Love Untold, page 4
‘Oh, go on with you,’ said her friend. ‘You’ll outlive the lot of us, you will. Anyway, I made that myself – don’t be so rude.’
Neeta had been friends with Grace since opening the café in 2010 and they were completely at ease with one another. Neeta loved to talk. Usually this didn’t bother Grace, who enjoyed putting the world to rights as much as the next person, but tonight she didn’t seem to hear anything Neeta said.
When she left the café she wandered down to the pier and gazed out at the ocean. The sea was choppy with an offshore wind that sent sets of waves majestically crashing on to the sand. She breathed in the salty air, seeking a nourishing calm from its ions. But even that didn’t work. Should she head up to Cadwallader House and see John? Would singing with Cissie settle her soul? It was nearing nine o’clock now, though, and the chances were they’d both be in bed. ‘Oh, stop your moaning,’ she said to herself, and a passing seagull squawked in agreement as Grace turned for home.
Taking her shoes off was such a relief. She’d been on her feet too long and now they were starting to swell and ache. For a moment she considered dusting off the foot spa she’d been given by Elin and Greg two years previously. But even doing that seemed too arduous a task. She sank into the comfort of her favourite armchair and let out a weary sigh. On days like this she really felt her age, and that wasn’t good. Probably best to have a little rest and then do some yoga before bed. That’d help. How she loathed feeling old. John always said that one of the things he most loved about her was her relentless drive. But sometimes she worried she’d set the bar too high: that she could never be negative, never admit to anxiety or fear of what was to come. In reality she knew she was living on borrowed time, of course she was – even if she was lucky enough to make it to a hundred, that would still only give her just ten more years. Ten years! They could get swallowed up in a heartbeat.
Strangely, fear of death wasn’t the heaviest weight that pressed down upon her when she was in one of these rare anxious moods; after all, once you’re gone you’re gone! Grace herself would be blissfully unaware she’d died; she wouldn’t know she was gone, of course. That would be the sorrowful burden placed upon those left behind. And all her affairs had been put in order long ago, so there was nothing to worry about on that front. No, it was the fear of losing others that plagued her most, fear of losing those who’d trodden life’s path with her for longer than she could remember.
And Alys.
To the outside world, her daughter didn’t exist. Talking to Beca tonight had brought this home to her again, and her conversation with John had reminded her of Elin’s wishes: to erase the memory of Alys Meredith from their family history. To behave as if she had died long ago. And that’s what they’d done. That was the story they’d given out for years. Only John knew the truth. And Cissie – when she had still been in possession of her mind. Grace knew it was easier for Elin this way. And to her own shame, it had sometimes been easier for her, too. Out of sight, out of mind. Except privately, this could never be the case.
Because she thought about Alys every single day – sometimes just fleetingly, a passing memory – usually an unhappy one. And then on other occasions, like tonight, she’d feel the pull, the natural, biological mourning for the loss of her child. Seeing Alys’s name on the back of that card had ignited a tiny flame of hope. And try as she might to extinguish it, the flame just wouldn’t go out.
She knew that John was right. That to attempt to contact Alys at the Brecon gallery would at best result in no reply, and at worst result in anger and chaos being revisited upon them all. Elin would never forgive her. And Beca would probably be traumatized – Grace would effectively be bringing a dead grandmother back to life! Yes, John was probably right, and having been her rock for so many years, she felt superstitious about ignoring his advice now. But the draw was so strong.
The last time they’d seen Alys had been in 1992.
Since then, Grace had written her dozens of unsent letters. Writing them was the nearest she had ever come to therapy. Sometimes the letters were just newsy, sometimes they were covered with tears and filled with anger at how Alys had behaved. Sometimes they didn’t get further than Dearest Alys. They were never intended to be read. Often she wondered about burning them. After all, once she was gone they’d be there for all and sundry to digest, and did she really want to inflict all those private feelings on John or Elin or whoever cleared out her house in the wake of her death?
