Ghostbird

by Carol Lovekin

  Thinking about Lili reminded Cadi of the harsh words she’d hurled at her aunt. I don’t care. Why should I feel guilty? If Lili didn’t understand her, who would?

  She climbed the slope to the circle and sat on the cushiony grass. Here on the hill with only the birds and the sheep to notice, Cadi allowed herself to cry. As the tears rolled down her cheeks, she leaned against Lili’s favourite rock and wished she could disappear. A fat bee investigated the winberries. After a while, she reached the sniffing stage, her anger dissolved and as is the way with crying, her body began to deflate.

  Two ravens flew up, circling in slow motion and off on the wind. The air was full of whispers and Welsh words she couldn’t identify.

  ‘You imagination is wilder than mine,’ Lili often told her.

  There was no point in explaining it was no longer her imagination. Dora’s voice was as real to Cadi as the larks.

  She made her way back to the bicycle, wheeled it up the last few yards of the steep lane. At the top, she remounted, freewheeled down the hill, everything silent apart from the swish of the wheels, the occasional bleat of a sheep and the faint call of the ravens.

  Sixty

  Owen slammed the kitchen door behind him, irritated by the sound of the warped wood against the jamb.

  The house was falling apart and the prospect of putting it to rights daunted him. The roof leaked in a dozen places and the chimney was badly in need of pointing. He swore if a strong wind caught it, it might crash through the roof. The inside of the house wasn’t much better. Owen didn’t mind the spiders; it was the ghosts that bothered him.

  He shuddered and told himself to man up. Just get on with it;it’s not as if you don’t know how.

  Owen didn’t want to think how hard his mother’s last years there must have been. And Ffion had left too much behind for him to feel comfortable, as if she reproached him for his absence. The furniture, the pictures on the walls, even the bits of crockery rebuked him. Owen’s mother believed you reaped what you sowed.

  ‘What a fool does in the end,’ she told him, ‘a wiser man would have done sooner.’

  It gave Owen no pleasure to see the damage wrought in the vegetable garden by squirrels and rabbits, the destruction amongst the flowers from bindweed and slugs. The sight would break Ffion’s heart. His eye caught a proliferation of yellow poppies, trailing like tiny suns through the weeds.

  Meconopsis something?’ Cambrica. He grinned. She loved those Latin names: every day, like a mantra.

  Other than a mild breeze shivering the leaves of a wind-bent rowan, he couldn’t hear a thing. A quiet man like Owen Penry ought to have been right at home up here on an unpeopled mountain. He wasn’t. Owen wanted no truck with a house full of ghosts or memories that made him look over his shoulder.

  He looked down at his dog, basking in the shade of the stone porch. ‘Hot enough for you, Gertie?’ The dog wagged her tail, waiting for a plan. ‘Come on then.’

  Owen could walk the entire property blindfolded. It would take barely an hour. He lifted the latch on the wooden gate and with the little dog at his heels, set off. Striding across the uneven ground, over clumps of rushes and round rabbit holes, he noticed a gap in the boundary wall where a pile of stones had fallen across the grass. He knelt to pick one up, felt the weight of it in his hand.

  The landscape stretched for miles, dotted with sheep and the occasional stand of woodland. In the distance, his nearest neighbour: another farm where outbuildings stood in clean lines with solid roofs. He thought of the barn behind his mother’s house, barely fit for chickens. Breathing in the scent of earth and stunted blackthorn trees, Owen looked back at the grey square house with its two fat chimneys and blind windows. Crouched beneath a sheltering cliff, its sadness bothered him. He tried to visualise the place restored, sheep grazing the land again, and failed.

  He thought of the last time he’d seen Violet. She’d told him to grow up. Maybe she was right. Whether he liked it or not, decisions needed to be made.

  ‘Your grandfather,’ Ffion’s voice said in his head, ‘gave up everything for this farm. It’s about history.’

