by Jan Ruth
After a moment, he said, ‘Ever had pea-pod wine?’
‘Pea-pod? Seriously?’
‘Sure. I’ve got a bottle here. Why don’t you come over?’
‘I’d have to go back through the house.’
‘Uh huh.’
They both digested this problem, understanding the enormity of it.
‘You could come over the hedge,’ he said.
‘Oh!’
Pattie sucked her bottom lip and considered the barrier between them. She knew it would be neatly clipped on the other side, but it was still a monster of dense privet, intertwined with clematis, some other unidentified climbers and rising five or six feet. Despite this, she managed to scramble up and stand, wobbling slightly, on the arm of the bench. Pattie was met with the thrilling vision of Teddy doing exactly the same as herself, his head and shoulders rising magnificently out of the greenery. They both giggled at the sudden sight of each other, at the idea of it and the sheer, childish madness of it.
‘There’s a full moon,’ Teddy said, holding her eyes.
Pattie nodded, ‘Lunacy.’
Somehow, driven mostly by desperation, Pattie launched herself off the bench. The top of the hedge immediately sank about a foot lower beneath her weight and yelping, she rolled, buffeted by the branches and leaves as if she were on the high sea, but Teddy had caught most of her. Too late to save her unfettered trousers, they remained stubbornly behind, thoroughly snagged by last year’s wild briar rose. Despite the moonlight illuminating the fake tan on her bare legs, Pattie couldn’t have cared less, relishing those few wild seconds when she was clasped to Teddy Robert’s chest.
Gentleman that he was, Teddy lowered her to the lawn and studied her feet as she shrugged her clothing back down in the right direction. She followed him into the shed and allowed herself to be guided onto a tatty, wing backed chair. For a moment Pattie was distracted by the country cottage interior. Her heart leapt to see the Lord of the Rings, War and Peace and several other meaty volumes that made her want to incline her head sideways to read the spines.
‘So er…’ Teddy began, passing her a cup and saucer, ‘so you need to stop saying yes, is that it?’
‘Er…yes,’ she said, and they both grinned. Crikey, but he was handsome, she’d have to be careful she didn’t make a fool of herself. The pea-pod wine looked perfectly innocent in a chipped china teacup, but on tasting it had a distinct kick.
They made small talk at first, and he apologised for not accepting her party invitation; then he began to tell her about his time in Afghanistan, not in any great detail, just enough to explain his post-traumatic stress disorder and the way it had steadily eroded the relationship with his long-term girlfriend.
‘I don’t cope with noise… or social functions, very well,’ he said, with a disarming, wry smile. ‘They carry the same fear for me, party poppers and bombs, all the same you see.’
Pattie nodded and looked down at her hands, understanding. ‘I’ve had a bombshell dropped on me, just tonight.’
She told him about Karl’s proposal, and he watched her face intently.
‘I guess you didn’t accept otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.’
’Saved by forty-three candles,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘I still need to face the music.’
He topped up her coffee mug, ‘You’re doing well, you’ve not said yes in ages.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Pattie said. The truth of it was, she’d been perfectly content to sit in the peace of Teddy Robert’s shed. Sooner or later, someone would find her best trousers in the dented hedge and make the correct assumption.
Patricia Hopkins had gone over the top.
THE END.
Two Hearts, One Soul
The bond of a twin can never be broken, not even by death.
Belief is a powerful, invisible tool.
The first day of February was The Pagan Festival of Light. In accordance with this, the early spring sun bounced off the gnarled and silvered landscape with searing intensity. The Welsh mountainside was still predominantly sepia and the low, harsh rays did nothing to soften the hard lines of rock and the still mostly dormant, heather and gorse.
Mari shadowed her face with a grubby hand and squinted at the ice blue sky. It seemed that the horses were somehow full of the same light energy and Mari quickly took back the reins with both hands. Headstrong, her mare, jogged eagerly along the crumbling track, although both horses soon began to labour, panting and snorting with exertion at the incline.
