Digging Out (30 page)

I am searching each face on the walkway, as if one of them might hold some clue to my own feelings about the past, and my future.

In a quiet cafe, seated at a table near the window, I order ham-and-cheese quiche and a glass of white wine. I begin a letter to Hannah.

“Alys?” A voice behind me interrupts my thoughts. It is Sophie
Greenway, with a tall, elegantly dressed middle-aged woman who looks vaguely familiar.

“I thought that was you, then, Alys!” Sophie says. “Are we interrupting your writing? We were just going to sit down for a bite”—she points over at another table—“when I saw you over here.”

My God, she wants to join me. “Well, actually, I’m writing a note home to my daughter and—”

“Oh, so you do have a child,” Sophie says, as if she’s caught me red-handed.

I put my hand under my chin and stare her right in the eye. “Yes, Sophie, I do. In fact, I have two children.” I reach for my glass of wine. “And you?”

“I thought so,” she says. “No. No. I don’t have any children. Never wanted them. Most of the town knows that, like.” She pauses. “You know, I hope you didn’t get me wrong last night. I wasn’t trying to start anything. It was just I was wondering if what I’d heard was true. Like you said, rumors aren’t the nicest thing in the world. Sometimes they can cause a lot of problems.”

“Yes, well”

“So would you mind?”

“Mind what, Sophie?”

“Us sitting down with you? Getting to know you better, like.”

And I see she means it. That perhaps she hasn’t meant to be unkind at all; her way is just different from mine. Moving my papers into a pile, I say, “Please, join me.”

“You sure, then?” the other woman asks.

“Of course,” I say, forgiving Sophie.

“We’d love to,” Sophie says brightly, ignoring her friend’s reluctance and pulling out a chair for herself and the other woman. “I ‘spect you remember my aunt Gilly?”

“Gilly?” I repeat, recognizing the name but the memory still not jogged.

“Auntie Gilly, this is Alys Davies, just back from the States.”

Auntie Gilly looks uncomfortable as she holds out her hand to me. “Glad to meet you after all these years. You must be Parry’s little sister.”

It has been so long since I have been referred to as “Parry’s little sister” that I spend a few moments just feeling it.

They settle themselves and a waitress comes by to take their order. I order another glass of wine.

“Oh my God,” I say, finally getting it and then blurting it out. “Are you the Gillian Parry lived with after …”

Before I finish my sentence, she nods.

Her presence conjures Parry for me more explicitly than anyone has, and I feel him with us at the table.

“Your mother didn’t think much of me,” Gillian says. “Even now, all these years later, me with my own three children and a husband of nearly twenty-three years, and she still won’t look at me directly when I run into her on the road.” Her eyes go all sad and liquid. “D’you mind me talking about him?”

I have to think for a moment, but then I say quickly, “Not at all.” I know it’s time. It strikes me how when one starts to try and put things into perspective with regard to one’s past, very often every part of that past will present itself.

“For such a long time I have longed to be able to talk about Parry with one of you,” Gillian says. “If your mother understood, I suspect she would have been grateful. I would be pleased to have any of my children loved as much as I loved your brother.” She takes a sip of her lemonade and then says, “May I speak bluntly?”

I nod.

“Your brother was hurting so bad and he needed a lot of coddling, he did—and I was able to give it to him for a time. Things had gone so sour for him in the world. Not just with your da, but he felt like he had made all the wrong choices. He could talk to me. I listened without judging him.

“I’m sure your mam thought it was all about sex,” she says. “But I was six years older than Parry. Twenty-five, I was when he lived with me. And it was not sex he was after. It was my place and maybe a bit of mothering. He needed safety and somewhere he could just be. My parents had built a small room over the garage for my nana, but she died early on and so they gave the room to me. It was completely private. And it made things easier for Parry. He didn’t have to face your da.

“Perhaps the reason your mam won’t look at me is she blames me. D’you know, to this day, I blame myself. I wish I could have known what I know now. Perhaps I would have been able to talk some sense into him.” Her eyes fill with tears.

“I felt the same way. Evan did, too.” I put my hand on hers. “But none of us could have saved him.” This time I believe it a bit more myself.

“Maybe,” she says.

