Flesh and Wood - a new novel by Roger Frederick

nine

November slipped into December. There was no comeback from Jemma’s phone call to the police. Probably her name and address had been filed under crank callers or psychiatric cases. But that didn’t bother Jemma. She was just glad that two more weeks had passed and no more wooden objects had appeared.

She was finally convinced that the hand, the heart and the face had been the work of the mysterious boy with the rucksack. And he had obviously left the carved flowers in the café before he’d fled. But it didn’t matter any more. The wooden flowers were at the back of the sideboard with the rest of the ‘evidence’ (as Cindy insisted on calling it). And Rucksack Boy had most probably quit the village on the day of Umbrella Man’s intervention.

Cindy still didn’t seem to care much for Martin Chapman (she’d turned her nose up the couple of times Jemma had mentioned him). But Jemma didn’t mind. At least they were talking again - in the shop, over coffee in the Dolphin. Just normal stuff - shoes and bags and reality TV and the latest village gossip about who had shacked up with whom.

The previous Wednesday, Jemma had been invited to join a small group of Cindy’s friends who regularly met in the café. She put on her smart jeans and the chunky long cardigan jacket from Oasis that she’d never previously had a reason to wear. She took more time with her make-up and carefully arranged her hair over her scar. She clipped her fringe in place with a couple of slides and made a determined effort not to keep fiddling with it.

Cindy even remarked that Jemma looked quite glam as she walked into the Dolphin trying her best to disguise her limp.

The Wednesday lunch group consisted of Megan, who worked part-time in the clothes shop, Wendy from the Post Office and Vicky who worked at Cymllynion Coastal Cottages. CCC did bookings for the flats and cottages, so Jemma already knew Vicky quite well. She also knew of Wendy. At a quick glance she seemed quite prim and slightly geeky with Maths teacher hair and a navy anorak. She knew by heart all the forms for road tax and recorded delivery and the parcel rates to 200 countries. Contrarily, she had a dozen silver hoops all round one ear, a tongue stud, and painted her nails a rainbow of different colours.

Jemma had never talked to Wendy much before (other than when buying a book of stamps). Without wanting to besmirch Cindy or the others, Jemma actually found Wendy the most likeable of the four as they gobbled-up paninis and puddings and planned their New Year diets.

It was the kind of petty shop girl hypocrisy that sales-mode Jemma might have sneered at from her executive table for one in Costa Coffee in Bridge Street. But, spurred on by Wendy’s quirky asides, she happily joined in with the rest of them - agreeing that she’d probably put on a stone over Christmas and would then have to take up half-price winter membership at the David Evans Health Club in Penlyn (she couldn’t quite picture how she would manage on a treadmill - but a few lengths of the small pool might be nice).

Jemma left the Dolphin smiling to herself, full of new found friendship and sticky toffee pudding - those small pleasures more satisfying now than a thousand closed deals. There wasn’t the intense buzz, the roller coaster rush that she got from a two hour sales pitch. That was like being in the grand final of some prime time TV talent show. No, it was just a nice feeling, a warm, simple glow. But it made her feel it was OK not to have or even want all that other stuff - the car, the clothes, the so-called status. For the moment, it was OK just to be OK.

It was Jemma’s third Christmas since the accident. She hardly remembered the first one spent drugged up in the rehab unit with a bit of tinsel round her bed and a blurry succession of visitors from work and family (many of whom she’d hardly spoken to since).

The previous Christmas had been a complete wash out. She’d hardly touched her dinner and had slumped in front of the Eastenders Christmas special with a bottle of plonk and agonizing spasms, while her mum and Peter’s attempts to be jolly slowly waned.

This year was different. The strange episode with the obsessed wood carver seemed to be over. Her lunch sessions with Cindy’s circle at the Dolphin had given her new confidence. And as Jemma lay in bed on Xmas Eve, looking up at the ornaments in her mum’s guest room, she felt a childlike shiver of excitement at the prospect of presents stacked by the blue spruce, sparkling Cava in cut crystal glasses, the blue flames of a plump pudding burning beside a dish of brandy butter and her Christmas Hits tape from 1987 crackling its archive yuletide anthems.

