Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Lesbian; british; Romance; romance adult contempory; lesfic; romance lesbian; Wales; Lesbian Romance; Contemporary
Description: Two old friends, one hot summer, a whole load of confusion. Poppy Jenkins makes everyone smile. She’s the heart of Wells, a beautiful village in mid-Wales, leaving light and laughter in her wake. She has a doting family, an errant dog and a little sister with a nose for mischief. But she’s the only gay in the village and it’s a long time since she kissed a girl: the chance of romance in sleepy Wells is rarer than a barking sheep. If she doesn’t think too hard, life is cosy, until a smart sports car barrels into town with the last woman Poppy wants to see behind the wheel. Beautiful Rosalyn Tho
Publisher: Createspace

Poppy Jenkins

by

Clare Ashton

Poppy Jenkins

Copyright © 2016 Clare Ashton.

All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Editor: Jayne Fereday

Cover: Fereday Design

Published by:

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For everyone who said an encouraging word.

It made all the difference.

Chapter 1.

Poppy Jenkins had been thinking just that morning how well life was turning out. Not perfect by most people’s standards, but Poppy wasn’t most people. A riverside walk on a sunny morning, glittering with promise for the year ahead, was perfection to her mind.

She smiled, squinting in the sun, and gazed along the sparkling waters. The River Rhiw wound its course through a fecund green landscape, curving around shingle beaches and cascading over boulders into still pools that would tempt even the most staid to strip and bathe.

Spring flowers burst from the hedgerow, florets of cow parsley and splashes of yellow buttercups attracting a buzz of bees, and Poppy breathed in as if to appreciate the scent of her paradise.

It was balmy enough for Poppy’s summer dress – a light cotton garment vibrant with a pattern of green leaves and yellow lemons. The soft fabric glided around her body, giving her the freedom and pleasure almost of nudity. She faced the warmth and stretched up her hands to indulge the sunshine on every part of her body.

She was even having a good hair day. Her dark locks that, within a whiff of the ocean, would coil into a frizz the envy of any poodle, today hung in chestnut waves shining in the morning light.

Up ahead, her much younger sister Pip gambolled along the path in that energetic way eleven-year-olds do, before they collapse into a sulky heap and claim not another muscle could so much as twitch. Pip’s blue gingham dress and long white socks flashed through the hedgerow as she followed the curving path, and a school rucksack jigged on her back with every ungainly leap.

“Don’t go further than the bridge,” Poppy shouted, then she lost sight of the girl around the corner.

Beyond, the village of Wells came into view, with its timber-framed and Georgian brick core surrounded by the odd Victorian terrace and odder 1930s development. The thirties must have been the end of the village’s heyday, because it was rare to find a building more recent and twenty-first century houses were non-existent.

It was typical of the area – that bit of Wales that wasn’t the valleys of the South or the mountains of Snowdonia in the North – the bit in the middle that nobody could say what was there. And truth be told, there wasn’t a great deal. So little in fact it was called that-bit-in-the-middle or Mid-Wales for short. But that’s what Poppy liked about it – a rural idyll time and people had passed by, where Wales rubbed shoulders with England and easily pronounceable names such as Clun nestled with the likes of Llansantffraed-Cwmdeuddwr.

Pip was dutifully waiting on the metal footbridge across the river, throwing flowers and watching them disappear under the bridge. She spied Poppy approaching and launched into another gallop. Poppy was about to shout again when Pip raised her hand. “I know, wait in the village.” Poppy smiled and her little sister raced ahead.

Within a hundred yards the first timber-framed cottages came into view. Mrs Morgan Morgan’s garden surrounded by white-washed stone walls backed onto the path. At this time of year blooms of pink hollyhocks and blue delphiniums erupted over the wall, and among all the vibrant colour was a patch of grey that bobbed diligently.

“Good morning, Mrs Morgan,” Poppy shouted.

The grey mop shot up and revealed a surprised ruddy face.

“Ah, cariad.” Mrs Morgan’s face creased into a smile. “It is a good morning. Almost as beautiful as your dress.” She pointed with a gloved hand and pair of secateurs. “I was going to say ‘as beautiful as your smile,’ but there really isn’t anything as good as that.”

Poppy giggled and her cheeks glowed with the praise.

Mrs Morgan, wife of Morgan, was one of the villagers whom Poppy had always viewed as older folk. Since Poppy was a child, Mrs Morgan’s hair had been permanently rollered and set, and it was difficult to tell whether it had grown over the past thirty years. But it had changed. Mrs Morgan had given up the rinses, and the natural grey silvered every strand now. It had caught Poppy by surprise when she realised Mrs Morgan would have been in her forties when Poppy was young, an alarming epiphany given that forty was now less than a decade away.

“So where are you off to looking so gorgeous?” Mrs Morgan continued.

“Taking Pip to school, then off to the café as usual. Just thought I’d give the summer dress an outing.”

“Well, if there are any eligible young ladies in the village this morning you’ll catch their eye, no doubt about that.”

Poppy beamed and felt warm at the compliment, but she was well aware she’d be the only single woman of her persuasion out that day.

“And young Pip. How are you, bach?” Mrs Morgan aimed the question up the path to where Pip twirled and scuffed the ground.

“Very well thank you.” Pip said it with a frown. “But I’m not small anymore.”

Mrs Morgan snorted. “Oh I’ll be calling you bach when you’re taller than me, and even when you’re grown up and married if I’m around that long. And how’s school? What’s your favourite lesson?”

“Writing stories,” Pip said, with a slight ease in her chagrin, “and art.”

“Ah, creative like your mam.”

Pip looked up at Poppy from beneath furrowed eyebrows. “Can I get some sweets now?”

Poppy’s mouth opened wide in chastisement. “Pip!”

“It’s all right, cariad. You get on now.” And Mrs Morgan Morgan turned towards her thatched cottage, waving farewell with her secateurs.

Poppy skipped ahead to match her sister’s pace. “That was very rude.”

Pip rolled her eyes. “She always talks about the same things. I bet she said that word for word last spring.”

“She’s being sociable. It’s what people do.”

Pip looked up unconvinced.

“It’s pleasant.” Poppy laughed. “It makes people happy.”

“You’re too nice to people.” Pip tutted.

“Thank goodness, with pre-teens sulking around.”

“But you let everyone go on and on. All they talk about is what they had for dinner, or what colour curtains they made ten years ago.”

Poppy leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll let you into a secret. Curtains are fascinating, in fact I have a fetish for them. I love a bit of haberdashery.”

Pip elbowed her, hard, in the arm. “You should do what Mum does and pretend you’re composing a painting in your head and wander off halfway through in a trance.”

“Yes, well,” Poppy said. “Unfortunately I don’t think she’s pretending. She really isn’t with us most of the time.” And she meant it kindly.

They diverted away from the river, along the back of the square, up to the main road entrance to the village. Pip slid her arm into Poppy’s and skipped beside her with the exhilaration of a child who knows she’s about to get confectionery.

Poppy smiled at the view of the town. Being a Welsh village, it had a castle. The grey ruin watched over the square from a grassy hill and rocky outcrop. People joked that the medieval Welsh must have been a belligerent lot, but it’s likely they were miffed about the small matter of the English invading. If it had been the once, you could forgive the English for thinking the Welsh a little testy, but even the most jovial of people become peeved after a few hundred years of invasion.

The castle lay to the north of the village with the town square beneath an appealing mix of Georgian brick buildings and timber-framed houses each at least three storeys high. It was disorientating setting foot within its perimeter, with jutting balconies and leaning walls, some created by design, some by centuries of wear and tear. It gave the impression of movement and it was not unknown for visitors admiring the architecture to stumble about as if at sea. At the south end of the square was a stone bridge across the river, built to accommodate one cart, with snug passing spots for pedestrians in triangular indents above the arches.

And beyond the river, naturally, was Llanfair – a church of St Mary. In fact the village had so many features that contributed to its original name, even the most entrenched Welshman was in danger of pulling a hernia when attempting to pronounce it. So someone at some point took pity on the sign makers and the tourists and the tongue-twisted locals and shortened it to Wells. Ironically, the location of the historic wells had long been forgotten and they were the only feature of the original name that no longer existed.

The village shop was tucked into a corner beneath the castle. It was accommodated in two old houses of a contorted timber-framed terrace, knocked together to make a long thin grocer, newsagent, chemist and every other small retail amenity.

Parked outside today was a sleek black Jaguar. It would have turned heads anywhere, but in the middle of nowhere where a mud-splattered Land Rover was the most common mode of transport, it definitely grabbed attention.

But it was the figure leaning through the driver’s door that turned Poppy’s head – long slender legs in slim-fitting jeans, smooth heart-shaped buttocks and a loose T shirt that rode high over a smooth, tanned back. The woman’s face was hidden by blonde bobbed hair that cascaded smooth as flowing water around her cheeks. The haircut was expensive. Even Poppy who went to the economical Super Snips knew that. The woman dipped into the footwell so that the T shirt hung low and Poppy was afforded a brief glimpse of bra. And what a fine thing it was, or rather, what a fine shape it made curving around ample breasts. Soft, voluptuous breasts.

Poppy cast a nervous glance at Pip. Her sister hadn’t noticed the woman or Poppy’s admiration and was skipping eager to buy her allowance of treats. When Poppy looked up again, the woman was standing on the pavement beside the car. Her face was in full view now. It was a face worthy of that elegant body, one of the most beautiful Poppy had ever seen, and one she recognised without a doubt.

“Rosie,” she whispered. The recognition punched her in the stomach.

Even with a shocked expression disturbing her features, the woman was stunning. Crystal blue eyes sparkled beneath arched eyebrows, the elegant curves of which Poppy knew could express every emotion from delight to a withering dismissal. Those full lips could conjure a divine smile, but they didn’t look so cheerful today. It was a more mature face than Poppy remembered. Teen puppy fat had hidden what a beautiful bone structure she had, and the slimmer face of thirty-two-year-old Rosalyn Thorn was breath-taking. And indeed, it took Poppy’s breath away.

Chapter 2.

Rosalyn Thorn of Rhiw Hall. Sharer of secrets and confidences and the best friend a girl could have. Better than sisters from the age of six until sweet sixteen, when everything wasn’t so sweet anymore.

Poppy would have been lying if she’d claimed not to think of Rosalyn. Although weeks, even months, would pass between musings, she always wondered what became of her former friend. And now here she was a few paces away.

“Poppy.” She saw Rosalyn say her name more than heard it. Rosalyn’s mouth lingered open, her face pale.

Poppy’s insides chilled and even though she feared her friend she couldn’t move.

A quiet laugh of irony escaped Rosalyn and she clasped a hand to her brow. When she dropped her arm and wandered a few paces closer an embarrassed smile tempered her face.

“I did wonder if I’d bump into you, but I didn’t really…” She threw up her hands in disbelief. “Poppy Jenkins.” Rosalyn’s keen eyes travelled all over Poppy’s body, taking in her hair, bare arms and the open chest of her dress.

“You look well. Really well.” Her sad smile spoke of a regret Poppy couldn’t fathom.

Rosalyn put out a hand but Poppy was too numb to respond.

“I suppose you’re visiting your parents? Your family?” Rosalyn asked it kindly.

“No,” Poppy attempted, but she mangled even that with her frozen cheeks. She blinked and tried to gather herself. “No. I live here. I actually live here.”

It was an admission Poppy wasn’t used to apologising for, but she found herself regretting her home in front of Rosalyn. Was it the voice that made Poppy on edge? Had Rosalyn always spoken with that clear as glass BBC accent, which enunciated every syllable to perfection? Was it her obvious elegance and the way she carried herself, all the way to the graceful line of the hand she offered to Poppy. Perhaps it was the car, so beyond Poppy’s means it may as well have been made of gold.

“Here?” Rosalyn made no attempt to hide her shock. “You live here? Really?” She paused to think. “Didn’t you go to university? York I thought.”

“Yes I did. But I moved. Back home. Here again. With my parents. Yes. I live here.” The sentence came out as an odd, posh staccato.

Unease rippled across Rosalyn’s face but she didn’t question further. Instead her gaze flicked towards Poppy’s arm. And then again. She was distracted by something to Poppy’s side. It was only then Poppy realised she held Pip in a vice-like grip.

“Sorry darling. I’m so sorry.” She released Pip from her white-knuckled grasp in a flurry of apologies and rubbings to rejuvenate Pip’s circulation, and Poppy blushed at her apparent forgetfulness of her sister’s existence.

“Stop fussing,” Pip grumbled as she batted her away.

Poppy couldn’t resist another dozen guilty apologies and constant observation of her sister’s hand until it returned to its usual hue.

Poppy’s ministrations fell still, and Pip’s protest quietened. Then it was silent. Awfully silent.

“Um…?” Rosalyn looked from Poppy to her sister.

“Yes?”

Rosalyn nodded towards Pip. “This is…?”

“Oh yes. This is Pip,” Poppy blurted, realising she’d still neglected an introduction. Poppy hugged her sister around the shoulders, and forced a laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “We’re on our way to school. Just getting some sweeties, aren’t we darling.” Poppy swallowed, aware her throat was getting tighter every second.

Pip and Rosalyn nodded and exchanged a look of shared concern, and not a little wariness.

Rosalyn exaggerated friendly engagement and said “I’m Rosalyn by the way,” and looked at Pip with a grin of camaraderie.

“Thanks,” said Pip, and she rolled her eyes at her sister’s neglect. They both continued to observe Poppy with shared incredulity.

It was quiet again. Very quiet.

“Um….” Rosalyn said. “Ok. I suppose I’d better let you go. Don’t want to make you late. I imagine you get fined for late arrivals these days?”

“Yes we do. An awful pain.”

An awful pain? Where had that come from? That’s not how Poppy spoke. She and Pip had their mother’s accent, a soft neutral English with a hint of lilting Welsh and the laziness of the Borders. But right now, it had risen an octave and Poppy had the oddest sensation of stretching her neck like an ostrich. Very fetching she imagined, but she couldn’t for the life of her relax.

Rosalyn nodded and opened her mouth as if to issue a farewell, but then hesitated. “What about after that?”

“Sorry?”

“What are your plans later? Are you free?”

“Oh. No. Café.” And for the first time in her life, Poppy pronounced the word like the Queen. She made a determined effort to lower her voice. “Caff. Yeah, I work in a café.” That was great. Now she sounded like a bloke off EastEnders.

“Oh,” said Rosalyn. And Poppy couldn’t blame her for the extent of her response.

“How about yourself?” There it was. The Queen intervening again. Poppy’s eyebrows had taken on a life of their own, rising to her hairline, and her mouth felt as tight as a clam.

Pip broke from Poppy’s hold and stood beside Rosalyn. She crossed her arms and observed her older sister with open-mouthed bemusement.

“I’m in London by the way,” Rosalyn said to Poppy. “Clerkenwell. Do you know it?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Poppy realised her bottom was clenched as tight as her mouth, but she daren’t relax that.

“I have a loft space: part of an old watchmaker’s factory. I moved there after going to university at King’s.”

“Sounds divine.” Oh, for the love of god, who was Poppy channelling now?

“I was lucky. I’d just been promoted to Events Manager at Clean Water, the charity I work for. It was before prices went really crazy. I couldn’t afford it now.”

Poppy glanced at the Jaguar and wondered if that was true. “You must be doing frightfully well.” And she closed her eyes, unable to bear watching the scene for herself.

When she opened them again, Pip crossed her vision. She was taking her leave with a sideways glance of concern, “Going to get some sweets,” she muttered.

“Ok darling.” Poppy beamed, trying to assure Pip everything was tickety boo.

When the shop door closed behind Pip, the two former friends were left to face each other alone.

Rosalyn was close enough for Poppy to appreciate how kindly time had treated her. There were traces of laughter lines around her eyes, a hint of concern pinched between her eyebrows, but yes, life had treated her well. Rosalyn’s full lips were rude with health. Her skin was smooth and inviting to the touch, but crossed with a captivating faint scar on her left cheek, where a childhood encounter with brambles had left its mark. And those sparkling blue eyes. It had been years since Poppy had the opportunity to admire them so closely. She’d always envied their crystal azure, but now she succumbed to their depths, mesmerised by the bursts of icy colour and light.

A trace of rose flushed across Rosalyn’s cheeks. “Eyes to lose yourself in,” Rosalyn murmured, enthralled.

Whether Poppy’s admiration had been exposed or she was the target of the same scrutiny, Poppy didn’t know. But she certainly blushed.

“I do apologise,” Rosalyn said. She stepped back and raised her hand. “I know you’re in a rush.” She paused. “Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again?”

“Perchance,” Poppy chimed, and if she’d had anything suitable handy she would have gagged herself there and then.

Rosalyn gave a friendly wave and sauntered back to the car.

Her retreat was a thing of beauty – swaying hips, elegant arms, glimpses of toned body beneath her T shirt – and Poppy watched with a mix of awe and vacuousness. Rosalyn lowered herself into the car and drew her long legs inside with a fluid movement Poppy could only admire.

The shop door ripped open and its bell rang Poppy to attention. For a moment, the doorway was filled entirely, then the colossal figure of Dai Edwards appeared at her side. At six foot and six inches and several feet wide at the shoulder, Dai was the epitome of a second row rugby player. A little of his bulk had gone south of late, after hours on the pitch had been exchanged for weekend pints, but Dai had the kind of physique of which you wanted to be on the right side. A lion when playing rugby, Dai could be an intimidating figure, but off the pitch he was more akin to a lamb.

“Poppy, I’m sorry love. I thought she’d be gone by the time you passed.”

Poppy smiled at his mellifluous Welsh baritone. “It’s ok Dai. I’m fine. It was just a bit of a surprise.”

He bent at the knees and when his face drew level with Poppy’s it was apparent he was frowning.

“You look pale love. So don’t go telling me you’re fine. Come here.” And he drew her into his chest with a thump. Arms the size of the average man’s thighs enveloped her and if she’d had any ill feeling inside before, it was forced out in a gust by Dai’s ferocious hug.

When he released her, it took a moment for her ribs to expand and air to inflate her lungs to normal. He drew her under a protective arm and they watched Rosalyn rearrange her belongings on the passenger seat of the Jaguar.

“Did you talk to her?” Poppy asked.

“Yes, only briefly mind. I knew you’d be passing around now and I wanted to tell you she was home before you bumped into her.”

Poppy peeped up at Dai and pursed her lips. “I’m all right. Thank you though. It was a long time ago and I’m surprised she remembered my name.”

“Remembered your name?” Dai stared at her in consternation. “Pah! Poppy girl, you’re trying to make light because you’re the most joyous girl on the planet. But you don’t have to pretend with me. I don’t care how long ago it was, Rosalyn Thorn is always going to knock you off your stride. There’s nothing like an old best friend to muddy the waters, especially one as undeserving as that.”

Poppy blushed and steered the conversation away. “Do you know if she’s staying long?”

“A week or two she said. Don’t know why. I can’t remember her visiting before to be honest. Must be something special.”

Poppy shrugged in agreement and they both stared at Rosalyn’s car, trying to fathom what brought the successful Londoner back to Wells after all these years.

“Her folks do still live at the Hall, don’t they?” Dai asked.

Poppy nodded. The Thorns had lived at Rhiw Hall for twenty-five years, and even though they were a five-minute brisk walk away, it may as well have been on the other side of Wales. “Never see them, but they are still there.”

“Maybe she’s getting married.” Dai spoke absently, but Poppy’s heart did a somersault in an unpleasant way. “It would make a beautiful place for a wedding that Hall.” Dai looked at Poppy with a twinkle in his eye. “Shall I ask her? I bet that’s why. I’m going to ask her.”

“No. God. No.” Poppy surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply. Why had she been so emphatic? Her heart raced and she had to breathe in to calm herself.

Dai gave her a confused look that verged on the afraid. It was a look he gave Poppy or his girlfriend when he didn’t understand and feared what might lie beneath.

“All right then,” he said diplomatically. “Maybe a wedding. Maybe not.”

Again they stared. Rosalyn straightened herself in the front seat, ready to drive away.

“Bet you a pint it is though,” Dai muttered. “There’ll be no shortage of blokes after her.”

Poppy looked at him, unable to express the thoughts that stormed through her head and the emotions that tied her tummy in knots. It had surprised and confused her, such an unexpected concoction of feeling at the sight of her old friend.

Dai observed Poppy for a few moments, his eyes flicking from her expressive eyebrows to her mouth, which was crooked with a smile at the best of times. She didn’t envy him attempting to comprehend her thoughts. She didn’t understand them herself.

“Best not to ask then,” he sighed.

The shop doorbell tinkled and a content Pip joined them, paper bag in hand. By the hint of caramel dribble and theatrical mastication, Poppy guessed she’d purchased her favourite toffees.

“She gone?” Pip chewed and squelched over her words.

“Who?” Poppy was still rather detached from the moment.

Pip rolled her eyes. “Rosie.”

“Oooo,” Dai breathed in sharply. “I wouldn’t call her that anymore. Definitely a Rosalyn these days.”

Pip grunted and joined the huddle. Poppy rested her hands on her sister’s shoulders and Dai gave her a comforting squeeze around her own.

She gazed at Rosalyn reflected in the rear-view mirror, her beauty captivating her once more. And for a moment Rosalyn’s eyes focused on Poppy with a glint of excitement, but she snapped round and stared at the trio, from Dai to Poppy, then Pip and back again. Whatever thoughts passed through her mind must have disappointed, and the air of friendliness from a few moments before seemed to dissipate. Rosalyn glanced at their group one last time and turned back with resignation. The Jaguar started with a powerful roar and pulled away.

Chapter 3.

Dai and Pip bantered about toffees and their voices faded as Poppy wandered in a daze towards the square. The Jaguar had disappeared within seconds, but Rosalyn’s presence lingered.

“Mary had a little Lamb

She thought it very silly

She threw it up in to the air

And caught it by its

Willy was a watchdog…”

Poppy could hear the chant of eight-year-old Rosalyn. They sat facing each other, legs crossed, on a bench at the edge of the square. She imagined her friend so vividly she could almost feel their hands slap together as they chanted. Clap together, cross left, clap together, cross right.

“Willy was a watchdog

Sitting in the grass

Along came a Bumblebee

And stung him on his…”

She could remember Rosalyn’s smile, the one where her eyes shone with the exhilaration of indulging in the forbidden.

“This one’s even better.” Rosalyn lowered her voice and leaned closer.

“Mary had a little lamb

She also had a duck

She put them on the mantelpiece

To see if they would f—”

“Rosalyn Thorn!”

The voice had bellowed from behind Poppy. She shot off the bench, her internal organs inhabiting parts of her body unused to such company. Mrs Morgan Morgan bore down on them, her normally ruddy complexion a thunderous puce.

“Rosalyn Thorn. Your father would be ashamed. And leading Poppy astray too.”

Rosalyn remained serene and smiled sweetly. “To see if they would fall off, Mrs Morgan. That’s the last line.”

Poppy could hear it. That precise accent. It had always been there. She’d never noticed the way Rosalyn spoke as a child. Rosalyn was her friend and they were the same in all the ways that mattered to Poppy and different only in ways that were exciting.

That was the bench – the seat halfway along the square, which teetered on the cobbles, the specific stones varying depending on who’d last inhabited the seat. It would enrage some of the older inhabitants, driven to shift the bench so it wouldn’t lean or creak or rock with every motion. It was a hopeless pursuit, and the bench always contrived to find some way of irritating.

Poppy became aware of a chomping noise, a rather sticky chomping noise. Pip’s hand waved in front of her eyes and the noisy chewing snapped Poppy back to the present. Her sister held a much diminished bag of sweets.

“Pip! You’re not meant to eat them all now.”

She grinned at Poppy, the toffee coating her teeth and lending her a cheeky rotten smile.

“You’re supposed to have one now and save the rest. You can’t turn up at school a complete sugar crazy.” Poppy tried hard to deliver a reproachful look, but knew her eyes betrayed her. Pip grinned wider, her lips squeaking over the elastic toffee.

“Come on.” Poppy snatched the bag from Pip and scrunched the corners shut. “Mum will give them back when she picks you up from school,” she said, and they walked on.

Pip chewed and gulped her mouth empty and Poppy was expecting her to protest but she said, “Was Rosalyn your girlfriend?”

“What?” Poppy was not expecting that at all.

“Rosalyn? Was she your girlfriend?”

“God no. Why?”

Pip shrugged.

“Well she wasn’t.” And Poppy regretted her snappy tone.

Pip continued to stare and Poppy felt compelled to elaborate. “It was a long time ago and we were very young. The last time she talked to me was when we were sixteen.”

Pip gave a look designed to make any non-teenager feel lame.

“Yes I know people have sex…have boyfriends when they’re sixteen, but… But I didn’t. Wasn’t. Not at all.”

Pip stared at her, both amused and appalled.

“She wasn’t my girlfriend. Let’s just leave it there.”

Poppy held her breath, but that seemed to be the extent of Pip’s enquiry and they resumed their amble.

“But you do fancy her.”

“I do not.” The words spat out of Poppy’s mouth with an incredulous laugh.

“Yes, you do.”

“I do not.”

Pip nodded with a knowing smile.

“Do not.” Poppy’s voice was beginning to climb to a screech, and she took a hold of herself before they could descend into a sisterly bicker of the ‘do toos’.

“So.” Poppy pretended nonchalance and broke into a languid stroll. “Why do you think I fancy her?”

“Because you were being really weird.”

“Was I?” Poppy tried to sound light.

“Yeah. Really, really weird.”

“In what way?”

“You were being like Owen Davies with Joanne. I thought you were going to punch her on the arm next, or drag her down the hill.”

“Oh.” Poppy stared at Pip. “Well, I’m sorry it seemed that way, but I do not fancy Rosalyn Thorn.”

“Ok.” Pip shrugged. “Shame.”

“Why?”

“Because she fancies you.”

“She does not!” Poppy stopped with a stamp of her feet.

“Why not?”

“Because!” Poppy’s whine was at such a pitch she was possibly making a dog a mile away howl in pain. She gulped and retrieved her voice. “Because. One, Rosalyn Thorn isn’t gay. And two...”

Because Rosalyn Thorn was beyond Poppy at sixteen, already more mature and sophisticated. And that the successful metropolitan woman should look at the village café owner with anything like admiration was beyond unlikely.

Poppy smiled sadly at Pip. “She didn’t like me.”

Pip, at last, seemed satisfied and they again resumed their walk.

“So.” Poppy’s heart sank as Pip went on. “Why didn’t you tell her I was your sister?”

Oh god. Why didn’t she say Pip was her sister? “I don’t know. Does it matter? Do you think it matters? Do you think she thinks it matters?”

Pip curled her lip in bewilderment. “Well, she’ll think I’m your daughter. Is that what you want? It’s what everyone assumes when they don’t know us.”

Yes, Poppy knew that.

“Are you trying to protect yourself from her?”

“What?”

“You know, like when Anne Jones says she’s got a boyfriend from another school, just so Glyn Davies won’t bother her, because he’s a two-timing bastard and she doesn’t want anything to do with him, even though he’s the best-looking boy in the whole school, and I can tell that Rosalyn is really good-looking.”

“Ok, ok,” Poppy said, flummoxed and out-witted on several fronts. “One. I don’t want to hear you say the 'b’ word.”

“What? Bast—”

“Yes, that one.”

Pip rolled her eyes.

“Two.” Poppy sighed. She couldn’t decide which was more remarkable, that Pip, whose sights extended as far as a spotty boy at school, could appreciate the beauty of Rosalyn, or that she had perceptively discerned Poppy’s admiration of the visitor.

Poppy cupped her sister’s face in her hands. “My lovely Pip. It’s the sweetest thing in the world that you think Rosalyn Thorn could fancy me. And yes, she is beautiful.” Dear god she was beautiful. She’d always been a pretty girl but Poppy had never imagined the woman she’d turn into. “And I do think she’s very attractive, but I don’t fancy her.”

Pip started to protest.

“Believe me. If I were the last person alive, Rosalyn wouldn’t fancy me.”

Pip sighed defeated. The sisterly balance was restored, with Poppy as the adult and Pip the junior.

“Now. You’re going to be late.” Poppy laughed. “Run!”

Pip glanced at her watch and cursed something indistinct under her breath, too quiet for Poppy to berate with confidence. Pip launched along the pavement in great bounds, limbs flailing in improbable directions, making her forward motion a feat that defied science.

“See you tonight,” Poppy shouted, and she smiled after her sister with adoration as she disappeared over the bridge.

Poppy’s mother, Emma Jenkins, had owned The Wholefood Shop in Wells since Poppy was a toddler, and it had changed little as far as Poppy could recall. Her father, Iwan, had carved the shop sign, an ear of wheat either side of raised lettering, and the premises retained the original multiple-paned Georgian windows. The neat white rendering disguised the building’s age from the outside, but inside the ancient oak interior twisted and leaned like the rest of the square. A step down from the street and Poppy was inside the small shop.

Dark shelves displayed plain bags of whole oats, flour and every dried legume imaginable, and rows of large amber jars contained all the spices a British cook could desire. A fan of small paper bags hung next to a metal scoop dusty with turmeric, the last spice to be purchased. When Poppy was younger, the air was fragranced with teas and spices – jasmine, Lapsang Souchong, ground coriander and star anise – but now the smell of fresh bread and cakes suffused the air from the café kitchen. Up the twisting staircase, The Real Food Café was Poppy’s charge, while her mother tended the shop and worked in a small studio in a modern extension beyond the counter.

This morning her mother stared into space, chin propped on two hands and elbows set firmly on the shop counter. She gazed unblinking at an empty space in the middle of the shop. This was not an unusual sight for Poppy, but it did seem to bother the elderly customer who stood twitching beside her. Cerys Mathews, dressed in neck-to-toe khaki woollens, sidled over to Poppy.

“Is she all right? I only asked if she had any paintings for sale.”

“Ah.” Poppy smiled. “That would be enough.”

Her mother turned, the tassels on her vivid Patagonia cardigan twirling with her, and she parted the bamboo curtain and disappeared into the bright studio beyond.

“I think she means to come back,” Poppy said.

“Oh. Good.” And they both peered towards the sound of clattering frames and canvases.

“Were you after something in particular?” Poppy thought it best to enquire, because it was likely her mother had not.

Cerys gave an earnest frown and raised her purse, pinched between her fingers like a mouse eating a sunflower seed. “Well, I’m after a nice painting of the area for my sister. Grew up here like me, but moved away see, and she misses the place.”

Poppy nodded encouragement.

“Someone recommended your mam and I’ve had my eye on her paintings before. I thought it would be nice to have a work by a local artist.”

Poppy nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “What kind of media or style are you interested in?”

“Oh I don’t know. Something pretty for the wall. Something cheery. That’s what people want, isn’t it.”

At that moment, Poppy’s mother returned brandishing an armful of small boards and canvases. She swivelled round the first – a bleak watercolour of the castle ruin in winter. Crows with skeletal faces possessed the iron grey clouds, their black feathers bleeding into the skies and landscape.

“Oh,” Cerys said. “Um. Do you have a nice picture of the church, maybe?”

Poppy’s mother plucked out another watercolour – an uncompromising scene of gravestones in winter, one where it was impossible not to think of death.

Poppy stepped forward. “Perhaps you’d prefer something less stark?”

“Oh, hello sweetheart.” Her mother looked up, noticing her for the first time. She gave that motherly smile that was etched into Poppy’s psyche and which never failed to warm her inside. Her mother possessed a wide face, which looked content even when the feelings behind it were neutral, the same face so well reflected in the younger Pip.

“I think Cerys was after a cheerful scene, Mum.”

“That’s right.” Cerys joined in keenly. “It is a present for my sister’s birthday after all. And I hope she sees many more. So I’d rather not imply it might be her last.” She chortled, then padded from foot to foot, rather like a chicken about to flee.

Poppy’s mother nodded sagely and shuffled through the remaining set.

“Perhaps you’d like a bespoke piece? Mum does commissions, and they’re not very expensive for the smaller works.”

“Well I’m not sure. I was hoping to see something just right.”

“Do you like the watercolours?”

“I think so. But I like bright colours you see. More like your mam’s cardigan.” She pointed with envy at the vivid woolly. “Not grey and black.”

Poppy glanced at her mother, but Emma remained unmoved and unruffled by the comments.

“How about a spring scene?” Poppy suggested.

“Oh yes, a bit of sunshine would be nice.”

“Perhaps a picture of the castle with daffodils in the foreground?”

“Oh, da iawn. Great idea. Yes, sounds just the sort of thing. A lovely spring picture.”

“And maybe some lambs running around?”

“Beautiful.” Cerys clapped her hands together.

Emma had painted a similar scene for Pip, and Poppy was content her mother wouldn’t find it too onerous. Emma agreed a suitable, Poppy thought generous, price for Cerys and both were pleased with the proposition.

“Well right you are,” Cerys said. “Looking forward to seeing the picture. Might keep it myself.” She giggled and skipped away out of the shop, the door tinkling shut behind her.

“Is that ok, Mum?”

Emma was staring through the multifaceted window, already drifting. She was prone to distraction. People either attributed it to her creative temperament, or less kindly to the large quantity of weed she’d smoked in the seventies. Poppy found it a calming disposition for company and didn’t care about the cause.

“Hmm?” Her mother returned her attention to Poppy. “Oh yes. Nice to have some work. It’ll be the first this year.”

It had been a lean time all round, reflected in the large number of paintings at hand and the dust on the spice jars. Her mother flicked through the stack of pictures, stopping to consider some more closely, then cradled them in her arms.

“I never know why the crows or graveyards don’t sell,” she said. “They’re my favourite.”

“Then you should keep them for yourself.” Poppy smiled.

“Why does everyone want flowers and sunshine I wonder?”

“Because they make people happy, Mum.” Poppy almost laughed. “They want a beautiful view for their wall, to lift them on a dark day. It’s a source of uncomplicated happiness.”

“Hmm.” Her mother nodded. “The winter scenes make me happy though.”

“I like them both,” said Poppy. She smiled indulgently at her mother and readied herself for work upstairs.

“Are you happy, Poppy?” Her mother fixed her with a piercing stare. It was one of those unnerving moments when Emma came down from her clouds for an episode of insightful clarity that took people unawares. “I never stop to think. You’re always such a cheerful girl. But do you have a source of uncomplicated happiness?”

Had her mother asked just an hour ago, Poppy would have answered without a second thought. But now she hesitated and a knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She looked back at her mother.

“Yes, Mum. Of course I’m happy.” She turned up the stairs clutching her tummy.

There was just that small matter of Rosalyn Thorn needling her happiness.

Chapter 4.

“Poppy?” Her mother had called from the shop door. “Come and meet Rosie.”

A man had stood outside, tall and well-built. He smiled with even white teeth. Poppy couldn’t tell how old he was; grownups all looked the same age – either like her parents, as this man did, or like Nain and Taid, her grandparents. He wore shoes like her father’s – shiny caramel laceups with tiny holes punched in the leather trim around the toes. She liked those ones. Her father kept his for best – weddings, funerals and Christmas – but this man wore them as if they were as everyday as wellies.

“Hello, Poppy,” he said. It was an authoritative, well-spoken voice, although at six years old she wouldn’t have given it those names. It was soothing and deep, but confident, as if he was used to commanding respect and it put Poppy at ease.

“My name’s David. This is my daughter, Rosalyn. We call her Rosie.”

He held the girl protectively around the shoulders, although she didn’t look like she needed such a guard.

Rosie had the same poise and assurance as her father. Blonde hair, almost white, was tied into two perfect plaits and an enviably straight fringe cut across her forehead. Pure blue eyes shone beneath extraordinary eyebrows that leant the girl a maturity beyond her years. She wore a dress Poppy recognised of purple and pink plaid with two narrow straps over her shoulders. It came from a shop Poppy’s mum always passed by. “I’m sorry my lovely. It’s a bit pricey in there,” she would say.

The girl’s legs were brown with an unseasonal tan, made all the more vivid by her pristine white socks and shiny shoes. Poppy’s legs had their natural spring pallor, knees all bony and shins grey with bruises beneath her faded Clothkits dress.

“Rosie’s starting at your school tomorrow, Poppy,” David said. He crouched down to her level. “I hope you’ll be friends.” He smiled, and Poppy hoped to please him with her friendship. “We won’t be able to collect Rosie from school, so your mother will look after her at the shop with you. I think you’ll have lots of fun.” He stood up. “Say hello, Rosie.”

The girl stepped forwards without hesitation and smiled. She’d already acquired her adult front teeth, unlike Poppy’s gappy grin.

“I like your hair,” Rosie said. She ran her fingers through Poppy’s locks and teased out a ringlet. It tickled Poppy’s scalp as she played. “I wish I had curly hair.”

Poppy wished for blonde hair. Hers had always been dark, even as a baby.

“Mum says my hair will always be as straight as dried spaghetti,” Rosalyn said. “But Gran says if I eat my bread crusts it’ll go curly. Do you eat your crusts?”

Poppy wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“I don’t believe her,” Rosie said. “Dad says she talks bollocks about lots of things.”

“Rosie! I’m so sorry, Mrs Jenkins.” David leapt to pacify Poppy’s mother, although no such action was required by the look of amusement on Emma’s face.

Rosalyn was unperturbed. “Let’s go and play.”

Poppy grinned. “Up here,” she shouted and she stamped up the old wooden staircase that twisted and spiralled to the first floor.

This was her favourite place, the store room. Sunshine beamed through the windows, the dusty panes softening the light. Large paper sacks of flour and oats were piled high beside crates of tinned tomatoes and bottles of juice. She took Rosalyn’s hand and led her to the windows. With a hop she landed on the ledge and was effortlessly joined by her new friend.

Rosalyn swung her feet back and forth, tapping the wall. “What’s through there?”

“An old kitchen,” Poppy replied. “Mum said the man who used to own the shop lived here too.”

“And up there?” Rosalyn pointed to a spiral iron staircase.

“It’s empty. Mum doesn’t let me play up there. Says the floorboards are rotten.”

“It’s a bit like the Hall,” Rosalyn said. “Half the rooms upstairs are empty. There are six bedrooms. Mum and Dad said I’m having the second biggest, but it’s at the end of the corridor and it’s creepy.”

It sounded grand, having rooms to spare. Poppy’s dad promised she would have a room of her own one day when he converted the loft. Until then, she slept in a small bed beside her parents’ double.

“What’s that?” Rosalyn pointed to a metal toolbox set aside from the stock.

“That’s my Dad’s. He’s a carpenter. He’s doing some work for Mum at the moment.” Alarming chisels, bradawls and saws with ferocious teeth protruded from the box. Poppy felt she should elaborate in case Rosalyn didn’t understand. “He makes things and cuts up wood.”

Rosalyn looked at her. “My dad’s a surgeon. He cuts up people.”

“Oh,” Poppy replied. It seemed so at odds with the reassuring presence of David Thorn. “Why?”

“To make them better,” Rosalyn said. “He cuts out bits that don’t work anymore.”

Poppy didn’t like the idea of losing parts that were broken. Things were always breaking. The toaster only toasted one side. The kettle’s switch had fallen off and boiling water was a hazardous activity that involved her mother jamming in a knife while telling Poppy to stand on the other side of the room.

Rosalyn seemed unperturbed. “Dad cut off a man’s toes once because they were going rotten.”

Poppy imagined a man’s toes brown like an apple, and the moment kindled a childhood fear of going mouldy. “Did it hurt? Do they cry?”

“Dad says he does it when they’re asleep.”

And a childhood fear of night-time surgery and waking with no limbs.

“Do you like Operation?” Rosalyn leaned down to her satchel and pulled out a pristine yellow box. “There’s no-one to play with at home so I haven’t opened it yet. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

Poppy shook her head and eyed the game enviously. She’d seen it advertised on ITV. Rosalyn took out the board with its rotund, pink and alarmed patient. She slotted in the plastic bones: spare ribs, funny bone, wish bone.

“There. I think it’s ready.” She frowned. “He looks silly.”

“Why?” Poppy couldn’t see anything amiss.

“He hasn’t got a willy.”

Poppy giggled. “Maybe it’s a girl.”

“Then she hasn’t got boobs. I know.” Rosalyn had a glint in her eye. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a biro.

“You can’t draw on it.” Poppy was shocked that she would deface her toy.

Rosalyn jutted her jaw and began her work – the addition of a large penis down to the patient’s knees. She crossed her arms daring Poppy to tell on her.

Poppy thought for a moment and at last decided, “You haven’t given him testicles.”

Rosalyn grinned and added the missing organs.

“I like you and your mum,” she said, satisfied with her new companion. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

The café came into focus before Poppy’s eyes. Gone were the sacks of staples for the shop and in their place were eight tables and looped-back chairs. Sunlight poured in through sparkling window panes, thanks to Nain’s weekly ministrations. The kitchen had been refitted and Derek from the local tech college clattered around its interior. Poppy’s father had renovated the second floor and ten more tables occupied the large room above.

Today, as was usual at this kind of hour, their only customer was the elderly Geraint Jones. He sat in the far corner huddled over a coffee and a buttered slice of Bara Brith. His head was down while he scribbled in a black notebook, his wild grey hair in a frenzy as he wrote.

“Bore da, Geraint,” Poppy said.

He gave the briefest of nods then turned back to his notebook, the contents of which were a mystery to all.

Poppy breathed in, her hands on her hips, and closed her eyes. She was back again among the sacks and jars and bottles, Rosalyn cross-legged on the floor. It had been years since she’d entertained Rosalyn, even in memory, within these walls, but now her presence was so strong Poppy felt she could have knelt down and played that game of Operation.

What was she doing in Wells? Why come back now? Dai was right, she hadn’t been home for any length of time. Nain would know; she knew everything within a sheep’s bleat of Wells.

Poppy recalled Rosalyn’s shocked face earlier and her stomach twisted in a nervous knot at the recollection. It had been as excruciating a meeting as Poppy could have imagined. But then Rosalyn had softened hadn’t she? Even asked if Poppy was free to further their conversation?

Being polite. She was just being polite. Well that was a change. How many other differences were there, Poppy wondered? Rosalyn’s looks, pretty as a child, worked all the more as an adult. Poppy blushed at how she’d admired Rosalyn before realising her identity – the shapely legs, the curve of her hips, the tantalising glimpse of her back. And Poppy blushed deeper as she remembered Rosalyn’s breasts.

She shivered to rid herself of the creeping feeling of embarrassment. Rosalyn would be gone soon enough. What had Dai said – a week or two? Then, no doubt, she’d be gone for another decade.

“Still no rise in customers then?”

Poppy was so unaccustomed to hearing Geraint speak she checked down the stairwell to locate the source of the voice. And the kitchen, then up the stairs. At finding the place empty, she eyed her taciturn customer.

“Geraint?” Poppy beamed. “Did you just say something?” She approached his table, filled with joy that her oldest customer had finally talked to her.”

“Still no busier?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“They’re missing a treat.” He held up the slice of cake. “Finest Bara Brith I ever tasted.”

The distinctive and sticky fruit loaf made with a generous dose of tea was one of Nain’s specialities.

“They’ll come eventually. Things this good don’t go unnoticed.”

“I hope so, Geraint.” Poppy could have kissed the funny little man for cheering her day and providing a welcome distraction.

With renewed vigour she marched into the kitchen to make lunch and additional cakes for the afterschool rush. Poppy cooked, waited tables, chatted and laughed until six o’clock, and she could have sworn she pictured Rosalyn Thorn’s beautiful face only another ten times. But of course, the day wasn’t over.

Chapter 5.

Poppy wanted breasts. By the time they were ten years old, Rosalyn was already wearing a B cup while Poppy remained a child.

“Oeufs sur le plat,” Rosalyn told her. “That’s how the French describe it.”

Poppy smoothed her fingers over her chest. Eggs on a plate.

They walked home from school, across the stone bridge and into the square, the castle mound and ruin opposite casting long shadows. A sharp left took them down to the river path, the way home for both. Here, beside the old bridge, was the most picturesque part of the river, a large pool deep enough for a child to swim and cascades of frothing water above.

It was popular that day. The summer sun baked the boulders on the banks and set the shimmering waters alight. Children in swimsuits, shorts and knickers splashed and screamed.

Dai Edwards, the large boy from the village shop, waved to Poppy. “Come and play.”

Poppy waved back with a grin, then turned to Rosalyn. “You coming in?”

Rosie shook her head. “I haven’t got a costume.”

Poppy was about to suggest stripping off to her undies when she realised it was no longer appropriate for Rosie. Fine for prepubescent Poppy, another matter for the tall Rosalyn whose body was beginning to curve.

Unable to resist, Poppy dropped her satchel on the ground and began to undress. Two girls sitting on a boulder kept peeping towards them. Poppy didn’t listen at first to their conversation but their Welsh filtered through – why does she play with that English pig? That was the politest translation Poppy could muster.

“Are you off home?” Poppy said loudly. “Is it ok to walk home by yourself? Does your dad let you?”

Rosalyn caught her eye and smiled. “I do understand that much Welsh.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry. I know the Welshies don’t like me.”

Poppy frowned, disturbed by the accusation. It made her uncomfortable that people talked about Rosie that way, but she didn’t like Rosie using “Welshies” either.

“I don’t know why they say that,” Poppy said. “Ignore them.”

“Dad says it’s because we bought the big house and they think someone Welsh should have it.”

“Why?”

Rosie shrugged.

“But it’s not your fault you live there. You didn’t choose it.”

Rosie shrugged again. “It’s ok. You and your mum are nice to me, and you’re the ones that count. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She flipped her satchel strap over her shoulder and walked away.

The water was cold and made Poppy dance in the shallows. She giggled but then screamed as a rock plunged into the pool showering her with chilling droplets.

“You…” She shot a look at Dai, who was laughing from the top of the cascades.

“Nearly made you swear Poppy Jenkins.”

She dipped her hands into the water, cupping a great scoop, and thrust it up. The squeal, scream and deep groan all at once of Dai’s voice, which teetered on the edge of manhood, was satisfying revenge.

“That’s bloody freezing,” Dai shouted. In retribution, he grabbed a larger flat rock and plunged it into the pool. The veil of water drenched Poppy from dark ringlets to white toes. She spat out an earthy, watery mouthful and wiped her eyes. This time, she would defy her nain and swear. She breathed in ready to vent without restraint, but a furtive movement on the bank caught her eye.

A boy from their year, the rotund Alan Watkins, was moving with uncharacteristic speed. He waddled down the bank to her clothes, his tongue sticking out from between his teeth, and leered at her.

“Hey,” Poppy spluttered. “What are you doing?”

Alan sneered as he gathered every single item of clothing and her bag. The boy, a barrel on wobbling legs with perpendicular feet, scrabbled up the bank like a penguin. Poppy’s belongings were smeared in soil as he stumbled.

He turned, red-faced and out of breath. “I’ll dump these over the bridge if you don’t give me something.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t got anything.” Poppy felt cold and exposed.

“How about a kiss behind the bushes?”

The two girls on the bank tittered. Poppy felt sick and her skin shivered both with cold and revulsion. “Give me back my clothes, Alan.”

“Snog first,” he jeered.

“Oi, Watkins,” Dai shouted. “You’re taking it too far. That’s not funny.”

Alan ignored him. “Come on. Kiss and you get the bag. Tongues and you get your clothes.”

Poppy clutched her arms around her chest, her skin shivering into a thousand goose bumps.

“Give them back, Watkins,” Dai shouted and he waded towards the bank.

“Piss off, Dai,” Alan said with bravado, but he was skittish and his feet shuffled on the path.

“Give them back, or you’re going over that bridge.” And no-one doubted that Dai would manage it.

Alan looked panicked from Poppy to Dai, the latter at the water’s edge and ready to leap up the bank.

“You won’t get your clothes Poppy if that numbskull comes near me.” But one more glance and he jumped and squealed. His large legs pounded up the path. Dai slipped on the bank in his bare wet feet, and Alan with a head start was already disappearing beyond the edge of the village, Poppy’s clothes bundled beneath his arm.

“I’ll catch him, Poppy, don’t you worry.” And Dai disappeared too.

Poppy sat on a boulder hugging her knees to her chest. She could hear the two girls on the riverbank twittering behind their hands and boys paddling in the river gave her awkward glances.

The church bell tolled for five o’clock and children began to disperse home for tea. Poppy stared at the glistening river to avoid catching anyone’s eye and prepared herself for a humiliating and uncomfortable walk home.

“I found your clothes, Poppy.”

“Rosie?” Poppy squinted into the sun. Rosie’s silhouette was surrounded by a halo of golden evening sunshine. She appeared six feet tall at that moment.

“Oh thank you.” Poppy shivered, more from the encounter with Alan Watkins than any chill. She grasped her clothes and wriggled inside them. “Did Dai get them?”

“No, I didn’t see him. I…” she grinned at Poppy, “found them.”

Poppy shook her shoulders still uncomfortable from being exposed. “I want to go home. Will you come with me?”

“Of course.” Rosie smiled as if Poppy needn’t have asked and extended a hand to pull her up the bank.

Rosie held Poppy’s hand the whole way, swinging their arms and humming The Love Cats. It was the height of summer and the hedgerows towered with new growth. Dense hogweed leaned from the verges into a tunnel of white blooms and it was impossible to see beyond the next bend or to the river and fields.

But Poppy could have sworn she saw a bottom. It was a white, podgy bare bottom. It flashed in the corner of her vision and wobbled into the hogweed. Did she imagine it – shimmering buttocks hastening through the long grass and down the riverbank?

“Did you see…?”

Rosie turned. “Hmm?”

“I thought I saw…” The wall of vegetation closed again, swallowing the bare bum without a trace. “Never mind.”

Rosie resumed her tune and encouraged Poppy along with a gentle tug. But every now and again Poppy checked behind. Just as they curved around the next meander of the river, she was rewarded with the image of Alan Watkins’ stricken face. It, and bare shoulders, appeared from between the stalks of hogweed. It was a face that was not so much repentant, more terrified.

“Rosie wait.” She tugged Rosalyn back, but by the time she’d caught her attention, the face had disappeared. “Oh. I swear it was Alan Watkins. Naked. In those bushes.”

Rosie stopped and scanned their surroundings. When she turned to Poppy a satisfied smile lit her face. “Really?” She peered into Poppy’s eyes. “How odd.” Then Rosalyn set forth again with a sway and swagger.

Poppy laughed out loud at the recollection of Rosalyn saving her clothes and dignity. She walked home along the same path she’d ambled that day and a thousand times after, hand in hand with Rosalyn Thorn. She could feel her fingers around her own, always longer, always stronger. She missed her friend. How she missed her. That pit in Poppy’s stomach gaped wide.

She’d kept Rosalyn out for so long that now the memories came flooding in. Everywhere had a vestige of their childhood friendship. A vivid experience was evoked by every smell, a memory by every place. The café, the school, her house, the Hall further up the valley, they all conjured Rosalyn’s presence.

Every bank along the river held a treasure: the time they hid from Nain when they’d burnt her tea cloths on the stove; skinny dipping in the summer at nine years old and watching the minnows nibble their toes; huddling in the dark beside a few burning twigs, the warmth of Rosalyn next to her more comfort than the flames.

Poppy clasped her hands over her eyes. “Why did she have to come back?” She screwed up her eyes, willing the memories to stop and the turmoil to subside. “Why?” she breathed.

Her question was met with a gasp, quickly followed by another, in fact by a pant. Poppy slipped her hands from her face to see a quizzical Border Collie staring at her. He tilted his head with a goofy expression on his face.

“Jacob. What have you been doing?”

Their three-legged dog, with an unfortunate penchant for car mudflaps, was covered from head to tail in green sludge with the odd pellet of poo dangling from his coat.

“Oh no,” Poppy grumbled. Cleaning a shitty dog was not what Poppy had in mind for the evening. Then she laughed and shook her head. “I suppose life must be very simple when rolling around in sheep droppings is the highlight of your day.” And she genuinely felt some envy.

Jacob responded with an enthusiastic bark.

“Come on boy. We’d better go and face Nain. Because I bet she can smell you from here.” Poppy sighed, “And, as sure as it will rain on the day of the show, Nain will have heard that Rosalyn’s back in town.”

Chapter 6.

There it was. Ty Bach. Home.

The small-holding by the river comprised a timber-framed cottage overlooking a large lawn and flower garden. Around its perimeter was a stone wall and beyond that a creeping patch of gorse and brambles, sparkling with yellow in spring and fruitful in autumn, so dense that passers-by on the river path rarely noticed the presence of the cottage.

The name had been chosen by Poppy’s mother. Emma Jenkins had found the old farm cottage and hayloft with attached outbuildings when Poppy was five years old. It had been abandoned for years and needed gutting. Poppy’s dad had renovated it, one room at a time, and they slowly expanded to inhabit the whole building. When Taid passed away, the adjoining barn was converted with its own front door for Nain. The barn also housed a staircase to a much-wished for attic bedroom for Poppy above the original cottage. And when all that was done, her mother wanted a new name for the rejuvenated home. Poppy could remember her researching the Welsh words for “small house” and being pleased when she found “Ty Bach” – a sweet sounding name for a cosy little cottage.

The suggestion met with chuckles from her father and Nain. Poppy and her mother took it as warm approval for Emma’s attempt to master Welsh.

Nain suggested making a sign. She pointed to a silver birch felled by the wind the previous winter, and Poppy’s father cut a thick slanting oval. He passed the wooden slice with glee to Poppy’s mum.

“Shall we smooth it and cut away the bark?” her mother asked.

“I like the bark,” Poppy replied and it was left in its natural state.

Iwan had carved the name, and although woodwork was his daily grind, he finished the job with as much care as Poppy had witnessed. If anything, her father seemed more cheered by the activity than usual.

Poppy’s mother painted the grooved letters in black and the house name, made by the joint effort of the entire family, was ready.

It was only when Emma hung the sign by the front door that Poppy’s father and Nain let on. Nain clutched her hands to her belly, underneath great mounds of bosom. Iwan wheezed with laughter and wiped tears from his eyes.

“What’s tickled you two?” Emma said, a perplexed smile on her face.

“It means toilet, love,” he said.

“What’s that darling?”

“’Ty Bach’. It means loo.”

“Sorry?”

“The Welsh use it to refer to the crapper.” And Poppy’s father could speak no more as another paroxysm of laughter gripped him.

Poppy’s mother had looked at the sign with a frown, but her expression soon turned to a warm smile, as it always did. She stroked the sign, running her fingers affectionately around the smooth bark. “Too late. It can only be Ty Bach to me.” She turned to them and said, “I wouldn’t change it even if it meant ‘house full of the biggest buggers ever to be born in Wales’”.

Poppy giggled at the memory. They were a pair of meanies to Mum at times. She looked down at the dog. “Come on, Jacob,” and with a leap over a gate and a race through the field they were home.

Poppy peered through the side window. She could hear chatter through the diamond lead frames and warped glass, which let in the wind and leaked out conversation. Her mother was in the kitchen stirring a pan. Two black cats with white socks slunk around her legs and padded over the slate floor. Bowls were ready and laid on the old farmhouse table and Poppy could smell the comforting aroma of Emma’s tomato and basil soup.

The kitchen and tiny dining space were separated from the living room by the timber frame of an old wall, whose wattle and daub had long since rotted and been removed. She could see Nain and Pip on the sofa, nominally watching a programme on the telly. Nain’s mouth was moving at nineteen to the dozen and Pip appeared her usual self – happy with a disgruntled veneer.

Poppy’s father sat in an ancient leather armchair opposite, broadsheet spread in front of him but matching Nain in conversation. She could hear their rat-a-tat-tat of heated Welsh discussion.

Their rapidity of conversation was one of their few similarities. Poppy’s father was a slim, beautiful man, with fine features and deep amber eyes. Even the shadow of stubble, the faded trousers and the checked workman’s shirt that had seen better days couldn’t disguise the elegant man he was.

Nain was a woman of stature and when thinking about her face it was difficult, even for the most generous like Poppy, for a cauliflower not to come to mind. Her nose was squat and great puffs of cheeks and jowls surrounded her other features, and although Poppy was indeed a generous person, she thanked her stars that her father’s looks had been passed on so faithfully.

Nain’s chatter was unimpeded by the ferocious activity of knitting. Needles stabbed the air and blood-red wool flew. Her enormous breasts wobbled even though contained by one of Nain’s sturdy brassieres – impressive feats of engineering and the stuff of legend in the Jenkins house.

The bra’s wiring had a tensile strength that could support a cow in calf and the cups were large enough to hold a small child. The latter was proved beyond apocryphal when Poppy found one moving across the lawn. The embroidered brassiere had fallen from the washing line and further investigation revealed nine-month-old Pip happily crawling beneath, enjoying the concealment and lacy sky above.

Poppy smiled. Beneath Nain’s billowing dresses, gargantuan undergarments and breasts, lay the biggest heart – a family trait that had been passed down to son and granddaughter. Although fortunately they hadn’t acquired her temper.

Poppy skirted around the small house to the front door, and there she smiled once more. She reached out and touched the house name, the white bark frayed at the edges. After the worst of days, this filled her with joy. It was good to be home.

Poppy could still hear the rat-a-tat-tat Welsh from her father and Nain as she pushed open the door. It went back and forth like a professional tennis match, son and mother formidable and equal adversaries.

Then it stopped. Nain’s needles froze mid-air. Iwan’s paper was rigid. Poppy looked to her mother in the kitchen, but she hadn’t noticed her arrival at all and continued stirring, oblivious.

Pip kicked and bounced her legs on the edge of the sofa. “They were talking about Rosalyn.”

Iwan dropped his paper, Nain threw her needles down and mother and son chorused together. “Oh Pip.” “Twp”. “Honestly, bach. Learn some tact.” “Why did you have to say that?”

Poppy laughed. “And how did they know Rosalyn was back?” She took friendly aim at Pip with a look.

“Told them as soon as we got home. I told Mum on the way, but she was humming.”

“Well thanks.” Poppy rolled her eyes.

Her father screwed up his paper into a ball and threw it at Pip. “Dew dew, Pip. You’re going to have to learn to lie now you’re nearly a teenager.”

Nain bustled up from the sofa in a movement swifter than anyone would anticipate given her bulk, and enveloped Poppy in a cwtch.

“Welcome home, bach. We’ve been worried.”

“I’m all right, Nain. What’s there to be worried about?”

“Well this Rosalyn Thorn bombshell for a start.”

“I’m fine, really.”

Nain held her at arm’s length and glared over her glasses. “Don’t talk rubbish. I can read you as easily as a book.”

Poppy blushed like a child.

“Oh bach. I’m not being funny. It’s a beautiful thing to wear your heart on your sleeve, especially when it’s usually such a happy one. And to get through life without having to resort to artifice, building defences and hiding your emotions is wonderful. So don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, Poppy Jenkins. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Poppy sighed. “Yes, it was a shock this morning when I saw Rosalyn.”

“There you go.”

“But I’ve hardly thought of it since.”

“Pah. Likely tale.”

And Poppy blushed deeper. She targeted Pip with an accusatory look, but her sister was throwing newspaper balls at their father.

Nain didn’t flinch from her study over her glasses. “And don’t go blaming Pip. To tell you the truth, I heard it from Dai.”

Poppy threw up her hands. “Thanks, Dai.”

“And right he was to tell me. Reckons she’s getting married he does.”

“Dai’s making that up.”

“Makes sense though, doesn’t it. Right kind of age. That Hall would make a lovely venue.”

“I bet Dai said that too.”

But Nain sped right on by. “Alan Watkins reckons she’s after a house in the area. Thinks she’s on the lookout for another bargain like the Hall. And you know how much that upset people when they practically stole it.”

Poppy rolled her eyes. She’d long forgiven Alan Watkins, her childhood tormentor from the river, but couldn’t agree with his conjecture. “This is about the last place Rosalyn would want to live.”

“Is that what she’s been saying?”

“No. I don’t know. But she hated it here. She couldn’t wait to leave.”

“And what does that tell you? Wanting to leave a place like Wells. What kind of person thinks that?”

“She was unhappy. I don’t think it unreasonable—”

Poppy shook her head. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed it, but she’d been put in the position of defending Rosalyn. Poppy had to take a mental step back to untangle herself from Nain-logic. “I’m just saying I doubt anyone really knows why she’s here.”

“Well Mrs Morgan Morgan—”

Oh god, even Mrs Morgan Morgan knew. Poppy massaged her temples while Nain listed every single resident of Wells who had a theory about why Rosalyn Thorn was home.

At some point, Poppy realised Nain had stopped talking. She tentatively relaxed her fingers and peeped through the gaps. Nain stood, hands on hips with a satisfied look on her face.

“I’ve said my piece. And you know me. I like to keep my nose out of other people’s business.

Pip coughed, but before she could interject was pounded by another newspaper ball.

“And I wasn’t going to say anything. But,” Nain shook her head. “Well I don’t have any time for Rosalyn Thorn, or any of those Thorns come to think of it. Stuck up they are.”

Poppy began to smile. If anyone could be read like a book it was Nain. And often she didn’t need reading because she came in full audio version. Nain had been the same when Poppy was sixteen, with a barrage of reasons why Rosalyn Thorn wasn’t good enough to be Poppy’s friend.

“Honestly, that David Thorn. Thinks he’s some top-notch surgeon, jetting here, there and everywhere. Thinks nothing of going as far as Birmingham. Someone said he went to France for a conference. And she,” Nain had crossed her arms under her great bosom, “the mother, well, she won’t shop with the likes of us. Dai says she hasn’t set foot in the village shop for years. Oh no. Gets her shopping delivered from Ocado.” She nodded with great knowing and leant towards Poppy. “Course, none of us knew what it was. We all thought she must have some craving for those funny pears. You know the ones? That aren’t even sweet?”

“Avocados?” Poppy suggested with amusement.

“Yes, they’re the ones. Turns out Ocado is from some supermarket called Waitrose and there’s no Waitrose near Wells. Don’t see the need with Dai’s shop and Harry Tuffin up the road. But Lillian Thorn has to have her food delivered special like.”

It appeared that Nain was approaching the end of her tirade and Poppy touched her gently on the arm.

“It’s all right, Nain. It was a long time ago. I’ll survive bumping into Rosalyn Thorn.”

“Rosalyn’s back in town?”

It was her mother’s quiet and surprised voice. She stood in the kitchen, leaning over the soup pan, wooden spoon mid-stir.

“Did you say Rosalyn’s back in town?”

Poppy’s heart sank and she breathed in, dreading having to repeat the whole conversation.

“Yes Mum. I bumped into Rosalyn this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it.”

Not a flicker perturbed her mother’s features, not a crease of a frown. “Oh good,” she said. “Good. I like Rosalyn.” And she continued to stir the soup.

Chapter 7.

“That smells delicious.” Steam kissed Poppy’s face and aromatic tomato and basil vapours filled her nose as she leant over the pan.

“Have a taste.” Her mother smiled and held up a spoonful.

Poppy sipped the velvety soup and her mouth tingled as the saturated flavours trickled over her tongue. Its zest almost made her eyes water.

“Gosh. How did you get that depth of flavour?”

“I roasted the tomatoes this time. It has the same amount of Balsamic vinegar and herbs, but I think the roasting’s done the trick.”

“I’d say. We’ll have that for the quick lunch menu on Tuesday and Derek can bake some of his fancy breads. We get a better crowd on market day.”

Tuesday was their best day with stall holders grabbing a bite to eat and customers tempted inside. But even the market was struggling of late and Poppy couldn’t help notice that good days, for the market and café, were thin on the ground.

Her mother must have read her thoughts. “Summer’s coming,” she said. “We’re over the worst. And we’ve got that advert in the County Times.”

“Hmm,” was the best Poppy could muster.

“They did publish it?”

“Yes, they did this time, but…” Poppy picked up the local newspaper from the sideboard and opened it with a flourish. She pointed to their artfully executed advertisement for the café and shop, the shop’s carved sign reproduced over a steaming pot with a discount offer for afternoon tea. Poppy could only decipher the indistinct text because she’d written it herself

Her mother frowned. “That’s smaller than I assumed.”

“Yes. I thought we’d paid for a postcard-sized advert. You can’t see the wording this size. Sorry Mum.”

“Oh don’t worry, sweetheart. An easy mistake to make.”

