Lamp Black, Wolf Grey

by Paula Brackston

  “I do have a particular interest in him. And you’re right about him having been here for a short time. Just one summer.”

  “You believe he was a real person, then? Not just a myth?”

  “Of course. There is real evidence. He was someone who had an enormous influence, in more ways then most people realize.”

  “Looks like you’ve got every book ever written on him.”

  “There have been plenty written, not all of them worth reading. Some have references to his time here, which I find especially interesting, more so now that I live here, of course.”

  “It’s quite a library.”

  “Borrow whatever you like,” he said.

  Laura became aware of how close he was standing to her. She could feel the warmth of his body and the movement of his chest as he breathed. She grabbed a book without even looking at it.

  “Thank you. I’ll return it as soon as I’ve read it.”

  “Take your time.”

  There was a pause—a highly charged moment. Laura knew she must leave. Quickly, before she did something she might later regret. Something that would change her, and change her life, forever. She brushed past him with a light smile, though her pulse was racing.

  “Well, thanks again, for rescuing me. And for the coffee. And the clothes.”

  “You are welcome. Come and visit me again, though perhaps not in a thunderstorm next time,” he said with a smile.

  Laura opened the front door, then hesitated. She turned and looked at him and allowed herself to acknowledge how much she wanted to stay. He returned her gaze steadily. In that moment she could so easily have given in, every particle in her body screamed at her to stay, to be with him. But a small voice in her head held sway.

  A thought occurred to her as she was on the point of leaving.

  “Where is your dog?” she asked. “Big, shaggy, grey thing?”

  Rhys shook his head.

  “No dog,” he said. “I have never had a dog.”

  5

  BY THE TIME Dan arrived home from work on the following Friday night Laura found herself reluctant to tell him about her visit to the croft.

  “What have you been up to this week? I want all the details,” he said, pulling off his tie and opening the fridge.

  “Oh, I’ve been sorting out the studio, going for walks, making sketches, you know. Usual sort of stuff before getting started on a new lot of paintings.”

  “We had terrific thunderstorms in London, rattled the office windows. Did you get them up here, too?” He helped himself to a beer and passed one to her.

  “Some, but not close up.” She surprised herself with the first lie. She didn’t want Dan to think her stupid for being on the mountain in the storm, but that was not her only reason for fibbing. “It did rain, though,” she added.

  “So I see. Freshened things up a bit, thank God.” Dan perched on the edge of the table and drank.

  Laura watched him. He was still the same old Dan, still the man she married. The man she loved. But she felt herself strangely distant from him. By not telling him about going to Rhys’s cottage she was lying to him. She could not convince herself otherwise. And yet, how would it sound if she told him? She had behaved like an idiot in the storm, been rescued by Rhys, let him wash her, changed into his clothes, and spent time alone with him. But it had all been innocent, nothing had happened, so why was she hiding it? Deep inside she knew the real reason. She knew how close she had come to staying with Rhys. She knew how much she had wanted to. How much she still wanted to.

  Later, as Dan snored lightly beside her, Laura read the book she had borrowed from Rhys. It had been a lucky choice, all about Welsh folklore. Six months earlier she could never have imagined herself interested in such a thing. Now it fascinated her. Particularly the section on fertility. She read that corn dollies had been thought vital to the success of a crop. Each year, after the summer solstice, dollies would be twisted from the ripe corn. They were often given as presents at weddings and for newborns—seedless for men, but with the grain inside for women. They had to be buried in the field the following spring to assure the farmer of a good harvest. Similarly, they were believed to help women conceive, and could be hung in the bedroom of a woman wishing for a baby. As Laura read on she learned that the birch tree was also reputed to have magic properties where baby making was concerned. She was just about to find out why and how when Dan stirred. He rolled over and smiled up at her sleepily.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?” He squinted at the cover. “Welsh Folklore. Not your usual nighttime reading.” Dan yawned and tugged the book from her hands.

  “Hey!”