It turned out to be a year for sweaters and chocolate. Back in the chalet on boxing day evening Jemma made a stack of her presents. There were matching cardigans from the Seconds Shop (granny pink and blue) and a chunky-knit rollneck from Aunty Sandra, which had arms of slightly different lengths making her look even more spastic than ever. The chocolate (which she hardly needed given her cake-swollen girth) included Somerfield own-brand (cheap skates), Thornton’s selection (better), Guylian shells (predictable, but acceptable), a chocolate orange twin pack (in Christmas packaging), and a bumper box of Maltesers balanced precariously on top of the pile.

In the early hours of the morning, Jemma was awakened by a loud crash. She sat up in bed pulling the duvet protectively around her. She heard a scratching noise, and saw movement in the shadows. She flicked on the bedside lamp, half-expecting to find an immaculately carved reindeer’s head in her bed and Rucksack Boy stood furtively in the doorway dressed in a cheap Santa suit and wielding a chisel. Instead, all Jemma could see were boxes of chocolates strewn across the floor. Relieved, she re-stacked the pile by the foot of the bed and went back to sleep.

When Jemma awoke two hours later, she was convinced there was someone in the room. She turned on the light and looked around to see if anyone were lurking behind the curtains, and noticed a trail of Maltesers spilled across the floor. She got up and saw that the trail led to the top of the stairs. Stiff legged (as if wearing a suit of armour) she swept the chocolates with her foot towards the pile of chocolate boxes. The she returned to bed.

Later, as Jemma lay there flitting in and out of sleep, she heard a fluttering sound in the wooden walls of the chalet as if a small bird were trapped in the cavity.

The sound stopped and then she heard above her head a noise like marbles being rolled through the roof space. She switched the light back on and looked down at the floor. The pile of Maltesers had disappeared. She got up and lifted the box. It was completely empty.

Jemma heard a skittering sound at the bottom of the stairs and hobbled over to the bannister just in time to see a mouse. It held a Malteser in between its front paws and bounded across the floor like some rougish Beatrix Potter character. Jemma let out a little shriek and hopped backwards to the edge of the bed before falling back onto the safety of the mattress.

When the lunch group met again at the Dolphin on the 28th Jemma told them about her furry chocolate thieves.

“I’m not sure whether to be cross or laugh,” she said as they sipped mulled wine and nibbled home-made mince pies. “I guess I admire their ingenuity, but you can’t really have mice running everywhere weeing and chewing through wires”.

“Are you sure they weren’t rats?” asked Vicky. “I’ve seen them before in the parade.”

“No, it was definitely a mouse I saw,” said Jemma. “It had tiny little paws and a pointy nose and it left little droppings.”

“Yuck,” said Cindy.

“You should put traps down,” said Vicky.

“You can get humane ones from Jenkins,” said Wendy. “Just let them go in the dunes.” She sipped her wine. “Better than finding half a dead mouse in the trap.”

“How can there be half a mouse?” said Vicky.

“Kuusshhh!” Wendy karate chopped the table, miming a spring-loaded wire severing an imaginary rodent.

“Oh,” said Vicky. “Could that really happen?”

Wendy nodded. “Then the half-mice have to sit by the side of the hole begging for cheese from the others, like little war veterans.”

“Really?” said Vicky.

“She’s just teasing you,” said Jemma. “Anyway, I don’t know if I should set traps or encourage them.” She leaned back in her chair and gently patted her tummy. “I reckon they’ve already stolen an inch worth of chocolate.”

“Cheaper than Weight Watchers.” Wendy winked and nodded at Megan who obliviously tucked into a second portion of banoffee pie.

Jemma decided she would get the traps in the New Year. She hadn’t intended to share her Christmas break with a million mice, but Jenkins probably wouldn’t be open until then anyhow.

To escape an evening of skitter-skattering, she invited herself round to her mum’s for dinner - the usual post-yuletide fare of peppery crackers, turkey soup and Stilton croutons (which was OK when you slept alone and no one could smell the under-duvet emissions).

As they sat dozing in front of the fire and the TV, Jemma’s mum looked up from her knitting and asked, “Have you made your mind up about the dinner on Monday?”

She’d been badgering Jemma for months to come to the New Year’s Eve party at the Glen View Hotel, a startling white Art Deco building which stood high up on the cliffs overlooking the bay in Nant Llwyfen. Jemma liked the Glen View. It was by far the poshest hotel in the area, served fabulous food and provided comfortingly expensive health and beauty treatments. It even had an infinity pool.

It was tempting, but she’d feel out of place with the elite of Cymllynion. It would remind her too much of the days when she would glide into such gatherings and all heads would turn. True, people still stared, but not for the same reason.

