Lay Me to Rest
E. A. Clark
Some secrets never stay buried for long…
Devastated by the death of her husband, Annie Philips is shocked to discover she is pregnant with his unborn child. Hoping for a fresh start, she travels to a remote stone cottage in Anglesey, amidst the white-capped mountains of North Wales.
She settles in quickly, helped by her mysterious new neighbour, Peter. But everything changes when Annie discovers a small wooden box, inlaid with brass and mother-of-pearl. A box she was never supposed to find…
Annie soon realises that she isn’t alone in the cottage. And now she’s trapped. Can she escape the nightmare that she has awoken, or will the dark forces surrounding the house claim her life – and that of her baby?
A gripping thriller from E. A. Clark, perfect for fans of Kerri Wilkinson, Sarah Wray and Stella Duffy. You won’t be able to put it down!
Some secrets never stay buried for long…
Newly widowed Annie Philips is plagued by the memory of her husband. But she carries a larger burden… Weeks after his death, she discovers she is pregnant. When Annie is unable to recover from depression, her sister, Sarah, suggests a healing retreat in the Welsh countryside, recommended by Sarah’s colleague, Peter. It is here that she becomes a house guest of the kind Mr and Mrs Parry – along with the enigmatic Peter. Friendly. Alluring. Mysterious.
As Annie settles in to the Parrys’ home, and grows closer to Peter, she becomes increasingly aware of another presence… a supernatural one. Annie becomes the target of violent disturbances that begin occurring in the house. Until one day, when she is drawn into an open field where she uncovers a box.
A box no one was ever meant to find.
Can Annie solve the mystery she has become tied to? Or will the sinister forces surrounding the house claim her life, and the life of her unborn baby?
Don’t miss this chilling new tale from E. A. Clark, perfect for fans of Amy Cross, Shani Struthers and Andrew Michael Hurley.
Lay Me to Rest
E. A. Clark
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Contents
Cover (#u72c8efe7-6830-51c3-b7ef-73b82cb7e568)
Blurb (#uf5140512-f0e7-5059-8d63-618c86938c5a)
Title Page (#u4819c64f-31a6-52fa-99cd-c6409ccfd215)
Author Bio (#ud0e7b1ce-36b3-52ca-9a96-28828bb26130)
Acknowledgements (#u775da0c7-708a-50e9-bd1e-e07c0509c848)
Dedication (#u52d1156e-845e-570c-b2d4-083b474f83ef)
Prologue (#ulink_20952c5f-7b41-5cd6-8dd9-dcacf9c8ee78)
Chapter One (#ulink_bfe2ac0a-23dd-57bd-a04f-4fccfac9b070)
Chapter Two (#ulink_7a3e2c9e-7979-5c00-8696-0a05bc25f78a)
Chapter Three (#ulink_5e43c287-5acc-510b-9bb1-e88d5bb01efe)
Chapter Four (#ulink_c92abcca-ceee-52ce-b74e-385b2207b51a)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
E. A. CLARK lives in the Midlands with her husband and son, plus a rather temperamental cat, a rabbit and a chinchilla. She has three (now grown-up) children and five grandchildren. She is particularly partial to Italian food, decent red wine (or any coloured wine come to that…) and cake – and has been known to over-indulge in each on occasions.
She has a penchant for visiting old graveyards and speculating on the demise of those entombed beneath. Whilst she has written short stories and poetry for many years, a lifelong fascination with all things paranormal has culminated in her first novel for adults, Lay Me to Rest. The setting is inspired by her love of Wales, owing to her father’s Celtic roots.
I would like to thank my family for their patience! Also, the lovely Rayha Rose for her help and invaluable guidance, and the rest of the editorial team at HQ Digital. I am also very grateful to Michelle Magorian for her kind words of encouragement.
This book is dedicated to the memory of my dear mum,
with all my love and thanks for everything she did for us.
We miss you.
Prologue (#ulink_1042cf19-7365-5f09-b3d5-729bb517993a)
July 2009
Anglesey, North Wales
Deep into the night, the rain fell unremittingly. I lay still, listening as it battered the windowpane: a steady, rhythmic thrum. Since childhood, to be safe and warm within had always been a source of comfort to me during a storm, knowing that the angry deluge could not penetrate the walls – that I was protected from even the harshest force of nature.
But suddenly the pattern began to change. The sound was infiltrated by a slow, persistent scratching. As the noise increased in frequency and intensity, heart in mouth, I eased myself from the bed and crossed the room, hardly daring to draw breath as my trembling hand reached for the curtain.
It was happening again. Cold terror surged through my veins as a pair of dark, glowering eyes met my own through the glass. As far as I was from the site of the haunting, it would seem I was to be afforded no respite from her malevolent influence. I could feel her drawing closer. I staggered back from the window, my fear knowing no bounds as I became suddenly enveloped by the familiar incipient chill; inhaled the cloying, musky fragrance that I had come to dread.
I opened my mouth to scream, but my throat was so dry that I could emit no more than a pitiful croak. It was inconceivable that I should find myself once more in this position; the previous disturbing encounters of the supernatural had been enough for anyone’s lifetime. I had foolishly believed myself beyond harm here; that she should have followed me was unthinkable. Was there no refuge to which I could safely retreat?
My hands shook violently as I tried desperately to turn the key in the lock; but it was stuck fast. I whipped round, panic-stricken now, my back pinned to the door. Through the gloom I could still discern the menacing presence, initially a pallid shadow against the opposite wall, shapeless and pulsating. But I could feel her getting closer. Even without seeing clearly, I knew without doubt who she was. She exuded loathing and contempt, sentiments for which I had apparently become the sole focus.
The walls seemed to close in on me now. My heart hammering, my breath came in shallow, rasping gasps as I watched the silhouette become ever clearer and more recognizable. The mocking eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul. Despite my best efforts, my feet remained inert. I felt the ground draw me like a magnet. Instinctively, I cradled my stomach; the room swam as she seemed to surround me.
And then I knew no more.
June 2009
Birmingham, West Midlands
I awoke, as had become the norm of late, cheeks wet, with fresh, hot tears spilling from my eyes, a choking sob rising in my throat. Each night the same recurring dream – Graham, standing at my bedside: expressionless, staring down at me. But the leaden weight of my arms left me unable to reach out to him and he would fade away, leaving me alone once more.
It was still dark and only a sliver of lamplight could be seen through the narrow gap between the curtains. Shrugging the covers around my shoulders, I slid out of bed and walked across to the window. I stood, staring, for what seemed like an eternity, down at the deserted street below, absent-mindedly resting my hands on my swollen stomach.
As daylight gradually began to creep through, I shifted my gaze, only to be met by my own dishevelled reflection in the glass. I suppose, looking back, that this was the wake-up call I so desperately needed.
The gaunt, transparent image staring back at me was virtually unrecognizable. For more than three months I had lived like a recluse, neglecting my appearance and more or less subsisting on a diet of anything and everything that could be tipped straight from a can or packet, supplemented in the last fortnight (on the insistence of my younger sister) by Prozac, prescribed by a concerned locum whom she had called to the house.
In spite of my initial reluctance to take the tablets, having passed the first trimester of my pregnancy, I was assured that the risks to the baby were very small compared with the jeopardy to my own mental health if I remained untreated.
*
As of the night of 25th February 2009, my status had become officially demoted from that of wife to widow. The title was something that did not sit well with me – it was a word I had always associated with women in their dotage who had shared a whole lifetime with their partners. At the ripe old age of thirty-six I was struggling to cope with this new-found and unwelcome identity thrust upon me by events beyond my control.
Finding myself unexpectedly and miraculously pregnant just seven weeks after my husband Graham’s fatal accident left me reeling. My monthly cycle had always been predictably erratic, therefore another late period was nothing new; nor had I experienced any of the associated symptoms such as strange cravings or nausea. After years of talking indifferently about the possibility of having a child, when I had eventually thrown myself wholeheartedly into the process of attempted baby-making, our efforts had remained fruitless.
The loss of my husband had totally devastated me. That, coupled with the untimely discovery of my pregnancy, had propelled me into a state of turmoil. A whole wave of emotions now washed over me: the baby would never know its father, and Graham, who had so desperately wanted to claim that role, would never be there to watch our child growing up.
Plus, if I were to put hand on heart, I did not know how I would cope with rearing a baby on my own. I had always been a career girl and the daunting prospect of single-handed responsibility for the welfare of a helpless infant threw me into a blind panic. I was a mess.
*
‘You really can’t go on like this, Annie,’ Sarah had told me only the previous morning, as she opened the curtains and attempted to restore some semblance of order to the train wreck that was once my living room. She turned her head to one side in that way of hers and looked at me, sympathy emanating from every pore.
‘You have to try to move on,’ she said, gently. ‘I know it’s hard, but you really need to get back to some sort of normality. He wouldn’t want you to be so unhappy. You’re still a young woman. And you’ve got to think of the baby, too.’
*
She had been right, of course. My sister: ever the voice of reason and practicality. We were so different in both appearance and nature. She, fair-haired and slight, like our mother; equable, ever the optimist. I had always been what our father had diplomatically described as ‘well built’, my paternal genes leaving me narrow-waisted but short in stature and solid of limb, and darker in both colouring and temperament. I was definitely of the ‘glass half-empty’ school of thought, whilst Sarah always maintained that something positive could emerge from any situation if one allowed it to.
Our parents, both suffering from arthritis, had retired and emigrated to Florida to escape the British climate and were therefore too far away to offer much assistance. I was acutely aware that I had begun to lean heavily on my sister for support and felt guilty about it. The least I could do was listen to her advice.
