8
Shortly after daybreak I drop off to sleep in Megan’s favourite and final resting place. By the time I struggle into wakefulness it is mid-morning and Alice is kneeling by the fire alongside me, an iron poker in one hand, smoke swirling thickly in the fireplace. My first thought on seeing her is that she is going to smash my brains in with the poker. I have a fleeting vision of her setting about the deed with unrestrained ferocity, and I sit up with a start. But no, she has made tea, and hands me a cup and saucer, in Royal Worcester china.
I would not, in the normal run of things, have used this tea set, certainly not while living here on my own, and I am almost affronted by Alice’s decision to bring it out from the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. But, even in this moment of mild outrage, I realise that, paradoxically, I approve, and I think: Megan would want us to use the best china. Of course she would. She always liked attention to the detail of things.
Alice is dressed in the same patched jeans as yesterday, and wears a large and tattered grey pullover.
I knocked, she says, but there was no answer, so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind. Do you always sleep here?
No, I say, rubbing my eyes and sitting forward to sip my tea. I sleep, when I can, in a variety of locations about the house. Wherever I happen to be.
Like a cat, she says, wherever you find a perch? But as she speaks, she is studying the carvings in the stone fireplace.
She turns and re-arranges herself on the rug so that she now sits cross-legged, facing me. The sleeves of her oversized pullover cover her hands like mittens and she clutches the cup between them. Her auburn hair is dishevelled, loose ringlets brushing the bare skin where the pullover strays down over her shoulder.
Hey, she says, as though the idea has just occurred to her, how about we take a trip today? A mystery tour. I choose the place, you drive.
I surprise myself by agreeing.
We climb into the old Mercedes Estate, which in spite of its change of ownership still exudes the personality of my aunt: old-style breeding, and a benign, no-nonsense reliability. It chugs along the country lanes with a reassuring purr, which, given its age and lack of tending, is impressive. It is another fine day. Alice sits by my side in the front. She has taken off her shoes and is resting one bare foot on top of the dashboard in a pose of relaxed – but possibly studied – abandon. I let down my window and the scent of mown grass and hedgerow spills into the car.
Following Alice’s instructions (she has yet to divulge where we are going) we pass the village of Cwmyoy, the hill behind it supposedly rent asunder by an earthquake on the day of Christ’s crucifixion, then on towards Llanbedr along a slightly broader lane, its borders bright with purple and yellow flowers.
At Crickhowell we join the main road, and follow the river valley, past Bwlch, where the country opens out, with undulating hills crested by plantations of Norwegian pine foregrounding vistas of the Beacons and conferring on the native landscape the incongruous effect of a hastily-added coniferous tiara. As we descend a long sweep of embankment, Alice points out the little church, which lies just off the road to the right. Wooded hillocks punctuate the terrain, and close by flows the Usk, its water reflecting the midday sun.
I
