by Brian John
“Excuse me if I do not invite you in,” said Abel, “but there is a very sad scene in the kitchen just now, and it is best that I speak to you in the yard, if I may.” With that, he sidled out through the door and closed it behind him. We all breathed a sigh of relief, and Bessie motioned to Myfanwy and Blodwen to start on the task of closing the shutters before any other unwelcome guests should turn up and start peeping through the windows. The house was thus plunged into darkness, although it was a bright and crisp winter morning, and candles had to be lit in every room.
I turned to Betsi. “Earthquake?” I whispered, with incredulity in my voice. “Billy mentioned an earthquake. There are never earthquakes in this area.”
“There was a very great tremor last night, Mother,” she replied. “Do you mean that you were unaware of it?”
“I promise you that I was unaware of any noise or shaking. I can only assume that when it happened I was dead to the world.”
I was in no mood to pursue the matter. I sat by the fire, desperately seeking to get some warmth back into my body, as Bessie poured more hot sweet milk down my throat. After a few minutes, Abel came back inside, and locked the kitchen door behind him.
“It is done,” he announced in a voice laden with doom, as if announcing the end of the world. “Billy Harries has the biggest mouth in town, and he will take that cart of his down Greystone Hill and past the church at the gallop. It’s a Sunday morning, and people will be out and about in the church and the chapels. Within five minutes the whole town will know that Mistress Martha Morgan of Plas Ingli is dead.”
For what seemed like an eternity, we all looked at him and absorbed the import of what he had said. Once again, the only sound came from the ticking clock. At last Rose asked him: “Do you mean that you have begun the process of misleading the community, as Grandmother requested?”
He nodded. “I had to make an instant decision, and for better or worse, that is what I said. I reported that Grandmother had been found upon the mountain summit early this morning, having died in the night possibly as a consequence of the earth tremor that rocked this house and rattled the mountain. I said that we were waiting for the doctor to conduct a post-mortem examination and to pronounce upon the cause of death, and that we were in such a state of shock that no visitors would be received for the time being. The first few of a thousand lies.”
There was no time to reconsider, or indeed to ponder on the full consequences of the deceit in which we were now all involved. Betsi and Daisy took control, and having ascertained that the fire in my room upstairs was lit and burning merrily, they immediately removed me from the kitchen and settled me in to the place that would be my temporary prison. Abel unlocked the front door and stationed himself alongside it, and as the morning passed many other visitors called, to be turned away politely with the same message that had been given to Billy Harries. After a further muttered discussion in the kitchen, the men dispersed, for there were animals to be fed and cowsheds and stables to be mucked out; and Myfanwy and Blodwen had fifteen cows to milk. We women held a conference of war upstairs, keeping our voices low in case anybody in the yard or at the front door should hear us. There were considerable plans to be laid, and practicalities to be addressed, the first of which related to the matter of the death certificate. It was clear that we could not ask Dr George Havard, Daisy’s husband, to write it out, for that would be a crime that would result in the revoking of his license and lead to imprisonment. Who else might oblige? We were racking our brains on that matter when I noticed that my beloved grand-daughter Rose was standing in the corner of the room with tears rolling down her cheeks. I got up and walked over to her. I took her in my arms. “Cariad,” I said. “What is the meaning of this? Are you not pleased that I am still with you, and that my place in Cilgwyn Churchyard will be unoccupied for a little while yet?”
“Oh Grandmother!” she sobbed. “Of course I am pleased, for you and for the rest of us. But do you realize that my father Brynach, and my brother David, far away across the ocean in America, will now be told that you are dead, and will be forced to grieve because of our conspiracy? We will all have to lie to them, and multiply their misery.”
