Once she’d finished packing and paying, the shop lady remembered the thrust of her story. She called out just too late as Angharad had already reached the door which had swished open in response to her proximity.
“The medium last night was calling out the name Ann as well! That’s a funny coincidence isn’t it?” Her comment went unheard, but she didn’t suppose it mattered.
Chapter Two
Angharad sat in her drive and tapped the steering wheel. How was she feeling? That was something she’d always struggled with. Something wasn’t right; she knew that, but was she shaken by the odd experience at Glandy Stores; or was she just relieved to home before darkness really took hold?
Sighing, still unsure, she pushed open the car door and swung her legs out into the icy dusk. Taking extra care, she made it to the front door without falling and closed her eyes in gratitude. As she stepped inside, the house seemed darker after the half-light outside. Stumbling in the gloom to the corner of the room to fiddle with the lamp switch before the economy bulb slowly projected illumination, made her wonder of traditional centre lights were the awful bright monstrosities she always considered them to be. No. Of course they were. It was returning home in the dark that needed to be avoided, not her cosy lighting.
A couscous salad was promptly whipped up, to which she added four-day old Moroccan Tagine which had languished on top of the stove for days—a potential health threat in most homes, even with the heat emanating from the range, the ambient air temperature was low enough to discourage the growth of any bugs.
Finishing eating like a task to sustain her body rather than to provide enjoyment, she tipped the plate’s morsels into the sink. The various cats yowled at one another for a share of the spoils.
Her trusty range seemed to take an age to boil water for her nightly camomile tea in her keenness to put this day behind her and snuggle in bed. Once brewed, she clutched the warm cylinder to her to the stairs and flicked on the light switch. It was one area that had a conventional bulb and shade suspended from a rose in the centre of the landing ceiling. Its position allowed it to illuminate both the upstairs landing and the downstairs hallway which, despite the harsh light, suited Angharad very well.
When she reached the top, she scurried to her bedside lamp and switched it on before rushing back to the landing to turn off the light there.
Undressing quickly in the cold, she wrenched her nightie over her head maintaining body heat by still wearing her trousers until the flannelette drooped to her ankles. Kicking them off and hopping into bed, she soon warmed, sipping her hot tea, cosied under the many quilts and blankets swathing her double bed.
Lifting the reading glasses which hung permanently around her neck, she perched them on her nose and picked up the dog-eared novel she’d rescued from a local charity shop. Finding the page she’d folded down as a bookmark, she read only halfway down when her blood ran cold, the novel falling with a thud onto the bare floorboards.
“Ann. Is that you, Ann?” the voice came again from the darkness.
“Who is that? Who’s there?” Angharad demanded. She asked in a stern tone in an unpersuasive attempt to sound fearless.
“Ann? Ann?” the voice persisted. Angharad’s tea cup shook uncontrollably in her trembling hand, spilling its hot contents on her lap. The thick night dress and blankets protected her from a nasty burn, but not from the shock. She shrieked.
“Ann? She seems to be distressed. We’ll leave her for now. Okay Ann? We’re going to leave you for now.”
Angharad’s heart raced. Chest pulsing with her rapid breathing was the only movement in her body rigid with fear. Minutes passed before she could accept the calling had stopped. The impression of a presence she’d been unaware of became conspicuous by its absence.
Still her cup rattled against its saucer as unused adrenaline and the chill of her bedroom combined to shake her violently from head to toe.
Who was going to leave her for now? Her mind raced, probing for a rational explanation. A concerned neighbour must have popped in to check on her in this cold snap. Yes! Of course. She never locked her doors, believing she’d attract thieves and robbers into her life if she allowed herself to acknowledge the threat. Trusting she’d attract what she believed, she had no need for home security.
Of course, no self-respecting burglar would consider Angharad’s home an opportunity anyway. If they tried her door on the off-chance and found themselves inside, they’d more likely leave a fiver on the worktop out of sympathy.
When she thought of helpful neighbours there really was only one candidate. Apart from the people next door who had moved in a few weeks after her, there were no other neighbours within a ten minute walk, and even those were sporadically distributed
Her next door neighbours were living in a caravan whilst they modernised their home, currently boasting the same ‘old world charm’ hers did.
She couldn’t recall their names but it was quite possible she may have introduced herself to them as Ann. Yes, she’d decided to be Angharad now, but it was certainly conceivable she may have inadvertently reverted. Next time she saw them, she’d ask them if they wouldn’t mind not calling round to her house and terrifying her when she was relaxing in bed!
Feeling better with a plausible account, she drifted off to sleep even without the benefit of ingesting her fragrant tea.
Waking naturally after exactly seven hours at five o’clock, she opened her eyes to the cold and dark.
Last night’s terror sprang to the front of her thoughts. Listening intently, it was with great relief she breathed out and acknowledged normality. No sound that wasn’t meant to be heard could be heard. No calling of her old name. Nothing.
Settling down for extra sleep was something she rarely did, but considered it this morning after last night’s disturbance had left her exhausted. As the light of the sunrise grew brighter, so did Angharad’s mood. And so putting the terror firmly behind her, she fairly leapt from her bed.
