2008 - Recipes for Cherubs (15 page)

E
lla and Catrin settled awkwardly into life in Kilvenny Castle and established a routine of sorts in the first few days. They rose at roughly the same time in the mornings and made their separate ways down to the kitchen, where Ella busied herself making tea and usually burning the toast. Then they sat in uncomfortable silence on opposite sides of the enormous kitchen table, avoiding eye contact. Usually Ella turned the wireless up loud so as to discourage any conversation between them, and Catrin drank her tea, toyed with her toast and, when Ella’s back was turned, hid it in her handkerchief to be disposed of later.

Throughout the daylight hours they skirted around each other warily. When Ella was indoors Catrin made a point of going out and she trailed dolefully around the castle gardens. If Ella took it into her head to go outside, Catrin retreated indoors. Sometimes as they crept along the dim corridors they would turn a corner suddenly and come face to face and each turned tail.

As the days wore on Catrin grew restive, embarrassed by the heavy silences. Sometimes she hovered on the threshold of speaking to Aunt Ella, but her courage always failed her and she was left tongue-tied and ill at ease. Sometimes she was aware of Ella sneaking a glance at her from behind a book as if she, too, wanted to break the silence but couldn’t bring herself to. It became a constant game of avoidance and furtive glances between two people who didn’t want to be anywhere near each other.

One sweltering afternoon, as Kilvenny withered under a blinding sun, Catrin made her way along the narrow lanes and alleys. The village was hushed, the rooks sleeping soundly in the tall trees of Gwartney’s Wood, and the grasshoppers in the long grass by the creek worn to a frazzle. The air was heavy, tinged with the smell of baked earth and wilting flowers, the road beneath her feet erupting here and there in suppurating blisters of melting tar, the choked drains exhaling the stench of rotting leaves and bad eggs.

The streets were deserted and an air of exhaustion hung over everything. The faded blinds were pulled down over the windows of the Café Romana, and on either side of the door the geraniums slumped drunkenly in their terracotta pots. All around were the scents of sweet peas, rapidly ripening tomatoes and drying seaweed.

She looked curiously in through the darkened doorways of the tiny houses that were still inhabited, inhaling the peculiar smells of Kilvenny: Brasso and eye-watering disinfectant, mothballs and Welsh cakes sizzling on a griddle mingling with the smell of old linoleum and scalded tealeaves.

She tiptoed past an old woman asleep on a chair outside her front door, a bowl of half shelled peas on her lap; she stepped hurriedly into a doorway as a barefoot old man came down Goose Row pulling a belligerent donkey along behind him.

Bryn Jones’s shop was halfway along Goose Row, and Catrin lingered outside trying to buck up the courage to go inside. When she eventually sidled in, she stood at the back of a line of women waiting to be served.

The shop was dimly lit by an unshaded lightbulb around which flies swung as if on a wire. It was unlike any other shop she’d ever been in, filled with the smell of withering cabbages, strong cheese, rhubarb and carbolic, and a whole plethora of smells that were new to her.

She’d never seen women like the Kilvenny women in their down-at-heel slippers and toffee-coloured stockings rolled down round their blotchy ankles. They wore flowery turbans and pinafores over faded frocks. Some had half-smoked cigarettes tucked behind their ears and one stiff-faced woman with a nicotine moustache had rollers the size of steamroller wheels fixed in the front of her iron-grey hair, legs as hairy as a spider’s and a mouth painted carmine red.

Catrin listened to their chatter, marvelling at the sound of their voices, sometimes as loud as the rooks that shrieked above the castle, at other times soft and undulating like the rise and fall of the sea. The women gave off their own peculiar smells, oilcloth, strong soap and starch, tired lilac, sweat and camphor.

A fat, bald man in a brown overall bursting at the seams lifted packets of cereal down from the top shelf, using a cane with a hook at the end. With a flick of his hairy wrist he snatched up tins of peas and soup from the lower shelves, spun them in the air like a juggler and brought them down on the marble counter with a dull thud. He ducked below the counter and reappeared like a jack-in-the-box clutching a giant cauliflower or waving a bunch of spring onions. All the time he worked he kept up a conversation, barely pausing for breath.

