Ynyslas

The wind lashed at them, smashing against their hollowed chests, resisting their every step.  Rain was like a fine mist forming ripe droplets in their hair, and salt spray laughed in their faces.  The surf surged.1

It was Ynyslas beach – he had picked her up earlier from Borth station.  Waited there for a few hours, feeling the nice continuity of irregular trains to nowhere.  It was a dingy platform, always had been.  They kept saying they’d clean it up, but every week there was just another beer bottle, another bit of graffiti on the one bench.  He had sat on it regardless, swiped off a few cigarette butts, settled down with his old camel coat wrapped tight around him and his fingers tucked into his armpits.  His scarf was wrapped tight around his neck, and misted with his breath, was deliciously warm.2

The bog was huge.  That few hours especially, when he had had nothing to do but stare at it, wondering.  It was wide, undulating.  A few crows dotted it like black flotsam, picking at the waterlogged grasses.  The sky above to cap it all, never ending and grey like piles of brushed metal.  Low.  It had made him feel like the empty one-track station was the last outpost of humanity for millions of miles, with the bog in front to the horizon, and the sea at his back.  Everything felt ancient, disused, and he had thought that perhaps there never had been any trains, ever.  That station always did have that effect on him.3

He had thought it was quite disconcerting, really, and had been glad when her train had pulled up, and she had stepped off looking flustered and pretty.  It had put him at ease.  She had kissed him on the cheek and slipped her hand into the warm crook at his elbow, leaning her hot forehead against his clammy chest.  She had begged to walk to the dunes and look across at Aberdyfi.  He hadn’t been surprised.  She had always loved the sea, the estuary, the beach.  4

They were walking into a storm, sand sucking greedily at their feet.  He was telling her about the mythology of this place.  She was intrigued, loved stories.5

‘What,’ she said, shocked, ‘so Gwyddno was just drunk?  He just let all his people die because he was too lazy to get up and help?’6

‘In a way.  But it was Seithennin as well - he was drunk, too, and he was the one who was in charge of closing the sluice gates.  Apparently he was busy seducing some woman.  Either that or he wasn’t in charge – he was a visiting king seducing the woman in charge of the sluice gates.’7

He laughed, easily.  They stopped for a moment to look at the writhing mass of tree limbs that were the remains of the forest that Gwyddno Garanhir had left to the raging floods.  They were fantastical, sculptured into almost fairytale figures.  She was bursting – no-one ever saw this - the petrified forest was a secret well preserved by the tide.  She thought that perhaps they had gone back in time, or were caught in some limbo in some other land.8

It was so alien, such a peculiar sight.  The blackened tree stumps were slimed in greenish mould, caught all over with straggling seaweed, wallowing in pools of murky water.  They tried to walk near to them but the sand sunk under them, and they stumbled back, gasping, clutching at each other.9

The wind tore at their hair and chafed their fingers, gnawed at their lips and ears, and they skipped in and out of the dirty sea-surf.10

When they were about half way down the beach they stopped to rest by a breakwater, their backs against the rotting dark wood waiting for it to warm.  She ran the wet sand through her fingers, digging her hand deep down in the cold.  She looked at the pieces of shell by her feet.  They were silent.  He rummaged round in his bag until he found the bread that they had picked up at the bakers, and a hunk of cheese.  He broke some off and her fingers grasped for it.  He had some already in his mouth.11

They watched the sky swirl across the mirroring sands, unspeaking.   12

After a while they began walking again, slowly, her hand in his.  Every so often she would cry out softly and pull at him to stop, bend down, her hair swinging over her shoulders, and pick up some pretty rock.  Driftwood, sea glass, shells. 13

Her glasses were smeared with salt and she had pulled up her scarf around her wind burnt cheeks.  She was breathless, hanging off his arm, her hair peppered into her eyes so that she had to keep flinging it back.  The tide was beginning to turn, edging slyly up the beach.  Every time he looked it was closer, and when he looked back at their disappearing footsteps he noticed that they had been veering towards the dunes for a long while.14

