by Rebecca Bryn
She looked up at him, her eyes shining. ‘I can’t bring Bethan and Cadi home, and I can’t persuade people with children to bring them here to live, but this is something I can do. They may only be stone, but I am going to bring children back to Coed-y-Cwm.’
***
Alana drew the curtains against the dark and locked and bolted the front door. Three women had died and at least two of them had had signs on their doors before their deaths. The painting she’d started that morning remained unfinished. She turned to her carving, eager to explore the possibilities buzzing through her head, but she couldn’t concentrate. She wasn’t sure what it was about Greg, but she hadn’t felt like this since Tony. Greg and Maddy were probably an item, certainly Maddy’s body-language suggested they were. He wouldn’t bother to call her about the proposed gig.
She pulled the curtain aside and looked out into the half-light: they’d got her curtain-twitching now. Across the green, a flash of light from a window disappeared as a curtain fell. And then another. Was it her they were watching or some unseen menace? She felt their fear: a faint shadow seemed to flit from denser shade to denser shade at the edges of the green. She blinked and it was gone. It was as if the entire village was hunkering down against a long-awaited Armageddon. She resisted the urge to call the number Greg had put on her mobile, dropped the curtain back into place and went to bed.
She lay awake for a long while, thinking about Greg and Tony and listening to the wind lashing rain against the Velux. Dad had said she’d love again. Could she, if she could resign Tony to the past? She tried to put them both out of her mind and concentrate on forming ideas for the carving.
Suppose the signs were a warning: children were hardly the right form to help define their illusive meaning. Maybe, she should try to find out what they meant. No, that was playing into the hands of her persecutor: she wouldn’t be victimised, terrorised. A carving of innocent children would free the symbols of their menace.
Her thoughts turned to Cadi and Bethan, and the others of the village who had left their homes never to return. She pulled the bedclothes over her head and curled into a ball as the wind, hitting the house square on, rattled the front windows. The forecasted bad weather from the south-west hurled itself across the ocean towards her, but when would the metaphorical storm make landfall and from which direction would it come?
***
Let me out! Please, let me out!
The small voice tore at Rhiannon’s heart. ‘And what will happen to us all if I do, Lowrie?’
I’m here, Lowrie. Don’t cry. Don’t be afraid of the dark. I’m here. I’ll look after you.
‘I’m not letting you out, either, Nerys. We nearly starved last time, and I hate marmalade.’
You’re a bully, Rhiannon. You can’t keep us shut away, forever.
‘Nerys… you know you can’t go out… even opening the front door terrifies you. I have to be the one who takes responsibility. Who else will do the shopping, cook, pay the bills, buy your wretched marmalade? Lowrie can’t even count money and, anyway, left to her we’d live on cheese and onion crisps, and lemonade.’
And righting wrongs?
‘I’ll be my own conscience, Nerys. Be quiet.’
I’ll still be watching.
‘Go to sleep, Nerys.’
The voices subsided, muttering: beaten until next time.
Sun sparkled on crisp grass, dew-tipped as the frost melted. Too nice a morning to spend indoors; a walk to the post office would do her good. She breathed air fresh from the Atlantic, appreciating each lungful: her time on this earth was finite, and could be far shorter than she anticipated if she didn’t control Nerys. She had a lot to do before she slept forever.
Elin had scrubbed off Ehwaz, she noticed, but Nauthiz till adorned Alana’s door. She’d vowed vengeance on Siân’s family to the third generation, but hadn’t made up her mind about Alana.
As she walked she contemplated the runes. People thought rune tiles little more than tarot tiles, but they were more than that. They were marks, such as a people without writing and writing equipment could make. They’d have been a way of recording important events on stone, or paying homage to the pagan gods with whom they were associated. Without exception they were formed from straight lines, easy to scratch or chisel into rock with stone tools, as Ogham had been. In some symbols, like Fehu, Kaunaz and Raidho, she could see the origins of the modern letters F, K and R, while other symbols, like Nauthiz, looked nothing like their modern equivalents.