I leafed through the brochure of holiday lets, which Sarah had well-meaningly brought to show me the other day, the slip of paper still clipped to the page that she had been so eager for me to see. It did look tempting. An old stone cottage with a wisp of smoke climbing from its chimney and roses woven into a trellis round the door. It was set a little way up a hillside on farmland in Anglesey, North Wales, surrounded by views of lush pastures and white-capped mountains.
‘It could be just what you need,’ she had said, hopefully. ‘Peter has holidayed there on and off for years. His father’s family were from the area, you know. He spent a couple of weeks there last August and said it was wonderfully restful. You have the cottage all to yourself, with the farmhouse right next door for home cooking – and company, if you feel like it. Peter said the old farmer and his wife are a real tonic. Clean air, beautiful scenery: what more could you ask for? And Peter’s even offering to drive you up there himself!’
I had paid little attention at the time, but maybe the Prozac was starting to kick in. Perhaps it was time to give myself a shake and get back to the real world. As if to reaffirm my thoughts, the baby delivered a sudden sharp kick into my ribs.
I hesitated for a moment before picking up the telephone.
‘Sarah? I’ve been thinking … Can you come over? I need to get in touch with Peter …’
Chapter One (#ulink_85b5859f-59fa-5e51-bc69-2582d7e6b007)
July 2009
And so it was that, on the first Sunday in July, I came to be a passenger in the car of my sister’s friend and colleague, Peter, heading for what I hoped would hail the beginning of a fresh start for me.
The doctor had warned me not to drive if the medication seemed to be affecting my judgement and I did not as yet feel confident enough to get back behind the wheel, so I was relieved and grateful when Peter had offered to take me. The agreement was that he would be staying just the one night in the farmhouse itself, and then Sarah would join me in a few days’ time and stay in the cottage for the remainder of the let, which had been booked for three weeks.
I didn’t know Peter particularly well. He had been working in the same office as Sarah for the past few months. We’d met only once or twice when she had brought him to the house. He was in his early thirties, of medium height and build; dark-eyed, and handsome, in a quirky sort of way. I found Peter pleasant enough and polite, but today, evidently having been briefed by Sarah about my state of mind, he seemed a little awkward about making conversation.
I didn’t mind. Still in that semi-anaesthetized state induced by the initial effects of the antidepressants, I welcomed the opportunity to sit back and watch as the flat, soulless terrain of the industrial Midlands with its grey, suffocating factory chimneys and incessant traffic, gradually gave way to a vast expanse of clear sky with high, cotton-wool clouds, and the undulating patchwork of fields of green and gold of the border country, peppered with sheep and cattle grazing contentedly.
The gentle pitch of the hills and dales soon swelled into a majestically mountainous region of peaks and troughs, as the landscape became wilder and more ruggedly beautiful. I had always enjoyed sketching and thought briefly what a wonderful picture the view would make.
We crossed the imposing silver-grey suspension bridge that traversed the body of water separating the island from the mainland. I gazed down at the scene beneath us. The Menai Straits, dark but calm as a millpond, glittered in the late afternoon sun. Several small, colourful boats were moored at either side of its banks. They bobbed slightly with the gentle movement of the current. Numerous houses were staggered on the opposite embankment, their windows winking in the sunlight.
Peter became a little more animated.
‘Not far, now! I’m so glad it’s such lovely weather – it makes all the difference to the cottage, seeing it in on a bright day. Not that it should matter,’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just that, well, first impressions of a place can colour your judgement, don’t you think?’
I felt the corners of my mouth twitching in amusement. He was clearly anxious for my approval of the house, since he had recommended it so gushingly to Sarah. Although their relationship was platonic, I suspected that Peter would like it to be rather more, but I knew that his feelings were sadly not reciprocated. Sarah had apparently long been holding a candle for some mystery man and showed no interest in anyone else. I often worried that she would finish up embittered and alone, although she seemed content enough with her lot.
‘I’m sure it’ll be beautiful. The scenery looked breathtaking in the brochure,’ I said, smiling to myself.
Smiling. For so long it had felt as if I would never smile again. Sarah knew me better than I knew myself. A change of outlook – always helps people see things from a different perspective, she had told me. It seemed she might well be right.
I felt an increasing sense of anticipation as we drove across the island. Peter was keen to point out various landmarks, and signposts to places that he thought I might find of interest.
‘Of course, you don’t really need to go anywhere else,’ he added. ‘The farm has a huge acreage, and there are plenty of great walks across its fields. Will and Gwen – Mr and Mrs Parry – are lovely and they make you so welcome. But you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.’
We had taken a right turn at the roundabout a mile or so after crossing the bridge, climbing a steep incline past a high school on our left and a housing estate to the right. Reaching the top of the hill, we turned right yet again at a crossroads.
Most evidence of human occupation seemed suddenly to disappear. The road meandered waywardly like the course of a river, rising and falling with views of nothing but verdure and livestock, and the occasional crumbling edifice, beyond low, rough stone walls and hedgerows, for what seemed like miles. Each junction was a tributary, twisting tantalizingly from view.
Peter began to brake suddenly and turned left off the main road through an entrance largely obscured from the highway by a rather neglected hawthorn hedge. The car wheels rattled over a cattle grid and through an old iron gate, held open against a sturdy wooden post with a thick loop of frayed rope. From the centre of the gate, a battered nameplate swung from a rusty chain, over-painted in white capitals with the words ‘Bryn Mawr’.
‘There it is!’ he announced, pointing to a huge white farmhouse at the end of the narrow, roughly tarmacked track, some two hundred yards in front of us. ‘And that’s the cottage. Look.’
To the left of the main house and its outbuildings, a short distance across a field and slightly elevated on a gentle slope, stood the diminutive pale grey stone building. It looked exactly as it had appeared in the photographs.
‘They call it “Tyddyn Bach”,’ Peter informed me. ‘It means “Little Cottage”, apparently.’ He grinned. ‘How twee!’
I almost laughed. I wasn’t quite there yet, but my mood was definitely lifting.
Mr and Mrs Parry were a couple in the autumn of their years, ruddy-faced and stoutly built, with the whitest of hair. I found them quite charming, almost like a pair of old bookends. Inexplicably, there seemed to be an air of quiet sadness about them. They embraced Peter like a long-lost son, and shook me warmly by the hand.
‘Peter’s told us all about you, Mrs Philips,’ said Mrs Parry, beaming. Peter shot her a warning glance, but she clearly intended to make no reference to my fragile mental health, or to my recent bereavement. ‘You’re a teacher, I believe? And I understand you like to draw – Peter says you’ve done some wonderful pictures …’
I smiled. ‘Well, I like to dabble a little – I find it relaxing. Which teaching most certainly isn’t these days!’
‘Well, you’re sure to find plenty to inspire you round here! I do hope the cottage lives up to your expectations. But first things first – come on in and have a cup of tea. I’ve just made scones and crempog – and we’ll all have a proper supper after you’ve had time to unpack.’
‘You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘But do call me Annie.’
An almost imperceptible glance was exchanged between the old couple, but neither said a word.
‘I’ll join you all in a minute,’ said Peter. ‘Just let me take … er … Mrs Philips’ stuff over to the cottage for her. Gwen, have you got the key there, please?’
Mrs Parry delved deep into the capacious pocket of her apron and produced a large, old-fashioned brass key. She handed it to Peter.
‘Don’t be long, then,’ she said, with a smile, ‘or your tea’ll get cold.’
Peter heaved my case from the boot of the car and crossed the field, then crunched over the rough shingle footpath, which had been laid as far as the entrance to the cottage. I watched as he seemed to pause for a moment, looking up as though deep in thought, and then disappeared through the doorway.
I hovered momentarily, unsure whether I should follow.
‘Come along, cariad. I’ll take you over and show you where everything is, once you’ve had some refreshments.’
Mrs Parry led the way over to the main house. I had no appetite, but not wishing to cause offence said nothing, and trailed obediently behind her. I was ushered into a sizeable scullery, where the comforting smell of baking filled the air. It was a typical, old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen, with whitewashed stone walls, and copper saucepans and utensils suspended from a frame attached to the ceiling.
In the centre of the brick-red-tiled floor stood a rustic wooden table, spread with a red and white gingham cloth. A shaft of dwindling sunlight filtered through the small window above the old porcelain sink, washing the heart of the room with a subtle, rosy hue. A huge copper kettle whistled persistently on an ancient blackened range.
I perched uneasily on a particularly hard oak chair proffered at the head of the table. There was never any chance of an awkward silence, as Mrs Parry bustled about, chatting away nineteen to the dozen. She told me that I would be the first person to occupy the cottage since Peter had left last summer; that it stood empty for much of the time these days.
At the end of the last holiday season, Mr Parry had concluded that they should no longer advertise it as a holiday let, since neither he nor his wife were getting any younger. The occasional ‘word of mouth’ occupation might be all right, but it was becoming too much like hard work – ‘Present company excepted, of course!’ said the old woman, with a wink.
The weather, I was informed, as she handed me a plate of warm, buttered scones and pancakes, was improving by the day and there was promise of a heat wave in the next week or so.
‘Milk and sugar?’ She beamed, as she poured strong, steaming tea into a china cup. I nodded, a little overwhelmed.
Mr Parry had seemed content to let his wife monopolize the conversation. He reclined in an old armchair near the stove, his rheumy blue eyes crinkling into a smile, as he drew on his pipe. The occasional puff of aromatic smoke escaped from the corner of his mouth, creating a fog around his weather-beaten countenance. He looked like a caricature, with his battered flat cap, and heavy working boots in which his feet were propped, crossed at the ankles, on an old, three-legged wooden milking stool. Suddenly, he spoke.
‘Have you ever visited the area before, Mrs Philips?’
My request to call me by my first name had apparently been either forgotten or ignored. Or perhaps it was just that Mr Parry came from that generation which considered it impolite to address a stranger by anything other than their formal title.
