by Laura Kemp
The phone went and she was so glad of the distraction she hurled herself at it like a rugby prop in a scrum.
‘Melyn, it’s me, love, Gwen.’ The sing-song Valleys voice of The Dragon’s landlady was music to her ears. ‘I’m after a favour, I am.’ It was just as Mel had wanted because it meant she mattered. And how she needed to hear that.
‘Hiya, Gwen, of course.’ Anything, she could’ve added, anything to take my mind off things.
‘What it is, see, we’re out of crisps. You haven’t got any at the cabin, have you?’
‘Loads!’ The relief she could be useful came flooding out of her. ‘Any flavour in particular?’
‘Oh, marvellous. Ready salted, salt and vinegar, Caerphilly cheese and onion, whatever you’ve got!’
Mel set off down the stairs with intent.
‘You’ll have to excuse my onesie,’ she said, tugging on her wellies and mac, not caring she was going to get a second soaking. It was a better offer than losing her mind in here.
‘Disturbing a hot date, am I, love? I’m awful sorry.’
‘As if, Gwen.’
‘I’ll warn the boys to keep their hands to themselves.’
‘No need, I’m probably related to half of them,’ she said, knowing the crowd well. They were faithful, the regulars, coming from the village and hamlets and farms from all around. And what did it matter if she was in a giant Babygro when they were mostly over fifty and stank of sheep or fish? Al wouldn’t be there, so she cared for nothing more. ‘I’ll be there now.’
‘Fablas! What would we do without you? And if you haven’t eaten,’ oh, lord, she knew her so well, ‘there’s chicken curry half-rice half-chips. I owe you, love.’
Hardly, thought Mel as she opened the door and got a face of hail. It was the other way round: she owed Gwen for giving her a distraction from her troubles.
3
Usually when Rhodri Cadwalader took off his cardboard cycling helmet, he would spend a moment admiring its eco credentials.
The innovative honeycomb structure of wood-cellulose fibre board didn’t just meet the highest safety standards, it was an environmental triumph. He’d tilt it this way and that, beneath an imaginary spotlight (an energy-saving one, obviously), appreciating its aerodynamic curve and fully recyclable central core as he hummed a tune worthy of such majesty. Which could only be the Welsh national anthem.
But his only need now was to hide it in Mum’s utility room away from smirking eyes. If his brothers saw his headgear, they’d only make ‘helmet’ jokes. From anyone else, it was water off a sheep’s back. But Dai, short for Dafydd, and Iolo – aptly pronounced Yolo, as in You Only Live Once – were like a pack of wolves with Rhodri. Maybe, he wondered hopefully, he had beaten them to it? He hadn’t seen Dai’s gas guzzler outside their parents’ huge converted barn because he’d come the back way, via a winding lane which passed the rear of the remote property four miles from Dwynwen, and he’d have to have X-ray vision to see his brother’s car on the driveway. Rhodri might be Waste Management and Recycling Officer of the Year but he wasn’t a superhero! But, as it was half six and he’d cycled the forty gusty minutes from work, he suspected with a sinking heart he was the last to get here for Mum’s birthday.
With care, he took out his present from his backpack and placed it on the island in the kitchen. It was a sustainably sourced bracelet made by his friend Seren, who crafted jewellery from silver spoons, knives and forks she found in charity shops and antique markets. He peered into the atrium hallway and even though he was expecting it, his balls still contracted at the sight of two pairs of shoes lined up by the front door.
Dai’s brown brogues looked down their polished toes at him, and Iolo’s abandoned high-tops stuck out their tongues. Mum insisted they walked around in their socks – she didn’t want her rugs dirtied or in Rhodri’s case her parquet scratched by his clipless pedal trainers. By taking away their footwear, she reduced them to kids again and guess who was always the butt of the joke?
He sighed and made his way towards them, their deep voices bouncing on vast glass walls and up and down double-height ceilings and off the chandeliers all the way to his ears. Which were apparently the size of jugs, according to them, and why he kept his shaggy mop at lobe length.
Hearing their guffaws at something Iolo had said, Rhodri braced himself for their mirth. He was in no doubt that in their day-to-day lives, they were perfectly decent men. It was just when they were back under the same roof for the first hour or so they reverted to type.
