way its going. I hope you’re not planning on spending much more of your time outdoors?”
“Oh no,” Gwyn said without batting an eyelid. I tried to cut my scone to disguise my embarrassment, but my hand was shaking and the knife kept wobbling. Gwyn explained our circumstances with the broken trailer.
“Old George’ll have it mended no problem,” she said. “Clever man. Anyway, I’ve got to go and get dinner ready – there’s another couple from Oxford staying tonight and I guess you two will be wanting dinner here too?”
We nodded. This place was heaven.
“So let me show you up to your room now then before you make a start on those scones.” And with that we got up and followed her upstairs, trying not to look each other in the eye.
We’d been given a room that faced out over the fields behind the house. It was gorgeous, painted a deep russet red with an enormous sleigh bed opposite the sash windows.
“There’s your en suite just here.” She held the door open for us. “And there’s tea and coffee making facilities just here on the chest. Anything you need then just come down to the kitchens. I’m usually to be found there.”
“Thanks,” I said, hoisting my holdall up and turning to throw it on the bed.
“Wait!” She ran over to me and I froze, mid-swing.
“Sorry, it’s just old Smog here, she’s made a home on your bed,” she laughed and I suddenly saw an old grey striped cat lying curled up on the coverlet. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually let her up in the guest rooms but I must have left the door open by mistake and she came up here. You don’t mind cats, do you?”
“Oh no,” I said, “we don’t mind cats at all!”
Gwyn laughed out loud.
37
I was dying to tell Angela everything. Absolutely aching to tell her. It was a bit of a miracle, in fact, that she didn’t already know about my weekend because I almost blurted it out when I was on the phone to her arranging the night out.
But I managed to keep it to myself.
Just.
I wanted to tell her that, after last weekend, I had someone else I wanted to invite to her barbeque, if it was all right with her? Who? Oh, his name is Gwynfor and he’s all man. ALL man.
We’d only just settled down in the City Bar and Canteen and ordered the wine and tapas. I’d already told her I had some news and besides, she could probably tell there was something up with me by the way I was looking eager and impatient, perched on the edge of the bench and completely unable to relax. Well, either I was eager and impatient or I had cystitis.
“OK, what’s your news?” she said.
Thank God! I thought I was going to explode with having to restrain myself. I opened my mouth, took a deep breath –
And then Marcia walked in.
“Marcy!” Angela stood up to greet the bony-bottomed one and got the usual mwah mwah kiss on each cheek. I still had my mouth open, ready to launch into the story of my weekend. I closed it and smiled tightly at Marcia. Ngh.
“Hi Rachel,” Marcia said breezily, “it is just so nice to see you again! Have you lost weight – you look different!”
“No, Marcia, I’m still fat.”
“Oh.” For once she was lost for words. It was priceless. “Well, I can see you’ve already got your drinks, so I’ll just go and get a wine. No talking behind my back when I’ve gone,” she laughed and shimmied over to the bar.
“I’m sorry, Rach. Marcia mentioned that she really wanted to come along tonight, and I thought that it would be a great opportunity for you two to … well, you know, kiss and make up and all that. Anyway, can you tell me your news now while Marcia’s at the bar – is it secret?”
“Oh everybody can hear it!” I said enthusiastically, quite glad now that I’d have a bigger audience. “Marcia can hear it too. In fact, I’d really like her to hear it.”
“Hear what?” said Marcia, flouncing down on the sofa beside us. “Anyway,” she flapped her hands excitedly, “before you tell us what you have to say, I just have to tell you about my weekend. I had the most amazing weekend ever!”
“So did Rachel,” Angela said, seeing my crestfallen face, “she was just going to tell us.”
“Go on then.” Marcia sat back and crossed her arms, clearly a bit pissed off that the spotlight was off her.
“No, no, you first,” I said graciously, holding up my hands and seeing her check out my manicure. Ha! “I’m sure my weekend will just pale in comparison to yours.” I sat back and helped myself to the olives.
She beamed and sat on the edge of her seat. “Oh well, if you’re sure then. My weekend was brilliant – just fantastic. Girls girls girls! You should go orienteering! Seriously! It’s such fun! Toby and I joined a few friends from London, you remember Ed and Milly? Dean and
Becks? Anyway, we went on this organised orienteering weekend where a team of you have to get to all these points by a certain time. And our team won! Of course! Toby was such a whizz at navigating. Well, it was so much fun we booked another weekend straight away – we’re going back to the Carrog Valley in mid Wales in three weeks time, it’s just perfect for that kind of thing, so remote, so wild! Rachel, are you OK? God, did that olive go down the wrong way? Here, have a drink.”
Published by Honno
‘Ailsa Craig’, Heol y Cawl, Dinas Powys
South Glamorgan, Wales, CF6 4AH
Copyright © Claire Peate, 2007
The right of Claire Peate to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The author would like to stress that
this is a work of fiction and no resemblance
to any actual individual or institution
is intended or implied.
A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library.
ISBN
978-1-906784-69-0
Published with the financial support of the Welsh Books Council
Cover design: G Preston
Cover image: Getty Images
