The Truth Against the World (22 page)

Of course, I'd just promised my parents I wouldn't see Gareth. But I'd never said I wouldn't call him.

I needed to think first, though. I got up and put on my coat and boots, intending to take a walk on the tree-lined path around the cottages and farmhouse. It would clear my head. It would pass the time. I wouldn't leave the property, so technically I wasn't defying my dad. And then I would call Gareth.

Small pools of light shone from the front windows of our little cottage, breaking up the dusk and mist. When I shut the door and moved a short distance away, I could almost imagine that the gentle glow and dark bulk of the small building belonged not to our vacation home but to Awel-y-Môr, the house where Gee Gee had lived, where Olwen had spent much of her short life. I could almost see, in between the black tree-silhouettes, the familiar shadow that had appeared in so many of my dreams about Cwm Tawel slipping back into the house in the preternatural stillness after the air raid siren.

I turned away with a shiver and kept walking. Soon I couldn't see the cottage anymore. One of the old trees had a huge, gnarled root and I sat down heavily, breathing in the damp-pine smell.

I could go see Gareth anyway.

I'd feel horribly guilty. But we'd already come so far, and it felt like we were so close now that we'd found the box. Close to what, I wasn't sure, but I hoped that if we saw this through, it would set Olwen's spirit to rest. And if we wanted to do that, I had to tell Gareth what I'd found and figure out what to do next.

All of this—it had to be worth any amount of guilt. Maybe letting the secret out, no matter how painful, would finally allow all the decades of suffering to dissipate—Olwen's suffering, and Rhiannon's. And then, maybe, my dreams would finally leave me in peace.

So what if I'd be grounded until I reached adulthood.

I wiped a few involuntary tears away and leaned my head back, way back until I could see the glowing outlines of the cloud obscuring the rising moon. The cold evening breeze sliced into my jacket and dried the tears on my face. If I could just get my parents to listen … but they wouldn't, not until they were good and ready and had stopped being upset. I wouldn't be able to win back their trust in a day.

Besides, I felt reluctant to give up my newfound knowledge just yet. It felt too precious. I wanted to hold on to it for a while longer, this special, hidden piece of Gee Gee's life.

There was one person, though, who needed to know.

I got up again and crunched down the path that led around to the front of the farmhouse, lost in thought. The moon came out from behind its cloud and shone palely in the darkening sky. I walked faster and faster, feeling the wind in my hair, not caring if I really went anywhere. My brain just kept mulling over everything: my parents' angry faces, Olwen's frightened one, and the papers I'd found in the box. The implications. Before I knew it, I had walked all the way down to Cwm Road.

The tourist shops were closed and dark; so was the bus station. Everything shone with a pearly cast in the moonlight. There weren't many people out, though it was only nine thirty. If this were San Francisco, there would be people everywhere—fancy-dressed, funky, homeless. The only people I ran into were a bundled-up couple coming out of a pub.

I had a vague thought that I might walk by the site of Gee Gee's cottage again, but my footsteps betrayed me and took me to the opposite side of the village, the side where Gareth was staying. I would just walk past and see if he was home, see if a light was on. If not, I'd go back to the cottage and call him.

When I got to his great-granddad's place, Gareth was sitting on the curb outside, staring gloomily into the sky. He turned to look at me as I walked up, seeming unsurprised to see me.

I stopped and sat down next to him.

“I don't know why,” he said, “but I just had this feeling you were coming.”

“I guess things like that shouldn't surprise me anymore.” I looked up at the sky again. A few bright stars were valiantly shining through the clouds.

After a silent minute or two, I said, “You won't believe what I found in the box.” I felt a stab of nervousness and glanced back at Mr. Lewis's house.

“Don't worry, he's still at the pub. He just sort of took off after your mum and dad talked to him.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Really.”

“Don't be. He didn't seem all that angry. Just quiet.” Gareth crossed his feet at the ankles, then uncrossed them again, staring at his dirty sneakers.

