Candlenight, page 16
And he gives what could only be described as a sinister chuckle.
It's now felt the election is unlikely to take place before December because of . . .
'Addison. I can't help wondering if this isn't gonna get heavy." Berry said.
"Anybody dies," said Addison, "you can go out there."
"Thanks."
"Meantime, listen up, I got something here the West Coast papers could be clamouring for by tonight so I figure we got no time to waste."
"Right, I . . ." Something had caught Berry's eye. It was the picture byline.
It was placed unobtrusively in the top right hand corner of the photo of the castle and the "for sale" sign. Tiny lettering, as was normal in Giles's paper, especially when they used a freelance photographer.
It said
Picture by Claire Rhys.
"Now that's weird," Berry said. "That is real weird."
"What?" said Addison Walls.
"Sorry." Berry said. "You go ahead, I'm listening."
Maybe it wasn't that weird. People often changed their names for professional purposes. Women reverted to their premarital names. Claire, of course, had never been called Rhys, but maybe she thought a Welsh name like that would attract more work within Wales. Also, when people moved to a different country they altered their names so as not to sound
unpronounceably foreign. A lot of Poles did that.
But English people called Freeman?
No, he was right first time.
It was weird.
Part Five
TOILI
Chapter XXX
By mid-November the weather had turned nasty.
There had been much heavy rain, with three Red Two flood alerts for the River Meurig in as many weeks. And it was suddenly much colder. On the tops of the Nearly Mountains the rain fell as wintry showers, leaving premature patches of stiff snow behind the crags.
In its bowl of snow-encrusted hills, the village of Y Groes was, as usual, preserved from the worst of it. A blue hole, they called it. Bethan thought scientists might explain this in terms of changes in atmospheric pressure brought about by the geophysical features of the surrounding landscape. But the truth was she didn't know, so there was little she could say when Buddug told the children that Y Groes was especially favoured by the heavens because it had preserved the old traditions more faithfully than anywhere else in Wales.
"If you pay attention," Buddug said, wagging a fat forefinger, "you will see how clouds shrink away from the tower of our church. As if they are afraid."
Crazy old bat, Bethan thought, leaning moodily on the piano, as Buddug lectured the assembly, two dozen scrubbed, rapt faces.
Later, as she drove home in the sepia dusk, she glanced towards the church tower and noted with some annoyance that the timbered belfry was hard against an almost perfect cloudless circle.
That day the Conservative Party had moved the writ for the Glanmeurig by-election, naming the day as December 15th—unusually late in the year. A week ago, the prospective Conservative candidate, Simon Gallier, a local auctioneer and valuer, protégé of Burnham-Lloyd and well in with the fanners, had officially been adopted by his constituency party in the suitably dignified setting of the Plas Meurig Hotel. The other parties were not far behind—except for Plaid Cymru which, as usual, took its time selecting a candidate, with predictable implications for Guto Evans's nervous system.
"Quite honestly," he lied that night. "I don't bloody care anymore. If they go for the soft option and choose Wil James, they won't be the party I joined all those years ago, so it won't matter anyway."
Guto was slumped in the shabby lounge of the Drovers' Arms with Bethan and two other friends, Dai Death, the funeral director, and Idwal Roberts—the "independent" Mayor of Pontmeurig.
In Pont it was raining hard again.
Although the public bar was half full, the less-dedicated drinkers had been deterred by the weather and Guto's table was the only one occupied in the lounge. Because of the shortage of custom the lounge bar itself remained closed, its shutters down. This meant they had to fetch their own drinks from the public bar, but it also meant nobody could eavesdrop on what they were saying. Which was fortunate because the little gathering had turned into an impromptu training session for Guto's final interview by the Party's selection panel.
It was not going well.
Bethan thought this was not altogether surprising in view of the publication that morning in Wales's daily newspaper, the Western Mail, of the story Guto had been dreading.
