The Truth Against the World

by Sarah Jamila Stevenson

  “Well, anyway,” Wyn said, serious now. “Gee Gee said how hard life was during the war. So I guess she just wanted to forget about all of that. I don’t see how she could, though. Especially if they’d had a daughter who died.”

  “It must have been a tough time,” Gareth said. “My great-granddad doesn’t like to talk about those days much either, you know.”

  “But you’d have to talk about your life to someone, wouldn’t you?” Wyn persisted. Gareth had to agree; it seemed odd that nobody was willing to say anything about their pasts. It made him start thinking about conspiracy theories.

  “Maybe they were all Jerry spies,” he said, half jokingly.

  “I’d be ready to believe anything at this point.” Wyn shook her head and dropped the white rock with a clatter.

  “Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To get more information.” Gareth pointed at the door of the museum, which had just creaked open. A slight blond girl about their age unlocked the heavy iron screen door. “Didn’t you say—er—what’s-his-name was an evacuated child in your great-gran’s house?”

  Wyn nodded. “If anyone else still living is going to know what Gee Gee was up to then, I guess it would be Peter Robinson.” She looked uncertain.

  No, she looked sad. And Gareth found he didn’t like it at all. He much preferred Wyn laughing.

  He slouched toward the door, hoping this Peter Robinson would shed some light on the subject once and for all. He thought of Olwen—the ghost—and shivered. Maybe they could figure things out without ever needing to go back to the cromlech. Maybe this would be enough.

  The museum was a tiny, two-room converted house cluttered with period furniture, old photos, and a handful of glass display cases. Wyn seemed fascinated.

  “It’s so quaint,” she said.

  Quaint was not Gareth’s thing, but he kept quiet. Some of the old artifacts were cool, like the World War II gas mask complete with regulation carrying case. And perhaps the photos would prove useful.

  “I’m sure you’ve been here a million times already,” Wyn said, “but I think it’s cute.”

  “Actually, I haven’t come here since I was a kid. But it’s just the same as I remembered.” A bit tedious, he thought.

  They both turned as the door at the back opened. A tall, wiry man approached them; he looked at least seventy, with gray hair sticking out of his head every which way. He reminded Gareth of a stork, or maybe a heron. Some kind of gangly waterbird.

  “Well now, even if I wasn’t expecting you, I’d still know you were Olwen Evans.” The man’s serious expression was interrupted momentarily by a crooked smile. To Gareth, it wasn’t a reassuring smile—it seemed somehow forced. But Wyn looked pleased, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “You’ve got the same hair Rhiannon did when she was your age. Quite a family resemblance.” The man stepped closer. “But I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Peter Robinson. Margie’s told me about you. And who’s this, then?”

  “I’m Gareth Lewis.” Gareth stuck his hand out and shook Peter’s. “My great-granddad lives here in Cwm Tawel. I’m a friend of Wyn’s.”

  “Lewis,” Peter repeated, pulling his hand back quickly.

  Very odd. Was Peter a hermit? Living out his days in this tiny museum? The thought was somewhat amusing, and Gareth hid a smirk.

  As they browsed, Peter hovered behind them, telling them all about the musty old clothes and moldy account ledgers belonging to cottagers and farmers of days past. Finally, though, he did show them something relevant. After going back into the office and rummaging through a huge storage cabinet, he returned with a handful of black-and-white photographs from his own childhood. The one that really stood out to Gareth showed a group of three small children standing with a middle-aged couple in front of a small house. The children were gaunt and hollow-eyed, clutching their bags and gas masks, huge identification labels hanging from their coats like price tags. They looked warily, wearily, at the camera—an older boy and girl and a smaller, dirty-faced boy wearing shorts and a cap. Peter pointed at the small boy.