“I can't believe I got my parents to go to dinner without me,” I said. “I told them I felt sick. I think my dad felt bad about the whole thing, actually.” I tapped my heels in the gutter. “I probably shouldn't have come here.”

“I'm glad you did, though.” Gareth looked at me, the lenses of his glasses glimmering in the moonlight. He smiled, and I felt a new nervousness. A pleasant nervousness.

I was here for a reason, though. “Gareth, listen. I found some unbelievable things in that box.”

“Yeah?” He edged closer, so we were just a few inches away from touching.

“I don't know how to start.” I let out a long, shaky breath. I could sense Gareth's attention on me, but I couldn't meet his eyes. “There was another locket, with a picture of Rhiannon and Olwen. There was a diary in Welsh, and a couple of letters from someone with the initial E. And—” I hesitated, then plunged ahead.

“I found Olwen's birth and death certificates. On the birth certificate it said her father”—I swallowed—“was Edward Henry Lewis.” I stopped and waited, searching his face carefully.

Gareth went completely pale, his eyes wide. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“But … that's my great-granddad.”

22

Addef yw tewi.

Silence is admission.

Welsh proverb

Gareth leaned slowly backward and lay against the cool sidewalk, staring straight up at the moonlit clouds. The cement was hard and rough through the thin cotton of his shirt, but he still felt like the ground had disappeared from underneath him.

Edward Lewis—his Great-Granddad Lewis—Olwen's father? Was it even possible?

On the one hand, it would explain so much. It would explain why he couldn't stop thinking about Olwen, maybe even why he'd seen her at the cromlech in the first place. And it would account for his great-granddad's bizarre, withdrawn behavior ever since Rhiannon came back to the village. But it still seemed so unbelievable. His great-granddad had married, had children of his own, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He had a
life.
And as far as Gareth had ever known, Olwen had not been in it.

“I have to see those papers,” Gareth said. He sat back up and brushed his hair out of his eyes. His brain started working again, went into planning mode. “I can probably get out of the house tomorrow afternoon if I offer to run a few errands. If you can do the same thing, we can meet somewhere, like Smyth and Sons, and look at everything together.”

“Maybe. I think I could manage that,” Wyn said slowly. She looked at her phone and a worried frown appeared on her face. “But I'd better go.” She scrambled to her feet.

“Right,” Gareth said. The space next to him, where she'd been sitting, already felt empty. “I hope I see you tomorrow. If you can't make it, ring me in the morning.”

Wyn gave him a small smile, moonlight glinting in her eyes, and left.

It was stiflingly warm in his great-granddad's house, and the tiny bed Gareth was occupying had seemed to get less comfortable every night. He opened the window to let in the damp night breeze, kicked off the covers, and folded the flat pillow in half, but nothing helped. Eventually he gave up and just sat upright, head lolling back against the wall, staring at the darkness. What if something went wrong? What if they couldn't translate the diary on their own? What was Plan B?

He still couldn't quite believe what Wyn had told him about Olwen's father being named Edward Henry Lewis. It just wasn't something he could picture. It didn't even seem like it could happen in the same universe. And if
he
couldn't believe it, then they hadn't much of a chance of convincing anyone else. He had to see the proof—he had to read those documents with his own eyes.

Letters. An idea began to bloom in his mind. There had been letters from his great-granddad, apparently, in the metal box. So, logically, there ought to be letters from Rhiannon somewhere in his great-granddad's house—that was, if he hadn't thrown them away.

Gareth even had a reasonable suspicion where those letters would be.

Two years ago, his great-granddad had a knee operation, and the whole family had gone to Cwm Tawel for a week to help with cleaning and taking care of meals and everything. The house had been a bit of a mess, and Gareth's mum had forced him to sort out what seemed like hundreds of cardboard boxes. Gareth had thrown away mounds of old bills and receipts. Anything that looked important, he'd put back into boxes and stowed away in the closet, here in this room.

