by Brian John
As to my early life, I resolved to say that I had a good childhood and a modest education, but then became pregnant and eloped to London from Carmarthen at the age of fifteen. I had had no contact with my mother after that. After losing my baby, I was later abandoned by the scoundrel who took me away, and it was some years later that my husband Jack rescued me from the streets of London and married me. He was also from Wales, with family in West Wales, on his mother’s side. I will also say that I had two children within the marriage, both of whom died in infancy. I will say that I loved Jack, and that I was now deep in grief following his death. My expedition to Wales was a result of small snippets of information about the Howell family of Brawdy, given to me by my mother and remembered from childhood, and from news of West Wales provided by Pembrokeshire people in London.
Lies, lies, and yet more lies, piled ever higher. At times I literally shook with apprehension, as the edifice of untruths appeared as black and unstable as a mighty slag-heap. But I had to persist, and with Wilmot providing the clear head and the iron will, I pressed on with the creation of my fantastical autobiography.
So I resolved to say that I had discovered through my researches the link with the Morgan family of Plas Ingli, and with my half-sister Martha, but that I had become confused when I discovered that the Master of the Plas Ingli estate was now Wilmot Gwynne of Plas Llanychaer, an old childhood friend. According to my alibi, I wrote to him to say I would arrive in Cardigan on the afternoon of 28 February and asking for a rendezvous on Cardigan Bridge. Wilmot had received my letter and planned to travel with me to the Plas to meet my long-lost half-sister -- but he had brought with him instead the sad news that Martha had died, and had travelled with her grand-daughter Rose and servant Myfanwy to break the news.
I would say that I was so shocked by this turn of events, in the midst of my grief for my own husband, that I could not face any involvement with the family or the Plas until the funeral was over and done with. I would instead shut this new death out of my mind as far as possible, and carry on with my task of looking for clues as to my late husband’s roots, in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire. Various people who had offered to help me would travel to see me now and then, I would say, in order to ensure that I was well and to keep me informed as to the news.
That much I decided, and I obtained the approval of my three visitors. We rehearsed the story over and again, and they all questioned me on the details of it, to ensure that I could manage detailed interrogation from inquisitive people. During this questioning I invented names for my dead children -- Joshua and Judith -- and decided that Jack and myself had lived in Lambeth in reasonable comfort while he earned a sound but unspectacular income as a merchant. Rose reminded me -- and I accepted -- that where appropriate I could well claim to have forgotten certain details of my life, since forgetfulness is a part of old age.
With dusk falling, Wilmot said that he must get down to the Red Lion to collect his carriage and his horses, and that he must set off for home immediately. We said our farewells, and off he went. Rose and Myfanwy decided that they would stay with me in Cardigan for one night, since they were obviously worried about my state of exhaustion. They would then travel back to Newport on the post coach next morning, in case they might be needed as witnesses at the Inquest which could be called at short notice. Mrs Ifans was only too happy to make up a couple of extra beds for them, and to give us supper in my larger room, which had an ample table and four chairs. We ate well, and the young people cheered me up considerably before packing me off to bed at nine o’clock. I slept for twelve hours without stirring, and woke to find Rose and Myfanwy up and about, chirping like little sparrows, and organizing a splendid breakfast. “Good morning to you, Mrs Ravenhill!” said Rose. “My goodness, you have been so fast asleep in the midst of all this clanking of dishes and shuffling of feet on the stairs that we thought you must be dead! Another death in the family would have been very inconvenient just now..........”
We laughed a lot at breakfast, and then they were gone. I was alone for the first time, with my new identity anything but established, and thinking over and again “What have I done? What have I done?” The day was bright and clear, with a freezing wind moaning in from Cardigan Bay. I had to get out into the fresh air, with a view to discovering a little more about the town that might now be my home for weeks, or months. I had no inspiration as to what I might do next, and indeed I expected nothing to happen until the funeral was over and done with, and until that coffin full of stones was safely lowered into the sandy ground of Cilgwyn Churchyard in a few days’ time. So I wrapped up well in my mourning coat, with a black hat upon my head, a thick muffler round my neck, and my heavy veil covering my face. Off I went, and spent a happy enough hour or two looking at the shops in town and the sailing ships tied up at the quaysides in the tidal river. I chatted to a few people, and felt increasingly confident that my secret was safe.
Then I began to feel uneasy. At first I did not know why. But then, as I walked, I glanced over my shoulder a few times, increasingly convinced that I was being followed. There were many people scurrying about in the streets, and much horse-drawn road traffic as well, so I did not feel in any danger. But my apprehension increased. I think that I caught a glimpse of two men dressed in full-length coats, with hats pulled down over their faces. When I stopped, they stopped, and when I resumed my perambulations they moved on as well. My heart began to beat faster, and I turned towards the Pendre and the safety of my lodgings. I tried an experiment, and slipped into a filthy black alley-way to see if they might saunter past. But they did not, and when I emerged and carried on along the street I glimpsed them again. I was very nervous indeed when I entered Mrs Ifans’s lodging house. I hurried up the stairs as fast as my old legs would carry me, locked my door behind me, and collapsed into my arm chair until I had recovered my breath and my composure. After some minutes I looked out through the window down onto the street. The two men were on the other side of the road, huddled together and deep in conversation. There were flurries of dry snow in the air. I was sure that once or twice the men looked up towards my window, causing me to slip behind the curtains lest I should be spotted. I sat on my bed, paralysed with fear, not knowing what to do. I was overwhelmed by desolation.
