Almost Milk Wood

By Vivien Young

Returning to Wales seemed like a good idea at the time to the mercurial Harriet Majolier. Although, as people keep pointing out, this is often the problem.

Of course she is not to know that in the course of her new adventures she will fall foul of complicated, not to say downright illegal, personal relationships, mysterious uncles, lost(ish) manuscripts by that Welsh poet* and some creative interpretations of EU funding directives. Harriet is never to know these things, she is just to be the not so calm eye at the center of a bewildering, occasionally hilarious, whirlwind of implausible, yet curiously unavoidable events.

So join the ensemble cast of South Wales townsfolk for a modern day adventure in the never-tedious town of Abertidy and maybe, just maybe Uncle Eifion will give you a peek at the mysterious folio he's been hiding somewhere in his magical house all these years.

Dylan Thomas would probably have approved... or at least been been thoroughly confused...

*you know the one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vivien Young
• Release date: Apr 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311827593

Vivien Young

Born in Co. Durham, brought up in South Wales, have lead what I can only describe as an interesting life. My life experiences inform my writing but my fiction is just fiction; I also test all my recipes before publishing them and take all my photos myself. Quid Multa?

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Almost Milkwood

Vivien Young

Copyright 2014 by Vivien Young

Smashwords Edition

This edition © 2014 and is the first edition.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

This book is for Peter, Leo, Katy, Sarah and Becky, with much love

Table of Contents

Foreword | Prologue

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87

Almost Milk Wood

Foreword

This book is a work of fiction, but obviously, Dylan and Caitlin Thomas were real people; although the missing manuscript is a major part of my novel, that too is a work of my imagination, one of those what if tangents which capture the writer’s imagination from time to time.

I have taken massive liberties with the geography of South Wales for the purposes of my story. Abertidy is a fictional South Wales town, taking its inspiration from many Welsh locations. The whole book is a tribute to the beauty, energy and culture of this very special part of the world.

Write what you know is the advice seasoned writers give to novices, so that’s what I did, in the hope of distilling something of the essence of late twentieth century Wales. I hope I’ve succeeded well enough to evoke the magical spirit of the place, but with enough imagination to make Abertidy a real location for the reader, at least for the duration of the story.

Prologue - 1953

Eifion Llewelyn was lying on a sand dune sulking. He struck a match and lit a cigarette. His attempt on the virtue of Violet, the Saturday barmaid at Brown’s Hotel had failed miserably. He rubbed his left cheek, which still stung from the slap she’d given it before flouncing off into the night.

He was just seventeen, and by rights, should have been tucked up at home in bed. But Eifion was a free spirit and had made his way down to Laugharne in the cab of Morley the Milk’s lorry - Morley’s sister lived in Cockle Row, and he often visited her at the weekend. Morley was glad of a bit of company - and to be honest, if it put those other Llewelyn noses out of joint, so much the better - nasty old snobs!

Eifion lay on his back and looked at the stars. It was a clear night, with a bright moon, warm and still. He dozed for a while, snuggled up in the dune which still retained some heat from the midsummer sun. He could hear the waves lapping on the shore, an owl hooting softly in the woods and – something else, some other sound which he couldn’t quite identify. There it was again, a snuffling, dampish sound, coming from not very far away. He crept towards it, very slowly and carefully.

Just over the top of the dune, crouched in a bed of spiky marram grass, was a woman crying. She had her back to him; it was difficult to tell in the moonlight, but he thought it was Caitlin Thomas. Earlier that evening, ladling out stew for supper to the assorted friends, writers, actors and hangers-on who’d assembled at the Boat House, she’d seemed fine. (Eifion was an aspiring actor, a friend of Dylan and Caitlin’s oldest son and a bit of a hanger-on, gaining entry to the enchanted circle by virtue of his youth, good looks and exceptional amounts of charm).

The woman sat up and blew her nose vigorously - yes, it was definitely Caitlin. Unwinding a scarf from around her waist and another one from around her head (this allowed her tangle of bright hair to escape in a wild bid for freedom down her back), she ran swiftly down the side of the dune and out onto the firm sand. In the light of the moon and stars, she danced her heart out, small, strong, graceful. Every step of the dance took her further away from the tipsy drudge and Wife of the Great Poet who fetched, carried, cleaned and cooked for visitors to the shrine, and further and further towards an elusive, faerie creature made up of moonbeams, starlight, flying grains of sand and glow worms.

