by Laura Kemp
They hadn’t been alone in each other’s company since the sunrise climb. Four weeks had passed and with it the developments of his school talk, his absence on a course, his return and revelation of what had really happened that night. In turn, she had been through a perspective-changing time – the twins’ scare, the pressure of work and the decision to leave in October. The sequence of events had opened a chasm between her and Lew. It wasn’t out of anger or distress any more since Wanda had learned the truth. Gobaith too had settled once they’d learned that Lew was in fact a hero rather than the perpetrator. The community’s narrative had also changed: the fire was no longer regarded as arson; it had been an accident and Annie had received no end of sympathy and apologies about Ryan. No more grass fires had happened since. But Lew and Wanda’s own resolution was yet to come. They performed a kind of dance if they were in the same airspace: they kept a safe distance, exchanging stares and brief smiles. There wasn’t time for any deep and meaningfuls anyway: Lew was off on daily treks and abseiling jumps and scuba dives at reservoirs with his Bunkhouse guests. Wanda was either asleep or on duty. Nights out when the tourists were having fun were out of the question. Wanda did want to talk to Lew – she yearned to, actually. But as time ticked by there was an awkward edge to it all too: the longer you left it, the harder it would become. If one of them didn’t make a move then it might never happen.
She saw Lew saying something to one of the surveyors, holding a finger up, which she guessed meant he wanted one minute. And then he was heading her way and she gulped, mesmerised by him, a whirl of nervous emotion, wondering if he was really doing this now. But then perhaps there was safety amid the drama going on around them. Or he felt this was a good moment to seize because he had to be quick.
‘Hi,’ he said, softly. ‘I’ve been meaning to—’
‘Me too,’ she said, close to a palpitation.
‘We need to talk,’ he said.
He’d made the first move and gratitude flooded through her veins.
‘I’m sorry I never told you the truth about the fire.’ He held her eyes in an act of taking full responsibility.
‘It’s okay, I understand why. I’m sorry you went through such agony. I’m sorry I thought the worst of you.’
‘I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to say sorry.’ His eyes were still on her. But instead of wanting to lose herself in them, she found herself breaking contact.
‘We seem to do a lot of this. Apologising,’ she said, feeling the start of a dull ache of doubt about how they would move forward.
‘We’ve just got history, that’s all.’
Was that it? Or was there more to it? Was there an immovable, insurmountable object in their way? Because she didn’t feel closure from this exchange. Lew, though, looked visibly lighter and was smiling at her when she faced him again. She didn’t know exactly what the next link was in her chain of thought and how she could explore it here. That would be for another time. The hill was waiting.
Lew looked up at the peak, which was majestic against the baby-blue sky. Wanda said, ‘You’d better go’ just as he said he ought to.
‘Be safe,’ she said, with intensity, which she immediately saw as ridiculous and hilarious. He was only going up a flaming hill – he wasn’t about to be launched into space.
‘If I don’t return …’ he said, heavily, ‘tell Blod she can cancel my milk.’
They both guffawed and it was the most wonderful thing. Their connection was effortless again. And he was gone, back with the crew who moved off as a sea of kids and parents left a respectful distance before marching behind them.
She watched with admiration as he led the way, understanding now why this had been so crucial for him: it was his redemption for the fire, he wanted to make Gobaith famous for something beyond that, to give people a point of pride and to push them into the future. He was a truly beautiful human being. But why did she feel as if there was something heavy in her heart?
‘Wanda! You coming up?’ Annie said, glowing with happiness. ‘Join Arthur and me?’
The little boy grinned. ‘And Teg! Teg’s coming too! She’s living with me again!’
Instinctively, Wanda knew that when Annie had texted to say the garden vandalism had been sorted, this was what it had all been about. Second chances for a kid like Arthur made the difference. Wanda would never speak of it to another person in her life. Too much good was going on to dwell on the bad.
