It was difficult to go back to the cottage without constant observation, both from the Parrys and the vigilant Peter, who was overtly concerned with not letting me out of his sight, lest further manifestations by some phantom, imagined or otherwise, should provoke another emotive outburst from my fragile self. I was hopeful that the news about the state of the car would be good and that he would be returning home later in the day. I reconsidered his earlier offer and, thinking it might appease him, agreed to accompany Peter to Beaumaris for the afternoon in Mr Parry’s truck. After all, I wasn’t likely to come to any harm – and I might learn something.
I was instantly impressed by the approach to the town, where many quaint, brightly coloured cottages lined both sides of the main road, which descended steeply towards its centre. Overlooking the seafront stood several much grander Georgian-style terraced buildings, painted in equally vibrant shades.
The good weather had brought out the holidaymakers and local people alike in their droves. The heat was oppressive and I was grateful for the sea breeze as we walked along the pier, watching excited children as they caught crabs from long fishing lines and collected the unfortunate creatures, which clambered over one another in small buckets.
‘I used to love doing that when I was a kid.’ Peter smiled at the memory. ‘Dad used to bring me here often when we had a fine day. Or to the beach at Llanddona.’
‘Sarah mentioned that your father’s family came from round here.’
‘Yes. My grandparents died when I was only small so I don’t really remember them. My mum didn’t have any close family. Dad’s sister and her husband lived near Menai Bridge. I stayed with them for a time after my parents … passed away. They were lovely people. Both dead now, though. I got on well with my cousins, but I think things got too much for my aunt. Her health wasn’t great and her dead brother’s adolescent son on top of three kids of her own – two of them boisterous lads to boot – well, I can appreciate now how it must have been for her. At the time I felt pretty hurt that I had to leave.’
We walked back up to the pebble beach. I eased myself onto a bench next to the sea wall, resting both hands on my bump, whilst Peter absent-mindedly skimmed stones at the water and watched as they bounced, leaving ripples in their wake.
‘Where did you go – after you left your aunt’s?’ I ventured.
‘A children’s home in Bangor for a while, then I was moved back to the Midlands and into foster care. Neither was what you might call a nurturing experience. I left as soon as I’d turned sixteen. I moved into a dump of a bedsit and got a series of dead-end jobs. I’d had a small, regular allowance but there was more money – from my parents – coming to me when I turned eighteen. I moved to Birmingham and went to college. In a way the whole experience did me a favour. I knuckled down and got my act together. I s’pose it’s paid off.’
I thought for a moment. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t move in with the Parrys. They seem very fond of you.’
‘It wasn’t an option, I’m afraid. These situations aren’t as clear-cut as you might think. They weren’t family and there’s all sorts of red tape to trawl through before you’re allowed to foster or adopt. Surprising, really, when you look at some of the arseholes that seem to make it through the selection process.’
His lips set into a hard line and he threw a final stone viciously, narrowly missing a gull which had been bobbing unassumingly on the water. I decided to pursue the subject no further as it appeared to have hit a nerve. But there was something I felt compelled to ask him.
‘Peter – Mrs Parry told me that you and Glyn’s fiancée Aneira … had a difference of opinion about something. Was there any particular reason you didn’t get on?’
Peter looked taken aback. He stared out to sea as if hunting for inspiration. Eventually he turned to look at me.
‘Aneira took a disliking to me from the word “go”. It was actually through the eldest of my cousins, Carys, that she first met Glyn. They knew one another from school and Carys introduced them at some disco or other. Aneira was a moody sort of girl and became possessive about him. She didn’t want to share him with anyone else and was resentful of our closeness.
‘The day he died … they’d had a massive row because he’d chosen to take me to market instead of going on a shopping trip with her. Petty, I know; but the fact was that he gave her a few home truths about her attitude, how she was smothering him and killing his love for her – and that was how things had been left. She’d never had the chance to smooth things over and, well, she blamed me. It rankled with her that they’d parted on such bad terms and she felt it was all my fault.’
‘And the day she disappeared – why was she so angry with you?’ I studied his face, keen to see his reaction to this line of questioning.