Hoisting herself up out of the chair with the requisite Oof – something she’d started doing of late, and which she’d always vowed never to do – she headed to the bureau in the corner of the living room and unlocked the top drawer. Inside was a Manila box file where she kept all the letters.
She took a clean sheet of heavy cream paper and unscrewed her fountain pen. Then, settling back into her chair, she began to write.
Dearest Alys …
8
Alys
The lunchtime meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous was held in the side room of the Baptist hall. It was always a popular meeting and well attended, and today was no exception: the room was packed. Seventy-year-old Alys Meredith inwardly preened at the prospect of her large attentive audience. She looked around at the gathered crowd whilst the chairperson ran through the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions of AA, before asking if anyone had any announcements. A big woman with a candy-pink streak in her otherwise lank brown hair put up her hand and complained to the room that people were being a bit selfish with the biscuits. ‘So please ration yourselves to no more than two each, and then everyone gets a look-in.’
‘Thanks, Jess,’ came the chorus response.
Alys thought Jess could do with rationing herself to no biscuits, judging by the size of her. But this was unfair, of course. Not all women were blessed with her figure and good looks, after all. On the other hand, not all women put in the effort like she did. It was true that her genes had played a big part, gifting her with elasticity in the skin, a strong bone structure and a well-proportioned figure with flesh in all the right places. And for this she thanked her Higher Power every day. But a Higher Power could only do so much. The rest required grit, determination and an almost constant attention to her appearance: the subtle (and expensive) highlights in her hair, the good-quality make-up – without which she would never be seen in public – not forgetting the low-carb, high-fat diet, generously supplemented with non-alcoholic kombucha and green tea. But her most powerful weapon for success was Dr Deepak, her cosmetic surgeon, who lived in Chennai and who gave Alys a hefty discount on her bi-annual procedures, in exchange for ‘a little loving’ on the side. Her trips to India were explained away as visits to an ashram for spiritual rejuvenation, and so far she hadn’t been found out. Although Alys was technically seventy years of age, she was only fifty-nine if anyone asked. She’d been fifty-nine for the past three years. She should probably think about having a sixtieth birthday party when she turned seventy-one.
‘Without further t’do, I’ll hand over to Alys, who’s agreed to share her experience, strength and hope with us tonight.’
‘Thanks, Paul,’ she beamed at him, then took in the room, pausing for effect before announcing, ‘My name’s Alys and I’m an alcoholic.’
‘Hi, Alys,’ came the group response.
And so began Alys’s performance – for that’s how she viewed her AA shares these days. She knew the script off by heart. She started by telling the room she was now thirty years sober, one day at a time, by the grace of God. Then she’d talk about her first experience of alcohol at the age of five – a sip taken from the brandy bottle in the medicine cabinet of her childhood home in Neath, which made me feel all glowy and warm and I thought, ooh, I like this! – before moving on to her final ‘drunk’ in 1992, when she woke up in the doorway of a well-known Birmingham department store at 3 a.m. She kept the details hazy. This was especially important in front of a roomful of alkies, she thought, who at any point could turn back to booze and start mouthing off about her personal business.
Where family was concerned, Alys firmly believed in adopting a need-to-know policy, selecting the parts of her life story that suited her image – an old hippy artist who believed in peace and love and a sober life, who liked to be thought of as wise and humble, experienced yet vulnerable, spiritual but fun. Nobody knew what really went on inside her head – even her Higher Power wasn’t completely in the know.
‘By the age of seventeen I’d perfected the art of topping up the vodka bottle with water and the brandy with weak tea, just so I could feed my ever-growing addiction – which I know you lot will all understand.’
Murmurs of recognition flitted around the room and Alys went on to finish her drinking story: she told them that she didn’t see her mother for several years before she died, and that she didn’t go to the funeral, but felt that being sober was the best way to honour the woman’s memory. She finished by talking of her love for AA and how it had saved her, the importance of staying connected, of meditating every day, of trying to help other alcoholics, and most importantly of being scrupulously honest.
