Day Five (Friday)
After breakfast, Edward relaxed in his room for a while, watching television. He checked the weather forecast before setting out. It was mainly fine, with just the occasional light shower expected. Looking out of his bedroom window across the bay, Edward could see it was clear and relatively cloudless at present. He hoped it would stay that way, perhaps long enough anyway for him to get out and back again. Edward tried on some of his new clothes. They felt a little stiff, as was only to be expected, having just been pulled from their cellophane packaging. No doubt, they’d soften as he wore them. They fitted him quite nicely, which was the main thing.
Edward took the bay route into the shopping centre, along the Oystermouth Road. That seemed to be his preference in the daylight hours. At night, he generally favoured the route which took him along St Helen’s Road and then along Oxford Street. As he had done on most other mornings since his arrival, Edward made his way first to the coffee shop by the market he’d chosen as his daily starting point for virtually anything he was doing. He hadn’t visited the previous day, as he’d been heading in the opposite direction, to the university campus. Today, he was back where he felt relaxed and comfortable and in what was now a new home from home for him. Meredith was there to welcome him with a friendly smile. Her warm, easy-going demeanour was infectious. It made Edward feel cheerful, even when circumstances could possibly have made him feel otherwise.
‘Good morning,’ he said confidently, as he walked in. ‘And what a lovely day it is, I should say.’
‘We missed you yesterday,’ Meredith told him.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call by. I wasn’t really heading this way. I had to go the university campus, the Singleton Park one,’ Edward explained.
‘It would have been a bit out of your way, coming here first,’ Meredith acknowledged.
‘That was what I thought, sadly,’ Edward agreed.
‘Anyway, what can I get you today?’ Meredith asked.
‘A coffee naturally, and do you have a Bakewell tart? If not, anything you think is nice will be perfect,’ Edward said, happy to bow to her better judgement.
‘I do have a Bakewell,’ Meredith said.
‘You know I shouldn’t really. I had a cooked breakfast only an hour or two earlier. I’m having one every day at the moment. It won’t be good for my girth. Oh well, I am on holiday,’ Edward laughed. ‘I bought some new clothes yesterday. I’ll have to go back and get some bigger ones if I start expanding, thanks to your lovely cakes.’
‘Everyone deserves a treat now and then,’ Meredith said.
‘They do, but I have them every day,’ Edward admitted guiltily, as he paid for his order.
‘I’ll bring them over shortly,’ Meredith said.
Edward went to find a table and sat down. He pulled out a book. It was a new one. It was The Rum Diary by Hunter S Thompson. He’d read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and greatly enjoyed it. He’d then tried Hell’s Angels and hadn’t enjoyed it so much. He’d got bogged down in too much detail and lack of any real plot. It really was a factual history of the early years of the Hell’s Angels movement, who Hunter S Thompson had ridden with, and an exposé of their often-controversial activities. A friend had recommended The Rum Diary as a good one. Edward had picked it up among a small pile he’d shoved in his travel bag virtually as he was walking out the door. What he had with him was little more than potluck or luck of the draw. There was absolutely no planning or logic to his choices. It had just been a matter of grabbing what was nearest to hand. The Rum Diary was one of those.
It concerned a young journalist of dubious moral backbone travelling to San Juan in Puerto Rico, to take up a post at a struggling newspaper. There, he becomes embroiled in a complicated love triangle and other sorts of shady dealings, all fuelled by consummate quantities of rum of course. He sounded like the kind of anti-hero Edward liked reading about. Edward had always been too conventional and too sensible deep down to be like that himself. It didn’t stop him enjoying reading about such characters. He felt he could have been more daring and spontaneous in another life, if only given the chance. Both Angela and Alice might have liked him to be. Perhaps he was a little too formal for his own good. It was time to change all that and let his hair down a little, at least what he had left of it.
‘I see you finished your book then,’ Meredith remarked, as she placed Edward’s coffee and Bakewell tart down.
‘Yes, last night. It was rewarding in its own way,’ Edward said. ‘I’m just starting a new one. I’ve been told it’s entertaining and I’ll like it.’
‘I have to admit it’s not one I’ve ever heard of,’ Meredith said. ‘You do read some odd books.’