“I’m not really into dancing these days,” said Jemma. She tapped her hands lightly on her thighs.

“You could come along and watch,” said her mum.

“Your friend will be there,” said Peter with a wink.

“Who? Cindy?” asked Jemma.

Peter looked puzzled.

“Your know, the girl from the clothes shop,” said Jemma.

Her mum emitted a loud snort.

“I hardly think it’s her kind of do.”

“No,” said Peter. “I mean Martin Chapman. He was asking if you’d be there.”

Jemma blushed. “Don’t be silly.”

“He was at Midnight Mass at Saint Lessoc’s. He seemed very taken with you, didn’t he Sandra?”

“Oh yes, he was very disappointed that you weren’t at the Mass.”

“Well, he’s a nice, polite man,” said Jemma.

“And he’s quite dishy, with a steady job and a tidy little cottage in Slippery Back that he lives in by himself, as far as I know,” murmured her mum.

“Oh mum,” said Jemma, with a slight whine as if she were seventeen again.

“Well you need to think about getting yourself back out there.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Jemma lifted her fringe and poked forward her forehead. “Notice anything?”

Her mother winced as if she’d just stepped into cat sick. “Oh don’t start all that again, Jemma.”

Her needles clicked furiously for a few seconds. She put her knitting down. “As I recall you had precious little success with men before. It’s not as if they weren’t interested in you.”

“Christ almighty,” said Jemma. “Why is it that if you’re single and want to have a career that everyone presumes you’re either frigid or a lesbian.”

“You’re not are you?” said her mum matter-of-factly.

“What not a lesbian, not frigid or not having a successful career?”

“The first one,” said her mum.

“Yes mum. You’ve rumbled me. I’ve been secretly going out with a woman called Vivien for the last 12 years. She’s a pottery teacher with a shaved head and dungarees. We met at the gates of Hallowsmere Common Airbase and I sneak out three times a week to drink at the furry cup in her commune.”

“Good God,” said Peter looking startled.

“It’s OK Peter, you can calm down,” said Jemma. “I was joking.”

“Well there’s no need to be rude to Peter,” said her mum.

“Me being rude?” said Jemma indignantly. “You just called me a bloody lesbian.”

“No it was you who said you might be,” said her mum patiently. Peter nodded.

“Oh for crying out loud, I never said I might be. It wouldn’t matter if I was. But I’m not. I can write you a list of all the men I’ve ever slept with if you like.”

Peter looked uncomfortable.

“Well if that Martin Chapman has any sense, he’ll stay well clear of you then,” said her mother.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Jemma.

Her mother shook her head and resumed her knitting as if she were painstakingly stabbing some woollen animal.

“Forget it,” said Jemma. She went to the front door, put on her coat and hobbled out into the sleet, banging the door loudly behind her.

She was about a quarter of a mile down the lane, when she saw the lights of a car slowing behind her. Her heart raced as she stepped into the damp verge to let it pass and was relived to see it was Peter’s Rover estate. He opened the passenger door. She paused and got in. She thought he was going to turn round and take her back to their place, but he continued on into Nant Llwyfen.

“Thanks for the lift,” she said when they arrived at the chalet. “Sorry about earlier.”

“You shouldn’t be so angry at your mother, she’s only trying to help. We all have to make the best of things. And there’s plenty worse off than you.”

Before Jemma could respond he’d driven off with a dismissive wave. She stood shivering in the sleet for a while watching the red lights of his Rover fade down the parade, then she went inside.

When the phone rang the next morning, she guessed it was her mum. She let it ring a few times, and composed herself before lifting the handset.

“Hi there,” she said.

“Hello.” It was a man’s voice, and it took her while to place it. Martin.

“Oh,” she said. Her thoughts felt trashed, strewn all around like rubbish from a bin bag attacked by gulls.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Martin after a few second of silence. “I haven’t woken you have I?”

“Uhmm, no, no,” she mumbled, straining to regain her composure.

“I just wondered if you’d like a lift to the New Year’s Eve do at the Glen View. I know it’s not too far to walk from your place. But I have to come into the village and it would save you having to traipse up the hill in your party frock.”

Jemma didn’t know what to say. There was another lengthy silence.

“I’m sorry. Have I called at a bad time?”

“No, no, not at all,” said Jemma. “I just wasn’t expecting to hear from you, that’s all. You haven’t been speaking to Peter have you?”