When our food arrives, we eat our lunch without another word about Parry. Gillian speaks about her children. They are twelve, fifteen and twenty-two. Her husband is an architect and she is a painter. She tells me Parry taught her.

Turns out Sophie has been living with Oscar for twelve years and he won’t marry her.

“Says the idea of marriage is just too frightening, he does. Like I said, I don’t want children anyway. I’ve known that since I was a little girl. Too afraid I’d lose them somehow.”

We certainly have that in common. Part of me wants to know what else Sophie has been through since the disaster. If she has nightmares, day terrors. What more we might have in common.

“But I’d like to be married. A wedding dress and brass candlesticks’ you know, all that ‘settling down’ stuff.”

“What do you do, Alys?” Gillian asks.

“I write poetry.”

“Like Dylan Thomas?”

“I wish.” And then, we all recite in unison what every Welsh schoolchild learns in his primary years:

“He was an amazing poet,” I say. “And proud to be Welsh, he was.”

“And you?” Sophie asks.

I am a little more used to her direct style of inquiry now. She doesn’t intimidate me. So without too much thought, I say, “I’m proud as well. I suspect we’ve both come through a lot since we were little, Sophie.” She nods.

I have faced up to something with Sophie, who to me represents the villagers and how some of them must have felt about my leaving. I can see I was terrified of that response, and now I feel I am among
old friends. What we have in common is our home, the place we were born out of, its history, what tore us apart and the place it takes up in our hearts.

As before, when I get to Mam and Da’s, Mam is in the kitchen.

“I was just wondering where you were, like,” she says. I kiss her on the cheek. She puts her hand up to the spot I kissed and smiles at me.

“It was kind of you to make so much chicken soup. Your da’s loving it, he is. He actually had a bowl of the broth for breakfast. He seems that much better today, he does. And I think Doc Rogers was pleased with the way he looks. Hasn’t taken one of the painkillers Doc left. Not one.” Mam seems actually hopeful. But just as I am about to hold on to that, she adds, “ ‘Course I’m not getting my hopes high, remembering with your gram, like, out at Beryl’s. Just before she sank to the lowest level, she had a few good days. A few days, one after the other where it almost seemed she might be coming out of the woods Even Beryl felt she was on the road to recovery. And then, just as we were breathing a sigh, she passed.”

Mam is chopping vegetables, making salad. “Would you like a bit?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I’ve just had a piece of quiche in the village.”

“Oh, you went to Merythr?”

“I was searching for something typically Welsh for Dafydd and Hannah. I found a Welsh flag for Hannah and a wooden love spoon for Dafydd.” I think of telling her I met Gillian and decide against it.

“Both Welsh.” She smiles.

We are making small talk again. But now it is sort of a relief. Almost normal.

“Your da was sleeping the last time I looked in, but you go on up now and have a look. If he’s awake, you have a nice chat with him. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea. He’s so glad you’re here.”

The stairs creak in the usual places. I sit down on the top of the landing, outside Parry’s room, and take in the house. Even under the circumstances, nothing seems as bad as it was when I lived here. I peek in the room and see Da asleep, the oxygen mask over his face. As I watch him for a moment, an immeasurable fatigue overtakes me. I sit down in the chair near the window, cross my arms over my
chest, close my eyes and fall into a deep, peaceful sleep. It is late afternoon when Mam wakens me to tell me Evan has called. Da is still sleeping.

“Don’t worry, dear He needs his rest. When he wakes in the night, I’ll let him know you were here. You just go on back to Evan’s. It’s so nice, the two of you being able to spend some time, isn’t it? He’s cooking a delicious meal for you now. Go on, then.”

Da’s forehead is cool when I kiss it. I whisper that I’ll see him tomorrow. I hope so.

When I get back to the cottage, Evan is also in the kitchen. He has cut small red potatoes into fours and arranged them around the lamb. He has smothered the lamb with sliced onions and poured last night’s red wine over it and cut rosemary from his garden. The smell is wonderful.

“I’ve probably stuck too much garlic into it. I didn’t even think to ask if you liked garlic. I can’t remember.”

“I love garlic.” There’s that charge again in the atmosphere. Everything I touch seems alive. I am aware in the moment of being drawn to Evan and I am careful, hesitant in my actions, afraid that somehow something I might do or say will cause him to pull away.

