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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Four women, one sleepy village ... It's time to give life a whirl. The Pembrokeshire village of Morlan is undoubtedly a beautiful place to live, but four of its female residents find themselves in search of something more. Gwen seems to have it all but in reality her marriage is on the rocks. Meg has struggled with her health and her love life has barely got a pulse, but is she ready to shake things up? Recently widowed Ivy is fed up, but at seventy-two can she put herself first and revamp more than just her home? Mum of two Summer dearly loves her young children but is desperate to escape the sleep-deprived fog that has settled over her. The announcement that pole dancing exercise classes are coming to the village hall offers something fresh and exciting to each of them, as well as the discovery of previously hidden strengths. As the group come together, a bond is formed that will allow them to overcome the trials and tribulations that lie ahead. 'Poles Apart is an absolute joy to read and a reminder of the value of female friendship' Helga Jensen, author of Fly me to Paris 'This book is an absolute tonic. If you need a lift, read it!' Luisa A. Jones, author of The Broken Vow
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3
POLES APART
ANNA AND JACQUI BURNS4
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To Harry Edward Conway, who encapsulates all our hopes for the future.
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Contents
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Pole Dancing Fitness Classes!
With Feather Starr
Find your inner goddess
A chance to lose the pounds, firm up those problem areas and spice up your sex life!
Only fierce, fearless and feisty women allowed
Morlan Village Hall Thursdays 7.30–8.30 p.m. Starting 10th April
Leave your inhibitions at the door …
8
Chapter One
Gwen
Gwen puts her foot down, taking her chances on the treacherous bends in the steep cliff road. Her white Audi A5 convertible is totally impractical on these bloody village roads. She’s lost count of the times she’s clipped her wing mirrors on some overgrown hedgerow. When Gareth told her to choose a new car for her fiftieth birthday, vanity got the better of her. She saw herself driving to St Davids, the roof down, and the salty sea air ruffling her hair. The gasps of envy she would draw from the residents of Morlan Village. Truth is, Pembrokeshire weather is erratic at the best of times and in the last six months, she’s only had the top down once and her hair ended up like a particularly unkempt Bearded Collie.
Up ahead, Gwen can see a tractor trundling up the hill, Gwion Morgan at the wheel with his ruddy cheeks and flat cap. He is turning into the lower field and, if she’s lucky, she’ll miss the back of his tractor by a whisker. The post office is closing in ten minutes and Lydia has a pile of her trashy clothes to send back. With the Easter Bank holiday weekend looming, Gwen is determined to get these sent off. As if she doesn’t have enough to do. She feels like Lydia’s personal assistant sometimes rather than her mother. Never mind, this time next year Lydia will be in uni. God willing! She barely did any work for her GCSE or AS levels, pleading how 10tough it was on her generation with Covid. Tough? Gwen thought back to Lydia lying in bed until midday and then joining her surfer friends mid-afternoon, her exams the very last thing on her mind.
Gwion draws into the field, blissfully unaware of how close he’s avoided a collision. Gwen glances at the sea to her left, grey and sullen today. When she and Gareth first found the plot of land above the village of Morlan, they’d been enchanted, gasping every time they caught a glimpse of the coastline, marvelling at their good fortune. Now, she barely noticed. She supposes if you slept with George Clooney every night, you’d soon get used to him, those melty brown eyes having little effect on you after a while.
Gwen reverses into the small space next to Morlan’s post office, reaches for the packages on the back seat. Feeling a twinge in her back, Gwen curses the fact the car is a two-door. The bell rings behind her as she enters the musty little shop.
‘You’ve missed the last post, I’m afraid,’ Hannah Thomas says with glee. ‘They won’t go until Tuesday now.’
‘Oh, well,’ Gwen smiles, ‘at least they’re out of the house.’
She’s far too houseproud, of course. The price for owning the biggest and most ostentatious in Morlan. All the others, two hundred or so, are tiny little fishermen’s cottages, clinging like lichen to the cliff. Some have been modernised, with appendages clad in that ubiquitous grey. Grey is everywhere these days, every wall in every new build, every show home in that estate in Haverfordwest she and Gareth had visited when they were looking to buy somewhere bigger in Pembrokeshire.
Gwen’s house is not grey. It’s a riot of colour, rich jewel-red walls, modern navy units in the kitchen, emerald green sofas and scatter cushions in shades of turmeric, terracotta and clashing pinks. It’s Gwen’s way of injecting a bit of colour into her life. She loves to survey her territory every morning and it is her11territory. This architect-designed house with windows reaching from the bottom to the very top, maximising the spectacular view. She’d had to have her Norwegian spruce Christmas tree specially delivered from John Lewis in Cardiff at an eye-watering price. She’d hidden the credit card bill from Gareth – he’d have had a coronary. Totally worth it when she sees people stopping whilst driving up over Morlan’s hill to reach the main road to Fishguard. They often point to their house and Gwen feels a glow of pride just imagining their conversation. ‘Wow! What an incredible house! Must have cost a fortune.’