Although what they’d find to poke fun at was beyond him, because he’d removed all traces of any potential source of amusement …
‘Is that a padded arse, Rhod?’
… apart from his supportive cycling shorts.
‘Nice of you to come, Kim Kardashian.’
Oh, dear God, he’d completely overlooked he was head to toe in Lycra. Trust Dai, the competitive eldest, to go for the first blood, setting off Iolo’s hoots. Even the creases round the pockets of his chinos looked like they were having a laugh at his expense.
‘What bloody time do you call this?’ Dai added, standing at the fireplace, checking his expensive watch. He was master of ceremonies, following in Dad’s footsteps, set up for life as future MD of CadCon, Cadwalader Construction.
‘All right, Yoda?’ The standard ears gag, lobbed his way by baby bro Iolo, who was slouching on a chaise longue which made him look as if he was about to get his nappy changed.
Rhodri was about to tell them to ‘bollock off’ when Mum came at him, her arms outspread.
He’d missed his cue. As ever.
But that was his place. The mysterious middle child, he was what was called ‘the sensitive one’, delivered in a whispered innuendo – there was something different about him. The way he’d saved ladybirds rather than squirting their yellow innards across thumbs and shorts, for example. His love of going off alone into the woods with his penknife to whittle some sticks. Preferring a book to a punch-up. In other words, he was boring.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ he said, letting her squeeze him tight because today was about her and he wasn’t going to spoil it. Tomorrow, he’d have his revenge when they watched the rugby together. Well, he probably wouldn’t because he just didn’t have the appetite for savagery but by then they’d all have relaxed and stopped showing off. This was what they did, every year, their annual get together without other halves or kids – a family tradition which, once the cock-waving had stopped, was one of the highlights of Rhodri’s year.
He just had to get past the initial ridicule.
‘Just ignore them,’ she said into his chest, making him feel eight years old rather than thirty-one. She held him at arm’s length to take in his frame.
‘Look how big you are!’ she said, her blue eyes bright because she had her boys to herself.
This was where he trumped them. He was the tallest, broadest one – six foot three and strapping was what they called it. Dai had the contented thirty-five-year-old midriff that came with fatherhood, marriage and a big house in St Davids. And twenty-nine-year-old Iolo remained lanky, living off the adrenaline of a young, free and single life as a graphic designer in London.
Facially, though, they were very similar: what people described as ‘a handsome bunch’, with Dad’s dark eyes, confident nose and strong jawline. And their hair was thick and brown, although Iolo’s was in a man bun and Dai’s was greying from executive stress. Rhodri’s was between outdoorsy and windswept – although once, at uni, a girl, Pippa, said he had come-to-bed hair. So he did. But by the time they’d woken up the next morning, his stubble had emerged, as ginger as a biscuit and apparently hilarious. And that had been the sum of his career as an international playboy.
‘Where’s Dad?’ he said.
‘In the study. Just finishing something off.’
Dai flexed on h
is heels and Rhodri had a feeling something was afoot.
‘Then he’s going to pop out for the takeaway.’ Just Eat hadn’t arrived here yet – mainly because the internet was still patchy.
‘He’s going to get caught in the rain if he’s not careful. I was lucky there was a break in it. It should pass overnight, though. My weather station is ever so …’
He shut his eyes as Iolo curled his fingers into the palm of his right hand and rocked it in accordance with the universal sign for wanker. An act the brothers had all referred to in adolescence as ‘dusting your daffodil’.
‘It’ll be nice to have a meal, just us, here,’ Mum said. ‘We can have a really good catch-up. Not that I don’t want to see my daughter-in-law or the grandchildren, of course.’
‘Lydia’s gone to her sister’s with the kids,’ Dai said. ‘Good timing really … a lot on.’
There it was again. Something was brewing.
‘Got to leave crack of dawn so I can get a few things done.’
‘Can I have a lift? My train’s early,’ Iolo said. ‘Party tomorrow in the smoke. Can’t miss it.’
Rhodri’s jaw fell open. ‘But the game? Wales–England. Two p.m. kick-off. Six Nations. Aren’t you staying for it? The rugby club is unveiling its big screen, we won’t be crowding round the telly anymore, and—’ That’s what we do.