  “If you can believe it, that was me in 1940 when I arrived at the Davies house. And look here at this one,” he said, pulling out a little square photo of the same boy sitting at a wooden table, a spoon poised halfway between his open mouth and a soup bowl. “I gained nearly half a stone that first week. It made the local newspaper! Of course, things had been horrific in Coventry before I left. And here, even with the rations”—he pointed at a ragged coupon book in a nearby display case—“I had so much more than before. And I got a new family. The Davies did so much for the children they took in. It was a shame to leave, but I needed the work, you see. But it was so wonderful. A new home.”

  Gareth and Wyn peered at another photo of Peter, this one taken a few years later, in 1943. He was eleven years old then, he said. Next to Peter, quite a bit taller than he was, stood a young blond woman holding a cherubic toddler, and a teenage girl who could have been Wyn’s sister, they looked so similar.

  “That’s Gee Gee,” Wyn said, her eyes widening.

  Gareth felt as if someone had sucked all the air out of his lungs. He knew it was just genetics, but it was still creepy.

  “Mr. Robinson.” Wyn’s voice trembled slightly. “How well did you know my great-grandma?”

  Peter looked at her intently. “Let’s see now,” he said in his breathy voice. “I was eight when I arrived, on the very day that other picture there was taken. I stayed until I was twelve—both my parents were killed, you see, so I had nowhere else to go and it was easier for me just to go on living there. Mr. and Mrs. Davies were like parents to me.

  “Rhiannon … well, she always had a bit of a wild streak. Something of the fey in her, or just rebelliousness, I could never be sure. She was forever doing something that her parents didn’t approve of—following the Land Girls around and pretending to be one herself, insisting that her mam teach her how to shoot the family rifle in case the Germans invaded the village, slipping out to meet some young man or other from the nearby farms.” Peter chuckled wheezily.

  “She had lots of boyfriends, you mean?” Wyn tilted her head, questioning.

  “Oh, I can hardly remember now. There was a rumor she’d given Dai, the shop-boy, a peck on the cheek in exchange for an extra week’s sugar ration. And then she did sneak out nights, every so often.”

  Wyn was rapt, and Gareth couldn’t help being intrigued himself.

  “Most people were convinced she was meeting Dai. But sometimes she told me she would go talk to the other evacuees, or the gypsies at her uncle’s farm. I once heard some ladies after church gossiping that she was consorting with a gypsy lad, or worse, an Englishman!” Peter gave us his crooked, birdlike smile. “But I don’t believe any of it. No, I know Rhiannon, and nothing of the sort was possible. She was kind and generous with her friendship. That’s all.”

  Wyn looked at Gareth with a slight frown. He shrugged.

  “Then, of course, she was ill for a long time—this was just after I moved out to the farm,” Peter continued. “And then the baby came into the house.”

  “What baby?” Gareth asked, nearly in unison with Wyn. His heart beat a little more quickly.

  “Why, her cousin’s, of course,” Peter said. “It was 1944, I believe, some months after I’d left for the farm. There was a little baby girl the family took in. All us evacuees were gone by then, so there was room for the daughter of, oh, Sali, I think it was. I was told that Sali had to return straightaway to the Wrens, that was the Women’s Royal Naval Service. I never met her, but saw the child once or twice. Dark hair like all the Davies.”

  “The cousin’s baby? What was her name?” Gareth leaned forward expectantly.

  “Oh, I don’t remember details like that anymore—can hardly remember my own name, when it comes down to it.” That lopsided smile appeared again. “Going senile,
Margie says. But once I left for the farm, you know, I hardly kept in touch with the family, I’m sorry to say.”

  Wyn still had a tiny frown of doubt wrinkling her forehead. And Gareth knew that what Peter was saying was clearly impossible. A cousin’s baby. What a load of bollocks.

  Every clue they had pointed in the direction of Olwen being Rhiannon’s daughter. Wyn’s dreams about Rhiannon and Olwen, the plaque Gareth himself had seen … 1944 was when Olwen had been born.

  Peter shadowed the two of them to the museum’s front door, and Gareth turned back one last time.