He had to shout to her, now.  Gingerly; ‘Shall we go back?’ 15

‘What?  And not get the view we’ve been walking all this time for?’  Her eyes widened in mock horror.16

‘Tide’s up.  It’s swallowed our tracks already.’17

She sighed, giggled.  ‘I know,’ she said, mischievous.  ‘I’ve been watching the sea too.’18

He tutted and blushed, gave her a little shove.  ‘You little minx.  If you’re that desperate, we could walk down the road.  We’ve only got another ten minutes or so to go.’19

She didn’t even answer, just pulled him on.  The road kicked up at their feet and they strode on with new vitality.20

When they reached the end of the peninsular, they sat down.  Long grasses tickled their chins, and they found cigarette butts half buried and damp in the sand.  21

The estuary was stunning, despite the mist.  It was the end of the world.  The sky above and the hills behind; the bog, the salt-marsh, the sea; the long, long bridge to the other side, where there were a few nestled houses amongst the breathing hills, a small town on a glinting road.  Scraps of sunlight snatched at the wave tops, across the hills.  It was a patchwork, a fast-moving many coloured tapestry.  Fingers of light from between the clouds shivered down, scouring the ocean as if trying to seek them out.22

She rested her head on his shoulder and was quiet, looking at it all.23

It was a long way back.  In the end they stopped a passing car as it raced through the golf course.  The driver was a middle-aged, friendly sort.  Talkative.  He introduced himself right away as Jon Meredith.24

‘And who are you two wanderers?’  He asked them, his rosy face split in a huge, grimacing smile, his chins shivering in delight.25

‘I’m Onde,’ she said, biting back a laugh, ‘and he’s Greg.  We were just going for a walk by the sea.’26

Greg’s mouth hung slightly open.  She always is reckless like that.  Ready to spill anything to any stranger, he thought.  She nudged him and he snapped his jaw shut, blinked.  ‘The tide crept up on us,’ he said.  He hoped it sounded apologetic.27

Jon hadn’t caught a thing.  ‘Oh, aye, it happens often enough.  Star struck young lovers, are you?’ 28

Onde snorted, and Greg said, ‘Quite.  No, but we were good friends at Uni.  Then Onde went off to do her masters at Aber and I’m renting a place here.’ 29

‘He was doing a PhD on something or other when I was at art school.  And now he’s got a house of his own while I’m out on the streets.’  She laughed, felt happy-go-lucky-ish.  It was the wind, the waves.30

‘Is he now?’  Jon said, veering up the narrow lane.  No-one spoke for a while as he hammered on the car-horn at a passing sheep and rocked into a hedge.  He cursed under his breath, and Onde nervously said that it was a very stormy night.31

‘Osh aye, ‘tis.  Winter’s on its way, that’s for sure.  It doesn’t half come quick, does it?  I only realised this morning that it was Christmas in a few months time.  The missus half fainted when I mentioned it!’32

By the time Jon dropped them outside Greg’s flat they knew all the intimate details of his life, and Onde was in hysterics.  She leant helpless against the lichen-stained slates of the bottom floor as he found his keys and put them, sliding icy metal, into the lock.  It clunked and the door stuck.  Greg gave it a businesslike shove and it buckled, screaming, and gave in, creaking open.  He held it for her and gave an elegantly mocking bow.33

‘My Lady,’ he solemnly intoned, ‘Go on in.  Welcome with trumpets and clarions to my humble abode.  Be at thy ease and do not hesitate to make thyself at home.’  Onde burst into fresh convulsions  and forgot to say thank you.   He chuckled and went in after her.34

Later, when they were sat over the table with mugs of tea, he got his first good look at her.  She had grown her hair since they had last met.  Now it curled rich and blue-black, down to her shoulders.  Her almond eyes changed as often as the sea outside the window, but at this moment they were a warm, laughing blue.  She smiled at him as he gawped at her, swilled her sugary brew.  Her hands, rough skinned with hard work, paint-stained, were small around the cracked mug.  Her neck was long and leaning as she drank, her throat lithe, her jaw firm; her oval face, tilted to the light, was pale and finely sculpted. 35