His voice was gravelly and deep, the words slow and deliberate, with a pronounced northern Welsh lilt. I thought back to the time when Graham and I had spent ten days in Ireland. We had taken in a few nights’ stay at a hotel on the far side of the island, en route to the ferry port.
‘Just the once. My husband brought me a few years ago …’
The memory of that lazy, happy time flooded back. It was mid-May and the trees were in full leaf. Graham had been in buoyant spirits, having recently completed a successful and prominent piece for the newspaper he was working for. I had just received notification of an imminent pay rise and we were both feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.
We had driven north at a leisurely pace, stopping for the odd tea break and photo opportunity. I rarely let my hair down completely, but the mellow spring weather and beautiful scenery were conducive to total relaxation. We took breakfast in bed every day and enjoyed long walks on the beach. Our lovemaking was frenetic, just as it had been in the first flush of our relationship. It was as though we were rediscovering one another.
I put a hand to my neck, remembering the beautiful necklace that Graham had bought for me when we arrived in Ireland. It was a thoughtful, spontaneous gesture and I had been really touched. I loved him so much.
A tight knot was forming in my throat and tears welled in my eyes. For the briefest while, I had managed to put him to the back of my mind for the first time in months.
Without a word, Mrs Parry came over and gently placed a hand on my shoulder.
‘Peter told us about your loss. We understand just how you feel. You see, our son, Glyn, passed away – almost ten years ago, now. The hurt never goes away, you know, not completely. It’s always there, just under the surface, waiting to jump up and sting you when you least expect it. So you feel free to have a little cry whenever you need to. You’re among friends here.’
She smiled, a touch wistfully, and I felt at once grateful and a little more at ease.
‘Didn’t someone say something about tea? I’m gasping!’
Peter had appeared in the doorway. Mrs Parry chuckled as he took his place adjacent to me at the table. She handed him a huge mug, then promptly began to regale him with tales of all that had taken place since his last visit.
Still in something of a haze from the effects of the antidepressants, I leaned back in my seat, half-listening, half-daydreaming.
As I surveyed the room, I noticed several black and white family photographs hanging on the wall near the door: Mr and Mrs Parry in their younger years; Mrs Parry proudly showing off a plump, smiling baby wrapped in a crocheted white shawl; Mr Parry shaking hands with an official-looking gentleman as he was presented with a prize of some sort at a county fair; and, on closer inspection, one of a longer-haired and youthful Peter, accompanied by a grinning, open-faced boy of around twelve or thirteen crouching in the foreground, with one hand resting atop the head of a panting Border collie.
‘Mrs Parry – is that your son in the photograph with Peter?’ I ventured.
The old lady turned to look at the picture and smiled.
‘Oh, yes. Glyn and Peter here were great pals, weren’t you? There were only nine months or so between them. We had Glyn quite late in life, really. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and neither has Peter, and the two of them became friends when Peter used to come and stay with his parents. They’d disappear for hours with that old dog.’
She stared pensively at the photograph for a moment and then turned to Peter. ‘Wasn’t that taken the day you found the box in the field?’
Peter nodded, gulping down the last of his tea. ‘That’s right. Floss sniffed it out.’
I sat up, mildly interested. ‘What box was this, then? Was there anything in it?’ I asked. Peter shifted a little in his chair and appeared to be avoiding eye contact.
‘Oh, some old tea caddy, with just a few coins and stuff inside. Buried treasure, we thought it was at the time. But we were only kids. There was nothing of any real value in it, unfortunately.’
‘Whatever happened to that old box in the end? D’you remember what Glyn did with it, Peter?’ Mrs Parry’s brow furrowed into a frown as she tried to recall.
‘No idea,’ said Peter, dismissively. He rose somewhat abruptly and clapped his hands together as if to show that he meant business.
‘Right, aren’t you going to show your guest round “Tyddyn Bach”, then?’ he said, evidently keen to move on from this latest topic of conversation. He looked pointedly at his watch, which I alone seemed to recognize as a less than subtle hint.
Mrs Parry appeared oblivious to his discomfort. ‘Yes, of course. Here I am chattering on and I bet you’d like a wash and brush-up before supper, wouldn’t you?’
I agreed feebly and was promptly led from the house over to my new temporary abode by Mrs Parry, who continued talking all the while. The air was balmy, but the sun was beginning to wane now, leaving the stone walls of the cottage tinged with a faint pink glow, which reflected the marbled sky of the approaching evening.
‘It looks very pretty,’ I remarked, as we trudged towards the cottage with its pink rose arch. Above the wooden door, which was freshly painted in a deep blue, was a fanlight upon which the words ‘Tyddyn Bach’ had been etched in gold lettering. The roof, covered liberally in moss and creeping yellow lichens, was of mauve-grey slate and sloped steeply, a small dormer window jutting from either side of its centre.
‘It’s a very old building, you know,’ said Mrs Parry, a touch breathlessly. ‘Older than the farmhouse itself, apparently. I’m not quite sure what its original purpose was. My father-in-law had it renovated and his old mam used to live there, after his dad passed away. We thought that Glyn and his fiancée would live there after they were married – but it just wasn’t to be …’
She stopped in her tracks and turned to look me straight in the eye. ‘You will be all right here all on your own, won’t you?’ She looked suddenly concerned.
‘I mean, being in a strange place – and you expecting and everything. A lot of folk might feel a bit uneasy with that, I know …’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve been on my own these past few months,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve never felt so alone. At least here I won’t have memories everywhere I look. And my sister will be joining me soon. No, honestly; I’ll be fine.’
‘When is baby due?’
‘Not for another three months. I’ve just started to balloon to be honest – it’s getting rather uncomfortable.’
‘I know that feeling! It’s no fun, carrying all that excess weight around. I remember my back playing up something awful!’ She smiled a little ruefully.
‘Well, you know where we are if you need anything – and you’re welcome to come over to the farm whenever you like.’
I thanked her for her kindness. She reached out with both hands and squeezed mine affectionately.
‘Oh, Mrs Parry, your hands are so cold!’ I clasped them in disbelief.
‘“Cold hands, warm heart” – isn’t that what they say?’ She laughed. ‘Poor circulation, you know, but very useful when it comes to making pastry!’
In spite of the warmth of the evening I noticed her shiver slightly. She wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her shoulders. ‘Old age, you know. Slows the blood. Such a nuisance.’
She hesitated momentarily, then held the door open for me. ‘Croeso! That’s how we say “welcome” up here.’
The cottage seemed perfect. Its front door opened into a tiny vestibule with an oval mirror on the wall and a stand to accommodate coats, umbrellas and boots. A memory of the distinctive, homely aroma of wood-smoke lingered in the air. The living room led off to the left. It was small but cosy, with exposed oak beams and polished wooden floorboards.
A brightly patterned rag rug lay before the open stone fireplace, its grate already filled with split logs, waiting to be lit. A large basket of old newspapers, presumably for kindling, sat next to the hearth. On each side of the fire stood a comfortable high-backed armchair, with a small, cushion-strewn settee placed in front of the wall beneath the window.
The walls were painted plainly, but hung with various scenic watercolours to break up the monotony. Faded chintz curtains were draped at the window, and tied back to reveal a blissful vista of miles of rolling hills and meadows. I was actually quite pleased to find no television, since somehow I felt it would have been almost intrusive in such a peaceful, timeless setting.
To the right of the vestibule stood the kitchen, which contained all the necessary amenities but almost in miniature – a compact electric stove, small fridge and sink, slender larder cupboard and an old square pine table with two matching chairs, pushed up against the wall just inside the door.
A little breathlessly, I followed a rather unsteady Mrs Parry up the precipitous, rickety staircase, which climbed from the centre of the vestibule to the two bedrooms, one either side of the narrow landing. Each mirrored the other, carpeted identically in pale blue and containing twin beds covered with hand-stitched patchwork quilts, a low cabinet covered with a lace cloth and set with a lamp standing between them. Both rooms contained a chest of drawers, single wardrobe and a washstand with mirror.
The décor was dated but everything was spotlessly clean and smelled pleasingly of lavender furniture polish. From the windows of both rooms the same delightful landscape could be seen. The bathroom, which felt cool in comparison to the bedrooms, was squeezed between the sleeping quarters and tiled in black and white with a cork floor covering. It was complete with an old-fashioned roll-edged tub standing on clawed feet, a washbasin and an ancient toilet with chain, its cistern set high on the wall.
The hint of a damp, musty odour hung in the air. The room felt Spartan, its only concession to frivolity a china vase of artificial flowers sitting on the glass shelf attached to the small mirror above the sink. There was no window, which created a gloomy and somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere.
‘There’s loft space behind this,’ explained Mrs Parry, perhaps sensing my disappointment. ‘Just for storage, you know. Couldn’t really have a window in here or anyone in the attic could see you in the bath!’
I was puzzled. ‘But how do you get into the loft?’ I had noticed no obvious entrance.
The old lady led me back into the bedroom on the left. ‘Look. There’s the door. See?’
On closer inspection, I realized that there was a wooden doorframe just visible in the wall behind the wardrobe.
‘We don’t use it these days, so we just pushed the cupboard in front of it. William – my husband’s – grandmother used to store her bits and bobs in there, but we had a good clear-out after she died. Just a few old books and a couple of suitcases left now, I think. I suppose we could make it into another room but there doesn’t seem much point now, really.’
Peter had left my suitcase in the bedroom in question, and since there was little difference between the two rooms I decided that I would unpack my belongings in the one apparently allocated to me. Mrs Parry told me that supper would be ready within the hour and, having established that I needed nothing else, left me to my own devices.
