by M K Jones
“This is a nice place,” Maggie remarked as they walked down from the hotel to the small central square at the base of the hill, dominated by the eighteenth-century colonnaded magistrates’ court. They paused for a moment to look at the war memorial around which shoppers and sightseers relaxed in the sunshine. Then they continued out, past the market stalls, and onto the road to the records office.
An old school building now housed the county records, a group of small rooms and offices, much less imposing than Newport library. They were the only people researching, which Maggie remarked on.
“Weather’s too nice today,” the curator replied. “Just fifteen minutes from the coast here. On a busy day, now, you’d have to book in advance to get a seat at the table.” He showed them into the research room, explained everything, and offered as much help as they might need.
“Welcoming, aren’t they?” Maggie looked sideways at Zelah and grinned as they settled themselves down.
With their papers spread out on the table, and using copies of Maggie’s family chart and notes, they began to search records for the parish that contained the hamlet of Llanybri. Zelah had insisted that they verify all the information they had. It didn’t take long to find the Gwyllim family. The register in which they were recorded had survived in excellent condition.
Zelah found the first entry. “Here’s a marriage, of Ruth Jones to Robert Gwyllim, in 1785, in the chapel at Llanstefan.” Maggie looked up at the curator, who was working nearby. “Do you know Llanstefan and Llanybri?”
“Oh, yes. Llanybri is just a small village. Llanstefan is about three miles away, on the coast. It’s a pretty place, quite popular with holiday visitors. There’s a castle on the hill above the sea, just a ruin, you know, but a big one. And some cottages. The village is just back aways.”
Maggie smiled at him. “It sounds lovely.”
“Oh, yes. Very pretty. Worth a visit, if you have time.”
“We don’t,” Zelah interrupted, not looking up from the register.
The man stood awkwardly for a moment, then walked away.
“Leave the people stuff to me, Zelah,” Maggie whispered. “We’ll probably need his help and he was just being friendly.” Maggie shook her head at the mumbled retort. She had been tracing her finger above the rows of records of births, searching for the Gwyllim family.
“Here!” she exclaimed, “this must be the first child. It’s a girl, Margaret, born in 1785. What next? Ah, here they are, twin girls, Ruth and Alice, born 1786.” She felt a moment of sadness, reflecting on how the birth of the girls would have been celebrated, knowing the tragedy that would overtake them ten years later, overshadowing the family’s lives. This was a strange, powerful part of research, knowing the ultimate fate of the newly born.
Going on down through the list, she found another two Gwyllim children, both boys, Robert and Evan.
“So, Zel, what I found on the internet was correct. These are my ancestors and Ruth’s family?”
“Yes. It’s them. Now try the death records. Find Alice’s death.”
Maggie went off to find the curator, to fetch the death records for the parish.
“Interesting that they kept separate records,” Zelah remarked as they waited for the book to arrive. “Some small parishes recorded everything in the same book.”
“So, if it was lost, then everything went.” Maggie replied. “No more records of those people.”
“You’d be surprised how little care was taken of records until quite recently,” Zelah said indignantly. “A couple of months ago I went up to north Wales to look for a parish register and found it in the old rectory next to the church.” She paused, frowning at the memory. “The place wasn’t lived in, the roof leaked and everything was damp. When I finally found the books in a heap in a corner, the pages practically disintegrated in my hands!” She had raised her voice as she spoke and was now glaring at Maggie. “The vicar called it ‘that old stuff’. They’d just let it all rot!”
“I never used to be interested. Not until it became personal.”
The curator returned with a small, black book bound with black ribbon. “Book of the dead,” he remarked with a grin. “Can I ask what you are searching for?”
He looked at Maggie, who could see a flicker of trepidation as he avoided looking at Zelah.
“Of course,” she replied, as Zelah snatched the book and started to go through the records.
Maggie summarised her story, leaving out the more difficult to explain parts, but giving him enough of a flavour to preserve his interest.
“So you need to find out where these children went to school, then?”
“Yes, if you think you have that information.”
“Well, I’m not sure. But it’s too late today, we close in ten minutes. I was just coming in to tell you. But I’ll be happy to go through what we have first thing tomorrow.”
“That would be great, thanks,” Maggie replied quickly, noticing that Zelah was about to protest. “Can we just finish checking the death records, though? It shouldn’t take long.”
“I’ve found it,” Zelah interrupted. “Alice Gwyllim. Aged 10 years. Died by accidental drowning. Now look at the next entry. Esme Davy. Aged 10 years. Died by accidental drowning.”
She looked up at Maggie, saw the sick look. The curator looked from one to the other.
“Is something the matter?”
“No, it’s fine,” Maggie replied quickly. “Thanks very much for your help. We’ll be back again in the morning to look at your school records.”
***
“How about a trip down to Llanstefan?” Zelah asked as they walked back to the hotel. “Sounds like a nice place.”
“That would be good.”
