by Laura Kemp
His favourite subject. His blush became a flush of excitement. Mel caught herself in the grip of the green monster, thinking Ceri shouldn’t take it as a show of interest from Rhodri – he treated everyone with the same manner: in his eyes, everyone was equal. Well, apart from one person.
‘My absolute pleasure! We have a little saying, don’t we, Mel, I like to talk … rubbish!’
Mel grinned, seeing beyond his dad gag. He’d said once that an ex had dumped him for being a bit dull: okay, recycling wasn’t the most fascinating subject but it showed he had huge passion and that was the important thing, not what he enthused about. It showed he had depth.
‘So, collection day is Tuesday,’ he said, with his happy-to-assist cheer. ‘Orange bags take plastic, cans, aluminium foil, newspapers, magazines and cardboard. Glass goes in the green box and food waste in the green caddies. Black bags and garden cuttings alternate every week. Black bags this Tuesday. Your waste needs to go out by 8 a.m. at the latest. Any queries, don’t hesitate to ask.’
‘Cool,’ Ceri said, looking bemused now. She was probably from one of those curious one-box-for-all areas Rhodri had told Mel about. ‘Right, so … I need to get ready really.’
‘Of course, of course!’ Rhodri slammed his hand on his brow. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’m after Mel. I’ve got to go, a few things to do before the game.’
‘Of course! I’ll come with you now.’
Mel turned to Ceri, wished her good luck for her debut at The Dragon, and apologised profusely for having to run.
‘The cup of tea. I’m so sorry to let you down. We’ll have it another time, okay?’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Ceri said, inching towards them as if she was a dog rounding them out.
So Mel grabbed Rhodri by the arm and left, whispering to him the visitor was a true enigma. Looking back as she closed the little gate, Mel gave a big wave. But Ceri had already shut the door and was bolting it all back up again.
Christ, Mel pitied her, what planet was she from if she didn’t know how to handle a friendly welcome?
5
It was as if Ceri had never stopped being a barmaid.
Behind the bar, she was dancing, moving from one side to the other, starting a pint, switching to the vodka, spraying tonic while calculating the price, before setting the drinks down with a ‘Six pounds seventy, please!’
In a place so alien to her, it was uncanny the way she felt so at home. Because from the second she’d taken up her position at The Dragon, she’d been treated as a long lost relative who’d returned to the fatherland – or, motherland in her case. Okay, some of them ordered in Welsh, but Gwen was on hand to excuse her ignorance. Very loudly. Ceri learned people who were thirsty were willing to make an exception. Besides, they all said, you’ll learn.
That was the thing she couldn’t get over: it was assumed she would stay because why would anyone want to leave? She wasn’t so impolite as to point out the reasons, such as the lack of mobile reception, broadband, proper coffee, skimmed milk and avocados.
And she did want to get out of here alive.
They had a crazed look about them. Had done since they’d arrived en masse. Only because the rugby club’s fêted big screen had broken down in the build-up. So one minute she was cleaning glasses and listening to Gwen’s life story, told in shoes, from the stilettos of her youth in Merthyr Tydfil discos and police officer’s boots when she met Gwil in the force, so dreamy he was with his thick black hair, to the flip-flops of summers with their two kids in West Wales and finally here, now, back in heels because landladies needed to have something about them. The next, an army of men, women and children waving blow-up leeks and wearing daffodil hats had poured in. Such was the rush to the bar, Ceri had been afraid the pub would go bum over tit. Luckily, there were enough still coming in to take position around the tiny telly to even things out.
Just in time too, Gwen had said, yelling at whoever was closest to turn up the commentary because apparently, judging by the reaction, the teams were walking out onto the pitch.
The laughter and shouting and booming had suddenly stopped: a perfect silence fell and Gwil gave her a nod to stop what she was doing mid-pint.
The punters had taken a collective in-breath and burst into a most incredible chorus. Like a flash-mob choir.
But why were they singing ‘my hen laid a haddock on top of a tree’? What did that have to do with Wales? Although, admittedly they were all bloody bonkers as far as she could tell.