That removed my good humour at a stroke, for in truth I had not yet had a moment for the consideration of such things. I realized now that the lie upon which I was inexorably set would be like an evil octopus, spreading its tentacles across the land and over the ocean, dragging in many who were innocent and who would be harmed in a multitude of ways which could not be foreseen. Brynach and David would be forced to grieve, and their grieving on another continent would be lonely indeed and mixed with guilt, since they would not hear of my death until long after the date of my funeral. My sister Elen would be plunged into misery, also in America, as would my sister Catrin and my brother’s widow Nansi, of whom I was very fond. None of them could be told the truth; the risks were too great, and I feared that there were already too many fellow conspirators for me to sleep serenely in the knowledge that leaks were impossible. Catrin and Nansi would attend my funeral, and would weep bitter tears, surrounded by those who would affect grief but who would be in possession of the truth. Theirs would be raw emotions, exposed to an audience of actors. So now I wept with Rose, and at last it was she who managed to smile and who started to wipe away my tears.
“There now, Grandmother,” she said. “That’s enough. There will be more tears, that’s for sure, but my father and brother, and many others, will have to grieve for you at some stage, so maybe it’s best for them to get it over and done with now, rather than later. You will recall that I too see things that others do not see, and so I have to support you and respect your wishes if you feel that some destiny awaits you that requires subterfuge on a grand scale. Let’s do it, and as long as I live I will not betray you. I love you, Mam-gu bach, and can love you better, and keep a little eye on you, if you are alive and kicking..........”
When Blodwen had finished with the milking, and had completed her tasks in the dairy, I set her to ringing the Plas Ingli bell very slowly, for an hour between twelve noon and one of the clock. The baleful sound echoed round the cwm, ensuring that those not already in possession of the news of my death would now be fully informed. Betsi walked down to her home at Brithdir to tell her husband Ioan the news of my death and resurrection, and of the conspiracy in which we were now all involved. Abel took the light chaise and drove his aunt Daisy into town, so that she could give the same news to her husband George Havard. They promised to return to the Plas, in full mourning dress, before two o’clock, with their husbands. I prayed that we would get their support, for truly we had need of their skill in planning my escape to a new life somewhere else.
In the short time that I had alone, I forced down a late breakfast of porridge thickly covered with brown sugar, followed by toasted bread and cheese and what seemed like a gallon of tea. Bessie insisted that I should drink it all, and I felt too feeble to disobey her. With the bell ringing out its miserable message, I had an opportunity to ponder on my foolishness. I was very confused -- and so were those around me. Myfanwy and Bessie went about their tasks in the house with frowns upon their faces, intent upon keeping me warm and comfortable but saying very little. Our relationship was suddenly different. How could it be otherwise? My servants and my family appeared to think that there had been a miracle -- and that I had been raised from the dead like Lazarus. They seemed to think that I was, since yesterday, no longer like other mortals. I was in no position to disagree. So was my survival a sign from God that I -- or maybe he --had unfinished business? I was sure of a sign from somewhere, but I was uncertain of God’s involvement. I pondered, as best I could, on the Biblical concepts of resurrection, reincarnation, salvation, and redemption and atonement, and wished that I understood them properly. If only I had paid more attention to several hundred boring sermons over the years, I might now be closer to enlightenment...........
Of one thing I was certain. I did not want any talk of m
iracles in the community at large. I hated the very thought of becoming a celebrity and a source of wonderment, like an exhibit in a freak show. Poor Lazarus must have had a hard time of it after he rose from the dead. But something very strange had happened to me on the mountain, and there remained in my mind’s eye a vision during which I looked down on my own body from far above the summit of the mountain, and then saw the mountain bathed in bright light. A flock of white ravens appeared, and a man with a long beard and a kind face, dressed in gold and silver robes, pointed with his staff towards the Plas. What could that mean? It must surely have something to do with my home and family, and my wicked past and the necessity for redemption. I knew that I had a job to do, but I could not for the life of me work out what it might be.
I also thought that I still had enemies in the district, and that it would be better if they, like everybody else, thought me dead. My death and disappearance would also enable the family as a whole to move on unencumbered by an old matriarch like me, and to prosper. I knew that I organized too much, controlled too many aspects of life at the Plas, interfered too much, and was accorded too much respect; therefore my departure, to Heaven or Hell or (as now seemed likely) into a sort of purgatory in some distant place, would be good for family and servants alike. From now on, others could make decisions, determine their own destinies, and put Mistress Martha Morgan out of their minds.