That was when Eifion fell in love.

1

In pre-Health and Safety days, in idle moments in the Chemistry lab, school children were sometimes allowed to play with blobs of mercury.

Harriet was not old enough to remember these times, but she had encountered blobs of mercury in her best friend’s father’s surgery. Used for making dental amalgam, those controversial silver fillings which may or may not rot your brain, Dr. Kerr very occasionally allowed them a piece to play with, a wobbling, elusive chunk of quicksilver which always fascinated Penny much more than it did Harriet.

Look, Penny said, one afternoon, when they’d bunked off Latin and escaped across the road to the surgery. Look, this is you.

She poked the glob of mercury with the end of her biro and sent it trundling around the saucer. Then she prodded it hard with the point of her pen and sent it splintering into a whole family of wobbling silver spheres.

Yeah, said Harriet picking the saucer up. I always pull myself together again though. As she spoke, she twiddled the saucer around so that the mercury reformed into its original shape.

Great powers of survival, that’s me.

Harriet was immersed in French translation homework. She loved coming to the surgery with its exotic scents of oil of cloves and fizzy pink mouthwash. She loved being Penny’s friend, she loved the escape, just across the road from school, but so different, so other, so unlike school in size and atmosphere and smell. She also loved delaying going-home-time and stayed over at Penny’s whenever she could.

Home was a powerful magnet, attractive and repellent in about equal measures, not that Harriet saw it that way at the time. Home was home, but that supposedly comfortable, secure place made her somewhat uneasy. It was better in imagination than in reality. Meanwhile, Penny’s house was uncluttered by emotional baggage and a good place to be.

For the rest of her life, she would never be able to smell cloves without instantly being transported for a second or two back to her school days, scratchy grey tights, battered straw boaters and the wonderful feeling of freedom once she and Penny turned the corner into the cobbled yard of the surgery, out of sight of school and guaranteed a free ride home later on with Dr. Kerr.

Why aren’t you doing your French? she said, putting the saucer with its sinister wobbling bead of mercury down. I thought that was the deal - bunk off Latin because Mrs. Askett is away ill, come over here to hide out, do the French and get a ride home.

S’pose, Penny answered absently, still playing with the mercury. Unlike Harriet, she wasn’t too bothered about French.

Watch! She pressed the biro down quite hard on the blob of mercury, which bulged briefly, and then skittered away again in small pieces all over the surface of the saucer; only the deep rim stopped it from disappearing all over the kitchen floor.

See - apply pressure and you fly off all over the place.

Hmmm, maybe, said Harriet, but was not to be drawn further on the subject of her similarity to a fascinating but toxic substance. She didn’t forget though.

Time and time again over the years, as pressures of various kinds sent her off in all sorts of unexpected directions, she remembered that afternoon in Dr.Kerr’s surgery, and was always surprised by her recollection of Penny’s acute perception.

Not such a blonde, after all, old Penny, she would think, I wonder where she is now?

2

Two hours and a million miles away, said the hoarding, high above the concourse at Paddington station. The picture flickered and changed every 30 seconds or so - mountains, beaches, castles, images of space and light, green and blue, mysterious, familiar landscapes, herons, curlews, salmon, red kites, standing stones, druids, bards, harps, poets, artists, louts and lovers.

Harriet sat, watching the pictures change, moodily prodding the marshmallows in her hot chocolate with a little wooden stick, thoughtfully provided by the management.

What shall I do next, she wondered.

Her mobile phone beeped.

Shut up, she muttered, pulling it out of her handbag and glancing at the screen. ‘Steve’ it said. Oh, just Go Away!

She pressed the Off button and watched the screen go blank with some satisfaction.

She prodded the marshmallows again, and suddenly remembered Penny and the mercury.

…responds to pressure by flying off in all directions...

Hmmmm, maybe I do, she thought. And maybe, if that’s what I do, that’s what I should do. I don’t respond well to pressure.

Gathering up her possessions quite purposefully (and leaving the remains of the chocolate to congeal in the paper cup) she set off at a brisk clip towards the stairs to the tube. For once, she welcomed the blast of warm air from the Underground and the opportunity to sit anonymous and silent on the tube train her way back to the office.