Her story was indeed steeped in truth.
But it was also littered with lies.
She’d omitted to tell them she had a fifty-one-year-old daughter.
She’d failed to say that her eighty-nine-year-old mother was, so far as she knew, still alive.
And she’d conveniently missed out the bit about having a sixteen-year-old granddaughter.
Need to know basis, she thought. Need to know.
It had been several years since Alys had ‘killed off’ her mother. It meant she never had to discuss her with people in AA – or anyone else, for that matter. And for the most part, Alys could believe the lie that her mother was dead. There’d been a phase some years previously when curiosity had got the better of her and she’d started looking on Facebook. She’d checked out all the community pages associated with Dylan’s Quay and, after much research, had discovered a local yoga group with a photograph featuring a Mrs Grace Meredith from Sŵn-y-Môr. Alys had signed up under a false name and begun checking in a couple of times a year. It was through the yoga group that she found out about Elin’s wedding – ‘Congratulations to our stalwart member Grace Meredith, whose granddaughter Elin was married at the weekend. Here’s Grace in her rather fetching rig-out and hat!’ Then, in 2006, she’d discovered that the same stalwart member of Dylan’s Quay yoga had also become a great-grandmother, after the birth of baby Beca. That was a tough one. And she decided after that to stop checking on Facebook. What was the point? It only put her through more pain. And it would be much kinder to herself to stop looking. To live in blissful ignorance. Well, maybe not blissful.
Despite years of self-development and self-forgiveness, Alys still couldn’t shift the shame she felt at her behaviour in the past. Towards both her mother and her daughter. That despite being given several chances to change and mend her ways, she’d stupendously succeeded in failing to do so. Every time. She felt such a behemoth of guilt at what she’d done that she’d decided there really never could be any going back. There were only so many times a fatted calf could be killed, after all. And so the best thing for Alys had been to detach herself permanently from her family, put it down to the hand that life had dealt her and make the best of the here and now. Because all she’d ever brought her mother and her daughter was misery. Some relationships were just never meant to be. And now it was simply too late.
Of course, if she sat and thought about it for long enough, Alys would sink into a vat of self-loathing at what a monumental fuck-up she was both as a daughter and a mother, and consequently as a grandmother, too. Which was why whenever any thoughts of her family crept inside her head, she always banished them instantly. No. She was alone in this life. End of. And she was doing okay. Dealing with the here and now, and the recent though not unfamiliar problem of finding herself a new home.
Over the years, Alys had lived all over the country, flitting from one town to the next and never putting down roots. But this last place had been fairly long-term by Alys’s standards. An abandoned one-bedroom flat above a bookie’s on Brecon high street, where she’d squatted for almost two years. She’d had magnificent views of the Beacons, access to a little communal art studio down the road and a weekly indoor market where she could set up a stall giving Tarot readings. And, of course, there were the regular AA meetings at the Baptist chapel hall. Yes, she could easily have stayed there for good, seen out her twilight years ensconced within its homely four walls. But the absent landlord, who had been living in Kuwait, had decided to turn up three days previously. He’d actually been rather civilized about the whole thing, even offering her a proper rental agreement at the going rate. She suspected he may have been worrying that she’d invoke her squatters’ rights – something she probably would have done had she been younger. But in truth she couldn’t be bothered. Instead she packed her things and left. She’d stayed a couple of nights at a hostel, before putting out feelers in the AA meetings, hoping someone might offer up a sofa or a bed. The real story didn’t feel dramatic enough to garner sympathy, so Alys made up a tale about her boyfriend turning nasty, leaving her no option other than to flee. She did a very convincing job of describing him and bringing him to life, and because nobody had ever been to Alys’s home, nobody could dispute what she said.
