by Tanwen Coyne
Deuwch yn ei wydd ef mewn gorfoledd!
Gwybyddwch mai yr Arglwydd sy Dduw!
The singing was louder now. She realised that she could hear soft lilting piano music joining in. It was filled with gentle joy. The music came to her as an echo. It put pictures in her head. She could see a family, gathered around the piano, singing a hymn in praise of their god.
She stared hard at the piano. It stood still and silent, untouched. But she could still hear the music and the singing. It couldn’t be real. Yet she knew it was.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t, I don’t.’
The singing faded away. The piano played its music softly. The joyful noise faded to a slow melancholy tune. She didn’t recognise it but it made her chest ache. The notes throbbed with loneliness.
She sank to the floor and watched the still piano in its dark corner, listening with rapt attention to the music she knew could not be real.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
The music faded into the silence of the living room. Jennifer sat with the peace and the stillness, knowing without a single doubt that she wasn’t alone in the little cottage.
Arianwen rises early and alone. Sunday mornings bring prayer, singing, and praise for the Lord. For Arianwen, they bring her music. Sundays give her an excuse to play her piano for hours.
She dresses in her sprigged muslin and takes her seat at the piano. The stool creaks under her. She strokes the piano’s smooth lid, then lifts it, exposing the black and white keys. They are hers. She is the only one who can stroke beautiful music from those keys. She is the only one who can touch and press and caress, bring the piano to life.
The tips of her fingers stroke the keys, then she raises her hands and begins to play. She knows the tune well. She plays it each Sunday; they start the services with it every week.
She begins to sing, her soft voice filling the sitting room with quiet joy. Her faith has always brought her joy and so has her music.
Cenwych yn llafar i’r Arglwydd, yr holl ddaear!
Gwasanaethwch yr Arglwydd mewn llawenydd!
Deuwch yn ei wydd ef mewn gorfoledd!
Gwybyddwch mai yr Arglwydd sy Dduw!
She feels peaceful here at her piano, quietly joyful. Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the lands! Serve the Lord with gladness! The words of the hymn express the way she feels about her faith and the music she sends up to her Lord. Come into his presence with singing! Know that the Lord is God!
Her fingers still. She feels as though she is being watched. She looks around, looking in every corner, through every window. There is no one there.
She hears humming, a soft voice vibrating her ears. She listens. Almost of their own accord, her fingers begin to pick out the tune she can hear, following it easily though each rise and fall.
The humming is sweet, soft, distracted. It is the sort of humming one does when one’s mind is otherwise occupied. She is not frightened. It feels right that she can hear the humming. It seems to belong here. The presence she can feel belongs with her.
Her fingers still. Silence falls and she sits motionless on her piano stool and feels the presence wash over her. For the first time in her memory, she does not feel alone.
Jennifer welcomed her bed at the end of the day. It was a soft, warm, comforting place. It was also an erotic place. She had been having these dreams for weeks now, each one deeper and more erotic. She lay down, drew the covers over her naked body and closed her eyes. She knew the dream would come.
Warmth, softness, supple fingers caressing. A kiss, firm and claiming. Gasps fill the room, hot breath on skin. Heaving chests press against one another.
Jennifer lay on her back, opening her mind and her body to the images which came from the still, not empty, darkness of her bedroom. Her mind had never given her images as rich, nor as real, as these. They didn’t belong to her. They were being gifted to her.
Wet mouth on hers, hair caressing skin as they move with each other. Smooth body against her, pressing close with need. Gentle curves, roundness of hip to claim with a firm hand.
Her gasps filled the room for real and it was real. She could feel those soft touches on her face, on her body. It was real.
Arms wrap around shoulders, bodies moving together, a whispered word, ‘please’. They tremble with the need to achieve release in each other’s bodies.
She opened her eyes to gaze into the face of her lover.
Bright eyes, a sweet mouth, long hair framing that pretty face.
There was no one there. She was alone. Jennifer sighed into her empty bedroom. ‘Oh, come back,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’
But there was nothing.
Arianwen is thinking of Blodwyn. She knows she cannot have her. She knows she loves another yet still she wants her. She craves her fiercely.
She thinks of her smile, that sweet mouth curving so gently. Blodwyn never smiles at Arianwen though. Arianwen needs that smile like oxygen. She will die soon if she cannot get just one smile.
She lies on her bed, on her side, imagining Blodwyn there with her.
Caresses on warm skin, hot breath filling the room. Reaching out, threading fingers through blonde hair.
Arianwen can feel those soft strands against her fingers, like pale satin against her skin. The locks shine for her but darken as she gazes at them. It is not straight blonde hair but dark wavy hair, the same colour as her piano.
Pressing her mouth to warm skin, feeling the breathing quicken beneath her touch. The rounded belly pulses with the fast breaths of arousal.
In the dark, hot, close space under her blankets, she can feel her lover pressing close to her.
A kiss claiming her, hand on her hip, no air between their bodies.
But it is not Blodwyn. The face is new.
Soft face bright with pleasure, mouth gasping, fingers flexing with pleasure.
The eyes are closed. Arianwen thinks that if she could only see her eyes, her lover would become real. She could have her forever, if only she could see her eyes.