It was brief but slotted significantly into the front page. It said police had confirmed having interviewed Guto Evans, a shortlisted contender for the Plaid Cymru candidacy in the forthcoming Glanmeurig by-election, following an incident in a public bar a few weeks ago, during which a 26-year-old merchant banker had been slightly hurt. The injured man, who came from Surrey, had just bought a farmhouse on the outskirts of Pontmeurig at auction when the incident occurred at the Drovers' Arms in the town centre. He had been treated at Pontmeurig Cottage Hospital for minor facial injuries. However, police said they had no evidence of an offence being committed and charges were unlikely. Mr. Evans had been unavailable for comment last
night.
"It could have been worse." Bethan said.
Her companions clearly disagreed. Plaid's riskier option for the Glanmeurig candidacy was miserably mopping beer froth from his beard with a frayed tartan handkerchief. The
Mayor, a solid man with crinkly grey hair, sucked morosely on an empty pipe. Dai Death just stared sorrowfully into space in his best graveside manner.
They looked as dismal as the lounge, which was lit by naked bulbs in tarnished brass wall-brackets and smelled of beer and mothballs.
Bethan said. "I accept that over-confidence is not to be recommended, but I can't help feeling . . ."
She sighed and gave up.
"Warning him weeks ago, I was," said Dai Death. "The day of the activist is over, see. Public displays of anger, all this oratory and rhetoric—forget it. man. Plausible on the telly is what it takes now."
"Oratory and rhetoric have rather more to commend them." Idwal Roberts said heavily, "than physical violence. But I follow your reasoning. Give him another question. Bethan."
Bethan looked at Guto. who shrugged and nodded gloomily.
"All right." Bethan said, straightening her skirt and adjusting her glasses lo consult the clipboard on her knee. "So. Mr. Evans, there's been a lot of debate about the upsurge of terrorism in Wales, with the burning of English-owned property and a wave of anti-English feeling. Where do you stand on this controversial issue?"
Guto cleared his throat. "Well, er ... I, of course, abhor all terrorism, while recognising that the present economic situation, the price of housing, the shortage of low-cost homes for local people, the mass immigration—all this, sadly, is an invitation to those for whom democracy seems such a painfully slow way of bringing about change. But nonetheless, we— Ah, I am tying myself up in knots trying to avoid saying that while I might deplore their methods I applaud their aims—ask me an easier one. I'll be all right on the night."
"Hmmm," Bethan looked doubtful. "All right, then. So why, if you abhor all terrorism, did you—?"
She stopped when she saw Idwal Roberts pursing his lips and shaking his head.
"That reporter fellow." Idwal whispered, "has just walked past the door."
Giles Freeman had only really called in at the Drovers' to use the lavatory. He'd spent four days at the paper and was on his way home, still wearing his dark suit, still looking and feeling very London. Far too London for the Drovers' Arms, but he really did need a slash.
Feeling better though, the nearer he got to Y Groes — in spite of the weather, the rain coming at the windscreen so hard it was like being permanently stuck in a high-powered
car wash.
Feeling better the further he got from London. Feeling especially good because he would not now have to return until after the by-election. When his fortnight's holiday had ended and still no date had been fixed, he'd had no alternative but to spend four days a week in London. And, in these conditions, the journey had been more gruelling than he could have imagined.
On each of the three weekends, he'd started out happily for home. But each time the drive seemed to get longer— perhaps because he was getting used to the scenery, an element of the routine setting in. And when he arrived back in Y Groes the effects of the journey would hit him like an avalanche and he'd feel utterly exhausted, waking up the following morning with a ghastly headache. A couple of days at the cottage—most of them spent recovering in bed—and he'd had to make his way back to the Islington flat and another week on the paper.
"Giles, you look bloody awful." his boss, the political editor had told him bluntly last week. "Commuting's one thing—I mean we all commute, up to a point—but commuting a couple of hundred miles each way is bloody lunacy, if you ask me."
