‘An innocent girl didn’t die because of a decision you took about company strategy,’ he said, furiously. There was a pause whilst he struggled to compose himself. He took a deep breath then continued more quietly. ‘I was – am – what they call a functioning alcoholic. Someone you’d never know had a drinking problem, because I’d got so good at hiding it. The first thing I did after work every night was to head for a bar. I would have been over the limit that night whether I’d lost my job or not,’ he stated flatly. ‘De-stressing, being sociable, networking, whatever spin you put on it, what I really liked to do was unwind with a drink.’
‘So,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t stop to report the accident because I knew I’d be breathalysed. I ignored that poor kid lying in the road and prayed that I’d be sober before they found me. And I pleaded guilty to hide the truth because I thought I’d get a lighter sentence. But it’s not that easy …’
Coralie covered her face with her hands, but he forced her to look at him
‘It wasn’t your fault; it was mine. I killed her. I’m the one who has to live with that. But if it hadn’t been for your regular visits when I was at my lowest ebb, I would have found a way to finish myself off. Two lives would have been lost, two families left without hope. By talking to me, making me feel human when no one else would, you made me see a purpose to this life. I’ll always be grateful for that, but I want to forget you, and forget the past. All either of us can do now for Hayley Butterfield is to carry on living the best way we can.’
Penmorfa, on her return, was eerily calm. There was no sign, as she would have predicted, that anyone had ever been at Gwyn’s cottage, no answer at the farmhouse and Kitty was nowhere to be found. Needing to clear her head, she left the house and walked down to the cove. A solitary figure in the large landscape, she stood and watched the trail of an aeroplane high above. The hustle and bustle of a once-flourishing waterway was silent now except for the occasional pleasure boat braving the shifting sands of the bar to negotiate the grey and silted-up river.
If history had taken a different course, it might have been Penmorfa pulsating with life, but the little village had failed to catch the tide of prosperity. If events had taken another course, she might be looking forward to a brave new world in America, expanding her business and, perhaps, trusting herself to love again.
‘So long Frank Lloyd Wright,’ she said, turning away from the sea and watching her footprints sink in the sand as she walked away from it all and went home to pack. As night fell, she loaded the van and took the winding road through Penmorfa. At the other side, she slowed down, to take a last look in the mirror at the cluster of lights from a scattering of houses disappearing over her shoulder. In the wire carrier, firmly strapped in beside her, Rock was mewling pitifully. She blamed herself for not doing enough to get him acclimatised to it. He’d been too ill to protest about it when he’d first turned up on her doorstep, and had meekly put up with the indignity. Now he was probably sitting there anticipating a trip to the vet’s and wondering what was about to happen to him.
Poor Rock. Apart from doing everything she could to make it as physically comfortable for him, she couldn’t do anything about making him feel emotionally secure. It was going to be a long trip unless … taking a deep breath, Coralie fumbled around for some music. Doris’s singing filled the car, telling them whatever would be would be and Rock curled up and went to sleep.
‘Depraved,’ someone muttered, as Reverend Parry cleared her throat. Alys couldn’t be sure but she was pretty certain that it came from Delyth or Mair, so she shot a withering look in their direction anyway.
‘It makes my blood boil, Marianne,’ she’d told the Vicar before the meeting, ‘to see overpaid footballers obtaining injunctions preventing the press publishing any stories that could damage their lucrative sponsorship deals, whereas it’s open season with you. You’ve been left defenceless.’
‘Oh, Alys,’ Marianne Parry had smiled, ‘I’m not in the least bit defenceless. I do have a friend in a very high place.’
Nevertheless, since Reverend Parry was the one still being plagued by reporters, she had agreed to give an interview before the Hall Management Committee meeting commenced, hoping to stop any further press speculation. ‘The Bishop’s becoming a little weary of me being the story, rather than spreading the Word,’ she said of her appearance all over the red-tops.
Whilst they waited for a couple of stragglers to settle, Alys tried not to look at the thickly painted wood-chip paper and a clashing floral border of the Foundered Ship’s club room. It made her feel too depressed about the community hall which was still desperately needed.