“Morning, Mrs Edwards. Hot enough for you? Your usual, is it? Tin of corned beef, packet of soaked peas… Don’t strike a match after eating them, mind, or the whole place will catch light.”

“Mr Jones! You cheeky devil!”

“One tin of sardines, a packet of coconut creams…Your legs been giving you trouble again this week, Mrs Wyeth?…A packet of jelly – that’ll soon have you bouncing around again.”

“I hear your Dai’s moving up England way looking for work. Nothing round here for the youngsters any more…A packet of tea, three tins of oxtail soup…”

“There’s nice to see you, Mrs Davies. A bottle of Camp coffee and a packet of blancmange, a bar of Lifebuoy soap and a pound of sultanas.”

“Aye, and one of them nice custard tarts for a treat.”

“Always treating yourself, you are, Mrs Davies.”

“None of your cheek, Bryn Jones, or I’ll take my custom elsewhere.”

“It’ll be a long walk to Swansea, Mrs Davies, especially in this heat.”

“You heard all the talk about Ella Grieve, then?” the stiff-faced woman said.

Catrin pricked up her ears.

“Aye, that’s a turn-up for the books. I didn’t think we’d see her in the village again until Dai the Death brought her down in her box.”

“There’s cheerful you are this morning, Mr Jones.”

“They say she’s got her niece with her – staying in the castle, they are.”

“Rather them than me. That place gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“Is the niece that pretty girl with a funny name, Kizzy or something like that?”

“No, this is a young girl, a skinny little thing, they say, her great-niece.”

“I didn’t know she had a great-niece.”

“Me neither.”

Catrin made a move to leave but an enormous woman was wedged in the doorway, blocking it.

“A bit of a darling, that Kizzy was. I seen her once over near Blind Man’s Lookout kissing some fellow in broad daylight.”

“Man-mad like her mother, I expect.”

“Had more men than hot dinners, that one.”

“Dirty, lucky cow,” the stiff-faced woman cackled.

“Have you seen Ella yet?”

“Only a glimpse,
duw
there’s a state on her. Hasn’t put a comb through her hair or had her face licked with a flannel in a very long time.”

“I liked old Ella, though. She was a rum one, plenty of spirit she had, not like Alice.”

“Ah, but Alice was a few shillings short. They say that in every generation of Grieves there’s one who’s a bit simple.”

“She was a queer one, all right. When we was kids I seen her walking round the castle gardens talking to imaginary people. Put the fear of God up me, I can tell you – you’d have sworn there was somebody with her.”

“Away with the fairies she was most of the time, but harmless,” Bryn Jones said.

“They were always an odd lot. Old Nathaniel Grieve abandoned Kilvenny for years, shut up the castle and then one of his kids popped up again like a bad penny and they’ve been here ever since.”

“Aye, well, there’s always a bit of madness in them very old families and of course there was English blood in the Grieves, too.”

Bryn Jones caught sight of Catrin, coughed and rolled his eyes in her direction. There was an immediate silence except for the shuffling of slippers and the creaking of corsets.

All eyes were turned on her but she was already pushing past the enormous woman and away out of the door.

Down on the beach she thought about what she’d heard. A few weeks ago she hadn’t even known she had a family, and now it seemed that she came from a long line of mad people. Alice had been odd, by the sound of her, and her own mother was a bit peculiar at times.

What if she were mad, too? How would she know? Sometimes she said daft things and the girls in school gave her funny looks. So what? She kicked out angrily at a pebble. The girls in school could take a running jump. You couldn’t win with them. When she was fat they used to call her spiteful names and now she was thin they still did; she just didn’t fit in. At least in Kilvenny she didn’t have to worry about any of them.

She took off her shoes, pulled off her socks and waded out into the sea. Standing there in the shallows she felt the cool, salty water caressing her tired feet and rising up over her aching calves. A rogue wave took her by surprise and swirled round her knees, sending a tremor of excitement up through her whole body.

In a moment of recklessness she tucked her skirt into her knickers and giggled. That was one in the eye for Sister Lucy. She squealed as the freezing water crept up towards her quivering thighs. A bigger wave broke around her, soaking her, and she ran backed out of the water, slipping and stumbling on the shingle, finally falling on to the dry sand, shrieking with fear and exhilaration.

