by Tanwen Coyne
But she does not know Jennifer. She is lying in her bed, old and alone, decades before Jennifer is born. The arch of time separates them and she cannot reach out. She cannot feel the soft touch of love on her skin.
She lies down with her body, closes her eyes. Her past, her future, it is all one and there exists no time, not for Arianwen. She can see herself slipping away and feels death tearing at her throat.
This was long ago. This happened. She died and has been forgotten. Now, she exists only as a fragment, an echo. She means nothing.
Jennifer threw herself into her work. She could hear her old dad’s voice chastising her.
‘Pull yourself together, girl and get on. That’s the answer.’
Her exhibition was ready. She had taken her photographs down to the small gallery in person but they had been set out without her.
Despite the dull ache inside her, she felt eager to see what the galley owner had done with her exhibition.
She dressed in her smart pantsuit and tried to look cheerful as possible. She forced her smile as she shook Mr Lloyd’s hand. He was a pleasant, round-faced man with bright eyes. He could talk for hours about art and he chattered on as he led her through to the gallery.
‘I ‘ope you’ll get a good turnout for this. Folk round here struggle a bit with art but being all about the town, as like they’ll turn up.’
‘Those who are in the photographs will come at least.’
‘That they will, my lovely.’
He opened the door into the gallery and she was welcomed by a wide open white space. Arranged on the walls were her photos in frames. She gasped as she saw months of her work coming together in a picture of the town.
Mr Lloyd patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you alone to take it all in. You give me a shout if you want owt changing.’
She barely heard him leave. She stared in wonder as she wandered down through the gallery. This was the culmination of her work, of her passion. She’d never had her own work fill a gallery before, only sold a few pieces and fought for half a wall in a few tiny London galleries. Her dad would have been proud of her.
Her gaze ran over photo after photo of Cilfachglas, her vision of the pretty, little town. A mini collection of children playing down by the beach made her pause. She loved these particular photos. Small children splashed with abandon in the frothing water. She envied them their freedom.
She frowned as her eyes drew her closer to one of the pictures. In the far corner of the last picture, there was a figure she didn’t remember being there. She frowned at it. It was a woman, in a long full skirt. Dark hair was just visible beneath a bonnet.
Jennifer started. The woman was Arianwen. She knew those eyes. Even in black and white, fading into the background, Jennifer recognised her. But the brightness Jennifer looked for in her eyes was not there. She gazed at the children playing but there was no smile about her face, only sadness and distance. Jennifer ached to reach out and touch her but she knew it was only a photograph.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes to collect herself. When she glanced up again, Arianwen was gone and the children were alone.
Her stomach throbbed. Would she ever get to hold, to touch Arianwen ever again?
The world is blackness and the echo of Arianwen’s empty home. The voices of her parents, of the village, still vibrate around her but they are not there. Arianwen is alone.
She has had thoughts, so many thoughts, which were sinful. Yet she has never acted upon them. Why should she be punished in this way? She had thought God was merciful but she could not find his mercy.
She is abandoned here. Is she dead? She must be. She is alone here, bereft. There are none of her relatives here to greet her, no comfort to be had. She is alone.
She wants to pray for forgiveness but she cannot summon the will to sing for it. Yet fragments of music keep reaching her, from the blackness which surrounds her. Perhaps she is not yet lost.
Jennifer sat at her desk, reading from her computer screen. Articles on her exhibition had been featured in both the Cilfachglas Guardian and the Cardiff Echo. They’d selected a few of her photographs to print in the newspapers. Jennifer had scrolled through the rest many times.
Half of those she’d taken were displayed in her exhibition now, with people judging them. She flicked to her photo folder and scrolled through them. Her screen took her through her memories, took her through the village. She gazed at the cliffs, the harbour, the little shops. She looked at the church, the churchyard, the rows of houses and her little cottage. She wondered how different it was from the village Arianwen had known.
Seeing her in the picture, Jennifer had realised how much a part of Cilfachglas Arianwen was. She had been born here, had lived and loved and lost here. She had died here, alone. Apart from the glimpse in the photograph, Jennifer hadn’t heard or seen anything of Arianwen since the night at the beach. She hadn’t come to her in her dreams. There had been no music.
She came to the end of the photographs. She hesitated, then opened her internet browser and brought up a search engine. She didn’t actually know when Arianwen was from. But her dress had looked Victorian. She should be able to find something. They did censuses them, didn’t they?
After half an hour of clicking links, she came across a message board, offering help with researching family history. Jennifer left a message asking for any information about Victorian inhabitants of Cilfachglas, Wales, then went to bed.
She’d been going to bed early since the night at the beach, now almost a week ago. She’d lie in bed and think about Arianwen, hoping for her to come to her.
Naked, she slid beneath the covers and closed her eyes. She touched her own face, imagining it was Arianwen’s hand, Arianwen’s fingers soft on her skin.
‘Arianwen, please come back. I want you here.’