‘Greg,’ she laughed, ‘you’re staring.’36

Pink spread across his cheeks and clashed awkwardly with the roots of his red hair.  ‘Sorry.  Can’t bear not too.  Is the tea nice?’37

‘Lovely, thank you.  Are you making dinner tonight?’38

‘Unless you’d rather run down to the Indian.’39

There was a twinkle in her eye as she answered, ‘The last time you cooked, if I remember rightly, you managed not only to set the sausages on fire, but break every single one of your mother’s best dishes.’40

‘You’re not supposed to bring that up – you’re a guest here, remember!’41

Her mouth twitched, but she just about managed a deadpan face.  ‘Of course.  I apologise.  From the depths of my very heart... ‘  She paused, gulped down the rest of her tea, said, ‘Takeaway it is, then?’42

She waited in the flat while he ran to get it.  She had made sure that the order was written clearly on a scrap of paper and tucked into his jacket pocket.  He was a scatterbrain.  Typical absent-minded professor.  His house showed it, too.  He had everything scattered everywhere: clothes, half-empty mugs, mountains of books, pens, shreds of paper, and scrawls of half-finished poetry.  Carefully, Onde picked her way across the floor to the bed and sat on the chair by its side, which was heaped with various odds and ends – a scarf, a rucksack and one of his mother’s borrowed tea-towels.  The wall above the headboard was covered with photographs that he had taken.  Many of them showed gaggles of students on the beach, or beautiful view.  He was a great believer in awesome skies.  If he happened to spot an amazing one, he would shout, and reach for a camera.  There were a few self portraits too though.  She picked up one particularly arty snap-shot.  He looked young in it, which was rare.  Most people thought he was older than he was – only early thirties – because his red hair was fading to grey early.  Onde teased him for it.  She felt she had too.  But she loved it really, and his eyes, honest and serious and glad.43

When he came in through the door, arms full of hot food; she was fast asleep, chin on chest with the photo half fallen out of the limp fingers.44

They had finished their dinner, and were lounging on the tattered, overstuffed sofa.  He had lit the fire and it was deliciously snug.  With full bellies and warm feet, they were both dozing off, making the odd attempt at conversation.  45

Onde thought it was time she had another go, and said, thickly, ‘So what have you been up to, then?  It’s been so long.’46

He gave a fat, contented sigh.  ‘Too long!  I haven’t been doing much at all, really.  A lecture or two at Machynlleth night school, a few jobs with Robbie –‘47

‘The carpenter man?’  Onde murmured, her eyes half-shut.48

‘Yeah, the carpenter man.  Published a few poems.’49

Onde sat up, jaw dropping, wide awake.  ‘You published something?  And you didn’t ring me?  How many?’50

‘A book full.  Not that many.  It’s not a big deal.’  He felt shy.51

‘Not a big deal?’  Her voice had risen.  She was squeaking like an excited child.  ‘Greg – you sly thing!  You didn’t ring me!  Oh, but you’re a genius, aren’t you?’  She threw herself on him, and he blushed again, and laughed, and buried his face in her hair.52

In the morning he felt a little hung-over, despite both going to bed fairly early.  They had left the washing-up till later.  He dreaded it.53

Now, he opened the heavy curtains and looked out at the sea.  It was a stony grey flat, a double edged sword.  Morning birds were circling over open boxes of scattered chips by the water-front, and the sparrow that lived above his window was chirping.  He shoved up the window and leant out, sprinkling a few crumbs onto the slates.54

‘What are you doing?’  Onde laughed.  He hadn’t noticed her slip in on her bare feet, and he whirled round, almost losing his balance.  ‘I never thought I’d see the day!  Greg and the sparrow, the sparrow and Greg, Greg the knight in shining armour, the saviour of feathery friends!’55

He had to laugh.  Onde looked small and sleepy and curious, her head turned adorably up at him.  Eyes wide as a girl’s, mockingly innocent.56

‘It’s not my fault!  She comes all light and lovely and perches on the sill, and she won’t go till I feed her!’57