Ah, it was in Welsh. And every single one of them was word perfect, eyes shut, chest heaving with emotion, the men as wide as Hagrid was tall dabbing their wet faces.
Luckily, what with all the eye-shutting, no one had seen her failing to join in. She didn’t think she’d have been able to if she’d known the words anyway – it was the most beautiful and stirring thing she’d heard. When it was over, she’d turned to grab some crisps and by the time she’d swivelled back round, Gwil had raised a finger as the notes began for ‘God Save The Queen’.
A lone man had begun to sing along – up the front in a white shirt. She’d waited for everyone to start laughing because he was flaming awful. But no! Everyone had stayed respectfully quiet.
‘English, he is,’ Gwen had said, to clarify. ‘English Dick. Runs the caravan site, he does, been here twenty years. He won’t give in, he won’t!’
What was it with these weirdos? Where she came from, no one bothered to sing let alone stand for their country. Here, though, it was all about hearts on sleeves. Why did they care so much? She hadn’t the time to consider it anymore because it had all gone wild. Cheering, singing – something about bread and heaven – and their running commentary of numbers! knock-on! rolling maul!. In English now but still meaningless to Ceri. Women shouting as well as men. Everyone knew the rules. In her world, rugby was played by posh boys and there’d never been any of them in Crewe. Chucking a ball backwards seemed, well, backwards, to Ceri. One local, a pot-bellied scarecrow-haired farmer who’d divulged he was Barri ‘with an i’ and had athlete’s foot, had taken it upon himself to keep her up to date with the score, thoroughly confusing her with his description of a try involving five Joneses. She’d felt under siege but in a nice cosy buffered way, busying her mind away from why she was here, her business and the cold turkey withdrawal from checking her phone every five seconds. Her only worry was keeping up with demand. And what demand – this lot were drinking the workingmen’s club not just under the table but the cocking chairs too. Mad for it, they were. Just then, a roar went up, which made Ceri jump out of her boots. She saw hands fly into the air and a slow-motion fountain of beer shot up and cascaded onto her face.
‘We’ve beaten England!’ she heard Gwen say as Ceri groped along the bar for a mat to wipe herself with. ‘No Grand Slam for us this year but this is much better, it is!’ She opened her eyes and thanked God no one important was here to see her looking so rough – it’d be a deal-breaker, that’s for sure. There before her were Gwen’s zebra-print wedges.
She was only stood on top of the bar! And she began to conduct a tune from on high. People were hugging each other and crying and belting out a song which if she was correct was about bloody saucepans. There was no menace, like she had been used to in Crewe when sport plus ten pints usually led to a brawl. Just pure joy. Apart from English Dick, who was shaking his head but taking the consolatory pats on the back with good grace.
Clearly, they were absolutely stark raving. Talk about going over the top. It’s only a flaming game!
‘You what?’ said an aggressive fiver being waved in her face.
Oh, heck. She’d only said it out loud – Ceri was in for it now …
The note dropped to reveal quite possibly the fittest bloke she’d ever seen in her life. Who still managed to look gorgeous with a face like a slapped arse. Which immediately relaxed into a smile, making him, quite
impossibly, even more handsome.
She placed a hand on her soggy beery top and noticed her pulse was racing like a horse in the Grand National.
‘You had me there!’ she said, flushing with relief. And there was no foundation to hide it.
‘Not from round here, are you?’ the man said. Man? Actually he was a sex god. Chiselled, as if he’d come from Screwfix, via heaven. Blond David Beckham hair, wide green eyes, Cupid’s bow lips and the complexion of a baby’s bum. Lovely hands, too: probably late thirties and no wedding ring – just, you know, an observation.
‘I’m Logan. Postman by morning, surf instructor by afternoon,’ he said, in one of those southern accents you couldn’t locate beyond laid-back Dermot O’Leary. ‘Not from round here either but you get used to it.’
What? He lived here? But he was too … spectacular. How could a village this pifflingly small have not just Rhodri but also Logan? They were both sexy, in different ways. Rhodri was tall, dark and hulking if you forgot the bin man bit and Logan looked like a model from the Next catalogue.
She opened her mouth to speak but Barri was ahead of her with the introductions.