All those other times, Arianwen had come to her in her dreams without being wished for. Now Jennifer wanted nothing more than for Arianwen to be here with her and she wouldn’t come.
Jennifer pulled on her dressing gown and went through to her living room. The piano sat waiting for her. She sat down on the stool and lifted the lid. The keys gleamed back at her. She felt comforted by them. She placed her fingers at middle C. She remembered that much from music lessons at school. She pressed down gently and a sweet tone vibrated through the air. She pressed another key, wishing she knew how to play. Her playing was like the plinking of a three year old.
She pulled her knees up to her chest and bent her head. It was no good. She wanted Arianwen. Nothing else mattered anymore.
Suddenly a peal of notes surrounded her. Her head snapped up and it stopped.
‘Arianwen? Are you there?’
The music came again, this time deep and slow. Jennifer shivered as the lower notes vibrated through her like thunder. Her heart began to slam in her chest.
‘Arianwen? Please let me see you.’
‘It’s all wrong now. I don’t belong here.’
‘This is your home, Arianwen. This is your cottage. We can be together here, can’t we?’
There was a thud of notes from the piano. ‘We can’t be together. I’m not even alive!’ Her face suddenly appeared before Jennifer, ugly with anger.
Jennifer backed away, tripping over the piano stool.
Arianwen was there now, real and trembling. She slammed her hand down on the piano keys and advanced on Jennifer. ‘I’m not here. I died. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Jennifer didn’t know how to reply. She wanted to comfort Arianwen, to make it all better but she couldn’t. There was nothing she could do.
Arianwen threw down the lid of the piano. The sound reverberated around the room, a jangle and crash of chords. Her face twisted and she let out an inhuman noise. The walls throbbed. The windows rattled. Plates and dishes began to hurl themselves from her kitchen cupboards.
‘Arianwen, stop!’ Jennifer yelled over the noise.
But Arianwen did not stop. She howled
louder, her screams echoing through the whole house. Jennifer curled up on the floor, an arm over her head to blot out the screams.
Silence fell.
Jennifer lifted her head and looked around. The devastation was finished and she was alone. Slowly, she stood and let out a breath. Arianwen knew she was a ghost. Jennifer’s body ached to be with her, to comfort her.
Arianwen lies still in her bed. She is dead, lost, nothing. The words pound in her head, over and over.
Dead
Lost
Nothing
Why is she still here? This is the emptiness between worlds; it must be. Could her desire, her lustful thoughts and imaginings have condemned her for eternity?
Or perhaps this is a second chance. Perhaps she has been given a taste of happiness?
‘Arianwen’
The voice reaches her across the distance and she can feel Jenifer there. Her sweetheart is not aware of her and Arianwen does not speak or touch her. She just watches.
Jennifer lies motionless on her, their, bed. Her eyes are distant and sad. She whispers Arianwen’s name over and over again.
‘Arianwen, please, please come’
Arianwen sits on her windowsill and looks down at the floorboards. Her letters are hidden under there. If Jennifer reads them, perhaps she will understand.
‘Read,’ she whispers, hope filling her.
Jennifer sits and stares at the floor, before rising and bending over the exact spot where Arianwen’s letters are hidden. Arianwen smiles and sits back to watch Jennifer discover her past.
The atmosphere had changed. The cottage felt empty now. Jennifer was genuinely alone. She knew Arianwen wasn’t coming back, that she wasn’t waiting and watching. She had gone.
Jennifer went about in a dream for days, barely noticing anything around her. She didn’t hear the greetings of the villagers as they passed her. Her mind was on Arianwen only.
Three days after Arianwen had disappeared, Jennifer received an email. Notification of reply to message board post. It was the genealogy website she’d posted on, asking for information about the village.
I’m also researching Cilfachglas. Can we swap information? I’d love to chat about the village. My father was born there. Seren.
There was an email address. Jennifer dashed off a message. If she could find out a little bit about Arianwen, maybe that would help her not to feel so alone.
She went to bed, lay on her side, with her bedside light on, and lost herself in her thoughts. Looking back on the months since she’d moved in, it didn’t feel real. Her time with Arianwen seemed like a dream.
After a moment, she realised she was staring at a spot in the floor. Her brain was telling her something. She sat up and looked harder. There was a finger-shaped hole in the floorboards. Kneeling on the floor, she slid her finger into the hole.
The floorboard came away easily and she peered inside the dark space beneath. Sitting there waiting for her was a bundle of yellow letters tied with a wrinkled pink ribbon.
Jennifer brought them into the light. There was also an old diary and several leather-bound books in the hole. She pulled them out too.
Sitting on the floor, she curled her legs up under her and opened the diary. Something was written in tiny black print in the inside cover. The private journal of Miss Arianwen Jones.
She turned the first page in the diary. The writing was sparse. Tight little sentences dotted the pages. There were no dates. Only the varying patterns of the writing, the different fading of the ink showed it was from different days, different months, different years.