‘Please,’ she whispers.
The eyelashes caress flushed cheeks and the eyes flicker open.
Arianwen stares. There are no eyes gazing back at her. Her lover is gone; she was never there.
Jennifer strode from her house in a business-like manner. Camera and assorted lenses in the case slung over her shoulder, she was going to finish her collection of pictures for the exhibition.
The residents of Cilfachglas knew her now. She’d taken photographs of many of them. They were all eager to appear in one. It had become a sort of competition amongst the children to get into a shot.
She settled herself on a bench by the bakery. The bakery was right in the middle of town and popular with the locals. She’d captured the images of most of the local buildings here and now she wished to capture a tableau of the people themselves. Posed pictures were easy to get but what she wanted was the candid shots, people going about their business.
She watched the street for some time, with her camera in hand. She took odd shots here and there, but nothing really satisfied her. Nothing was right.
As noon approached, old Mrs Evans hobbled over to her, leaning heavily on her stick. She heaved herself onto the bench beside Jennifer with a heavy sigh.
‘It’s good to get the weight off my feet,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘And believe me, there’s more than enough weight to go around, if you know what I mean!’
Jennifer smiled. Mrs Evans was a short round woman, full of smiles. Jennifer was used to seeing her around. Although she’d once broken her hip and had bad arthritis, she always went out for a walk every day without fail. She could still make it up the hills.
‘Good morning, Mrs Evans. How are you today?’
‘Not so bad. Could do without all those hills. Why they had to build the town at the top of a hill is beyond me.’
Jennifer laughed. ‘Well, at least we get the views from up here.’
‘You’ve got the best house for views, my dear. I hope you intend to make the most of it.’
Jennifer smiled. ‘I’m going to do plenty of painting when I can get hold of more canvases.’
‘You’ll have to go into town for that sort of thing.’
‘Is there a bus?’
‘Oh, two a day. Rickety old things. Still, they’re not about to replace them any time soon.’ She heaved herself up off the bench, leaning so hard on her stick Jennifer thought it would break. ‘Time for an iced bun, I think.’ She patted Jennifer’s hand. ‘I hope you get some good pictures, my lovely. It does my old heart good to see this little town being appreciated.’
She hobbled off towards the bakery, calling goodbye in Welsh as she walked, ‘Da boch, my lovely.’
Jennifer turned and watched her. She lined up her shot carefully and, just as Mrs Evans hobbled over the doorstep of the bakery, Jennifer’s shutter clicked and she had the picture. Evans’ Bakery. It had been in the Evans family for generations. Now, the shop was run by old Mrs Evans’ granddaughter Ceris, a pretty, young blonde with a capable manner.
Jennifer took a few more photographs, then decided Mrs Evans was right. It was time for a cake. She packed her camera away and crossed the threshold of the bakery herself.
There were no other customers. Mrs Evans had disappeared. Ceris was behind the counter and her whole face lit up when she saw Jennifer.
Jennifer returned her smile. ‘Your grandmother’s been tempting me to a cake.’
Ceris giggled. ‘Oh, Nain does that. It’s good for business.’
‘She was telling me about the bus into town. Apparently, it’s the only place I can buy some new canvases. I’ll have a strawberry tart, please.’
Ceris selected a strawberry tart and placed it in a box with the aid of a cake slice. ‘That’s seventy pence, please. You don’t want to take that bus. You’ll end up with concussion from bumping your head on the ceiling.’
‘I’ll have to drive then. Might go tomorrow,’ Jennifer said, handing over the money.
‘You’ll never be able to park. Why don’t you come in with me? A mate of mine owns a taxi firm, does me a good deal on the fare. Maybe we could go to one of the clubs later?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
Ceris beamed. ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow then.’
Jennifer picked up the cake box. She smiled to herself as she returned to her cottage. It seemed she had a date.
Chapter Three
JENNIFER CLOSED HER EYES against the pulsing music and the red, blue and white lights strobing in the small club. She was surrounded by women: soft, supple bodies, undulating to the music. Ceris was close by her. Jennifer could feel her breathing, could feel each movement of her body.
The haze of alcoholic exhilaration surrounded them and they brushed their bodies together carelessly. Ceris giggled, her round face lighting up.
‘It’s been so long since I came here with anybody,’ she shouted into Jennifer’s ear above the pounding music.
‘I’ve not even been to a club for over a year!’ Jennifer yelled back.
Ceris giggled again, pulling Jennifer’s body against hers. ‘You’re a good dancer, though.’
The heat surrounded them like a sweaty embrace. Jennifer rocked against Ceris, the music sliding through every part of her body. She could feel Ceris’s heart beating against her and Jennifer’s body throbbed in return, hot even in her thin leggings.
Ceris put her arms around her neck and grinned. ‘I think we’re drunk.’
Jennifer shrugged. ‘Mmm, nice, isn’t it?’
Ceris gazed at her lips and they swayed together, in time. Jennifer caught hold of Ceris’s hand.
‘Let’s go outside.’
They stumbled out into the cool air, giggling and holding each other’s hands tightly. Jennifer felt the fresh air wash over her hot skin. The noises of the night rushed together into one distant buzz.
