Summer of secrets, p.8
Summer of Secrets, page 8
“Jake has lost an arm, yet he makes a small living by doing a surprisingly varied number of odd jobs. He looks after the smartest property on Yr Tro. Remember I told you about Frances and Jeremy Baxter? The posh couple from Swansea who own Costa Plenty? Only come at weekends they do and usually with a crowd. Weekend parties is what they use the house for. Costa Plenty indeed! They act as if they’re the first to think of it! Daft they are, the pair of them,” he added dismissively.
“The semi adjoining that of the Coopers belongs to Emrys Taylor’s parents. Gareth Taylor, whose wife calls him Gar, moved out of the farm a few years ago. Couldn’t get on with Diana, or so I believe. Old man Taylor calls his wife Petal. Gar and Petal. Rather a sweet old couple they are.”
“I think that’s as much as I can take in at present,” Bettrys said thoughtfully. “So it’s the Taylors who are farmers. Your family who were fishermen, the Coopers, also fishermen until Jake’s accident, and the fancy pair from Swansea. What about the rest?”
“Holiday chalets. Owned by people who come during the summer holidays and occasionally during the Winter to do a bit of maintenance and that’s about all.”
They heard the sound of a fast approaching car and looked round to see the Land Rover coming towards the gate from the farm. They jumped down and opened the gate to allow Diana to drive through. She went past them without slowing and on to the road, turning left towards the village without saying thank you or even acknowledging them.
Gordon grumbled about her attitude as he pushed the gate closed, but Bettrys wasn’t listening. She was wondering where, among the few families living on Yr Tro, she would find Cheryl’s father. Or, whether she had chosen the wrong place altogether.
Gordon’s young brother, Pete, was on the road, looking towards the village. As they walked towards him, the bus came rumbling along and he stepped forward. Without stopping, the bus slowed to allow the conductor to throw out a small bundle of papers which was expertly caught by Pete. Waving to Gordon and Bettrys, he pulled off the cord holding them together and set off to make his deliveries. The inexhaustible Potter left them and ran to follow Pete, extending his walk by another half an hour.
Gwen was sitting with Cheryl on her lap, reading a book to her, patiently pointing to the animals and making the appropriate noises to encourage the child to do the same. Seeing Bettrys, Cheryl began to jump up, then stopped and snuggled down again with Gwen.
“Oh, I see, got a new friend now. You don’t want me,” Bettrys teased and went to hug the little girl. “Thank you, Gwen. You’ve all been so kind to me.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Gwen smiled. “We’re here whenever you want us. You can trust us whenever you need friends,” she added pointedly. But Bettrys only reiterated her thanks. The time for trust had not yet arrived. She needed to know more about everyone on Yr Tro before she opened up to anyone, even Gwen Taylor.
Gordon walked back with them, carrying more toys and books Gwen had found in her inexhaustible store.
“Bettrys,” he said, as Cheryl ran on to open the door. “Can I ask you something?”
There was a slight pause before Bettrys nodded, but Gordon was beginning to get used to her hesitation. “Is Cheryl your child?”
This time Bettrys was silent for even longer than usual. She weighed her answer carefully. She hadn’t given birth to Cheryl, but as there was no one else, unless she could find the child’s father, then, yes, she did have full responsibility for her. So how was she to answer?
“All right, I’m sorry I asked. It doesn’t matter anyway.” He was afraid to ask if she was married, or was still in love with the child’s father. He wanted the answer to both questions to be no, but if it was yes, then he’d prefer to remain in ignorance for a while longer.
As she poured water into the kettle ready for Cheryl’s bath, she said, “Yes. She is mine.”
He seemed satisfied by her reply After kissing Cheryl and hesitating, as if he wanted to part from her in the same way, he just smiled and left them. She felt momentarily guilty. She had lied and they had all been so kind. Running to the door she called after him, “Gordon, it isn’t as simple as that. It’s not what you think.”
“See you tomorrow,” he called back. “We’ll go fishing.”
