by Claire Wong
Llandymna
In a rare quiet moment, Nia sits down at the kitchen table and brings out her knitting. The oven hums away as it takes care of its work for the afternoon, and for the next half an hour at least, it does not need her attention. For a moment she listens to the dogs outside and the distant engine whir of one of the farm vehicles out in the fields. Then she focuses back on the teal wool in her hand and the rows already complete. She is making a shawl, though whether it is for herself or to be given as a gift, she has not yet decided. She still laughs at herself sometimes for taking up knitting, when she remembers her nan teaching her twenty years ago. She had made a rather wonky scarf, too small for a person, so it had ended up being worn by one of her toy animals. Then she set aside knitting for a long time, as being “something for old people”. But in the long evenings on the farm, she finds it soothing to give her attention to a single useful task. There is a rhythm to it. The repetition is reassuring rather than monotonous. She could happily stay here for hours, but she only completes three more rows before the doorbell rings.
“Nia! There you are.”
Diana stands on the doorstep looking, to Nia’s surprise, entirely herself. She is wearing her smart coat, the navy blue one she always uses for council business or important occasions. She wastes no time in inviting herself inside, and for all Nia’s searching for a sign of strain on her composed face, she cannot spot it.
“Diana, I’m so sorry about what’s happened. It must be so hard for you.”
“Thank you, dear; that’s very good of you to be thinking of me.”
Nia feels strangely like a child being praised by her mother for showing good manners. She shows Diana to the sitting room, because she does not feel she can ask her to sit at the kitchen table.
“I don’t suppose there’s any news?”
“Not yet, but the police are working tirelessly, of course.” Diana casts an impatient glance around the room.
“If there’s anything that we can do to help…” Nia offers. As the room undergoes her guest’s scrutiny, she feels suddenly conscious of cobwebs and clutter that had not bothered her earlier. She finds herself straightening the check blanket that hangs over the back of the sofa.
“As it happens, that’s why I’m here. There is a way you can help me.”
“Really? What is it?”
“The police have the idea that a filmed message might reach Rhiannon, and that it might be a way to encourage her to come back home.”
Nia recalls the times she has seen this on the news. She remembers images of brave but visibly distraught parents speaking to cameras and strangers in the hope their child might be among the audience. She thinks of the painful emotion in those voices, the pleading words, and thinks that she cannot imagine Diana ever doing such a thing. Then she realizes that must be why she is here. Her stomach churns violently.
“You don’t mean – ”
“Nia, you and I both know that this sort of thing is far better undertaken by someone who is approachable, unintimidating, and sensitive. You’ve known Rhiannon a long time, and you are far more a friend than an authority figure. Your voice will be much more effective than mine in this instance.”
“But I can’t. Surely it should be you?” Nia pleads.
“Don’t be silly. It’s perfectly appropriate for a concerned friend of the family to do this.”
Nia wonders briefly what people in the village will think if they hear that Diana did not want to face the press. She then remembers that Diana will certainly have considered this at great length, and knows she must be desperate not to do the interview if she would risk gossip over it. Perhaps the fear of letting down her guard in public is worse than seeming not to be fully involved in the efforts to get Rhiannon back. But Nia decides this is unkind speculation.
“Perhaps there is someone more used to speaking in public?” she appeals.
“You’re being modest now, but I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t have complete confidence in you.”
You didn’t ask, Nia thinks. She would be reluctant to refuse Diana a request at the best of times, but now that Rhiannon is missing, she feels bound to agree.
She takes a deep breath, reminding herself that she wanted to do something to help. “When will it be?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I will help you write a statement to read out, of course. The filming will take place over in Bryndu, so you’ll need to be there for three.”
“It won’t be here in Llandymna?” Her voice wavers.
“No, it’s better this way. Easier access for press to have it there, and it avoids having journalists descend on our village. I’ll come round tomorrow morning then, to agree what needs to be said.” She speaks with the efficiency of one used to delegating to others.
Everything appears settled, so Diana leaves. She walks back to where she parked her car in the lane outside the Evanses’ farm rather than risk taking it over the bumpy ground past their gate. On the drive back up to the village she does not pass another vehicle – only a kestrel hovering over a hedgerow on the lookout for mice. Ed would have asked her to stop the car so they could watch it. He was like that, her Edwin, always reminding her to stop and just look at things. She would have reminded him that tea needed to be on the table at six if she was to make it to the meeting at seven-thirty, and that there were a hundred things to do before that. But then Rhiannon would have joined in the appeal: can’t we stay just five minutes? And Eira too, when she was old enough. It was impossible to refuse them, at times like that.
Milk. She needs to buy milk before she goes home. She parks at the White Lion and goes to the little shop across the road. Inside Llandymna’s only shop Angie Rees, Callum’s mother, is in her usual spot behind the counter, chatting with another woman as she counts out change in five pence coins.
“… in the end, he said, Matthew Pritchard bought it off him for half the price. Sick as a parrot, he was! So it’s an afternoon of gardening for you, is it? There’s lovely. You know who’s just spent a fortune on their garden? That couple who moved up from Newport. You know – the ones on Lon Du. They ripped everything out and put decking in! I say if you don’t want grass in your garden, you might as well stay living in a city. Hello there, Diana,” Angie says, seeing that she has another customer.
