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19
Sky
The grey stonebuildings of St Davids are new to me, and the cathedral central to the town looks out of place in such a small place. I glance at Dylan as he drives into the outskirts of the town. His mouth is hard-set, and I feel a pang of guilt at pushing him into coming here. Following our conversation yesterday, the evening was subdued and a part of me aches for the happy banter of Broadbeach.
Soon. Everything will improve soon. We slept separately again, the strange hesitancy between us that I hope also leaves soon. For this reason, I pushed Dylan to come to St Davids today. A step away from the Dylan he ran from is a step toward us.
“Everywhere looks different,” he says as he navigates a narrow lane. “The shops are different.”
“How long since you’ve visited?”
“Four years.”
“That long?”
“Nothing to come back for after Mum died.” He manoeuvres the car through the streets, slushed snow spraying from the wheels.
“But your gran?”
The car pauses at traffic lights and his knuckles whiten as he grips the wheel. “I wasn’t welcome at their house while my granddad was alive. He wasn’t a big fan of what I became or my association with his family.”
“By being a rock star?”
He turns his face to mine. “By being a criminal, Sky. One drug bust too many. St Davids is a small town, and everybody knows we’re related. I didn’t go to his funeral last year, and at Mum’s three years before he wouldn’t speak to me. So, yeah. Four years.”
I’m lost for what to say, my guilt increasing at making him come somewhere he’s not comfortable. But I believe Dylan’s first chance at reconnecting to his old self is to return here and remind himself who he is.
I place a hand over his. “I’m sure your gran can’t wait to see you.”
A small smile plays around the edge of his lips. “Don’t let her find photos to show you.”
When we arrive at her bungalow, Dylan kills the engine then sits quietly for a few minutes. The house is perched on the outskirts of the village, and nobody is around, all wrapped up inside cosy houses against the grey, sleeting day. I glance at the pebble-dashed grey exterior and net curtains thinking this could be my gran’s house too. The snow powders the coastal paths in the distance and the peace of the world around soothes my own anxiety.
“Did you live near here?” I ask.
“No, we lived the other side of town but I’d often walk over here. We’re closer to the coastal walks at Gran’s house. Sometimes in the summer Jem and me…” He pauses. “Yeah, well. Ancient history.”
Worried he might change his mind and turn back to London, I open the car door. “Come on. She’ll be waiting.”
We trudge through the melted snow on her path, and Dylan comments how he needs to clear this away before it ices over and wonders aloud if anybody watches out for her. I take his hand and squeeze, heart surging with love for the man who thinks he’s selfish but has this much thoughtfulness for others. A small dog yaps as we knock, peering at us through the frosted glass of the doorway as we wait for someone to answer.
A grey-haired woman dressed in grey slacks and a heavy maroon jumper opens the door. I’m immediately arrested by her eyes — the same strange blue as Dylan’s set into her creased face. Those eyes widen as she sees her grandson and they hesitate as they register each other.
“Dylan, are you eating?” she asks and reaches up to put her hand on his cheek.
I smile to myself at such a typical grandmotherly reaction to Dylan’s current state. His gran is a lot smaller than he is, but I can imagine her admonishing people in her strong Welsh accent—she has the aura of a woman who knows her mind and doesn’t take kindly to anyone messing with her.
Awkwardly, they embrace, Dylan’s tall figure encompassing the woman. He steps aside. “This is Sky. Sky, this is my gran.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling as she appraises me.
Thankfully, she smiles back. “Gwen. Come in. It’s a long time since Dylan brought a girl to see me.” As we walk into the house, she continues, “A long time since I saw him at all.”
A gas fire blasts heat from the corner of the room as she invites us to her lounge. The room is crammed with furniture, two large armchairs and a matching sofa in a wine coloured velvet finish. Her small Chihuahua jumps into one of the chairs and eyes us territorially. The magnolia painted woodchip wall is covered in pictures of generations of her family through the years. I can’t resist wandering to a wall and attempting to spot Dylan amongst them.
“That’s him,” says Gwen, touching a glass frame.
“Gran…”
