Lay Me to Rest Read online

  ‘Anyway, I more or less sent her away with a flea in her ear; so she started yelling at me, trying to make me feel bad about staying in what she felt should’ve been her home; saying I was using the Parrys, the usual crap. But how the hell was I to know she was going to vanish into the night?’

  He sat down on the bench beside me, lowering his voice. ‘Naturally the police wanted to question me, after all the hullabaloo. But they were perfectly happy with my explanation. Her frigging mother won’t let it rest, though. I’m sure she thinks I’ve done something to the girl. I only wish she’d turn up – one way or the other – so the whole thing could be put to bed.’

  Peter’s version of events had made me view things in a different light. I suddenly felt sorry for him – and guilty that I had misjudged him. We sat in silence for a time.

  He turned to face me suddenly, his expression intense. ‘You and Graham – you were very happy, weren’t you? It must be really hard for you – with a baby on the way and everything.’

  I was a little surprised, as the subject of my husband had never been broached before. ‘We were once, yes. At least, I always thought we were … I only wish now that we’d managed to have children before he … It might have made things more bearable …’

  I surprised myself with this revelation. Graham and I had often discussed starting a family but the time had never felt right. It was always a crucial moment in my job or his – but with hindsight, in either circumstance, the decision had always ultimately been mine and it was my work that had taken priority. I was always chasing that promotion; putting in hours voluntarily at the end of the day to raise my profile, going the extra mile to help my students improve their grades. Even during the school holidays, I filled my time with marking and diligently preparing the next scheme of work; I even organized extracurricular outings for the pupils, to the theatre or birthplace of some eminent playwright or poet, hoping to ignite their enthusiasm for my subject.

  There just didn’t seem to be room for a baby in my life. Perhaps if I had been more amenable earlier in our relationship, my chances of conceiving might have been greater then. What cruel irony that Graham had been robbed of his chance of fatherhood.

  I called to mind one Saturday some twelve months earlier when we had driven out into the country. The weather had been glorious and the spot we chose idyllic. Graham had prepared a picnic and we parked the car in a deserted lane, spreading a blanket under the shade of a huge willow tree near the glistening river. After eating, we lay back and he talked of his plans for our future, twisting my hair sensuously round his fingers as I stared idly skyward. He gently tilted my chin towards him and gazed into my eyes.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great to have a little one to bring somewhere like this, Annie? It’s just perfect here.’ His expression was almost pleading as he studied my face. I remembered laughing and trying to make a joke of it.

  ‘Just think how the moment would be spoiled if you had to run off and change a nappy – or mop up puke? And you wouldn’t be able to just lie here enjoying the scenery – you’d need eyes in the back of your head! The baby might crawl off and fall in the water. Nah – all things considered, I think it’s better with just the two of us.’

  He had smiled, a little dolefully, and changed the subject. The tone of the afternoon seemed to alter after that and I had been relieved when we eventually returned home.

  Now, I looked wistfully over my shoulder at the young families walking up and down the pier: women proudly pushing babies in prams, and laughing toddlers carried high on their fathers’ shoulders. My eyes flooded with tears once again.

  ‘I’m sorry Annie – this is my fault. I’m always putting my bloody great foot in it.’

  Seeing his anguished expression I couldn’t help but smile. I pulled a crumpled tissue from my pocket and wiped my eyes, then blew my nose vigorously.

  ‘I think we’re quits on that score. Come on – there’s an ice-cream van over there. I’ll treat you!’

  We walked back up the main street, silently relishing the ice creams that were melting fast and dribbling down their cones in the heat. Passing numerous tea and souvenir shops, we eventually reached the castle, behind which we had parked the truck.

  ‘I’d better try and get hold of the garage to see what’s happening with my motor,’ Peter told me, a little ruefully. ‘Pity I’ve got to get back, really. Especially with the weather being so good.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a shame. I’ve had a nice afternoon, Peter. Thank you.’

  Our eyes locked for a moment and I dropped my gaze, feeling slightly uncomfortable. However innocent, it didn’t seem quite right somehow, enjoying another man’s company so soon after losing Graham.