Once I had put away the last of my things, I opened the window and inhaled deeply, drinking in the soft country air. I looked out across the field to my left and the farmhouse with its outbuildings; then right, where the distant mountains beyond the barrier of trees stood like giant sentries.
I felt a pang, and tears pricked my eyes as I thought of how Graham would have loved it here. He had always been so fond of the countryside. I remembered a time early in our relationship when we had spent a weekend in the Lake District. He had been in his element, his enthusiasm almost childlike; tirelessly climbing fells and jumping over brooks, hiking across fields divided by the area’s distinctive dry-stone walls; waiting with endless patience to photograph the wildlife.
‘I wish I’d been brought up in the country,’ he told me, his grey eyes shining, as we reached the summit of Latrigg. ‘You feel so much more alive.’ He looked round at the view and pulled me to him. The town of Keswick and the beautiful valley of Borrowdale stretched out beneath us. ‘Just look at all this. You, me, and the great outdoors – who could ask for more!’
How could I have known how transient life could be? I had taken for granted that we would grow old together. After only ten years of marriage, I had been left a widow. It was only now that he was gone that I realized just what I had had. The pain of his loss was physical – a relentless gnawing in the solar plexus. Swallowing my tears, I patted my stomach and whispered to the baby cocooned within.
‘Just you and me now, sweetheart. Mummy will take good care of you. I will love you enough for two – don’t you worry.’
I had to be strong. I owed that much to Graham. He would have been the perfect father. I was determined not to let him, or our child, down.
The main road was visible in only brief snatches, the majority of it concealed by the high hedge at the foot of the field. The heat in the room was soporific and I felt suddenly and irresistibly weary. I decided to lie down awhile before joining the others for the evening meal. Closing my eyes, I listened to the sound of the birds twittering their last, as they prepared themselves for the close of day. No traffic, not even a distant hum; no raucous voices from passers-by; just the gentle rush of the evening breeze ruffling the foliage of the swaying conifers that flanked the field.
*
‘Anni wyf i.’
The sense of someone breathing, very close to my ear, awoke me with a start. My pulse accelerated. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up sharply. I must have been dreaming. Since beginning the medication I had not slept solidly, managing only fitful bouts of sleep, interspersed with strange, lucid dreams. I peered at my watch and realized that I was late for supper.
Without intending to, I had fallen into the deepest sleep I had enjoyed for weeks and now felt quite disorientated. The glorious amber light of the setting sun slanted through the open window, lending the bedroom a dreamlike, almost ethereal quality.
The voice, which seemed now to be rising from the foot of the stairs, persisted. ‘Anni wyf i.’
Was someone calling me? It was sexless somehow – familiar, and yet not. The words were muffled. I was still dazed, but dragged myself to my feet. The increasing weight of the baby was beginning to impede my movement somewhat, and I moved stiffly across the floor. A little apprehensively, I peered round the door and down the stairs. I felt relieved to see Peter standing, looking slightly awkward, in the vestibule. It must have been him calling all along. He had not seen me and rapped loudly on the opened door.
‘Hello? Anybody home? Are you coming for something to eat?’
He looked up, startled, as I responded.
‘Sorry; I dropped off. Just give me a minute and I’ll be right down. Have a seat in the front room, if you like.’
I laid a clean pair of maternity jeans and a T-shirt on the bed, before going into the bathroom to rinse my face and run a comb through my hair. Regarding my reflection in the small mirror above the sink, I noted dispassionately that a suggestion of the familiar colour was returning to my cheeks, which had remained so ashen these last months.
Replacing the comb on the shelf, I took a final glance at myself before leaving the room. The bathroom door was ajar and in the reflection behind me, I saw a grey shadow cross the landing from the opposite bedroom into my own. I was at first surprised, then a little peeved. Surely Peter hadn’t come upstairs? He knew I was getting ready.
I pushed open the bedroom door ready to confront him, but the room was as empty as I had left it. I shrugged, clicking my tongue at my foolishness for having misjudged him, and dismissed the shadow as a trick of the light. I dressed quickly, collected my handbag and mobile phone and descended the stairs. Peter, who had been gazing out of the window, turned to greet me.
‘Will I do?’ I asked, jokingly.
‘You’ll do fine,’ he said, smiling. After pulling the door to, we walked down the slope and across to the farm, the sun a huge blood-orange sphere at our backs, sinking behind the distant mountains.
If I had turned then I might have seen. Might have seen that the shadow that I had mistaken for mere imagination was standing, looking down at us, from my bedroom window. And that the glowing, dark eyes that bore into the back of our unwitting heads exuded what could only be described as resentment and malevolence. I might have had some premonitory sense of what was in store for me and how I ought to flee before becoming irrevocably changed for ever by the terror and intensity of my experience.
But for the time being I would remain in ignorance of the depth of hostility cast in our direction. And that this was how it would all begin.
Chapter Two (#ulink_93ff0abc-2fc4-5e62-8d66-db0173b0010e)
I ate well in spite of myself, and although I contributed little to the conversation, enjoyed the banter between Peter and Mrs Parry. It became apparent that they had many shared memories and their obvious fondness for one another was touching.
The resident cat, a beautiful fluffy tabby, had taken a shine to me and, after sitting at my feet throughout supper, climbed up onto my lap, purring. I sat at the table, content to absorb the atmosphere in the warm kitchen; and for the first time in months, I started to take real interest in what was going on around me.
Mr Parry was a man of few words, so when he eventually spoke I was slightly startled.
‘Have you any plans for your holiday, Mrs Philips?’
‘Well, not really. I was just hoping for some rest and relaxation. Nice walks and fresh air, that sort of thing. It’ll be good for me, and the baby too. I might even get my sketch pad out at some point!’ I paused. ‘I know there are several places of historical interest on the island, too. I might like to have a proper look round at some point. I’m quite keen on antiquity: ancient buildings and burial sites; folklore, that sort of thing …’
‘Well now, are you a believer in ghosts, Mrs Philips?’
Peter looked uncomfortable but tried to make light of the question. ‘Oh, you’re not going to try and scare her with one of your old wives’ tales, now are you, Will?’
Mr Parry sat back in his armchair and smiled to himself. He raised his straggly, grey eyebrows a fraction and, looking pointedly in my direction, cocked his head to one side, as if awaiting a response.
‘I – well, I don’t know to be honest,’ I told him. ‘I’ve certainly never seen one myself. Why do you ask?’
‘We used to have a ghost, didn’t we, Gwen?’ The old man looked to his wife, who let out a sigh.
‘Oh, go on with your stories.’ Mrs Parry rolled her eyes as if she had heard it a thousand times before.
‘Do tell, Mr Parry. I love a good yarn.’ I was poised to take his words with a very large pinch of salt, but at the same time intrigued to hear what he had to say.
‘Well.’ Mr Parry rubbed his huge hands together as if he were about to impart some juicy piece of gossip. ‘Bryn Mawr has been in my family for over two hundred years. So there’s a lot of history here, you know. I’ve only a few sheep and a handful of hens these days, and a couple of lads to help me. But years ago my great-grandfather – my hên Taid – kept dairy cattle. They had various people who came and went over the years to milk the cows, and one of them was an orphan girl from the village. Her name was Anwen Davies.’
Mrs Parry muttered something scathingly under her breath and began to busy herself with clearing away the supper things. Mr Parry continued undeterred.
‘It seems that poor Anwen found herself … in the family way, if you know what I mean.’ He cast an awkward glance at my own burgeoning midriff, his cheeks reddening even more than usual.
‘Well, you can imagine: a young girl in that state, not married, all those years ago. It would have been scandalous. Perhaps the baby’s father had moved on and never knew what he’d done; plenty of itinerant workers passed through here at that time. Perhaps he already had a wife and family, or maybe he was just a coward who didn’t want to face up to his responsibilities. Whoever he was, the bugger never came forward to do the decent thing. To cut a long story short, the girl drowned herself in the well across the fields one night –’ He waved a hand to indicate the general direction.
‘My great-grandfather found her the next day. Terrible business.’ Mr Parry shook his head sadly.
‘The well has long since been filled in. But soon afterwards, strange things began to happen.’
‘What sort of … things?’
The old man was certainly a gifted storyteller and had my full attention. The hair prickled on the back of my neck and I leaned forward, eager to hear more. I noticed Mrs Parry shoot him a warning glare, but he carried on regardless.
‘Not very nice things, I was told. Dead crows found in the milk pail. Maggots in the butter churn – that sort of thing. The worst one, though, was when my hên Nain – my great-grandmother – was pushed down the stairs. There was no one else in the house, but she swore she felt a strong pair of hands grip her shoulders and the next thing she knew she was lying in a heap in the hallway. She was heavily pregnant with my great-uncle at the time, too. Luckily, she wasn’t badly hurt, but very shaken up. She wouldn’t stay on her own after that. Can’t say I blame her, either.’
‘Come on now, Will, you’ll be scaring the poor girl out of her wits.’
Peter had, I thought, appeared irritated by Mr Parry’s account of events but had nonetheless remained silent for the duration of the sorry tale. He hauled himself to his feet and stretched. ‘I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember and I’ve certainly never seen anything …’
‘Oh, no – it all stopped years ago. Once my grandparents passed away there was never any more bother. I’ve never seen anything myself and I don’t think my mam and dad ever did, either. Although for a while a few years back, I did notice a peculiar atmosphere in the cottage – and there was just that one time – I could never be sure …’
‘Paid, Will; stop it now! It’s all just silly fireside talk. Don’t you take any notice of him, cariad.’
Mrs Parry turned to me kindly. ‘He used to love to frighten me with his stories when I was younger, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe that they were true. If some poor girl drowned herself, all you can do is feel sorry for her. She must have been a sad, wretched soul to be so desperate. And if any of those things ever did happen here, I’m sure there would’ve been an explanation for them. As I’ve always said, we’ve far more to fear from the living than the dead.’