Peter sighed, his gaze shifting back out to sea once more. ‘People were saying she’d got in with a bad crowd – and one lad in particular. There was talk of drug-taking and … other stuff. I imagine she was running short of cash. She came to the cottage and I think she was expecting a hand-out. I reckon she was hoping I’d feel guilty about being the cause of ill feeling between her and Glyn. Maybe this new chap put her up to it; I don’t know.
‘Anyway, I more or less sent her away with a flea in her ear; so she started yelling at me, trying to make me feel bad about staying in what she felt should’ve been her home; saying I was using the Parrys, the usual crap. But how the hell was I to know she was going to vanish into the night?’
He sat down on the bench beside me, lowering his voice. ‘Naturally the police wanted to question me, after all the hullabaloo. But they were perfectly happy with my explanation. Her frigging mother won’t let it rest, though. I’m sure she thinks I’ve done something to the girl. I only wish she’d turn up – one way or the other – so the whole thing could be put to bed.’
Peter’s version of events had made me view things in a different light. I suddenly felt sorry for him – and guilty that I had misjudged him. We sat in silence for a time.
He turned to face me suddenly, his expression intense. ‘You and Graham – you were very happy, weren’t you? It must be really hard for you – with a baby on the way and everything.’
I was a little surprised, as the subject of my husband had never been broached before. ‘We were once, yes. At least, I always thought we were … I only wish now that we’d managed to have children before he … It might have made things more bearable …’
I surprised myself with this revelation. Graham and I had often discussed starting a family but the time had never felt right. It was always a crucial moment in my job or his – but with hindsight, in either circumstance, the decision had always ultimately been mine and it was my work that had taken priority. I was always chasing that promotion; putting in hours voluntarily at the end of the day to raise my profile, going the extra mile to help my students improve their grades. Even during the school holidays, I filled my time with marking and diligently preparing the next scheme of work; I even organized extracurricular outings for the pupils, to the theatre or birthplace of some eminent playwright or poet, hoping to ignite their enthusiasm for my subject.
There just didn’t seem to be room for a baby in my life. Perhaps if I had been more amenable earlier in our relationship, my chances of conceiving might have been greater then. What cruel irony that Graham had been robbed of his chance of fatherhood.
I called to mind one Saturday some twelve months earlier when we had driven out into the country. The weather had been glorious and the spot we chose idyllic. Graham had prepared a picnic and we parked the car in a deserted lane, spreading a blanket under the shade of a huge willow tree near the glistening river. After eating, we lay back and he talked of his plans for our future, twisting my hair sensuously round his fingers as I stared idly skyward. He gently tilted my chin towards him and gazed into my eyes.
‘Wouldn’t it be great to have a little one to bring somewhere like this, Annie? It’s just perfect here.’ His expression was almost pleading as he studied my face. I remembered laughing and trying to make a joke of it.
‘Just think how the moment would be spoiled if you had to run off and change a nappy – or mop up puke? And you wouldn’t be able to just lie here enjoying the scenery – you’d need eyes in the back of your head! The baby might crawl off and fall in the water. Nah – all things considered, I think it’s better with just the two of us.’
He had smiled, a little dolefully, and changed the subject. The tone of the afternoon seemed to alter after that and I had been relieved when we eventually returned home.
Now, I looked wistfully over my shoulder at the young families walking up and down the pier: women proudly pushing babies in prams, and laughing toddlers carried high on their fathers’ shoulders. My eyes flooded with tears once again.
‘I’m sorry Annie – this is my fault. I’m always putting my bloody great foot in it.’
Seeing his anguished expression I couldn’t help but smile. I pulled a crumpled tissue from my pocket and wiped my eyes, then blew my nose vigorously.
‘I think we’re quits on that score. Come on – there’s an ice-cream van over there. I’ll treat you!’
We walked back up the main street, silently relishing the ice creams that were melting fast and dribbling down their cones in the heat. Passing numerous tea and souvenir shops, we eventually reached the castle, behind which we had parked the truck.
‘I’d better try and get hold of the garage to see what’s happening with my motor,’ Peter told me, a little ruefully. ‘Pity I’ve got to get back, really. Especially with the weather being so good.’
‘Yes, it’s a shame. I’ve had a nice afternoon, Peter. Thank you.’
