Trisha Ashley - Sowing Secrets

Why me? She hates me! I still have to call her Mrs Morgan, and she never spends a night under the roof of the double-dyed Scarlet Woman – for not only did we marry in a registry office, which doesn’t count, but also I already had an illegitimate child! This makes it all the stranger that the only chink in her scales is her love for Rosie: she succumbed immediately, though don’t ask me why – you’d think only a mother could love such an obstreperous little creature. But love her she does, to the point where I’m sure she’s managed to forget that Rosie really isn’t her granddaughter at all.

She is also convinced that Mal and his first wife would have resumed their marriage by now if not for me, since they have remained in friendly contact over the years. In fact, they will probably meet up for lunch or dinner a couple of times while he is down there on this contract, but I am not in the least jealous … just illogically uneasy.

Seeing Alison again seems to make him dissatisfied with our life here together in St Ceridwen’s Well, although when he lived the high life in London he wanted to move to the country and chill out. But now he’s in the country he seems to be trying to live the consumer-driven high life again, so what’s that all about? He’s not going to turn into a middle-aged male weathercock, is he?

And another worrying thought: we’ve now been married about the same length of time as his first marriage lasted, so did I come with built-in obsolescence? Especially with the Wevills dripping their sly insinuations about me into his ear like a pair of Iagos.

I wish I wasn’t suddenly having all these worrying ideas.

And what do you buy a dragon for its birthday? Firelighters for damp mornings?

Inspiration! Spotted an advert in a magazine for a firm who will create a bouquet to reflect any message you want to send, together with a little booklet explaining the meanings of flowers and plants, so the recipient can have hours of harmless fun working it out.

I am trying to be subtle here, so no deadly nightshade or anything of that kind.

The dog rose, ‘pleasure mixed with pain’, perhaps? (Her son is the pleasure – to look at, at least – and she is the pain.)

After that, feeling rather put upon, I finally ordered a Constance Spry – ‘pink old rose form … luminous delicacy … myrrh scented’ – with my birthday garden tokens.

OK, I know that they’re prone to mildew and I haven’t got an inch of space left in my bit of the garden, but they are so very pretty that I’m sure Mal won’t mind if I put it near the patio somewhere. The scent would be heavenly when we are sitting out, and I could train it over the trellis round the door.

I won’t tell him, I’ll just dig a little tiny bed for it while he’s away and heel it in to see if he notices.

As I sealed the envelope with the order it occurred to me that I might be one of the last people in the country using cheques. Apart from one Switch card I don’t possess a single bit of plastic, although Mal more than makes up for it: when he opens his wallet it unfolds like a stiffly backed patchwork quilt.

Teapots is right next to the Holy Well and smack opposite the one smallish village car park. Inside it’s painted a brave, welcoming yellow, lined with shelves displaying Carrie’s collection of hundreds of teapots, and with red-checked tablecloths and fresh flowers on each table.

There are no menus: she bakes breads and pastries each morning as the fancy takes her, but doesn’t do hot food, because she isn’t interested in poaching eggs and deep-frying chips. I admire that – she only cooks what she enjoys, the way I only do gardening involving roses. Her Welshcakes are superb.

The room was already half full, even though it was too early in the season for the coach parties who come to visit the Holy Well and Rhodri’s house, Plas Gwyn. The café’s popular all the year round, not just for tourists but with the locals too.

Did I say that Carrie is originally American? I tend to forget, and you can hardly tell from her accent, which I suppose must have worn off over thirty years here in St Ceridwen’s. She arrived as a hippie with a rucksack, guitar and a notebook full of recipes and never left, except for closing up for a month every November and going back to visit friends and relatives in the States.

She’s very popular in the village, maybe because it’s seen as a sort of compliment that she has elected to live here, bringing in tourists and money. Even her attempts to speak Welsh are treated with benign tolerance, though her grasp of the language is excruciatingly formal and grammatically old-fashioned, like someone talking the most impeccable Elizabethan English. ‘Prithee, wouldst thou like thy Olde Welshe Cream tea with jam or, mayhap, honey from mine own hive?’ That sort of thing.

But we all love Carrie, she’s so unsquashably bouncy and cheerful. (And she knows everything about everyone, having been conducting a part-time affair with the village postman, Huw, for about a quarter of a century.)

She was presiding behind the counter when I arrived, and smiled and pointed to where Rhodri and Nia were sitting at a corner table, arguing.

Nothing new there – they’ve always argued, but it’s mostly Nia’s fault; she’s so prickly, and has this big chip on her shoulder about being a quarryman’s daughter, while he is the lord of the manor – as if Rhodri ever cared about stuff like that.

Although we’ve always kept in touch, I hadn’t seen Rhodri to talk to properly for absolutely ages, but as soon as I saw his pinkish face under the unruly thatch of burned-straw hair light up at the sight of me, it was as though we’d never been apart. It’s the same with Nia: whenever we meet we just pick up where we left off, and that’s the sign of true friendship, I think.

He sprang to his feet – he has such beautiful manners, and this lovely posh but friendly voice. ‘Fran!’ he said, giving me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful!’

It was more than I could say about him; he was looking not only older but sadder, like the poor lion in The Wizard of Oz . He has a wide blunt nose and straight, thick fair eyebrows over his pale blue eyes, which add to the resemblance.

‘Sit down, Fran,’ ordered Nia bossily. ‘Carrie’s bringing coffee and Danish pastries over, so you don’t have to order. We need to get on.’

‘With what?’ I asked, sitting down and thinking it was just as well I hadn’t actually started the diet yet.

‘Sorting out Rhodri’s far-fetched plans to turn Plas Gwyn into some kind of kiddies’ Camelot theme park.’

‘Oh, now ,’ protested Rhodri, ‘that’s not fair! I never said anything like that! Just that I wanted to open the house up to the public all season – maybe even all year – and perhaps have a tearoom and gift shop to try and make a bit of money to live on. And I only mentioned the possibility of having a Camelot-inspired children’s playground.’

‘Forget it,’ advised Nia. ‘That’s not the way you should be going. Plas Gwyn isn’t a holiday camp, it’s a historic gem in the middle of nowhere, and you need to attract the type of visitor who already comes to St Ceridwen’s to see the Holy Well, only more of them.’

‘I think Nia’s probably right about that,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure lots of people would come to Plas Gwyn if it was on the historic houses list, because it’s so beautiful, but at the moment they can only see it at weekends in July and August, which restricts your visitor numbers a bit. But if you open it to the public all year where are you going to live?’

‘In the new wing,’ Rhodri said. ‘It’s where I spend most of my time anyway, since it’s the only part with modern plumbing or anything remotely civilised.’