Nauthiz brought her mind back to the present. It was sacred to the Norns, the weavers of Fate and, judging by the state of Alana’s ancient Mini, appropriate. Falling the right way round, as it had, for Alana the keywords were necessity, need, absence, sadness: the hardship of existing on less than enough. Hard work and patience would be needed to work through the pain and strife, but the experience must be treated as a period of learning in order to overcome difficulty rather than becoming bitter.
For her it urged limitation and patience: a warning against greed and desire which would prove destructive. For Non, Nauthiz reversed had been the negation of human need: certainly Non needed nothing now.
A buzzard perched on a telegraph pole ahead of her. It rose into the air as she approached and flapped lazily across the moor. She watched it gain height and circle in graceful loops, higher and higher, calling with a plaintive mew.
Life had taught her patience: the runes urged caution. She’d been both patient and cautious. Siân’s death had been a happy accident, but it had given her the idea for Mair and Non’s. She’d been careful over the fire: a screwed-up cloth of combustible liquid stuffed in an open tin was an accident waiting to happen. And who would suspect it might spontaneously combust, if the remains of the cloth were even found? That close to the central-heating boiler, surely the boiler itself would be suspect. She’d worn gloves, and her hair was covered by a hat, when she’d pushed Mair’s car over the edge: there had been no witnesses and the murder weapon had been water.
She was being careful now. She’d bought newspapers and envelopes from several different shops, worn latex gloves when she’d handled them, and the stamps were self-adhesive. She’d used glue from three other shops. She’d taken the bus to Narberth for one tube so none of the constituent parts could be grouped together to point a finger. The plain paper had come from a chip shop in Haverfordwest. She intended posting the four letters at different places.
The first letter was for Reverend Thomas’ wife and the second for Elin’s husband to make sure they weren’t intercepted by the guilty. The third and fourth would be sent, using different envelopes, ink and handwriting, to Elin and the minister. That way all four would be sure to know the truth about Reverend Thomas and Elin steamy affair, and that their partners would know they knew. She’d seen them, when they’d thought the village safely curtained, saying illicit goodbyes in the chapel doorway.
It was sad that tomorrow the lives of innocent parties would be ruined by their spouses’ infidelity, but innocent casualties were a feature of war, and war had been declared upon those of the twelve who remained.
Chapter Twelve
Alana stared purposefully at the blank screen: she needed internet access to find local galleries, art groups and exhibitions if she was to augment her rapidly dwindling funds. She also needed to know whom to approach for funding for the sculpture, or risk losing The Haggard and she couldn’t bear to think of selling the cottage, now.
Also, Dad’s words haunted her waking hours. One day you’ll have to take responsibility for your daughter. He was right, however much the truth terrified her: Mum was sixty-seven and though it would be cruel to take Saffy away so soon after Dad leaving, it wasn’t realistic to expect a seventy-year-old lone parent to look after a lively four-year-old. It was time she stopped being selfish and stepped up, even if she couldn’t love her daughter as she deserved. She’d have to do her best. She had a sudden urge to paint Saffy running down the beach to the sea, or ro
ck-pooling with a net and bucket. This would be a good place to bring up a child but how did one work with a toddler in tow?
She had two years before she’d have to sell The Haggard. Two years to secure her career, and a home for herself and Saffy. Maybe, if Mum could finance a small extension, she’d come and live with them and help with childcare. In fact, if Mum sold her half-share in her house now and put up the twenty percent… problem solved.
If she could stand living with Mum, and if she could persuade her to come back to Coed-y-Cwm, the village of her birth, where she’d doubtless be viewed as a scarlet woman. If she could put Cadi and Bethan into the past where they belonged, and didn’t let them rule her future. More tsunami’s and guilt-trips would ensue before things were settled but, if Mum did agree to come, it would have to be on her terms not Mum’s. She sighed: best she continued her quest for independent funding.