* * *
Diana drove through the village, past the church, along narrow lanes with high banks on either side. Turning down an even narrower lane, she parked and waited. She had abandoned her usual jodhpurs and wore a sleek beige wool dress with a jacket of the same colour. The boots had been exchanged for high-heeled shoes. She still wore the snood over her fair hair but the hair itself was now beautifully curled.
She sat for a few moments until she saw a car pull up behind her. Then she got out and without bothering to lock the car, walked to the other car, an old Riley, and she got in.
“Any trouble getting away?” the driver asked.
“I managed it rather neatly,” she smiled. “I invited a boring couple from the beach to tea. I was so casual about the time they spent with us, I’d have convinced Sherlock Holmes himself I had nothing to hide!”
The Riley bumped its way back onto the wider lane then a few miles further on, turned up a rutted cart track to where a small cottage, with wooden walls green with damp, was hidden in a hollow surrounded by willows and hazel and alder trees. Inside, the place was well cared for, sweet and airy. Near the chintz-covered couch was a tray on which there were two glasses and a bottle of wine. A fire glowed warmly in the stone hearth.
As Diana closed the door behind them, a man stepped out from behind a weeping willow, boots squelching in the mud of a half-dried-up stream. He was still there a couple of hours later and he watched as Diana and the man left in the Riley to drive back to where her Land Rover waited for her.
Emrys wasn’t in when Diana got home, her hair neatly brushed and hanging in loose curls around her shoulders. He came in a while later, explaining that he had been chatting with old Maldwyn and forgotten the time.
“Interesting old man he is,” Emrys said. “Such a wealth of knowledge on the sea, and boats, and the ways of fish.”
“Very exciting,” Diana said dryly. “Quite riveting!”
“Did you hear that Colin Williams almost fell from the cliff? Says he was pushed, but I reckon he was making that up to hide his stupidity at walking too close to the edge, don’t you?”
He gave her a curious look that made her stomach curdle disconcertingly. He couldn’t have guessed, could he? Then she smiled at Emrys and asked, “Well, do you like my hair? I’ve been to have it washed. I just can’t face doing it myself. I haven’t the patience to use a hand-dryer and anyway it takes for ever and then looks all frizzy and messy.”
“It’s lovely. You’re lovely. The hairdresser is worth every penny.”
“Thank you darling.” She kissed him lightly. “Shall we go out for a meal tonight?”
“Why, are we celebrating something?”
“I’m sure we can think of something.” She could hardly tell her husband it was to celebrate the return after several months of her lover. “Um,” she frowned prettily, “my new hair-style?” Laughingly he agreed.
Chapter Five
The second night in her new home was unnerving for Bettrys. She had hardly settled under the sheets when she heard someone creeping past her window. She glanced towards the small bed where Cheryl lay sleeping, to reassure herself of her safety, then crept towards the window. The shadow of a man carrying a torch passed the faintly lit pane as he reached it, a thin beam threading ahead of his almost silent footfall.
Fear subsided as the soft sounds passed away. Someone coming home late and taking a short cut along the beach no doubt. Then she frowned. There didn’t seem to be any reason for someone to cross through her garden to get to either the Coopers or to the road; the well used paths would have been more direct arid far easier to find.
It was impossible to get back into bed and expect sleep but she didn’t want to show a light in case the man out there was intent on mischief. Creeping around at night was hardly synonymous with being dangerous, yet there was something furtive about the crouching, careful walk of the unknown person. She shivered involuntarily and checked the sleeping child again.
Unable to get the visitor out of her mind, she went to the door. Perhaps the sound of the waves would soothe her and help her relax into sleep. She carefully opened it and looked out.
There was the sound of rustling, something approaching her through the low tangle of the flower beds. She was wishing she hadn’t succumbed to the foolish whim to look out when she recognised the shape of Potter, strolling towards her. She welcomed him with relief. Surely he would have barked if the visitor was someone unknown to him? Satisfied, she patted and hugged the friendly animal, then closed the door and went inside. A cup of tea, she decided, then sleep.