‘All that time you were living with him and we never met the chap once,’ said a regular member of the women’s AA group.
‘Ha, count yourself lucky,’ said Alys, quick as a fox. ‘I should’ve left him long ago, the guy didn’t have a shred of kindness in his soul.’
‘So what did you see in him?’ asked the woman, not suspiciously, just out of genuine curiosity.
‘What he lacked in compassion,’ countered Alys, ‘he made up for in the sack. The man was insatiable, my dear. Which at my age is no small thing. Excuse the pun.’
Lying came easily to Alys. In fact, she enjoyed it. Her fantasy life was so much more interesting than her real one.
At the end of today’s meeting, several people thanked her for her ‘inspirational’ share and two women asked her if she would become their sponsor. She told them she’d think about it, explaining that she already had a ‘sponsee’, the lovely Kirsty J., and she didn’t want to overstretch herself by taking on too much. She tried not to show it, but Alys was thrilled to be asked. It gave her some sense of purpose, the joy of being needed.
Kirsty was waiting patiently for Alys as the congratulators dispersed. Usually they both went for a coffee after the morning meeting, where Kirsty would unload and they’d do some work together on the Twelve Steps. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said now, beaming. ‘And I think you’re going to like it.’ Kirsty handed Alys a piece of notepaper bearing an address. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten,’ she said with a glint in her eye.
One thing Alys had in common with Kirsty was that she, too, loved a bit of drama. ‘Oh, okay,’ she said, smiling like an indulgent parent. Though secretly feeling intrigued.
9
Beca
The noise in the kitchen of the Dog and Fox reached decibellic heights at lunchtimes. The continuous clank of pans, thrash of plates and metallic crash of cutlery were all thrown together in a heady cacophony of shouts and banter from the staff – those cooking and those serving. And then there was the heavy ker-thunk of the two-way doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Every time they opened, they let in the boisterous bonhomie of the customers as they set about their top-notch pub grub and relaxed with copious glasses of wine. Orders came in fast and furious, and it appeared to be a lottery as to whether any food would materialize. Yet somehow it always turned up on the serving hatch as requested. Yes – the kitchen of the Dog and Fox operated like an olive-oiled and complex machine. And Beca loved being one of its cogs. She was a quiet cog, admittedly – never contributing to the deafening soundtrack of restaurant service in full flow, keeping herself to herself and observing it all from her very own dishwashing corner.
Getting the job had been a stroke of sheer right-time-right-placeness. With the exams behind her, she’d known she’d go out of her mind staying home all day. Lockdown had put her through that hell already, and she didn’t want a repeat. So she’d printed off a CV of sorts – listing her scant achievements: grade five piano and a 1,500-metre swimming badge – and headed off on the hunt for a job.
The Dog and Fox had been the fourth place she’d tried that particular June morning. When she’d entered the dining area, no one was around, but someone nearby was having an argument. She couldn’t understand what they were saying – was it Italian? Spanish? It didn’t really matter, as whoever it was had come storming out from the kitchen, pulling on their jacket and almost knocking Beca over in the process. A few seconds later, an angry man who looked about the same age as her dad only with more hair came out from the kitchen and headed for the bar. Beca had stood stock-still as she watched him pour a shot of whisky, knock it back and sigh. He seemed completely unaware that Beca was in the room and, unsure what to do, she decided the best option was to sneak out as quietly as she’d come in.
She’d only taken three steps towards the door when she heard a gruff voice say, ‘What d’you want?’
Beca felt like she’d been caught stealing or trespassing. ‘Umm … I was looking for a job, but it doesn’t matter,’ she mumbled and continued her escape.
‘Can you wash dishes?’ asked the man, a slow smile dispelling his frown. And she realized that he probably wasn’t that angry after all.
His name was Jonty. He gave her a quick demo of the monster industrial dishwasher and left her to her own devices.