By the time she'd got back to the office, she'd made up her mind.

Where've you been? hissed Melanie, the receptionist. He's in a foul temper.

No change there then, Harriet commented drily as she ran up the stairs two at a time.

Where the bloody hell have you been?

Steve's gold filling flashed malevolently in the murky neon light of the office. It held no terrors for Harriet, she'd seen it too often before.

Out, she said.

Yes, but you had your phone off.

I switched it off, she said. It was no one important.

I was ringing you, Steve roared.

Yes, that's what I said, no one important.

The dialogue was snappy, almost as though it had been rehearsed – or maybe as if they’d had this argument before.

They were making quite a lot of noise. People were gathering on the landing, not exactly forming an audience, but milling around as if they'd like to stay and watch, but were too scared to.

You'd better watch your step, Steve growled.

Why would that be then?

Because you've got far too much to say for yourself!

Harriet drew herself up to her full height. She was an impressive looking woman, tall, dark haired, dressed in a clinging red sweater, a midi length black skirt in fine black wool and high heeled black boots. She was almost as tall as Steve. Her mane of curly dark hair seemed to have a life of its own and was sticking out in all directions, apparently quivering with temper too.

On the other side of the desk, Steve's pale blue eyes were also narrowed in temper. He glared at her, looking more like a gangster than usual, too long black hair brushing the velvet collar of his actorish camel coloured coat, all massive shoulders and bluster, not much finesse - it was like having an Aberdeen Angus pawing the office carpet, all he lacked was a ring through his nose.

Calm down, said Harriet, kindly. You won't have to listen to me any longer.

Eh?

I quit!

Suddenly, you could have heard a pin drop. All the bystanders froze, an urban tableau on the landing. Even the traffic outside seemed to have stopped.

You can't quit, said Steve, totally deflated, now looking more like a stocky man in his late thirties with an incipient headache than a leader of the Mob.

I think I just did, said Harriet and everyone in the room except Steve could hear a note of dismayed surprise mixed in with the bravado of her declaration.

Head well down to avoid meeting Steve’s eye, Harriet delved in her handbag and threw a large bunch of keys down onto the desk. They knocked over a polystyrene cup, and the coffee dregs spilled gently over the edge, drip, drip, drip.

There you go, they're all yours. Have fun, chuck!

She swept out of the office in a swirl of expensive perfume and fine wool. The tableau parted before her, as her erstwhile colleagues slowly came back to life and wondered what to do next.

Steve walked over to the window and watched her disappear out of sight, on her way to Tottenham Court Road tube. Quite some time after she'd disappeared from view, he sighed heavily and lit one of his small, sweet smelling cigars before picking up the phone and dialling her number.

3

It would be fair to say that Harriet's reception when she finally got home was mixed.

Steve rang, said Imogen.

Uh, said Harriet, dumping her coat on the nearest chair and filling the kettle.

So, you've really quit then?

Yup!

And dumped him?

Yup.

Whatever for? Imogen spoke with more than a little exasperation. Her dark hair was standing up on end too. Imogen’s was not as curly as Harriet’s but still had a life of its own. Mother and daughter eyed each other suspiciously across the kitchen table.

He wound me up too much, said Harriet crossly, pouring boiling water onto her tea bag with more feeling than was strictly necessary.

So what are we going to do now? asked Imogen.

Move, said Harriet, mashing the tea bag fiercely with her spoon.

Oh, no, Felix chipped in. This'll be the sixth move since France. Do we have to move, I love London, it's cool!

He sounded much more like a small boy than usual. Felix was almost seventeen and most of the time kept his feelings under wraps, but clearly the news of another impending move had hit a sensitive spot.

What about Rosie? Imogen asked, more as a gesture than a real question. She was used to her mother's moves by now. Ever since they’d packed up and left the house near Beziers, Harriet, Imogen and Felix had led a fairly nomadic life which had only come to an end when Imogen and Steve had got together. For three years they’d appeared to come to a full stop in London and Rosie’d been born.

Realistically, this move (if it happened) wouldn't affect her much, she was off to university in the autumn, so hey, what was six months somewhere else. Her A levels were already in the bag, another adventure in her gap year was neither here nor there.

