Cold Remains

by Spedding, Sally;

  She coiled some spaghetti strands around her fork without much enthusiasm, but he noticed she’d thoughtfully kept a portion aside for Monty Flynn in the old fashioned Aga. Not the flash dark blue version that Colin had recently installed, but cream and rust.

  Colin.

  His brother and his comfortable life now seemed so far away. Jason toyed with the idea to call him to say he’d arrived in one piece, but sod it. What did he owe him?

  “She made out to me, she lived somewhere else,” he said.

  “She would.”

  In the pause that followed, he took the first tasty mouthful. “Great nosh,” he said, licking the fork. For someone who’d confessed she could only make sandwiches, she’d rustled up a welcoming dinner.

  “Thanks. But I can’t lie. It was Aunty Betsan’s recipe. She lives up by the old lead workings on Pen Cerrigmwyn. You’d love her. She’s not far away. We must call in some time. She also makes the most amazing cakes.”

  Lead again...

  Just then, before he could respond, Helen’s face tensed up as she opened the fridge’s freezer compartment, pulled out a big tub of vanilla ice cream and reached up to one of the store cupboards for a packet of wafers.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, honestly. Sometimes I think too much about stuff.” Helen scooped out a generous portion and dropped it into a pudding bowl, before forcing the wafer into its softening side. “There. And when you’ve eaten that, I’ll show you your room.”

  ***

  She’d said ‘we,’ Jason reminded himself as he followed that same pert butt up the first flight of shallow stairs, yet hoped, ungratefully, she wouldn’t be plotting a programme of things for them to do together. He had other plotting to do. For big bucks and a brighter future. Just to think of it brought that familiar adrenalin rush flood from his brain to his writing hand.

  She stopped on the first, dark landing and he sensed she was still distracted. He let his dad’s old suitcase rest on the worn carpet at his feet, also aware of the dead blackness beyond the bare, grimy window set into the side wall. Not since his Essex childhood had he experienced such an insidious pressure of the unknown, both inside and outside a building.

  “The other writers will be sleeping just round that corner at the end.” She flicked on a nearby switch, whereupon the few lights ranged along the faded, musty wallpaper, flickered into a dim life. “You’re on the next floor. Mr Flynn thought a top room with a gable window would suit you better. That, after Hounslow, you’d enjoy its view.”

  “I’m honoured.”

  They took the next eight plain, wooden stairs into the attic area where an almost physical darkness cocooned him in its numbing embrace. He blinked twice to bring himself back to reality, which was more bare boards and a smell he couldn’t quite identify.

  “You’ve a little bathroom just further along,” she added, switching on the single overhead bulb. “So no embarrassment there. Unless The Rat decides to share it with you or even some of the other writers when they show up. Please don’t say anything to them beforehand. At least there was no mention of en suites.”

  “Too right. But where’s your room, and Monty Flynn’s?”

  “My secret. But his is over the lock-ups, next floor down. More like a library, than a bedroom, he says. He’s obsessed with books.”

  “So am I. Specially the one I brought with me.”

  “I saw it. Nice cover. Not.”

  “You wait till you see the one on my finished novel.”

  “Oh, and he’s got a computer,” she added as if ignoring the boast. “But I’ve never seen it.”

  “Any internet access for research, whatever? The advert said there was.”

  Instantly, her hand covered her mouth. In shock or amusement, he couldn’t tell. “You’re kidding. Here? Must be a typo. And as for TV, there’s only the blizzard called S4C in the lounge. If you’re lucky.”

  Damn.

  Was that why no website had been given? And had Monty Flynn only watched The Wire on DVD? The scam word was growing bigger in Jason’s mind. How would the other new arrivals react? Would the man really want to be had up for misrepresentation? Woolie’s had been hot on that issue to the point of paranoia.

  “Oh, and by the way, no-one’s allowed in his study,” his guide went on. “Not even The Rat – I mean Mrs Davies. No key either. I bet he’s there now. Perhaps he’ll say more about that news item in the Metro later. He snapped it up quickly enough, didn’t he?”

