скачать книгу бесплатно
‘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.
I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. My heart began to pound and I let out an involuntary scream. Floating above and a little in front of me, no more than two feet from the top of my head, was the outline of a woman, featureless except for a pair of intense, dark eyes that seemed to look straight through me – a grey, translucent vapour.
How long I lay there, I do not know. Time seemed to stand still as, powerless to move, I felt compelled to gaze in horror upon the shadowy figure that seemed to be pinning me to the ground. It felt suffocating.
The penetrating eyes suddenly shifted their focus and locked with mine. It was as though I were staring into an abyss. I was gripped by an awful, cold dread as I acknowledged the blatant contempt in their expression. Fleetingly I wondered if I would leave the field alive; did she mean to take my life and that of my unborn child? I was completely helpless.
The figure’s hand was extended as though pointing towards something behind me. As I turned stiffly to look, I noticed that there were several sets of initials carved deep into the trunk of the old oak.
‘Anni wyf i.’
Immediately, I recognized the same disembodied voice that had whispered in my ear the night before. My stomach turned over. As though released from a vice, I felt suddenly able to move properly, and jerked my head back to examine her more closely; but the apparition had faded away. My quivering arms covered in gooseflesh, I scrambled to my feet and looked around me. All was still. I was alone once more.
I stood frantically scanning the field, hardly daring to believe that she had definitely gone. My whole body was quaking with fear. Taking deep breaths to regain my composure, I peered at some of the letters on the tree.
G. P. ♥ A. W. AM BYTH – 1992
G. P. – Glyn Parry, surely? And the girl he was engaged to – Aneira Williams. Kneeling down, with trembling forefinger I traced the outline of another group of initials nearer the base of the trunk, which were older and less well defined.
J. O. P. + A. H. D. 1845
Could it be? Anwen Davies – the unfortunate milkmaid; but who was J. O. P.? I would have to ask Mr and Mrs Parry about my discovery. And I felt I no longer had any alternative but to tell them about my unusual visitations. Shaken and emotionally drained, I made my way back to the farm, not daring to look behind me. I was beginning to wonder if it had been such a good idea to come here after all.
*
The moment I entered the kitchen, Mrs Parry realized that something was amiss. She ushered me towards Mr Parry’s chair in front of the stove and bade me sit, whilst I struggled to get the words out.
The old woman listened in grave silence as, breathless and still reeling from my experience, I stammered an explanation of what I’d just seen and what had taken place during the night. She sat beside me holding my quavering hand, and said nothing for quite some time.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve never taken too much notice of Will’s stories. All the time I’ve lived here I haven’t seen anything of that sort. But then I suppose spirits – if that’s what they are – can’t always be seen by everyone.’
She looked at me curiously. ‘Has anything like this ever happened to you before?’
Her expression told me that she wasn’t entirely sure whether the whole thing could have been in my imagination. A recently bereaved pregnant woman in a strange place; perhaps I was just hysterical and rampantly hormonal. It was not an unreasonable assumption to make.
I sighed and shook my head. I had always been what I considered down to earth and healthily sceptical. The nearest I had ever come to a paranormal experience was when I had once predicted the unlikely winner of the Grand National after an unusually vivid dream, but I put that down to having read about the runners in the newspaper a few days before the race and thought the name of the horse must have lodged somewhere in my subconscious. That – and the copious amount of wine I had consumed the previous night. A fluke, no more, I had told myself.
‘Peter’s looked into it all, apparently. He said that if there are spirits in a place, even if they’ve laid low for years they can be stirred up again when someone new arrives. He told me all about what happened when he and Glyn messed about with the Ouija board when they were kids.’
Mrs Parry released my hand and stared at me. She sat back in her seat, looking stunned.
‘What Ouija board? That’s the first I’ve heard of it …’ Her voice had become uncharacteristically hard and she studied me in disbelief.
‘I’m sorry – I thought you knew.’ I felt instantly awkward and regretted having opened my mouth.
‘Glyn wouldn’t have done a thing like that; I’m sure of it. He was a sensible lad. And I always thought Peter was, too.’ Mrs Parry considered for a moment and her face softened a little. ‘What exactly did he tell you, then?’
Reluctantly, I repeated almost everything that Peter had told me: about the messages that had been spelt out (omitting their content) and the eerie voice that had spoken to them. Anxiously, I watched the old woman’s face for a reaction.
‘Well,’ she said, after thinking for a moment. ‘I’m not surprised they didn’t tell us. I’ve heard all about those boards and the things that have happened to people after they’ve used them. Glyn would have felt the back of my hand if I’d found out. And Peter’s mam and dad wouldn’t have been too impressed, either.’