There was no question of slowing. Hywel was already well ahead, his horse gathering speed as the ground levelled and brought them to the flanks of Maen Esgob. Already, the climate had changed and there were great billows of taupe clouds building above the Menai Straits. Hywel glanced behind, and his expression seemed curiously intent. It was likely a form of madness, that gleam in his eye and the set of his mouth, and yet, Mari was compelled to follow, as indeed she always had. Handsome and commanding as a brother should be, he’d always been there to fight her battles and today would be no different, this day of light, this day of awakening… of letting go? Throughout childhood their games of ancient rulers and the pagan rituals of the land had always taken them to places unknown to their peers, and this wasn’t just a physical admission. A spiritual growth had developed but now, at almost eighteen, Mari had the feeling she was being tugged in another direction. Hywel would understand that, surely, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t live in her head forever and if he wanted her to be a true Celt, an independent spirit, then he must know she had to let him go.
Mari allowed her mare to canter on and catch up with his black horse, Pwca, and they continued in this way until the ground began to climb again and both horses, still encumbered with their heavy winter coats, were soon running with sweat.
Presently, they came to the Druid’s circle.
The ancient, lopsided stones looked more than ever like a jagged set of giant’s teeth, butted for centuries by the torment of the wind. Pwca and the mare did not need to be tied or tethered and immediately began to graze the dry grass. As was customary, Mari and Hywel lay in the centre of the cairn, spread-eagled like stars.
‘Close your eyes and open your heart,’ Hywel said.
For a moment, Mari was content to listen to the metal clinks of horse- shoe against stone and the hypnotic rhythms of the wind through the heather. Beneath the parchment-like surface of the earth, she could almost sense the sacred tangle of bones, where arms and souls were stretched to the light. She was no longer afraid of the dead, how could she be? Since the death of her twin almost five years previous and the daily misery of her family, Mari had dealt with the loss by disappearing on long sabbaticals with Hywel. He’d come into her life at the exact right moment.
She’d known of course, the very second her twin had died. She’d been at school and her brother had been in hospital with meningitis. His passing had started as a strange sensation in her gut, like everything was being dragged out of her body and it would maybe begin to float to the ceiling if she didn’t hold on to something, something bolted to the earth.
Her teacher had no idea what to do with Mari, only to attempt to prise her fingers from around the heavy fire bucket and quieten her sobbing. It was no coincidence that Hywel had come to her at precisely that moment and since then it seemed life had been secure, but perhaps… rather detached, within an aura!
How could he make her laugh and have such hope when all around her was so despairing? Her friends said she was always ‘away with the fairies’.
It made Mari laugh but she knew there was more than an element of truth in their observation.
‘Say the words,’ she whispered to him as they lay in the chill February air. Hywel touched his fingertips to hers and the circle was complete.
‘I arise today through the strength of Heaven, light of sun, radiance of moon, splendour of fire, speed of lightning, swiftness of wind, depth of sea, stability of earth
, firmness of rock.’
Mari smiled and clasped his hand in what she hoped was a gesture of solidarity. At the sound of his master’s commanding voice, Pwca had lifted his great head and pricked his ears. Mari caught her breath and shivered violently. The stallion knew, Pwca knew the fear in her soul, his nostrils were filled with it.
Hywel had taught her to meditate into Pwca’s spirit and find a connection through his sixth sense. Only those with the truth and purity of love and only those who truly believed would find peace within themselves. Mari had embraced it all fervently; it had become her life blood.
Belief is a powerful, invisible tool.
‘Are you cold?’ Hywel said, ever observant, as Pwca eventually lowered his head and began to tear at the grass again but flashing his tail with unease.
‘No. Continue,’ she said, and closed her eyes. Although his hands were a comfort, Hywel did not speak for a long while.
‘I think, Mari, I think I am finally slipping away from you.’