‘Unlike you, butt, she’s Welsh, got it in her blood, haven’t you, Ceri?’ Gwen had obviously been filling him in, which reminded her to keep her mouth shut because apparently she was hot gossip. ‘You need to watch this one, you do.’
Watch him? She’d binge on him like a box set if she could.
‘Guinness, Ceri,’ Logan said, rolling his eyes at her, then to Barri, ‘You’re as English as I am, Baz. You were born there.’
As Barri choked on his ale, a loud series of thumps sent a hush around the room. It was a good job Gwil and Gwen were ex-coppers, seeing as the local constabulary would have a job getting to the middle of nowhere. It was so remote and 1950s backward, they’d probably have to come by Tardis.
Peering over the throng, Ceri couldn’t see any trouble, though – just Rhodri banging a table.
‘Sorry to interrupt, I promise I’ll be brief,’ he said hoarsely.
‘That’ll be the day!’ Logan said, which got everyone laughing. Her first thought was what a double act they could be, these two lookers. But then Rhodri didn’t seem amused. More as if he was trying to contain himself.
‘All right, all right, I know, I’m a windbag. But I’ve news and it seems appropriate on this day of all days, when we have retained a scrap of dignity by beating the old enemy, when this very pub is jumping like it did before … before we got left behind.’
A murmur went up.
‘You see, there’s a plan to build forty homes on the hallowed earth of Dwynwen’s Wood.’
A gasp went round the pub. Then cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Never!’
He nodded solemnly. But it sounded like a good idea to Ceri – people equalled traffic and money. She knew all about that.
‘Yes, yes, I know. Worse, I’m ashamed to say the application has been submitted by …’ he took a deep breath ‘… CadCon. My father’s company.’
The revellers booed as shock swept the floor.
‘It’s a disgrace. And we must take action,’ he said to cheers.
‘But I don’t mean getting angry or being negative, as easy as it would be. Because, believe me, I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours doing exactly that and it’s done me no good. No good at all. My father believes Dwynwen is dying.’
Ha! It was dead, more like. A tombstone would be more suitable as a Welcome to Dwynwen sign.
Jeers went up but Rhodri shook his head.
‘And, it hurts me to say this, you know how much this will hurt me, but he’s right. I’m sorry, he is. Remember the days when we’d be booked out all summer? When we’d have lines of people queuing for baps at Caban Cwtch, Mel?’
Ceri saw her royal highness of nuttiness, now sporting a big angry bump on her forehead, agreeing vigorously. She was one devoted girlfriend – she seemed to hang off his every word. She had no idea how old Mel was, she was one of those ageless people; she could be as young as her early twenties but Rhodri was talking of past times so she had to be older.
‘When you’d wait an hour for food here, Gwen? Gwil?’ They nodded too.
‘When the beach would be jam-packed with people and kids and happiness? Logan, your surf school would be busy all day? Yes?’
Logan acknowledged his point. And Ceri acknowledged a vision of him in a skin-tight wetsuit.
‘Sunshine Caravan Park would be full, Dick …’ English Dick, who was squat and bald, put a finger under his nostrils to stem his sadness.
‘Barri, your chickens couldn’t lay eggs quick enough for the farm shop.’ Barri swallowed at the memory. So did Ceri – it sounded like a daydream. How could this backwater have ever been a popular resort?
‘We need to get it back.’
Ceri bit her cheek to stop herself spluttering, ‘Good luck with that.’
Louder now, he said: ‘To breathe new life into Dwynwen – make it desirable again. And quickly, so we can make a case to the planners that our village doesn’t need this development. We are vibrant enough as a destination – our roads and services couldn’t cope with an extra, what, forty families?’
‘Hear, hear!’ someone said.
‘We need to prove to the world, or perhaps the rest of Wales to start with, we haven’t rolled over – we still have a welcome inside of us so warm visitors will take their coats off even if it’s blowing a gale.’
He was good with words and he spoke in a lovely melody, she’d give him that, but he was deluded. And it wasn’t exactly friendly to say ‘you can visit, we just don’t want you to live here’.
