mood. As it was, Mr Biker-man had already returned to the pages of his novel, placed next to an almost emptied coffee cup.
With her companion deep in his book and the matriarchs returned to their previous conversation, Carys let her eyes wander around the café again. While the walls nearest the counter were adorned with a selection of framed paintings, those nearest the computers were lined with boards of old photographs. Undoubtedly scans, rather than originals, the originals being clearly irreplaceable. They had been pinned up carefully, but in haphazard fashion, as if anyone could join in.
Faded 1970s colour, and black-and-white photographs gazed out at her, interspersed with sepia, and even older, almost black with age. Family groups smiling at cottage doors, or under apple blossom in a garden. A man in 1930s loose trousers and cap standing proudly next to a row of broad beans. A Victorian family, stiff, eyes distant, grouped next to a pedestal overflowing with ivy. And a little further away, she could just make out the pale facade glimpsed between trees, that was unmistakably Plas Eden. It was as if the past was there, crowding in on her, making it hard to breathe.
‘You’re Carys.’
Carys started. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The man with the ponytail was watching her. ‘You’re Carys Evans.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Carys.
‘You’re back in Pont-ar-Eden to look after your mam.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I remember you.’
Carys’ mind scurried frantically. ‘You do?’
‘I tried to chat you up once.’
Oh dear. Here we go. So much for a relaxing coffee. ‘Really.’
‘Mmm. You must only have been seventeen or so at the time. You weren’t interested.’
‘And I should hope not, too,’ came the tart remark from behind them. Carys looked up to find a tray being wielded above her. The next moment three cappuccinos were being placed in the free space in the middle of the table, followed by the owner herself pulling up a stool.
‘Five minutes,’ said Buddug. ‘Before the next rush comes in.’ She pushed a cup in front of Carys. ‘On the house, cariad . Your mam’s been a good friend to me when I needed it most. Least I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carys, feeling herself unexpectedly welling up inside. It had been a long day. She must be more tired that she thought.
‘Besides, I can’t leave you to Merlin to drive you witless, now, can I?’
‘Oh,’ said Carys. She should have known. Just before her fall, Mam had been full of the return of Merlin Gwyn, the only international rock-god to emerge from Pont-ar-Eden. Not quite as big as the Manic Street Preachers or Duffy mind, but he’d once appeared with Bryn Terfel, and that was quite big enough for Pont-ar-Eden.
Carys looked at him, trying to make out in the rounded face before her the lean, Heathcliff spectre in skin-tight leather trousers and jacket, with his statement of stubble and hungry eyes, that had confronted her in the ‘Taliesin’ pub that night, sixteen years ago.
Merlin sighed. ‘Yes, that’s just the look you gave me.’
‘Look?’
‘Searching. As if you could see right through me. And were not impressed. I wasn’t used to such a thing. Well, not at that time, anyhow. Sadly, age has taught me a touch of humility.’
‘I was a child,’ returned Carys, frowning.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘A child.’
‘You know what I mean. You were years older than me. And you belonged to a world I knew nothing about. Apart from noticing that girls seemed to be either groupies or backing singers, and definitely didn’t call the shots. You frightened me.’
‘Ouch,’ said Merlin, with a rueful grimace.
Buddug paused in stirring her cappuccino. Her grin was mischievous. ‘Good for you, Carys. You always did have style, as I remember. Merlin Wyn, sitting with a woman who turned him down, eh? Now that must be a first.’
‘Two,’ sighed Merlin, gloomily.
Buddug chuckled. ‘Very gallant of you, cariad . But to be
With her companion deep in his book and the matriarchs returned to their previous conversation, Carys let her eyes wander around the café again. While the walls nearest the counter were adorned with a selection of framed paintings, those nearest the computers were lined with boards of old photographs. Undoubtedly scans, rather than originals, the originals being clearly irreplaceable. They had been pinned up carefully, but in haphazard fashion, as if anyone could join in.
Faded 1970s colour, and black-and-white photographs gazed out at her, interspersed with sepia, and even older, almost black with age. Family groups smiling at cottage doors, or under apple blossom in a garden. A man in 1930s loose trousers and cap standing proudly next to a row of broad beans. A Victorian family, stiff, eyes distant, grouped next to a pedestal overflowing with ivy. And a little further away, she could just make out the pale facade glimpsed between trees, that was unmistakably Plas Eden. It was as if the past was there, crowding in on her, making it hard to breathe.
‘You’re Carys.’
Carys started. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The man with the ponytail was watching her. ‘You’re Carys Evans.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Carys.
‘You’re back in Pont-ar-Eden to look after your mam.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I remember you.’
Carys’ mind scurried frantically. ‘You do?’
‘I tried to chat you up once.’
Oh dear. Here we go. So much for a relaxing coffee. ‘Really.’
‘Mmm. You must only have been seventeen or so at the time. You weren’t interested.’
‘And I should hope not, too,’ came the tart remark from behind them. Carys looked up to find a tray being wielded above her. The next moment three cappuccinos were being placed in the free space in the middle of the table, followed by the owner herself pulling up a stool.
‘Five minutes,’ said Buddug. ‘Before the next rush comes in.’ She pushed a cup in front of Carys. ‘On the house, cariad . Your mam’s been a good friend to me when I needed it most. Least I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carys, feeling herself unexpectedly welling up inside. It had been a long day. She must be more tired that she thought.
‘Besides, I can’t leave you to Merlin to drive you witless, now, can I?’
‘Oh,’ said Carys. She should have known. Just before her fall, Mam had been full of the return of Merlin Gwyn, the only international rock-god to emerge from Pont-ar-Eden. Not quite as big as the Manic Street Preachers or Duffy mind, but he’d once appeared with Bryn Terfel, and that was quite big enough for Pont-ar-Eden.
Carys looked at him, trying to make out in the rounded face before her the lean, Heathcliff spectre in skin-tight leather trousers and jacket, with his statement of stubble and hungry eyes, that had confronted her in the ‘Taliesin’ pub that night, sixteen years ago.
Merlin sighed. ‘Yes, that’s just the look you gave me.’
‘Look?’
‘Searching. As if you could see right through me. And were not impressed. I wasn’t used to such a thing. Well, not at that time, anyhow. Sadly, age has taught me a touch of humility.’
‘I was a child,’ returned Carys, frowning.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘A child.’
‘You know what I mean. You were years older than me. And you belonged to a world I knew nothing about. Apart from noticing that girls seemed to be either groupies or backing singers, and definitely didn’t call the shots. You frightened me.’
‘Ouch,’ said Merlin, with a rueful grimace.
Buddug paused in stirring her cappuccino. Her grin was mischievous. ‘Good for you, Carys. You always did have style, as I remember. Merlin Wyn, sitting with a woman who turned him down, eh? Now that must be a first.’
‘Two,’ sighed Merlin, gloomily.
Buddug chuckled. ‘Very gallant of you, cariad . But to be
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