Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.

terrain of the industrial Midlands with its grey, suffocating factory chimneys and incessant traffic, gradually gave way to a vast expanse of clear sky with high, cotton-wool clouds, and the undulating patchwork of fields of green and gold of the border country, peppered with sheep and cattle grazing contentedly.

      The gentle pitch of the hills and dales soon swelled into a majestically mountainous region of peaks and troughs, as the landscape became wilder and more ruggedly beautiful. I had always enjoyed sketching and thought briefly what a wonderful picture the view would make.

      We crossed the imposing silver-grey suspension bridge that traversed the body of water separating the island from the mainland. I gazed down at the scene beneath us. The Menai Straits, dark but calm as a millpond, glittered in the late afternoon sun. Several small, colourful boats were moored at either side of its banks. They bobbed slightly with the gentle movement of the current. Numerous houses were staggered on the opposite embankment, their windows winking in the sunlight.

      Peter became a little more animated.

      ‘Not far, now! I’m so glad it’s such lovely weather – it makes all the difference to the cottage, seeing it in on a bright day. Not that it should matter,’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just that, well, first impressions of a place can colour your judgement, don’t you think?’

      I felt the corners of my mouth twitching in amusement. He was clearly anxious for my approval of the house, since he had recommended it so gushingly to Sarah. Although their relationship was platonic, I suspected that Peter would like it to be rather more, but I knew that his feelings were sadly not reciprocated. Sarah had apparently long been holding a candle for some mystery man and showed no interest in anyone else. I often worried that she would finish up embittered and alone, although she seemed content enough with her lot.

      ‘I’m sure it’ll be beautiful. The scenery looked breathtaking in the brochure,’ I said, smiling to myself.

      Smiling. For so long it had felt as if I would never smile again. Sarah knew me better than I knew myself. A change of outlook – always helps people see things from a different perspective, she had told me. It seemed she might well be right.

      I felt an increasing sense of anticipation as we drove across the island. Peter was keen to point out various landmarks, and signposts to places that he thought I might find of interest.

      ‘Of course, you don’t really need to go anywhere else,’ he added. ‘The farm has a huge acreage, and there are plenty of great walks across its fields. Will and Gwen – Mr and Mrs Parry – are lovely and they make you so welcome. But you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.’

      We had taken a right turn at the roundabout a mile or so after crossing the bridge, climbing a steep incline past a high school on our left and a housing estate to the right. Reaching the top of the hill, we turned right yet again at a crossroads.

      Most evidence of human occupation seemed suddenly to disappear. The road meandered waywardly like the course of a river, rising and falling with views of nothing but verdure and livestock, and the occasional crumbling edifice, beyond low, rough stone walls and hedgerows, for what seemed like miles. Each junction was a tributary, twisting tantalizingly from view.

      Peter began to brake suddenly and turned left off the main road through an entrance largely obscured from the highway by a rather neglected hawthorn hedge. The car wheels rattled over a cattle grid and through an old iron gate, held open against a sturdy wooden post with a thick loop of frayed rope. From the centre of the gate, a battered nameplate swung from a rusty chain, over-painted in white capitals with the words ‘Bryn Mawr’.

      ‘There it is!’ he announced, pointing to a huge white farmhouse at the end of the narrow, roughly tarmacked track, some two hundred yards in front of us. ‘And that’s the cottage. Look.’

      To the left of the main house and its outbuildings, a short distance across a field and slightly elevated on a gentle slope, stood the diminutive pale grey stone building. It looked exactly as it had appeared in the photographs.

      ‘They call it “Tyddyn Bach”,’ Peter informed me. ‘It means “Little Cottage”, apparently.’ He grinned. ‘How twee!’

      I almost laughed. I wasn’t quite there yet, but my mood was definitely lifting.

      Mr and Mrs Parry were a couple in the autumn of their years, ruddy-faced and stoutly built, with the whitest of hair. I found them quite charming, almost like a pair of old bookends. Inexplicably, there seemed to be an air of quiet sadness about them. They embraced Peter like a long-lost son, and shook me warmly by the hand.

      ‘Peter’s told us all about you, Mrs Philips,’ said Mrs Parry, beaming. Peter shot her a warning glance, but she clearly intended to make no reference to my fragile mental health, or to my recent bereavement. ‘You’re a teacher, I believe? And I understand you like to draw – Peter says you’ve done some wonderful pictures …’

      I smiled. ‘Well, I like to dabble a little – I find it relaxing. Which teaching most certainly isn’t these days!’

      ‘Well, you’re sure to find plenty to inspire you round here! I do hope the cottage lives up to your expectations. But first things first – come on in and have a cup of tea. I’ve just made scones and crempog – and we’ll all have a proper supper after you’ve had time to unpack.’

      ‘You’re very kind,’ I said. ‘But do call me Annie.’

      An almost imperceptible glance was exchanged between the old couple, but neither said a word.

      ‘I’ll join you all in a minute,’ said Peter. ‘Just let me take … er … Mrs Philips’ stuff over to the cottage for her. Gwen, have you got the key there, please?’

      Mrs Parry delved deep into the capacious pocket of her apron and produced a large, old-fashioned brass key. She handed it to Peter.

      ‘Don’t be long, then,’ she said, with a smile, ‘or your tea’ll get cold.’

      Peter heaved my case from the boot of the car and crossed the field, then crunched over the rough shingle footpath, which had been laid as far as the entrance to the cottage. I watched as he seemed to pause for a moment, looking up as though deep in thought, and then disappeared through the doorway.

      I hovered momentarily, unsure whether I should follow.

      ‘Come along, cariad. I’ll take you over and show you where everything is, once you’ve had some refreshments.’

      Mrs Parry led the way over to the main house. I had no appetite, but not wishing to cause offence said nothing, and trailed obediently behind her. I was ushered into a sizeable scullery, where the comforting smell of baking filled the air. It was a typical, old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen, with whitewashed stone walls, and copper saucepans and utensils suspended from a frame attached to the ceiling.

      In the centre of the brick-red-tiled floor stood a rustic wooden table, spread with a red and white gingham cloth. A shaft of dwindling sunlight filtered through the small window above the old porcelain sink, washing the heart of the room with a subtle, rosy hue. A huge copper kettle whistled persistently on an ancient blackened range.

      I perched uneasily on a particularly hard oak chair proffered at the head of the table. There was never any chance of an awkward silence, as Mrs Parry bustled about, chatting away nineteen to the dozen. She told me that I would be the first person to occupy the cottage since Peter had left last summer; that it stood empty for much of the time these days.

      At the end of the last holiday season, Mr Parry had concluded that they should no longer advertise it as a holiday let, since neither he nor his wife were getting any younger. The occasional ‘word of mouth’ occupation might be all right, but it was becoming too much like hard work – ‘Present company excepted, of course!’ said the old woman, with a wink.

      The weather, I was informed, as she handed me a plate of warm, buttered scones and pancakes, was improving by the day and there was promise of a heat wave in the next week or