‘Oh!  It’s a she, is it?  Does she have a name?’58

Greg laughed.  ‘Are you jealous, Onde?’  And it was her turn to blush.  He grinned.  ‘There.  One-all.  Time for breakfast.’59

He burnt the toast.  She ate it, oblivious.  Her train was at four.  60

They decided to go to Borth animalarium.  Onde had a naive fascination in animals; she was easy to please.  It rained, and was deserted, and the animals huddled dripping in the corners of their hovels.  Greg was happy, with that deserted-rainy-zoo surreal giddiness.  They bought ice-creams which ran over their fingers, and laughed whiled the vendor told them that he wasn’t allowed to rescue them from the lions.61

‘It’s against the law,’ he said, ‘I can’t let you over this barrier.’  Onde said that at least the lions would get a good dinner, and then they walked to the monkey section.62

The rain hissed, smashing hard on the concrete underfoot.  Onde and Greg were laughing at the gibbons, which were screeching and swinging through the knarled branches, furious.  63

‘That one’s you, Onde!’  Greg pointed at a monkey with a particularly comical expression.  ‘I’d say he was only a year or two less evolved, and not half as repulsive.’64

‘Oh, you are horrible, Sir.’  Onde shoved him and tried to scowl.  ‘Besides, evolution is a load of trash, remember?’65

Greg kicked himself.  It was their one difference of opinion.  Onde and her religion, he thought, what a fool I am.  He said, ‘Will you forgive me?  I don’t want to argue.’66

She nodded and said, ‘I will convert you one day, Greg, you know I will.  I mean, come on, what spontaneous bang can make all this?’  She opened her arms to the world: the sea, the sky, the marshes; the hills which lay softly on the horizon; the animals, each perfectly formed and each intelligent.67

‘That’s an unfair question, my Lady.  I concede; two-one to you.  Let’s get some lunch while I ponder and think of some pointy barb to throw at you.’  He took her arm and she chuckled, shaking her head. 68

The Welsh Kitchen was full of a grandma-ish etiquette; the kind of place where the varnish on the wooden table is sticky and scrapes off under any passing finger nail and the chairs rock, and glasses steam up in seconds.  The curtains hung darkly over the cold windows, frivolously flowered, laced, and frilled.  There were doilies under the laminated menus.69

Greg, ever patriotic, had scones and tea, and Onde ordered a small salad.  It came slightly wilted, browning at the edges, and the tomatoes were shrunkenly overripe.70

‘Doesn’t this place make you nostalgic over long-lost aunties and humbugs and perfume?  I feel like a child.’  Onde was petulant. 71

‘Not particularly.  I think it’s a girl thing.  Every café is the same to us, as long as it’s got good cake and makes a good cup of tea.  Whether or not it comes with a saucer.’  He stirred his with the clumsy spoon and it spilt slightly over the side.  ‘You shouldn’t complain.  At least I didn’t take you in the local pub.  I tell you, you’d have hated it.’72

‘You think that?’  She sounded surprised.  ‘I’d prefer it, I reckon.  Just because I look frail doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a pint and a good game of pool.  In fact, I could beat you any day.  But look at the time, silly.  It wouldn’t be open anyway.’73

‘Good job, too, otherwise I might be looking at a right thump on the jaw, by the tone of your voice!’  74

‘Aye, and you’re such a wimp you’d probably go crying to Mummy.  And yes, Greg, I know, unfair – but three-one to me nonetheless.  You’d better get your act together.’ 75

After that they struggled into their coats and walked hunched up through the rain.  Onde had her bag with her, and it was half three.  They sat together on the bench until the train came in.  Then, suddenly awkward, they both got up.  He handed her the bag.76

‘Well, I’ll see you, Onde.’  Greg’s hands were by his sides.77

‘Soon, I hope.  Ring me next time you publish anything.  And you’d better get some better retorts ready for when our next argument.  Goodbye, Sir.’  And before he could reply, she had kissed him briefly on the cheek and was gone.78

He waved at the blank windows of the train as it chugged away.  Goodbye, Lady.  He thought.  I’ll miss you.79

And as he turned to chug back to his flat along the wind-lashed sand, he could feel a new poem budding.80