Our eyes locked for a moment and I dropped my gaze, feeling slightly uncomfortable. However innocent, it didn’t seem quite right somehow, enjoying another man’s company so soon after losing Graham.
Peter could get no reply from the garage on his phone, so we drove back out of the town, through the avenue of trees, which bowed their heads to meet in a canopy above us. We passed by the houses in Llansadwrn and the fields beyond, eventually turning left onto the main Pentraeth road and back to Bryn Mawr.
Peter failed to conceal his disappointment upon seeing his car parked near the outbuildings. The mechanic from the garage had brought it back and was standing, leaning against his tow truck, swigging tea and chatting to Mr Parry.
‘No major problems – I’ve replaced the fan belt and she should be as good as new,’ he announced, raising an oily hand to place his mug on the wall. ‘Mr Parry – Will – here has settled up for you, so I’ll be off now. You’ve got my number if you ever have any more problems, haven’t you?’ He turned to shake Mr Parry by the hand. ‘Thank your missus for the tea, Will. Fancy – your dad being at school with my uncle. Small world, eh!’
We waved as the tow truck headed back down towards the main road.
‘What do I owe you, Will?’ Peter produced a brown leather wallet from his back pocket.
‘Put that away. You can take me for a pint next time you’re up,’ the old man said, winking good-naturedly.
Peter slapped him on the back in gratitude. ‘If you’re sure …’
We went into the farmhouse to find Mrs Parry in her customary role as hostess, busily piling plates with sandwiches and huge slabs of Victoria sponge. Two burly young men in their early twenties, quite obviously brothers from the similarity of their appearance, were ensconced at tableside. They smiled broadly as we entered the kitchen.
‘Just in time for tea!’ Mrs Parry beamed. ‘Peter – you remember Tudur and Ianto?’
‘Of course!’ Peter nodded and smiled, shaking each by the hand respectively as they stood up momentarily, towering above him. Clearly her sons did not share the acrimony Marian Williams felt towards Peter.
Ianto greeted him with a brotherly hug. ‘Good to see you again!’ he said, grinning. Peter looked a little choked.
‘And this is Mrs Philips,’ continued Mrs Parry. ‘She is staying with us at the moment.’ The old woman beckoned to me, and I received an equally warm reception from the two lads, blushing as each of them bent forward in turn to kiss me on the cheek.
‘Sorry about the stubble,’ said Tudur, whom I later discovered to be the younger of the two.
We all sat at the table and I watched open-mouthed as Ianto and Tudur greedily devoured sandwich after sandwich, regularly replenishing their plates with several enormous slices of cake.
‘Growing lads,’ observed Mr Parry jovially, noticing the look of amazement on my face.
‘It’s working outdoors – gives you a colossal appetite!’ declared Ianto, his cheeks bulging with food. He winked at Peter and the two of them laughed. There seemed to be a rapport between the two men, which I found touching, since Peter had lost his best friend. The constant jokes and chatter were dizzying, but refreshingly entertaining. I suddenly realized how uplifting it was to be surrounded by people after the lonely few months I had just spent.
After tea, the two men excused themselves as they returned to work.
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Philips,’ they said, almost in unison.
‘See you again!’ said Tudur. ‘Pop over for a cup of tea some time – Mam would be pleased to see you. She likes to have a natter.’
I nodded and smiled, unsure about this final statement. Mrs Williams had seemed anything but pleased to meet me. Perhaps I’d caught her on an off-day.
The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet and empty. It was as if a whirlwind had passed through.
‘Told you they were lovely boys,’ said Mrs Parry, as she cleared the table. ‘A breath of fresh air! They don’t take after their mother, that’s for sure.’
Peter smiled wryly to himself, but made no comment. Looking up at the clock on the wall, he let out a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose I’d best be off again, then. The car’s all sorted so I think I’ll go now before the rush hour starts.’
Once more, we said our goodbyes and watched as he drove away. Mr Parry announced that he had a few errands to run and disappeared once more in his old truck. I asked to be excused and went up to my room, which Mrs Parry had kindly spring-cleaned for me. I thought of Peter’s final words to me as he climbed into the car, and smiled inwardly.
‘I’m only at the end of a phone if you need to talk to someone. I hope we can stay in touch when you get back.’