‘They’re not to everyone’s tastes,’ Edward acknowledged. ‘But I normally enjoy them. If not, I can usually find some interest in them. I hate to start a book and not finish it.’
That was a point of pride with Edward, however hard going he found a book. One of two he’d found very difficult to get to the end of. Visions of Cody by Jack Kerouac and Ulysses by James Joyce were two that immediately sprung to mind. Edward generally focussed on modern classics. By that he meant anything from the mid-19th century. Most he found pleasure reading. There were one or two writers he considered somewhat overrated, including James Joyce, who he’d been delving into a little of late. Edward could appreciate being of an Irish, Catholic background would certainly assist in the appreciation of Joyce’s work. The books which Edward had read hadn’t resonated greatly with him. Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist as a Young man had been adequate but no more. Of course, Edward wouldn’t have expressed that opinion to a proud Irishman. He’d be more than likely lynched. It would be like dismissing Dylan Thomas in Wales. Edward didn’t dislike Joyce. He just wasn’t entirely convinced his books were as significant as they were considered to be by critics of literature. Edward imagined The Rum Diary would just be a drunken rollercoaster ride of excess, fun and the inevitable shame that followed. That would suit Edward well. Highbrow literature wasn’t required on this occasion, though Hunter S Thompson was an accomplished enough writer of his genre and in his own right.
‘I don’t finish them if they’re boring,’ Meredith said.
She had a point. Why persevere with something he wasn’t enjoying? It made no sense, even though he’d done it many times in the past. Great literature was sometimes something to be endured and persisted with, a bit like opera, or the greens and vegetables that came with an otherwise enjoyable meal. That was how Edward viewed it. He didn’t like to surrender to the slow pace and dullness. He liked to get to the end, even if the journey hadn’t been entirely satisfactory. He was confident there would be no such issues with The Rum Diary. Even if he didn’t like the book, at least he’d enjoy his cake and coffee, he reflected. Books weren’t always easy. Sometimes they were hard work. Perhaps ultimately that was part of the appeal.
‘You’re probably wise,’ Edward replied.
For all his supposed education and worldly wisdom, Meredith’s practical sense was probably far greater than his. He continued to live within the constraints of middle-class narrowmindedness. It was time to break free of those shackles too. Alice wouldn’t have allowed him to stay in a guesthouse like the one Alan and Gwen were running. It had to be four or five-star at least. She wouldn’t have allowed him to come to Meredith’s coffee shop every morning. She’d have considered such places beneath them. She’d have settled for nothing less than morning coffee or afternoon tea at The Ivy or somewhere equally exclusive, not that Edward considered there was anything wrong with such places either. They had their own place in the order of things. Alice would have been concerned about wagging tongues in the village where they lived if they were seen anywhere less sophisticated. Stuff all that pompous nonsense, Edward told himself proudly. He wanted to get back to basics and mix with honest, decent, working people, like he was unwittingly or perhaps deliberately surrounding himself with in Wales. This was real life, not that pretence and fakery back in his Oxfordshire village.
‘Enjoy your cake. I made it myself,’ Meredith said.
‘I’m sure I will,’ Edward assured her.
She then left him to his coffee and cake and his new book. When he’d finished, Edward placed his bookmark at the point he’d broken off and closed his book. He said his goodbyes and stepped back out into the fresh air. It was still sunny with little cloud overhead. Edward hadn’t forgotten he’d promised to visit the bookshop again. It had been raining then. It would be fine this time. Edward walked down the whole length off Oxford Street. At the end, he turned onto St Helen’s Avenue towards King Edward’s Road and the small side street where the bookshop was located. Edward found it without too much difficulty. As soon as he walked in, Jill, the bookshop owner, remembered him immediately.
‘I wondered if you’d be back,’ she greeted him, affably.
‘I said I would and I’m a man of my word,’ Edward asserted. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t be?’ he added.
‘I never doubted you,’ Jill said. ‘You look the reliable sort.’
‘I like to think so,’ Edward said.
‘I’m sure you are,’ Jill replied.
