by Laura Kemp
I stopped when you died, I couldn’t find joy anywhere. The shock and the numbness; the bargaining with God to bring you back: the bottomless sadness; the endless wishing you’d walk in. Being angry, with you for leaving me, with me for being angry with you. The guilt that I should’ve found a way to slow down your decline. Those feelings would come at me all at once. They still do. I can’t accept you’re gone. It’s a madness of sorts. That’s why I’m talking like this in my head, like the idiot I am.
Perhaps it’s loneliness too. I’ve been by myself now for five hours, almost in complete silence because the wind is howling and the waves are crashing, and it’s the longest I’ve gone like that in what … forever. Even if I’m alone I’ve still got my phone, which never stops ringing. But here, it’s dead. Like a slab of rock. I keep picking it up just to check but there’s not a spit of service. All those calls and emails and alerts and pings I’m used to not getting through makes me feel panicky. I needed some space, to try to move on, and guess what, now I’ve got it I’m freaking out. It’s this place; it’s a boil on the backside of beyond. You couldn’t get any more isolated. Why did you want to come here? I don’t get it. Even when you were lost in one of your hazes, you had more to you than this lot. They speak weird, they’re nosy parkers and they’re off their heads. I was only here five minutes and the landlady and landlord offered me a job as a barmaid. They thought I’d come for an interview! As if. The daft old bat Gwen misheard me when I introduced myself – they only think I’m Ceri Rees – and roped me into a shift tomorrow! I didn’t have the heart to refuse. I’ve brought a rolling pin to bed with me. Just in case they’re actually zombies. Although I reckon zombies wouldn’t be seen dead here. It crossed my mind to just sack off the week, scatter you at sea in the morning then get the heck out. Perhaps this is why you always looked on the bright side – coming from here, anywhere’s better. Listen to me, I’m so harsh and cynical these days.
I keep thinking what you’d say to me. And the conclusion I keep coming to is that you’d tell me to count my blessings. You’d say it’d help me see that life wasn’t so bad. So here goes … wish me luck.
First, I suppose it’d have to be the cottage. It’s cosy. Clean, comfy settee, telly, ooh and an Aga, would you believe, like yours, like the one flaming Kev ripped out. It made my fingers itch when I saw it, like I wanted to stir up something scented and sweet. Like I used to. What else? There’s a real fire, not like our pretend one with glowing plastic coals. I’m nice and warm too – I got into bed all snooty because it’s sheets and blankets. But I must say I’m pleasantly surprised.
So, my second … let me think … well, I have been treated with kindness. They fed me at the pub, some lovely chops, although when I said so it got a bit grating being told it was because it was Welsh lamb and Pembrokeshire spuds. Seriously, they seem to think Wales is the greatest nation on earth, but what’s so great about sheep and singing? The girl at the cabin gave me a box of provisions: milk and bread, biscuits and beans, spaghetti, sauce and tea bags. No questions asked, no asides, nothing expected in return. Not like in Crewe, eh? Like if I ever go to the chippy at home, that Bob always asks, ‘How’s the caviar, chuck?’ and people are forever after freebies from me. Cheeky beggars.
Third, well, at least I can be a nobody here. Away from all the crap of being Ceri Price. Work pressure and … I don’t want to drag you into it, I know how much you hated me and Tash arguing, but she insisted on putting the house on the market straight away. I don’t see why we need to rush; I offered to buy her out but she wouldn’t have it. Then it all came out, how superficial my life is, how out of touch I am with reality, how the money’s changed me. But she’s all right, she’s settled, ready for life to go on. I’m still raging inside, wanting the world to stop, to recognise what its lost. I want to get off and hold on to you. Keep you alive. Like your gentleman friend, the one from the factory, who sent you a Valentine’s every year just in case you ever changed your mind. He’d have known you’d gone but he still hand-delivered one of his usual soppy Forever Friends teddy bear cards. I found it among a pile of post and just as it had every year, it had three kisses inside it, without any other words. I cried my eyes out at this man doing it even though you’d passed. It was the loveliest gesture. But I didn’t tell Tash because she would’ve made me feel like I should be over you. So, being here, I can escape from all of that shit.