After he has poured me a glass of wine, he turns. “I have some great news.” His eyes are shining and his right leg is rhythmically tapping. He hands me my glass.

“What news?” I ask.

“In the post today, a letter from the queen.”

“The Queen of England?”

“She’s interested in hearing the choir. She’s considering us for a royal performance on the anniversary of the disaster,” he says. “She wants us to perform before the Court this fall, and I quote”—he moves to the kitchen table, where he has safely laid the letter on top of a place mat, and reads from it—“ ‘I’m told you are the spirit of Aberfan.’”

He raises his glass as he moves toward me. “Alys, I’m terribly excited. No, actually, I’m over the moon,”

“My God, Evan. It’s incredible. What exactly does it mean?”

“Well, I guess it means that all of us go up and sing for Her Majesty’s people. An audition of sorts.” He shrugs. “If they like us, then we sing for her and the whole Royal Court on the anniversary
of the disaster. It will possibly be televised. There will be lots of publicity. I can only imagine. On top of it being a splendid opportunity, it will be an amazing experience. Imagine, Buckingham Palace. I’ll have to borrow a tuxedo!”

He is very handsome. His blue eyes really shine and there is a clarity about him that was there even when he was a boy. He knows what he wants and he has gone after it. He was like that with me. He didn’t give up until he thought he had me.

There is a lot I know about Evan, and a lot I don’t know. I find myself moving closer to him, wanting to touch him, smell him even. Yes, everything draws me in.

“What is it, Alys? Is something wrong?”

How can I possibly answer that question?

“Not a thing.”

“Oh. It felt for a moment as if you’d lost interest in what I was saying.”

“Not at all. In fact, quite the contrary I was fantasizing for a second on exactly how a performance at Buckingham Palace might really catapult your choir’s career. You could end up going on tour, even coming to the United States,” I say brightly.

But I have said the wrong thing, I can tell immediately. The energy between us is still alive, but he has pulled away. I swallow and put the glass down on the sink.

“Yes. Wouldn’t that be something. I could visit. Meet Dafydd. Hannah.” But his tone has gone flat. He turns away, back to the lamb. “Into the oven with this now.

“I thought I’d make a tomato salad,” he says, changing the subject. I watch him washing the tomatoes, then slicing them in silence, placing them on a small platter and sprinkling them with olive oil, salt and pepper.

We are complicated together. There are so many years we have not known each other. But the comfort is there, the comfort of our early years together, as if somehow they have been there all along, silenced, but waiting to be reawakened, to be noticed.

Evan turns back to the stove, adjusting the oven temperature. He picks up his wineglass and pours more wine into it, then quietly walks past me. “Let’s go up to the field. Bring your wine, Allie.”

I take a sip of wine and pour several inches more into the glass.

I follow Evan up the stone path, past the poppies, which have all bloomed now and are full, their black tongues wagging; past the daisies and the trellised honeysuckle, smelling so sweet it is almost sickening. The North Star shines. Up to the top of the garden and beyond, to the meadow, we go. Evan sits on the picnic table, a shadow against the fading light.

“Remember when we used to come up here and picnic?” he says when I am within hearing distance.

“Yes,” I answer. I lean up against an old wooden beer barrel that Evan uses to catch rainwater.

“Come sit next to me, Allie. Do you mind? The view is so spectacular from here.”

I pick my wineglass up off the water barrel and go sit next to him. We are so close our arms and shoulders are touching. My heart is beating in more than just my chest.

“D’you see that small speck of cottage over there? I looked at it before this one became available.” He sighs. “But I wanted this one. I have always wanted this one. I was willing to wait and it paid off.

“I’m awfully glad you’re here, Alys. It’s a wonder to see you again, to have the opportunity to try and sort some of our hard stuff out. D’you know what I mean?”

I am almost afraid to breathe. “I do.” And when I turn to look at him, it seems the easiest and most natural thing in the world for me to just reach over and kiss him. He kisses me back, just as gently, and then he pulls me up into an embrace, folding me into him. Soon I am undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes on my eyes as I push his shirt down his arms and onto the table, feeling the mass of hair on his chest, running my hands through it