I nodded in heartfelt agreement. But it had been a fascinating tale and, nonsense or not, I was grateful for the distraction.
‘You ought to tell your story to the local paper, Mr Parry,’ I said, smiling at the old man, who was now preoccupied with stoking his pipe with fresh tobacco. ‘It would definitely drum up plenty of custom for the holiday let. People love a mystery. Look at what the Loch Ness monster has done for the tourist trade in the area …’
At once, he lifted his head sharply, his cloudy blue eyes meeting my own as his leathery brow knitted into a worried frown.
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, actually. We don’t want to go stirring things up again …’
Peter groaned. ‘Right, that’s it. I’m off to bed. I’ve heard enough for one night!’ He tried to sound jovial but was clearly irked for some reason. Mr Parry seemed unperturbed, but his wife, sensing the tension in Peter’s voice, laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.
‘Oh, don’t mind Will, Peter. He just loves a new audience for his old taradiddles – you know that.’
‘I know, Gwen. I’m only joking. But it has been a long day, and I’ve got to drive back in the morning. I think I’ll turn in, if nobody objects.’ He nodded and smiled in my direction. ‘I’ll see you in the morning before I leave, won’t I?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. And thanks so much once again for the lift – it was really good of you …’
‘Don’t mention it. Well, nos da, everyone.’
‘Nos da. I’m learning fast!’ I said, turning to Mrs Parry, who nodded approvingly. ‘I think I’ll get to bed myself; all this clean air and good food has left me feeling quite sleepy.’
‘I’ll walk over with you,’ said Mr Parry, easing himself from his customary armchair near the range.
‘You get used to it after a while, but it’s very dim out there, you know. We don’t have lamp posts on the farm.’
I bade Mrs Parry goodnight and followed the old man out into the velvet darkness. The night was cooler now, and a tangible damp lingered in the air. The breeze had dropped, and the navy-blue sky was clear and bright with stars.
Mr Parry, brandishing a torch, led the way across the field. I followed him as the trusting page had followed Wenceslas, realizing that, even over so short a distance, without his guidance I would have become hopelessly lost.
We reached the cottage and Mr Parry took his leave of me at the end of the shingle path.
‘I hope you sleep well. You’ll join us for breakfast, won’t you?’
‘Yes, thank you. And thank you very much for bringing me back – you were right; I didn’t realize just how dark the night could be without street lighting!’
Mr Parry chuckled and ambled slowly back towards the farm. He stopped for a moment and turned, briefly playing the beam of the torch on the ground behind him; then, waving his free hand at me, he resumed his path. I watched until the thin stream of light had disappeared from view, then went into the cottage and bolted the door, in spite of Mrs Parry’s assurances – ‘We don’t get burglars round here!’ she had declared emphatically.
Having left the light burning in the vestibule on Peter’s advice, I was glad that I had paid heed, since without the illumination of Mr Parry’s flashlight I would have been unable to see more than an inch in front of my nose. The cottage was eerily quiet, with only the gentle rhythmic tick of the mantel clock to break the silence.
I switched on the living room light. I was about to draw the curtains when I thought I saw a pair of dark eyes reflected in the windowpane, looking over my shoulder. I spun round sharply, but found myself alone. I looked back at the glass, which now reflected only my own troubled eyes. A chill went down my spine.
I convinced myself that the tablets were playing havoc with my judgement, and that – coupled with Mr Parry’s tale – had sent my imagination into overdrive. I decided to try to call Sarah before turning in for the night, not having been able to get a signal on my phone earlier. No. The stupid thing still wasn’t functioning. It would have to wait until morning.
Not wishing to be flailing around in the darkness, I decided to leave the vestibule light on in case I wanted to come downstairs during the night. The medication had disrupted my sleeping pattern and it had become habitual for me to wake in the early hours. Try as I might to drift off again, sleep would then evade me, often until daybreak.
I climbed the stairs and felt overcome by a sudden tiredness. In spite of the window being left open, the room had retained the heat of the day and was stiflingly warm. I lay on top of the bed and was asleep almost instantly.
*
‘Anni wyf i.’
I sat bolt upright, a chill running through my very core. I was wide awake now, at first unsure whether the words had been whispered loudly into my ear, or if I were on the brink of stirring from a dream of which I had no memory. I had no idea how long I’d been sleeping but the room was pitch-dark, with only a tiny chink of light shining under the door from the vestibule below.
Whilst I was trying desperately to remain rational, I could not deny that the whole area, which had previously felt warm and welcoming, had taken on a hostile, menacing air. The shroud of darkness had transformed the atmosphere. I had become an uninvited outsider in unfamiliar surroundings. Every corner seemed to harbour unseen threat; every shadow a potential crouching assassin.
‘Anni wyf i!’
Again the same line, yet louder and more persistent. It seemed to reverberate round the walls. I was in no doubt now that the words had been uttered with venom; that someone – or something – meant me harm. My breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. I was filled with a feeling of unreserved dread.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I could discern a silhouette, apparently seated at the foot of my bed. I opened my mouth to scream but the power of speech seemed to have deserted me. I could do no more than watch in sheer terror, as the mattress rose slightly and a nebulous figure drew to its full height, releasing a rush of icy air. I could not – dared not– conceive of what might ensue. I was petrified.
I stared helplessly at the apparition; through the gloom, its body resembled the shimmering negative of an old photograph; but the eyes receded deep into their sockets, as black and fathomless as a calm lake. My stomach lurched as the spectre brushed past me, only to vanish into the wall. I sat, rigid with fear, hardly daring to breathe. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest that it seemed to fill my whole head.
Close to tears and with trembling hand, I reached for the bedside lamp. The room appeared just as it had earlier, but now a distinct and unpleasant chill filled the air. A faint, disagreeably musky fragrance seemed to linger briefly but gradually dispersed.
Once able to move, I rose to reach for the jacket that I had thrown over the opposite bed and, with quivering fingers, drew it around myself. I sat, perched on the edge of the bed and took several deep, calming breaths. A lifelong cynic, I was forced to admit to myself that what I had seen had been real; that it could not be attributed either to my imagination or medication.
I dared not close my eyes again that seemingly interminable night, but sat in bed, propped against my pillows, anxiously awaiting the imminent dawn of the following day. I hugged the swell of my stomach for comfort. How I would have welcomed the background noise and passive company of some banal TV programme now!
The rest of the night passed without event. By daylight, the room felt once again homely and inviting. I resolved to try to rest later in the afternoon, but thought I had better join the Parrys for breakfast. I ran a bath and immersed myself, washing as quickly as I could. Cursing, I grabbed for the side of the basin to steady myself as I climbed out, almost slipping on the wet cork floor.
I felt an urgency to leave the cottage for the moment, and dried and dressed myself hurriedly, so that I might have the opportunity to speak to Peter about my unsettling experience before his departure.
Clutching my mobile phone, I almost ran down the shingle path towards the farmhouse, my mind still trying to make sense of what I had seen and heard. The morning was bright and clear, and already the sun’s warmth was making its presence felt.
Peter was just loading his overnight bag into the car as I approached. He looked up and greeted me with a grin.
‘Somebody’s hungry! I’ve never seen anyone quite so eager for their breakfast … hope there’s still some left. They eat very early here you know …’
But his smile faded and the colour drained from his face, as I blurted out everything that had happened during the night. I felt it imperative to stress that I was not normally given to flights of fancy and knew that what I had seen was most definitely real.
Peter remained silent for a time. His expression was grave. He stood, twisting his fingers together, as though reliving some terrible event from his past. When he eventually spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘I thought … that all that had stopped now.’
He stared at the ground. I waited, suspecting that he was building up to revealing something momentous. Then he raised his eyes to meet mine.
‘Look – I really ought to tell you something. When we were younger, Glyn and I – we thought it’d be a bit of a laugh, to be honest. You know what kids can be like. It was after his dad had been telling my parents about the resident ghost. We’d heard about these “Ouija” boards and we thought we’d set one up in the cottage.’
I watched his face as he began to dig into the archives of his memories and to replay one that he would clearly have preferred to erase.
‘We’d have been about thirteen,’ he continued, after a long pause. ‘It was during the summer holiday. Mum and Dad had gone out for the evening and we decided that it would be the ideal time. We wrote out the alphabet, and the words “yes” and “no”, on a big sheet of paper, and cut all the letters and words into little squares. We spread them out in a circle on the floor in the living room, and put an empty glass in the middle – you know, upside down. Glyn had seen somebody using one in a film once, so he knew what to do.’
Peter seemed to shudder at the memory.
‘Of course, there was a good deal of giggling and messing about. We each put an index finger on the glass and started asking questions: daft things like “will it rain tomorrow?” and “will we ever win the pools?” at first,’ he went on. ‘I think we were both pushing the glass ourselves to begin with. Glyn was keen on this girl that he went to school with and he wanted to know if she fancied him, too, so that seemed like a more interesting question. I pushed it to spell “you must be joking”, just to wind him up. But after that the glass started to move by itself. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t answering our questions any more – just spelling out horrible messages … in Welsh.’
‘What did it say?’ I prompted Peter. His words seemed to have dried up, as though he were lost in some disturbing recollection.
He stared at me blankly. ‘Glyn translated. He didn’t want to tell me at first, but I insisted. It said … that my parents were going to die,’ he said, simply. ‘That I would be left an orphan.’
I had no knowledge of Peter’s family, only that he lived alone. ‘Was it – did it come true?’ I asked, hesitantly.
He lifted his face to look at me, his expression betraying no emotion. ‘Oh, yes. They were killed shortly after we returned to the Midlands. An armed robbery that went wrong … and they’d had an appointment with the bank manager. Something to do with their mortgage, I think …’
I had a vague recollection of hearing about an incident some twenty years ago, when several people had been seriously injured in a bungled bank heist. The manager himself and two customers had perished when the gunman ran amok.