Gwen’s nose tingles. Burnt coffee. Hannah Thomas has tried to expand the post office and has a few rickety tables in a corner covered with wipeable floral tablecloths and stainless-steel Ikea pots in the middle. Fancies herself as a barista. She has slabs of Bara Brith, rich fruit cake, on the counter and some dry and floury Welsh cakes. Neither look particularly appetising. An elderly couple sip their coffees. Visitors for the day, by the looks of it, doing the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path. Their oversized rucksacks, stuffed, no doubt, with Swiss army knives, guy ropes and Marmite sandwiches, are propped against the post office counter. Morlan is Welsh for lagoon, and this is what draws the visitors, the shallow pool protected by a wall of rocks at the headland. Lydia and her friends are always swimming there. Lots of the teenage boys from the village enjoy a spot of ‘tombstoning’ further up. Gwen was horrified when she learnt what it meant. It puts her worries about Lydia vaping with her mates into perspective. The lagoon seems to have become the property of the teenagers of Morlan. Gwen had only swum there once about fourteen years ago when they’d first moved into the new house. It was freezing cold and Gwen remembered screaming when she stood on a piece of seaweed. Gareth laughed his head off. Now, 12he barely raises a smile at anything Gwen does.
‘So, more packages to go back?’ Hannah says superfluously as she opens the side window when Gwen hands them over to her. Can she inject any more venom into that question? Gwen knows she thinks her children are spoilt.
‘Kids, you know what they’re like,’ Gwen sighs. She gazes absentmindedly at the posters on the wall as Hannah keys in some numbers very officiously. That old one about protecting your passwords. Another about travel insurance. She and Gareth had booked to go on that Caribbean cruise in the spring of 2020. Thank God they’d had their money back. That holiday cottage in Kendal last year was not the same. Jasmine, their eldest, had refused to come, wanting to spend time with her boyfriend and they’d taken Lydia and that awful friend of hers from school, Sophie, who laughs like an apoplectic donkey. It rained all week and she and Gareth had exhausted all conversation after the first day. They had so little in common these days. He could never switch off from the business.
‘Seen this?’ Hannah asks, pointing a finger at the poster nearest the counter.
‘Pole Dancing Fitness Classes,’ Gwen reads. ‘In Morlan? Feather Starr. That can’t be her real name. Come to a sleepy Welsh village to inject some life into it, is it? Trying to modernise us Neanderthals?’
‘It’s sparked quite a lot of interest. I said I’d keep a list of names for Miss Starr. She’s quite a character. There’s about half a dozen who’ve already signed up.’ Hannah tilts her head to one side. ‘Fancy it, then, Gwen?’
Gwen snorts, ‘As if!’ She conjures up a picture of Feather Starr, with her pink hair and nose piercings and an arse you could balance a tea tray on. ‘What about you, Hannah? Fancy thrusting your stuff around a pole?’ 13
Hannah shakes her head. ‘I only had the hip replacement six months ago. Besides, it’s not my cup of tea. It’s more for your age group – fifties – those who need to shift a few pounds.’
Bitch! Gwen snatches the receipt from Hannah and heads outside, the door rattling behind her. She won’t let that woman and her catty remarks ruin her day. She inhales deeply and stops to gaze at the sea. She shouldn’t take it for granted. If her schoolfriends could see her, wouldn’t they just envy all she’s achieved? Make no mistake, Gareth wouldn’t have got half so far in the business without her. The third biggest car showroom in South Wales. She’s an ideas person; Gareth is more practical, lacking in imagination. He used to do up cars in their garage on the side of the house on the estate they lived in in Haverfordwest. The neighbours complained bitterly. The place looked like a scrapyard. But Gareth was good at fixing cars and doing them up. He made a tidy profit but it was small-time. It was Gwen who saw the potential in that warehouse outside town. It was she who persuaded the bank manager to loan them the money. She also did all the advertising and saw to the books. It was Gwen, too, who convinced Gareth to buy some electric vehicles, long before anyone else realised they were a ‘thing’. Now Gareth thinks he’s Elon Musk.
As Gwen heads up the hill, stopping every few yards as she passes another car coming down, she thinks about the pole dancing. Is it seedy? It is certainly a novel way to tone up. It will also piss off Lydia and Jasmine and that has to be worth something! Youngsters these days think they have the monopoly on sex, believing their parents dead from the waist down. To be honest, she and Gareth might as well be. It’s ages since they’ve had sex. God, it was at their neighbours Joe and Sasha’s wedding. She’d had a few too many Proseccos and it got her in the mood. 14It was partly watching the happy couple on the dance floor and realising how they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
She and Gareth used to be like that. She does a quick mental calculation as she pulls in to let a motorhome pass. For God’s sake, on these roads! Joe and Sasha’s wedding was in September. That was seven months ago. Was it really that long?
Gwen slides the car onto the drive and rushes upstairs. Perhaps this pole dancing class is exactly what she and Gareth need. She wonders what the appropriate attire for a class like that is. Tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt?
Her dressing room always gives her a thrill; it’s her favourite room in the house. It has recently been redecorated, with navy and gold roses inspired by the Palace of Versailles. Eighty quid a roll at Laura Ashley. She searches through a drawer and finds a red leotard. She hasn’t worn it for a few years. It was when Zumba was all the rage. Pausing, she wonders if it still fits. She can always wear leggings underneath. Peeling off her jumper and white jeans, she slips, or rather rolls and yanks, the leotard over her thighs. Jeez, she looks a mess. More sausage than sexy. Squidgy mounds of flesh have escaped at the top of her thighs, and she looks at least five months’ pregnant. The dreaded menopausal middle! There’s nothing for it. It has to be thrown and she’ll order something new, more flattering.
‘Oh. My. God!’ Suddenly Gwen hears hoots of laughter from behind, followed by the unmistakable sound of a convulsive donkey. Lydia and that daft friend of hers. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Mum? Have you completely lost your mind?’
