in St Ceridwen’s. She arrived as a hippie with a rucksack, guitar and a notebook full of recipes and never left, except for closing up for a month every November and going back to visit friends and relatives in the States.
She’s very popular in the village, maybe because it’s seen as a sort of compliment that she has elected to live here, bringing in tourists and money. Even her attempts to speak Welsh are treated with benign tolerance, though her grasp of the language is excruciatingly formal and grammatically old-fashioned, like someone talking the most impeccable Elizabethan English. ‘Prithee, wouldst thou like thy Olde Welshe Cream tea with jam or, mayhap, honey from mine own hive?’ That sort of thing.
But we all love Carrie, she’s so unsquashably bouncy and cheerful. (And she knows everything about everyone, having been conducting a part-time affair with the village postman, Huw, for about a quarter of a century.)
She was presiding behind the counter when I arrived, and smiled and pointed to where Rhodri and Nia were sitting at a corner table, arguing.
Nothing new there – they’ve always argued, but it’s mostly Nia’s fault; she’s so prickly, and has this big chip on her shoulder about being a quarryman’s daughter, while he is the lord of the manor – as if Rhodri ever cared about stuff like that.
Although we’ve always kept in touch, I hadn’t seen Rhodri to talk to properly for absolutely ages, but as soon as I saw his pinkish face under the unruly thatch of burned-straw hair light up at the sight of me, it was as though we’d never been apart. It’s the same with Nia: whenever we meet we just pick up where we left off, and that’s the sign of true friendship, I think.
He sprang to his feet – he has such beautiful manners, and this lovely posh but friendly voice. ‘Fran!’ he said, giving me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful!’
It was more than I could say about him; he was looking not only older but sadder, like the poor lion in The Wizard of Oz. He has a wide blunt nose and straight, thick fair eyebrows over his pale blue eyes, which add to the resemblance.
‘Sit down, Fran,’ ordered Nia bossily. ‘Carrie’s bringing coffee and Danish pastries over, so you don’t have to order. We need to get on.’
‘With what?’ I asked, sitting down and thinking it was just as well I hadn’t actually started the diet yet.
‘Sorting out Rhodri’s far-fetched plans to turn Plas Gwyn into some kind of kiddies’ Camelot theme park.’
‘Oh, now,’ protested Rhodri, ‘that’s not fair! I never said anything like that! Just that I wanted to open the house up to the public all season – maybe even all year – and perhaps have a tearoom and gift shop to try and make a bit of money to live on. And I only mentioned the possibility of having a Camelot-inspired children’s playground.’
‘Forget it,’ advised Nia. ‘That’s not the way you should be going. Plas Gwyn isn’t a holiday camp, it’s a historic gem in the middle of nowhere, and you need to attract the type of visitor who already comes to St Ceridwen’s to see the Holy Well, only more of them.’
‘I think Nia’s probably right about that,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure lots of people would come to Plas Gwyn if it was on the historic houses list, because it’s so beautiful, but at the moment they can only see it at weekends in July and August, which restricts your visitor numbers a bit. But if you open it to the public all year where are you going to live?’
‘In the new wing,’ Rhodri said. ‘It’s where I spend most of my time anyway, since it’s the only part with modern plumbing or anything remotely civilised.’
The new wing is mainly seventeenth century, which gives you some idea of how old the old part is.
‘I can close the doors off on all the floors between the two wings of the house to make it private. And I thought I could take any modern furniture out of the old house and put it in the attic, where there’s loads of stuff that I can use to furnish it back into period style … or maybe each room in a different period. I’m not sure yet.’
‘Eclectic can look good too,’ suggested Nia. ‘It gives some idea of a family living in the house over centuries. And it’s a good idea to rent out the Great Hall as a wedding venue eventually, but you need more – and turning some of the stable buildings round the courtyard into craft workshops, a gift shop and a tearoom would not only bring more people to visit, but give you some income all the year round.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Carrie, who had arrived with the coffee and was unashamedly listening in. ‘And I can supply your tearoom with cakes and pastries and my Welsh honey – in fact, it can be an off-shoot of Teapots and then it’s not competition, just extra profit!’ She wandered off again, notebook in hand, to take an order.
Rhodri was looking slightly dazed. In the past the Gwyn-Whatmires had never been averse to making money, but poor Rhodri doesn’t seem to have inherited the knack. ‘That all sounds great – but I can’t afford to do much more than any basic building work and garden clearance that’s needed to start with.’
‘We were just talking about the garden when you arrived, Fran,’ Nia said with a sudden glower at poor Rhodri. ‘I’ve told him about your mam wanting to sell Fairy Glen, and since it was once part of the Plas Gwyn estate I think he should buy it back and make it into an extra attraction.’
‘I think fairy glens went out with the Victorian day-trippers,’ I said dubiously. ‘I mean, I know it was terribly popular in its day, and all credit to the Gwyn-Whatmire of the time for walling it off from the estate and flogging it, and to whoever put in the paths and grottoes and made the tea garden, but it’s all gone back to wilderness now.’
‘Well, I think you’re wrong,’ Nia said firmly. ‘But you could at least make an offer for the oak woods and the standing stones up at the top of the glen, Rhodri – they’re part of your heritage.’
‘Yes, but Fran’s right. It was all walled off with the glen and it’s part of it now,’ he objected. ‘And it would cost a fortune to restore. I’m more concerned with hanging on to Plas Gwyn itself.’
‘But we don’t want more weekenders buying it and stopping us walking in the glen,’ Nia said firmly, which is something that I hate the thought of too: it’s such a special place to both of us, and seemingly vital to whatever Nia does up there. (This involves a robe, a strange little knapsack and a long staff and, just once, some kind of interment – but I’ve decided not to speculate on that one … too much. Now I just turn and creep away if she’s there.)
‘I think the glen is a burden the estate doesn’t need,’ Rhodri said stubbornly. ‘And there’s enough garden around the house to restore without it.’
‘There’s no garden around the house,’ I said. ‘It’s all grass and trees. How on earth can you restore that, Rhodri?’
‘Ah, but there was a garden once – and, what’s more, I’ve written to Gabriel Weston and he’s considering putting Plas Gwyn on the shortlist for his next TV restoration! What do you think of that?’
‘Oh my God!’ I said despairingly as my heart came into sudden collision with my ribcage before dropping into my boots, potted in one. ‘Are all my vultures coming home to roost?’
‘I thought you kept hens?’ he said, puzzled. ‘You’re not keeping birds of prey now, are you, Fran?’