Easing himself up from the bed as silently as possible, wincing at the squeak the old springs made when he moved, Gareth tiptoed to the doorway and closed the door with a tiny click, then turned on the small bedside lamp.

The closet had never really been meant for major storage, just for clothing, so when he opened the door, a precariously leaning tower of boxes nearly tipped over onto him. Probably his own fault. He shoved it back into place slowly and, he hoped, quietly.

His mum had written neatly on each box in felt-tip, labeling them
winter clothes
,
spare towels,
books,
and so on. There were a handful of boxes marked
papers
, and Gareth spent several achingly slow minutes unearthing them. Dust swirled up from the disused piles of boxes, and at one point he had to dive onto the bed and stuff his head into the pillow in order to muffle an uncontrollable sneeze. He paused for a moment after that, holding his breath and listening to make sure he hadn't woken his great-granddad; the house remained quiet.

Of the four boxes of papers, one was full of old newspaper clippings and one was loosely piled with financial information. Gareth set those carefully back in the closet. He rifled through the remaining two boxes, which were haphazardly packed with postcards, canceled checks, local senior citizens' newsletters, and random correspondence. He was sure the letters, if they existed, had to be here. But after searching through them once, he didn't see anything like what he was looking for. The only old letters he found were from some Rhondda Valley mine offering his great-granddad a job, and an unreadable scrawled note from his late great-grandmother Ellen.

Gareth sighed under his breath and searched again, paper by paper, trying not to rustle too loudly. But he found nothing.

He was dumbfounded. Those letters had to exist. Unless his great-granddad had thrown them away. But he never threw anything away; that was why Gareth's mum had made him clean out all the closets. It didn't make sense. They had to be somewhere else, or they just didn't exist.

There was only one thing left to do now, if he wanted to find the letters. He'd have to confront his great-granddad. And in order to do that, he needed the evidence Wyn had found. It was all starting to feel hopelessly convoluted. She needed him; he needed her. Of course, put that way, it sounded simple.

Gathering up the papers, Gareth put them back into what he hoped were the right boxes. But when he shoved the last box into the closet, onto a tower that was already five boxes high, it leaned dangerously forward before he could do anything to catch it. Three of the boxes toppled down and rained their contents—papers, tatty old slippers, plastic fruit, and an empty biscuit tin—down on his head and shoulders in a dusty, rattling shower. His heart thudded and he leapt for the light switch.

The room plunged into darkness, and not a second too soon. The door flew open and his great-grandfather turned on the wall switch. Light flooded the room, so bright compared to the bedside lamp that Gareth didn't have to pretend to blink in shock. Afterimages soared into his field of vision; a purple blob superimposed itself on his great-grandfather's face when he tried to focus on the doorway.

“What in bleeding hell are you doing in here?”

“I don't know, I just woke up when all these things crashed on my head,” Gareth said, trying to sound bleary and confused. “I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Sleepwalking? With your glasses on?” His great-grandfather peered at him suspiciously. Gareth reached one hand to his head, as if in surprise.

“I must have fallen asleep while reading, I suppose,” he said. “I don't remember.” It sounded a load of bollocks, but what could he do? He started gathering up the fallen debris and putting it back into boxes.

“Well, tidy that up and get yourself dressed. It's nearly time to get up anyway.” His great-granddad gave him one last suspicious look before shuffling back out. Gareth looked at the clock in surprise; it was five thirty. Certainly not a time he'd ever hoped to be awake at, but only half an hour before his great-granddad usually got up.

In any case, it seemed he'd escaped further questioning. Gareth let himself enjoy a moment of relief, then started shoving everything back into the closet. He'd come awfully close to having to explain everything, when he wasn't sure he was ready.

At least he still had time to figure out a strategy. He needed to plan out how to start this conversation—a conversation he never once in his life imagined having.

23

Heb ei fai, heb ei eni.

He who is faultless
is not born.

