The Truth Against the World (23 page)

A moment later, Annie walked in, pulling the door shut behind her. Her short dark hair was tousled from the breeze, and she smiled as she sank into a chair. “Let's see this mysterious document, then,” she said, sounding intrigued.

“I can't wait,” Hugh said. “They've hardly told me anything, these two.”

“Of course not. They haven't sworn you to secrecy yet. You might blab to the nearest gossip,” Annie said, kissing him on the ear. “Right then, let's have a look.”

I pulled out the diary and my laptop, ready to take notes, and watched as Hugh and Annie bent their heads over the precious book. Annie ran one hand through the gray streak at the front of her hair, and Hugh bit at one fingernail, but they were both quiet, reading intently for several minutes. At one point, Annie raised her eyebrows, and Hugh muttered “Well, now!”

Finally, Gareth broke the silence by clearing his throat.

Both Hugh and Annie looked up, startled. Annie's eyes were shining, teary.

“So,” Gareth said, his voice sounding falsely casual. “What's in there?”

Annie blinked a few times and said, “I don't know how to prepare you. I—” She carefully turned the pages back to the beginning of the little diary. I felt my stomach lurch.

“Just a sec now,” Hugh said, getting up from the table with a determined expression. I exchanged a confused look with Gareth, and then Hugh came back with a paper plate of incredibly greasy French fries. I felt a momentary pang. Next week I'd be home in San Francisco, sitting with Rae in our favorite taqueria, telling her all about this.

It still seemed far away.

Annie said “Ready?” and I brought my attention back to the present. To the past.

“Right. Well … this part here, this first entry, it starts with ‘More evacuees came to our school this week. It makes me so sad and angry that I'd like to march on over to Germany myself. I really mean it. Mam and Dad would—er, ‘
gwylltio'n gacwn
' doesn't quite translate literally, but it's a bit like ‘get angry as a wasp' … ”

I typed until my hands got tired, and then Annie took over for a while, until we had the translation of every entry in the brief diary. By the time we were finished, there were almost fifteen pages of notes, and by then an early dinner crowd of backpacking students had wandered in and filled the place with chatter in various European languages.

What we found in the diary had made my head spin.

“The entries are so sporadic,” Annie said, “but you can just piece together what happened.
Jiw, jiw
.” Goodness gracious.

“And it isn't a nice story,” Hugh added, sounding apologetic.

At first, it wasn't so bad. There were excited entries telling of Rhiannon's trysts with Edward—Gareth's great-granddad—which were kind of a shock but made me smile at the same time, picturing Gee Gee as a rebellious teenager:
Mam has punished me again for seeing Edward. I'm to stay in my room all day knitting army socks. It's truly unfair. I can't understand why everybody says he's a shady one, not to be trusted. When he smiles at me I know it isn't true. With that sandy-colored wavy hair just sliding down over one eye, I want to brush it aside, to touch his face … and to tell the truth I often do! That, and more …

I looked at Gareth and saw that same lock of hair that just wouldn't stay in place. That floppy hair that, on a much younger Edward, had made Rhiannon swoon. I fidgeted in my chair, not sure what to think. Trying not to freak out at how similar things were.

But they were different, too. Of course they were.

I'm so happy my Edward is too young to be called away to fight. Just a year off, really, he could go if he wanted, but I think he worries about his mam being alone. He hasn't said so, and that spiteful Mrs. Lloyd with her horrible overpriced yarn called him a dodger, which Dad says is worse than a conscientious objector like Uncle Rhodri.

I could hardly bear to listen when Hugh read the descriptions of how Gee Gee had been ostracized by the community for having an illegitimate child with an English boy. She endured spiteful comments from the villagers and got the silent treatment from her parents:
I can scarcely believe that people I've known my entire life, perfectly decent people, could be so nasty. They gave me looks when I was seeing Edward, but now … they just turn up their noses or say “I knew it would happen.”

Then there were the dreams. I trembled, reeling with a sense of overwhelming recognition as I read over some of the passages:
I had another dream last night, the ones Mam-gu Davies says I have to listen to. It was just images flashing by, some men working in a coal mine, and then the cromlech over by the old Llanddewi chapel, all fenced off. I can't understand it.

I felt like the world was tilting, like I might fall out of my chair. It was overwhelmingly sad; all the more so because we couldn't fix what had already happened. I wasn't even sure we'd be able to deal with what was happening now. Gareth looked uncomfortable, pushing his glasses back up his nose, but at some point, he had put his hand on top of mine and I didn't pull away.

