Lay Me to Rest Page 6

  Steeling myself, I strode purposefully out past the cottage, back over the stile and down the slope once more towards the old oak tree. The day was becoming increasingly hot. Not having taken any form of exercise in recent months, plus with the extra weight I was carrying, I found it quite exhausting.

  Cautiously, I approached the site of my earlier visitation. The phone was not in immediate evidence. I lowered myself inelegantly to the ground and, on my hands and knees, scoured the area beneath the tree. I eventually found it, on the opposite side from where I had lain down earlier. I cursed under my breath. The screen was cracked. It must have hit a stone when I dropped it. I lifted the thing to my ear but it was completely dead. I felt a sudden surge of panic. I needed to talk to Sarah desperately. Leaning against the trunk of the tree for support, I hoisted myself back to my feet.

  And then I saw it. Around the other side from the carved letters, and roughly level with my shoulders, the oak tree had a hollow, slightly more than a foot in diameter, in its trunk. I peered into the hole. A thin shaft of sunlight poured through a gap in the tree’s foliage, causing something to glint from its depths.

  My heart quickened. Taking a deep breath, I reached tentatively inside. The interior of the tree was damp and cool, home to all manner of insect life and mouldering leaves. I could feel nothing as yet, but fumbled blindly around until my hand struck something smooth and solid. With great difficulty, I stretched my fingers to their limits and managed to manoeuvre the item up the inside of the trunk. I nearly dropped it more than once but eventually succeeded in grabbing the thing in the nick of time before it slipped from my grasp. It was a tight squeeze, but after a good deal of pulling and tugging I managed to prise it free from the hole.

  I sat back on the grass, panting from my exertions, and stared with fascination and not a little satisfaction at what I had discovered.

  It was a box. Not just any box: intricately carved wood inlaid with brass and mother-of-pearl. It was rectangular in shape and, at a guess, measured about ten inches by six. I tried to lever it open but the lid was stuck fast. Turning it over in my hands, I rubbed the surface gently to remove the soil and detritus that had collected in any grooves or orifices. I saw that there was, in fact, a small brass keyhole, which had become plugged with damp earth.

  Then I remembered. The old tea caddy that Glyn and Peter had found all those years ago. Could it be that this was what I had uncovered? I struggled to my feet and made my way back to the farmhouse, carefully nursing my discovery. I felt a rush of adrenaline. Thoughts galloped through my mind: what was in the box? Who had taken the trouble to hide it inside the tree – and, more importantly, why?

  Chapter Five

  Before having discovered the contents of the tea caddy, I was dubious as to whether it would be prudent to tell anyone that I had found it. I remembered Peter’s discomfort when the subject of the box was raised. Although deep down I thought he was probably harmless, I wanted to know more about Peter and somehow felt certain that there was more to him than met the eye.

  I was confused and needed to discuss my concerns with someone. Mrs Parry was clearly totally besotted with the man and would not entertain any negative suggestions about him. I was desperate to speak to Sarah. I knew that she would never have entertained the idea of Peter taking me on a journey if she harboured any doubts about his good character.

  How I missed Graham. I had come to realize just how much I relied on him: his down-to-earth nature and wry sense of humour; his warm, comforting physical presence. It was definitely a case of not appreciating what I had until it was no longer there. The hated constricting knot formed in my throat once more and that awful, grinding pain like something twisting in the gut. I let out a huge sigh.

  And then the strangest thing happened. There, standing before me as large as life, stood my dead husband. He looked pale and drawn, but solid. I felt I could have reached out and touched him. I stopped dead in my tracks and almost dropped the box. I opened my mouth to speak but it was so dry that the words remained unspoken.

  His sad, grey eyes locked with mine. I wanted to run to him, to wrap my arms round him and tell him how much I loved him; how desperately I wanted him here with me, now more than ever. I wanted to tell him about the baby – our baby. To tell him how sorry I was for being a fool and immersing myself in my stupid job. My feet felt as if they were sinking into the ground and I could not move. All I could do was stare helplessly.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. Go home where you belong. I’m sorry …’

  Sorry – for what? For leaving me all alone in the world when I needed him most? Surely I was the one who needed to apologize. I had taken him for granted, made him unhappy.

