Friday 3rd April 2009 – 8 p.m.
Gwenno Davies stood aside, almost reluctantly, to allow them both access to the cavernous reception hall where the log fire was busily spitting out green flames reflecting on the unfashionably papered walls. This time, her riding crop quivered in her right hand as she looked the new arrival up and down.
Jason stared back at her with undisguised puzzlement. One day, Helen promised herself, she’d make a painting of that woman’s face and throw it into the fire to watch it burn, bit by bit. But that wouldn’t be enough to shift someone who was clearly ensconced here for life. Part of the fabric were she and her husband. Like fag burns and other dodgy stains. At least the other old loony acknowledged her, despite the fact she couldn’t converse in Welsh. At least he kept out of the way from dawn to dusk, pick-picking old leaves off whatever tree or bush he could reach, yet deliberately letting the swimming pool’s contents grow thicker and blacker with them and any fallen ones as the months went by.
“Mr Flynn will be down now,” snapped her enemy. “He said for you to wait.”
Her little bit of power. Saddo.
“No worries,” said Jason breezily. Although he’d turned down the chance of a lift back to Swansea, by the end of the evening, he could still change his mind.
Next came the soft, regular tread of suede on carpet. Thank God those legs now clad in dark blue trousers still seemed steady, and Monty Flynn’s pock-marked skin not quite so pink as when he’d first arrived back from the pub. His odd socks, however, were still the same but the maroon velvet smoking jacket was new.
The moment he spotted Jason, his smile widened. The same smile that had brought her here too far inland from the sea country that she loved. He turned to her; his irregular teeth still on show. “I’m sure, Helen, that Mr Robbins could do with a nice strong cup of tea.”
Mr Flynn laid a long-fingered hand on her shoulder. “Off you go.”
Helen obeyed, picking up her bag, wondering if Jason, in her shoes, would be treated any differently.
Someone had got to the kitchen first, for the kettle was beginning to boil, letting out its usual thin scream. Then came The Rat’s voice as she beat Helen to the mugs. “I don’t much care for that young man out there,” she said. “Fit he is, that’s for sure. I can tell by his eyes, see? The way he looked me up and down as if I was one of them killing ewes at the mart.”
Killing ewes?
Helen flinched.
“If that’s not proper manners, I don’t know what is,” the woman went on, now in full spate, while Helen appropriated the tea-bag tin and dropped a tea bag into one of the mugs. “And the Lord knows who else’ll be turning up next Thursday. They could be criminals come for a nosey round, for all I know.” Her deep sigh also delivered what Helen hoped was the start of a death rattle. “You being a girl on your own here – think about it. I know Mr Davies is of the same mind.”
The sudden reference to that wrinkly in a filthy old boiler suit, made Helen add too much hot water. Her onlooker tutted while fetching milk from the fridge. Beyond the locked windows, dusk had deepened too suddenly. So had Helen’s sense of claustrophobia.
“I went to see Aunty Betsan yesterday, for some decent recipes,” she volunteered as casually as she could. A deliberate change of subject while putting her shopping in the fridge. She was up for a fight, if need be, adding, “so you won’t be able to complain about my catering any more.”
Immediately, the temperature inside the already cool room seemed to drop. The Rat set down the milk then pushed her forefinger’s knobbly middle knuckle into Helen’s breastbone. “How long is it you’ve bin here?”
“You should know. A month. Why?”
“And how often have you called on her?”
“Only twice.” Which was the truth. “Why?”
“And has she bewitched you yet? Given you fresh-baked Welsh cakes as a parting gift? Tell me.” The woman prodded even harder until Helen grabbed the finger and prised it away.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”
“Well, let me tell you, my girl, she hides potions and poisons and uses them as punishment.”
“Punishment? What for?”
Gwenno Davies drew closer, keeping her hands to herself, but her dry, thin lips almost brushed Helen’s cheek. Meanwhile, laughter eked out from the reception area. Monty Flynn on top form, enjoying himself with his new recruit. Helen felt an all-too-familiar pang of jealousy.
“Why Betsan’s suspicious of anyone who treads the path to her door. I should know. But I’m not alone thinking this. Oh, no. Not saying. Except those who’ve had food there, or walked away with something she’s made, come to no good,” Gwenno said.
Helen tried to rekindle the image of the woman who’d been so eager to help. No way was this horrible accusation tying up. Instead, “She’s done me too much harm. Her and her mouth,” came immediately to mind.
“Surely the police would have investigated her by now, if that had been true,” Helen said.
“Oh, they have, but Betsan charms them, doesn’t she? Nothing ever proved, see.” The Rat backed away to listen in on the other conversation. “Travellers go on, eat other food from elsewhere. Think of it. How easy…”
“Stop!” Helen set the full mug on to a little plastic tray and added milk, sugar and a stray cup cake. “This is crazy, and I’m fed up with all the gossip round here. Why can’t everyone just get on with their lives? You’d think people would be grateful to live in an area like this. Ever been to Salford? My cousin took a job there last year. Knifed in the back, he was and lucky to survive.”
“Ask Mr Davies if you don’t believe me,” she countered, deliberately closing the door so Helen trying to balance the little tray, couldn’t pass through. “And you can be sure that when these so-called writers turn up, I’ll be putting them straight.”
“I’m sure you will. Now please open this thing. I’ve supper to get, as well you know.”
Grudgingly, the woman obliged, letting tea be delivered to the Londoner now relaxed in one of the two deep-buttoned chairs by the fire. Mr Flynn’s smile was in overdrive. “Helen, in case you don’t know it, I swear to God you’re looking at the next Max Byers. Jason’s got this great idea for a début thriller.” He enthusiastically slapped both arms of his chair. “It’s got the lot. And he’s just agreed to count me in when the squillions come rolling into his bank account. Just wish he’d sent me something to read beforehand.”
Another pang of jealousy hit Helen’s heart. The Irishman had never shown any interest in her preparatory sketches for paintings. She then told herself to get over it. What did it matter what he thought?
Meanwhile, the budding author’s cheeks had reddened with excitement, and she felt mean to deny his moment in the sun. However, at uni, she’d spent three weeks learning about being a freelance. How a properly drawn-up contract between patron and client was considered paramount. Perhaps in private, she should warn Jason of the dangers of such a loose arrangement, especially after what he’d admitted in the car. Homeless and redundant, he was vulnerable. But was he also just plain unlucky?
“Well, I’d better get out of my funeral suit and start making that spag bol to celebrate,” Helen said instead.
“Ah, the angel of Heron House has spoken,” chuckled her boss. And as he did so, leant forwards to pick up the Metro that Jason had left on the coffee table between them. “Life in The Big Smoke, eh?” He skimmed through its well-thumbed pages. “You won’t get me in any big city even if this place went up in flames and I was left standing in my pyjamas.” Then all at once he stopped. Peered at the last-but-one page, his fingers stiffening as he did so.
“What’s up?” Helen asked, used to his mood changes, but not this sudden. “Is it something you’ve just read?”
Without answering, Monty Flynn slapped the pages together, folded them tight and stuffed the bundle into his smoking-jacket pocket.
“I’m not to be disturbed. Understood?” he snapped, before springing from his armchair and striding towards the archway leading to the stairs.