by Cathy Ace
Sitting on the shelf across the top of the flimsy 1940s utility wardrobe was Mrs Hare. She had half a floppy ear, no eyes or nose, one leg, two arms, and an entirely bald belly. She wore a tiara of diamante stones, several glittering necklaces, and sat on a velvet cushion. Plastered onto the knotty wood around her were several printed icons of St Melangell – identifiable because of the brown hare she was holding – all decorated with glittery stickers.
Helen was stunned. ‘Mrs Hare. A librarian named Jane gave her to you.’
‘No!’ shouted Sadie. ‘A giant gave her to me. Her hair was on fire. It was in a church. A huge, dark place. No one spoke. The windows went up and up to the sky. It had a spire. She was the priestess. The Devil’s Concubine. She gave me Mrs Hare and said I was her special girl. I had to take very great care of her. Treat her with honor and respect. Forever. Because I was chosen.’
Helen’s mouth was dry. She felt the panic rise in her stomach. Sadie looked and sounded as though she were in a trance.
‘I think you’ve got things muddled up a bit, Sadie love. She was a large woman, I suppose, and she did have long red hair. And Cathays library does look a bit like a church. But the rest? You were only little. You weren’t used to strangers at all. We’d never been anywhere – your father wanted us here, at home the whole time, and you weren’t allowed down into the pub. He wouldn’t even let you play with the children in the village. You and I used to stay up here, and I would read to you from my old archeology textbooks. He wouldn’t let you have any children’s books. Mum and I would read you whatever was on the shelves already.’
‘The hare is sacred, you know,’ continued Sadie in her odd voice. ‘The hare is able to run from our world to the next, carrying messages about our hopes and wishes with it. Mrs Hare helps me all the time. She makes my dreams come true, because I treat her with respect. She communicates with the concubine down there for me, and with a saint up here. She has a magical life, between two worlds.’
‘Sadie, you’re not making any sense. Have you . . . are you taking something I don’t know about? Something you shouldn’t?’
‘Oh shut up, Mam. I only put natural things into my body. I’m special. Besides, it’s not me talking rubbish, it’s you. You told me that the old church here, the one that was swallowed up by the sands below us, was called St Melangell’s. When they built the new one they changed the name because too many of the locals here revered the hare more than Christ. You told me that. It was in your precious books. They should have kept the original name. St Melangell is the patron saint of hares; they’re her little lambs. Her feast day is May 27th, my birthday. It can’t be a coincidence. I really am hers.’
Helen was grappling with her emotions, and her recollection of ancient lore. ‘Maybe this all came from some of the books I used to read to you about Welsh mythologies, but it’s all joined up wrong in what you’re saying.’
‘It’s not myth, it’s true, Mam.’
Having mentally faced the prospect of having to explain to her daughter how her father had been a horrific abuser, Helen now found herself off balance, needing to work out why her child seemed to be worshipping a stuffed toy, and believing all sorts of muddled, strange tales from millennia past. She sat on the edge of Sadie’s bed, at a loss.
Sadie’s voice had a harsh edge when she said, ‘Maybe you did take me to Cardiff with you, but I know you left me alone too. I remember being here with just Dad. Only him and me. Talking through the night. Why did you leave me? You just said you never would.’
Helen knew there was no going back. ‘Your father tracked us down in Cardiff and brought us back here. He was very angry. Even more angry than usual. We were fighting. He broke my arm. I ended up in hospital. There were three nights I was away from you. Only three nights, in your entire life. They had to operate. I had to be there. Don’t you remember me having my arm in plaster for months? We’ve got photos of your birthday that year – it was in plaster then; your father wouldn’t let me be in any of the pictures he took, but you can see part of my arm in one of them. Just one.’
Sadie’s brow furrowed. ‘Was your arm blue?’
Helen nodded. ‘There was a wrapping over the plaster.’
‘Maybe I remember,’ said Sadie quietly. Helen watched her daughter’s face intently; Sadie was thinking, that much was clear. ‘You’re saying Dad hit you?’