  Just as suddenly as he had appeared he vanished again, leaving me at once shocked and elated. I had seen Graham and this was proof to me that there was a hereafter. There had to be. I needed to believe that much.

  My head swam. Gathering my senses, I hurried back towards the farmhouse, my heart and mind racing. I must hide the box, I thought. Pausing for a moment, I felt in my pocket for the key to the cottage. It was still there. I looked around to see if anyone was about. The coast was clear. Quickly, the tea caddy tucked under one arm, I scrambled back across the stile and up the slope to the shingle path.

  Reaching the door my hand shook so much that the key almost slipped from my grasp, but somehow I managed to turn it in the lock. Under the bed. No one would be likely to look there for the moment. My breathing was shallow and laboured. Looking neither to the left or right, I ran up the rickety staircase and into the unoccupied bedroom and, kneeling with some difficulty, slid the box carefully beneath the bed nearest the door.

  A cool shadow passed slowly across the bedroom wall. The deafening sound of my racing heart filled my head as the same unwelcome musky odour was carried on the air. Not daring to look back, I thundered back down the stairs as though being pursued by a pack of ravenous wolves, almost missing my footing, but managed to steady myself.

  I held my stomach, as if to reassure the baby that all was well. Pulling the door to behind me, I heaved a sigh of relief. Mr Parry’s truck was rumbling up the driveway. He saw me and waved. I returned the gesture and, gulping deep, calming breaths of the sweet air, walked as sedately as possible over to the house where the old man was just climbing down from his vehicle.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Philips. Have you had a good morning? You look a little … warm.’

  Putting a hand to my cheek I realized that it was damp with sweat. I tried to make light of my breathless demeanour. ‘I … took a walk over the fields earlier and had to go back because I’d dropped my phone.’

  I produced the mobile from my pocket as if presenting him with the proof. ‘It’s broken, though.’

  ‘What a shame. You can always use our telephone if you need to make a call, you know. It’s not a problem.’

  I thanked him and we walked across the courtyard and into the kitchen, from where the smell of boiled cabbage wafted unappetizingly.

  ‘Oh, there you are. I’m just about to dish up.’ Mrs Parry set about putting the plates on the table and spooning a generous dollop of mashed potato onto each. There were sizeable lamb chops with gravy, and honeyed carrots and parsnips to accompany the cabbage, which made the meal rather more appealing than the aroma had first suggested.

  A freshly washed Peter appeared from off the hallway, wearing one of Mr Parry’s old collarless shirts. The old man threw both hands up in surprise.

  ‘Brenin mawr, I thought you’d gone home!’ he said, his face lighting up.

  Peter grinned sheepishly. ‘Car trouble,’ he explained.

  Glancing down at my hands, I realized that traces of the debris from inside the tree were still embedded beneath my fingernails. I excused myself and went up to the bathroom to wash quickly before eating. I looked cursorily into the mirror before descending the stairs and was surprised by what I saw. In spite of the lack of sleep I had developed a glow and looked, well, more alive than I
had done in months.

  The conversation over lunch consisted of general small talk. All the time the cogs in my brain turned furiously. Above all I was anxious to make contact with Sarah, but also had a burning curiosity to discover what secrets, if any, the box had to reveal. I kept picturing Graham’s solemn face, and his words replayed themselves over and over in my head.

  Having finished the meal, my only thought was to speak to my sister.

  ‘I wonder if I might use your phone? I’ll pay for the call of course. I’ve gone and broken my mobile.’

  Mrs Parry nodded. ‘No problem. You carry on. It’s in the hall. Twenty-pound minimum charge, mind.’

  I must have looked taken aback. Mr Parry winked at me and chuckled. ‘If you’re not calling a mobile it won’t cost a penny. Take as long as you like.’