Gwen flushes ‘What are you doing in here? What do you want?’
‘Sophie and I are going into Haverfordwest. Can I have some money? I need to get something for Saturday night.’
‘What am I, your cash machine?’ 15
‘God, Mum, you always say that. It’s soo old.’ Lydia rolls her eyes.
‘What’s happening Saturday night, anyway?’
‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten? The party?’ More eye rolling. ‘You promised to drive us there.’
Gwen really can’t remember. She doesn’t know whether it’s her menopausal brain or Lydia playing some gaslighting trick on her. Gwen reaches for her dressing gown and then her bag, handing over three twenty-pound notes. Lydia keeps her hand open.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ Gwen sighs and Lydia trots out. ‘What time are you back?’ Lydia doesn’t answer.
Gwen hears the pair of them laughing as they descend the stairs, and she vows that she will not be humiliated again. She will go to that pole dancing fitness class and say hello to a new, svelte and sexy body shape. In the meantime, she’d better get the shepherd’s pie on. Gareth will be home in a couple of hours.
Chapter Two
Meg
‘I’d like a glass of Merlot,’ Meg says to the waitress, ‘please.’
‘Small or large?’
She wants a large. She needs a large tonight. ‘Small, please, I’m driving.’
Meg turns back to the man sitting opposite her who winces.
‘Red wine with fish.’ He grimaces as if she’d just let rip at the dinner table.
‘I’ve been fancying a red all day,’ she says, trying to remain placid with every fibre of energy left in her. This guy is really testing her patience.
‘A Sancerre is more appropriate,’ he offers. ‘The Loire wines really benefit from the continental climate.’
‘I’ll make it a Sancerre, then,’ she orders begrudgingly.
Meg sips from the glass, keeping her head low so he can’t see her roll her eyes. Her date for the night thinks he’s some kind of wine aficionado just because his mate from uni grew up on a vineyard.
‘Mmm,’ she pretends. It tastes like wine to her. A nice crisp white. Is there really any more to it than that?
‘The citrus notes really complement a fish like bass …’
She should have known this was a mistake. His Tinder profile 17picture was of him in sunglasses on a vineyard, posing with a glass of red, fingers carefully curled around the stem, not the bowl of the glass. Gregory Jones. Twenty-six, Pontypridd. Software engineer.
It’s never going to work. Greg and Meg? For a start, they sound like characters from a children’s TV show. Secondly, if he mentions his summer backpacking across the Champagne region one more time, she’s going to throw this wine in his face. Then she’ll see how much he really likes the citrus notes.
Tinder dating really is a frightful landscape, especially for someone from a village like Morlan. Men in Pembrokeshire between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five seem to be a niche market. The ones that aren’t already married or taken are usually single for a reason: too weird or too much of a jackass to find someone to settle down with. And to be fair, Meg knows most of them from her schooldays and it’s hard to find someone sexy when you remember them wetting themselves in front of the year six badminton class because they were scared of the shuttlecock.
Meg’s dating life looks like a supercut from a bad romcom of awful-date clichés, complete with comedy music. And so she’s decided to expand her Tinder search, to a fifty-mile radius. Is that too far to travel for the man of her dreams?
It seems she isn’t going to find him with Greg, anyway. She watches him prodding his steak with his knife, inspecting it as though he’s Jamie fucking Oliver.
‘Barely any marbling in this rib-eye,’ he says with disdain. Pompous prick. They are in a Marston’s inn off the A48, what does he expect? The menu has come laminated and covered in stains. It’s hardly going to be a Michelin-worthy experience. The pub was chosen because it was precisely halfway between the two of them. Meg wishes she hadn’t bothered now.
They pass the date with small talk about jobs but neither of 18them can kid themselves this is going anywhere.
‘What do you usually look for in a date, then?’ Meg asks as they wait for the bill, the conversation completely dry by now.
‘Blonde, petite, nice eyes, good tits.’ He cackles as if he’s said something hysterical. ‘I’m a boobs man. Love a curvy figure.’ He holds his hands up, faux innocently.
Even though Meg has zero interest in him, she can’t help her heart sink just a little bit. That definitely isn’t her.
The question doesn’t come back at her, as Greg continues to drone about his own life. Meg knows exactly how she’d have answered, though.
Someone that’s interested in other people.
It seems to Meg that everyone is so wrapped up in their own lives these days, glued to tiny screens where they compete with others to post the best picture or funniest video, and compare themselves without really thinking about other people. She’s been through the most monumental changes in the last few years, and yet those same people she’d been to school with just continue on their mission, sharing pictures of them living their best lives or at least pretending to. No one cares what other people are going through, as long as they are doing better than them and can share their #goals.
She knows she sounds bitter, and Meg really tries to put the melancholy aside most days. That is all behind her now. It’s just wasting nights with men like Greg that makes her feel disheartened.
‘I’ll pay twenty quid on my card,’ Greg says, handing it over to the waitress. Meg checks the bill. Thirty-five pounds in total. How generous of him!
‘The rest on here,’ she pays the remainder and slips her card back in her purse. ‘Thanks for tonight,’ she turns to Greg.
‘Glad you enjoyed,’ he says. Meg’s repulsion is growing with 19each second. How can she extract herself as quickly and painlessly as possible?
‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so I’d better hit the road.’