‘Right, computer. If the password isn’t Bramble or Cadi… what is it? What was special to Siân?’ She’d searched the room Siân had used as an office and found only paid bills, bank statements, seascapes, portraits and art materials. ‘Try artist? No. Seascape…’ That didn’t work either. What about a favourite place? She’d painted lots of scenes of Newgale. She typed it in. ‘Damn and bugger. What is it, Siân, tell me.’ It had to be something personal, special. That brought her back to Cadi. So much for putting her in the past. Cadiapdaffyd… No luck. Maddy had said Cadi was known locally as… ‘Cadiap.’
The screen blinked. Success? She sipped coffee as she waited. The desktop appeared and hot coffee splashed over her arm and knees. ‘What the…’
The desktop photograph wasn’t of Cadi, as she’d expected. It was of one of her paintings: hers, not her aunt’s. How the hell had Siân got hold of that? Maybe one of her customers had posted it on-line and Siân had recognised her name.
Her fingers fumbled with the mouse. She should check Siân’s e-mails… there could be hundreds to wade through, things that needed answers.
She deleted obvious junk and filed anything art-orientated for later use. The rest were mainly from someone called Momacat and began Dear Cissy… Cissy? She’d heard the name before, it was old-fashioned, but had no idea what it was short for, or whether it was a pet name. Siân – Cissy? It was possible.
Momacat had sent thirty or forty e-mails over the last couple of months, the last had been sent not long before New Year. She didn’t have time to read them all: she hit reply to the final e-mail and informed Momacat, as gently as she could, that Cissy had died.
Local galleries: there were several but most were closed until Easter. Exhibitions also didn’t begin until Easter. So much for supplementing her finances. How did artists live through the winter? Art Council for Wales… Small grants were up to £5000, not enough for her purposes. Large grants… guidelines. File is corrupted. She tried again with the same result.
‘Damn.’ She’d have to phone them. She read on. Grants were given quarterly. The deadline for the January quarter’s applications was two days ago. ‘Damn and double damn.’
But that meant she had three whole months to get together a really good application and agreement with the village and council to erect the full-size work on the green. Maybe they’d agree to her temporarily erecting the mock-up, half-size now that the proposal to make them stylised children meant the full-size circle of stones would be smaller, averaging around five feet in height. Eight-foot tall children wouldn’t look right and making them smaller would cost less in stone.
If she could get the mock-up done in time for her application, send photos or invite someone out to see them, maybe she wouldn’t need Mr John’s promised £15,000.
She looked out of the window at the twelve stone blocks. That was one carving a week at a time of year when the days were short and the weather too predictably wintery. The shed was crammed full of Aunt Siân’s junk, which would take days to sort through and cart to the tip.
She turned off the computer: she’d wade through the e-mails later. She had a space to clear in the lounge, and stone and tools to haul in if she could find a strong man to help her. She had to do her best work if she was to convince the Arts Council she was worth backing, and the villagers her sculptures weren’t the work of the devil: she’d join the chapel if she had to. She would not lose The Haggard to Mr John’s twenty percent.
***
Alana’s elbows and wrists ached. She laid down her saw and consulted her drawings before making more chalk marks on the cut faces of the stone block. She straightened tiredly and dropped the dog-end of chalk into its box: tomorrow, as her mother was fond of saying, hadn’t been touched yet.
The afternoon sun tempted her outside. She took a sketch pad and a stool and sat on the green to sketch the tumbledown ruin she now called home. A woman across the green stopped and stared: she waved a hand in greeting, expecting her to come and see what she was drawing, as people tended to do when they saw an artist at work. She never minded them looking over her shoulder, even if they did sometimes point out what she’d got wrong.
The woman turned away without acknowledging her and hurried to a neighbouring cottage. The door opened, a barely-seen figure hustled the woman inside, and the door closed against her. So much for getting to know the neighbours. At least Mr Davis hadn’t shut his door against her when she’d asked for help dragging the stone block inside on a sack.
The sketch finished, she made coffee and took it into the computer room. Cadi Ap. She was more than a half-sister, their mothers being sisters: a three-quarter sister? She’d have loved a sister.