The most painful parts to hear were about Olwen—her lovely fragility, her chronic illness, the way she and Rhiannon depended on one another after Edward left for the mines
…
and after Edward's letters stopped
…
and the way both of them depended on Great-Grandpa John.
I don't know if I love him yet.
But
I know I made the right decision for Olwen. And John was lonely. He and Olwen can help each other. As for me … we'll see. I can think about Edward now without the same pain that it used to cause. I loved him, but I've moved on.
As Annie read out the translation, I saw Gareth's eyes darken, his expression unreadable. And no wonder—he was the first to actually see Olwen, down in the cromlech.

In a way, this part of the diary felt the most important. Because of Olwen, Gareth and I were sort of related, in a way—a bizarre thought. And somehow we'd found each other online. Again, somehow because of Olwen. If Gareth hadn't seen her apparition, he wouldn't have been prompted to do a search for Olwen Nia Evans. And if he hadn't done that, he wouldn't have found me.

I shivered. She was our connection. But she'd been gone for so, so long.

I feel as if I've lost everything
, the final diary entry said, after Olwen had fallen ill and died; after all the heart-wrenching words about Olwen's coughing and Rhiannon's exhaustion, caring for her daughter first alone and then with Great-Grandpa John, who had married Rhiannon and loved Olwen as his own. Edward was still away at the mines, for work, and hadn't returned.

… nobody would give me any help. I feel so completely alone. “Should have known better,” said awful Mrs. Lloyd. “Now you've got to live with your troubles, dear. We all have them. Some worse than others, I suppose.” I should never have spoken to her. I'm sure she's the cow that has told everyone terrible lies about me and Edward.

Now I could understand why Gee Gee left for the United States and hardly looked back. I could guess why Olwen was haunting us, and why she was so lonely. It was clear why Gee Gee had wanted to return here at the end of her life, despite it all.

But it was obvious that Gee Gee's return alone hadn't been enough. Not enough to set Olwen to rest, nor enough to bring the whole story to light.

We needed both sides of the story.

That, we'd have to do on our own. I couldn't ask more of Hugh and Annie, who had given so much help today on short notice.

“Thank you for sharing this with us,” Annie said, putting
a gentle hand on my arm before getting up. “It's truly an amazing piece of history.”

“We won't breathe a word to your parents until you say so. Good luck to you both,” Hugh said, flashing us a smile over his shoulder on the way to the door.

I exchanged a long look with Gareth as Hugh and Annie bustled out into the crisp air. He looked as ill as I felt, but there was no other choice, no reason anymore for avoiding it. My stomach roiled, making me sorry I'd eaten the oily fries.

The next step was to confront Gareth's great-granddad.

24

Haws dywedyd mynydd na myned drosto.

It is easier to say mountain than to climb it.

Welsh proverb

Cwm Road was busy with foot traffic as Gareth and Wyn walked to his great-granddad's house. Busy and normal, with normal people and their everyday problems. Meanwhile, Gareth's hair was hopelessly windblown, his clothes smelled like fried cod, and his brain was utterly devoid of coherent thought. But there was nothing else for it; Wyn was going home in a matter of days, and he couldn't leave things the way they were—couldn't spend his life getting phone-stalked by the ghost of a six-year-old, couldn't keep being distracted by thoughts of Olwen, whom he somehow had to help. Both Olwens. It was like someone had gone into his mind, headed straight for the logical and orderly part, and kicked it about until only a shambles was left. An utterly disorganized shambles. He booted a stray paper cup into the street.

He'd been going along with things here in Cwm Tawel a step at a time, hoping with each step that the situation would improve. It was hard to imagine that anything good could come out of a confrontation with his great-granddad. But now that they'd translated Rhiannon's diary, they didn't have much choice. That
was
their next step.

The diary. Gareth walked a little faster. It was all so difficult for his brain to encompass. The same great-granddad who used to tickle him until he hyperventilated, who kept his tiny garden neat to the point of obsessiveness but couldn't keep his house organized, who took Gareth and Tommy to the Natural History Museum whenever he visited them in London—he was just a normal great-granddad, yet somehow, he was also the same person who'd seduced Rhiannon with his smile, who'd left her with an illegitimate baby, who'd gone off to be a miner and didn't come back for years. The same great-granddad who'd been so distant throughout this whole visit, even the funeral.