Ceris leaned against the brick wall, breathing hard. She grinned sideways at Jennifer. ‘What did we come out here for then?’
Alcohol had overcome any leanings towards nervousness. She smiled back at Ceris. ‘You know,’ she said, and leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first but the press of drunken urgency urged them on. There were no sparks but there was a nice swirling feeling in Jennifer’s belly as they pressed together, kissing hard.
Jennifer could still hear the thud of the music from inside and she found herself moving to it as they rubbed together. Ceris whimpered into her mouth and Jennifer eased her thigh between Ceris’s and began to move hard against her. The roughness of Ceris’s skin-tight denim made Jennifer gasp. Their rhythm matched the rhythm of the song as they dry-fucked each other.
The heaviness of Ceris’s breathing spurred Jennifer on. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed this. Though before she’d moved in with her dad, to look after him, it had always been strangers she’d picked up in clubs. This new development was unexpected.
Ceris was arching against her, hot breath on Jennifer’s neck. Jennifer closed her eyes, pressed her mouth to Ceris’s neck, breathed her in.
Taste of salt on skin, familiar touch of hand on hip. Heat of mouth on mouth.
Jennifer’s eyes flew open. That wasn’t real. That couldn’t be real. She was here with Ceris, not in her bedroom with … she didn’t even know whose touch that was.
Ceris stilled against her. ‘Something wrong?’
Fingers caressing cheek, warmth, throbbing in the belly.
‘Sorry, I’m suddenly feeling a bit weird.’
Ceris’s face was flushed and her breathing was still short. She smiled kindly at Jennifer. ‘Probably too much to drink. We can go home, if you want.’
Jennifer frowned. She felt fuzzy and wrong. Her arms didn’t feel quite right around Ceris. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should.’
Ceris found her hand and squeezed it. ‘Okay. We’ll get a taxi.’
They found a taxi and soon were riding back to Cilfachglas. Jennifer was silent as they bumped along the increasingly rough roads. Ceris held her hand but Jennifer didn’t notice. Her mind was on her brass bed.
The music, the voices, the touches which happened in her own house were like dreams, the most vivid dreams Jennifer had ever had. They weren’t real. She’d told herself that again and again. They couldn’t be real. In her little house, on her own, they were easy to dismiss. Now she was no longer sure what was real.
Hand in hers, thumb stroking palm, whisper of a kiss on her cheek.
She glanced across at Ceris. Here was a sweet young woman she could talk with, laugh with, have sex with. But Jennifer’s mind was not on Ceris. Jennifer’s mind was on that other presence she knew lived in her house.
Arianwen sits in her bedroom and grips a stiff envelope in both hands. Hope and anxiety battle within her. She knows this letter is her last chance. It could bring her everything she has ever wanted. To Blodwyn x is scrawled on the envelope.
She has to do it. She puts on her shawl, bonnet and gloves, and leaves the house with the envelope tucked under her shawl, hidden from her parents.
She walks slowly, unwilling to get there. Fear bubbles in her belly and the words she has written flash through her head. ‘I have loved you for so long. I think about you constantly.’
She has poured out her heart with the ink onto the page. If only Blodwyn will read it, then maybe they can be happy. Maybe Arianwen can carve out a little something for herself, a little piece of happiness.
As she reaches the bakery, she can see Blodwyn saying goodbye to Mrs Evans in front of the locked shop. Arianwen approaches. Blodwyn’s hair is bright in the moonlight and Arianwen feels an ache inside her chest.
‘Noswaith dda,’ Arianwen says, as she reaches her.
Blodwyn looks across at her. ‘Good
evening. We’re closed.’
‘I know,’ says Arianwen. ‘I came to see you.’ Hands trembling, she holds out the letter to Blodwyn.
Blodwyn glances down at the letter, her white face creased in bewilderment. She glances up at Arianwen, meets her eyes.
‘That’s for me, is it?’
Arianwen nods. ‘Yes. Will you read it?’
Blodwyn takes the letter, stares down at it.
Arianwen cannot hold back anymore. ‘Oh, Blodwyn, please. I just want to hold you, touch you. Please, I just want you to know.’
Blodwyn stares in dumb shock at Arianwen, gripping the letter tightly in her white fingers.
‘Please,’ begs Arianwen, her voice hoarse and desperate.
Blodwyn swallows hard, then lurches forwards. Her pretty face is nothing but a scowl. ‘I knew it. How can you even think such things? You’re disgusting.’
‘Please do not say that. I love you.’
Blodwyn pulls back in horror. The letter is still gripped in her slender hands. Then she is tearing it, ripping the paper into shreds with spiteful fingers.
Arianwen cries out, reaching for the letter but it is gone, ripped into tiny pieces and scattered all over the ground. She sinks to her knees, hoping to rescue the letter from the damp street.
Blodwyn stands over her. Arianwen looks up. Blodwyn’s pretty, white face is snarling and has become ugly.
‘Sinner,’ she spits, then turns on her heel and stalks away.
Arianwen sits on the empty street amongst the remains of her letter.
Chapter Four
