I was asleep almost instantly. My dreams were a tangle of everything that had happened during the day. It was as though my subconscious was trying to make sense of it all. Anwen and little Osian; Anni and Peter; Sarah; and Graham …
I awoke immediately. My heart was pounding like a drum now – not with the terrible fear that had plagued me recently, but with the sudden shocking resurgence of a memory that I had long buried. I felt sick. Sleep evaded me now. I paced the floor, bitter tears spilling from my eyes.
The constant rows in our final weeks together came flooding back to me now. The little digs about how work was clearly so important to me that perhaps I’d be better suited to the single life. How I could be more like my sister and take a more measured approach to things: realize what really mattered and get my priorities right.
The memory of the night he died came flooding back. The derisory comment I overheard him making to the wife of one of his workmates – ‘Oh no, we haven’t any children. Domesticity is anathema to Annie, I’m afraid.’
I remembered now what had happened at the party. Only the day before, I had discovered that the wife of one of Graham’s colleagues was a highly regarded headmistress at a school with an impressive Ofsted report and outstanding GCSE results. Having heard that there was a position for Head of English available at her establishment, I hoped to be able to speak to her and create a good impression, with a view to wheedling myself an interview.
Things had been hazy as, in an attempt to quell my nerves before talking to the headmistress, I had stupidly drunk rather too much, and spent a long time chatting to her lecherous husband, waiting in vain for a proper introduction. Graham had noticed me talking to his colleague, for whom he had nothing but contempt, and it was clearly the final straw.
The argument that preceded his abrupt departure from the party; his parting shot as he climbed into the car, all came back to me now – ‘No! I need to clear my head. You stay where you are – why don’t you go and do a bit more mingling – you might just meet some more useful contacts. It’s what’s most important to you in life, after all …’
My thoughtless behaviour had driven him away from the party – and ultimately to his death. I had been so wrapped up in my job and furthering my career that I didn’t see what it was doing to him. Our baby would never know his or her father and it had all been my own stupid, selfish fault. It was inconceivable.
I lay awake, tossing and turning until daylight began to creep through. No ghostly apparition came to distract me now and my thoughts were at once filled with self-directed anger and loathing. It was sheer misery. I felt a terrible hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Soon I could hear someone moving about in the kitchen below. I slipped out of bed and went downstairs, noticing from the hall clock that it was only 5.30 a.m. The kitchen curtains were still drawn, but Mrs Parry was laying the breakfast table and making tea. I had obviously startled her and she looked up sharply. I could see that she had been crying. Her eyes were swollen and red.
‘Mrs Philips, I’m sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?’ She attempted a smile but her misery was palpable.
‘Not at all, Mrs Parry. I’ve been awake for hours, to tell you the truth.’
‘I’ve hardly slept, either. All this business with Tyddyn Bach and Peter. I don’t know what to think. And Will has turned his back on me all night. He’s taken it very badly …’ A single tear trickled from her eye and rolled down her wrinkled cheek.
‘It’s not your fault, Mrs Parry. How could you have known that Peter had written all those letters? And what good would it have done, telling your husband about Peter being in love with Glyn? You were only trying to spare his feelings.’
‘But that’s not how Will sees it. It’s as though there’s been some sort of conspiracy to keep him in the dark.’
I felt wretched. I had to come clean. ‘Mrs Parry, I’m afraid I’m responsible for the tea caddy turning up. I found it – inside the trunk of the old oak tree at the bottom of the field. I had hidden it under the bed in Tyddyn Bach – I was going to try to open it later, but one of the spirits must have moved it from where I’d left it. That’s how Nia came to find the thing. If I’d had any idea of the trouble it would cause, I’d have left well alone. I’m really sorry …’
The old lady smiled sadly. ‘It’s not your fault either. The past has a way of catching up with us all, sooner or later. Even without the upset with the box, there’s that poor girl … Oh God, it’s too awful to think about. I just can’t get my head round it all …’ She began to cry quietly.
