CHAPTER 7
I had no booze in the house for once, which was fortunate, as it would have left me in no state worth thinking about, and most definitely well away from the level of rationality I needed to find. I slept fitfully, the night lasting forever as I woke up over and over again, my car crash of a soul trying to find ways to put my life back together and failing dismally at the job.

I had been so lucky in my second parents, and in my friends, and I included Carl in that group despite our difficulties. After all, what had he done that was in any way wrong? That derailed my train of thought, because I found Carl’s face fuzzing into Frank’s, and that just made me feel far worse.

He was most definitely a nice man, and he seemed to like me, but two things slapped me in the face when I dared think about anything that might be called ‘a future’.

The first issue, of course, was a bastard called Cooper, but there was more, and that was all me, all my fault. What could I offer him? A shag was no longer out of the question, thanks to Mr Hemmings’ work, but that was a dead end What did Frank want from life? I didn’t know what that might be, but I did know that my own options weren’t those of other women.

Shit. I left that to fester, and stayed indoors for the whole of Sunday, my phone left off the hook until I woke the next morning and replaced it on my way out of the door on my way to work. It stayed off the hook every evening for a fortnight.

Thankfully, I was on the longer runs for the next set of shifts, and I managed to swap with one of the other drivers for the following week, so no chance of opening the wounds Frank had left me with, through absolutely no fault of his own. Two weekends after the debacle with Mr Iwan, I had both a long weekend, and an idea.

“Bert?”

“Yes, love?”

“Any chance of borrowing one of the Astra vans for next weekend? I fancy a trip away”

“I thought you’d be off on the bike”

“On a 125 single? I am not that daft, boss! I fancy some camping, up in the mountains”

“This time of year? Hang on, Debbie: did that bloke do anything stupid?”

Shitting hell.

“Bert, is there anyone here, anyone at all, who doesn’t know about bloody Frank?”

“I doubt it, love, considering he’s been asking every driver we’ve got when you’re next on a run to his place. You’ve made a big hit there”

He caught something in my face, and his voice dropped.

“Debbie, I don’t know what the hell the problem is, but you’re doing well in not letting it get in the way of your work. I’m not stupid, but I’m not going to push, is it? Talk to me some time, please, and don’t bend the van”

Once more, I found myself counting my blessings, even while wrestling with the steering as the van swayed in the crosswinds on the Severn bridge. Up through England, onto the A5 at last and down into the huge dip before Chirk, my subconscious recognising that I appeared to have lost my terror of that area, while smiling with warm memories as I saw the signs for Shrewsbury, scene of my rebirth. The smiles were slowly beginning to outweigh the tears.

It was raining in Betws, where I stopped at an outdoors shop to spend some money on a new stove and a much stronger tent (I had the money, now, so why the hell not?) plus a jacket and waterproof trousers. A brief visit to the supermarket for tea, milk, bacon, stew, all the things I thought I’d need, almost forgetting a lighter for the gas cooker. Along the road I remembered so well, even though it had been bathed in tarmac-melting sunshine that last time, and through Capel Curig and into a valley filled to roof level with black cloud. I could have been back at Beattock, the weather was so damp.

The sign was still there, suggesting that dog owners might find a better welcome in another county, and as I turned into the farm I could see at least six other tents crouched low to the ground, aligned to the same wind like boats at anchor in a current. I took their presence as permission to pitch, and was just beginning to puzzle out the new tent, a ‘semi-geodesic dome-tunnel hybrid’ according to the salesman, when Mr Williams came ambling over, wearing what looked like the same jacket he had sported in 1976.

He ran through prices and rules, then cocked his head.

“You been here before, ah?”

“Yeah, not for years, though. I was here with my parents, the drought year, aye?”

He smiled, his face lighting up.

“The traders, yes? Van and trailer, and you played with my Dylan. Um… Debbie?”

“The same. Good to be back”

“No parents this time?”

He obviously caught something in my face, because he reached out for my hand.

“Both, fychan?”

I nodded, and he held my hand for a few moments more before squeezing it.

“This is the place, aye? And the time. We only get the real people, this time of year, those who love this place properly. I thought you might turn out to be one of those, when we met, ah? You were so polite, and Dylan loved you. Too early for lambs, now, but there are other things”

He dropped my hand and strode over to a well-guyed orange ridge tent, giving it a little shake.

“Someone to see you, love!”

There was the sound of a zip coming down, then again, and there was a familiar face poking out of the tent.

“Pat?”

“Do I… Debbie? Hello!”

She disappeared just long enough to pull on her boots, and then she insisted on helping me set up my new tent. All through the process we were chatting, catching up, as my voice caught every so often. As ever, Pat just listened, asking only the most essential of questions, until I was done, and by then we were stretched out side by side in my tent, my new stove cooling as we sipped our tea.

“Deb?”

“Aye?”

“You’re here for a reason. Are you OK?”

To my shame, she got the whole bloody mess, as my locks failed and all of the shit I had been holding down erupted in tears and stammered words. Pat just waited until I had burnt out the grief, at least for a while, then started to speak, softly, slowly, a gentle smile on her lips.