‘Oh God, Peter. I’m so sorry.’ I felt guilty for making him relive his loss and reached out to clasp his hand. His palm was clammy and he was shaking.
He resumed the story. ‘We thought it was pretty sick, but didn’t take too much notice. Perhaps he’d read it wrong. Anyway, then it said that Glyn would never get married. And when we asked why not, there was just one word: “M-A-R-W.” It means “dead” or “death”. Of course, you know the outcome of that prediction.’
Peter shook his head and gazed into space. ‘When we asked who was giving us the messages, the glass started going crazy, darting around all over the place. But then we heard a voice – a creepy, disjointed, childlike voice. It just said “Mae hi’n gwybod”. And then the glass shattered.’
‘What’s that? Somebody’s name?’
‘Oh no. It means: “She knows”.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_85d5c7ee-d92b-586c-aeee-67d9e74e1e13)
I felt a little stunned by Peter’s revelation, but at the same time relieved that I had not completely lost my faculties. What puzzled me was why, if there had been no recent recurrence of any preternatural activity at the farm, it had suddenly reared its head once more.
Peter seemed to have an explanation.
‘To tell you the truth, I’ve had a bit of a morbid fascination with the paranormal ever since,’ he told me. ‘Apparently, the arrival of someone new at a haunted location can sometimes stir things up again. I didn’t mention anything before, as I didn’t want to put you off coming. And as nothing’s happened for donkey’s years, I saw no need to bring up the subject. Which was why I was a bit cross with old Will.’
‘So – d’you think that what I saw – and what spoke to you – was the ghost of the girl that Mr Parry was telling me about last night?’
‘It seems pretty likely, yes.’
‘But didn’t you say you’d never actually seen anything yourself?’ I looked into Peter’s face and his cheeks flushed as he stared down at his shoes.
‘Seen – no.’ He looked a little sheepish. ‘Heard – well, it was as I’ve just explained … There were a few odd happenings after that: things being moved from their proper place, pictures falling off the wall; but nothing particularly sinister. And after Glyn died it all just fizzled out.’
‘What happened to Glyn?’
‘He died of a sudden heart attack. I was staying here at the time, as it happens. Right out of the blue – we’d just come back from taking some sheep to market and he’d seemed absolutely fine, laughing and joking as usual. It was a terrible shock for everyone, especially since he always appeared so fit and healthy. Just makes you realize – you have to live for the here and now.’
Peter glanced at his watch, his eyes widening. ‘Shit, I really don’t want to seem rude, but I must hit the road. I’ve got a meeting to attend this afternoon.’
‘Yes, of course – don’t let me keep you. Well, have a safe journey and I’m sure I’ll see you when I get back.’
‘You aren’t worried – about going back to the cottage, I mean? It must have been pretty unnerving for you.’
I thought for a moment. In the cold light of day I felt more rational about the whole experience – and after all, it wasn’t as if I had come to any harm.
‘No. I think it was just the shock of being woken like that and not really knowing what it was. I’ve only got another couple of nights till Sarah arrives, so I’m sure I’ll be all right. Although I’ll be keeping the light on at bedtime … and I might just borrow that cat for company,’ I added, with a grin.
Peter smiled. He slammed the boot of the car shut. ‘Well, that’s me, then! See you soon, I hope; and enjoy the rest of your stay.’
Mrs Parry came hurrying breathlessly over to the car, cradling a small cardboard carton. ‘Oh, I thought I’d missed you. I’ve just brought you a few eggs – fresh this morning! You can have them for your tea later. See you in August, shall we?’
Peter nodded and hugged the old woman. ‘Thanks for everything, Gwen.’
‘Safe journey, cariad.’
We stood and watched as the car rumbled down the rough driveway and eventually disappeared as it passed over the cattle grid.
Mrs Parry turned to me. ‘Let’s get you some breakfast, young lady. Did you sleep well?’
‘Mmm … could have been better. Probably being in a strange bed, I expect. I’m sure I’ll have settled in properly by tonight.’
I decided to say nothing for the time being about my disrupted night. We walked over to the farmhouse, passing a group of chickens oblivious to our presence, as they pecked with great concentration at the grain scattered for them in the courtyard.
‘Free range – make the best layers, you know. I don’t hold with that battery farming nonsense,’ declared the old woman. ‘How does crispy bacon and scrambled eggs sound?’
It sounded surprisingly tempting and I followed Mrs Parry through the door, outside which an old-fashioned bicycle – the sort with a basket attached to its curved handlebars – was propped against the wall. We walked into the kitchen. Mr Parry was in his usual chair by the range and in mid-conversation with a thin, sharp-featured woman of around fifty, who was sitting at the table drinking tea. She eyed me with what I felt was disdain, casting a look at my rounded abdomen, and with a barely discernible nod of her head, muttered a perfunctory, ‘A’right?’
‘Bore da, Mrs Philips!’ Mr Parry beamed through his customary halo of pipe smoke. ‘This is Mrs Williams, one of our neighbours. Marian, this is Mrs Philips. She’s the friend of Peter’s I was telling you about, staying in Tyddyn Bach for a few weeks.’
Pulling up a chair, I sat down opposite the woman, who was decidedly aloof. I extended a hand, which she shook with little enthusiasm.
‘Call me Annie,’ I said, in an attempt to break the ice. But this seemed to provoke an odd reaction. Mrs Williams stared at me as though I had slapped her. She made no comment but her cheeks flushed and her dark eyes narrowed into a hard stare. I felt her scrutinizing me from head to foot and it was not a comfortable sensation.
‘So you’re a friend of that Peter’s, are you?’ The voice was harsh and high-pitched.
I nodded. ‘Well, strictly speaking he’s my sister’s work colleague. I don’t know him that well, to be honest.’
‘Huh, you’d be as well to keep it that way, if you want my opinion.’
‘Now then, Marian.’ Mrs Parry placed a cup of tea in front of me and gave Mrs Williams a knowing look. ‘Let bygones be bygones. Peter’s a good lad, you know. I won’t have you calling him …’
‘You can say what you like, but there’s plenty round here who think the same as I do, Gwen. He’s trouble, that one. Even when he was a boy, I knew there was something not right about him.’
‘Oh, Marian, not that again. Mrs Philips hasn’t come here to listen to us arguing.’ Mr Parry let out a sigh and rose from his chair. ‘I’m off to Caernarfon this morning. I’ve got to pick up a couple of sheep. Would you like to come along, cariad?’ He smiled at me. ‘Or do you have plans?’
‘Thank you for the offer, Mr Parry, but I think I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you. I’d like to have a proper look round the farm today, if that’s OK?’
‘Of course, you do whatever you like. Have a good morning.’ He turned to his wife. ‘I’ll be back for lunch about one, Gwen.’
‘See you later, then.’ The old woman planted a kiss on her husband’s proffered cheek.
‘I must be off now, too.’ Mrs Williams stood up abruptly. She was a good deal taller than I had expected, towering a good six inches above Mrs Parry, which accentuated her gaunt frame. ‘Thanks for the panad. So if you don’t need any cleaning doing today, shall I call again on Thursday?’
‘Yes, that would be fine. Ta-ra, then.’ Mrs Parry winked at me as the old man and Mrs Williams made their exit. We watched through the window as the two of them stood talking for a moment. There seemed to be a few heated words exchanged before the woman mounted her bicycle and pedalled furiously away down the driveway.
‘What was all that about?’
‘You mustn’t take too much notice of Marian. She’s become a bit bitter and twisted. Not a bad woman, don’t get me wrong; but she’s got some odd ideas.’
‘She’s really got it in for poor Peter, hasn’t she? What on earth has he done to upset her?’
‘It’s a long story. Marian’s daughter, Aneira, and our Glyn were sweethearts from when they were both in their late teens. She was a nice enough girl – a little scatter-brained, but good-hearted. They got engaged when Glyn turned twenty and, I believe I told you, they planned to move into the cottage once they were married.
‘Anyway, she never really got on with Peter for some reason, and his friendship with Glyn caused a lot of rows between the two of them whenever he was up here. She went missing last year, you know. They’ve never found her … terrible for her poor mother. It’s a cruel thing to lose a child – but not to know if they are alive or dead must be a living nightmare.’
‘That’s awful. What happened, exactly?’
Mrs Parry looked around and lowered her voice as though someone might be eavesdropping.
‘There was talk – in the village – that she’d taken up with some rough chap from the other side of the island. I couldn’t blame her for that, mind. Glyn passed away years ago and you can’t expect a young girl to live like a nun for the rest of her life. But she still used to come and help me now and then, with cleaning and such, especially when the cottage was being rented out. She never spoke about her boyfriend, if that’s what he was, and to be honest I didn’t want to know.
‘Well, one night last summer, there was a bit of a rumpus outside. Peter had come up to stay in the cottage for a few days. It was pitch-black out there – you’ve seen how it gets yourself. Will took his torch and his shotgun – just in case – and went to find out what was going on. Aneira was screaming at Peter, who was standing in his pyjamas in the doorway of Tyddyn Bach. Will saw a van disappearing down the drive.’
She paused. ‘I think poor Peter was quite shaken up. Will tried to calm Aneira down, but she was hysterical and ran off after the van. And that was the last time anyone saw her.’
‘But – why was she shouting at Peter?’
Mrs Parry shrugged. ‘He didn’t seem to know himself. Said it was something to do with him staying in the cottage when it was going to be her home. Well, that may have been true while Glyn was alive, but she distanced herself from us for quite some time after he died, even if she did do odd jobs for me later on. Surely she didn’t expect to be moving in there on her own – and certainly not with some ruffian she’d fallen for!’