“I met him on Christmas Eve. He just mentioned you were going to the New Year’s bash. Has something happened?” He sounded concerned.

“No, no. Everything’s fine,” said Jemma. “To be honest, I hadn’t quite decided yet whether I was going to go to the Glen View. Dancing and drinking aren’t really my kind of things these days.”

“Well,” said Martin with a little laugh, “I don’t think they’re compulsory.”

“No, but when you can’t join in...” she mumbled.

“...it seems a little pointless going,” Martin finished her sentence for her.

“Yes,” said Jemma. “I don’t mean to be a damp squib, but...”

“I know, I know,” he said in an understanding way. “So, what are you going to do instead?”

“I hadn’t really given it much thought. I’ll probably have a quiet night in and watch the fireworks from my window if I’m still awake at midnight.”

“All by yourself?”

“Probably.”

“Well, why don’t we go out for a quiet drink earlier on. I mean, I’m in the village and I hate to think of you sat there all alone on New Year’s Eve.”

“It’s very kind of you.” Jemma paused.

“Oh, come on, just half an hour, before it gets too busy.”

“Well...”

“Look, I’ll be passing a hundred yards from your chalet at around half-seven. I absolutely understand if you don’t feel in the mood for the Glenn View do or even a drink in the village. That’s fine, of course it is. But would you mind if I just knock on your door to wish you a Happy New Year.”

“No, not at all. I mean, I don’t mind. Yes, please do call round.”

“Great. It would be really nice to see you again.”

“Yes, it would,” said Jemma.

“I’ll see you at around half-seven then.”

“That would be nice.”

They exchanged polite goodbyes and Jemma put down the receiver her hand trembling like she had Parkinson’s.

The afternoon of the New Year’s Eve do, Jemma had booked her mum’s hairdresser, Teresa, to come round and give her a trim. Ten minutes before the appointment time, Teresa had called in tears. It had taken Jemma a few moments to work out, between the sobs, who was on the other end of the line. From what Jemma could gather, Teresa had let her dogs into the garden a few minutes before she was due to set off for Nant Llwyfen. Somehow, one of the dogs - a straggly lurcher named Rex - had run out into the road and been hit by a van. It sounded to Jemma as if Teresa might actually be on her mobile, knelt by the verge with the poor dogs’s smashed head cradled in her lap.

“Are you all right?” she’d asked (stupidly). “Is someone there with you?”

“The van man,” she said. “He’s stopped. I’m sorry. I’m OK.” She started sobbing again uncontrollably.

“Are you sure?” asked Jemma, feeling totally helpless.

“I’m OK. I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I’ll call you. I’ll have to go.” The phone went dead.

Shit, thought Jemma. Now what am I going to do with my bloody hair? She immediately felt sick with guilt at the selfishness of such a thought. But she couldn’t help it. When half your face was a Halloween mask pre-drink hair styling assumed Titanic importance. Poor old Teresa. Poor old Rex. She’d seen Teresa walking him on the beach a few times - straggly coat soaked scampering with a jelly fish in his jaws. What a frightfully sad thing to happen. She looked in the mirror and raked her hair with her fingers like a child playing with seaweed, then headed upstairs to search out the conditioner.

Twenty-five past seven. Jemma checked her hair for the millionth time, nervously readjusting her tortoiseshell-plastic hair slide. She would not normally have chosen it for such a glam do, but it was the slide that best held her fringe in place, safety curtaining her horrow-show scars.

She pulled her shawl across her shoulders and flicked at imaginary fluff with her nails. They were painted Sahara Sunset, an earthy orangy red, but matt, with a subtle, sandy sheen - at least that’s what it said on the bottle. Her lippy was slightly brighter, but not glossy postbox bright. Jemma hated that look - lips all red and sticky like they’d been sucking on a strawberry lolly or a raw steak. She shuddered and noticed a smear on the mirror. She spat lightly on her finger tips and rubbed at the smear, but that just made it worse.

Jemma went to the kitchen, pulled on her polish-stained Marigolds, and took the glass spray from her cleaning carousel, all ready on the side for the third. She’d just sprayed the mirror when there was a knock at the door. She struggled for a few second to pull off the rubber gloves. But her hand tightened into a claw.

She sighed and opened the door. On a gust of cold air, Martin stepped into the porch light and stood there in full black tie clutching a large bouquet of creamy roses, white freesias and pink Peruvian lilies, like some James Bond themed Inter Flora delivery.