I didn’t know how to comfort her. I just hoped that Mr Parry would come round eventually and that the situation would be resolved. We would know more later with regard to the identification of the body, as the police had promised that they would keep us informed as soon as they had further news from the forensic team.
We ate an early breakfast, and I had only just returned to the kitchen after finishing my ablutions when there was a loud knock at the back door. It was Marian Williams, looking extremely agitated. She burst into the room, an almost maniacal look on her face.
‘I had to come. I saw all the police cars last night. The lads told me to stay away but I just had to know what was going on. What’s happened?’
Mrs Parry looked aghast. The discovery of a young, female body when Marian’s own daughter was still missing was not something she felt able to convey to the girl’s distraught mother. She looked to me for support.
‘Mrs Williams, a body was found yesterday – in the cottage,’ I found myself saying. ‘The police haven’t confirmed its identity yet, nor how the person died, but hopefully we should learn more later …’
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ The woman’s eyes were wild. She looked panic-stricken. ‘It’s my daughter!’
‘They don’t know for sure who it is yet,’ I told her, trying to remain calm. ‘They’ll need to check dental records before they can be certain.’
Marian Williams let out a howl, like an animal caught in a snare. She buried her face in her hands.
‘It has to be Aneira!’ she cried. ‘And it must have been that bastard who put her there! Maybe they will believe me now – and you too, Gwen.’ She rounded on poor Mrs Parry, who was at a loss for words. ‘Never mind all your “he’s a good boy” rubbish. I told you what he was and you wouldn’t listen! Well, I hope you’re happy now!’
She turned and fled from the building. Mrs Parry and I looked at one another.
‘I hope that there is some other explanation for all this,’ I said to her, ‘but I’ve an awful feeling she may be right.’
Mrs Parry’s troubled expression said it all. Maybe deep down she’d had her doubts too, but didn’t want to acknowledge them. What a terrible predicament she was in now.
Two male police officers, one grey-haired and in plain clothes, the other a somewhat younger and taller man in uniform, arrived halfway through the morning. Mrs Parry invited them into the kitchen. They politely refused the offer of either a seat or tea.
‘Mrs Parry, I regret to inform you that the dental records have positively identified the deceased as Miss Aneira Williams,’ the older man said gravely.
The old woman sank into the armchair by the range. The colour had leached from her cheeks. She stared open-mouthed at the policeman, but said nothing. I noticed that her hands had begun to tremble.
‘I have to ask if you have any idea how she may have come to be in your holiday cottage. We are not as yet at liberty to reveal the exact cause of death, but foul play is suspected.’
I observed the younger officer attempting to conceal a smirk at this assertion of the bleeding obvious.
‘Two of my team are informing the girl’s mother of the discovery as we speak,’ he went on, shooting his junior a withering stare. ‘I shall need statements from all those present when the remains were discovered. And most importantly, I must have further statements from your good self and your husband.’
He paused to look at a notebook he had withdrawn from his jacket pocket, and then handed it to the other officer, who was armed with a pen.
‘A Mr Peter Roberts was questioned last year with regard to the disappearance of Miss Williams. Do you know where we might find Mr Roberts now?’
Mrs Parry appeared to have lost the gift of speech. The news had clearly propelled her into some sort of stupor. Her eyes were trained vacantly on the ground.
‘He lives not far from me, in Birmingham,’ I interjected. ‘He was actually the one who brought me here. My sister has his contact details … She should be on her way here now.’
At the mention of home, my stomach turned over as my thoughts turned once again to Graham. My beautiful, sweet, caring husband. The burden of responsibility for his death felt like a punch.
‘Please – excuse me a minute –’ I ran from the kitchen and managed to reach the bathroom before was I was violently sick. The realization of everything had finally hit me. I would have preferred to jump into a car and drive somewhere miles away but knew that I had to face my sister, admit to her what I’d done, and how I had only myself to blame for my wretched predicament. It was a task for which I felt ill-prepared.
