driver. No one else got off there and there was nobody around at the bus stop either.
She walked through the village. Mrs Evans was hobbling about but Jennifer sped past, avoiding being spotted. The little girl who had told Jennifer about the haunting was playing with a skipping rope, as her mother read a book on a nearby bench.
As Jennifer passed, the little girl called out. ‘Have you seen the ghost yet?’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘No. That house is definitely not haunted,’ she lied.
The girl laughed. ‘Definitely is!’
Jennifer shrugged and kept on walking. She couldn’t summon the will or the energy to indulge the child.
Alone in the house, Arianwen sits at her piano to play. She plays without singing for a while, just letting the music take her away. An emptiness seems to echo in the space around her and she is desperate to fill it.
She does not know where her parents had gone, did not hear them leave. They just are not there. Arianwen is glad to be without them. Alone, she can sink into her own despair. She does not have to pretend, to force a smile or sing bright songs.
She sits in darkness, no candle lighting the room. Only her music fills the space. As she plays, her mind wanders and her thoughts drift to her ghostly lover. She is a figment, Arianwen knows this, yet she does not care. She is her sweet secret, to caress when she is alone.
She reaches out and can almost feel the soft cheek of her lover beneath her fingertips. Unbidden, her mouth forms words and her throat gives them sound.
Ar lan y môr mae rhosys chochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion
She feels her lover listening.
Jennifer dumped her shopping in the hall, then went through to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes and climbed under the covers, still fully dressed.
‘That did not go well,’ she said to the empty room.
It wasn’t an empty room.
A finger trails across her cheek, warm breath on her face.
‘I wish I could hear your voice. I’ve heard you singing but …’
Suddenly, the singing was there again: a soft, sweet voice singing Welsh words in her ear. They were sung so softly, it was almost a whisper.
Ar lan y môr mae rhosys chochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion
Ar lan y môr mae ‘nghariad inne
Yn cysgu’r nos a choddi’r bore.
‘I don’t even know what that means,’ Jennifer said. ‘I wish I could understand.’ She turned on her side and gazed at the place she knew her lover was. There was not the slightest image of her but Jennifer knew she was there. She could feel her.
The voice came again, soft and sweet but this time it was only a whisper.
Beside the sea there are red roses
Beside the sea there’re lovely lillies
Beside the sea my sweetheart lives
Asleep at night, awake at morning.
‘Sweetheart,’ Jennifer repeated. She turned the word over and over on her tongue. ‘Sweetheart, sweetheart. What word is that? Tell me the welsh.’
‘Cariad’ , came the voice. ‘ Ar lan y môr mae ‘nghariad inne. Beside the sea my sweetheart lives.’
Jennifer turned her face into the warmth she could feel. ‘Am I your sweetheart? Or is there someone else? Who are you? Who do you see when you look at me? Who do you touch when I feel your caress?’
There was silence. Jennifer listened hard. She could feel no caress, no gaze upon her face, and she could hear no voice. There was silence.
Hot breath of a kiss on her cheek, whispered words. ‘You, fy nghariad’.
Jennifer closed her eyes and felt the embrace of her ghostly lover, felt her kisses and soft words, and knew she’d done the right thing.
Arianwen lies still in her bed. She gazes at the soft face of the woman with her head on Arianwen’s pillow. The woman is asleep and Arianwen can see her, can watch the flicker of her eyes behind her lids as she dreams. She knows this is imp ossible, that this woman could not have come from nowhere into her house, into
She walked through the village. Mrs Evans was hobbling about but Jennifer sped past, avoiding being spotted. The little girl who had told Jennifer about the haunting was playing with a skipping rope, as her mother read a book on a nearby bench.
As Jennifer passed, the little girl called out. ‘Have you seen the ghost yet?’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘No. That house is definitely not haunted,’ she lied.
The girl laughed. ‘Definitely is!’
Jennifer shrugged and kept on walking. She couldn’t summon the will or the energy to indulge the child.
Alone in the house, Arianwen sits at her piano to play. She plays without singing for a while, just letting the music take her away. An emptiness seems to echo in the space around her and she is desperate to fill it.
She does not know where her parents had gone, did not hear them leave. They just are not there. Arianwen is glad to be without them. Alone, she can sink into her own despair. She does not have to pretend, to force a smile or sing bright songs.
She sits in darkness, no candle lighting the room. Only her music fills the space. As she plays, her mind wanders and her thoughts drift to her ghostly lover. She is a figment, Arianwen knows this, yet she does not care. She is her sweet secret, to caress when she is alone.
She reaches out and can almost feel the soft cheek of her lover beneath her fingertips. Unbidden, her mouth forms words and her throat gives them sound.
Ar lan y môr mae rhosys chochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion
She feels her lover listening.
Jennifer dumped her shopping in the hall, then went through to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes and climbed under the covers, still fully dressed.
‘That did not go well,’ she said to the empty room.
It wasn’t an empty room.
A finger trails across her cheek, warm breath on her face.
‘I wish I could hear your voice. I’ve heard you singing but …’
Suddenly, the singing was there again: a soft, sweet voice singing Welsh words in her ear. They were sung so softly, it was almost a whisper.
Ar lan y môr mae rhosys chochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion
Ar lan y môr mae ‘nghariad inne
Yn cysgu’r nos a choddi’r bore.
‘I don’t even know what that means,’ Jennifer said. ‘I wish I could understand.’ She turned on her side and gazed at the place she knew her lover was. There was not the slightest image of her but Jennifer knew she was there. She could feel her.
The voice came again, soft and sweet but this time it was only a whisper.
Beside the sea there are red roses
Beside the sea there’re lovely lillies
Beside the sea my sweetheart lives
Asleep at night, awake at morning.
‘Sweetheart,’ Jennifer repeated. She turned the word over and over on her tongue. ‘Sweetheart, sweetheart. What word is that? Tell me the welsh.’
‘Cariad’ , came the voice. ‘ Ar lan y môr mae ‘nghariad inne. Beside the sea my sweetheart lives.’
Jennifer turned her face into the warmth she could feel. ‘Am I your sweetheart? Or is there someone else? Who are you? Who do you see when you look at me? Who do you touch when I feel your caress?’
There was silence. Jennifer listened hard. She could feel no caress, no gaze upon her face, and she could hear no voice. There was silence.
Hot breath of a kiss on her cheek, whispered words. ‘You, fy nghariad’.
Jennifer closed her eyes and felt the embrace of her ghostly lover, felt her kisses and soft words, and knew she’d done the right thing.
Arianwen lies still in her bed. She gazes at the soft face of the woman with her head on Arianwen’s pillow. The woman is asleep and Arianwen can see her, can watch the flicker of her eyes behind her lids as she dreams. She knows this is imp ossible, that this woman could not have come from nowhere into her house, into
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