The Dreamers
Authors: Tanwen Coyne
W
HEN JENNIFER MOVES
to a remote Welsh cottage, she falls in love with the solitude and the beautiful landscape. Back in the Victorian age, Arianwen lives a lonely and repressive life in the same isolated cottage, knowing she can never be with the girl she adores. Playing the piano is her only comfort. Yet how can Jennifer hear Arianwen’s hymn-playing in her dreams? In this erotic ghost story, the two young women’s lives embrace so tightly, past and present blurs until it is hard to tell where Jennifer ends and Arianwen begins.
Praise for Tanwen Coyne
“If you have read
Tipping The Velvet
, you will enjoy
The Dreamers
. Tanwen Coyne has written an arresting piece of Gothic fiction. Her prose sparkles with sensual delight and encourages a poetic diction in its evocation of a sense of place. Haunting and magical, The Dreamers captures the power of memory; it is also emotionally satisfying, an extremely good read.”
—
DR JULIE ARMSTRONG
“Tanwen Coyne has an acute sense of place and a sensitive ear for the nuances of language. Quietly, persistently and with great sensitivity, she draws the reader into a secret complicity with this intriguing narrative. She writes with a poet’s eye for detail and a painter’s responsiveness to landscape. What makes
The Dreamers
so distinctive is the way in which it subtly subverts the conventions it sets about to explore. In the hands of a less accomplished writer this would be a dangerous thing to attempt — but Tanwen Coyne never loses control of her characters and never falters in the sureness of her story-telling.
The Dreamers
is a compelling piece of fiction written by one of our most gifted and promising emergent writers.”
—
IAN PARKS
The Dreamers
TANWEN COYNE, a young bisexual writer, draws on her Celtic heritage in her writing.
The Dreamers
is her first published novel. She has been writing from childhood and completed her first novel at the age of ten. She is a Creative Writing student who also writes poetry and scripts. She has a strong fascination with Science Fiction and Fantasy. Exploring character is a driving force behind her work.
The Dreamers
TANWEN COYNE
2nd edition
Published 2013 by Purple Moon Press
First published in 2011 by Embrace Books, an Imprint of Salt Publishing
All rights reserved
© Tanwen Coyne, 2013
The right of Tanwen Coyne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of the author.
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Contents
To my family for their support, love and belief in me; to my friends for their acceptance of all that I am; and to Ali for her presence in my life.
T
HE HOUSE HAD BEEN
empty for a long while. The first time she stepped across the threshold, dragging her suitcase behind her, Jennifer was overcome by the musty smell and her eyes watered from the thick dust coating the walls.
‘Oh shit,’ she murmured into the dark hallway. ‘What
have
I done?’
But
she was not a person to give up easily. The little cottage had found its way into her ownership two years ago via the will of an eccentric uncle and she had never set foot there before. Nonetheless, she was determined to make this new start work, so she pushed her dark hair back from her forehead, hauled in her meagre possessions, and set about cleaning.
Wet cloths, dusters and polish in hand, she
got stuck in. She could not believe the amount of dust. It was worse than clearing out her old dad’s flat before the sale. The electrics had been installed maybe five years before, but nothing else appeared to have been done to the property. The furniture that came with the house was covered in dirt and too rickety to withstand movement.
There were five
rooms. Two were bedrooms. One was empty; the other contained a beautiful brass bedstead in excellent condition. Jennifer ordered a new mattress and polished the brass until it shone. There was a pokey little kitchen with a fantastic view over the valley. It would need to be completely refitted once she had the money. For now, she could manage with the old stove. The bathroom was basic but functional.
The
fifth room was a sitting room. From the marks on the creaky wooden floor, it had once contained a sofa and chairs, all facing the stunning sea view through the bay windows. Jennifer knew the view was there, though she couldn’t see it for the grime covering the glass. In one corner was a beautiful ebonised pear-wood upright piano with ivory keys. It was in perfect condition and had clearly been cared for. But the dust had not left it alone. And when she sat down to pick out a little tune, the keys clanged discordantly.
At the end of her first day, Jennifer clicked through the day’s photographs on her digital camera. Her photos chronicled her life, recording the sights she saw and the things she experienced. She smiled as she looked through the story of her journey. She’d arrived at the little train station that afternoon with as much
packed into her suitcase as she could. Her furniture, what little she owned, would follow the next day. She couldn’t wait to have her computer and upload her photographs.
Her first photograph was of the stati
on. There was only one platform; one train in and out per day. It felt a long way away from the hubbub of London Euston.
The camera played back in stills her walk from the station, wheeling her suitcase behind her. She’d stopped many times along the way, unable to resist shots of the cliffs towering alongside the main road into Cilfachglas.
Her second morning, she climbed up on the windowsill with a bucket of hot soapy water and set about washing the dirt from the windows. As the grey came away on her bright yellow sponge, the blue of the sea shone back at her. Below her little house was a steep slope, then sheer cliff, the sea lapping at the rocks. The harbour was just visible beyond the overgrown trees and bushes.
Jennifer put down her sponge and regarded the view with an artist’s eye. She could imagine the composition, the colours she would use, which shapes would capture the sight before her. She smiled. She’d have plenty of time for painting the views from her very own cottage once the place was habitable.
On her third night there, she climbed into the brass bed for the first time.