  “Let’s see, oh, ‘Fertility Rites and Rituals’—sounds like a good chapter. Any tips for me? Should I be making wild love to you in the meadows under a full moon?”

  Laura snatched back the book. “Very funny. I want to learn something about the history of our new home, even if you don’t.”

  “All riveting stuff, no doubt.” He shook his head and turned away again, making something of a show of getting comfortable.

  Laura pretended to read until she was sure he was asleep again then put the book back on her nightstand. Why had Dan seen fit to make fun of something that had been a crucial part of people’s lives for centuries? Who was to say what might or might not work? The whole business of conception was so mysterious, why not turn to magic? Could it be any less successful than anything else they had tried? She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but now all she could think of was Rhys, and all she could see was his face close to hers. Outside a family of foxes called to one another in dry yaps and husky barks. Soon the young would leave the lair to make their own way in the world, but for now they played and hunted together. Laura thought of how everyone was driven to build a family around them, to be part of a pack. And of how Rhys had chosen to live alone, so far from anyone. What could have made him choose such a life? He was a man of intellect and of passion, yet he shunned company. Why? As she drifted into a fitful sleep a shadowy figure followed her into her dreams.

  * * *

  LAURA MADE A point of spending as much time as possible with Dan over the weekend. Whatever assurances she had given her mother, she knew she would have to work at maintaining the usual closeness the two of them shared, now that they were apart for so much of the time. And she so wanted him to fall for Penlan in the way that she herself had. She tried to think of aspects of their new home that would appeal to him, seeking out a wonderful local pub that sold good food and one of his favorite beers; introducing him to the delights of the one and only Indian takeaway ten miles away; renting a new DVD one evening and seducing him in front of it with a bottle of champagne. These were hardly rural pursuits, but they did help to reestablish a bond. The time passed swiftly, and she felt quite low watching him drive away through the pretty mist on Monday morning. She decided to redouble her efforts to paint. It was ridiculous to be so feeble about it. She had the time, the place, the subjects—what was stopping her? With amazement she realized she had not produced more than a few sketches in almost two months. She wondered why she had not gone mad.

  As soon as Dan left for work she jammed her hair on top of her head with a wooden clip, slipped on a favorite painting shirt and jeans, and hurried to the studio. It was still basic and harbored a fair amount of dust, but it was a workable space. She had swept and scrubbed the cobbles of the floor so that they looked lovely yet they provided an unhelpfully knobbly surface on which to try and stand an easel. The original hay mangers were still attached to the walls, and served as useful places to store lengths of framing, old canvasses, and general materials. In time, there were improvements that could be made—more windows, more lights, heating—but such alterations could come later. For now, the old building, with its solid, ancient walls, and a sense of time passed embedded in every stone, gave Laura a sense of calm and of safety that was wonderfully conducive to producing good work. She felt certain of it.

 
She positioned her easel by the open door so that she had a clear view of the meadows sweeping down to the woods. The recent rain had washed grit and grime away and brightened the colors of the landscape. She selected her palette accordingly. Flake white, cadmium yellow, French ultramarine, alizarin crimson, burnt umber, and lamp black. The sight of the oils soothed her as she squeezed out generous splodges. She had already prepared a canvas, rubbing on a layer of burnt sienna mixed with a drop of turpentine. She always preferred to work on a somber background, traveling from dark to light as she built up the picture. She assembled her brushes—broad hog bristle filberts to give clear shapes with soft edges. As the smell of the materials filled her nostrils she felt a familiar excitement stirring within her. She had been away too long from what she did best, from her preferred way of relating to the world around her. It was good to be back in that creative space once more, and with such inspirational subjects for inspiration.

  She gazed out at the landscape, looking with her painter’s eye, truly seeing the shape of the trees, the depth of their shadows, the myriad tones and colors that offered themselves to her. She paused, allowing time for the information to be processed somewhere behind her intellect, somewhere deep in her subconscious where her artistic intuition dwelt. She picked a palette knife and plunged it into the buttery paint, mixing ultramarine with a dash of crimson, working at the blend until she had precisely the hue she wanted. Selecting a brush, she took a breath, offered up a silent prayer as always to whatever god ruled her talent, and then pitched in with bold strokes.