He noticed her dog was sleeping quietly in its basket, in what Edward presumed to be its customary place of daytime rest. It was very well behaved. It appeared to be no trouble at all. Edward had to acknowledge that, even though he himself was no great lover of dogs. There had been a bad experience with Victoria in a park when she was a child. A dog off its lead had bitten her on the hand when she’d reached out to stroke it. She’d been fearful of them after that. She’d sought to avoid dogs at all costs afterwards. By default, Edward had avoided them too. He didn’t want to see his daughter upset or worried. This one seemed all right, however, and unlikely to bite or bark at anybody.
‘So, did you find anything for me?’ Edward asked, at last.
‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ Jill replied. ‘I found a couple of things that might be of interest.’
She then retreated to her back office to fetch them. She came back with two books in her hand. One was a 1968 Panther Books edition of JG Ballard’s The Crystal World. Edward recognised it by its cover. It was Edward’s favourite of Ballard’s early novels from his so-called science fiction period, though Edward didn’t really consider Ballard to be a science fiction writer. He was far too innovative, ground-breaking, and unique to be categorised by one genre of writing alone. He broke the boundaries and defied literary generalisation. He had his own style and like one of Edward’s other great favourites, Kurt Vonnegut, pretty much created his own genre, that was unlike that of any other writer. More importantly, whilst Edward had a copy of the book, he didn’t have this particular edition of it.
The other book was a beautiful 1970s Fontana edition of Eric Ambler’s The Mask of Dimitrios, one of only a couple Edward didn’t have in that particular imprint. Jill had done very well. Some considered the garish 1970s book covers like the Eric Ambler ones to be crude and vulgar, with their bright colours and mildly sexist images. Edward had loved them as an adolescent. He still loved them now. So what if they were products of their time and like Ian Fleming’s James Bond series would no longer be considered politically correct. What did it matter? To Edward, they looked great then and they looked great still. What was more, now he’d have almost all of them in his collection.
‘I’ll have them both,’ Edward said, immediately. ‘How much for the pair?’
‘Does ten pounds seem a fair price?’ Jill asked.
‘Very fair indeed,’ Edward said, opening his wallet and passing the money across to her.
‘So, you’re a collector of books,’ she said, looking him quizzically up and down.
‘I wouldn’t quite say a collector, but I do like books,’ Edward admitted.
‘Who’s your favourite author?’ Jill asked.
She made the question sound like she was testing him.
‘I’m not sure I have a favourite. I do like JG Ballard and Kurt Vonnegut. But if I had to pick just one, it would probably be George Orwell,’ Edward said. ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four is my very favourite novel. Keep the Aspidistra Flying is another.’
‘Animal Farm?’ Jill asked.
‘Strangely it’s not a personal favourite,’ Edward said. ‘Although I know a lot of people love it.’
‘I had a first edition of that. It went for a thousand pounds. It would have gone for a lot more if it had been in better condition,’ Jill said.
‘Who’s your favourite author?’ Edward enquired.
‘Do you really need to ask?’ Jill chuckled. ‘Why, Dylan Thomas, of course. I’m Welsh. I live in Swansea, and I own a bookshop. Who else could it really be?’
‘Who else indeed,’ Edward agreed. ‘I like him well enough, but I’m not that familiar with his work.’
‘Well, you should become more so, whilst you’re here in Swansea,’ Jill told him. ‘It’s a nice day. Why don’t you head down to The Mumbles and check out some of his old haunts? A lot of them have gone, but there still one or two left, and it’s lovely there on a day like today,’ Jill said.
‘You know, that’s a very good idea, and I may just do that,’ Edward said.
He’d been planning to take a bus round the bay and walk to Mumbles Pier. Why not today? Today was as good a day as any.
‘Do come back again though. I might have more books for you. I’m still going through them,’ Jill said.
‘I’ll certainly do that,’ Edward promised. ‘I have to say your dog is very well behaved. Is it a Labrador?’ Edward asked.
‘She certainly is. She’s called Beti, with the Welsh spelling,’ Jill said. ‘She’s getting on a bit, but she still enjoys a walk. Perhaps you’d like to take her out one day?’ Jill suggested.
Edward suddenly fidgeted rather awkwardly. He couldn’t do that, could he? Then he thought, why not? He was embracing new experiences. Why couldn’t he take a dog for a walk?
‘Does she walk far?’ Edward enquired.