It was nearly impossible to think of his great-granddad as a young man; let alone that he was
that
sort. Amit might want to be a bit of a lad, but it was exactly what Gareth hoped not to be. His muscles tightened until his arms ached and he felt like hitting something.

“What do you think we should say?” Wyn asked suddenly. Gareth looked over at her. Her eyes were large and she looked terrified, but, like him, she was still walking on, still determined. There was a flash of something there that reminded him of little Olwen the first time he'd seen her—some fierce will that kept her going. He felt a sharp stab of remorse. It was because of his great-granddad, in a way, that Olwen had died. If Edward had been there, if he hadn't left Olwen without a father and Rhiannon without his love and support, then maybe things wouldn't have been as bad.

“Say something,” Wyn said, her voice pleading.

“He ruined her life,” Gareth burst out, quickening his pace even more.

Wyn jogged a few steps to catch up with him. “Gareth!” she said urgently as they turned the corner onto his great-granddad's street. She grabbed his arm and he stopped, pulling away. He could see the hurt in her expression and he immediately felt sorry, but he didn't think there was anything he could say to make any of this better. He was sorely tempted to just grab his things and head straight back to London, and pretend none of it had ever happened. It wasn't like he could do anything about the past, anyway. He started walking again.

Then his phone rang.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Wyn walked a few more steps before turning back to look at him.

“Is that … ?” Wyn stopped. All the color had drained out of her face.

Gareth pulled his phone from his pocket. The ringtone—it was “Ar Lan y Môr.” He fumbled with the buttons of his phone but it was playing insistently, louder and louder, until he could hardly hear anything else.

“Aren't you going to pick it up?” he heard Wyn say, faintly, from somewhere beside him. He shook his head, trying to clear the rising sound from his ears, but it wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop.

He clicked the
Talk
button.

It was like the time he'd blanked out in the kitchen, only this time, he didn't quite lose the scene around him entirely. He sensed the road, the cottages, the fences and blue sky and hills, all becoming insubstantial; the sights and sounds of the village were slowly consumed by a dim, dark miasma—except for Wyn. His stomach roiled and he put one hand on her shoulder to steady himself.

He pulled back as if burned. When he'd touched Wyn, it was like there was an electric crackle in the air all around them, a physical shock like the completion of a circuit. But even when he'd withdrawn his hand, the strange sensation continued, a sense of linkage even when he wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, but he could
feel
that Wyn was turning her head to stare at him. He knew, without being told, that she too felt that connection; she too now saw what he was seeing.

What he saw was a tiny waiflike figure, limned with light and growing more substantial by the second, materializing in the dim, blurry half-world they stood in.

“Please … hurry! You mustn't … ” Broken up as if by static, the small, faint voice pierced the unnatural quiet that surrounded them like an enveloping ocean wave. Wyn grabbed his hand, and this time he clutched it tightly. Soon, the little figure became just solid enough that they could see her features, see the tears running down her pointed little chin and the anguish on her face. Then she opened her mouth and a thin, wailing cry came out, the cry of a lonely child. It could only have lasted a moment, but it seemed as if the wail echoed up and down the years, unending.

Gareth couldn't bear it. He let go of Wyn's hand and shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut. If it didn't stop, he thought he might start screaming himself. He put his hands to his ears, dropping his phone on the sidewalk with an audible crack.

Then, abruptly, it did stop. The sidewalk was solid and reassuringly hard under his sneakers; the street, the block of little houses, the moist and breezy air—everything was as it had been a few moments ago.

Almost everything. Gareth looked at Wyn. Something unspoken passed between them, a flash of understanding. She had seen it—seen Olwen. She had been there. His tensed shoulders relaxed, just a tiny bit. Just enough.

He picked up his phone and the battery, which had popped out. There was a jagged crack across the screen.

“Mum's going to wallop me,” he said. Then he grimaced. Flying phones. This was how it had all started, and here he was again.

Wyn smiled at him sadly.

They started walking again, without speaking. For now, it was enough just to feel Wyn's presence next to him and smell the salty, grassy scent of this town, this patch of land that had silently witnessed so many people's hardships. His mind was lucid now; it felt scoured clean.

As they walked, though, his anger slowly seeped back in. He wasn't going to let his great-granddad off the hook. His actions were, as far as Gareth was concerned, inexcusable. But he felt more ready now, ready to deal with any possible reaction. Anger. Denial. It didn't matter. He'd find out the truth. And maybe that would be enough to end all of this—the drama, the unhappiness, the lingering ghosts of the past that wouldn't rest.

