by Laura Kemp
‘Yes!’ Mel said, coming back to life. ‘That’s why I’ve been going through them, losing myself in the memories, letting myself drown in them, wishing I could drown in them. This, what they call stuff, is loaded with love.’
‘But do you feel soothed by this?’ Ceri gestured to the room.
When she put it like that, Mel couldn’t say she did. It was like seeing her scrambled brain on a piece of toast dropped from a great height. Her chin went down in surrender. ‘No. The opposite. I’ve tried to move on,’ she said, pulling at a thread on her lap. ‘To love again. Two there’ve been, but they knew my heart wasn’t in it. They weren’t Al. I cut myself off from his family too, his sister Betsi who’d become like my own. I always mean to get back in touch but I’m in a prison. Rhodri and Seren, they think I’m over it, or at least not as bad as I am. I don’t want to worry them. It’s ridiculous, it is. At my age.’
‘What is your age, because, you seem so young …’
‘I’m … thirty.’ Embarrassment made her insides simmer.
And this time Ceri did do big eyes. ‘Crikey … I’d have put you at early twenties. You lucky mare.’
‘What about you?’ Because Ceri seemed so much older but didn’t she look it. In the way she carried herself.
‘Thirty, next month.’
‘Pathetic, I am. But … I feel stuck at twenty when I lost Al.’ She shrugged. ‘So … time to lock me up or what?’
Ceri studied her nails. ‘You’re not the only one attached to the past.’
‘What?’ This woman who was so together and confident? But then Mel knew all about a suit of armour.
‘It’s not just you,’ Ceri said, now daring to trust. ‘I can’t let go either. My mother was from here, you see. This village.’
Mel nodded, Rhodri had told her.
‘I was meant to come here for a week. Scatter her ashes on the beach, you know fulfil her dying wish, then bugger off back home,’ she said, straightforward. ‘But it’s been so much harder …’
Ceri sniffed and covered her mouth for a few seconds to compose herself.
Oh, Mel knew how the waves came without warning.
‘She passed away at the beginning of January. She managed a spoon of mashed potato and turkey on Christmas Day and a mouthful of pudding and custard. Dementia. That’s what she had. Four years of seeing her fade away. It was heartbreaking. Tash wasn’t much cop when it came to caring for her. See, I’ve got sister trouble too, same thing as you, different fathers. Mine, lovely. Hers, not so much.’
Her confession and their similarities were forming a bond between them, Mel could feel it.
‘I don’t blame Tash for not doing hands-on caring. I never said a word to her about it. She preferred to get prescriptions and shopping. But Mum left us the house and Tash asked me to agree to sell it. I couldn’t say no. It’s complicated. But I wanted to hold on to it for a bit. I’d lived there all my life nearly. Tash, though, she’s devoted hers to making sure history doesn’t repeat itself – her own family unit was all she wanted. She’s got no ties with it. But for me, it was a safety net. Because life has changed for me a bit …’
‘Is that what you meant when you talked about baggage, the day I … barged in on you?’ Mel was seeing how this village, how she, must’ve looked when Ceri got here. It was easy to forget when you buried your head in the sand.
‘Exactly. It was where I learned I could cope. I couldn’t leave Mum in the nights to go out, I was skint anyway, so, well, this is silly, but I once had a google at homemade make-up, she loved getting dolled up did Mum, and we had a lot of the ingredients in the cupboards. So, I’d make our own, pretend it was a department store, put her face on for her and it brought her alive – she’d talk about when she was a lass, her friends and all sorts. It got me through it.’
Ceri was back there in her mind, Mel could tell.
‘Never mentioned Dwynwen, though, it only came when she was on her last legs. The house, well, it was my coping mechanism. And with it going, if I throw her into the sea, I’ll have nothing left.’
Her defences had lowered.
‘I don’t want to say goodbye.’ Ceri swallowed. ‘Can you believe I’ve only made it as far as the gritty sand, you know, the bit at the top which is mixed with stones from the lane. My feet won’t move any further. I’m the pathetic one, not you.’
