Amber slipped on an autumn-weight coat and left the house to get her Mini Cooper. At least it was a clear and dry if rather cool night with a full moon just rising above the horizon. Roads were fairly clear too—they'd probably stay that way at least until she reached the Newcombe Parva/Merrovale cross-roads.
When Amber reached the cross-roads she was pleased to see the traffic lights were green in her favour. These lights could take an age to change and being stuck behind a red light was frustrating. She upped the gas slightly as she passed through the green lights and suddenly became conscious of a huge vehicle with blazing headlights bearing down on her like a ravenous beast. It was too late to take any kind of evasive action—the last thing Amber saw before impact was the full moon leering down at her...
* * * * *
Life was pretty much of a blur after that. There were periods of light and darkness, awareness and confusion, pain and terror... she was uncertain of who she was, eventually accepting assurances that her name was Amber Lytton. The thickset woman with the short grey hair visited her frequently, claiming to be Amber's solicitor although Amber had no recollection of the woman. She was unable to recall anything about herself before the sight of those huge glaring headlights swiping her broadside. The nice Indian neurologist told her not to worry, that in such cases memory loss was common. She slept a lot. Once, when they thought she was sleeping, Amber was sure she heard the doctor telling a nurse that full recovery of memory was doubtful. A masseuse treated the whole of her back several times a week to prevent bed-sores. Once the masseuse complimented her on the elaborate tattoo on her back. Tattoo? She had no idea that she had a tattoo. A physiotherapist came regularly to exercise her to help regain some muscle tone.
Then one morning they told her she was going home. Home? Amber had no idea where home was. They sedated her so that the journey would be as comfortable as possible and she awoke in a huge, luxurious bed.
As the mild sedative wore off, Amber fought her way from sleep and struggled to sit up. "Where...? Who...?"
She could see someone else in the room, a young woman who came to put an arm around her for support. A soft Welsh voice said: "I'm Cerys, Amber. It's okay, my lovely, it's okay, you're home now. You're safe here..."
Cerys
There used to be a comedy sketch show on TV called
Little Britain
. One of the regular sketches was set in a small Welsh community and the main character was a oddly-dressed young man whose boastful catch-phrase was: "I'm the only gay in the village."
Well, that was me. Cerys Morgan. The only gay in the village. There were some differences from the TV show though. My place was about two miles out of the village. And it wasn't really a village but a small market town, Pen-y-Dyffryn, near the Black Mountains and some twenty-odd miles from the border with England. As for me, I'm not a oddly-dressed young man but a jeans-and-sweater clad young woman. And I'm damned sure I wasn't the only gay around—it's simply that I was the only one who'd had the gumption to come out publicly. It had taken me a long time to recognise myself but when I did, why hide it? I had never cared much for what others thought of me so I let the word be known. I'd probably upset a few folk but most people couldn't have cared less. One time or another several of the local farm lads thought they might be able to convert me but they soon learned their lesson. I've got a nifty right knee and an accurate aim.
My parents had died in a hill-climbing accident while I was very young and I was brought up by my Uncle Huw and Auntie Gwen who had a small farm three or four miles from Pen-y-Dyffryn. The two made sure I had a very happy childhood and as they were the most important people in my life it was only right that I came out to them first. I told them over tea one evening, not quite sure how they'd react although hoping for the best because they were a kindly and broad-minded couple. Huw had looked at me for a long minute then said: "Well, I suppose you are what you are, Cerys
fach
, and I guess there's no altering that so give me a hug." He wrapped strong arms round me, saying: "If anyone gives you grief, girl, I'll kick their arses, I will."
"And when he's tired of kicking backside, my lovely," chipped in Auntie Gwen, "I'll take my turn!"
As the only out gay girl around, I had to travel a bit for romance (oh, all right then, for sex!). I was a student and member of the LGBT Society at Cardiff University and after uni I went to all the Pride events within easy travelling distance. I had a number of dates with women I'd met on-line but nobody with whom I'd have liked to make it permanent.
It was in England, though, in a town called Newcombe Parva, that I got involved with Amber Lytton. My Great-Auntie Meryl, who'd lived in England for some years with her late husband, had died recently and left me her house, a small terraced workman's home dating back to the early 1900s. Probate had been granted and the house value well below the inheritance tax threshold so that was one worry less. I came along to supervise the sale which didn't happen as quickly as I had anticipated. The place was cheap enough but the estate agent said there was a temporary lull in the market. "You'll just have to give it a little time," he told me.
So I stuck around. Work wasn't a problem, I'm self-employed, my latest project had been finished maybe a month before and I could afford to take a few weeks off. I called Uncle Huw and Auntie Gwen—who were keeping an eye on my cottage and caring for my dogs—to let them know my revised plans. But truth be told, I was getting a bit bored and wishing I'd brought my laptop to do some work rather than having the semi-long break I'd promised myself. Then I heard about Amber.
I was in a local charity shop looking through the books for sale. It's a strange thing about charity shops; they all seem to have the same books at the same time and invariably those books are the ones nobody wants to read. I've sometimes wondered if they clone them when the shops are closed to the public. Then serendipity! I found a copy of
Tipping the Velvet
which I'd heard of but never read. Understanding the author to be a gay woman, I decided to give it a look and took it to the counter to pay.
There were two women at the counter, the shop's volunteer help and a pleasant-looking older woman probably in her late-sixties or early-seventies. The volunteer was saying: "Well, knowing how you feel about her, I think it's very commendable of you to do this."
The older woman shrugged. "I'm doing it as a favour for the hospital, not for her. But we've got a problem. Lydia Osborne and I can only do the daytime and the district nurse has other duties. We're in urgent need of a full-time carer who's prepared to live in and so far no luck. It'll likely only be for five or six weeks. You know anyone?"
The volunteer shrugged, shook her head.
I said I was getting bored, perhaps this was a job I could manage. "Excuse me, ladies, I couldn't help overhearing. If you need a carer for somebody, perhaps I'd be suitable."
Interest aroused, the pair stared at me hopefully. "Are you a carer?"
"Not now," I admitted, "but when I was at university I had a part-time job as a carer. I had pretty wide experience—senior citizens, chronically ill and housebound people, special needs children, you name it, I've probably seen it."
"The pay's not very good but you'll have room and board."
"The money doesn't worry me," I said and briefly explained my circumstances. "I'd just be happy to do a job for a few weeks to stop me going doolally. Anyway, who's the patient and what are her needs?"
"Her name's Amber Lytton," the older woman told me, "She's thirty-ish, been in a bad traffic accident. She's been in hospital for a number of months, some of it in an induced coma. There's not a lot more they can do for her and hospitals are dangerous places for sick people, there's always a strong risk of infection. The local hospice can't help as they're full right now. If she could be moved home it would be better for her and free up a hospital bed." She held out her hand. "I'm Mary Tallis."