I splashed cold water on my face and returned to the kitchen, apologizing for my sudden sharp exit. A concerned Mrs Parry, who seemed to have come to her senses, handed me a glass of water.
‘Funny thing, pregnancy,’ she said. ‘The sickness can come over you at any time.’
I smiled weakly and didn’t enlighten her as to the real reason for my sudden bout of biliousness.
Having recovered from her initial shock, Mrs Parry was as cooperative as she could be, but felt she had nothing of any real significance to share with the officers. Her husband had finally arisen and came into the room looking every bit as irked as he had the previous night. He seemed discomfited by the presence of the policemen.
‘Will, the officers say it is definitely Aneira that was found in Tyddyn Bach,’ began Mrs Parry, but the old man looked away, ignoring her.
‘What can we do for you gentlemen, then?’ he enquired, almost warily.
‘As your wife pointed out, the deceased has been identified as Miss Williams,’ stated the older policeman. ‘We would be obliged if you could tell us anything you know that may help us with our investigation.’
‘I told your lot everything I knew when they came knocking last year,’ said Mr Parry, looking irritated. ‘Nothing’s changed since then, apart from you finding a body. The last I saw of Aneira was one night last August when she disappeared down our drive for the last time. What happened after that is a complete mystery to me.’
He paused. ‘I suppose you’ll be needing to speak to Peter Roberts again, too?’
‘We most certainly will,’ said the officer. ‘Do you happen to have any information pertaining to his whereabouts?’
Mr Parry looked at the man quizzically. ‘Could I have that in plain English, please? I’m only an old farmer you know.’ He winked at me. The policeman noticed and bristled.
‘Do you know where Mr Roberts resides currently? We want to speak to him with some urgency.’
Mr Parry went to a drawer and pulled out a battered red leather-bound address book. He leafed through the pages and handed over the book, opened at the relevant entry.
‘There you go.’
The senior officer nodded to his colleague, who hurriedly scribbled down the address in his notebook.
‘Thank you,’ he said to Mr Parry, looking and sounding anything but grateful. ‘We will contact the West Midlands constabulary and they will no doubt be able to locate Mr Roberts. Well, I think that will be all for the moment. We shall be visiting the Reverend and Mrs Evans later today, and we will return to speak to you again at some point. Good day to you all.’
‘You won’t need to speak to me again, will you?’ I asked, anxiously. ‘Only I’m supposed to be going home today.’
‘I don’t imagine so, Miss. Unless you have some vital piece of information that you have neglected to mention?’
I assured the officer that I had not. He seemed satisfied that I hadn’t been present at the time of Aneira’s disappearance and was therefore free to depart. With that, the policemen left.
The atmosphere between the Parrys was intense and I excused myself. My thoughts were with poor Marian Williams and how she must be feeling now. It didn’t bear thinking about.
The weather was fresher than it had been and the sky overcast. I shrugged on a cardigan and went outside for a stroll. I glanced at the police tape round Tyddyn Bach, and my blood ran cold to think I had been sharing the house with a rotting corpse. More police officers, although fewer than the previous evening, had arrived at the cottage. Their forensic team was resuming its unenviable task of removing yet more samples and taking photographs.
I walked back down and across the field to where I had found the tea caddy. Was it possible that there might be anything else secreted in the old oak tree? I had been so excited that day by the discovery of the box that I hadn’t bothered to look. I intended to find out.
I groped around once more inside the cavity of the tree trunk but could feel nothing. I was disappointed. But then it occurred to me that my arms weren’t long enough to reach right to its base. The tea caddy had become wedged to some extent a little way up, and so was easier to reach.
