The Green Hills of Home (4 page)

Gwen had assumed the meeting
would’ve taken a little longer than the five minutes it actually entailed, and
so had left plenty of time to get to the station after it. She looked at her
watch; it was ages before her train was due to leave from Paddington Station so
she wandered around, looking in some of the shop windows. As she hadn’t had a
proper breakfast that morning, she went into a coffee shop and ordered a latte
and a croissant and scribbled down a few ideas for a new book whilst she
enjoyed her snack. The thought that she was behaving just like a ‘real’ writer
cheered her up a bit.

Gwen was beginning to find having
her luggage with her a complete pain as she traipsed around, and still had
almost an hour to kill before her train. As she walked past a department store
it started to rain; ducking in the door to save getting soaked, she found herself
in its perfumery section. She had a brief look through the scents but soon
absentmindedly began wandering amongst the aftershaves. Gwen was just debating
whether or not to risk the rain again when a distinctive musky smell hit her
nostrils. She followed the aroma until she discovered the very striking square
blue bottle it came from, one with an enormous price tag. The masculine, almost
familiar, fragrance flooded her senses as she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes
to better discover what was attracting her to it. The answer tickled at her
memory but eluded her and, giving up, Gwen wandered back out into the rain,
lost in her own thoughts and replaying the events of the morning. She felt a
hint of sadness as she wondered if there’d been anything she could have done
differently to receive a warmer reception from John Thatcher. Eventually she
arrived at the station and concentrated on finding the platform she needed to
get on her train home.

Back in his office John was still
debating the Gwen Jones conundrum: aside from the emotional complexities
involved with working alongside her, he was resolved that Black Horse should be
concentrating on the talent they had, not bringing in new authors, especially
taking into consideration the sales figures he’d been secretly evaluating only
a few hours before. He decided to try reasoning with Paul again, and leaving
his desk, strode masterly off.

John gave Paul’s door two, short,
sharp raps and, hearing a call for him to come straight in, he entered. Paul’s
office was at least twice the size of John’s; its walls were adorned with
various professional certificates (a lot of which John suspected were the type
you printed off yourself) and photos of Paul with big wigs from the industry
(some of them genuine but there was some definite photoshopping going on in a
few).  Paul didn’t seem surprised to see him, "What is it John?" he
asked.

"It’s about this new author
you’ve given me, Gwen Jones. This really isn’t the best point for me to be
taking on someone new Paul. How am I going to find the time to forge a
relationship with her to do justice to her work?"

"Just read her stuff John,
she’s really good, we’d have been fools not to have taken her on and you’re the
best man for the job," replied Paul calmly.

"With the trouble this
company’s in, we need to be spending our time utilising the writers we have,
not taking on more than we can manage," said John reasonably.

"If we don’t keep coming up
with new voices people are going to think the company’s in an even worse state
than it actually is. Look John, I’ll give one of your other authors to Jessica,
then you’ll have the time to spend with Gwen."

"That’s hardly fair on the
author that gets fobbed of with Jessica. Why don’t you give Gwen to Jessica?"

"They won’t be fobbed off,
Jessica’s a very good editor, but I want someone more established to deal with
such a novice," replied Paul. "You know we’re looking to lay off more
people John. Make the most of being given someone new to work with. If her book
does well it could be that you’ll be one of the lucky ones getting to keep
their job."

Before John could reply Paul
added, "That’s my final word John. Now please excuse me, I’ve got an early
business lunch to prepare for."

John left the office reluctantly,
knowing for now at least, there was nothing he could say to change the
situation; he simply had to make the best of Paul’s decision. But he would not
let Gwen derail his schemes: she’d just have to fall in line and work hard and
professionally so her manuscript took up as little of his time as possible. 
This determination didn’t help John’s awareness that he would find it very hard
to concentrate on business whilst Gwen was around.

Gwen had a long journey back but
was glad she’d stopped at the hospital to visit her mother. She could tell her
Mam had missed her: without Gwen visiting there was little to break up the
monotony of the days. However, the stress of the meeting and the tedious train
ride, combined with the hospital trip reminding her of her mother’s frailty,
took their toll on Gwen, emotionally as well as physically. It was half past
eight by the time she arrived home and Gwen was pleased to see her house. The
local farmers had been haymaking and the sweet smell hung heavy in the air.
Gwen filled her lungs with it greedily.

As she walked up to her front
door, dragging her suitcase along beside her, she turned and took in the view,
revelling in the solid feeling of having the hills around her. From the
doorstep everything she could see was beautiful – green and lush. The undulating
mounds peppered with sheep and dotted with the occasional farmhouse, often
complete with a plume of smoke unfurling from the chimney, were a very welcome
sight. She was home.

The sun lay low in the sky and
Gwen took a moment to listen to the evening chorus. Her father would have been
able to tell her the names of each song bird, but Gwen was happy just to
appreciate the pretty symphony they produced.

A feeling of contentment overcame
Gwen as she allowed herself to bask in the fact that her writing was going to
ensure that she and her mother could continue living in this beautiful place.

Gwen knew she’d have found it
hard to settle anywhere else. Her family had leased the old farmhouse and the
land around it for generations. Gwen’s family were no longer farmers, as they
had been when they first took on the property, and so most of the land they’d
originally worked had been taken over by others. The last of it had gone when
Gwen’s grandparents, her mother’s parents, had become too frail to work it.
After that, all Gwen’s family rented was the house and its pretty gardens.
Gwen’s mother and father had hoped to fill the house with the happy laughs of
many children, but Gwen turned out to be their only child, finally born when
her mother was forty-two and her parents were close to giving up hope of ever
having a baby. Despite her lack of siblings, her childhood there had been every
bit as wonderful as her Mam and Dad could have wished.