“It’s a waste of money though and we can’t afford another.”

The advert was entirely inconsequential next to the full-page dedicated to the hotel-restaurant two miles away owned by Alan Watkins. His former manor complex boasted fifty luxurious rooms and cuisine from a chef poached from a Michelin-starred London restaurant, the specific establishment remaining anonymous.

“Well at least someone’s doing well,” Poppy sighed. It was better than no-one prospering, although Poppy was perplexed about the café and in fact the entire village’s lack of appeal to the outside world. Wells was heaven to her, and she and her mother tried to add a bit of extra spice to paradise with their food, but apparently to no avail.

Her mother gave the soup a final taste, served it at the table with a board filled with chunks of fresh bread and the clan gathered with a keen scraping of chairs on the slate floor.

Poppy’s dad rubbed his hands together. “This looks delicious, Em.”

His wife smiled at him and stroked the back of his head, a slow appreciative motion that savoured the man and his compliment.

“Your mam’s a fine cook,” Nain said. Her boobs rested on the table and her plate was already piled high with fluffy bread. She ladled a spoonful towards her mouth and slurped it inside. “Mmm. Da iawn.”

Pip’s gratitude and enjoyment were silent, or at least wordless, as she dipped in chunks of bread and swung the soaked morsels into her mouth.

Poppy felt a warmth inside that couldn’t be attributed solely to the soup. She watched her family eat: her mum serene, Nain eating with gusto, Pip satisfying her youthful appetite and her father admiring his wife with a look that spoke of deep affection. Dinner with her family could soothe even the worst of days.

Pip wiped her mouth on the back of her hand leaving an orange smear. “So….” She swallowed the remainder of a mouthful, “What was Rosalyn like at school?”

“Pip!” “Bach!” “Sweetheart that’s not very thoughtful.”

Poppy laughed. “Dear Pip. Most of the time I think of you as a little miracle that appeared in our lives, others you are the spawn of the devil.

“You mean your average tweenager?” Her dad chuckled.

“Spawn of the devil? Poppy bach, are you calling your father Satan?”

“Sorry, Nain.” For a moment Poppy wondered if she’d offended Nain’s God-fearing sensibilities.

“Well you’re right. He was a little devil. Worse than Pip I reckon. In fact,” Nain stabbed the air with her fork, “your taid, God rest his soul, was just as bad. Twinkle in his eye that one. And I can see the same devilish look in both Pip and your dad.”

Iwan and Pip seemed pleased with the admission. Iwan put out his hand to shake Pip’s but whipped it away so she grasped thin air. Thumb to nose and wiggling his fingers, he stuck out his tongue in jest. Pip rolled her eyes.

“In fact,” Nain continued. “I don’t think there’s a tiniest part of your brains not devoted to mischief.” Nain shook her head. “You’re the only one with a sensible thought, Poppy cariad. I don’t know where you came from.”

They all stopped – spoons, puffs of bread, sucked fingers hanging midair. They all inched their heads round towards Poppy’s mother.

Her spoon scraping the last of the soup was the only noise. She looked so content sipping the remnants of the hearty meal. The overwhelming silence must have made itself heard and she lifted her gaze, spoon poised and sweet face oblivious. “Mm?”

“Dear Mum.” Poppy smiled.

“Dear love,” Iwan said.

Again, Poppy was filled with love and warmth for her family, and wished she could stretch her arms around the whole clan and draw them into a cuddle.

“But that still doesn’t tell me about Rosalyn.”

“Oh, Pip,” “Bach!”

The last chunk of bread flew in Pip’s direction. It may even have originated from Nain.

“Let it drop will you,” Iwan said.

Pip beamed, delighted at the response.

Poppy breathed in, trying to form some balanced view of Rosalyn to describe to Pip.

“Trouble.” Nain stabbed the air with her knife. “I always said that girl was trouble.”

“Oh come on, Mam,” Iwan said. “Rosalyn Thorn? With long perfect blonde hair and clothes that looked like they never saw a drop of mud. She even called me sir once when I fixed her bike. ‘Thank you, sir.’” He put on his version of an English upper-class accent, but it was still highly identifiable as originating from a Welshman.

“No, no, no.” Nain shook her head. “I don’t mean the kind with a pin through her nose, purple-dyed hair and rides round on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike. Oh no. She was more subtle than that. She was a clever girl.”

“What did she do?” Pip eyes were wide with curiosity.

“Do you remember the Scout hut?” Nain asked. “Not you Pip bach, but you all remember? It was built the year after the Brownie and Guide hut and caused great excitement because it was a huge big thing. Not a glorified shed – proper construction, bricks and all. Well, Rosalyn was just ten years old, but she pipes up with ‘Why didn’t the girls get a decent hut? Why do the boys get so much money spent on them?’”

“Didn’t the Scouts raise the money themselves?” Iwan asked.

“That’s what everyone else said,” Nain scoffed. “But young Rosalyn takes matters into her own hands, and one night soon after, the Brownie hut burns down. Funny that, don’t you think? Cigarette from some teenagers breaking in they reckoned. But, I’d bet good money it was Rosalyn.”

“And they built a new hut?” Pip’s eyes grew wider still.

“That’s right.” Nain nodded, full of knowing. “And of course, because Rosalyn had made such a fuss, everyone had to shell out for a great big thing like the Scouts’.”

Poppy laughed. She remembered the grilling from Nain the day after. Where had Poppy been? Had she been with that Rosalyn? She’d sniffed Poppy’s clothes for tell-tale whiffs of smoke then, with suspicions still uppermost in her mind, sent her to bed to have a good think about it all.

“What Nain isn’t telling you,” Poppy said, “is that Rosalyn asked ‘who donated money to the Scout hut’ and ‘why hadn’t they been so generous with the Brownies’. It turned out the Council had made the largest donation. That caused a few red faces. Two of the councillors had voted for their sons’ recreation but not their daughters’ and their wives were very unhappy. So the council was more generous the second time.”

“Well done, Rosalyn.” Pip punched the air.

“Dew dew.” Nain shook her head.

“But she was right, wasn’t she?” Pip said. “It wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t. But she wasn’t right either.” Nain was appalled. “See, to my mind, arson is not the right way to get justice.”

Iwan nodded earnestly. “Listen to your nain, young Pip. Don’t you go arson around.”

Pip took a moment for the pun to sink in, then giggled with a sly look to her father.

Before Nain could erupt Poppy stepped in. “Don’t let Nain give you the wrong impression. Rosalyn was kind too.”

“Yeah?”

Poppy nodded. “You know how I sleep?” Since she could recall, Poppy had hugged a pillow to her face as she dozed. It was the most comforting feeling, last thing at night, to slide her hand between the soft sheets. “Rosalyn used to write notes and slip them beneath my pillow.” Poppy smiled at her mother. “Mum used to let her in.”

“What kind of thing?” Pip asked.

“Usually comforting notes when I was worried about exams or someone had been horrid at school.” Poppy stared into the distance. “She stayed the night before exams because we calmed each other’s nerves, but she couldn’t before our GCSEs – her dad wanted her home. I thought I was going to have a heart attack the first night, I was so wound up. But she knew how I slept and left me a note: ‘I’m always here’. I held that note all night and slept like a baby.”

Her heart twinged at the poignancy of the memory. What joy it had been, having a friend who understood and cared so completely, always there to support or defend her. Poppy had kept every note tucked away in an old cigar box.

“I didn’t know you were good friends.” Pip’s forehead creased with confusion.

“Your sister and Rosalyn were great friends,” Nain said. “Rosalyn was round here or at the shop more than the Hall. Used to stay the night and everything. Like a second home I reckon.”

“So what happened?”

“Pip, that’s enough.” It was the first time their mother had spoken. She didn’t raise her voice or issue Pip a stern look, simply rested her hand on Pip’s.

“Well that’s the interesting bit.” Pip pouted.

The explanation stuck in Poppy’s throat. She would have told her. She was honest with her younger sister, but she didn’t have the knowledge let alone the words.

“I’m sorry, Pip. I…” She shook her head, bewilderment in her eyes.

“Pip bach.” Nain tutted. “You don’t half put your sister through the wringer.”

Emma attempted to distract Pip with another round of soup and the whole family scraped every drop from their bowls, Nain, Mum and Dad with detailed attention and Pip with distraction. But Poppy could tell her sister was bursting to ask more.

Pip opened her mouth and Poppy braced herself. “At least we’re not hassling you about girlfriends.”

Her father laughed so loudly that everyone flinched and he slapped his hands on his knees.

Poppy’s state of affairs concerning the heart was a cause of mirth, anxiety or incredulity depending on the member of the family. She’d had an uncomplicated coming out while at a liberal university where she met her first girlfriend. Her mother and father had simply smiled when introduced to the lovely Rachel. Nain had prayed a bit harder for understanding, and although understanding never really transpired, her love for her granddaughter prevailed. The relationship didn’t last, it was the first after all, but Poppy had hoped perfect Sarah would – the love from London who she met in her final year.

“We don’t make it easy for you, do we love?” her father said.

“Why’s that?” Pip said.

“He’s referring to Sarah,” Poppy replied. Although the same could have been said for her subsequent two girlfriends, both of whom hailed from the city.

“Sarah arrived one night in a taxi,” Iwan said, “and went straight upstairs with Poppy without so much as a by your leave. She came downstairs next morning looking rather tousled.” Her father smiled and Poppy’s cheeks reddened, deeply. “She looks out of the window and says ‘Where are the houses? What’s happened to your neighbours?’” He chuckled. “Couldn’t understand people lived in the country and it wasn’t just for a nice holiday.”

Poppy remembered it well of course. Sarah had taken one look through the window, seen nothing but sheep, and declared this no way and nowhere to live and whisked her belongings back to the city.

“After a while, I think you gave up on them London types and went for local lasses,” Iwan said.

“Oh I remember Sherri,” Pip chirped, an exuberant expression on her face.

“She was a few bob short of a pound,” Nain muttered.

“Complete nutter,” Iwan said. “Fancied herself as a bit of an artist. Do you remember her bringing those sculptures round love?”

Poppy’s mother nodded.

“Sweet little models of Scottie dogs and sheep,” Iwan continued. “Thought she could sell them in the shop, and they might have sold if she hadn’t made them out of tampons.”

“I liked them.”

“Thank you, Mum,” Poppy said. “Sherri was a very genuine and lovely person.”

Although she had to admit they had a point. But Poppy, being generous Poppy, was willing to overlook Sherri’s peculiarity, including licking the dog’s face in an attempt to bond with all members of the family. Oh god.

“Jacob,” she said alarmed.

“Well exactly,” her father said. “Who’d want to lick that beast? Rolls around in shit all day.”

“I know,” she said. “He’s covered in it now. I completely forgot.”

Nain stood up with uncharacteristic speed. “Where’s the mongrel now?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Nain turned her piercing gaze to Pip. “I hope you shut the barn door properly this time young lady. He doesn’t bother with your rooms, but that beast runs in mine every chance he gets.”

“I think so,” she said, but Pip’s eyebrows made a distraught triangle.

Poppy and Pip burst outside. Nain’s pounding footsteps were close behind.

“Oh god.” Pip’s voice drained of hope. The door of the adjoining converted barn was ajar, a suspicious smear across its timbers at large canine level.

“Check your room,” Poppy said. “I’ll check mine. I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough if Jacob’s in Nain’s bedroom.

Pip loped up the wooden stairs, two steps at a time, and turned right into the converted hay loft. Poppy dashed after, preparing to dive left into the roof space above the house.

“Jacooooooooooooob!” Nain’s cry was, in all likelihood, audible in Wells. And within this proximity it was enough to strain eardrums and congeal a guilty party’s insides.

“Oh no.” Poppy looked back down the stairs. A terrified Pip peeped around the doorway.

“Don’t make me go down,” Pip whispered. “I’m too young to be made into cawl.”

Poppy grinned, her terror ebbing at the sight of Pip’s hysteria. “I think Nain thinks you’re too scrawny to be made into broth.”

“Seriously Poppy, I can’t face Nain when she’s got the furies.”

Nain in a temper was indeed a phenomenon, ferocious enough to reduce grown men to quivering leaves and induce tremors in her granddaughters.

Poppy gathered herself. “It’s ok, Pip,” she soothed. “It was my fault too. I completely forgot about that dog.”

Pip nodded but it was more like a nervous twitch. “That’s right. You go tell her. I’ve got homework. She’d want me to do that,” and her head disappeared into her bedroom and the door clicked to.

Even as a grown woman, Poppy’s insides turned over at the prospect of facing Nain.

“Here goes,” she said and began her reluctant way back down the stairs.

Poppy pushed open the oak door to Nain’s bedroom. It was a colourful sight that met her eyes.

Her grandmother’s complexion could have been described as puce, perhaps verging on deep red wine. As for the previously crisp white bed sheets, with a thread count only affordable as a special gift, they were definitely khaki. Jacob had left a remarkable imprint of himself, as if he’d rolled over from side to side, together with smudges that could only have been made by a dog exiting at speed.

“Was he in here then?” Poppy said, the attempted innocence of her question sounding shrill.

“Where is that child?” Nain growled.

“Stop. It was my fault.” Poppy held out her hands in an attempt to keep Nain in the room rather than launching into an elephantine charge up the stairs. “I should have taken him to the river as soon as I saw him.”

Her grandmother’s narrowed eyes, Poppy could have sworn, were blood red. She dropped her own gaze to the floor, before her remaining courage could evaporate.

“I will change the sheets, boil wash these, then clean up Jacob.”

“Drown the beast. Tie the damned creature in the sheets to make sure. And tie that damned sister of yours up with him too.”

Nain blaspheming was a poor sign indeed.

“I know how much you love these sheets, Nain, and Pip and I will save for new ones if I can’t get these pristine.”

“You better had.” Nain stormed out of the bedroom. “You’re lucky you have a generous sister, Pip!” she bellowed up the stairs, then slammed the front door.

After the house and Poppy’s teeth had ceased rattling, she turned once again to survey the scene. Jacob’s coverage of the bed had been impressive. Mercifully, the mattress underneath was protected by Nain’s incontinence sheet below the hallowed linen.

“Can’t help leaking a bit when you’re older,” Nain had told Pip who was as appalled by the admission as any person under the age of sixteen, or even sixty, might be. “You don’t get through four days of labour and eighty years of life without the waterworks playing up.”

Poppy smiled at the recollection and sighed the long sigh of someone about to clean up extensive sheep dung. “Right. I’d better get on with it.”

“Is everything all right sweetheart?” Her mother appeared at the bedroom door. “Oh my.” She lifted a hand to her gaping mouth. She scanned the bed, taking in the full extent of the horror. Her eyes widened in realisation, then caught Poppy’s gaze.

Poppy sniggered.

Emma’s eyes creased, her shoulders shook and her eyes began to water.

Poppy caught her mother’s giggles. “Stop,” she whispered. “She’s probably not far away.”

Her mother’s eyebrows rose and tears ran down her face, incapable of controlling her mirth.

“Shh,” Poppy juddered, and she clutched her belly, which ached with poorly restrained laughter.

“That bed better smell of roses by the time I come back!”

Nain’s bellow did the trick. Poppy and her mother stood to attention, prepared for Nain to re-enter. They stood rigid until they heard the familiar grunting start of Nain’s Morris Minor and the tired engine receding up the lane.

“Oh dear,” Emma said, still struggling to subdue a smile. “Is Pip still alive?”

“Yes, and she has a new found interest in homework.”

“I bet she has. Look, I’ll sort these. You go and round up Jacob. The kit’s in the usual place.”

“Thanks Mum,” Poppy said, and she kissed her mother gratefully on the cheek.

Chapter 8.

The dog-wash kit had been refined over the years and Poppy donned the summer version: pink shower cap, pair of builder’s goggles, industrial-strength yellow rubber gloves and standard-issue black wellies. In winter, a neck to knee mac was also required, but for this sultry day, Poppy stripped down to her cerise knickers and matching bra. She imagined the look was interesting at best, but there are only so many times a half-wet, half-shitty dog shakes out its fur before you cease to worry about appearances.

“Right, Jacob,” she said, brush in one hand, shampoo in the other. “You and I and the river have a date.” And although she would never curb Jacob’s affection for rolling in the most fetid of patches, he did at least hang his head and follow Poppy across the field, his tail between his legs.

Poppy waded into the shallows, followed by Jacob who dutifully took up position. Before soaking his fur, Poppy crooned a verse of Go to Sleep then squeezed over a sponge of water.

When Jacob’s eyes had been lulled into a daze by Poppy’s song and the trickling river, she began to lather his fur and sponge him down.

She was almost finished when she heard sniggering – a naughty snort of laughter through the nose. Her goggles had misted and she could only see vague shadows on the river banks. There was no movement on the far side, but when she turned familiar shapes, one of considerable male stature and the other a shorter curvier physique, shifted on the near bank.

“Dai Edwards, is that you?”

His deep chortle followed. “You should see yourself Poppy Jenkins. What a sight.”

She threw a glove to the bank and removed the goggles. Dai and his girlfriend, Mary, were beaming from the verge, but more galling, Dai had his phone aimed at Poppy.

“Dai! You’d better not be taking pictures.”

“No, of course not.” His grin spread as wide as his ears. “I’m videoing you.”

“You—”

“Careful now. You don’t want to offend your nain’s delicate sensibilities.”

“Nain is not within earshot and, at this minute, she’s in a particularly indelicate mood. And if you weren’t standing so close to Mary I’d throw this crap-covered sponge at you.”

“Go on, Poppy,” Mary yelled. “I bet you’ve got a good enough aim.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Dai squealed, and he scuttled back from the edge.

Poppy smiled at the great bulk of Dai cowering on the river bank. She waded out of the water and when she was at a safe distance she called to Jacob.

“Go on boy, you’re done.” And for once, only then did he lunge his head forward and twist his body into a frenetic shower.

Poppy flung off her cap, gloves and wellies and slipped on her dress. “So what are you two lovelies up to this evening?”

She strolled towards them, smoothing down her dress, and when she looked up she was surprised to see them acting more sheepish.

“Out for a walk.” “Come to see you of course.” “Oh.” “Yes, that.”

“Um.” Poppy nodded. “Ok.”

“Well it’s a nice evening.” Dai was attempting nonchalance. “So we thought, why not get a bit of exercise.”

“Uh huh.”

Mary nudged Dai in the ribs. “She’s not convinced. She knows the only exercise you get is running from a tackle on the rugby pitch or running to the bar for last orders, and it’s only the latter you do with any conviction.”

“Oi. I always try my best on the pitch.”

“But the point is…”

“Oh yes.” The big man took a deep breath. “We came to see you.”

“That’s nice,” said Poppy. “Do you want to come in for a cuppa?”

“No, that’s all right.” Dai rubbed his hands together and grimaced. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ok.”

“Will you…” He looked skywards in thought.

“Will I…?”

“Will you be… err.” He held his breath and continued to stare aloft.

“Will I be…?”

“Will you be my best…? What is it? What would she be?” He seemed confused, and the feeling was shared by Poppy. “Will you be my best...pal?” Dai wrinkled his nose at the term.

“Of course,” Poppy said. “We’ve been best friends for years.”

“No, I mean, will you be my best pal for the special day?”

Mary was giving him a look.

“Well, what would you call her then?” Dai snapped. “Best woman? Honour attendant?”

Mary plonked her hands on her hips and said, “I’d just bloody tell her we were getting married first.”

The two eyed each other in the way they had for years, irritation and sparks of attraction flying.

“You’re getting married?” Poppy blurted.

Their two heads snapped round like children caught with their hands in a sweet jar.

“But that’s brilliant,” Poppy said. Tears of joy brimmed and an ecstatic smile burst on her face. “Come here.” She leapt up at Dai and flung her arms around his shoulders. He lifted her clear off the ground as though she weighed naught and swung her around.

“Thank you, Poppy.” His voice was gruff and joy teared at the edges. “I’m so glad you’re happy.”

She dropped to the ground and held him at arms’ length. “Of course I’m happy. Who wouldn’t be? You two are a force of nature.”

Mary laughed and Poppy turned felicitations to her. “Congratulations Mary,” she said and hugged her large friend. “I can’t believe it.” Poppy stood back to view the happy couple. “This is wonderful news. Did you propose?” She aimed a sly look at Dai, knowing he’d be as uncomfortable executing the deed as he was talking about it.

“I did.” Dai drew himself up straight and broadened his great chest.

Mary looked him up and down. “In a manner.”

“Well I was going to,” Dai said indignant.

“Found him effing and blinding over a ring box when I came home early. Planned to tie it to a heart-shaped balloon he did, but couldn’t get his great fingers around the ribbon. ‘What you doing Dai?’ I says and he almost jumped through the ceiling.” Mary squeezed Dai’s arm. “Looks at me, timid as a lamb, and says ‘Well what do you reckon?’ So romantic.”

“Well Ms Romantic, tell her how you answered,” he said, mocking her.

“And I says, ‘Suppose so.’” Mary smiled at him with adoration.

Poppy held her fingers to her lips. “Perfect,” she said. “I couldn’t think of a better way for you both.”

“Thank you, Poppy.” Mary reached out and squeezed her shoulder, a teary and grateful expression on her face.

“Now then, Poppy Jenkins.” Dai lowered his voice an octave. “Will you be my best man?”

Poppy pulled back her chin and answered him in gruff kind. “Yes, Dai Edwards, I will be your best man.”

“Great. I was hoping you’d say yes.”

Poppy’s face dropped and her voice pitched higher. “That’s what you were trying to ask. Do you mean it?”

“Of course. I can’t think of anyone better. You’re the best pal I’ve ever had. I’m not going to choose a second cousin or some bugger off the rugby team just because he’s a bloke.”

“Oh Dai.” Poppy’s throat began to choke. Her eyes prickled from her friend’s loving gesture and pride at the right-mindedness of this hulk of a man. “I’d be honoured. I’d love to.” She nodded and sniffed then buried her face in his chest.

“Thank you, Poppy love,” he said and he gave her a robust squeeze. “And I won’t even put you through the nightmare of making a speech.”

Poppy squeezed him tighter still, public speaking being a rare social occasion that gave her the heebie jeebies.

“I will do a speech.” She smiled. “That’s how happy I am.”

The three walked arm in arm, with Poppy in the middle, discussing the day and the proposal all over again. Night was falling by the time the couple turned towards the village. As Dai fussed over a soggy Jacob, running figure-of-eights between his long legs, Mary leaned in to Poppy.

“I haven’t forgotten you know.”

Poppy looked uncomprehending.

“What Dai promised you?”

“Oh.” Poppy blushed.

“That still holds. I won’t make him break a promise and I never want the issue to come between us.” Mary took her by the arm. “If you want him to be a donor, I’m happy.”

“Mary, that’s so kind, but it’s too much to ask.”

“No it’s not. You make Dai happy, and you can’t make him happy if we don’t look after you.”

Poppy squeezed Mary’s hand. “Thank you. It’s very nice that you even talk to me about it. But I won’t expect anything. And anyway,” she sighed, “I’m so far off having a home and family of my own it seems impossible.”

“Rubbish. You could meet someone tomorrow. A gorgeous, warm-hearted girl like you? Any woman with any sense would snap you up.”

Poppy gave her a small smile, but a nugget of anxiety at the pit of her stomach, that one that niggled whenever she thought of the future, was certainly making itself known tonight.

The happy couple walked along the riverbank and Poppy waved goodbye as the figures disappeared into shadows of vegetation along the water’s edge.

Poppy sat on the bank and stared at the river, its meandering metallic shine blurring as she reflected on the day. It would take a while to acclimatise to the changes in everyone else’s lives. Her best friend had found happiness, Pip was growing at an alarming rate and her parents were happy in their own company now that their children were older. She felt alone.

She clutched at her necklace, twisting the pendant between her fingers. It had been a habit for many years, but it resonated with particular poignancy today. She’d received the gift just a few paces away on a shingle beach hidden below the banks. Rosie had taken her for a picnic to celebrate her sixteenth birthday and surprised her with this most treasured possession.

Poppy had spotted it months before at an auction in the village hall, but it had quickly been bid beyond her pocket money. But there it was, cushioned in the soft ridges of Rosie’s palm – a silver chain and locket engraved with a Celtic love knot of hearts bound together in never-ending cords.

“You bought it?” Poppy was shocked.

Her friend beamed and nodded, her eyes glistening.

“Oh Rosie. It’s nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”

“Let me put it round your neck,” Rosie chattered and she scrambled onto her knees. “It’ll look beautiful on you.”

The cool locket tickled Poppy’s skin as it rose and fell in her cleavage.

“There. Perfect.” And Rosalyn stood back admiring. “I ran after the woman who won the bid. She wouldn’t sell it to me at first, but I didn’t give up, and she gave it to me a few weeks later.”

Poppy grinned at Rosalyn’s persistent efforts, all for her. She looked down at the locket nestled between her breasts. It had taken almost all of her teenage years, but at last Poppy had bloomed into womanly curves.

She teased open the locket into two halves. “I want a photo of you here. Will you find one?”

“Of course. I’d love to.” Rosie looked delighted at her gift’s reception, then coy. “I was tempted to put one in, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“No, I want one. I wish you had. Here, put your finger in.” She held the open shell to Rosie. “Leave me your fingerprint until then.”

Rosie cupped the locket, her fingers brushing over Poppy’s breasts. Slowly, with great deliberation, Rosalyn pressed her fingertip inside. She held it there a moment, their eyes locked and Rosalyn’s hands over Poppy’s heart.

“There,” Rosie whispered.

“Oh god.” Poppy, the grown woman, pressed her hands to her face. She screwed her eyes tight. She could still feel Rosalyn’s hands upon her chest. Poppy and her friend had felt joined – a sensation of being so close and in tune with someone they were part of the same being.

Rosalyn’s touch still lay there, hidden inside the locket. Poppy had never received a photo, but she kept the necklace as an act of defiance. She reclaimed it, made it her own as it always should have been, and over the years she forgot what lay inside.

Poppy clutched at the necklace. It felt leaden around her neck. She stumbled when she tried to stand and with her heart heavy she turned home carrying the burden of the pendant in her hand.

The cottage was the darkest shape in the night landscape, the windows shining with orange light. Poppy peered inside and watched her family basking in the glow. Iwan sat with Pip at the kitchen table, working through a sheet of numbers. Nain perched on the sofa, stabbing the air with knitting needles, her complexion now back to its ruddy normal. And Mum reclined in the leather armchair, a book in her lap but staring into space, her head in another story entirely.

Poppy was weary. The novelties of the day were beginning to take their toll. For once, she didn’t want to be enveloped by the warmth of her family and craved solitude. She tapped on the window nearest her mother. “Going to bed,” she mouthed and Emma waved, “I love you”.

Poppy felt the fatigue of every hour she’d been awake as she dragged her feet up the stairs. The heavy oak door creaked on its iron hinges as it had done since she could remember and she shut the world behind her.

The moon, a sliver from full, shone through the large circular window at the end of the loft. It cast a silvery light over the long room. The attic was only high enough for Poppy to stand in the centre, the roof sloping steeply either side.

Her father had used every corner and inch of space to accommodate her. Two triangular chests of drawers were made bespoke to house her clothes. A custom low bed lay with a full view of the porthole window. Rows of narrow shelves ran the length of the ceiling, with rails to hold her books so that the roof was a kaleidoscope of vivid covers. It was a special room and Poppy’s sanctuary and here she bowed to the exhaustion of the day.

She collapsed onto the bed and gazed out of the porthole. The undulating fields outside shone like a rolling sea in the moonlight, hedges the crests of waves and sheep like seagulls riding on the heaving water. She closed her eyes; her head swam and consciousness blinked out in lazy pulses as she drifted.

“This room is magical,” Rosalyn’s voice whispered in her memory. “I adore being here with you. We’re like stowaways on an old galleon – halfway across the Atlantic to discover new lands.”

Poppy could feel Rosalyn’s warmth. Her body cuddled behind, snug together from head to toes and her arm wrapped about Poppy’s tummy.

Poppy drifted with fatigue, relaxed and content in Rosalyn’s presence. She smiled as she began to dream. And for the first time in years, on the cliff edge of sleep, Poppy succumbed and murmured, “I miss you, Rosalyn.”

Chapter 9.

Poppy slept long and deep, until the morning sun beamed through the window and baked her room. She stirred rubicund beneath her duvet.

She dreamed and remembered the time she kissed Dai. It was not long into secondary school when the bristles on his chin were hardly worth shaving but made kissing an activity Poppy found uncomfortable at best. He smelled peculiar too.

But even after accommodating these distractions, the main event didn’t move her and she couldn’t fathom what made film heroines lose their minds and more besides. Poppy wondered if it was underwhelming because Dai was a friend. But when she kissed another boy, considered handsome by girls in her class, she was unmoved to the same disappointing extent.

Perhaps she wasn’t a good kisser.

She practised on an apple. It was recommended by another girl, but the unyielding flesh and waxy green skin wasn’t compelling. Poppy opened her lips around the firm fruit, and there they stayed, splayed on the cool peel and far from impassioned. The temptation to eat the apple proved too much and she crunched into it, which proved satisfactory at least.

Practice on her own forearm had the benefit of greater verisimilitude but it was no more enlightening, and the resulting red patches caused her mother alarm and an embarrassing line of questioning. And after being whisked to the doctors with the suspicion of catching ring worm, Poppy also abandoned this line of betterment.

So she asked Rosalyn. Poppy had lost count of her friend’s beaus and she imagined Rosalyn a seasoned kisser by now. Currently she was seeing a surgeon’s son from an independent school in Shrewsbury. As well as the cachet of private school and the exoticism of another town, he also had the prestige of being three years older. That maturity must have been a great advantage in Rosalyn’s tutelage because she was magnificent.

Kissing Rosalyn was nothing like the boys. She was soft, lovely. As soon as the delicious sensation of Rosalyn touching her lips began, Poppy seemed to float. She felt light and tingled all the way to her fingertips. She was too young for her body or mind to comprehend all the sensations, but that they were superior was beyond doubt.

Poppy came to the conclusion that kissing must be better with someone you loved, because she did love her friend so very much. Poppy decided she would wait until she found a boy she loved just as well. And she did wait, and wait, and wait, until a woman at university persuaded her to stop.

Poppy blushed and threw back the duvet. Her skin, which had perspired more than a little, chilled in the air. She pressed her hands to her face.

“Oh god. I’d forgotten that.” Or rather, she’d not allowed herself to remember.

What if Rosalyn remembered too? She blushed at the prospect. There were a thousand things Rosalyn knew about her – tiny habits, odd events, embarrassing belongings – nothing in isolation, and normal in the awkwardness of childhood, but when she considered it was knowledge of the remote and sophisticated Rosalyn Thorn, it was agonising.

“Why is she back?” Poppy groaned. And back here, up the lane. Rosalyn Thorn was sleeping a five-minute walk away. Perhaps she was lying in bed at this very moment remembering a mortifying kiss with Poppy.

Poppy jumped out of bed and shivered. She was still wearing yesterday’s dress, now crumpled and creased. By the time she’d showered and dressed in fresh clothes her mother and father had left and Nain and Pip’s preparations for school were intensifying.

The front door to the barn was ajar and the sound of Nain and Pip bickering outside greeted her.

“Morning you two.” Poppy grinned.

“Bore da, cariad,” Nain said without looking up. She and Pip stood either side of the Morris Minor, wrestling with rope, the roof rack and a harp. The stringed beast of an instrument slipped and slid while Pip and Nain attempted to strap it into submission with a hundred granny knots.

“I’ve forgotten my music!” Pip dropped her end of the rope and galloped into the house.

“Pip!” Nain bellowed.

“I’ve got it.” Poppy leapt around the car to secure Pip’s side of the instrument.

“Dew dew,” muttered Nain, shaking her head. Poppy knew what was coming next. It happened every Thursday on Poppy’s day off, when Pip had her music lesson and Nain braved the trip to school with the cumbersome instrument.

“Now, you won’t hear me say a word against Welsh culture,” Nain started, “but why in God’s name do we have a harp as our national instrument? Couldn’t have something practical like a recorder, could we? Oh no.”

Poppy smiled in response.

“Why not an instrument with four or six strings, tell me that? No, we choose the one with forty of the wretched things.” Nain continued her tussle with the rope. “And another thing. Why does Miss Pip, who doesn’t show the blindest bit of interest in our heritage, choose this to show her proud Welsh lineage? Heh? Answer me that.”

Poppy laughed. “Good luck trying to fathom Pip’s reasoning. And in some ways I hope her peculiar and special thought processes remain a wonderful mystery.” She smiled indulgently at her nain.

“Pah.” Nain waved her hand. “Peculiar and special would be right.”

The sound of sheets of paper being thrust into the air wafted down from the open attic window. Through the glass, white leaves could be seen fluttering in Pip’s room.

“What are you doing, Pip? We’ll be late,” Nain bellowed.

“I’ll be there now in a minute,” Pip’s muffled voice replied.

“Now in a minute.” Nain rolled her eyes. “God save us.”

Poppy tugged on the last of a series of just-to-be-sure knots. “There. Done this side.”

Nain stepped back and brushed her hands together. “Heaven knows how long it’ll take to untie at the other end. But anyway,” she sighed. “So what about you? Where are you off to today?”

Poppy breathed in, “I don’t know. I’d only planned as far as a lie-in.”

“And our squabbling’s put paid to that.” Nain rolled her eyes.

“No, I was awake anyway. Perhaps I’ll find a book, take a stroll and see where the day takes me.” She happened to look over Nain’s shoulder, up the lane towards the main road. A small wood of Lebanese cedars, oaks and towering beech trees protected Rhiw Hall from prying eyes. The top of the Hall’s slate roof peeped above the tree tops.

“Oh no. You’re not thinking of visiting Rosalyn.”

“No. Of course not. Don’t be silly.” Poppy blushed. That was right. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t thinking of seeing Rosalyn. Was she?

“You don’t want to rake up the past with that girl,” Nain muttered.

“No, I don’t,” Poppy agreed.

But starting something new might be nice.

“No. No!”

Where had that come from? But the image of Rosalyn’s beautiful physique was uppermost in her mind. Those long legs, the tantalising body, shapely breasts. Oh to see the view under that T shirt again.

“No, definitely not. Nothing like that.”

Nain eyed her unusually voluble granddaughter from beneath her brow, hand placed firmly on hip.

“I know it’s a long time since you’ve had a girlfriend, but Poppy,” Nain shook her head, “I don’t think there’s a more straight, less suitable and unobtainable girl in the whole of Wales.”

“Nain,” Poppy said, affronted. “How can you suggest I’m interested in Rosalyn Thorn in that way?”

Nain’s eyebrow shot skywards. “It’s not only a man’s libido that leads astray. The urges between a woman’s legs have made fools of many.”

Oh god. Poppy blushed, both nauseous and embarrassed. “Nain. It’s nothing like that. She mentioned meeting up again before she left. That’s why I was, perhaps, considering it. Maybe.”

“Now when was this, Poppy Jenkins? You hadn’t said anything about planning to meet Rosalyn again.” Nain stuck both hands on her hips, indicative of a serious escalation in vexation.

“I only saw Rosalyn yesterday on the way to school, just that once, and she only mentioned it in passing. That is, perhaps meeting again before she leaves. And I don’t know when that is. Or why she’s here in the first place. And I’m surprised she’s here at all. So I thought, maybe, perhaps, I was thinking, or I was on the verge of having it in my thoughts, that I should catch her before she leaves.”

“Why?”

Now, that was a very good question.

“Because…” Poppy breathed in. If Rosalyn Thorn treated her like a dignified human being, Poppy could let the flood of childhood memories wash over her whenever the tide turned them. It would be a relief not to shore up the memories in a dark corner of her mind, defending her soul and happiness against them. Poppy smiled, almost convinced. “To lay the past to rest.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, I think that’s the best I could hope for.” Poppy nodded solemnly

“Sounds like complete rot to me.” Nain tutted. She fiddled with the rope’s end and gave it a tug. “Sometimes things should be left buried. No point digging up an old carcass just to find it’s a putrid, rotten mess. Leave it be, Poppy bach. You’re happy. It’s a long time ago. If she ever meant to apologise she would have done it years ago. Now leave that body to rest in the ground and let the flowers grow on top.”

Poppy sighed. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Nain leaned forward and squeezed Poppy’s hand. “You’re a good girl. Don’t let unkind folk take the shine from your life.”

“Got them!” Pip exploded from the house, sheets of music held aloft.

“And about time. Get in.” Nain shouted. “Sorry, Poppy. We’re horribly late.”

Pip leapt into the passenger seat and Nain flumped into the driver’s side. The engine groaned into something much less than a roar and the exhaust pipe rattled out a black cough. The old Morris Minor crawled up the stony lane, harp twanging in protest from the roof.

“Don’t go anywhere near the Hall!” Nain yelled and she waved from the window.

“I won’t!” Poppy gave them a vigorous wave and watched the old car lurch up to the brow of the hill then disappear behind the hedge along the road to Wells.

Poppy could see the track to the Hall from where she stood. It began on the opposite side of the main road.

She laughed. Nain was right. What was she thinking? Going to see Rosalyn? It was a truly awful idea. After all the years of expelling her from every memory and corner of her mind.

Rosalyn didn’t really want to meet her again. It was just a pleasantry that tripped off the tongue of a woman like that.

Silly. Poppy was being very silly. A beautiful, sophisticated woman, with a voice of honey and a body to dream about. It really was not a good idea entertaining any thought whatsoever about getting reacquainted with Rosalyn Thorn.

So why was Poppy walking towards the Hall?

Chapter 10.

Poppy’s tummy somersaulted as she crossed the main road. She hadn’t walked this way for years and, judging by the grassy lane opposite, few had driven the route.

The Hall’s main entrance stood further along the road – a grand gate and tree-lined avenue up to the gravelled turning circle of the Regency Hall. But Poppy had always taken this service route as a child, scampering up to the Hall to see if Rosalyn wanted to play.

The track passed old farm-worker cottages – a terrace of sweet brick houses no longer inhabited. The cottages faced a large block of stables, barns and hay lofts that towered almost as high as the Hall itself. Along the walls lay rusting ploughs that sprouted bristles of long dry grass. Huge double doors, large enough to accommodate a carriage or a modern tractor, peeled with grey paint and the timbers hung rotten at the ground like stubby old teeth.

The outbuildings had been a favourite playground for Poppy and Rosalyn, with treasure troves of ancient beer bottles, animal skulls and farm paraphernalia, enough to re-enact everything from Charlotte’s Web to Treasure Island.

Poppy smiled. She could picture every corner inside those stables. She doubted anything had changed since their feet scuffed through the dust and straw.

She turned the corner and hesitated. The lane ran between a row of hawthorn bushes and the long wall of the outbuildings, then beyond stood the white manor house in a circle of well-tended lawn. She could approach the Hall unnoticed this way. Just two windows in the upper floor overlooked the back lane, the lower floors obscured by the stretching arms of a cedar. The front entrance and its ornate iron veranda, blooming with rambling white roses, was situated to the right. Poppy wandered closer and peeped along its extent. The white metal benches were vacant and all seemed quiet. Perhaps no-one was home.

Poppy stopped to gather herself, doubt gnawing in her belly. She was here now. Even if the house was empty the occupants could return any moment. What was she going to say?

She stared at the ground. Her mind was blank, completely blank.

She tried to prepare a greeting, warm introduction and inquiries after the family’s health, but after much straining she managed a practice, “Hi.”

She held her breath. Her mind clung to its complete blankness.

“Oh god,” she groaned. Her heart was pounding and her face flushed. If she wrung her hands any tighter her fingers might break.

“Relax.”

Rosalyn had mentioned seeing her again, and Poppy was merely following it up in a spare hour. Poppy was a busy woman with the café and her share of minding Pip, so it was sensible to enquire when Rosalyn might be available. There. That was reasonable.

She put on a smile, usually an effortless expression for Poppy, but her countenance felt tight today. “I can do this,” she said through her teeth. But her feet wouldn’t move.

Poppy clenched her fists, screwed up her eyes and growled. “This is stupid. I’m a grown woman. I’m going to walk to the house, ring the bell and say ‘good morning’. What could be simpler than that?”

Poppy breathed out and opened her eyes, more relaxed. Her foot allowed her to take a step forward and she beamed her charming smile. “Oh thank god.”

But after another pace, a woman burst from the house. Poppy was still a distance away but she recognised Rosalyn’s mother immediately.

Poppy froze and her heart stuttered with palpitations at the sight of a grim-faced Lillian Thorn. She looked as stony as the last time Poppy had visited at sixteen years old. Now obviously older, but still tall, beautiful and proud, it was clear where Rosalyn inherited her stature and cold manner.

Poppy darted behind a hawthorn bush, her heart pounding.

As she hid, it was impossible not to think of the visit all those years ago. She remembered Lillian Thorn at the imposing front door, holding it ajar as if to prevent Poppy from entering.

“What do you want, Poppy Jenkins?” she’d snapped.

Poppy had taken a step back, shocked at her vehemence. “I wanted to see Rosalyn. Is she here? Is she ok?”

It was New Year’s Eve and Rosalyn had been away for a Christmas skiing holiday. Poppy had pined for her every day, unused to spending the entire break apart. She’d known the exact minute the Thorns came home. She’d seen the lights of the top floor blink on above the trees. That had been two days ago.

“As I told you on the phone, Rosalyn can’t see you.”

“Is she ill?”

Lillian Thorn drew in her breath, a slow action that communicated her irritation as effectively as her vitriolic tone.

“This is getting awkward. Just leave her alone, Poppy. She doesn’t want to see you.”

“What? Why?”

“Perhaps she’s outgrown your little friendship. And about time too, for both of you. Now please leave.”

“I don’t understand.” Poppy felt the blood drain from her face. Her head swirled and she grabbed for the pillar of the veranda. “What’s happened?”

“Look, if Rosalyn can’t be bothered to explain, you can’t expect me to enlighten you.”

Poppy shivered in the winter chill and reeled with the even colder rejection. “But I haven’t a clue what’s going on.”

Lillian hesitated a moment, her shoulders relaxing. Would she relent and let Poppy in? Perhaps allow her to listen to what Rosalyn said?

“Poppy, just go. She’s had enough of you.” And Lillian Thorn closed the door.

A tear ran down Poppy’s face, then and now. She had run all the way home, the cold air raw in her chest. She’d sprinted to her room and hidden beneath the duvet, the anxiety of the last two days released in unstoppable tears.

The next days were filled with heartache as Poppy withdrew from her family. Then heartbreak turned to dread as she waited for the school term. The first day back, it was as if Poppy didn’t exist.

Rosalyn was thick as thieves with a new girl and didn’t look at Poppy. Whenever Poppy ventured into the sixth form common room, the other students would stare. Was Rosalyn here too? What would she say? Would she give Poppy one of those withering looks? Why weren’t they best friends anymore?

The girls sniggered and Poppy could hear them whispering. Rosalyn had a holiday fling they said – a handsome college student and football player who worked at the bar. His eyes had locked with Rosalyn’s as soon as she walked through the hotel door, and they’d fucked the whole ten days. Rosalyn was a woman now.

Was that the difference? It wasn’t that Rosalyn simply ignored Poppy. She had an air about her – an arrogance Poppy hadn’t noticed before. Rosalyn didn’t have time for anyone beyond the new girl, the daughter of the local MP who’d latched onto Rosalyn with glee, and the new friend regarded Poppy with a gloating stare.

Poppy and Rosalyn only spoke one more time. It was after school one evening when Poppy rushed back to fetch her English text. She flung open the common room door, expecting the room to be empty, and stopped dead when she saw Rosalyn working at a desk.

Rosalyn looked as shocked as Poppy and stood. For a moment Poppy saw the old Rosalyn, her eyes kind, almost admiring, but her features froze and a sneer curled at her mouth. She sat down and returned to her essay without a word.

Poppy stared at her. She couldn’t move. Her cherished playmate and lifetime of friendship seemed a world away.

“What was it?” Poppy asked, her voice cracking. “What did I do wrong?”

Rosalyn lifted her gaze. Her clenched teeth knotted her cheeks, but she didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you want to be friends with me anymore?”

Rosalyn broke into a laugh that jeered. “Why don’t you want to play with me anymore?” she mocked in a child’s whine.

“Why are you like this?”

“I’ve had enough,” Rosalyn snarled and she threw down her pen. “I’m sick of school, and eisteddfods and local shows. I’m sick of idiots treating me like a child when they don’t have two brain cells to rub together. Don’t you people realise there’s more to life than this shitty village and just because I don’t fit in here doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me – quite the contrary. There’s an amazing world out there, Poppy, full of intelligent people willing to try something new. They’re beautiful, exciting people with their sights set far beyond Mid-Wales.” She stared at Poppy. “So why the fuck would I spend another second with you?”

The look Rosalyn gave was ugly. Never had such a depth of ill feeling contorted her beautiful face.

Poppy couldn’t speak. She hadn’t breath left in her body. The callousness of her dear friend was beyond excruciating and her insides twisted with grief.

Minutes may have passed, Poppy couldn’t tell. At some point Rosalyn looked embarrassed by Poppy’s reaction and appearing sickened by her friend’s presence gathered her belongings.

Rosalyn was about to leave when Poppy managed, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” Rosalyn snapped, “but you didn’t do anything right either.”

“I don’t understand. Why’s it gone wrong so suddenly?”

“I grew up.” Rosalyn glanced up and down Poppy’s body which, although it had blossomed of late, still lacked the full maturity of Rosalyn’s. “God knows when you will.”

And she walked out.

Chapter 11.

The memory was as painful as ever, its potency perhaps greater so close to the Hall.

Her face set in stone, Lillian Thorn swept to the passenger side of the black Jaguar parked in the turning circle. A moment later, out strode Rosalyn, her hauteur as frosty as her mother’s. Poppy stood unnoticed, the women oblivious to her presence and pain, and the car pulled away down the avenue.

What had she been thinking? It had been years since Poppy had felt the full force of that memory. Did she think she’d forget being discarded and the cruelty of the abandonment, let alone the year and a half of school that remained, every day a humiliating reminder of her rejection?

It was Dai who saved her. He left his rugby friends and sat in the empty chair next to Poppy in history and geography. She was so grateful to him she could have cried. She wanted to express her gratitude in full but managed only “thanks” in a whisper. He nudged her gently in the arm. “Oh you know me. I wouldn’t miss the chance to sit by the prettiest girl in the room.” He’d said it in a soothing voice, a warm baritone already, and she willingly gave her friendship to him.

A tear ran down Poppy’s cheek at the memory. She clenched her fists, this time in frustration and embarrassment.

“Why did I come here?”

She’d been seduced by the memories of her childhood and a kind word from the beautiful woman Rosalyn had become.

“You fool.”

But before she could turn her back on the Hall, a door slammed. She stared at the veranda, dreading the sight of Rosalyn’s return, or another family member. It remained empty, but a sound of someone thrashing through vegetation came from behind the house. Whoever it was had no intention of hiding their presence.

Poppy stepped closer to the Hall. The rustling stopped, but she glimpsed a flash of white material in the garden behind the house. Through the beech hedgerow and a distance away, she could make out a man’s arm, bronzed with greying hair.

She moved closer, straining to get a better view. Beyond the shrubbery and flower borders by the house were great lawns divided by gravel walks. In the centre a sizeable statue of Asclepius surveyed all, including a man slumped on the plinth below.

His back was turned and his shoulders heaved with the simple effort of breathing. It was laboured and painful. Despite the man’s obvious discomfort, he picked up a walking stick and lurched away from the statue, his face now in view.

“David Thorn?” Poppy whispered.

Concern drove away her apprehension and she stood straight.

Rosalyn’s father leaned to his right, depending on the stick for balance and support. His left arm hung limp and his leg idled behind. He stared, determined, at the railings that separated the manicured gardens from the estate farmland beyond, but Poppy feared he might fall before reaching their support.

She ran, light and quick, around the hedgerow, dipping beneath the sweeping arms of the cedars.

“Mr Thorn,” she called.

Over the railings with a single bound, just like she had as a child, she sped across the grass to the ailing man.

“Mr Thorn. Are you all right?”

He was startled by her approach, at least, half his face appeared shocked. His left eye and cheek drooped and his lip hung flaccid, as if dragged down by a weight, revealing teeth and a string of drool. His right side was grotesquely taut in comparison, his alarmed features pulling counter to the numb half of his visage.

“Oh god,” Poppy breathed.

Her heart lurched with sympathy for this handsome man, now stricken and altered, for Rosalyn and even for her mother. Here was the reason for their grim faces. This was why Rosalyn was back.

Poppy reached out for his arm. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

For a moment, she thought he might retreat, but he struck out his left arm and hung clumsily over her shoulder.

“Help me.” His words were slurred and indistinct, but the meaning was clear. He stabbed his walking sticking forward. “Get me out.”

Poppy supported all the weight she could and they stumbled towards the gate.

“Top,” he spat and he stared towards the brow of a hill.

A dusty path wound between woodland on one side and tufted green pasture on the other. Poppy could have run to the top in a minute but the task seemed ambitious today.

She must have hesitated because he looked at her, one eye pleading, the other despondent.

“All right.” Poppy nodded. “We can try. Come on.” She grasped David’s arm around her shoulders and they moved forward up the path.

Progress was painful and arduous, David’s energy sapped by the task of keeping upright. His balance was precarious and with every step his reliance on Poppy grew. His chest heaved and his breath rasped. His cheeks burned with the exertion and sweat beaded his brow and ran in rivulets down his neck.

Their steps grew slower, the recovery between exertions longer, and Poppy could feel the determination drain from his body until he hung listless by her side.

“Here, let’s rest,” she said.

She guided him to the edge of the wood, onto a bank of soft grass and twisting roots. He slumped between two great sinews, gasping from the exertion. He closed his eyes and rested his hand on his chest and his body became slack on the bed of grass.

Poppy knelt beside him and pressed her fingers to his arm. She tried not to appear alarmed and looked to the distance over the commanding view of the Hall and stables. Beyond was the green swathe of countryside towards her home and the river that meandered through a dark trail of foliage along the valley. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by the branches of mature beech trees, the leaves high above whispering in the breeze.

David’s breathing became calm then silent, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm, then he blinked open his eyes and searched for Poppy.

“I’m here,” she said, smiling down at him.

He sat up and eyed the top of the hill. “We’re not…are we?” He gave in to the slur of his words.

Poppy shook her head. “No, we’re not.”

His breathing quickened into short, distressed pants. Anguish clenched at his throat and his gasping began to catch in sobs. His back strained and he clenched his fists. Anger rose trembling through his body and his face knotted in fury.

“Fu…” he spat.

But even the words resisted him.

“Fu…” he said, more distraught.

Poppy clenched her fists, willing him to succeed.

“F...” He pounded the earth.

Poppy squeezed his arm, lending him her own strength. He strained again, but nothing came out this time.

His face twisted, despairing that he couldn’t even manage this release, and his resolve seemed to dwindle.

“No,” Poppy said, “we can do this.”

She leapt to her feet, determined frustration be vented. Poppy faced the Hall, breathed in deep, punched out her arms out and screamed “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” long and loud, so the whole valley could hear.

She closed her eyes, giving her all to that momentous bellow of pent up vexation, yelling the note of dissent for as long as her breath would hold.

When the last sound of the satisfying profanity left her mouth, she gasped for breath. The exertion left her light-headed and she smiled as she filled her lungs with fresh air. It was exhilarating expelling the dark feelings with a single powerful curse.

David stared at her. It might have been the novelty of hearing such an extreme profanity leaving the obscenity-virgin lips of Poppy, or just its sheer volume, but either way, he looked awfully shocked.

Then the live side of his face grinned. He reached out towards her and they hauled him to his feet. They held hands, breathed deep in synchrony then burst with a clear, perfectly enunciated, mighty blast of “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!”

They both gasped for air, snatching at laughter in between breaths. David sank back into the hollow between the tree roots, a smile twinkling in his eyes. Poppy collapsed to her knees and beamed at him, her anxiety for him and her own feelings released at last.

David’s eyes held Poppy’s while he regained his breath and his smile lingered long and happy. He rubbed his loose jowl and held his drooping lip, massaging the numb cheek with his fingers.

“Stroke,” he said, and raised his hand in dismissal.

“I guessed,” Poppy replied. “I’m sorry.”

David shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

“How long ago?” Poppy asked concerned.

“Few weeks.” He looked more serious. “Was lucky. At work. They caught it fast.”

“Good.” She guessed he may recover better because of it. “Have you been home long?”

He shook his head. “A week. First time alone. Had to get out.”

Poppy nodded in sympathy, but smiled, wondering how this accomplished surgeon took to being a patient. Not well she imagined. The confinement and helplessness must be unbearable for a man used to dictating people’s care. She felt profoundly sorry for this handsome man, of whom she’d always been fond, now driven to surreptitious escape and small rebellion.

“Lillian,” he muttered. “Fuss. Fuss. Fuss.”

“She’ll be worried.” Poppy imagined what it must be like to see your loved one on the precipice, having to watch them crawl back in agony from the edge. “I don’t even want to think about how scared she is.”

He grunted but a veil of humility tempered his irritation. “Rosalyn too,” he said at last. “Rosalyn’s back.”

Poppy managed to smile without her antagonism and hurt towards Rosalyn stealing any of her tenderness. “I know,” she said. “I saw her in town yesterday, but didn’t realise why she was back. I’m glad she’s come home for you.”

He frowned and looked intently at Poppy, as if he wanted to say more but was unable.

Poppy entwined her fingers in his. “We should head home. Are they due back soon?”

“Rosalyn.” David nodded.

“Let’s get back. If they find you’ve been out alone they’ll be relentless in their ministrations.”

He tutted and clambered to his feet.

They returned more easily. Poppy wrapped her arm around his and they ambled down the hill taking in the view and enjoying the warm breeze through the woods.

“I’m sorry if I intruded on your privacy,” Poppy said.

“No. Glad of the company. Thank you,” he said and he squeezed her arm.

“But will you tell Lillian if you have an urge to climb hills again? Please?”

“Fuss,” he said, and shook his head.

“What about Rosalyn? I’m sure she’d accompany you. Would it be less fraught?”

He frowned and again looked pregnant with thought but was unable to communicate his concerns.

They strolled through the bright gardens, the borders blazing in the sunshine. He was tiring badly as they crossed the lawn and his shoulders were slumped by the time they made the back door.

“Shall I help you inside?”

He shook his head. “I’ll make it.”

Poppy squeezed his hand, determined to trust his judgment and hide her anxiety. She opened the double doors and held one ajar while he heaved inside. She watched him shuffle into the corridor that ran into the depths of the Hall and her heart ached to see him alone in the darkness.

As a last thought she called out “Would you like to try again?” He turned around. “After the weekend? I’m at work until then, but I have Mondays off.”

His face was exhausted but the corner of his mouth twitched and his eye twinkled in a mix of gratitude and sadness.

“So I’ll come again?” She grinned.

“Please. Same time. I’m alone then.”

“All right, but,” she attempted a stern voice and manner, “wait on this bench by the door for me, ok? I’m not encouraging you to wander off by yourself.”

A smile lingered at the corner of his mouth and he gave a single nod.

Poppy turned with a wave and skipped away, uplifted to be the source of his hope and elated at helping a person who’d been kind in her youth.

She hardly noticed the walk home and hit the main road before her surroundings registered.

She turned back for another look at her childhood playground, but heard a car. The black Jaguar was coming down the road. It slowed as it approached, the main driveway of the Hall another hundred metres around the corner.

Rosalyn was at the wheel, her face as stern as when she’d left the Hall and when she saw Poppy her face seemed to set harder still. She looked as if she may ignore Poppy until she made a curt wave then drove past not thinking it worthwhile to stop.

Poppy chilled inside. The wave had been a gesture of dismissal more in common with her former froideur than the warmth of the previous morning.

Poppy stared after the car.

“What did I do to you? Why did I deserve that?”

Chapter 12.

Despite the encounter, Poppy woke refreshed the next morning after a long night’s sleep. She swung out her legs and sat taking in the sublime countryside view through the bedroom porthole. She stretched her arms up in the sunshine, dust sparkling in the air, and smiled feeling revived in her cherished home.

She had spent far too long anguishing about Rosalyn Thorn and it was time for life to return to its comfortable normality. If there was one thing Poppy excelled at, it was not letting the buggers get her down.

From her bedside table, she picked up the Celtic knot pedant that Rosalyn had given her all those years ago and hooked it around her neck in defiance. She threw on a cream dress she knew would turn heads with its flattering bodice and plunging neckline. She readied herself with cheer and went downstairs with a good word for all her family who were relieved to see Poppy resume life with her usual good grace.

If only the rest of the world was smiling.

“Are you all right, Pip?” Poppy asked as they wound their way along the river to school. Her sister didn’t have the habitual bounce in her stride and she lingered by Poppy’s side instead of testing the limits of her elder sister’s affability.

Pip grunted in reply.

Poppy knew she should be patient but felt too buoyant this morning for the restraint. “Did you finish your homework?”

There was no response.

“Is there something wrong at school?”

“Nuh.”

At least a vocal response was progress.

“Is netball going well?”

Not a flicker.

“Is progress thwarted by Mrs Pryce insisting you play the game with jelly instead of a ball?”

Confusion rippled across Pip’s forehead but she chose to ignore it and stomped on.

“Does your best-friend Abigail harbour a desire to be an opera singer and insists on singing Madame Butterfly at every opportunity?”

“Huh?” Pip screwed up her nose and stared at Poppy. “Nuh.”

“Is it boy trouble, dear Pip?”

Pip rolled her eyes.

“Did Mr Ellis start speaking in tongues in assembly and you were the only one to notice?”

Amusement flickered at the side of Pip’s mouth. “Not this time.”

Poppy laughed. At least she was getting through. “Were you abducted by aliens and your pocket money embezzled to fund an intergalactic bypass?”

Pip stopped dead and turned to Poppy. She was about to reply when her gaze was pulled towards the river.

“What? What is it?”

Pip looked around Poppy on tip-toes. “There’s someone lying on the riverbank.”

“Well good for them,” Poppy said. “It’s a lovely morning for it.”

She followed Pip’s gaze and caught sight of a pair of naked legs on the other side of the river, luxuriating in a nest of spring grass. They were very shapely, very womanly legs. Poppy would have gone so far as to say beautiful legs.

Smooth feet toyed with the water with obvious satisfaction. The pleasing lines of the legs curved up the river bank, one limb relaxed, the other bent at the knee, rocking so that the soft thighs kissed together. It would have been unnatural not to follow that enticing line, up to a pair of denim shorts so brief it was beyond doubt the woman took good and regular care of herself.

Above the shorts was a tummy with faint creases, then leaves. Poppy audibly tutted at the branch that obscured her view. Pip had trotted ahead and, free to indulge in her spying, Poppy pulled the foliage back.

A linen shirt was tied beneath breasts, the fabric holding their curves to perfection. Above was a cleavage made so alluring by ample bosoms it was the stuff of broken vows and vivid dreams. Beyond the slim chest rose an elegant curve of neck and refined line of jaw to the unparalleled, beautiful face of Rosalyn Thorn.

“Oh no.”

Rosalyn had never seemed more exquisite. Her cheeks were inclined to bathe in the sun’s rays, her eyelids shut and smoothly perfect. Her eyebrows were arched with gratification and her lips were parted and glowed in ecstasy. Watching her enjoying such pleasure in the sun was overwhelmingly pleasurable in itself.

“Not again.” Poppy groaned, aware she was also enjoying a warm glowing feeling.

She breathed in, composed herself and allowed the heat of her cheeks, and elsewhere, to dissipate.

Poppy stepped forward with an amble she hoped suggested a business-like manner and ignorance of anybody supine on the river bank, no matter how attractive and half-naked, with breasts that were to Poppy’s mind, irresistible erotic heaven.

“It’s Rosalyn.” Pip ran back and was grinning from ear to ear. “Rosalyn!”

“Stop,” Poppy spat. “Pip. Stop it.”

“Rosaaaaaalyyyyyn!” Pip was waving and leaping up and down with the gusto of a sister who’d found her sibling’s Achilles heel.

Poppy blushed and tried to avert her gaze as Rosalyn jumped to her feet, let down her shirt and buttoned over her bra.

“Morning,” Poppy blustered, trying not to steal a last glimpse of Rosalyn’s cleavage. She raised her hand in nonchalant greeting and tried to contrive the appearance of someone not distracted by a luminous barely dressed woman.

“See you by the bridge,” Pip yelled.

Oh no, they were near the footbridge. They would have to actually talk if Pip persisted.

“Pip, I think we should leave Rosalyn in peace. She was having a beautiful,” sinfully beautiful, “repose by the river. Let’s move along shall we?”

“Stay there,” Pip shouted to Rosalyn. “We’re coming over.”

Great. Just great. And by the look of horror on Rosalyn’s face, she clearly thought the same. Which was also, just great.

Rosalyn had reached the path by the time the sisters crossed the bridge and stood waiting for them, her demeanour stiff and her face pale.

Poppy stopped, remembering David Thorn, and guessed at the underlying cause of Rosalyn’s demeanour. She recalled his altered health and Poppy clasped at her necklace, a nervous tick when she was anxious.

The necklace. Her earlier defiance gone and not wanting Rosalyn to spot the beloved item, Poppy pinched open the clasp and bundled the jewellery into her pocket. She approached with more respect and soon she faced Rosalyn.

“Good morning,” Poppy offered.

“Hello again.” Rosalyn frowned and nodded to Pip.

They were silent.

Poppy wracked her brain for a subject that didn’t betray her meeting with David Thorn, reveal her tenderness about the past, or sound stupid and tiresome.

“It’s, um, it’s a lovely morning for a walk,” she said and Poppy mentally rolled her eyes for failing the last criteria.

Rosalyn’s response was all of, “It is.”

And they were silent again.

Poppy deflated inside and stared at the pebbled path. Seconds passed. Minutes may have crawled by. However much time it was, she felt all of its excruciating passing.

Rosalyn shuffled. “I should get home.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Poppy blurted and she mentally gave herself a good boot for mentioning David Thorn.

“I didn’t realise you knew.” Rosalyn blanched. “That is, I didn’t think it was widely known.”

“I’m not sure it is,” Poppy said gently, “but you know what it’s like round here.”

“Yes I do. You can’t change your brand of bread without everyone expressing their opinion ad nauseum. So how would something as juicy as David Thorn’s stroke go unnoticed?” She’d turned away and Poppy couldn’t decipher her expression.

“I’m sorry nonetheless,” Poppy said. “I like your father very much.”

Rosalyn scowled and hesitated before saying, “Thank you. I think you at least do mean it.”

“Of course. He was always lovely to me. I thought he was an astonishing and very likable man when I was growing up.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

And they were quiet again.

Pip fidgeted by Poppy’s side, but had the good grace to hold her tongue.

“Well, we’d better get going,” Poppy said, the conversation stalled. “I hope he’s making a good recovery. Please pass on our best wishes.”

Rosalyn nodded but remained silent.

“Come on, Pip. Let’s get to school.”

Pip tugged at her arm and shuffled, eager to divulge something. “Can I ask? Just one thing?” She raised her biggest, begging, round-saucer eyes up at Poppy. “Please.”

“What is it?”

“About the hut?” Pip whispered.

“What hut?”

“Rosalyn will know.”

“Rosalyn? You want to ask her about a hut?”

Rosalyn stared after them.

Pip beamed and twirled from side to side. “We were talking about you the other night.”

“Pip!” Poppy shot her a look that clearly said shut up, but Pip feigned incomprehension.

“Were you indeed?” Rosalyn said. Her voice had thawed into amusement.

Poppy looked away, not sure if she wanted to witness what was coming next.

“Yes,” Pip said with enthusiasm. “They said you were trouble.”

“That’s not what I said,” Poppy added.

Rosalyn considered them both. “I imagine I was trouble, in some people’s eyes.”

“Did you burn down the Brownie hut?”

Rosalyn laughed. “Well, according to your nain, yes.”

“But did you?”

“Ask your mother,” Rosalyn said. Her smile was full of intrigue and she turned as if to walk away.

“Mum?” said Pip. “I don’t think Mum has much idea about anything.”

