Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.
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.