As if he’d read her mind, he said: ‘This is not about keeping incomers out – this is about bringing people in to enjoy the riches bestowed upon us. Doubling the size of the village with a featureless estate will kill what we are, our history. It would be irresponsible of us to not preserve what makes us unique.’
Okay, now she understood. But still, what a romantic. Not a very practical approach to resuscitation at all. It was wishy-washy claptrap.
‘Our breathtaking views of sea so blue, our clear air which revives the soul, the wild garlic in the wood, the fish so fresh they’re still flapping on our plates, our unspoiled natural beauty.’
He’d reached a crescendo and it did sound nice but she wondered if he’d been sniffing glue. He was as off his head as the rest of them.
‘What’s the plan, Rhod?’ Logan said.
‘Ah, now this is the bit I’m not sure about …’
A groan went up and Ceri caught Logan wincing. People started to look away from Rhodri. Ceri too. But only because Logan had got up and was walking to the gents in keks so tight it was as if his rear end was winking at her.
‘Hang on! I have an idea but it would need everyone on board.’ He waited until a hush fell.
‘Dwynwen, the clue is in our name! Saint Dwynwen is our patron saint of love! We could use it to make us stand out.’ His eyes had gone big and he was grabbing the air with splayed fingers.
‘Right. But how?’ Mel asked.
‘We could call ourselves the Village of Love!’ His cheeks had gone red again, and he looked very pleased with himself.
‘Brilliant!’ Mel said, clearly cheerleader in chief. ‘I love it! What do we need to do?’
‘Put our heads together and work it out!’ he said, pointing at everyone. Rhodri was clearly one excitable puppy. The trouble was, a collective disappointed drop of the shoulders was going round: it seemed no one wanted to play.
‘Love?’ Barri said, wistfully. ‘I’m not sure I remember what that is.’
‘Ay,’ English Dick added. ‘We’re old dogs, Rhod, I’m not sure you can teach us new tricks. I still don’t know how to set the video recorder.’
Oh dear. Ceri had thought it was quite a good concept. But if thi
s was who Rhodri had to rely on, he was going to be as successful as a vegetarian butcher. And this place, with its scraggy buildings and basic menu, was hardly the city of eternal love, was it?
‘But if we just try, then …’
He was starting to lose them.
A few conversations broke out.
‘Anything, any ideas at all …’
No one was listening anymore.
‘Anyone? And don’t forget it’s black bags on Tuesday …’
His voice trailed off as he dropped his chin and stared into his pint. Mel appeared at his side and Ceri could see she was trying to cheer him up. It was pitiful how two people who were both about her own age could think this was the centre of the earth. If she was them, she’d have got out of here a long time ago. Mum should’ve thanked her lucky stars she left – and not wasted time nostalgically chasing the past. Maybe they were trapped – it did feel a bit cultish here. They had to be because you wouldn’t stay here out of choice. Christ, Ceri was going to nail this shift then tell Gwen the truth. She’d be free to relax a bit, scatter the ashes and go – misery back home was preferable to watching the inmates revolting here inside the asylum. Her life didn’t seem so bad, after all. The fact was she couldn’t understand their infatuation with Dwynwen: Mel was evangelical and Rhodri hadn’t spoken like he was being held hostage. She felt sorry for them, especially him. Mel was fruity enough to fit in. But Rhodri? He seemed less of a freak. Yet hadn’t he put his faith in a bunch of oddballs? He was sweet but it was steel that was needed. No wonder it had all gone to shit here. For despite the buzz she’d felt today, it was obviously a one-off. There was no hope for Dwynwen whatsoever.
6
Usually, on a Sunday morning, Mel would have a pot of Welsh Brew ready and waiting for Dad, plus an extra mug set out for his dog, who was just as partial to a cup of tea.
The waggy, shaggy leather-jacket-brown mongrel’s sweet rosy tongue would lap it up then hang lopsided and steaming in a wonky grin of thanks. He was as loyal as his namesake Gelert, a hound of Welsh legend killed by his master Llewelyn the Great, who believed the dog had savaged his baby son. It turned out – too late – that Gelert had been protecting the boy from a wolf. Not to be dramatic, but Mel was feeling a sense of betrayal herself.