  Before Jason could reply, she’d moved on ahead and, having taken two Yale keys from her suit skirt pocket, unlocked a solid oak door, whose matching wooden plaque bore the hand-painted sign saying MARGIAD.

  “Who’s that?” he asked. “One of his kids who’s left home?”

  “No way. Mr Flynn’s a professional bachelor.” She stared up at it, letting her hand follow its shape. “Besides, it’s a Welsh girl’s name. Hey, this is really strange.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never noticed it before.”

  ***

  Still preoccupied, Jason followed Helen into a long narrow room dominated, or rather choked by, a thick floral carpet. Big, blowsy roses connected to each other by twisted, thorny stems and a dominant border featuring them in miniature. Apart from a single bed covered by a floral duvet and unmatching pillows, there was an old-fashioned dressing table minus its mirror and beneath this, something that made him pause. A dark, body-shaped stain on the carpet, the colour of stale blood.

  He bent down to sniff, and it was as if the foul, stilled breaths of previous dead incumbents suddenly clogged his nose.

  “What the Hell’s that?” He indicated the puzzling mark.

  “God knows. Perhaps a spot of damp. This whole place needs ventilating.” She pushed down the top half of the small sash window, and breathed in the soggy night air. “It’s not been occupied at least since God knows when.”

  “I suppose that explains it.”

  That poky window would be his sole source of natural light tomorrow, and Jason moved towards it, willing dawn to come, only to be confronted by the lowering shape of some vast hill beyond the drive. Bigger than when he’d last seen it from Helen’s car. So big, its summit was topped by clouds.

  “You’ll get a great view in the morning,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. Dinas Hill, or Giant’s Shoulder it’s called. I don’t think there’s a Welsh version of that name. I must try and paint it one day.”

  That caught him by surprise.

  “You’re an artist?”

  “Used to be.” She handed him both keys, one labelled BATHROOM. “Trained at Aberystwyth. Anyway, breakfast’s at eight, down in the kitchen. What do you normally have? Bacon or toast?”

  Should he confess how depression had badly affected his appetite until the spag bol had been placed in front of him? He didn’t want pity. Hell, he could pay his way ten times over if need be.

  “Both, if that’s possible. I can give you extra.”

  She looked at him with those frank, sea-coloured eyes, and smiled. “My pleasure. But where on earth the other writers will go is anyone’s guess. The dining room’s full of old junk but Mr Flynn’s been funny about shifting it. I daren’t interfere.” She gave the room what was to be a final glance, then left him to it.

  Strange, he thought, lifting the suitcase on to a torn leather footstool. But something more than that was bothering him. Not just Heron House’s antiquated decoration, or Mrs Davies and Helen Jenkins herself, who in unguarded moments, seemed more than ill at ease here. No, it was the fact that she as cook, hadn’t been briefed about the writing course, but the old girl had. Why? And the more he dwelt on Monty Flynn’s lack of common courtesy, the more puzzled he became.

  Nine o’clock and, despite Dr Chatterji’s warning, he was missing his evening bevvies. It was too early to hit the sack. Too late to wander around outside. Nothing for it but to sample the plumbing, pop an extra pill just in case, and reopen Evil Eyes at chapter 22.<
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  ***

  His bathroom boasted one threadbare towel, a cracked wooden toilet seat that wobbled above a suspiciously stained bowl. Worse, the washbasin’s hot water had emerged the colour of pee. Jason told himself to hang on until the course proper began. Once he’d penned the best first chapter ever, he’d put in for better accommodation. Monty Flynn surely wouldn’t want to deny him. Timing was everything.

  Back in his room, he was about to close his room’s floral curtains to shut out the solid, black April night, when he heard a grating, raucous sound from behind him, making his blood freeze.

  “Caw… caw… caw…” It went on, as something was scraping at the walls. Then whatever it was, brushed the top of his head.