The new mattress was comfortable but she got th
e strangest feeling lying there; a gentle echo. It was almost as though she could feel the previous occupant of the bed watching her as she slept. Yet it wasn’t a threatening gaze. Jennifer felt calm beneath it. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.
That night, she dreamed about the piano.
She’d never really learned to play, only
Chopsticks
and
Frère Jacques
at school. But now she dreamed about playing it, her fingers flying over ivory keys, creating beautiful music. It fluttered around her head and set her thoughts on fire. She could hear the melody in her dreams as clearly as if it were playing in the Royal Albert Hall: a concert just for her.
She woke breathless, hot and fluttering all over, as though she’d just awoken from a deeply erotic dream. Her entire body
tingled and her mind was a buzz of soft music. She lay still in bed, savouring the glow before she had to get up and get on with the day’s work.
Yet even as she cleaned, her mind was on her dream and the melancholy piano music still playing in her head.
The shining ivory piano keys sing under Arianwen’s fingers. She does not think anymore. She just feels the music.
She is happy here. She has no worries. Peace fills her up inside. Her piano is her only escape.
‘Arianwen, I need you to go to town and buy some fish for supper,’ calls her mother.
Arianwen’s fingers still, reluctantly. She fights not to roll her eyes but instead rises demurely to her feet, closes her piano and goes to do as she
is told.
Wicker shopping basket over one arm, she climbs the steep hill from her house
, into town. She passes the chapel at the top of the hill. A candle flickers in the window and she knows that inside her Da, the minister, is preparing for the evening service. Tonight, she does not have to go. She attended this morning.
The shops will shut soon but the fishmonger’s will wait for her, for who would deprive the minister of his supper?
Though the bakery may shut before she gets there. That is the only shop Arianwen wishes to visit. Blodwyn will be there. She will smile at Arianwen and her pretty, white face will light up at her visitor. If Arianwen thinks this, it will be.
She reaches the bakery. Mrs Evans is locking the door. Arianwen hurries closer, wishing she
was wearing something more practical than her layers of petticoat, underskirt and bustle. She wishes she could be without the corset pinching her in. She envies the men their ease of movement.
Blodwyn is there, holding Mrs Evan’s basket for her. Arianwen smiles at Blodwyn and bids her good evening.
‘
Noswaith dda
,’ she says in her most pleasant voice.
Blodwyn sends her a cursory look. ‘Good evening.’ She does
not sound like she means it. Arianwen gazes longingly at her, imagining what they could do.
Hands in her pale blonde hair. Eyes trailing over smooth skin. Bodies sliding against one another.
Mrs Evan’s son is courting Blodwyn. They’ll be married soon.
‘I’m on my way to the fishmonger’s,’ she says.
‘You ought to hurry before he closes,’ Blodwyn replies, turning away.
Arianwen nods. ‘
Nos da
,’ she says and walks away, not looking back.
Jennifer ventured from her house into the bright sunlight. The sun was hot on her skin but a cool breeze drifted over to her from the sea. She breathed in. She could smell the brine.
She walked up the steep hill away from the harbour and towards Cilfachglas town centre. She needed to stock up. The house was really beginning to feel like her own. Now she had to make the town feel like home too.
She carried one reusable shopping bag, her handbag and her camera. Officially, she was going out to buy a few essential food items: fresh vegetables, some things to make proper meals.
But she was hoping to get in a few good shots whilst she was out. She’d already spoken to the owner of the tiny gallery about hosting an exhibition of some of her photographs: a portrait of the town. She was already creating in her head.
At the top of the hill was the chapel. She stopped and looked at it. It was an old stone building with a large round glass window. The window wasn’t ornate, like she was used to seeing on Catholic churches. There was a simple pattern of thin arches on the glass and the rest was clear, to let light into the chapel. The peaked roof was topped with a simple cross, and carved boldly into the stone
below the window were the words
Yr Eglwys Fethodistaidd yng Nghymru.
Jennifer wasn’t an expert on the Welsh language but she knew it was a Methodist chapel so she supposed the writing proclaimed that to the Welsh speakers. On one side of the chapel was a notice board. A poster was pinned to it:
Neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:39
Jennifer smiled. She wasn’t religious in the slightest but she liked the idea of holding onto one’s faith through whatever came along.
What was faith without trials?
She took out her camera and took some pictures, lining up her shots carefully. She photographed the cross; she used her
wide-angle lens for the whole chapel; she zoomed in on the notice board. Then she moved on, still smiling.
Cilfachglas was a tiny town. The tourists hadn’t reached it and there wasn’t even a supermarket. There was a butcher’s, a fishmonger’s, a bakery and a General Store but very little else. She enjoyed the peace and quiet. Here, there was no pressure on her to be anybody at all.
‘Hello,’ said a singsong Welsh voice behind her.
She turned and saw a small girl with pale brown plaits looking at her.
‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said the girl, looking curiously at her.
‘I’ve just moved in.
The house on the hill.’
‘It’s called
Bryn y Môr
,’ the girl said brightly. ‘My mam says it’s haunted.’
‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
The little girl bounced on her heels. ‘I’ve seen the ghost. She goes up and down the hill with her shopping.’
‘You’ve got a good imagination,’ Jennifer said kindly.
The little girl giggled, shaking her head. ‘She’s real. And she plays her piano all day long!’ she added, then turned and ran away down the street before Jennifer could say anything else.