  Three hours later Laura sat cross-legged on the cobbled floor, her chin resting in her hands, staring at the disaster before her. It had been a long time since a painting had gone so completely wrong. There was no hope of saving it, despite her best efforts. It was a failure. All that remained to be done was clean the canvas with turpentine and begin again. Only she hadn’t the heart. That vital part of her psyche that made the difference between a mess and a masterpiece was refusing to come out to play. She knew herself well enough to recognize a hopeless day when she had one. To continue now would only frustrate her further. No good could come of it. She hauled herself to her feet and set about cleaning her brushes. Usually, when the work had gone well, there was pleasure to be had in caring for her tools; in restoring the natural luster to the bristles of the brushes; in watching the last of the colors smudge from her palette; in tucking the tubes of oil paint away in their snug wooden box. But that delight was fed by the satisfaction of progress, of a measure of success, of a knowledge of having set in motion a creation. Glancing now at the ugliness standing on the easel Laura battled with despair and could not even face tackling the canvas. She left it where it was and went outside, suddenly needing to be free of the pungent air of the studio.

  The newly washed countryside was soft and calming. Though it was still warm, summer had had its finest moment and was winding down. Subtle changes were afoot, as the leaves began to lose their gloss, and colors started to fade with the waning of the year. Laura closed her eyes, choosing to experience her surroundings in any way other than as a painter. A zephyr rustled through the silver birch beside the house. Two jays quarreled somewhere in the branches. A laden bumblebee droned past her ear and away to its nest in the ground behind the house. She stood for a further calming moment, then strode down the hill toward the woods.

  She found the proximity of the trees and the otherworldliness of the woodland helpful in dispelling the bleakness of her mood, if only a little. It was hard not to be comforted by the cheerfulness of the young birds darting and dipping, the glow of the sun through the leafy boughs, and the smell of wild honeysuckle and damp moss. The noise of her own footsteps seemed brutally loud as she snapped twigs and scrunched dust and small stones along the path. She tried to tread lightly, but still felt clumsy. As she rounded a bend she glimpsed someone up ahead, someone walking away from her farther along the same path. She hesitated, remembering her last encounter in these woods. The farmer, whom she had later learned was known as Glyn the Bryn, had warned her off walking here, and the last thing she needed right now was a dose of his surly rudeness. But as she squinted through the undergrowth she could see this was not the old man but someone younger, taller, and stronger looking. He had dark hair, was wearing dark clothes, and carried a heavy stick. A movement to his left caught Laura’s eye. A dog, large and grey, was following the man. Now she realized this was the same figure she had seen that first day at Penlan. It hadn’t been Rhys after all. Laura sped up, curious to see who this stranger was. A rambler, perhaps? He certainly did not look the type. Nor a farmer. Who then? Laura all but broke into a trot, stumbling on the uneven ground. The man seemed to glide over the forest floor with his surefooted, long stride. Try as she might she could not gain on him, and he kept vanishing behind the trees. She thought of calling out, but what would she say? Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the man and his dog merged with the trees and were gone. Laura stood, peering into the woods, but she had lost him. She had come to a part of the forest she had not visited before and had reached a field. Looking across it she could see a small farm. There was a scruffy stone house and a collection of equally dilapidated barns and sheds forming a muddy yard. An engine roared and Glyn the Bryn pulled out of one of the buildings, his dog barking beside him. He swore at the animal, and it leaped onto the back of the quad bike. The farmer revved up the machine and tore out of the yard and off down the lane, away from the woods, much to Laura’s relief. She waited until he was well out of sight and then climbed the fence and headed for the farm.

