Chapter Twelve
Christopher
Though, right now, he does worry that he might not belong here. Sure, they helped out Myffy, and he and Nash are set to cook for her and Shaz’s family too, but will the rest of the town want his help? He’s still basically a stranger, and Nash is an entirely unknown quantity.
Luckily, he doesn’t have time to dwell on any of that, because Shaz has been literally dragging him over there, her mittened hand clutched around his wrist.
They tap the snow off their boots outside the front door and step inside.
It’s not much warmer inside, and Christopher swears he can hear the clunking of the heating reluctantly firing up after being so rudely awakened.
Shaz leads them into the large open room of the community centre, with painted white walls, ancient faux-wood linoleum on the floor, and thick green velvet curtains.
The paint is peeling off the ceiling where damp must have got in, and the whole room has an air of shabbiness about it.
He wonders when it was last redecorated, or if the council even has money to do that. At least it’s warm.
There are a few cursory nods to Christmas – some sad tinsel taped up around the announcement boards, and up near the ceiling he can see the browned edges of tape leftover from Christmas decorations of years gone by.
There’s also a plastic Christmas tree in the corner that he is fairly sure must be as old as he is.
Shaz waves to a few people in greeting, and Christopher realises he doesn’t recognise the majority of people here. Perhaps he’s not done as well at ingratiating himself into the town as he thought he had, and he had pretty low expectations to start with.
In a crisis, you can always count on the fact that someone will have made an urn of tea to power everyone through, both physically and emotionally.
And even this rather hurriedly set up town meeting doesn’t stray from that intensely British blueprint.
Shaz beckons them over to a fold-up table where there are two hot drink dispensers – one full of seemingly eye-wateringly strong tea, and one full of what looks like the weakest coffee known to man – along with a truly eclectic assortment of mugs, sugar and packet biscuits. It’s weirdly comforting.
Looked on by an older woman with a short crop of curly hair, Shaz makes herself a cup of tea in a somewhat ancient Cadbury’s Caramel rabbit mug.
The woman does not offer to help. Her job seems to be more to ensure proper use, rather than to actually assist anyone in making a beverage.
She smiles at Shaz before disappearing through a door that leads to a tiny, ancient-looking kitchen.
‘Come on, make yourselves one,’ Shaz says.
Christopher does as he’s told and soon is holding an extremely hot cup of tea in a mug dedicated to the opening of a local bypass in the nineties, hoping he doesn’t scald his palms off.
Nash doesn’t move, too busy looking around at his surroundings. Shaz elbows him.
‘Oi, hurry up.’
‘Oh, thanks but I’m not really thirsty.’
She fixes him with a look that she must reserve for the kids and sets her mug down on the table. With the most terrifying smile on her lips, she places her hands on his shoulders, and says, ‘Don’t refuse the hospitality. Make yourself a drink. Just hold it. I’m dead serious.’
‘Will people care that much?’
‘Oh yes. They will. People still talk about the time Mina Jenkins said the tea was too weak, and that was in the early noughties.’
‘What happened to her?’ Christopher asks.
‘She moved to Sweden in disgrace. Now, put a nice smile on that handsome face, and make yourself a terrible drink.’
As if to confirm this, the woman formerly behind the table returns with two jugs of lurid-coloured squash, and waits expectantly for Nash to make his selection.
With a Hollywood smile, Nash says, ‘Good afternoon’ to her. She seems to come to life, blushing and giggling like a teenager, while he makes himself a coffee.
‘I’ve never seen Enid so . . . animated,’ Shaz murmurs. ‘It’s disturbing.’
They all sit on fold-out chairs that have been laid out facing a small stage area next to a stack of yoga and crash mats, Christopher in the middle with Nash and Shaz on either side of him.
‘What happens now?’ Christopher asks.
Shaz blows aggressively on her tea. ‘Oh, I’m sure Tammy will start us off soon. She’ll just be waiting for everyone to arrive.’
‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to be here?’ Christopher asks again.
‘Yes?’ She gives him a look as if he’s just said something totally bonkers. ‘You live here, you own a business here, you employ Tegan. You are part of the community, and you’re also here to help out. Stop fretting.’
‘I just still don’t know anyone.’
‘Well, now’s the perfect time, isn’t it, you wally?’
On the other side of him Nash laughs softly.
