‘I can’t imagine any of it,’ Gloria says.
‘The guilt of it would have eaten me up if it wasn’t for something that happened. My own little miracle that kept me going. Still does.’
‘What was it? Do you mind me asking?’
William walks on a little but stays within earshot. He stares at the inscriptions, listening to the soft rhythm of the woman’s voice.
‘There’s a lane me and my little girl used to like, alongside here. She’d zoom along on her scooter with my shopping bag hanging off the handles, full of things she’d collected. Bits of fern, wildflowers, blackberries, anything she could pick and drop in the bag.
‘On the day of the funerals, I told my husband to go for both of us, and I went up there. I could see everyone, but they couldn’t see me. I sat against this almighty big rock that she used to draw on with her chalks. I wondered if any of it would still be there, but we’d had so much rain it had washed away. It was like I had a God’s-eye view. I watched people putting their flowers on the huge cross. They’d come from all over the world, those flowers. Everyone looked so small. And I thought – how can we bear this? How can we possibly bear this pain? I wished we’d all died that morning. All of us together. That would have been better, I thought.’
William is desperate to turn round but he can’t.
‘And then this racket came from nowhere, above my head. It was a bloody helicopter, full of photographers! Well, that nearly polished me off. It was my girl who’d died, my heart that was breaking. What did the rest of the world want to be doing with us? And then it started, this beautiful, beautiful voice from behind me. Singing “Myfanwy”, a song that means a lot to us in the valleys.’
‘Yes’ – Gloria’s voice is low – ‘I know it.’
‘I didn’t dare move. Whoever it was thought they were alone. So I just leant against that rock, watched the dirt thrown on the grave of my precious girl and let this – angel, whoever he was – be my voice. I let him sing that lovely, sad song, from me to my little girl. And now, if I’m on my own here, I sing it to her myself.’
At last William turns. Had he looked after her daughter, held up a piece of her clothing? Was she one of the mothers who sank to her knees at the sight of it? Was she the girl with the perfect hand? And today, this woman sits next to Gloria, in a cheerful spring coat with apricot-pink lips. Humans beings are extraordinary, he thinks.
‘And I went back down that hill,’ she continues, glancing at William, ‘and I didn’t feel any better, but somehow I had hope, that in time, I’d be able to bear it.’
Gloria looks at William. She won’t cry, but he knows she wants to.
‘William, come and say hello to this lady.’
He walks towards her, his hand held out.
‘Hello’ – her grip is firm – ‘welcome back.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, connecting with her intense gaze. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘If you like.’ She nods, a slight smile lifting her mouth.
‘When I was here, a woman turned up at the chapel and helped us get the children ready to be identified. Betty. Her house had been knocked down. Do you know her?’
‘Course I know Betty.’ The woman smiles. ‘Everyone knows everyone here. They rebuilt her house. You’ll have seen them on the way in. Very swanky, they are. All mod cons.’
‘Do you think she’d mind if we visited her?’
The woman stands and smooths her coat. ‘I’ll walk you down, shall I?’
65
The doorbell is shrill and tinny. There’s a movement, the blur becomes a neat figure, and the door opens.
‘Look, Betty!’ The woman presents them as if they’re quarry she’s hunted down. ‘I’ve brought you some visitors.’
Betty looks at Gloria first, registers the pregnancy. ‘Who’s this?’ She smiles. Her hair is grey, her floral dress is not smothered by a man’s jumper, and she’s wearing slippers not wellies. Her face has more lines and is fuller. But to William, she is exactly as she was.
‘Betty.’ He moves towards her. ‘I’m William Lavery. I was a volunteer embalmer.’
Betty’s hands lift to hold her face as she breathes in. ‘Oh my word! Would I ever forget you?’ She moves over the step to hug him, wrapping her arms tight round his waist, her face unashamedly pressed against his chest. He feels her small hands gripping his back.
‘And this is …?’ she asks, letting go of him, smiling at Gloria.
‘My wife, Gloria.’
She puts her hand softly on Gloria’s cheek. ‘Tea?’ Her eyes are tiny blue lakes.
‘I could murder one,’ Gloria says, her smile creeping across her face, ‘after I’ve used your loo, if that’s all right?’
Betty stands back a minute and holds both of Gloria’s arms. ‘You look exhausted. How about we bring the tea up for you in my spare bedroom and you have a lie-down?’
Gloria smiles her gratitude.
Betty puts her hand on Gloria’s back and points inside. ‘Top of the stairs, left for the loo, first right for the bedroom. Sheets are clean.’
Gloria hugs her. ‘I love you already, Betty.’
Betty laughs, and together she and William watch Gloria walk into the house. Each stair gently creaks as she climbs them.
‘Come in the kitchen while I make a pot of tea.’
William follows. ‘So, this is your new house?’
‘Not so new now.’ Betty smiles and reaches for mugs, kettle, tea, barely having to move. ‘How come you met Mary?’
William leans against the worktop in the galley kitchen. ‘Gloria got talking to her at the graveyard.’ Betty nudges him to the left to get into the fridge. ‘She told us on the day of the funeral how she went up the mountain, and heard someone singing “Myfanwy”.’
‘We all know that story. Her angel.’
William says nothing. Betty stops pouring the milk. ‘Oh Lord, was it you?’