Love Untold, page 6
When Greg had come along, Grace had rejoiced. The man had had a bit of oomph about him. He didn’t let Elin take herself too seriously and they’d seemed genuinely besotted with each other in those early years. And how she’d bloomed! There was no doubting that Elin had inherited Alys’s good looks, but she didn’t seem to be aware of her own beauty. Not until she met Greg. And he brought out the absolute best in her: the sex probably helped, of course. It usually did. Grace knew as well as the next person that the honeymoon period in relationships wasn’t infinite. But recently she’d noticed an unravelling, a disconnect between Elin and Greg. And she wasn’t really sure how she could help. It was at times like this that she wondered what damage Alys’s absence had inflicted on Elin’s life. Which led her to think about the letter and whether Alys had received it yet. If she had, could a reconciliation really be on the cards, and if so, would this help poor Elin at all?
Grace realized she’d not been listening when Elin suddenly snapped, ‘… and please don’t blame it on the menopause. Seems to me women aren’t allowed to just have emotions – it’s either got to be PMT or pregnancy hormones or the sodding Change of Life. Which incidentally is a stupid sodding expression.’ At which point she started crying again. ‘Sorry, Grama Grace.’
Truth was, the menopause probably did have something to do with it, Grace thought. And she tried to find some words of comfort for her unhappy granddaughter. ‘I know it might feel a bit final,’ she whispered. ‘But when it happened to me, I was really rather relieved. Like I could reclaim my body after biology had taken it hostage for all those years.’
Between sobs, Elin went on to tell Grace that she’d been in denial about it for over a year now, somehow believing it wouldn’t happen to her. That she would be the exception. But night sweats and flushes had been a regular occurrence, whilst periods had not. Elin knew the writing was on the wall, she just didn’t want to read it.
‘There, there, bach,’ soothed Grace, taking Elin’s hand. And with a heavy heart, Grace thought about Alys again, realizing this was another milestone conversation she’d never had with her own daughter.
Elin was cwtched up now on the patched-up sofa by the wood stove, which was covered in mismatched blankets and Welsh tapestry cushions. The familiarity of these surroundings seemed to be a comfort. She had always said how much she loved this kitchen: the Rayburn oven that had been there for ever and the cupboards that had never been changed or upgraded. She’d joke that Grace’s middle name was ‘make-do-and-mend’. Grace didn’t mind. She’d never been one for being flash or fancy – functionality was all that counted as far as she was concerned.
‘Thing about getting older, cariad, is you’ve just got to accept it face on. As R. S. Thomas says, we are all “in servitude to time”. No point thinking about what’s gone, or what’s coming over the hill at us. It’s where we’re at right now that counts.’
‘We’ve not been getting on for a while,’ whispered Elin, mindful that Beca could walk in at any time.
‘You’re changing the subject, bach,’ Grace gently chided her.
‘Not really – I think they’re connected – me, the menopause, Greg …’ Her voice faltered, but she cleared her throat and carried on. ‘He says I’m moody all the time, fussy, impossible to please.’
‘And are you?’
‘I dunno. Yes, probably. Beca agrees with him most of the time, so I must be.’
‘Poor lamb,’ said Grace, and Elin turned to her grandmother, burying her head in her neck for comfort. ‘That’s it, better out than in.’
Her voice shaky and tired, Elin recounted what had happened that morning. How they’d all been getting on fine; how Beca had been unusually buoyant – even singing around the house as they got ready to leave. ‘And she never does that any more.’ Greg had made them all breakfast, and he, too, had been very upbeat. ‘Though his mood swings these days are so unpredictable,’ she said. ‘I mean, he goes on about me being difficult to read, but he’s worse – I swear.’
Grace nodded, encouraging her to go on.
‘So we’d packed up the car,’ Elin said, ‘and I was just doing my usual security check – which I know irritates Greg, but he’d be laughing on the other side of his face if the house got burgled when we were away.’
‘Fair point. Why does it irritate him, then?’
‘Because I check everything four times.’
Grace hid her smile.
‘And no, I am not a compulsive obsessive.’