  “Sir? Do you know of any ancient historical sites near here? I’m trying to find a place I visited with my parents. It’s near an old church.” Gareth stopped in the doorway, Wyn a few steps ahead. “I was hoping to visit it again while I’m here.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t get out to the trails much, really,” Peter said. “If you hike these coasts long enough, you’ll run into all sorts of interesting standing stones and dolmens.”

  “Do you have any maps?” Gareth asked.

  “Margie will have them at the bus station,” Peter said. “Now, I must be closing for lunch. Goodbye—hwyl nawr.”

  “But—” Gareth started, but Wyn pulled him away, and in any case, the door was already shut.

  They looked at each other.

  “All right?” Gareth asked. “That was weird.”

  “I’m okay.” She kicked at the gravel, crunching it with her shoe. “Peter seems really convinced it was a cousin’s baby.”

  “Yeah,” Gareth said, staring up at the sky gloomily. “I don’t know, though.”

  Wyn looked at her phone. “Oh no, I have to go,” she said. “I’m supposed to be back by noon.”

  “Oh. Right.” There was a long silence. “Hey, sorry. Tell your parents … ” He trailed off awkwardly.

  “Thanks,” Wyn said, smiling sadly. She gave Gareth a quick hug; he patted her on the back.

  Why was this so complicated?

  She started off up the road.

  After running a few errands for his great-granddad—picking up milk and eggs from the grocer, dropping off some mail at the post office—Gareth walked back to the tiny house on the west side of the village. His steps were slow, but his mind raced. Wyn’s great-gran. A daughter who died but nobody ever talked about. Olwen. And then there was Rhiannon’s family, putting out the story that Rhiannon had had a long bout with illness, passing off the baby as belonging to a cousin. A likely story, but maybe that was what people wanted to believe.

  Gareth much preferred the story of Rhiannon sneaking out to meet boys and gypsies and whoever else, despite the danger. Who would have thought Wyn’s great-gran would have a reckless streak? Everyone always talked about how much Wyn took after her, too. Was Wyn a closet rebel? Gareth smiled to himself. That could be an interesting avenue of exploration.

  Then something clicked, and he stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk on his great-granddad’s street, right in front of Mrs. Tilly’s yard gnome collection.

  Rhiannon sneaked out to meet boys. Rhiannon had a baby. But Rhiannon still lived at home.

  Had she and John Evans been fooling around before they were formally married? That would explain a lot. It would explain why the family tried to insist that the baby came from a “cousin.” Naturally, they would have wanted to avoid any scandals. And if, perhaps, this all happened while John Evans was still married to his previous wife … that would have been quite a scandal indeed.

  Gareth felt certain he was right. He hurried down the street to his great-granddad’s place, let himself in, unceremoniously dropped the bag of groceries onto the kitchen table, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  Wyn didn’t pick up. He forced himself to take a few calming breaths. She probably just had the ringer off.

  He hoped everything was okay.

  He didn’t want to be that annoying bloke who kept ringing and ringing, so he tried to distract himself by making dinner. Half an hour later, he and his great-granddad were seated at the little kitchen table sharing soft-boiled eggs, a mound of back bacon, and some sliced fruit. It was the most exciting thing in Gareth’s cooking repertoire, and in fact it had managed to keep him from checking his phone every thirty seconds.

  Now, though, he had it sitting next to his plate. Just in case.

  Without realizing it, he was jiggling his foot against the table leg, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, in a nervous rhythm.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “That’s enough of that!” His great-granddad glared over at him. “I don’t need my eggs scrambled,” he said.

  “Sorry.” Gareth took another bite of egg and bacon, hardly tasting it. What was taking Wyn so long? He couldn’t wait to tell her what he’d figured out. She’d be amazed. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to find out something like that about his own dull family.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Great-Granddad said, peering at Gareth across the table. “Trip to the museum put you to sleep?”

  “Not exactly,” Gareth said. He hesitated. His great-granddad’s piercing gaze didn’t really inspire one to confide in him. In fact, it sort of made him feel like clamming up, but he forced himself to explain briefly: Rhiannon’s illness was worsening. Her family was sad and frantic in their cottage up at the farm. He felt bad for Wyn.

