Jacky Bach

It smelled like her. It smelled correct. Like bread proofing and cawl on the cast iron stove. Like wood smoke and peat and the mineral tang of wet stone. It smelled like beeswax and sweet, soapy old oak. He dropped his bags and pulled the door shut behind him.

He ducked beneath lintels and beams with the practiced ease of someone who'd grown up with them. Grown into them. The kitchen was a still life. A dishrag crumpled on the slate worktop, an ellipsis. Like the person who'd been using it had just stepped out to take a call. A bowl of wrinkly apples and a chipped stoneware mug of tea, cold on the kitchen table. A vase with wilted daffodils. He took the mug between his palms and ran his thumb over the handle before setting it in the sink.

The stair treads flexed and complained underfoot, in exactly the places they always did. He ducked at the landing, where he always ducked, and ran his hand over a beam that was worn smooth with the rub of his palm. Nothing had changed, and the sameness chafed like a grain of sand rubbing a part of him that was only ever exposed here. In Wales.

Her bedroom door was open. He swung it shut.

Moel Hebog stared down at him in greyscale, heroic and imposing like an Ansel Adams photograph. He stepped up to the window and braced himself against the reveal. A peregrine falcon dropped into a hunt, tearing a woodpigeon out of the sky in an explosion of feathers. He crossed to his bed, the same single bed he'd been sleeping in for two decades, and stared at the ceiling. He didn't bother taking his shoes off. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and took it out of airplane mode.

matty: you get there okay jacky?

matty: its snowing here

matty: nothings sticking but still

matty: is there any snow there?

matty: what kind of dog does your neighbor have?

He set the phone down on his bedside table, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

The church was less than a mile from the cottage. A procession led by his parents made its way back from the funeral in a light rain. They took separate cars.

His parents positioned themselves by the door. John stood impassive, stooped under the oak lintel. Lillian's hands were clasped in front of her as she received condolences with the detached indifference of a line cook receiving orders.

So sorry for your loss.

Carys was a wonderful woman.

Your mother was the heart of this village.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Jack gave his mother a cursory peck on the cheek as he entered and crossed to the inglenook on the far side of the room. He fed logs to the wood burner as mourners trickled in.

"Jacky bach."

A woman with silver hair in a tight knot drew him into a hug and cradled his head in her palm.

"Sut mae, Mrs. Edwards," he leaned into her and dropped his chin on her shoulder. She rubbed a circle between his shoulder blades, and a breath shuddered out of him.

His eyes caught his mother's across the room, where the last of the guests were shuffling in. She pursed her lips. He stiffened against Mrs. Edwards and cleared his throat. She tracked his eyes to the door, to Lillian, and breathed a comprehending mmmmmm. She stepped back and straightened his lapels.

"She was a very serious little girl," she continued in Welsh. "Not serious like you," she amended. "The late Mr. Edwards used to say Lillian Prichard smiling was a once in four seasons event."

Jack nodded and smiled. "Once in four seasons and twenty. My father is fewer."

"It must have been very difficult," she said. "You were the candle of Carys's eye."

He swallowed hard and his brow worked. He opened his mouth to answer but nothing would come out. He fed another log to the fire.

A knock at the door, and a funeral tea was carried in on trays and in cake boxes. Jack cleared the kitchen table and put the wilted daffodils in the bin. He placed the vase in the sink alongside the mug and started a kettle boiling. He set milk and sugar on the table.

"It was very lucky, really," Lillian said to Gwilym Owen. He'd been delivering the post to Gran's for forty years. Since before Lillian left. He spoke in English for her; she'd shelved her Welsh more than three decades ago.

"It's not usually so easy," he nodded. "They tend to be kept. In families."

The kettle whistled. Jack added tea to the pot and poured the water over it. He thumbed the cosy before slipping it on.

"It's the proximity to the park," she said. "The new owners are going to use it as a holiday let."

Jack's hands stilled by his side. "A holiday let?" his voice caught. "You're selling it?"

"We thought of letting it ourselves," she confirmed. "But ultimately it's too far to be practical."

