Griffiths Old Flames

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-9999263-2-8
Verlag: Garland Stone
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

Reihe: Old Flames

Modern day lovers are manipulated by the ghosts of the doomed previous inhabitants of an isolated Welsh cottage. As history repeats itself, they must fight to avoid meeting the same tragic fate. Carole takes her dying father back to his home village in the mountains of mid Wales, for a last holiday. The old man is haunted by the ghost of Ifan, a puritanical sea captain, a malignant force. Following her father's death, Carole uses her inheritance to buy a remote traditional cottage outside the village, which was home to Ifan. The cottage has a bad history; the previous owner, Mr. Phillips killed himself there. Carole's boyfriend Peter is shocked by the state of the cottage. During their first night at the haunted cottage, Carole and Peter are possessed by the ghosts of the former inhabitants - the violent Ifan and his wife Mari, the local white witch. Peter returns to London and under Ifan's malignant influence and his life goes to hell. Carole stays at the cottage and under Mari's influence seduces a local boy Geraint as Mari had seduced a young lad when Ifan was away at sea. History repeats itself as Peter plots the death of his unfaithful partner as Ifan and Mr. Phillips had done in the past. Carole realises that she is being haunted and sets about solving the mystery of the cottage. But will she be able to avert history repeating itself once more? If you can't shake off your ghosts, you're dead too...

Dewi Griffiths is a native Welsh speaker from the coast of Pembrokeshire in West Wales, Great Britain. Pembrokeshire is the setting for many of the stories from the Ancient Celtic Myths written down a thousand years ago in the Mabinogion. This scenery, remoteness, mythology and the supernatural were strong early influences on Dewi. Combined with a love of story telling, photography and film making, Dewi entered a career in feature film and high end television drama, working worldwide. Dewi worked on four continents for such production companies as BBC, S4C, ITV, Sky, Merchant Ivory, and Full Moon. Dewi was head hunted by senior staff at the AFI and USC Film School to head up Producing at The Red Sea Institute of Cinematic Arts in Jordan, teaching award winning film makers from across the MENA region. Dewi runs Garland Stone Productions Ltd, which builds on his connections and experience, to produce horror films, TV and literature: contemporary stories grounded in folklore. Today Dewi is Senior Lecturer in Film Producing at the University of South Wales.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Griffiths, Dewi

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE

From The Bright City to the Old Country

“There is no present in Wales

And no future;

There is only the past”

(RS Thomas - “Welsh Landscape”)

1904. A new century. Queen Victoria two years in her tomb. The Edwardian British Empire dominating the world.

Great Britain continuing the hardships of the previous century into the new one with its all-pervasive industry. Too self absorbed to foresee the horrors to come in ten brief years. Looking outwards to the world, rather than inward on itself.

Within Britain's borders, a wild land to the west. Never quite conquered. Never quite defeated. Its mountains and valleys making it difficult to master, which is why it had more castles than any other country in the world. Castles are control. To a level. Wild Wales.

Wales. Its very name means "stranger". A difficult place. A new religious revival bringing back God to what some called a Godless Land, whilst others call it God's Own Country ringing to the sound of the Language of Heaven.

Edward VII's British Government in London still seeking to make Wales a part of England, which Kings had been struggling to do since Edward I's army killed the last of the Welsh Princes in 1282. Now using universal education where military might had not succeeded. Using the lure of knowledge and advancement to kill the native tongues of the isles in the classrooms of Wales as in Scotland and Ireland: shaming the young of their heritage, their language and their history, making them wear the label "Welsh Not" and beating the last speaker of their own language at the end of each school day.

But now Wales is rich. Or rather its land owners like the Earl of Bute are rich. Men from the Welsh countryside and indeed men from all over Britain pulled to two Black Gold Rushes. In North Wales slate is blasted from the face of the earth. In South Wales the Black Gold Rush is for Coal to be dug from deep underground. Making the machinery of the Empire move - the ships, the trains and keeping the home fires burning wherever in the world the map was red. Millions of tons of Wales being shipped to power the Empire. A country burning bright at night leaving black smoke and ashes in the morning. A country blown away on the wind. Diminished to tiny black particles floating in the cloudy skies.

In Cardiff, not yet deemed by London worthy of city status, much of its area is railway sidings rammed with cars full of coal heading like a row of migrants for the port. Docks full of ships full of coal ready to sail on the tide, empty for mere moments before the cranes start to fill their bellies with their black cargo. Coal moves by rail and by ship day and night. Night and day like a black river of rock. The very bedrock of Wales sold and sailing away.

The heart of Cardiff's dockland. Tiger Bay. Wealth and notoriety cheek by jowl. The centre piece is Mount Stuart Square, named in honour of the richest man in the world, the owner of much of the land of South Wales. Coal Exporters' Offices forming a ring around The Exchange Building. Grand Victorian architecture in heart of these dark boondocks. Ship owners and ship hands rubbing shoulders in the warm summer air. Gossip on the forecourt of the Exchanger Building between clerks and ship owners. A cargo of coal has just changed hands for a million pounds. A sum unheard of anywhere on God's Earth.