Washing quickly, flinching from the icy wetness of her flannel, it was whilst drying herself with a scratchy towel she’d owned as long as she could remember, that her deliberations drifted to her upcoming plans.
Next week she could look forward to meeting the family with the autistic son. Her job was to teach him how to use public transport, plan a meal, shop for the ingredients, prepare it, and develop general independence skills. Her kindly face creased in a wide smile at the prospect. She loved to be useful.
There promised to be other families, too, with different needs whom Angharad would help over the coming weeks and months, providing her the satisfaction missing since her retirement.
Shuddering, she frowned realising it was last night’s fright bothering her still. Dosing herself liberally with talc, she decided a bracing walk over the mountain today, while she wasn’t too busy, would recharge her batteries and get her good and tired for the night. She always found it to be the best remedy for a low or anxious mood.
Opening her solid wood wardrobe, she selected appropriate attire; an easy choice as most of her clothes shared the same fabric and orange and brown colours.
The only decision was whether she should wear a jumper. October qualified as jumper weather, particularly on the mountainside she conceded, as she pulled on quite a thick one and packed a fold-up rain coat in a small ruck-sack along with enough drink and some cheese salad sandwiches to last her the day.
Approaching her next door neighbour’s home with a stiff stride, she kept an eye out to have a word, but there was no sign of them. Scowling, she decided if she didn’t spot them on her return, she might write a note. She would have to strike the right balance—firm but fair. She knew they meant well, but they had no need to worry about her. She was more than capable.
Lips curling in her assurance she was right, she pondered her decision to walk downhill when her plan was to go to the top of the mountain. Her eyes twinkled knowing how odd it must seem to anyone else. But she was in no hurry, and there
were benefits a stroll to the bottom of the valley offered over a more direct route, and her heart raced at the memory.
Minutes into her hike, she thrilled at the swish of cascading water from the Eastern Cleddau River as it streamed down the southern slopes of Mynydd Preseli (Preselly Mountain). She crossed its bubbling white water over a small, iron footbridge next to an old, stone water mill.
The mill’s function now, was to house Llangolman Slate Workshop. The current owner crafted amazing sculptures and useful objects, such as signs and barometers, out of the slate from the quarry.
She loved walking through the old works, which had been abandoned for more than a century, fascinated to witness nature clawing back its foothold over man’s disturbance of the mountainside. It would prove a slow process compared to the speed of chiselling the rocks from their natural origins. Slow, but effective.
Another hundred years might well eliminate any sign man had ever been there, Angharad nodded to herself. Recognising the need to exploit the mountain’s resources, she was gratified nature would ultimately win the war.
Following the river through thick woodland and down the valley, the sound of the rushing water filled her senses in a most delectable way that made her almost giddy with euphoria.
She had made this walk on plenty of previous occasions, but it appeared different every time. The autumn scenery might be her favourite, she smiled. Extra rainfall always meant the river flowed faster and the sight and sounds of it became even more stimulating.
Her heart leapt in expectancy of what she knew was to come, and when she wound through the forest and came face to face with it, she couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
White water coursed down a cliff forming part of the quarry, perhaps cut into the rock to provide a tramway to transport slate to port a long time ago. It looked entirely natural now, and incredibly beautiful with the snowy spout cascading dramatically down its flank.
She knew a secret about this waterfall and set about taking advantage of it. Hidden by the white curtain, a cave could be revealed carved into the rock. Not by the natural action of the rushing water, but deliberately cut by the hand of man as a wonderful hidden room. It was tricky to get to, and she wouldn’t have known about it at all but for her incessant reading of every single local guidebook.
Walking beside the waterfall, splashing her boots through the shallow depths at the edge of the pool, she ducked inside. It was as wonderful as she remembered. A delicious secret in an already hidden world.
She’d be content to spend all day sitting in the cave, watching the world go by through the curtain of crystal water. She could probably quite happily live there.
Imagining people walking past unaware of her presence, she giggled privately. Imagination would have to suffice, as she’d need to wait a long time for someone to come.
Sitting in wonderment, she debated eating her sandwiches now, delighted at the notion of a secret picnic. It wasn’t sensible, she wasn’t even hungry, so she sufficed eating a quarter of a sandwich and supping a few swigs of her spring water before leaving for the mountain slopes.
It grew steep quickly and she was pleased to have eaten a little. It would take another hour, at least, to reach the peak. Feeling the burn already, she gave herself the goal of accomplishing the summit before eating the rest of her food.
Onwards and upwards she climbed, passing large outcrops of bluestone. Resisting the urge to stop and touch them, she knew many more of the grey/blue boulders were to come, and governed by limited daylight, she had to get on. She laboriously reached the obelisk stone depicting the pinnacle of the range, and looked out at the far-reaching horizon.
On such a clear day the views were vast. She recognised some of the other mountains in the distance such as Pen y Fan, the highest point of the Brecon Beacon mountain range, and the tallest mountain in Southern Wales or England.
Cadair Idris, and some of the peaks of the Arenig range near Lake Bala, extended distinctively skywards. Then there were many mountains she didn’t recognise and loved all the same, serrating the horizon. She supposed if one of them must be the majestic peak of Mount Snowdon.