The two weeks since the unveiling ceremony had been as bad as any that Alys could remember in Penmorfa. Even during the most horrendous crisis, such as when the last outbreak of Foot and Mouth had come perilously close to the village, everyone pulled together. Now all that united them was the search for a scapegoat and they hadn’t even been able to agree on that. The press feeding frenzy for the Vicar’s story had brought what many people were saying was the exactly the wrong kind of attention to the village and opened up old wounds about Last Samba at Sunset. Some people were cross with Alys, muttering that none of this would have happened if she hadn’t ‘got involved’, as they put it, with Gethin Lewis in the first place. Others were annoyed with Gethin for presenting them with a portrait of uncertain value instead of sticking to what he did best. And where were all her hopes for Coralie and Gethin now?
At least Coralie hadn’t had to hear one of the reporters remarking that it was a pity Gethin had squandered the opportunity to show off her fine assets. The only person to come up with an explanation as to why what had started as an act of generosity that was supposed to benefit the village had turned it upside down, was Willow, who insisted it was all to do with Mercury going retrograde.
Alys would have felt even worse about it all if it hadn’t been for Huw, who’d been constantly by her side in the days immediately after the ceremony, fending off the press and mercilessly quelling any muttered criticism of his wife. It was Huw, too, who’d discovered that Kingston Gravell, the presenter of the popular art and antiques programme Gravell’s Gavel, had a holiday cottage at Abersaith and had persuaded him to take a look at the painting.
‘It’s all about the quality of the work,’ Kingston Gravell told them, in that deep, comforting voice everyone knew from their television. ‘You don’t have to be an expert to see that this is an outstanding portrait. The artist has captured his subject in all her vulnerable, sensitive beauty. Her lovely face is tilted towards the artist in a shared moment of intimacy, her bare shoulders, above the coral dress, lean towards him,’ he’d said, smiling kindly. ‘The only fly in the ointment is that experienced, high-level buyers only put their hands in their pockets for strong, consistent performers. Gethin Lewis’s reputation has taken a big hit. There’s a danger that the best dealers and collectors will avoid this auction, especially if there’s any suspicion that the artist is using it as a tactic to get rid of something he wants to offload or feels is second-rate.’
He shook his head and, although Alys could tell he wished he could say more to reassure her, she could see from the expression in his eyes that he wasn’t confident. ‘I’ll take some soundings and see what I can do, of course, but this is a considerable departure from Lewis’s usual oeuvre and I don’t need to tell you that we’re now in a whole new financial climate. With so many needy causes, all charity functions struggle to reach their targets; the money’s just not there.’
Sensing Alys’s fears, Huw had been wonderfully reassuring, telling her that if Kingston approved of the painting, buyers would, too. Alys closed her eyes against the tears that sprang to them whenever she thought about how close she’d come to losing Huw. She was luckier than she deserved that he was still by her side. The only person who completely refused to engage with her was Kitty. Her daughter had stopped short of severing all contact but treated her with all the formality o
f a stranger. Alys didn’t need Willow to read her stars to see that it would be a very long time before she was forgiven.
Now the room went quiet as Marianne Parry beamed her lovely smile at everyone and started to speak.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘When I was a little girl,’ Marianne began, ‘I would probably have burst into tears if someone had told me I was going to be a vicar when I grew up. Our vicar was an old man, with bushy eyebrows and a beard.’
A few thin smiles broke the tension in the room.
‘I dreamt of being a dancer and for many years it seemed that my dream would come true,’ she explained. ‘I started when I was six and took several rosettes. Then, when I was twelve, I began entering competitions. I was working hard, doing something I loved, leading what on the surface at least seemed a very glamorous life, except that I was empty inside.’