  A solid black shadow was roaming around the room, dipping down over that patch of soiled carpet, moving in ever smaller circles, coming in closer to him, skimming past his eyes. A bat maybe? He’d seen enough of them in his mum’s cottage. But no. They were silent creatures. This wasn’t. It was a bird with flapping feathered wings and a beak that ended in a strangely luminous area of white at its base.

  Jesus.

  It must have got in through the still-open window, but was making no effort to escape. He pulled a spare pair of jeans out of his suitcase and flapped at it, round and round until finally, with an almost threatening call, the intruder flew outside to vanish into the darkness.

  He shivered as he slammed the window shut and drew the curtains tight together, aware of his thudding heart. He eyed the bed. It was suddenly tempting. Wider than the one he’d used at Colin’s but without the same bounce, it was nevertheless somewhere to draw breath. To remind himself why he was here.

  Having located the page in Evil Eyes that he’d been reading when Swansea station had appeared, he cast his mind back to that puzzling street scene in Llandeilo and those old-fashioned characters in front of Heron House. Were these the pills’ side-effects Dr Chatterji had mentioned? He’d hardly been specific. If they were, why hadn’t Hounslow also slipped into sepia mode? And what about the mysterious Margiad? In the morning, if Monty Flynn was in more conversational mode, he’d ask him who she was.

  Suddenly, however, as he began devouring Evil Eyes’ gripping climax on page 304, he noticed what seemed like a damp, cold breath on the back of his neck, before the book started to pull away from his fingers and the remaining pages turn backwards as if someone else, much stronger, more determined than he, didn’t want him to read any more. “Gerroff!” he shouted, “this is mine!” He somehow managed to cling to its vinyl cover and slap the borrowed read shut, before flinging it hard across the room.

  9.

  Wednesday 2nd October 1946 – 4 p.m.

  Lionel Hargreaves, fifty-three-year-old bachelor headmaster and sole teacher at Nantybai School, was counting out a set of dog-eared geography text books for the next day’s lessons, when an urgent knocking on the classroom door disturbed him.

  Because the wind was roaring through the Towy valley at full strength, he thought at first it might be a stray branch or a lightweight piece of machinery from a nearby farm, but no. Young Walter Jones from Brynawel, and habitual non-attender, wanted to speak to him. Now.

  Lionel opened the door a fraction. “This is most inconvenient,” he said. “I’m very busy.”

  “Please, sir. I’ve something to tell you.”

  He finally let the boy in, and pushed the schoolroom door shut behind him. He then returned to his desk. It wouldn’t do for him to lift the lad’s sodden cape from his shivering shoulders, nor to encourage any closer contact. Walls, especially these, had not only ears, but also tongues. He’d learnt that much since his appointment from Solihull just over a year ago.

  “Sir,” the skinny nine-year-old began, bursting with impatience; hopping from one leg to the other. “I was up Pen Cerrigmwyn picking spare wood for me mam’s fire, when there was this great din, like a growling animal coming closer and closer up the forestry track behind me... honest to God I had to jump in the hedge and hide, else I’d have been run over.”

  “What kind of animal?” Lionel asked without much interest. “A wolf? A bull?” This really was a waste of his precious time.

  “No, sir. More like one of them hungry lions out in Africa you once told us about. But it was a car. A big black one, sir, going as if the Devil was on its tail.” As he spoke, his whole body began to tremble, whether from fear or being soaked to the bone, Lionel couldn’t tell. Whatever the reason, he didn’t much care. He’d worked hard all day, and simply wanted to get home before the weather worsened. Perhaps if this fatherless lad spent more time at school, he’d have been more sympathetic towards him.

  His voice grew sterner than he intended. “And what would you like me to do about it? That’s a public right of way although a poor enough one. Anyone can use it.”

  “This wasn’t anyone, sir. I saw a young woman in the back, banging on the window. She was crying, sir. No, screaming. Like my mam when me da got crushed by a tree.”

  Notes on that tragedy still lay in the class register. Not the first death in the plantation; nor, sadly, the last.

  “Which girl?” said Lionel. “Come on, son. Spit it out. Can’t you see I’ve things to do?”