I thought that I might like that, although perhaps not just yet. I still needed more time to adjust to my present situation – and a new baby might complicate things further. But any doubts I had harboured about Peter seemed to have evaporated. Our afternoon together had made me see him in a different light.
Reclining on the bed, I suddenly remembered a remark that Graham had made at the party the night he was killed. Something I had overheard. Funny, how it should just pop into my head like that. I frowned. Most of the events of that day were a blur, as though I had blotted them from my mind because it was simply too painful. We had been at a gathering held by one of his work friends.
Whilst I was an English teacher, Graham had been a reporter for the local newspaper. He wasn’t particularly ambitious and had remained in the same position for years. In all honesty, I wasn’t terribly keen on the people he worked with. Many of them seemed hard-nosed and not afraid of treading on people’s toes just to get a story. Although – who the hell was I to judge them? It sickened me now to think that I had been so motivated by furthering my career, that I couldn’t simply appreciate what I had and enjoy time in my husband’s company.
I didn’t really want to go to the party initially, but had forced myself because it might ultimately have been useful to me in some way. I was never one to miss an opportunity to network. But why had Graham stormed out in such a temper? I was aware that I had drunk far more than I ought to that night. Just as I had the previous Christmas. I cringed inwardly as I remembered my behaviour on Christmas Eve.
Christmas had always been a special time for Graham and I. We would enjoy a late, leisurely breakfast and exchange presents. We’d prepare the meal together and Sarah would usually join us later in the afternoon for dinner, and then we’d all drink too much and have a laugh playing charades, eventually falling asleep watching television. Then on Boxing Day, the two of us would drive north to Yorkshire, to visit Graham’s dad.
But our last Christmas together had been something of a fiasco. One of my colleagues had invited everyone in the English faculty round for drinks and nibbles on Christmas Eve. Graham had originally intended to accompany me, but had a raging headache.
‘You go along without me,’ he told me. ‘I’ll only be a wet blanket if I come along feeling like this. Besides, I need to take painkillers and sleep it off if we’ve got the dinner to cook tomorrow.’
And so I had gone to the gathering. I didn’t intend to stay long, but inevitably one drink led to another. It was gone two o’clock when I eventually returned home. By the following morning, I was nursing the hangover from hell and in no fit state to prepare, let alone eat, dinner. I spent most of the day in bed. Sarah came to help Graham cook and was suitably unsympathetic to my self-inflicted plight. Suffice to say, I had ruined Christmas for my husband. I felt ashamed.
I knew that my drinking the night of Graham’s death had somehow contributed to his heated reaction. But exactly why, I couldn’t recall. My memory of it all was inexplicably muddled. It was too distressing to think about. I dismissed my thoughts for the present and went back, instead, to concentrating on the box. I still needed to know what was inside.
I lay supine atop the eiderdown for a while, but my mind was too restless for sleep. Swinging my legs round, I was on the verge of getting up when some flicker of movement from the far side of the room caught my eye. For no obvious reason, the old jug on the washstand appeared to wobble. Initially I thought it a mere trick of the light, but the increasingly loud vibration of china against china was reminiscent of an impending earth tremor.
Paralysed by fear, I watched, mesmerized, as the pitcher rose slowly into the air as if lifted by an invisible hand and plunged violently to the ground, smashing into several pieces. My heart thumping as though on the verge of exploding, I could do no more than stare defencelessly as the accompanying bowl flew across the room and, missing my ear by a hair’s breadth, collided with the wall behind the bed head, leaving jagged segments of pottery scattered across the floor.
I let out a shriek. Having heard the disturbance, Mrs Parry was in the doorway in an instant. She clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.
‘What on earth … oh Duw!’ The poor woman’s eyes looked ready to leave her head as she gawped at the remains of her china distributed around the room.
I was rooted to the spot, shaking like a leaf. ‘Mrs Parry … I don’t know what happened. Something – someone – here doesn’t seem to like me very much. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if I left …’
‘I won’t hear of it! I think it’s high time we got this thing sorted once and for all. I’ve heard that there’s a minister from Penmynydd who they say has had a lot of success with this kind of … situation … over the years. I’m going to find his number. His name is Reverend Arfon Evans.’