You'll like it in Abertidy, said Harriet. I’d like you to get to know the old childhood home before it’s too late. I want to take Rosie down to the beach and make sandcastles. Her eyes were fixed on an (invisible) distant landscape, mist, small waves of an incoming tide and a far distant beach.

Felix caught Imogen’s eye and pulled a horrified face.

"We're going back to Wales?"

Yup.

But why?

Sea air, sand castles, it’s a long way from London - and we've got somewhere to go, anyway, said Harriet decisively.

Imogen looked at her mother thoughtfully. Abertidy was the last place Steve was likely to come looking, she thought. Hmmmm.

It'll be Caroline's house then, she said, her voice cracking with a mixture of horror and wonderment.

Yes, Caroline's house. We'll be going home.

The silence in the kitchen was broken by the fretful wail of a toddler waking up.

I'll go and fetch Rosie down for her tea, said Harriet, and beat a hasty retreat, leaving her two oldest children staring at each other across the kitchen table. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with things left unsaid.

4

Whilst Harriet fed and bathed Rosie, Felix and Imogen had sought refuge at the top of the house.

They were sitting on the roof (strictly forbidden), smoking (also strictly forbidden), and watching the lights of London glimmer away far below.

Imogen sat with her back to the skylight whilst Felix lay along the slope of the roof and tried to light a cigarette.

I think Steve may have blown it this time, said Imogen.

Serious? said Felix, practicing unsuccessful smoke rings. I really hope not. Steve’s OK.

Yes, I know, said Imogen, distractedly picking moss off the roof slates and pitching it down into the street far below.

Something’s definitely up though - after all, she’s never made us move back to Abertidy before, she continued.

Felix continued in his smoky endeavours.

Hey, look, that one’s not bad! They both watched the almost smoke ring as it floated upwards and dispersed.

It might not be Steve at all - I think this move’s been coming for a while, said Imogen. She’s been reading Under Milkwood - I saw it in her handbag…

Is she going to try to find Uncle Eifion? said Felix.

I don’t know - maybe.

Has she heard from him?

Imogen looked thoughtful.

I don’t think so, I think he’s still disappeared, but, reading Under Milkwood - that’s rather suspicious.

More than rather suspicious I’d say! said Felix.

Felix and Imogen both sighed.

Well, you know how it takes her - and Steve’s been a real arse lately.

I don’t think it’s Steve who’s being an arse, said Felix.

They fell out because she turned him down, said Imogen.

They both paused again, to watch a person with a very large car trying, unsuccessfully, to force it into a very small parking space on the other side of the road.

Judith’ll be well pissed off, said Felix, as the person in the large car drove off, leaving some new dents and scratches on Judith opposite’s old VW.

She’s used to it - I think she thinks it adds to her street cred.

More silence. The moon was out now, accompanied by a few stars, fighting to be seen against the orange urban glow of the metropolis.

Steve’s a good bloke, said Felix.

I know, said Imogen.

A police car drove past on the main road in a scream of sirens and a distant kaleidoscope of red and blue lights.

She’s been much happier with him than she ever was with dad, Imogen continued.

Dad’s a prat, said Felix decisively. Imogen nodded.

Have you heard from him? she asked.

No, said Felix. Have you?

No, said Imogen.

Do you suppose all writers are like dad? said Felix.

More or less, said Imogen. Living in imaginary worlds all your working life must make reality quite a challenge.

Hmm, said Felix.

Families are just odd, said Imogen. All the same, I don’t think mum should split up with Steve.

I don’t think she wants to, said Felix. She gets bees in her bonnet, you know she does. I think it’s the family secret, uncle Eifion thing. And you know how she is - brittle on the surface and then one sharp tap and she’s all over the place.

Hmm, said Imogen.

I’m going to miss London, Felix said eventually. It’s alright for you, you’ll be back in the autumn. But I’ve got another two years to go.

Two years ‘ard, said Imogen. But you’ll be OK. She stretched her long legs out along the roof slates and contemplated the state of her shoes (not good). I thought you fancied going back to France, anyway.

Dunno, said Felix. He’d run out of cigarettes now, and seemed disconsolate. "I wouldn’t mind going back to France but I don’t much want to go and live with dad and Vampirella. I can’t cope with all that vegan