Part 8. Pwllheli. 1992.
A word about Eira. We first met in 1986 at the South Western Hospital, Brixton, when I was a student nurse and she was a staff nurse. There were two wards, male and female, that were inexplicably called Community Psychiatric Units: CPU1 and CPU2, possibly a subliminal reference to Star Wars. She was Princess Leia and I was Han Solo. I eavesdropped on her in the office one day as she was arranging a social event over the phone – easy before mobile phones existed and because Eira’s telephone voice rises by a few decibels as if she can’t really trust the technology – but I learned nothing from the conversation. This was end-to-end encryption for non-Welsh speakers. I quickly set to work cracking the code, starting at the deep end with the wedding vows and moving on to the delights of Wil Cwac Cwac and the eccentric two-dimensional Dyn Papur Newydd, whose words still resonate whenever I burn the dinner: ‘go drap, mae’r selsig yn y ffwrn!’ It helped greatly that Eira’s mother taught Welsh at the national language centre, Nant Gwrtheyrn, and that she was on a mission to expand the number of Welsh speakers long before the Welsh Government’s recent target of a million by 2050. We happened to be staying at her house during the 1991 census and she put me down as a Welsh speaker; I felt validated by this blatant fraud, diolch Edwina. During those early days visiting Pwllheli as a tourist, Eira took me to the Penlan Fawr, Pwllheli’s favourite watering hole and its smallest. I loved it for its simple purpose, drinking and shouting over people’s heads (I realised this was how Eira’s telephone voice started). For more sophisticated evenings she took me to the circular cocktail bar upstairs at the Tower Hotel. Who needs Soho I thought. And like Oga’s Cantini in Star Trek, the guests spoke in a foreign language, but only when the tourists came in.
By 1992 we had two children under the age of two. We had looked at enrolling them at the Welsh Primary School in Willesden but this was completely impractical as long as we chose to stay south of the river, and we weren’t about to be seduced by the Sirens of Brent Cross, Ikea and Wembley stadium. Eira’s talent had already been spotted by Ros Alstead, one of those bright young managers destined for high office, and she was seconded for CPN training at the Maudsley Hospital on the ENB 811 course. She got her certificate, her lease car and her patch – Brixton, Stockwell and Waterloo. However, hiraeth and a better quality of life were calling; we were ready to move and Wales was the obvious choice. And then the dream job came up, CPN based in Pwllheli.
It was clear that Eira was the better candidate. It was also clear that if she was successful I might be left behind in London indefinitely. As a Welsh speaker she would always be desirable, in more ways than the obvious. Welsh speaking desirable was on the job description and I was just in time, as not long afterwards Welsh speaking became essential and I would have been immediately ruled out. I’ve never wanted a job so much and never have I devoted so much time to an interview. My preparation was meticulous: specialist subject community mental health care, 20 scored and no passes. Mastermind 1992. I read every contemporary paper on CPNs, CMHTs, the Mental Health Act, government policy, psychological therapies and the collected works of Eira, ENB 811. I was coached by Eira and her colleagues and advised by the head of specialist services, Springfield, on matters pertaining to the Whitley Council agreement on removal expenses – ‘don’t mention it until you’re in post.’ Good advice.
Everything fell into place. I got the job and three months later Eira was offered a post in the Pwllheli day hospital. Eira’s mother and I swapped homes for three months, she got the children and I got Lleu, the scary dog, and her Lada. Lleu’s nemesis Jack lived at the bottom of the road and one evening Lleu was brought home on the end of a shepherd’s crook, hanging by his collar and motionless. He’d escaped and got into a brawl with Jack while I was engrossed in Coronation Street. After a few chest compressions, Lleu was up and ready for round two. Fortunately, it wasn’t too long before his owner and only mistress resumed responsibility for him and the removal expenses were approved. Pickfords complete packing service lived up to its word, leaving no item unpacked. On the big day, my parents came to see us off and the removal men packed everything including mum’s handbag and some loose rubbish. We got to the handbag before they left but the rubbish and our family went north.
Odi et amo 
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