Helen’s heart lurched. ‘Yes. He . . . he was quite brutal. In many ways. You really don’t need to know all the details.’
‘Is that why Nan called him the devil? When I would ask her about the scary noises in the night. When I would ask her why you were crying in the bathroom?’
Oh God, you heard us. Helen’s heart was breaking. ‘Maybe. I tried to always be quiet. I did my best, love.’
‘I get it now,’ said her daughter flatly. ‘You should have done a “Hashtag Me Too” on him. A woman shouldn’t allow herself to be treated that way. Women are far superior to men.’
Helen couldn’t believe her daughter’s nonchalance. She felt hot tears roll down her raw cheeks. ‘Oh Sadie, love – that sort of thing is for celebrities, and Hollywood types. It’s not for women in tiny villages where they have no options, and no power. Where they have a child they love more than life itself – and a husband who’s always threatening to tell the police they’re mad, or worse, and never let them see their darling baby again. I didn’t even have a car back then – we caught three buses to get to Cardiff. How can a victim escape if she’s got nowhere to go, no way to get there, and no future, even if she makes it?’
‘Dad said you—’
Helen could feel her face getting hot. ‘Forget what he said, Sadie. Your father’s always massaged the truth to fit his idea of what it should be. When he left us for another woman, it was the best thing that could ever have happened to us. Yes, don’t look so shocked – he left us for another woman. I never told you because I didn’t want you to think his leaving was your fault. But even then he stalked me for months. He terrorized me with phone calls and unexpected visits. He wouldn’t let up. He moved on – but he wanted to make damned sure I didn’t. Just the sound of the phone made me want to throw up. His fault.’
‘You’re lying.’
Helen couldn’t take it any longer. She let it all out. It was time. ‘You young people – you bear your souls on social media – you beat your breasts online about injustices, inequalities, and exclusions. It’s idealism run amok. It’s not reality. Reality is needing to have somewhere to live that isn’t a horrible little room with mice in the walls. It’s about needing to see your child educated and socialized and raised with love around them, not hate. Escape isn’t easy, and for some it’s an impossibility. Good for you for shouting about it, but instead of spending hours ranting about things online, why not get up and do something about it? Raise money for safe places, for free therapy, counselling, and self-defense classes. Don’t just sit on the sidelines whining that no one else is changing things. Nothing changes on its own – you have to take action. But no one does. Better to bleat and blame, than act and help. Dear God, what’s our society going to be like when you lot are in charge? A complete and total mess – with everything debated to death in a virtual world, and not one person rolling up their sleeves and getting things done.’
Helen watched as her daughter leaped to her feet, red in the face, screaming, ‘It’ll be no worse than the mess you lot have made of it.’
She was caught completely off guard by her daughter’s open-handed slap to her face. She toppled, trying to save herself by putting out her arm.
She heard the break before she felt it.
Evan
Sitting in the deserted pub with his wife crouched silently on the stairs – a strange feeling so early on an Easter Sunday morning – Evan wondered what had become of Aled. They’d shared some perfunctory pleasantries over a coffee, then the lad had said he had to slip out to get something from his friend Stew Wingfield. That had been a while ago, so he assumed he wasn
’t coming back.
Evan had expected to hear some raised voices coming from the upstairs living quarters, but the thud startled him.
That can’t be good, he thought.
Reaching the foot of the stairs, he could see Betty was bounding up them two at a time. He followed, likewise.
‘Help!’ called Sadie. Evan and Betty followed the shout, and found Helen in a heap on the floor at the foot of Sadie’s bed.
‘Don’t try to get up,’ said Evan, taking control of the situation he’d sized up in an instant. ‘Sadie, get your mother a glass of water, now.’
Evan saw how glazed Sadie’s expression was, and knew Betty had spotted it too. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said. ‘Sadie can stay with her mum.’
Sadie started to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Mam. I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me? Here – have this.’ Evan was amazed to see her hand her mother a long silk scarf. ‘It’s pretty. It’ll make it all better. Pretty things always make it better.’ Sadie sounded like a six-year-old talking to a doll she’d just dropped.