What they always did on Mum’s birthday weekend. Starting with a full Welsh breakfast, cooked by Rhodri at his place, consisting of organic dry-cured back bacon from the farm shop, eggs fresh from Mum and Dad’s smallholding and his very own bara lawr, or laverbread, made from seaweed he’d foraged himself, slow-cooked for hours, ground into a paste and mixed with oatmeal which he’d fry with local cockles. The rich smell of it, the scent of the sea and the fat of the land combined: it was Wales on a plate.
A walk on the beach, minus coats to show off their red shirts, a couple of pints in The Dragon, up the hill to Dwynwen Rugby Club where they would sing their hearts out to ‘Land of Our Fathers’ and roar the boys over the try line before one of Mum’s casseroles back at theirs. But clearly, by the looks on their shifty faces, they didn’t treasure it as he did.
‘Dai?’ he said desperately, deferring to the one who held sway.
‘Entertaining clients in the box at the Millennium Stadium with Mum and Dad.’ The box he’d only ever once been to because he couldn’t do small talk or in fact any talk without incurring the embarrassed ‘he’s into the environment’ explanation from Dad.
Rhodri heard a lid falling on their family tradition. The fat lady wasn’t just singing, she was doing a duet with Tom Jones. Gutted, he was. Absolutely gutted. Didn’t it mean anything to them?
‘What’s changed? Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
They all traded looks – even Mum. ‘It’s just, Dai’s so busy and it’s a long way for Iolo to come, isn’t it?’
He checked out their faces and they were nodding. They’d clearly been talking about this behind his back.
‘I’m busy too but I make sure it’s first in the diary every year.’
‘It’s home to us, Rhodri, love, but …’
‘What? To them it isn’t anymore?’
His question was greeted with silence. So that was it – this ritual was no longer their priority.
What Mum had really meant was his brothers were making a life for themselves and it was about time he did too. Find a woman, settle down. As if he hadn’t tried. He felt foolish, like a child who’d discovered there was no tooth fairy or Father Christmas. And then something took him over – he wanted to show that he wasn’t a loser.
‘I’ll have you know I’ve been offered a post in Sweden.’
That grabbed their attention and he felt a rising pride. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he did have the capacity to leave and make it somewhere else. He chose to stay in his beloved homeland. There was no way he’d be part of the brain drain – he was too loyal to commit such treason.
‘Yes,’ he said boldly. ‘A four-month sabbatical on a fact-finding mission to find out ways in which we can follow Sweden’s zero waste policy.’
Oh, now their eyes were on stalks.
‘You’re going, right?’ Iolo said. ‘The chicks are hot there.’
‘Did you know they recycle ninety-nine per cent of their household waste compared to, on average, sixty per cent in Wales?’
‘It’s a great opportunity,’ Dai said, artificially bright. ‘You have to take it.’
Rhodri stopped – Dai was never that happy. He’d been about to tell them he was in two minds because he didn’t want to leave God’s country. On paper it sounded great – gathering ideas to bring home to make Wales greener. But everyone knew that when you left, it was hard to come back. He was the only one of his school friends who’d returned as soon as he’d graduated. He’d got a 2:1 in environmental science at the University of East Anglia and could’ve gone anywhere, but he was homesick and had vowed never to go away again. Yet he wasn’t going to tell Dai he would never betray Wales because something about his positive reaction made Rhodri wonder.
‘You reckon?’ he said, holding Dai’s gaze.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘It’s about time you left home.’
Again, he felt the judgement and it seared through him, as if he was weak to remain here, when couldn’t they see it was harder to stick to your guns?
Before Rhodri could respond, Dad appeared, extending a palm to his sons.
‘Boys! Good to see you back at Cas-Blaidd!’ he said, name-checking the house that translated as Wolf’s Castle, which Rhodri had fled as often as he could as a kid to get away from his bloodthirsty brothers. Dad left Rhodri’s hand until last. It had only been last night he’d seen him when Rhodri had come up to get some eggs.
‘You told them yet?’ he said, beaming, to Dai, whose restless shifting had stopped now he had back-up.
‘I thought you should. Sum of your life’s work, Dad.’