  Owen had never known his grandfather. He was tired of history and the sooner he found a buyer the better. Reaching a gate into the next field, he scanned the view. In spite of any misgivings he might have about the house, the landscape felt benign.

  I used to love it out here. Away from the old man, I felt safe.

  The wind, intermittently sunlit and cool, brushed his face. He squinted at the windblown trees, hunched and dark on the skyline. Higher still, a lone red kite hunted her lunch.

  On the road below something drew his eye. A girl knelt on the grass examining the wheel of a red bicycle. As Owen watched, she stood up, her black plait swinging over her shoulder and aimed a half-hearted kick at the machine before flinging herself down on the grass.

  The girl from the churchyard: Violet’s daughter.

  Sixty-one

  People told Violet she was clever.

  Sitting on the bus, knitting and not needing to look at what she did, the repetitive pattern struck her as familiar and not at all clever. Knit one, slip one; pass the slip stitch over.Anyone could do it.

  She glanced at the piece: a birthday gift for Lili, a pretty slouch hat to hold her bird hair. Lili had never worn the scarf but Violet didn’t care. This is what I do. Take it or leave it. She would never know where she stood with Lili. I’ll add crocheted flowers and make it pretty. She began a new row. And it will please Cadi.

  Pleasing Cadi seemed important.

  She looked out of the window. She could close her eyes anywhere along this route and, like her knitting, know exactly where she was.

  Cadi’s words played in her head. Have it your own way.

  If only. Violet would give anything to remake the past. She said she hated me. And I don’t know how to put it right.God help me, I really want to but I don’t know how.

  The needles swished. Purl two together; wool round needle.

  Violet knew what Cadi thought: she had been betrayed. The child she used to be whispered and Violet knew she was doing the same thing to Cadi her mother had done to her.

  Emerging from the church in her flimsy wedding dress, with rosebuds in her hair, she’d though she was finally leaving her past behind.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Teilo said.

  ‘And I don’t feel alone.’ She looked at him, seeking assent.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you will love me forever.’

  ‘Forever and ever. You and me, cariad, we can do anything.’

  Except survive the death of a child.

  She had thought herself whole. (The space where her mother might have stood on her wedding day, she ignored.)

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, ‘my perfect love.’

  Violet could still hear his voice, across the breakfast table, as he burst through the door after work or as they made love. ‘Look at you, my love; here you are.’

  As the bus pulled in the church clock chimed four. Violet gathered her belongings, stepped into the sunlight.

  ‘Mind how you go, Mrs Hopkins,’ Lenny said.

  He scarcely knew her. The intimacy made her too visible. Nodding curtly, she walked away down the lane.

  At her front door she paused. On the day they were married, before carrying her across the threshold, Teilo had paused here too. Her arms fastened around his shoulders, she looked up at the cottage, sensing the windows watching her. When he moved, tiny stones scattered out onto the lane and Violet was reminded of breadcrumbs, marking a trail back to where she came from. And for a moment, she clung to him, afraid, afraid.

  She carried on, round the side, through the gate, past Lili’s window. In her shady kitchen, she threw her belongings on a chair, dumped the groceries on the counter.

  Hello. The unspoken word echoed in the empty room the way it always did.

  Violet left the shopping and ran water into a glass, carried it outside, sat on the wo
oden bench under her kitchen window watching butterflies in the buddleia. In the fading sun, Gwenllian’s garden shifted in front of her.

  She rarely ventured far into this mysterious, overgrown place. It reminded her of scuttling things and weeds. She imagined webs catching in her hair, roots tripping her and murky, unspecified things watching her.

  They would chase me out. I am the interloper.

  However many years passed, it remained a dead woman’s garden. It made no difference to Violet that she had never met her husband’s mother. Violet didn’t trust mothers. And one witch woman in her life was enough. Her attempts at controlling the wilderness of her inherited garden had been random. Lili, she knew, made occasional forays, to gather gooseberries and apples and herbs, and to surreptitiously tidy up.