  Close up everything was just as unkempt and shabby. The yard was covered in a layer of mud and sheep dung and must have been a mire in the winter. The barn roof was of rusty corrugated iron, as were some of the stable doors. Skeletons of ancient farm machinery lay about the place. A pigsty housed nothing but an elder tree, which had long ago forced off any roof there might have been. Laura was about to explore the barn when a tinkling laugh from behind her made her jump. She wheeled around to find an old woman watching her. If this was Glyn’s wife, then she was his physical opposite in every way. She was round and plump with a smiley face and bright, sparkling eyes. Her skin was not so much lined as creased and dimpled, and her abundant silver hair was tied back in a low, loose bun. Her ample body shook as she laughed. She wore a spotless white blouse and a long, heavy skirt over which was an ample apron, the strings of which tied her all together like a butcher’s parcel. On her feet were heavy boots that looked almost as aged as the woman herself.

  “Oh,” said Laura. “I’m sorry, I…”

  “… thought there was no one here.” The woman laughed some more. “Don’t fret, Glyn won’t be back before his stomach tells him it’s time for tea. Anyway, his bark is worse than his bite. Not that you can say the same about that dog of his!” She laughed again.

  “Thanks for the warning.” Laura smiled and stepped forward, holding out her hand. “I’m Laura, from Penlan.”

  “Of course you are,” said the old woman, her accent swooping and soaring like one of the woodland birds. She took Laura’s hand in her own pudgy one and squeezed it warmly, “You can call me Anwen.”

  “I’m sorry. I was snooping. That was really rude of me.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that, now, cariad. No harm done. You come and sit down with me, ’ave something to drink. I was just going to open a bottle of my elderflower cordial. Such a fine crop of blooms this year. Nothing like it on a dusty day. Come along.”

  She led the way on painful legs to a warped, wooden seat at the front of the house. She gestured for Laura to sit and went inside. Laura wondered how such a mean-spirited dry stick of a man could have such a warm woman for his wife. Anwen reappeared moments later with two tall glasses. She handed one to Laura.

  “Here you are. You try that and tell me if it’s not the best elderflower you’ve ever tasted.”

  Laura sipped thoughtfully, deciding not to let on it was the only elderflo
wer she had ever tasted.

  “Delicious,” she declared, meaning it. “Absolutely delicious.”

  Anwen shook with more gleeful laughter. “There we are, then. You want to try making some yourself. You’re still young. You might get it right by the time you’re an old crone like me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve never met anyone less cronelike in my life.”

  They both laughed at that, then sat enjoying their drinks for a moment. Laura felt wonderfully at ease with this cheerful neighbor, and a little of the morning’s disappointment began to lift. It occurred to her that Anwen must know everyone local, including, perhaps, the man she had seen in the woods.

  “I saw someone, as I was walking from Penlan. A man. Tall, dark, with a grey dog. Does he live around here?”

  Anwen’s face altered minutely. She still wore her habitual smile, but a shadow of seriousness fell over her eyes.

  “Oh, you’ve seen him, then, have you?” She looked at Laura differently now, as if studying her, trying to get the measure of her. After a moment’s silent consideration she nodded, to herself it seemed, and then sipped her drink. She leaned back on the seat, causing it to creak alarmingly, and stretched out her legs stiffly, letting out a deep sigh before speaking.

  “You don’t wear a watch, Laura,” she said, looking ahead into the middle distance now.

  “No. As a matter of fact, I never have.”

  “And do you have to look at a calendar to know which day it is?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “You see, there are some people who live their lives by time. A time to get up. A time to go to bed. A clock on every wall. A date for this and a day for that. Those people wouldn’t know how to go on without an hour chiming or a watch watching them. Other people, people like you, Laura, well, they live their lives to the rhythm inside themselves, not the ticking of a clock.”

  As the old woman paused Laura struggled to find the relevance of what she was saying. It was observant of her to notice Laura wasn’t wearing a watch, and it was an accurate description of the way Laura lived, inasmuch as she didn’t follow a nine-to-five workday. But what had any of that to do with the stranger in the woods?