‘Oh, dear. But why is her mother so angry with Peter? Did he do something to upset her?’
‘Not that I know of. I reckon Marian just wants someone to blame. I don’t think she knew anything more about why Aneira was so upset with Peter than you or I, but made the connection with the fact that she’d been to see him just before she disappeared. I think she’s put two and two together and made five, to be truthful.’
‘What about the van? Did anybody manage to trace it?’
The old woman shook her head sadly. ‘It was too dark for Will or Peter to see clearly, and neither of them got a proper look at the driver. I just hope that, one day, she’ll turn up. She might have just run off with the chap. But where they would have gone is anybody’s guess. The police have searched the whole of North Wales and beyond, but no one seems to have seen her anywhere.’
I ate my breakfast and turned the information over in my mind. I felt terribly sorry for Peter, who seemed to have been made the scapegoat, but at the same time sympathized with Mrs Williams, even if she was rather sour. I reasoned that, after all she had been through, it was understandable.
Thanking Mrs Parry for the food, I asked if I might explore the farm.
‘Of course. Will you be joining us for lunch? I could make you a few sandwiches if you prefer …’
I puffed out my cheeks, patting my stomach. ‘Never mind eating for two – I’ve been putting away enough to keep an army going since I got here!’
‘Nonsense!’ The old woman laughed. ‘That’s what you want – fresh air and home cooking. Set you to rights in no time.’
I agreed to return in time for lunch, which left me a good three hours to look round. I walked back past the cottage, but kept my eyes firmly trained on the path beaten before me. Gingerly climbing the stile at the far edge of the field, I found myself in a vast meadow filled with wild flowers: buttercups, delicate blue cornflowers, cow parsley and poppies as bright as drops of blood.
The air was still and humid. I walked for what seemed like an age, alone with my thoughts and the perfect peace of the seemingly endless countryside. Butterflies hovered in their droves. A red admiral alighted on my arm for a moment and then floated dreamily away.
The heat was not conducive to walking any great distance and, feeling increasingly breathless, I decided to head for the shade of the large oak tree in the centre of the field. My feet almost ran away with me as I descended the slope. I laughed out loud, grateful that I had no audience, since I must have looked a comical sight, waddling down the hill in such an ungainly fashion, with my beach ball of a stomach. The baby wriggled within, obviously stirred by this sudden bout of activity.
I lay down on the cool turf, gazing beyond the tree’s welcome umbrella at the miles of unbroken blue sky above. The only sound was the almost hypnotic whirring of the crickets concealed within the long grass. My phone bleeped without warning, shattering my reverie. It was a text message from my colleague, Kate.
‘How r u? What’s the weather doing?’
I smiled to myself. I didn’t hear from her often but we had always got on well at work. I knew that she would still be at school as the term wasn’t due to end for another fortnight. I couldn’t believe how little I’d thought about my job since Graham died. It seemed so trivial now. I could no longer envisage myself delivering a lesson or chairing a faculty meeting, much less marking books and handing out detentions. I couldn’t even see myself returning to the role after the baby was born. It had all paled into insignificance.
I sat up, lifting the mobile to take a photograph, by way of an answer. But a sudden shadow passed overhead. The temperature had cooled noticeably and the scent of the field’s flowers was immediately overpowered by that of a sickly, musky odour. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding. Slowly lowering the phone to reveal what had caused the occlusion, it fell from my hands as I started in fright.
I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. My heart began to pound and I let out an involuntary scream. Floating above and a little in front of me, no more than two feet from the top of my head, was the outline of a woman, featureless except for a pair of intense, dark eyes that seemed to look straight through me – a grey, translucent vapour.
How long I lay there, I do not know. Time seemed to stand still as, powerless to move, I felt compelled to gaze in horror upon the shadowy figure that seemed to be pinning me to the ground. It felt suffocating.
The penetrating eyes suddenly shifted their focus and locked with mine. It was as though I were staring into an abyss. I was gripped by an awful, cold dread as I acknowledged the blatant contempt in their expression. Fleetingly I wondered if I would leave the field alive; did she mean to take my life and that of my unborn child? I was completely helpless.
The figure’s hand was extended as though pointing towards something behind me. As I turned stiffly to look, I noticed that there were several sets of initials carved deep into the trunk of the old oak.
‘Anni wyf i.’
Immediately, I recognized the same disembodied voice that had whispered in my ear the night before. My stomach turned over. As though released from a vice, I felt suddenly able to move properly, and jerked my head back to examine her more closely; but the apparition had faded away. My quivering arms covered in gooseflesh, I scrambled to my feet and looked around me. All was still. I was alone once more.
I stood frantically scanning the field, hardly daring to believe that she had definitely gone. My whole body was quaking with fear. Taking deep breaths to regain my composure, I peered at some of the letters on the tree.
G. P. ♥ A. W. AM BYTH – 1992
G. P. – Glyn Parry, surely? And the girl he was engaged to – Aneira Williams. Kneeling down, with trembling forefinger I traced the outline of another group of initials nearer the base of the trunk, which were older and less well defined.
J. O. P. + A. H. D. 1845
Could it be? Anwen Davies – the unfortunate milkmaid; but who was J. O. P.? I would have to ask Mr and Mrs Parry about my discovery. And I felt I no longer had any alternative but to tell them about my unusual visitations. Shaken and emotionally drained, I made my way back to the farm, not daring to look behind me. I was beginning to wonder if it had been such a good idea to come here after all.
*
The moment I entered the kitchen, Mrs Parry realized that something was amiss. She ushered me towards Mr Parry’s chair in front of the stove and bade me sit, whilst I struggled to get the words out.
The old woman listened in grave silence as, breathless and still reeling from my experience, I stammered an explanation of what I’d just seen and what had taken place during the night. She sat beside me holding my quavering hand, and said nothing for quite some time.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve never taken too much notice of Will’s stories. All the time I’ve lived here I haven’t seen anything of that sort. But then I suppose spirits – if that’s what they are – can’t always be seen by everyone.’
She looked at me curiously. ‘Has anything like this ever happened to you before?’
Her expression told me that she wasn’t entirely sure whether the whole thing could have been in my imagination. A recently bereaved pregnant woman in a strange place; perhaps I was just hysterical and rampantly hormonal. It was not an unreasonable assumption to make.
I sighed and shook my head. I had always been what I considered down to earth and healthily sceptical. The nearest I had ever come to a paranormal experience was when I had once predicted the unlikely winner of the Grand National after an unusually vivid dream, but I put that down to having read about the runners in the newspaper a few days before the race and thought the name of the horse must have lodged somewhere in my subconscious. That – and the copious amount of wine I had consumed the previous night. A fluke, no more, I had told myself.
‘Peter’s looked into it all, apparently. He said that if there are spirits in a place, even if they’ve laid low for years they can be stirred up again when someone new arrives. He told me all about what happened when he and Glyn messed about with the Ouija board when they were kids.’
Mrs Parry released my hand and stared at me. She sat back in her seat, looking stunned.
‘What Ouija board? That’s the first I’ve heard of it …’ Her voice had become uncharacteristically hard and she studied me in disbelief.
‘I’m sorry – I thought you knew.’ I felt instantly awkward and regretted having opened my mouth.
‘Glyn wouldn’t have done a thing like that; I’m sure of it. He was a sensible lad. And I always thought Peter was, too.’ Mrs Parry considered for a moment and her face softened a little. ‘What exactly did he tell you, then?’
Reluctantly, I repeated almost everything that Peter had told me: about the messages that had been spelt out (omitting their content) and the eerie voice that had spoken to them. Anxiously, I watched the old woman’s face for a reaction.
‘Well,’ she said, after thinking for a moment. ‘I’m not surprised they didn’t tell us. I’ve heard all about those boards and the things that have happened to people after they’ve used them. Glyn would have felt the back of my hand if I’d found out. And Peter’s mam and dad wouldn’t have been too impressed, either.’
The familiar smile returned to her face and I relaxed a little.
‘Still, what’s done is done, I suppose. Listen now, if you’d feel happier staying here tonight instead of at the cottage, I can make you up a bed. I’m sure there’s nothing to be scared of, but I don’t want you to go back there if you’re going to feel frightened.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? My sister’s supposed to be coming up on Wednesday so I’ll be OK after she arrives. But I must admit I don’t really want to stay there on my own …’
But I was no longer on my own. And although I had no idea at the time, it would make no difference where I stayed. What- or whom-ever my arrival had disturbed would remain with me wherever I went.
Chapter Four (#ulink_0ca7e02f-202a-58c2-aeef-e99dd25680d4)
Mrs Parry accompanied me to the cottage to collect some belongings and waited outside whilst I rushed upstairs and hurriedly stuffed a few essentials into a carrier bag. Before leaving, I glanced through the living room doorway to check if I had left anything in there that I might need. I frowned as I noticed a newspaper lying on the floor, which I was sure had not been there earlier. Pushing the door fully open, I recoiled, taking a sharp intake of breath as I saw the whole pile of newspapers which had been neatly stacked in the basket by the fire now scattered across the floor, as though someone had thrown them around in a fury.
I stooped to gather the papers, some of which had been ripped and screwed up into balls. A couple of the newspapers appeared to have been placed, rather than thrown, squarely before the hearth. One particular headline caught my eye.
‘MISSING LOCAL GIRL: POLICE QUESTION HOLIDAYMAKER’
I smoothed out the rest of the page, my eyes widening as I read, then reread, the caption that accompanied the photograph beneath. I recognized the woman in the picture as the dour Marian Williams, who was brandishing a framed headshot of an attractive young woman with thick, dark hair that sat in waves on her shoulders.