Her first shift hadn’t been a huge success – she’d ended up washing most of the pots by hand. But Jonty had asked her back for a second go, nonetheless.
Neeta had been friends with Grace since opening the café in 2010 and they were completely at ease with one another. Neeta loved to talk. Usually this didn’t bother Grace, who enjoyed putting the world to rights as much as the next person, but tonight she didn’t seem to hear anything Neeta said.
When she left the café she wandered down to the pier and gazed out at the ocean. The sea was choppy with an offshore wind that sent sets of waves majestically crashing on to the sand. She breathed in the salty air, seeking a nourishing calm from its ions. But even that didn’t work. Should she head up to Cadwallader House and see John? Would singing with Cissie settle her soul? It was nearing nine o’clock now, though, and the chances were they’d both be in bed. ‘Oh, stop your moaning,’ she said to herself, and a passing seagull squawked in agreement as Grace turned for home.
Taking her shoes off was such a relief. She’d been on her feet too long and now they were starting to swell and ache. For a moment she considered dusting off the foot spa she’d been given by Elin and Greg two years previously. But even doing that seemed too arduous a task. She sank into the comfort of her favourite armchair and let out a weary sigh. On days like this she really felt her age, and that wasn’t good. Probably best to have a little rest and then do some yoga before bed. That’d help. How she loathed feeling old. John always said that one of the things he most loved about her was her relentless drive. But sometimes she worried she’d set the bar too high: that she could never be negative, never admit to anxiety or fear of what was to come. In reality she knew she was living on borrowed time, of course she was – even if she was lucky enough to make it to a hundred, that would still only give her just ten more years. Ten years! They could get swallowed up in a heartbeat.
Strangely, fear of death wasn’t the heaviest weight that pressed down upon her when she was in one of these rare anxious moods; after all, once you’re gone you’re gone! Grace herself would be blissfully unaware she’d died; she wouldn’t know she was gone, of course. That would be the sorrowful burden placed upon those left behind. And all her affairs had been put in order long ago, so there was nothing to worry about on that front. No, it was the fear of losing others that plagued her most, fear of losing those who’d trodden life’s path with her for longer than she could remember.
And Alys.
To the outside world, her daughter didn’t exist. Talking to Beca tonight had brought this home to her again, and her conversation with John had reminded her of Elin’s wishes: to erase the memory of Alys Meredith from their family history. To behave as if she had died long ago. And that’s what they’d done. That was the story they’d given out for years. Only John knew the truth. And Cissie – when she had still been in possession of her mind. Grace knew it was easier for Elin this way. And to her own shame, it had sometimes been easier for her, too. Out of sight, out of mind. Except privately, this could never be the case.
Because she thought about Alys every single day – sometimes just fleetingly, a passing memory – usually an unhappy one. And then on other occasions, like tonight, she’d feel the pull, the natural, biological mourning for the loss of her child. Seeing Alys’s name on the back of that card had ignited a tiny flame of hope. And try as she might to extinguish it, the flame just wouldn’t go out.
She knew that John was right. That to attempt to contact Alys at the Brecon gallery would at best result in no reply, and at worst result in anger and chaos being revisited upon them all. Elin would never forgive her. And Beca would probably be traumatized – Grace would effectively be bringing a dead grandmother back to life! Yes, John was probably right, and having been her rock for so many years, she felt superstitious about ignoring his advice now. But the draw was so strong.
The last time they’d seen Alys had been in 1992.
Since then, Grace had written her dozens of unsent letters. Writing them was the nearest she had ever come to therapy. Sometimes the letters were just newsy, sometimes they were covered with tears and filled with anger at how Alys had behaved. Sometimes they didn’t get further than Dearest Alys. They were never intended to be read. Often she wondered about burning them. After all, once she was gone they’d be there for all and sundry to digest, and did she really want to inflict all those private feelings on John or Elin or whoever cleared out her house in the wake of her death?