‘Not obsessive, just obsessed, is it, bach?’ Grace smiled. ‘Go on.’
‘I dunno, it just came from nowhere, Gram. I’d taken this phone call about … well, about something, and okay, so I was on the phone for a while, but it was important! And then when I finished, it was like he was trying to start a row, just so he could conclude it by saying he wasn’t coming. As if he’d never intended joining us in the first place.’
Whilst Elin was explaining, Grace went to the dresser, opened a drawer and took out some Rescue Remedy. She proffered it to her granddaughter.
‘No thanks, you know I don’t believe in all that nonsense.’
‘Yes, well, I do, so open wide.’
Not wanting to offend her grandmother, Elin indulged her and allowed Grace to administer the clear drops from the little brown bottle straight on to her tongue. ‘There now, carry on.’
‘Well, that was it really,’ said Elin, her sobs beginning to fade. ‘He announced it would be good for us to have a couple of days away from each other. Beca stomped off saying, “I’ll wait in the car, you coming or what?”, and I was just left staring daggers at Greg across the granite island.’
‘The what?’
‘The breakfast bar in the kitchen. Actually it’s made of marble, not granite, but for some reason—’
‘I get the picture.’
Grace watched as Elin’s eyes began closing, trying to fight sleep and failing.
‘So rude of me to just turn up then fall asleep within an hour of arriving,’ she mumbled.
‘Hush now, bach,’ said Grace. ‘You’re exhausted. You’ve had that long drive, all that pent-up anger …’
‘I feel such a failure, Grama Grace.’ Her voice was barely audible now.
Gently Grace covered her granddaughter with a blanket, just as she had when she’d been a little girl. ‘That’s it, bach,’ she whispered, ‘have a little sleep now, is it?’
Elin tried to object, but she couldn’t formulate the words and all that came out was a muffled groan.
‘… And I’ll walk down the seafront with Beca for an ice-cream. Neeta at the caff would love to see her. That’s it, hush now.’
And Grace smoothed her granddaughter’s forehead till she gave in, finally defeated by sleep.
12
Elin
When Elin awoke an hour later, the house was silent. She sat up and stretched, inhaling the comforting aroma of a lamb casserole – ‘cawl’ as Grama Grace called it – slow-cooking in the oven. She knew that Grace would have made it from scratch. Local lamb from Carwyn the butcher, with leeks and carrots from her allotment and fresh thyme and bay leaves from the herb garden. There was a pan of new potatoes to accompany the cawl, scrubbed ready for boiling, perched on the stove. They’d have come from the allotment, too. Whenever Elin thought of her grandmother, the word that always came to mind was ‘wholesome’. Grace made her feel safe, and wanted and loved. She’d been her rescuer, after all.
She ran herself a glass of water from the tap, and looked out at Grace’s steep garden, boasting the famous ugly ‘swimming pool’ at the end. She smiled, remembering how Beca used to love jumping in it when she was little. Back then, Grace still had lodgers and the house was buzzing with friendly, welcoming chaos. All three of them – her, Greg and Beca – would cram themselves into Grace’s bedroom, which she surrendered whenever they visited. Trips to see Grama Grace in the holidays were always a joy, and sorrow tugged at Elin’s heart now as she mourned the loss of those happier days.
Running a boarding house had always seemed to be Grace’s raison d’être, though she hadn’t had lodgers there for several years. Elin knew it was for the best, but she did worry sometimes that her grandmother might be lonely. Especially since John had gone into Cadwallader House. Elin loved John. He was the grandfather she’d never had and a perfect match for Grace with his sharp wit and refusal to suffer fools. That his body struggled these days to keep up with his brain was one tragedy visited upon him by old age. But at least mentally he was still the John he’d always been – his mind not lost to the ravages of vascular dementia like his poor sister, Cissie.