She thought it would be sensible to close the window. That way she wouldn’t be disturbed by the unusual sounds of the night. There would be animals strolling around besides Potter, and the trees creaking, branches touching the metal roof would have her in a constant panic, until she became used to it. She lifted the latch, but before she pulled the window to, she hesitated, her heart leaping in sudden fright.
Something was wrong. Not a sound this time, but the lack of one. The slow trickle of the stream falling down the rocks and heading towards the beach as constantly as the ticking of a clock, had stopped.
For a long time she lay there, unable to sleep, but knowing there was nothing she could do to investigate. Even if she were brave enough she could hardly leave Cheryl while she went out to look at the rock where the water fell. What would she see if she did venture out?
Perhaps on occasions it naturally stopped. Yet, hadn’t Gwen told her it had never let them down? That it’s source was utterly reliable? Perhaps the stream was used by someone further inland. But in the middle of the night? Sleepy now, her questions became less urgent. She decided to ask Gordon or his mother in the morning.
Tiredness was twisting her thoughts into lazy, unimportant imaginings, lulling her into gentle sleep, when she was again startled into wakefulness. The water returned with a rush, then settled into its usual steady flow.
* * *
The next morning Bettrys overslept. The sun was creeping through the thin curtains and changing the colour of the pale walls as she opened her eyes and stared first towards the small bed opposite. Cheryl was playing contentedly with one of her dolls, but she threw the doll aside and climbed out of her bed to greet Bettrys, obviously pleased that she had woken.
“Sorry, my darling. You must be feeling lonely with me sleeping like a useless chunk of driftwood!” She hugged the little girl for a while, then dressed her in the dressing gown she had bought her and went to prepare breakfast.
Although she talked to Cheryl all the time she worked, counting the spoonfuls of sugar she used for the grapefruit and cereal, playing a game and describing the shape of the spherical fruit, the rectangles of Weetabix, and the squares of toast as she usually did, her mind was restless with thoughts of the night’s events.
As soon as they were dressed and the primitive kitchen tidied, she went to the house where Gordon and his family lived. Maldwyn Griffiths was up and busily at work, re-painting the large cross on the front of his house. He waved the wide paintbrush at her and gestured towards the open door then went on with his task.
Gwen was wiping flour from her hands: she had been making pastry.
“Come in, Bettrys,” she smiled. “Hello my lovely girl.” She bent and picked up Cheryl, who snuggled against the motherly woman with obvious joy.
“Can she stay long enough to make some jam tarts with the left-over pastry?” Gwen asked Bettrys. “It won’t take long and they love to help, don’t they?”
While Gwen guided the enthusiastic young cook and wiped up the excesses of jam from the table, Bettrys told her about the incident of the previous night.
“The stream stopped, you say? But it never has. The people round here have often had to depend on it in past droughts and it’s never let them down. You must have been dreaming.”
“Can you stand up, close the window, open the door, pat Potter and make a cup of tea while dreaming?” Bettrys asked after a long pause during which she was thinking about what had happened. “I did all of those things.”
“Dreams can be very real,” Gwen said doubtfully. “But the stream doesn’t stop, sure of that I am, ask anyone. And as for someone walking past, well, could have been anyone. A poacher avoiding the farm dogs perhaps? Or a late-night tryst? Plenty of that going on round here, specially in the summer.” She washed Cheryl’s hands and helped her place the baking tray in the oven, then added gently, “A strange house and by the sea, there’s bound to be funny and mysterious sounds. Get used to it you will. I bet you’ll sleep like a top tonight after all those disturbances. Now, let’s fill the kettle and make a cup of tea to have with Cheryl’s lovely tarts, shall we?”
Bettrys didn’t mention her experiences to anyone else, not even Gordon, whom she saw later that day. Perhaps she had dreamt it, although she wasn’t prone to unfounded fears or an over-active imagination. Tonight she would get to bed early and hope nothing would wake her.
She spent most of the morning working at her jewellery-making. After lunch, they went for a walk across the beach towards Ffynon Sands, where the sight of the springs bubbling up through the sand reminded her of the silence of the stream and made her edgy.