The conversations between Momacat and Cissy were fairly ordinary. Both appeared to be cat-lovers, though Siân, as far as she knew only had Bramble, the terrier. Kitten’s kitten was just like Kitten at that age and had said… Said? Cats didn’t speak. She read more slowly. Kitten was used oddly, ambiguously… She ran up the stairs and unearthed the letters she’d found in the bedside drawer.
Dear Siân, I can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for you. Your generosity at such a time overwhelms me. The kitten is well but Derek hasn’t come round to the idea of having it in the house yet. I’m working on him. No-one could resist its charms forever. G
Her hands shook. The letter wasn’t dated, but the paper and envelope were yellow with age and the faint postmark read 1985, thirty years ago. She and Cadi would have been three and, though her memories of her early childhood were vague, she felt sure Mum and Dad had never had a cat. In fact, she didn’t think Mum even liked cats.
The kitten was her, it had to be. Dad hadn’t wanted her, after three years he still hadn’t wanted Mum’s lovechild… but Aunt Siân had forgiven Mum and Dafydd their infidelity, and been interested in her progress: generosity indeed. At such a time must be after Cadi's disappearance. ‘Siân, talk to me. Talk to me. Have you and Mum been e-mailing each other all these years? Why didn’t she tell me about you?’
She’d bet The Haggard that Dad didn’t know they’d been in touch. What was it Dad had said? That village, that woman, ruined our marriage. How? We had to cut Siân out of our lives. She went to the window and peered out into the darkness. For once in your life, do as I ask and don’t go back there. What wasn’t Mum telling her?
***
Greg sat at the desk in his room in the bed and breakfast in Lower Solva, and bought yet more credits. The on-line search to find his birth-mother’s older sister was becoming expensive.
Maddy put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed his neck. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Slowly.’ He leant into her, relaxing. ‘Annie Jones turned up zilch. I’ve been through every Ann Jones and Anne Jones in the UK. None were born in Pembrokeshire.’
‘Try Anna.’
‘That’s my next job.’ He crossed Anne from his list. ‘James said Annie was Nerys’ older sister. According to the age given on that first newspaper report, Nerys must be about seventy now. I’m checking for Jones’s born in the ten years before Nerys was born. There are hundreds. Nery
s is on the 1961 census. Annie must have left by then.’
‘So, we don’t know Annie isn’t short for something else.’
‘Annabel, with all its various spellings? Andrea?’
She moved her fingers to his shoulders and massaged gently. ‘Angharad? Your older sister was Angharad. She could have been named after her aunt. Marianne?’
‘Oh God, this is going to take weeks.’
‘Take a break, Greg.’ Maddy perched on the desk and lowered his laptop lid. ‘Greg…’
‘What?’
‘You know I like you.’
‘I like you, too, Maddy.’
‘I was thinking.’
His heart hammered. ‘You want me to move out of the flat?’
‘No… nothing like that. Alana…’
His heart lifted. ‘What about her?’
Maddy bit her bottom lip. ‘I saw the way you looked at each other.’
He smiled. ‘She’s an attractive girl. What’s this about, Maddy?’
‘You and me.’
‘I didn’t think there was a you and me.’ He studied the logo on the laptop lid, not knowing what to say. Before he’d met Alana, it was all he’d wanted. He loved Maddy, but were his feelings real if he could think about Alana this way?
‘I know I’ve been a bit off, but...’ Maddy put her hand on his and removed it as quickly. ‘Forget I said anything. You and Alana were made for each other.’
Maddy brought joy into his life, inspired him. He was writing a song for her. He was drawn to Alana, but his feelings for her were based on their common loss, nothing more. She’d seemed vulnerable and he’d felt an urge to protect her. ‘Maddy…’
She smiled brightly. ‘I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.’ She swung herself off the desk. ‘Don’t forget we’ve got a gig, tonight.’
He’d never understand women. He thumbed Alana’s number into his mobile and texted. Gig at Harbour House, Solva. 7pm.