The familiar smile returned to her face and I relaxed a little.
‘Still, what’s done is done, I suppose. Listen now, if you’d feel happier staying here tonight instead of at the cottage, I can make you up a bed. I’m sure there’s nothing to be scared of, but I don’t want you to go back there if you’re going to feel frightened.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? My sister’s supposed to be coming up on Wednesday so I’ll be OK after she arrives. But I must admit I don’t really want to stay there on my own …’
But I was no longer on my own. And although I had no idea at the time, it would make no difference where I stayed. What- or whom-ever my arrival had disturbed would remain with me wherever I went.
Chapter Four (#ulink_0ca7e02f-202a-58c2-aeef-e99dd25680d4)
Mrs Parry accompanied me to the cottage to collect some belongings and waited outside whilst I rushed upstairs and hurriedly stuffed a few essentials into a carrier bag. Before leaving, I glanced through the living room doorway to check if I had left anything in there that I might need. I frowned as I noticed a newspaper lying on the floor, which I was sure had not been there earlier. Pushing the door fully open, I recoiled, taking a sharp intake of breath as I saw the whole pile of newspapers which had been neatly stacked in the basket by the fire now scattered across the floor, as though someone had thrown them around in a fury.
I stooped to gather the papers, some of which had been ripped and screwed up into balls. A couple of the newspapers appeared to have been placed, rather than thrown, squarely before the hearth. One particular headline caught my eye.
‘MISSING LOCAL GIRL: POLICE QUESTION HOLIDAYMAKER’
I smoothed out the rest of the page, my eyes widening as I read, then reread, the caption that accompanied the photograph beneath. I recognized the woman in the picture as the dour Marian Williams, who was brandishing a framed headshot of an attractive young woman with thick, dark hair that sat in waves on her shoulders.
‘Aneira Williams was last seen ten days ago when friends say she had seemed “agitated”. A man in his thirties holidaying at Bryn Mawr farm, near Llansadwrn, has been helping the local constabulary with their inquiries. Officers are trying to trace the driver of a small, dark-coloured van (registration unknown) seen at the farm on the night of Aneira’s disappearance and are appealing for anyone who may have seen or spoken to Miss Williams shortly before, or since, the last known sighting of her to come forward. Any information received will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
There followed a telephone hotline number to dial for the benefit of any possible witnesses. My eyes travelled to the top of the page. It was dated the third of August 2008.
I shivered. It was as if the article had been placed there for me to find. I realized at once that the man held for questioning must have been Peter, and wondered why Mrs Parry had neglected to mention the fact. After folding the newspaper under my arm, I quickly tidied the remainder of the pile as best I could and went out into the sunshine.
‘Have you got everything?’ Seeing my troubled expression, Mrs Parry’s expression changed to one of concern. ‘What is it?’
I said nothing but handed over the paper, watching for her reaction as she scanned the words, and the image of her neighbour. Mrs Parry sighed. She folded the article over again and looked me in the eye.
‘Yes, the police did question Peter. But they released him almost straight away. I mean, they had to find out what he knew, after the girl turning up here like that. And Marian had probably added fuel to their suspicions. Once they’d spoken to him, though, they certainly didn’t think Peter had anything to do with Aneira vanishing the way she did. As I said, I’m sure the key to finding her was that van.’
‘But you didn’t tell me they’d had him in for questioning. They don’t usually do that unless they suspect …’
Mrs Parry shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve known Peter most of his life. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And if I’d told you that he’d been arrested, not knowing him that well, you might well have thought there’s no smoke without fire. Most people would. No. Peter would never be involved with anything sinister; you take my word for it.’
Although I wanted to accept her explanation, a niggling seed of doubt had begun to germinate in my mind. I felt sure that the newspaper had been left strategically for me to discover. But who – or what – had put it there?
We walked back to the farmhouse in silence, she as deep in thought as I. The old woman led me through the kitchen and out into the coolness of the dingy hallway. A grandfather clock concealed in a recess chimed in the hour, startling me. On the wall facing the clock hung a grim-looking painting of an elderly woman in traditional old-fashioned Welsh dress, wearing a tall black hat with ribbon tied beneath her chin.
I paused to examine the image more closely. The scene depicted was that of the interior of a chapel, with several people seated in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. One man had lifted his face to look at the woman who was walking up the aisle, wrapped in a shawl and carrying what was presumably a hymn book.