They drove across the river on which Carmarthen sat and followed its estuary to the sea. This was a place where three rivers from the vales of south-west Wales widened out at the end of their journey and joined together in one broad estuary that led to the Channel. They caught glimpses of green water on the far side of the hedgerows. The countryside was rolling and luscious, gentle green hills on both sides, with fields of grazing dairy herds.
In the village of Llanstefan, a sign directed them to the beach and the castle. A narrow lane dissected low sand dunes with the estuary on one side and a row of small traditional cottages on the other. Maggie could see that they were nearing the end of the land and in a few more minutes they reached a small car park that sat in the middle of an open square with more cottages along one side, a cliff, and the mouth of the estuaries.
Leaving Zelah to lock the car, Maggie walked across and up onto the sand dunes, kicked off her shoes and walked down onto the beach. The sand was hot on her feet. She walked to the water’s edge and stood in the small rippling wavelets, contemplating the expansive view.
“I don’t like walking on sand. Gets in my toes and rubs.” Zelah had walked up behind her, but was keeping her distance from the water. “Hell of a view, though. I never knew this place was here. Walk up to the castle?”
“You aren’t seriously contemplating it in those shoes, are you?” Maggie pointed to Zelah’s six-inch-high shoes that she was holding in her hand.
“What? No problem! Climbed Snowden in these.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows.
“Well, I got out of the train at the top and walked to the cafe in them.” Zelah smirked. “Let’s go.”
They walked back across the car park to the footpath in the far corner of the square that signposted them towards the castle. Fifteen minutes later, panting and puffing, they reached the entrance. The castle turned out to be a vast, rambling ruin covering the top of the hillside. They were the only visitors.
“God, it’s warm!” Zelah had taken off her shoes again, plus her jacket, to walk across the grassy interior. “Wonderful view, though. Martin would have loved it.”
The last mackerel clouds had disappeared as they climbed up, leaving an azure sky over the hills and water. They sat on the low ra
mparts at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the sea.
“No more coincidences,” Maggie said.
“I agree,” Zelah replied. “The incidents in your family are connected. We need to find out how. And why. The school records will be critical, but we’ll be lucky to find them.”
“How so?”
“In the late eighteenth century, education in this part of Wales was given by what was called the circulating schools. The school would be set up in a convenient building – a farmhouse, or a barn, or whatever – and the teachers moved from school to school for up to three months at a time. Then there were night schools, again in any old building, because the children worked with their parents on the land in daylight hours. These were all supported by charity. And, it was dominated by religion. But not too many records.”
“Then, we might never find out?”
“Maybe not. But there’s plenty of places to look and we won’t give up until we’ve tried everything. Will we, Maggie?”
“I need to find out why Alice had her dreams and her visions. And I know that this is part of the story.” Maggie jumped down onto the grass. “So, no, we won’t give up.”
She gazed out to sea. “Wonderful view. Nothing spoiling it for miles.” She went to add something, but stopped in her tracks. “Damn!” She spun round and looked again. “That’s it! An uninterrupted view.”
“Yes, it is. What are you talking about? What’s the matter?”
Maggie’s face was pale. “I believed what you said about inherited memory. I really did, but I think there was always a bit of me that stayed sceptical.”
“Understandable. But now there’s another ‘but’?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied. “You remember when I said that I was thinking about the view from the top of the mountain at home that I could see so clearly, although I was almost certain that I’d never been there? Well, I’d convinced myself that my parents must have taken me at some time, I just couldn’t remember.”
“But?”
“An uninterrupted view. Up the estuary. No bridges. No suspension bridge and no second Severn Crossing!”
“The first bridge was opened around 1966,” Zelah nodded. “It took over three years to build.”
“Exactly,” Maggie replied, “I could never have seen that view without a bridge there. So it must have been Ruth’s memory. She stood on top of that mountain at a significant time. I can see it so clearly! And the towns below were much smaller. If I was small they should have looked huge. But they didn’t.”
“So now you really believe me?”
“Yes,” Maggie shuddered, then jumped down from the wall.
“Right, then,” Zelah said, jumping down beside her. “Back to Carmarthen, dinner, then back to the archives tomorrow morning.”
***
They were the only visitors waiting to go into the archive office again. The curator opened the doors and smiled.
“I’ve been seeing what I could find this morning,” he said as he let them into the research room. “I’ve put out some books for you to look through. But there’s not much from that period. Education wasn’t that well organised back then.”
They sat in front of a collection of old records and handbooks.
“But,” he smiled in anticipation. “I found something that I think might refer to the story you’re looking for. Wait there.”
He returned five minutes later, as they were looking through the records of school rolls from the early nineteenth century. He wore protective white gloves and was carrying a small box.
“One of our treasures,” he said, putting the package on the table in front of Maggie. “You’ll have to wear gloves.”
She noted that he had only brought one pair, which she put on as Zelah sat stiff-backed. Above her, the curator was hovering, hands clasped, fingers working restlessly together. She opened up the box, leaning across to show Zelah, and began to examine the contents.