“Oh, she knew me very well. There isn’t much your mother doesn’t know about my childhood.”

“Really?” Pip looked puzzled.

Poppy blushed, realising Rosalyn’s mistake.

The penny dropped for Pip a moment later and she tugged at Poppy’s dress. “I told you she’d think you were my mum. People always do.”

Rosalyn halted and flicked keen eyes between Poppy and Pip. “You’re not… You aren’t related?”

“Oh we are, but—”

“She’s my sister.” Poppy thought it safest to interject. She put her arm round Pip’s shoulders. “My very annoying, not so little, sister.”

Pip grinned, quite satisfied with the status.

Rosalyn however, for once, was dumbfounded, her beautiful mouth the shape of a wordless “Oh”.

“So you’re not… But I thought… Poppy was…?”

“People do all the time.” Pip shrugged. “It’s because she’s much older than me. And she is old enough to be my mum, and Mum’s old enough to be my nain.”

“Thank you, dearest Pip,” Poppy said it in a tone meant to silence and which, of course, had nothing like that effect.

“Poppy should have told you in the village the other day.”

“Thank you, Pip.”

Rosalyn still struggled. “I did think… Well, when I saw you with Dai. He had his arm wrapped around you. I assumed you were a family.”

Pip chuckled. “Not a chance. That wouldn’t happen. No way would Poppy marry Dai. For a start, she’s a—”

“I said thank you, Pip.” And Poppy physically silenced her sister with a hand wrapped over the mouth.

Poppy found the perpetual process of coming out easier than most, but she was not in the mood for announcing her lesbianism to Rosalyn Thorn.

Pip scowled over the gagging hand and looked perplexed in equal measure.

“You’re not married to Dai?” Rosalyn had given up her retreat and was wandering towards them. She looked humoured and more than a little intrigued.

“No,” said Poppy, “I’m not married to anyone.” She’d said it for clarity but wished she hadn’t.

“Sorry. I assumed you’d become pregnant and stayed here, what, straight after university?” Rosalyn laughed at the notion.

Poppy reddened, half embarrassed at her situation and half in pique. “Well, I did. That is, I did come home after university.”

“Oh,” Rosalyn said again. It was starting to become irritating. “Why?”

“I had good reasons, but,” she tapped her watch, “we have to go.”

“You could walk with us,” Pip piped up. She skipped about, energised by Poppy’s discomfort and her own impertinence.

“I’m sure Rosalyn has lots of things to—”

“Yes I could accompany you,” Rosalyn said. She slipped on her pair of canvas shoes and fell into step beside them. She had a sparkle in her eyes and a curious smile on her lips.

“So tell me, Poppy Jenkins, why, of all the wondrous and life-enhancing places in the world, did you decide to stay in Wells?”

Chapter 13.

Pip skipped along the river, seemingly content to have been the cause of her older sister’s discomfort. Rosalyn walked beside Poppy, exuding elegance despite her rough-cut shorts and canvas shoes. It was the way she held herself with confident and graceful posture, as if entering a ballroom. She glanced at Poppy, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

“Please carry on.”

Poppy prepared herself. Even if Rosalyn disapproved, she would never regret coming home.

“It was because of Pip,” she said. “Mum was due to give birth after my finals so I came home. I planned to stay until the baby was a month old and help around the house, or with anything useful. But, it was a difficult birth. Dad was away and Mum had a Caesarean, and she would be the first to admit giving birth in your forties is challenging. I think anyone would have found it overwhelming.”

She peeked at Rosalyn to see if she understood. “It’s quite an intimate time, when you can’t lift your baby to breastfeed because of the surgery and you need help to bathe. And Mum was happier with me around than Nain.”

“I can imagine,” Rosalyn said with sympathy.

“Dad, of course, was eager to help when home. But he’d taken on more work after Mum closed the shop for summer. So, during those first weeks, I became like a second mother.” She shrugged. “It’s such an intense period – trying to keep this fragile and precious baby alive. That was incredible enough to make me stay longer, but Pip started to focus on my eyes, to really look at me.” She paused, emotions welling up in her chest. “Then she smiled.” Poppy beamed at Rosalyn, a tear threatening. “I’d made this beautiful baby smile. She clutched my face and gazed at me with such awe and love, I think my heart must have exploded.”

“So you never left.”

Poppy nodded. “I kept saying I’d go after another three months. But I dreaded missing Pip change. She seemed to grow every day – crawling, taking a first step and I swear her first words were ych a fi when Nain gave her broccoli. I couldn’t tear myself away. So I took over the shop and, when Pip started school, we created the café. And I’m still here.”

Rosalyn frowned. “I should have guessed. It’s the sort of considerate thing you’d do.”

“I didn’t do it out of duty. I know some folks like Mrs Morgan always credit me with being a good girl and taking care of my mum. But it wasn’t that, not entirely.” Poppy smiled. “It was love. I did it because I couldn’t do anything else.”

Rosalyn looked uncomfortable. “Still quite a sacrifice though.”

“Why?” Poppy laughed.

“What about all those things you could have done? All those places you could have seen. Didn’t you have dreams? A publisher? A lecturer? I suppose your aims changed, but didn’t you still have ambitions?”

Poppy blushed. She’d never regretted relinquishing hope for a respected career, and it irked that she felt ashamed under the force of Rosalyn’s questioning.

“You weren’t like them, Poppy,” Rosalyn continued. “You were bright, vivacious; you had so much going for you.”

“What do you mean, ‘them’?” Poppy asked, piqued.

“People in Wells. You know the ones. Pupils who went from school to Aberystwyth University and straight back home again to teach in the village school. Girls who were mothers before twenty and grandmothers before forty. Dai, whose family hasn’t moved beyond the shop in generations. The Mrs Morgan Morgans of the world, whose greatest achievements are fungus-free delphiniums.”

Poppy opened her mouth, but only a gasp of indignation came out. “They’re good people. What’s wrong with wanting a family when you’re young? What’s wrong with living in the place of your birth?”

“Nothing. For them. But you were better than that.”

“By whose standards?” Poppy stopped and stuck her hands on her hips. “Whose scale of human worth are we using here?”

Rosalyn swung round. “You know what I mean, Poppy.”

“Yes I do, and I find it unbelievably arrogant and it’s also stupid.”

The uncharacteristic vehemence of Poppy’s rebuke clearly took Rosalyn by surprise, but she had ruffled Poppy too much.

“You’re like those egotists at my university reunion,” Poppy said. “Seriously, I had to listen to three blokes at my table pontificate about work, salaries and bonuses for a whole hour. Two were barristers and the other a junior minister. They had nothing to talk about apart from work and how much more they earned than everyone else. And of course when they asked about my profession there were roars of laughter. Living in the middle of nowhere? Earning next to nothing running a café?”

Poppy’s eyes were wide with indignation and vehemence as she spoke.

“Then after several bottles of wine in the common room, one started waxing lyrical about an old fishing village where he’d holidayed. He idolised the simple way of life and they all agreed they wanted to make it rich and retire to the country, go walking in the mountains, perhaps live in a little village.”

Poppy threw up her hands in exasperation. “And they didn’t even see the irony.” She stared at Rosalyn. “What is the point of running the whole rat race when I can enjoy that idyllic finish now? Everything I want is here.”

Rosalyn hadn’t flinched from Poppy’s piercing gaze for a second. Then she laughed. “It’s a nice anecdote. But you’re still missing the point.”

“Enlighten me.”

Rosalyn sighed. “I’ll try to say it more delicately. After moving away to university, and meeting brilliant people with minds as sharp as yours – liberal people, hungry for different opinions, ideas, cultures and lifestyles – didn’t you find it suffocating back home? Yes, maybe people want to retire somewhere like this, but when you’re young and adventurous? Didn’t you crave like-minded...”

Rosalyn paused and a look flickered across her face that Poppy couldn’t quite fathom. Was it anxiety, or guilt?

“You did say you made it to university?” Rosalyn hedged. “To a good university?”

A thought squirmed through Poppy’s head, one she didn’t like, but it was hard not to be cynical under Rosalyn’s questioning.

“Are you trying to assuage your guilt?” Poppy said. “Are you looking for an excuse for why I, in your eyes, failed? One other than you devastating my life in sixth form?”

Rosalyn blanched, but Poppy was unflinching. “Because, yes, it did set me back. A long way. And no, I didn’t go to the university I intended. But I did ok. And I wouldn’t change those times and my friends for the world. So I can assure you – you didn’t ruin my life. I don’t blame you that I ended up here. If anything, you breaking our friendship helped.”

Poppy looked away and her heart thumped in her chest. She couldn’t believe she’d said those words, with that much conviction, to of all people, Rosalyn. For all Poppy’s indignation, she still admired and was very much intimidated by her former friend.

They walked on without speaking, Poppy’s face red with umbrage, Rosalyn’s pale with a feeling Poppy couldn’t discern. The sound of their feet scuffing the dusty trail was deafening in the awkward silence and Poppy expected Rosalyn to turn back at any moment.

But the seconds passed. And the moment grew longer. They walked on in rigid silence, and the quiet persisted as they approached the edge of town.

“Poppy?” Rosalyn said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m—”

“Bore da, girls!” Mrs Morgan Morgan popped up from behind her garden wall and greeted them with a hearty wave and good morning.

“Bore da,” Poppy said, more brusque than she intended. Rosalyn had managed to ruffle her feathers far more than she could have anticipated.

“Good morning, Mrs Morgan.” Rosalyn almost sang the greeting with a velvety smooth delivery. Her smile, of perfect teeth and a twinkle in her eye, was a picture of decorum. “You are looking particularly well this fine morning.”

“Why thank you, cariad. As are you, Rosalyn.” She gave Rosalyn’s long, naked legs a look from toes to very short shorts.

“Thank you, Mrs Morgan. And how are your delphiniums? I passed them the other day and thought they’d be quite at home in the Shrewsbury Flower Show.”

“Ah.” Mrs Morgan blushed with pride. “They’re doing very well this year, thank you. I’m glad you noticed. There’s nothing to it really. Nice bit of well-drained soil and fertiliser every spring, and you’re almost guaranteed some fine blooms.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“And where are you lovely girls off to this fine morning? And that young Pip?”

Pip had long since scarpered from the fireworks, hurtled past Mrs Morgan’s cottage and was waiting at the bridge.

“I’m walking purely for my constitution and Poppy’s company.” Rosalyn smiled.

“And you, Poppy cariad? Are you all right?” Mrs Morgan frowned, no doubt concerned about Poppy’s atypical and aloof manner.

“Thank you, Mrs Morgan. I’m well but a little tired and running late for work.”

“Well I won’t keep you. Nice to see you, Rosalyn. Please remember me to your parents.”

Mrs Morgan gave them a cheerful wave which Rosalyn mirrored and they walked on.

Poppy stared at Rosalyn exasperated. “See. That was lovely.”

“What was lovely about that, Poppy?”

“You were cheerful, friendly; you even took an interest. How can you dismiss people here when you engage with Mrs Morgan like that?”

“Poppy, that was the most asinine exchange I’ve endured, well, since I left here.”

Poppy threw her hands in the air. “Unbelievable!” And to Poppy’s ever increasing vexation this only made Rosalyn grin.

They reached the bridge and a rather timid Pip. Her eyes flicked nervously between Poppy and Rosalyn. “I’m going to school now. Is that all right?”

“Yes, Pip,” Poppy snapped. “That is all right. Sorry, let me give you a kiss.” She leaned over and gave her sister three kisses punctuated with: “Because I love you, and adore you, and wouldn’t want to be without you. Now go to school, you’ll be late.” And a repentant Pip waved goodbye and left.

Poppy watched her sister bound over the bridge then set her face forward and tried to speak with as much equanimity as possible.

“I have to go to work. Thank you for your company.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” Rosalyn gave her what seemed a first genuine smile, and gestured for them to continue walking. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were a failure. Far from it. Your generous spirit always made you superior to my mind. And I didn’t mean to belittle your friends or the locals, but they aren’t the most broad-minded or riveting people in the world. I’m just glad you haven’t become a Wells clone.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Come on, Poppy.” Rosalyn tutted. “You know exactly what I mean. At least you used to. Chapel on Sunday, playing rugby, a trip to Shrewsbury viewed as exotic as a holiday to Istanbul. For Christ’s sake, getting drunk at the pub is considered the pinnacle of culture here. So I’m glad you weren’t subsumed as another Wells wife – ‘Mrs Dai Edwards’.”

They had reached the café and Poppy had reached the end of a very long patient tether. She knew Rosalyn had a difficult time settling in Wells, the rich girl in the distant Hall, but her arrogance must have festered all these years and Poppy was fuming.

“You don’t give people nearly enough credit,” Poppy said, her hands knuckled into her hips. “Just because they don’t live in a cosmopolitan city or have high-flying careers, doesn’t mean they’re not worthy of respect. Everyone has a skill. Everyone has something that makes them special.

“Did you know Mrs Morgan raises thousands of pounds for a respite centre for the disabled? It helped fund her nephew’s stays but she continued after he passed away, because it’s something she excels at and it’s appreciated by very desperate families. Dai, would you know, isn’t just the local shopkeeper. He sings in the Welsh Male Voice Choir and has toured America and the Ukraine. Geraint, funny little Geraint who you’ve probably not even noticed, was a history scholar until he retired to care for his mother. And Derek only attended, what you’d consider, a lowly tech college, but I challenge you to find a better croissant baker this side of Paris. He is remarkable. So they’re not all the same. And as for being Mrs Dai Edwards, if Dai had ever asked me to marry him, I would have been the most flattered woman in the world.”

Poppy put her nose in the air for good measure, but thinking it through added, “I would have been a rather surprised woman, given a few issues, but yes, extremely flattered.”

So there.

She regarded Rosalyn, half proud and half fearful of the response to her diatribe.

Rosalyn’s face was downcast, her features obscured. But she seemed to be studying Poppy, tight bodice to plunging neck line, jutting jaw to stern visage. And when she reached Poppy’s eyes, Rosalyn beamed.

“It’s been good to see you, Poppy,” and her smile broke into a broad grin. “Really wonderful to see you. I’d love to come to your café, but I’m not dressed for town. Please forgive me. I’ll have to come another time.”

What? Seriously? That was it?

Poppy’s jaw dropped. “You’re going? You’re just…going?”

“I should. So, until next time.” Rosalyn’s eyes sparkled as she turned and she sauntered back towards the bridge with a confident sway of the hips.

Poppy’s mouth dropped in wordless objection. She couldn’t walk away. Not after that.

“Oh!” Poppy spat. “You are the most infuriating… And not dressed for town. Who does she think she is?”

Then Poppy was flummoxed by Rosalyn’s most magnificent feature yet. Her shorts, which had been marginal at the front, left nothing to the imagination at the rear. That was the most curvaceous and delicious bum Poppy had ever seen. It was the kind of bottom that could make a woman purr and run with abandon to pounce on that soft derriere.

No. Poppy snapped her gaze around. No. No. No. That was not happening.

She was not having a crush on Rosalyn Thorn. No matter how alluring that cleavage, or how appealingly that bottom swayed so that Poppy wanted to growl like a tiger and wrestle her to the ground and lick her…

She blushed and tempered her thoughts. She was not going to fall for Ms Thorn’s charms. Thank god she was running late and everyone had started work or school. That last confrontation would have precipitated unbearable speculation.

Poppy breathed in, pushed out her chest and lifted her head up high ready to enter the shop. It was only then she noticed the faces of her mother, Derek and Geraint, their noses pushed up against the shop window.

Chapter 14.

When Poppy came through the doorway, Derek’s feet clattered up the stairs, Emma shuffled leaflets on the counter and Geraint took an unnatural interest in a jar of vegan Bovril substitute.

Poppy tried to appear unruffled by smoothing down her dress. “Good morning,” she said, her voice still brusque.

Fortunately no-one was pressed into reply because the doorbell tinkled and the shop filled with the rotund bulk of Alan Watkins. He flicked a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his flat cap and smeared sweat around his bald patch before sliding back the cap over a ring of wet hair.

“Good morning,” he said. His flabby lips jostled beads of perspiration under his nose and a fat tongue protruded to slurp the trickling sweat. “Looks like another hot one.”

Out of reflex, Poppy took a step back. “Good morning, Alan.”

She retreated in fear of being drenched by perspiration more than any ancient animosity from his childhood raid on her clothes.

Alan clasped his hands behind his back and thrust his groin forward, a smug grin on his face. “Was that Rosalyn Thorn I saw leaving?”

“Yes it was,” Poppy snapped.

“Oh dear. Are we not friends then?”

Poppy had to, if not bite her tongue, at least grind her teeth. “I haven’t spoken to her in several years.”

“Not since school I bet.”

“Indeed.”

“Seemed like you were having a good chat. Any idea what brings her back to this neck of the woods?”

There was a glee in Alan Watkins’ eyes. He seemed to be enjoying Poppy’s discomfort and perhaps already knew the reason for Rosalyn’s return.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Poppy said, not willing to fuel his curiosity. “Is there something I can help you with, Alan?”

“Well as a matter of fact there is.” He thrust forward a fan of leaflets pinched between a short thumb and podgy fingers. “Come to top up your supply.”

He threw the glossy brochures for hotel Bryn Mawr onto the counter and Poppy’s mother was forced to sweep them into order.

“Things going well?” Poppy enquired, much more out of courtesy than interest.

“They’re booming. Simply booming. The restaurant in Welshpool especially. It’s a lot easier with a proper market to attract regular customers you see. Not like here. Not much reason for people to stop in Wells is there.”

Actually, Poppy thought there were very good reasons for a sojourn in Wells but said, “Glad to hear you’re thriving.”

“Do you need any of our leaflets, Alan?” her mother’s quiet voice offered.

Alan screwed up his toadstool of a nose. “’Fraid not. There’s not been much interest at all. I leave them out on the reception table with all the local bumf but,” he shrugged, “I’d save your money. Don’t order any more for a while.”

Emma took it graciously but Poppy’s heart heaved. “And the paintings? Any sales?”

“Your mam’s paintings? No. Gorgeous pictures and I must admit people do look at them. Many admirers, but no buyers. I’d leave them on the hotel wall mind. Someone might think them good enough to buy one day.”

Poppy’s heart turned over again and she wished she hadn’t enquired.

“That’s very kind of you, Alan,” Emma’s genial voice came.

“Yes, very kind.” But Poppy couldn’t manage her mother’s congeniality.

“Right you are,” Alan said, and he graced them with another damp mop of his head before opening the door.

“Oh, you’re not going to Cerys’ meeting this evening are you?” he said as an afterthought.

“Yes, I am,” Poppy replied. The sparrow-like woman of local knitting-circle renown, and skittish purchaser of Mum’s painting, was heading a meeting with the ambitious aim of expanding the local craft fair. Poppy thought it both an excellent idea and her duty to attend.

“Waste of time if you ask me.” Alan waved his bloated fingers in the air. “Like I said, not much excuse for trade in Wells. Why stop here when you’ve got everything in Welshpool?”

“Thank you, Alan,” Poppy said, and with unaccustomed severity she shut the door behind him.

“Oh”, she growled and stamped her foot. “I’m not in the mood for people dismissing Wells this morning.”

Her mother smiled, with a look of amusement that also spoke of unceasing fondness for Poppy. “She always knew how to get under your skin.”

“Who?”

“Rosalyn, sweetheart.” And her smile was warmer still. “No-one got to you like she did, in good ways and bad.”

Poppy blushed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have been so abrupt with Alan. I was taking it out on him.”

Her mother pursed her lips. “Perhaps.”

“Oh, Mum,” Poppy sighed. “Why did she have to come back?”

“She won’t be here long I’m sure. It sounds like David’s on the mend, from what you say, and I’m sure London will call her back soon.”

“Hmm. Well, however long she’s staying I doubt I’ll see her again.”

“Oh?” her mother looked at her with an amused lack of surprise.

“We had a bit of an argument.”

“About what?”

“Her attitude.” Poppy frowned once more. “Dai always said she looked down on people in Wells, and now after a few years in London she’s appalling.”

“I imagine it’s quite a change of scene for her,” Emma said sympathetically. “And it’s during a stressful time too.”

Poppy glowered in a way more akin to Pip’s personality than her own. “I know. I do know. But she made it very difficult to be sympathetic this morning.”

Her mother’s smile was mournful. “Only Rosalyn could do this to you.”

“Maybe.” Well, definitely. Poppy’s mother wasn’t the kind who always insisted on being right, but as someone who thought carefully before speaking, it would be foolish not to give her words credence. Poppy breathed in and made a happy face for her mother.

“Well, we won’t have to worry about it. She won’t show her face around here again.”

But there she was, late in the afternoon. The shop was quiet with Emma gone to fetch Pip. The after-school rampage had departed in a cacophony of sugar-delirious children and Poppy was upstairs clearing tables when the bell on the door tinkled.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Poppy called.

Poppy didn’t catch a reply but assumed she’d missed it over the racket of plates and cutlery. When she’d washed her hands and brushed down her apron, the place was still; not even the sound of impatient feet downstairs. The silence was punctuated by the drip of a tap, which plopped into a kitchen sink and echoed sweetly around the tiled walls.

Poppy tip-toed to the head of the stairs and peered through the wooden railings.

Rosalyn’s blonde hair flew with every turn. She wore an immaculate trench coat with the allure of a French heroine. Her crisp white shirt shaped her chest to perfection and tight black trousers merged seamless into boots that had a confident edge to their sex appeal.

Rosalyn reached for the shelves of amber jars filled with exotic spices. She ran her elegant fingers around the curving bottles, her fingertips slow and sensuous around the smooth glass. She picked up a jar of cinnamon, popped the lid and dipped in her nose, like a child teasing herself with a forbidden sweet jar. A smoke of ground spice curled into the air and a dreamy expression lit her face.

Without a sound, she returned the jar to the shelf and turned towards the counter. As she walked, she stroked her fingers along the oak shelves, clearly luxuriating in the sensation. But something must have caught her eye in the studio beyond and she leaned over the counter for a better view. Poppy was also afforded a better view as Rosalyn’s breasts heaved from her shirt in beautiful great mounds.

Poppy cleared her throat, already feeling guilty about earlier that morning by the river and her furtive appreciation of Rosalyn’s assets.

Rosalyn swung round and looked up at Poppy. Her bright smile, already luminous from her sensuous exploration of the shop, shone brighter when she gazed at Poppy.

Poppy wasn’t ready for that smile. Not a hint of condescension, no artifice, no hint of ill will. Just pleasure. Pure delight.

“It’s the same,” Rosalyn breathed out. “I thought you may have renovated the shop when you added the café, but…” She turned back to the studio, delectation dancing on her face. “It’s just like I remembered.”

She pointed into the studio. “I was admiring a painting of your mother’s. The one with the crows bleeding black into the sky.”

Poppy knew the one. It was the painting Cerys had eschewed and Emma had hung it on the wall for her own enjoyment.

“It’s so forbiddingly beautiful,” Rosalyn said. “I always adored your mother’s darker work. I have vivid memories of her painting here. Her concentration was so intense I think she forgot that we were there. I’d never ask what she was painting, only watched as the scene unfolded. Do you remember?”

Poppy did recall. She still found her mother’s careful work beguiling. She loved how the delicate sable brushes washed and blended a picture together. It was one of the most relaxing activities, watching someone consumed by such fine work.

“We used to sit over there,” Rosalyn said. “On the other side of the table, doing our homework, but we were completely entranced by your mum. I don’t think we ever finished anything in the studio.” She looked up at Poppy. “Do you know if she has any for sale? I would love a piece.”

Poppy was disarmed by the warmth and regard Rosalyn held for the shop, Emma and her time with them. Tenderness radiated from Rosalyn and Poppy hadn’t seen this delighted and delightful side of her for many years.

“I’ll ask,” Poppy said. “I imagine she has something for sale.”

“I would be very grateful.” Rosalyn beamed at Poppy, the joy of her reminiscence still enchanting in her eyes. It was so captivating that, but for the railings, Poppy might have drifted down the stairs.

“I wonder…” Rosalyn was almost shy. “Would you mind very much if I came up? Would you show me your café?”

Chapter 15.

In Rosalyn’s presence, Poppy was conscious of the café’s ramshackle decor and eclectic mix of wooden furniture from old tea shops, church halls and houses. The 1950s cherry wood cake counter was Poppy’s pride and joy, which her father had salvaged from a demolished tea room.

The tables were still covered with crumbs, juice from hysterical school children and puddles of spilt coffee from their beleaguered parents.

“What a change.” Rosalyn was already beside her. Her face was full of wonder as she took in the room. “I’d forgotten you had the extension back here.” She pointed towards the new kitchen above the studio, the front, street view saved for prime seating.

“And you renovated the second floor?” She peered up the spiral stairs.

“Yes. Dad replaced the boards.” Poppy smiled. Rosalyn had always hankered to play up there.

“Can I see?” Rosalyn grinned, a child’s eager curiosity lighting her face.

“Of course.”

Poppy gestured towards the stairs and Rosalyn didn’t need any more encouragement. She ran up, her boots clanging on the wrought iron steps, Poppy following behind.

The top room was the same ramshackle style – tables knocked together from old oak doors and benches discarded from churches. Emma’s paintings adorned the walls, their uniqueness another special facet to the space.

“What a beautiful room.” Rosalyn beamed. “I don’t know what I imagined, but this is perfect. And what a sight.” She was more joyful still as she peered out of the window.

The café commanded a view of the square below, its Georgian charm enough to invite comment. But the shards of the ruined castle on the hillside and the frothing rapids that tumbled under the bridge and beyond the church made the vista precious.

“Was it always this beautiful?” Rosalyn’s eyebrows knitted together in a puzzled frown.

“I think so. Didn’t you ever, just for a moment, appreciate that Wells was charming?”

Rosalyn laughed and shook her head. “That would be too much to ask, Poppy Jenkins.” Her face fell slowly into seriousness. “But it seems I have missed it.”

“Really?”

“Some of it.”

Poppy didn’t dare ask what and peered out of the window.

“There’s Mrs Morgan Morgan.” Rosalyn pointed to the other side of the square. The elderly woman rolled along, her worn hips necessitating the undulating gait. “Have you ever seen her wear anything other than black?”

Poppy shook her head. She’d got used to Mrs Morgan’s steadfast appearance – long black dress, woollen coat and tasselled shawl, always there, come rain or shine. “I don’t think I’ve seen her without the shawl either.”

“Is she in mourning?”

“No, Mr Morgan is still very much alive, although I’m not sure if he’s left his armchair since 1998.”

“So why?” Rosalyn threw her hands in the air. “What compels her to wear a head-to-toe black?”

“I like to think she’s a lapsed goth.”

Rosalyn giggled. “So when she’s done with the delphiniums she skulks in the cottage singing Joy Division.” Rosalyn droned, “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”

“Yes.” Poppy laughed. “Everyone needs a pinch of melancholia, even Mrs Morgan Morgan.”

“And what about Cerys?” Rosalyn pointed to the bird-like woman scuttling in the direction of the town hall. “How do you account for her dress – complete coverage in woollens every shade of green from sage to moss?”

“I like to think she does roleplay. SAS commander. She runs around the hills with mud smeared on her face and the green shades are a cunning camouflage. They’re ideal for the Welsh hills as well as enabling her to blend in when retreating to the village.”

She expected Rosalyn to giggle again. She wanted Rosalyn to laugh. But instead Rosalyn stared at Poppy, motionless, keen interest creasing around her eyes.

“You sounded exactly like you did at school then.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. In the sixth form.”

Poppy blushed, surprised Rosalyn had noticed anything about her during those last years.

“Do you remember when we were studying Pride and Prejudice?” Rosalyn continued. “Mr Griffiths dismissed it as all fluff and tea parties and apologised for the syllabus not including real literature like Hemingway?”

“Yes I do.”

“You said ‘I thought it was about love, happiness and finding oneself – all the important things. I think that can be done over a cup of tea just as well as on a fishing boat.’”

Poppy was speechless.

“You said it with genuine warmth, because you loved the book. And old Griffiths blustered something about death, man and nature, but he’d already lost us.”

“I’m surprised,” Poppy stuttered. “I’m surprised you remembered.” And that she’d recalled it so clearly; it could have been word for word.

“It was quintessentially you, Poppy.” Rosalyn looked at her with genuine admiration. “Intelligence with heart.”

Rosalyn’s eyes sparkled and a smile curved at her lips. She’d leaned closer and Poppy could admire every detail of her beautiful face.

It was beguiling looking at someone so familiar made exotic by the passage of time. There were tiny creases around her eyes that made her smile more intriguing. Every expression had more emphasis and character – the raise of an eyebrow, a flicker of pleasure around her mouth. It was captivating.

Poppy’s cheeks flushed and her breath quickened. Those icy blue eyes seemed to thaw into deep sapphire, hypnotising, enticing, drawing her in. Almost close enough to touch; close enough to feel the warmth of Rosalyn’s cheeks. Poppy licked her lips, her head spun light and she closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Rosalyn cleared her throat. “I must be keeping you from your work.”

Poppy snapped her head away. “Yes. Yes. Well, actually no. I don’t expect any more customers and I have plenty of time to tidy. But yes. No. I’d better get on with it.”

She turned and strode with great purpose all the way to the stairs, when she heard “Poppy?”

“Yes?” Poppy answered in a pitch too high for composure. Even Rosalyn looked perturbed and Poppy blushed deeper still at her obvious physical response to Rosalyn. It couldn’t have gone unnoticed, surely.

“Do you mind…?”

Poppy braced herself. Would Rosalyn request Poppy keep control? Keep her distance? Not speak to her for the next decade?

“Do you mind if… Could I order something?”

“Sorry?”

“I’d love to try your food.”

Poppy breathed out with relief and counted her good fortune that Rosalyn hadn’t detected her interest.

“Of course. Please do. You must. Have anything. Have everything.” Shut up. Just shut up. “This way please.” And Poppy clenched her fingers by her sides and berated herself every step down the stairs.

“Here. Have a seat by the window.” Poppy turned briskly, hoping the manner would appear as business-like efficiency. Unfortunately, the movement surprised Rosalyn and Poppy turned straight into her cleavage.

They stood, breast to ample glorious breast – great soft mounds in an exquisite smooch.

“Oh,” said Poppy. By which she meant, “That’s the most exquisite sensation”.

“Oh,” she said again, this time emphasising its “What a surprise” intonation, hoping to persuade Rosalyn that was what she meant all along.

Rosalyn was so startled she only stared down at their points, and in Poppy’s case increasingly pointed, areas of contact.

Poppy gulped and, in a manner far from surreptitious, slid a foot back, her body away and released her breasts from the caress of Rosalyn’s bosom.

“Window table,” Poppy said. “Sit.”

“Yes,” Rosalyn said, “Good.”

“Thank you.”

“Good.”

“Menu?”

“Yes.”

Poppy scurried across the room as far from Rosalyn as she could, hoping to gather a menu as well as her composure.

She found the clipboards by the cake counter and before returning to her surprise customer, decided a vigorous fan was in order. She wafted the boards around her cheeks trying to extinguish any trace of excitement.

What was wrong with her? In the space of a few hours her feelings about Rosalyn had gone through anguish, hurt, lust, indignation, lust, something verging on dislike (a feeling very unusual for Poppy), lust, confusion and desire, which Poppy (for honesty’s sake) thought she should classify as lust. It felt like her body wasn’t her own.

“Irresistible,” Rosalyn whispered.

Poppy’s heart leaped into her mouth.

“These cakes look exquisite.”

Rosalyn had followed, her eyes large, Poppy presumed for the edible delicacies on display.

“This antique cake counter as well.” Rosalyn beamed. “Where did you get it? It’s beautiful.”

“Tea shop. Old. Llanidloes. ”

Rosalyn stroked along the lacquered panels, so smoothly finished you could see the room reflected in them. Her fingers touched the marquetry flowers of box wood and ebony. But she lingered most where a piece had fallen away – a circular hole in the centre of a bloom. Round and round she felt, teasing the petals with her forefinger and dipping inside the hole. The pleasure she took, flicking delicately between the curves of the flower and its centre, it was almost rude.

Poppy gulped. “It’s not perfect.”

“Adds to its appeal. Who’d want to touch perfection?”

Poppy knew what she’d like to touch. “Cake?” Poppy fanned a little faster. “Could I interest you in a cake?”

Rosalyn swept her fingertip to her bottom lip. She stroked, from side to side, and sighed. The tip of her tongue licked along her top lip, slow and seductive. Her mouth was open and her red lips shone. Beautiful wet lips.

“Now, let me see,” Rosalyn murmured. “What would I like to eat?”

The first Poppy knew of the descending menu, was the loud clatter as it hit the floor.

“Sorry. So clumsy. Sorry.”

Poppy dropped to the floor and scrabbled for the boards. At least down here she could hide the scarlet of her face.

When she stood, she stared resolutely at the menus.

“Ahem,” Poppy said. “We have Mediterranean soup from the lunch menu, fresh herb and parmesan pasta, or seared chicken...”

“I would love to try all of those,” Rosalyn said, “But I don’t think I can keep my hands off these buns.”

“Oh.” Poppy felt her buttocks tense. “Cake? You just want cake?” She tried to stretch her face into an obliging smile, but had an inkling she looked as startled and roused as she felt.

“Would you tell me about them?”

Poppy rounded the counter and stood inches away from Rosalyn’s exquisite face and lips. She was just a tip of the head from those perfect breasts which beckoned with a gentle rise and fall in Rosalyn’s open shirt.

Poppy’s gaze lingered on the soft mounds and presently managed to say, “What kind of cake do you like breast?” And she opened her hand to draw Rosalyn’s attention to the selection.

Wait a minute. Poppy desperately tried to claw back her last sentence. She’d said “best” hadn’t she? Please say it wasn’t “breast”.

She’d said breast. It was definitely breast. Her cheeks rushed with embarrassment and, at that moment, her face could have heated a small house.

“I’m so sorry,” and she looked alarmed at Rosalyn.

But Rosalyn didn’t seem to have noticed. Something about Poppy’s dress had caught her attention. Something on the bodice. Poppy looked down at her own breasts heaving with embarrassment, her blush extending down her neck and cleavage so that she glowed rose from the top of her head to the tip of her nipples.

“I’m so sorry,” Poppy stuttered. “I think I made a bit of a boob.”

Oh no. Poppy could have cried.

Rosalyn snapped her gaze to Poppy’s. “Boob?” Now Rosalyn appeared astonished.

“I’m sorry. I just. I didn’t mean. I mispronounced….”

Rosalyn fixed her with a stare. Had Poppy got away with it? Rosalyn seemed distracted by something else entirely.

Relieved, Poppy put on a gracious smile. “Sorry. Don’t worry about tit.” And she stared at the cake counter.

Oh god.

Chapter 16.

Poppy wasn’t sure, but they could have been standing there for minutes. Fortunately, Rosalyn seemed transfixed by the pastries.

They both twitched when a loud telephone ring broke their reverie.

“That’s me,” Rosalyn said, and she snatched her phone from her pocket.

A photo of a handsome man shone from her mobile. His swept-back hair was impeccable and his stubble a well-groomed shadow. He held his chin in an assured pose and to say his look was flirtatious was a naïve understatement.

Poppy was expecting her to take the call, but Rosalyn swiped it away. “Work,” she said.

Poppy nodded, thinking the photo hinted at more intimacy than just work.

“So,” Rosalyn smiled.

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted by another loud ring. “I’m very sorry,” Rosalyn said. She stared at the picture of a woman with a short dark bob and serious features.

“My boss and assistant have phoned now. I’d better call in. Sorry.” She smiled at Poppy, then set her expression for business and wandered towards the window.

Poppy muttered to herself under her breath. She really needed to regain some self-control. A bit of table clearing ought to do the trick – nothing like a half-gnawed piece of toast and a glass of orange juice and milk curdled together to cool ardour. She set about tidying the tables on the second floor and when she had exhausted that, time wasting a little by listening to Rosalyn from the top of the stairs, she cleared the first.

Poppy couldn’t help observing Rosalyn. The change in her demeanour from the woman entranced by the shop and her memories was fascinating.

Rosalyn sat, leg crossed over, pen in one hand, mobile in the other, dashing out figures as she talked in that velvety but commanding voice so much like her father’s. “Trustees”, “public benefit objective” and “tax relief” all filtered through to Poppy as if Rosalyn was speaking in another language. It was also strange seeing the transformation of the woman who still resembled the child Rosie into the grown-up executive.

Rosalyn cut an impressive figure and, if Poppy were honest, she’d always been proud of being Rosalyn’s friend. She was very bright, confident and unforgiving of fools. Being a hopelessly agreeable type, they were traits Poppy had admired until she came on the wrong side of them.

Would she ever understand her? Poppy used to know the girl as well as herself but Rosalyn had changed overnight into a stranger. And now here she was, a beautiful woman, agreeable and intriguing one moment, remote and condescending the next and profoundly arousing in between.

Poppy wondered who Rosalyn had called. Had it been the suave handsome boss, with that flirty smirk, or the assistant? Whoever it was, the call remained business-like until the end when Rosalyn started to recount her father’s progress and Poppy thought it delicate to move beyond earshot.

Rosalyn’s call finished, Poppy approached with two mugs of coffee in one hand and a taster plate of cakes in the other. She hung back as Rosalyn finished making notes and admired her face, which was deep in concentration, blonde hair curled behind an ear and eyebrows crinkled as if finishing an exam.

Rosalyn looked up and her face softened into a smile. “Sorry. That took longer than I thought.”

“I took the liberty of choosing for you.” Poppy arranged her offering on the table and sat down. “I don’t know how you take your coffee now, but this is strong and white.”

Rosalyn curled her fingers round the mug and inhaled the vapours. “That’s perfect. It hasn’t changed.” And the smile she gave Poppy could have melted her into submission.

Poppy frowned, wanting to keep her head and, for once with Rosalyn Thorn, not be ruled by her heart, or any other more southerly part of her anatomy.

“Are things all right at work?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you do?”

“I’m a campaign manager at the Clean Water charity. Unfortunately, it’s a busy time at the moment. We have a big campaign running jointly with UNICEF and I could do with being back at the office.” She shrugged. “Luckily people have been very accommodating and I had a meeting in Telford instead of London today. Which is why…” she lifted her arms and looked to the smart clothes that Poppy had admired.

“Gosh,” Poppy sat up straighter. “That sounds very impressive.”

“Oh, I’ve been lucky. I worked for the charity straight out of university and opportunities for promotion came at the right times.”

“I imagine you’re very good at your job though.”

“Thank you. I like to think so. But,” she sighed, “it’s difficult at the moment. My boss has been great, allowing me to work away these weeks, but it can’t go on forever.”

“How’s your dad been?” Poppy asked quietly.

Concern rippled across Rosalyn’s features and she looked away. “Very bad.” And she paused to maintain her composure. “It was a severe stroke.” Her voice cracked and she shut her lips tight as if to contain the emotions. The Rosalyn that Poppy remembered wasn’t the kind to let her grief show and Poppy allowed her to recover. She was gentle when she spoke.

“And now? How is his recovery?”

Rosalyn blinked away the tears that threatened. “Actually, better this last day or two.” And a glimmer of a smile brightened her face. “I was worried when he came home. He could only just speak and was in a perpetual foul mood. He was very belligerent with my mother and quite – I don’t know how to describe it – almost clingy with me. And I haven’t handled it very well.”

“It’s a difficult thing for anyone to cope with.” Poppy wanted to reach for Rosalyn’s hand, but didn’t know how she’d be received.

Rosalyn looked uncomfortable and for once struggled to find the right words. “I’m not used to being home. Or spending this much time with them. I’ve kept them at arm’s length for so long, I’ve forgotten how to be close to them.”

“Really? But you…” But you were so close to David, is what Poppy wanted to say. “You’re here now,” she said instead. “You’ve come home and you’re trying.”

Rosalyn laughed sharply. “Thank you. But I’m not like you, Poppy. I’m not a good daughter.”

Poppy hadn’t considered Rosalyn’s relationship with her parents these last few years. She’d assumed they’d been cordial. Although Poppy found Rosalyn’s mother frosty, she had great respect for David and always thought his relationship with his daughter a warm one.

“How’s your mother been?” she asked.

Rosalyn smiled. “Only you could be so generous as to ask after someone so icy. But,” Rosalyn nodded, “she’s fine. She’s found it an ordeal, and it’s been terrifying seeing Dad in this condition. But things are looking up I believe.”

She leaned on the table, closer to Poppy. “Dad seemed to gain some peace yesterday. I dropped Mum at Welshpool station, and by the time I came back Dad was asleep on the sofa in the west sitting room. He was basking in sunshine and when he woke he was much more upbeat.”

Poppy blushed, realising the timing coincided with their walk together. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad. I hope it continues.”

“Me too,” Rosalyn said, and she caught Poppy’s eye with a poignant expression full of pain and desperate hope. For a moment, it seemed Rosalyn would say more, but she gathered herself and sat straight. “Anyway. Enough about me and my family. Let’s have a look at these cakes.” And she smiled away her grief.

“You can tell me anything,” Poppy said gently. “If you need someone to talk to, or talk at, and get things off your chest, please come and see me. Any time. You’re very welcome.”

Rosalyn nodded. “This. This looks… What is it?” She pointed to the selection of cakes and Poppy let the subject drop.

“Well.” Poppy pointed to a small triangle of pastry. “This is rose water and cardamom baklava. We’re quite proud of it. Derek and I make our own filo pastry because it tastes fresher.”

She grinned as she noticed Rosalyn’s eyebrows rise. “And this is our almond and orange-oil brownie.” She pointed to the small square. “It’s a nugget of chocolate heaven. And this is more traditional perhaps.” She pointed to the golden cake, with pale lilac icing and a scatter of tiny purple petals on top. “This is honey and lavender cake.”

“Wow,” Rosalyn said. “That wasn’t what I was expecting.” She pinched the baklava delicately between her finger and thumb and took a tentative bite. “Mmm.” Her face lit up with delight. “That’s even better than I anticipated.”

She took another hungrier bite and a little of the syrup ran from her lips. She laughed and wiped away the sweet liquid with her finger. “This is a bit good. What’s next?”

Rosalyn picked up the brownie with less reticence and nibbled hungrily at its corner. “Oh, that’s good too.” Her appreciation was losing its decorum and becoming more sensual with every bite.

The brownie was a favourite of Poppy’s, a borrowed recipe upon which she’d improved – the right dark chocolate chosen from many a tasting session and picked to complement the orange oils. As the rich cake warmed on the tongue, the citrus and chocolate vapours would fill and thrill the senses. And while the scent still delighted, the delicate texture melted in the mouth and slipped over the tongue with a sweet caress.

Rosalyn closed her eyes as if to relish every one of the sensations.

“That is sinfully good,” she murmured, a sated expression on her face that made Poppy stir in places she thought she’d quelled.

Rosalyn blinked and stared at Poppy with dark eyes. “That delights more than the taste buds,” she said, and Poppy’s delight did indeed extend further.

“And this,” Rosalyn continued, not moving her gaze from Poppy.

She held the delicate honey and lavender cake to her lips and slowly licked at the icing. But her flirtation stalled and she considered the cake anew.

“Now this is special.” Rosalyn took a slow savouring bite of the cake and looked as if she appreciated every sweet crumb.

“That’s like a cake baked by a loving grandmother on your school holidays. I can almost smell the fresh aroma in the kitchen air. I can picture eating it outside in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers and butterflies.” Her smile was uncomplicated happiness. “This one’s my heaven.”

Poppy blushed. “It’s a recipe I developed.”

Rosalyn beamed at Poppy with evident admiration. “It’s very good Ms Jenkins. Very, very good.”

Rosalyn brushed the crumbs into the centre of the plate and licked at her honeyed fingers. “Do these sell well? These taster plates?”

“Actually, we don’t do taster plates, but I thought you’d like to sample our range.”

“You guessed right. I think you should carry on the concept.”

Poppy shrugged. “I might. But to be honest, it’s the plain chocolate muffins and blueberry buns that sell when the kids come in after school. And then it’s the local specialties, Welsh cakes and Bara Brith. But I enjoy my experiments and Derek likes the challenge too.”

Rosalyn frowned and sat back. “And your main courses? Breakfast, lunches? How do they do?”

“Not bad. Again we offer a small range – something traditional and easy to sell, and a dish or two that’s more adventurous with Mediterranean, North African or Middle Eastern cuisine.”

“Why that influence?” Rosalyn asked, intrigue sparkling in her eyes.

“It’s from my holidays at university. I taught English in southern Spain during the summer. I worked for two months, living with a Moroccan family in Seville, then travelled with a friend for another month. I think the food is a fusion between that family’s cooking and my mum’s.”

Rosalyn’s face beamed. “And do you think the main meals are comparable to these wonderful cakes?”

“I think so.” Poppy hoped she wasn’t straying too far from modesty.

Rosalyn stared at her, thoughtful. “You have a very nice set up – characterful café and intriguing cuisine beautifully executed. You could do very well. Anywhere other than here.”

Poppy laughed. “I need it to work in Wells though.”

“Oh, Poppy.” Rosalyn tutted with exasperation.

“What?”

“It’s so frustrating to see you here.”

“Why?”

“You’re such a bright woman, you could have done anything.” Poppy was going to interject, but Rosalyn shook her head. “And you’ve found something else you’re brilliant at. But. You’re here,” she glanced around the empty café, “going underappreciated. Imagine how well you’d do somewhere like Bath, Oxford, even Shrewsbury.”

Poppy smiled. “But I want to be near Mum and Pip.”

Rosalyn looked at her intently as if trying to comprehend. “But is this all you want? Is this your ambition for your café and wonderful food?”

Poppy didn’t dismiss her, and she gave Rosalyn’s question serious thought. “Well, I suppose I assumed that, if it ever did succeed, we could open another café nearby, perhaps do some catering work – events and such.”

Rosalyn’s interest was piqued. “That’s what you want? Is that your dream?”

“I do daydream about it, but that’s all. I don’t want to move away or be consumed by it. I want time to see Pip grow, even though she’s an irritating little sister. I want to watch her turn into who she’s going to be.”

“But can you get by like this?”

“Yes. Most of time,” Poppy admitted.

“Hmm,” was all Rosalyn said. She rubbed her long fingers and palms together and stared out of the window. “Is it me, or is Wells quieter than it used to be? It’s always been a sleepy village, but weren’t there more tourists when we were little? I remember visitors.”

Poppy nodded. “I think so. Luck hasn’t smiled on Wells of late.”

“No-one’s been near the castle since I’ve been back. And didn’t Wells used to host the Montgomeryshire show?”

“That always goes to Welshpool these days.”

“But it did used to?”

“Yes, it was held halfway between the two.”

“What happened?”

Poppy sighed. “I don’t know. Things seem to gravitate to Welshpool these days. Businesses don’t win grants, planning permission is more elusive. The council gives reasons like ruining the historic centre, but they’re not interested in pushing it as a tourist destination.” She shrugged. “Mrs Morgan Morgan says her friends’ bed-and-breakfast bookings are always down on the year before and we couldn’t keep the shop without the café sharing the building.”

“Do you realise Wells doesn’t have a website?”

Poppy was surprised Rosalyn had taken enough interest to attempt to find one. “I think someone tried, but couldn’t maintain it.”

Rosalyn’s frown deepened. “And do you advertise or put on offers to tempt new customers?”

“Yes. And no,” Poppy stuttered. “We’ve tried the County Times, but it’s always been ineffective, either through my mistakes or theirs.”

“Really,” Rosalyn said, as if confirming her own opinion rather than asking for Poppy’s. She stared outside, her thoughts turned inwards.

Poppy followed her gaze and took in the beautiful evening view. The sky was a cloudless cerulean and the square a warm terracotta in the evening light. The town hall clock chimed, its deep sonorous ringing as comforting to Poppy as the babbling river at the end of the square. It was only when it reached six that its primary purpose filtered through to Poppy’s higher brain functioning.

“I’m so sorry.” She stood up. “It’s six o’clock. I have to go. There’s a meeting at the town hall I don’t want to miss.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Rosalyn said, and she gathered up her notes and bag.

“It was very nice talking to you.” Poppy was surprised. She wasn’t uttering an empty compliment. She had genuinely enjoyed Rosalyn’s company.

“You too,” Rosalyn said, a smile brightening her face. “Very much.”

They gazed at each other, glowing with the pleasure of the encounter. There was no artifice to Rosalyn’s expression. The layers of protection and demeanour of other personas were gone, and it was Rosie who grinned at her with an intelligent smile full of admiration and impishness.

Poppy giggled. For a moment, it was if she stood with her teenage friend, wondering what they’d be when they grew up. They looked funny with their adult creases, important clothes, beleaguered air of responsibility and wear of experience – as if they were playing grownups. The familiar bond and warmth between them was palpable and Poppy almost reached across to touch her.

“I erm,” Rosalyn whispered. “We should… Would you like…?”

“Yes?”

“I would like to see, if you want that is, I was wondering,” Rosalyn quietly stalled, but then said, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She put her hand to her forehead. “What was I thinking? I haven’t paid.”

“You can’t pay.” Poppy laughed. “That was on the house.”

“Of course I’ll pay,” she said and reached across and took her hand.

The sensation was surreal and pleasurable. Poppy wasn’t used to holding another adult’s hand. She’d been single for so long and was more accustomed to her parental grip on Pip’s smaller fingers.

Rosalyn’s fingers were firm, but thrilling and soft. She instinctively clasped Rosalyn’s hand, wanting to convey her reassurance but also wanting to savour her touch a few moments longer.

“You mustn’t pay,” Poppy said. “I joined you for coffee and a sample of our cakes. There’s no charge for that.”

“You’ll never be rich Poppy Jenkins. You’re too generous to take advantage.” Rosalyn looked at their entwined hands and held Poppy tighter. “But I will recommend your café and hope to send more customers your way.”

Their business concluded, they no longer had an excuse to remain entwined. Poppy relaxed her hand and, with regret, let it drop.

“Time to go,” she said.

Rosalyn nodded, but lingered still.

When Poppy didn’t move Rosalyn suggested, “Are you getting a coat? I’ll wait for you.”

Poppy was confused. “Are you parked outside or by the town hall?”

“No, I walked, but I’m going your way.”

“To the town hall?”

“Yes.”

“But there’s nothing on this evening, apart from the meeting.”

“I know.” Rosalyn looked amused.

“You’re going to Cerys’ meeting?”

“Yes.”

“About a craft and food fair?”

“Yes.”

“A tiny craft and food fair in Wells?”

Rosalyn laughed. “The very same.”

“Oh.” And Poppy stood with her mouth retaining the shape of bewilderment.

Would Rosalyn ever stop surprising her?

Chapter 17.

Rosalyn accompanied Poppy through the grand double-doors of the Georgian town hall. The assembly room had been built to house a modest ball and the parquet flooring was kept immaculate over the centuries with solicitous layers of polish.

There was a good turn-out. Cerys and a homely woman, Mari Ellis, sat behind a table at the front, and most of the fifty chairs were already occupied. People around the periphery chatted, including Alan Watkins and Dai. Even little Geraint, his grey head cowed over a notebook, sat at the front. There was a quiet chatter and liveliness about the room that gave Poppy hope.

“Noswaith dda, Poppy.” Mrs Morgan ambled past and smiled at them both.

“Good evening, Mrs Morgan,” Poppy replied.

People turned at their exchange and some, instead of resuming their own conversation, stopped and stared. There was a noticeable hush in the room and Poppy felt exposed even though she knew Rosalyn was the target.

There was good reason for the attention. To some she was an elegant stranger, her attire and manner marking her out. To others she was the wayward daughter from Rhiw Hall. Others still saw a surprise reunion of a pair of old friends. Everyone had a reason to stare, especially Nain, who frowned over her shoulder, her knitting needles ominously frozen in mid-air.

“I imagine you’ll want to sit with your family,” Rosalyn said, smiling. “I’m going to the front.”

“You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thank you. But although I find it perplexing why anyone might be intimidated by another human being, I will admit to being scared shitless of your nain.”

Poppy grinned. “She doesn’t move as fast as she used to. I don’t think she’s ever caught Pip around the calves with a wet tea towel.”

“She’s armed with her knitting needles though. I want a good few seconds head start when she’s wielding those.” She smiled at Poppy. “I’ll see you later.” And as Poppy watched her walk away, the warmth of Rosalyn’s company stayed with her. With her face flushed and spirits high, she almost bounced to the seats behind Nain.

“You all right there, Poppy bach?” Nain said. She peered over her glasses and suspicion dripped from her voice.

“I’m fine, Nain.” Poppy was cheerful and had no desire to hide it.

“All right. If you say so.” And Nain turned her head, rather like an owl watching for prey.

People took their seats and at the front Cerys made noises to begin. The chair next to Poppy scraped on the floor and the considerable presence of Dai filled the space beside her.

His face was a mixture of confusion and concern. “You all right, Poppy?”

“Yes, I was just saying to Nain how all right I was.”

“Are you sure? Did I see you walk in with Rosalyn?”

“My dear Dai, yes you did.”

“What did she want?” His face was still flummoxed.

“Nothing. She popped into the café for a chat.”

“What kind of chat?”

“A friendly one.” Poppy laughed. “She’s been very pleasant. Well, we had an argument this morning, but...” Poppy looked over to Rosalyn who wore an easy smile on her face. “We’ve cleared the air and she’s been great company.”

Dai grunted, far from convinced, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “Please be careful,” he muttered.

“It’s all right, Dai. It was a long time ago and I should give her another chance. She’s been very pleasant and we’ve laid some things to rest.”

“Hmm.” There was that deep rumble of suspicion again. “A leopard doesn’t change his spots does he? Or she. Just hides them when it suits.”

Poppy squeezed his arm. “I’m fine. Thank you, Dai.”

“All the same. Please be careful.” He sat back and crossed his arms on his powerful chest.

They faced the front where Cerys had begun speaking. The delicate woman clutched a sheet of paper in her bony fingers and was perched on tip-toes trying to make herself heard.

“Hold on there, Cerys,” a confident voice boomed. Alan Watkins waddled forward and dwarfed Cerys at the front.

“Can we have a little hush now? Miss Cerys Mathews wants to say a few words about her little craft fair. And that’s what we’ve come to hear isn’t it.”

With a murmur and shuffle the audience fell silent and Cerys crept from beneath Alan’s shadow.

“Thank you, Alan. That’s very kind.”

The great man took a seat at the table with Cerys’s colleague. He sat with legs spread, folds and lumps pressing alarmingly from his grey trousers, elbows wide and hands on his thighs. “Carry on, Cerys.”

If anything, the poor woman seemed more unnerved by Alan’s bulging presence at the table than anything else.

“Erm,” she addressed the audience in a timid whine, her notepaper shivering in her hands.

“Would you like me to say something on your behalf, Cerys?” Alan offered.

“No, you’re all right there. I’ll have a go, thank you Alan.” Cerys took a gasp of breath. “As you all know, Mari and I do a craft stall every summer on the square. It’s not much with my woollens and Mari’s pots, but it’s always a bit of fun. So I thought, why not expand it?”

“Found some more ladies, have you, who want to show their wares?”

“Well, not exactly. See, I was thinking, why not bring different types of people in? What about a food and craft fair? We all love a good cake don’t we? We could have a little baking competition to raise money for the village.”

“That sounds like a fabulous idea, Cerys. I think you’re just the right person to organise a cake stall.” Alan said it with finality and he rose from his chair.

“Then I thought, we’ve got Poppy’s lovely café, haven’t we.” Cerys peered over the audience to catch Poppy’s eye. “If she’s still amenable, we could expand the café into the square for the day.”

Poppy nodded encouragement.

“Better pray for good weather,” Alan scoffed. The audience murmured in agreement. “You can bet on the Welsh weather to piss on Cerys’s fire.” A few male guffaws punched through the murmurs.

“And…” Cerys stared down at her notes. They had taken on a more violent tremor. Her face turned pale and her eyes searched the words in panic.

“Is that it then?” Alan stood with so much purpose that several in the audience also started to rise.

“Stop interrupting.”

Everyone froze. The confident and authoritative voice came from none other than Rosalyn Thorn.

Those who had moved sheepishly took their places again and even Alan sunk back into his seat.

“If we have come to hear Cerys speak, then perhaps we should all listen.” Rosalyn’s voice was crystal clear, the tone a perfect mix of command and suggestion. “Please carry on, Cerys. I think we’re all listening this time.”

Poppy could have sworn there was a glint of pleasure in Cerys’ eyes. Her shoulders relaxed and her tremors subsided, and she shot a proud smile towards Rosalyn.

“Thank you, Rosalyn. Right, to cut to the chase. There are many small businesses and hobbyists that could benefit from a fair and, as well as encouraging people to visit Wells, it provides locals with a fun day out. Like I was saying, we have Poppy’s café, my woollens, Mari’s pots, Emma Jenkins’ paintings. And that’s just the people here. We could have a children’s stall to make crafty things. And I see no reason not to include bigger businesses. We have Montgomery Ice Creams up the valley. They sell nationally. And Aberrhiw Cider’s very popular.”

“Now, I think we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves.” Alan coughed and stood up. “Cerys, those are proper businesses run by the big boys. They spend their money at major events, not little fairs in Wells.”

“Oh. Do you think so?” Cerys said, her confidence ebbing again. “But I was hoping it would generate more interest than usual.”

“Perhaps. But it’s risky. Do you have the capital to cover a bad year? What if no-one rents a stall?”

“There’s very little cost—”

“And this year?” He shrugged. “How long have you got? Six weeks? That’s cutting it fine if you were a professional.”

“But—”

“You have to consider the lead time for advertising too. You should have come to me to talk it through.” And he patted the chair beside him for Cerys to come and behold his wisdom in private.

“I imagine.” It was Rosalyn again and although she hadn’t uttered a whole sentence the audience whipped round their heads. “I imagine the time-consuming part of the organisation is arranging planning permission with the council. And as Cerys has an established event, that part is done. Is that right, Cerys?”

Cerys nodded vigorously.

“And,” Rosalyn continued, “the expanded fair is going to be risky. Any change is. But Cerys has suggested a modest extension which isn’t overstretching.”

“Now, Rosalyn.” Alan leaned forward. “Perhaps you’re not familiar with the situation these days. You’ve not been home awhile and things have changed round here.”

A few in the crowd murmured in agreement, but Poppy bristled at Alan’s words.

“Wells isn’t a popular destination. Not these days,” Alan continued. “Why stop here when you’ve everything in Welshpool?” And people nodded. They’d heard it said often enough.

“Why stop here rather than Welshpool where you have several shops and a restaurant?” Rosalyn retorted.

A collective gasp whistled around the room, but Rosalyn didn’t stop there.

“Why stop in a beautiful village with a grade I medieval castle and the most picturesque river in Wales? Yes, I’ve been wondering why people didn’t.”

The audience shuffled in their seats, including the disgruntled Dai. “Oh dew dew,” he said. “That’s not right. Not fair play at all. What does Rosalyn think she’s implying?”

Poppy frowned. “I’m not sure. But she has a point.”

“And who’s she to talk about ‘stop interrupting’. She’s as bad.”

Poppy smiled. “I think she had a point about that too. He wouldn’t let poor Cerys get a word in.”

“She wasn’t getting any out. Just standing there shaking like a leaf.”

“All the more reason to give her space to speak in her own time.”

Dai snorted. “Well anyway. I don’t think Rosalyn should keep interrupting him.”

“Isn’t she allowed to disagree?”

“Not when it’s rude.” His face was ruddy with indignation. “Anyway, why are you defending her?”

“Why are you defending him?” Poppy was half riled by the confrontation and half amused at Dai’s umbrage.

“Come on, Poppy. I know he was an irritating little shit at school, sneaky bastard too, but look at him.” He reached out his arm and gestured to the squat man on the stage. “He’s done better than all of us, even an intelligent girl like you. He runs a hotel and several restaurants and shops. He knows what he’s talking about – he’s an expert in the business and local market. Cerys is lucky to have him advising.”

The rumbling from the audience abated as Alan put up his hands to silence detractors, a humble expression on his face.

“I can take it like a man.” He chuckled. “Now if you don’t like my opinion that’s fine. I’m a successful businessman and I’m frequently asked for my advice by councillors, other businessmen and tourist boards. But it can only be my opinion. And that’s why I’m here – for advice.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

“Who asked for your advice?” Rosalyn’s voice was piercing and the silence that followed deafening. All eyes were on Alan. He shuffled in his chair and looked to Cerys, but she was assiduous in the study of her notes.

The audience seemed split in their adherence. Half frowned at Rosalyn’s suggestion, others were unsure and whispered among themselves.

“What is she doing?” Dai said, incensed. “That’s not on at all. She’s deliberately trying to humiliate him.”

Poppy pursed her lips. Rosalyn’s actions made her uncomfortable, but Alan’s intervention and presumption seemed worse. “I don’t know,” she said.

“She’s being divisive, like she used to be.”

Nain peered over her shoulder. “Trouble. Trouble I tell you. That girl’s always been one to stir things up.”

“Quite right.” Dai nodded. “She’s going to make herself more unpopular.”

“What do you mean?” Poppy said, disconcerted at Dai’s accusation.

“Well, no-one liked her at school. It was only because she was friends with you that anyone talked to her.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m afraid it is. Ask anyone.” He tilted up his chin to challenge Poppy to disagree. “I never knew why you were friends. No-one did.”

“You were all scared of her. She was very bright, independent, didn’t pander to anyone’s ego and didn’t care for some people’s rules.”

“Which all sound good reasons to me,” Dai said in all seriousness.

Poppy laughed out of surprise. “Dai. Come on. Sometimes she had good reason to question people’s motives.”

“That may be so. But she also likes stirring up trouble. You can’t tell me she hasn’t enjoyed humiliating Alan up there.” Dai softened his tone. “See, you’re all about harmony.”

Poppy looked at him confused.

Dai held Poppy’s hand between his two great paws. “You will do anything for anyone. You spend your life taking care of people and wishing everyone a pleasant day.”

“Whereas Rosalyn,” Nain interrupted, “Rosalyn likes to enter a room, throw in a hand grenade, and walk right back out again with a smile on her face.”

“Now that’s over the top.” Poppy parried.

“Is it?” Dai said. He stared at her, concern creasing his brow, before turning back to the front.

People were beginning to stand. Alan had walked away and others muttered between themselves. Nain gathered her ball of wool and speared it with her needles.

“Waste of time,” she muttered. “Don’t know why we bothered.” And she shuffled to the end of the row.

Poppy peered through the bodies of the departing audience and spied Rosalyn next to Cerys. The smaller woman looked anguished and Rosalyn held her arm to console her. Despite her harsh words against Alan, Poppy’s heart warmed to her – that beautiful woman taking time to support Cerys, who Poppy thought had a good plan. She smiled, unable to stop her appreciation of Rosalyn’s actions and fine figure.

“Be careful, Poppy love,” Dai said quietly. “She hurt you good and proper in the sixth form. And did you ever find out why?”

A knot tightened in Poppy’s stomach and she shook her head.

“Well then. Just be cautious. Please. I never saw anything more cruel and she couldn’t have done it to a lovelier person.”

Chapter 18.

Dai’s warning nagged at Poppy all evening and made itself known in a dream. Two ripe nectarines rested out of Poppy’s reach, their smooth skin a tantalising stroke beyond her fingertips. In the surrealism of the dream, Poppy could only touch them with her tongue, and she licked and cajoled them closer to her desperate lips. But as she wrapped her mouth around the plump fruit they turned to raw potatoes and she woke with an imagined peculiar taste in her mouth and in no doubt about whose peachiness she had been fantasising.

Dozy and distracted, she half listened to Pip’s yarn of a school love-triangle as the girl skipped beside her into town, and Poppy was still preoccupied when she opened the shop door. She was met by her mother’s serene presence behind the counter and a rejuvenated Cerys in front.

“Cerys.” Poppy beamed, startled out of her reverie. “You look lovely.”

The older woman’s complexion became brighter still at the compliment and she looked down bashfully at her colourful outfit.

“I’ve been inspired by your mother to try a more vibrant scheme, and a few encouraging words elsewhere too.”