Hoisting herself up out of the chair with the requisite Oof – something she’d started doing of late, and which she’d always vowed never to do – she headed to the bureau in the corner of the living room and unlocked the top drawer. Inside was a Manila box file where she kept all the letters.
She took a clean sheet of heavy cream paper and unscrewed her fountain pen. Then, settling back into her chair, she began to write.
Dearest Alys …
8
Alys
The lunchtime meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous was held in the side room of the Baptist hall. It was always a popular meeting and well attended, and today was no exception: the room was packed. Seventy-year-old Alys Meredith inwardly preened at the prospect of her large attentive audience. She looked around at the gathered crowd whilst the chairperson ran through the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions of AA, before asking if anyone had any announcements. A big woman with a candy-pink streak in her otherwise lank brown hair put up her hand and complained to the room that people were being a bit selfish with the biscuits. ‘So please ration yourselves to no more than two each, and then everyone gets a look-in.’
‘Thanks, Jess,’ came the chorus response.
Alys thought Jess could do with rationing herself to no biscuits, judging by the size of her. But this was unfair, of course. Not all women were blessed with her figure and good looks, after all. On the other hand, not all women put in the effort like she did. It was true that her genes had played a big part, gifting her with elasticity in the skin, a strong bone structure and a well-proportioned figure with flesh in all the right places. And for this she thanked her Higher Power every day. But a Higher Power could only do so much. The rest required grit, determination and an almost constant attention to her appearance: the subtle (and expensive) highlights in her hair, the good-quality make-up – without which she would never be seen in public – not forgetting the low-carb, high-fat diet, generously supplemented with non-alcoholic kombucha and green tea. But her most powerful weapon for success was Dr Deepak, her cosmetic surgeon, who lived in Chennai and who gave Alys a hefty discount on her bi-annual procedures, in exchange for ‘a little loving’ on the side. Her trips to India were explained away as visits to an ashram for spiritual rejuvenation, and so far she hadn’t been found out. Although Alys was technically seventy years of age, she was only fifty-nine if anyone asked. She’d been fifty-nine for the past three years. She should probably think about having a sixtieth birthday party when she turned seventy-one.
‘Without further t’do, I’ll hand over to Alys, who’s agreed to share her experience, strength and hope with us tonight.’
‘Thanks, Paul,’ she beamed at him, then took in the room, pausing for effect before announcing, ‘My name’s Alys and I’m an alcoholic.’
‘Hi, Alys,’ came the group response.
And so began Alys’s performance – for that’s how she viewed her AA shares these days. She knew the script off by heart. She started by telling the room she was now thirty years sober, one day at a time, by the grace of God. Then she’d talk about her first experience of alcohol at the age of five – a sip taken from the brandy bottle in the medicine cabinet of her childhood home in Neath, which made me feel all glowy and warm and I thought, ooh, I like this! – before moving on to her final ‘drunk’ in 1992, when she woke up in the doorway of a well-known Birmingham department store at 3 a.m. She kept the details hazy. This was especially important in front of a roomful of alkies, she thought, who at any point could turn back to booze and start mouthing off about her personal business.
Where family was concerned, Alys firmly believed in adopting a need-to-know policy, selecting the parts of her life story that suited her image – an old hippy artist who believed in peace and love and a sober life, who liked to be thought of as wise and humble, experienced yet vulnerable, spiritual but fun. Nobody knew what really went on inside her head – even her Higher Power wasn’t completely in the know.
‘By the age of seventeen I’d perfected the art of topping up the vodka bottle with water and the brandy with weak tea, just so I could feed my ever-growing addiction – which I know you lot will all understand.’
Murmurs of recognition flitted around the room and Alys went on to finish her drinking story: she told them that she didn’t see her mother for several years before she died, and that she didn’t go to the funeral, but felt that being sober was the best way to honour the woman’s memory. She finished by talking of her love for AA and how it had saved her, the importance of staying connected, of meditating every day, of trying to help other alcoholics, and most importantly of being scrupulously honest.