It didn’t matter to Elin any more that John and Grace had never married. Though there’d been a time when she’d been desperate for them to do so. For years when she was growing up she’d fantasized about their wedding day and the possibility of being a bridesmaid, holding the big frothy train of Grama Grace’s bridal gown, like the one Princess Diana had worn. They’d humoured her then, with a maybe and one day. But when she was fifteen and old enough to understand, Grace had explained the situation: that John had been married in his twenties, to a woman called Doreen Cuttle. ‘I never met her, bach, but according to your Aunty Cissie she was not the nicest of people. She left your Uncle John for another man – I think John was glad to see the back of her, to be honest. But because she was a Catholic, she refused to grant him a divorce. Even though Doreen had left him! So technically – legally – he’s still got a wife. He wouldn’t be allowed to get married.’
‘Even if he wanted to?’ Elin had asked mournfully, and Grace had answered with a sad smile, ‘Even if he wanted to, bach.’
After that, the subject of Grace and John’s wedding was never mentioned. And Elin stopped looking at bridesmaids’ dresses in her grandmother’s Grattan catalogue.
Wandering into the front room, she stood at the bay window and took in the view – the first quay in the distance was built, she believed, in the seventeenth century by philanthropist Lord Henry Dylan, after whom the town was named. The newer quay built two hundred years later echoed its predecessor, and the two unevenly lengthed arms stretched out into the sea, attempting to enclose the sweeping bay and port that had once been alive with merchant ships and traders. Now Dylan’s Quay was a thriving holiday resort, teeming with ice-cream-licking, sunhat-wearing holidaymakers, who gave the place its zest and energy. Grama Grace’s house on the much sought-after Sea Captain’s Parade had been built by a nineteenth-century ship-owner, and Elin liked to imagine his wife looking out of one of these sea-facing windows, like she did now, watching her husband sail off into the distance. She wondered for a moment whether Greg was sailing away from her and thought about the last time they’d attempted to have sex.
It had been Valentine’s Day. Five whole months ago! She’d instigated it. And it had been one of the most embarrassing nights of her marriage. Elin had never been one to give in to the pressures of commercial nonsense like Valentine’s Day, but having read an article in Woman and Home about ‘using it or losing it’, she’d decided to take the plunge and make the effort. The feature writer had gone on about the importance of keeping romance alive in long-term relationships, advising that even the smallest of gestures could make the biggest of impacts and stop potential cracks from appearing. Elin hadn’t been aware of cracks as such – tiny hairline fractures, perhaps, allowing Life and Work to hijack time that the two of them could have spent together; kisses that had lost their lustre and been replaced with polite pecks on the cheek; the failure of one to even look up when the other entered the room. Neither of them had mentioned this slow disintegration, but it was undoubtedly there. Then, having decided to sort out Greg’s sportswear drawer one evening, she’d found an unwritten Valentine’s card, still in its cellophane. She’d been more than surprised that Greg would indulge in a bit of mindless commercialism – his feelings were the same as hers when it came to Valentine’s Day – but maybe he’d been aware that things between them needed spicing up of late. Fair play. If Greg was going to make the effort, then it was only fair that she did, too. Even though she found it difficult to dredge up any enthusiasm for the mission.
Nevertheless, she’d popped to Marks and Spencer’s one evening after school to find something a little more glamorous than her day-to-day cotton briefs. Settling on a sage-green basque, she’d tried it on in the changing room and taken a selfie before WhatsApping it to Greg with the message Hey Valentine! fillet steak for dinner, and this is what’s for dessert. Okay, so she was being very cheesy, but Elin had hoped he’d take it in the ironic spirit by which it was meant. And after all, there’d been a time when she and Greg did lots of silly things like that together. Her heart had been racing when she did it – this was just so out of her comfort zone these days. Still, she did look rather good in that basque. Even if she said so herself.
The meal hadn’t quite been the romantic event she’d intended it to be. Beca, who rarely ate with them these days, decided that she fancied fillet steak actually, and of course, Elin wasn’t about to exclude her. ‘Unless you and Dad are doin’ something romantic?’ she’d laughed before miming being sick.
‘Don’t be silly, how old d’you think we are?’ Elin had joined in with the joke, dying inside when she thought of her message to Greg and now regretting ever sending it. What had made things worse was that his only reply had been Sounds good, see you after tennis. Bloody tennis.