Now the estate was being sold and
in just a couple of months the home Gwen had lived in all her life was to be
auctioned. She’d been determined to find a way to buy it and now finally she
had.

As Gwen fiddled in her bag for
the keys, the house looked cold and dark. She opened the front door expectantly
before remembering that Oscar, her chocolate Labrador, wouldn’t be running out
joyfully to meet her; he was being looked after by friends. She hurriedly
turned on some lights.

Gwen felt much better once the
place was lit up. She was quite happy with her own company and hardly ever felt
lonely in the house by herself. It would have been nice to have Oscar with her,
but she’d see him in the morning when she picked him up.

As a wave of tiredness hit her,
Gwen groaned at the thought of the busy day that faced her tomorrow. It
probably would’ve been more sensible to have taken another day off from the tea
rooms in the town where she worked part time, but she needed the money and
she’d already had to cancel shifts because of her trip to London.

She checked the fridge hopefully
in case some sort of shopping fairy had magically visited the supermarket for
her that morning and filled it with yummy goodies. They hadn’t. All that
remained was a quarter of a pint of rather smelly milk, half a baggy carrot and
a very hard piece of cheddar. Gwen had a bit more luck when she tried the bread
bin, which yielded two crusts of (seemingly) unmouldy bread. Gwen made herself
a black coffee and some cheese on toast, eating standing up at the sink. She
considered giving the kitchen a clean and chucking the hoover around the house,
it was looking rather a state. Housework really hadn’t been her first priority
since her mother was admitted to hospital. But then Gwen caught sight of her
laptop, glaring at her indignantly from her pile of luggage. A shower first she
decided, to wash off all the London grime, and then she’d get round to doing
something productive. However, the effort of the shower proved too much for
Gwen to consider anything more than taking a first draft of a short story she
was writing to bed with her. She gave up on the second page when she realised
she’d read the same sentence through at least six times. Wearily, Gwen switched
off the table lamp beside her bed and was asleep within seconds, her dreams,
unfortunately, full of John Thatcher.

John’s two-bedroom Kensington
flat was visually perfect; his interior designer had made sure of that. It had
been kitted out with all that John could possibly need before he’d even moved
in. Everything had been chosen by the designer, with nothing truly personal to
John – no mementos, no family photos or even unwanted presents from relatives
kept out on display in case of unexpected visits.

It was gone half nine by the time
John got in from work. He’d a lot on at the office and was constantly aware
that he needed to keep at the top of his game. He could tell from the smell as
he opened the door that his housekeeper had been, the aroma of bathroom cleaner
still hung in the air. It was meticulously tidy, but then it had been when he’d
left early that morning. There really was very little for her to do: John was
naturally an orderly person and rarely had guests as most would question a book
editor being able to afford such a lavish home.

John poured himself a large
whisky and looked at the clock. He decided not to bother with dinner, it was no
fun cooking just for himself and he wasn’t really hungry having been out for a
late lunch with one of his authors. John was about to turn on the television
and see if there was anything on worth watching, but knew he’d regret it if he
didn’t get some more work done before heading for bed. He opened his briefcase
and took hold of Gwen’s manuscript. If he were honest with himself he was dying
to know what it was like. He’d work for an hour and then have a shower before
grabbing an early night. John settled himself into his armchair, balancing his
glass on the armrest, and began to read.

John put Gwen’s manuscript down
and rubbed his eyes. He looked up and realised there was light coming in from
around the curtains. He’d been reading for hours and he was amazed. The
manuscript needed work, but it was good, very good actually. It was original,
entertaining and well written, a combination that he rarely saw in such an
inexperienced writer. He felt a sudden urge to call her and let her know how
incredibly talented he now realised she was, but pride held him back. After the
way he’d acted in their meeting he’d feel foolish calling her to praise her
work. He’d wait until he went into the office and clear a block in his diary.
That way he could phone her and arrange for them to work together for a few
days. Her novel had the potential to make an awful lot of money for the
publishing house; he needed to focus on that, which would mean spending a great
deal of time with its author and putting any feelings that he had for her
firmly aside.

Not too long after John was
putting down Gwen’s manuscript in London, the author herself was getting out of
bed, eager to get back into her life in Wales. Gwen usually hated early
mornings but she’d woken up determined to put all thoughts of grumpy editors
out of her mind. She was back in her lovely home, back where she belonged, and
John’s behaviour the day before paled into insignificance compared to her book
deal. So what if she had to work with him for a while? It would be more than
worth it to have her name on the title deeds of her family house.

Today she had the second book to
make a proper start on, and a shift at the tearooms. First though was fetching
Oscar from her friend Sarah who’d looked after him while she’d been away. She
couldn't wait to give Oscar a big hug and was ready to go by seven, but wasn't
sure Sarah and her husband Owen would appreciate such an early wake up call.

She made herself a cup of tea
and, once again, checked the cupboards for food. Unsurprisingly she wasn't in
luck and so decided to pick up some provisions on her way back from the
tearooms.

Gwen took her black tea outside
along with the notebook and biro that she never allowed to be far from her
hands. She watched the sky grow lighter, and listened to the birds twittering
away at one another as she jotted down a few ideas and sipped her drink. It
looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Finally it was eight and Gwen
checked her watch with a smile. She hunted around for some treats to take for
Oscar, made sure his blanket was all ready for him on the passenger seat of the
car and set off on the short journey to her friend’s house.

Sarah lived with her husband and
twin three-year-old girls in a picture-postcard perfect cottage, complete with
honeysuckle framed door, on the outskirts of Tonnadulais, the town which Gwen
had gone to school in and where she now worked.

Sarah had been best friends with
Gwen since childhood. She and her husband, Owen, another local, had moved away
from Wales for several years but returned when they’d married and Sarah was
expecting the twins.