Lay Me to Rest

‘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.