When they arrived at the little house, Gareth let them both inside and then stalked from room to room, Wyn following after him. His great-granddad was in the small living room at the side of the house, sitting in a brown tweed chair reading a newspaper. As he looked up at the two of them, Gareth took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping his voice wouldn't shake.

“What's this, now?” his great-grandfather asked. “I understood she wasn't to visit with you unsupervised.” He glared at them from underneath bushy, grizzled eyebrows. Gareth felt like backing down, but he thought about Olwen, about Wyn standing close behind him, and he knew he didn't have the option of letting this go on any longer.

“We've got to talk to you about something really important,” he said stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides. “Both of us.”

“Yes? Well, what is it?”

“We want to talk to you about … well … the thing is, Wyn … ” Gareth's brain was a muddle of thoughts all competing to leave his mouth at once. He took another deep breath, but then Wyn spoke.

“We want to talk to you about this,” she said, and pulled the metal box out of her backpack. She placed it between them on the dark wooden coffee table and opened it. The first thing she pulled out was the diary, which she set on the table. Next to it she put the locket, the birth and death certificates, and finally the two letters.

“What's this now?” Gareth's great-granddad said uncertainly. His gaze fell upon the letters, his eyes darting back and forth. His mouth opened and then closed again. He still didn't say anything, but his hands were clenched on the arms of the chair. He looked like he was miles away, an eternity away.

Then he seemed to snap out of it. “What do you mean by all this? Where did you find it?” His voice grew louder, and angrier. “Why are you bringing this to me now? It's too late, it's far too late!” He turned his face away, toward the window. “I can't do anything. It's finished. It was over a long time ago.”

“It is finished,” Gareth said, finding his voice. “So why does it matter? We just want to know what happened.” His volume rose as well.

“It's my great-grandmother,” Wyn added quietly. “I think I deserve to know.”

His great-granddad gripped the arms of the chair for a moment as if he were going to stand up. Then, suddenly, his whole body sagged. He looked older than Gareth had ever seen him look, and the expression on his face was one of sorrow and anger. He didn't look at them; he didn't look at the letters again. But he stayed silent.

“You have to tell us,” Gareth urged him. “Please! Wyn won't be here in Wales much longer. And we—we can't leave things like this. You don't know how hard it's been for both of us.” His own voice sounded ragged and exhausted. “She won't leave us alone.”

Wyn shot him a look and jumped in. “We understand what happened to Olwen, I think, and the diary told us Gee Gee's side of the story. But—what was your part in this?” She drew a shaky breath, and Gareth heard the tears in her voice. “Why did you leave? Why did you let this happen?”

“She's dead now. What does it matter?” his great-granddad said in a quiet, hopeless voice. Gareth wasn't sure whether he meant Olwen or Rhiannon. “I hardly remember those days.”

“Please,” Wyn said. Gareth turned to look at her. Tears were running down her cheeks, and that made him furious all over again. “I know you remember. Even if you don't want to tell us. But—” She closed her eyes, one hand clutching at her locket. “You're the only part of the story that's missing here, and Olwen isn't going to rest until you come clean.
I
won't be able to rest if I don't stop having dreams like my great-grandmother.”

Gareth's great-granddad went pale, and he looked at Wyn almost fearfully.

“You know about Rhiannon's dreams?” His voice was a ragged whisper. “That was the one thing about her I never … ” Then he closed his mouth and pressed his lips together, as if he'd said more than he wanted to. “No! I tell you I don't remember, and there's nothing more to say than that.” But he wouldn't meet either of their eyes.

“Now, please leave, or I will ring your parents and tell them what you've been about.” His ashen face turned toward the window again, dimly lit by the graying dusk.

Gareth was gobsmacked. He felt like punching the wall. They'd told him everything. Now what could they do?

Wyn looked at Gareth, sighed, and put her hand on his arm. “I should go,” she said, her brown eyes sad and sympathetic at the same time. “I'll talk to you later, okay? Everything will be fine. It has to be, or Olwen will never leave us alone. She'll be lonely forever.” She glared at his great-granddad.

Gareth hated all this, hated feeling like he had no control over anything. Wyn wasn't at fault. She was the only one who still seemed sane in all of this. He turned to walk her to the door, wondering if she felt as unmoored as he did.

His great-granddad didn't utter another word, but as they left the room, Gareth took a quick look back. From his chair, Edward was staring at Wyn, his hands clenched together on his lap.

The expression on his face was one of utter fright.