  Peter could get no reply from the garage on his phone, so we drove back out of the town, through the avenue of trees, which bowed their heads to meet in a canopy above us. We passed by the houses in Llansadwrn and the fields beyond, eventually turning left onto the main Pentraeth road and back to Bryn Mawr.

  Peter failed to conceal his disappointment upon seeing his car parked near the outbuildings. The mechanic from the garage had brought it back and was standing, leaning against his tow truck, swigging tea and chatting to Mr Parry.

  ‘No major problems – I’ve replaced the fan belt and she should be as good as new,’ he announced, raising an oily hand to place his mug on the wall. ‘Mr Parry – Will – here has settled up for you, so I’ll be off now. You’ve got my number if you ever have any more problems, haven’t you?’ He turned to shake Mr Parry by the hand. ‘Thank your missus for the tea, Will. Fancy – your dad being at school with my uncle. Small world, eh!’

  We waved as the tow truck headed back down towards the main road.

  ‘What do I owe you, Will?’ Peter produced a brown leather wallet from his back pocket.

  ‘Put that away. You can take me for a pint next time you’re up,’ the old man said, winking good-naturedly.

  Peter slapped him on the back in gratitude. ‘If you’re sure …’

  We went into the farmhouse to find Mrs Parry in her customary role as hostess, busily piling plates with sandwiches and huge slabs of Victoria sponge. Two burly young men in their early twenties, quite obviously brothers from the similarity of their appearance, were ensconced at tableside. They smiled broadly as we entered the kitchen.

  ‘Just in time for tea!’ Mrs Parry beamed. ‘Peter – you remember Tudur and Ianto?’

  ‘Of course!’ Peter nodded and smiled, shaking each by the hand respectively as they stood up momentarily, towering above him. Clearly her sons did not share the acrimony Marian Williams felt towards Peter.

  Ianto greeted him with a brotherly hug. ‘Good to see you again!’ he said, grinning. Peter looked a little choked.

  ‘And this is Mrs Philips,’ continued Mrs Parry. ‘She is staying with us at the moment.’ The old woman beckoned to me, and I received an equally warm reception from the two lads, blushing as each of them bent forward in turn to kiss me on the cheek.

  ‘Sorry about the stubble,’ said Tudur, whom I later discovered to be the younger of the two.

  We all sat at the table and I watched open-mouthed as Ianto and Tudur greedily devoured sandwich after sandwich, regularly replenishing their plates with several enormous slices of cake.

  ‘Growing lads,’ observed Mr Parry jovially, noticing the look of amazement on my face.

  ‘It’s working outdoors – gives you a colossal appetite!’ declared Ianto, his cheeks bulging with food. He winked at Peter and the two of them laughed. There seemed to be a rapport between the two men, which I found touching, since Peter had lost his best friend. The constant jokes and chatter were dizzying, but refreshingly entertaining. I suddenly realized how uplifting it was to be surrounded by people after the lonely few months I had just spent.

  After tea, the two men excused themselves as they returned to work.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Philips,’ they said, almost in unison.

  ‘See you again!’
said Tudur. ‘Pop over for a cup of tea some time – Mam would be pleased to see you. She likes to have a natter.’

  I nodded and smiled, unsure about this final statement. Mrs Williams had seemed anything but pleased to meet me. Perhaps I’d caught her on an off-day.

  The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet and empty. It was as if a whirlwind had passed through.

  ‘Told you they were lovely boys,’ said Mrs Parry, as she cleared the table. ‘A breath of fresh air! They don’t take after their mother, that’s for sure.’

  Peter smiled wryly to himself, but made no comment. Looking up at the clock on the wall, he let out a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose I’d best be off again, then. The car’s all sorted so I think I’ll go now before the rush hour starts.’

  Once more, we said our goodbyes and watched as he drove away. Mr Parry announced that he had a few errands to run and disappeared once more in his old truck. I asked to be excused and went up to my room, which Mrs Parry had kindly spring-cleaned for me. I thought of Peter’s final words to me as he climbed into the car, and smiled inwardly.

