THE STORY SO FAR

Drawn to Porthcawl by a call from an elderly woman called

Siân, RObYn is both captivated and shocked to learn about her great-grandmother, DARlA.

Bitterly, Siân tells Robyn that Darla was a great beauty but selfish, and that Robyn has inherited her looks. Finally alone on the beach, Robyn is overcome with emotion and vows to discover more about Darla. In 1940, stricken by grief at losing her beloved father, Darla gives birth to a baby girl called Gwen, but immediately struggles to bond with the child. Unable to cope with her loss and often putting herself at great risk, Darla escapes to the beach whenever she can, including during night-time air raids. When her husband,

DAi, eventually returns home on leave, Darla slips out in the dark, leaving everyone else asleep, and walks into the sea. Without a moment to spare, she is rescued from drowning by the local policeman.

The story now continues

a product of generations of broken hearts?

By the time her head cleared enough for words to form on her lips, Simon had left the kitchen. And then the flat. The front door slammed, leaving Robyn in silence.

Darla July 1950, Porthcawl

The beach at Sandy Bay looked beautiful, the tide so far out that the huge stretch of rippled, wet sand left behind was virtually all she could see, glittering and shining in the warm sunshine. Darla had taken root on a dune at the back of the beach, watching the children, the noisy funfair behind her. She couldn’t see the promenade from where she sat, or the cafe. Not for the first time it struck her as disconcerting that Porthcawl looked so different from this bay. Busier. Louder. Less rugged. Less like home, and much more like a holiday destination. Gwen’s squeals of delight cut through the general hubbub, and Darla couldn’t help but smile. Turning ten years old was an important milestone, and Dai had spent nearly an hour guiding her and two friends up and down the beach on a donkey.

‘Which one is yours?’

Darla turned to the man who spoke. He was Italian, she knew that much from his accent and his features. But she didn’t recognise him.

‘The one on the brown donkey,’ she replied, turning briefly to glance again at Gwen.

The man smiled. ‘She looks like she’s having fun.’

Darla nodded. ‘It’s her birthday.’

Tonight, of all nights, was when her life would change forever

The man nodded too, and perched beside her. It was a subtly intimate gesture, given that they were total strangers and that he now sat staring into her face. Her pulse quickened. Not in fear, she realised with surprise. She pulled away a little. Her cheeks flushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Have we met?’

‘No,’ he replied, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Marco Tucci.’

‘Darla Evans,’ she said. She took his hand, not because she wanted to, but because it seemed rude not to. It was strong and warm, flexing around hers.

Marco raised his eyebrows. ‘But you’re not Welsh?’

‘My mother is,’ she replied, taken aback by his boldness. ‘And your father?’

Darla removed her hand from his grasp. Whatever she had felt when he first sat beside her was fused now with anger. She flashed her eyes at him, and stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘My father is none of your business, Mr Tucci,’ she said, turning to walk away.

He stood too, awkwardly, his face serious and concerned. ‘I apologise,’ he said, ‘that was somewhat clumsy of me.’ He hesitated, and then cleared his throat. ‘In fact, I’ve already heard that your father was called Tommaso Lombardi.

I’m so sorry that he passed away, especially in such tragic circumstances.’

Darla glared at him. ‘Did you know him?’

Marco Tucci shook his head. ‘Then I would kindly ask you to not speak of him. You can have no idea how tragic the circumstances were.’

The man blew out his cheeks and looked hard at her. ‘Actually,

I can. I too was interned.’

Darla’s heart pounded. She’d always known that men of all ages were taken to the camps, but she’d never met a relatively young internee before. ‘Where?’ she asked.

‘I was much luckier than your father. I’d been in Cardiff only a few months when I was shipped to the Isle of Man. It wasn’t so bad. In fact, people were very kind to us. I wish Tommaso could have been there too. I’d have liked to have met him.’

Darla swallowed. This man needed to stop talking about her father. She raised her hand to her eyes again, hoping it hid the tears. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’

He shrugged. ‘No. I grew tired of Cardiff. I’m new to Porthcawl. I don’t know many other Italians here. I was hoping you and I might become friends.’ ‘Why?’