He stands up and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Me too. I’ll go to the loo first,’ he says. Meg walks out to the car park alone, noting that neither of them had even pretended there was a chance they’d see each other again. Should that make her sad? Is she such a lousy date that she isn’t worth a second one?
It’s ridiculous. She doesn’t even want a second one with Greg.
The drive back to Morlan is long and boring. Meg listens to Dua Lipa on the one radio station her car can pick up, singing along badly. Her car must be the only one left in existence that still has a tape player and roll-up windows. It will be in a museum one day. It was her grandfather’s, then her mother’s, and now hers.
She crests the hill to Morlan, past the big Beverly Hills houses on the left, and down towards the sleepy village. She loves this time of night when the beach is quiet, all tourists packed up in their tents on Morlan’s campsite. She parks up outside the post office and lets herself through the door with her key.
‘Is that you, love?’ Hannah’s voice calls down the stairs.
‘Yeah, Gran.’ She moves to the back of the shop and steps through the little door that leads to the back office and the rest of the house behind.
‘Do you fancy a cuppa? I was just about to put the kettle on.’ Hannah pauses by the sink, already in her nightie and pink dressing gown, or ‘Hollywood robe’ as she calls it.
‘No thanks, I was thinking of going for a run now,’ she says, kissing Hannah on the cheek.
‘Dare I ask how it went?’
Meg sighs.
‘That bad? I knew it wasn’t good if you were home before 208 p.m. You didn’t fancy going home with him?’ She raises her eyebrows in an expression that makes Meg laugh.
‘God, no. He was a bit too fancy for me.’ She rushes to carry her gran’s tea to the table for her.
‘No one’s too fancy for my girl,’ Hannah admonishes.
‘You know I wouldn’t do that anyway,’ Meg sits opposite her at the little kitchen table. She prises the biscuit tin open and retrieves a Malted Milk.
‘Sleep with someone on the first date? Don’t knock it. It worked for me and your grandad.’
‘That’s an anecdote I could do without,’ Meg laughs. ‘I’m not ready yet … to sleep with someone … it doesn’t feel right after the operation.’
‘You’ll have to put yourself out there one day,’ Hannah says. ‘You never used to be this shy.’
‘Yes, well, a lot of things have changed, haven’t they?’ Meg suddenly wants to change the topic of conversation.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Hannah reaches across and strokes Meg’s hands. She smiles, unable to stay irritated at her grandmother for too long. ‘I just wanted to say you know I think you’re beautiful, don’t you? Any guy would be lucky to have you, with or without clothes on.’
Meg groans, this time good-naturedly.
‘Ooh, that reminds me … speaking of taking your clothes off … look at these posters we had through yesterday. Someone called Feather Starr dropped them off.’
‘Feather what? That can’t be a real name.’ Meg takes the flyer from Hannah and reads aloud. ‘Pole dancing fitness classes … In Morlan village hall? I can’t imagine she’ll get many attendees. Most of the women round here count the school run as exercise.’
‘You could go to get the numbers up,’ Hannah suggests. ‘Or at 21least to give me some entertainment in my old age.’
‘If I can go in my gym gear, then maybe … Although I don’t know if I fancy seeing the women of Morlan gyrating around poles in the village hall.’ Meg can’t think of herself gyrating anywhere, but she does like the idea of a new fitness class. She was the first to try hot yoga when a studio moved into Haverfordwest a few months back. Keeping her body in motion helps to keep her mind off things, and keeps her healthy, or as healthy as she can be.
‘You’d better get your run in before it gets too dark out there,’ Hannah prompts.
‘Thanks, Gran,’ Meg says, going upstairs to get changed. She gives the armpits of her dating dress a quick sniff, deciding she won’t have to wash it before wearing it again. That would be a waste of valuable time after her crappy date with disappointing Greg.
She chooses tight black leggings and a loose T-shirt with an open fleece jacket. She’s an expert at picking clothes now, emphasising her bottom and drawing attention away from her stomach. That’s the key. The more layers she has on, the less likely people are to notice the one underneath to hold her stoma bag in place.
On second thoughts, maybe pole dancing classes aren’t a good idea. What if she has to take layers off, or worse, move upside down? Then her top might fall up and reveal her entire stomach contents collecting in her bag. No one wants to see that. Come hell or high water, Meg will make sure no one catches even a glimpse of what’s under her top.
Still, her life could do with a shake-up. She could always feign injury or an emergency that means she has to leave the class if she’s asked to do anything that would reveal too much. She’d had to do that at hot yoga, in fact. 22
Meg relishes the cold air on her face as she ventures outside. Gran always keeps the house at twelve million degrees. She picks up her pace and jogs the path to the beach. She can’t run on the sand, but the little path follows the beach closely, and leads straight up the hill to the lagoon. Meg loves it, as long as she can dodge the canoodling teenage couples on the benches.
Meg has lived with her grandmother at the post office for six months now. She moved in just before her gran’s hip replacement. Things were getting a little bit of a squeeze at her mother’s house, especially since Graham had moved in with them. She loved Graham, but a twenty-six-year-old needed her own space. Only instead of getting the cool city apartment she’d dreamt of as a child, Meg moved in to help her grandmother, both at home and in the post office. That city pad seems a long way off sometimes, especially on her post office salary.
One day, she’ll do something better with her life, something more exciting. One day she’ll get out of Morlan and find the man of her dreams. One day she’ll give uni another go, get that journalism degree she really wants. And she won’t have to drop out this time due to sickness. One day Meg will make it in the world.