  I would have to phone Sarah’s office, as she was unlikely to be at home for a good couple of hours yet. It was an old-fashioned apparatus and the circular dial seemed to take for ever to return after inputting each number. Engaged. With one finger I depressed the receiver and waited a few moments, then tried again. After the third attempt it rang out at last. A man’s voice answered. ‘Sarah Powell’s phone – can I help you?’

  My heart sank. ‘Is Sarah there, please? This is her sister.’

  ‘Sorry, no. Sarah’s not in today. I believe she phoned in sick this morning.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said flatly. ‘I’ll try her at home. Thanks anyway.’

  I hung up and dialled my sister’s home number, but the phone rang and rang in that hollow, resonant fashion that seemed to imply there was no one at home.

  Perhaps she’s in bed if she’s not well, I mused. I would have to try her mobile. It rang twice and then the answering machine chipped in with the usual leave a message blurb.

  ‘Sarah, I really need to speak to you. Please ring me back on this number as soon as you get this.’ I peered at the digits on the dial and read them back into the phone, then replaced the handset. Deflated, I returned to the kitchen.

  I had clearly interrupted some private discussion, since a hush fell as I returned to my seat. Mr Parry broke the silence. ‘I’ve been hearing all about what’s happened to you. Are you all right?’ He looked genuinely concerned.

  Things must have been welling up inside me because, without warning, I broke down. Not being able to contact Sarah had been the final straw.

  Mrs Parry put her arms around me and I sobbed and sobbed: deep, racking sobs that shook through my whole body. I don’t know how long I remained like that. It seemed that time stood still and I was oblivious to my surroundings. And then gradually I began to relax once more. It was as if all the months of pain and misery had come to a head. I felt completely drained but also, strangely, an inexplicable sense of relief.

  Dabbing my face with the hankie that Mr Parry had pressed into my hand, I felt suddenly foolish. I stared at the floor, uncomfortably aware that all eyes were upon me. ‘I’m sorry. What must you think of me …’

  ‘Nonsense!’ The old man was firm. ‘You were supposed to be coming here for a nice break and it seems that it’s just made things worse for you. I don’t think we’d better leave you on your own from now on.’

  I assured everyone that I would be fine. Perhaps I had been on the verge of some sort of breakdown. Not having taken antidepressants before, I didn’t know in exactly what capacity they might affect the brain. I began to rationalize in my own head: it was quite feasible that I had been hallucinating. I’d never had any belief in the paranormal before – so why should anything change now? And even if things had happened here in the past, what was so special about me that my arrival should resurrect it after so many years?

  Here I was, in an unfamiliar place with strange people, at a vulnerable point of my existence. Graham … the ghost woman … maybe they were just figments of my imagination. The poor baby – what sort of mother was I going to be? My mind was in turmoil.

  Gratefully, I drank the tea that Mrs Parry set in front of me. I turned to look at Peter who was studying me anxiously.

  ‘I could take you out for a drive, if you like; show you some of the sights – if Will wouldn’t mind lending me his truck, that is …’

  I thanked Peter for the offer but declined. What was wrong with me? He had shown me nothing but kindness. He didn’t owe me a thing and had brought me here out of sheer goodwill. I began to feel guilty that I could ever have suspected him of being capable of … of what? Abduction? Murder, even? Was paranoia a side effect of the medication? I needed to talk to my doctor.

  But a small voice niggled somewhere at the back of my mind. The box … what about the box? That was real enough. The contents would probably be completely innocuous and I would feel even more foolish, if that were possible. Nevertheless, I had to know what was inside. And then perhaps I could start to enjoy my holiday.

  Chapter Six

  It was difficult to go back to the cottage without constant observation, both from the Parrys and the vigilant Peter, who was overtly concerned with not letting me out of his sight, lest further manifestations by some phantom, imagined or otherwise, should provoke another emotive outburst from my fragile self. I was hopeful that the news about the state of the car would be good and that he would be returning home later in the day. I reconsidered his earlier offer and, thinking it might appease him, agreed to accompany Peter to Beaumaris for the afternoon in Mr Parry’s truck. After all, I wasn’t likely to come to any harm – and I might learn something.