“Oh hi,” said Jemma - her old sales smile cranking into action. “You better come in for a moment.” She waved her bottle of glass spray, latex fingers flapping. “Just tidying up.”

Martin steeped into the lounge.

“You look very smart,” said Jemma. “Sorry about the attractive rubber gloves.”

“You look lovely,” said Martin, and slipped an arm comfortingly around her as he pecked her on the cheek.

The touch of his hand on the small of her back sent shivers through her. She blushed.

“I’ll get these stupid gloves off and get my coat.”

Peter thrust the flowers toward her. “Do you have a vase?”

“Oh are those for me?” asked Jemma, as if she’d only just noticed the flowers. “Oh they’re gorgeous. You shouldn’t have - they really are lovely”. She leaned forward to sniff the bouquet, arms outstretched like a bird about to set flight. “What wonderful lilies, and in the middle of winter.”

She went into the kitchen, heart racing, as she finally managed to tug off the Marigolds and clattered around for a vase in the tall cupboard by the sink.

“Would you like a drink?” she called.

“I thought maybe we could stroll down to The Oak,” said Martin.

Stroll? thought Jemma. Trundle, yes. Lope, perhaps. Stroll, not!

“Yes, The Oak would be nice,” she said, returning with one of her mum’s prized Poole vases, which she normally kept squirreled away lest a sudden arm spasm might catapult it off the wall and into a thousand pieces.

Martin took her arm as they made there way along the Parade. For once, Jemma didn’t mind surrendering her independence. The road was slippery with drizzled on ice and it was good to cling to the taught warmth of his forearm. The sea was in splashing dark and savage against the slipway. Boats bobbed and tugged at their moorings like Winnie Wilkins’ spaniel straining at itsleash. Reflections of orange harbour lights danced madly in the water.

When they arrived at the Oak, two bouncers barred their way. They were dressed the same as Martin in black bow ties, but they lacked any gentlemanly graces, simply stepping into Martin’s path and grunting “tickets,” as he attempted to escort Jemma through the doorway.

“What?” said Martin in a rather indignant tone.

“Tickets,” repeated one of the gorillas.

“We’re not staying,” said Martin. “We’re just stopping for a quick drink.”

“No ticket, no entry, squire.”

“As I said,” repeated Martin, peering around the side of the bouncer. “We’re not planning to stay and the bar looks completely empty.”

The second bouncer stepped forward, thrusting out his beer belly, and poking the air with a plump finger. “Look mate, you’ve been told. You’re blocking the doorway. Now sling yer hook.”

“I think you’ll find you’re blocking the doorway,” snapped Martin. “I’m not your mate and I don’t have a hook to sling. But I am thirsty and I would like to sit quietly by the bar for ten minutes and consume a pint of Golden Hill with my companion here.”

Jemma felt Martin’s body tense against her and she released his arm. Her head span. “Let’s just go somewhere else,” she said slightly breathlessly. She gave Martin’s shoulder a placatory rub. “It’s no problem.” She smiled politely at the calmer bouncer with a little nod and a wink. “Come on.”

Martin wriggled away from her like a petulant child.

“Go on,” said the second bouncer. “Take the ladies advice and do one.”

Martin squared up to the bouncer like some light-heavyweight at a weigh in.

Jemma tugged at Martin’s arm. “Stop this! Just stop it.”

The sudden shrillness of her voice shocked them apart. But they still stood glaring at each other, bristling like cornered dogs.

Martin reluctantly let himself be led away, but couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder and snarling, “Just watch yourself.” The second bouncer stepped forward, but his calmer colleague grabbed his arm. He made some muffled comment, and the second bouncer stood and watched them walk away, fists clenched, staring daggers.

Jemma felt embarrassed and deflated. It was like mad Mark all over again. Were all men that way? Surely there must be some out there who were quiet and decent and had the grace to just walk away from such scenes. Why were they never attracted to her?

“All right?” asked Martin putting his arm around her.

“Not really,” said Jemma.

She stopped walking and looked up at him sadly. She suddenly felt the drizzle and the cold and the dark all around. Depression tunnelled into the scarred hollow beneath her cheap plastic hair clip. All she wanted to do was go home.

“Don’t let those two thugs get to you,” said Martin. He glowered back down the hill at the Royal Oak. “Morons,” he muttered, oblivious to his own role in the confrontation. He smiled. “Why don’t we just go up to the Glen View. I know you don’t want to stay long. But we’re halfway there now.”