Gone were the subdued greys and greens and in were ruby-red jeans and a cotton-knitted top of Inca scarlets, ochres and blues.

“I’ve always dabbled with this palette but never had the gumption to wear it. And I thought items like this might sell better at the fair.”

Poppy grinned. “So you’re thinking of going ahead?”

“I’ve slept on it,” she said with determination, “and I think I should.”

“Good for you,” Poppy said and she raised her hands in triumphant fists.

Cerys nodded and her cheeks flushed the liveliest colour Poppy had seen them.

“But it does depend on you and your mam, see.” She peered over her glasses no longer with the fearful glance of a sparrow, more the piercing glare of an eagle. It filled Poppy with joy to see Cerys exuding this level of resolve.

“We’ll be there, won’t we, Mum.”

Her mother nodded, and the smile on her face had a hint of rebellion about it.

“Oh da iawn,” said Cerys. “See, I was hoping you’d extend the seating outside for the day and serve something a bit special. I don’t know what, that’s your expertise, Poppy, but what do you think?”

“I’ll put on my thinking cap, Cerys.”

“And of course I want Emma’s paintings in a stall and hanging on any empty backdrops. Even those dark ones. I’m coming round to them. And I’m going to apply for a grant from the council to cover the risk. We’ve had a few ideas about cost-effective advertising too.” Cerys sidled closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “Someone told me that newspapers are desperate for cheap copy, so if we send them an article on the fair I reckon the County Times will print it. Not bad for a bit of free advertising heh?” And she nudged Poppy in the arm.

“That sounds brilliant, Cerys. And what about Montgomery Ice Creams and Aberrhiw Cider?”

“I’m told a personal visit will be in order there, but I’m hopeful of them participating, and more besides.”

Poppy’s cheeks ached she was smiling so much. The change in the small woman was remarkable, particularly after such an inauspicious meeting the night before.

Cerys rubbed her hands together. “Well, I must get on. Lots to do.”

“It will be a significant amount of work, Cerys,” Emma’s soft tones came from the back of the shop. “Do you think you can do it in time?”

Cerys stood tall and lifted her chin. “I can,” she said. “I have a lot of free time now I’m retired and I’ve never had a husband cluttering up the place. So I don’t mind putting in the effort. And now I’ve found a new friend in Geraint, who’s a dab hand with a computer, we can produce the leaflets and web pages.”

Poppy smiled, impressed by the transformation in Cerys, and the revelation of Geraint’s secret arsenal of skills.

“Good luck, Cerys,” she called, as the reinvigorated woman strode out of the door.

Poppy turned to her mother who appeared as entertained as she did. The recognition of amusement in each other’s eyes was enough to spark their laughter and they both giggled behind their hands to stop the sound carrying after Cerys.

“I think it’s brilliant,” Poppy said. “I really hope she pulls it off.”

“Me too.” But her mother became more serious. “Can we afford the stall and other costs?”

Poppy breathed in. “Just about. We could do with a good summer, put it that way.” She looked to her mother for a decision.

Emma appeared sombre, but nodded. “We have to try something.”

“Excellent,” said Poppy. “I have a good feeling about this.”

Poppy skipped up the stairs, her amusement still brightening her face. The café was empty excepting Geraint, who had mouthful of Bara Brith and his head in his notebook. She could hear the animated voice of Cerys in the square and Poppy ambled to the window to nose outside.

“Rosalyn,” she whispered.

There she was again, chatting to Cerys with ease and, as far as Poppy could determine, genuine enjoyment. She was even more beautiful like that, throwing back her head with laughter, her cheeks rose and blonde hair cascading around her shoulders.

Poppy reeled trying to fathom Rosalyn. Was she that duplicitous agitator that Nain and Dai seemed to imagine, or that special, bright and uncompromising friend she’d adored at school and who was now buoying Cerys Mathews? Either way, she was jaw droppingly beautiful. Poppy could have slid down the window with longing.

Was that it? Was lust clouding her judgement? Had it been so long since she’d slept with a woman, that the first attractive female to come along was enough to transform her into a dribbling dope?

Perhaps. But it wasn’t just any woman. Poppy thought Rosalyn the most attractive woman of her acquaintance, perhaps the most beautiful she’d ever known. And Poppy was going to indulge in a little infatuation. She rarely had the chance and Rosalyn would soon be gone. Rosalyn would never know, and afterwards Poppy would be left to exercise her frustrated sensuality with her creative desserts.

Outside Rosalyn laughed. Poppy’s face instinctively lifted with a smile. Since when did Rosalyn laugh with such delight in that melodious note? It was a sound that made joy infectious. Rosalyn talked with animation to Cerys, no polite façade, no incisive penetration to her gaze, just a genuine delightful conversation.

Rosalyn’s striking face shone with more loveliness when she smiled like that. She seemed at home in herself and the village today. She wore casual jeans, tantalisingly loose around her hips, and the white shirt that was snug around her bosom was unbuttoned to the depths of her cleavage.

The tops of her breasts were irresistible to the eye. She looked exquisite. That face. Those breasts.

“Oh those breasts,” Poppy sighed.

“What was that sweetheart?”

“Mum?!” Poppy blurted. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

Her mother was just a pace away. “I thought I’d have coffee with you. What were you saying, darling?”

“Um.” Think Poppy, think. “Um.” If her eyebrows rose any higher her mother would escort her to the doctors with the suspicion of a seizure. “Chicken breasts,” she said. “We should try chicken breasts. On the menu. Definitely.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here.”

Her mother was puzzled. “Don’t we do chicken dishes already?”

Damn. She’d rather been relying on her mother’s inattention for that excuse to save her.

“Yes. But. I’d like some local breasts. I think we should find a regional supplier for the café. I think that would be nice. Yes. Nice local breasts.”

Her mother frowned with concern. She reached for Poppy’s face then stopped, her attention drawn to the figures outside.

“Ah yes. Breasts.” She looked at Poppy in an amused but adoring way. “I can see why you might be after some local breasts.”

It was as if Poppy could hear the ignition of flames, her cheeks burned so red. She clasped her hands to her face, and the confirmation that her cheeks did indeed burn hotter than coals made them burn that much brighter again.

“Perhaps I’ll leave you to a cool drink instead.” Her mother smiled and returned downstairs leaving Poppy to roast in peace.

“Oh god,” Poppy murmured.

For one with her head in the clouds for a large proportion of the day, her mother didn’t half pick her moments for lucidity.

Poppy peered outside, her cheeks still glowing. Cerys was bidding Rosalyn farewell with an exuberant wave, and Rosalyn looked as if she was about to leave the square. But she glanced up at the café window. Poppy leapt out of view, her heart thumping in her chest. Moments later the shop bell downstairs tinkled and she heard Rosalyn’s honeyed tones.

“Emma, how are you?” There was an exuberance to Rosalyn’s voice. Poppy peeped around the railing and down the stairs.

“Rosalyn.” Her mother sounded pleased. “Thank you, I’m very good. I would ask about you but you look very well indeed.” And she put out her arms and gave Rosalyn a hug.

“Thank you. It seems a break in the country is what I needed. It would have been nicer for different reasons, but...” She shrugged.

Emma held Rosalyn by the hands. “How is David?”

“Improving thank you. He has a long way to go before he’s anything like his old self, but then he’s come a long way too.”

“I’m glad. If there’s anything we can do…”

“Thank you.” And Rosalyn squeezed Emma’s hands with affection. “Actually, I was wondering if you had any paintings for sale.”

“Yes I do.” Emma sounded surprised. “Would you like to see? It hasn’t changed much since you and Poppy played here.”

“I’d love to.” The delight was clear on Rosalyn’s face. “I like your darker works, but I’m also interested in something uplifting for Dad.”

“Come and have a look,” Emma said, taking Rosalyn by the arm.

Poppy stood at the top of the stairs, agog. She wasn’t sure which feeling was uppermost right now – pure pleasure at seeing her mother welcome Rosalyn so warmly, or piqued that Rosalyn hadn’t come to see her.

She couldn’t indulge her offense for long because the doorbell rang again, this time from two couples who made their way up the stairs. Poppy was surprised by the early custom and that she didn’t recognise any of the four elderly people.

“Good morning.” She smiled.

The four surveyed the room, enchantment on their faces. “This is as delightful as it sounded,” said one of the ladies.

“Isn’t it just,” said another.

“Table for four?” Poppy inquired.

“Morning miss,” said the oldest man. “Yes, table for four. We’re here for some of your wonderful cakes and a view of the castle.”

Poppy beamed. “Please come this way to choose your cakes then I will show you upstairs for the best view.” She hesitated before stepping forward. “And if you’re spoilt for choice, we do a taster plate, if that’s of any interest.”

“That sounds perfect,” said one of the ladies, grinning from ear to ear.

Poppy was too occupied to listen for her mother and Rosalyn. Her new customers had very particular requirements for their tea and indulged in some enjoyable ruminating over the cake choices. To satisfy all appetites, Poppy created a “bit-on-the-side” cake serving, a small morsel on the saucer to accompany a coffee for those who didn’t want to acknowledge they were having a piece of cake.

By the time they settled she imagined Rosalyn had left and she ran to the window to check the square. There was no sign of her. The disappointment sank in her chest and she stared out of the window. The scene outside was a blur and the chatter of the café dissociated into a background hum.

“Hi.”

It felt like the world stopped turning when she heard Rosalyn’s mellifluous voice. The chatter of the customers faded to nothing and Poppy was only aware of the warmth of Rosalyn’s presence. She’d uttered the words so close to her cheek that her breath tickled her skin.

Poppy smiled and turned to see Rosalyn’s face a few inches from her own. “Hi.”

Rosalyn’s face glowed with enthralled attention. It was irresistible. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch you last night,” she murmured.

“You seemed busy with Cerys. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You wouldn’t have been,” Rosalyn whispered. Her eyes seemed dark and Poppy’s head began to swim as she stared into their depths. She didn’t resist it. For a few moments they stood, neither saying a word, and all Poppy could do was melt with the sensation of Rosalyn so near.

“I wondered,” Rosalyn began, “if you would like to meet again, before I leave.”

“Mmm,” Poppy responded, and the sound resonated pleasurably through her body.

“I’m here for a few days, but I didn’t want to miss seeing you again.”

Poppy nodded, still mesmerised by the dark pools of Rosalyn’s eyes. And when Poppy’s gaze slipped, it fell upon Rosalyn’s full lips. They were parted, expectant, sighing from their soft depths.

“Yes,” Poppy murmured in a daze. “Tomorrow evening?”

“I’d love to.”

Poppy closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Rosalyn’s breath on her own mouth. “Tomorrow then.”

“I’ll come for you.” And Rosalyn felt closer still.

“Oh.” Poppy faltered, and she tried again this time managing, “Ok.” She opened her eyes to see Rosalyn’s intimate gaze. “I’ll be ready for you.”

“See you at eight,” Rosalyn whispered, and before Poppy could respond she’d disappeared down the stairs.

Poppy stumbled back, only then realising what she’d agreed to.

Oh god. An evening out with Rosalyn? That would be worse than a date. Imagine – wine, an intimate setting, Rosalyn all to herself. She would be overcome with lust. She hadn’t managed the past five minutes in Rosalyn’s company without being enraptured. How would she manage a night?

Chapter 19.

“So it’s like a date.” Pip lay on the bed gazing through the porthole while Poppy raided the clothes drawers.

“No, it’s not a date.” Poppy’s voice was muffled by the dress wrapped around her head. She pulled it down and frowned at the web of creases. She made a disgruntled sigh, pulled off the garment and threw it on the growing pile of rejects. “We’re just going out for the evening.”

“Like friends or something?”

“Yes.” Poppy mused. “Yes to the ‘or something’.”

“So it is a date.”

“No.” Poppy laughed and threw a T shirt at Pip. “I meant I wouldn’t classify it as friends either. Maybe nearly friends, or something like that. Possibly.”

“But she does fancy you?”

“No, Pip. She doesn’t fancy me.”

“Why not?”

Poppy looked at her sister, hands on hips. “Have you seen her? She’s the kind of woman you see at film premieres. She’s beautiful. Magazine-cover gorgeous.”

“So are you.”

Poppy stood in her old T shirt, mismatched knickers and bra and a single sock. She looked at her sister with an indulgent face and bursting heart. “Bless you, Pip. That’s lovely of you to say.”

“So, she probably does fancy you.”

“No.” Poppy rolled her eyes. “Rosalyn Thorn does not fancy me. It’s not like at school. Not everyone has a crush on everyone else in the village.” Apart from Poppy who, it would seem, had a massive one. “And anyway, I’ve never seen any sign she’s gay.” Quite the contrary, including the flirty picture of her boss on the phone.

“But you fancy her.”

“Pip. It is possible to be friends with a beautiful woman without fancying her.” This was something Poppy had firmly believed, but her belief was being sorely shaken.

“Friends with benefits?”

Poppy spun around, her mouth open. “Where…? Where did you get that phrase?”

“CBBC.”

“That was not on Children’s BBC. What have you been watching on your computer?”

Pip rolled over and picked at a loose thread in the duvet. “Well if it’s not a date, and you don’t fancy her, why don’t you just wear jeans and a T shirt?”

“Because…” Poppy stared at the ceiling. Seconds ticked by, but no excuse made itself apparent. “Just because.” And she returned to digging around in her drawers.

“Wear the cream dress then. The one which shows your boobs.”

Poppy flushed with embarrassment then indignation at the pubescent advice. “You can’t tell me to wear a dress that shows my boob… breasts. It’s inappropriate on so many levels.”

“So why do you own a dress that shows your boobs, sorry breasts.” The cheeky smile on Pip’s face was triumphant.

“Right. I’m going to wear a polo neck.” And Poppy dived into the drawer full of woollens.

Pip groaned and slapped a hand over her face.

A tap at the front door triggered near hysteria in Poppy. “What’s the time?”

“Five to eight,” Pip replied.

“Oh god. How did I waste an hour and not manage to get dressed?”

“Well…”

Poppy raised her hands. “I know. Just…”

She realised she was still dressed in a T shirt, knickers and one sock. She tugged off the old T shirt, revealing an extreme push-up bra, and scrabbled through the drawers for something, anything, to wear.

Pip rolled her eyes then heaved herself off the bed with an impressive teenager “tut”. “I’ll go and talk to her.”

“Wait.” Poppy grabbed her sister by the arm. “Don’t…”

Don’t tell Rosalyn that Poppy had been fretting over clothes for the last hour and was dressed in lacy lingerie and one red sock. And don’t tell her Poppy was gay or that her last not-date was more than three years ago. Or ask Rosalyn if she was gay, or whether she fancied Poppy, or anyone else for that matter. Oh god, the list was long.

Poppy shook her head. “Just behave. Please be good.”

“Of course. What do you think I am?”

“A pre-teen with loose lips and a mischievous streak as wide as Nain.”

Pip gave her naughtiest smile. “I’ll mainly be good,” she said and she skipped out of the room and clattered down the stairs.

Poppy peeped round the corner. In the open doorway, she could see a pair of canvas shoes and shapely legs dressed in jeans.

“Hi Pip. Is Poppy home?”

“Rosalyn. Would you like to come in? Poppy will be down in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

“I like your T shirt and jeans.” Pip shot a brazen grin up the stairs to Poppy.

Rosalyn stepped into the hall and followed Pip’s aim. She paused when she met Poppy’s gaze. “Hi,” she said, a keen smile on her face.

Poppy waved around the doorway, keeping her outfit safely from view.

“I wondered if you fancied a walk.” Rosalyn said. “It’s a beautiful evening and I haven’t been up Moel Gwyrdd for years. What do you think?”

“That sounds lovely,” Poppy said. Her voice was strained, an unfortunate consequence of stretching her head out of the door horizontally. She tried to nod but the effort at the unusual angle resulted in a bizarre rotating head.

“She’s trying to choose something to wear,” Pip said in a knowing way.

“Uhuh.” Rosalyn still only had eyes for Poppy.

“I think she should wear the dress which shows her boobs.”

“Excuse me?” Rosalyn looked at Pip.

“The cream one—”

“Pip,” Poppy growled.

“The one with the neckline down to the bra—”

“Pip. I’m warning you.”

“You must have noticed. I’m sure you did the other day. Even Mrs Morgan—”

“Pip!” Poppy leapt onto the landing, ready to pounce on her sister. Then rather wished she hadn’t. She not so surreptitiously covered the elaborate knickers with one hand and used the other to quieten her breasts which jiggled at the top of her uplifting bra. The underwear was clearly not appropriate for an energetic walk up the hill and a not-date. The one thick red sock, however, was perfect.

“Come like that if you want.” The smile on Rosalyn’s face was broad and devilish.

“I will be with you presently,” Poppy said and did her utmost to make her side-shuffle into the bedroom as dignified as possible.

There was no time to lose. It was a matter of seconds before Pip said something inappropriate at best and mortifying at worst.

Poppy raided the rejects pile for her trusty T shirt and slipped it over her head. A soft pair of jeans, long ago split at the knees, were deemed appropriate after all. But the other red sock proved elusive and minutes later Poppy padded down the stairs, one blue, one red sock at a time.

Pip and Rosalyn’s shadows fell across the open doorway and laughter floated in the air. It was wonderful to hear them chatting, but at the same time terrifying. Poppy hung back watching the pair natter.

“Poppy never does anything wrong.” Pip had a sulky expression on her face.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Mum never has a bad word for her, and Nain is always telling me how ‘Poppy never used to do that’ or ‘Poppy always did her homework, revised, tidied…’” She petered out with a grumble.

“Well, your nain’s being selective with the past. There’s a naughty side to your sister.”

“Really?”

“You know how your nain turns beetroot when she’s cross.”

Pip giggled and nodded.

“Well there’s a shade of fury beyond that.”

“Really?” Pip looked both in awe and horrified.

“Ha. You see. You haven’t been naughty enough to see it. Poppy has.”

“What did she do?” The glee in Pip’s voice was delirious.

Rosalyn lowered her voice and leaned in. “Lied about staying the night at my house.”

“Tut. That’s not exactly rebellious is it?”

“She was fourteen and wanted to see Lucifer Jones at the Fridge in Shrewsbury.”

“Who’s Lucifer Jones?”

“Oh some half-rate goth band your sister used to like. She loved everything from Siouxsie and the Banshees to The Cure.”

Pip curled up her top lip in disbelief. “Really? I’ve never seen any photos of her dressed like a goth.”

“She was a poor excuse for one. You should have seen her. Dressed all in black, with serious dark makeup, but with her shining girl-next-door smile. Hopeless.”

“Wow. So that’s what she listens to with a silly look on her face.”

“Probably.” Rosalyn laughed. “Anyway, your nain wouldn’t let her go. ‘I’m not letting a beautiful young girl like you go to a place like that.’”

Her impression of Nain’s musically indignant accent was perfect. “‘There’ll be lads drinking. And after the devil’s drink there’s not much on a man’s mind apart from sex. Not much before either. But certainly not after a pint.’”

Pip covered her mouth but couldn’t stop her shoulders shaking. “Did she go?” Pip asked between sniggers.

“Oh yes. I suggested we claim we were staying at each other’s houses and thumb a lift to Welshpool for a train.”

Pip tutted. “So you led her astray. I knew it wouldn’t be Poppy’s idea.”

“That is as may be. But I’m not the one who bought ten Cinzano and lemonades.”

“She got drunk?” Pip looked shocked, appalled and pleased at the same time.

“Uhuh. And I’m not the one who was so squiffy I got lost in a loo cubicle and couldn’t find my way out.”

The smile on Pip’s face had broadened into ecstasy.

“I’m not the one who clung to the condom machine for support after being released from the cubicle.”

Pip giggled.

“And I’m not the one who pocketed strips and strips of condoms when the machine crashed off the wall and spilled over the floor.”

“And Nain found out?”

“We managed to get back to Poppy’s room without your nain or parents noticing. And we would have been fine, but there was a trail of blown-up condoms from Wells to your front door.”

“Oh, Poppy.” Pip said the words with slow and delicious relish.

“And reports of your sister singing ‘I fucked a priest and my god I’m in love’ in the square.”

Pip’s sharp intake of breath was audible even at a distance. “But she never swears.”

“Well that’s the power of Cinzano and mediocre goth rock for you.”

Poppy stomped outside, her hands on hips. “Have you quite finished?”

Rosalyn and Pip wore the same expression – mischievous delight.

“The one time I get horribly drunk and you tell my impressionable preteen sister all about it,” Poppy said in despair.

“I don’t think it’s going to lead her astray, Poppy.”

“Really?”

“Pip.” Rosalyn turned to the girl in exaggerated seriousness. “Do you want to see your nain so enraged her face not only turns purple, but has a disturbing grey tinge?”

Pip’s eyes were saucer wide and she shook her head.

“There.”

“Hmm.” Poppy wasn’t convinced.

“Although it should be noted you drank an inadvisable amount of alcohol more than once.”

“At school? I mean, obscenely drunk?”

Rosalyn flushed, and seeming to think the better of it dropped the subject. “Are you ready?”

Poppy tied a jumper around her waist and was about to say yes when she spied Rosalyn’s small rucksack. “How far are we going?”

“Not far, but we could stay until dark to see the meteor shower.”

“Oh, can I come?” Pip started bouncing on the spot.

“No. You need to finish your homework and get an early night.”

“Like you did when you were younger?” Pip arched an insolent eyebrow.

“See what you’ve done?” Poppy accused Rosalyn who only laughed.

“Sorry Pip, I’m afraid Poppy’s right. She always finished her homework. She was the biggest swot. You won’t catch her out on that.”

“Go on,” Pip whined. “I’ll catch up tomorrow.”

“No, Pip. It’s an evening for me and Rosalyn.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a da—”

“No!” Then Poppy softened her tone. “You have school tomorrow and you need sleep.”

Pip did a scowl the envy of either a two-year-old or a fifteen-year-old, Poppy wasn’t sure which, and her sister sloped inside.

“See ya, Rosalyn,” Pip muttered.

When Poppy turned to Rosalyn, she had the feeling she’d been observed a while. Rosalyn’s face had a healthy outdoor glow and her eyes sparkled.

“So, Poppy Jenkins, it’s just you and me.”

“Yes,” Poppy replied, “you and me.” And her stomach did a full-floor gymnastic routine.

Chapter 20.

They ambled along the stony lane beyond the Jenkins’ house and followed the incline to the Green Hill. The grassy peak with crown of beech trees was the highest point of the valley, a beautiful vantage point for appreciating the lush undulating landscape.

It had been a favourite haunt of theirs. They’d scampered around its ancient trees and slid down the slopes on cardboard boxes, the kind of activities that Pip dismissed as kids’ stuff now, but that Poppy had found new joy in when her sister was younger.

“Sorry about Pip. She’s a bit precocious at times.” How quickly she was growing up.

Rosalyn smiled. “Seems normal to me.”

“She’s obsessed with boyfriends and relationships at the moment.”

Rosalyn laughed. “Also normal for that age.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and especially around here. Kids grow up fast. Don’t you remember what it was like?”

Poppy frowned. “How do you mean?”

“No cinema, no public transport, nowhere to go even if there was a bus. There’s nothing but local pubs where they turn a blind eye to the underage, so they get drunk and have sex.”

“I didn’t,” Poppy said. “And Pip certainly isn’t.”

Rosalyn looked serious “Won’t be long though.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t either, but I never fitted in. But remember Dafydd Evans? He lost his virginity when he was, what, twelve or thirteen?”

“Twelve?” The number was punched from Poppy. “I suppose he was mature and as tall as the teachers, but twelve?”

“Some of the girls were the same.”

“Twelve,” Poppy mused, horrified. She shuddered, realising it was only a year away for Pip. She shook her head. “Twelve.”

“I was late at sixteen, and it wasn’t because of lack of inclination. I just never clicked with people round here.”

Poppy flinched at the memory. She’d known exactly when Rosalyn had lost her virginity – the Christmas skiing trip after which Poppy’s life had never been the same. She tried to push the memory aside and soon her panic at Pip’s rising maturity flooded her consciousness again.

“Twelve though.” Poppy stared with disbelief. “I wasn’t anywhere near ready at twelve. Wasn’t I still running around in trunks because I didn’t need a bikini?”

“Face it, for round here, you were odd.” Rosalyn said it in jest, but Poppy was uncomfortable.

“It felt normal for me,” she said. “I wasn’t mature enough for sex at twelve.”

“Exactly. How old were you when you met your first serious boyfriend? And I don’t mean it in a negative way. There wasn’t much choice here. But everyone else boasted several notches on the bedpost by the time we left home.”

Poppy was about to respond when she realised. Boyfriend. There never had been a serious boyfriend. Poppy’s blood chilled. It had reached the point in their acquaintance where she should come out, where being evasive for brevity’s sake was no longer appropriate.

Poppy was unusually hesitant. She was enjoying Rosalyn’s attention and feared introducing an additional level of complexity, which inevitably it would. They’d find their equilibrium again, but Rosalyn was leaving soon. Why upset things?

Poppy breathed in, too uncomfortable about the evasion.

“Rosalyn. I’m—”

“Sorry Poppy. Could you give me a minute?” Rosalyn twisted round for her rucksack and plucked out her mobile which trilled with a classic ring. She strolled a few paces away and talked with a warm familiarity.

Poppy walked on a polite distance, but couldn’t help observing her. Rosalyn curled a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and inclined her head. She smiled as she listened. There was no formality to her posture and at length she sat on the verge. She crossed her legs and picked at blades of grass as she spoke. Friend? Family? Someone special? There was an easiness about her that suggested it wasn’t work. Then she stood.

“All done.” Rosalyn grinned as she approached, tucking her phone into her bag.

Poppy smiled politely.

“It was my boss.”

“Oh.” Poppy was surprised. But the flirtatious portrait had suggested an intimacy beyond the professional with that handsome man.

“We get on well,” Rosalyn said, reading Poppy’s tone. “Sam’s a good friend.” Rosalyn hesitated. “Actually an ex too.”

There. That was her answer. Poppy felt a jolt of disappointment and imagined Rosalyn in the arms of her suave boss, laughing and being tender. She shut down the image for her sanity’s sake.

“Sam’s been great,” Rosalyn started, but hesitated again before taking a deep breath. “I think Sam’s…” Rosalyn looked away for a moment then caught Poppy’s eye. “Sam’s…just been good letting me work here while Dad’s ill.”

Poppy’s heart lurched again. Was the ex about to be current? Is that what Rosalyn was getting at?

Poppy chided herself. Why was she being silly? She was allowing herself a diverting crush on Rosalyn, nothing more. She had no business with jealousy. She collected herself and gave Rosalyn her genuine smile.

“Good,” Poppy said. “I’m glad.”

Rosalyn stared at her with deliberation. For a moment Poppy thought Rosalyn would confide in her, but she cleared her throat to indicate a change of subject.

“I’ve turned my phone off. I don’t like being reachable here. Let’s go to Moel Gwyrdd.” Rosalyn hooked her arm through Poppy’s and they wandered up the hillside.

The sun dipped beyond the horizon at the end of the great valley, the river Rhiw a mercury trail meandering towards the distant sea. The land glowed a rich green and the sky softened to indigo as they reached the earthen ring of the ancient fort.

Rosalyn gazed across the twilight valley, the smile on her face a mix of pain and joy.

“Look at this place. I can remember every curve of this land.” She stretched out her arm. “That copse of trees on the knoll, I always searched for it when we came here. It’s exactly the same. And the church spire in the dell.”

Poppy followed her finger to a group of distant houses, a grey spire piercing what must have been a patch of yews. “Me too.” Poppy grinned.

A sigh of emotion escaped Rosalyn in a rush. “I was in such a hurry to leave, I didn’t realise I loved some things about this place.”

They were silent. Only the flitter of a bat disturbed the stillness. Rosalyn looked pale even in the warm evening light.

“Why didn’t you come back?” Poppy whispered.

Rosalyn still gazed over the valley. “When I left, I didn’t want to think about the place. Then it became a habit. Later, it was surreal to think I’d lived here at all. It was like a different person did the growing up for me and I took over in London.”

It made Poppy uncomfortable, and she realised desolate, to imagine Rosalyn detaching herself from the memories they shared.

“Do you still feel the same way?” she ventured.

Rosalyn frowned “Actually, no. And it’s difficult to accept it was me – that girl who grew up here, for whom times weren’t always nice, and who wasn’t very nice at times.”

Poppy was troubled by the confession. Even though she’d been in denial about her friendship with Rosalyn, burying the shared times good and bad, it still hurt that Rosalyn had done the same, for whatever reason.

Rosalyn turned and smiled. “But look at this.” She swept her hand across the landscape. “This is part of my DNA.”

She sat down and buried her hands deep into the cushioning moss. “I could curl up in this land and sleep in its embrace. It smells right. It feels like mine. The trees and the birds make the same sound I heard a thousand times from my bedroom. I could close my eyes and be ten again, playing hide and seek beneath the trees.”

The sun’s dying light glistened in her eyes, moving and shifting in her tears. “I could lie down content and be consumed by the earth.” She reclined and closed her eyes, a single sparkling tear escaping down her cheek.

Poppy sat beside her, watching her chest rise and fall, quick and full of emotion. Rosalyn’s eyebrows furrowed and her mouth pinched, holding back the flood of memories and feelings that must have consumed her.

Poppy rested her fingers on Rosalyn’s arm, but looked away out of delicacy. She had no idea what tormented Rosalyn. Poppy used to understand her friend. That didn’t mean she could predict what Rosalyn would say, but Poppy always understood her motivation and character. Her comprehension had evaporated in an instant the Christmas of sixth form and Rosalyn’s personality grew opaque and Poppy knew neither what drove her friend or why. And now the grown woman lay beside her, the same enigma, albeit a more friendly one.

“I’m sorry.” Rosalyn squeezed Poppy’s fingers and sat up. “I didn’t mean to be maudlin.” She wiped a tear away and laughed at herself. “Here,” she said, leaning over and taking a weighty bundle of cloth from her rucksack. “Let’s have something cheery to drink.”

Poppy unravelled the bundle and found two cut-glass tumblers inside.

“Isn’t this…?”

Rosalyn grinned. “From mother’s finest set.”

“This feels so naughty,” Poppy said and she giggled.

“I’m afraid I only managed to snaffle a bottle of sloe gin.” And she poured a generous glass of the syrupy liqueur each.

“Here’s to you, Poppy Jenkins. It’s been an unexpected pleasure to find you again.”

“Cheers.” Poppy nervously chinked Rosalyn’s glass and took a sip of the sweet drink. Its fruitiness made her feel like a teenager, easing herself into alcohol before trying the bitter flavours of the adult drinks.

“I’m sorry for telling Pip about the night at the Fridge,” Rosalyn said.

“It’s ok. I imagine it’s done her the world of good to hear of my less than perfect past.” Poppy took another sip and regarded Rosalyn over her glass. “I’m surprised you remembered that night.”

“Why? For a start, how could I forget you blowing up a hundred condoms at four o’clock in the morning?”

Poppy brought her knees up and cuddled them with her arms. “You know, it was the best night of my teenage years, the bits I recall.”

Rosalyn laughed. “I remember it clearly. In fact the most lucid part was watching you dance, after you’d begged me to buy another bloody Cinzano because I looked the oldest.” She stared, recalling the moment. “You lit up the place – that dark, dingy twilight, with hunched melancholy goths glowering at their shoes. There you were, in the middle of the heaving mass, beaming skywards in the white spotlight, your eyes closed in rapture and hands weaving in ecstasy.” Rosalyn turned to Poppy and smiled. “You looked divine.”

It hadn’t just been the best night of Poppy’s teenage years. There’d never been a moment as free, blissful or euphoric. It had been one of the best nights of her life.

Poppy smiled in response, not wanting Rosalyn to realise its status in her heart. But Rosalyn had remembered it. That was a surprise in itself.

Rosalyn turned away and topped up their glasses, sparing Poppy a response.

“By the way, Pip’s brilliant. I like her very much.” Rosalyn passed back Poppy’s glass. “I bet being a bright teen with your nain on the prowl, it’s nice having a sympathetic big sister to banter with.”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Yes, she does have irritating little sister syndrome at the moment. But it’s not always like that. Other times,” Poppy was wistful, “she’s like a daughter – the daughter I’ll never have.”

“Never have?” Rosalyn was confused.

“I’ve given up hope of having a family,” Poppy said lightly. She was more than used to the admission.

“Why?”

Poppy hesitated, not wanting to admit how long it had been since her last romance, or its nature. “Let’s say, the chances of meeting someone local, or meeting someone who wants to settle here, are minimal.”

“Well yes. There aren’t many people of your calibre here.”

“Don’t start that again.” Poppy laughed, remembering their heated argument walking into Wells, and she nudged Rosalyn’s arm. “I’m being realistic.”

Rosalyn still looked shocked. “But you had such a clear vision of a family. I remember you sitting on the veranda of the old hunting lodge. Do you remember?”

Poppy did. The hunting lodge beyond Rhiw Hall’s woods had been Poppy’s favourite part of the Thorn’s estate and a regular haunt of theirs. It was a Victorian weatherboard house, with a cosy sitting room, veranda and small wings for the bedrooms. They used to lounge in the sun for hours, Rosalyn dreaming of elsewhere, Poppy dreaming of a future where they sat.

“Didn’t you want a house like that – stove roaring in winter, the veranda doors flung open in summer, two, three, four kids?” Rosalyn grinned. “And someone to love and share it all?”

Poppy blushed and hoped Rosalyn couldn’t discern it in the dying light. “Yes, that’s right.”

“I used to laugh at you, didn’t I?”

Poppy couldn’t see Rosalyn’s expression but her tone was apologetic.

“I’m sorry I ridiculed you. It sounded such a simple and mundane dream back then.” She turned to Poppy. “But it’s the hardest thing in the world – finding a person who completes you, then loving and supporting each other well enough to raise a happy family.”

“Is that what you want?” Poppy asked.

“Me? No. I dismissed that so long ago I haven’t thought about it. But,” she paused and became pensive, “perhaps, I do miss it. The ache and longing for that kind of dream has grown. So I understand what you craved, and how you must long for it.”

They’d moved closer as they talked, the darkness closing around them and a chill thrilling the night-time air. Their legs touched, and their bodies warmed together as they stared over the landscape deepening into black. Rosalyn sighed and slid her arm through Poppy’s and pulled her closer, her breast nestled in the cradle of Poppy’s arm.

Poppy closed her eyes luxuriating in the intimacy.

“Sorry Poppy. I wasn’t thinking.” Rosalyn snatched her hand away.

“I didn’t mind,” Poppy stuttered. “Why would I?”

She couldn’t see Rosalyn’s features clearly, but her silhouette was tense and rigid.

“Poppy.” Her voice was tight. “There’s something I should say.” She paused, her breath rasping in the silence. “I…I owe you an explanation. About what happened. It’s long overdue, and—”

“Would it change anything?” The calmness of her own voice surprised Poppy. Perhaps it was the liqueur, perhaps it was the treat of Rosalyn’s company. Whatever the cause, she continued. “Please think whether it would change anything.”

She stared at Rosalyn through the dusk, discerning the same intense look in reflection.

“Regrettably,” Rosalyn murmured. “I don’t think it would.”

Poppy couldn’t distinguish Rosalyn’s expression in the darkness. It slipped and blurred in the shadows. Was it sadness? Longing?

“Then don’t tell me,” Poppy murmured. “If it doesn’t change anything, please don’t say it.” Poppy’s heart thudded in her chest. “I think you did owe me an explanation at one time. But if it accomplishes nothing but sadness please don’t tell me now.”

Rosalyn didn’t move.

“I like being here with you,” Poppy said fondly. “Just be here. Stay and watch the stars with me. Please?”

Still Rosalyn did not flinch.

“Please don’t spoil it. This is the loveliest evening I’ve had in a long time.” Poppy blushed in the darkness at her admission and feared Rosalyn might laugh or recoil.

But she whispered, “Me too.”

Poppy lay down and rested her hands over Rosalyn’s arm, and after a moment Rosalyn sank next to her.

“Let’s watch the stars,” Rosalyn said.

Poppy smiled, happy in the intimacy, and they nestled together. She could smell Rosalyn’s familiar scent. It must have been such mundane things as the washing liquid her mother used, or soap, or the general aroma of the Hall that had returned Rosalyn to her childhood familiarity, but it was a comforting perfume.

Poppy closed her eyes and could have been lying in bed, snuggled behind Rosalyn for another sleepover. She became hazy in Rosalyn’s embrace. Waves of content sleep swirled in her head and she stared up at the skies, not knowing whether the stars burned across the sky or she dreamed them.

When her eyes snapped open it was dark. A half moon had turned the world a dull silver and cool dew kissed her face. She shuffled and untangled her arms from Rosalyn’s as they both surfaced.

“What time is it?” Rosalyn’s drowsy face lit up in the glare of her phone. “Just gone two.”

The world was darker still with the light extinguished and they stumbled as they grew accustomed to the moonlight once more.

Rosalyn took Poppy’s arm. “Let’s get you home.”

They strolled down the sparkling hillside. Every so often a streak of meteor scorched the night and they smiled at the beauty of the natural fireworks all the way to the small-holding.

“I need to get back too.” Rosalyn grinned. “In case my mother stayed up.” She leant forward. “Good night, Poppy,” and Rosalyn kissed her on the cheek with a soft and sweet caress, the kind of kiss that tingles from your head to your toes and all the places in between.

“Good night,” Poppy whispered.

As she watched Rosalyn’s silhouette merge into the darkness, she congratulated herself on not being overtly lustful.

But this was small consolation for her growing regard for Rosalyn. She was now in danger of being horribly smitten. And Poppy realised her crush was snowballing, and perhaps indulging this infatuation with someone she shared the most intimate and intense part of childhood was not the best of ideas.

It was fortunate indeed that, in a few days, Rosalyn would be leaving.

Chapter 21.

“Two weeks? Rosalyn’s staying two more weeks?”

David smiled. The right side of his face didn’t yet show the same amusement, but he was regaining control over his features. “I thought you’d be pleased. Actually I thought you would have known.”

“No.” Poppy managed to hide none of her horror at the revelation. “Sorry, let’s keep going.” She gripped his arm and set off with determination towards the woods.

He seemed much improved, either by physical recovery or a calmer outlook. She’d found him waiting on the metal bench beside the back door, hands resting on his walking stick, eager to reach the brow of the hill behind Rhiw Hall.

They took another step forward then a break. “But you have spoken, since she got back?” he said.

“Yes, I spent yesterday evening with her.”

“Ah good. Rosalyn did say she intended seeing you.”

“Why is she staying longer?”

“Not a clue. She’s helped us over the worst of my illness, and I’d love her to stay as long as she likes. But I don’t know. Do you?”

Poppy shook her head.

“We’re not much of a friend or father are we,” he said smiling. “It seems neither of us knows my daughter.”

They giggled at the absurdity.

“Is she close to anyone you know?” Poppy asked.

“We’ve met a friend or two in passing, but we’ve hardly seen her for years.”

“What do you mean? I realise she’s not been home, but I assumed you visited her in London.”

He took another lurch forward, but needed the stick for support and clung to Poppy for balance.

“We did, on occasion. But…” He stopped again to take breath. “She always kept us at arms’ length. She would meet us at a restaurant or perhaps take in a play, but she never invited us home. I tell a lie,” he said. “When she moved into the flat, we did a viewing with her and I put down the deposit. She couldn’t afford it on her salary at the time, but we were never invited back.”

“From when?”

His face sagged in sorrow. “Ever since she left home.”

Poppy stared at him in disbelief. She’d never thought Rosalyn would spurn her parents, but it seemed she’d abandoned them as much as she had Poppy.

“Why?” she gasped.

He shook his head. “Truthfully, I don’t know.”

A frown dogged his forehead as they inched up the hill. Five steps forward, a rest. Two steps forward, and a word of reassurance from Poppy. On they climbed, so absorbed by their progress that when the land fell away at the crest of the hill it took them by surprise.

“We’re here.” Poppy beamed. “We’ve done it.” And she squeezed David’s arm.

His face was full of wonderment, as if seeing the land for the first time. Green ridges, small coppices and swathes of undulating pasture flowed as far as the eye could see. The hidden valley was unmarred by road or trail and only a silver stream searched its way through the terrain. Nestled at the bottom of the hill, through the flowering meadow, was the old hunting lodge.

“Good,” he said. “It’s good to see this. My world doesn’t feel so small anymore.”

Poppy smiled, elated by his achievement and also at the glimpse of the cherished lodge.

David leant heavily on Poppy.

“Should we rest?” she asked.

He nodded and Poppy eased him onto the lush grass and sat beside him. He stared at the landscape, his expression troubled by the exertion and their conversation.

“You know, I grew up in the Black Country.”

“No, I didn’t,” Poppy said. She couldn’t detect a Midlands accent in his voice.

“I grew up in a tiny house by the canal – one bedroom for Mum, with me and my brother in the attic. I spent the whole time dreaming of better places and worked my socks off at school to get out.”

He paused to look over the meadow one way and the woodland and Hall buildings the other side. “I couldn’t believe how fortunate we were to buy this place. It needed money from Lillian’s family, but it was my salary that paid the mortgage. I was so proud I’d bought my little Rosalyn a dream home.”

He paused, sorrow pulling at his features. “It broke my heart when she never came home. Not even at Christmas and the Hall could be so magical then; do you remember?”

Poppy nodded, recalling the times she’d ventured in: traditional decorations of holly wreaths, oranges and spices on every wall and a towering Christmas tree in the stairwell that stood two floors high so Rosalyn had to place the angel from the top landing.

“Compared with a little brick house and a coal barge outside, I thought this place paradise. I dreamt she’d have kids of her own here one day. But it seems she did the same as me – sat around dreaming of better places.”

Poppy frowned and started to reassure him.

“I don’t blame Rosalyn.” He raised his hand to dismiss excuses. “I wasn’t a good father – a loving one, but too often absent. I thought it best, giving her this wonderful house in a beautiful country. But I was always at work and I didn’t appreciate how unhappy she was until it was too late and she no longer confided in me. “

“If it’s any consolation,” Poppy said, “at the end, I don’t think she confided in anyone.”

David nodded. “I know. Although I’m afraid to say I, or at least Lillian, did blame you initially.”

“Why?” Poppy blurted out.

He laughed gently. “We had this beautiful hall and estate, and all Rosalyn wanted was to run around in the mud on your mother’s small-holding or sleep over in your tiny house. It drove Lillian insane.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“And why should you? You were simply being the best friend Rosalyn ever had. But when Rosalyn refused to see you, I suspected you’d hurt her in some way. I couldn’t think of any other reason.”

Poppy frowned. “I’ve tried to remember what I did wrong, but...” She looked to David and found sympathy in his eyes.

“I know. I saw you come to find Rosalyn at the Hall after our Christmas ski holiday. I was furious with you. Whatever you’d done had made her more remote and hellish to live with. But when I saw you,” he looked guilty, “it was clear you were as ignorant as we were.”

He gripped Poppy’s fingers and shook them with the force of one truly repentant. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you. I heard Lillian being cruel and did nothing to stop it. I should have come down and explained.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Poppy said. “It was an awful time for everyone. And people tend to behave unkindly when they’re hurt.”

David gave her a grim smile in agreement. “You know, I’d wondered if there was something wrong the previous summer. Rosalyn stayed at the Hall instead of sleeping over with you.”

Poppy nodded. She remembered it too.

“I thought,” he said, “perhaps she was worried about exams and needed her sleep, but it continued afterwards.”

A swirl of nauseating doubt disturbed Poppy’s belly. Was that the start of Rosalyn’s withdrawal? Poppy had always believed it a sudden change, but David was right, there were earlier signs.

“Sharing a bed at this age. It’s unnatural.” Lillian’s voice shrieked through Poppy’s memory. Her delivery was so venomous Poppy twitched away from David.

“Was there anything else?” Poppy stammered, more to cover up her alarm than curious to find out. If anything she feared his answer.

“To my shame, yes. She begged to leave Wells High School and attend sixth form college instead.”

“I didn’t know that,” Poppy said, doubt curdling more.

“I dismissed her request as snobbery. Too often she disrespected the locals.” He looked at Poppy. “I’ve lost my accent, but hope I’m not disparaging of my roots. I didn’t want the grime of the Black Country, as it was back then, for Rosalyn but I didn’t lose my respect for the people. My mother was a bright woman and worked hard for us. There were plenty more like her.”

“How did Rosalyn take it?” Poppy managed to keep her tone steady although her heart thumped in her chest.

“It was awful. She ranted and railed against me. Then I realised later she descended into silence. I’m not sure we’ve had a real conversation, about anything of worth, since.”

He was drained by the confession.

They sat in silence, the brilliant day a stark contrast to their mood.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Poppy murmured.

“So am I,” David replied. “I thought you made a formidable pair. You seemed to support each other more than an average friendship, and I felt Rosalyn’s loss. When it was too late, I realised she needed someone like you, especially growing up here, and I wish I’d encouraged you more.”

Poppy tried to smile but remained pensive. “I think,” she said at last, “we’d better head back.”

He nodded and Poppy helped him to his feet. He breathed in and looked over the landscape one more time. “How could she not love this place?”

She shook her head. The valley and lodge held a special place in her heart and it was beyond her imagination why anyone should shun the place. “Is it good to see it again?” she asked, hoping to remind him of his achievement.

“Yes,” he said, pride and determination returning to his voice. “Thank you, Poppy. I’m grateful for your help and company. I’m sorry I’ve been sombre.”

“No need. I’m happy to help. And I can come again next week if you wish.”

He nodded and squeezed her arm with grateful force and they turned back towards the Hall.

Poppy’s head spun and conflicting thoughts paralysed her mind. She’d never appreciated the changes in Rosalyn before that Christmas. But David was right, it had started earlier. Had Rosalyn suspected Poppy’s inclination, Lillian’s vitriol sowing the seeds of doubt? Perhaps she’d realised Poppy was a lesbian before even Poppy.

But what did Rosalyn think now?

Chapter 22.

Two more weeks.

Poppy mused in silence as she walked with Pip into Wells.

Two more weeks of swooning over Rosalyn Thorn, now coupled with the fear that she disapproved of Poppy’s lesbianism. This was in no way a winning combination.

Poppy bid farewell to her sister at the bridge and marched up the square, a new determination in her step.

She wouldn’t stand this torment any longer. Not a moment longer. The very next time Poppy saw Rosalyn she would tell her she was gay. Not about the massive crush she had on her. But she would definitely tell her she was gay. No messing.

Poppy stepped through the shop door, shoulders back, head up high.

“Rosalyn’s upstairs,” her mother said.

“Here? Now?” Poppy’s determination wavered. She wasn’t that ready to tell her.

“Yes,” her mother replied with an indulgent smile. “There’s no rush. She’s reading the paper over a coffee. Although,” her mother looked towards the ceiling, “it’s busy for this time of morning – at least three tables as well as Rosalyn and Geraint.”

“Ok,” Poppy said, trying to steady her resolve. Emma disappeared into the studio and Poppy took a deep breath.

Right. She could do this.

“Rosalyn,” she practised. “I’ve never… I’m…. um…. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Like a serious boyfriend. You know with…,” she found herself doing something odd with her fingers, twirling them around each other representing god knows what sexual practice. “Ugh,” Poppy said as she flapped her fingers straight.

“I’ve never, ever, nowhere near in fact, you know, done it, with a man. By which I mean sleep. Or not sleep but, more accurately, had sex.” She said sex in a peculiar whispery way that sounded more like “saygz”. She shuddered, feeling squeamish about whatever ordeal that meant. Try again.

“I like women. I love women. Really love women. Kissing them. And much more. So much more.” Poppy slapped her hands over her face. She needed to stop beating around the bush, so to speak.

She clenched her fists and screwed up her eyes. “Rosalyn, I’m a lesbian. A massive lesbian. One who hasn’t had sex for three years. Three. Whole. Years. Not even a kiss. Which may account for this massive crush on you. Not helped by your sumptuous breasts and peachy bum. And it’s driving me a bit crazy, so imagine what I’ll be like in two weeks’ time. So, please forgive me when I stare at you with no higher brain functioning.”

There. That pretty much covered it.

“Very nice sweetheart, but I think the customers would just like a coffee.”

“Mum.” Poppy snapped open her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come back in.”

“Stick with the first line.” Her mother smiled. “You’ll be fine.”

Poppy’s cheeks flushed deep pink – a habit with all things Rosalyn Thorn. But this time, she was saved from further parental scrutiny by the shop phone trilling on the counter. Her mother answered and Poppy scuttled to the stairs.

“It’s for you sweetheart,” Emma called before Poppy could escape, and she held out the receiver.

“For me?”

Emma nodded, her eyes bright with excitement. Poppy descended the stairs cautiously. She never received phone calls at the shop. Her mother handled the orders and all personal calls came to her mobile.

“Hello?” Poppy spoke into the old-fashioned handset.

“Oh hello,” a well-spoken male voice replied. “Could you tell me if you have a table free on Saturday?”

“A table free?” asked Poppy.

“Yes a table for four.”

Poppy was none the wiser as to who the caller was or their purpose. “Do you want to borrow a table that seats four?”

“No,” the caller replied, now also perplexed. “I want to book a table for Saturday lunch. I realise it’s short notice, but I love the sound of your establishment.”

“You want to book a table?”

“I do.”

“To eat?”

“Indeed.”

“To eat here?”

“Yes, is there a problem?”

It had taken some time but at last the penny was plummeting earthwards.

“No. Yes. I mean, of course you can book a table.” A great smile spread across her face. “A table for four. Thank you very much for booking.” Poppy was so startled and elated she almost put the phone down.

“Sorry,” she blurted “What time? Could you leave a name? How many people?”

She mouthed to her mother “We’ve got a booking” and she grinned wildly as her mother scrabbled for a pen and paper.

“Could you tell me where you heard about us?” Poppy asked. She was distracted from the answer by an attractive pair of legs in jeans descending the stairs.

“Sorry, what was that? A blog did you say?”

Again her attention wandered as Rosalyn’s face appeared with eyes only for Poppy. “A booking?” Rosalyn whispered.

Poppy nodded manically.

“Brilliant,” Rosalyn mouthed. Her pleasure was so genuine Poppy filled with a warm glow.

“Sorry, a food blog? Could I write that down please?” Poppy fumbled for the pen from her mother and started to scribble, her attention divided between listening, writing and seeing Rosalyn leave the shop.

Rosalyn turned and waved, “See you later,” and stepped out of the shop.

Poppy replaced the handset and stared at her mother. She was filled with joy at the phone call and dread at seeing Rosalyn leave. “We have our first ever booking.”

“Well done, sweetheart,” she said and Emma kissed her on the cheek. “We have a bit of luck at last.”

Poppy grinned, a mix of euphoria and nerves.

“Did they say where they’d heard of us?”

“Some blog that reviews restaurants in Wales and Shropshire.” Poppy’s eyes flicked towards the door. “I’ll look it up at home,” she said, then she forced her attention back to her mother. “Isn’t it brilliant?”

Her mother nodded with pride on her face.

Now. All Poppy had to do was talk to Rosalyn – just the simple business of coming out to the woman who broke her young heart and now reduced her to a jelly of hormones.

“Go on,” her mother said with a kind look. “Go and tell Rosalyn. I’ll cover while you’re gone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure you need to talk to her.”

Poppy fumbled with her apron, nervous hands incapable of untying a simple bow. “I won’t be long.” Oh god, this might be swift indeed. “I think I won’t be long.”

Her mother stroked her cheek. “Take as long as you need. I’ll be here whatever happens.”

The knot in her apron resisted her agitated hands and Poppy wriggled it over her bottom. She skipped out of the cloth. “I’ll be back,” she shouted, already breathless with nerves.

Poppy leapt out the door and whipped her head round to spot her friend. Rosalyn had almost left the square and was heading past the shop. Poppy skipped over the cobbles onto the paving then sprinted up the road. Rosalyn dipped out of sight and Poppy pushed herself harder, her feet slapping on the stone slabs.

Nothing. When she reached the corner, there was no-one. Poppy stood panting, looking along every avenue. There was no sign of Rosalyn heading out of town and only an elderly couple wound up the path towards the castle.

The shop door opened with a clanging bell and a customer emerged from inside. For a moment Poppy caught Dai’s voice booming through the air. “Rosalyn Thorn. So, again, you’ve found a use for my humble shop.”

Poppy dived inside before the door shut and scuttled behind an aisle of baked beans and tinned pilchards. In front of the rows of tiny fish, she panted in rasping gasps, not a picture of decorum. She took a deep lungful, held her breath and felt her hyperventilation calm.

But her cheeks glowed and her forehead flushed, as did her neck, until her entire head blazed. She fanned her face with desperate hands, but the exertion made her roast hotter still.

She would have to wait for her body to recover, then she would calmly ask Rosalyn to accompany her for a stroll. She breathed out.

“Me and Poppy married?” Dai’s laugh reverberated around the shop. “When you first arrived, you thought Poppy and I were married?”

Oh god.

“I’d be so lucky. And every man in the village would agree.”

“So how does she stay single in the midst of all you admiring beaus?” Rosalyn’s voice was full of amusement.

“Well, Poppy’s special isn’t she.”

Oh god oh god oh god. Poppy squeezed her eyes tight and her fingers into fists, as if it would protect her from the impending outing.

“See,” Dai sounded thoughtful, “Poppy’s a very unassuming girl. And she may skip around the village happy as a daffodil, but she needs…”

Poppy squeezed her eyes tighter.

“…someone special. I think Poppy knows that.”

Poppy breathed out. That was a narrow escape. She peeped around the end of the aisle. Dai looked distant and Rosalyn regarded him with a quizzical expression.

“Although she’s the most easy-going girl in the world,” Dai continued, “with a kind word for everyone, even you like, I think she realises she needs someone extraordinary if it’s for the rest of her life.”

“And that’s not you?” Rosalyn laughed.

“No. I’m not the worst catch in the world like, but Poppy needs someone, I don’t know, bright—”

“Well that’s you out straight away.”

“Now hang on, Rosalyn Thorn. Not all of us made university, but that doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”

Poppy could have clapped. Good for you, Dai Edwards.

“Then, they’d have to be generous, every bit as supportive as she is of everyone else. Vivacious—”

“Vivacious? Big word for a country man,” Rosalyn mocked.

Poppy bristled and wouldn’t have blamed Dai for retaliating, but he ignored Rosalyn this time.

“And a woman of course. It would have to be a woman.”

Oh god. There it was. Rosalyn knew. Poppy’s stomach leapt about her body and settled somewhere in her oesophagus, where it really shouldn’t have been.

And there was silence. A horrible deafening silence.

Neither said a word and Rosalyn was far from goading now. Her face was pale and she stared at Dai. “What did you say?”

“Poppy’s gay.”

“What?” Rosalyn whispered.

“Poppy’s a lesbian.” Dai sounded confused. “You do have those in London, don’t you?”

Rosalyn was looking away, her face still pallid. “Err…Yes. Of course we have those.”

Dai puffed out his chest and raised fists to his hips. “Now I hope you don’t have a problem with gays. You won’t find anyone here who does, especially with Poppy. We’d all love to see her happily married to a woman.”

Poppy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – at Dai’s heart-felt defence or Rosalyn’s shock.

“But…does everyone know?” Rosalyn stuttered.

“Of course.” Dai’s voice pitched up an octave. “Why would she hide it? No-one dislikes Poppy for being a lesbian. In fact, I won’t hear a bad word said about any lesbian.”

“Really?” Rosalyn derided. She seemed to be recovering.

“Not in my village.” Dai lifted his chin in pride.

“Not everyone’s as angelic as Poppy you know.” Rosalyn’s confidence and ironic tone were back in force. “Evil lesbians exist too.”

Poppy slumped behind the aisle, head in hands. Rosalyn’s reaction couldn’t be much worse.

“Don’t be daft,” Dai said, his tone sharper. “Of course there aren’t evil lesbians.”

“I’m just saying some lesbians can be as vile as some heterosexuals, and defending every lesbian is nonsense.”

“And I’m just saying there’s nothing inherently evil about lesbians, so why would there be evil ones. There may be bad people who also happen to be lesbians.”

“So what exactly is your problem with my term?” Rosalyn snapped.

Dai didn’t waver. “You can say an evil person is also a lesbian, but the other way round is derogatory isn’t it. It implies there’s something intrinsically wrong with being a lesbian.”

Poppy’s heart swelled with pride at Dai’s defence of her sexuality and, in the process, his own intellect as a country boy. But Rosalyn’s reaction couldn’t be more heart-breaking.

“I think you’re splitting hairs,” Rosalyn retorted.

“And I think you have a deep-seated bigotry. It’s like when blokes use ‘stupid woman’. They’re not only calling a woman stupid. They’re using bigotry against her gender in the term too.”

“And when did you become so enlightened, Dai Edwards?” Rosalyn spoke with cutting vitriol.

Dai hesitated, then said, “When I became best friends with Poppy Jenkins.”

Ouch. Even Poppy felt that one.

Rosalyn’s face was ashen. Her lips had been on the cusp of issuing another barbed comment, but it had been wrenched away by Dai’s reminder of her sixth form treatment of Poppy.

“Well played, Dai,” Rosalyn murmured. “Well played.”

She reached into her pocket and left two pound coins on the counter. “Keep the change.” And she tucked a loaf of bread under her arm.

Poppy ducked behind the aisle and held her breath. Rosalyn blasted past, the air gusting Poppy’s long hair. The bell on the door clanged as Rosalyn wrenched it open and again when it slammed shut.

And she was gone.

Chapter 23.

When Dai dipped into the store room, Poppy eased open the shop door and crept outside. She wandered towards the square, her limbs clumsy and numb. Her heart felt like it would collapse all over again with grief.

“What are you doing?”

Poppy swallowed sharply. The sixth form Christmas party. Who’d said that? Was it her own voice?

“What are you doing?” The memory and voice impinged again.

It was dark by the dance floor of the hotel bar. The red swirling carpet was sticky with beer under foot and cheap disco lights leant the room a green glow. Poppy was drunk, very drunk. Her head spun and she pulled on Rosalyn’s shirt as she stumbled. Poppy could see her bra where the button ripped away, her pale breast perfect inside. Poppy stared. Had she touched?

Poppy covered her mouth and gasped into her fingers with great panicking breaths. What had she done?

The memory was clearer now. They were in a dark corner behind the speakers of the DJ’s set. Angels reverberated through the room. Between the speakers, she could see couples swaying on the dance floor, clumsily snogging, groping and blushing. Could anyone see them?

Her lips were on Rosalyn’s. Just for a moment they’d brushed together. How could she have overlooked that? Had she been saying goodbye – a farewell kiss before the holidays? They kissed on the cheek every day without thinking and surely Poppy had slipped in her drunken stupor.

Poppy closed her eyes trying to recall. She pictured her lips on Rosalyn’s again, but she couldn’t move the memory forward. Was it just that moment? Please say she was kissing Rosalyn goodbye.

Cold dread gripped inside and Poppy clutched her stomach.

“What are you doing?”

Poppy knew the words and crumpled with their implication. It must have been Rosalyn speaking. She looked angry and stood tall as Poppy clutched her arms and snatched at her shirt. But Poppy laughed in response. Rosalyn thrust her to the floor and with one last agonised glance back disappeared into the darkness.

“Oh god.”

Poppy stumbled to a bench in the square. She slumped onto the seat and buried her head in her hands, overwhelmed by the memory.

She concentrated on breathing. A long draw in and cool air whistled between her fingers. Out, and moist breath flowed in her hands. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but the sensation, in and out, until her thoughts were still.

The memory had been buried deeper than most. It was the Christmas party before Rosalyn left for her ski trip and the last time they were friends. Poppy had hidden the moment along with all of that Christmas, wrapped up in a box to protect her from the pain. She’d opened it a little, and peeked inside, but she hadn’t been prepared for that night to burst out.

In and out, she breathed again.

Whenever that memory had broken the surface of consciousness, she’d always assumed Rosalyn abhorred her drunken state and looked at Poppy pawing for support with disdain. But there must have been more. Perhaps that brushing of the lips had been a forceful kiss. Perhaps Poppy had tried again.

Poppy slumped lower with realisation. This was it. This must be why she’d been discarded – a drunken and clumsy surfacing of her sexuality. And now Rosalyn knew it wasn’t an experiment, it had been a true reflection of Poppy’s disposition.

Poppy’s mind raced. She tried to reason that the grown Rosalyn was a bright, liberal woman, if anything someone who’d defend gay rights. But Poppy’s heart ached and her stomach turned with fear. And the thought of Rosalyn walking out of her life again overpowered her.

She covered her face, ready for despair to engulf her, when a comforting arm wrapped around her. An always familiar and welcome figure squeezed beside her.

“Oh, Mum,” Poppy gasped.

Emma gazed at her with love and sympathy and held her tight.

“I didn’t even talk to her. Dai let it out. I heard them.”

Her mother squeezed her tighter. “And what did she say?”

“Nothing. She didn’t have to. Her face said it all. She couldn’t have been more horrified.”

Emma squeezed her in a soft embrace and rocked her gently. “It was probably a surprise. I’m sure she’ll settle when you meet again. Just talk to her. She’ll see you for the lovely woman you are and always have been.”

Although her mother meant to reassure her, Poppy’s spirits sank deeper. “I don’t think she will. You should have seen her.” Rosalyn’s sickened, pale face wasn’t a reaction that would be mollified by a friendly chat.

“Who knows what Rosalyn’s thinking or why she reacted that way. But that’s why you need to talk to her.”

Poppy remained silent. A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach at the memory of the party. She was ashamed of drunkenly lunging at Rosalyn and didn’t want to admit the clumsy fit of passion to her mother.

Emma stroked her hair. “Go home,” she murmured. “I’ll shut the shop. People can pay upstairs if they’re desperate.”

Poppy sat up and shook her head. “No, I’m not leaving you in the lurch, Mum.” She wiped her tears away and sniffed. “It’s busy today.”

“Then go home early. You get Pip from school and I’ll close up.”

Poppy nodded. She looked at her mother’s beautiful wide face, with its lines from years of anxiety, laughter, creation and love. Her expression spoke of all-consuming concern for Poppy and steadfast support.

Poppy smiled at her mother with tearful gratitude. She lifted her hand to Emma’s soft cheek, the way she’d cradled it when small enough to sit on her knee.

“Thank you Mum,” she said. “Thank you for always being there.”

Pip was mercifully quiet on the way home and seemed content to dwell inside her own head. For once, Poppy was happy to leave her there, rather than tease out her troubles. But she held her sister’s hand, as much for her own comfort as Pip’s.

When they arrived home, however, Nain was far from peaceful.

“Have you seen The Shropshire Express?” She brandished the weekly newspaper aloft, while remaining spread on the sofa. “She’s been at it again. Mark my words.”

Poppy winced, in no mood for one of Nain’s tirades. She looked to her father, but he rolled his eyes and hid behind the Racing Post.

Poppy slumped her shoulders, anticipating exhausting exasperation. “What’s that, Nain?”

“Look.” Nain pointed her translucent finger to a headline. “Fraud! Two council officers suspended.”

Poppy frowned to concentrate on the article and attempted to follow Nain’s train of thought. “Is it anyone we know?”

Nain’s pudgy finger traced down to a list of names.

“Gareth Jones?” Poppy raised her weary eyebrows. “That could be any of three hundred people we know.”

Nain raised her finger. “It isn’t. It’s that boy in your year. Ginger-haired lad with so many freckles it was easier to count the white spaces in between.”

Poppy remembered. He’d been a surly boy at school who kept his distance even when she’d been cordial.

“And him?” Nain’s finger jabbed into the paper again.

“Glyn Owen?” Again, there were a few of those.

“That’s another boy in your year.”

“Which one?”

“Glyn Owen Buwch, not Glyn Owen Coch”

“Dairy farmer’s boy,” Poppy said with recognition. Poor lad. Cow Glyn Owen as opposed to Red Glyn Owen from the post office.

“That’s the one.”

“Oh,” Poppy said. She couldn’t recall much about him. He was another boy who’d kept to himself. Perhaps he’d hung around with Gareth Jones, she couldn’t remember.

“What have they been accused of?” Poppy asked.