“I can see there are records, from what looks like an estate, judging by these land records. Is that right?”
“Yes,” replied the curator. “We only got it last month. Turned up in a box from a house sale. That’s why I remembered the story. It’s from an estate near Llanstefan, mid to late eighteenth century. They owned huge tracts of land in the area and employed most of the local community, one way or another.”
“What am I looking for?” Maggie asked. There were several papers in the set. The curator leaned forwards and carefully picked out two small, stiff, yellowed pages between his thumb and forefinger.
“These are a couple of pages from a diary. We don’t know who wrote it and we’ve pinned down the year to 1796.” He turned to the second page and pointed to an entry for the twenty-eighth of June. Maggie read.
“I must record a sad event this day, being the burial of the children of two of our tenant farmers, drowned together in a pool which forms in a branch of the river at the high tide. It is reported that they were dearest friends.”
“Yes,” Maggie confirmed in a quiet voice. “I think this is our story. The deaths were recorded a couple of days before, wasn’t it, Zelah?”
“Twenty-fifth of June.”
Maggie turned to the curator. “Thank you so much. This has been very valuable.” She handed back the box of papers and took off the gloves.
“I’m going to write down the exact wording, plus anything you can tell me about the estate and the people who owned it, then we’ll carry on looking through the school records.”
Two hours later, as the research room was about to close for lunch, Maggie sighed, sat back in her chair and rubbed her shoulders. Zelah was still looking through rolls of parchment.
“I think we have to admit defeat on this one, Zel. What do you think?”
The table in front of them was covered with books, parchments and papers, none of which had revealed any details of the time period they were looking for, nor a school in the area of the estate.
“Yep, ’fraid so. Nothing more for us here.”
“We’ll need to go soon. I promised to be back for the end of school.”
They packed up, letting the curator know that they had finished with the research material.
“Didn’t find what you were looking for?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“If you really need the information, you might think about the National Library of Wales.”
“I have thought about it,” Zelah replied. “Come on Maggie, let’s get going.”
Maggie thanked the curator as Zelah went ahead to the car. As she ran to catch up, waving goodbye behind her, Zelah started the engine.
“We’re not in that much of a hurry,” Maggie panted, dropping her bags onto the back seat.
“Yes, we are. After I’ve dropped you home I’m going to go up to Aberystwyth. Spend tomorrow looking for this school information.”
“You want to know, don’t you? The national library has more records. If it’s not in Carmarthen, then that’s the only chance of finding it.”
Sixty Four
Jack and Alice were delighted to see her waiting for them. As soon as they set off they let her know just how much they hadn’t enjoyed having to go to their aunt’s. Over dinner, they returned to the subject, despite Maggie’s attempts to talk about something else.
“She means well, Mum,” Jack began. “But she’s so formal, you know what I mean?”
“I assume you’re going to tell me, whether I want to know, or not.”
“Last night she made us change our clothes and do our homework before dinner. Then she made us eat everything on the plate. I thought Alice was going to be sick.”
As they were currently eating Chinese takeawayfrom cartons, Maggie felt reluctant admiration for her sister.
Alice pulled a face and Maggie could see the glistening of tears. “I just don’t like meat. I told her.” Maggie handed her a tissue, not sure how much was genuine and how much a last ditch attempt to make her feel too guilty to start working a
gain. “Why do we have to go there?”
“We’ve been through this, so don’t ask again. It’s just for the summer and I’ll review it in September when you’re both at the same school. Now, if you don’t want to get me worked up, go and do any homework you have now, then we’ll go and get a film to watch.”
They both stood up and took their cutlery to the dishwasher, another positive outcome of her sister’s much tougher regime.
As she reached the doorway, Alice turned back. “It’s good to have you back again, Mum. I feel much better with you around.”
The next day Maggie resigned herself to sitting in her office, reading up on the files and information that she had received for her new job. Not having worked for ten months, she knew that she was probably rusty on the latest developments in the world of business. They would expect her to hit the ground running, as had been spelled out at the interview. For a couple of hours she read diligently, made notes, and tried to summon up enthusiasm for the projects that she had begun to map out. But the thought of what they had found in Carmarthen and what Zelah would be finding in the archive material in Aberystwyth constantly pushed its way in. After lunch, despite trying again to get back to work, she gave up and turned to her family chart to organise her new material.
She was so engrossed that the sudden noise in the hall of the children arriving home with a couple of friends took her completely by surprise. Going out to greet them, she remembered that she had agreed to cook a barbeque later. This was one of the concessions for the week. She was going to be up to her neck in visiting children. The family tree would have to wait.
* * *
The last of the children were waved off at seven, not a moment too soon for Maggie.
“That was great! Thanks, Mum. You’re the best!” Jack hugged her as they turned away.
“Wish we could do that every day,” Alice said as they went back out to the garden to clear up.
“You’d get bored if you did that every day.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
The phone ringing in the hall gave Maggie the opportunity to escape the argument. It was Zelah.