  Great-Granddad pushed back the shock of white hair that had fallen over his forehead and kept eating, silently.

  Gareth frowned. “I thought you knew Wyn’s great-gran.”

  “Yes … yes,” came the irritable response. “It’s very sad, of course. Then again, she did have a hard life when she was here. I know it’s difficult to think of it this way, but sometimes it’s a blessing to make peace with it and leave it all behind.”

  “What?” Gareth nearly dropped his fork. “Why would you say that?” It made him feel awful, really. It made him feel like maybe his great-granddad shouldn’t have been living alone all these years.

  “Those war years were not easy, Gareth. Even life on a farm wasn’t all leisure and horseback riding the way it is now, you see. I had to live out here, me and my mum both, because London was getting bombed. We were in the temporary barracks set up on Rhodri Davies’ farm. Milking, sowing, harvesting, everything had to be done, and I had to go to lessons besides. When I was older, I left for the mines. And that’s all there is to tell, really. Nothing you haven’t heard thousands of times before.” He gave Gareth a smile that was more like a grimace.

  “Yeah, I know. I guess that would be hard.” The conversation seemed closed, but Gareth still had one last question. “It’s just that Wyn is trying to find out as much as possible about her great-gran’s life, before … you know.” He swallowed. “Is that really all there is? Do you remember much about her?”

  “Oh, all the young lads liked Rhiannon,” his great-granddad said shortly. “High-spirited, very pretty girl. But yes, that’s really all there is.” He picked up a few empty plates and got heavily to his feet, turning his back and going into the kitchen.

  Strange, Gareth said to himself later, as he finished brushing his teeth in the house’s tiny bathroom. Great-Granddad really didn’t want to have that conversation. Or maybe he didn’t like Rhiannon. Either way, Gareth couldn’t help wishing it was as easy to talk to his great-grandfather as it was for Wyn to talk to her Gee Gee.

  He spat foamy toothpaste into the sink, rinsed, then padded back to the guest bedroom. The house only had two bedrooms, so Gareth was sleeping on a narrow twin bed with a squishy mattress that was crammed into the second room along with decades’ worth of boxes and files and a wooden desk with old-fashioned pigeonholes along the top. The mess gave him a bit of a headache. If only his great-granddad had been one of those old people who was compulsively tidy.

  The flimsy beige curtains were still open, so he went over to the window to shut them, hi
s reflection growing larger in the dark glass as he approached. Suddenly, his reflection disappeared.

  He blinked and looked again. His heart thudded. It was no longer his own dim figure in the window glass.

  It was Olwen.

  The little girl looked sadly at him, a mere ghost of a shape, the dark night bleeding right through her form as if she wasn’t there. Which, he supposed, she wasn’t. Was she?

  Gareth was afraid to look away. He just kept staring at her, and she kept staring back, not moving.

  Then his phone rang.

  He twitched, then stood perfectly still, his muscles tense. The skin on the back of his neck crawled.

  The phone kept ringing. Ringing and ringing, while Olwen just looked at him from the reflection in the window glass.

  She opened her mouth. It was moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. Of course he couldn’t.

  Almost as if it weren’t under his control, his hand reached out for his phone, lying on the desk. He hit the Talk button and held it to his ear.

  At first all he heard was the sound of the wind. And then, a voice like a breath, a little girl’s voice.

  “You promised,” she whispered. “I’m so lonely. You promised.” All the while, she looked at him, pleading.

  He felt as if his heart might break, yet at the same time, he was terrified. He hung up the phone and put it back on the desk. But he didn’t look away. Gradually the little girl’s form faded, and all he could see through the window was moonlight and the dark shapes of neighbors’ houses, his own reflection looking wide-eyed and pale.

  He’d said he would come back. When he’d seen her in the cromlech, he’d made a promise. But that fear wouldn’t leave him. She was a ghost. She shouldn’t exist.

  If he went back there, would he find her? Did she want him to find her? Or was she trying to tell him something else?