Lay Me to Rest

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.