I went back to the farm, but was reluctant to return to the presently uncomfortable ambience of the Parrys’ kitchen. Mr Parry kept several tools in an old outbuilding next to the main house and I wondered if there might be a torch in there. I creaked open the rotting door and entered rather gingerly. It felt cool and damp within and the light levels were very low. The smell of engine oil and Swarfega permeated the air.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I looked about me. Various pieces of rusty, disused farm machinery were scattered about the floor. There was some metal shelving against one wall of the building, containing hammers, nails, screwdrivers, pliers, and such, and – bingo! A large, old-fashioned flashlight. It was unwieldy, but in working order, I discovered after depressing the switch.
Pleased, I carried the torch back to the oak tree and pointed the beam downwards into the hollow. I peered inside and my heart began to race as I saw that there was something else concealed in the depths of the trunk – and something that could be quite significant indeed.
*
I returned the torch to the shed and went back over to the farmhouse, just in time to see Sarah’s car rolling up the drive. The queasiness re-emerged once more. I would have to tell my sister what I had done. To admit my culpability – to say it out loud – would make it all the more real. I was an apology for a human being. I had failed as a wife. How could I raise our child, knowing that I was responsible for robbing it of a father?
Sarah pulled up just in front of the outbuildings, and climbed from the vehicle. Running over to me, she wrapped her arms around me before I had chance to open my mouth.
‘Boy, am I glad to see you!’ she exclaimed. I returned her embrace and began to tremble. What would she think of me?
Sensing my mood, she looked puzzled. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ Her expression changed from one of elation to apprehension. ‘Is everything OK?’
I looked at her and promptly burst into tears.
‘Oh God, it was my fault; all my fault,’ I managed between sobs.
‘Whoa – calm down now. What was your fault? You’re not making any sense.’
‘I’ve been so selfish – and now I’m being punished for it. And my baby’s going to suffer because of my stupidity … I’m not fit to become a mother.’
‘Come on – you’re going to be a great mum. Your hormones are going into overdrive and it’s making you irrational. Try to calm down – you’re not making any sense.’
And so it all spilled out. How I had been so obsessed with furthering my career, how I had drunk too much and driven Graham away from the party and in his anger – anger because of me and my stupid, inconsiderate behaviour – he had crashed the car. How could I live with myself after what I had done? I had killed our baby’s father.
‘Annie, you can’t blame yourself. It was a tragic accident – nothing more.’ Her attempt to mollify me felt patronizing. In my frustration I rounded on her.
‘That’s all very well for you to say. You’re not in my shoes. For fuck’s sake, you’ve never even been in a proper relationship, so how the hell can you know how I’m feeling? I killed the only man I’ve ever loved.’
Sarah looked hurt. Retreating from me, she marched over and reached into the car, taking out her handbag. Delving into her purse, she produced a well-worn photograph.
I stared at the picture she was brandishing. It was of a slightly older, slimly built man with dark hair, probably in his late forties. He was smiling, and had his arm round a radiantly happy Sarah, her face aglow. They were beside the sea.
‘This is Joseph,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘His wife has a degenerative brain condition. We’ve been in love for years, but he can’t leave her when she needs him most. It would be too cruel. So I just take what I can, when he can get respite care and get away for a while, and I’m happy with that. We may never be together properly, but I’ll just have to live with it.’
I broke down once more. To think that Sarah had been nursing such a momentous secret for so long and had felt unable to share it with me. Was I so unapproachable? I had been so wrapped up in myself and my job that I had hurt those closest to me. I felt utterly wretched.
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just wanted to lash out at someone. Please forgive me …’
Sarah relaxed a little. She sighed and put an arm around my shaking shoulder. ‘We’re a pair of idiots aren’t we?’ she said. ‘Must be in the genes.’
I tried to smile.
‘And I’m sorry, too,’ she added. ‘I should have told you about Joseph. And I should have given you a talking-to about Graham. I did try to hint a few times that the two of you needed to talk more, and make more time for each other, but you just seemed to carry on regardless. He adored you, you know. It’s so sad, really. But you can’t blame yourself for his death, Annie. You’re torturing yourself – when it really was just a horrible accident.’