“Taking back-handers.” Nain tutted. “Likely tale.”

“Do you think they’re innocent?”

“Of course.” Nain’s voice shrieked up a pitch. “Don’t you remember them? Voices like angels when they were young? Singing in the choir at church?”

Poppy shook her head.

“Well why would you remember? You hardly ever made a service. Heathens the lot of you.” She aimed the accusation at the whole room, and Iwan raised his paper a notch. “Good as gold those two. I remember the boys from when I used to clean the church. They always asked if I needed help after the service.”

“You sure they weren’t trying to nick money from the collection?” Pip grinned and Poppy’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Don’t you tar them with the same brush Philippa Jenkins. Just because that’s the kind of sinful racket you’d think of.”

“So what’s happened?” Poppy enquired more to defend Pip than out of interest.

“Well listen to this.” Nain squinted into her bifocals. “The officers have been suspended while a complaint is investigated. A member of the public raised concern that a disproportionate number of planning applications have been accepted and fast-tracked in Welshpool, while villages and smaller towns nearby have been mired in multiple applications and assessments.”

“And have they found evidence?” Poppy shrugged, wondering what specifically had irked her grandmother.

Nain’s gaze pierced Poppy like dumb prey. “‘A member of the public’? Two boys from your class?” Her stare was unwavering. “Now who do we know who likes stirring up trouble?”

“Rosalyn,” Pip breathed with glee.

Poppy could feel her colour drain away. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Oh, Nain. That’s quite a leap.”

“It’s her I tell you.”

“Is she going to burn something?” Pip was almost leaping up and down.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. If those two are released, I’d bet the church fund on her exacting retribution.”

Poppy slumped onto a wooden footstool beside her father, while Pip bounced up and down and Nain expounded her theory. This was the last thing Poppy needed this evening.

Her father’s hand squeezed her shoulder.

“Hi, Dad,” she whispered and she gave him a fatigued look.

“Come with me, cariad.” He smiled.

They quietly left their seats and Poppy followed him to the kitchen. Iwan reached into his tool box by the door and drew out a short piece of beech wood, triangular in cross section. He pinched the ends between his fingers and presented a smooth face to Poppy.

“A little bird told me someone had her first booking today.”

He rolled the piece of wood so letters appeared on the revealed facet.

Poppy’s mood brightened immediately. “A reserved sign.” She grinned.

He handed the bevelled wood to her, still dusty from its final smoothing with flour paper.

She turned it in her hands, over and over, stroking along the curling grooves of the letters. He’d gouged the letters by hand and the flecked and smooth finish of the beech wood made the object appealing in itself.

“Oh, Dad.” Poppy looked at her father, a tear in her eye. “I love it.” And she clasped it to her heart.

“Well done, cariad.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad it’s cheered you a little.”

Chapter 24.

Poppy watched sheets of rain glistening in the morning light. The sun and clouds had been battling beyond her bedroom porthole since she’d stirred. She had no intention of moving and watched sparkling rivulets of water explore down the pane.

She’d been half-conscious of Pip and Nain’s rumblings when leaving for school and Iwan’s deeper voice chatting to Emma. Now it would be just her mother downstairs, the shop and café shut for the day.

Poppy was glad she’d snuggled up in her favourite pyjamas. The faithful set of red-checked brushed cottons were the comfort she needed, and she clasped the duvet under her chin for extra warmth.

She was drifting off again, when there was a quiet knock at the door and her mother’s head peeped round. “You have a visitor,” she said, an unsure look on her face.

Poppy rubbed her eyes and sat up.

“It’s all right Emma. I’ll come back another time.” Rosalyn’s voice came from downstairs.

Her mother gave Poppy a quizzical look to relay the question.

Warm and docile from snoozing in her bed, Poppy gave a sleepy nod.

“Let her up. She’ll have to find me as I am.” She was tired of worrying about Rosalyn’s opinions and this morning Poppy was too exhausted to fret.

Emma disappeared and a few moments later Rosalyn came to the door. She was soaking wet, her trench coat blotched dark with rain and her blonde hair trailing in honeyed ribbons. Her makeup ran and, of the two, Poppy thought she could give the usually well-turned-out woman a run for her money this morning.

“You’re a mess.” Poppy smiled.

Rosalyn didn’t speak. Her expression was full of such contradictory feelings Poppy had small chance of discerning her mood.

With little to go on, Poppy threw caution to the wind, and her feet out of bed, and rummaged through the chest of drawers.

“Here.” She handed Rosalyn a towel.

She took the coat from Rosalyn’s shoulders and hung it to dry on the door. Rosalyn seemed to fail to comprehend the purpose of the towel and, with a smile, Poppy eased it from her cool fingers.

“You’ll catch a chill, or a horrible bug from Pip, if we don’t get you dry.”

Poppy wrapped the fluffy towel around the back of Rosalyn’s head and squeezed her damp locks. Her attention hovered between her work and Rosalyn’s wide-eyed look of hurt and confusion.

“There,” Poppy whispered. “Come and sit down.” She led Rosalyn by the hand. “I’m afraid the bed is still the only seating.”

They perched on the edge and Poppy enveloped them in the duvet. She pinched it around her and encouraged Rosalyn to do the same.

Rosalyn stared through the window, her face still troubled. “I’m sorry. I don’t have your phone number, otherwise I would have called ahead.”

Poppy shrugged, glad she’d been spared the time to agonise.

Rosalyn opened her mouth, as if to speak again, but no words came out. Her breathing quickened, but no voice made itself heard.

Poppy’s heart thumped in anticipation, and she willed her to speak. Rosalyn opened her mouth once again, but it was Poppy who blurted. “I’m gay.”

“Dai told me. He wasn’t gossiping. It just came up.” Rosalyn’s words tumbled out.

“I know. Dai wouldn’t gossip like that.” And she waited for Rosalyn to respond.

They were silent, but Poppy remained calm. Being gay was nothing she could hide and there was nothing of which she was ashamed. She was ready to answer anything Rosalyn needed to know.

“How long…?” Rosalyn started. Her face was knotted with tension and concern. “When did you come out?”

“University. As soon as I had a girlfriend. Actually I wasn’t sure I was a lesbian until that moment. But I was then.”

“And when did you tell people at home?”

“Oh, straight away.”

“And they’ve been all right?” Rosalyn was a mix of incredulity and apprehension.

“Yes. A few surprised looks, I’ll give you that. But I’ve had an easy time of it.”

“People in the village? People like Dai were accepting straight away?”

“Dai laughed when I told him. He said it was no surprise at all. He thought I’d been saving myself for something out of the ordinary.”

“And your Mum and Dad?”

“Didn’t need to tell them.” Poppy smiled. She stared through the window, recalling the moment. “I was home after the first term at university, and I was babbling about everything at the kitchen table – the course, my digs, friends. Mum suddenly asked, ‘When are you going to bring her home?’ I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. She and Dad were grinning with their arms around each other. Then Dad said, ‘Your girlfriend, bach. You’re suffering from mentionitis about someone in particular. I can tell you’re smitten. Why don’t you bring her home for Christmas?’”

A tear threatened at the memory. “I bawled my eyes out. Mum hugged me and kissed the top of my head. It was lovely. I’d been away for weeks and she smelled of home – woolly cardigan and spices from the shop. They were so accepting and nothing changed.”

Rosalyn’s frown softened. “You’re very lucky Poppy. You have remarkable parents.”

“I honestly don’t think it was luck. People have been fine.”

“Have they?”

Poppy turned to face Rosalyn. “Ever since I came out and walked into Wells with my girlfriend, all sorts of people have approached me. The vicar admitted his brother was gay and was heartened to see me being open. Mrs Morgan Morgan clapped her hands together and said she was overjoyed people could be out and proud these days. Yes, people did stare. And people did a double-take, and another. But they became used to it and, at some point, found it normal.”

Rosalyn seemed uneasy. “Did you ever hide it? I mean, earlier. Did you fancy anyone at school?”

And at this Poppy did blush. “No,” she said. Well, apart from Rosalyn it would seem. She probably did have a crush on Rosalyn all those years, given the practice kiss and drunken kiss and all, but she was going to quietly sit on that one.

“It’s not something I fully realised back then,” Poppy clarified. “I wasn’t as keen on boys as most, but I always felt immature compared with girls like you. I just thought I would catch up one day.”

“Really?”

“What example did I have? I never met anyone growing up, and when I did no-one ever explained they were gay. I didn’t even realise Trevor Jones who does the pantomimes was gay.”

Rosalyn seemed to giggle despite herself and at last relaxed. “Now that was hard to miss.”

“Was it?” Poppy frowned trying to remember. “I think I was in my twenties by the time I twigged.”

Rosalyn smiled indulgently.

“Well I was never as worldly as you.” She nudged Rosalyn in the arm. “I did read the Well of Loneliness, but I couldn’t relate to it at all. I wasn’t a swashbuckling romantic determined to serenade a married woman. And the ending is hardly encouraging. Or the middle, or beginning. I didn’t walk away from it thinking that’s the life for me.”

Rosalyn laughed.

“Seriously, I don’t know if you noticed, but there weren’t many positive role models.”

“Beth Jordache?”

“Yes, we all saw the kiss even if we didn’t follow Brookside. Even Nain watched it. But I didn’t aspire to being a victim turned murderer.”

“But Anna Friel was very pretty. Surely you fancied her.”

“Yes, she was pretty,” Poppy said both irritated and amused. “But I didn’t fancy her and didn’t rip out her pictures from magazines to stick inside the cupboards.”

“And no-one else famous caught your eye?”

Poppy blushed. “No. Well yes. In retrospect perhaps.”

“Like who?” Rosalyn was beaming her good-humoured self again.

“I didn’t fancy her, but I thought Ellen was cool and if I wore a trouser suit I wanted to look as good as she did.”

Rosalyn creased up with laughter. “Next you’re going to tell me you were surprised when she came out.”

“Completely shocked. I’d had no inkling at all.”

“Oh Poppy.” Rosalyn shuddered with the giggles. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in months. But I’m no longer surprised you didn’t hide it. It seemed to elude you as well.”

Poppy bristled. “Well, yes, it kind of did.”

Rosalyn’s smile faded from her face. “Doesn’t it drive you bonkers living here?” Her frown gave away her opinion, that it couldn’t be anything other than maddening.

“Do you mean at home or in Wells?”

“Both.”

Poppy tucked her arms around her legs and hugged her knees. “Yes, it does sometimes.”

“Thank god.” Rosalyn breathed. “You are still human.”

“But it’s worth it.” Poppy smiled. “Yes, when Pip moved into the room next door and Nain downstairs, I considered leaving for my own sanity. But the café would need to be more successful to afford my own place. I’d probably visit home every five minutes anyway. I’d miss the mundane things like helping Pip with her homework. It’d be like leaving my own daughter.”

“And Wells. You’re happy here?”

“Yes, even when Nain is on the rampage and Pip is on the wrong end of teenage hormones. It’s worth it for a stroll up Moel Gwyrdd and a view of the country I love. And in summer, when the sun is shining, Mum and I shut the shop and take Pip to the beach at Aberdyfi. And when I’m sitting on the sands or exploring the rock pools with Pip, not another soul to be seen, I realise how lucky I am.”

Rosalyn frowned again. “You’re right. Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. It’s your outlook. You’ve always looked on the bright side, whereas I can’t turn my back on the dark.”

“Maybe.” Poppy wasn’t sure what Rosalyn meant. “What am I missing?”

“Perhaps nothing,” Rosalyn replied. “But sometimes it’s not all sunshine and flowers. There’s the odd weed which needs attention. But then if you’re always worrying about the weeds, you never get to appreciate the garden.”

“What are the weeds?” Poppy felt apprehensive.

“Not everything is idyllic in Wells, Poppy. And not everyone is as benevolent as you.”

Poppy didn’t know who Rosalyn meant or why, and was afraid to ask.

“But in any case,” Rosalyn changed the subject. “How will you meet anyone here? When was the last time you met anyone attractive?”

Poppy blushed.

“Has it been years?”

Poppy nodded. “Something like that.”

Rosalyn paused and looked into her eyes. “Are you even open to meeting someone?”

“Of course I am.” Poppy laughed and willed her rosy cheeks to subside.

“Honestly?”

Poppy held her breath as Rosalyn maintained her piercing gaze, and prayed her eyes wouldn’t betray her by peeping down Rosalyn’s cleavage.

At length, Rosalyn sighed. “Well, I can see why you’ve given up on a family. Poppy, doesn’t it feel as if life’s passing you by?”

Poppy breathed out, grateful Rosalyn had skipped past the romantic issue. But as she thought of the future a familiar anxiety gripped inside. She waited a moment for it to pass. It left an uneasy emptiness, but that too she knew would pass.

“Think of what I’d miss,” Poppy said. “I have one chance to see Pip grow up.” She smiled at Rosalyn. “Look at it this way. I hope to live into my eighties. That gives me, what, half a century to enjoy. Pip is home for only another seven years. I don’t want to miss that precious time.”

She thought Rosalyn would be amused by the reasoning or at least joust a response. But she seemed to deflate.

“You’re never going to leave, are you?” Rosalyn stared at her. The intensity was unnerving.

“Perhaps.” Poppy hesitated. “I could see myself leaving for a few years, but I’d always want to come home.”

Poppy studied her friend. Rosalyn’s thoughts seemed in turmoil again. Her breathing quickened and anxiety tore across her forehead.

“Poppy… I…”

Poppy leaned forward to indicate she was listening.

“I know you don’t like, in that way, maybe any way….” Rosalyn floundered again. “You don’t remember this but… And at school I wasn’t… But, I need to tell you… Oh this is going to be hard to explain. Poppy,” Rosalyn turned and faced her. “I like—”

“Girls?” Emma’s voice shouted from downstairs.

“Excuse me a second.” Poppy leapt towards the landing. “Hi, Mum.”

Emma peered up from the foot of the stairs. “Do you girls fancy some tea and cake?”

“That would be lovely, Mum. Do you fancy a cuppa?” Poppy said over her shoulder.

Rosalyn’s eyes were wide and face pallid. Her mouth hung speechless and Poppy had a nagging feeling of having missed something.

“Are you all right?”

Rosalyn eased herself to her feet. She seemed agitated and toyed with her hands, and for a moment Poppy thought she intended to confide in her. But the uncharacteristic moment of frailty passed and the demeanour of confident Rosalyn Thorn washed over her features.

“It’s nothing,” Rosalyn laughed. “It doesn’t matter. I should get home anyway. Thank you, Poppy.” She strode over and squeezed Poppy in a hug. “Thank you for talking to me. And I would love to stay longer, but Dad will be back from an appointment soon and my mother will need a break.”

“Another time,” Poppy said.

Rosalyn breathed out and nodded. “Perhaps before I leave.” She leant forward and they kissed each other on the cheek, and moments later the front door closed and Rosalyn had left.

Well that had gone well. Hadn’t it? Poppy had come out, and been honest, largely, perhaps with the odd omission. But Rosalyn had taken it as well as could be expected. Poppy was used to post-coming-out questions. Friends always asked one of: how long, who, when, why and do you ever. So that was good, yes?

And Poppy congratulated herself that she hadn’t lusted over Rosalyn once. Not once. They’d parted in a mature manner as friends with a platonic peck on the cheek. Poppy was very proud. Yes, that crush was firmly back under control.

Chapter 25.

It was night and the dark was humid. Poppy’s bedroom glowed sultry orange, the landing light gleaming beneath the door.

The knock was almost imperceptible. She’d felt its gentle vibration more than heard it.

“Who’s there?” Poppy said.

“Rosalyn.” The velvet murmur was enough for a shimmer of arousal to thrill Poppy awake. Her body moved of its own accord, lured to the door by the dulcet voice.

She raised her hand to the wooden panels and her fingertips tingled, any touch enough to spark excitement.

“Rosalyn,” Poppy breathed.

“Let me in.” Her voice was a desperate command. “I need you.”

Poppy’s hands fumbled with excitement at the catch. Her whole body ached with longing ignited by the sound of Rosalyn’s need.

Poppy slipped her fingers around the edge and gently pulled the door open to reveal Rosalyn in the half-light of the landing.

“You’re wet,” Poppy gasped.

Rosalyn’s locks hung in dark ribbons and her skin was flushed with perspiration from the steamy night.

“I’m soaking wet,” Rosalyn murmured.

Rosalyn’s eyes were dark in the shadows, her lashes inky with tropical rain and pupils wide with want.

“Come,” Poppy said. “I will help you.”

She stroked her finger down Rosalyn’s bare chest, slipping in the rivulets of rain. Rosalyn closed her eyes as Poppy teased her finger beneath a coat button. Round Poppy stroked until the button released and the coat slipped from Rosalyn’s shoulders in a sigh.

Poppy gasped. All that kept Rosalyn from nudity was a translucent slip that shimmered as she moved. She glided to the bed and reclined on the corner, her beautiful neck bare and ready to receive attention.

Poppy knelt before her, unable to resist peering through the sheer material that caressed Rosalyn’s naked chest. Waves of satin undulated over the bosom Poppy had coveted all these weeks, the sight of Rosalyn’s nipples tantalising for a moment before again eluding her gaze.

Then Rosalyn, ever so slowly, ever so seductively, parted her legs.

The diaphanous material teased Poppy’s imagination, flowing between Rosalyn’s legs in waves and casting the depths in shadow. Poppy longed to see beneath. How she wanted to slip her fingers beneath the satin.

“Take it,” Rosalyn whispered. “I’m still wet.”

Poppy reached for Rosalyn, her fingers tickling and alive with anticipation. She hesitated above Rosalyn’s thigh, her breath quickening with expectant arousal. She touched, a faint stroke, with the very tips of her fingers, and an intense thrill sparked through her body causing her to moan.

She spread her fingers and stroked her palm greedily over Rosalyn’s curving thigh. Waves of pleasure quivered through fingers and arms, all the way to her core.

She hesitated at the hem of Rosalyn’s slip, then stroked a fingertip beneath. Rosalyn was radiating burning heat. Poppy could feel it at her fingertips. Just another inch and she would feel her moisture. Another stroke and Poppy would slip into Rosalyn’s soft wet desire.

“Oh.” Poppy cried out. She sat up in bed with a jolt, her eyes wide and cheeks roasting. Her body hummed with excitement in the afterglow of her dream and she was soaked. Drenched. And it wasn’t just sweat, and it certainly wasn’t rain.

“Oh god.” She threw off the duvet and the morning air chilled her steaming body.

“Good god.”

So that crush that was under control – that wasn’t looking so restrained this morning. Poppy’s subconscious and body were very much in thrall to that infatuation.

Just how much had she wanted to remove Rosalyn’s slip? How much had she ached to touch further?

And how loudly had she cried out?

Alarmed, she listened for people within earshot. Nothing. A blackbird tweeted beyond her window. A distant sheep bleated. But there was nothing to indicate human presence.

She glanced at her alarm clock. Nine? It was nine o’clock. No wonder there wasn’t any sign of life. It was Saturday morning and Mum would be opening the shop, Dad was on a job, Pip was at a friend’s and Poppy was very, very late.

She leapt out of bed, ran through the shower, threw on the cream dress, hooked up her necklace, grabbed the reserved sign and bolted along the river into Wells. More than once she regretted her choice of attire, the plunging neckline no match for her breasts on the run. She stopped, tightened her bra and squeezed her breasts into a more stable and impressive blooming pair.

She burst through the shop door clinging to her reserved sign, exuding luminous health from both exercise and romantic thoughts. She stuttered to a halt in front of the counter and a startled Rosalyn Thorn.

Rosalyn flushed in a smile. Poppy had never witnessed a more attractive expression. Whatever Rosalyn had seen, or whatever she’d been doing, she was looking well on it. Regrettably well.

Poppy craved her every feature: arching eyebrows with their come hither expression. Full lips Poppy wanted to devour with insatiable kisses. The crisp white shirt open to a mesmerising cleavage, stretched tight over bewitching breasts, tucked into jeans Poppy wanted nothing more than to tear away and finally touch Rosalyn’s hidden, warm, slick depths.

“Morning,” she gasped.

“Good morning.” Rosalyn’s eyes travelled around Poppy’s entire body: her blushing face, her tanned arms, the heaving breasts, which threatened to explode from her dress.

“I rushed out. Late. Bit of a mess.”

Rosalyn shook her head. “You look radiant.” Her eyes didn’t leave Poppy’s. “And that perfume. What is it?”

Rampant desire. That’s probably what Rosalyn could detect. Just pure, rampant desire.

“I can’t remember,” Poppy blustered.

They stood gazing at each other, both blooming with rude health. But Rosalyn started.

“You still wear it.” She stared straight at Poppy’s breasts.

The necklace. Poppy snatched her hand to the locket in a self-conscious and all too belated attempt to hide it. She’d put it on without thinking.

Rosalyn looked shocked. “I thought you’d sell it, or throw it away.”

“Poppy? Is that you?” Emma’s voice called from upstairs and Poppy was saved the awkwardness of answering. And only then did the noise from upstairs intrude on Poppy’s consciousness.

There was chatter. It was a consistent hum of many customers.

Emma descended with a rosy face. “We’re busy already,” she said. She spotted the reserved sign Poppy grasped and smiled. “We’re not going to need that.”

“Oh no.” Poppy deflated. “Did they cancel?”

Her mother shook her head and grinned. “No, they didn’t. But the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I opened.”

“What?”

“We’re booked up, Poppy. Lunch is sold out. Every single table is reserved.”

Poppy stared at her mother as if she’d announced the existence of lesbians on Mars. “Booked up?”

“Yes.” And Emma punched her fists in the air.

“That’s why I came over,” Rosalyn said. She pushed a copy of the Guardian Food Guide towards Poppy. “This was out today.”

Poppy turned it over in her hands, a blank expression on her face and her mind a similar vacuum.

“Read page thirty-five.” Rosalyn beamed with amusement.

Poppy flicked through the pages but, for the moment, the order of Arabic numerals escaped her.

“Come here.” Rosalyn laughed and she grasped the magazine. “There.”

Poppy’s hands shook and she took a moment to focus on the fluttering entry.

“Under Mid-Wales.” Rosalyn pointed to a section with a single entry and Poppy read:

“Recommendations are scarce in this part of the country, but we’ve happened upon this little gem: The Real Food Café where they make dishes with love and genuine skill. This is the kind of food you’ll realise you’ve been missing for years, and after being reminded wolf down with hearty vigour, the meal followed by such a contented glow as to rival Christmas.”

Poppy stared at her mother then Rosalyn. “We’ve made The Food Guide?”

“Yes, you have.” Rosalyn smiled with a mix of pride and joy Poppy had never seen on her before. It made Poppy giddy and between that and her state of high arousal, followed by the shock and euphoria of the review, Poppy couldn’t tell if she were coming or going.

“But, but, but…” Poppy stammered. “We can’t cope with a full booking.”

“I’ll close the shop and help Derek in the kitchen,” Emma said. “I’ve stood in enough to know my way around.”

“Thank you, Mum, but,” she peeked upstairs, desperate at their good fortune. “Two floors at lunchtime is too much for me to waitress. We’ll have very unhappy customers.”

Poppy’s heart sank. Bethan who covered their days off worked in Welshpool on Saturdays and the chances of them rustling up a competent waitress at this short-notice was poor.

“I can pitch in,” Rosalyn said.

“You?”

“Yes, me.” Rosalyn laughed.

“You? Serve food?”

“It’s not so ridiculous.”

“I know waitressing doesn’t seem the most complex job in the world, but serving well…”

“Couldn’t agree more. I did my time waitressing at university. I might have a wealthy mummy and daddy, but I supported myself those three years. And I made a swift and attentive waitress, if I say so myself.”

Poppy stood open mouthed.

“So sling me an apron and take me through your menu, Poppy Jenkins. We’ve got work to do.” And Rosalyn flashed a grin that made Poppy’s heart leap.

They huddled between Poppy’s beloved cake cabinet and the stainless steel counter of the kitchen. The pair squeezed into the drinks corner as her mother snatched a serving of cake, and further still as Derek passed to and fro restocking the kitchen.

They stood facing each other, almost breast to boob, with Rosalyn’s ample cleavage heaving a touch higher than Poppy’s.

They were so close, Poppy could feel Rosalyn exhale on her bosom. In her heightened state, Poppy caught her breath, then to her alarm the inhalation thrust her chest forward. For a moment they touched – an exquisite, electrifying tease of nipple to nipple.

The thrill danced through her chest, sparkled through her tummy and sent the good news tingling all the way between her legs and she shuddered with excitement.

Poppy snapped her gaze away from Rosalyn’s chest and stared at the menu pretending she hadn’t noticed their fleeting caress.

“Menu,” she said. “This is a menu.”

She peeped at Rosalyn. To Poppy’s relief, her friend seemed too intent on the specials to notice Poppy’s reaction. Rosalyn’s cheeks were rosy and a sheen of perspiration sparkled on her face. The temptation to reach for Rosalyn’s cheek, stroke a finger down her neck and test the line of moisture all the way down her cleavage was insane.

“Hot.” Poppy gasped.

Oh no. Alarmed, she shot a glance to Rosalyn. “It’s hot.”

“You too,” Rosalyn said. “I mean, are you too? It’s hot by the kitchen. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Poppy coughed. “And a hot day. The sun. Very hot.”

“And it’s going to get hotter girls,” Derek announced as he flew past with another box of tomatoes.

Oh god. Now that menu.

“This is today’s lunch menu,” Poppy said again. “Although until midday we serve cakes, drinks and breakfast sandwiches.”

“So lots of baps, buns and muffins,” Rosalyn suggested.

For a moment Poppy’s brain stalled on Rosalyn’s muffin and baps then tripped over her buns. A tumbleweed blew through her mind and sometime later the noise of the café intruded.

“That’s right, yes,” she stuttered, not knowing how long she’d been staring agog. “And the coffee machine’s here.”

Poppy squeezed by, mercifully without brushing up against Rosalyn, and leaned under the machine. Proud of her manoeuvre under trying conditions she grabbed two round cups and spun around.

“Big cups,” she said with gusto, and came to a halt in front of Rosalyn’s chest – one large round vessel per ample white breast. “I mean we use big cups,” Poppy said distraught and her eyes shot as wide as the accompanying saucers.

“Jugs?” Rosalyn said. “I mean, where are the milk jugs?”

Poppy thought she saw Rosalyn colour, but she was mid-manoeuvre averting her own gaze and didn’t dare check.

“Yes. Sugar.” Poppy pointed to both items at the end of the counter. They stared in the general direction of the sweet stuff and troublesome jugs, Poppy not daring to open her mouth again.

“You might want to turn that down,” her mother said. Emma’s head popped over the cake counter and she pointed to the steam wand which whistled at the end of the coffee machine. “It’s getting steamy in here.”

“I’m going for some air.” “I’ll check the customers.” “Good idea.”

And Poppy and Rosalyn went their separate ways.

Despite Poppy’s distracted introduction to the running of the café, Rosalyn took to it like a seasoned pro. She managed the second floor while Poppy serviced the first and time flew by in a happy whirlwind of customer orders and reorders.

But every time they passed the kitchen, every single time, Poppy fevered over Rosalyn’s figure. And every accidental touch when they leaned over the counter, fingers stroking arms, thighs brushing against thighs, Poppy felt the thrill of it through her whole body.

All afternoon, Poppy’s face flushed. Rosalyn too, Poppy noticed, had a distinctive healthy radiance. Thank goodness for the warm weather. Perhaps in the sunshine Rosalyn would dismiss Poppy’s aroused appearance as the same heat as her own.

Rosalyn had never looked more alluring. There was something about her, especially when Poppy drew near. Her complexion glowed, her eyes were dark, her lips deepest red. She laughed and chatted to customers with charm and Poppy found herself gazing in admiration.

“Are you ok? Do you need help on this floor?” Rosalyn asked. They’d converged again at the kitchen counter.

Poppy shook herself out of her reverie. “I’m good. Thanks.” Poppy smiled with heart-felt gratitude, before, yet again, dropping her gaze and not so furtively exploring Rosalyn’s body.

“Oh,” she said. She snapped her eyes to Rosalyn’s. “You’re undone.”

Rosalyn lifted her arms, three plates balanced between them, and spied her shirt. It had succumbed to her heaving breasts and burst open. She turned to put the plates back, but the counter was already full with another order.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

It was wonderful. Two buttons had pinged apart and Rosalyn’s lacy bra was visible to all. Everything that lay beneath peeped through beautifully and Poppy blinked, the deep red nipples of Rosalyn Thorn forever seared into her consciousness.

“It’s. Um. Quite. Very. Revealing.”

“Do me up,” Rosalyn whispered hoarsely, “before I drop these plates.”

“What?” Poppy panicked.

“Please do me up.” Rosalyn looked away to check no-one could see her exposed.

Poppy stared at Rosalyn’s chest, two nipples capturing her attention once again. She raised her hands then froze. How could she do this without touching Rosalyn?

She leaned in and, with a precision movement, pinched the button and its opposite hem between her fingers and thumbs. She just had to coax Rosalyn’s breasts together and her shirt would be joined again.

A simple task perhaps, but not when Poppy’s head swirled at the sight of such a cleavage, not with Rosalyn’s scent rising with every breath, not when her bosoms heaved higher and higher. Was it Poppy’s imagination or did her chest rise and fall ever quicker?

The more Poppy stroked the material tighter, and the closer her examination, the harder the task seemed to become. She blushed at the intimate challenge and glanced up at Rosalyn. Good fortune shone upon her. Rosalyn was turned away biting her lip. The plates must be taxing her strength.

Poppy abandoned all care. She stroked her fingers across Rosalyn’s breasts, and with a good handful in each palm squeezed the mounds into an exquisite kiss and hooked up the buttons.

“There,” Poppy gasped. “Done it.”

Rosalyn quivered and almost dropped the plates.

“Thank you,” she stuttered. “I…better…put these down…take them to the customer.”

“Yes,” Poppy said, trying to hide her blazing face. “They must be getting heavy”.

“Yes.” Rosalyn gulped. “That. Like. Something.” And she flew into the café to deliver the plates.

Chapter 26.

The day had been electrifying. Her mother and Derek had surpassed themselves and Rosalyn had tended to the customers with consummate professionalism, flirting with everyone from a bullish pair of young men to a table of four octogenarian women who were by far the bigger handful.

Compliments rained in for the comfort of the establishment and refreshing style of food and Poppy didn’t stop beaming all day. And more than one glowing comment was left about the charming proprietor with the sunshine smile.

As Poppy closed the door behind the last customer, Derek and Emma long gone after the lunchtime service, she congratulated herself on maintaining decorum in the face of considerable temptation and the alluring presence of Rosalyn.

It had been close though. She clutched at her chest as she remembered the tantalising glimpse of Rosalyn’s breasts. Poppy closed her eyes and felt for her locket by force of habit. But her fingers encountered bare skin. It had gone.

She looked around the floor of the shop, scanning every corner, but there was no sign. She sprinted up the stairs and searched the first-floor dining area and loos and gave a frantic scan of the kitchen. Every surface was covered with dirty crockery, pots and pans. It could be in one of a hundred places, including several sacks of rubbish outside, or down three plugholes. But she’d also served the top floor during Rosalyn’s break.

Rosalyn was clearing upstairs, wiping tables and collecting plates, and Poppy padded up the spiral staircase hoping to peep over the floor without Rosalyn noticing.

The rattle of activity ceased before Poppy reached the top. She hesitated. No plates crashed, no table spray puffed, there wasn’t even a shuffle from Rosalyn. Poppy climbed one quiet step at a time until the floor flashed into view.

Rosalyn knelt in the far corner, turning an object over in her hands with great care. A chain flowed through her fingers as she examined it. The necklace.

Rosalyn stared at the jewellery frozen in her hands. Her thumbs were poised ready to prise the locket apart, but she remained rigid as if unable to face it. With a sudden flourish, Rosalyn’s fingers became fluid and she opened the locket. She exhaled a great breath, maybe of surprise, perhaps relief.

She would find no picture. No recent sweetheart. Not even a photograph of Poppy’s family. It contained just the faint print from Rosalyn’s finger all those years ago. It had never faded.

Rosalyn gently squeezed the locket shut and clasped it in her hand as if cherished. She stood, and Poppy, regretting her spying, pretended haste and jogged up to the floor.

Rosalyn flushed when she saw her.

“Your necklace,” she said. “It was here.”

She avoided Poppy’s eyes, clearly affected by what she’d found. She seemed as vulnerable and genuine as the day she’d gifted the necklace to Poppy.

“I’m glad you never sold it or threw it away.” A dejected laugh escaped her. “I think I would have.” The look she gave Poppy was an image of a hundred thoughts and feelings. “I’m relieved you kept it. For whatever reason.”

She stepped closer, awkward and bashful, the veneer of confident Rosalyn Thorn gone.

“Here,” she whispered and held up the silver chain.

Her features were softened by her vulnerability and Poppy’s heart melted, finding Rosalyn as beautiful as when she exuded charismatic assurance. Poppy doubted she’d ever find anyone as attractive. There was something about Rosalyn in every mood that tickled Poppy’s desire or pulled at her heart.

Poppy lifted her long hair so Rosalyn could lay the chain around her neck. She closed her eyes, fearful of meeting Rosalyn’s gaze as she leaned closer, her face sultry and close to her own.

The locket felt cool and thrilling on her chest as Rosalyn draped the jewellery. The pendant tickled as it rose and fell, up and down her cleavage as Rosalyn adjusted the clasp. Rosalyn’s fingers stroked around her neck as she lay the chain straight, and Poppy’s skin tingled alert with the attention.

“Nearly there,” Rosalyn whispered.

She stroked the chinks in the chain smooth, all the way from Poppy’s neck, light over her collar bone, and slowly, ever so slowly, down the curve of her breast to the beloved locket.

The trail of Rosalyn’s fingers sent sparks deep inside; the thrill of the attention made her breasts crave more and without thinking Poppy gasped with the pleasure.

She froze. Her reaction had been unequivocal. This time Poppy’s physical response was impossible to hide. Her face flushed and her chest rose and fell with fearful excitement.

Poppy kept her eyes shut tight, unable to bear Rosalyn’s disapproval. It would surely be written all over her face.

She felt Rosalyn’s finger move and Poppy imagined Rosalyn’s hand lifting away, but it didn’t. It lingered. It trailed further. It savoured. Soft fingers explored Poppy’s cleavage and gently spread across her breast.

Poppy panted in shallow, enthralled breaths as Rosalyn’s fingertip circled her nipple. Even through the cotton of her dress it must have been obvious Poppy’s reaction was full and instant. Her nipple pinched in ecstasy and a hum of pleasure coursed through her body.

With the lightest of touches, Rosalyn unbuttoned the front of Poppy’s dress and slipped her hand beneath the cup of her bra. Smooth fingers stroked in circles around her nipple, then teased with a delicate pulsing pinch the very enjoyable side of firm.

Poppy stood immobilised, unaware of anything other than the exquisite caress of her breasts. She panted, in thrall to Rosalyn’s touch, her mouth open and wordless. The whole of her body thrilled with the sensation and yet pined to submit to the caresses.

For a moment, Rosalyn’s touch wavered and Poppy feared she might stop. But warm lips slipped around hers in a kiss and ignited her full passion.

Every part of her body flooded with desire. Her lips devoured Rosalyn’s. Her hands feverishly explored Rosalyn’s body, tearing at her shirt, slipping her bra from her shoulders, trembling as her fingers encountered the naked skin of those coveted breasts. As she cupped her fingers around Rosalyn’s bosom, their fullness stroking her palms, she groaned and began to give at the knees.

She felt herself being guided back, unable to offer any resistance and wishing none. She leaned back on the padded bench, her head reclined and her body open to Rosalyn’s desire. She felt the air suddenly kiss her exposed breasts and her underwear slide down her legs.

Rosalyn was still for a moment, but Poppy could feel her close and intimate presence – the dabbing kiss of her breasts against hers as she panted, the tickle of her thighs between Poppy’s, her breath on Poppy’s chest as she gasped. The delicate torment was ravishing.

Then two soft fingers stroked slowly between her legs.

She tensed and gasped and gasped again at the ease with which they slipped in her moisture. They found their target quickly and teased at her lips. Rosalyn stroked her quickly, Poppy tensing with every touch. Again and again, a little deeper and another level of pleasure, until Poppy could stand it no longer and pushed against her hand and Rosalyn’s fingers slipped inside.

They gasped at the same time. The sensation of Rosalyn filling her made arousal complete and desire consumed every part of Poppy’s body.

She luxuriated in the waves of pleasure as Rosalyn eased inside her, and tipped her further still when Rosalyn’s thumb circled her clitoris. The closer she touched the more Poppy tensed. She arched into Rosalyn with every stroke. If she could have spoken she would have begged Rosalyn to indulge her where she craved.

Then Rosalyn touched her, with one, then another, and another deliberate stroke. Poppy could do nothing but cry out. She threw her arms around Rosalyn’s naked back, almost afraid of how far the arousal would take her and at the same time desperate for Rosalyn’s passionate consummation.

She was dazed, uncoordinated and helpless, on the verge of blacking out with intense gratification, when her fingers found their bearings – Rosalyn’s smooth rounded hips, the tender curve in the crease of her leg, the swollen heat between her lips.

Rosalyn moaned and tensed as Poppy found her need too and slipped her fingers over her. They panted in unison, tensing and pleading, touching and devouring until the tension exploded within them and consumed every part of Poppy’s consciousness.

They were still. Poppy was only aware of the rasp of her breath and Rosalyn gasping above her. Their encounter had been so unexpected and explosive Poppy was disoriented. She surfaced from the darkness of intense passion as the sun breached her eyelids. She blinked her eyes open and felt self-conscious in the harsh daylight, naked and exposed before Rosalyn.

Rosalyn stared at her, shocked.

“Oh Poppy,” she whispered. “That was… I wasn’t expecting that. Good god, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Poppy shuffled, uncomfortable at her words.

Before Rosalyn could say more, her phone buzzed on the floor and rang out a call. They both startled and glanced at the offending object. Sam, the suave boss, shone from the screen.

“Not now,” Rosalyn spat, and she batted the phone away. It slid across the floor boards and continued its jarring interruption from the corner of the room.

Rosalyn stared at Poppy in panic. “I didn’t think you liked me. Not like that. I wasn’t sure if you liked me in any way.”

The phone rang incessantly. All Poppy could think of was the intimate, knowing look of the man calling.

“Oh god, now I’m confused.” Rosalyn pressed her fingers into her brow. “I really didn’t think you liked me that way.”

The phone clanged on, the image of Sam flashing in Poppy’s head with every ring. His presence loomed large in the room.

“Poppy, I never thought…” Rosalyn searched her face.

Poppy pulled away. She felt chilled and exposed. She gathered her clothes around her and dressed, far from comfortable with Rosalyn now.

“Let me switch the bloody phone off,” Rosalyn said and she leapt away to silence her mobile. She turned back, naked from head to toe.

Rosalyn’s physique was perfection to Poppy’s mind. Toned shoulders and arms, a bosom of tender curves, rounded hips and athletic legs, and a stomach which begged to be stroked and explored with kisses before savouring the pleasure between her legs.

Poppy covered her eyes, not wanting to admit how beautiful Rosalyn was. That way madness lay.

Her thoughts reeled – images of Rosalyn with Sam, memories of her adolescent boyfriends, the scorn she poured on Poppy in the sixth form. She couldn’t reconcile Rosalyn from the past or present with the woman who’d seduced her with such ease.

Poppy inched down her hands and peered at Rosalyn, fixing her with a pained stare.

“I don’t know why you did that, or what it was for you….” Poppy stopped, her chest heaving with emotion and her throat strangled. “I can’t chastise you for being involved with someone else, I’ve been a fling before. And I don’t mind if someone needs to experiment, or being someone’s frivolous exploration. But you.” She shook her head. “You can’t do that to me.” She held Rosalyn’s gaze and waited for her meaning to be comprehended. “You can’t toy with me. Not you. Not ever.”

“Poppy, I didn’t think you were attracted to me.”

“So. What? You wanted to press a few buttons to check?”

Rosalyn’s gaze faltered. “That’s not what it was. Yes, it was unexpected but…” Rosalyn breathed in sharply, but no more words came out. She ran her fingers through her hair, her face contorted with anxiety. “Let me dress please. I can’t think.”

Rosalyn pulled up her jeans and shied away to dress in her bra and shirt. When she turned back, her face was still agonised. She drew up a chair and sat staring at Poppy, her hands in prayer over her mouth. Her eyes darted from side to side.

“I don’t know where to start.”

Poppy’s mouth twitched in grief, tears hot in her eyes. “How about with you breaking my heart when I was sixteen. How about with you stamping all over it for two more years and leaving me bereft for a lifetime.” She shook her head. “I always believed there was something abhorrent about me, and it’s only recently I realised you might have dropped me because I was gay. But you befriend me. Then seduce me.” Her heart pounded in her chest. “And now you will leave.”

“Poppy, no.” Rosalyn was stunned. “That’s not how it was. Yes, I can see why you think that, but…” She dropped her face into her hands while her breath laboured with emotion. “Oh god, what a mess.”

Poppy gulped, her own words releasing years of anguish. She’d been haunted by her absent friend. Once, she’d been a part of her and Rosalyn had left a gaping hole when she ripped herself away. And here Rosalyn sat, someone Poppy adored, someone she desired, a woman who could touch and seduce her so profoundly, but in another second feel alien and remote.

“I’ve made such a mistake, Poppy.” Rosalyn’s voice was a whisper. “An awful mistake.” Her fingers trembled and entwined in tense knots. “I can’t believe what I’ve done.”

She looked at Poppy, imploring, but a key scraped in the front lock and the familiar judder of the door catching the floor echoed through the café.

“Poppy?” Emma’s voice shouted. “Do you need a hand clearing up?”

They both startled and sat straighter, checking their clothes. Poppy couldn’t look at Rosalyn.

“You should go,” she said.

“Poppy. We need to talk.” Rosalyn reached for Poppy’s hands, but she snatched them away.

“Go. Now. I won’t have Mum finding me like this.” Poppy wiped her tears and blinked back more. She set her face in stony determination. “Leave.”

“Poppy…”

“No,” she whispered, and hot tears threatened again.

“Please, I must—”

Poppy leapt up and strode across the room without glancing back.

She hurried down the stairs to the steam of the kitchen to pretend washing was the cause of her damp and blotched face.

Her heart thumped so loudly in her ears she didn’t hear Rosalyn leave or if she spoke to Emma on the way. And a few moments later her mother arrived, unaware of the shift in Poppy’s world.

Chapter 27.

It was rare Poppy didn’t have the good will or cheer to smile, but it eluded her for the rest of the day. Her mother looked to her on several occasions, concern and questions written in her expression, but she didn’t push.

Trade on Sunday was as brisk as Saturday, and with Bethan free to waitress they managed another full booking to everyone’s satisfaction. By the end of the day, with so many compliments and promises of returns, Poppy had regained some semblance of her natural cheer.

Night time was the worst. She lay in bed, staring at the serene landscape, silver and still in the moonlight and mocking the turmoil of her thoughts. She blushed for the hundredth time, embarrassed at succumbing so easily to Rosalyn’s caresses. Then confusion reigned. Why had Rosalyn even touched her?

But how she had touched her. Poppy closed her eyes, overcome by the memory. Rosalyn’s scent was still fragrant to her senses. The sight of her naked, no matter how hard Poppy tried, burst into her head. She longed for Rosalyn’s touch all over again – breasts caressing breasts, soft thighs smooth inside her own, Rosalyn teasing at her lips. Poppy moaned. Her body quivered with arousal at the memory of Rosalyn’s fingers slipping inside, as vivid a sensation as if she were there.

Poppy shifted under her duvet, wishing she could dull every sense and expunge the delicious memory.

Thoughts and questions spun around her head the following morning and consumed her every thought. The family readied themselves for the day and bustled around her, attempting conversation two at a time. She glided around the house in a daze, responding to questions by rote, not sensible enough to care if her response was appropriate. She was so consumed she hardly noticed the house descend into silence, everyone departed for work and school on Poppy’s day off.

She reached inside the fridge for milk and a memory of Nain reiterating “We’re out of milk, cariad. You’ll need to fetch it from up the lane,” finally made sense to her consciousness.

She wandered into bright sunshine, feeling stupid, and tottered up the stony lane.

“Rosalyn, Rosalyn, Rosalyn,” she muttered. Since when had Rosalyn, expert at kissing and precocious teen, loved women? What was she playing at? It made Poppy want to scream.

Rosalyn was all Poppy had thought about since she’d arrived and it was beginning to drive her insane. She was no nearer to understanding Rosalyn than she was this time last year. If anything, she was more perplexed, and the number of different feelings she had towards the woman now seemed infinite.

At the end of the lane, she picked up three pints of milk from the rusty carrier entangled in the grass. She clutched them to her chest and was about to head home when a car purred beside her. The sporty black number had its roof down and was driven by a slim woman with a severe haircut and fly sunglasses, also in black.

“Excuse me. You there.” Her voice demanded prompt and exemplary attention. “Are you local?”

“Yes, I am.” Poppy was aware of her soft accent in contrast with the woman’s cut-glass English intonations. “Can I help?”

“I’ve been driving up and down between Lan-God-knows-where and that Wells place for half an hour and I can’t find it. The damned sat-nav directs me into a puddle of river and I can’t get any reception on my mobile.”

Poppy smiled, used to the vagaries of the Wells technology black spot. “It’s very patchy round here. Where are you trying to find?” She leaned forwards, expecting the woman to point out an address or map.

“This place. I’m not sure even how you’re meant to pronounce it.” She held up her phone with an email displayed.

“Rhiw Hall,” Poppy whispered. “It’s pronounced Rhiw Hall,” and she emphasised the “rhoo” sound.

Poppy didn’t catch much of the email in her brief glimpse, but she did spot Rosalyn’s name at the end and her fond entreaty for the woman to arrive soon.

“Well, where is the damned place?” The woman threw her mobile onto the passenger seat. “I don’t know why she’s been holed up in this backwater for so long. I haven’t seen a Waitrose in hours.”

“You’re here.” Poppy stared at the woman. It was the assistant, her severe features mellowed by the large, curving sunglasses. The assistant who drove an expensive car. The assistant with a close relationship with Rosalyn, attested by Rosalyn’s loving signature and by the fact the assistant was visiting in person.

“Up there?” The woman pointed up the track which skirted around the large stables and worker cottages.

Realisation was sinking in. “No,” Poppy stumbled. “There’s another entrance around the corner. If you drive a little further, you’ll see stone gate posts either side of a single lane.”

“Oh, you must know them then.”

“Yes.” All the warmth drained from Poppy’s limbs and a coolness settled inside.

“By the way,” the woman twisted round and offered a bony hand. “I’m-”

“Sam,” Poppy said. “You must be Sam.”

“That’s right.” The woman flinched. “How did you…?”

Poppy stared at the ex of Rosalyn. The ex-girlfriend of Rosalyn.

She desperately tried to recall what Rosalyn had said. Hadn’t she referred to a him? Wasn’t she talking to the suave, handsome man when she mentioned Sam?

The woman removed her glasses, revealing her severe and intrigued face. “You’re Poppy, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” Poppy said, coming out of her reverie. “That sounded loaded didn’t it. I don’t know much about you.”

“But I do of you.” Sam peered at her with an intense expression that rippled beneath the surface with other feelings. “All good I can assure you,” she said as if she was casual about the whole meeting. “And actually all new. I’ve known Rosalyn for years and had no idea there was someone so important in her childhood.”

Poppy blushed. “I imagine she doesn’t often discuss Wells.”

“No, indeed.” Sam’s gaze didn’t flinch. “Rosalyn seemed to appear from nowhere at university. It’s quite a shock to see her abandon her life and return to so-called home. I expected her back at work earlier than this. Well. I’m glad you’ve had a chance to rekindle your friendship.” The emphasis was very much on “friend”.

Poppy blushed deeper, intrigue about the status of Sam and Rosalyn’s relationship now uppermost in her mind and regretting ever more the café encounter.

“I imagine I’ll be seeing you again,” Sam said, her expression once more hidden behind the glasses, and she pulled away with little in the way of farewell or courtesy.

A different set of feelings now tormented Poppy, highest among them indignation and irritation, not helped by the third piece of toast to burn in the temperamental toaster at home.

Dai had called round and sat at the kitchen table, wittering something about his wedding. Poppy leant against the wooden top, disgruntled and half-listening, and slotted another piece of bread into the machine.

“Sorry, did you say Mary wants to get married in August?”

“I said that half an hour ago love.” Dai chuckled. “Where’ve you been?”

“Sorry, Dai. I am listening. But August you say? This August?”

“I know. I’m as outraged as when I told you the first time.” He smiled cheekily and Poppy almost threw a slice of charred bread at him.

“But doesn’t every man and his sheep want to get married in summer? Everywhere will be booked.”

“Well that’s what I said to her. Then you. And again.”

“Very funny.”

Dai grinned.

“What’s the rush?” asked Poppy.

“Actually Mary’s got a good reason.” He turned more serious. “See, her nain’s getting on a bit and might not be around next summer.” He shrugged. “So, I need to get a move on.”

“Have you searched? Is there anywhere?”

“Well no, there isn’t. Except,” he raised his index finger, “Alan Watkins says he can do a good deal at the hotel if I pay early. Says there’s a cancellation.”

“When?”

“One of two Saturdays in August.”

“Two?” Poppy crossed her arms and frowned at Dai. “I’m surprised he isn’t booked up. I imagine somewhere like that would have people waiting for cancellations too.”

“Well I don’t know why. Says he can do me a good deal as a mate though.”

“Really?” Poppy looked away. “Have you checked prices elsewhere? Is it a good deal?”

“I haven’t looked yet, like, but I’ve got a rough idea of how much these things cost.”

“Lots.” Poppy coughed.

“Well exactly.”

“It’s just...” Poppy squirmed with annoying thoughts which prickled her mood. “Can you trust him? Will you check he is giving you a good deal?”

Dai sat back in his chair, his considerable arms folded across his even more considerable chest. “Oh come now. What’s this about? That’s Rosalyn talking, not you.”

Poppy flinched at the mention of Rosalyn’s name. “Alan unsettled me – the way he treated Cerys at the fair meeting – that’s all.”

“That fiasco?” Dai coughed a laugh. “Cerys is a nice woman, but the meeting was a shambles. I’m not surprised he poked a bit of fun. That’s all it was though. He was very generous showing up at all.”

Poppy grumbled something non-specific and frowned at the floor. She wasn’t used to thinking ill of people, but there was more than one person testing her equanimity this morning.

“Speaking of Rosalyn…” Dai inhaled a great lungful. “Oh Poppy, you’re burning, love.”

“Oh no.” She slapped her hand to the toaster and two more charred slices popped up in a grey cloud. “I’ve run out of bread.” She tutted. Poppy snatched a slice from the toaster and scraped the surface over the sink.

“Like I was saying,” Dai continued. “I saw Rosalyn in town.”

Poppy grumbled again and scraped the toast with more vigour.

“She was walking arm and arm with some woman. Looked right pally they did.”

“That would be Sam,” Poppy said, her irritation clipping the name. “Her ex.”

“Did you say ex?”

“Yes I did.”

“Oh.”

Poppy peeped round at Dai. He was immobile with surprised eyebrows frozen in peaks, as if someone had removed the plug. Poppy turned round and peered into his eyes. Somewhere inside was a great deal of activity. “Are you all right?”

Dai shook his head, his jowls wobbling. “You mean like ex-girlfriend ex?”

“Yes.” Poppy straightened and resumed her scraping at the sink.

“Well, I never saw that one coming.”

Poppy grunted in response.

“Did you know?”

“No,” Poppy said curtly, and she scraped her toast harder.

“Well, that’s a surprise too. You’d think she’d mention it to you.”

“I know,” Poppy growled.

“Especially because everyone knows you’re gay and she definitely knew, because I let it slip the other day. That’s peculiar. I’d have thought she’d tell you straight away.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Poppy ground her teeth and applied the knife blade with more gusto.

“Well, that’s very odd.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Poppy, love?”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to scrape away your hand.”

Poppy peered down and found a thin square crust and black ring inside, all the edible crumbs mixed with the charcoal in the sink.

“Oh, for…” Poppy threw the remains in the bin. “I give up.”

She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and slumped next to Dai at the table. She ripped a great mouthful from the juicy Granny Smith, her next target for annihilation.

“You all right, Poppy love?” Dai looked at her with amused concern. “There’s something I can’t put my finger on, but I get the subtle feeling not everything’s right in the world.”

Poppy opened her mouth, and a chunk of apple fell out. “No, not everything is all right,” she said, muffled by the remaining mouthful.

“I’m going to take another wild guess and ask – is this about Rosalyn?”

Poppy frowned in a tantrum. “Yes it is.”

He sighed and appeared sympathetic, but with a regretful expression of “I told you so”.

“I know. You’re right,” Poppy said, her mouth clear at last.

“Did you seriously not know?”

“No.”

“But didn’t she have a boyfriend practically as soon as she was born?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, that’s confusing then.” He rolled his eyes. “How are you meant to know who she’ll fancy next?”

Poppy gave him a chastising look while kicking herself for the same bigoted misgivings. Poppy’s presumption of the gender of Rosalyn’s boss and assumptions about her shifting sexuality had led Poppy horribly astray.

She blushed at doubting Rosalyn’s conviction and imagining the games she’d been playing.

But Rosalyn could have bloody well told her about her penchant for women. That seemed pertinent given their situation. Any time before slipping her fingers inside would have been nice. Poppy closed her eyes, the memory never failing to send exquisite shivers through her body.

“So,” said Dai, “she’s not a lesbian.”

Poppy frowned.

“She’s a…” Dai raised his eyebrows tentatively, “….bisexual?”

Poppy sighed, not happy with the term either.

“Is that not right?” Dai looked perturbed.

“It is, but it’s a label that comes with a whole bag of preconceptions and prejudices.” Poppy had been guilty enough of some. “As soon as you use it, people see the stereotype and not the person. And she is Rosalyn still.” Whoever that person was. Poppy realised she was forever losing a grip on reality when it came to that.

“So,” Dai said, with a deep breath and as if he were about to leap into a fire. “Rosalyn is still Rosalyn who liked blokes, but it turns out she likes the ladies as well. Not that this indicates her future behaviour or inclination, and she’s free to choose who she finds attractive based on her own individual taste.”

“That sounds right. To the best of my knowledge.”

Dai sighed in satisfaction, but then frowned. “Hell of a mouthful though, isn’t it?”

Poppy smiled. “Well, that’s people for you.”

“Complex buggers, aren’t they?” And they both stared into the distance.

“So you never…?” Dai looked coy. “You know…”

“What?”

Dai nodded his head to the side. “You never…?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know, Poppy. You never, like, did it?”

“No we did not.” Poppy opened her mouth with outrage.

“Not at school?”

“No.”

“When you were teenagers?”

“No.”

“Not even a practice kiss?”

“No, we did not…. Oh.” Poppy slapped her hands over her face, but too late to hide Dai throwing his head back in uproar.

“I knew it.” He laughed. “I bloody knew it.”

Poppy threw down her hands and attempted a hard stare. “Watch it, Dai Edwards. I’m preparing a best-man’s speech soon and there’s a lot of material I could dredge up.”

Dai grinned from ear to ear. “You’re right. You’re right. Still worth it mind.” And he beamed a smile which spoke volumes about how entertained he was.

Chapter 28.

Poppy had laughed about it with Dai, but she was still hurt by Rosalyn’s behaviour. After the tears of laughter had numbed the initial sting, the underlying injury and confusion remained.

Poppy hoped the family’s return from work would be a distraction, but she felt more anxious. They seemed aware something disturbed her. Voices were too quiet. People turned away when she met their eye as if they’d been caught observing.

She approached her mother who was washing up in the kitchen. “I’m going for a walk,” she said.

Her mother’s look was an embrace in itself, full of love, support and empathy for her daughter’s distress. “Come and find me if you want to talk,” she said. “Wake me if you need to.”

Poppy pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m ok, Mum. I’ll be fine.” She slipped from the house before Pip could entreat Poppy to take her too.

The sky was deepening to indigo and the sun burned orange over the hillside. She considered each direction, but every way seemed to hold Rosalyn: the Hall up the track, Moel Gwyrdd a recent memory. Every part of her life held an echo of Rosalyn and without conscious decision she wandered along the river.

Not far from the house, she slipped off the path through the bushes and down to a shingle beach hidden beyond. She sat on a branch of driftwood, bare of bark and pale grey from a hundred washings. She slipped off her shoes and toyed with the water. It trickled over smooth stones and around her toes, stinging with cold contrast to the humid night air.

And there she stayed, dipping her toes into the water until she could stand the chill no longer then submitting the other foot to the same torment. The light faded. Darkness fell. The edges of the river softened into dusk.

“Poppy?”

She recognised the voice in an instant. Poppy turned her head to indicate she’d heard, but made no sound.

“Can I talk to you? Please?”

Poppy’s shoulders sagged with submission and she heard Rosalyn push her way through the leaves. Poppy’s heart ached anew. She didn’t turn, but she could feel Rosalyn was close.

“I’ve been trying to find you. Sam said she saw you.” Rosalyn’s quiet voice trailed away.

Poppy nodded.

“It sounded as if she was rude,” Rosalyn said. “She comes across abruptly at times.”

Poppy laughed with derision.

“And I…” Rosalyn shuffled on the pebbles behind Poppy, clearly uncomfortable. “I wanted you to know, Sam is just an ex. She’s my friend and boss, but that’s all. There’s nothing more.”

Jealousy erupted inside Poppy. Its blaze consumed her body and mind. For a moment she hated the thought of Rosalyn and Sam in any kind of intimacy. Then the feeling subsided in shame. Resentment simmered inside and Poppy stood and faced Rosalyn. “It’s none of my business what she is to you.”

Rosalyn’s appearance took her by surprise. Even in the dusk she looked pale. For a moment, Poppy wanted to reach out and comfort her, but her indignation thrust up her defences again.

“It’s none of my business.” She picked up her shoes and started to leave. “Just…” She halted, her eyes hot with furious tears. “How long have you loved women? Tell me that.”

Rosalyn’s mournful gaze met Poppy’s. “Always.”

She’d said it in the quietest of whispers, but its impact made Poppy step back. “Always? But you can’t have. Did you hide it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Poppy breathed.

“Why do you think? This isn’t the idyll you imagine, Poppy. The people of Wells are the most parochial and bigoted I’ve ever encountered.”

“I’ve never had a problem with anyone.”

“Maybe you haven’t.” Rosalyn looked desperate. “But Poppy, you are so well loved, you could commit a murder and people would say ‘I’m sure she had her reasons like’.”

Rosalyn’s impression of Dai grated and she bristled at the attack on her fellow townsfolk.

“There’s no need for that,” Poppy snapped.

“Don’t you remember what it was like growing up?” Rosalyn pleaded. “It’s twenty years since I realised I loved women. That’s a long time.”

“Twenty years ago?” Poppy said, still in disbelief. “We’d have been eleven or twelve. How did you realise so young?”

Rosalyn smiled. “Don’t you remember my room? It was covered in posters of female pop stars and actresses. I aspired to be like them and didn’t think it unusual at first. But later I realised, there was something more about their beauty I coveted.” She stared at the ground, the shame apparent in her demeanour.

“Was that all?” Poppy stuttered. “Did you do anything about it?”

“No.” Rosalyn said flatly. “I ignored the inclination and had boyfriends instead. I snogged and smooched like everyone else, and it wasn’t awful,” she paused, “but then I kissed a girl.” She looked at Poppy, her expression almost afraid. “I expected it to be repugnant. That’s what everyone assumes. People were disgusted by gays even holding hands. But it was…” she seem weakened by the memory, “…it was beautiful.”

“When?”

“I was twelve.”

“But you had boyfriends. I never saw you with anyone else. There was always a handsome boy trailing after you.”

“Poppy,” Rosalyn frowned with anguish, “I’ve never slept with a man.”

“What?” Poppy spat out an incredulous laugh. “But… When you came back from holiday? That Christmas? Everyone said you’d lost your virginity.”

“I did.” Rosalyn’s voice was neutral, as if she lacked the strength to feel any more emotion. “It was with a woman.”

Shock, hurt and jealousy slapped Poppy all at once. “Then why? If you were a lesbian why did you get rid of me?”

“Because it was you I loved.”

Poppy trembled. “I don’t understand.”

“The beautiful kiss when I was twelve? It was with you.” Rosalyn bowed with the confession. “Our practice kiss scared me witless. I thought you’d find me disgusting if you knew how I’d enjoyed it. I was terrified you’d tell someone.”

“But you didn’t fancy me,” Poppy retorted. She couldn’t believe Rosalyn’s admission, or didn’t want to.

“Perhaps. I don’t know.” Rosalyn gathered her thoughts. “I always loved you. Our relationship was always more potent than friendship. That term is too weak for what we had. And kissing you,” she gazed at Poppy, “there is no better word for it, it was lovely. It made me tingle and flutter inside, the same way it did when I cuddled behind you at night.”

Rosalyn seemed exhausted by her confession. She leaned on the old branch and lowered herself onto its smooth seat.

Poppy stared at her, wide-eyed.

“I could have lived with all that,” Rosalyn said. “I did live with all that. And I carried on seeing boys, and admiring those women on the walls, and loving you. But then you bloomed.” The breath was punched from Rosalyn’s body. “How you bloomed.”

Rosalyn stared at Poppy with imploring eyes. “At fifteen turning sixteen you changed. And the warm fuzzy feelings for you turned to lust. I spent entire lessons mesmerised by your lips, wondering how good it would be to kiss you again and how much further I’d take it. I adored you. I dreamed of you. I couldn’t help fantasising about you.”

Poppy stepped back with realisation. “You stopped staying the night. That’s when it began.”

Rosalyn nodded. “I couldn’t trust myself anymore. It was too easy to indulge in a sleepy, lustful caress.” And Rosalyn clutched her arms around herself in defence.

Poppy watched her friend, distraught at their past and the pain they’d both endured. She put her hands to her head in frustration. “If only you’d told me.”

“I did.”

“What?”

Rosalyn was coy. “I don’t think you remember. You were very drunk.”

“When?”

“The Christmas party.” Rosalyn looked ashamed.

Poppy blushed with embarrassment at her behaviour at the party and her inability to recall the night clearly. “Tell me what happened,” she whispered.

“It didn’t go well. I was nervous and you were too drunk to understand any of the subtle ways I was telling you. I kept trying to explain, but you just wanted to dance. You looked so beautiful, and boys kept asking you to the dance floor. I lost my patience and, I’m sorry, I kissed you.”

“You kissed…me?”

“You were very drunk and didn’t understand what I was doing. For a moment you kissed me too, but then you started laughing. You kept shouting ‘What are you doing?’”

The painful veracity of the memory rang true in Poppy’s head. The images clarified with painful lucidity. Poppy had returned Rosalyn’s kiss not forced her.

“I was humiliated and scared someone had seen us,” Rosalyn continued. “And I was devastated you thought it such a joke. You kept laughing.” Rosalyn looked at Poppy with guilty pain. “I pushed you away and left. I didn’t see you again before leaving for the holiday.”

Poppy was silent. The truth had hit hard and left a chill. She imagined Rosalyn running from the party, spurning Poppy forever, and running into the arms of a woman. Poppy couldn’t help the jealousy that curdled at the thought.

“Who did you meet?” Poppy whispered. “The woman at Christmas? Who was she?”

“She was a student working behind the hotel bar. I lied and claimed to be at university too. I think she realised I was younger – not as experienced as she was.”

The detail did nothing to quell Poppy’s jealousy or quench her frustration. “But why?” Poppy cried. “I still don’t understand why you dropped me.”

“Dropped you?” Rosalyn said with a hoarse laugh. “You make it sound so easy, as if giving up a musical instrument. Tearing myself from you was excruciating pain, like being forced to cut off my own arm. But I couldn’t endure the alternative anymore.”

Poppy stared at her in disbelief.