‘I’d love to,’ she said, ‘but we’ve a load of check-outs and arrivals.’
She waved them off and went back to the farmhouse to attend first to the sheets out on the line in all their woefully low-thread-count glory. Then there was the bell tent to tidy up, the prosecco to put on chill, plus a million other jobs. Not least the latest with Danny Platt.
Because her intuition – or should that be wild stab in the dark – had paid off. In early June, the site had had a lovely couple from up north come to stay and they’d left a lush review in the comments’ book. So far, so nothing. But they’d said they’d visited on a recommendation and were prepared to accept ‘no-frills’ conditions in return for the ‘belting scenery and a big Welsh welcome’. That had meant the recommendation had come from before the revamp. The husband and wife were from Lancashire and had signed their review ‘Audrey and Bob P.’ and upon inspection in the bookings record that P stood for Platt.
Yes, it was ludicrous, yes, it was unlikely, but their nature had been like Danny’s; it might’ve been the accent but there was something about the warmth of their ways. And how they’d felt like family – okay, maybe that was stretching it. Why hadn’t it occurred to Wanda before that it was them, like at the flaming time? But Carys had been bed-bound with a cold and it had been when the site was just taking off. She’d have missed Ryan Gosling with a throbber, she’d been that tired.
So with no other plan, Wanda had written to them, asking the impossible.
She was probably barking up the wrong tree – probably the wrong forest – but they didn’t happen to know a Daniel Platt? They had written back after a while: sorry, they’d been off trying to find a better campsite than Under A Starry Sky but they’d failed so far.
‘We do know a Daniel Platt. He’s our nephew and over a family roast, we got talking about camping and he mentioned that he’d come to your site in December. He loved it there, said it was very special. May we ask what it’s regarding?’
She’d replied, saying it was a ‘personal matter’ and would it be possible to have his address. Obviously, it wasn’t. ‘You understand, we want to help but …’ They suggested if she gave them a bit more info then they’d contact Daniel, who was ‘working away’.
Wanda had casually asked Carys if he’d mentioned that when they’d met, but no. Did ‘working away’ mean they were covering for him in that case? He could’ve buggered off somewhere, though; maybe he was into travel. What if he had gone because Carys had never rung him? Wanda was being dramatic, as ever, imagining him as a heartbroken soul.
It left her with a quandary: what more did she dare say? She could hardly divulge he’d put two buns in her sister’s oven, she was thirty-one weeks gone, ready to drop any minute and, by the way, did they know if he was married or with someone?
Wanda knew she’d be chewing her biro tonight into the early hours. But she didn’t have those hours spare. She had to get this done – and there were five minutes left on the tumble dryer. Wanda got out her notepad. She was very sorry she couldn’t say any more, she wrote, but please if they could tell him Wanda at the campsite in Wales needed to speak to him, could they possibly pass the message on?
She’d have to speak to him first just in case it was bad news. She’d work out if or what she’d tell Carys if or when she got there. Wanda signed the letter, popped it into an envelope, ran down to the postbox in the lane and kissed it goodbye, wishing it good luck.
What ri
ght did she have to wish for fortune? She’d had more than her fair share in this manhunt and she feared she’d just about run out.
35
Elbow-deep in pond slime, this had to be in Annie’s top five worst jobs.
Gloves were pointless, the gloopy water would only spill over the tops, so when it came to clearing blanketweed, you were better off going commando. But it meant you felt things brushing up against your hands – you couldn’t see what, it was so murky – that sent your imagination into grotesque overdrive. And the stink! It was proper buzzing.
Yet Annie had never been happier. The clue was in the ‘top five’ list, which her new work assistant had brought with him in the fortnight he’d been helping her out. Not a day went past when he didn’t ask her for her ‘top five’ of something.