The shift behind the bar tomorrow will distract me too, so that’d be my fourth. It sounds desperate … that’s because I am. Tash and Jade would think I’d lost my marbles if they knew. I may as well because there’s jeff all else to do. I’ve never been any good at doing nothing, have I? Besides, I’m not setting foot on that beach while the weather’s bad. It’s not exactly the beautiful bay you said it was. I didn’t see a speck of sand and the sea, oh my God, I feel sick just thinking about it. The tide was in, and I mean right in, thrashing against the lane almost, in huge angry waves. Further out it was this vast lurching and rolling mass which made me feel off-balance, as if the ground was swaying. So I’m sorry but you’ll have to wait to see my dad. A few days more and I promise, you’ll be with him.
Right, I think that’s me done. Four out of five the first time back counting my blessings when I’m in Nowheresville isn’t bad. I do feel a bit better, Mum, so night, night, love you and sleep tight.
4
Mel knocked once on the door of the Blue House and went to turn the handle and let herself in. But she got a forehead of wood when it refused to budge. A definite bruise, that’d be, probably the colour of a Dairy Milk wrapper with a tinge of spinach green.
Funny to find it all locked up. So she banged with her fist and flapped the letterbox, calling, ‘Hello?’ After a minute or so of battering, there was a rattle of bolts and the lady from yesterday opened up a crack. She was looking cross and creased. In midnight-blue silky pyjamas, like the ones you saw actresses wearing when they were doing sophisticated.
‘Everything all right?’ Mel said, pushing through. ‘Because you had it locked. And the curtains were still drawn and it’s quarter to nine. The storm’s gone! We’ve sky as blue as bliss. You got to make the most of it, you do. And you might’ve been dead! Thought you would need some milk. So I’ve brought you some.’
She smiled, expecting a string of thanks. Because this was what she loved about being useful.
But the lady, Ceri Rees, was still frowning. Which was a bit off. And she was supposed to be a barmaid! Being in the service trade herself, Mel knew the importance of first impressions.
Perhaps she’d forgotten who she was.
‘I’m Mel, remember? From the cabin?’ The soon-to-be-shut cabin, she found herself remembering, but she elbowed it right out of her mind because today it was all about positive thinking. She hadn’t told anyone about it – and she wouldn’t until she’d spoken to Dad. ‘I look after the cottages for their owners. For holiday lets.’
‘Yes, I know who you are,’ Ceri said, in a tone which suggested she was cross with Mel, which was weird because she hadn’t done anything wrong. ‘The door was locked,’ she continued slowly, ‘and the curtains were drawn. Because I was asleep.’
Blimey, there was no need to talk to her like she was an idiot when this Ceri was the stupid one!
‘But it’s Six Nations day! The rugby!’ Mel laughed, because who didn’t know this was David’s chance to beat Goliath? A country of three million taking on another seventeen times its size? When centuries of English oppression could be righted by a victory within eighty minutes? ‘Aren’t you supposed to be Welsh?!’
She didn’t sound local, possibly from a border town. Mel waited for the penny to drop but Ceri didn’t look at all impressed. Maybe she was one of those football fans she’d heard about. She had sceptical eyes which were shady with suspicion. Burned wood or a steak of Welsh Black beef. And still lacking any recognition today was the greatest day ever! Bringing everyone out li
ke before, when Dwynwen would be bustling by 9 a.m. with people ordering tea and Welshcakes and buying papers and taking their drinks down onto the beach. She’d try being informative instead, see if Ceri came out of herself.
‘I didn’t want you to miss your first shift. It starts at eleven a.m., Gwen asked me to remind you. Here, I’ve made you a breakfast bap. Egg with a yolk so yellow you’ll think you’re eating sunshine; crispy bacon, salsa red tomato and local sausage. Lovely, they are. And take the milk too.’
