Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.

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СКАЧАТЬ at his watch, which I alone seemed to recognize as a less than subtle hint.

      Mrs Parry appeared oblivious to his discomfort. ‘Yes, of course. Here I am chattering on and I bet you’d like a wash and brush-up before supper, wouldn’t you?’

      I agreed feebly and was promptly led from the house over to my new temporary abode by Mrs Parry, who continued talking all the while. The air was balmy, but the sun was beginning to wane now, leaving the stone walls of the cottage tinged with a faint pink glow, which reflected the marbled sky of the approaching evening.

      ‘It looks very pretty,’ I remarked, as we trudged towards the cottage with its pink rose arch. Above the wooden door, which was freshly painted in a deep blue, was a fanlight upon which the words ‘Tyddyn Bach’ had been etched in gold lettering. The roof, covered liberally in moss and creeping yellow lichens, was of mauve-grey slate and sloped steeply, a small dormer window jutting from either side of its centre.

      ‘It’s a very old building, you know,’ said Mrs Parry, a touch breathlessly. ‘Older than the farmhouse itself, apparently. I’m not quite sure what its original purpose was. My father-in-law had it renovated and his old mam used to live there, after his dad passed away. We thought that Glyn and his fiancée would live there after they were married – but it just wasn’t to be …’

      She stopped in her tracks and turned to look me straight in the eye. ‘You will be all right here all on your own, won’t you?’ She looked suddenly concerned.

      ‘I mean, being in a strange place – and you expecting and everything. A lot of folk might feel a bit uneasy with that, I know …’

      I shook my head. ‘I’ve been on my own these past few months,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve never felt so alone. At least here I won’t have memories everywhere I look. And my sister will be joining me soon. No, honestly; I’ll be fine.’

      ‘When is baby due?’

      ‘Not for another three months. I’ve just started to balloon to be honest – it’s getting rather uncomfortable.’

      ‘I know that feeling! It’s no fun, carrying all that excess weight around. I remember my back playing up something awful!’ She smiled a little ruefully.

      ‘Well, you know where we are if you need anything – and you’re welcome to come over to the farm whenever you like.’

      I thanked her for her kindness. She reached out with both hands and squeezed mine affectionately.

      ‘Oh, Mrs Parry, your hands are so cold!’ I clasped them in disbelief.

      ‘“Cold hands, warm heart” – isn’t that what they say?’ She laughed. ‘Poor circulation, you know, but very useful when it comes to making pastry!’

      In spite of the warmth of the evening I noticed her shiver slightly. She wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her shoulders. ‘Old age, you know. Slows the blood. Such a nuisance.’

      She hesitated momentarily, then held the door open for me. ‘Croeso! That’s how we say “welcome” up here.’

      The cottage seemed perfect. Its front door opened into a tiny vestibule with an oval mirror on the wall and a stand to accommodate coats, umbrellas and boots. A memory of the distinctive, homely aroma of wood-smoke lingered in the air. The living room led off to the left. It was small but cosy, with exposed oak beams and polished wooden floorboards.

      A brightly patterned rag rug lay before the open stone fireplace, its grate already filled with split logs, waiting to be lit. A large basket of old newspapers, presumably for kindling, sat next to the hearth. On each side of the fire stood a comfortable high-backed armchair, with a small, cushion-strewn settee placed in front of the wall beneath the window.

      The walls were painted plainly, but hung with various scenic watercolours to break up the monotony. Faded chintz curtains were draped at the window, and tied back to reveal a blissful vista of miles of rolling hills and meadows. I was actually quite pleased to find no television, since somehow I felt it would have been almost intrusive in such a peaceful, timeless setting.

      To the right of the vestibule stood the kitchen, which contained all the necessary amenities but almost in miniature – a compact electric stove, small fridge and sink, slender larder cupboard and an old square pine table with two matching chairs, pushed up against the wall just inside the door.

      A little breathlessly, I followed a rather unsteady Mrs Parry up the precipitous, rickety staircase, which climbed from the centre of the vestibule to the two bedrooms, one either side of the narrow landing. Each mirrored the other, carpeted identically in pale blue and containing twin beds covered with hand-stitched patchwork quilts, a low cabinet covered with a lace cloth and set with a lamp standing between them. Both rooms contained a chest of drawers, single wardrobe and a washstand with mirror.

      The décor was dated but everything was spotlessly clean and smelled pleasingly of lavender furniture polish. From the windows of both rooms the same delightful landscape could be seen. The bathroom, which felt cool in comparison to the bedrooms, was squeezed between the sleeping quarters and tiled in black and white with a cork floor covering. It was complete with an old-fashioned roll-edged tub standing on clawed feet, a washbasin and an ancient toilet with chain, its cistern set high on the wall.

      The hint of a damp, musty odour hung in the air. The room felt Spartan, its only concession to frivolity a china vase of artificial flowers sitting on the glass shelf attached to the small mirror above the sink. There was no window, which created a gloomy and somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere.

      ‘There’s loft space behind this,’ explained Mrs Parry, perhaps sensing my disappointment. ‘Just for storage, you know. Couldn’t really have a window in here or anyone in the attic could see you in the bath!’

      I was puzzled. ‘But how do you get into the loft?’ I had noticed no obvious entrance.

      The old lady led me back into the bedroom on the left. ‘Look. There’s the door. See?’

      On closer inspection, I realized that there was a wooden doorframe just visible in the wall behind the wardrobe.

      ‘We don’t use it these days, so we just pushed the cupboard in front of it. William – my husband’s – grandmother used to store her bits and bobs in there, but we had a good clear-out after she died. Just a few old books and a couple of suitcases left now, I think. I suppose we could make it into another room but there doesn’t seem much point now, really.’

      Peter had left my suitcase in the bedroom in question, and since there was little difference between the two rooms I decided that I would unpack my belongings in the one apparently allocated to me. Mrs Parry told me that supper would be ready within the hour and, having established that I needed nothing else, left me to my own devices.

      Once I had put away the last of my things, I opened the window and inhaled deeply, drinking in the soft country air. I looked out across the field to my left and the farmhouse with its outbuildings; then right, where the distant mountains beyond the barrier of trees stood like giant sentries.

      I felt a pang, and tears pricked my eyes as I thought of how Graham would have loved it here. He had always been so fond of the countryside. I remembered a time early in our relationship when we had spent a weekend in the Lake District. He had been in his element, his enthusiasm almost childlike; tirelessly climbing fells and jumping over brooks, hiking across fields divided by the area’s СКАЧАТЬ