Mari nodded, surprised to find her face wet and her throat constricted. Of course he knew, Hywel knew everything. There was no need to spill her guts, would he spill his, tell her of his pain? She watched as Hywel stood in front of the animal, and placing his hand on Pwca’s sweating chest, backed him to the very edge of the mountain, where it crumbled into a dangerous subsiding escarpment and eventually gave way to the Irish Sea.
This, was the last episode.
She’d played it through her mind, not really envisaging how it would end, but knowing Hywel and recalling all his amazing stories, it would be symbolic and full of tragedy.
In a final gesture of blind panic, Pwca lifted his mighty forelegs with resistance, his head thrown back with wild eyes, but Hywel continued to move the horse backwards. The clouds moving in rapidly with the incoming tide, swallowed the last slivers of light and it was impossible to see where the edge of the mountain gave way to the sky. They became one with Heaven and earth, man and horse, and although the very ground seemed to tremble with Pwca’s fear, Hywel was resolute. Mari was aware of shouting his name but her voice was so strained with emotion it sounded odd and faraway.
He made no answer; in fact there was barely any sound, just the distant rush and swell of the sea. Then, there was nothing at all, save an overwhelming sensation; how she imagined being plummeted to earth from a great height might feel. Scrambling to her feet, heart pounding, Mari braced her back against the tallest stone and closed her eyes. There was that familiar feeling of lightness again, as if she’d been hollowed out, and the recollection from five years ago was equal in its intensity, but this time she was not being pulled into the sky, Hywel was not rising above her, he was merely resting in her heart. And there were no tears, no feelings of desolation or abandonment… just a curious peace.
It was over; five years of knowing Hywel had ended, not with his second death but perhaps with her own re-birth. Mari stepped outside the circle of stones and trembling, caught up her mare, half expecting Hywel to canter out of the mist and surprise her. Occasionally she glanced behind, but there was nothing to see, nothing other than a line of silent birds climbing through the low cloud.
Maybe, just for a while, she would forever glance behind.
THE END
A Piece of Cake
Lead sixteen ramblers along an easy section of the coastal path. It should have been easy, but saving his life at the same time, made for a more challenging route.
It was a piece of cake, surely? Lead them along the easiest section of the coastal path; maybe as far as the monument then back the same way to the start point at the inn. Tom planned on taking lunch there, at The Ship. He’d had a quick look at the menu, and they had an impressive range of ales too; so all in all, if he got them started quickly he could have the whole thing sewn up in a couple of hours and be sat outside in the sun by lunchtime with a speciality pie, and a pint of Welsh Dragon.
If he’d known what was to come, he might have got straight back into his company car that very minute, made apologies for his father’s absence and driven back to London. Easy to be wise in hindsight and all that, and anyway, initially it had seemed a simple way of easing some of his father’s distress.
The Anglesey and District Ramblers began to materialise, taking a painstakingly slow time to park and climb out of their vehicles. When the majority then formed a queue for the dilapidated public toilet, Tom’s spirits almost bottomed out. They seemed far too old and doddery for a walking group. It was disconcerting as well that they’d brought huge amounts of gear, which was all totally unnecessary. He watched them for a moment in the car park, fussing with backpacks, shooting sticks and walking poles, all of them comparing clothing and boots. They even had name badges and maps encased in plastic wallets, for goodness sake!
Unable to delay the inevitable much longer, Tom approached the larger of the groups and waded in with a big, expansive introduction, hands on hips in a manner of authority as if he were at a board meeting. Always assume control from the off, that’s the kind of philosophy Melanie lived by. Melanie had also encouraged him to apply the same, macho mantra to his private life, not that he was complaining!