Mel’s chest rose with empathy. ‘No, you’re grieving, nothing makes sense in the early days. But the funny thing is, the beach is where I go to think. Round the rocks to the waterfall. I try to remember it has been here before I came along and will remain after I pop off. It doesn’t always work, as you can see … but there’s something about the place …’ It was no good trying to explain, Ceri had to see it. ‘Look, let me take you there … you need to get to know it before you take your mam … it’s not a dead end, it’s the start of the rest of the world out there …’
‘The future,’ Ceri said, twisting the ring Seren had given her with thought, as if she’d had a revelation. Just as Mel realised it too.
‘Yes, the future! We both need one.’ Suddenly, everything seemed brighter.
‘We can help each other. I’ve got another week, I can join you, tidy the shop … and here if you like? Nothing major, small steps.’
‘Ceri, I’d love that, I would. Because the Village of Love is something for Dwynwen. The bunting, well, it’s the start, you know.’
‘Listen, do you want to go to the pub or shall I nip home and get a bottle? Unless you want to turn in?’
‘A nightcap would be great,’ Mel said, reaching out to touch Ceri’s hand. She felt warm and true and as Ceri clutched hers back, Mel understood they were shaking on their pledges to support one another. She’d been wrong to think she was a man’s woman – underneath, she was a people person and a beautiful one at that.
‘I’ll be two minutes.’
And as Ceri disappeared next door but one, Mel felt a long, long way from being left behind.
12
‘And so,’ Rhodri said, his voice booming as he reached the crescendo of his Powerpoint presentation, ‘as you will remember from pie chart seventeen-c, while we are recycling sixty per cent of household waste here in Pembrokeshire, still too much of the rest ends up, unnecessarily, in landfill, creating a blight on our landscape, polluting our air, earth and sea …’
Just as he’d practised over and over to make sure he would nail it, he paused for maximum effect to let the tragedy sink in. Then, boom, he would let them have it. Or in this instance, let her have it because Ceri Rees was the only other person with him, but what did it matter if it was one or one hundred when it came to missionary work?
‘… And once our natural wonders are gone, they’re gone. For. Ever.’
He dipped his head theatrically: the council’s Daffodil Suite – room four, second level – was in semi-darkness for his slideshow which, he believed, only served to add drama to his silhouette. A few seconds of silence to hammer it home and he would soften – for his audience needed not intimidation but warmth if they, she, were to absorb his message.
‘So the next time you prepare to throw out that can of pop, that tea bag, that roll of toilet paper, know it has a home: in the correct waste receptacle, as detailed in the hand-out. For that can save enough energy to power a TV for around four hours. Six tea bags produce enough energy to make a cup of tea. And if every household in Wales recycled two toilet-roll tubes it would recoup enough energy to power your local hospital for two weeks. If we all do our bit, we can save the environment.’
He finished with his favourite image, of a Dwynwen sunrise looking out from the rocks onto a pod of frolicking dolphins. He walked to the switch and slowly turned up the dimmer: he was particularly pleased with this bit because it was like a new dawn for his disciples. Er … disciple. With satisfaction surging in his chest, he prepared to bask in the glo
w of her awakening – because this session had gone well, very well, in fact. Judging by her near-silence throughout, Ceri had clearly been enraptured: she’d even declined a comfort break because she didn’t want to stop him mid-flow. Yes, he must have really got her to reconsider her old ways. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw she was blinking heavily. Was she emotional, too? Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he would convert her so quickly … But, oh, her pulling-herself-together act wasn’t from the wake-up call he’d anticipated: it was more of a general waking up and – no! – her jaw was stretched and her cheeks were hollow as she stifled a yawn. Quickly, Ceri opened her eyes wide and plastered on a smile, and, with awkwardness, she gave him a clap. Which, to his ears, was a tad not fast enough to differentiate itself from a slow mocking applause. His face was burning and her hands stopped, hesitating self-consciously before reaching back to adjust her ponytail.
‘Was it that bad?’ he said, crestfallen.
‘No! No! Not at all, it was dead interesting and informative and I liked your diagrams.’ Too eager, she was, and she bit her lip.