She smiled at the people gathered in the room and even Mair didn’t purse her lips in disapproval. Anyone less like a floozy than their calm, elegant Vicar would be hard to imagine. ‘At about the same time, I became aware that someone was trying to speak to me, but I tried not to listen. I wanted to find fulfilment in dance, not in doing God’s work. God was very patient with me, even when I kept finding reasons not to listen to Him. When I was in my early twenties even I realised that my glamorous life was leaving me overdrawn spiritually. I found time in my schedule to rent a cottage here, and when I looked into my heart, God was waiting for me!’
There were a couple of murmurs of approval, but the Vicar held up her hand and continued.
‘I used to come down to the cove in the evening when it was quiet and dance, not to entertain others, but to celebrate the joy of finding my vocation. Sometimes I would see a young man there, with a sketch book. The young man and I got talking and I learned that he had ambitions of being a professional artist, but was being put under great pressure to carry on the family farm. I gave him the only advice I knew. I told him to look into his heart and trust where it led him.
‘Gethin Lewis, for of course it was him, asked if he could make a few sketches of me. Later, he asked my permission to use them for a larger work. And to ask if I would mind very much if he took the liberty of adding himself to the painting as my shadowy partner to turn my little dance into a love story.
‘I was very happy to agree – although I think we both might have had second thoughts had either of us known that those small sketches would take us on such an extraordinary journey – but just to set the record absolutely straight they did not lead to Gethin Lewis’s bed. He was a troubled young man not yet twenty and I was already engaged to the marvellous man who was to become my dear husband.’
There was silence and then someone started to clap and soon everyone was united in their whole-hearted support for the Vicar. Alys even noticed one of the reporters dabbing at his eye, as they obediently packed up and left the meeting to continue.
Then it was Alys’s turn to speak. ‘I know that the work Gethin Lewis submitted was nothing like the work we were expecting or were promised. However, if we return the loan we’ve been granted by ACORN, we can say goodbye to our hopes of restoring the church hall and Penmorfa will wait a very long time for the community space it so badly needs. Or, we can take a calculated risk and go ahead with the charity auction …’
‘We won’t get a garden shed for that now!’ someone said angrily. ‘His stuff’s not worth a candle!’
‘It’s possible that demand for his previous oeuvre may have dropped,’ Alys agreed, trying not to think about the possible fallout from the closure of his New York exhibition. ‘But before we rush to any conclusions and reach a decision that may jeopardise something that might be of benefit to us all, I think you should listen to what the leading London art critics have to say about this latest work.’
She gave silent thanks to Kingston, who’d emailed her with the news that the tide was beginning to turn back in their favour. ‘“Welsh artist Gethin Lewis’s true potential has been released at last. This often controversial artist is in a philosophical mood with his latest work. Girl in a Coral Dress – a reminder, of course, of the vivid scarlet dress that draws the eye in his earlier piece – is a poignant and inspired painting which hails a new maturity and direction for Lewis and reinvigorates the market for his work.”
‘Now,’ said Alys, ‘I would urge everyone to remember that whatever the minority say about him, Gethin Lewis did return to his birthplace to unveil what is being heralded as an important new work and I think it’s only proper that we should acknowledge a true son of Penmorfa. Let’s put it to the vote.’
Kitty’s eyes welled up with angry tears every time she thought about her mother. Although she was determined to keep her mind occupied, it seemed that wherever she went something was guaranteed to remind her of Delyth and Mair’s smug innuendos. Even the hedgerows around Penmorfa were ripe with the heady, dirty-sexy smell of May blossom, she thought, as a few white petals rained down on her.
The hawthorn tree had a complicated mythology too – symbol of abandonment and fertility or chastity and cleansing, depending on your point of view. As a hedging plant its dense growth was thick and impenetrable and was supposed to offer a psychic shield, but nothing could expunge all thoughts of Alys and Jerzy from her mind.