"Don't worry about me," Giles had said. "It's just there's a lot of extra pressure, what with moving stuff out there and everything."
"You're nuts." said the political editor.
"It'll be OK." Giles insisted. "Soon get used to it.
But he knew he wouldn't. He knew he was trying to marry two totally incompatible lifestyles.
The headaches, he realised now, had been the result of years of grinding tension: smoking, drinking, late nights, junk food, driving like a bat out of hell—his system had adjusted itself over the years to that kind of lifestyle. And now it had reacted perversely to intensive bursts of fresh air, relaxation and healthy eating.
Withdrawal symptoms. A sort of Cold Turkey.
This had become clear over the past few days, after Giles had been ordered to return to London and plunge back into the urban cesspit. His system had reverted to the old routine, the familiar self-destruct mechanism clicking back into place, the body throwing up the usual smokescreen telling him it didn't mind being abused, quite liked it really and look, here's the proof: no headaches while you're down in the Smoke, drinking, slugging it out with the traffic, pressurising politicians who've been barely on nodding terms with the truth for years.
One good thing, though—the Welsh. Every night in the Islington flat, with no distractions—for the first time he was glad to have the kind of London neighbours who wouldn't notice if you were dead until the smell began to offend them—Giles would sit down and spend at least ninety minutes with his Welsh textbook and his cassette tapes.
And, though he said it himself, it was coming on a treat.
"Noswaith dda" he said affably to the young man next to him at the urinal in the Drovers' gents.
Feeling friendly, feeling good about the language again. Glad to be using it.
He'd been left badly shaken by several nights of humiliation in the judge's study, the last one ending with an almost unbearable headache. But now the grammar was making sense again. Bethan was a great girl, but perhaps he was more suited to working on his own than having lessons.
"Mae hi'n bwrw glaw," he observed to the youth in the adjacent stall, nodding at the rain dripping down the crevices of the bubbled window above their heads.
"Yeah," said the youth. He smirked, zipped up his fly and turned away.
Incomer, Giles thought disparagingly.
The youth went out, glancing over his shoulder at Giles.
Giles washed his hands and stared at his face in the mirror above the basin. He looked pale but determined.
Already his new life in Y Groes had shown him the things which were really important. Shown him, above all, that London and the paper were no longer for him—unless he could convince them that they needed a full-time staff reporter in Wales. After all, the Telegraph had one now.
Failing that, he and Claire would flog the Islington flat for serious money and then set up some sort of news and features agency in Wales, supplying national papers, radio, television, the international media. He had the contacts. All he had to do now was make sure this election generated enough excitement to convince enough editors that Wales was a country they needed to keep a much closer eye on in the future.
Giles and Claire would be that eye. Claire Rhys. He liked the way she'd changed her name for professional purposes. Added a certain credibility. One in the eye for Elinor too. He only wished he could call himself Giles Rhys.
He decided to go into the public bar for one drink before tackling the Nearly Mountains. Unfair to use the place merely as a urinal.
Guto said sharply. "Is it that bastard from Cardiff?" He was halfway out of his chair, face darkening.
"That's right," said Dai Death sarcastically. "That's just the way to handle it. You get up and clobber him in public. He's probably got a photographer with him. you could hit him too. Would you like me to hold your jacket?"
Idwal Roberts said. "Sit down, you silly bugger. It's not him, anyway, it's the other fellow, the English one."
Bethan said. "Giles Freeman?"
She hadn't seen Giles for nearly a week. If he was back from London, she wanted to talk to him.
About Claire, of course.
Claire was still wandering around with her camera as the days shortened and the hills grew misty. Bethan thought she must have photographed everything worth photographing at least five times. Before she realised that Claire was just drifting about with the camera around her neck—but not taking pictures at all any more.
Then there was no camera, but Claire was still to be seen roaming the village, wandering in the fields, by the river, among the graves in the churchyard.