His shoulders collapsed, then came a mental avalanche of doubt and embarrassment. To think he’d accepted his mother’s praise when he’d run through this in front of her last night.
But unexpectedly, Ceri added, ‘It was definitely worth staying the extra week for. It was a re-education. And I had your undivided attention. It’s made me think.’
Shuffling his papers, he looked up and saw her eyes weren’t laughing but sincere, and his dimples began to hurt.
‘Really?’
She nodded. Possibly because she’d snort if she made a sound – but he was past caring and he could’ve cwtched her. This was becoming quite a regular thought. Rhodri decided he was going to take her word for it because he believed in seeing the good in people. Or more truthfully, he was seeing a lot of good in her.
‘Would you be able to fill in the feedback form?’ He’d squeaked it, he was that desperate. ‘My boss … she insisted this was part of the deal.’
‘Yes, course.’ Reaching for her bag, which, glory be, was the hemp one he’d given her, Ceri sought his permission to pack up. ‘Do you need it now or …?’
‘Not at all. Any time you like. No rush whatsoever. By tomorrow, Wednesday, if possible. The form is in the pack I’ve got for you to take away,’ he said, flustered by her kindness, hunting for the stapled sheets of gold dust among his documents and leaflets. ‘If I can find it … here, there you go. It underlines the main themes of the talk, plus a very handy list of ways you can further reduce your waste, such as donating to clothes banks, buying unpackaged fruit and veg, taking your own reusable cup to coffee shops, stopping junk mail and so on. There’s even a bit in there you might like, what with you being in the beauty industry: you can even make your own deodorant and make-up. No toxic chemical nonsense!’
At this, she raised her brows momentarily. He had her hooked! He’d chat to her about this again, he resolved, invigorated at being able to broaden her horizons. Most women found him a bit on the dull side. ‘Any questions before we shoot?’ Because she was bound to have a wealth of them. She just smiled as she pushed away the notes.
‘Dolphins, by the way? Since when were there any dolphins here?’
Rhodri spluttered in disbelief. ‘I’ll have you know our stretch of coast has Britain’s largest population – between three and four hundred.’
‘So how come I haven’t seen any?’
‘It’s not Florida, where they come out tap-dancing every day for lunch! They’re wild. Sightings are most common between April and November.’ Yet she had a point. ‘Scientists believe pollution may affect their fertility,’ he admitted. ‘And they fear numbers could decline. It certainly feels it. The photo of mine, I took it years ago, I haven’t seen a display so close to the shore for a while.’
‘Maybe they’ve had a better offer somewhere else,’ Ceri said, with what she’d presumably call wit, getting up. ‘Better pay, better sardines elsewhere.’
He wouldn’t even dignify that with a remark. He’d allowed himself to drop his guard. Outsiders just didn’t understand: what he would give to see them back, he thought, staring into space, imagining the grey flash of sleek and shiny bottlenoses jumping like rainbows up and over the waves.
The tinny sound of keys brought him to. Ceri was dangling hers at him.
‘Can we go now?’ Her attention span had clearly reached its limit.
He swung his rucksack heavily onto his shoulder with frustration and opened the door for her: a Cadwalader ‘warrior’ he might be, but even environmental soldiers had to accept there were some who resisted more strongly than others. She just needed more persuading.
Through the labyrinth of the office corridors, she matched his every step despite their height difference, they walked out into the late afternoon sunshine. Spring was coming and the days of Rhodri’s synthetic insulated jacket which combined plenty of circulated heat with freedom of movement were pleasantly limited.
‘Aaah,’ he sighed, relaxing into the passenger seat of her Fiesta. He opened his mouth to mention the benefits of green cars, such as less tax and better fuel efficiency, but the alternative prospect was waiting for a bus which took an hour to weave its way to the outskirts of Dwynwen. And he was ravenous.
As Ceri started the engine, he rubbed his thighs, savouring the thought of his tea of slow-cooked saffron chicken which he’d add to risotto rice and prawns, and how he’d wear his moisture-wicking activity utility shorts tomorrow. But when the car didn’t move, he felt her combative stare on his right cheek. He turned his head to see she was doing one of her smirks and it made him nervous.