  Suddenly the boy’s face lost its wild colour. His eyes stared ahead, motionless. His mouth too, stayed rigidly open like those on the marble angels in the church next door. To Lionel’s horror, and before he could reach out, Walter Jones’ legs buckled beneath him. He fell hard against the stone flags; his head of wet, dark hair, taking the weight of the impact.

  “Holy Jesus!” Lionel knelt down next to him, desperate to hear a heartbeat, but already, an extraordinarily dark thread of blood was eking from the lad’s left ear, trailing over the nearest slab and dropping into the first wide gap.

  ***

  The funeral – a simple affair – was held the following Saturday at St. Barnabas’ Church where Mrs Jones normally cleaned the pews and mended the hassocks. Today she sat dressed in shabby black, her sorrowful gaze fixed on the small, plain coffin placed before the altar.

  Throughout the short service, Lionel was unable to shift her only son’s terror-filled eyes from his mind. Remorse had devoured him like one of those tidal waves he’d recently witnessed off the Gower coast, and even now, as Walter’s casket topped by nine pine cones, passed back along the nave, he couldn’t bear to look at the widow’s stricken face. When he offered her his deepest condolences, he was met with a look of pure hatred. But how could he tell her, or anyone else, the truth? That he could not have been more attentive to her son. Acted more quickly.

  A much-respected doctor from Trecastle who’d been visiting his sister at the vicarage, had examined the dead boy and declared a fatal heart attack had led to the skull fracture, consistent with a sudden fall. The Carmarthen coroner supported his opinion, while the police, busy with a spate of sheep rustling, were still gleaning witness statements from the locals. Many, rather than admit ignorance, had let their overheated imaginations run amok as to what exactly had happened in the schoolroom.

  Thus he, Lionel Alfred Hargreaves, who’d so far never put a foot wrong, was now the feared incomer. A malevolent cuckoo too big for the nest he’d been appointed to fill, because all other potential male candidates had either been maimed, shell-shocked or buried amongst hundreds of other war dead far away. If only the School Board had selected a woman for the headship, he thought. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been in this situation. Walter had clearly wanted a father figure. And he’d let him down.

  ***

  Arglwydd, arwain

  trwy’r anialwch

  Fi, bererin gwael ei wedd...

  William Williams of Pantycelyn’s closing hymn filled the church, and although the youthful organist played with fervour, Lionel’s throat stayed closed, his endurance beginning to wane.

  Once outside, in the sunny, autumnal afternoon, he stood apart from the rest of the congregation as the casket met the grave’s gaping wound. However, such
distance didn’t prevent him hearing hostile mutterings from young and old alike, as ripe, red earth was thrown in. Even as he made his way along the narrow path to the gate, whispered oaths followed, not entirely lost to the wind.

  “Walter was my best pal,” ten-year-old Sion Beynon’s unmistakeable voice reached his ears. “Now look what you done.” The local shopkeeper’s son rubbed away his tears with his sleeve. It was in that moment, with golden leaves drifting down from the ancient trees bordering the made-up road to Nantybai, that Lionel realised young Walter had sought no-one else’s help to solve the mystery of the frantic girl in the car. Now he would make it his business to find out what had driven the boy to his door and why she might have cost him his life.

  “Mr Hargreaves, are you alright?” came a male voice close behind him. “I noticed you earlier, and I’m shocked what folk here – who think they’re good Christians – have said about you. It’s bad enough how they’ve treated me, but today was inexcusable.”

  Lionel turned to see Robert Price the organist, a tall, good-looking man in his mid-twenties dressed in well-cut mourning black, clutching his music books. The rebel, who’d dared be a conchie during the war years and been punished for it too long by a diminished congregation and a bigoted vicar, joined him. Together they walked towards the crossroads.“Thank you for your concern. But my conscience isn’t yet clear enough for anyone’s pity.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  A horde of rooks flew in ragged formation towards the church tower. Lionel wondered if they’d left their nests for good. A bad sign, so he’d heard.

  “You will, you will. And now,” he pulled his watch from under his waistcoat and glanced at the time. “If you’ll excuse me...”