‘Aneira Williams was last seen ten days ago when friends say she had seemed “agitated”. A man in his thirties holidaying at Bryn Mawr farm, near Llansadwrn, has been helping the local constabulary with their inquiries. Officers are trying to trace the driver of a small, dark-coloured van (registration unknown) seen at the farm on the night of Aneira’s disappearance and are appealing for anyone who may have seen or spoken to Miss Williams shortly before, or since, the last known sighting of her to come forward. Any information received will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
There followed a telephone hotline number to dial for the benefit of any possible witnesses. My eyes travelled to the top of the page. It was dated the third of August 2008.
I shivered. It was as if the article had been placed there for me to find. I realized at once that the man held for questioning must have been Peter, and wondered why Mrs Parry had neglected to mention the fact. After folding the newspaper under my arm, I quickly tidied the remainder of the pile as best I could and went out into the sunshine.
‘Have you got everything?’ Seeing my troubled expression, Mrs Parry’s expression changed to one of concern. ‘What is it?’
I said nothing but handed over the paper, watching for her reaction as she scanned the words, and the image of her neighbour. Mrs Parry sighed. She folded the article over again and looked me in the eye.
‘Yes, the police did question Peter. But they released him almost straight away. I mean, they had to find out what he knew, after the girl turning up here like that. And Marian had probably added fuel to their suspicions. Once they’d spoken to him, though, they certainly didn’t think Peter had anything to do with Aneira vanishing the way she did. As I said, I’m sure the key to finding her was that van.’
‘But you didn’t tell me they’d had him in for questioning. They don’t usually do that unless they suspect …’
Mrs Parry shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve known Peter most of his life. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And if I’d told you that he’d been arrested, not knowing him that well, you might well have thought there’s no smoke without fire. Most people would. No. Peter would never be involved with anything sinister; you take my word for it.’
Although I wanted to accept her explanation, a niggling seed of doubt had begun to germinate in my mind. I felt sure that the newspaper had been left strategically for me to discover. But who – or what – had put it there?
We walked back to the farmhouse in silence, she as deep in thought as I. The old woman led me through the kitchen and out into the coolness of the dingy hallway. A grandfather clock concealed in a recess chimed in the hour, startling me. On the wall facing the clock hung a grim-looking painting of an elderly woman in traditional old-fashioned Welsh dress, wearing a tall black hat with ribbon tied beneath her chin.
I paused to examine the image more closely. The scene depicted was that of the interior of a chapel, with several people seated in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. One man had lifted his face to look at the woman who was walking up the aisle, wrapped in a shawl and carrying what was presumably a hymn book.
Mrs Parry saw me staring at the painting and chuckled.
‘That used to be a very popular picture in these parts,’ she informed me. ‘It’s called “Salem”. Not my cup of tea at all – it belonged to Will’s mother. Here – ’ She waved a hand at the shawl the woman was wearing. ‘See, if you look carefully in the folds – it’s the face of the devil.’
I recoiled, wondering why on earth anyone would want to hang such a sinister, portentous picture in their home.
‘The story goes that the old woman arrived late for chapel so that everyone would notice her beautiful new shawl, apparently. The devil represents her wicked pride. Now then!’
I peered at the painting and shuddered. The creases of the shawl created the devil’s facial features – the fringe beneath its beard. It sent an unpleasantly cold feeling through my veins.
I followed Mrs Parry up the wide, dogleg staircase, gripping the sturdy oak banister for fear of slipping on the threadbare runner of carpet held in position by tarnished brass stair rods. She led me off the equally dark landing through a heavy wooden door into a pleasant but dimly lit room with an old sash window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, the long brocade curtains tied back with thick golden cord.
The aspect through the yellow-tinted panes of glass was to the opposite side of the farmland from Tyddyn Bach. It revealed several fields of sheep, divided alternately by the usual low walls and intermittent trees, far beyond which stood a small, solitary house. At the farthest side of the first field, I could make out the well that Mr Parry had spoken of. A shiver ran through me.
The room seemed untouched by time. It was like stepping back into the nineteenth century. The air was stale, as though the space had remained unoccupied for months, or even years. An ancient brass double bedstead stood in the centre, covered with a faded gold silk eiderdown. There was an old blanket chest at its foot. A tallboy stood against the wall opposite, next to the window. In the corner of the room was a washstand, with mandatory porcelain pitcher and bowl, their glaze yellowed and cracked with age. The floor was of dark-stained oak boards, with a small, thin rug placed at one side of the bed. On the same side a large, dusty oil lamp sat on a low bedside cabinet.
With supreme effort, Mrs Parry slid the huge window open, winding the sash cord around a hook to secure its position. The gloom lifted immediately. Particles of dust danced in the soft shaft of light that had been allowed to pass through.
‘Phew! I’ll give it a good clean and make up the bed for you after lunch. It’s not as comfy as the bedroom in Tyddyn Bach, I know. But it’ll only be for a couple of nights. And it’s much cooler in here, to be honest. Better for this time of year, eh.’
I nodded in agreement. It had certainly been unbearably stuffy in the bedroom last night.
Peering through the window once more, I gazed at the old well across the field. I reflected on Mr Parry’s story – and wondered about the wretched girl who had drowned herself. What agonies she must have suffered, God only knows. If it was indeed her causing all the disruption, I could understand why she would feel aggrieved. But why was she targeting me? Was it because I too was pregnant?
I stood staring out of the window, my thoughts racing. Beyond the well, my eye was drawn to the small house in the distance.
‘Who lives there, Mrs Parry?’
The old woman turned to look. ‘That’s Marian’s place.’ She laughed. ‘I told you she was our neighbour. Round here that can mean anything up to a couple of miles or more!’
‘It looks … lonely.’
‘Oh, no – I wouldn’t say that.’ The old woman was dismissive. ‘It might look a bit isolated, but there’s always plenty going on over there. Never a dull moment. Marian’s husband used to farm, but he died years ago, so she sold off the land. It was only a small acreage, mind, so I don’t think she got much. It’s been a struggle for her, being on her own. She’s got two big lads still at home. They help Will out now and again, when it comes to lambing and such. Lovely boys, Ianto and Tudur. I expect you’ll meet them sooner or later; they’re round here often enough.’
I said nothing but resolved to take a walk over to the house at some point. I was more than curious to know if there was some other reason for Marian Williams’ animosity towards Peter and equally keen to learn more about Aneira. I began to churn the whole intriguing situation over in my brain like the plot for a whodunnit.
‘Anyway, bathroom’s down the landing, second door on the left. Well, cariad, I must press on. Will shall be back soon and I haven’t peeled the tatws yet!’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, no. You can come and talk to me if you like. I’ll tell you all about the antics our Glyn and Peter used to get up to. They were a pair, those two!’
Mrs Parry clearly relished an opportunity to talk about Glyn. I still found it desperately hard to speak of Graham in the past tense. Everything was still very raw and any mention of him sent me tumbling back into a very dark place. He had been part of my life for fourteen years. We met when I was working part-time as a waitress in a café, whilst finishing my PGCE. I served him and a group of his friends and had immediately been taken by his quiet, gentle manner and expressive grey eyes. I was thrilled when he had approached me at the end of the evening to ask for my phone number.
Ours was a whirlwind romance. I was bowled over by him and we had moved in together within three months. It was the happiest time I had ever spent. I hated myself now for having lost sight of what was important in life. My career had been the main focus of my existence these last few years; it now seemed completely irrelevant. I couldn’t care less if I ever entered a classroom again – but it was too late to realize that now. He was gone and nothing could bring him back.
Mrs Parry and I went back down to the kitchen and had been there only minutes when to my astonishment, a dishevelled Peter strolled in, his shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows, face and hands smeared with grime.
‘Bloody car!’ He sounded exasperated. ‘I’d barely done twenty miles when it broke down. I had to walk into Bethesda to the nearest sodding garage. The chap towed it and dropped me back here. He’s not sure what the problem is yet and said he’ll ring later. I’ve no hope of making the meeting now.’
‘Ah, bechod!’ Mrs Parry could not disguise her pleasure. ‘Well, looks like we’ll be needing to set an extra place for lunch.’
Inwardly, I could not help but squirm a little. In spite of all of Mrs Parry’s assurances, I was beginning to wonder if Peter was all he seemed. I tried to behave normally, but he had obviously seen enough of me by now to realize that something was awry.
‘What have you been up to today, then? Have you had chance to take a good look round yet?’ He stood leaning next to the sink as Mrs Parry frenziedly peeled more vegetables like a woman possessed.
I decided that honesty was the best policy. ‘I’ve had a bit of an upset, actually.’
Peter raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? What’s happened?’
‘I … something weird happened out in the fields …’
I swallowed hard, unsure how much to divulge about my discovery. Mrs Parry decided to speak on my behalf. She shot Peter a knowing look.
‘Mrs Philips had, well, a bit of a fright out there. Seems it might have something to do with what happened to her last night … and she also enlightened me about some mischief you and Glyn got up to when you were lads,’ she said, hand resting on hip in a mock-scolding fashion. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
Peter looked sheepish. ‘It was a long time ago, Gwen. We were just daft kids – you know what we were like. Anything for a laugh.’
‘Well, I can’t pretend to understand what made you do something that daft. You weren’t stupid, either of you.’
‘No. I can’t explain it. We just felt … compelled, somehow. I suppose it was a bit of bravado too, you know, “I bet you wouldn’t dare” – that sort of thing.’
‘No matter. It’s over and done now. Anyway, Mrs Philips has decided to stay here in the house tonight. She doesn’t want to be in the cottage on her own. I suppose you’ll be staying too, then?’
‘It’ll all depend on what’s up with my car. The bloke will let me know before this afternoon, so I’ll know by then.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Is it OK if I have a bath? I feel a right mess.’
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