Evan was horrified, and fascinated, in equal measure. This girl – not quite eighteen, and clearly living a protected life – seemed to think an act of violence would be forgiven upon receipt of some sort of gift. He wondered where she had learned such connections. It concerned him; having chatted to Aled for just a few minutes, he’d at least had the chance to notice the boy was slight, but muscular. And evasive about his relationship with Sadie.
Betty arrived with the water. ‘Just give your mum some space, okay? Evan and I will help her up. Helen – Helen? Do you think anything is broken?’
Helen was glassy eyed. She nodded. ‘My wrist crunched. I think I broke it.’
Evan could see that Helen’s left wrist and hand were already starting to swell. ‘Right-O, Betty love, can you go and find some peas or something in the freezer, and a towel?’
‘On it.’ Betty dashed out, and returned minutes later with the requested supplies.
When Helen’s wrist was bound and chilled, Evan and Betty each took an arm, and helped her onto the bed.
‘I’m phoning for an ambulance,’ said Evan.
‘It’ll be quicker if we drive Helen to the hospital ourselves,’ said Betty.
Evan knew she was right. He watched with admiration as his wife comforted the injured woman. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened, Helen?’
Helen seemed to be studying the pattern on the tea towel wrapped around her hand. ‘I fell. Tripped over something on the floor. My own stupid fault.’
‘Yes,’ said Sadie airily, ‘Mam’s a bit clumsy sometimes. Maybe it’s the concussion she got at the court coming back again.’
Evan was chilled by the girl’s cool demeanor; he was in little doubt about the truth of the situation. ‘So that’s what you’ll both say, is it?’ he said. Betty shot him a warning glance, but he felt it was his duty to press Helen to tell the truth. ‘Come on now, Helen; how many times over the years you were with your husband did you tell someone you’d slipped, or tripped, or bumped into something? Is that how you want to teach your daughter to react within a relationship? And you, Sadie – isn’t it healthier to own up to the truth of what you’ve just done, and face the consequences?’
He was completely taken aback when Sadie stamped her foot and screamed, ‘Consequences? What do you know about consequences? I’m the only one around here who has any idea what that means. I’ve had to live through the consequences of my mother throwing my father out, my grandmother being a bitch, and you lot taking my Aled away from me. I’ve had to bear all those consequences. Well, Nan’s dead, Dad’s coming for lunch, and I’ve finally got Aled. So there. He’s mine now. Forever. I’m all he’ll ever need, and he’s all I’ll ever need. We are complete. You? Rubbish, that’s what you are. I have forces on my side you can’t possibly understand, and I’ve had to use all my powers to achieve what I have despite the consequences of other people’s actions. Love and blood and faith, that’s what it’s all about.’
She pushed past Betty. ‘Say what you want, Mam, I’m out of here. I’m going down to be with Aled.’
‘He left. Said something about Stew Wingfield,’ said Evan.
Sadie had an unfathomable look on her face as she said, ‘He won’t have gone far away from me.’ She clattered down the stairs.
‘You telling her about her dad didn’t go too well then,’ said Betty.
Helen shook her head. ‘Not really. And there was a lot of other stuff too. My daughter’s a bit mixed up about a few things. She’s confused. Angry. She hit me.’
‘I know,’ said Betty. ‘I stayed on the stairs. I listened.’
‘Could you phone our helper Agata, please, Evan?’ asked Helen feebly. ‘Someone’s got to open up if Aled’s not here; Sadie can’t serve because she’s not eighteen yet. Agata will do it. Her number’s on the noticeboard in the kitchen. Ask if her sister can come to serve the food. It’s Easter, we’ll be busy. We’ll have to offer just sandwiches or—’
Betty said, ‘Stop. I’ll phone Agata. Let us handle it.’
Helen started to sob. ‘Thank you. I’m so useless.’
Betty hugged her. ‘No you’re not. It’s just all a bit much for you at the moment.’
Helen’s voice was thick, her eyes pleading. ‘I’ve always tried my best. For Sadie. For Mum. For the pub. But it’s never enough. I’ve let everyone down. Mum’s gone, and Sadie? I don’t know who she is anymore.’