But for now, she can try pole dancing.
Chapter Three
Ivy
Ivy sits back on her haunches and surveys the living room floor. Yesterday, she’d ripped up that grubby, mottled-green carpet and it’s now rolled up against the shed, ready for the tip. Hiring a sanding machine, she’d stripped the old varnish off, working late into the night and coughing on the dusty fumes. Her arm muscles ached and her back felt sore, but she’d carried on.
Today, she’s applied the new varnish, marvelling at the natural wood floors. It has turned out better than she expected. Ivy had spotted a beige Scandi-style rug that would look perfect in the living room. She loves neutral colours, that pared-back style. She’d have some macramé plant holders, a geometric bookcase. It’s exciting. For the first time in her life, she is making her own decisions, doesn’t have to defer to anyone.
Jim would have hated it … but he isn’t here any more. Everywhere she looks, there are traces of him: in the heavy dark cabinet holding his trophies – he was cricket obsessed and played for Haverfordwest back in the day – in the half-finished shelving in the dining room, even in the imprint of his heavy bottom on their ancient brown sofa, almost as if he’s just popped out to the shop for a newspaper. They’ve lived in this house for over forty-five years, just a year after they’d married, brought up Matthew here. 24
‘Co-eee! It’s only me.’ Wendy, her next-door neighbour stands in the hallway. ‘What the heck is going on here?’
‘I took the carpet up and thought I’d varnish the floorboards. Do you like it?’
‘Well, it’s certainly different. Won’t it be a bit cold in winter?’
‘I’m going to put a rug down. It freshens the place up, don’t you think?’ Ivy says, deflated.
‘You should have mentioned you were doing this. Martin would happily have done it for you.’
‘I wanted to see if I could do it myself.’ Ivy smiles broadly. ‘And it turns out I could.’
‘Gosh, Ivy, you should be resting at your age, not tearing up floorboards. I wonder what Jim would have made of it.’
‘Did you want something, Wendy?’
‘I just wanted to know if you need a lift down to the village hall tonight.’
Ivy looks puzzled.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. The WI’s first meeting back after lockdown and you’ve forgotten.’
‘I’m shattered after sorting this floor …’
‘They’ve got someone from Milford tonight to give that talk on quilting. It’ll be nice to see everyone again.’
Ivy gives an inward shudder. She might have just turned seventy-two but a Friday night sitting with Morlan’s branch of the WI is the last thing she feels like doing. There’s that new Norwegian thriller on Channel 4 and Ivy’s looking forward to a glass of red. Wendy is a decade younger than her, but she fits like a glove with some of the fusty old ladies catching up on the latest episode of Midsomer Murders or chatting about the joys of tessellating tile patterns. Ivy’s an ardent supporter of her fellow females, but she wants more excitement in her life. The WI had 25gone online through Covid and it gave Ivy the perfect excuse to miss meetings, pleading that she couldn’t get on with computers. It couldn’t be further from the truth, but since Jim’s death, she can’t really concentrate on anything for long.
‘So, come on, then, run a comb through your hair and get a jacket on. Martin will be taking us in ten minutes. You’ve got some varnish on your nose.’
There really is no arguing with Wendy, Ivy thinks, as Martin drives them down the hill to the village hall. They could easily have walked, but her overbearing neighbour wouldn’t hear of it. No wonder Martin’s so introverted; he can’t get a word in edgeways.
‘I was telling Ivy, Martin, that you would have done the flooring for her. Not that it needed doing, mind you. That carpet was perfectly good.’
‘It was down for twenty years, Wendy. Besides, I felt like a change.’
‘All I’m saying is that you don’t need to feel alone now Jim’s gone, rattling around in that cottage of yours. You’re welcome to come to us. A woman on her own is a target for all sorts. Predators, scammers, murderers, rapists. Don’t open the door to just anyone, Ivy. You never know who to trust. You hear of old ladies being mugged every day.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for axe-wielding murderers, shall I? I’m not old, anyway.’ Ivy catches Martin’s eye in the rear-view mirror, but his face is inscrutable. How on earth does he put up with her? But people might have thought that about her and Jim.
Outside the light is fading, and Ivy gazes at the walkers on the beach, a group of teenagers heading for the lagoon. The sea is miles out of reach, a thin line of darkness on the horizon. Every moment the view from Morlan changes, no two seconds the same.
Matthew had tried to get her to move to Bristol to be near him, 26but she loves her independence. Matthew has too much of his father in him. Physically, they are built the same and cut from the same cloth. Women are there to serve them. She does feel guilty thinking like this now Jim has gone, but it’s true.
‘Ooh, the car park’s full tonight,’ Wendy comments, as they pull up outside the village hall. ‘Everyone is glad to be out by the looks of things. It should be over by nine, Martin.’ She kisses him peremptorily on the lips and Ivy imagines Martin’s peaceful house for the next two hours, not without some envy.
It really is quite jolly when they enter the hall. Colourful bunting is strung above the stage and a long table is filled with cupcakes, whilst two of the regulars are pouring cups of tea. The cavernous room booms with the noisy chatter of women pleased to be out socialising after a couple of years of intermittent lockdown, in out, shake it all about.
‘Welcome back, Ivy, Wendy.’ Cynthia, the Treasurer, smiles warmly. There is an awkward moment where they decide whether hugs are allowed and, although things are back to near normal, there is still uncertainty in these early days.