  From the beginning, Lili’s presence in the garden had made Violet feel inadequate.

  ‘I thought I’d get to grips with the weeds,’ she said to her new sister-in-law. ‘The trouble is I can’t make head or tail of most of them. I’m bound to pull up something rare.’

  ‘The thing with weeds,’ Lili said, ‘is to show no fear.’

  Terrified nevertheless, Violet stared at the ferns and the nettle-filled garden. ‘They see me coming, I swear they do.’

  Lili smiled her enigmatic smile.

  If Lili chose to keep the garden from becoming even more of a wilderness, why would Violet object?

  Lili, my dead husband’s perfect sister who knows too many secrets. Violet’s heart hammered in her chest.

  And now they were coming apart at the seams. Would Lili take Cadi’s side?

  The telephone rang and she jumped.

  Owen?

  Is that what you really think of me? That I want to make trouble?

  She was no longer sure. Now the secrets were unravelling, it hardly mattered.

  Sixty-two

  With something approaching fury, Cadi eyed the flat tyre.

  Around her, unconcerned, delirious skylarks filled the air. Birds knew how to be. They didn’t tell lies or care about secrets. Birds had no need of words, they had songs. And because they had nothing to hide, birds never minded who heard them.

  For a second, the shadow falling across her face made her think the sun had disappeared behind a cloud.

  ‘Puncture?’

  As she looked up, she recognised him. The man from the churchyard. Glaring, she said, ‘What do you think?’

  Owen raised his eyebrows. ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘No.’ She willed him to go away. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The dog trotted toward her, nudging her hand and Cadi stroked her coarse head.

  ‘If you change your mind, there’s a repair kit up at the house.’ Owen nodded toward the top of the field, turned as if to retrace his steps.

  ‘You’re the guy from the church.’

  ‘That’s me.’ He smiled. ‘It’s okay to talk to me, I know your aunt.’

  ‘Lili would have a fit if I took off with some bloke I don’t know. You could be anyone.’

  ‘And I am: I’m Owen Penry.’ He held out his hand. ‘I really do know Lili. You want me to call her?’ He pulled a phone from his jeans pocket. ‘We can take your bike up to the house and fix it in no time.’

  Cadi had always been a sensible girl who never normally disobeyed anyone. Her relationship with trust had taken a battering, and here was someone giving her a choice over a grown-up decision. They stared at one another – a lonely girl and a man with no directions.

  ‘I’m Cadi Hopkins,’ she said. ‘If you lend me the kit, I can fix it myself.’

  ‘Dim problem, Cadi Hopkins.’

  She got to her feet.

  ‘You look ridiculous by the way,’ she said. ‘Your pocket’s inside out. And you need to work out where your hands go.’

  Owen laughed, thumbed the loose lining back into the pocket of his jeans. ‘Well, pardon me for multi-tasking.’

  ‘If you’re that good, you may as well carry the bike.’

  Owen elbowed open the warped door and wheeled the bicycle into the kitchen. He leaned it against the table, took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. Digging into a drawer at the end of the large wooden table for the puncture repair kit he said, ‘Nice bike.’ He grinned. ‘Heavy mind, but tidy.’

  ‘It’s rubbish.’ Cadi gave a half-shrug. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me they don’t make them like this anymore.’

  ‘I can do, if it’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘I just need to mend my puncture. Then I’ll be out of your hair.’

  Owen nodded. ‘Sure you don’t want me to do it?’

  Shrugging again, Cadi said it made no difference to her – he may as well go ahead.

  He pointed to glasses and a carton of juice on the counter, filled a bowl with water and placed it on the table.

  Cadi heard the house creak around them and smelled mould. Faded wallpaper peeled away from the walls exposing layers of old paint and patched plaster. Strands of dirty cobwebs looped along exposed beams. There were snail trails on the slate floor, and bird feathers on the Aga in the chimney recess.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got a jackdaw up there.’

  ‘Not a crow?’