  ‘I’m only at the end of a phone if you need to talk to someone. I hope we can stay in touch when you get back.’

  I thought that I might like that, although perhaps not just yet. I still needed more time to adjust to my present situation – and a new baby might complicate things further. But any doubts I had harboured about Peter seemed to have evaporated. Our afternoon together had made me see him in a different light.

  Reclining on the bed, I suddenly remembered a remark that Graham had made at the party the night he was killed. Something I had overheard. Funny, how it should just pop into my head like that. I frowned. Most of the events of that day were a blur, as though I had blotted them from my mind because it was simply too painful. We had been at a gathering held by one of his work friends.

  Whilst I was an English teacher, Graham had been a reporter for the local newspaper. He wasn’t particularly ambitious and had remained in the same position for years. In all honesty, I wasn’t terribly keen on the people he worked with. Many of them seemed hard-nosed and not afraid of treading on people’s toes just to get a story. Although – who the hell was I to judge them? It sickened me now to think that I had been so motivated by furthering my career, that I couldn’t simply appreciate what I had and enjoy time in my husband’s company.

  I didn’t really want to go to the party initially, but had forced myself because it might ultimately have been useful to me in some way. I was never one to miss an opportunity to network. But why had Graham stormed out in such a temper? I was aware that I had drunk far more than I ought to that night. Just as I had the previous Christmas. I cringed inwardly as I remembered my behaviour on Christmas Eve.

  Christmas had always been a special time for Graham and I. We would enjoy a late, leisurely breakfast and exchange presents. We’d prepare the meal together and Sarah would usually join us later in the afternoon for dinner, and then we’d all drink too much and have a laugh playing charades, eventually falling asleep watching television. Then on Boxing Day, the two of us would drive north to Yorkshire, to visit Graham’s dad.

  But our last Christmas together had been something of a fiasco. One of my colleagues had invited everyone in the English faculty round for drinks and nibbles on Christmas Eve. Graham had originally intended to accompany me, but had a raging headache.

  ‘You go along without me,’ he told me. ‘I’ll only be a wet blanket if I come along feeling like this. Besides, I need to take painkillers and sleep it off if we’ve got the dinner to cook tomorrow.’

  And so I had gone to the gathering. I didn’t intend to stay long, but inevitably one drink led to another. It was gone two o’clock when I eventually returned home. By the following morning, I was nursing the hangover from hell and in no fit state to prepare, let alone eat, dinner. I spent most of the day in bed. Sarah came to help Graham cook and was suitably unsympathetic to my self-inflicted plight. Suffice to say, I had ruined Christmas for my husband. I felt ashamed.

  I knew that my drinking the night of Graham’s death had somehow contributed to his heated reaction. But exactly why, I couldn’t recall. My memory of it all was inexplicably muddled. It was too distressing to think about. I dismissed my thoughts for the present and went back, instead, to concentrating on the box. I still needed to know what was inside.

  I lay supine atop the eiderdown for a while, but my mind was too restless for sleep. Swinging my legs round, I was on the verge of getting up when some flicker of movement from the far side of the room caught my eye. For no obvious reason, the old jug on the washstand appeared to wobble. Initially I thought it a mere trick of the light, but the increasingly loud vibration of china against china was reminiscent of an impending earth tremor.

  Paralysed by fear, I watched, mesmerized, as the pitcher rose slowly into the air as if lifted by an invisible hand and plunged violently to the ground, smashing into several pieces. My heart thumping as though on the verge of exploding, I could do no more than stare defencelessly as the accompanying bowl flew across the room and, missing my ear by a hair’s breadth, collided with the wall behind the bed head, leaving jagged segments of pottery scattered across the floor.

  I let out a shriek. Having heard the disturbance, Mrs Parry was in the doorway in an instant. She clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.

  ‘What on earth … oh Duw!’ The poor woman’s eyes looked ready to leave her head as she gawped at the remains of her china distributed around the room.