‘If anyone’s not supposed to be here, it’s this one.’ Shaz’s laugh is interrupted by a confused look, and she sniffs the air, before grimacing down at the enormous Cadbury’s Mini Eggs mug in Nash’s hands. ‘Urgh, did you get the coffee?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Terrible choice, terrible choice. I thought you Americans liked coffee. That stuff is older than my kids.’
‘Well, they do. But I’m Canadian,’ he says, with the tone of someone who has had to correct people on this many times. It reminds Christopher of Haf, the way she gets frustrated when everyone assumes she’s English. He wonders if everyone else here has similar stories.
‘Are you?!’ she says with surprise, and Christopher discreetly gives her foot a kick. This might be new information for her, but they are both still pretending to not know who he is. Flustered, she adds, ‘Your accent. I’d never have guessed.’
‘I’ve been based in LA since I was a teenager. It comes out when I go home.’
‘Do you say “buoy” the Canadian way?’
‘You mean, the correct way? The way that makes sense if you’re on a boat and need to alert someone that there’s a boy the water, not just a buoy.’
He says it boo-ee and Christopher can’t help but snigger, as does Shaz. ‘Whatever you need to tell yourself, babe, but that sounds silly.’
Before they can continue arguing, Enid from the refreshments table claps to get everyone’s attention, only to inform them they’ll be starting in five minutes.
‘That was a bit anticlimactic,’ murmurs Shaz, blowing again on her tea. Christopher is pretty sure he’s not seen her drink any of it. He risks sipping at his own cup, but it’s still nuclear.
‘Shaz?’ whispers Nash, leaning across Christopher. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but is there no one else young here?’
Shaz snorts. ‘Oh sorry, is it not LA enough for you?’
Nash rolls his eyes. ‘I meant more, are there people who might be able to help who haven’t recently had a hip replacement and/or grandchildren. A lot of people here look more in need of help than available to do the helping. And there’s hardly anyone here.’
He’s not wrong. The room is fairly empty, despite the optimistic rows of seats.
Initially, Christopher had chalked it up to the bad weather, meaning people were taking a little longer to get here.
After all, they only had to cross a road so it was pretty quick for them.
But since they’ve been sitting here, only a few more people have arrived.
‘No, Nash, there are not many people your age here,’ she says truthfully. ‘Or my age, for that matter.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no difference in our ages. With skin like that? You can’t possibly be even in your thirties.’ He says it so smoothly that even Christopher gets goosebumps.
‘Stop flirting with me now, I’m a married woman.’
‘I’ll behave.’ He very nearly takes a sip of his giant coffee but thinks better of it. ‘So, go on. Explain why it looks like we’re nearing the end of that film about the beach that makes you old.’
‘First of all, there are basically no new jobs, except for muggins here.’ She thumbs at Christopher, who immediately feels guilty that so far he’s only employed one often-sullen, albeit efficient teenager.
‘And two, no one can afford to stay here long-term. Not since people remembered Wales is a nice place to visit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Holiday homes that are empty, like, eleven months of the year. Airbnb, things like that. People having a flat to let to holidaymakers.’
At this, both Christopher and Nash look down at their shoes.
‘Get over it. Renting one normally occupied flat for a few days is not the same as that. Put your egos away a second and think about the wider problem,’ she says, sharply but not unkindly.
‘The fact is, people can’t afford to buy here because other people are buying up places as second properties, quite often to rent to holidaymakers as another income stream.
And there’s nowhere for normal people living here to rent because, again, it’s all short-term lets for people on holidays instead.
And that has knock-on effects, like schools closing down or there not being a doctor’s nearby any more.
That’s why the town feels so empty. It’s because it is. ’
Nash nods along, taking this all in. ‘So really it’s up to us, isn’t it? You weren’t kidding about needing our help.’
Shaz nods. ‘Pretty much. I know Christopher said you came here looking for a break or whatever, but—’
‘No, I’m happy to help where I can,’ Nash says seriously.
Christopher can’t help it, but he feels kind of sceptical.
This all feels . . . a bit too like one of Nash’s film characters in a way.
Not the man who just destroyed his kitchen and stock making a home gym.
But then, he did fix the van. And help Myffy.
God, it’s so confusing. Christopher can’t get a read on Nash at all.
It’s a weird situation, being stuck together with someone you don’t really know but are inadvertently responsible for, for an unknowable length of time.