  ‘Don’t think so, the feathers are rounded.’

  Owen nodded. ‘Good call.’ He prised off the tyre and removed the inner tube. ‘The place pretty much belongs to the birds now, and the spiders.’ He held the tube in the water, watching for bubbles. ‘And who knows what else?’

  The back of Cadi’s neck itched and she blinked, saw a crowd of ghostly figures, sensed Owen’s fear before, in a second, they were gone. Pouring two glasses of juice she placed one beside him. ‘Are you going to live here?’

  ‘Probably sell it.’

  She looked around, noticed the heavy flagged floor and the unusually tall windows. ‘It would be nice if it was done up.’

  Owen located the puncture, lifted the tube out of the water and began scraping the area with a buffer. ‘It was nice once. My mother loved this house.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Gone to live with her sister. It’s a long story.’

  ‘They usually are.’

  He found the glue.

  ‘You’re by yourself then?’

  ‘I don’t actually live here. I’ve got a room in the village. It suits for now, doesn’t it, Gertie?’

  At the sound of her name, the dog looked up, thumping her tail against the side of her basket.

  ‘She’s very fat,’ Cadi said.

  Owen’s laugh rang round the room. ‘Fat? Don’t be soft, she’s expecting pups.’

  ‘Really?’ Cadi’s eyes lit up. ‘Have you got homes for them?’ She knelt down and stroked the dog’s head.

  ‘Why, would you like one?’

  ‘Like one? Are you kidding?’ Any reservations Cadi may have had about Owen instantly dissolved. ‘I’ve wanted a dog for so long it’s like an obsession. At least, that’s what Lili calls it. I tried to persuade her to get one because Mam won’t even consider it.’ Cadi smoothed Gertie’s face the way Mr Furry liked. ‘That’s her all over though. Everything’s about her.’

  ‘Your mother’s a good woman.’

  Cadi bit her lip. She hadn’t realised she’d spoken out loud. Muttering, she let the rest of the words out. ‘She’s a liar and she’s selfish.’

  Owen glued a patch to the inner tube. ‘That’s a bit harsh. And in any case, it’s not true.’

  Cadi looked up. ‘Like you’d know?’

  ‘I do know. I know her.’

  I was right then. ‘I thought it was Lili you were big pals with.’

  ‘Lili and I knew one another when we were kids, but I know Violet too.’ His voice changed, as if a smile took root inside him. ‘I may not know what’s going on with you and your mam, Cadi, and it’s not my business. I do know what I know. She’s a lovely woman. Great smile.’

 
‘My mother never smiles.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’ Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, Owen pulled out his wallet. Cadi watched him flip it open, extract a small snapshot and hand it to her.

  Violet’s face, a different Violet, alive with smiling. ‘Did you take this?’

  He nodded.

  Standing up she stared at him, at his serious face, at the picture. After a moment, she handed it back. ‘I don’t get it, and I think if I come across any more secrets, I’ll go mad.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’ Cadi sat down again. ‘How come you’ve got a picture of my mother?’

  ‘It isn’t a secret, Cadi. I knew her for a while, that’s all.’ He concentrated on the inner tube, testing it in the water again and satisfied, began easing it back into the tyre.

  Cadi reached for her glass and drained it. ‘Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’ She stared at the glass as if it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. ‘Mind you, things happen in my family if I told you, you’d say I was making it up.’

  ‘In mine I have to make stuff up.’

  Cadi couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Did you know my father then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Owen said. ‘I knew Teilo.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At school. We were in the same year.’

  She watched as he worked the tyre under the wheel rim, recalled Violet’s reaction when she told her about seeing Owen in the churchyard. ‘What happened to the cowboy boots?’

  ‘Not very practical on a farm. I save them for special occasions.’

  ‘Like hanging out in graveyards?’

  He winked. ‘You never know who you might bump into.’

  Cadi nodded, as if his answer mattered. ‘What was he like, my dad?’