By eight o’clock, Beca had said she couldn’t wait any longer and could she have hers now? So when Greg eventually did come home twenty minutes later, Elin was scraping Beca’s leftovers into the bin and stacking the dishwasher. The table was still laid for two.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t manage any flowers,’ he said. ‘They’d sold out everywhere.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she’d laughed, surprising herself at how disappointed she felt and wondering when he was planning on giving her the card. ‘You hungry, then?’
‘Can I be honest? No. I’m not. Maybe I’m going down with something? Still, steak’ll keep till tomorrow, won’t it?’
‘Of course. I’ll just cook mine, then.’
And there had been a moment – an excruciating moment – where, like absolute strangers, they just stared at each other – she with a couple of portobello mushrooms in her hand, and him fiddling with the toggle on his hoodie. The wiring of the basque beneath her dress had begun digging into her ribs and she wondered what on earth she’d been thinking. She prayed that Greg had forgotten about the photo – the moment had so well and truly passed. But embarrassingly he whispered, ‘And, er … once you’ve eaten, we’ll have that early night, shall we?’
He’d clearly been conscious that Beca might be within earshot. And Elin had wanted to die.
‘Sure,’ she’d said, turning away from him in an attempt to hide her mortification.
She’d eaten her steak alone in the kitchen, the other place setting untouched and the muffled sounds from the TV filtering through from the living room. The occasional laughter of a studio audience seemed to mock her solitude.
In the bedroom an hour later, they’d both stood facing each other, an overwhelming sense of obligation to this event burning between them.
‘Haven’t done this in a while,’ Greg had joked. And she’d grinned back before attempting to undress seductively and reveal the new underwear beneath. ‘Nice!’ he’d said, looking genuinely impressed, and reached forward to start kissing her. His arms around her back, they fell into their twenty-year-old predictable routine – begin with the kiss, then a hand on the boob, before reaching down to squeeze her buttocks. It was how things between them had always begun, but Elin felt herself rise up and outside of what was happening. God, I feel like a big sofa cushion, she thought as Greg continued kissing her. She had tried to put the thought out of her mind and reach into the depths for some grain of desire. But there was none to be found. She’d felt entirely empty. Devoid of all sensuousness. If anything, she’d simply felt foolish. She could have faked enjoyment, made all the right noises of encouragement till they reached the other side, were it not for the fact that Greg’s fitness watch got caught on the lacing of the basque. And then the whole process descended into farce. It wasn’t even a comical sexy moment that led from laughter into lust. It was just awkward beyond belief and, what was worse, it was irritating. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Greg, I don’t see why you have to wear that bloody thing all the time!’
‘Because it’s monitoring my heart-rate variability!’
‘And does it monitor how annoying you are as well?’
‘Oh shut up, Elin. Bloody hell. Look, have you got some scissors?’
‘In my bedside drawer.’
They’d had to move together as if in a three-legged race, edging their way carefully towards the bedside, with Greg’s hand still attached to the delicate lace. Reaching into the drawer, Elin saw with horror the tube of KY, another magazine suggestion that she’d bought into to ‘help things along’. The article, no doubt written by someone half her age, had buoyantly announced that it was perfectly normal at Elin’s age to require a little assistance. ‘Let me get them,’ Elin had snapped, attempting to hide the KY as she reached for a small pair of nail scissors and passed them to Greg. ‘Try to minimize the damage,’ she said, aware that now she was sounding like a head teacher. ‘When you cut it, I mean! This thing wasn’t cheap, y’know!’
She’d stood patiently as Greg snipped at the lace, freeing the links of his watch. She’d tried not to stare at his bald patch, which seemed to have grown infinitely bigger. Once they’d finally become disentangled, they both sat down on the bed in silence. Elin noticed that one of her suspenders had wriggled free, leaving the stocking on her right leg to sag forlornly. She thought about reattaching it, but wondered what the point would be.
‘I guess we shouldn’t force these things,’ Greg had said, before sloping off to the bathroom. His pee seemed to go on interminably and Elin sighed to herself at the thought that this had become the soundtrack to their intimacy.