“I’m not going to say the usual rubbish, Debbie love. About how it gets better, how you find your way, that sort of thing. For me, it’s more like an old break that’s healed. Does the job, then every so often the weather does something, and it hurts again. These things scab over, but the wounds remain. Sorry I’m not being more cheerful, but that’s just the way it is”

I rolled slightly so that I could see her face a little more easily.

“So how do you cope, Pat?”

She sighed, long and deeply.

“I don’t. some days. Sometimes, it just piles up, ambushes me when I’m at a low, tired, that sort of thing. What I do consciously, or try to, is make newer memories, nicer ones. Some paces, I can’t do that. Remember the little shelter on Foel Grach? I can’t change that lot, so I just try and remember the good times there, and not how someone decided it was a great place to use as a bloody toilet. Other places, I look to make those better memories. Sorry again, but I can offer you no quick fix. Anyway, tell me about other stuff. New house, new job?”

I thought for a few seconds, weighing her words, then tried my first little story, a nugget of happiness.

“So he’s shown me the different birds, and talked me through them, and it’s not like he’s trying to get into my knickers or perve or anything, so when he asks me what I’m doing in Cardiff, he only bloody laughs and calls me by name. He was the bloke I was looking for a job from! Said it was the strangest job interview he’d ever done”

“You still looking at the birds?”

“I am that. Got… got Mam’s old binoculars, and I bought a book, a bird guide thing, so yeah. Not going to see much in this, am I?”

“Fancy a drive tomorrow? I do a bit of birdwatching myself. Not much, but I know some good sites. They’re put on Anglesey, so we might get clear of this clag for a bit. You up for that?”

To my surprise, I realised I was smiling at the thought.

“Yeah, go on. Now, it’s teatime, I think. I was going to do some tinned stew on a pile of savoury rice”

“I’ve eaten already. Share breakfast?”

“Of course!”

“See you in the morning, then, and I’ll drive. I know the way. Bring a spare film or two, if you have a camera”

She slipped out of my tent, zipping up the outer door for me as she went, and I settled down into the little pile of quilts I wrapped around my sleeping bag. The wind had dropped, and all I could hear was the steady patter of raindrops on my tent. It was like being in a nest, safe and warm in my own little spaces, and before I knew it, a pale morning light was coming through the nylon walls.

I brewed a mug of tea while still in bed, realising that the rain seemed to have stopped, and once my drink was finished I was out of the tent and into the little cold-water toilet block. The clouds had lifted a long way, and I could almost see the top of the big ‘dinosaur’ mountain. Pat was stirring as I returned, and we settled ourselves on a camping chair for her and a convenient rock for me as our breakfast sizzled into completion.

“I got asked once, Debbie, more than once, in fact. Stupid questions are hard to kill. Anyway, this one is ‘Why do you keep taking pictures of the same mountain?’. So I explain, each and every time, that it’s never the same mountain twice, that it has a life of its own, one it takes from the light and the water, but they never get it”

I found myself smiling in understanding and parallel memory.

“One of those questions that if you ask it, you will never grok the answer?”

She frowned slightly at the word, then grinned again.

“Remember what I said last night? That was part of your father speaking just then. Shall we take your mother’s heritage for a day out, then?”

We went off along the A5, through the little town with the shops Dad had used for provisions so many years ago, then over the Britannia bridge to the island and then turning off near Valley for what called itself a ‘Four Mile Bridge’ and a gorgeous stretch of sand at Trearddur, finally parking up on a clifftop with a lighthouse beneath us on its own tiny island,

“Welcome to South Stack, Debbie. Not the best time of year for it, but we should still see a few nice birds. Gives you the excuse to come back again, now you know where it is”

We made our way down an endless set of stairs into what Pat said was called ‘Mousetrap’ something or other, and as she pointed out a few guillemots and other seabirds, as well as a couple of chough and a rock pipit, she also pointed out what she said were famous rock climbs.

No. Just no.

We took a quieter road back, stopping at a place called Malltraeth, where there were small ponds as well as a large sweep of tidal mud, and we worked through my guide species by species, finishing the day off at the lost village of Newburgh, or rather the dunes that had buried it, where I saw my first ever short-eared owl hunting over the grassy hummocks.

We walked all the way to the shoreline, where Pat pointed out and named every single peak that we could see, including the one that towered over our campsite.

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Tomorrow is a hill day!”

So it turned out, and I was in a far better mood when I returned the van to Bert’s yard after dropping off my kit, old and new. I had left the bike at work, so all I had to do was park up, hang the van keys back in their little metal box, and ride home.

Lid off, lock back on bike, and kettle filled and switched on. I unfastened my boots, wincing a little at the smell from my socks, and only then noticed the little light flashing on the answering machine. I rewound the tape and pressed ‘play’.

“Deb? Rosie. Don’t know where the fuck you’ve been, but you have to call me as soon as you get this. Please. Really urgent”

I could hear breaks in her voice.

As soon as the tape finished, I rang her number.