Welsh proverb

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of a crow cawing loudly outside my window, and I threw my arm over my eyes against the sunlight. I lay there for a few minutes, letting my vision adjust. Today I was going to try to meet Gareth, show him what I'd found.

Correction: today I
would
meet Gareth. No matter what, I was going to be there at Smyth and Sons with the metal box, waiting for him.

Last night had been mercifully uneventful. My parents had called twice to check on me—once when I was still walking home from the village—and had arrived home around ten thirty. They'd been in a better mood, and I tried as hard as I could to not raise their suspicions again. I kept the metal box and its precious contents safely hidden, and spent the rest of the evening cramming as much Welsh language into my brain as I could.

My mom was happy when I consented to eat the slice of quiche they'd brought back for me. As far as Dad was concerned, I seemed to be forgiven, since he spent the last hour before bed trying to entice me with brochures about the Brecon Beacons National Park and the Doctor Who Experience.

I got out of bed and threw on a sweater, a long skirt, and hiking boots. We only had a handful of days left in Wales. My parents hadn't arranged our trip home until Gee Gee passed away, but then they hadn't wasted much time in scheduling the flight after the funeral, and filled just about every day we had left with structured fun as if this were simply an ordinary family vacation. But I didn't complain about having to spend the morning touring around in the Fiesta—we'd be back early, in time for my mom to prepare for a Skype meeting. And I would prepare for my own meeting.

My parents were looking forward to our sightseeing outing. Of course, for them, the hard part was done.

Not for me. The need to see Gareth, to confirm what had happened to Gee Gee, was so strong, the entire morning seemed like a blur to me. I knew I should be riveted by the gorgeous Tywi valley, the impossibly green landscape, and maybe in another life I would have been. I felt like I was just a shadow slipping past on another plane.

When we got back from sightseeing, it was two o'clock. I'd gotten a text from Gareth half an hour before:
At Smyth and Sons. Come when you can.

I didn't know how long he would wait, but I texted him as soon as I got back into my room.
Leaving soon.

I carefully wrapped the metal box in an extra sweater and placed it in my backpack, then packed my laptop and Welsh dictionary.

“You look like you're on your way somewhere,” Dad said, glancing up at me from the couch when I came out of my room.

“I thought I'd check my email, maybe take a walk down to the village.” I tried to sound noncommittal. “Gareth said there's a bookstore on the main road.”

Mom looked over at me from where she was working on her laptop at the table. “You aren't meeting him again, are you? I thought we could spend some time together as a family tonight.”

“No,” I said, my voice sounding strange in my own ears. I'd just lied, right to my mother's face. “I'll be back by dinner, I promise.” That part, at least, wasn't a lie. But I felt a crawling sensation between my shoulder blades, as if she was watching me as I went out the door. My stomach felt sick, and again I hoped this would all be worth it.

The metal box clinked in my backpack as I quickened my pace down Cwm Road. The more time I had with Gareth, the better. If we could piece together the whole story, I could explain it to my parents, and then they'd have to understand.

I felt a little sad as I passed the cozy shops and businesses on the main road. I might not get to see them again for years. Maybe Smyth and Sons wasn't anything like the well-stocked, brightly lit bookstores I was used to, but I'd grown accustomed to it—to the hot, crisp fries at HMS Tasty's, the friendly young woman at the post office, the tiny bank branch with one single teller. It felt like I'd been here months, not weeks.

Gareth was waiting at a small table by the window when I walked in the door, and he looked up at the squeak of hinges. Mr. Smyth the Elder was nowhere in sight, though I could hear shuffling noises from the back room. I slid into the wooden chair on the other side of the table and looked around; the table across the room was empty, and a shelf of dated-looking “new releases” formed a convenient barrier between us and the rest of the shop. I drew the metal box out of my backpack and set it down.

“I couldn't find anything at Granddad's house. I'm glad you had more luck.” Gareth's voice sounded strained. He looked at me intently for a moment. “All right?” he asked. He flashed me a quick smile.