“Don’t you remember what it’s like?” Rosalyn asked more gently. “Don’t you remember the vivid awakening when you sleep with someone for the first time? Suddenly you know what it feels like, what it smells like, how it sounds. You crave the sensation of another person’s arousing touch. It’s not a vague, fuzzy desire anymore. It’s overwhelming lust.”

Rosalyn stared at Poppy, anger and sorrow red in her face. “I pictured all the sex I wanted with you in vivid detail. The desire never stopped. The thought of every little touch and kiss drove me insane. Even if you’d forgotten the party, I couldn’t be your friend any more. I wanted to kiss you, hold you and fuck you. It was unbearable.”

Rosalyn breathed heavily, the emotion of the memory draining her. “I pleaded with Dad to send me to another school. I thought if you were there at the weekend I might bear it. But every, single, day?” She looked spent at the recollection.

Poppy took in Rosalyn’s words and understood her turmoil. “But didn’t you see anything of yourself in me? Didn’t you recognise any of it in me?”

Rosalyn’s eyebrows raised in despair. “No, I didn’t. Everyone liked you Poppy. You were generous and kind – everyone’s perfect girl next door. And when you bloomed at last, every man had eyes for you. You were surrounded by boys with their tongues hanging out. Don’t you remember?”

Poppy tried to recall, but she couldn’t picture it. She’d had little interest in boys at high-school. She was friendly, but didn’t give their special attention any credence.

“That’s why I assumed you’d married Dai, when I came back.”

“But….if you’d told someone.” Poppy was distraught. “I’m sorry my reaction was awful. I was so drunk I couldn’t tell which way was up. But any other moment. Any other time. Everything could have been different. Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“Who?” Rosalyn said desperately. “You and your family were the most liberal and accepting people I knew. And you’d laughed. What chance did I have with the local yokels?”

“That isn’t fair,” Poppy snapped. “I’m one of those local yokels, and so are my friends and family. You didn’t like many of them, but they’re good folk.” She inhaled deeply, trying not to be distracted by Rosalyn’s bigotry. “Your parents then? You could have told them.”

“Oh, my wonderful mother?” Rosalyn looked incredulous. “My mother who struck terror into my heart whenever she mentioned our ‘unnatural friendship’. Every time I quaked, thinking you’d recognise me for what I was.”

Poppy’s anger subsided. She remembered the same anguish when she’d overheard those accusations.

“But your dad? Does he even know?”

“No.”

Poppy was stunned. “But he’s your father. Your poor dad.” This was the reason for David and Lillian’s anguish and the distance from their daughter. How many lives had been stunted by Rosalyn’s secret?

“He was never there. Not when I needed him. It was always mother who dealt with me.”

“But now?”

Rosalyn avoided her gaze. She crossed her arms and pinched her fingers deep into the flesh. “I’ve managed well enough without them. There’s no need to tell them.”

Poppy felt desolate at the gap that had grown between child and parent. She couldn’t bear that happening to anyone. How lonely Rosalyn must have been.

“If only you’d told someone. Anyone,” she whispered.

“Poppy. People hated me.”

“You don’t give them a chance. Think how different things could have been if you had?”

“Really? How many times do you think I heard people bitching about that ‘stuck up Rosalyn Thorn’? I was labelled a troublemaker, just because I questioned people’s cosy little existence in this back-of-beyond town. How do you think they would have reacted?”

Poppy stood up straight with indignation. “This is a rural place, yes, but these are good people. They’re willing to learn and accept.”

“They would have torn me to pieces,” Rosalyn spat. “It was bad enough I was female – a woman who didn’t know her place in this second-rate town run by mediocre men and their mates. If I’d given them the ammunition of being a lesbian...” She trailed off, her face full of scorn.

Poppy’s heart ached for charismatic and brave Rosalyn Thorn who’d been struck down and weakened by her own sexuality. Poppy breathed hard, the emotional encounter leaving her spent. The conversation churned in her mind, and her feelings stung all over again. But she arrived at the same end – anger at Rosalyn’s bigoted opinion of the townspeople.

“You didn’t give them a chance,” Poppy murmured, defeated. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

“I had to protect myself.”

“But you hurt me.”

They both stared at each other, bruised and in pain.

Chapter 29.

Poppy had stumbled through the failing light, lost for words. She tapped on the cottage window and held a cheerful countenance long enough for her mother to wave good night then rushed to her room. With the light off, she closed the door and threw herself under the bed covers.

She clutched the duvet over her head and cried for her younger self. The memory of lying in the same bed at sixteen was vivid – curled around her pillow, sobbing and clutching it to her heart. She had blamed herself for losing Rosalyn, assuming she had a shortcoming, and felt inferior at the rejection. How excruciating now to realise it was all to do with Rosalyn.

“Always.”

The memory of Rosalyn admitting she’d loved women from the start cast a shocking chill inside Poppy. She clutched at great handfuls of hair, frustrated at her friend’s secret.

“Because it was you I loved.”

Poppy clutched tighter, remembering Rosalyn’s words, and a tide of conflicting feelings overwhelmed her: hurt that Poppy had been humiliated through no fault of her own. Despair that someone she’d adored had worshipped her in return. A glimmer of hope, for what Poppy knew not. And anger at Rosalyn’s prejudice against everything Poppy held dear.

Poppy slept in fits, and when she accompanied Pip into Wells the next morning it was in a numb haze. She took a shift in the kitchen and worked quietly alongside Derek. Her mind travelled over the last few days, trying to make sense of the past in light of the present, but to no further satisfaction.

By the end of the day, she began to emerge from her torture and she strolled down the stairs to check on her mother. Emma stood behind the counter, wearing her reading glasses, engrossed in a sheet of paper.

“Hi, Mum.”

Emma shot a glance over her glasses and folded away the note. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Are you ok? Is there a problem?”

Her mother hesitated. “A little one, but nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Something about the café?”

Emma nodded and unfurled the paper to hand to Poppy. “Dai printed these off for me. He spotted them while searching for wedding venues online, but I wasn’t going to bother you with them. You’ve been so preoccupied.”

Poppy scanned over two short scathing paragraphs describing the café, each attributed to anonymous reviewers. This was all she needed.

“Where are these from?” Poppy asked.

“Trip Advisor I think.”

“But I don’t understand. What do they mean ‘the cakes were stale’? I’m fanatical about checking the stock.”

Her mother shrugged.

Poppy’s mood slumped again. “Maybe I had a bad day and missed something. I’ll ask everyone to use the checklist, just in case.”

The shop door burst open and Alan Watkins’ shadow loomed large in the doorway. He stepped into the room, his bulging detail revealed under the shop lights, and slid off his cap in a moist manoeuvre.

“Evening, ladies. Oh dear.” He paused. “Not bad news I hope.”

“Good evening, Alan,” Emma said. “No, just a little setback with the café.”

“Oh aye.” He trudged over to the counter with eager relish. Poppy still dwelled on the reviews, and before she could contribute Alan peered over her shoulder.

“Oh, that’s bad,” he inhaled with a hiss between his teeth. “One star from two reviewers. Nobody wants that. ‘Stale food’, ‘disorganised kitchen’. Harsh criticism indeed.”

Poppy’s heart sunk to new depths.

“Watch your stock. You don’t want people getting suspicious about your hygiene. Especially if your kitchen doesn’t look clinical.”

And Poppy’s heart found a low beneath that.

“Looked like your little café was on the up. But…”

He seemed to reconsider, perhaps in the face of Poppy’s utter dejection, and added, “I suppose the best establishments improve with criticism. In the long run it may even be for the best.”

She peered up at Alan. “Thank you,” she said. It was a tiny glint in the clouds, but it had been the only light of the day.

For a moment he looked bashful at Poppy’s gratitude then gave her a hearty slap between the shoulders. “Chin up, Poppy. I’ve had poor feedback from customers in the past, and I’ve always managed to bounce back.”

She pursed her lips and strained a smile, managing a limp curl at the corner of her mouth.

“Anyway. I’m dropping off a few more leaflets for the hotel. I bet you’ve run out with all the trade passing through here lately.”

Emma accepted the fan of leaflets from his hand and squirreled them beneath the counter, a tall pile remaining on the top from his previous visit.

“Right. I won’t keep you,” he said without noticing. “I’m off to Cerys’ meeting. God only knows why.” And he lumbered out with a backhand of a wave.

Poppy and her mother stared at the door, gloom and Alan’s odour lingering in the air.

Emma sighed. “Speaking of the fair meeting, one of us ought to go.”

Poppy threw down her tea towel on the counter. “I know.” But she didn’t move.

Her mother considered her and smiled. “This will all pass. We’ve had a good run of late.”

“Will it pass, or is this the end of our luck?”

Her mother shook her head. “No. You’re too good. People have noticed at last and the café has momentum now, especially if the fair does well.”

Fatigue washed over Poppy at the thought of another meeting on top of the remaining café work.

“I did intend going,” she muttered, “but I’m way behind on prep for tomorrow.” And frankly she didn’t have the heart for it today.

“I can finish up,” Emma said. “I’m happy to swap.”

Poppy managed a tired and grateful smile and dug deep for enthusiasm for the fair. “Thank you, Mum. And would you…”

“Use the checklists? Of course.”

Poppy felt guilty for asking. “Just in case.”

She slipped off her apron, kissed her mother and scurried out of the door.

Lights shone through the town hall windows and Poppy dashed towards the imposing doors before they were shut for the meeting. It was busy and the modest number of seats laid out by Cerys were already occupied.

“Good crowd again.” Dai appeared behind her. “I’m surprised.”

They grabbed seats from the stacks around the edge of the room and shuffled in at the back. It seemed the meeting was underway but by no means organised.

“How many stalls have been paid for?” Alan Watkins’ voice came loud and clear from the front of the audience.

Cerys shuffled on the stage, clutching a clipboard tight to her chest.

“Not many, admittedly. But we have Poppy’s café, my woollens, Mari’s pots, Emma’s art, Mary Tudor’s wicker creations…”

A murmur of low male voices rumbled from the front. Poppy stretched up to see a crowd around Alan, all chuckling among themselves with derision written on their faces. She caught disparaging comments alluding to “little old lady crafts” and “pretty doilies”.

“That’s no more than usual Cerys,” Alan said. “Come on, where are all these other businesses you promised?”

Cerys twitched and clutched her clipboard tighter. “We’re working on it. I’m talking to Montgomeryshire Ice Creams and Aberrhiw Cider and I’m still hopeful.”

“Well.” Alan sighed and crossed his arms. “I hope you’re not pinning your hopes on them. I’ll tell you now, Rhys from Aberrhiw Cider isn’t going to be impressed with a crowd of craft women. They’ll hardly make a great drinking festival.”

“Because it’s all about showing you’re a man, isn’t it Alan.” Rosalyn’s voice sliced through the jeers. Her heeled boots stabbed the floor and the sharp click snapped everyone to attention. She strode to the front, her coat billowing in her wake.

Alan coloured and his posture tensed with antagonism.

“It’s all about how many pints you can down then puke up on the way home. Even better if your obedient wives clean up after you.” Rosalyn fixed him with a glare. “Is that how you prove your masculinity, Alan?”

The sneer on Alan’s face was vicious. “No, Rosalyn, it’s not. Would you like me to show you how I prove my masculinity?”

“Oh ho.” Jeers and whoops erupted around the hall, and Alan’s cronies eyed Rosalyn like wolves.

She remained unruffled. “If that’s showing what you do with your tiny prick, which used to vanish in the cold showers at school, I suggest you find a better way.”

Alan’s face blazed with fury.

“Besides,” Rosalyn continued with disdain, “you have the demographic for Aberrhiw Cider all wrong. He’s an artisan business, a very successful one, producing premium ales and cider for discerning customers, and I would include women in that. Much more so than you volume drinkers.”

“What’s your problem, Rosalyn?” Alan had stood and shouted at full volume. “You left here, too good for us all. And now what? You can’t stand that some of us are successful so you resort to spreading gossip and sending anonymous complaints.”

The two council workers who’d been suspended glowered next to Alan, venomous hatred in their eyes.

Dai whispered in Poppy’s ear. “Was it Rosalyn? The one who complained about Gareth and Glyn?”

Poppy stuttered, too stunned by the proceedings to talk clearly. “I don’t know. She said nothing to me.”

All eyes turned to Rosalyn.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m very disappointed you’ve been reinstated. You must have friends in the right places.”

There was a collective intake of breath and people shook their heads or turned away. Alan and his friends gloated at Rosalyn and the crowd’s surprise.

“But there wasn’t any evidence was there,” Alan chided. “It was supposition, a few statistics and circumstantial evidence.”

“Is that right, Alan? You seem well informed for someone who doesn’t work in the council offices.”

“Get away with you,” Alan spat. He turned and dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “Now come on, Cerys. Let’s get back to this hopeless fair of yours.”

Poor Cerys looked mortified. Her head twitched back and forth. A stream of syllables poured from her mouth, but none formed a coherent sentence.

“Why don’t you tell us how your advertising campaign is going?” Alan taunted.

“Actually,” Cerys stuttered, “it hasn’t been going well.”

There were hoots of laughter and Gareth and Glyn heckled.

Rosalyn asked, “Did you have any luck with the feature for the County Times?”

“No.” Cerys shook her head. “I can’t understand it.”

“And adverts? Any interest from stall holders after they’ve been published?”

“I missed the deadline for last week’s they said, even though I popped it through the door myself on the right day.”

“Gosh that’s odd.” Rosalyn’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “You know, I’ve heard of advertising going awry for other businesses too. Perhaps we should check with the editor. Does anyone know who that might be?”

Dai whispered, “Isn’t it Gary Gittins? The bloke who was Alan Watkins’ best man?”

Poppy’s heart sank again. “I think that’s what she’s getting at,” she said and she couldn’t bear to lift her eyes and watch the scene.

Alan scoffed. “You’re going to raise a complaint against Gary Gittins, are you?”

“Perhaps.” Rosalyn regarded him. “But for now, let me raise a question.” She paused and a hush fell over the audience. “Why are you, businessman extraordinaire, present at this insignificant meeting for what you term a ‘hopeless fair’? And what possible interest do your henchman have in this? And isn’t it funny how a network of friends in the Welshpool Rotary Club have an undue influence on the affairs of nearby villages like Wells.”

No-one talked.

“It’s as if there were some advantage in a coordinated strategy of draining attention and money away from places like Wells so, maybe, a place like Welshpool benefits. And wouldn’t it be odd if those same people had businesses in that town. What do you think?”

Alan appeared to be on the back foot. “Now, there could be sound business reasons for all of that. Concentrating resources in a town with good infrastructure, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about that.”

“True.” Rosalyn was unperturbed. “But there’s such a lack of subtlety about it all, as if masterminded by a rather average intellect with a larger than average chip on his shoulder. Someone supported by people so inept and incapable of unsupervised subterfuge they rejected every single business planning application for expansion in Wells for the last five years.”

A group of men jumped to their feet around Alan, their anger directed at Rosalyn. The clamour of male voices and frenetic chatter of the crowd filled the air and Poppy felt like burrowing into the ground.

“Dew dew.” Dai shook his head. “I know you’ve become friendly with Rosalyn again, but that’s quite a conspiracy theory she’s got going there.”

Poppy didn’t know how to respond. Rosalyn’s outburst and venom made her nauseous.

“And I know the boys drink a few too many now and again, but it’s pretty normal isn’t it?”

Poppy nodded her head, not agreeing or disagreeing.

“I don’t know why Rosalyn has a problem with Alan Watkins. He offered good advice at the last meeting, and to his credit the fair is going exactly the way he said it would.” Dai peered at Poppy. “I know we both love the place, but with the best will in the world, Wells isn’t a major destination. It can’t support an event like this.”

Poppy was flooded with too many thoughts and feelings to contribute and Dai carried on. “I don’t remember if there’s a history between them at school, but if anything, to me, it seems like she’s the one with a bloody great chip on her shoulder.”

Poppy didn’t know who had the larger grudge. Even if Alan Watkins were prejudiced, Rosalyn had a personal agenda of her own. Poppy felt sickened by the scene and another of Rosalyn’s vitriolic attacks on Wells.

“You’ve got away with things for too long, Alan.” It was Rosalyn again, her voice vicious. “Just because locals in this town are too stupid or generous to notice, doesn’t mean you always will.”

“Now steady on,” Dai almost shouted.

The comment cut deep and Poppy blushed with humiliation to her roots. Whether Rosalyn meant it or not, it was difficult not to take her attack personally, and the feelings from the encounter the night before engulfed Poppy again. Unable to bear any more she clutched her stomach and rose. With her thoughts in turmoil, Poppy left the room and the braying voices behind.

She dashed across the square, her clipped footsteps echoing in the empty dusk. She rattled the key in the shop door, her fingers trembling, and was about to close the door when she heard urgent footsteps approach.

“Poppy, I’m sorry. That didn’t include you.” Rosalyn’s face was full of remorse. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

Poppy turned on her. “Really? A stupid and generous local?”

“Of course that isn’t you.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to call me that.”

“Poppy, I wouldn’t—”

“And even if you didn’t, do you seriously expect me not to be offended?”

Poppy glared with a ferocity that still blazed with indignation from the confessions of the night before and for a moment Rosalyn faltered.

“You were unspeakably rude to everyone in the room and the village – my parents, my sister, friends. How can that not affect me?”

“I’m sorry.” Rosalyn put up her hands in defence. “It was wrong to damn everyone. I value some of the people here very much, including you. But some in this village have nothing but their own interests at heart, and much to the detriment of everyone else.”

“But can’t you see how it comes across? You treat everyone with disdain. And with this council and fair business, you seem to have a personal vendetta against the blokes in Wells.”

“Like Alan Watkins?”

“Yes.”

“Well now you mention it, I do.”

Poppy slapped her hands to her face in exasperation.

“Poppy, how can you let him get away with this? Alan and his mates have been draining this village for years to line their own pockets.”

“Oh come on. Alan and his so-called collaborators at the council? Seriously?”

“Yes. He’s a dodgy bastard who pushes the limits at every turn.”

“But people here trust him. They like him.”

“Who? Other blokes who don’t respect the arts of Cerys and your mother? Gullible villagers who couldn’t spot the crook if it were painted on a bilingual sign on his forehead?”

Poppy bristled.

“You know Alan for what he is, Poppy. He’s a vindictive misogynistic little shit who, if he’s not criminal, then he steps very close to the line.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a pompous business man who’s a bit full of himself.”

“But the trouble is, he’s so full of himself there’s no room for respect for anyone else.”

“The same could be said about you,” Poppy spat.

Rosalyn was quiet a moment, the wind taken from her sails. “By you?” she asked.

“No.” Poppy looked down. “Not by me.”

“Good. Because that’s all that matters to me.”

“Well it shouldn’t be.” Poppy glared at her. “This is the problem. I don’t exist in a vacuum. You can’t be friends just with me. You can’t respect me if you disparage everyone and everything I care about.”

Rosalyn looked pained. “Poppy, I adore your parents and Pip is a fabulous young woman. But I can’t turn a blind eye to the imperfections of Wells, and neither should you.”

“But you despise the place. You don’t have a good word about anything or anyone here.”

Rosalyn seemed unrepentant.

“It’s done you no favours.” Poppy said. “In fact, it’s done us a great deal of harm.”

Rosalyn blanched. Her face was ghostly in the dim light. She took a while to recover but then rediscovered her voice. “I stand by what I said last night. It would have been a blood bath if I’d come out at school. They would have torn me to pieces.”

Poppy snapped her hands to her hips. “Your problem is you think too ill of people.”

“And yours is you think too well.”

Rosalyn’s retort was sharp and they stood divided as their accusations echoed around the square.

Rosalyn breathed in. “Apart from your reservations about me, you take everyone at face value.”

Poppy looked to the skies. “And what’s the point of doing anything else? Even the most mendacious don’t lie all the time. I would spend my whole life second-guessing people, and I’d get it wrong twice as often as right. Would it be any better?”

Rosalyn simply stared in response.

“At least this way, I can smile and have a happy day.”

Rosalyn frowned. “But sometimes, there’s something critical wrong and it casts a shadow over every happy day.”

“This is your prejudice showing,” Poppy said exasperated. “You still have an axe to grind after all these years. Why can’t you let things go?”

“Because this is important to me and I’m not giving up.”

“Why?” Poppy wanted to scream. “I don’t understand why you’re still here even.”

“Really?” Rosalyn looked bitter towards Poppy for the first time. “Do you have no suspicion at all?”

“No,” Poppy snapped.

Rosalyn took a step back with her anger before speaking again. “I came back originally to make peace with my father when I thought he might die. But that’s not why I stayed.” She peeped at Poppy, her face passionate and fearful. “I admit I’ve become distracted. I’ve been enticed by a dear friend and someone I loved.”

Poppy blushed at the compliment and her anger relented.

“I’ve enjoyed your company so much,” Rosalyn murmured. “Reliving memories I haven’t dared enjoy for years. Revisiting favourite places like Moel Gwyrdd and loving them again. Seeing your wonderful creation of the café and discovering your talent for food. Watching the way you nurture your sister and family and realising all over again what a wonderful human being you are. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege getting to know the incredible woman that is Poppy Jenkins again. And it’s possible, after all these years,” Rosalyn’s breath caught and she said, “I’m still in love with you.”

A wave of sorrow and anger flooded through Poppy. She threw her hands in the air with frustration. “How? How can you say that? How can you be in love with someone when you abhor their life? How can you love someone when you have no respect for their friends, the culture and the places they love?”

“Please don’t doubt it,” Rosalyn implored. “From the moment I saw you by the shop, you’ve been in my thoughts every second of the day. And before that, not a week went by when something wouldn’t remind me of you. Every time I witnessed a kindness I thought of you. Whenever people introduced a beautiful brunette they’d always disappoint because they didn’t look like Poppy Jenkins. When I needed a friend to confide in, I longed for you. And when falling asleep it was always you I dreamed of.” She laughed with despair. “I’ve been in love with you for fifteen years, perhaps longer, maybe most of my life.”

“No. You can’t be in love with me,” Poppy shouted. “This is too infuriating. What were you thinking?”

“I haven’t been thinking, just enjoying every minute of your company. I couldn’t help myself.”

“But this is impossible.”

Rosalyn remained resolute.

“We’re the most ill-suited couple in existence,” Poppy said, incredulous. “We are poles apart. I couldn’t stand not being out and proud here, but you won’t tell your own father. You pour ridicule on Wells and those I hold in highest esteem. You despise the place I adore. For goodness sake, we want to live in completely different countries. What did you think would happen between us?”

“I don’t know.” Rosalyn hesitated. “I admit I haven’t thought it through. I simply wanted to be with you. At first I thought as a friend, but I realise that was wrong. I want so much more.”

Poppy stopped, winded by Rosalyn’s confession. Deep inside, a part of her longed to embrace Rosalyn’s affection, a part that had ached for years and would never be content without her. But the prejudice, the months of humiliation, the years of desolation, the storm of Rosalyn’s return, all ignited Poppy’s anger.

“I could never be with you.” Poppy glared. “How would I ever trust you? How could I believe you’d never break my heart? You can hurt me so easily because I’m weak when it comes to you. There’s a fracture where you broke my heart at sixteen, and if you did again I don’t think it would ever heal.”

Rosalyn looked stunned.

“If we started something,” Poppy said, “it would have to last forever. And when you despise almost everything about my life, I don’t believe it would.”

She’d said it – the crux of everything that troubled her. She’d at last put every anxiety into coherent thought and words. Her sentence rang with such truth and finality it left her empty.

They fell silent, both deflated by the realisation. The night had turned black and the air had chilled. They stood staring at the ground between them, neither capable of closing the distance. The quiet was painful and lonely and Poppy wished several times over that things were different.

It was Rosalyn who broke the silence. “I’m leaving in a couple of days,” she whispered.

Poppy crossed her arms and managed a nod.

“I need to pack and entertain Sam, so you needn’t worry about encountering me again.” She stared at Poppy, her face despondent. She looked as if she would step forward, but Poppy clutched her arms tighter to keep Rosalyn distant.

“I don’t think there’s any more I can say, except good luck, Poppy Jenkins.”

Rosalyn turned and walked up the square, her head bowed. She didn’t look back as she stepped into the Jaguar and the clunk of the door echoed around the square. The engine roared, the car pulled away and Rosalyn Thorn was gone.

Chapter 30.

The sun was shining and the green hedgerows were vigorous with summer growth. Poppy went about her life: walking Pip into Wells, tending the café, washing the errant Jacob in the river. But there would be no more encounters with Rosalyn Thorn.

Her world was a simpler and quieter place without Rosalyn. Poppy had thought the peace would be a pleasant relief, but it was a desolate kind of quiet, and it didn’t need too much introspection for Poppy to realise she missed her friend greatly.

No matter the heartache, no matter the differences, she craved Rosalyn’s company, and however much she tried to congratulate herself on her good fortune in life, it was missing something vital and her step lacked the spark it had but a few weeks ago.

She felt the loss of Rosalyn most keenly as she approached Rhiw Hall to meet David Thorn. Rosalyn’s absence loomed larger here. Walking along the stable block, the Hall resplendent at the end of the track, Poppy’s heart ached for any other resolution than their own.

She wished Rosalyn had confessed to her all those years ago. She willed her friend to put aside her anger and embrace all the vitality life could bring. Poppy clutched her chest, grieving that neither would ever be possible, and breathed in to clear her sorrow before meeting Rosalyn’s father.

He was waiting at the front of the Hall and waved from beneath the ornate veranda. The wrought iron bloomed with rambling white roses whose delicate scent fragranced the warm summer air.

David looked well. He stood proud and welcoming, his walking stick leaning against one of the intricate columns a few metres away.

Poppy beamed when she saw him. “How far are you managing?”

“Quite a way now.” Bashful pride brightened his face. “Not a good idea to leave the house without the stick, but it’s good to throw the damned thing away once in a while.”

“That’s brilliant.” Poppy smiled so much her eyes watered with joy. “And today? Will you attempt a walk without it?”

“Ah.” He raised a hand. “I wanted to talk to you about that. Instead of a walk, I wondered if you’d join me for lunch. It’s another challenge I’ve set myself. I want to get Lillian out of the house and back to work, so I need to prove I can take care of me and the occasional company while she’s away.”

“Of course. I’d love to.”

He turned slowly towards the front door. “Don’t expect anything elaborate though. Or anything like punctuality either,” he said and they giggled as they entered the house.

Poppy followed him into the shade of the great gallery which ran inside the length of the frontage. A white iron bistro set had been arranged with a commanding view through the veranda to the lawns and majestic copper beech trees, which towered higher than the Hall.

“I’m glad you accepted,” he said. “It’s taken me an hour to cart those damned things in.”

“You could have saved that challenge for another time.” Poppy smiled with mock chastisement.

“I know. One step at a time.” He gestured towards the table and a glass jug of fresh lemonade. “Help yourself while I prepare luncheon. Can’t take the credit for the drink I’m afraid. Lillian made it before she left.”

“Thank you,” Poppy said, and she watched him retreat into the house, his limp still pronounced but not as precarious as it had been.

Poppy hadn’t ventured beyond the front door since her teens. She remembered playing skittles on the polished floor with Rosalyn, the gallery perfect for a long run up and vigorous thrust of a ball. She smiled at the memory of Lillian shrieking at the constant clatter of pegs. The floor had since been softened with jute carpet and it now had the look of a cosier room.

Every wall presented a work of art, and among the modern landscapes on the back wall a school portrait of Rosalyn caught her eye.

Rosalyn must have been fifteen in the photograph and her long, almost white, blonde hair flowed around her shoulders. Poppy recalled it being taken. She was next in line as they queued in the school hall. The photographer was facing a losing battle at eliciting a sweet expression from the precocious Rosalyn, but she’d glanced at Poppy. Their eyes had met and they’d giggled with mischief. He’d snapped that second and captured a picture where Rosalyn’s eyes sparkled with joy and perhaps, what Poppy now recognised as, love. It was a beautiful photograph – Rosalyn in the most charming of moments. Poppy’s heart ached and she wished she could see that smile again.

There were no more formal photographs. No sixth form photo, no snap of Rosalyn in a graduation gown, no stints as a bridesmaid or joyful pictures of the family together at Christmas. She’d disappeared from official record.

The next portrait featured Rosalyn in a torn T shirt and khaki trousers, her arm wrapped around a small child whose grin shone from a broad, dark face. A lush green mountainside, whose scale suggested another country and continent, provided the backdrop. It must have been taken on one of her charity’s projects.

Rosalyn’s face was beautiful and bare of makeup, her eyes fatigued and her hair tied carelessly, but her smile was of deep satisfaction. She was older than in the school photograph and her face had attained the mature beauty it had today.

Then Poppy saw it. It wasn’t a printed photograph; no proud memorabilia sent home from a child wanting to impress. A small caption below reported the extent of the Clean Water charity’s work in Bolivia and Poppy realised David must have torn it from a newspaper.

“Oh, Rosalyn,” she whispered. Poppy grieved for David and Lillian and the cold distance they’d had to endure from their only child. So desperate for an image of their girl they’d resorted to public media for their keepsake.

How damaging the past had been. Rosalyn’s closeted existence had been crippling for them all and Poppy felt the raw sorrow of Rosalyn’s family as well as her own.

A rattle broke her contemplation and she turned to see David leaning heavily on a silver hostess trolley.

“Let me help,” she said.

“No, please,” he said labouring. “Don’t let me fail with a few paces to go.” He pushed the trolley to the table and slumped into a chair.

Poppy let him regain his breath and took a seat.

“Did it.” He panted. “Assuming we both survive lunch, I’m going to consider this a success.”

Poppy laughed. “And so you should.”

“Now, can I tempt you with a cucumber sandwich, or beef and horse radish?”

“Both please.”

David started to serve the food, his eyes distracted by the photos on the back wall. He must have seen Poppy examining them. “You know, I’m kicking myself for not taking a single picture of Rosalyn while she was here.”

“I imagine time flew by.”

“Yes, it did.” He nodded. “Particularly at first. I was unconscious or asleep for the first weeks.”

“Was it good to have her home?” Poppy wanted to encourage his conversation but also feared where it might lead.

“Very good. A real luxury to have her home for several weeks. That’s the most I’ve seen her since school, and by that I mean early teens. She helped enormously. It was vital for Lillian to have someone else to take the strain. But you know,” he sighed, “although she was attentive and stayed weeks, Rosalyn was still elusive. I’m not sure we talked about anything of any importance.”

He looked at Poppy, his face suddenly tired and less hopeful. “I don’t think I know anything more about her than before this episode.”

“I’m sorry,” Poppy said sympathetically, but inside a knot tightened, aware of the reasons for Rosalyn’s evasion.

“Anyway.” He sat up straight and attempted to lighten the mood. “Tell me, how are things with you? I hear the café is booming.”

Poppy laughed. “Oh, that might be an exaggeration. But, even with the odd hiccup, it’s doing very well this summer. You must come, for a meal on the house of course.”

“Yes, I’ll treat Lillian to a coffee and a delicious cake. And we’ll pay for it. It’s about time we supported the local businesses.”

“Always appreciated.” Poppy beamed.

“And you’ve never said. Do you have a partner? Boyfriend? I know your family keeps you here, but I hope there’s someone to care for you too.”

Poppy froze. Her mouth was open, on the verge of delivering the simple version of the truth. She hesitated and stared at her hands, which squirmed in her lap.

“Sir,” she said. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Never have.” She looked up and prepared for the reaction. “I’m gay.” Poppy smiled, as she always did, no sign of regret in her countenance.

“Oh.” David sat back. His features fell and his gaze softened into the distance. He frowned at his thoughts. “I did wonder, at times,” he said at last. “Over the years.” Then he smiled kindly. “It was unusual for someone so attractive, both in looks and personality, not to have a string of boyfriends.”

Poppy nodded, while her fingers twisted in her lap.

David hesitated. Poppy could see his thoughts racing through the connotations. “Then… Is…” He looked pained.

“Please don’t ask,” she whispered.

“But is she?”

Poppy shook her head, not wanting to be questioned.

“Is Rosalyn gay?” he pleaded.

“You can’t ask me that.”

He stared at the floor in anguish. “Please tell me, Poppy.”

“You need to ask her.”

“I’ve wanted to, believe me, many times. On those rare occasions we saw her. That handful of times when she ran out of excuses and Lillian cajoled her into letting us visit. I should have asked. But I didn’t want to scare her away any more than she already was.”

Poppy’s throat strangled with sorrow, seeing this able and affable man debilitated by the loss of his daughter.

“Please, Poppy,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Either of us could be gone tomorrow,” he said, “but given my circumstances it’s more likely to be me.” He stared at her, his expression contorted with grief. “I don’t want to die not knowing my daughter.”

Poppy covered her face, not wanting him to read her thoughts, which were plainly written there, but also unable to bear the raw anguish of the father. Warm tears ran from beneath her tight eyelids, and she didn’t dare breathe lest she indulge her sorrow in a sob.

“Please,” he murmured.

She slowly lowered her hands. “Promise me. Please promise that you will talk to her.”

He nodded. “I would keep a promise to you, Poppy.”

“Then yes. Rosalyn is gay.”

It was as if he’d been punched. “That’s it?” he gasped. “Is that all it’s been?” His countenance was incredulous. “Is that what’s kept her away all these years?”

“I don’t know,” Poppy stuttered.

“Is she with someone? Is she happy? Please tell me why she stayed away.”

“I know a little, but you must to talk to Rosalyn.”

“Why did she hide it?” he said, throwing his hands up in despair. “Did she think I would care? Did she really think I would give a damn she was gay?”

Poppy looked away.

“Did she think we were homophobic? Well, did she?” His voice edged towards anger.

“No, no. I don’t know. Please just talk to her.”

“I wouldn’t have cared a jot.”

Poppy tried to smile and appease him. “It’s easy to say in retrospect, but are you sure you’d never have taken it badly or said something hurtful?”

“She’s my daughter. I would have welcomed her and any girlfriend with open arms.”

“But are you certain? All those years ago?”

“Yes, I—”

“When she was a teenager, who people don’t consider know best? What if you didn’t approve of her girlfriend?”

He was about to speak, but Poppy wanted to raise one more issue. “Would your wife have been so accepting?”

David sat back, quiet and thoughtful again. He roused once more, perhaps to defend his wife, but then thought better of it. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll never know.”

His eyes flickered in agitated thought. “God, all those times she’d only meet us in restaurants. All those friends with whom she shared flats, but we thought we weren’t important enough to meet them. We hadn’t got a clue what was going on.” He looked at her, imploring. “Why couldn’t she have said?”

Poppy almost laughed with shared frustration. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Why didn’t she confide in someone?”

Poppy shook her head. “I can’t tell you.” And Poppy’s heart ached for her own loss – the pain of losing her closest friend and perhaps a cherished lover. “I wish she’d told everyone.”

Chapter 31.

Poppy didn’t return home after visiting the Hall. Her feelings about Rosalyn were in turmoil after seeing the toll she’d taken on David. Poppy wasn’t ready for scrutiny and observation back at the cottage and she was drawn to her place of seclusion by the river – the small beach with its ancient branch seat.

She stared down at the river, her reflection in flux in the moving waters. No clarity came of gazing there, only a cycle of frustration and sorrow.

A rustling behind pulled her from her trance and she turned to see her mother lifting a leafy branch aside and peeping through.

“I’m sorry to intrude.” Emma looked at her sadly. “Can I come in?”

Poppy nodded and her shoulders slumped in submission to all the things that preyed on her mind. Her mother’s feet crunched over the pebble beach and she sat next to Poppy with a reticence about her movement. Emma peered at her with overt concern.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ve been so morose.”

Her mother tightened her lips in a way that communicated her sympathy rather than any burden.

Poppy sighed. “Rosalyn’s gay, and I didn’t realise. I didn’t know until a few days ago.”

“Ah,” her mother said softly. “That explains a great deal, a very great deal.”

“Yes, it does.” Poppy faced her mother. “Did you know? Did you suspect? I mean when we were growing up?”

“No…perhaps.” Her mother frowned while she considered. “I wondered. And I suspected you were in love with her on some level; perhaps not a romantic love but a deep passion none the less. But Rosalyn,” she shrugged, “she was always more guarded than you and often difficult to read.”

Poppy stared at the current swirling through the waters. “Rosalyn knew when she was twelve.”

“That early?”

Poppy muttered confirmation.

“I imagine,” her mother paused, concern wrinkling her features, “that had great potential for hurt and misunderstanding.”

Poppy laughed harshly. “Yes, it did.”

“I also assume you have borne the brunt of it on more than one occasion.”

“Yes,” Poppy whispered.

Emma held her hand. “You are a very positive and forgiving woman. It’s wretched for you, but you will find a way through.”

“I just…oh.” Poppy growled with frustration. “I can’t help thinking, if she’d told us when she was sixteen, it would have saved so much anguish for me, her parents and herself.”

Her mother nodded. “Yes, it would have been simpler for all, except maybe Rosalyn.”

“What do you mean?”

“People live a lie for good reasons. Why would they not when the burden of secrecy is so great.”

“But there was so much to gain by being open and I’ve never had any problems being a lesbian here.”

“But you’re not Rosalyn.” Emma squeezed her hand and looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m so glad you realised you were gay and came out when you were at university. Times were more tolerant than even a few years before. Everything changed when they brought in civil partnerships.” Her mother smiled at her fondly. “I don’t imagine coming out is easy for anyone, and don’t want to imply it was for you. And it is partly to your own credit and positive disposition you found it painless. But a different time? With different friends and family? A different place? People and circumstances vary. I know it must be the most frustrating thing in the world Rosalyn didn’t come out to you, but can you understand why she didn’t?”

Poppy bowed her head. “I can, up to a point. But she is so filled with hate, it taints her view of everything and everyone.”

“I imagine not being able to acknowledge who you love and crave, not even to yourself, must do terrible things to a person. Love and desire are so powerful a force, how could you contain such a thing without breaking?”

Poppy felt a stab at her heart – the thought of Rosalyn’s love for her tormenting her friend all those years.

“Did you know Cerys Mathews was a lesbian?”

“What? No.” Poppy laughed out of surprise.

Emma nodded. “Yes. Been in the closet all her life. You know, she admires you for being out, and not so much proud, but simply comfortable.”

Poppy was struck with a wave of guilt. “You’re right. I was lucky. I had you.” She looked at her mother with a heart full of love and the realisation it was serendipitous indeed to have this patient and kind soul as her parent. “You and Dad were so accepting. I couldn’t have had a better start.”

Her mother smiled by way of thanks. “I think we did what any parent should. Cerys’ family weren’t as accepting and of course she was from a different generation.”

“I don’t know if I suspected Cerys.” Poppy frowned. Perhaps there’d been the occasional look or trait which sparked some kind of recognition. “I’ve never seen her with anyone like a partner. Has she ever been in love?”

“Very much,” Emma replied. “She fell in love with a girl at school – Eleanor Jones. They were the best of friends and most bewitched of lovers.”

The name tickled at Poppy’s memory then it flooded through. “Mrs Morgan Morgan?”

Her mother nodded. “They were in love and planned to move to London. But Cerys’ sister told her parents and, in the end, she couldn’t face their condemnation.”

“And they split up.”

“Yes. They haven’t exchanged anything beyond a brief pleasantry since.”

“That’s so sad,” Poppy whispered, “to live alongside the love of your life, but never together. Did Cerys find anyone else? I know Mrs Morgan, Eleanor, did. But what about Cerys?”

“No. And I don’t think Eleanor really did either. I think that’s why she wears black. Apparently, after she married Mr Morgan she never wore another colour.”

The thought of Mrs Morgan grieving for Cerys a whole lifetime made Poppy desolate and fearful she faced the same misfortune.

She smiled. Her mother always had a nice way of getting to her, questioning until Poppy worked herself through an issue.

“I do understand people are different and I was lucky, but I can’t forgive Rosalyn’s attitude.” Poppy looked at her mother in desperation. “She assumes everyone is bigoted – a large part of the reason she never came out – but she’s arrogant too. Dai’s right, she always had a superior attitude. You should have heard the things she said about people in the village.”

“I did, from others. But I don’t think she ever thought she was superior to you.”

“I don’t know. No. Who knows?” Poppy tutted.

“It’s true Rosalyn has an unforgiving manner and is a very bright woman. That means she can be impatient with those who are less perceptive. But I wouldn’t dismiss what she says without consideration. You never used to.”

Poppy grumbled and hid her head in her hands. Her mother’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“You know,” Emma said, “I’ve always admired Rosalyn. She’s one of those perceptive people who have an ability to see through an issue to its crux, whether it be injustice or simply recognising when someone is talking rot. I don’t have that ability, I wish I did. But at least I listen when someone like Rosalyn talks. I think you’re the same.” She peered at Poppy. “Even as early as ten years old Rosalyn had the nous to sort out the Scouts and Brownie situation.”

Poppy blushed. At the grand age of 32 years old, the mention of the Brownie hut inferno still gripped her with the panic of a naughty school girl. “Mum, that’s just Nain’s supposition. You know how she loves to gossip, especially about the Thorns. No-one ever proved it was Rosalyn.”

Emma raised her eyebrow. “And they wouldn’t have done, would they? Rosalyn was at her piano lesson when the smoke went up.”

Poppy tucked her chin into her chest and peeped up through her hair. “That’s what I remember.”

Her mother smiled. “And do you know what I recall?”

Poppy looked blank and innocent.

“A ten-year-old daughter suddenly interested in the whereabouts of the matches and learning how to light the stove.”

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “You suspected me? You thought I did it?”

Emma grinned. “I know you did.”

Poppy’s eyes shot wide. “What do you mean?”

“You made such an issue about retiring to your room early that evening, I knew something was up.” Emma giggled. “You, my sweet girl, were a terrible liar. I watched you sneak out of the house towards the village and kept watch for your return from the kitchen. And when you did, your face was a picture of trepidation and in the distance a curl of smoke stretched up into the sky from Wells.”

“You knew?” Poppy stared at her mother. “All these years, and you knew.”

Emma nodded.

“But you didn’t say anything.”

“I knew, but that doesn’t mean I disapproved.”

Poppy smiled. “Mum. I can’t believe you never punished me.”

Emma shrugged. “Of course I couldn’t condone what you did, but I was proud of you. I don’t think I’d have had the gumption at your age.”

“It was Rosalyn’s idea,” Poppy admitted.

“I assumed it was. But I thought it so clever of you both to realise Rosalyn would be the suspect and provide her with an alibi.”

“Some of that was my planning, but realising how unfairly the Brownies were treated compared with the Scouts was all Rosalyn.”

Emma nodded. “Yes, Rosalyn was a brave and bright girl, but only because you were her rock. You were the one who listened and supported her.”

Poppy closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh I don’t know, Mum.” Poppy shook her head. “I don’t know who to listen to. So many things have happened, and too many harsh words have been said, and people have been hurt.”

Her mother squeezed her hand. “You were always a bright one too. You’ll find a way through it.”

Chapter 32.

Poppy hummed as she walked into Wells, swinging Pip’s hand with her own. Even though her feelings about Rosalyn were still unreconciled, sharing the reason for her melancholy with her mother and the breakup of her childhood friendship was a weight off her heart and mind.

Poppy’s prime concern this fine morning was that Pip seemed disinclined to her usual playful gallop and clung to her hand.

“Good morning, Mrs Morgan,” Poppy said, as they passed the first cottage.

“Bore da, cariad.” Mrs Morgan waved and rolled her hips in a motion towards the garden gate. “Another fine morning.”

“It is indeed.”

“And you, Pip bach? How’s school?”

“Ok,” Pip grumbled.

“Ah well. I’ll interpret that as the most exciting times of your life mixed with the tortuous trials of being almost a teenager.”

Pip stared at Mrs Morgan, surprised. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“You have some incredible years ahead. I won’t say ‘enjoy it’ because that’s not quite the right word. But these are important years. You’ll meet first loves, be shaped by books and discover music that will move you for a lifetime, all while being dismissed as subhuman by the rest of society. Those years shape your heart and make you the person you are on the inside. Doesn’t matter how old and wrinkly you get, there’s always a large-hearted teenager deep down. I both envy and fear for you, Pip bach.”

Pip nodded and looked glum, but didn’t dismiss the elderly woman with her usual insolence.

“See you later,” Poppy said, with a not insignificant pang of loss for her own teenage self.

“Ta ra,” Mrs Morgan said and turned back into the house.

It did occur to Poppy that Pip had been glum these past few days, in fact intermittently over the last weeks.

Poppy smiled at Pip, not wanting to lose her sister to teenage angst and solemnity yet. “Come on,” Poppy said, a spark of energy igniting inside. “Race you to the shop.”

“Aw, Poppy. I don’t wanna run.”

“Then you’ll lose,” Poppy shouted with glee, and she took off into a sprint.

It wasn’t long before Pip’s willowy legs caught her. The girl made a sport of imitating Poppy’s adult panting then laughed and flew off, errant limbs somehow clawing at the ground in a canter.

Pip was already shovelling sherbet lemons into a paper bag when Poppy burst through the shop door with a beetroot face.

“Oh dear,” Dai sniggered. “Looks like big sister needs a head start.”

“Tell me about it.” Poppy tutted in good humour and approached the counter. “How are you, Dai?”

“Good, good, you know.”

“But…?”

“Oh no buts. Just good.”

“Apart from…?”

Dai frowned and put his hands on his hips. “How do you know something’s up? Tell me that.”

Poppy smiled. “Because I do.”

Dai leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do I twitch or something?” He pointed at his eye, which had in fact started spasming. “Because Mary does the same. Can’t keep a secret from either of you.”

Poppy laughed. “No, you don’t twitch, but you seem on the verge of saying more.”

“Oh. Well, as a matter of fact, there is something.” He stood up and crossed his arms. “I’ve booked the wedding with Alan Watkins at the Bryn Mawr hotel.”

Poppy opened her mouth but issued no reply, and she stood frozen in a heavily pregnant pause.

For a few moments Poppy had managed to forget Rosalyn Thorn and the multitude of feelings for her. But here Rosalyn was again, causing turmoil.

“I know you’ve had your doubts, but—”

“No, Dai. You go ahead.” Rosalyn was gone, there was no substance to her prejudiced accusations and Dai had a wedding to plan. “It’s your big day and if you want Bryn Mawr please don’t delay. Let’s forget everything anyone’s said about Alan.”

Dai frowned.

“Please?”

“Good.” He nodded.

Poppy gave him a reassuring smile. “Let me know if I can help.”

“Thank you, Poppy, but you concentrate on the stag do.”

“Oh that’s all in order,” she said. “So long as keeping it local is fine.”

“We’re all a bit strapped for cash to be honest. If we go on a bender to Amsterdam the girlfriends and wives will be fuming.” Dai smiled.

“And well before the wedding is still ok?”

“That’s best I suppose. Don’t want to be one of those grooms who look green around the gills. Mary wouldn’t be too impressed for a start.”

Poppy laughed and turned to retrieve Pip and her sweets.

Dai’s choice of venue did weigh on her mind, but she pushed it far back to sit with a troublesome person and several other issues, and stepped outside determined to resume her cheerful life.

“Have a good day at school, Pip.” Poppy kissed her sister on the cheek, which bulged hard with a boiled sweet.

“Shee woo waiter.” Pip grinned a yellow smile of translucent sweet and loped off to school.

At least the café’s fortunes were still on the rise, the glowing positive feedback far outweighing the puzzling negative. When she stepped through the door, a handful of tables were already occupied, the diners indulging in fresh baked rolls with melting butter and bacon.

Weekend numbers remained boosted by the publicity in the national paper and the county blog had reminded locals how highly they’d always rated it and they now wished to show their good taste by frequenting it during the week.

In a moment of respite, Poppy tucked behind the cake counter for a short coffee break, but she spied Cerys Mathews scurrying in, her face as alarmed as that of a mouse between a kestrel’s talons.

Poppy peeped over the bank of coffee machines. “Are you all right, Cerys?”

“Poppy. There you are,” she sighed. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yes, I do. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a coffee over.”

“Oh, diolch cariad.”

Cerys perched on a seat by the counter, flicking through a large notebook, failing to read any of the pages that sailed by.

“What’s happened?” Poppy asked as she slid a chair beside Cerys.

“Well, I can’t believe it,” Cerys blurted. “Just two weeks before the fair and the council have pulled permission for the event from right under us.”

“What?”

“And I had two major businesses signed up. Montgomeryshire Ice Creams was all ready to go. He wants to come and see the café, by the way, and to ask if you’re interested in keeping a fridge of local ice creams here.”

“Well of course, but—”

“And Rhys from Aberrhiw Cider, it turns out, is a very nice gentlemen and keen on a real ale and cider stall. He didn’t know why he hadn’t attended before, in fact.”

“But—”

“And I’d just persuaded the school to host their play at the town hall so we’d have an instant crowd afterwards. I was about to ask you and Derek if you’d organise a cake decorating stall for the little ’uns. Oh!” She clenched her bony fists. “I’m so bothered I could stamp.”

“But what’s happened?”

“I didn’t give you the details, did I? Well, the original description of the fair covered a smaller event with no outside catering from the likes of the café. We can’t just cover the pavements with tables and chairs apparently.”

“But we have that provision anyway. Mum and I included it in the scope of the café when it was built.”

“Oh.” Cerys stretched up her neck like an indignant emu. “I didn’t know that.”

“We haven’t taken advantage of it yet, but we’re planning to. We’ve been booked up every weekend recently and Dad’s building the additional seating for that and the fair.”

“Hmm.” Cerys’ beady eyes locked on to Poppy’s. “See, when I contacted the council originally, all those years ago, I applied for a bigger fair – about the size of market day, or how it used to be.”

“So there shouldn’t be a problem with an expanded event?” Poppy conjectured.

“Well, that’s what I assumed.” Cerys pulled down her lips in pique. “I thought the sticking point was the outside catering you see. But if what you tell me is true, I don’t understand why it’s been rejected.”

“Can you reapply?”

“Yes, but it won’t be appraised in time. The office told me to try again for next year.”

Poppy sighed in distress and rubbed her temples. “Who did you talk to at the council offices?”

“Oh I don’t know, sounded like a receptionist relaying a message. She wouldn’t put me through to any of the officers.”

“Really,” Poppy muttered. Her head was beginning to throb. “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

“Just Alan Watkins.”

“Alan Watkins?”

“I bumped into him on the way here.”

“And what did he have to say?” Poppy couldn’t help a strong note of cynicism from tainting her voice.

Cerys fixed her eyes on Poppy’s. “He very generously suggested I host the event at the hotel complex.”

“Really.”

“Yes. He said there wouldn’t be a problem with catering there. But of course that sidelines your café and rather defeats the purpose of the fair. It is to celebrate the wares and people of Wells after all.”

Poppy’s heart plummeted and the nauseating chill of realisation and humility churned inside. She covered her face, not wanting Cerys to see the drain of good will from her features, and her mind went black with all the negative connotations of Cerys’ words.

She sighed and grabbed her coffee, in need of comfort.

“Do you think Rosalyn was right about Alan?” Poppy said deflated, and she took a sip of her drink.

“That he’s a misogynistic little prick? Yes.”

Poppy spat out her coffee. She inhaled several drops, which induced a coughing paroxysm, and for several seconds her laughter was masked by the efforts of not choking.

“Cerys,” she giggled. “Thank you. You’ve made my day.”

“Well, he’s an odious man. I can’t stand him.”

“Seriously though. Do you think Alan and his associates are sabotaging the fair?”

“You mean Glyn and Gareth from the council?” Cerys’ eyes narrowed. “Those shifty little buggers?”

“Yes.”

“Well, to be honest, I thought Rosalyn’s accusations were far-fetched at the time. But not anymore.”

Poppy’s heart sank again. She hadn’t followed up any of Rosalyn’s accusations, but her instinct knew Rosalyn was right. Years of intimate knowledge of Rosalyn told her she was right.

“Oh dear,” Poppy said to no-one in particular and she shook her head. “I still think the way Rosalyn handled the issue was appalling. But it’s getting very difficult to trust Alan Watkins, or anyone close to him.”

“Too right, cariad. I don’t have any hard evidence yet, but there’s no bloody way I’m having my fair at his hotel.”

Poppy smiled, but it didn’t last long. “What are we going to do?”

Cerys shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s going to disappoint a great many people now. And it was all starting to come together.”

Chapter 33.

The problems of the fair and the sudden change in Poppy’s affiliations occupied her thoughts well into the night. She shuffled and twitched around the bed, blushing as she recalled how harshly she’d spoken to Rosalyn while defending Alan and the townsfolk.

Poppy pampered her bruised pride by reminding herself how arrogant and prejudiced Rosalyn had been towards the entire village, but there was no escaping she was probably right about its less savoury inhabitants.

But Rosalyn was gone and what could Poppy do?

By morning she’d vacillated over so many issues and options she leapt out of bed determined to do something to make her life less annoying.

So she phoned the council offices which, in the short term, would do nothing to ease her irritation.

“Could you put me through to event licensing please?” Poppy said into her mobile.

“Which office is that?” came a sweet female voice on the other end.

“Um.” Poppy frowned, confused. “I was hoping you could tell me?”

“One moment please.”

The woman’s voice and clatter of the background ceased and a synthesiser version of Delilah tinkled in her ear. She gazed out of the porthole across the valley, the hills blurring as her vision grew as weary of the wait as she did.

“Right,” the woman’s voice cut back in. “You want the licensing officer apparently.”

“Excellent. Could you put me through?”

“Oh,” the woman said. “I don’t know about that.” And the keyboard version of Tom Jones resumed in her ear.

A few minutes later the woman returned. “Who’s calling sorry?”

“Poppy Jenkins from Wells.”

“One moment please.”

No. Not the music. Not Delilah again. But she didn’t have to wait long this time before the woman cut in.

“Says he’s out today, I’m afraid.”

“Ok, thank you,” said Poppy. “Hang on a minute. He told you he was out?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “Oh.”

An edge crept into Poppy’s voice. “Perhaps you could ask if he’s changed his mind.”

“Right you are,” she said and Poppy’s heart sank at the swelling chorus of Delilah.

The clatter of an office room echoed in her ear again. “No, he’s still out.”

Poppy wondered. “Could you tell me if, by any chance, the licencing officer is Gareth Jones?”

“Yes.” The woman paused. “No. He told me not to say.”

“Well, perhaps you could tell Gareth that rejecting the Wells fair on the grounds of sale of food is a mistake, because our café has a permit to serve in the square. And if he won’t talk to me, I’ll complain to his manager.”

“Right.” The woman paused. “I’ll pass it on.”

The woman returned swiftly. “His manager says he’s out as well.”

Poppy growled down the phone. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. No wonder Cerys had fallen foul of bureaucracy. This could go on all day and she’d still be no better off.

What would Rosalyn do? This was the kind of thing she excelled at. A tingle of rebellion stirred inside Poppy.

“Well that’s a shame,” she said with a veil of sincerity over thick sarcasm. “I wanted to warn them of their mistake, because as well as several small cottage industries there are larger businesses who’ll suffer with the cancellation. I think they’ll sue you know.”

“Really?” The woman paused. “Right. Hold on a sec.”

Poppy was treated to a Manic Street Preachers cover on an instrument she could only describe as a kazoo.

“Miss Jenkins.” A deep male voice came on the line. “Thank you for the warning. Could you resubmit your application? If you give me your address I’d be happy to post the relevant documentation.”

“Of course we could, but it’s too late for this year.”

“I’m afraid that’s the process. We might be able to fast track it.”

“Perhaps you could fast track it by reading your copy of the original application and my permit – they’re all in order.”

“I’m afraid to say, madam,” his voice became deeper and more intractable, “we have mislaid your application.”

Poppy slapped her hand to her face and looked skywards. “So as well as being negligent in your decision-making, some might say corrupt, you’re also incompetent record keepers.”

The line was silent.

“Thanks for your attention,” Poppy said, the Rosalyn-inspired delivery intact. “I’ll tell the stall holders to go ahead and sue and also write a newspaper article apologising for the cancellation with details of the reason. And when I say newspaper, I don’t mean the County Times. There are others.”

The end of the line buzzed. Poppy’s ear ached in the silence. “Could you give me a moment, Miss Jenkins? My colleague has found an application that might be relevant.”

And, at last, the wheels of bureaucracy were oiled. After another painful half hour, Poppy tapped the phone call to an end with a satisfied smile on her face. She immediately selected another number and listened to the intermittent ring with rising excitement.

“Cerys?” she said. “We’re back on.”

It was a week later when an animated Cerys Mathews scuttled towards Poppy and Pip as they strolled into Wells. Cerys brandished a newspaper and sported the kind of look reserved for lottery wins.

“We’re in the paper,” she shrieked. “They’ve published it.”

“What’s that?” Poppy grinned.

Pip tutted beside her. “It’s just The Shropshire Express.”

“Sh,” Poppy whispered. “Don’t take the wind out of her sails.”

“Is that a polite way of saying don’t piss on her fire?”

“Pip!” Poppy shook her head and questioned what had got into her young sister of late.

Cerys caught up with them and stopped, gasping for breath. “Look at this.” She opened the paper to a colourful two-page spread. Familiar figures stood in the photographs and the title boasted: A Fair to Remember, Wells Promises.

“It’s Mum,” Pip said, a smile creeping onto her reluctant face. She pointed to a photo of Emma in the studio, working on a fluid blue picture of the river. “And you.” Poppy stood beside her pride and joy, the cake counter – a sumptuous spread of cakes on display.

“I see you wore your cream dress.” Pip grinned.

And Poppy blushed, realising how much she was on display too.

“Don’t embarrass your sister, Pip,” Cerys chided. “If I was that lush I’d show it off too. I think Poppy looks fabulous.”

Pip turned a paler shade and studied her shoes. Poppy giggled at her sister’s horror then focused her attention on the piece, trying to ignore her blooming bodice in the spread. “It’s brilliant Cerys – fantastic advertising and great timing too for the weekend.”

Cerys turned and accompanied them, still holding the article in front of her.

“I’m so pleased. I think it’s beautiful. We only just managed to get it in time for this week’s edition.”

“Good,” Poppy said as they approached the first cottage of Wells. “And who’s we?”

Cerys didn’t get a chance to answer before Mrs Morgan Morgan popped her head above the wall in a break from a spot of weeding. Her smile was as friendly as usual when she spotted Poppy.

“Bore da, Poppy and Pip. Lovely weather again. Oh…” Her felicity slipped away when she noticed the company they kept.

She couldn’t maintain her jovial manner and looked away. “Miss Mathews,” she said with a nod.

Cerys lifted her chin. “Mrs Morgan Morgan.” She was awkward and took a few moments before she could manage, “You’re right. It’s a lovely day again.”

Mrs Morgan studied a fleshy green caterpillar on a dahlia, perhaps to avoid catching anyone’s eye. “It’s been a good summer this one. Best since seventy-six I reckon.”

“I imagine you’re right,” Cerys replied.

The stiff exchange was obvious now Poppy knew their background, and the awkwardness excruciating. Poppy chided herself for having never noticed the painful frostiness between the pair.

“And I hope the sun lasts for many more months,” Poppy said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Yes, cariad,” Mrs Morgan smiled sadly. For a moment she peered towards Cerys, but the wiry woman avoided her gaze and strode on with purpose.

Poppy’s heart sank for Mrs Morgan. The elderly woman turned to hide her expression and waved over her shoulder, pretending some errand in the house.

Poppy and Pip caught up with Cerys and silently fell into step. When they walked beyond Mrs Morgan’s earshot, Cerys relaxed her pose.

“As I was saying… What was I saying?”

Poppy laughed, out of sorrow and mirth. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve forgotten too.”

“You’re too young to be losing it, Poppy bach.” Cerys wagged her finger. “However, my brain’s so full of things, I worry it’ll all fall out before the fair on Saturday.”

“You’ll be fine.”

As they reached the centre, Cerys gave the article one last look of admiration. “It could be good this you know.”

Poppy grinned and gave the spritely woman a hug. “I think it will be.”

They waved farewell and Cerys scurried away up the square.

“Right Pip, I’ll see you tonight... Pip?”

Her sister stared towards the bridge and a steady but sparse stream of children crossing on their way to school. A large boy faced the oncoming traffic. He stood with his hands behind his back and nodded every so often to children he recognised. He looked towards Pip and said, “Sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Pip?”

Her sister backed into Poppy and felt for her hand.

“Pip, what’s going on?”

The boy had turned back and was scanning the oncoming stream with a contrite look.

“That there,” Mrs Morgan had ambled up behind, “is a boy who’s been making life miserable for many at school.”

“Pip?” Poppy asked. “What’s happened?”

She avoided Poppy’s gaze.

“Pip?” Poppy bent down to her sister’s height. “Has he hurt you?”

Pip shuffled and peeped through her fringe. “Nah, I’m all right,” she said. “He didn’t hurt me. Just nicked some money.”

“When?”

Pip grunted.

“How long’s this been going on?”

“Few weeks I bet,” Mrs Morgan interjected.

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Pip.” Poppy grabbed her sister by the shoulders, wanting to cuddle and protect her. “Why didn’t you say, sweetheart?”

“For a start, because I thought you’d treat me like a two-year-old.”

“Oh.” Poppy was filled with sorrow and dropped her arms, realising it was exactly what she would have done.

“And I didn’t think you’d listen. You’ve been distracted lately.”

Pip may as well have stuck a red-hot knife into Poppy’s heart and twisted it for good measure.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Every glum moment Pip had suffered over the last few weeks was now crystal clear in Poppy’s mind. “I knew something was up. I should have asked outright.”

Pip swung her arms around and her bottom lip pouted. “I could have told you as well. And it wasn’t too bad for me. Not as bad as the others; especially the primary school kids.”

“But it’s all right now, isn’t it, bach,” Mrs Morgan said and she squeezed Pip’s shoulder with reassurance. “He’s been made to see the error of his ways,” she said, satisfied. “I knew there was something up with the sneaky little beggar. I’ve seen him hanging around, looking like he’s up to no good. But I never managed to catch him in the act. But she got him. And I don’t know what she said, but it scared the bejeezus out of him.”

“Who?” said Poppy, half attending Pip and half feeling twenty tonnes of guilt.

“Spotted him by the river she did. Two of the little ‘uns were having a paddle while he stripped their bags. She caught him good and proper.”

“Sorry,” Poppy said, standing up straight. “Who caught him?”

“Well, Rosalyn.”

“Rosalyn?” Poppy gasped. “Did you say Rosalyn?”

“Yes, she arrived back this morning. She popped in to say hello and at the shop for your mam too.”

“Rosalyn?” Poppy stared in disbelief.

“Yes, cariad.” Mrs Morgan Morgan smiled.

Poppy staggered back from the double shock of first Rosalyn saving her baby sister and second being there at all.

“But… When… Why…?”

“I love Rosalyn.” Pip sniggered and a big grin cheered her face. “I think she’s brilliant.”

Poppy looked down at Pip with flummoxed goofiness.

“Wake up, sis,” Pip coaxed.

“But…?”

Pip sighed and hugged Poppy round the middle, kissed her chin when still she failed to respond and galloped off over the bridge.

Poppy stared with an open mouth after Pip, who disappeared beyond the church.

“Rosalyn,” she whispered. Her heart thundered in her chest and perspiration burst in a chill on her back. “Rosalyn’s here.”

“She’s a good girl that one,” Mrs Morgan observed.

Poppy shook her head and came to. “Pip? Yes she’s brilliant. I know.”

“Pip too. She’s a little star. But I meant Rosalyn.”

“Really?” Poppy forced herself to focus on Mrs Morgan.

“Definitely. She’s full of surprises.” Mrs Morgan had a glint in her eye. “Good ones too.”

“Oh.” And all Poppy could do was frown and avert her gaze. She was still tender from the things Rosalyn had said and done, but she felt a good dose of guilt too.

“I’m off,” Mrs Morgan said. “I need to give Mr Morgan his seventh cuppa of the day.”

Then Poppy remembered herself. “Me too.” A sense of dread washed over her. “I’m meeting David Thorn.”

With Mrs Morgan gone she turned in the direction of the Hall.

“Oh god.” Poppy clasped her hand to her chest. She swore she could feel her heart pounding through her ribs.