  I was instantly impressed by the approach to the town, where many quaint, brightly coloured cottages lined both sides of the main road, which descended steeply towards its centre. Overlooking the seafront stood several much grander Georgian-style terraced buildings, painted in equally vibrant shades.

  The good weather had brought out the holidaymakers and local people alike in their droves. The heat was oppressive and I was grateful for the sea breeze as we walked along the pier, watching excited children as they caught crabs from long fishing lines and collected the unfortunate creatures, which clambered over one another in small buckets.

  ‘I used to love doing that when I was a kid.’ Peter smiled at the memory. ‘Dad used to bring me here often when we had a fine day. Or to the beach at Llanddona.’

  ‘Sarah mentioned that your father’s family came from round here.’

  ‘Yes. My grandparents died when I was only small so I don’t really remember them. My mum didn’t have any close family. Dad’s sister and her husband lived near Menai Bridge. I stayed with them for a time after my parents … passed away. They were lovely people. Both dead now, though. I got on well with my cousins, but I think things got too much for my aunt. Her health wasn’t great and her dead brother’s adolescent son on top of three kids of her own – two of them boisterous lads to boot – well, I can appreciate now how it must have been for her. At the time I felt pretty hurt that I had to leave.’

  We walked back up to the pebble beach. I eased myself onto a bench next to the sea wall, resting both hands on my bump, whilst Peter absent-mindedly skimmed stones at the water and watched as they bounced, leaving ripples in their wake.

  ‘Where did you go – after you left your aunt’s?’ I ventured.

  ‘A children’s home in Bangor for a while, then I was moved back to the Midlands and into foster care. Neither was what you might call a nurturing experience. I left as soon as I’d turned sixteen. I moved into a dump of a bedsit and got a series of dead-end jobs. I’d had a small, regular allowance but there was more money – from my parents – coming to me when I turned eighteen. I moved to Birmingham and went to college. In a way the whole experience did me a favour. I knuckled down and got my act together. I s’pose it’s paid off.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t move in with the Parrys. They seem very fond of you.’

  ‘It wasn’t an option, I’m afraid. These situations aren’t as clear-cut as you might think. They weren’t family and there’s all
sorts of red tape to trawl through before you’re allowed to foster or adopt. Surprising, really, when you look at some of the arseholes that seem to make it through the selection process.’

  His lips set into a hard line and he threw a final stone viciously, narrowly missing a gull which had been bobbing unassumingly on the water. I decided to pursue the subject no further as it appeared to have hit a nerve. But there was something I felt compelled to ask him.

  ‘Peter – Mrs Parry told me that you and Glyn’s fiancée Aneira … had a difference of opinion about something. Was there any particular reason you didn’t get on?’

  Peter looked taken aback. He stared out to sea as if hunting for inspiration. Eventually he turned to look at me.

  ‘Aneira took a disliking to me from the word “go”. It was actually through the eldest of my cousins, Carys, that she first met Glyn. They knew one another from school and Carys introduced them at some disco or other. Aneira was a moody sort of girl and became possessive about him. She didn’t want to share him with anyone else and was resentful of our closeness.

  ‘The day he died … they’d had a massive row because he’d chosen to take me to market instead of going on a shopping trip with her. Petty, I know; but the fact was that he gave her a few home truths about her attitude, how she was smothering him and killing his love for her – and that was how things had been left. She’d never had the chance to smooth things over and, well, she blamed me. It rankled with her that they’d parted on such bad terms and she felt it was all my fault.’

  ‘And the day she disappeared – why was she so angry with you?’ I studied his face, keen to see his reaction to this line of questioning.

  Peter sighed, his gaze shifting back out to sea once more. ‘People were saying she’d got in with a bad crowd – and one lad in particular. There was talk of drug-taking and … other stuff. I imagine she was running short of cash. She came to the cottage and I think she was expecting a hand-out. I reckon she was hoping I’d feel guilty about being the cause of ill feeling between her and Glyn. Maybe this new chap put her up to it; I don’t know.