Jemma smiled sadly up at him. “Look, I appreciate you coming round to visit me, but I really think I should be getting...”

The toot of a car horn interrupted her.

Peter’s Rover 75 pulled in by the kerb on the apex of the bend. The window went down and her mum’s elaborately coiffured head appeared, the war paint trowelled on her face like some pantomime dame. “Jump in and we’ll give you a lift up the hill.”

Before Jemma could respond, Martin had opened the back door of the Rover and all but bundled her onto the back seat. She had no intention of going to the Glen View, but hordes of revellers had chosen that moment to descend upon the village and a queue of cars was forming behind Peter. She had little choice but to get in.

Jemma’s mum glowed with joy as Peter pulled off up the hill. “Well,” she said, “that was lucky.”

“What a coincidence,” muttered Jemma and stared sulkily out of the window.

Her mum tutted, but Jemma’ reticence could not wipe the grin from her face.

“How are we all doing back there?” asked Peter jovially.

“I’m afraid we just had a bit of a scene at the Oak,” explained Martin.

“Oh, right,” said Peter, which Jemma instantly translated as, ‘So what’s she been up to now?’.

“There were a couple of overly aggressive doormen,” said Peter. “I’m afraid I rather rose to the bait.” He sounded slightly sorry.

“Aren’t they’re all supposed to be trained now,” said Peter.

“Not that you would have noticed,” said Martin.

“Plain ignorant,” said Peter.

Martin nodded. He seemed a little dejected.

Maybe I’ve been too harsh on him, thought Jemma. She sank back into the seat, and slid her arm through his. He was just trying to stand up for himself - probably just being a bit over protective towards her, the way people were. She smiled at Martin. He squeezed her hand. And when they arrived at the Glenn View thirty seconds later, she wished she could just have sat there in the warmth of the car with him for a hundred miles more.

She hadn’t realised there was a formal sit down meal with places settings, and Martin had been allocated to a separate table. Peter offered to arrange a swap, but Jemma persuaded him not to fuss.

“The meal will be over soon enough,” she said. In fact, it meandered on for almost three hours through soup and sorbet and coffee with mints. By the time everyone had decamped to the bar by the function room there was barely an hour to go until midnight.

Pride surged through Jemma as she stood at the corner of the bar with Martin in his tux. The elite of Nant Llwyfen were gathered around a charity roulette wheel. And cloistered by the dark oak panelling of the Glenn View function room she felt like a Bond girl rendezvousing with 007 at the bar of some exotic casino.

“Do you want to dance?” asked Marin.

“I’m not that pissed,” she laughed. “Or that agile.” She glanced down at her gammy leg.

“We can always ‘Do the Hop’,” smirked Martin.

“Yea, très amusant,” she slurred, gargling her wine. She handed him the empty glass. “Make yourself useful,” she said. “And you never know, later on in the evening...”

Martin feigned shock.

“I meant dancing,” she said, giving him a little thump on the arm. “And I can assure you, that is equally unlikely.”

“Unlikely as what?” said Martin.

“Just get my wine,” she said, laughing. She laughed to herself at the absurdity of the situation had a slight spasm down her bad side and nearly went over.

“Good God, girl. How much have you had?”

Jemma, turned to see Wendy from the Post Office, who had her hair dyed three different colours and was dressed like Cyndi Lauper circa 1985 in a green puffball skirt with pink fishnets and what appeared to be a customised corset/bustier with garter hooks - a sort of dishevelled psychedelic hooker look.

They emitted mutual shrieks and hugged.

“Happy New Year,” said Jemma.

“Not quite,” said Wendy looking at her Minnie Mouse watch.

Martin reappeared with the drinks.

“This is Martin,” said Jemma. “A friend of the family.”

“This is Wendy from the Post Office.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “I didn’t recognise you without the jumper and the name badge. Good to see you”

He gallantly shook Wendy’s hand and she did an elaborate curtsey.

“And good to see you,” she said, slightly drunkenly, eyeing him up and down. “Very smart.”

“At least it’s starting to liven up now,” said Martin, as a couple whirled past. “I’ve just been trying to persuade Jemma to take to the dance floor.”

“May I?” said Wendy, and she whisked Martin off in a elaborate waltz, leaving Jemma clasping two glasses of wine and feeling rather jilted.

