***
Whilst Vicky had been cycling to the charity shops and back, Heledd and Mary had drunk tea, in proper flowery teacups, in Golden Grove’s conservatory. Mary had seemed anxious at first, so Heledd decided to keep things neutral, and complimented Mary on her outfit, a shirtwaister dress with a chunky necklace and bangles, all in shades of red and orange. It was a lot more striking than Heledd’s shades of beige, and Heledd decided to ask Mary what brighter shades she thought Heledd could carry off. They chatted inconsequentially for a while, until finally Mary took a deep breath and said, ‘Last night I remembered a story from my childhood. It’s not an ancient legend, but it does relate to witchcraft and wishing wells, so you may find it interesting.’
‘I’d love to hear it,’ Heledd replied.
‘Well, let me see, where to start?’ Mary began. ‘It was back when I was a little girl, during the Second World War. We lived in one of the 1930’s houses in Tanybryn – we were the first people to live in that house, and I was the first baby to be born on our street. I’m sure you know most people were born at home in those days. Those houses were on the edge of the city when they were built, and there was still a farm nearby where we used to go for milk and eggs. This was during the war, when fresh food was scarce.
‘All us kids would walk over together; it wasn’t very far but you left the paved streets and the tarmac behind and walked down a lane between hedges and came out into the farmyard. I always found it a bit spooky – there was an old well in the far corner of the farmyard that gave me the willies, there always seemed to be darkness hanging over it. My older brother and sister used to tease me about it, saying there was a wicked old witch who lived in that well and she’d gobble me up if I didn’t behave myself. They called it Ffynnon Ddu Farm, because of that well.’
‘Ffynnon Ddu – Dark Well,’ Heledd noted. ‘It does sound creepy’
‘That farm was ancient; it looked about ready to fall down. Thinking back now, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those buildings were put up in the Middle Ages. The farmer and his wife were quite old too, at least they seemed ancient to me. I think their sons were away fighting in the war. But they had a nephew who was still at school, and he used to come and visit them quite often, for a bit of fresh air I suppose. From Swansea he was, it was still quite a dirty, industrial city in those days. He was a little bit older than my sister, and I could tell she was keen on him, so I used to tease her about it, to get my own back for all those stories about the witch in the well.
‘One morning we went over the farm as usual, to get some milk, and there was a terrible tense atmosphere there. The boy didn’t come out to flirt with my sister like he used to; the farmer’s wife just gave us the milk and sent us on our way. My sister was annoyed, I suppose, but I thought no more of it until we got home. Then we heard that Swansea had been bombed during the night, and whole streets destroyed. The Luftwaffe was supposed to be targeting the docks to prevent the transport of coal, but as in so many industrial cities it was houses that were destroyed, innocent people killed. Our mam had heard about it on the radio, and told us when we got in. Swansea was bombed the next night and the night after that as well. If you’ve ever wondered why Swansea city centre is so cheap and ugly looking, that’s why.
‘Anyway, the reason there was such a tense atmosphere at the farm was because the boy wanted to go home to be with his mam, but they wanted him to stay on the farm where they thought it would be safer. No-one knew how many nights of bombing there would be, and although Cardiff docks were at risk, I suppose they thought a farm several miles inland should be safe enough. His mam was fine that first night, but the house took a direct hit the next night and she was killed. I think the boy’s dad had already been killed in the fighting. So he was on his own, with just his auntie and uncle to look after him, and nothing but what he’d brought in his suitcase.
‘I’m ashamed to say I found it all rather exciting, it made me feel we were a proper part of the war somehow. But the farmer and his wife had lost their relatives, and the poor boy was an orphan. He stayed with his uncle and auntie, but you could see how badly it affected him – he went from being cheeky and lively to quiet as a mouse. He took to going for long walks in the woods, leaving straight after breakfast and not coming home ‘til it was dark, walking by the light of the moon. Then one night he didn’t come home for his tea, and they started to worry, and realised although he’d been in the house the previous night, neither of them had seen him for breakfast. They looked all round the farm for him, and went out on the road and called for hours, but he never turned up.
‘We didn’t know about it at the time, of course, not until the next morning when they started searching the woods and the lanes. Then they started dredging the well. It seems a message had been left at the farm – anonymous, mind. Someone had been taking a short cut through the farmyard, and claimed they’d seen the boy, in the full moonlight, leaning over the edge of the well, then he just disappeared. They claimed they’d run over to help, but there was no sign of anyone in the water, so they assumed their eyes were playing tricks on them. But the police found no trace of him in the well, although they dredged it deep, bringing up all sorts of odd little things. I said it was an old place, didn’t I – well, some of the things they found in that well dated back centuries, little clay and metal offerings to the water gods, asking for their help in curing diseases or bringing children. Some of them are in the Museum now.
‘They never found that boy, alive or dead. They searched as long as they could, in the woods, and on the roads between Cardiff and Swansea, thinking maybe he was trying to walk back home, although the whole street had been flattened, but he’d just disappeared. So sad. Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose you’re wondering what all that’s got to do with magic and folklore.’
‘It was a very interesting story. And very moving,’ Heledd said.
‘And it does have a connection to folklore. Because once the story about the boy disappearing into the well came out, all the gossip and the rumours started. It seems I wasn’t the only one who found that well a bit creepy. It had been a wishing well and a cursing well in the past – hence the little offerings – and someone claimed someone else had once seen a figure climbing out of the well, and others said witches had lived on the farm for centuries, even that the Proberts who owned the farm were still witches. Others said they’d seen strange creatures in the depths of the water – one terrible drunkard had supposedly mended his ways after that happened to him. Some malicious gossips said the family were part fairy, and the boy had just returned to be with his own people. Others said it was a punishment from God because they were selling eggs on the black market; some said the land had always been cursed. The things people say, when you’ve an old couple grieving for their own. It stuck in my mind, because I always thought God was just and wise, and now people were saying he’d take a boy’s life just to punish people for selling eggs – well, didn’t sound like much of a God to me! But there you have it – a boy who disappeared, maybe mysteriously or maybe not, and a whole lot of superstitions that got dragged into the open. Was that what you were hoping to hear?’
‘It’s better than I was hoping – evidence for the persistence of folk beliefs into the 20th century,’ Heledd said. ‘Thank you, Mary, it’s a brilliant story. I feel sorry for your sister, though, and that old farming couple.’
‘She did grieve for him,’ Mary replied. ‘He was her first sweetheart, although I don’t know if they even kissed. She was young, though, and soon fell for someone else. I imagine it was awfully difficult for the Proberts – but then, there was a war on, and so many people had to deal with a similar situation.’
‘Where is the farm, can you remember?’ Heledd asked.
‘I doubt it’s still there,’ Mary said. ‘The city will have swallowed it up since the war. The Proberts retired and sold the farm and all its land for housing. It’s the Hillside
estate now. Maybe if you look hard enough you’ll find the well - it could be a feature in somebody’s garden, all tamed now with one of those silly little roofs on it. Still, water sources outlive people, so maybe it will rise wild again.’
‘Hillside? Not too far away. I might go and have a look around over the weekend, see what I can find. Thank you Mary, for sharing that with me.’
‘You’re welcome my dear. You’ll have to tell me if any of the old sense of mystery remains.’