There was a sudden knock on my door. I managed to croak out an enquiry as to whom it might be.
“It’s me, Mrs Ravenhill,” said the voice of Merlin. “Can I come in?”
I got up and unlocked the door, and the little fellow came in, scantily dressed and blue with the cold. I parked him by my coal fire and scolded him for not being properly clad on this bitterly cold day.
“I’m sorry,” said he, “but I forgot to put my coat on. I’ve been out workin’.”
“Working? You should be in school.”
“Too borin’. I go now and then in the hope of somethin’ that will make me think, but I’m nearly always bored to tears.”
“So what work do you do?”
“Oh, I look after you.”
“Is that so? I do not recall asking to be looked after.”
“I look after people if they need to be looked after. And you do need it, Mrs Ravenhill. Did you know that you are bein’ followed?”
“I suspected it. Those two men standing there, across the street?”
“Correct. They’re talkin’ in Welsh, but not Cardi Welsh. They’re smart, too. They know how to work the streets, and I had a devil of a job to get close. One of them said to the other “I’m sure it’s her. I can tell from the walk and the posture, and the way she lifts up her skirts when she steps off a pavement.” What do you make of that, Missis?”
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. After only one day away from the Plas, somebody was hunting for me, and now I was sure I had been recognized. I saw my mad scheme collapsing in ignominy, with the fury of the community we had sought to deceive directed at both me and my nearest and dearest. I did not know what to do. Should I invite those mysterious me
n from the street to come inside and meet me, and discover their purpose? Or should I shut myself in and hope that they would go away? Were they hired thugs associated with some ancient enemies whom I thought I had defeated? Were they opportunists, intent on blackmail? Were they constables alerted to the fact that I had committed a grievous crime? I knew then, beyond doubt, that there were too many who knew my secret -- a few might have kept silence, but twenty-five ........never!
I groaned again. Then heavy footsteps echoed up the stair-well, and I knew that the two strangers had been let into the house and were intent upon confronting me.
“Hell an’ damnation!” whispered Merlin. “I told my aunty not to let anybody in. Those fellows must be very convincin’. But don’t you worry, Missis. I’ll protect you with my life. Just you help me to drag this table over so as to block the door........”
“No no, Merlin. That will not help, and I have no wish for you to be hurt. You must let them in when they knock, and we will soon discover who they are.”
The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs and after a short pause one of the men knocked -- quite discreetly. Five knocks in rapid succession and then two more, with a longer interval between them. I knew instantly who my visitor was.
Relief swept over me like a great ocean wave. “I think it might be an old friend of mine, Merlin,” I said. “You need not have any concern for my safety. Will you kindly let those fellows in and then station yourself at the front door of the house, in exchange for two more pennies? Nobody else must be let in -- do you understand?”
“I understand a lot, Missis,” said the boy with a grin. He opened the door to let in the two strangers, and took one look at them. “These are different fellows, Missis,” he said. “No danger from them.” Then he scuttled off down the stairs to take up his station at the front door.
Two big men stood before me, ruddy faced and wrapped up well against the winter weather. One of them was built like an ox, with his face covered in greying whiskers. The other was white haired, slightly stooped, with bushy black eyebrows and a Jewish nose. “Shemi and Skiff!” I scolded. “How dare you frighten me like this? But I should have known that you would come hunting for me, having missed the meetings of the conspirators in the Plas.”
There were long embraces, and all three of us shed tears. We three were the best of friends, having had many dealings over fifty years or more. Shemi had started work as a labourer at the Plas before the turn of the century, and had married Sian, one of my favourite servants, before taking up his true vocation as a wizard. He had inherited the wisdom, the skills and the cottage of Joseph Harries of Werndew, the greatest wizard ever to have lived in these parts. He was only a little younger than me, and he was the same age as Skiff Abraham, one-time petty thief and self-made man, and now the wealthiest merchant in the Newport district. Like Shemi, I loved Skiff dearly, having shared many adventures with him over the years, mostly on the wrong side of the law.
At last Shemi found some words. “Mrs Ravenhill, I presume? Delighted to make your acquaintance, madam.”
“You are quite correct, sir. And I am delighted to welcome you to my humble abode. Wilmot told you I was in Cardigan?”
“That he did, but very briefly. It would have saved us a good deal of trouble if he had given us your address. But he was in a great hurry, rushing off to get the death certificate for the Inquest.”
“That is today?”