Most of the guests slowly circled the function room in pairs, adopting the relaxed embrace of ballroom dancers without performing any formal steps (as if the setting were somehow too grand for disco moves). Wendy would occasionally break free to perform drunken pirouettes, while Martin jiggled from side to side and regarded her with a wry smile.

When the tempo increased, Wendy performed a wild solo jive, which encouraged a couple of disgruntled teenage girls - dragged to the do en famille - to get up and engage in some lively gyrations. But the DJ swiftly curbed such excess with another sedate number.

Wendy returned flushed and giggly, dragging Martin by the hand. “There you go,” she said. “I’ve warmed him up nicely for you now.”

Smiling, Martin feigned collapse. “Worn me out, more like.”

Not wanting Wendy to steal her thunder, Jemma agreed to one small dance before midnight.

Martin was very gentle and chivalrous, but it still felt as if her leg was being pulled from its socket and the slow twists tugged at her back ligaments like she were a half-butchered beef carcass.

Before the song had finished, Jemma made the excuse that she needed fresh air. She stumbled out to the chilled veranda where the spilled ink of the Glenn View’s infinity pool was blotted by plum black sky. Small tears dampened her cheeks. Martin approached. She turned away, but she knew he could see her face shining in the light from the function room.

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t hurt you did I.”

“No, no.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her good hand and sniffed. “I was just happy for a moment. I almost forgot...or my body remembered, for a tiny moment...”

“How much you enjoyed dancing?”

Jemma nodded. “Silly really.” She sniffed again.

“Come here,” said Martin offering open arms. He gathered her to his chest. She felt suddenly frail and shivery and laid her head on his shoulder. He gently stroked her hair.

Tape recorded chimes from the function room jarred against the distant tolling of the bell at St Thomas’s. Inside the function room a chorus of Awld Lang Syne broke out and laughter and shrieks rose up from the harbour as revellers ran out from the Dolphin and on to the sand.

Though Jemma couldn’t see anything but the darkness of the sky and the ocean, she smiled to imagine Cindy cavorting with her friends on the beach, and the ticket holders in the pubs linking arms as they sang.

She rocked slowly in Martin’s strong embrace and when he gently lifted her head to kiss her on the lips she didn’t mind. On New Year’s Eve it felt the natural thing to do. And she remained rocking in his arms like a bobbing bottle until a bomb-blast of rockets from the next veranda etched stars in the treacle sea.

The first days of the New Year were dull and cold and Jemma wrapped herself up in her duvet in hibernation, wondering if Martin would call. Around the seventh of January she woke to see pure blue through the skylight. She stood on the bed and lifted her face to the warmth of the sun, the lace curtain hanging across her like a veil.

Forgetting about Martin for a while, she put on her coat and headed out to the beach. It was like a postcard printed at max saturation. A slick of silver pools sheened the sand. The sky was chalk blue smudged with salmon grey clouds. In the glade by the Witch’s Elm, the trees were covered in thousands of birds, a babbling stream of birdsong drowning out the mini waterfalls and swollen streams that poured from the cliffs among icicles. As she approached, the birds swept from the branches in an elegant swarm. The cold air was like ice in her throat, freezing her chest - the day was a real chest freezer.

She smiled inwardly at her small pun. It did nothing to make her feel any warmer. It just conjured up a mental image of Rucksack Boy dismembering his victims and packing them among the frozen peas and lamb chops in an actual chest freezer, fingers among the fish fingers, sliced chins resting on frozen chickens. She looked uneasily towards the trees for any signs of a blue anorak. But there was nothing there but dead brambles and the shadows of swooping starlings.

It was too cold to sit for long and Jemma limped home. She felt comfortable and warm and happy. And that evening when Martin finally called to ask her if she’d like to accompany him to dinner, she agreed without a second thought.

He picked her up the next evening in a dark coloured BMW diesel saloon - a 320d as far as she could tell. Normally she avoided car journeys (especially in BMWs - just looking at the badge and grille made her retch) but somehow she felt safe with Martin, being driven up the archipelago to its shoulder with the mainland and the civilisation beyond.

Jemma felt like a child as the car sped through the darkness, thrilled by the novelty of the night-time journey. Her year of seclusion in Nant Llwyfen seemed more like a decade. They barely said a word, listening instead to early evening Radio 2 and, when the DJ’s inane banter got too much, a CD by some female singer whose name she forgot almost as soon as Martin told it to her. Still, it was good driving music.