‘How have you been keeping, Ivy? I was so sorry to hear about Jim.’ She shakes her head in sympathy. ‘It must be nearly two years now. I was telling Mike earlier that he passed right at the beginning, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, two years next week. I’m OK, though.’
‘Covid. A terrible thing.’
‘Well, Jim didn’t look after himself, as you know,’ Ivy says. She remembers his nightly visits to The Mariners, eating fat like it was going out of fashion, smoking. He swore he’d given up, but his yellowing fingernails and the lingering smell of tobacco told a different story. Ivy is grateful when Sally comes over and pours her a cup of tea. 27
‘Help yourself to a cupcake, Ivy. Butterscotch or strawberries and cream?’ Firmly, she takes Ivy’s elbow and steers her away.
‘Thank you,’ mouths Ivy.
Soon, the quilter, Delyth Parry, takes her position in the middle of the circle of chairs, a ruddy-faced, practical woman who is so enthusiastic Ivy actually enjoys listening to her extolling the virtues of quilting.
‘Quilting can be traced back to medieval times …’ she begins, her neck reddening with all eyes on her.
It’s nice to be out of the house, Ivy thinks, and absence has made her view her fellow members kindlier. As the women gasp with ‘Oohs’ and ‘Ahhs’ as Delyth holds up her intricately patterned patchwork pieces, Ivy’s phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Matthew. He calls at seven-thirty every night like clockwork. Sometimes Ivy thinks being electronically tagged would give her more freedom. She punches in a quick message, ‘At a WI meeting. Will call later xx.’
Suddenly, there are peals of polite laughter as the quilter holds up a Greek-themed quilt, with homoerotic images of athletic male nudes with penises longer than their swords. Sally sniggers next to her, but Wendy sits stony-faced on her other side.
Later, as the women drift out, Ivy waits in the foyer as Wendy pops to the loo.
‘There’s a position for Secretary becoming available, Ivy,’ says Cynthia creeping up behind her. ‘It might give you something to do.’
Sometimes, Ivy wishes people would stop interfering in her life and trying to find her ‘something to do’. As if without a husband, her life has no purpose.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Well, we’ll be voting at the next meeting so don’t think too long. I hope you can come along.’ 28
‘Oh, I will,’ Ivy says. There’s someone doing a talk on upcycling old furniture and Ivy thinks it is definitely something she would enjoy.
Ivy picks up one of the flyers spreadeagled on the table in the entrance. Pole dancing exercise classes. Well, that’s novel. Feather Starr is obviously a pseudonym.
‘Disgusting!’ Wendy says, reading the flyer from over her shoulder. ‘It’s the talk of the village. Who in their right mind would join something like that? This is not the place. Haverfordwest, Carmarthen, maybe, but Morlan?’
‘How did it go, love?’ Martin asks, as Wendy opens the car door.
‘I think I’ll walk,’ says Ivy.
‘No, you will not,’ Wendy grabs her firmly. ‘It’s pitch-black. Have some common sense.’
The glow from her lamp greets Ivy as she enters the cottage and she smiles at her new floor with satisfaction. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she gazes out at the sea, the tide now in, the water shimmering in the light of the half-moon. Ireland is the other side, the county of Cork. She’s always wanted to go. Nothing’s stopping her now. Just like nothing is stopping her joining the pole dancing exercise class. She watched a YouTube video once about it and admired the athleticism of the women winding and twirling their bodies into impossible shapes around the pole. It was beautiful. And it must be so good for your flexibility, your joints. Ivy has always thought yoga seemed a bit tame. She glugs her drink and grins, imagining Wendy’s face when she finds out.
Chapter Four
Summer
‘Mam! Mam, mam, mam, mam, maaaaaam!’
The little shout comes from the room next door. Summer’s heart rate immediately speeds up, rousing her from the half-asleep fog that is feeding time. With one arm, she sweeps up her new baby currently latched on to her left nipple and pushes the magazine off her lap. It’s optimistic, anyway. Magazines, like books, and anything intended for adults, are a distant memory for Summer Griffiths.
She runs towards the screaming child in the next room, terrified of what she’ll find. She shouldn’t have left Nia in the dining room alone.
‘Wee,’ is the word that greets her.
‘Do you need a wee, darling? That’s OK, let’s get your potty …’ She starts as she approaches the child. ‘Oh, you’ve had a wee. Already. On the carpet. Well, that’s all right, don’t worry …’ She casts her eyes around uselessly for something that will soak it up.
Bloody Aled.He’s introduced this whole concept of nappy-less time in the afternoons. Apparently, it hastens potty training. He’s read it on some daddy-forum online. It forces the infant to learn to use the potty …
So far, it has forced nothing. Nia continues to treat their house 30as an enormous toilet. Why couldn’t she have done it on the laminate floor? A few pieces of kitchen roll and an antibacterial wipe are nothing Summer can’t handle. But no, the dark puddle is now soaking into the new rug.
‘Let’s get a pull-up on you and we can watch Peppa Pig. Does that sound good?’
‘Peppa Pig!’ Nia shrieks and toddles to the living room. That is another of Aled’s new-wave theories gone out the window. No TV before dinner time. Fuck it, he isn’t the one dealing with two totally dependent life forms all day.