Something on the street below catches the ear of one of the ship owners, Henry Radcliffe. Tap. Tap. Tap. Rhythmic, but sharp and striking. The impact of a stick on the paving slabs below. A drunken hymn sung in deep baritone rumbles within the cacophony. Mr. Radcliffe moves to the edge of the forecourt. Below, unsteady but persistent, a large figure dressed in Methodist black making his way drunkenly around Mount Stuart Square. Passing the smart shipping company offices, pushing through the clerks, sailors, the local Somalis and Yemenis who crewed the ships. Parting the conversations of prostitutes and drunken sailors, charting a course for the Ship and Pilot on the corner of the Square.

"Ifan!" Radcliffe's call unheard or unheeded over the chatter on this hot summer night in Tiger Bay. Ifan disappears pushing his way into the Ship and Pilot.

Radcliffe checks his pocket watch. "Nine o'clock tide tonight?"

"Aye sir" replies one of the clerks. Radcliffe inhales on his cigar. "Damn you Ifan". He turns to the clerk. "Find James and Robert. Hurry!"

Inside the Ship and Pilot the fading sun is dimmed further by the heavy leaded windows, coated with tobacco residue. Pipe and cheap cigarette smoke fill the air. Small lamps dot the interior like little lighthouses in the fog.

Beneath one sits Ifan, his black clothes blending him into the darkness. At thirty five, a middle aged man in a seaman's world. Working himself to an early death at sea, now drinking himself to an even earlier death on land. Ifan drinks directly from a whiskey bottle. He is large but compact and powerful. Scarred hands where ropes have burnt him, and a face which remembers for him the many fights on drunken nights like this. A nose broken back into his face and then broken sideways. Blue eyes burning beneath thick black eyebrows and the black hair which falls masking his face. He is reading, lips moving as he studies the text of a little black book in his hand.

The sawdust strewn floor muffles some of the footsteps. The whiskey keeps out the raucous laughter and talking. Ifan is immersed in his own world. Reading. His mind in a hot land he sailed past once as a boy, his captain keeping a respectable distance from Ottoman soil. Heathen bastards in Jesus's country. It hurts him to think of that now. Now. After his conversion. After he heard the preacher Evan Roberts and how he had been told he was one of the one hundred thousand who would be saved. Now he read so much wisdom in the Book he laughed at as a child in the mountains of Cwm Celyn. The book now clutched tight in his hands. Lighting his way in this world. Reading Exodus. The journey of a people to find their way back home. Home... Bang!

A drunken sailor nudges Ifan's chair. Ifan instinctively on his feet, staring wild eyed from beneath the black fringe. Teeth bared. Stick and bottle ready for what's coming next.

The sailor recognises Ifan, sobering immediately, "Sorry Ifan... sorry sir".

Ifan sips from the whiskey bottle. The sailor backs off from standing where the whiskey bottle could open up his face. Ifan's coat knocks the Bible to the floor, sending a piece of paper off across the floor at the sailor's feet. The sailor gingerly passes it back to Ifan. He quickly melts back into the fuzzy crowd around Ifan.

Ifan resumes his seat. He looks at the piece of paper returned to him by the sailor. A photograph of himself with his wife, Mari. A formal, joyless wedding pose outside the chapel in Capel Celyn. Ifan mutters to himself in Welsh. "You witch Mari". Mari. Ten years younger than he. He married her when her father died. Took pity. An honest mistake. Some mistakes you regret for a lifetime.

Ifan recites a prayer. "Lord, let me see the best in my wife...". Ifan can't go on. He closes his eyes and slips the picture back into the Bible. He takes another sip of whiskey and starts to read Exodus further. Chapter 22. Ifan walking the Holy Land as he reads on. Verse 18. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live". Read aloud. Clarity. Guidance at the time of need. Ifan stops and slams the good book shut. Ifan's lips moving as he mumbles. His entire frame shaking. "Mari..."

Shadows fall across him - two sailors. Ifan's eyes snap open. "Robert. James. You are disturbing me in prayer."

"Sorry sir, we sail within the hour." The man's voice is breaking. Fear gripping him.

Ifan stares into his eyes. "Then be gone."

"Mr. Radcliffe. He said we should bring you with us to the ship sir. To ensure your attendance. Now sir."

"Ensuring my attendance? Tell Mr. Radcliffe I shall not attend this voyage. I have other matters which need my urgent attention. He can go to hell. I'm going home."

"Sir, Mr. Radcliffe was very clear." Both men step forward.

Ifan jumps to his feet, wielding his heavy walking stick like a club. He pushes the tip under Robert's jaw, pushing him backwards. The two sailors back off. The pub falls silent.

Ifan pushes the Bible into his jacket pocket followed by the bottle of whiskey. “I have my own journey I need to make. 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'. Those are the words of the Lord. Spoken to me of my wife right this moment. Out of my way, I have the Lord’s work to do."

The sailors step aside as Ifan strides purposefully out of the pub into the Sodom and Gommorah that is Tiger Bay after dark.

A train. A journey into the dark valleys, obscured by steam and coal smoke. A town at the head of the valley. The sky aglow with iron foundries lighting up the...