The Retreat(50)

‘You do that.’ He raised his voice as I walked back across the road, just as a middle-aged couple came out of the nearest house. Glynn shouted, ‘Stay away from my grandchildren, pervert!’

The couple’s eyes almost popped out of their heads as I hurried away, burning with anger and embarrassment.



Back in my room at Nyth Bran, I finally calmed down enough to think about my encounter with Glynn rationally. Was he simply being protective of his family? No, I was sure there was more to it. I remembered how on edge Zara had seemed after her encounter with him. Maybe it was just that he was an unpleasant arsehole.

But I wanted to know more about him.

I opened Skype and called my mum.

She answered straight away.

‘Darling! How lovely to hear from you. Twice in one month!’

‘I’ve got another question for you about the old days,’ I said. ‘Do you remember a guy called Glynn Collins?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ All the warmth left her voice. ‘Why are you asking about him?’

‘I met him recently. It sounds like you don’t think much of him.’

She moved her head and sunshine flooded the screen. It was raining again here, in Wales, and the temptation to fly out to Spain and join her fluttered through my mind.

‘No,’ Mum said, her voice clipped. ‘I was never very keen on him.’

‘Why not?’ It was always a struggle to get my mother to say a bad word about anyone. ‘Did he do something to you?’

‘Oh no, he never did anything to me. Not directly anyway. He’s just . . . well, we used to call them male chauvinist pigs in my day. He was proud of it. He was awful to his wife, Nerys, God rest her soul. He was cruel too. Hard.’

‘He seems to dote on his grandchildren,’ I said. ‘And he looks after Wendy, his daughter.’

‘Maybe he’s softened with age. But forty years ago, if someone in town had a litter of kittens they didn’t want, they’d bring them to Glynn Collins. He was always happy to drown them.’

‘Lovely. What did Dad think of him?’

She frowned. ‘He was friendly with him. They were part of the Beddmawr Historical Society.’ She snorted. ‘Just a bunch of blokes meeting in the pub and talking about the good old days, as far as I could tell.’

‘Was Malcolm Jones part of the Historical Society too?’

‘Yes. He was the chairman, although I was never sure why such a small group needed a chairman!’

‘Did you hear that he died?’

On-screen, my mum’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no! How did that happen? When?’

‘A heart attack, just over a week ago.’

‘Oh dear, how dreadful. This is going to start happening more and more as I get older . . .’

I remembered someone else I’d encountered recently. ‘Sorry, one more person. Shirley . . . Damn, I don’t know her surname. She runs a B & B. The Apple Tree.’

‘Shirley Roberts?’ She grimaced.

‘Didn’t you like her either?’

Mum ignored the question, probably because she didn’t want to admit it. ‘How on earth did you meet her?’

‘It’s a long story. But was she part of this Historical Society?’

‘Oh, goodness, no. Glynn wouldn’t let any women join. I told you, he was a chauvinist pig. I think he got her to do some secretarial work, though. In fact, there were rumours he was bonking her behind his wife’s back.’ She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. ‘Goodness me, Lucas, this was all a long time ago.’

She went quiet for a minute, and I hoped I wasn’t bringing back painful memories.

‘There was another guy who was part of that group. What was his name?’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Albert, that was it. Albert Patterson. Oh!’

‘What is it?’

‘Albert lived in the house where you’re staying. Nyth Bran.’

‘Really? Hang on, Mum. Wait there.’

I left the room and ran down the stairs and into the Thomas Room. I scoured the bookcase and found what I was looking for: the battered edition of ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’. I pulled out the Polaroid showing the American Gothic-style couple and ran back upstairs. I held the photo up to the camera.

‘Is this Albert?’

Mum went off to fetch her glasses and peered at the screen. ‘Yes, that’s him. He was a nice chap. I never understood why he hung around with Glynn Collins. He and Bethan were a sweet couple. They were older than us, no kids. I was always envious of them for living in such a lovely big house and having all that freedom. I wonder what happened to them.’

Julia had told me she had bought the house from a children’s charity. I guessed Albert and his wife must have died and, having no family, left the place to charity.

‘I feel very sad about Malcolm,’ my mum said. ‘I wonder if they’ve had the funeral yet? I must send flowers.’

‘Hang on.’

I went on to the local newspaper website, the same one I’d been reading about Glynn Collins on, and clicked through to the Births, Marriages and Deaths section. There it was, the death announcement for Malcolm Jones, beloved father of Olly.

‘It’s today,’ I said. ‘This afternoon.’