Her story was indeed steeped in truth.
But it was also littered with lies.
She’d omitted to tell them she had a fifty-one-year-old daughter.
She’d failed to say that her eighty-nine-year-old mother was, so far as she knew, still alive.
And she’d conveniently missed out the bit about having a sixteen-year-old granddaughter.
Need to know basis, she thought. Need to know.
It had been several years since Alys had ‘killed off’ her mother. It meant she never had to discuss her with people in AA – or anyone else, for that matter. And for the most part, Alys could believe the lie that her mother was dead. There’d been a phase some years previously when curiosity had got the better of her and she’d started looking on Facebook. She’d checked out all the community pages associated with Dylan’s Quay and, after much research, had discovered a local yoga group with a photograph featuring a Mrs Grace Meredith from Sŵn-y-Môr. Alys had signed up under a false name and begun checking in a couple of times a year. It was through the yoga group that she found out about Elin’s wedding – ‘Congratulations to our stalwart member Grace Meredith, whose granddaughter Elin was married at the weekend. Here’s Grace in her rather fetching rig-out and hat!’ Then, in 2006, she’d discovered that the same stalwart member of Dylan’s Quay yoga had also become a great-grandmother, after the birth of baby Beca. That was a tough one. And she decided after that to stop checking on Facebook. What was the point? It only put her through more pain. And it would be much kinder to herself to stop looking. To live in blissful ignorance. Well, maybe not blissful.
Despite years of self-development and self-forgiveness, Alys still couldn’t shift the shame she felt at her behaviour in the past. Towards both her mother and her daughter. That despite being given several chances to change and mend her ways, she’d stupendously succeeded in failing to do so. Every time. She felt such a behemoth of guilt at what she’d done that she’d decided there really never could be any going back. There were only so many times a fatted calf could be killed, after all. And so the best thing for Alys had been to detach herself permanently from her family, put it down to the hand that life had dealt her and make the best of the here and now. Because all she’d ever brought her mother and her daughter was misery. Some relationships were just never meant to be. And now it was simply too late.
Of course, if she sat and thought about it for long enough, Alys would sink into a vat of self-loathing at what a monumental fuck-up she was both as a daughter and a mother, and consequently as a grandmother, too. Which was why whenever any thoughts of her family crept inside her head, she always banished them instantly. No. She was alone in this life. End of. And she was doing okay. Dealing with the here and now, and the recent though not unfamiliar problem of finding herself a new home.
Over the years, Alys had lived all over the country, flitting from one town to the next and never putting down roots. But this last place had been fairly long-term by Alys’s standards. An abandoned one-bedroom flat above a bookie’s on Brecon high street, where she’d squatted for almost two years. She’d had magnificent views of the Beacons, access to a little communal art studio down the road and a weekly indoor market where she could set up a stall giving Tarot readings. And, of course, there were the regular AA meetings at the Baptist chapel hall. Yes, she could easily have stayed there for good, seen out her twilight years ensconced within its homely four walls. But the absent landlord, who had been living in Kuwait, had decided to turn up three days previously. He’d actually been rather civilized about the whole thing, even offering her a proper rental agreement at the going rate. She suspected he may have been worrying that she’d invoke her squatters’ rights – something she probably would have done had she been younger. But in truth she couldn’t be bothered. Instead she packed her things and left. She’d stayed a couple of nights at a hostel, before putting out feelers in the AA meetings, hoping someone might offer up a sofa or a bed. The real story didn’t feel dramatic enough to garner sympathy, so Alys made up a tale about her boyfriend turning nasty, leaving her no option other than to flee. She did a very convincing job of describing him and bringing him to life, and because nobody had ever been to Alys’s home, nobody could dispute what she said.
‘All that time you were living with him and we never met the chap once,’ said a regular member of the women’s AA group.