“Afternoon, Angela,” Diana replies, pretending not to notice that both the two women at the counter and the few other people in the shop have stopped to stare at her. She walks to the chilled section on the far side of the shop, but even from here she can make out snippets of the whispered conversation.
“Terrible, I know. They say she’s run away from home.” Angie lowers her voice so that Diana cannot make out the next part, except for the phrase “more likely than kidnapping”.
Diana stays facing the shelves as the whispering continues, and she hears the other shopper say, “Looks very together, don’t you think?” Suddenly she feels as if every eye is on her. She is acutely conscious of each movement she makes, of what might be read into it. Does the way she chooses semi-skimmed milk in four-pint bottles convey the right response? One muscle out of sync and she might be seen as too anxious or too carefree, too aloof or too emotional. She knows this game. She excels at it.
She selects her purchases and then straightens up and walks to the till, keeping her face solemn until she is close enough to smile a greeting at the two women who have fallen silent. She gives no indication that she has overheard them.
“Diana, we’re all so sorry.”
“Oh, that’s so good of you, Angie, to be thinking of me.” Diana knows it is always best to act surprised that people are giving you their attention, no matter how deserved it might be.
“Any news yet?”
“Nothing concrete. They’re still looking.”
“Is it true they’ve already searched the woods?” she asks.
“That’s ri
ght.”
Their wide-eyed eagerness to ask more is something they struggle to conceal. This is the most interesting thing to happen in Llandymna in many years. Diana knows that after she leaves the shop, reports will spread from one house to the next, over garden hedges or in passing outside the pub. Everyone will receive the updates, retold with all the compassion and nuance of a sensationalist tabloid headline.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up safe and sound eventually,” the other customer says. Diana restrains herself from snorting at the ridiculousness of this woman’s certainty. How can she possibly be sure of any such thing?
“Oh, I don’t know,” Angie says darkly. “I can’t see why anyone would up and leave of their own free will, now. Can you? This is a good place, and barely anybody moves away. I’d say you’d have to be forced to leave Llandymna.”
“Oh, hush now, Angie. You don’t want to worry Diana. Pay no attention to her. There’ll be some good news soon, you’ll see.”
Diana acknowledges the reassurance and quickly leaves the shop. She finds it easier not to think about any kind of news. The idea of hearing something good awakens short-lived hope, while the other possibility looks like an abyss gaping open at her feet. She has done the rounds before, cycling between optimism and despair, in doctor’s offices with her husband, and then in hospital waiting rooms alone. She knows how to shut out the highs and lows. Life will go on, whatever happens, for Owen and Eira’s sake.
Chapter seven
Rhiannon
The fence around my little patch of land is taking shape. The east side of it is indistinguishable from the natural woodland. The cost of this success, though, is that my hands are scratched and scraped all over. I hold them in the cool water of the stream, which soothes the stinging temporarily. It feels fitting to be weaving together this mass of brambles in Dyrys, the wood whose name means tangled. I am adding to its thickets and its mystery, building something that perhaps always belonged here.
The temperature has dropped, so when I stop working I put on all the extra layers I have. It isn’t much like summer today. I’ve had to stop hauling the branches around earlier than planned, because I am a little weak and lightheaded. Perhaps my diet of berries and fruit is not giving me the energy I am used to having.
My hand goes to the pendant around my neck, which I’ve worn every day since I was first given it. I trace each part of it: the key, the rose, and the book. I’ve always liked to think of them as being relics from a fairy tale. The key would unlock the tower room where the protagonist has been kept trapped all this time, like Rapunzel or the Lady of Shalott. Then she would step out from her prison to begin her adventure. I suppose I’ve always thought that the key stands for freedom.
I look around my land, from the ruins of the mill cottage to today’s crop of food wrapped up in my waterproof coat, waiting to be washed in the water of the stream. I suddenly wish that they could see me now, the people back home. No, not home – just in Llandymna. Maybe that never really was my home. I wish they could see everything I have done, and how I am surviving out here just fine without them. I imagine Di’s face moving from admiration to sorrow when she realizes how wrong she was about me; how much she wishes I had not left. But it will be too late by the time she knows this, because it is her loss and the loss of everyone else in that village now, because I am happy here, and I am free!
Another benefit of being here is that I won’t have to go to her birthday party. She has been planning it for months, and I’ve been forced to help with the preparations, even though my eighteenth is actually a few days before. She and I both have September birthdays, but mine is always overshadowed.
I want to think about something else. It seems like, no matter how well I do out here, thinking about Llandymna, about my neighbours and relatives, always makes me feel strange, as if my stomach is being twisted and wrung out like an old tea towel. I turn my mind instead to the projects I thought of yesterday. Perhaps I should try making clay pots to keep my food in. It would be better than using my coat as a tray, especially as I think I will need that soon, judging by the dark clouds brooding overhead.