Annie suspected it was Spike’s suggestion, but Arthur had asked if perhaps he could lend a hand to make up for what he’d done to the community garden. She’d been thrilled – this was peak summer when she worked all the hours she could to cope with all the jobs she had. He had fallen into her stride as if he’d been born with green fingers, learning quickly what needed to be done and always checking he wasn’t about to hack someone’s prize roses. The company, too, when you were used to lonely days, was a treat. And he brought fresh eyes with him. Like now, when she pulled the weeds out of the depths of Blod’s water feature with a huge grimace.
‘It’s like toxic nuclear mermaid hair!’ Arthur cried from where he was deadheading bedding plants, taking absolute delight in her disgust.
She laughed at his description. He had such a funny way of seeing things and it tickled her every time he came up with some ‘Arthurism’.
‘Is it time for sglods yet?’
She smiled up at his request for chips spoken like a true local. Wanda had helped him so much.
‘We’ll get them in a minute,’ Annie said. ‘Let’s just tidy up, then we’ll hit the road.’
But not before Blod was out of her back door offering yet another cup of tea and squash for the lad.
‘I think three mugs is my limit,’ Annie told her.
‘All right, well don’t say I never offer,’ Blod jostled, in her matronly way, her bosom rising beneath today’s pink camo kaftan which matched the tips of her hair. ‘Here’s something for you, Arthur.’
She pressed ‘just a little bit of pocket money’ into his hand.
He looked at Annie with uncertainty.
‘Take it. If you feel bad, spend it in Blod’s shop!’
His face broke out into sunshine. It was only a couple of quid but it was as if Blod had given him gold. What a woman she was. A small token, but to him it was appreciation and acceptance – Annie knew the value of that.
‘Diolch! Thank you, Blod,’ he said, putting it away in his shorts pocket, which Teg instantly went to sniff in case it was food.
‘Lovely job, the pair of you, fair do’s. Got a visitor later …’ Blod made big eyes at Annie. She couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Especially if it was her own. ‘A gentleman.’
‘Never!’
‘There’s life in the old cow yet!’
‘Well, have fun!’
‘Oh, we will!’ Blod cackled and, with a wink, she began to whistle ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ by The Beatles.
And then they were back in the van, stopping at Oh My Cod – which Arthur wanted to pay for, bless him. But Annie insisted. Wages wouldn’t be part of the deal, Spike had ruled that out as soon as she’d had a word. He wanted Arthur to learn about actions and consequences. That night when Spike had learned Arthur was responsible for the vandalism had been emotional. She hadn’t seen or heard whatever he’d said to his boy, but there were no raised voices and when she’d returned from putting the oven on, they were cuddling and in tears. Arthur was devastated and remorseful but once he’d apologised and Annie had told him about her brother, they moved on to his grief. The little poppet had said he’d trashed the Grow Up garden because he’d lost Annie like he’d lost his mother. All three made a deal that they’d never tell a soul – Dean deserved to have the blame on him – as long as Arthur promised to talk his feelings out. Ever since, he hadn’t stopped.
‘Annie,’ he said in the passenger seat, blowing on a hot chip to give to Teg. The tone of his voice told her he was about to ask her something deep.
Her mmm at the delicious taste of vinegar and salt became a hum of encouragement to go on.
‘Would you rather …’ Ah, his favourite dilemma game. ‘A cold fried egg or hot jelly?’
‘Yuck. Neither. But if I had to … hot jelly.’
‘Cat food or a dog biscuit?’
‘Dog biscuit.’
‘A really rich man or … my dad?’
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was examining a chip to see if it had any green bits. The windscreen was fogged up, so she gave it a wipe and rolled down the window. Was it her or had it just got very warm in the van? His question was a no-brainer, obvs, but she didn’t want to give him any romantic hopes. God, how she wanted Spike, more than ever. But it was just not going to happen. She was thankful their relationship was back to how it had been – easy, fun, yet solid, and Arthur was benefiting too. They’d talked about Lucy, the three of them, how Annie was an aunty and she wasn’t going to replace Lucy. No one ever would. She realised he was waiting. She remembered he was twelve and it was just a simple question.
