Sixteen Shades of Crazy. Rachel Trezise

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СКАЧАТЬ he said, discarding it. ‘What about this?’ He passed her a Claude Monet print, Bridge over a Pool of Water Lilies. ‘Do you like that?’ he said. Ellie concurred, afraid of offending him. So he nodded and put it into their trolley.

      When he was sure Gwynnie’d finished her sentence, Collin turned to look at Marc. ‘Heard about this new yobbo in town then, boy? I was talking to old Dai last night. Said he’s been hangin’ round the House, a scruffy lookin’ one.’

      ‘Are you talking about Johnny?’ Marc said.

      A carrot split and fell from Ellie’s fork. It landed in the watery vegetarian gravy, driving a beige-coloured splatter across her plate. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the food. The question mark lingered in the air of the restaurant for a time, utilizing her head as its period. She could feel the weight of Rhiannon’s stare.

      ‘I don’t know ’is name,’ Collin said. ‘Killed a fella, Dai said.’

      ‘Killed a fella!’ Marc laughed. ‘Honest Dad, you’re like a pair of washerwomen when you get together. Why do you think anyone who comes from somewhere else is a criminal? He can’t afford to live in Cornwall any more, that’s all. Tourists forcing the cost of living up.’

      ‘What’s his last name?’ Gwynnie said.

      ‘Frick,’ Rhiannon said, the word bursting proudly from her lips.

      ‘Frick?’ Gwynnie said. She shook her head, features quivering. ‘I don’t know of any Frick families round by here.’ Gwynnie knew everyone who lived in Aberalaw, all nine hundred and fifty-one of them. She’d lived there her entire life. She’d never dreamt of moving away from the street in which she grew up, or of doing anything more ambitious than raising her children to be honest and hard-working. She was the kind of woman who’d use the word ‘eccentric’ to describe anyone who’d read a book. But there was a fine line between naivety and ignorance. She’d called the Asian shopkeepers ‘a pair of suicide bombers’ when their grandson won the bonny baby competition in the local paper. Behind Rhiannon’s back, she called her ‘half a darky’.

      Andy sighed, bored with the conversation. He obviously had no interest in Johnny. ‘I’ve got some news,’ he said squeezing Ellie’s knee. ‘Me ’n’ Ellie,’ he paused for a moment, deliberately duping Gwynnie into thinking that Ellie was pregnant.

      Her mouth fell open; her head leant attentively to the side.

      ‘We’ve agreed on a date for the wedding, Valentine’s Day 2004.’

      Gwynnie started rummaging around in her handbag, pulling out a crumpled tissue. Rhiannon slumped against the back of the bench and studied the fringes of the tablecloth, considering the implications. For a day at least she would not be the centre of attention.

      ‘When?’ Collin said.

      ‘February,’ Andy said. ‘February the fourteenth.’

      ‘Bloody strange time to get married – you should do it in October. A marriage licence is cheaper in October. That’s when me and your mother got married.’

      ‘Ellie wants a winter wedding,’ Andy said. ‘Don’t you, babe?’

      Ellie wanted to plunge her knife under the table and puncture Andy’s hand. Everyone was gawping at her, waiting for her to start gibbering on about bridesmaids’ dresses and seating plans. Her muscles solidified, rooting her to the chair. Her cheeks glowed scarlet. ‘That’s okay isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A winter wedding?’ She smiled self-consciously, the skin of her lips cracking as they stretched across her teeth.

      ‘Your auntie Maggie’s away in her caravan in February,’ Gwynnie said. ‘I’d have to do the sandwiches on my own. And flowers! They’d be extortionate that time of year. Whenever the boys have bought flowers on Valentine’s Day—’

      ‘Mam!’ Marc said, scolding her.

      Gwynnie stopped. She covered her mouth with her shrivelling fingers.

      ‘I don’t expect you to do all the food,’ Ellie said. She didn’t expect her to do any of it. ‘We’ll get caterers.’

      ‘But it’s tradition,’ Gwynnie said, starting again.

      Rhiannon yawned loudly, half covered her mouth with her hand. She ran her forefinger along the rim of her empty wineglass, waiting for someone to notice her, lipstick still in place.

      ‘Are you going out somewhere today?’ Ellie said.

      Rhiannon realized that her wish had been granted. She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Out?’ she said.

      ‘Yeah, out,’ Ellie said. ‘Drinking. It’s just that you’ve got make-up on.’

       7

      After lunch, Ellie and Andy left Gwynnie and Collin in the carvery. They followed Rhiannon and Marc through the High Street, their bellies stuffed with profiteroles, an ice-cream van playing Für Elise. At the junction, Rhiannon pointed out her new range of professional styling products lined up on the salon windowsill. ‘Fifteen quid for the intensive light-reflecting conditioner, El,’ she said. ‘Only a two per cent mark up for ewe.’ It was the only window in the street not hidden behind a graffitied zinc shutter. Andy tried to catch Ellie’s hand but she brushed him off, reaching into her back pocket for a crumpled packet of ciggies. He watched her as she lit one, his mouth a single chisel-blow in pale flesh, clearly puzzled by her inclination to go out on a Sunday. Usually she sat in bed all afternoon, a magazine on her lap, a bar of chocolate on the bedside cabinet. Sometimes they had sex.

      The Pump House picnic tables were set up around the mining statue. Griff was slouched behind a flat pint of lager and lime. Siân was sitting on the kerb, her orange ankle-length gypsy-skirt lying like a sheet over her legs, her hair scraped back from her face. She’d kicked her mules from her feet. One of them was on the pavement in front of the old YMCA, the fish-scale sequins sparkling in the sunlight. When Ellie’d moved to Aberalaw, Siân wore boob-tubes and hot-pants. With every new child, her tastes became more conservative: pastel blouses and woollen twinsets.

      It was a shame to think of her smooth skin buried beneath several layers of cotton. A butterfly momentarily hovered at her throat and then danced into the ether, high above America Place.

      America Place was a small street, a row of miniature fascias and hanging baskets erupting with tufts of orange pansies; a rare sight in a village marred by broken glass, concrete, used syringes, dog shit. The inhabitants had been having some sort of flower-growing competition for two years on the run. ‘Know why America Place is called America Place?’ Ellie said as she sat down on the kerb. Early in the nineteenth century, the whole street had decided to emigrate en masse. They’d appointed a chairman to book the tickets and collect the savings they’d accumulated over eight years. But he did a moonlight flit. The residents renamed the street, and called the old pub at the entrance to the estate the New York, New York. Siân knew the story. Ellie’d told her umpteen times, and on each occasion wondered why Siân didn’t find it as intriguing as she did. Ellie was besotted with anything to do with America.

      ‘Yeah, we all fuckin’ know,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Ewe never stop bloody tellin’ us, do ewe?’

      ‘Have СКАЧАТЬ