I was still pondering when Betsi and Daisy returned to the Plas with their husbands. The two men, for whom I had the greatest affection and respect, were already fully informed as to the events of the night and the morning of high excitement. When they came into my room they embraced me, and their love was as evident as ever. But needless to say, both of them were thoroughly disapproving of the mad course upon which I had embarked. George, as the only doctor in town and a great pillar of the community, was particularly worried, and feared that any involvement on his part would lead to him being struck from the Royal College practitioners’ list for breaking his Hippocratic Oath. I said that I understood his concerns, but reminded him that no crime had been committed by me, or by him, and that I had no wish for anybody to fall foul of the law. I knew that we would all fall foul of the Church, but that was not the same thing as committing a grievous sin. “Is it a sin, or a crime, George, for me to remain alive when I should be dead, or to assume a new identity? I think not. My knowledge of the law is not great, but I think I am right in saying that impersonation is only a crime if it is used as a means to obtain wealth or possessions which belong to others, or which are not rightfully mine. I have no intention of becoming wicked, or obtaining any benefit from what I am led to do.”
“Your theology always was something unique, Martha!” grinned George. “But you forget about formalities. There has to be a post-mortem, a death certificate, an inquest and a funeral. Then there is a will to be read out and acted upon. I have to be involved in all of those. Would you like to suggest to me what I might do over the coming weeks and days without jeopardizing my career and my reputation? I suppose I could always retire to my bed, having diagnosed myself as suffering from typhoid fever or some such thing. That would conveniently get me out of the way. ”
At that point in the conversation, Daisy intervened, as optimistic and cheerful as ever. “Don’t you worry so much, Cariad,” she said to her husband. “This is surely not an insurmountable problem. Something will come up, just you wait and see.”
I had my doubts about that, but there was no time for interminable pondering. My two daughters took control. The first thing they did was to ensure that my appearance was changed as completely as possible. The men were banished from my room, and I was then disguised by having my long white hair trimmed very short and dyed brown with grey streaks. Daisy was the technical expert, and she explained that she had learned a good deal about the arts and crafts of beautification -- and disguise -- during her time in London. While they worked on my hairdressing, they discussed with me the name which I might now assume. “How about Mistress Mary Lazarus?” said Betsi.
“Too obvious, by far,” I replied. “I must have an English name, not a Welsh one, if I am to invent a new personality. “Mrs” and not “Mistress” for a start, since things are very modern in England. Mrs Sally Smith or Mrs Ann Brown? Ach y fi! No -- I want to use something that links me to this place. I am moved to use my own middle name, which nobody but me knows. I always preferred it to Martha anyway. Then a surname that reminds me of home.”
I furrowed my brow for a few minutes, and then exclaimed “Yes! I think I fancy the name and the personality of an elderly widow called Mrs Susanna Ravenhill.”
“Excellent, Mother!” exclaimed Daisy, as ebullient as ever.
“Ssssshhh, Daisy!” whispered Betsi. “Remember that we must not raise our voices, and neither must there be any laughter in this house. People are coming and going all the time, and the front doorstep is a place of great activity. Abel is dealing with visitors and sympathy as best he can, but people have sharp ears, and there will be speculation as to what is going on inside these four walls.”
“Quite right you are,” said Daisy. “I am very sorry. Of course, we are grieving, and preparing the body for burial. And that must be done with due respect and reverence.”
Betsi nodded. “Thank you, sister. We are agreed. But I also agree that the name of Susanna Ravenhill is as good as any; I cannot think of anything better.”
We conducted a consultation in the house, and that was a nightmare which is best not described in detail. Suffice to say that some had second thoughts about the wisdom of my mad plan, and sought to force me into allowing the truth to leak out. I had to argue, and plead, and weep before I obtained full consensus. But at last, when I was utterly exhausted, everybody agreed.
In the middle of the afternoon my coffin (which I had organized in advance from Davy Death) was fetched from town, and he was told by Bessie that his services would not be required any further since she and Betsi would prepare the body and make ready for the funeral. Apparently he was quite relieved, since he was suffering from a heavy chill and looked as if he should have stayed in bed.
