Lay Me to Rest

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

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.