Martin had booked a table at The Linden Tree twenty miles inland. The name seemed familiar, but she didn’t know the place (how could she, having been whisked straight into Nant Llwyfen nine months earlier and hardly having left since).

The restaurant was pleasant enough, though very different from the chic urban eateries she once frequented in Westing. It was almost like a tea room or someone’s back parlour - cosy with rustic oak tables, thirties poetry and monochrome jazz singers on the walls, and a large black wood burner - a good choice for an icy January evening. As they talked and ate the room filled up and grew warmer. She took off her shawl, revealing bare shoulders and generous cleavage, not caring that her right arm hung slightly awkwardly and her knitted collar bone bulged like a knot in wood against the patterned cotton of her dress .

At first they talked about the village, her Mum and Peter’s plans to maybe buy a couple more cottages later in the year and for her to possibly get more involved in the business now that Peter was edging towards retirement age.

“How about you?” she asked.

“What? Retirement?” he said jokily. “Well, I’d love to, but unfortunately they’ve got me in their grasp for a few more years.”

It was the type of expression Mark used to use as he plummeted into one of his bouts of anger. At least Martin said it with a grin rather than a snarl.

“No, the development company,” said Jemma. “Any exciting projects planned for the year ahead?”

“Same as ever. We’ll be sorting out the budgets soon. That’s always fun.” Martin rolled his eyes and speared a chunk of rabbit pie. He chewed enthusiastically, then swilled it down with Rose.

“How’s your salmon,” he asked, pointing at her plate with his fork.

“OK,” she said, and realising that she might sound slightly indifferent, added, “it’s really very nice.” She reached over and touched his arm. “I do appreciate this. I don’t get out of the village much at the moment.”

“My pleasure,” he smiled and topped up her glass.

“So,” said Jemma, “you didn’t fancy following in your father’s footsteps?”

“My dad?”

“In the medical profession,” she said.

“No, that’s my mothers’s side of the family. Dad’s family had the Bishop Thomas dairy.”

“The Cymllynion yoghurt place?” Jemma almost squealed. “I virtually live on them!”

“That was the new owners,” said Martin. “Feltons. They bought up a lot of the dairies round here 20 years ago, during the last recession. Made dad an offer he couldn’t refuse. They just kept the name on for a few of the products.”

“But your grandfather was the local doctor?” asked Jemma.

“Mum’s father? Yes, the daft old bugger.” He took a gulp of wine. “I expect you’ve heard the stories.”

“Typical Nant Llwyfen,” she said, slightly embarrassed. “If they can’t find anything to gossip about, they just make something up.”

“Oh it’s mostly true,” said Martin nonchalantly. “Grandad meant well, but he was a law unto himself I’m afraid. A different era thank God. Still, we’ve just about dragged the village out of the dark ages now. Almost anyway.” He smiled.

“So how did you find your way into the building trade,” asked Jemma. “Did you study it at college?”

“No I dropped out of college. My mum, God bless her, was devastated. We had an almighty row and I stormed out with a rucksack of clothes, a handful of LPs and a toothbrush. I was completely skint and ended up kipping on the floor of a mate’s house, Barry Walters. A bit of a hippy he was with ginger dreadlocks and the smell of joss sticks. Foxy Marley they used to call him. Bald as a coot now, but a great guy. At the time, he was working as a labourer on a housing estate in Penlyn. He put in a good word for me with the site manager. I had no other options. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

She nodded and smiled. “Funny how things turn out. Fate and all that.”

“How about you?” asked Martin. “How did you end up in IT Sales?”

“I’ve asked myself that a few times,” she grinned. “No, I loved it really. Fate again, I suppose. I left school without having a clue what I wanted to do. I saw a job advertised in the paper for a trainee sales assistant. I thought it was in a shop. I ended up as the PA to a computer programmer with a shed on an Industrial Estate in Westing. It literally was a shed then, just him and a couple of engineers surrounded by circuit boards and hard drives. Ten years on and WIS (Westing Information Systems) employed over 80 people. It’s just chance really that I happened to be in near the beginning and got on well with Stuart who started the business. I guess, in a way, I was his right hand woman.” She smiled sadly. “Now my right hand’s nor much use to anyone.” She rested it limp and lifeless beside her plate, Exhibit A in her fall from power.

“It’s a lovely hand,” said Martin. He reached across the table and held it gently, stroking the fingers, electric tingles snaking up to her shoulder.