Sarah’s earnest expression and typical, level-headed reasoning made me stop for a moment and think. Was I perhaps being too introspective about it all? I had indeed been selfish and thoughtless, and there was nothing I could do about that. But ultimately I had no control over Graham’s fate. It wasn’t as though I had sabotaged his car or forced him to leave the party … I was doing myself no favours in dwelling on the circumstances surrounding the accident. It was a cross I would have to learn to bear. I had to try to put it behind me and look to the future for the sake of our baby.
I looked at Sarah and felt a further pang of guilt for not being there for her when she was clearly struggling with the burden of her secret life with Joseph. Knowing her as I did, I was only too aware that she would be completely torn between her love for this man and the guilt she would feel for falling for someone who was married, even though the situation was clearly so complicated.
‘So when do I get to meet this Joseph, then?’ I asked. ‘He must be something very special, to have snared my discerning sister.’
Sarah smiled wistfully. ‘You’d love him, Annie,’ she told me, her eyes shining. ‘He’s so kind and thoughtful. But I think it’ll be a long while before we can bring our relationship out into the open. He has two grown-up children – a son and a daughter – and I can’t imagine they’d take very kindly to their father publicly flaunting his floozy while his poor wife is still with us. It’s all so – awkward …’
‘Floozy? You? And to think – I always thought you were the next Mother Teresa!’
She gave me that sideways look of hers and grinned secretively. ‘Well, while we’re confessing all – I wasn’t always quite the little angel Mum and Dad would have liked me to be …’
‘Oh? Spill, then!’
‘Remember that lad who joined the Sixth Form – the one all the girls in your class always swooned over?’
‘What, “Raunchy Ryan”?’
‘Bet you didn’t know he had a soft spot for your little sister. Where d’you think I used to go on a Friday night when I was supposed to be playing squash for all those months?’
My jaw dropped in disbelief. Ryan had been quite the heart-throb but rather aloof, and no one ever seemed able to get their claws into him. That he could have been dating Sarah was quite a revelation.
‘No! You and Ryan – you didn’t …?’
‘Let’s just say we managed to work up a sweat without ever setting foot in the leisure centre …’
I stared at her and then simultaneously we burst into raucous laughter. Our shared upbringing and memories had created a bond between us that would never be broken. We hugged one another and stood reminiscing for a while, and eventually I took her into the farmhouse, where Mrs Parry was alone in the kitchen preparing a meal.
‘Mrs Parry, this is my sister, Sarah.’
The old lady beamed. She looked from one to the other of us. ‘Well, aren’t you two chalk and cheese! But both such beautiful young ladies.’
‘Wait till you taste Mrs Parry’s food, Sarah,’ I said. ‘She’ll soon put some weight on that skinny backside of yours!’
We laughed. I had begun to relax once more. Which reminded me of something. ‘Mrs Parry, there’s something else hidden in that oak tree,’ I told the old woman. ‘There’s a strong possibility it could be evidence. I think perhaps you should ring the police.’
*
The same police officers who had visited earlier arrived in a patrol car. With Sarah in tow, I took them across the field and showed them the cavity in the tree.
‘It’s too far down for me to reach,’ I explained. ‘Maybe your arms are a bit longer than mine!’
The younger policeman laughed. ‘I’ll give it a whirl,’ he said. He reached deep into the hollow, stretching as far as he could. ‘It’s no good,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ll need my secret weapon.’
Within minutes he had returned from the police car, carrying a metal litter picker. ‘Let’s see if I can’t get to it with this!’ He grinned. He managed to locate the end of the item and pulled it far enough up the inside of the trunk until he was able to grab hold of it with his hand. Pulling it out, he stared at what he had retrieved from the hole.
‘It’s a blinkin’ great poker,’ he said.
‘And if I’m not much mistaken,’ he indicated with his free hand, ‘that looks like blood.’