Ceri looked as puzzled as a newborn. Her arms were clamped protectively over her chest and she was sizing her up. It was as if no one had ever offered her a thing in her life. And then she relaxed, dropped her arms to take the provisions and gave her a smile. Talk about the clouds parting: she was gorgeous!
Like a rainbow.
‘I’m not being funny but you look much better when you smile,’ Mel gasped. ‘And no make-up suits you. I got a peek of you yesterday, I did. When your make-up was trowelled on. I mean, I love make-up but you don’t need to wear as much as you do.’
Oh, crikey Moses, Ceri was curling up again. Some people just couldn’t take a compliment.
‘I’m not being rude, I just mean you’re as fresh as a daisy you are, although your skin isn’t white like mine! All pasty pale! I have to put on foundation and blusher and things to not look ill. But you, your complexion, it’s beautiful, like caramel. Lucky you are, having that West Wales look. They say the swarthy ones descend from the Spanish Armada, from sailors washed up on our shores when the English blocked the Channel and they came this way.’
‘Really?’ Ceri said, looking engaged for the first time since Mel had come in.
‘Probably poppycock but it’s a nice story.’
A flash of something flickered across her face. Mel didn’t know what it was. She pulled back the thick Cuban-cigar brown velvet curtains to see if she could catch it. But when the light flooded into the room, Ceri’s expression was back to blank and Mel looked around for something to say.
It was all driftwood and bronze in here, a nice sofa by the fire and a shaggy forest floor rug. The upstairs was pretty much the same, truffle throws and clove furnishings. All right for a visit, she supposed, but a bit empty.
‘Sleep well?’
Ceri groaned. ‘Like a flaming baby. The bed is something else. And it’s so dark here.’
‘But what darkness, eh? Atlantic ocean and violet and peacock …’ She’d lost her now, she could tell by the gawp. ‘Anyway … you’ll be rested for later when it gets heaving at the pub. You won’t know what’s hit you! They come from miles around for the atmosphere. Well, they used to. Still get a fair few for the game but most will go up to the rugby club for the new big screen. I can’t go up there because of the cabin. Anyone who wants anything can just go in and help themselves and bring the money over to me. We watch it on Gwil’s telly. It’s a bit small but we turn the sound up and it’s magic.’
She was giving her that weird look again. It must be her chattering away. Some people didn’t like that.
‘Sorry, I know I talk a lot of lol.’
‘Lol?’ Ceri said.
‘Nonsense. That’s what “lol” is in Welsh.’
‘I thought you meant “laugh out loud”, you know …’
‘Oh, no point in text speak for us here, no bloody signal!’
The pair of them laughed and Mel felt much better and she waited for an invite for tea. Because it was only polite.
‘Right, er, thanks for the milk and breakfast, I expect you’re busy. So …’
Perhaps she was shy? Mel would bring her out of herself, that was only helpful.
‘Rhodri won’t mind if I have a quick cuppa. He’s holding the fort for me.’
Ceri said nothing and walked off into the kitchen. Mel followed, curious about this guarded lady.
‘Lovely this place, isn’t it? Belonged to Mrs Lewis, now to her son who lives abroad. Newcastle. Says he’s waiting until things pick up and he can sell it, although I’m not sure when or if it’s ever going to happen …’
‘Yes, it is a bit … sad here,’ she said, picking up the kettle. ‘A bit grey.’
‘Grey? I don’t think so! It’s more colourful here than in the city where lights turn everything a horrible orange.’
‘Well … now you come to mention it, you might be right, Mel. Or is it Melanie?’ Ceri asked.
‘Melyn. It’s the colour yellow in Welsh.’
‘Nice,’ Ceri said, looking for the mugs.
‘On the hooks, by there. On the dresser.’
‘Right … thanks.’
‘You say “diolch”, here,’ Mel said. She liked to educate people about the Welsh language.
‘What?’
