4. A wrench and a re
A WRENCH AND A REUNION
The scenery after Birmingham was in a gradual wind down.
The motorway slid into the A road without any great fanfare and at first, it was difficult to see any discernible difference.
It was almost by stealth that the evidence of big city living slipped away.
Every now and then, Ursula thought she’d left it behind but a drive past a retail park in Shrewsbury, or smoke billowing from the factories of Wrexham made her question that.
It wasn’t until she reached a village called Froncysyllte that it began to feel truly different.
From then on, her surroundings became more enclosed by hedgerows, alive with small birds, and trees that reached out to each other across the narrow road.
Hills and valleys fanned out before her, spring flowers on their last legs mingling with the lush early summer greens, and their only interruption was the occasional pretty town or village.
They made handsome travelling companions and despite the huge effort it had taken to leave home, she was enjoying the drive.
She’d been so lost in the journey itself that she was almost surprised to find she’d reached Bala in a little over two hours.
It didn’t seem long enough to get to somewhere that was so different to the place she’d left.
And yet here she was. In fact, she’d gone too far.
Her instructions had been to turn off and take the lake road, but she was already in the centre of the small town.
As she had time in hand, she decided she might as well stop and take a look around.
Besides, it was just after eleven-fifteen.
She normally had a morning break around this time.
Coffee, a biscuit, and a chat with whoever was passing her plot.
Bala’s high street was a mix of grey stone and painted buildings.
Cottages sat alongside shops, pubs, hotels and chapels, many of them dating back to the Victorian era at the very least. Possibly longer.
Ursula was shamefully ignorant on historic architecture.
Not that it mattered. No one was going to test her on it, and all she really needed to know about this place was that it had the air of a town that was well-loved by those who called it home.
She carried on past several cafés that even in early June were quite full, and found one that looked empty.
A push of the door explained why. It was closed.
She went to try her luck further along, but before she’d taken more than a few strides, the door was flung open by a woman with the same kind of full-figured, voluptuous body Andi had been blessed with in her prime.
‘Sorry, love. We’re a bit late opening this morning.
We’re having a problem with the hob. I’m very limited as a result, but I can do you the best coffee and scone in town.
’ She was middle-aged but when she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks made her younger.
‘Coffee and scone is perfect.’ She took a table by the window and watched the faintly blue sky turn to overcast within minutes. Then, with hardly any notice at all, spots of rain were marking the glass.
‘It’s just a shower. Be over before you know it.’ The woman was coming towards her with the coffee and scone. ‘Here for a holiday, are you?’
Ursula pulled her attention away from the weather. ‘Yes, you could say that.’
‘Staying long?’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’
The woman nodded and remained fixed in the same spot. Perhaps she was waiting for more information. Ursula didn’t volunteer any but gave her a placid yet blank smile. Anton used to call it her veil, which was clever of him to notice, since she used it to hide behind.
The café door opened and brought with it a gust of wind and a tallish, broadish shape hidden in a hooded waterproof coat.
The woman shot off after her new customer, leaving Ursula’s scant information to remain a mystery.
‘It is you under there then, Howard. I can’t do your usual, my love.
The hob’s broken. Gareth’s looking at it now.
I can do you a scone or a sandwich. As long as it’s cheese or ham. ’
‘I’ll take a ham sandwich and a coffee. Thank you, Megan.
’ The deep, baritone richness of the man’s voice sounded too much for the little teashop.
Like it was out of place. Which, of course, it was.
The man was American. As far as Ursula could tell anyway.
He had, after all, only spoken a handful of words before taking a seat on the periphery of her vision, so that she was aware of his presence but would have needed to turn to actually see him.
She chose not to turn and concentrated on cutting the scone in half and buttering it.
A further enquiry from Megan on the man’s morning walk delivered a reply that confirmed he was almost definitely American, even though he seemed to be a local.
‘I was just saying to that lady over there, it’ll be over before you know it. She’s here for a holiday. Doesn’t know how long, mind.’
‘I guess those are the best holidays.’ He sounded as though the words held no great interest for him, as though he were just going through the motions of conversation in order not to appear rude.
Ursula couldn’t help herself then, she had to turn her head.
But Megan was already on her way back to the kitchen and the man was reading something on his phone.
He was older than she’d thought, with a greying hairline that framed his face and lost itself in a shock of grey-black African hair that was longer than a crop but too short to be classified as properly long.
He bent his head a little closer to the phone and his heavy-framed glasses slipped down to the very edge of his nose.
He took them off and, as if suddenly aware he was being watched, looked straight up at her.
It was too quick for Ursula to do anything other than smile that placid, veil smile that Anton hated so much.
The man’s mouth twitched. His head gave a nod, so subtle she almost didn’t see it.
Perhaps that was because she was thinking how tired he looked.
Or perhaps it was because she was thinking of someone else.
‘One Americano and one ham sandwich. Rain’s stopping now. I said it would, didn’t I?’ Megan breezed in and sliced through the impasse.
Ursula cut the scone into quarters, put one in her mouth, and was already chewing soundlessly before she realised it.
Megan had been right, the rain had gone as quickly as it came, although the moody sky was refusing to budge.
Ursula had driven back to the turning she’d missed on the way into Bala and followed the road that ran along one side of the lake, past the clutch of cottages she was looking for.
The satnav was slow in finding her position so it was more by luck than anything that she came across the faded sign for Am-nawr at the foot of a single track road.
The grey, stone house was much bigger than she’d expected and should have been imposing, but the surrounding hills and trees made it seem less so.
Ursula pulled up between an old van and a much newer SUV and got out to get a proper look at it.
It had been in ruins when Andi and Pablo bought it.
As soon as they’d got it into a liveable state they took in paying guests, some of them permanent.
Pablo liked to joke it was a commune. That was Pablo for you.
Ursula retrieved the box of vegetables from the boot and headed for a wide stone step that led to an oversized front door.
Andi opened it before she got there. Her silver hair was pinned into a messy bun and she was wearing one of those big fisherman’s jumpers over her jeans.
It made her look rounder than she probably was.
As it had been six years since they’d actually seen each other, Ursula couldn’t be sure.
She put the box down on the step. ‘I’m here. ’
Andi took Ursula’s hands in hers. ‘So you are. Hello, mate.’