Poppy had assumed she’d never see Rosalyn again and wasn’t in the least bit ready for a meeting. Whenever she thought of Rosalyn, indignation would burn at the memory of her behaviour, but uppermost at this moment was the dread she’d aggravated the strained relationship with David and Lillian by outing her.

“Ok,” she breathed.

She stepped forward at a slow, reluctant pace. She dawdled along the river. The florets of hogweed drew her attention and she stared into the fractal flowers, hypnotised in her own thoughts.

She flushed with humiliation one moment and chilled with guilt the next. She wanted to run to Rosalyn and apologise for doubting her, and outing her, but at the same time she had an overwhelming urge to flee.

She tore herself away from the flowers and the river and by the time she approached Rhiw Hall she was unforgivably late.

She ran along the stable block, sprinted around the back garden, leapt over the fence and rushed to the door, where she found no-one. The doors were locked. Inside was uninhabited and the iron bench empty, except for a crisp note weighted by a conch shell.

Poppy slid her finger inside and opened out the paper.

“I hope all’s well and you’re only caught up with the cafe. I’m heading to the lodge with Rosalyn. Please do join us. David.”

Poppy clutched the note and wandered onto the lawns. She peered along the edge of the wood and up the hill path, beyond which lay the lodge.

There they were, strolling at a creeping pace up the slope, David stooped from his illness and his tall daughter walking alongside. Their backs seemed stiff and tense and Poppy couldn’t see their faces. She stepped forward, crumpling the paper in her fingers and holding the note to her mouth, anxious at the distance between daughter and father.

David stumbled but caught his own fall. Rosalyn rushed beside him and looped her arm through his. They turned to face each other and at last Poppy could see them.

Rosalyn’s beautiful face was pale and exhausted. But there was relief there too. David smiled at his daughter, tired and anxious, but as if a weight had been lifted from his soul. They walked on, arm in arm, their heads leaning together in close conversation.

Poppy clasped her fingers to her lips. “Thank god,” she said. “Thank god for that.”

It was clear David was wrought with sorrowful relief and Rosalyn was opening her heart and history to him.

Poppy was filled with overwhelming joy that Rosalyn was at last communicating with her father and regret it had taken so long. She watched them for a few moments longer, her heart pounding with emotion, then quietly retreated along the track home.

Chapter 34.

It was fortunate that Poppy’s week was busy with preparation for the fair. Her father was perpetually in the work shed. If Iwan wasn’t building outdoor seating for the café he was constructing picture frames for Poppy’s mother. Emma was producing postcards after Cerys relayed advice that these would sell easily and Poppy was stretched running the café and organising supplies and additional staff for the weekend.

She peered from the café windows a hundred times, expecting to see Rosalyn – she would deny wanting to see her – but Rosalyn was never there. And when Poppy plucked up courage to ask her mother of Rosalyn’s plans, Emma smiled with sympathy and said she knew nothing beyond Rosalyn was working through issues with her parents.

The weather teased all week, glowering with rain one minute, scorching the wet ground into an ethereal steam the next. But on Saturday morning as Poppy dashed in, at an hour only the birds were accustomed to, the sun was a happy resident in the skies.

Cerys was already at the scene when Poppy arrived, clipboard in hand. She’d imagined Cerys would be skittish with nerves, but if she was she didn’t show a bit of it. It was a confident woman who’d taken command and stalls were being constructed with alacrity.

“Bore da, Poppy,” Cerys said, a strict frown across her brow. “I’m expecting your dad with seating any second.”

“He’s on his second coffee. He’ll be right here with Pip to arrange them.”

“Da iawn,” Cerys said and she marched off to organise another soul.

The morning passed in a blur. Poppy never stopped service for a second, and every time she glanced from the window another stall or feature had appeared. The craft stalls were arranged on the town-hall side: her mother’s beautiful paintings, Cerys’ garments, a Celtic jewellery stall and several other artisan crafts.

Towards the river, Cerys had placed events for children: Montgomeryshire Ice Creams with a generous table of every kind of sauce and sprinkles for customers to decorate their own ice creams, a Punch and Judy stall, a coconut shy.

Derek’s decorate-a-bun stall was already surrounded and a medieval stocks with a ready supply of cream pies had children screaming with delight and pleading with their parents to gamely take up position.

When Poppy had introduced the additional staff she sneaked out on a break.

“How’s it going, Mum?” Emma’s stall was busy with people pondering how many pictures to buy.

“Very well.” Her mother’s face flushed in a smile, no doubt elated at the surprise success of the stall. “I’ve received so many lovely compliments and commissions too, including a sizeable one.”

“Brilliant.” Poppy beamed.

“The cards have sold out. Cerys said they’d do well.”

Poppy passed her mother a bagel filled with smoked-salmon and a mug of coffee.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I haven’t had a chance to even notice I’m hungry.”

Poppy waved and backed away, allowing more customers to view her mother’s work. The other stalls seemed as busy and, after the junior-school play had finished, swarms of children buzzed around the square. Poppy rounded to the river side and found Derek’s stall a hive of sugar-rushed little ones. The stall somehow remained orderly, although Derek was covered with every colour of icing.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Dai’s deep voice sounded behind her.

Poppy grinned from ear to ear. “I never imagined it would go so well.”

“It’s surprised me,” Dai said. “Fair play, Cerys has pulled it out of the bag.”

“And it’s attracted people from outside Wells too. I recognise many of the children and parents, but I think half must be from out of town.”

“Shop’s been busy too,” Dai said sheepishly. “That’s caught me on the hop. Had to drag in Mary and she’s working nights. She was not impressed.”

“Well go and help her you great oaf.” Poppy jabbed him in the belly.

“I’m allowed a quick break.” He laughed, but something caught his eye and his smile dropped from his face. “Well, I’m surprised to see her.”

“Who?” Poppy rose on tip-toes to peer over the crowd.

“Bit of a cheek coming here if you ask me.”

“Who do you mean?” Poppy could see a hundred people from where she stood, but no-one of particular note. Then she spied the wisps of golden hair flowing in the breeze, the serene face with high cheekbones and luscious lips, the cool blue eyes with elegant long lashes.

Poppy’s chest tightened and her stomach twisted with nerves. Rosalyn was but a few metres away.

Dai still grumbled and Poppy heard a woman nearby chirping similar disdain. Several other locals turned in Rosalyn’s direction, not a kind look among them.

“Yes, right bloody cheek,” Dai muttered.

Poppy blushed. Although she couldn’t blame them for their anger – Rosalyn had been unforgivably rude – but she didn’t deserve this scorn. There were others more deserving of that, but Alan and his associates still enjoyed their status about town.

Rosalyn looked as isolated as she had at school. Poppy was torn between ancient pique, recent guilt and a heart which fluttered whenever she saw her friend.

She couldn’t resist. Poppy skirted around the stalls and found Rosalyn beneath the café, staring up at the first-floor window. She looked tired and pale, but Poppy still felt her irresistible allure.

“Hi,” was all Poppy could muster from a couple of feet away.

Rosalyn turned with surprise then delight filled her face. “Hi,” she breathed, her eyes sparkling. She remained reticent but leaned forward to engage Poppy.

“I, um, didn’t know you were here, at the fair,” Poppy said.

“Arrived. Not long ago. Just here.” Rosalyn smiled, almost shy.

“Good.” Poppy gulped and clasped her hands together. “Are you staying long?”

“Perhaps.” Rosalyn’s eyes were wide with apprehension. “I’d like to. But. We shall see.”

“Good,” Poppy murmured. “Good.”

They fell into a silence. It didn’t matter that hundreds of people milled around, bustling for a bargain, crying for ice cream. Their intimate space was still.

“How are you?” “How’ve you been?” “Are you well?”

“Sorry.” “Good.” “Yes.” “Me too.”

They both giggled.

“I’m very well thank you,” Poppy said.

“You look it.” And Rosalyn’s eyes were bright with pleasure as they took in every curve of Poppy’s body before catching her gaze again. “Summer sun always suited you, although you look beautiful whatever the season.”

Poppy opened her mouth, wanting to respond in kind, but her thoughts tripped over in a clamour.

“Beautiful. You. Thanks,” she managed.

Rosalyn smiled with kind amusement. “And your family? They are well?”

“Yes, they’re very well indeed. Pip especially.” Poppy laughed. “Thanks to some unorthodox discipline of a school bully.”

Rosalyn grinned and nodded in understanding.

“Even Nain hasn’t had a rage for over a week.”

“I’m glad.” Rosalyn’s smile faltered for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you sooner. I’ve been working through a few things with my parents.”

“Oh god, I know.” Poppy’s memory of her revelation to David suddenly intruded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell him, but your father—”

A sharp voice cut through the air before she could finish. “Look at these tacky little pots. It’s the best I can say for…. Oh… Poppy.” Sam’s bug-eyed face appeared next to Rosalyn’s and, although the glasses covered almost her entire face, a sneer managed to snake its way out.

Poppy stepped back. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were with someone, so to speak.” She retreated again. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

“Poppy, you’re not intruding.” Rosalyn frowned.

“Bye then.” Sam waved a dismissal and clawed at Rosalyn’s arm. She left with such conviction and haste that Rosalyn had no choice but to follow.

Poppy stared after them, her mind racing and heart thumping. For a moment, Sam dipped under the awning of another stall, and without thinking Poppy stepped forward and clasped Rosalyn’s hand.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Poppy blustered. “I said some things to your father I shouldn’t.”

Soft hands slipped around Poppy’s. She peered up and saw only warmth on Rosalyn’s face.

“He told me,” Rosalyn said. “There’s no need to worry. Dad said he put you in an awkward position and you’re not to blame.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Poppy confessed.

Rosalyn squeezed her hand. “No. It was the opportunity I needed. It was hard but a relief. It’s been a tough week, but much overdue and a terrible weight has been lifted from my mind. Thanks to you, Poppy.”

Rosalyn gazed at her. “And I must thank you for accompanying my father on his walks and cheering him on. I’m profoundly grateful. I can’t think of a better restorative than your company. It saved him from some dark moments I think.” She still held Poppy’s hand and tender gratitude softened her face.

“It was my pleasure. I’m very fond of David.” Poppy didn’t want to let go, but the looming presence of Sam lent an awkwardness to their situation and Rosalyn slipped her hand away.

“I will see you again?” Rosalyn asked. “Before too long?”

Poppy nodded.

Rosalyn stepped back and her companion in black whisked her away.

Poppy gasped for breath and her heart beat so strong she could feel her pulse to her fingertips. When she joined Dai she was still flushed with the intimacy of the encounter. She tucked down her chin hoping Dai, at a height of a small building, wouldn’t notice her agitation.

“Still pally with her ex then?” he said with derision.

“Yes. It would seem so.” Poppy’s opinion of Sam was based on the exchange of a handful of words, but she had enjoyed so few of them.

“Ex-girlfriend indeed,” Dai tutted. “Likely tale.”

“I think they are just exes,” Poppy stuttered. “Perhaps. Maybe.”

Dai looked at her with a curl of incomprehension at his lips. “Why would you hang around with your ex? Unless you’re getting back together again?”

Poppy shuffled. “People do. That is, quite a lot of lesbians do.”

“Really?” Dai’s incredulity wrinkled his entire face. “Why? What would possess someone to hang around with an ex they’ve decided is wrong for them? Is it to ward off future girlfriends during the rebound period?”

Poppy sniggered. “I don’t know. I have enough trouble getting current girlfriends to stay here never mind after we’ve split up.”

“Wells isn’t a lesbian Mecca then?” He smiled.

“No. Far from it.”

“Well, Rosalyn’s welcome to her. She looks a right stuffy cow.”

Poppy rolled her eyes at him in a chastening look.

“She looks stuffy,” he said with humility.

They watched Rosalyn and Sam amble from the square and past the shop, Rosalyn appearing despondent and a vivacious Sam nattering and clinging to her arm.

“Good riddance to them both,” Dai said and he bid Poppy farewell.

Poppy lingered, watching Rosalyn depart and wishing they’d had longer.

“I think people have her all wrong you know.”

“Cerys,” Poppy said, surprised. The small woman had sidled up and Poppy followed her line of view.

“I know people think Rosalyn is aloof and arrogant. But I’ve not seen a bit of it. She’s been nothing but helpful about the fair.”

“Yes,” Poppy sighed. “She was very supportive in the meetings, wasn’t she.”

“It went well beyond that,” Cerys said emphatically. “She’s been my rock since the first meeting. She’s given me ideas for marketing and extending the event. Getting the article in The Shropshire Express, that’s all her doing. Getting the bigger vendors and coinciding the event with the school play – her ideas. She’s been bloody marvellous I tell you.”

Poppy stared at Cerys, open-mouthed at her approbation and how Rosalyn had been so supportive. “I had no idea.”

“She was terrific. Great to have someone bright to bounce around ideas with. And so easy to work with too.”

“Really?”

“Well she’s a pro isn’t she? Event management and campaigns have been her business for years.”

That Rosalyn was right about Alan Watkins’ activities Poppy was now sure. It was the kind of hypocrisy Rosalyn loved to expose. But that Poppy’s incisive friend had been so amiable and helpful to a local like Cerys was unexpected.

“She was patient with me too,” Cerys continued. “Even though I’m a rank amateur compared with her. She was very unassuming. I’d trust her any day over the likes of Alan Watkins,” she said and puffed her chest with pride.

Poppy turned back to Rosalyn in the distance, now with a very different impression of the woman. For a moment, Rosalyn glanced over her shoulder. Their eyes locked and Rosalyn smiled, but Poppy was too stunned to respond.

Chapter 35.

“Whose bright idea was it to have my stag do the same day as the fair?” grumbled Dai. “I’m knackered already.”

“Well, my dear heart.” Mary squeezed his cheeks. “That would have been you.”

Poppy giggled. “I think someone underestimated how busy the fair would be.”

“We all did,” said Mary.

Mary threw her bag into the car parked outside the shop and Dai shuffled nervously, probably at the prospect of unlimited beer and a hoard of rugby lads with the sole intention of humiliating the groom-to-be.

“Let him get what he deserves.” Mary said. “But make sure they don’t actually kill him. And if he comes back with all limbs and other appendages attached, that would be nice.”

“I’ll try.” Poppy laughed. “But after midnight, he’s on his own.”

“Fair dos,” Mary said. She looked at Dai with a mix of amusement and apprehension. “It’s a good job it’s not the day before the wedding. He’s going to be a state tomorrow.”

“Probably.” Poppy hesitated, feeling uncomfortable about their choice of wedding venue at Alan Watkins’ hotel and her recent opinion of the man, but she had no intention of spoiling their wedding by discussing her suspicions. “How are the arrangements going?”

“Grand, they are,” Mary said. “My lot are all booked in at the hotel. We’re having the ceremony there and the food’s all sorted. I’ve just got to find a dress and keep that one,” she nodded towards Dai, “on the straight and narrow for one more month.”

“I think you’ll be safe,” Poppy said, “if you ignore anything that happens this evening.”

Mary chuckled. “Ta ra, Poppy. See you bright and early, Dai. I’ve left a bucket in every room,” she said and she disappeared into the car and up the road.

“Ready?” Poppy asked.

Dai shuffled. “I’m actually proper scared.”

“And so you should be. I’ll check your vital signs until midnight. But after that, the boys have you all to themselves.”

“Good god. Why do people do this?”

Poppy threaded her arm through his. “You’re doing it for your friends. People love to torture a groom because there’s a little sadist in everyone, but most of all in your rugby mates.”

“Great. You’re so reassuring.”

“Come on.” Poppy smiled. “The first half will be fun. You’ll just spend the second regretting the first.”

“Oh my days. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll bring you a cooked breakfast from the café.”

“There you go. That’s why you’re my best pal.” Dai grinned and they stepped forward up the road and arm in arm.

The pub was hidden at the end of a winding lane half way between Wells and Poppy’s home, an ideal and isolated location for ad hoc and generous drinking hours and lock-ins.

It was the warmest evening of the year so far and Poppy and Dai sauntered their way along the grass-split track. They gazed over the fields, the air a haze of bees and butterflies in the evening light. The meadows were waist-high, ready for harvest, and the dry grass whispered and chirruped with grasshoppers.

“Are you ready for this?” Poppy asked as they reached the timber-framed pub.

“Make sure I start slow, heh?” Dai said.

“We’ll see.”

They opened the door into the low-ceilinged bar, Dai ducking to avoid an old wooden beam, before they were struck by the cheer of tens of strong-voiced rugby boys, all with at least one pint of beer in their hands.

“Where’ve you been, you big girl’s blouse?” shouted Alwyn Pritchard, a school friend almost the size of Dai. “We’re on at least our second.”

“Don’t you worry though,” a woman shouted and all eyes turned to Brenda Gethin, the stout barmaid who stood behind the bar. With an arm strong from rolling barrels for a lifetime she held aloft a yard of ale filled to brimming.

“Oh no,” Dai said.

“Dai, Dai, Dai,” started the chant. And it wouldn’t stop until he grasped the yard from the grinning Brenda. Dai knelt down, unable to hold the glass aloft in the short rooms and spun the long container so the ale flowed into his mouth rather than flooding his entire face.

He stood up and held the empty glass like a trophy, and another triumphant cheer shook the room.

“Another!” they all shouted.

Dai looked to Poppy, all resistance gone. “I’m doomed.”

After kicking off the evening with a pint or two of beer, Poppy, half the size or less of the rest of the party, moved on to gin and tonic, which everyone except Brenda were too drunk to notice was in fact water. As the evening wore on, the bars filled with locals and the space was consumed by large men covered in sweat and beer. Poppy took refuge at the end of a bar with Brenda for intermittent company. She leant against the partition that separated the bar from the snug and sipped at her drink.

“Hide me,” Dai whispered in her ear.

“Hide you?” Poppy said. “Behind me and which other rugby second-row?”

Brenda laughed, “You might hide an arm behind this girl, but not much else.”

“Sssh,” Dai said, dipping his head down and snuggling beside Poppy at the bar. “I need a break. I’m out of practice you know.” He wiped his brow. “I’m losing it after six pints.”

“Six pints? That’s not the Dai Edwards I know.” Brenda tutted. “I’m joking, love, I’ll get you a soft drink,” and she wandered further around the bar for Dai’s tonic and to serve customers in the snug.

Poppy stared at him. “You’ve had six pints?” He sounded remarkably coherent given the quantity. “You do know that amount would probably kill me.”

Dai chuckled. “I’m going to have to cope with a lot more yet.”

“That fucking dyke’s back again.”

Poppy froze. The vicious comment emanated from around the corner in the snug – a male voice, nasal and snide. “Stupid bitch should keep her nose out.”

Dai’s strong hand lay on Poppy’s arm. “I think they’re talking about Rosalyn,” he said, “not you.”

“That fucking lezzer’s got something against Alan,” the voice came again.

Poppy leaned back and peeped around the doorway. She recognised a group of men, including the speaker, Glyn Owen. Some were from Wells, others from Welshpool and all were regular drinkers with Alan, who was nowhere to be seen.

“What right has she coming in here and messing things up?” Glyn continued. “She should fuck off back to London with all the other fucking freaks.”

There were murmurs of agreement from his crowd.

“Told her, I did,” Glyn said. “Went right up to her and told her where to go.”

“Is that right?” It was Brenda chipping in loudly. Poppy leaned forward and could see the stout woman around the bar partition, her formidable arms crossed, staring towards Glyn. “And what did she say to that?”

“Well, she got all shirty didn’t she? Had to resort to threats. Said she’d kick me in the balls if I wouldn’t move out of her space. Of course she had to say testicles.” He put on a derisive upper-class accent.

“And quite right too,” said Brenda. “Saw you, I did. Trying to be a big man and intimidate her. I saw you step right up to her with your chest all puffed out, trying to barge her out of the way.”

Glyn paused, perhaps taken aback by his behaviour being witnessed.

“If you went pushing up against my breasts like that you wouldn’t get as polite a warning as that. My knee would be in your groin straight away.”

Other customers in the snug chuckled and Glyn remained silent before grumbling. “Well, that fucking lezzer has it coming.” He dropped his voice, as if to talk only to his friends, but Poppy caught, “Like the fucking lezzer could find them. Told her too. ‘I bet you don’t know your way around a man enough to find his balls.’”

His friends sniggered.

“And what did Rosalyn say?” Brenda shouted. “Go on, tell them that too. No? Well, she said, ‘Of course I do. Same way I know about an exhaust pipe on a car. I don’t have to fuck it to know it’s there.’”

Louder laughs filled the snug and someone clapped.

“Now enough from you Glyn Owen,” Brenda shouted. “Any more of your crap about lezzers or Rosalyn Thorn and I’ll throw you out the pub myself. That goes for the lot of you.”

The laughter continued and the sound of people shuffling and scraping chairs against the floor filled the air. Brenda appeared in front of Poppy, wiping a pint glass dry.

“I’m sorry you heard that, Poppy,” she said. “I won’t stand for that kind of talk in my pub.”

“Thanks Brenda,” Poppy said. “It’s not your fault.” She smiled weakly at the barwoman as she passed, but inside she fumed with anger that Rosalyn had been threatened so physically. Then Poppy blanched with humiliation. Here was exactly the kind of intimidation Rosalyn had predicted had she come out in her youth.

“I know it’s horrible.” Dai gently squeezed her hand. “But they’re just letting off steam. Don’t let it bother you.”

Poppy clenched her teeth. “But it does bother me, Dai.” She’d have found it upsetting at any time, but after her argument with Rosalyn it stung all the more. After all her preaching to Rosalyn about the tolerance of her fine neighbourhood, here was its darker heart.

“Why do they do that?” Poppy said, looking hurt at Dai. “Why do they pick on Rosalyn for being a lesbian when she questions Alan’s dealings? Why do they resort to stoking up prejudices to bolster support for themselves?”

Dai sighed. “Because it’s easy. They don’t mean anything by it. It’s just a way to quickly mark out them and us. And I bet they’d be horrified if someone meant it about you. It’s Rosalyn. She winds people up.”

“So why can’t they say that? Why can’t they argue with her words and actions rather than who she is.”

“I know what you’re saying. But come on. She’s always been a right pain in the arse. The whole family’s been unpopular since they stole the Hall right from under our noses.”

Poppy stared at her friend. “Dai. I expected better from you. The Thorns bought the Hall at a fair price. I’m not accepting this ‘should have been for a local family’ I used to hear growing up. If old Lloyd wanted to sell the Hall to a local he could’ve done. But he didn’t. He sold it to David Thorn for a decent price.”

“But they didn’t fit in, did they,” Dai said. “That family never made any effort to be part of the community. None of them. Who ever saw David or Lillian, heh? And Rosalyn? The ice queen at school?” He snorted with derision.

Poppy fumed. “Not everyone contributes in the same way. I like to think both of us are a solid part of the community. We have businesses the village needs and we run them fairly. But that isn’t the only way people help.”

“Enlighten me then, Poppy.” An edge sharpened Dai’s words. “When you compare someone like Alan Watkins, who’s offered me a good rate for my wedding, who tried to help Cerys with the fair, who always lends an ear when people from Wells need business advice? Really how do Rosalyn and David measure up?”

Poppy shot a furious glance at Dai. “What does a heart surgeon contribute? One who’s worked for decades and saved hundreds of lives? What does a charity fundraiser contribute, who raises money for safe water supplies in other countries and saves thousands of lives? Seriously, what do they contribute?”

Dai stared at her, his expression hard.

“And,” Poppy continued, “I know on good authority Rosalyn contributed far more to the fair than Alan. In fact…” Poppy bit her tongue, to prevent further pre-wedding diatribe against Alan.

“For now,” she said with more deliberation, “let me say, Rosalyn’s been right about many things. And no she doesn’t have our apologetic, polite approach and no she doesn’t suffer fools at all, and no she’s not from a proud Welsh lineage, but you’re mistaken if you measure her worth against Alan Watkins. And even if the Thorns lived quietly in Rhiw Hall growing nothing but English roses, it doesn’t excuse this rubbish about not contributing to the community. I can name a dozen Welsh families who hardly show their faces in town and frankly that’s up to them. So, yes, I am going to take it to heart when someone is homophobic, especially when you try and defend it with xenophobia.”

“Poppy?”

“Yes.”

“Have you finished?”

“Yes I have.”

Dai’s expression softened. “How long have you been in love with Rosalyn?”

Poppy opened her mouth to respond but no words came out. “Not,” she said with a blush and umbrage. “I’m not in love with Rosalyn.”

“Are you sure?” He said it with sincere concern on his face.

“What makes you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he smiled.

Poppy crossed her arms and looked away.

“She always got to you, didn’t she?” Poppy could tell Dai was still smiling. “One way or another.”

“What do you mean?” Poppy snapped.

Dai squeezed her arm. “You’re one of the most amiable and lovely people I know. You have time and a kind word for everyone. Harsh words are water off a duck’s back and you could forgive a snake for biting. But with Rosalyn?” He chuckled. “She makes you madder than a bag of adders. But god forbid anyone else say a bad word against her.”

Poppy examined her hands. “I just think she gets a raw deal sometimes. No, she doesn’t do herself any favours, but I won’t have her denigrated on bigoted grounds.”

“Is that all it is?”

“Yes,”

“That’s a relief.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be a special kind of hell wouldn’t it? Being in love with someone who drives you that insane?”

“Yes,” Poppy said. “Quite right.” And her stomach twisted into a Gordian knot.

Chapter 36.

Poppy tapped on the window of the cottage next to the shop.

“Dai? Are you in there?”

She shaded her eyes and peered through the window. The lounge looked pristine – nothing like an eighteen stone man could have bulldozed through it. It was nine o’clock in the morning, an alarming time for absence after a stag do, and Poppy had visions of Dai waking up on a small boat in the Irish Sea.

A familiar black Jaguar pulled up at the end of the street, and when the window wound down Poppy was not surprised to see Rosalyn lean out. She was, however, surprised to see Dai emerge from the passenger side, then startled by his gossamer summer dress.

“Thank you, Rosalyn,” Dai said through gritted teeth. “Very helpful of you.”

“You’re welcome, Dai.” Rosalyn’s face was full of satisfied amusement as she leaned over the car door. “No rush with the dress. Keep it for as long as you like.”

“Very kind I’m sure.” Indignation flared at his nostrils.

Poppy stared at the approaching bulk of Dai Edwards and the sheer light material that shimmered around his body. By the time he joined her, Poppy’s jaw almost scraped the pavement.

“Morning,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.

“Um. Yes,” Poppy said.

“Ms Thorn very kindly rescued me from a sign post outside Rhiw Hall this morning.”

“Oh?” Poppy failed to suppress a smile, which twitched in the corners of her mouth. The sight of a pair of handcuffs, surreptitiously being passed around the pub, lit up in her memory. “Were you, by any chance, tied up?”

“Yes,” Dai said. “And naked.”

A laugh spluttered out of Poppy’s mouth before she could think of stopping it. “I’m sorry, Dai. How long were you there?”

“A few hours,” he said, chin in the air and hands firm on hips. He whispered. “I was actually asleep for several of those.” Then he said louder, “But it would have been nice if someone had helped me earlier, like when she passed the first time.”

“Rosalyn spotted you earlier?”

“Saw me on the way to drop her mother off, but thought I seemed quite comfortable in the hedgerow.”

Poppy covered her smile but shuddered with the giggles.

“And,” Dai projected up the road, “apparently the Thorns don’t have anything in my size, not even a loose dressing gown. Couldn’t rustle up some bed-linen to wrap around me. Oh no. Says the only thing that would fit was this lovely billowing summer dress.”

Poppy gave Dai another glance up and down. It was a truly hideous sight. There was nothing about the dress that flattered Dai’s physique.

“Couldn’t drop me outside the cottage, could she? No. Had to be up the street for a walk of shame didn’t it. Well,” Dai shouted over his shoulder. “The joke’s on her. Because I think I look lovely. So there.”

Poppy peeped towards Rosalyn. For a moment Rosalyn appeared worried, but as Poppy burst into laughter again, delight beamed across her face.

“Oh no,” Dai muttered. “Here comes Mary. I’m not going to hear the end of this.”

Mary stepped out of her car, still in her scrubs. But she was far from amused when she saw Dai.

“Oh, Dai.” Mary looked him up and down, her face full of despair. “I suppose it’s best I find out now. But hands off the wedding dress.”

Dai laughed but looked concerned. “What’s up love?”

Mary ambled wearily towards them. She breathed in but ended in a wordless sigh. “Alan’s hotel’s gone bankrupt.”

“What?”

“Found out this morning. The receivers have gone in and are selling what they can to raise funds, but we won’t see a refund anytime soon, and it’s likely to be pittance when we do.”

“But,” Dai struggled for words. “Alan’s doing all right. I thought he was doing well in fact. How can that happen?”

“I don’t know.” And Mary shook her head.

“But, I only just paid him the remainder.” Dai put his hands to his head. “He must have known something was up by then.”

Mary looked as if she was about to burst into tears. “Everything?”

Dai nodded.

“We’ll never get married this year,” Mary said slumping further. “We probably won’t have enough saved by next.”

Dai looked harrowed and Mary distraught, neither of them saying out loud their greatest fear – the likelihood that older relatives wouldn’t see a later wedding.

“Oh, Dai,” Poppy said. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, love.”

Poppy peered towards Rosalyn. She was still there, listening, her brow furrowed.

Poppy felt ill. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to Rosalyn. But I was hurt and furious at her prejudice and now you’re feeling the consequences of mine.” Is what she could have said.

“I could have warned you. It did sound odd at the time. No bookings? Cheap price? And,” Poppy hesitated blushing, “I’ve been more suspicious of Alan’s activities of late, but I didn’t want to spoil your wedding.”

Poppy blushed again, realising she ought to apologise to Rosalyn. She looked to the car but Rosalyn had turned away, her face in a stony frown as if she couldn’t bear to see them. Without a backward glance she started the car and drove away.

Poppy’s heart sank. She couldn’t blame her. Rosalyn had been right all along. A nauseating guilt settled in Poppy’s stomach accompanied by something worse – the cold dread of loss.

“Well, that’s it then,” Mary said, her voice wavering. “Game over.”

“Have you spent everything?” Poppy asked. “Is it all gone?”

Dai snorted. “Pretty much. Just money for the dress, suit and flowers.”

“But that’s a substantial amount, isn’t it?”

“Enough to rent a Portaloo for a field perhaps, if we have a wedding picnic.”

“But why not?” Poppy said, a spark of hope kindling inside. “Not a picnic, but perhaps there’s enough money for dinner? If I make it?”

“For a hundred and fifty people?”

“Oh god, that many,” Poppy breathed, and she wiped her forehead in anguish. “But maybe. I’m not saying I can serve you caviar. We’ll be talking cheap cuts here. But I could do it.”

“Where?” Dai said exasperated. “The café’s nowhere near big enough.”

“No it isn’t, but we can find somewhere. Can’t we? Even if it does end up being in a field.”

“It’s very kind of you, Poppy,” Mary said. “But we need a ceremony. And our friends and family are booked at the hotel. They’ll need to find and pay for somewhere else.”

“Talk to them? See if they can make alternative arrangements?”

Mary peered up at Dai, hope and despair flickering across her face.

Dai shrugged. “We can try, I suppose. We could have a search around for a week and cancel if it looks stupid.”

“All right,” said Mary. “Let me and Dai have a think. And we’ll come back to you. Thank you, Poppy.”

Poppy watched the sad couple turn into the cottage, their shoulders bowed. She walked towards the square, a mix of emotions churning inside – heartache for Dai’s disappointment and guilt at her own hand in it. She was furious her emotions had led her astray. But uppermost was her cold fear Rosalyn would never speak to her again.

“Do you have a minute, Poppy?” Dai’s voice called up the café stairs. It was midweek, in the lull between lunch and the school rush, and the café was half empty.

“Yes, come up for a cuppa,” Poppy said.

Dai creaked up the stairs and plopped himself in a chair next to the cake counter.

“Oh, look at those desserts. I mustn’t though,” he said, patting his stomach. “Mary’s got me on a diet. My concert suit’s getting a bit tight and I need it for the wedding.”

“You’re going ahead?” Poppy grinned.

“I think we might.”

Poppy sat beside him and slid a cup of coffee across the table. “So you’ve found somewhere? That was quick.”

“Yes, took me by surprise. I hadn’t even started looking. I’ve been too busy tracking down that bastard Alan Watkins.”

“Hmm,” said Poppy. “Any luck?”

“Went round to his house, I did.” Dai crossed his arms and gripped his biceps. “By the way, I didn’t know Alan was a fan of your mam’s work.”

Poppy laughed with contempt. “I don’t think he is. Why do you mention it?”

“Well, I didn’t get past his front door, but I noticed some of your mam’s paintings in his hallway. Nice ones too.”

Poppy frowned. “Not a trio of Powis Castle by any chance?”

“That’s right.”

“The cheeky… He’s had those for months. They were meant to be for sale in the hotel.”

“Well,” said Dai. “I bet he hung them in his house straight away.”

That would explain Alan’s evasion about the paintings and Poppy fumed.

“Not sure you’ll ever get them back,” said Dai. “He’s a slippery bugger.”

Poppy peeped through the railings and down the stairs. “Don’t mention it to Mum please,” she whispered. “Hopefully they’ll slip her mind.”

“Right you are,” Dai said with a nod.

“What else did you find out?”

“Well, I was fuming and I wanted to know how come his restaurants were still trading if the hotel was bankrupt.”

“Yes, I’d been wondering.”

“Turns out the sneaky bastard’s been running the hotel business under his father’s name, completely separate. Officially, Alan’s the manager at Bryn Mawr Hotel. So, because he was just an employee, he can carry on happy as Larry with his other interests.”

“He must have known it was in trouble though?”

“Well, someone said it’s been in decline ever since he took over as manager, what, ten years ago.”

“Just like Wells,” Poppy muttered.

“Yes,” Dai said in reluctant agreement. “See, Alwyn from rugby thinks Rosalyn was right on the money. He reckons Alan and his mates have been diverting funding, advertising and business away from Wells. It wouldn’t surprise me if they wrote those bad reviews for your café. But the trouble is, they diverted so much attention away from the village no-one bloody visited and his hotel suffered.”

Poppy covered her face and groaned. “I’m so sorry, Dai. I should have listened to Rosalyn and warned you. But I was mad at her.”

For leaving when she was sixteen, and walking straight back with a wiggle of that fantastic bottom, for disparaging everyone and everything Poppy loved, and neglecting to mention the small matter of her sexuality, then seducing Poppy so quickly it gave her whiplash. Poppy gasped, as she always did, at the thought of Rosalyn’s fingers inside her, breasts soft against hers, fingers slipping between her legs and the cry as they came.

“Anyway,” Poppy gulped and removed her hands. She’d broken into a sweat. “I had my reasons. Not all of them justified, in retrospect, I admit.”

And, there was Rosalyn’s oversight of never telling Poppy she’d been in love with her. The woman was infuriating. But the instant Poppy thought it, she softened, as she did more often of late. And she remembered the look on Rosalyn’s face as she held her hand at the fair, her expression keen but gentle, her manner almost shy. Then the glance back as if Poppy were the only woman in the world.

“Oh!” Poppy growled. “That woman!” One day she would fathom her. But that day seemed a long way off.

But perhaps Rosalyn would never speak to her again, if the expression on her face at the bankruptcy news was anything to go by. And that filled Poppy with an emptiness she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Dai looked sheepish. “Now, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

Poppy raised her eyebrows in question.

“See,” Dai looked very timid indeed, “Rosalyn’s offered us the stables at Rhiw Hall as a venue.”

“Rosalyn?” Poppy breathed.

“Yes.” Dai looked intently at his coffee then flicked a guilty look towards Poppy. “She thinks the main room would hold a hundred and fifty. Of course it’ll be a rustic kind of venue and it needs cleaning and the like, and we’d need to help, but…”

“Rosalyn?” Poppy stared.

It was not uncommon for Poppy’s thoughts to fall into turmoil at the surprise actions of Rosalyn Thorn, but this was a twist further than she could comprehend and she simply went blank.

“Poppy? Poppy love? Are you all right?”

She turned to Dai and opened her mouth. “Rosalyn?”

Dai smiled. “Well I’m glad it’s not just me. Mary said she wasn’t in the least bit surprised. Apparently she’s only heard good things about Rosalyn. Mary’s clearly not been listening to me then. But nothing new there… Poppy?”

A tumble of thoughts swirled through Poppy’s head. Why was Rosalyn offering the stables? What made her think of that? Would she stay for the wedding? So, she must be home for several weeks. Would Poppy see her? Had she forgiven Poppy for being so wrong? If not, why her generosity to Dai – they shared no affection. And another thing, Lillian would need to give her permission to use the stables, and that was another prickly relationship right there. Yes, this surely meant Poppy would see Rosalyn, because Poppy was catering the event. And Rosalyn was bright enough to have realised that in a second flat.

So what on earth was she doing?

“Oh,” said Poppy.

“Well that’s what I thought.” And they stared at the same indistinct point in the middle of the café. “She also says we can use the field opposite for guests who want to camp, as long as we give them warning so they can harvest the hay.”

“Right,” said Poppy.

“Good thing too. With your café and the success of the fair, Wells is becoming a bit of a destination and all the bed and breakfasts are booked up.”

“Hmm.”

Dai smiled. “I see you’re having trouble, love.”

“Sorry,” Poppy said, coming out of her trance. “Yes. It’s very generous of her.”

“Tell me about it,” Dai sighed. “Short notice. Lots of work for her. Guests all over her parents’ estate. I bet she had to sweet talk them over that. Yes, it’s very generous.” He turned and grimaced at Poppy. “This doesn’t mean I have to like her, does it?”

Poppy punched him on the arm and Dai rewarded her with a bellow of laughter.

Chapter 37.

Poppy pinched and flipped her locket between her fingers as she approached the Hall. The necklace had been discarded then draped around her neck what seemed a thousand times this morning. With that and the endless prevarication about dress and hairstyle, it had taken Poppy from sunrise to mid-morning to prepare.

In the end, she looked remarkably similar to how she did most days: light summer dress embellished with blue flowers, her wavy hair escaping its knot, and the beloved pendant nestled between her breasts.

Poppy peeked inside the stables, but Rosalyn wasn’t there yet. She approached the Hall’s front door beneath the rambling rose veranda and knocked lightly, as if she didn’t want to be heard. She placed her hand on her stomach, hoping to quell her fluttering nerves and, although she would face Rosalyn, she hoped David would greet her first to ease the encounter.

The door was wrenched open.

“Lillian.” Poppy stepped back as she came face to stony face with Rosalyn’s mother. They hadn’t exchanged a word since the Christmas when Poppy was sixteen.

Lillian’s features pinched with her habitual contempt, but softened as her eyes met Poppy’s.

“Poppy Jenkins.” She smiled. “You haven’t changed a bit. Of course, you are a grown woman now, but I’d recognise you anywhere.”

Poppy nodded and tried to smile in return.

“You look very well indeed.”

“Thank you,” Poppy replied, startled by the warm welcome.

“Of course, you must be here for Rosalyn.”

“Yes. Sorry, I’m a little early. We were meeting to clear the stables. For the wedding. I should thank you also. For Dai. If he were here, he’d be grateful too. And Mary.” She clamped her lips together in an attempt to stifle the burbles.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll come back later, if she’s not ready.”

“Rosalyn’s at the lodge. She’s clearing that too. I’m sure she’d love for you to join her. Do you need me to show you the way?” Lillian spoke with nothing but cordiality.

“No.” Poppy still wasn’t at ease with the altered Lillian. “I can remember. Thank you.”

“Of course you can,” Lillian said generously.

Poppy backed away, not sure how to end this surprise encounter.

“Poppy?” Lillian stepped forward. “I’m sorry, I haven’t always been the kindest. David reminded me the other day of my last words to you.” She frowned. “I’m rather ashamed of them now. Do you remember?”

Poppy nodded.

“Yes, I imagined you’d recall.” Her eyes creased with genuine regret. “Please accept my apologies. I’m also very grateful because you’ve brought Rosalyn back to Wells, back to us. You’ve brought our daughter home, Poppy.”

Lillian offered a hand. And although it seemed a cool and business-like way to end their exchange, Poppy knew how intimate a gesture it was for Lillian Thorn. She squeezed the woman’s hand and pursed her lips in acknowledgement.

“I’m glad she’s come home for you.”

“I hope we see more of you, Poppy.” Lillian waved and disappeared inside the hall.

Poppy ambled around the edge of the gardens, up the woodland path she’d walked with David and to the brow that overlooked the neighbouring valley. She peered across the landscape, green and golden in late summer. The meadows swept down to a babbling tributary, with feathery long grasses and splashes of scarlet and ochre late flowers swirling in the breeze. The Victorian wooden hunting lodge sat snug in a copse of Scots pine and faced down the valley, its veranda hidden from view.

Poppy wandered closer, ducking beneath dust sheets which were airing on the lower boughs. The doors through the veranda to the main room were wide open, as were the windows of the single-storey wings. The steps then floorboards creaked beneath her feet with reassuring familiarity.

She peeped inside the sitting room. Two old Chesterfield sofas sat around the wood stove, their leather cracked and soft from decades of guests and years of Rosalyn and Poppy’s play. She stepped onto the red Afghan rug in front of the stove and smiled. She knew every pattern, every motif, including the hand-made imperfections where the geometrical shapes lost their regularity. How many hours she must have spent, lying on her belly staring at the patterns, stroking the short piles of wool, while she and Rosalyn talked about everything and nothing.

“Is it the same?”

Rosalyn was leaning against the doorway into the wing.

“Has it faded or has your memory?”

“No, it’s the same.” Poppy grinned. “It’s a bit dusty and perhaps a bit older. It’s like it’s groggy after a winter’s sleep. But the same. It smells the same,” she said elated. “It must be the wood you burn in the stove.”

Rosalyn smiled. “I’m glad.” She wandered closer and leaned on the back of a Chesterfield. “I can’t believe these things have survived.” And she stroked along the back with fondness. “Is it still your idea of a perfect home?”

“Yes, it is.” Poppy looked around the room. “Give it a lick of white paint and fill those book cases again.” She pointed to the generous wall space devoted to shelves. “And I love the map of old Montgomeryshire and the botanical flower prints.”

She turned then laughed. Two old log baskets sat either side of the stove, one empty but for splinters of wood, the other stocked to the brim with Monopoly, cards, snakes and ladders and Connect Four.

“Perfect,” Poppy said.

“What about your plans for the bedrooms?” Rosalyn said with her head to the side.

“For my four kids?”

“Yes.”

“I’d still get Dad to convert one into a pirate ship with bunks. Perhaps one for me too.”

Rosalyn laughed. “You had it all planned, didn’t you.”

She did. The children would be born one year apart: boy, girl then boy, girl. There would be sledging in winter, paddling in summer, endless sunny days running through the meadow with evening lemonade on the veranda and Madeira cake.

“I was adamant I’d have that family,” Poppy said. “Poor Mum, she was always searching for second-hand dolls to expand my play version.”

“I remember your bed full of creepy dolls.”

“They freaked you out?”

“The one with the missing arm so you jammed in a knife as a prosthesis? And the droopy eyelid doll with an eyeball someone had blackened with biro? Which was actually less unsettling than the psycho-stare new ones. Yes, they creeped me out.”

Poppy giggled. “I loved them.”

“I know.” Rosalyn smiled indulgently.

Poppy gazed at Rosalyn. She had an altogether gentler manner than Poppy had seen before. Her face, beautiful and beguiling when she delivered her barbed insights, was just as attractive with this kindly look.

Poppy realised she was staring. “Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi,” Rosalyn murmured, and her gaze warmed Poppy through. “Would you like to see the rest?”

Poppy nodded and followed her through to the wing. She beamed with delight at the view of the wood-panelled corridor and windows onto the pine copse.

“Oh, this is new.” Poppy peered up a steep set of wooden stairs.

Rosalyn stood beside her and followed her gaze. “Yes, my parents had the attic converted a few years ago with a view to selling, but the sale fell through and nothing came of it. It’s a lovely bedroom. Needs more light, but I think it’s wonderful.” She looked at Poppy, with almost a questioning expression. “Do you like it?”

Poppy climbed up a couple of steps and peeped inside, not wanting to intrude on the unfamiliar space. It was a tasteful and cosy attic room: simple white for decoration in between the wooden beams, a splash of colour from meadow flowers in a vase, an oak bedframe with soft cream duvet, all waiting for a couple to snuggle up inside.

“Yes, I do. A perfect snug for a perfect house.”

Rosalyn smiled, coy.

“And the rest?” Poppy said. “Has it changed?”

“Come and see.” Rosalyn slipped her fingers between Poppy’s and led her along the hall.

Poppy peered into the next room. “Now that’s exactly the same.”

The kitchen overlooked a herb garden between the wings and retained its deep farmhouse sink and heavy wooden table and cupboards. Poppy chuckled when she spotted the old Aga, its cream enamel chipped around the hob.

“Do you remember those green lollipops we made?”

“How could I forget? I think my mother’s words are forever branded into my memory. ‘What kind of moron uses a chisel to clean boiled-sweet mixture off a bloody Aga?’”

Poppy’s fingers tightened around Rosalyn’s, remembering how fearsome those words sounded at the age of eight.

“She hasn’t allowed me cook here since,” Rosalyn laughed. “And this,” she said, leading Poppy to the last rooms.

“I remember how freezing this bathroom was,” Poppy said. “I’m surprised I didn’t get frostbite off the loo seat.”

“I’ll drag it into the twenty-first century with a radiator.” Rosalyn smiled.

They turned into the large bedroom at the end of the wing. Two single beds touched side by side, just as Rosalyn and Poppy used to have them.

“Do they use the lodge much?” Poppy asked.

“The odd guest over the years. But not really. Not since we played here.”

Poppy remembered their sleepovers – rolling between the two single beds, snuggling behind her friend one minute then shuffling away onto her own mattress, always a hand out to feel Rosalyn’s reassuring presence.

Poppy was suddenly filled with sadness. All those years that had passed without Rosalyn in her life. They made her feel desolate and she held on tight to Rosalyn’s hand.

It wasn’t until Rosalyn gently squeezed her in return that Poppy realised how tightly she gripped.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she dropped her hand away.

“No need.” Rosalyn said. “No need at all.” She slipped her arm through Poppy’s and led her back along the corridor. “Come and have some tea.” And Poppy wished the warmth of Rosalyn by her side would never leave.

Chapter 38.

They sat on the veranda steps, Poppy embracing her knees and balancing a china teacup on a saucer. Rosalyn reclined against the pillar, her long legs crossed with effortless elegance. She gazed down the valley, her head rested to the side — a most advantageous pose for Poppy’s admiration.

Poppy never tired of studying Rosalyn. Her blonde hair was tousled in wind-swept ribbons today, her face tanned so her ice-blue eyes sparkled more brightly. Her sculpted face and slim neck were perfection and Poppy followed their lines curving over her collar, down the sensuous crease of her chest into the inviting depths.

Poppy looked away and cleared her throat. “So how long are you staying?”

Rosalyn sat up and smiled. “A few months.”

“A few months?” Poppy said surprised.

“Perhaps longer.” Rosalyn regarded her. “It depends.”

Poppy’s insides fluttered and she tried to calm her feelings so she could think. “But your work?”

“I’ve agreed a work share position with Alex, Sam’s old assistant. So I’ll work from home one day a week and in London for two. The rest of the time, I’ll be getting the estate into shape.” She shuffled along the step and sat close to Poppy. “Dad’s not going back to work.”

Poppy frowned. “I thought he was doing well.”

“He is, but his progress has plateaued and he’ll never operate again. He’s taking early retirement, and he’ll be comfortable on that, but this place,” she gestured up the hill to the Hall and estate grounds, “this needs to start paying for itself.”

The feeling of alarm and hope stirred inside Poppy. She stuttered, “What do you intend doing? Are you going to split up the land?”

“Perhaps,” Rosalyn said. “Not our preferred option, but the old workers cottages would make good small homes – a nice project for a local builder. But Mum and I are also planning some holiday flats above the stables, and depending on how it goes we may retain a couple of the cottages for holiday lets too.”

“But that will take months, years.”

“I have time.” Rosalyn smiled. “And we won’t attempt everything at once.”

Poppy’s heart pounded as her mind raced over the implications. “But.” Poppy was stunned. “You hate it here.”

“I’m not like you Poppy. I’m never going to open my eyes in the morning and see the pure joy you do. But there are many things I like here, some I love very much.” Her gaze rested on Poppy.

Poppy’s heart leapt at the same time her stomach tensed in anxiety. She was thrown into such an agitated state she stood and had to walk away. She took a few paces into the meadow and breathed in deeply. She turned and attempted the appearance of composure.

“And this?” Poppy looked up at the lodge. “This is part of those plans?”

“Of sorts. It’s part of my plans.” Rosalyn’s face was unreadable.

“It would be a shame to lose it.” Poppy’s emotions fought inside, sorrow mixed alarmingly with hope. “And you think you can live here? And be happy?”

Rosalyn’s gaze didn’t flinch. “I think so. It depends on how things work out, but this is my best chance of happiness.”

Poppy bowed her head, stirred by such conflicting emotions they threatened to overcome her. Her chest heaved and it was made worse by being so obviously affected by what Rosalyn said. She opened her mouth but couldn’t issue any words that made sense of her state.

“We’d better go,” Poppy said instead. “Dai will be waiting at the stables by now.”

Rosalyn stood and walked towards her, her graceful movement a thing of beauty. Her smile was full of warmth and she slipped her arm through Poppy’s.

“Let’s go then,” she whispered.

Poppy was grateful for the reprieve and wrapped her fingers around Rosalyn’s arm. She nodded, and they set off across the meadows towards the stables.

“So,” Rosalyn said, her forthright manner returned, "tell me about this poor, unfortunate woman to be betrothed to Dai Edwards.”

Poppy shot her a warning glance and Rosalyn laughed.

Dai loitered between the Hall’s magnificent circular lawn and the stable block, dwarfed by the old carriage doors. He shuffled with his hands in his pockets, looking shifty or at least exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Good morning, Dai,” Rosalyn said, chin in the air and her manner an amused loftiness.

“Morning, Rosalyn. Poppy.” He nodded. “Before we go on, I wanted to say, Rosalyn,” he paused, his face contorted, “I’m very grateful for this opportunity—”

“Oh don’t, Dai,” Rosalyn snapped, “you’ll strain something.” She looked up at the formidable brick block. “No, the opportunity is mine. I’m going to give these stables a test drive with a view to making them a venue on a more regular basis. So,” she smiled at Dai, “I’m gaining something and you don’t need to be gracious or grateful.”

“Oh good. I mean, I am still grateful like. But, err, yes.” He paused and resumed something like his old manner. “Shame about the rugby, heh?” he said at last, a glint in his eye.

“Sorry?”

“The world cup?” Dai said.

“What about it?”

“France beating England in group matches?”

Rosalyn regarded him a moment. “Dai, I don’t give a fuck about the rugby. Now would you like to look at the venue?” She turned her attention to the padlock.

Poppy sidled up to Dai.

“How can she not care about the rugby?” he whispered, aggrieved he couldn’t needle that weak spot.

Poppy raised her eyebrows. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. I just can’t believe she’s not following the world cup.”

“Did you know some people go a whole lifetime without knowing a single rugby score?”

“It’s not right, I tell you.”

“Are you hungry by any chance?” Poppy smiled.

“Starving.” Dai rubbed his belly. “This ruddy diet Mary’s got me on – it’s torture.”

“Well, don’t let it scupper your chances of a free venue.” Poppy nudged him in the ribs. “Rosalyn isn’t expecting obsequious gratitude, but I imagine she won’t put up with outright hostility.”

“All right.” Dai nodded.

“Dai, you great brute, come and help with this door,” shouted Rosalyn. “If there’s one thing you’re good for, it might only be this.”

Dai shot Poppy a glance and in return she raised a warning finger and laughed.

The two great wooden doors creaked open on rusted hinges. Flakes of blue paint and splinters fluttered to the ground and clouds of dust rose in the sunbeams that penetrated the stable block.

Rosalyn stepped inside. “My family have never used this building. And the people before tore out the stable partitions and used it as a farm store.”

An old tractor, tiny by modern standards, rusted in the corner, a stack of grey straw beside it. Cracked tyre rings lay unused. A rusted web of chains and spikes, alarmingly similar to an instrument of torture, cluttered the floor.

“You and a few other beefy lads need to clear those,” Rosalyn said. “And of course it needs a thorough brush down and clean – walls, ceiling and floor. But what do you think?”

Great beams high above Poppy’s head hung with cobwebs that looked as if they could trap sizeable mammals. Birds had roosted in the broken window panes. The walls flaked with old white paint and the ground was thick with straw and dirt, the blue brick floor barely visible.

“It’s an enormous space,” Poppy breathed. “I think it could be magnificent.”

Rosalyn’s face brightened. “I was thinking,” she wandered up to Poppy as she spoke, “we could borrow Christmas lights, plain white ones, and stream them down the walls. The light would be soft, perfect for a romantic wedding breakfast, and in a rustic place like this, it might be charming.”

Poppy grinned. “I love the idea. We could put out a request to borrow them for the evening. What do you think Dai?”

Dai looked nervously around the cavernous space. “What do you reckon Poppy?”

“It could be beautiful,” she said with a reassuring smile.

“Right you are then.” He was a man very much out of his depth.

“Come this way,” Rosalyn beckoned.

Through a door on the end wall, the stables broke into a set of smaller rooms.

“This block of loos,” Rosalyn pointed to the left, “is all in working order. It’s basic but serviceable. And Poppy, you need to see in here.”

They entered an old kitchen, a large space with a stoneware sink, range oven and a farmhouse dining table to seat twelve.

“I think they used this area for the outdoor workers originally. It hasn’t been used for years but the water is mains and I’ve purchased this second-hand catering equipment.”

Rosalyn threw back a cloth from a chest of drawers at the edge of the room.

“Two gas cylinder hobs and a bank of chafing dishes to start with.” Rosalyn checked towards Poppy. “I can get more as you require and you can keep the equipment afterwards, if it’s useful to you.”

Poppy was startled by how well equipped the kitchen was already. “This is brilliant. I’ll prepare most of the food in the café kitchens, so it’s a matter of reheating and serving here.”

“Good. Now, Dai,” Rosalyn stepped forward and took the great man by the arm. “Come and tell us about your seating plan and the layout.”

Rosalyn proceeded to manage Dai for another hour until, with the odd emergency conference with Mary on the phone, all arrangements were in place. Poppy smiled, marvelling at Rosalyn’s organisation in full force and Dai helpless in its wake. She stood by Rosalyn in the great doorway watching the bemused man wander away as if he’d been engulfed by a whirlwind.

Rosalyn crossed her arms, a satisfied expression on her face.

“Poor Dai.” Poppy laughed.

“Why?”

“He doesn’t know what’s hit him.”

Rosalyn grinned. “Well, there’s not much time left. We need to get a move on. I’m afraid we can’t progress at Dai’s pedestrian pace.”

“Will you stop?” Poppy said, both amused and aggrieved. “I don’t know if you two will ever get on.”

“Oh we get on. Just very badly.”

“I know.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Rosalyn smiled from the corner of her mouth. “I quite like Dai. He’s not your stereotypical rugger bugger at all. And that he listens to you does him credit.”

Poppy opened her mouth but left her response as a warm relieved smile.

“But,” Rosalyn warned. “Don’t expect me to be kind to him.” She stared to the distance and the big man retreating along the wooded drive. “It’s far too much fun aggravating him.” And the smile on her face was of content mischievousness.

Poppy observed Rosalyn and frowned. “Why are you doing this? I know it’s an experiment for your own benefit, but you don’t need to do all this – the clearing, buying the kitchenware.”

Rosalyn looked down, the bravado of the last hour gone. “For you, Poppy,” she murmured. She peered into her eyes. “It’s for you.”

Poppy’s heart cantered in her chest and she looked away.

“Do you remember,” Rosalyn said quietly, “we talked in the café, and you said your only ambitions were the café be a greater success and to have an event-catering business. Well here’s your start. If you want it.”

Poppy was filled with poignant gratitude. That Rosalyn had listened all those weeks ago was surprise enough, but that she’d realised this opportunity spoke volumes about her considerate nature. Poppy had badly underestimated Rosalyn’s regard.

“Rosalyn?” Poppy realised the timing of the publicity in the influential restaurant guide. “Do you know…did you recommend someone from The Guide come and try—”

“Of course Dai still has his work cut out,” Rosalyn interjected.

Poppy was silent. She wondered how much Rosalyn had contributed for Poppy’s benefit. The blog, The Guide, Rosalyn’s efforts for the fair. Had Rosalyn done all this for her?

“Yes,” Poppy said, letting Rosalyn change the subject. “He needs to arrange a registrar and venue for the ceremony.”

“Has he thought of using the castle?”

“The castle? No. I doubt it.”

“He should talk to Geraint. Isn’t he the local contact? Imagine.” Rosalyn looked to the distance. “An evening wedding. Everyone gathered in the dramatic ruins on the hill. The sun setting across the valley. Dai could have his choir sing in the bride.”

Poppy spat out a laugh. “When did you get so romantic? When did acerbic Rosalyn Thorn think of something as dreamy as that?”

Rosalyn flushed and turned bashful. “I don’t know. It just occurred to me. I thought it might be nice.”

Poppy’s face fell, regretting her outburst. Indeed, what had inspired Rosalyn’s thoughts to dwell on romance? Again Rosalyn had set Poppy’s emotions in turmoil. She was ashamed she’d mocked Rosalyn’s idea but terrified and roused by its possible inspiration.

“I think it’s a beautiful idea,” Poppy murmured.

They stood apart, Poppy not daring to lessen the distance between them. She was scared of what it would mean and what she’d do. It was Rosalyn who stepped closer.

“Can I see you soon? Will you come to help?”

Poppy nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady.

Rosalyn leaned forward, dipping to Poppy’s level. “Until then,” she said gently and she touched her warm lips to Poppy’s cheek with the most delicate of kisses.

A delicious thrill sparked through Poppy’s body radiating from where Rosalyn’s lips stroked, the kind of touch that makes the body light and simple existence sublime.

“Very soon,” Poppy whispered.

Rosalyn walked away, around the Hall and along the edge of the wood towards the lodge. Every few paces she turned and glanced and every time Poppy was there looking back.

Poppy couldn’t tear her eyes from her beautiful friend and watched her all the way to the brow of the hill. When Rosalyn reached the peak and paused a moment longer, Poppy felt a desperate pull at her heart. Her need felt so tangible she believed she could have stretched out and drawn Rosalyn towards her. She tentatively raised her hand and in the distance Rosalyn reached out as if to touch her.

Then she turned and disappeared beyond the horizon.

Chapter 39.

Poppy walked into Wells alone, Pip on school holidays and pleasantly asleep at home. Food and figures tumbled through Poppy’s head as she tried to reconcile staff costs, a paltry budget and a meal to delight. Every time she came to an impasse, her mind would wander and a vision of Rosalyn would intrude. The image of Rosalyn waving from the hilltop would tug at her heart. The memory of her naked breasts caressing Poppy’s would illicit a stirring elsewhere.

“Come on. Think straight.” Poppy rubbed her eyes. “How am I going to feed one hundred and fifty guests,” and one hundred and fifty boozy guests at that.

She pushed open the shop door and was met by a pile of plastic boxes. Her mother popped up from behind the counter, masking tape and biro in hand.

“Morning sweetheart,” Emma said. “People have been dropping these in all morning. I need to label them before I forget who brought what.”

Poppy knelt down and turned over a box. “Christmas lights.” She laughed. “People are lending their Christmas lights.”

“Word has gone out and the people are coming.”

Poppy put her hands to her mouth in prayer. “You know, this might actually work.” Joy at the response watered in her eyes. “There’s a possibility this could be a wonderful wedding.”

Her mother grinned. “You can do this, Poppy. You and Rosalyn can do this.”

Poppy flushed and stood up, aware she’d avoided all mention of Rosalyn to her mother since she’d returned to Wells.

“Maybe.” Poppy sighed. “I need to balance the figures for the banquet, and they’re not generous.”

“Ah,” Emma said, remembering. “Dafydd from Montgomeryshire Ice Creams is waiting for you upstairs.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“I don’t think so. He said he wanted a chat and didn’t mind waiting a few minutes. He’s not been here long.”

“Right,” Poppy said puzzled and she skipped up the stairs.

The café was half full but Poppy’s eyes rested on a man with dark hair and closely trimmed beard.

“Dafydd?” she asked approaching.

“Poppy.” The man stood and offered a hand.

“I thought I recognised you from the fair,” she said and shook his hand. “I meant to come and say hello but the day ran away with me.”

“Oh, no problem.” He smiled. “It was a fantastic day. We were quite overwhelmed on the stall.”

“I bet. The ice creams are beautiful. We serve the double cream vanilla with our chocolate brownies and it’s by far the best seller.” She pointed to a leaflet nestled in between the salt and pepper grinders. “I make sure the customers know where that delicious ice cream comes from.”

“Very much appreciated. And I noticed our poster by your cake counter.”

“It’s nice to shout about some good local products. I hope it brings more business your way.”

“Well it has.” He ran a hand through his short hair and looked bashful. “And that’s why I’m here. See, Cerys says you’ve run into a spot of bother catering for a local boy’s wedding.”

“A little,” Poppy said, trying to make light.

“See, I’ve done very well out of the fair and you showcasing our products here, and I’ve landed a big order with another supermarket.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Poppy reached out and squeezed his arm. “That’s brilliant.”

“I’m right pleased, I tell you.” His face was ruddy with joy. “And to say thank you, I’d like to contribute our ice creams to your wedding preparations. If it’s any help, mind. Just say no if it’s not. It’s only an idea Cerys and I had.”

Poppy stared. “That would be amazing.” She started to smile. “That would be so helpful, thank you. Really, thank you.” And she shook his hand again with vigour.

“Right oh. Phone me with your order and I’ll get a freezer delivered.”

He moved towards the stairs but looked back before descending. “Cerys contacted Rhys from Aberrhiw Cider too. He’ll be coming by later. Says he has some stock that’s too close to its sell by date to distribute but it’s going begging. There’s sparkling wine too from their sister vineyard in Hereford.”

“You’re kidding?” Poppy said. “Really?”

Daffydd nodded. “Cerys is very grateful to you, and so are a lot of others. People will always help the helpful.” And he disappeared down the stairs.

Poppy buzzed with excitement and her heart filled with joy for the generosity of her neighbourhood. Her mind was suddenly free and a thousand ideas for a delicious banquet flourished in her imagination.

Poppy set down her baskets at the stable side door and peeped inside. It was a changed room from the one she’d entered a week ago with Dai and Rosalyn: all the machinery and straw gone, the walls and floors pressure washed, the broken window panes replaced. Stacked tables and chairs lined the walls and it was beginning to take shape into a credible venue.

She spotted Rosalyn by the carriage doors, oblivious to Poppy’s presence. She lifted a chair from a stack and waved it from side to side in a rhythmical way as she walked towards the centre of the room. What was she doing?

Poppy tipped her head to the side. A tinny sound with a deep bass reached her ears and Rosalyn’s movements began to make sense. Dancing.

What was she listening to? Poppy squinted and concentrated as Rosalyn rocked her head from side to side, her blonde hair flying with abandon. Her headphones must have been on full volume because when she came near with another chair Poppy could at last make out the song. The Cure. Poppy laughed with elated surprise that Rosalyn still listened to the band which owned their teenage hearts.

Close to Me Poppy realised and she broke into a grin.

Poppy was spellbound by Rosalyn’s face, her eyes closed as she flicked her head from side to side. Her smile was one of euphoria. She could have been fifteen again, dancing at The Fridge with Poppy gleeful by her side.

“There you are,” Poppy whispered. That friend she used to know so well. The brilliant young woman, who could slay a fool with a single word but who brought unparalleled happiness to Poppy. The simple bliss on Rosalyn’s face and the way she moved without inhibition was magnetic. “It’s you again,” Poppy breathed.

For a moment she was drawn into the room, wanting to run to her friend, but along the drive in the distance she could see Dai approaching. She picked up her baskets and hurried around the outside of the building.