‘This is just an observation, Rhodri,’ she said, her eyes dancing with mischief, ‘but maybe it would’ve been more eco-friendly to email the talk to me?’
A hotness spread through him: this was a dig and he was learning she never went anywhere without a spade. It was maddening – and, God damn it, incredibly exciting. Usually when he was the victim of a piss-take, he’d shrug it off as he’d learned to do, thanks to his brothers. But when she did it, he found it stirred him in areas long dormant. Not physically. Okay, slightly physically, but principally in a thrilling mental way because it meant she wasn’t just giving him attention but she’d noticed how he did things. And her banter wasn’t scornful, like he was used to from climate change deniers; it was playful, irresistibly so. He couldn’t help but return the bounce back at her.
‘So predictable,’ he said, looking straight ahead, depriving her of a rise in spite of how much he wanted to lap it up. ‘Ask me why I don’t shit in a pit, eat berries and wear clothes made of leaves and bark.’
Ceri let rip a cackle and reversed.
‘This is the trouble,’ he said, pretending to be absorbed by the window winder on his door as she navigated them out of the one-way car park. ‘You put your head above the parapet and people attack you, looking for anything to show you’re not doing everything on the planet to save the planet. But, forgive me if I’m wrong, we did car-share, didn’t we? It wasn’t a gratuitous journey, was it? You got to have a lovely morning in St Davids,’ he said, thumbing at her shopping bags on the back seat.
‘You got me there, cocker,’ she said, making him throb with victory. They’d reached a T-junction and he stole the opportunity to study her as he pretended to check both ways for traffic. Lovely, she was. Not straightforward, there was something about her, something different and intriguing and … sexy. Even though she was from England. Which he hadn’t mentioned to anyone else, because it would look as if he cared. But he preferred to think of her as half-Welsh half-Spanish … Oh, how he’d love to share his supper with her.
‘Prawns,’ he heard himself mutter breathily, to his absolute shame.
‘Prawns? What prawns?’ she laughed.
You unbelievable pen coc of a dickhead. Scrabbling
for a reason why he’d said it, he wondered if he was brave enough to invite her in for tea? More of this mental ping-pong over the table, with a bottle of red between them, not knowing if it would lead to flirtation. The image cracked, replaced by Ruth on their last night together, her plate of wild Penclawdd mussels untouched as she tucked her soft, thick auburn hair behind her ears and told him that while she loved him, he was more in love with Wales than he was with her. London was where she wanted to be. The irony that she, an air quality consultant he’d met at a conference, preferred the smog to God’s own heavenly breath. Two blissful years they had spent together, alternate weekends at each other’s homes, side-stepping the reality that one day it would come down to a compromise neither could make. He had been so in love with her – the hikes, the science lectures, the surfing, their lovemaking and the deep conversations late into the night were proof they were soulmates. But when he thought about her now, gone for two years, he wasn’t sure they’d ever really known each other: forty-eight hours, once a week kept them in an artificial honeymoon period. When the first challenge had presented itself, that they should take it to the next level and move in, they’d buckled. He still felt cheated by the tangible turning out to be nothing but the empty sensation of a palmful of dry sand disappearing through his fingers. So no, he wasn’t brave enough to let another flighty English lady eat in his home.
Instead, Rhodri moved the topic on to Welsh cuisine. ‘Do you like laverbread? Have you tried it yet?’
‘Lava, as in volcanoes?’
Was she playing stupid? ‘No. As in seaweed.’
‘Like the stuff you get at the Chinese?’
‘Like the stuff you pluck from the rocks. Free of charge. Gathered from water so pure it only needs a few rinses – and you don’t want to get rid of all trace of the sea. Simmer it for a few hours, use it in a fish stew or fry it up with cockles. But I like it with lemon juice, oil and seasoning. Very healthy too, full of iodine and iron. Rich in glutamates, laver is one of the ingredients of umami, a savoury flavour which is one of the five basic tastes.’