‘Thank you. We say diolch. D-I-O-L-C-H. Have a go!’
‘Um … dee-yock. That sound right?’
‘Awesome.’ She beamed. ‘You’ll hear it lots now, you’ll see.’
While Ceri found the tea bags and so on, Mel took the chance to have a quick looksy around her. Funny, there didn’t seem to be anything Ceri had brought with her, like books or bags or food or anything. The surfaces were bare, and apart from a big open vanity case on the table full of beauty stuff, there was no real sign she was here at all.
‘So, I live next door but one. Not as fancy as this. But at least I have it cosy. It’s a bit naked, here.’
At this, Ceri stopped at the tap.
‘Do you know what? That’s why I like it. It makes a change from stuff everywhere. You know, all that baggage …’
Now this was interesting. But how anyone could live like it was beyond Mel. All that openness and space. She felt all breathy.
‘Are you one of those minimalists?’
Ceri shook her head. ‘Christ, no. My place is the opposite of this. It’s … busy like my life … um, sorry, which tap is cold? It says P-O-E-T-H on this one and O-E-R on that one.’
‘Oer. You say it “oy-er”. The hot is “poyth”.’
She had a go at saying them and didn’t do too badly. But if you grew up where no one spoke Welsh, it’d be hard to get to grips with the language. It wasn’t like here where you picked it up from the cradle and went to Welsh school and used it in your dreams.
‘The baggage. Is that why you came for the job here?’ She couldn’t help but ask.
At this, Ceri paused. ‘Kind of. Gwen asked me to do a shift. I’ve done bar work before … so …’
Hmm, intriguing. Like she hadn’t been a barmaid lately. This one had so many layers she could be an onion.
‘… why not? And I’m not here for long. It’s just a break really. But nice to help out. Odd but nice.’
That Mel understood. ‘Oh, I know. I like to be helpful.’
‘I’d never have guessed,’ Ceri said, her eyes glinting playfully.
Mel giggled. ‘That’s what Dad says. Too bloody helpful.’
They fell into silence, listening to the rumble of the water as it began to bubble and pop. It was like the build-up to the match, the minutes leading up to the explosion when it started and your heart swelled with hwyl, a passion, a stirring from within making you thank God you were Welsh. She felt awful sorry for people who weren’t.
‘Hello?’
Ceri’s head swung round like she’d heard Anthony Hopkins do his Silence of the Lambs tongue slither. Very jumpy, she was. On edge.
‘It’s only Rhodri!’ Mel explained, ‘He’ll be after me.’ It settled Ceri and they both went into the lounge. ‘He lives up by the woods. He’s one of the village people, he is.’
‘Which one?’ Ceri asked as Rhodri hovered at the threshold, which his shoulders easily filled. Oddly, there was a subtle shift in Ceri’s voice. It was lighter and friendlier. And in her body language – she was less closed. As if Mel had warmed her up a bit. Although, no, hang o
n, she was tilting her hips towards him – was she admiring him? Probably, she thought with an inner eye roll: some people were so shallow. Mel was so used to Rhodri she forgot he was so striking in a Roman statue kind of way, with deeply carved tousled dark hair, noble features and handsome angles. Not that he realised or capitalised on it. That was why Mel loved him. ‘The cowboy or the cop?’
Rhodri snorted through his nose and Ceri’s laugh tinkled. Mel didn’t get the joke and she looked from her to him for a clue. Then he did a YMCA move and it clicked.
‘Oh! I see!’ she said, clapping her hands together. ‘Actually, if he was in the Village People he’d be the one in the hi-vis vest because he’s a recycling officer for the council.’
Rhodri blushed with self-consciousness, his cheeks turning bordeaux, matching his rugby shirt. He’d gone from manly to boyish in seconds – this was his charm and she could see Ceri had almost defrosted. So this one was a man’s woman, obviously.
‘In fact, Rhod, you could tell Ceri here, the new barmaid, about what to put in which boxes and what day to put them out.’