Something just inside the doorway of the house catches the light and glints at me. I go over to see what it is. A few stones have fallen in from higher up, probably from when I jumped down off the roof. Partly buried beneath them is something that looks metallic. I shift the stones out of the way to see what it is. It is round and heavy, and hangs on a chain. My first thought is that it could be a compass, but on closer inspection it looks more like the casing of a pocket watch. It even has initials engraved on one side of the tarnished metal, the letters R and T inscribed in a floral script. I try to open it, but it seems to be rusted shut. It would take someone stronger than me to break it open now.
The watch is old, but not as old as the ruins it was sitting in. So does that mean someone else has been here, sheltering from the elements like me? There is no other furniture here, so they can’t have lived very comfortably. I wonder who owned the pocket watch, and what they were doing hiding out here. I like the idea that there was another runaway here once, and that this watch is a message from my predecessor to me.
I picture a young woman, perhaps fifty years ago, hiding the watch in a nook of the house one evening. Perhaps, like me, she learned to take care of herself in the woods. And then maybe one day, when she was transformed by her experiences into quite an impressive figure, she went back home.
On a clear summer’s evening, when the sky was blazing golden in the west, and the villagers had been preoccupied with their petty squabbles and hypocrisies, she returned. Not until she was at the very walls did anyone see her, this mysterious woman who had been gone for many years. As she stepped into their midst, with light yet purposeful strides, all fell silent.
Of course, she couldn’t be from Llandymna, or I would have heard of her. Maebh would have remembered the story, even if no one else did.
I hold the watch in my hands and momentarily wish there were someone nearby, so that I could tell them everything I have done over these last few days. I would like to see the impressed look on their face, and I would like to tell the story. Here, I would say, look how much food I’ve collected, look what I’ve built. I’ve always enjoyed doing things more if I know there will be the opportunity to narrate it to someone afterwards: it seems more important as soon as you have an audience. But there’s no one here this time, so I stop chattering in my head to an invisible spectator, and look up to the sky instead. The rain hasn’t yet begun, though it can’t be far off now, so I plan my next foraging trip. There are berries of every kind, and soon there will be hazelnuts and chestnuts to gather. Mushrooms spring up mysteriously in the shady patches, and I hope that bees will be making honey somewhere not far from here.
As if on autopilot, I go back to my food store and inspect it, once again measuring out the number of days it will last. I seem to do this several times a day now, even though I know the counting will not change the result. This time, as I do it, a new and unpleasant thought strikes me. Why exactly am I doing this? I collect food to give me the energy to go out the next day to collect more food, and then what? Day after day, I horde these supplies and work hard just to sustain my own life. But in this forest, there is no one else who will benefit from my presence. I daydream about the people who will follow me and revere me, so where are they? Who will ever tell my story? All these questions and doubts seem to land so sharply and suddenly that my stomach feels as if it has been kicked. I try to shake off these thoughts.
Quick, think of a story. This always works when I feel low. Once, in an enchanted forest, where animals could speak and the leaves sang to one another, there lived… Who? A girl who shouted and argued so that nobody cared when she left? Try again. Once, in a town far away, there were many people… But it isn’t enough simply to imagine friends for myself, is it? Come on, you can do this. Once… It is no good. For once, the earth
and stones of this house around me, which I can see and touch, are more real than the stories I have woven together. These stones are not here to form part of my story; they are here in spite of me, and they suddenly seem hard and flat and unyielding.
I can’t help but laugh bitterly at the realization. I have spent my whole life wishing myself away. Every time the real world became too much to cope with, I would imagine myself off to another place far from family, teachers, and friends: to a wild place like Dyrys. There’s a sign in the local library that says: Humankind cannot bear very much reality. I think T. S. Eliot said that. He wrote very long poems, about wars and legends and how mundane ordinary life is. I should have read more of him before I stopped having access to books. But now, at last, I am away from all of those boring real people, just as I dreamed. And it turns out that I can’t ever outrun my own thoughts. Maybe they were the problem all along.
I feel disorientated, as if a wave has come charging in and knocked me off course, and as I run back outside, the skies finally break.
Rain droplets land squarely on my face and arms, the water soaking through my clothing in seconds. I know I chose this new way of life, but I think I may have made a horrible mistake. I can’t see the point to any of it. I cannot see how to make all the days of my future count for anything now.
Long is the day and long is the night, and long is the waiting of Arawn.
I stand in the downpour as it washes pathways through the clay and dirt that streak my skin. I look up to the sky, but not a single beam of sunlight breaks through the grey canopy. I let out a scream at the rain; at the forest; at myself. It doesn’t matter any more if I am silent or not, for there is nothing here.
Chapter eight
Bryndu
Bryndu police station is unwelcoming from the outside: little more than a stack of grey concrete blocks with a blue and white sign over the door. Nia arrives early, but knows she will spend all the waiting time adjusting the collar of her blouse. She is unused to wearing such smart things, but her everyday clothes from the farm did not feel appropriate. She tries to straighten her outfit before approaching the front desk. It still feels uncomfortable, as if there are the wrong number of buttons.