“Morning, Dai,” Poppy shouted. She stood in the doorway hoping to catch Rosalyn’s attention before Dai happened upon her private dance.

Dai rubbed his hands together. “I’m looking forward to this. First proper meal I’ve had in weeks.”

“I hope you like it,” Poppy said. She felt jittery at the prospect of Dai and Rosalyn critiquing her banquet sample.

“Good morning, Poppy. Dai.”

Poppy turned to see Rosalyn approaching. The pleasure from her dance was still rosy in her cheeks, but her expression was hardening.

Come back. Poppy pleaded silently. Please come back. Her heart sank as she saw the uncomplicated glee fade from Rosalyn’s face.

“I’m just putting out a table and chairs for our lunch,” Rosalyn said.

“I know what I’m good for.” Dai tutted. “I’ll grab a table,” and he lurched away.

Rosalyn turned to Poppy. There was a light in her eyes, and as she gazed the simple pleasure seemed to return to her expression. Soon she was beaming at Poppy, perhaps in remembrance, with delight in her face.

“Hi,” Poppy whispered. “It’s good to see you.”

Rosalyn’s eyes fixed on Poppy’s. “I missed you.”

“Oh, I’ve missed you.” Poppy laughed. She’d been missing her for years.

She reached out to hold Rosalyn’s hand and encountered her warm familiar touch. Their fingers entwined a moment, stroking together, before Dai returned brandishing a large table above his head, and they reluctantly pulled apart.

“Right,” he said. “Where do you want us?”

Poppy arranged plates on the table and unwrapped a foil blanket from around her containers. She served succulent slices of slow-roast lamb, crisp and crumbling rosemary roast potatoes and tiny bright peas, drizzled with a gravy rich in herbs.

To her relief the dish was hot and the lamb moist and tender. It seemed to have survived standing and she watched keenly as Dai and Rosalyn sampled the food.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Dai. He looked at the piece of lamb on his fork with serious admiration. “So tender, and how did you get that intense flavour?”

“Garlic and anchovies.”

“What?” Dai curled his lips in distaste. “Did you say anchovies? Those rotten little fish people put on pizzas to stop you eating more than your fair share?”

Poppy laughed. “The very same.”

“Delicious,” Rosalyn said.

“It’s a French recipe Welshed up a bit.”

“It’s a little bit of alchemy,” Rosalyn said. “You can’t taste the anchovies at all. It just adds a level of complexity and depth to the lamb. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m surprised,” Dai said, looking at the dish with suspicion. “But it doesn’t half taste good.” And he tucked in again with gusto.

Dai polished off the meal with generous swigs of amber ale, and sat back with his hands resting satisfied on his belly. “Yes. Our Mary will like that too. Lovely.”

“Good to hear you’re so in tune with your partner’s needs,” Rosalyn said, putting a delicate forkful into her mouth.

“I wouldn’t say that. Certainly not within Mary’s listening. But I’d like to think she’d appreciate good food like this.”

Rosalyn smiled.

“Speaking of partners,” Dai said. “I bet Sam’s not too impressed with you spending so much time up here.”

Poppy’s heart leaped in an altogether unpleasant way and even Rosalyn blanched. She put down her cutlery and cleared her throat. “No, she wasn’t pleased I went part-time, but she’s getting a good deal as my boss.”

“But she must want you back. Hasn’t she tried to persuade you to stay in London?”

Rosalyn dabbed her mouth with a paper serviette and looked evasive. “Yes, as a matter of fact she has. But it’s not up to her. Excuse me, I need some water.” And she got up and left the table for the stable kitchen.

Poppy shot Dai a warning glance.

“What?” he said looking innocent.

“That was very personal.”

“I’m doing you a favour. You need to know what’s going on.”

“It’s none of my business what Rosalyn’s relationship is with Sam.”

“Isn’t it?” Dai frowned. “I’m not a complete numbskull. I can see the way you look at her. Don’t you think you should find out?”

“No, and will you go easy on her please. I want to be her friend and you need a wedding venue.”

Dai made a grumbling sound that reverberated impressively in his baritone. “Well I don’t think you’re hard enough on her.”

“I’ve had my moments, believe me,” Poppy said, regretting several occasions.

“Well has she ever apologised?” He crossed his arms. “Has she ever said sorry or even acknowledged what she did to you in the sixth form was wrong?”

The question surprised Poppy. So many things had happened since Rosalyn had arrived she’d begun to forget and forgive her friend.

“No,” Poppy whispered. “It was a long time ago. So much has gone on since, it’s a bit much to ask of her now.”

“I think it’s the least you can expect.”

They fell into silence as Rosalyn’s footsteps approached. They both swigged from bottles of ale and put on a strange and strained smile to greet her return.

Dai sat back and sighed. “I have an apology to make.”

“Really?” Rosalyn said, her manner cold.

“About the rugby.”

Poppy rolled her eyes and sat back disappointed.

“I’m sorry for ribbing you when the English got hammered by the French, you know, the other day.”

“I told you, Dai, I don’t give a fuck about English rugby.”

“Well, all the same,” Dai said, sheepishly. “The French just smashed the Welsh team so we’re all in the same boat now.”

“Hmm.” Rosalyn stacked her plate and lifted her chair. “What a shame,” she said, and she started humming as she carried away her chair.

Dai shrugged and took another swig of ale, but a frown rippled across his features. “What’s that tune?”

Poppy and he listened as Rosalyn hummed a defiant and rousing tune ever more loudly.

“It’s not…” Dai frowned with indignation. “That’s not the bloody Marseillaise is it?”

“The French national anthem?” Poppy asked.

They both stared after Rosalyn.

She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Did I ever tell you my grandmother was French?” Rosalyn grinned at Dai with a devilish smile. “Allez les bleus!” she said as she turned on her heel.

Poppy burst out laughing as Dai’s mouth dropped so wide you could have popped in a rugby ball.

Chapter 40.

Rosalyn watched Dai trundle down the drive and sipped the last of her sparkling wine.

“Was I too harsh on him?” She smiled as if, regardless of the answer, she wouldn’t regret it.

“No, he deserved everything he got.” Poppy grinned.

“Good.” Rosalyn put down her glass. “Are you sure you have time to help with the lights?”

“Of course. Pip and Nain are bringing the plates later and they can lend a hand too.”

“That’s a relief, because there’s a bloody awful lot of them.” Rosalyn laughed.

She stripped off her shirt and flung it over a chair. Beneath was a tight white vest, bright against Rosalyn’s tanned and toned arms. Her breasts were curvaceous and Poppy was drawn to the cleavage beautifully displayed by the vests’ generous neckline.

“Shall we get the lights?” Rosalyn asked.

“Hmm? Lights?” Poppy asked. “Yes. Lights.” And she bowed her head as she marched behind Rosalyn and her beautiful behind. Rosalyn’s voluptuous bottom swayed in tight jeans before Poppy’s eyes. She really did have a beautiful physique – athletic shoulders and arms but generous curves to her hips and bosom. It was so very tempting to reach out and stroke around their shape.

That bottle of ale with lunch. Now that had been a mistake.

Poppy’s admiration had been proper and restrained since Rosalyn’s return. Is that all it took to undo? Half a pint of ale? Rosalyn turned and Poppy found herself face to bosom with the object of her desire. The view was exceptional.

Yes, half a pint was all it took.

“Could you take these?” Rosalyn said. “I’ll bring the step ladder.” And she handed Poppy a large cardboard box of lights.

“Sorry? Hmm? Oh, of course.” Poppy scuttled away with the box as quick as she could. She made herself busy, sorting through the lights, while peeping at Rosalyn’s return. Rosalyn’s figure was shown to yet more advantage as she wielded the tall step ladder and sprung it out in a swift movement. Her cheeks glowed and eyes shone as she smiled down at Poppy.

“You know, I think I’ve had too much wine. Do you mind?” and Rosalyn gestured up the ladder.

“Not at all,” she said, but Poppy avoided Rosalyn’s eyes, and every other part of her anatomy, and scampered up the rungs.

Settled near the top, Poppy peered down for the first set of lights. That was a mistake. Rosalyn’s bust, beautiful from ground level, was divine from above. How long Poppy gazed into the soft depths of her cleavage, lost admiring the irresistible mounds and tantalised by the peaks of nipples, she had no idea.

“Here you go,” Rosalyn said.

A hand and a string of lights crossed Poppy’s vision. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

But it was Rosalyn’s turn to be distracted. She was transfixed by the floor and stared steadfastly away while at the same time holding the lights aloft. Poppy blushed at her good fortune and snapped up the lights.

As Poppy climbed higher, the ladder wobbled and she snatched at the top step.

“Could you hold the ladder?” she asked timidly.

Rosalyn turned with reluctance. She lifted her gaze to Poppy’s ankles, to Poppy’s knees at head height, beneath Poppy’s billowing dress then peeped up evasively at Poppy’s face.

“Mmm hmm.” Rosalyn stepped forward and braced the ladder with her arms and again stared at the floor.

Poppy climbed to the top and flicked the string of lights over a pipe. She stepped down slowly and shook the wire straight along the wall.

“Erm… Poppy?” Rosalyn’s voice sounded muffled. “You might want to…”

“What was that?” Poppy couldn’t see her. Where had she gone? Then she felt Rosalyn’s cheek on her thigh.

“Oh,” Poppy gasped. The unexpected touch beneath her dress was thrilling.

“Poppy?” Rosalyn spoke from beneath the material. Her breath was warm between Poppy’s thighs and she almost doubled over with arousal. Rosalyn’s lips stroked an inch away from where she ached with desire.

“Oh,” Poppy moaned again. She clutched at the top of the ladder, but her movement met with another caress – a sweet kiss of her inflamed loins. Good god. Even the slightest contact sent flames of desire ravaging through her.

“Cover your eyes, Pip.” Nain’s strident tones cut through the air.

Poppy froze and stared with alarm at Nain and Pip in the doorway, all excitement extinguished. It was though she been doused with an icy bucket of water. There was nothing quite like the presence of her grandmother to savage any sense of desire.

Rosalyn leapt from underneath Poppy’s skirt and a good pace away from the ladder. But the support now gone, the ladder wobbled and Poppy jumped to the ground before it could fall. She landed by Rosalyn’s feet, her body fell into her embrace and her face came to a not unpleasant slap in Rosalyn’s bosom.

“Avert your gaze, Pip. Nothing to see.” Nain covered Pip’s eyes and her own.

Rosalyn and Poppy sprang apart like two teenagers and stood to attention.

Pip tutted. “Nain, I’m eleven. I know all about the birds and the bees, and the birds and the birds.”

Nain pursed her lips. “That is as may be. But I’m not ready for a demonstration from your sister.”

Poppy’s cheeks blazed and her heart thudded with such alarm she feared for her health. She was mortified Rosalyn had provoked intense arousal with a single touch and of all people Nain and Pip had been there to witness it.

“Well, is it safe to look?” Nain asked.

Rosalyn recovered first. “Of course, Mrs Jenkins. Just a misunderstanding and an unfortunate tumble from the ladder.” She strode towards Pip and Nain and chatted with ease, indicating the whereabouts of the kitchen and issuing instructions.

Poppy remained paralysed with disgrace and could only watch as Rosalyn ambled after Pip and Nain to the old Morris Minor. Rosalyn glanced back to Poppy just once, but the longing that flared in her eyes was unmistakable.

All afternoon, Poppy could feel Rosalyn’s presence the moment she stepped into the room. When Poppy turned, even if Rosalyn looked away, she knew Rosalyn felt the same way.

Poppy watched her friend charm Nain and delight Pip. She sent the latter into the lofty heights to hang trails of lights while Poppy watched, itching to order Pip down.

Poppy’s father stopped on his way to the lodge, and he and Rosalyn spoke quietly about a job there, both smiling with camaraderie.

By evening, the tables and chairs were arranged, lights were hung and crockery was ready for the big day. Nain and Pip, both tired and irritable, had started bickering and Poppy encouraged them to amble home. She called out to Rosalyn to announce their departure but no answer came.

She wandered back inside the stables, ducking from the large room into the smaller service area. She was about to call out again when she turned to the kitchen and found Rosalyn approaching.

Poppy stared enthralled by her friend, Rosalyn’s face equally captivated by Poppy. Neither said a word. Rosalyn reached out and without realising Poppy slipped her fingers between hers.

They stood close, the gap between them filled with warmth and excitement. Rosalyn dipped her head and Poppy felt humid breath on her lips. It tickled and Poppy opened her mouth in anticipation. She fell towards Rosalyn, her intimate presence irresistible, closed her eyes and gave in to the sweet touch of her lips.

Poppy had never shared a more heavenly kiss. Her mouth slipped into Rosalyn’s and tingled with pleasure. The sensation flooded her body, radiating in waves from where their hands touched and lips joined. She drifted in a euphoric daze as they kissed with endless tender caresses, as if there were no greater pleasure on Earth.

And when Rosalyn moved closer, their bodies suddenly touching, Poppy couldn’t help but clasp her hand around Rosalyn’s waist and pull her closer still. The warmth of their breasts, stomach, their thighs, all sealed together, made Poppy long to hold Rosalyn tight and never let go.

Muttering outside from Nain and Pip broke the spell and they slipped apart.

Poppy stared at Rosalyn, speechless at the enchanted encounter, the yearning of her body and the love suffused upon Rosalyn’s face.

As she pulled away, Rosalyn reached out to hold her hand until the last moment. Poppy hesitated with their fingertips touching, then turned unable to speak.

In a trance, she stumbled from the stables, the sensation of Rosalyn still thrilling on her body.

Every step home tugged at Poppy’s heart, the temptation to turn and throw herself at Rosalyn overwhelming. Warm feelings and euphoria mixed with need and deep longing, but fear also lurked. She kept walking, her thoughts turning and emotions in turmoil.

She hardly said a word at home. Pip was away at a sleepover. Nain and Dad bickered in Welsh in the lounge. Only Emma kept Poppy quiet company at the kitchen table.

Poppy stared at the scribbled wedding plan in front of her, no further elucidated than when she’d settled. Her mother sat with a novel open on the table but stared into the distance.

“Why does she paint at all if she won’t do pictures that sell, that’s what I don’t understand?” Nain’s voice drifted into the kitchen.

Poppy frowned, always uncomfortable when Nain and Dad talked about her mother in a language Emma didn’t understand.

“Why does anyone do anything?” Dad replied. “Why do you clean the church? Why do I spend hours smoothing the bottom of a table? For the love of it, Mam. The best reason in the world.”

Poppy noticed her mother’s lips twitch although her gaze remained clouded.

“I suppose,” Nain admitted and she ruffled her shoulders. “Right, I’m off to bed. Can’t find my glasses anywhere so I may as well go listen to my radio.” Nain shuffled out of her seat. “Night you two,” she said switching into English.

“Good night, Nain.”

“Good night, Eleri,” Emma said.

Nain bustled from the lounge with a pat of her bosom pockets for a last attempt to locate her glasses, and the front door shut to.

Poppy smiled at her mother’s kind face although she was surprised to catch a sharp focus in Emma’s eyes. Her mother didn’t avert her look from Poppy but reached beneath the table to a chair and brought out a pair of bifocals. She laid them on the table with a satisfied smile.

“Mum!” Poppy gasped. “Did you…?” Then she giggled. “How long have you been able to understand them?”

Emma shrugged. “A few years now. Not every word by any means, but enough. I’d tell them if they said something that upset me, but they never do.” And she looked with deep affection at Poppy’s father.

Poppy followed her gaze and watched Iwan relax with the paper, his feet up and a small whisky on the arm of the chair.

“Now,” her mother said gently. “How about you tell me in plain English what’s bothering you?”

“Oh, Mum,” Poppy whispered. As soon as she put any effort into thinking of an answer she became distraught. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Am I going mad, or pursuing a love I was always meant for, or imagining something that’s not even there?”

“I think everyone can see there’s something there.”

Poppy ran her fingers through her hair and grabbed a great handful. “I feel like I’m going crazy.” She looked to her mother. “I’m overwhelmed by her. It doesn’t matter whether she’s spouting infuriating nonsense, or being the most abhorrent person in the world, or it turns out the kindest, there’s no-one else in my thoughts. And when she’s in the room, no-one else exists.” Poppy clutched her hand to her heart. “She’s such a big part of me, she need only say a kind word and I fall for her.”

“And is that a bad thing?” her mother asked.

“It’s terrible and wonderful at the same time. One moment I’m the happiest I can imagine, the next I’m terrified. And either way, I can’t think what to do.”

“I always thought you were a rather magical pair.”

“How?” Poppy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Emma sat back and folded away her book. “I suppose you were opposites in many ways. That was a source of friction and heartache, but I think also your greatest strength. Rosalyn brought out a bit of steel in you. When left to your own devices your kindness can be taken for granted by some.” She reached out and squeezed Poppy’s hand. “But your kindness mellowed Rosalyn and kept her focused on what was important. You gave her humanity. I think you balanced one another and made each a better person because of it. And what people you are.” Emma smiled. “Look how this town has changed since Rosalyn came back. It’s coming alive again and you’ve only just started.”

Poppy covered her eyes in despair. She’d hoped her mother would issue simple advice – an admirable impossibility in someone so open to different perspectives, but a desperate failing at this moment.

“Most importantly you supported each other,” her mother continued. “There was nothing that gave me more pleasure as your mother than seeing you loved by someone supportive after you’d outgrown my protection.” Her eyes became glazed. “And nothing as painful as when their support failed and I could do nothing to mend you.”

“Oh, Mum.” Poppy leant forward and clasped her mother’s hands, wishing she could absolve her from such responsibility. “I’m just…” she breathed in, “scared.”

“I know you are. It’s always intimidating when you stand on the precipice. And you need a bigger leap of faith than most.” Emma squeezed Poppy’s hands and kissed her on the cheek.

Poppy left with her thoughts and feelings in as much turmoil but with a greater understanding of why. She kissed her father good night and climbed the stairs with a tired body and heavy heart.

She sat on the bed staring from her porthole window, always a source of comfort and yet with a view of excitement and adventure.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered into the darkness.

She was drawn to a wooden box hidden behind the headboard. She slid it from the hiding place and stroked away a layer of dust. She opened the lid with cautious reluctance and stared at the contents inside – small notes made from thick letter paper, folded in half, hundreds of them. Every one she’d found beneath her pillow as a teenager. She plucked one from the top, the last she’d received, and opened the note.

Rosalyn’s distinctive handwriting looped over the paper in Indian ink from her favourite fountain pen and Poppy trailed her finger along the letters.

“I’m always here,” it read, with a small heart drawn beneath.

Poppy folded away the note and replaced the box. She stared into the darkness and murmured, “But you weren’t.”

Chapter 41.

Poppy peeped through the oven doors for another last time. She could see Derek grinning in the reflection.

“They’re still all right,” he said.

Poppy stood up. “Ring me if anything, I mean anything at all, is wrong.”

“I will.” He laughed. “But there isn’t.”

She had double checked everything, and again. Mum was already at the Hall trying to stop Pip consuming her weight in chocolate brownies, as well as preparing to cook an enormous quantity of the pea and leek side dish. The chafing dishes were on standby for Derek’s delivery of rosemary roast potatoes and the all-important joints of lamb.

“I’ve got to go,” Poppy said, wringing her hands.

“You could have gone half an hour ago.”

“Right,” she said. “I’m definitely going this time.”

“Go!” Derek shouted, and she scampered out of the room.

Poppy checked her reflection in the shop window. Her satin dress was forgiving of her last-minute activities, still flowing to the ground without a crease despite hunting for a bulb of garlic beneath the worktops. She felt a little self-conscious, her shoulders bare and the bodice tight, but she had to admit she’d brushed up quite nicely. Even the strands of hair that escaped the hundred hair pins looked deliberate styling.

Beyond the town hall, couples in suits and wedding finery were climbing the twisting path up the grassy bank to the castle ruins. At the top, the remains of the outer walls and gate stood guard and she saw Dai and the ushers disappear within.

The ruins glowed warm in the evening light as Poppy reached the castle. The sun was low in the sky and cast large shadows on the intact back wall of the keep, the largest being Dai’s.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” Poppy beamed.

Dai turned around with a grin. “Can’t believe it. What a view.”

Below, Wells sparkled in the sunshine, snug at the bottom of the castle mound and surrounded by endless green hills rolling into the distance.

“Don’t we live in the most perfect place?” he said.

Poppy smiled. “I think so.”

Dai breathed in long and deep as if taking it all in. Guests started to fill the rows of chairs on either side of the grassy keep and members of Dai’s choir, in their concert best, lined either side of the congregation.

“Are you nervous?” Poppy said, feeling jittery herself.

“Nope.” Dai said satisfied.

“Really?”

“Not at all. I knew Mary was the girl for me the first time we got drunk together.”

“But what about everything that could go wrong today?” Poppy asked incredulous.

“Ah, that’s for you to worry about, not me.” He laughed. “And I don’t want you to worry either. I don’t care if we end up eating cream crackers for dinner. Just a few weeks ago we had nothing, and now look at this,” he spread his arms wide. “With a decade of planning I can’t imagine a more beautiful wedding.”

Poppy had to agree. She’d never seen Wells look finer and the setting leant a natural grandeur to the occasion, which infected the gathering crowd with excitement. She watched the relatives, friends and members of Dai’s choir take their seats and gaze at their surroundings in awe. Then Poppy herself was struck dumb in wonder.

All the turmoil, vexations, grief and deliberation vanished the moment she saw Rosalyn again. Only she could make a simple cream tailored dress appear the most elegant attire in the world. Her slim legs, bare beneath the knee-length linen, her toned arms naked for admiration, the respectful high collar slit low so it teased Poppy’s imagination. How the world kept turning when Rosalyn made an entrance Poppy would never know, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from her.

Rosalyn’s hair, not a strand out of place, was worn high, revealing her slim neck and the exquisite line of her jaw. Her face, with a touch of makeup, was a paragon of natural beauty enhanced by her high cheeks bones, those luscious full lips and the soft dream-worthy eyes of piercing blue depths.

As Rosalyn sauntered closer Poppy stared, paralysed with admiration. The warm glow of the evening made Rosalyn all the more radiant, and Poppy was momentarily incapable of uttering a word resembling English.

“You look beautiful,” Poppy said without thinking. “As if you’ve stepped off the most glamourous red carpet in the world.” Poppy straightened her dress, feeling self-conscious before Rosalyn’s perfection.

“You’re the one who’s stunning. But you always outshone everyone with that smile. That natural joyful smile.”

Poppy blushed, finding it extraordinary that someone as attractive as Rosalyn could see something to admire in her. But the way Rosalyn gazed at her, she couldn’t doubt she was indeed admired.

“Are you staying?” Poppy stuttered.

“Yes.” Rosalyn replied, warmth and deep love in her eyes. “I’ll need to rush off as soon as the ceremony finishes so I can organise the reception, but yes I’m staying.”

“Good,” Poppy said, and she gave her goofiest grin.

“I’ll see you later.” And Rosalyn wandered away to take a seat.

Poppy’s heart thudded in her chest and elation blushed on her cheeks.

“You invited her,” Poppy said overjoyed when Dai sidled closer again.

“You’ve got Mary to thank for that,” he said. “She’s taken quite a shine to Rosalyn.”

“Oh.”

“But I was going to.” He added, teasing, “Who knows, one day I might say something nice to her.”

The registrar had arrived and they turned for the ceremony to begin. But Poppy couldn’t help glancing back to Rosalyn. She looked exquisite but at ease, greeting local acquaintances and chatting to a woman beside her.

“That’s the choir director she’s talking to,” Dai whispered. “I’m very flattered she’s turned up. I wasn’t sure she knew who I was, not being one of the soloists. Very bright and capable lady,” he said. “Gives me the willies.”

Poppy smiled indulgently at Dai. Rosalyn didn’t seem perturbed at all and Poppy admired how easily she engaged the stern director and everyone who passed by. It seemed incredible to Poppy that this beautiful and accomplished woman should ever have been in love with her. Poppy fidgeted and smoothed down her dress again, not feeling worthy of Rosalyn’s appreciation and kind regard.

“Do I have a nice smile?” she murmured.

Dai was talking to someone else and didn’t respond immediately. “What’s that?” he said.

“Oh nothing, Dai. Sorry.”

He stared at her a moment, a serious expression on his face. “Fireworks, Poppy,” he said. “Your smile’s like fireworks. Rosalyn’s not wrong about that.”

Her heart leapt with his generosity and hoped that she was indeed beguiling for Rosalyn. She peeped over her shoulder to find Rosalyn’s eyes fixed upon her, fondness and the highest esteem glowing on her face.

At a nod from the registrar, the congregation and choir rose. After a cough, a shuffle and a deep chest full of air the choir’s deep melodious voice sang out “Pom pom pom pom. Pom pom pom pom.” The crowd began to giggle as they recognised an acapella version of the traditional processional music. Poppy grinned from ear to ear and Dai chuckled a deep sonorous laugh.

“I didn’t know they were going to do that,” he said, and he clapped his hands together.

Then Poppy and Dai turned to see Mary appear at the keep’s gate.

“Oh my days,” Dai said, and he covered his heart with his large hand.

Mary shone, beautiful in a white Celtic gown, her father on one arm, her mother on the other. Poppy already had a tear in her eye by the time Mary reached them, her face a picture of happiness.

And for the whole ceremony, there was not a gloomy face within the castle walls. A soloist enchanted, as he sang Ar Hyd y Nos and Mary’s sister held the crowd with bemusement and amusement as she recited Valentine. Even a hairy moment with the rings when they realised the grill they stood beside led straight down to the dungeon, only caused merriment.

And throughout it all, Poppy could feel Rosalyn’s eyes upon her. Poppy’s face flushed under Rosalyn’s attention, almost as if she reached out and caressed her cheek. Poppy peeked towards her and Rosalyn’s face was full of kind emotion and regard. It took all of Poppy’s will power not to break away and run to her.

“You may kiss the bride,” shouted the registrar, and a huge cheer erupted from the congregation.

Dai and Mary turned to face the crowd, with such smiles their cheeks would ache in happiness for days. Dai looked to his friends in the choir and once again they prepared for song.

A deep breath then the first line of a song that’s written through everyone with a drop of Welsh blood – they burst into Calon Lân. Everyone smiled and lifted higher in their seats. When the chorus started, Dai added his powerful voice to the choir, as did every person in the crowd. Every man, woman and child stood and sang with a gusto impossible to contain when singing that emblematic song.

Poppy sang and a tear of joy ran down her cheek. Even Rosalyn, who grudgingly sang the hymn for years at school, joined in with a full heart. They held the final note for as long as they humanly could then broke into a cheer and applause.

Dai and Mary ran down the aisle and children threw flowers, the wind whipping the white petals into the air and sprinkling them over the whole congregation.

Chapter 42.

Those who were able took the ridge walk in the evening light from the castle up the valley towards Rhiw Hall. Poppy ran on ahead of the wedding party, her dress gathered in her hands. The path dropped into the valley where the estate grounds began and for the first time in years she approached the Hall via its formal drive.

The light was fading and the ancient beech trees were formidable in the twilight, but the drive was softly lit by lanterns hanging from the boughs. The effect was ethereal and Poppy was spellbound by the wooded approach. The drive opened out into the grand lawn encircled by a ring of lanterns. The Hall was alluring in the dusk, as was Rosalyn who shone a pale beauty waiting in the flickering lights.

“It’s magical.” Poppy grinned. “I’ve never seen it so enchanting.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Rosalyn said and she stepped forward, keen to meet her.

Poppy clasped Rosalyn’s hands in greeting, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, wanting to touch and hold her. “They’ll be here soon.”

“Everything’s ready. Drinks are poured and waiting in the gallery. I can keep them entertained and refilled for as long as you need.”

“Thank you. I should go and prepare.”

Rosalyn nodded, but held on to her hands.

“I…” Poppy stared at her, drifting dreamily in Rosalyn’s gaze. The temptation to draw her into an embrace and kiss and never stop was a momentary lapse away. Poppy could almost feel her mouth upon Rosalyn’s expectant lips. How easy it would be to run her hands down Rosalyn’s body, explore every curve and slip a hand beneath her clothes to find every delicate feature.

Just a sliver of anxiety and doubt remained.

“I need to go.” Poppy frowned and pulled away. She turned towards the stables and felt Rosalyn’s gaze upon her every step of the way.

Poppy spun around as she entered the carriage doors, unable to suppress her admiration. Lights cascaded down the walls and across the beams, transforming the space into a room of stars. Tables with starched cloths were laid ready, with the head table across the open doors. It seemed for all the world a perfect wedding venue.

Poppy rushed into the kitchen, which was filled with steam and activity. Pip, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, was helping other waiters spread the plates for serving. Her mother stirred great pots of peas and gravy. Derek was unwrapping a first joint of lamb and carefully testing inside.

“Let’s all have a sample,” Poppy said.

Derek cut away a piece of lamb and arranged it on a plate and Emma slid on crisp roast potatoes, peas and herb gravy.

Poppy picked at the meat with her fingers, nibbling to taste, then dipped a finger full of gravy into her mouth.

“A touch more seasoning I think, but this has turned out very well.”

Her mother took a sample and nodded, as did Derek.

“We need to get serving before this spoils,” he said. “It’s rested perfectly.”

Poppy spun around. “Ready everyone?”

Pip and her companions nodded and the serving of more than a hundred and fifty guests began.

The dinner flew by with great appreciation and merriment. People were already on a high from the ceremony and the sparkling wine. The discerning made perspicacious comments on the meal, the hungry demolished great platefuls. And before Poppy could think thrice about making her best-man’s speech, the top table were shuffling in readiness for the traditional toasts.

“Oh god.” She was starting to hyperventilate. “Oh no. Excuse me, Dai, I need to check dessert’s ready.”

“You all right Poppy?” Dai peered along the table.

“I need to check drinks are topped up for toasts and desserts are on standby.”

“Poppy, love,” Dai smiled, “you don’t have to make a speech. There’ll be enough talking with me and Mary blathering on in ours.”

Poppy nodded. “I know. I’ll be fine,” she said with cold nausea inside.

She sped from the table into the service area and hid behind the doorway. She closed her eyes and gasped noisy inhalations. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.” She said with every breath.

“I wondered if you were still afraid of public speaking.”

Poppy opened her eyes to find Rosalyn peering at her, concerned. Poppy gathered her speech cards from her pocket and spread them before Rosalyn, intending to reassure her about her capability, but her ribcage spasmed into hyperventilation and she panted once more.

Rosalyn clasped her hands. “Come on,” she said. “Look at me.”

Poppy complied with difficulty, taking a moment to focus on Rosalyn’s piercing eyes.

“Now follow me,” Rosalyn said. “Deep breath in, all the way down to your stomach, and hold it.”

The air pushed out Poppy’s lungs and suppressed her frenetic gasps, and with a few more efforts she began to breathe normally.

Rosalyn smiled. “Better?”

Poppy gave a nod.

“Whatever you do, don’t imagine the audience naked.”

Poppy frowned in confusion.

“I suggested that to a nervous young delegate at a conference once. The poor man stood on stage looking horrified at the groins of the front row and had to be escorted from the stage.”

Poppy giggled.

“You’ll be fine,” Rosalyn said. “Remember, the first couple of minutes are the worst. Get through those, whatever way you can, and it’s easier from there.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Poppy shook her head. “I can speak to anyone, I’ve never been shy. But stand me in front of a crowd…”

Rosalyn squeezed her hands. “Dai owes you for this. You’ve served all this amazing food and he puts you through the worst ordeal you can imagine.” She smiled. “What makes him worth it?”

Poppy was too jittery with adrenaline to answer.

“Let me see your cards,” Rosalyn said and she flicked through Poppy’s speech. She paused for a moment on the last card, a ripple of tension disturbing her features. Poppy worried what she’d written to cause Rosalyn distress.

“Hmm. As I thought.” Rosalyn murmured. Then she added. “You’re far too nice to him.”

Poppy laughed. “I wanted to keep it short.”

“Then go on. Don’t think. Just do it.” And Rosalyn stood aside for Poppy to enter the main room.

As Poppy took her seat, Dai whispered over to her. “You go first. Get it over and done with.”

Poppy nodded and took a deep breath, the nerves already dancing. She stood and raised a glass and spoon to ring everyone to attention. The noisy cavernous space rumbled and shuffled, a few hearing the chime, others oblivious. She tapped the glass again and another table or two settled into silence. Another ring and the remaining tables became quiet and all faces turned to Poppy. One hundred and fifty faces. One hundred and fifty expectant faces. All looking at her.

She took a sharp breath in and attempted to say thank you, but her throat was parched. She took a sip of sparkling wine, gathered her cards and took another deep breath. She didn’t know what word she intended but only an empty sound issued.

Her heart thumped, her body burned, a blush erupted from her chest, crept up her neck then blazed on her cheeks. Everyone stared, waiting. She looked over the multitude of faces. Even the people who were familiar looked strange, their faces midway between merriment and concern.

Poppy’s head spun. Her legs felt weak. A cold sweat broke on her back and she reeled on the verge of fainting.

“No, no, no,” came Rosalyn’s confident voice. It filled the room. “This will not do at all.”

Poppy was half aware of Rosalyn striding down the centre of the room, her heels clicking loud on the hard floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rosalyn exclaimed. “Choosing the nicest woman in the world to deliver your best-man’s speech? You’re not getting away with that, Dai Edwards.”

Rosalyn leapt beside her and wrapped her arm around Poppy’s waist, pulling her close.

Poppy shut her eyes, her body almost collapsing with relief into Rosalyn arms.

“I’m here,” Rosalyn whispered and she pressed her soft face to Poppy’s cheek.

Poppy started to breathe slower, reassured by the warm presence of Rosalyn around her. She held Rosalyn’s hand to her stomach and squeezed it tight.

“Thank you.” She peered up at Rosalyn’s kind face.

Rosalyn held Poppy’s cards firm. “Now you start. I’ll be with you all the way.”

Poppy stared at her speech. Her hands still trembled but Rosalyn’s elegant fingers steadied her.

Poppy cleared her throat. “I can remember,” she said, her voice unsteady, “the first time I saw Dai—”

“Let’s face it, he’s difficult to miss,” Rosalyn interjected.

Poppy stumbled into a giggle and the audience guffawed.

“You are going to be nice, aren’t you?” Poppy looked up at Rosalyn.

“Oh, I doubt it.” A naughtiness twitched at Rosalyn’s lips. “This is Dai we’re talking about.”

The audience relaxed and beamed and Poppy grew in confidence, held in Rosalyn’s warm embrace.

“As I was saying, I remember clearly, the first time I saw Dai.”

“He is after all unforgettable as well as unmissable.”

Poppy shot a mock frown at Rosalyn before carrying on. “He was just seven years old—”

“And already the size of a prop.”

Poppy giggled, as did the rugby fans and players in the audience.

“He was teaching a group of older boys the rules of rugby, and I asked if I could play. I didn’t realise back then it was considered a boy’s game. The others all complained about including a girl, but Dai said I could play on his team. And it’s his generosity, embrace of the different and his acceptance that has underpinned our friendship ever since.”

“Now what Poppy isn’t saying,” Rosalyn interrupted, “is that she ran the whole length of the field, scored a try and said ‘Is that it?’ So although it pains me to say, Dai’s also a clever tactician.”

Dai chuckled heartily and nodded. “True,” he said, “all true.”

“And he was overheard saying,” and at this point Rosalyn indulged in her finest Dai accent. “Could you maybe try and bump into a few of them on the way? You know. Show willing.”

The audience laughed at the impression and the perfect example of Dai’s character.

Poppy resumed with a smile. “I was never happier when Dai met Mary. I knew immediately she was a special woman and it was no surprise when they announced their engagement.”

“No, indeed,” Rosalyn said. “Astonished is more the term. Seriously, Mary, what were you thinking?” Rosalyn shot a cheeky glance to the bride who chuckled and slapped Dai on the back.

“And now I know Mary to be the kind, bright and loving woman that she is—”

“I’m even more astonished.”

Poppy elbowed Rosalyn in the ribs, but Rosalyn’s only response was to hold her more tenderly. Poppy caught her breath, moved by the warm laughter from the crowd, Dai and Mary’s joyous sense of humour and Rosalyn holding her close.

“I’m so pleased Dai and Mary are happy and settled here, because I can’t imagine Wells without them. And I want to thank Dai for being there for me every day of my life.” She looked to Dai, full of gratitude for her friend. He smiled, his face ruddy from the effects of wine and emotion.

“Yes, thank you, Dai,” Rosalyn said loudly. “Even when others failed Poppy, you were always there.”

The words took Poppy’s breath away. She almost doubled over with their poignancy. She looked up to Rosalyn and saw her eyes full of regret and sorrow but also love. “I’m sorry, Poppy,” Rosalyn whispered. “I never should have left you. I should have been there for you too.”

Poppy’s heart seemed to stop. She stared at Rosalyn, vulnerable and willing in her friend’s arms. The one reservation she’d had was now dispelled with Rosalyn’s heart-felt apology. Poppy reached out and touched Rosalyn’s cheek, wanting nothing but to kiss her. She ached with love and desperately wanted to show Rosalyn her passion. If only they weren’t watched by hundreds of eyes.

Rosalyn gazed at her and smiled. “I love you, Poppy Jenkins.”

Then Rosalyn lifted her gaze away and shouted to the audience, “To Dai and Mary,” and lifted her glass aloft.

The audience cheered and lifted their glasses and Dai started the applause. Poppy leaned forwards for her own glass and caught Dai’s eye. Even he had a tear threatening. She reached back for Rosalyn’s embrace but swept through air. She looked around, but she was gone.

As the cheering and applause continued, Poppy spotted her striding along the edge of stables. One of the waiters pulled her aside. Rosalyn frowned at the waiter’s words, nodded, and disappeared through the side door into the night.

Poppy sat with the rest of the wedding party and Mary’s father took his turn to deliver a speech.

Poppy didn’t hear a word. She longed to be with Rosalyn. She could say the words now without reservation. She could make promises she’d never break and without a word or conscious thought she leapt from her chair and hurried through the carriage doors. She ran into the darkness, her feet crunching in the gravel, and came to a stop. She squinted, blinded by the ghosts of the stable lights.

There was a car outside the Hall. She could just make out its shape. She stepped forward cautiously as she heard a woman speak. Now she could make out Rosalyn’s shape against the Hall lights, but it wasn’t her voice. Another silhouette joined her, slim arms and animated hands pleading with Rosalyn. It was Sam.

Poppy stared, astonished, paralysed with fear and leaden inside. Sam was holding Rosalyn’s arm, pulling her close, entreating her. Rosalyn stepped towards the Hall, and made no effort to turn her away. They were going inside, together.

Their silhouettes were clear for a moment, as they stepped over the threshold. Sam reached up to Rosalyn’s face, tenderness in her movement, and the door shut.

Too late. She was too late.

Chapter 43.

Poppy’s imagination was her worst enemy that night. It tortured her with vivid images of Sam and Rosalyn together. Sam had clearly intended staying the night, arriving at such an hour, and Poppy’s mind could focus on little else but where and how they spent it. The vision of Sam clinging to Rosalyn, her arms curled around her neck, took on greater and more upsetting detail every time Poppy pictured it, until she wished she could wipe the experience from memory.

She hadn’t seen Rosalyn again at the wedding. Everyone else, worse for wear, hadn’t noticed her absence. Poppy rose in the morning after little and fevered sleep looking grey, a pallor her family assumed a result of the ale and sparkling wine.

Her body was leaden as she hauled herself into the café and she cursed the café’s success, wanting nothing but to curl up in a corner and pretend she didn’t exist.

After having suffered great confusion over Rosalyn for months, it was an excruciating time for clarity. Now that the person Poppy craved was less attainable, the more certain she was that Rosalyn was vital to her. And the realisation Poppy might have had all she desired, the day before, was desperate torture.

She willed Rosalyn to telephone and say nothing had changed and that Sam remained an ex. And by noon, the torment grew so severe Poppy snatched out her mobile and messaged a plea to meet her. Poppy pressed send before she could think better of it, and her phone obliged, in her most desperate hour, by hanging and sending the message to the queue of oblivion.

Poppy hid behind the counter with her head in her hands, willing the world to turn back twenty-four hours. The world didn’t oblige either and she crawled through the afternoon with as much fervour as an over-boiled cabbage.

Closing time neared with relief and only two customers remained on the top floor. Mrs Morgan Morgan and Nerys Hughes, the rather dour organist from the church, enjoyed the incomparable view over Wells as Poppy prepared their tea and Bara Brith.

In the quiet of the empty café, Poppy could hear the murmur of their animated chat as she crossed with their tray to the foot of the spiral stairs.

“And in a funny way she’s a very generous girl.” Nerys’ voice made its distant way to Poppy’s consciousness.

Poppy stepped up onto the stairs.

“I think you’re right,” Mrs Morgan replied. “See, I don’t think it’s any coincidence things started looking up for this town with the arrival of Rosalyn Thorn.”

Poppy halted in the middle of the stairs, the mention of Rosalyn’s name seizing her. She turned her head to listen.

“Did I tell you she visited not long after arriving in Wells?” Mrs Morgan continued. “Off her own back and all, no-one suggested it. Said she’d heard that I was running a respite charity and wondered if I’d like her advice. Well, her tax guidance has saved the charity thousands.”

“Really?”

“I know. I was just as surprised. She sat with me a good few hours, going over ways to raise money and claim back tax. It was extremely helpful.”

“Well, I never knew.”

And neither had Poppy. She cursed herself for not opening her eyes earlier to Rosalyn’s kinder side.

“Don’t like that girlfriend of hers though,” Nerys said.

Poppy’s heart sank with desolation at the thought of that girlfriend in Rosalyn’s arms, but also the expectation of a homophobic jibe from Nerys. Since overhearing the bigoted comments about Rosalyn at the pub, Poppy had been more circumspect.

“I saw her at the fair,” Nerys continued, “being all snooty. Don’t like her sort at all.”

“Oh, me neither. She’s definitely one of those London types.”

“She’ll drag Rosalyn away you know.”

“Yes, unfortunately. I wanted Rosalyn to settle down back here. Her mother and father could do with her home. And,” Mrs Morgan dropped her voice, “I rather hoped she’d fancy our Poppy.”

Poppy braced herself for Nerys’ response.

“Well really,” Nerys said. “What an idea. Wouldn’t it be wonderful? Imagine, they could get married now couldn’t they. At the church even.”

The dread in Poppy’s heart evaporated and jubilation bloomed in its place. She was overjoyed someone as entrenched as Nerys Hughes could think well of their relationship, and Poppy was relieved her wariness of a moment ago was uncalled for.

But happiness turned to distress. How likely was the event now? Rosalyn might be cosy in Sam’s arms instead.

“Two beautiful brides,” said Mrs Morgan with zeal.

“Oh beautiful, beautiful.”

Poppy’s sorrow gripped tighter.

“I’ve never thought,” Nerys said, “but it would be much nicer having two brides. I bet those two would wear gowns. Imagine how pretty their wedding photos would be.”

Poppy’s hands shook and tea cups rattled in the saucers. She choked and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Poppy?” It was her mother. She called gently from behind.

Poppy turned, her face distraught.

“Are you ok?”

Poppy sniffed. “Sorry, Mum, I’m fine.” The tray trembled in her hand, the cutlery chattering over the plates. “Please, would you mind, take up Mrs Morgan’s tea?”

“Of course, but—”

“Sorry.” Poppy shook as she passed the tray to her mother. She ran across the room, tears flowing without restraint. She clattered down the stairs, the twisting steps blurring and merging as she cried, before bursting out of the shop into the square.

Poppy sobbed with such desperation she didn’t see the woman outside. A soft collision was her first awareness of anyone’s presence, a harder impact prevented by the woman’s guiding arms.

“Poppy!”

Her heart leapt. It was Rosalyn. She sounded alarmed. Poppy blinked, trying to clear her gaze, but her eyes flooded again in an instant.

Rosalyn clung to her arms. “What’s wrong?”

Poppy could only stare, her mouth open in shock.

“Please. What’s happened?”

Through her tears she could discern Rosalyn’s face, full of anxious concern.

There was so much to say and so much to ask. Poppy was filled with a thousand feelings: desperate love, bashful respect, a deep longing which had pined for more than a decade. The words and feelings brimmed inside Poppy seeking release.

But over Rosalyn’s shoulder, Sam stalked. The angular woman, sharp in black, snapped instructions into her phone a few yards away.

“What’s wrong, Poppy?” Rosalyn begged.

Poppy caught Rosalyn’s pleading gaze and moaned in frustration. Why wasn’t she alone? Poppy clung to her friend and searched her face, desperate to pour out a coherent version of her emotions.

“I need…. I want…”

Sam jerked her mobile away from her face and tapped it silent. She dropped the phone into her bag, snapped it shut and focused her attention on the pair of friends. Her fly glasses couldn’t hide her fierce scrutiny and she launched into a march.

Poppy’s heart thundered in her chest.

“Poppy? Tell me what’s—”

“I’m in love with you.” The words cantered from Poppy’s lips. She stared, spent, her chest heaving for breath. “I’m in love with you.”

Poppy gazed at Rosalyn’s stunned face for a moment and tore from her embrace. Poppy ran from Rosalyn’s arms, beyond the square and the village.

She wasn’t sure where or for how long she wandered, but the light was fading when she returned. Emma must have closed up the café and the square was empty, any visitors long gone.

Poppy walked along the river in a daze, not sure what to think or where to go. Her body took her to the bedroom sanctuary, too tired to talk to her mother. She opened the door and her bed and porthole view beckoned. She collapsed into the sheets and turned on her side, staring unfocused into the green landscape.

As she always did, she slipped her hand under her cheek and pillow for comfort. But she flinched when her fingers encountered a sheet of paper.

She sprung up and threw her pillow aside. Two notes lay beneath, a larger letter and a note the same size as those hidden in her wooden box. “The long version” and “the short” were written in Rosalyn’s looping handwriting.

Poppy snatched up the notes staring from the letter in one hand to the notelet in the other. Her heart beat frenetically as she deliberated. She put down the small note and slipped her fingers into the pages of the long.

My dearest Poppy,

I’ve been searching for you for hours and hope you find this note in a happier state than when we parted.

When you left, Sam confessed she saw you last night, and that you witnessed her arrival at the Hall. I was ignorant of this and I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner to put any worries to rest.

Sam is my boss and an old friend, but that is all. And until she feels the same way she will keep some distance and has returned to London. Regardless of what happens to you and me, my feelings won’t change with respect to Sam.

My dear Poppy. I wish I could find you and talk to you. I don’t know where to begin or where I dare.

Do you still think us the most ill-suited couple in the world?

In many ways we are poles apart, it’s what I love about you. That you wake up and see the world as beautiful is a gift wonderful for me to witness. I wish only to be there for you and set the world to rights on your rare grey days.

But we were both wrong about the place where my heart yearns to be.

Growing up, I didn’t belong here, but when I left it was obvious I didn’t belong anywhere else. London was comfortable for me, living anonymously alongside others who didn’t belong. And I relished the easy friends, the culture and differences.

When I returned, it came as a shock how much Wells meant to me: Emma’s shop and the studio where we played, her cooking that has influenced your own, your magical bedroom and the voyages we shared, and you. That was home, more than life with my parents, and it’s the reason I couldn’t return to Wells for so many years. There were too many blissful memories I had no right to enjoy any more.

I hurt you and it’s taken a long time to accept I was wrong. And I understand if you are reticent to come to me. I remember all the reasons you gave in the square that night. You said you cannot trust me because there’s still a fracture where I broke your heart. It pains me every time I recall your words.

I hope, in time, you can trust me. And I will wait, for as long as you need. Because there’s no-one else for me. There never has been, and there never will be.

Every friend and lover failed to measure up to you. For a while, it annoyed me that I compared. But you’re a part of me and a part I cherish beyond everything else. When we are together, you not only complete me, you make me ten times the woman and a hundred times happier.

All of this would be enough to make me content for the rest of my life. You are my home, my friend, a part of me, my history. But I also love you with a passion.

The first moment I saw you, that day we met in Wells after years apart, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I could have enjoyed you all day: the lustre of your hair, the soft perfection of your skin, those deepest hazel eyes filled with kindness and joy. Life is vibrant and delightful when I see it reflected in those eyes. And when you smile, when I’m the cause of that sublime smile, there is no greater high.

Your laugh moves me and your touch never fails to excite me. Your kindness is beyond compare.

You said, if we started something it would have to be forever. I know this needs to be all or nothing for us, so I’m offering you everything I have.

Yours,

Rosalyn

Chapter 44.

It took Poppy less than a second to read the two words in the note and decide her answer. She dashed from the bedroom, clattered down the stairs and burst into the main house where her mother peered up from the kitchen table.

“How long ago?” Poppy shouted. “How long ago did she leave?”

Her mother burst into a smile. “About an hour, sweetheart. She said she’d wait for you at home.”

Poppy turned to run from the house but looked back wondering how much she needed to explain.

“Go!” Emma waved. “Put her out of her misery.”

Poppy laughed with fatigue, jubilation and desperation all at once and sprinted out the door.

The evening light was fading from indigo to black night and only the stony grey of the lane glowed between the dark hedgerows for Poppy to find her way. She sprinted up the track, across the road and past the workers’ cottages, a route she’d scampered a thousand times in her energetic youth, but she’d never felt more ecstatic and driven than this evening. With the chance to see Rosalyn again she willed her legs to carry her faster.

The luminous white hall was within a few strides when Poppy stopped. She looked to the lit windows, trying to imagine where Rosalyn waited. There were two on the ground floor, the kitchen and a sitting room, none on the second.

Instinct drew her towards the woods and the path to the lodge. More cautious, she headed around the back garden and along the edge of the trees, wondering if she was right. As she peeped over the brow of the hill, she broke into an elated smile. Lights shone from the lodge, an orange beacon between the pine trees, and it had never been a more idyllic and welcoming sight.

She ran through the meadow, filling her lungs and lifting her head high. She spread her arms wide and let the long, feathery grass tickle through her fingers.

At the foot of the veranda steps she hesitated, gasping for breath. The doors were open and Rosalyn sat beside the stove, elbows on knees, head in hands, blonde hair cascading around her face.

Poppy smiled, admiring and adoring the woman inside. She lightly trod up the steps and held the door frame. “Hi,” she whispered.

Rosalyn looked up, her eyes wide with concern, and she stood up clasping her hands in front of her. Poppy had never seen her so nervous.

“I thought…” Poppy said. “I wondered if you’d be here. It seemed more likely you meant this to mean ‘home’.”

“Yes, I did,” Rosalyn stuttered and she took a tentative step forward. “I’m more comfortable staying at the lodge than the Hall. Always have been. And I’ve been renovating it.” She waved her hand to walls that were half coated with white paint. “I’ve kept the map and the flower prints, I know you love those, and the book cases are beginning to fill. A few of your favourites are here, but there’s plenty of room for more.” She hesitated. “I wanted to make it a home. For me…. For us…” She looked all the more afraid, meaning it as a question.

Poppy stepped into the room, butterflies tickling inside. “I realised.”

Rosalyn shuffled anxiously and took a deep breath. “You got my note?”

“I did.” Poppy moved closer and beamed with joy. She took the note from her pocket and held it aloft in her fingertips.

“And… And will you…?”

She moved almost within reach of Rosalyn, shaking with excitement. “In a little while. When everything has calmed down.”

Hope lit Rosalyn’s face. “But you’ll stay, here…?”

Poppy stopped before Rosalyn and lifted trembling fingers to her cheek. “Forever, from this moment on.”

Rosalyn stared into Poppy’s eyes, tears brimming from her overjoyed smile. She reached out to Poppy’s cheek and stroked a lock of hair from her face.

“I love you, Poppy.”

Poppy laughed gently. “I love you.”

Rosalyn dabbed her on the forehead with a kiss and giggled with tearful happiness. Then, again, she kissed Poppy’s cheek and quickly on the other side. Then she lingered longer and more tenderly as she moved closer to Poppy’s lips.

Poppy shut her eyes, luxuriating in the warm intimacy of Rosalyn’s presence, their mouths so near it felt they were already touching. But when the touch did come, it ignited Poppy instantly. Eager hands pulled her close. Their bodies sealed together, breast to soft breast, thighs between desperate thighs, Rosalyn’s hands urging them ever closer.

Poppy’s head swirled as Rosalyn kissed across her cheek and sweetly ravaged her neck. Her body inflamed at Rosalyn’s fevered caress around her bosom, her skin prickling with desire and longing to her core. It was almost embarrassing how quickly she responded. Poppy leant away and looked apologetically at Rosalyn but saw the same craving in her eyes.

“I want to take you to bed.”

“Please,” Poppy whispered.

Trembling fingers ran down Poppy’s arms and Rosalyn clasped her hand.

“Come with me,” she said and drew Poppy around the sofa, into the corridor, up the attic stairs, never once lifting her gaze from Poppy’s eyes.

They stood facing each other beside the bed, Rosalyn staring with trepidation and need.

“You don’t know how I’ve longed for this.”

“Yes I do,” Poppy murmured.

Rosalyn held her arms around Poppy and with a deft movement eased the buttons of her dress undone. She gently coaxed the garment down Poppy’s body and with eager hands threw her underwear away. Poppy inhaled sharply as she felt her clothes slide to the floor, her skin bare and alive.

Paralysed by anticipation, she could only watch as Rosalyn unbuttoned her own shirt and slipped from her clothes to stand naked before her.

She trembled as Rosalyn stepped forward, just an inch away. She stared down at Rosalyn’s beautiful skin, which promised to tantalise her own, the slim waist she yearned to pull close, thighs she wanted to slip inside. Her whole body tingled, alert, and excitement pulsed between her legs.

Rosalyn’s soft fingers touched her waist and Poppy moaned and shut her eyes.

Hands caressed the curve of her hips and she gasped. How quickly she succumbed to her.

“Lie down,” Rosalyn murmured and Poppy kept her eyes shut, in thrall to her lover, and allowed herself to be guided to the bed.

Poppy lay exposed for a moment, thrilling expectation quivering through her limbs. There was silence and she waited, aching for Rosalyn.

Soft lips kissed her eyelids and Poppy giggled at the unexpected tenderness. Rosalyn lingered lovingly for a moment then lifted away.

Silence again. Poppy’s mind raced and her body quickened, hungry for the next contact. She could feel where Rosalyn was looking. The warmth glided across her skin and a glow consumed her wherever she imagined Rosalyn’s presence.

“Oh.” Her breasts. Rosalyn dabbed her breasts. And again. The tantalising touch was an exquisite tease. Poppy arched her back, longing for more.

Again came a touch. A firm nipple pinched with excitement like her own. Then a longer soft caress of bosoms. An indulgent stroke. “More,” she moaned.

Her unrestrained plea provoked a sharp inhalation from Rosalyn, and Poppy tensed at the sound of her arousal. Then warm lips slipped over her mouth and Rosalyn enveloped her as she eased her body over hers.

Poppy threw her arms around Rosalyn’s shoulders and kissed with passion. She couldn’t touch her enough. She couldn’t hold her close enough.

She felt Rosalyn’s soft fingers seduce down her belly, around her hips and Poppy trembled as they explored between her thighs. She desperately tried to keep kissing, but as the exploring fingers slipped between her legs Poppy arched her neck, throwing her head back in sheer delight.

Fingers fluttered around her lips and she opened her legs wider, yearning for Rosalyn. Just a delicate flick of a finger and she gasped. A stroke around her aching centre and she clung harder to Rosalyn.

“Touch me,” she moaned and tried to push herself onto Rosalyn.

Sweet, soft fingers slipped over her clitoris and Poppy shuddered uncontrollably. She pulled Rosalyn’s head to her chest, tensing beneath her as Rosalyn indulged her with pleasuring touches.

“Tighter,” Poppy begged. “Please hold me tight.” Rosalyn urgently slid her free arm beneath Poppy and enveloped her legs between her thighs, so they were joined the whole length of their bodies. She clung so tight they seemed inseparable.

Poppy clasped Rosalyn’s face to where her heart beat with passion and love as she tensed, building and building. She teetered with exquisite gratification on the edge under Rosalyn’s caresses, until neither wishing nor able to hold on, she succumbed with an explosion of pleasure through every part of her body.

Poppy lay gasping as she unwound from Rosalyn’s clasp onto the bed. She smiled and spread her arms across the duvet. When she opened her eyes, Rosalyn gazed at her with a mix of shock, arousal and awe.

“You are so beautiful,” Rosalyn murmured.

“You,” Poppy breathed. “You.” And she lifted her hand to stroke Rosalyn’s face, trailing her finger around her forehead, over her sculpted cheeks and gently over the full, parted lips. Poppy breathed deeply, recovering from her climax, and gazed at her beautiful lover who stared back intoxicated. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

Anxiety rippled across Rosalyn’s forehead. “I know. I was so afraid you’d say no. I dreaded waiting until morning and you never coming.”

Poppy shook her head. “Nothing could have kept me away. Not now.”

“Never let me go. I don’t want to spend a single moment longer apart from you.”

Poppy looked at her with unafraid and boundless love. “Never. Not another second.”

She pulled Rosalyn close again and kissed her lips tenderly, savouring the taste of the woman and the moment. She ran her fingers through Rosalyn’s hair cherishing the intimate presence of her lover.

Poppy pulled away a fraction and regarded Rosalyn cheekily. “Now, Rosalyn Thorn. You have shamelessly seduced me twice.” She covered Rosalyn’s mouth with her finger before she could protest. “And it was with such efficacy it would have been humiliating if it wasn’t so heavenly.”

Rosalyn’s look was quizzical.

“I’m not letting you get away with that.”

Poppy removed her finger but before Rosalyn could plead for clarification, Poppy rolled over and flipped Rosalyn on her back in a movement so swift it made Rosalyn yelp.

Poppy sat astride her and peered down with a salacious grin. “It’s my turn.”

And even if Rosalyn had any objections they were forgotten in a wave of arousal that made her moan and writhe into the sheets.

“Now I…” Poppy placed her tongue at the top of Rosalyn’s chest. “I have been coveting your breasts for months.” She slipped down Rosalyn’s cleavage. “And I intend to appreciate them,” her fingers caressed her bosom, “fully this evening.”

Rosalyn’s chest heaved with excitement.

“Close your eyes,” Poppy commanded and she started a slow, delicious seduction, curving her way around Rosalyn’s breasts with a gentle kiss, a loving stroke, a thrilling nip and an enthralled devouring.

She pushed Rosalyn back into the white duvet, exploring every inch of her body. Every tender spot was discovered and received besotted attention until Rosalyn lay shaking, desperate and begging. Only then did Poppy slide between her legs and, with tantalising deliberation and after teasing kisses, lick where Rosalyn felt most tender and desperate of all.

And it wouldn’t be the last time that night.

The next morning Poppy roused in slow delectable stages, basking in the afterglow of being loved and sated. She rolled across the bed beneath the sheets and encountered Rosalyn’s naked body. She snuggled into the hollow of Rosalyn’s back and sleepily luxuriated in their caressing nudity.

But although her eyes were shut she realised it was bright. She blinked her eyes open in confusion. The bedroom was lighter than she expected and she squinted and lifted her head to look about. Between the abandoned garments, the far-flung bra and the discarded knickers, the floorboards were dusty. Fine grains and curling peels of wood lay around the edges of the room. Poppy’s eyes strained as she tried to make out the source of light, and when they finally adjusted she saw the cause.

The result of much carpentry, and waiting its first clean, was a large porthole window overlooking the bright valley beyond. It was like her own but revealed a new wonderful landscape. She smiled, tears in her eyes.

Rosalyn murmured beside her, still asleep, and Poppy covered her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh out loud with happiness, not wanting to disturb the beautiful woman beside her.

Poppy lay down again and cuddled up a bit closer, sliding her arm between Rosalyn’s tummy and bosom. Poppy relaxed and soon her head began to float. She smiled as she drifted to sleep, just looking up once to check the note in looping handwriting on the bedside table, and that it still said “Marry me”.

And that was the beginning of Poppy Jenkins’ happy every after.

For the curious…

And for those who ponder such things, Rosalyn and Poppy did have their wedding. What was meant to be a small affair, a private little ceremony in the castle, expanded to include much of the village out of genuine love for this most popular of couples. A grand picnic followed on the castle grounds, with sparkling wines and a generous spread, on the sunniest day of the year.

Their children came after, every other year: a tall, fiercely intelligent girl, highly protective of her good-natured younger sister, and two strapping boys, with the stature of the donor and the good looks of their carpenter grandfather.

Two sets of grandparents, a great-grandparent and doting aunt Pip were overjoyed with their growing family.

One grey cloud, early in the years that followed, was the passing of Mr Morgan Morgan. His wife, Eleanor, was in mourning for a week, but then took on a sunnier disposition. She was one of the most elated and moved by Poppy and Rosalyn’s wedding. She sat at the front, snug next to Cerys Mathews, wearing every colour of the rainbow.

###

Acknowledgements

The period during which I write a book is a trying time for many. I forget birthdays, the house descends into chaos, the kids cling to my ankles crying out for a glass of milk, while I wander around the house lost in conversation with people who don’t exist.

In particular for this book I need to apologise to the following people.

To Diana Simmonds for badgering her for feedback every other second and I’m grateful for every bit of tinkering and attention the manuscript received. Now bugger off and finish that novel of yours – quick – I want to read it!

Being a very British writer, and with the added flavour of Wales this time, I tested the limits of comprehension of two patient and fabulous romance writers from across the pond: Cindy Rizzo and Chris Paynter. Thank you both for your trusted feedback and encouragement and clever brains that weren’t baffled and befuddled by the vagaries of British idioms and terms.

My family suffers most. Thank you to my multi-talented wife, both editor and designer, for putting up with her most awkward client, and hardest of all for living with a creature with writer’s angst.

Thank you to my in-laws for creating the above wife, and apologies for her choice in spouse.

Now, further apologies to all of the above for any remaining errors in the manuscript. If you are unfairly blamed for any short-comings, please refer the relevant critic to this passage: Clare Ashton is a bloody-minded author who ignores advice that is clearly superior in the eyes of the rest of the world and she has an uncanny ability to bugger things up.

To readers who’ve sent messages about how much they’ve enjoyed my books: the biggest thank you – it means the world to a writer to hear their work is loved.

Finally, the babbies: yes I am listening now, Ellie I’ll get that milk, and Joe, let’s write that monster story.

About the Author

Clare Ashton’s first novel, Pennance, was long-listed for the Polari Prize and After Mrs Hamilton is a Golden Crown Literary Society (Goldie) award winner. Her first foray into romantic comedy, That Certain Something, was a Goldie and Lambda Literary Award finalist.

Clare Ashton grew up in Mid-Wales and having a brain stuck somewhere not particularly useful between the arts and science ended up studying History and Philosophy of Science at Cambridge University. After college, and still at a loss as to what to do with such a brain, she bimbled around the UK from London to Sheffield being everything from Little Chef waitress to software engineer. On the way she met a wife, had two children and recently came to a rest in the Midlands with the vocation of lesbian romance writer – nothing like the career they suggested back at school.

Also by Clare Ashton:

Pennance

After Mrs Hamilton

That Certain Something

Find out more about Clare
http://rclareashton.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Clare-Ashton/327713437267566

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1.

- Chapter 2.

- Chapter 3.

- Chapter 4.

- Chapter 5.

- Chapter 6.

- Chapter 7.

- Chapter 8.

- Chapter 9.

- Chapter 10.

- Chapter 11.

- Chapter 12.

- Chapter 13.

- Chapter 14.

- Chapter 15.

- Chapter 16.

- Chapter 17.

- Chapter 18.

- Chapter 19.

- Chapter 20.

- Chapter 21.

- Chapter 22.

- Chapter 23.

- Chapter 24.

- Chapter 25.

- Chapter 26.

- Chapter 27.

- Chapter 28.

- Chapter 29.

- Chapter 30.

- Chapter 31.

- Chapter 32.

- Chapter 33.

- Chapter 34.

- Chapter 35.

- Chapter 36.

- Chapter 37.

- Chapter 38.

- Chapter 39.

- Chapter 40.

- Chapter 41.

- Chapter 42.

- Chapter 43.

- Chapter 44.