‘She’s not the quickest, but she’ll walk as far as you want to take her,’ Jill answered.
‘Sounds a bit like me,’ Edward said. ‘I’m not as quick as I once was.’
‘Would you like to take her?’ Jill asked.
‘Of course, I’ll take her,’ Edward said, with an assured tone in his voice, even if he didn’t feel totally assured underneath.
Why shouldn’t he do this poor lady working on her own a favour? It would be at no cost to him.
‘That’s very kind,’ Jill said.
‘Will you be here on Monday?’ Edward wondered. ‘Perhaps I can do it then if I haven’t gone home before. I don’t think I will have done.’
‘Monday will be perfect, as I can walk her myself at weekends,’ Jill said.
‘I’ll see you on Monday then,’ Edward said.
‘I’ll be here,’ Jill said. ‘So will Beti, waiting for you.’
‘And thank you for finding the books,’ Edward added, as he was leaving.
‘My pleasure,’ Jill said,
‘I think I’ll take your advice. I think I’ll head down to The Mumbles. I’ll get some lunch there and have a little look around,’ Edward confirmed,
‘Have fun and see you on Monday,’ Jill said, as she showed him out of the bookshop.
He waved back, as he walked off down the road. What a polite man, she thought to herself, wondering also why he was holidaying alone by himself in Swansea of all places. Meanwhile, Edward headed back onto the Oystermouth Road, where he went in search of a bus stop. He remembered from his student days there was a regular service round the bay into Mumbles and further on to the Gower Peninsula for those with destinations there. Edward would do that another day, perhaps even at the weekend if the weather remained good. There was no point going up onto the Gower in the rain. He’d done that on one occasion with Angela as students. It hadn’t been their best idea. They’d only got off the bus briefly once that day at Rhossili. That was enough. Faced with a fierce wind and beating rain in their faces, despite the fact it was June, they’d almost immediately got back on a bus again and returned to Swansea bus station not a moment too soon.
Edward waited patiently for a bus to come. He was in no particular hurry, though he’d be ready to eat once he got there. It wasn’t long before a bus arrived. It was full of retired folk just like himself, he noted, though most a few years older than he was, in their seventies and even eighties at a guess. Edward paid his money and got on. He would have been entitled to a free bus pass if he lived in Wales, he realised. He wasn’t yet where he resided in England. He didn’t mind paying. He didn’t consider the return fare a lot to pay. He might even walk back if he had the energy, or some part of the way. He’d decide that later. In the meantime, he simply sat back to enjoy the pleasant bus ride around the bay. He looked out for familiar sights he hadn’t seen in years as he went.
The bus let Edward out opposite the impressive local landmark that was Oystermouth Castle. Edward found a modern, barista-type coffee house in an arcade off Newton Road to have his lunch. As luck would have it, a light shower of rain fell whilst Edward was eating. When Edward emerged back in the daylight, he did so in glorious sunshine. He wouldn’t have known if had rained at all but for some dampness on the pavement that was quickly drying. Mumbles had more shops than Edward recollected. Many were quite interesting, boutique ones, tailored towards the tastes of Edward’s generation. Back in the day, the shops had held little interest for Edward and his friends. They’d only been interested in the pubs, or the Mumbles Mile as it was known to them. Of course, they’d mainly come in the night-time then and done one end to the other, finishing up on Mumbles Pier, where there was a student nightclub when Edward was an undergraduate. Now as an older man, Edward could appreciate the shops had an appeal too and were well worth a visit by themselves. That had been lost on him at the time, but not anymore, as he casually browsed as he walked along.
He decided to start at Oystermouth Castle. He’d only viewed it from a distance in the past. He’d never taken the trouble to enter its extensive, meadowed grounds. He was most impressed. In fact, he was a little horrified he’d allowed such a gem to pass him by. He couldn’t even claim it was hidden, as he could Swansea’s Botanical Gardens. The castle dominated the skyline. He’d just never previously bothered to make the short walk up the hill to see it properly. Now he was there, Edward walked the full circuit of the grounds, pausing occasionally to sit on a bench and enjoy the lush greenery he was surrounded with. He took a couple of pictures of the castle entrance and walls, standing nobly and proudly against a background of clear, blue sky. He didn’t venture inside. This was just the beginning of his journey. Other destinations nearby awaited him.