In that moment, his wavy hair sliding down over one eye and the smile lighting up his face, I had a strong flash of … not quite memory, not quite déjà vu, but something else entirely—a sense of being in a different time, of ghostly shadows of long-gone people all around me, of a different young man, who looked a lot like Gareth, grinning at someone standing next to me.

It felt so real that I turned my head to look, but of course nobody was there, and the moment fled. I was back in the wood-paneled bookshop surrounded by shelves, my chest aching with a sadness that hadn't been there a minute ago.

“Yes, I'm all right.” I busied myself with retrieving the key from my locket; by the time I clicked open the lid of the box, I felt a little more composed.

“Let's see, then,” he said quietly.

I started by handing him the second locket, popping it open to reveal the picture of Rhiannon and Olwen.

“That's her all right,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I wouldn't forget that face in a million years.”

Next I showed him the birth and death certificates. He went a little pale, but nodded. “Edward Henry Lewis. That's my great-granddad's name. And the letters—well, that confirms it, doesn't it. They're in his handwriting, more or less. It's changed over the years, but not that much.”

I let out a long breath. “I guess we know who Olwen's father was. I just wish Gee Gee had told us.” It seemed so sad, and I couldn't understand why the entire village wouldn't have grieved the loss of Olwen. And then there was Great-Grandpa John. How did he fit into the picture?

“I suppose because they weren't married,” Gareth reminded me. I let out a frustrated noise. “Hey, let's have a look at that diary.” He sounded like he was trying to be confident, but his voice trembled the slightest bit when he said the word “diary.” I glanced at him; his eyes were troubled. I'd known for a while now that Gee Gee had her secrets—Gareth was just finding out about his great-granddad's.

I reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, and then I let go.

“Here it is,” I said, pulling the dark-blue notebook out of the box. I twisted my hair around my finger and waited as he flipped gently through the pages.

“Well,” he said, “she's got nice penmanship, but I still can't catch more than a few words here and there. Like this”—he pointed at a sentence about halfway down the page—“‘
Dw i ddim yn gallu deall
' … that part means ‘I can't understand.' But I'm not sure about the rest of the sentence,” he concluded apologetically. “I guess that's ironic, eh? The only part I can understand is the part about not understanding.” He smirked, and I felt the corners of my mouth twitch upward.

I had to know what the diary contained. I had to find the missing parts of the story, the gap between Gee Gee's teenage years and the time when she and Great-Grandpa John moved to the States. The small window of time during which Olwen had lived and died. Then maybe we could confront Mr. Lewis. If he confirmed the details, maybe then I could go to my parents with it and they'd believe me.

I knew I couldn't convince them with ghosts and dreams. But they wouldn't be able to deny the physical evidence.

“What do you think we should do now?” I asked. “My Welsh isn't very good either. Not yet.”

“Better than mine, I bet.” Gareth gave me a small smile, and for a second I forgot what we were supposed to be doing.

“Know any good translation websites?” he said after a pause.

“Well, I brought my laptop with me.” I opened it up, and Gareth did a quick search for “
Welsh English translation
.” It only took him moments to find a site that would translate any text you typed into a box.

“You're good at that,” I said.

He grinned. “Hope you can type fast, because I'm crap at it.”

Unfortunately, both of our efforts were wasted. The translation engine returned a string of confusing gibberish.

“What's this thing's problem?” Gareth said in disbelief. “‘He is being heifer'?” He snorted a laugh. “I never thought I'd be the one to say this, but perhaps computers are not the solution to all of life's troubles.”

“Don't blame my poor laptop. Without this very computer, we would never have met,” I pointed out, and Gareth laughed. “Why don't we just try the dictionary? We both know a little Welsh, and we can just look up the difficult words.” I wasn't ready to give up yet.

“Er—okay.” Gareth's voice was uncertain. “But I don't remember much from school, I have to warn you.”