He tried to clear his thoughts of her foxy smile, but his secretary knew how to play on his mind as well as his body. The risks she took in the office frequently had him in a lather of arousal, and fear. The fact that Melanie was related to one of the senior partners only added fuel to the fire, but rather than give him cause for concern, Tom found it made office life far more bearable in the face of his falling sales figures. Selling stationery in a computer-saturated world, was becoming steadily more obsolete.
Charles and Bernard Williams & Sons had been in a serious state of denial for some time. As their sales manager, Tom had tried to force a branching out of some description, but his suggestions invariably fell on stony ground. Bernard was semi-retired and rarely in the same country these days… and Charles! Tom could feel his heart rate soar just thinking about him. What Charles Williams understood about sales and marketing could be tattooed onto his balding pate in less than a minute.
Tom concentrated on the job in hand although the smile he tried to force barely registered on his face.
‘Hello everyone, I’m Tom, Tom Winterton-Smith.’ He imagined the full surname would be enough of a clue but it took several long seconds for the group to digest this. An old boy piped up, ‘Oh… you’re Derek’s lad!’
The rest of them fell into an excited exchange of tittering and nudging.
‘Yes, yes my father, Derek… um, well, he’s in hospital for some tests.’
At this, there was some distress, but Tom raised his hands and his voice in what he hoped was a placatory gesture. ‘No, no just mild chest pains, nothing to worry about,’ he said. He then added, with as much devil may care as he could manage without seeming totally insincere, ‘Derek insists the walk must go on, and that’s where I come in.’
A contemplative silence then, broken by the roar of a vintage motorbike and the arrival of a loud, florid looking woman dressed more for an ascent to Everest base camp than a stroll on Anglesey in the middle of September.
The mood shifted considerably.
‘Oh, that woman! She’ll take over, if you give her an inch she’ll take a mile,’ Dot said, and there was a sinister murmur of agreement.
‘There’s no question of that!’ Tom said humorously, and threw what he imagined was a friendly nod towards Helga, which was not returned. For a moment, they all watched as she adjusted two walking poles with the aggression of one about to poke something with the sharp end. She hoisted a large rucksack over her broad shoulders and stood with legs apart, hands on hips, poles akimbo.
Dot and the old boy filled him in on the rules and regulations, all the while casting daring, dirty looks at Helga. Tom had had no idea there was so much to it. They all had to be counted and then the register taken. Sixteen in total; two of them diabetic, one of them with a new hip and almost all o
f them anxious to impart the secret of their fitness, from cider vinegar and cod liver oil, to afternoon sex.
There was some debate then about who might bring up the rear, presumably to save anyone becoming detached from the main group. A slightly anxious discussion ensued, something about who was to carry the last banana.
‘I’m sorry, what’s this… banana?’ Tom asked, perplexed.
‘It’s a kind of talisman,’ Dot explained, ‘Whoever is elected tail-end-Charlie, must carry an emergency banana.’
‘Right… yes, of course.’
Mr Braithwaite was duly elected, which seemed to please the majority and taking advantage of the mood, Tom quickly suggested they all strike out along the foreshore. He outlined the simple route to the war memorial and back, ignoring the slightly disdainful way Helga looked at her watch.The start was not well defined, a water-logged grass track swollen by the sea and made slippery by moss-covered rocks, but what should have taken ten minutes was an utterly painstaking, deeply protracted business. When Tom happened to stop to re-tie a lace he realised that the majority of them were at least a quarter of a mile behind. This was not only down to helping each other through the salt-marsh, but also because the observation of distant water craft and sea birds necessitated the location of a camera, a guidebook or some binoculars. Tail-end-Charlie was a speck in the distance, herding the stragglers like a well-trained sheepdog.
His phone bleeped and Tom saw that Melanie had sent a text message.
‘Hi. Missing you already. Uncle Charles is a prize prick.’
Tom grinned to himself. Charles was standing in for him at the office, in the wake of his father’s heart attack, if, that’s what it had been. His mother had been in such a panic, Tom had imagined he might already be dead by the time he’d driven from London to Anglesey.
