скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