Then, around three o’clock, Wilmot and Delilah Gwynne, my dear friends and owners of the Plas Ingli estate, turned up in their carriage, having heard the news. They were let in on my instructions, as were Patty and Jake Nicholas from the Parrog, who arrived at almost the same time. The four of them were greeted in the kitchen by Betsi and Daisy and their husbands. With a certain wicked pleasure I heard the sounds of sobs, and embraces, and conversation from my room upstairs.
I knew that my dear friend Patty would be embracing Daisy, with tears rolling down her cheeks, and that her rough and gentle husband Jake would be standing behind her, rolling his hat in his hands and looking down at his shiny boots, and not knowing what to say.
“Oh, my poor dear things!” sobbed Delilah. “How terrible, how truly terrible! Your beloved mother gone, and so suddenly. Did she suffer? I truly hope not, for she saw quite enough suffering in her long and eventful life..........”
“Hush now, beloved!” said Wilmot, in a voice thick with emotion. “This is not the time for eulogies or speculations. Those will come later. So it is true, my dear Betsi and Daisy? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Bad, bad business. My deepest commiserations go with all of you. And we have lost the best and truest friend that any man and wife ever had.”
“Please, all of you, no more tears or expressions of sadness,” pleaded Daisy. “They are not entirely appropriate in the circumstances.........”
There was a long silence. Then Jake found his tongue, and said: “Not appropriate? Whatever do you mean, Mistress Daisy?”
At that point, I saw in my mind’s eye that both Daisy and Betsi smiled and motioned to the four new arrivals to follow them along the passage and up the stairs. I heard their heavy footsteps as they ascended and came along the landing towards my room. As they entered I smiled, and Delilah fainted. That caused a considerable commotion, and all available
manpower had to be summoned to lift her ample form onto my bed, where Daisy loosened her heavy garments and administered smelling salts. At last she recovered, and all eyes turned from her towards me. “Martha? Is it really you?” asked Patty, in a feeble voice. I suppose that they hardly recognized me, in view of the strange things that had been done to my hair and my complexion by my daughters. But gradually they did come to terms with the fact of my survival or resurrection, and there were more tears and embraces, and even laughter, until Abel ran upstairs and told us off for endangering the whole enterprise. “Please, Grandmother, and all of you!” he spluttered, wagging his finger like a schoolmaster. “There must be no frivolity at all in this house. I beg of you all to remember that there are people back and forth all the time, offering their sympathy and asking if they can help with the animals and in the dairy. They are all remarkably kind, and if I am to carry on telling them a pack of lies, I must at least have a house that is as quiet as death!”
We apologized in whispers, and determined there and then that I had to get out of the house as quickly as possible. Luckily, once the four new arrivals had heard the story of my coming back to life after being carried off the mountain, and had heard of my determination not to become an object of curiosity or even medical research, they resolved to help me. Wilmot took charge. As a self-made man with a fortune carried west from the copper industry of the Swansea valley, he had a brain as sharp as the Barber of Seville’s razor. He moved with amazing facility from grief to the planning of my escape and the deception of the community. Ioan and George, my two sons-in-law, agreed that he was likely to be more dispassionate than they could ever be in the circumstances; and they agreed to accept his guidance and to work with him.
The three men closeted themselves in another of the upstairs rooms for half an hour, while the rest of us had something to eat, and then they emerged to set things in motion. Wilmot seated himself at my desk, portly and ruddy-faced, and if he had had a military uniform I dare say he would have made a passable Napoleon Bonaparte. He put his hands down flat upon my desk, on precisely the spot where I had written thousands upon thousands of words in my diaries over the years. He scanned the room with his eyes, meeting the eyes of all those who watched with bated breath. I realized that he was quite enjoying himself. The old rascal, I thought. At first he said nothing, and then he turned to me. “This is going to be extraordinarily difficult, Martha,” he said to me directly. “If we pull it off it will be a miracle on a par with your survival. Too many people know the truth already. How many?”