I have dreamt about Blodwyn. It is sin but it is not in me to care.
I spent my morning in Church. God was not in my head but Blodwyn was present.
I have written to Blodwyn. She will understand. She has to. I have poured my heart into the letter. It has all the love I have ever felt.
Blodwyn tore my letter. The pieces fell in the mud.
Blodwyn was married today. She did not look at me.
My throat is tight. I cannot breathe. I cannot continue to live but I must. There is nothing I can do. I am like the froth upon the tide.
Blodwyn is with child. Mother says she was fast. She was never fast with me.
Blodwyn’s children grow day by day. The husband, I cannot bring myself to write his name, works for his family. I could not have provided for her.
Mother died today. Da is desolate. He talks of nothing but his longing for death. They have employed a new minister. I fear Da will not survive my mother for long.
The new minister stuttered over Da’s eulogy.
I am alone in the house. Each day drifts into the next. Loneliness is all I am.
I do not know how many years it has been. There are no more minutes, no more days, only endless time here on my own.
I am alone.
This was the last line in the diary. Jennifer swallowed down her tears and took a deep breath. Arianwen had died alone. She’d never had happiness in her life. She wanted to wrap Arianwen in her arms and keep her safe from all the hurt in the world. Jennifer knew she could give her the happiness she’d never enjoyed in life. Oh, why wouldn’t Arianwen come to her, so they could be together?
She glanced through the stack of letters. They were all addressed to Blodwyn. Arianwen had been in love with Blodwyn. That was clear.
Jennifer stood and put the letters and the diary in her bedside drawer. She would read them slowly.
Cold. Arianwen is cold. It surrounds her, like being encased in ice. She is alone in her ice tomb. She has nobody. Her family have gone. Her neighbours have gone. Her time is gone. She does not belong.
There is so much she still wants, that she did not have while she was alive. She never had soft kisses and caresses. She never had the pleasure of her body entwined with another’s.
In death, she has had these things. But they were not real. She cannot hold onto them. In death, she has been teased with the promise of happiness.
There is darkness. The darkness surrounds her. She is bound and blindfolded, captured in this shadow of the real world.
Seren Jones sighed over her work. There were too many Joneses in Wales. It certainly was making tracing her family tree difficult. She’d been working on this for years now and had discovered a lot. She looked up at her wall chart, detailing the names, birth and death dates of her ancestors for seven generations. She knew everything about her family as far back as 1770.
There was only one problem she was stumbling over. Back in 1879, an inheritance had come to Hywell Jones from a cousin who had died, closing the last branch of the family other than Seren’s own. Seren wanted to know how that branch had died out.
When she’d found the reference on that message board to her ancestors’ village of origin, Cilfachglas, she’d felt a rush of excitement. She’d answered the message but hadn’t heard anything yet.
For what felt like the hundredth time that morning, she checked her emails. Nothing.
Sighing in frustration, Seren put her books away, grabbed her mobile and went out. Leaving her flat behind, she walked. She’d lived in London all her life and was used to the haphazard life of the city. But she was the first of her family not to be raised in the Welsh countryside and sometimes the longing to go back was overwhelming.
Seren made her way to the park and sat against her favourite tree to watch the people passing by. She worked part-time at a music store. The rest of her time was spent working on her music, researching her family tree or sitting in this park. She liked to people-watch, it made her feel less alone.
A girl about her own age sauntered past in a very short skirt. Seren smiled at the glimpse of smooth thigh.
Her phone buzzed. It was an email, and the subject was Cilfachglas. The name of the sender was Jennifer Davies. She paused as she considered the name. It sounded vaguely familiar.
Hi, I’m trying to find information about an Arianwen Jones. She lived in Cilfachglas sometime during the 1800s. If y
ou have any information about her, I’d appreciate it.
Jennifer
Arianwen Jones. She could be a relative, or it could be the too many Joneses in Wales syndrome again. Seren dashed off a reply. Could this be what she’d been waiting for?
Jennifer lay in bed gazing blankly at the ceiling. She’d been trying to think Arianwen to her, like she had come to her in her dreams all those times. But it was no good. Arianwen was gone. She wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she wasn’t a ghost anymore?
No, that wasn’t true. Jennifer could feel the echo of Arianwen’s presence in the house still. But maybe she didn’t want to be with Jennifer anymore.
Jennifer propped herself up in bed. She couldn’t have Arianwen with her now but she could be close to her in another way. She could read her words.
She took out the letters. None had even been stamped and they were all folded into one bulging envelope. She emptied them out, sorted them into date order, and picked up the first one to read.
18th May 1852
Dear Blodwyn,
I admire you so. I think about you always. Your golden hair is the sun shining down on me. You are in my dreams. Every moment, you are on my mind. If I only had the courage, I know we could be together. I would not have a care for what my Da thought, or my mother. It would not matter how your parents objected. I would take you away and make you so happy. To see you smile would make me happy forever. If only I had the courage.