‘She’s a teenager,’ said Evan.
Betty nodded. ‘A breed all their own. I tell you what, I’ll phone Agata, then I’ll drive you to the hospital. Evan can wait here until Agata arrives; keep an eye on things. Alright?’
Helen sniffed her acceptance.
Sadie
Mam’s so weak. And so stupid. I’m neither.
By the sound of it she always has been. I wonder if what she was saying is true? Did Dad really beat her? Did she try to run from him – with me? I do remember her blue arm – that was broken? Maybe Dad made up Mam’s nervous breakdown, to make a point. Sounds like she wasn’t far off one in any case.
I’ll go and see if Aled’s gone back to his house. It’s his now, not his Grannie Gwen’s. He can sell it and we’ll have loads of money. Fantastic. Stew’s been staying over with him this past few nights, for company. Once I’m eighteen, I can go and stay with Aled.
The two of us alone. That would be brilliant.
Everything’s a possibility now his grannie’s gone. And Nan too. Good riddance to them both. Old women should know when it’s time to go – they have no use, no power. They should just step aside and let us have our time.
Stew’s parents are weird. When I knocked just now to ask them if Aled was there, and they told me that he wasn’t, and that Stew was over at Aled’s, they sounded . . . cold. Hard. I mean, I know they’re English, but they’ve been here long enough to have warmed up a bit.
His mum seems nice when she’s in the Cwtch, but everybody’s public face is different to their private one. Has to be.
They sat on Gwen’s side of the church for the funeral. Of course. Maybe they blame Nan for Gwen’s death. I know a lot do. Maybe they think I’m like Nan. Just goes to show how wrong people can be. I’m nothing like Nan. Nothing like Mam, either. I’m truly unique.
I’ll get rid of Stew if he’s there, so Aled and I can be alone for a while. It’s been ages since we had time for just the two of us. Months. I can’t stand it any longer. The funerals are over now – and Mam, for all her faults, said those lovely things about how everyone should be supportive of us as a couple – which came a surprise, I must say. Good for her. It all helps.
There goes Mam now, in the car with her ‘friend’ Betty. ‘Friend’ my eye. Betty’s her crutch. I’ll wave and smile. I should. Serves her right for being against Dad coming for lunch. I’d better phone him, I suppose; no point him coming now. More time for me and Aled to be alone.
I’ll rearrange the lunch for tomorrow. That’s soon enough, an
d Dad doesn’t have to leave until Tuesday morning, after the Bank Holiday, which is good.
Evan
Finding himself now completely alone in a pub before it opened, Evan wondered what Rakel’s husband Gareth would make of his situation; heavenly, he imagined.
Knowing Helen and Betty might be gone for the better part of the day, and with the word from Agata being that she wouldn’t be able to make it to the pub until half eleven at the earliest, Evan had helpfully written a note which he’d stuck to the outside of the pub’s door announcing the revised opening time.
He helped himself to an orange juice, and sat at a table beside the wall of windows which looked toward the beach and, looming over it, the hillside where he and Betty had walked the day before.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the photos he’d taken, thinking about what the signs of life trapped within the angle of the Concubine’s Pillow might mean. Realizing he had the time to do it, he phoned Liz Stanley, to offer to send her the photos, if she liked the sound of his idea about the possible role of cairns in the case.
She shouted her name when she answered his call. Her voice echoed a little.
‘Hello Liz, Evan here,’ he replied. ‘Happy Easter. How are you?’
‘I’m okay, thanks. You? Happy Easter to you and Betty, too.’
‘Thanks. Look, I know you’re busy, but wanted to share a thought with you. Is that okay, given the current oversight situation?’
‘Go for it. My new-new boss is open to anything. He’ll be asking the office cleaners for their thoughts next. Please tell me you’ve had a bright idea.’
Evan outlined his thinking about cairns and the secreting of a body. He offered to email the photos he’d taken. Liz thanked him. ‘I’m on my way to Rhosddraig right now, as it happens,’ she added.
‘I’ll see you in the pub then. I’m holding the fort.’ He explained the situation.