The day quickly became dull after the brief sun of the early morning and rain set in before they got back. Relentless rain, the sea lost in it, a fast-falling curtain, blocking out sight of everything beyond a few yards, hissing down in that steady way which seems set to continue for ever.
It was dark early and as she was tired. Bettrys went to bed at nine-thirty. At first she was unable to cut her mind off from the fear of hearing the prowler or becoming aware of the loss of the sound of falling water. The rain obliterated the fall of the stream but still she strained her ears for it, dreading it stopping. But sleep claimed her and when morning broke, brittle with brightness, she had not been disturbed.
She walked along the beach to gather driftwood for a fire and saw Mrs Taylor senior, shaking crumbs out for the birds.
“Saw that Diana visiting you,” she called. “What did she have to say? Anything about Colin Williams putting his chalet up for sale?” She gestured with a sideways nod of her head and Bettrys saw the “FOR SALE” notice against the chalet gateway. “Bet she had nothing good to say about me and Gar! That woman could make a saint sound like a second Hitler!”
“Go easy, Petal,” Gar admonished. “You don’t help matters by your criticism.”
“A couple of kids, that what she needs, keep her mind on home a bit more!” She smiled her naughty child smile and added: “There’s an ol’ cat I am. But my daughter-in-law riles me something awesome.”
“Perhaps she can’t have no children, you old fool!” snapped Gar.
“Old fool, am I? For that you can get your own lunch!”
“I can always tell when we’re quarrelling,” Gar sighed. “She refuses to feed me!”
“Well, wfft on her,” was Petal’s final word.
* * *
Gordon, an engineer working in a factory where motor cycles were made, designed special tools to make parts for the new models. He spent much of his spare time preparing a portfolio of photographs for a course he was taking at evening classes. When the weather was calm he often took the small motor boat down to the coast, past Ffynon Sands, to climb the cliffs and get pictures of the sea-birds that nested on them.
Coming back from such a trip, the boat phut-phutting gently on a calm sea, he recognised Bettrys walking along the sands, a rucksack on her back, and Cheryl walking beside her. Her long skirt was in peacock colours; purples and blues and greens, all glowing in vibrant display. She had a way of swaying as she walked that Gordon found as exotic as the bird she had brought to his mind.
Potter saw them first and began to bark and whine, touching soprano in his eagerness to reach them and threatening to jump over the side of the boat.
Turning the tiller, Gordon headed for the shore. He shut down the motor and put the oars in rowlocks and rowed the last few yards, while Potter hung over the edge, still whining impatiently as Bettrys waited for them to land. Throwing off the rucksack, she helped pull the boat up onto the dry sand then said:
“You’re early. Your mother said you’d be gone for hours.”
“Forgot the extra film. I thought it was in my bag but it wasn’t. Pity, there are a couple of choughs just beginning to nest and I hoped for a sequence of their progress. Their nest is in a precarious place but with a telephoto lens I’m getting some good shots.”
He waded back to the boat and pulled out a biscuit tin. “Fancy some lunch? Mam’s sure to have packed enough for three.”
Bettrys patted the rucksack. “And I’ve brought enough for three so we should eat well.”
Leaving the boat above the line of seaweed marking the height of the last tide, they walked towards the cliffs at the end of Ffynon Sands. There, leaning against a convenient rock, they sat and ate their lunch. Potter explored the crevices that were too small to be considered caves but which he and Cheryl found exciting.
“Are you settled in now?” Gordon asked as they packed the remnants of their meal away.
“It’s not really comfortable but it’s all right for the summer.”
He hesitated, sensing as always how reticent she was to talk about herself, her past or her plans for the future. “Er, how long will you stay? Until the autumn?” She didn’t reply and he went on nervously, “I hope so.”
“I spent one whole summer in France,” she said, not answering him. “Because of my tall, thin shape, at one of the hostels where I stayed I earned the nickname of Secretary bird.”
“But you’ll stay for the summer?” Gordon touched her arm, warm from the sun, gently insisting on a reply.