He stared at the pot in its cosy as his jaw flexed. "But—" he started.

"Come, Jacky bach," Mrs. Edwards said low. She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll help you fetch the china."

John and Lillian left first and eventually, the company too. Jack fed the wood burner again and opened a bottle of Harveys someone had left behind. He pulled his phone out of his suit pocket and settled into the armchair in front of the fire.

matty: you get there okay jacky?

matty: its snowing here

matty: nothings sticking but still

matty: is there any snow there?

matty: what kind of dog does your neighbor have?

He took a long sip of sherry and scratched the back of his head. He typed and backspaced and typed and backspaced. He took another sip and muttered fuck under his breath.

jack: snow in the mountains

jack: mostly rain

jack: its grey

jack: nova scotia duck tolling retriever

Three dots appeared and disappeared a half dozen times.

matty: working group

More dots. Jack drained his glass of sherry.

matty: you okay jacky?

He set the phone on the arm of the chair and tossed another log on the fire. He carried his glass to the kitchen where he set it in the sink beside his Gran's mug and the vase. He scrubbed his hands over his face and pulled the washing up bowl and brush out of the sink cupboard. He put the kettle on and dropped back into the chair as it heated up. His thumbs hovered over his phone.

matty: you okay jacky?

The kettle whistled. He filled the bowl with boiling water and Fairy Liquid and silently scrubbed his glass and the vase and her mug. He dried them with a tea towel and returned them to their cupboards with an affectionate pat. He slumped in the armchair.

jack: im okay

matty: okay

matty: have a safe flight

matty: love you jacky

matty: see you soon

jack: love you too matt

He put a last log on the fire and headed up to bed, feet slow over protesting treads, palm lingering on the beam at the landing. He draped his suit over the rocking chair in the corner, the one his Gran had told stories from, and slid between the sheets. He looked out the window for birds to count, anything to count, but the sky was a black void. A hole where only hours earlier a mountain had been. He squeezed his eyes shut, choked on a sob, and eventually, fell asleep.

When he woke, two buzzards were riding a thermal over Moel Hebog. The sun was shining, and condensation shimmered on the glazing. He carefully packed his Samsonite—sweaters and a suit and a sigh. He stepped in the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go. He was pink and steam rose off his skin when he finally stepped out and dressed.

He pulled his wellies on at the back door and crossed the muddy garden to the shed. His breath billowed white around him. He found a pair of secateurs and gathered a handful of daffodils. He crouched by the hedge and collected wood anemones and primroses. He pulled the vase back down from its cupboard, filled it at the tap, and fanned the flowers in it. He set it in the centre of the kitchen table. Finally, he made his way back upstairs.

He pressed his forehead against her door before swinging it open. Sun flooded the room, and the window panes painted checkers across the rag rug beside her bed. It was unmade. His chin trembled as he smoothed the sheets and fluffed the pillows and tucked the corners tight. He held her quilt up to his nose before folding it and draping it over the foot of her bed.

He fetched his Samsonite across the hall and paused in the window reveal a final time. The sky was empty over the mountain. He carried his suitcase down the hall, down the stairs, ducking at the landing a final time. He left his luggage by the door and surveyed the front room. A final time. He catalogued each and every beam and lintel he'd learned to duck under as he grew in this place. He catalogued the dip in the slate flagstone by the front door. The hollow in front of the hearth. He resisted the pull to feed the fire.

He crossed to the kitchen and ran his hand over the worktop. Over the grain of the oak table and across the waxy backs of the chairs around it. Over the Belfast sink and the cast iron stove. His eyes stilled on the crock by the hob, on the utensils peaking over its lip like a bouquet of flowers. He plucked a spoon from the bunch and ran his thumb over the handle where the wood was worn smooth from decades of stirring. Her hand. His hand. Her hand over his. He crossed to the front door where his shiny Samsonite was waiting, spoon clutched in his fist. He knelt beside it, unzipped it, and carefully tucked the spoon between a sweater and his suit. He sighed. His eyes traveled the room once more, to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and he stepped out the door. He swung it shut, turned the key in the lock, pocketed it, and didn't look back.