‘You completed the purchase of the land, son,’ Dad said, slapping Dai on the back. ‘Credit where credit’s due.’
Rhodri felt queasy. Something told him this wasn’t going to be good – Dad’s firm was pretty ruthless and had carved through some of the nicest countryside in Wales.
‘Just submitted a planning application for forty homes, bringing jobs and new life to our community.’
‘Whereabouts?’ Rhodri asked, in a small voice.
Dad walked past him to the hallway to locate his wax jacket. ‘I’ll get the Indian Banquet, shall I? The one with all the different types of curry.’
‘Dad,’ Rhodri, said, louder. ‘Where are you going to build this time?’
His father picked up his keys and swirled them around his finger.
‘There’s a patch of scrubland, long neglected, with a sea view. Rural enough for country living but close enough to the amenities if we stick in an access road. Great for families.’
Oh no. It began to dawn on Rhodri where his dad was talking about. Dwynwen’s Wood, where St Dwynwen, the Welsh patron saint of love, had passed through in the fifth century on her way to Anglesey in the north. A beautiful spot where you could hide from the elements, wander alone or with a special person … It was breathtakingly lovely, an ancient place of gnarled trunks, moss beds and carpets of bluebells, sustaining wildlife and clean air. A tumbling waterfall and bubbling stream, so bewitching it could clear the foggiest of heads. Rhodri’s escape when he needed answers.
It was irreplaceable. But that didn’t matter when there was such pressure for housing. This was why they were encouraging him to leave: so he wouldn’t interfere.
‘That’s not scrubland!’ Rhodri said. ‘That’s sacred ground!’
‘Sacred? Come off it, Rhod!’ Dad said, putting on a brown herringboned tweed flat cap which gave him the air of a country squire. Which he basically was.
‘Don’t forget some naan. And mango chutney,’ Iolo said.
‘I’ll come with you, actually,’ Dai said, legging it as he saw steam coming from Rhodri’s ears.
‘You can’t do this, Dad … Dai,’ he said, following them to the door. ‘It’s our heritage.’
‘Look, son, we’ll talk about this later,’ Dad said, in his best we’ve-agreed-to-disagree voice. ‘All I’ll say is this place is done for. I’m doing it for the next generation. For the likes of you. When was the last time you saw a tourist here? People don’t bother anymore. And the young leave in droves. Times are changing.’
Mum began to flap at the stand-off. ‘Alun, please …’
‘Well, he has to face it, Sian.’
‘Not today, he hasn’t,’ she said, all but confirming that she was on Dad’s side. ‘Rhodri, come and help me a minute. There’s plenty to do … we’ll get the plates ready.’
He felt his hands clenching at his father’s vision of the future: one he fundamentally disagreed with. Because his was to raze every tree to the ground, to bulldoze anything in his way. Nothing he’d ever built was in keeping with the local area – it wasn’t good enough, just giving streets on these faceless poky boxed estates tokenistic Welshified names.
Still, he backed off, and did as his mother asked.
Because even while he hated his dad’s version of progress, Rhodri knew he was right about Dwynwen.
It was dying a slow death. And he was going to have to do something about it. But what?
Ceri counts her blessings
Hi, Mum, it’s me, Ceri.
I’m here, in Dwynwen, like you asked. In a cottage for the week. You’re sat beside me on the bedside table: well, your ashes are. In the tea caddy next to the photo of you and my dad. It’s twelve minutes past eleven, I don’t know if it’s the same time zone where you are, wherever that is, but it’s around about when you and me would sit down with a cuppa in our dressing gowns. I’d have got in from the club and we’d go over the day and gloss over the bad bits and count our blessings. Maybe it’d been sunny, say, or we’d had a good laugh over something that happened at work. We still did it when you were ill. It was one of the few constants in the before and after of dementia. Although sometimes it would be midnight when you’d taken ages in the bathroom, forgetting why you were in there. The times you’d come out with your nightie on inside out. Hugging a hot brew, we’d thank heavens for small mercies, as you’d say. Although as you got worse, you’d just stare at the wall, but I’d keep doing it, night after night, picking five good things that’d happened because it was my way of giving you a routine. And I always hoped you were taking it in.