She sat atop the cliff near the summit and dangled her legs over the edge. The vertiginous buzz of the lofty perch added to her lunch enjoyment. As she gazed about her, soaking up all she could see, she noticed the crown of rocks spearing out of Carn Menyn, the mountain visible from her house—the very same rocks, blue dolerite or bluestones, that were to be found at the inner circle of the mighty Stonehenge over two hundred and fifty miles away to the east! Much debate remained as to how they arrived there and Angharad hadn’t decided which theory she agreed with. She just knew it was a fact that pleased her, as so many facts did.
She packed up the leftover food, which probably wasn’t worth keeping, but she was always meticulous about leaving the countryside just as she had found it, and set off towards the other side of the mountain, toes pressing painfully against her sturdy boots as she walked downhill to the crags she’d been admiring.
Examining the sky, she decided she had time to explore them more. She couldn’t resist touching them and as she smoothed her palms over the great tors spearing the sky, taller than her house, she felt peace.
Clambering over their vastness and admiring the far-reaching vistas the different aspects offered, she feared she had become carried away with her mountaintop adventure when she noticed the light fading.
She wasn’t too worried, sure she knew the route home well enough to make it with her eyes closed. With a big breath, she took one last moment to enjoy the silence afforded by the lofty height of the hills. Eyes screwed firmly shut, she listened intently, the stillness washing over her.
Nothing to hear but the distant twittering of a skylark high above her head. No noise of cars, or farms, or people, or dogs, or anything. Just the skylark, and silence. Opening her eyes once more, she marvelled at the remoteness of her surroundings. You could spend a week up here and not see another living soul.
And then from nowhere, more chilling because of her remote surroundings, she heard the unmistakable calling.
“Ann...? Is that you Ann?”
Chapter Three
“Come on, Claire. Come on! We’ll be late!”
“Oh, do stop fussing, Chris! It’ll be fine,”
“You’re the one who says you need preparation time. I’m just trying to help.”
“You’ll help by keeping me calm,” she admonished. Chris blew her a kiss by way of an apology. Things could sometimes get tense as they spent so much time on the road together when they were on tour. On the whole though, they got on famously.
Chris had been happy to give up his job as a bus driver to ferry his successful wife around the country from town to city.
They were embarking on another sell-out tour of the South and South-West, venturing into the Principality of Wales for the first time on a five night tour. The city of Newport was the first date, then on to the capital, Cardiff the next night, onwards to Swansea, and then up to Aberystwyth before cutting back through the mountains to perform a final Welsh date in Cardiff (added due to popular demand).
After a weekend resting, they’d do a stint of another week in Wiltshire and Dorset before returning to their home in Essex.
The tour had been named, ‘Claire Voyant, Medium at Large’. Claire Voyant had been her stage name since her career began decades ago. The ‘Medium at Large’ tag had been added by the television company who followed her on one of her tours after she began making a name for herself, due she supposed to her bigger than average frame. Quite a lot bigger than average, she had to admit.
She carried it well, it suited her, and was universally received as incredibly alluring. The television sub-heading had struck her as more than a tad corny, particularly combined with her own regrettable stage name, which had seemed a crime not to take advantage of her given name when she had chosen it. But banal as it undoubtedly was, it served its purpose. There couldn’t be many peop
le, in certain circles, who hadn’t heard of her and her reputation.
She continued to include ‘Medium at Large’ in her promotional material to take full advantage of her minor celebrity status since the fly-on-the-wall documentary had aired. It had been a big success. There was even talk of follow up shows, and perhaps another series in the future.
In the meantime, repeats on various satellite channels sufficed to keep her popularity ever-buoyant. There was nothing more compelling to the ticket buying public, it would seem, than a recognisable ‘As seen on TV’ slogan.
“I’ll start my preparations in the car, shall I?” she asked, questioning how late they were likely to be.
“If you like. But if we can leave in the next...” he glanced at his new Rolex wristwatch “five minutes,” he confirmed, “then we might not be late at all.”
“Well. Let’s get going,” she said, sounding convincingly ready to leave. In actuality, once she’d ‘popped’ to the toilet, re-applied her make-up, ‘szhushed’ her hair and gone to the toilet just one more time ‘because she didn’t want to stop as soon as they left the house’, half an hour passed.
Chris was well used to his wife and had allowed an extra forty five minutes, so they were really leaving fifteen minutes early. He kept that to himself.
Claire left all the logistics of the tour to her husband as geography wasn’t her strong point. After hours on the road (including two stops at services) Claire expressed surprise when they arrived at a very long bridge spanning the vast body of water of the Severn estuary. She expressed further surprise when she saw the sign welcoming them to Wales and its Welsh language equivalent ‘Croeso i Gymru’.
“Wos that?” she asked in her strong Essex accent. “Is it like a different language then?”
Chris looked disdainfully at his wife. “Yes. It’s a different language. It’s called Welsh,” he informed her scathingly but in good humour. Anticipating her next question he added. “They speak English as well. Don’t worry.”
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 29