‘Your dad.’
‘Really?’ He pretended to be appalled. ‘But he’s got really bad toenails.’
She laughed.
‘Think of what you could buy if you went with the rich man.’
‘But your dad is the richest man in the world. He’s got you, for starters. And so much heart.’ Genuine, funny, open, handsome, sexy, she could go on and on.
‘Why aren’t you together then?’ he said, as if it was that easy.
‘We’re friends. We like it that way.’ He did, she didn’t, to be truthful.
‘Dad told me yesterday, well, he admitted it actually, we were wrestling and I wouldn’t let him up till he told me, that he … likes you, likes you.’
Her silly heart jumped for joy but it was just him playing about. ‘That sounds like a forced confession to me.’
‘I asked him again at bedtime.’
How she wanted to quiz him on this, but that was unethical. Yet she had to say something. ‘Were you sat on him at the time?’ Then quickly, before he could answer, she started the ignition and ordered ‘belt up!’ The next stop was Mrs Jenkins, definitely top of her worst jobs.
‘He said it again, Annie.’
Still on about that, was he? Did that mean it was actually true? She couldn’t let herself go down that road though – it’d damage what they had worked hard to get back to. Annie stood to lose this lovely set-up if she asked Spike to consider anything more than mates.
‘I said he had to choose. Would you rather one of those posh ladies, all dressed up and that, or you.’
Charming! To think that was how Arthur saw her! It was right, of course, she wasn’t one to glam up, but people didn’t usually say it with such bracing honesty. She almost giggled before the next thought was of Spike with someone else and she felt sick as a dog.
‘He said you.’
Hang on … he hadn’t had to say that, now, had he? But then maybe he was thinking better the devil you know. She’d go with that.
‘Take care lest you buy a cat in a sack. Or, as the English say, you don’t want to end up with a pig in a poke.’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about. Cats? Pigs?’ He started meowing and snorting and Annie sighed with relief, because that meant that was that. She made sure of it by giving him a briefing on what they’d be doing next. ‘She’s a bit of a misery, so we won’t knock. Okay?’
‘’Kay.’
&nb
sp; On the way, Annie kept an eye out for any ‘for sale’ signs. With the house going through, it wouldn’t be long before she could have her own place again. She’d had a look online and there was very little going for what she’d have. Her price bracket was in the one-bed terrace or dilapidated cottage range. She’d rather have somewhere to do up, though, if she had the choice. Somewhere with a garden, an open fire for her and Teg to snuggle up in front of over the winter and a desk – because she had plans for the future, not least for the high school plot which Mrs Harrison had approved with bells on. Never had she thought she’d be where she was! And it got her through the slog of an hour at Mrs Jenkins’s.
Once they’d done, Annie picked up the usual envelope on the doorstep and collected the recycling. The plastic bag snapped just as she was sticking it in the back of the van – empty litres of gin, whisky and vodka toppled with a clatter, along with some receipts. Being a light drinker, Annie gasped at how much Mrs Jenkins had spent. How on earth could she afford this much each week? But then addicts would find a way. She lodged the bottles inside one of her tote bags to stop them rolling around and jumped in the van.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Arthur said in that voice as he climbed into his seat.
‘Not again?’ she groaned, ruffling his hair playfully.
‘I think you should add me in to your business name. Just for the summer.’
What a sweetie! ‘Any ideas?’
‘How about … The Lady Boy Gardener?’
Goodness knows how, but she managed not to snort. It was bad enough being asked if she did waxes – what on earth would people expect if she became The Lady Boy Gardener?
She gave a noncommittal ‘maybe’ before slamming the door and announcing a definitive ‘not!’ into the air. There was no way she was going to let this chat continue.
So she climbed in her side and asked him if he fancied an ice cream. It was a cheap distraction, but at least the subject of ladyboys would be dropped in favour of his top five flavours.
