19th October
Dear Gwyneth,
It won’t be long now, my love. Soon I’ll be with you. Eighty years old, twenty-five of them spent without you. I’m tired. I’ll be ending my life on Christmas Day, the anniversary of your passing.
Until then, Cariad…
Love, Dai.
23rd November
Dear Gwyneth,
What a month!
I finally answered the door to the neighbours’ incessant knocking. One of them thrust a leaflet into my hand before I could slam the door.
The council are selling the village green to developers. The skate park, playground and village hall would all go, spelling the end of Llancwtch as we know it.
All the residents plan to join hands around the Green at the Christmas fete and sing a protest song. I’d say, “leave me out of it, my time for socialising is over.” But this is a call to arms, like the Strikes of ‘84 and ‘85. I’m no Scab.
We’re singing a wonderful arrangement of “Happy Xmas (War is Over).” I won’t lie, I love being part of the Bass section again. After our daily choir practice, we watch the youngsters skateboarding. You wouldn’t believe the tricks they can do, Gwyneth! Without the skate park, they’d be on the streets. There’s a huge knife crime problem now.
All these distractions make time pass quickly. Counting the days…
Love, Dai.
28th December
Dear Gwyneth,
I’m not done with this world yet. I hope you’ll understand.
The protest went “viral,” whatever that means! “A Christmas Cwtch,” the headlines said. But the council wouldn’t budge. That is, until something remarkable happened.
On Christmas Eve night, I stood on the Green. Anticipation hung in the air, sparkling across the frosty grass and through my body. My every breath drifted ghost-like towards the sky. The stars danced.
Out of the shadows, a figure crept towards the village hall. Santa? He unpacked his sack and began spray-painting the building.
He jumped out of his skin when I approached and said, “What are you doing?”
After he’d caught his breath, he explained that he was inspired by our community when he saw the News, and that what he was doing would help us. I watched, awe-struck, as he worked.
Llancwtch was swarming with reporters on Christmas morning. Turns out this “Banksy” fellow is something of a celebrity. The painting is fabulous: a ring of people holding hands around a heart-shaped Green. They form a shield against the surrounding images of people pointing knives at each other, and others alone in boxes. Across the middle is the word “Cwtch”.
Word soon got around that I’d witnessed everything. I was interviewed on TV, Gwyneth!
“All I can say is, he had a white beard and a red suit,” I said, with a wink. “A modern-day Santa.”
I must go now, Gwyneth. We have a committee meeting to decide how to manage the crowds already flocking here. The council won’t be selling Llancwtch village green now!
Merry Christmas, Cariad. Until we meet again…
Love, Dai.