‘Because, like I said, I don’t know many people here.’

‘It’s a big town. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of people to befriend.’

He shook his head slightly. ‘There can be no-one else as beautiful as you.’

His confidence astounded her. Much to her annoyance, Darla’s cheeks burned crimson. ‘I have all the friends I need, Mr Tucci. Besides,’ she added, beginning to walk away, ‘I’m a married woman.’

‘I know,’ he said, his eyes following her. ‘But you didn’t say happily.’

They both stared down the beach. Darla marched away as quickly as she could through the thick, hot sand, the tears spilling on to her cheeks, and Marco watched her go. And they both saw Dai, one hand casually holding the bridle of the donkey, the other handing back a beach ball to a beautiful blonde woman, his handsome face split into a wide smile. He looked totally transfixed. The exceptionally good weather had finally broken, huge scudding clouds blackening the sky, sending rods of cold, hard rain hammering against the windows. It was barely five o’clock in the afternoon, but was as dark as midnight. Darla turned the cafe sign to closed and bolted the door. Pressing her fingertip to the damp glass, she cleared a small circle in the condensation and peered through it, towards the promenade and the sea wall beyond. It was virtually impossible to see anything. Her heart skidded. This was the last time she’d turn the sign; the last time she’d lock up; the last time she’d sweep the floor. She glanced at the huge wall clock above the cake display, and then back out to the weatherbeaten street. Tonight, of all nights, was when her life would change forever. She had decided the date months ago. No-one in Porthcawl needed her any more, not really. She had a marriage in name only; a daughter who, at 19, was engaged and pregnant; and a mother who was long remarried and moved out from the flat above the shop. There was nothing to stay for. Morwen, her only friend, would perhaps miss her, but the others would cope. Dai would blame her, and then forget her, and quickly take up with another of his blondes. And Gwen, more scratchy and distant than she’d ever been, would soon have a husband of her own, followed by a baby. Darla, with the passage of time, had become obsolete. And she’d known for months that the time had come to leave, that her life in Porthcawl was finally over. Her departure had simply been a question of when, not if. And, if she were honest, it had been that way since her father’s death.

At precisely six o’clock, she set Dai’s supper down in front of him and announced she was going downstairs to bake for the next day. He barely glanced up from the evening newspaper as she left the room. She didn’t look back. What would have been the point? The time for changing her mind had long since passed. The only urge she fought was with Gwen. The girl had her bedroom door shut, the sounds of Buddy Holly seeping out from her record player. Leaning her head briefly against the doorframe, Darla closed her eyes. There were only two things in her life that she truly regretted: losing her father, and failing Gwen. But there could be no turning back time, no making them both right. What was done, was done. And the two were so inextricably linked that no sense could be made of either without the other. It was, quite simply, time to let go of the past.

The force of the rain took her by surprise. She stood on the promenade, her face turned up to the black sky, cold water pummelling against her cheeks. She looked back at the cafe – the lights shining out upstairs, awning tightly rolled back, the window still full of chocolate and cigarette boxes and signs promising the best ice cream and lemonade in Porthcawl. Would her father have been proud of his business had he survived? They’d done their best. The war had changed everything, but they’d kept going. Darla turned back to the sea. It was impossible to see where the swirling water began and the rocks ended. But the sound of its angry fury filled her ears, and drew her closer. This was it. It was time for the final goodbye. They opened the old French windows in the dining room and placed a chair just inside for Gwen. In the first few days of being home, it became her favourite spot. Initially, she’d resisted turning it into her temporary bedroom but it was obvious she was unable to climb the stairs. Besides, the room was never used and had the best view of the garden. A neighbour helped Robyn bring a bed and chest of drawers down, and they made the best of it.

Robyn sat beside Gwen’s chair. It was unnerving how quickly they’d settled into a daily routine, as if living together was second nature; which it wasn’t. Living with anyone, Robyn had come to believe, didn’t sit easily with her. First, her mum. And now, Simon. If she really had been subconsciously pulling away from him, she had decided to stop. Being here with Gwen for the summer was a good thing. It gave her and Simon space. And at least they were talking again, even if it was only by phone or Skype.