She sat for a long time staring out to sea, wriggling her toes in the warm sand, the salt drying on her skin and her hair lacquered with spray, feeling better than she’d felt in ages.

She explored the beach, looking into the deep rockpools, marvelling at the little creatures she found there. She stalked a crab across the sands, running away when it stopped and stared at her.

It was beautiful here, apart from having to live with Aunt Ella. She felt free and there was so much to see and learn that was new and exciting. She ran her fingers along the rough surface of a cuttlefish, felt the silken touch of a mussel shell and the corrugated ridges of a cockleshell.

She crept barefoot up to the door of the Fisherman’s Snug and opened the door, relieved to find no one inside. She tiptoed across the wooden floorboards, worn smooth by years of use, looking around her in fascination.

There was a large table which had seen better days. It was covered in grubby sailcloth, but through the rips she could see fragments of different cloth as though it had been recovered many times. Set against the wall was a high-backed settle, on whose armrests there were beautiful carvings of fruit – apples and walnuts, acorns and pomegranates.

At the far end of the room a wooden screen jutted out from the wall. She peered round it and it was some moments before her eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy light. There was a small table and chairs that were far too small for grown-ups to use. It brought back memories of a picture book she’d once had of
Goldilocks and the Three Bears;
Baby Bear’s chair had been as tiny as these. How quaint it looked, and how much fun it must have been for the children who had been allowed to play here. A small stove, blackened with age, was set into an alcove, and on the wall above it hung miniature pots and pans, rusty old spoons and misshapen tin mugs. In the darkest corner there was a cabin bed with steps to climb up. The mattress was rotten and looked as though mice lived there, but once it must have been really cosy. A cracked mirror hung haphazardly on the wall and she had to stoop to look into it.

Candles were stuck to cracked saucers and a dusty hurricane lamp dangled from a length of twisted string from the ceiling. There was an ingrained reek of the sea; salt and tar, fish and strong tobacco. It would be lovely in here if the stove were lit and the candles, too. She’d like to tidy the place up and curl up on the battered sofa with a good book on a stormy night.

As she walked back up Cockle Lane she was startled to see Aunt Ella standing outside the castle looking up and down the road, one hand shading her eyes from the glare.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said, a note of relief in her voice.

“Is something wrong?” Catrin asked.

“The postman’s just called in and there’s a letter for you, postmarked Italy. That should put a smile on your chops.”

Catrin took the letter and looked hard at Ella. She looked different, more awake than usual, as if she were catching up with the world after all those years locked away.

Catrin went into the Italian garden, settled herself on a bench and looked for a long time at the familiar sprawling handwriting on the blue envelope. She wavered. Once she had opened the letter everything would change; there would be an address and then Aunt Ella would get in touch and Kizzy would come back from Italy to collect her. Catrin shuddered. Kizzy would be absolutely furious to have her holiday ruined but Aunt Ella, on the other hand, would be delighted: she’d probably rub her hands with glee to see the back of her great-niece.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listened to the soft swish of the waves on the sand, the gulls mewling overhead, felt the soothing warmth of the sun on her face.

She held the envelope to her nose and sniffed, wondering if the letter had brought with it the scent of Italy, but it smelt only of cheap paper and a faint hint of her mother’s expensive perfume.

Sister Matilde had told them about all the glorious smells of Italy. The aroma of fresh coffee and bread baking; of red wine, tomatoes on the vine, and sun-warmed lemons, all mixed with the tantalising scents of herbs and spices.

She opened the envelope, surprised to find that there were several sheets of thin paper folded inside. Usually it was all her mother could do to pen half a page, and then she made her writing big so that she didn’t have to write very much.

She began to read, slowly at first, then turning the pages feverishly. When she had finished she sat for a long time staring down at the letter until suddenly she threw back her head and laughed. She laughed louder than she’d ever laughed in her life, startling the rooks from the trees in Gwartney’s Wood until they reeled in a black squawking cloud above the ruined tower of Kilvenny Castle.

From the cover of the rose-laden archway Ella watched anxiously, wondering if the girl had taken leave of her senses. She was skipping around the outside of the fountain, waving her arms round and round like a drunken windmill and shrieking like a banshee. Whatever could her mother have said to send her into paroxysms of hysteria? Maybe she should call the doctor and have the girl looked at.