She shot past the farmhouse as quickly as she could, the vibrations from the cobbled courtyard making Jamie’s gurgle wobble, and found Adam filling hanging baskets in one of the glasshouses. A sunbeam was playing with his untidy blond hair, brushing the planes of his tanned cheeks with gold and lovingly gilding his muscular arms. A tray of petunias blew purple trumpet-faces at him as if he were a hero straight from a Greek myth, except of course that she knew all about his Achilles heel. As much as she wanted to believe that the smile that lit up his eyes as he saw them approaching was just for her, Kitty was sure that every woman he came across that day would get the same treatment. It was better to be realistic about these things; and if you couldn’t even trust your own mother, who could you trust?
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘who’d have believed it of Rev Marianne, eh? I hope she doesn’t regret that particular confession. She’s all over the papers again today.’
Typical Adam; he’d probably have a crack at her now, she thought murderously. ‘Here,’ she said, shaking off her backpack. ‘I haven’t got time to worry about that. Everything he needs is in there. I’ve put in plenty of nappies, there’s wipes – this milk’ll need to go in the fridge.’
‘Kitty!’ Adam rubbed her back, gently. ‘Jeez! Remind me to work on those knots in your shoulders later. You’re a mass of tension. Just chillax; you know I can handle whatever the little guy slings at me.’
He crouched down and made silly faces at Jamie, setting off a frenzy of little limbs waggling.
She exhaled, letting go of some of the pressure before it brought on a thundering headache. It wasn’t fair to take it out on Adam, when it was her mother who was the lying cheat. ‘Thanks,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘If I get to do the styling for this engagement party, the money’ll be really handy.’
He sighed and stood up, eyeing her doubtfully. ‘I still think you’re taking on too much too soon. Your body needs a chance to recover before you start dashing off all over the place.’
‘Been reading the baby books again?’ she teased, touched by his thoughtfulness all the same. He really could be kind. She went to brush a smudge of soil off his cheek and he caught hold of her hand and kissed her fingers. If only he knew how much she longed to spend more time with him instead of rushing off on business.
‘I don’t like seeing you worrying about money,’ he said softly, giving her a nice, cosy, cared-for feeling. ‘I mean, if you do too much,’ he added, breaking away, ‘your milk might dry up and then you might have trouble feeding this little fellow.’
Kitty swallowed hard, desperate not to let the tears pricking her eyes spill over, furious for allowing herself to believe that any of that tenderness was meant for her. �
��Yeah and if I don’t go to work, the cash’ll dry up, too,’ she said, snatching her hand away, ‘which will have pretty much the same effect. Listen, I’m grateful to you for looking after him. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Kitty, I’m his dad.’ He frowned at her then swatted away a fly that was hovering in front of the buggy. ‘Anyway, we’ve always got Mamgu at hand if we get into trouble, haven’t we, eh?’
Oh, yes, good old Gran. She snorted, pursing her lips before an ugly comment tainted the sweetly-fragrant air.
‘Do you want the paper?’ he offered, grabbing it from the table and opening up the centre pages. ‘I’ve caught up with the Vicar’s secret past now.’
‘I really don’t have the time,’ she said. Or the inclination, she nearly added, unable to stop herself looking. Besides a large shot of the Vicar in her younger days looking very minxy, there was a much smaller reproduction of Girl in a Coral Dress.
Adam noticed what she’d seen and winked. ‘Loads of speculation about Coralie too, and how she might have inspired Gethin’s work to take such an unexpected direction.’
A flicker of sympathy for Coralie was extinguished as she belatedly realised what her reticence on the subject of Gethin had been about. Yet another example of the destructive power of sex, she decided wearily. What really hurt was that she’d always looked up to Alys and hated her for proving to be so fallible at a time when she really needed that strength and support.
‘Say bye-bye to Mummy,’ Adam said, bending down to shake one of Jamie’s hands at her.
I already have, Kitty decided.
Coralie found her parents sitting in the conservatory. Her mother, in a pair of animal-print reading glasses, alternated between tapping at the iPad in front of her and frowning at the results. Her father, stretched out on his leather recliner with Rock curled up in his lap, was examining the back of his eyelids. Catching sight of her, her mother gave a small cry of relief, waking Rock who dug his claws in and almost castrated her father.
Move Over Darling Page 23