“This afternoon, at two of the clock. That need not concern us any longer. That little boy who opened your door, declared us to be safe, and then went off down the stairs..........?”
“He is called Merlin, and he lives here with his aunt. He has appointed himself as my guardian.”
“Ah yes, Merlin Ifans. I have heard of him. Remarkable talents, and the next generation after me. He is destined for great things, that boy.........”
“Shemi, time is short,” interposed Skiff. “You will recall that we have certain matters to discuss, and not very much time.”
“Right you are, old friend. Martha -- sorry, Susanna -- whatever encouraged you to follow this mad course when you had been taken down off the mountain?”
“A premonition, Shemi. The strongest one I have ever had. I had to follow it, but it is nonetheless the most foolhardy thing I have ever done. Within the last hour, I was so miserable that I felt like taking my own life.”
“That would have been cowardice, Susanna. You, of all people, MUST follow your intuition, and there must be some great purpose to what has happened. Perhaps you will discover it for yourself, and maybe it will be revealed to me, or Rose, or even the lad called Merlin.”
“So where were you on Sunday, Shemi, when I needed you?”
He explained that he and Sian had been away visiting their daughter Molly and her family in St David’s for the weekend, but they felt the tremor there at 2 am on the Sunday morning and he knew immediately that something had happened to the mountain and to me. They had rushed back home, but had not arrived until after dark. Picking up on the news that I was dead, Shemi knew, as wizards know things, that I was still alive, and so he had ridden over to the Plas on the Monday morning. He had seen the nailed-down coffin and had received a report from Bessie as to what had transpired. Later he had met Wilmot, and it was his information that had led him and Skiff to Cardigan. Skiff’s story was very similar. He had been visiting his daughter Annie when the news of my demise had reached him; but he had really thought me dead until Shemi knocked on his door and whispered the truth.
Then Shemi transformed himself from a friend into a man of science. He sat me down, pulled up a chair opposite me, and insisted that we had to talk through unfinished business. “For example,” he asked, “what is your state of health?” He knew, I was sure, that I had been very tired and unwell before climbing up the mountain on Saturday evening and settling down on the summit. I explained that I was still tired, but that my aches and pains had largely disappeared. He examined me and concluded that my heart was sound and that apart from some rheumatism in my joints I was surprisingly fit for a woman of 76 years. He put my exhaustion down to the emotional turmoil associated with the death of my beloved friend Amos Jones less than three weeks before, and the dramatic events that had followed it. That was enough, he said, to have exhausted any woman of half my age.
He then asked me some very silly questions. “Excluding the thumbs, how many fingers do you have?” “If Sunday is the 31st of July, what date is the following Tuesday?” “What is the name of your second daughter?” “What is the name of the great leaning tower in Italy?” and other equally irritating things that made me very angry. Of course I answered them all quickly and correctly, and he murmured “Quite remarkable! Would you not agree, Skiff?” Skiff nodded his assent, and then Shemi admitted that he was testing to see whether my brain was damaged when I became very cold and apparently lifeless on the mountain. “I have heard of an apparently dead person coming back to life three times before, Susanna,” he chuckled. “One of them was old Mrs Lewis Mynachlog-ddu, who sat up in her coffin when the bearers banged it into the door-post on the way into the chapel for the funeral service. They still laugh about that on the other side of Mynydd Preseli, although it was probably not funny at the time. It is said that she was a miserable old thing, and that she survived for another three weeks, much to her husband’s disgust. When she died for the second time, and came to be carried once again into the chapel in her coffin, Farmer Lewis was heard to say to the bearers, in a very loud whisper, “Gently does it, boys. And for God’s sake mind the door-post!”
At that, both he and Skiff bellowed with laughter, and so did I, and so funny did it seem at the time that five minutes later we were still holding our sides and laughing hysterically like small children, with tears rolling down our cheeks. Looking back on it, that was a blessed relief, after the tension and the uncertainty of the previous three days.
When we had recovered our composure, Shemi was able to continue. “I have read somethi
ng very interesting in my Big Book,” he said, “namely that others who have recovered from being dead have gone on to be very soft in the head, and have become no more intelligent than vegetables. ”
“And do you find me, Wizard Jenkins, to be more intelligent than a potato?”
“At least as intelligent as a turnip, in my estimation, my dear Mrs Ravenhill. I also read an observation in my book that when the body cools gradually, as it might well have done in your case when you went off to sleep on the mountain on a cold and starlit February night, the breathing might stop and the heartbeat might die away to the point where it becomes impossible to discern. Diawch! Interesting, is it not? Will and the others who carried you down from the summit saw that your skin was cold and frosted, and they all tested your pulse and found nothing. Quite correct they were, to think you dead. But there must have been a spark of life left in you, and that was fanned into flames when you were brought into the warmth of the Plas Ingli kitchen. I still don’t rule out a miracle or supernatural intervention of some sort, but that would be my scientific explanation. Profoundly interesting, would you not agree, Master Abraham?”