At the bottom of the hill, Edward turned right and continued his gradual if meandering progress in the direction of the pier and lighthouse and what was effectively the end point of the bay before it wove back inland on itself. Edward tried to work out roughly in his head where the almost continual succession of pubs had formerly started. They’d once lined the northern side of the bay road one after another. Jill was right. Almost all had vanished, to be replaced by exclusive apartments, more boutique shops, and the occasional café-bar. Dylan would have been horrified. Of course, he might have been a man of the times and moved with them. Somehow, Edward doubted it. He’d have been dismayed at the closure of his favourite, rustic watering holes, just as Edward was himself. Edward could hardly believe his eyes. He wouldn’t have recognised the place. He’d have thought he was somewhere else if he hadn’t known better. Edward continued to walk the length of the Mumbles Mile. Only a couple of the pubs he’d frequented as a student and that he was aware had once been popular with Dylan Thomas remained. It was a major change indeed, and perhaps reflected changes in people’s everyday drinking habits. It was still a lovely place. It just wasn’t the Mumbles Edward remembered.
Edward took the opportunity to take a few pictures on his phone of the bay, looking back towards Swansea and Port Talbot, and of Mumbles Pier and the lighthouse. The nightclub that had been so popular in his student days was now a café and ice-cream parlour, with an amusements arcade attached to the back. Edward wouldn’t have known it was the same venue he’d enjoyed so many a drunken evening during his misspent youth. He only knew it had to be, as there was simply nowhere else where it could have been. Oh, how being there now took Edward back to another place and another time. He’d kissed many a girl there before he’d met Angela, he reflected. Afterwards, they used to go together religiously almost every week throughout their three years at university. The weekly trip had always remained a highlight and one of the main nights out in their hectic, student social calendar. Edward recalled the frequent occasions they’d missed the bus back and had been forced to walk the four a half miles home to where they lived. Going to bed in the small hours, they then had to get up early the next morning and attend lectures nursing tired, nagging hangovers. Those really were the days, Edward considered, with a note of nostalgia. He realised he was surrounded by others enjoying the scenery and leisurely walks in the sunshine. He was so lost in his own wistful thoughts, he barely noticed them.
On the way back, Edward stopped in one of the few original pubs that still stood where it had not only forty years before but when Dylan Thomas had drunk there as a young newspaper reporter and aspiring poet in the 1930s. There, Edward ordered a pint of locally brewed ale, which he raised and drank in Dylan’s honour. Edward hoped it would fortify him for the long journey ahead. Edward stayed on the coastal path, overlooking the sandy bay, where there was room for both pedestrians and cyclists to proceed safely in unison. The path now extended all the way to Swansea and beyond to Port Talbot and perhaps even further. Edward didn’t remember it going that far unbroken in his day, but it possibly had done. Generally, they’d been forced to keep to the main road, to avoid walking back in pitch blackness and perhaps ending up in the sea in their state of almost inevitable drunkenness. Edward could recall that happening to more than one student back in the day. Those who’d ended up in the sea were generally too drunk to either care or remember.
By the time he’d reached Blackpill, Edward had walked several miles and found he was beginning to tire. He decided to stop there, to rest his weary legs and wait for a bus to pass. He still had his return ticket. It wasn’t long before one came along. As Edward got off at the nearest bus stop to the guesthouse where he was staying, another light rain shower began to fall. Perhaps it was as well he was returning when he was. He spent a pleasant hour or two in his room, waiting for the rain to pass, before popping out to get something to eat. On his return, he sat in the lounge for a while, enjoying a drink with Alan and Gwen. He told them about his day. He explained he was particularly struck that so many of the Mumbles’ pubs of yesteryear had gone.
‘It’s very different these days,’ Gwen commented.
‘It’s still nice but it’s not what it was,’ Alan confirmed. ‘It’s catering for a different sort of visitor than in the past.’
‘I’m a bit of a traditionalist, I’m afraid,’ Edward said. ‘I like things to stay the same and remain as they were.’
With that, he finished his drink and started to head off towards bed.
‘I think we’d both agree with you there,’ Alan nodded, as Edward said goodnight.