As if searching for something.
"Is there something you've lost?" Bethan had asked the other day, taking some of the children into the woods to gather autumn leaves for pressing, and finding Claire moving silently among the trees.
"Only my heritage." Claire had just smiled, wryly but distantly, and moved on. Bethan noticed she wore no make-up; her hair was in disarray and its colour was streaked, dark roots showing. She seemed careless of her clothes too, wearing Giles's waxed jacket, conspicuously too big and gone brittle through need of rewaxing.
"Did you ever find that oak tree?" Bethan had asked her on another occasion.
"Oh that," said Claire. "I made a mistake. You were quite right"
And explained no further.
Bethan asked her. "Does Giles never go with you on your walks?"
"Giles?" As if she had to think for a moment who Giles was. "Giles is in London." Her eyes were somewhere else.
"He's having great fun," she said vaguely.
"She is a very nice girl," Buddug said surprisingly as they saw Claire one afternoon, flitting like a pale moth past the school gate.
"You've had much to do with her?"
"Oh, yes indeed. She's our nearest neighbour."
"I suppose she must be." Bethan had forgotten the judge's cottage was on the edge of the seventy-or-so acres owned by Buddug and her husband, Morgan.
"She's had her eggs from us. And sometimes a chicken." Buddug killed her own chickens and occasionally pigs.
"I can't say much about him," Buddug said.
"Giles? I like him."
"Well, you would, wouldn't you?" Buddug had turned away and scrubbed at the blackboard, smiling to herself.
Something had happened, Bethan thought. In a few short weeks Claire had changed from a smart, attractive, professional person to someone who was either moody or dreamy or preoccupied with things that made no sense. There was no longer that aura of "away" about her, that breath of urban sophistication which Bethan had so welcomed.
Bethan stared hard at Buddug's back, a great wedge between the desk and the blackboard. Buddug. Mrs. Bronwen Dafis. The Reverend Elias ap Siencyn.
And now Claire.
A chasm was opening between Claire and Giles, with his boyish enthusiasm for all things Welsh and his determination to be a part of The Culture. Bethan wondered if he could see it.
Chapter XXXI
"Hanner peint o gwrw" Giles told the barman, pointing at the appropriate beer-pump and climbing on to a barstool. "Os gwelwch yn dda."
He was pleased with his accent, the casual way he'd ordered the drink. Grammar was all well and good but if you wanted to make yourself understood you had to get into the local idiom, had to sound relaxed.
The barman set down the glass of beer and Giles handed over a five pound note. "Diolch yn fawr," Running the words together, as you would say thanks-very-much.
Convincing stuff.
The public bar was less than half full. Giles thought of another bar, in Aberystwyth, where everybody had stared at him, amused by his stumbling debut in the Welsh language. Nobody smiled this time. With those few slick phrases nobody, he felt, could be quite sure he wasn't a native.
The barman gave him his change.
"Diolch yn fawr iawn" Giles said in a louder voice, more confident now.
To his right, there was a sharp silence, somebody putting the brakes on a conversation. "What was that?" a man's voice said in the centre of the hush.
"Beg your pardon—?" Giles turned, thinking, damn, should have said that in Welsh, blown my cover now.
On the next stool sat the youth he'd spoken to in the gents. Not looking quite as youthful now. Around twenty-three, twenty-four, thick-set, face pitted, lower lip sticking out like a shelf, eyes deep-sunk under short sandy hair. He nodded towards the bar. "What you ordered."
"Well." Giles replied, holding up his glass to the light. "It should be a half of bitter."
The young man was not looking at Giles's glass, he was looking hard at Giles. He said. "Oh, that's what it was." Behind him was another young man on another bar stool. This one had prematurely-thinning black hair and a slit of a mouth, like a shaving cut.
"What I actually said to the barman here was hanner peint o gwrw," Giles explained. "I'm learning Welsh." He smiled sheepishly. "Got to practise."