Summer retrieves a pull-up nappy from the stash in the hallway and joins her daughter on the sofa. Jordan is still latched onto her breast, thankfully. She tries to put the memory of bleeding nipples and a screaming new baby with tongue-tie from her mind. Jordan seems to have reached a glorious plateau at the moment. He is feeding nicely, sleeping for a good five hours with only one feed in the night, and is infinitely quieter than Nia had been at that age. Summer doesn’t know if she could handle two divas in the house.
Two under two. That’s what they called it. An exclusive club of women who were stupid enough, or mad enough, to agree to have a second child within a year of the first.
Summer can still remember the moment. Exhausted, sore, but on a high from Nia standing up for the first time, Aled had caught her, started kissing her neck in the way she always liked. And she’d given in – one of a handful of times since Nia was born – and had sex with him.
And nine months later, her son was born. And rather than adding to the sleep-deprivation and stress levels in the cumulative way she’d expected, the stresses seemed to multiply inexplicably.
Jordan clings to her breast with his little hands. A flood of oxytocin fills her veins as her heart swells with love for him. Until 31one of his tiny razor-sharp nails digs in.
Summer sighs, too tired to move him. A mother is able to endure pain. Endure wees on the carpet. Endure loops of Peppa-bloody-Pig. But the sleepless nights, those are the worst.
It’s fine for Aled. She’d swap places with him in a heartbeat. She often feels like calling up the oil rig in North Wales, begging them to take her on for the three-week rotation, instead of Aled next time. Three blissful weeks of sleep would be worth it.
Instead, Aled gets to swan in on his ten days off like a hero, equipped with information he’s read online, pumped full of restored energy ready to play with Nia. Those ten days are the highlight of Summer’s calendar. She knows she should be happy to see her husband again, but in her heart the moment she hears Aled’s key in the door, she is not filled with the elation of her love reunited, but the elation of knowing she’ll have another pair of hands for nearly two weeks. Someone else to bathe and change and feed and burp and soothe the kids. Summer could have showers, long glorious showers, and even a shit in peace on a good day.
When Aled leaves again, it’s like grief sweeping over Summer. He’s based off the coast of Conwy – only a four-hour drive away but he might as well be in Siberia. Still, only one week left until he’s home again.
Nia laughs at something the pink blob has done on television. Summer feels instantly guilty. She should enjoy this time with the children. In reality, she knows that if she really had the chance to leave the children for a week, she wouldn’t cope with it. It would be like tearing out her organs. Gut-wrenching. But would a weekend be too much to ask for? A day? Even an hour?
Jordan finishes his feed and Summer lifts him up on her shoulder to burp him. She loves the newborn smell and the weight of him against her heart, and she holds him to her and pats his 32back. Now she can put him down and tackle wee-gate on the dining room rug. She grabs the carpet spray made for pet messes, and the antibacterial wipes.
While Summer is scrubbing on her hands and knees, glancing up every now and again to make sure Jordan is OK in his baby bouncer, her heart leaps at the sound of the doorbell. Their doorbell never rings. Summer practically knows everyone in Morlan by first name from her schooldays, but they never call round. A zombified mother with two screaming children is usually at the bottom of people’s visiting priorities.
Her instant fear is that she’s forgotten some play date arranged last week and disappeared into the fog of her brain. She scans her mental diary as she walks to the door but no, it’s empty. Like it always is. No lifeline or loving family she can take the kids round to. Just her mother-in-law in the next village along who insists she ‘isn’t up to it’ every time babysitting becomes a distinct possibility.
Summer swings the front door open to an apparition.
She would be less surprised had the ghost of Michael Jackson been moonwalking on her front doorstep.
‘Mum?’ she asks, as though she needs confirmation it’s her.
‘Surprise!’ Her mother sweeps her hands up and down, displaying herself like a prize on a Nineties’ game show.
‘What are you doing here?’ Summer demands. She knows she should be more welcoming but the shock has overcome any last reserves of politeness.
‘I’ve come to see you. To help you,’ she says, leaning in to give her daughter a hug. ‘Steve is staying in Haverfordwest for a work event, so I thought I’d call in.’
That makes more sense.
‘How long are you here for?’ Summer asks. She doesn’t know whether to scream or cry. Of course, her mother would 33call when she has urine drying into the dining room carpet and two-day-old baby sick in her three-day-old unwashed hair. Of course, she wouldn’t call first to warn Summer. That is her mother’s style, flit in and out of Summer’s life like a heatwave in Britain – once in a blue moon and never with a warning.
‘We’re going back to Cardiff tonight, I’ve only got a few hours.’ She grips Summer’s arms. ‘Oh darling, you look awful. Is Aled away?’
‘Thanks. Yes, he is. Back a week tomorrow. Come on in, I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘You don’t have any wine, do you?’ she asks as she squeezes past Summer in the tiny doorway. Wine is a luxury Summer doesn’t allow herself while Aled is away. She’s tired enough as it is, and Summer worries that if she adds alcohol to the mix she might never wake up.
‘Look who’s here, it’s Nanny!’ she shouts at Nia, who immediately gets up and stumbles towards the new arrival.
‘Nanny, Nanny!’
Summer moves past, picks up the wipes from the dining room floor after deciding it’s clean enough, and flicks the kettle on. She can hear her mother cooing over the two kids in the next room. It’s nice for them to see their grandmother. She wishes it were more often.
‘Oh, it’s a mess in here.’ Her mother joins her, Jordan bundled in her arms and gurgling happily.
‘It’s always like this. I don’t exactly get time to clean while Aled’s gone,’ Summer says, unable to shake the self-pitying tone from her voice.