‘I’m going to make a coffee,’ Robyn said, standing up. ‘Do you want one?’

Gwen pulled a face. ‘When

I’m up and about, I’ll show you how to do it properly. You’ve got no idea what good coffee tastes like.’

Robyn smiled. ‘It’s in our genes, I thought.’

Gwen’s eyes darkened. ‘I told you. I don’t want to talk about her. It’s none of your business.’

‘That’s hardly fair. She was my great grandmother.’

‘You can’t just come in and take over, Robyn.’

‘I’m not trying to. I’m just fascinated by her.’

Gwen let out a moan, like a pained dog. ‘She wasn’t fascinating. She was selfish.

She always did exactly what she wanted and got her own way. Her whole life was about pleasing herself. She never gave my dad or me a second thought.’

Darla October 1959, Porthcawl No-one in Porthcawl needed her any more, not really...

Robyn August 2017, Cardiff

‘Then tell me about her.’ ‘I DON’T WANT TO.’

Robyn recoiled. Gwen’s face was red, her mouth sneering, her eyes wide. She knew her grandmother had a quick temper, she’d been told many times by her own mother, Carys, but until this point, Robyn hadn’t seen it for herself.

‘OK,’ Robyn said, holding her hands up in mock surrender as she backed out of the room. ‘Have it your way.’

In the cool kitchen, Robyn flicked the kettle on, pleased with the instant noise it made as it boiled the water. She needed to calm down and to think. From the day she went to Porthcawl and met Siân Roberts, she’d been trying to engage Gwen in a conversation about Darla Lombardi. On every occasion, Gwen had been stony and silent in response, sometimes even walking away. But there had been nothing like the sudden ferocity she’d just exhibited. Like it or not, which Gwen clearly didn’t, Darla was related to Robyn. The only living person who could fill in the gaps was Gwen herself. How could she hold back from talking about her mother? Even if it was only to criticise the woman? Even if it was only to rage about her disappearance? The kettle clicked off, but Robyn didn’t move. All Siân had said was that Darla vanished one wet, dark October night, never to be seen again. Her account was couched in bitterness, yet Robyn felt immense sympathy for Darla. It was highly likely she’d been suffering from depression, Robyn thought. Losing a father and then giving birth in quick succession would, these days, be treated with empathy and support. Everyone assumed that Darla had walked into the sea and drowned, her body taken out to sea. Apparently, she’d tried before and a local policeman had saved her. It seemed – it was – so heartbreakingly sad.

Something crashed in the dining room and Robyn jumped. Gwen. Running, she reached the doorway in seconds. Her grandmother stood, shaking, a drawer from the dresser at her feet.

‘TAKE THESE,’ she screamed, hurling a package at Robyn. ‘If you want to know more about my self-centred mother, get reading.’

Inside the packet, Robyn saw scores of envelopes and postcards. She pulled out the nearest one. It was addressed to Gwen, but had never been opened. Never read. But cherished enough to have been kept. She studied the stamps and postmark. Italian. 1963.

‘Who’s it from?’ Robyn asked, staring at Gwen.

‘She waited six whole months before she wrote the first time. Can you believe that? I thought she was dead. What kind of a woman lets her child think she’s drowned?’

Gwen’s eyes glinted with tears. Anger or sadness, Robyn couldn’t tell. She looked down again, turning the envelope over in her hand. On the reverse, in neat italics was a return address in a place

‘If you want to know more about my self-centred mother, get reading’

called Bardi, Northern Italy. It all seemed incredible.

‘So, Darla went to Italy?

She didn’t die?’

‘Precisely. The woman you find so fascinating left her family in the dead of night and ran away.’

‘But why?’

Gwen’s voice was quieter now. ‘Because she loved him more than us.’ She slumped back to her chair, the fight in her extinguished.

Robyn took hold of her grandmother’s quivering hand. ‘I don’t understand. And why tell me today?’ she asked, gently stroking the papery skin.

Gwen exhaled loudly, and sniffed. ‘Because today was her birthday. Wherever she is, or was, today is my mother’s 98th birthday.’

CONCLUDES NEXT WEEK