Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.
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.
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.