I got my Welsh dictionary out of my backpack and put it on the table between us. “Why don't we tackle the first entry, the one that says ‘15fed Mehefin'?”

We plugged away for an hour, word by word, but by the end, all we'd managed was a single entry, peppered with question marks and blanks wherever we couldn't figure out a word or phrase. I wasn't even sure if it was accurate. It wasn't elegant, that was for sure:

15 June 1943

More evacuees came to our school this week. She (It?) makes me so sad and angry I would like to march there to Germany myself! I truly mean it. Mam and Dad (??) if they knew. Half of the poor things are in their clothes for summer and without their coats. These were from village Bryn Coch a few miles away. Not like all the ones from England who are already settled in our houses and farms—the village children already know Welsh and are not so different. But truly, the ones from England are not so different either, only frightened, no matter what old Mrs. Williams says about them not to be blessed like us because they don't (won't?) go to chapel. Well, they do now, anyway.

I had another dream last night, the ones Mam-gu Davies says I must listen to them. It was only images flashing past, some men working in a (??) coal and then the cromlech there by the old chapel Llanddewi, all (??). I can't understand it (him?). I did hear Mr. Jones talking about the new chapel that they are building on border south of town, but hope they do not stop using the lovely old one.

“Wow,” I said, when we'd finished.

“Yeah.” Gareth stared at my laptop screen, covered in notes. “All we've done is one entry, and there's how many still to go?”

I flipped through the pages. “It looks like twelve.” I dropped the book on the table. “You're right, this is taking way too long. And it's really frustrating, too. Sorry. Not your fault.”

“And old Mr. Smyth keeps glaring at us,” Gareth said, glancing over at the tall gray-haired man scowling behind the counter.

I was tired and my stomach was starting to feel nauseated again with worry. “Well, what do we do now?”

“We obviously can't do it in less than a year, so we've got to get somebody to translate it,” Gareth said, leaning back in his chair. “There's any number of people here in the village who are fluent in Welsh. We just have to find them.”

“I'm not sure who we can trust, though.” I thought about those old ladies at the funeral, the ones who'd clearly been gossiping about Gee Gee.

Gareth thought for a moment. “What about that woman, you know, the one at the bus station?”

“Margie Jenkins?” I frowned. “I guess that's possible.” But it felt wrong. There was something weird about it, since Margie had said that her mother disapproved of Gee Gee. And then the face of Margie's husband Peter swam into my mind. I wasn't sure why, but I didn't want to talk to him, either.

I really only knew one other person in town I trusted. “Let's go to Hugh! Hugh and his wife, Annie. They've been helping me practice Welsh.”

“You're sure? I mean, Hugh's a good sort, but do we want to drag him and his wife into this?” Gareth looked worried. His fingers tapped on the table lightly, a nervous drumbeat.

“I think it's good that they're not really involved.” Plus, Hugh and Annie wouldn't have the same prejudices, the old assumptions that had made life so hard for Gee Gee in the first place.

“Okay. So, then, where do we find him at his time of day? Do we need to call a taxi?”

“Perfect idea,” I said, grinning.

After we'd waited in front of HMS Tasty's for half an hour, Hugh pulled up in his black cab and parked it around the corner. It hadn't taken more than a few minutes of explanation before he agreed to meet us.

When I saw his balding head and bulky frame rounding the corner I felt like running to him, I was so relieved to see him. Gareth, on the other hand, seemed broody, almost morose. I could understand, kind of, but all I felt was urgency. It was four o'clock on my third-to-last day in Wales. By next week, I'd be gone—but I didn't know if my dreams would be.

“Annie'll be here in a few minutes,” Hugh said, breaking into a broad grin. “So there's a mystery to be solved, yeah?” He led us to a table in the back of the tiny eatery, separated from the kitchen by a section of wall. The aroma of fried grease and fish filled the air, and the windows were steamed up from the heat of cooking. Hugh waved at the man behind the counter and bought four orange Fantas, which he carefully placed in front of us as if it were a solemn ceremony.