  I was rooted to the spot, shaking like a leaf. ‘Mrs Parry … I don’t know what happened. Something – someone – here doesn’t seem to like me very much. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if I left …’

  ‘I won’t hear of it! I think it’s high time we got this thing sorted once and for all. I’ve heard that there’s a minister from Penmynydd who they say has had a lot of success with this kind of … situation … over the years. I’m going to find his number. His name is Reverend Arfon Evans.’

  Chapter Seven

  My nerves frayed, I decided I needed to get out of the house for a while. There was no chance of resting with everything that was going on and I wanted to clear my head. Mrs Parry was looking up the number for the ghost-busting minister and said she would ask him to come immediately, if possible.

  ‘I could do with stretching my legs and getting a bit of fresh air. It might help to calm me down,’ I told her. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll just take a walk over to the Williams’ place. Maybe Mrs Williams would like a bit of company …’

  Mrs Parry smiled at the irony in my voice. ‘Oh, she’s not so bad, you know. Just try to steer clear of the subject of Peter though – it does get her a bit … upset, as I’m sure you noticed!’

  I laughed. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll try not to put her back up. I’ll be back in an hour or so. I don’t think that the minister will arrive before then, do you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose it’ll all depend on whether he’s free right away. Take all the time you need anyway, cariad. A good walk might perk you up!’

  I made my way across the field, pausing to look at the well as I passed by. Its walls were constructed from old bricks, and a rusty metal grille covered its opening. I craned my neck to look over the edge, though nothing could be seen but a few large stones. There was no longer any water at its extremity and the odour rising from it was dank and earthy.

  I had the strange sense that someone was standing behind me and spun round, wondering if Mrs Parry had followed me to make sure I was all right. There was no one there. I was alone, except for a solitary sheep near the far wall, standing watching me nervously. It appeared to have strayed from the rest of its flock, who were all at the opposite end of the field. The animal bolted suddenly, running back to the safety of its peers who, seeing it charging towards them, started to run en masse away from it. They must have thought it was being pursued by some predator. It was a comical sight.

  I continued my hike to Ma
rian Williams’ home. It was an old pebble-dashed cottage on one level, the render cracked in places and in need of attention. Dribbles of rust discoloured the walls beneath the corners of the windows. A couple of sad-looking bay trees in pots, shared with a healthy crop of weeds, stood either side of the 1970s-style front door, with its frosted glass and peeling paintwork.

  The bicycle propped against the outside wall told me Mrs Williams was home. I rang the doorbell and waited. The net curtain covering the inside of the door twitched, before it opened. She stood before me, eyeing me with some suspicion before speaking.

  ‘Mrs Philips, isn’t it?’

  Remembering the reaction my forename had prompted upon our first meeting, I refrained from correcting her.

  ‘That’s right. Good afternoon, Mrs Williams. I hope you don’t mind – Ianto and Tudur were over at the farm earlier and they said I might call on you. I just thought I’d take a walk over as it’s such a lovely day …’

  Her expression brightened a little.

  ‘Well, you’d better come in then. You’ll have to take me as you find me, I’m afraid. I spend most of my time cleaning for other people and I haven’t the inclination to do my own by the time I’ve finished!’

  I followed her through the dark, poky hallway into the narrow kitchen, which owed every bit as much to the 1970s as the entrance. A small, scruffy-looking dog rose from its basket in the corner, growling and baring its teeth.

  ‘Taw, Ben!’ snapped Mrs Williams. The dog lay down again obediently, but continued to watch me, its chin resting on its front paws.

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’

  I was awash with the amount of tea that I’d consumed throughout the day, but thought it would appear rude not to accept. ‘Thank you.’ I smiled politely.

  She offered me a chair at the Formica-topped table, which was pushed against the wall, and set about making a pot. I looked round the kitchen. There were few home comforts. The walls were yellowed with age, and the cupboard doors looked greasy. An unpleasant whiff of stale chip fat lingered in the air. The floor was covered in worn linoleum, with a generous sprinkling of crumbs. The enamel of the old-fashioned electric stove was chipped and decidedly grimy. Between its sporadic souvenir magnets, the fridge door was peppered with dirty fingerprints.