‘It’s hard for you, isn’t it?’ her mother asks in a rare moment of insight. ‘I remember when I had you, I was on my own, too. It’s impossible on a woman.’ 34
‘I’m not on my own,’ Summer says, although she isn’t far off. ‘It is exhausting, though. I’d love to have some time to myself.’
‘When was the last time you went out on your own?’
‘Probably … when I went into hospital to have Jordan.’ Hardly a luxury break, but Summer had to travel to Withybush Hospital alone in a taxi while Aled dropped Nia off with his brother in Aberystwyth.
‘Bless you,’ she says, insincerely.
‘I’d love it if someone could have the kids, even for an hour, just so I could have some time to reset. Wash my hair even!’ Summer is aware she is pushing it, but this is a one-time opportunity.
‘Absolutely. You only have to ask. I’ll stay here with these two and you go out and have a bit of time to yourself.’
Summer is taken aback. Shocked. An offer of help from her mother.
‘Thank you … I didn’t mean to hint then, and you don’t have to if you don’t have time.’
‘Darling, take offers when you can. You go out and have a break.’
Summer chews on a thumbnail, unsure of what to do. She is being offered a kid-free hour here, only she doesn’t want to take it. After all, where will she go? She is hardly in a fit state to be seen in public. It would be better if her mother took the kids out and she could stay home, have a bath, tidy up a bit, maybe even snooze on the sofa with something on TV that isn’t a cartoon.
‘Go on, I’ll put the kids to bed in a little bit,’ she says.
It is nearing bedtime. Summer can’t ask for them to go out of the house. She is the one who has to leave.
Yes, she can do this. ‘Okay, Mum. Only if you’re sure.’
Her mother smiles at her before turning to Nia who is now tugging on her cardigan. ‘Say bye to your mummy!’ 35
Summer thinks she could cry for a moment. She kisses the kids, then grabs her parka and heads out the door.
The sky is darkening outside, and the street is quiet. Summer can’t remember the last time she has been out of the house after 5 p.m. It’s surreal. Is she really on her own, out in public? She reaches the corner of the little row of terraces, is about to cross the street, then realises she has absolutely no idea where she’s going.
The fresh air is helping her levels of alertness, but she hardly feels up to a long walk. Any coffee shop will be closed by now. She can’t go to the pub; people might see her and worry she’s having some kind of breakdown.
Summer crosses the street anyway, feeling horrendously self-conscious as a car passes, its headlights seeming to illuminate her stained outfit of trainers, black leggings, and loose-fitting sweatshirt covering a maternity bra and pants. Sports clothes that clearly aren’t made for any kind of physical activity beyond feeding a newborn.
Where the hell is she going to go? There are no shops in Morlan, and her little shitreon car is in the garage. She finds herself wandering through the village centre, wondering if it’s too sad to sit on the beach and maybe doze off a little bit?
‘Summer!’
Oh God. She spins round towards the cheery voice.
‘Meg. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thanks. I thought it was you. Yes, all good.’ Meg crosses the street towards her and Summer hopes she won’t look too closely at her get-up. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages. Do you still live in Morlan?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve just been a hermit for the last year … having two kids means my life isn’t exactly the most social.’ She fiddles with her hair nervously, aware it is both greasy and crusty in different 36places. ‘Are you still at the post office? How’s your nan?’
‘Yes, I’m there helping her out. She’s good.’ Meg speaks as Summer tries to rack her brain. She knows Hannah Thomas had been through some kind of health issue but she can’t remember what it is. How is she meant to track villagers’ health issues when she can’t even keep track of her own bowel movements? It’s too hard, so she just smiles and hopes for this conversation to be over as soon as possible.
Summer went to school with Meg. Meg was in the year below her. Or was it two years below? Summer feels it’s a miracle she remembers her name. They weren’t close friends but had ridden the school bus together back and forth from Morlan to St Davids for a few years.
‘So, are you doing anything tonight?’ Meg asks, her eyes sparkling.
‘Nothing in particular, just got an hour off from the kids.’ Before she can think of an excuse, she sees Meg’s face light up. Oh no, is she about to be propositioned?
‘Well, if you’re free, you can come with me to the hall. There’s a new fitness class tonight. Starting in about … well, right now.’
‘I don’t know,’ Summer says. A fitness class sounds dreadful.
‘Come on, we can catch up. Plus, I don’t think it’s going to be too strenuous. I’d love to have someone to go with.’
Shit. Summer scolds herself for revealing she’s free.
‘I don’t think I’ll have much energy,’ she says. Her voice sounds meek, and she can tell she has already given in, even before Meg links her arm through hers.
‘You’ll be fine.’
She’s being dragged towards the village hall and sees a woman with short hair up ahead going into the hall. Isn’t she in her 37seventies? Her mum has spoken to her before, what’s her name, Eva or Ivy or something like that?
‘Don’t say this is a ballroom dance class?’ she says to Meg. ‘I don’t have the co-ordination for that.’
‘It’s not,’ Meg says, pulling her into the bright room.
An overweight woman bounces up and down on the little stage in the hall.
‘Thank you for coming everyone. I’m Feather Starr and welcome to pole dancing!’
Chapter Five
Gwen
Gwen sits in the car outside Morlan’s Village Hall, an ugly, generic, white prefab building. Her stomach is churning with nerves and she can see movement inside. Is it all a bit seedy, she wonders? Should a woman her age really be considering pole dancing classes?
