Lay Me to Rest

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

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.