‘Ha, count yourself lucky,’ said Alys, quick as a fox. ‘I should’ve left him long ago, the guy didn’t have a shred of kindness in his soul.’
‘So what did you see in him?’ asked the woman, not suspiciously, just out of genuine curiosity.
‘What he lacked in compassion,’ countered Alys, ‘he made up for in the sack. The man was insatiable, my dear. Which at my age is no small thing. Excuse the pun.’
Lying came easily to Alys. In fact, she enjoyed it. Her fantasy life was so much more interesting than her real one.
At the end of today’s meeting, several people thanked her for her ‘inspirational’ share and two women asked her if she would become their sponsor. She told them she’d think about it, explaining that she already had a ‘sponsee’, the lovely Kirsty J., and she didn’t want to overstretch herself by taking on too much. She tried not to show it, but Alys was thrilled to be asked. It gave her some sense of purpose, the joy of being needed.
Kirsty was waiting patiently for Alys as the congratulators dispersed. Usually they both went for a coffee after the morning meeting, where Kirsty would unload and they’d do some work together on the Twelve Steps. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ she said now, beaming. ‘And I think you’re going to like it.’ Kirsty handed Alys a piece of notepaper bearing an address. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten,’ she said with a glint in her eye.
One thing Alys had in common with Kirsty was that she, too, loved a bit of drama. ‘Oh, okay,’ she said, smiling like an indulgent parent. Though secretly feeling intrigued.
9
Beca
The noise in the kitchen of the Dog and Fox reached decibellic heights at lunchtimes. The continuous clank of pans, thrash of plates and metallic crash of cutlery were all thrown together in a heady cacophony of shouts and banter from the staff – those cooking and those serving. And then there was the heavy ker-thunk of the two-way doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Every time they opened, they let in the boisterous bonhomie of the customers as they set about their top-notch pub grub and relaxed with copious glasses of wine. Orders came in fast and furious, and it appeared to be a lottery as to whether any food would materialize. Yet somehow it always turned up on the serving hatch as requested. Yes – the kitchen of the Dog and Fox operated like an olive-oiled and complex machine. And Beca loved being one of its cogs. She was a quiet cog, admittedly – never contributing to the deafening soundtrack of restaurant service in full flow, keeping herself to herself and observing it all from her very own dishwashing corner.
Getting the job had been a stroke of sheer right-time-right-placeness. With the exams behind her, she’d known she’d go out of her mind staying home all day. Lockdown had put her through that hell already, and she didn’t want a repeat. So she’d printed off a CV of sorts – listing her scant achievements: grade five piano and a 1,500-metre swimming badge – and headed off on the hunt for a job.
The Dog and Fox had been the fourth place she’d tried that particular June morning. When she’d entered the dining area, no one was around, but someone nearby was having an argument. She couldn’t understand what they were saying – was it Italian? Spanish? It didn’t really matter, as whoever it was had come storming out from the kitchen, pulling on their jacket and almost knocking Beca over in the process. A few seconds later, an angry man who looked about the same age as her dad only with more hair came out from the kitchen and headed for the bar. Beca had stood stock-still as she watched him pour a shot of whisky, knock it back and sigh. He seemed completely unaware that Beca was in the room and, unsure what to do, she decided the best option was to sneak out as quietly as she’d come in.
She’d only taken three steps towards the door when she heard a gruff voice say, ‘What d’you want?’
Beca felt like she’d been caught stealing or trespassing. ‘Umm … I was looking for a job, but it doesn’t matter,’ she mumbled and continued her escape.
‘Can you wash dishes?’ asked the man, a slow smile dispelling his frown. And she realized that he probably wasn’t that angry after all.
His name was Jonty. He gave her a quick demo of the monster industrial dishwasher and left her to her own devices.
Her first shift hadn’t been a huge success – she’d ended up washing most of the pots by hand. But Jonty had asked her back for a second go, nonetheless.
