Candlenight (17 page)

Giles had taken a fortnight's leave to coincide with the move, which had
become possible far sooner than they imagined. It turned out that the usual six
months' probate period did not apply in the case of property bequeathed to a close
relative.

   
Suddenly the judge's house was
theirs. The weather was still warm, the travelling was easy. There'd never be a
better time, Giles had maintained, freckles aglow, hustling Claire.

   
So they'd done it.

   
As they were retaining their
London flat—for the time being, at least—and the cottage was already furnished,
there wasn't a great deal to bring, and the removal firm had used its smallest
van.

   
Now, as they drove back from
Pontmeurig with groceries and things in the boot of the BMW, Giles was once
again aware of the difference in atmosphere as they came out of
the Nearly Mountains.

   
It wasn't simply the transition
from the bleak forestry to the broadleaved haven of the village. It was the
striking difference between Y Groes and Pontmeurig—a town Giles had never
actually visited before today.

   
He tried to explain it to
Claire. "A definite air of depression. I don't mean the people. The shops
weren't exactly overstocked. And there was quite a lot of, you know, not exactly
dereliction, but peeling paintwork, that sort of thing."

   
"Not a prosperous
town." Claire conceded.

   
"Dying on its feet, if you
ask me. All right, there were a couple of shiny new shop fronts—the bookshop
and that awful pizza joint. But you get the feeling they won't be there this time
next year—or they'll be replaced by other experiments in the area of
retailing."

   
"Not enough money."
Claire said. "Because there aren't enough people. I bet ... I bet all the
incomers get their provisions from the supermarkets in Aberystwyth. They're used
to travelling a fair distance on shopping trips back in England—big discount
furniture places and hypermarkets."

   
"Well
we
won't be doing that." Giles said firmly, turning into the
track between the two sycamores. "I don't care what it costs or how many
different shops we have to go to. These
people deserve our trade."

   
They found the gate already
open and two women by the front step. Oh God, Giles thought. What have we done wrong?
If there were neighbours outside the flat in Islington, they'd usually come to
complain.

   
He remembered what young Mr.
Pugh had said about Y Groes. "
Bore
da
" he said uncertainly, then realised it was no use wishing them good
morning at three-thirty in the
afternoon. He tried again.

   
"Er . .
. Prynhawn da
."

   
The first of the ladies came
forward, smiling, hand outstretched. "Oh, Mr. Freeman, good
afternoon." she said. "We are terribly sorry to trouble you, but the
telephone people arrived to reconnect your line and could not get in. I am Mrs.
Huws, from the Post Office, this is Mrs. Hywels."

   
Mrs. Huws and Mrs. Hywels both
shook hands with Giles and with Claire. "Pleased to meet you. Miss
Rhys."

   
"Oh gosh." Giles
said. "I mean, there was no need for you to come all the way up here just
to—"

   
"Well, they could hardly
ring to tell you they had been to connect your telephone." said Mrs.
Hywels.

   
"We are delighted to help
in any way we can," said Mrs. Huws. "Moving house is such a trial.
You must be exhausted."

   
"What you must do,"
said Mrs. Hywels. "is to tell Mair when it is convenient for the telephone
people to come to
you, and she will ring them."

   
"Good God, no." Giles
was glowing with pleasure at their kindness. "There's a phone box in the
village. I'll ring them. We can't put you to that kind of trouble."

   
"Now, Mr. Freeman."
said Mrs. Huws severely. "We are a very close village. When you come to
live amongst us, you are part of our community whether you like it or not,
isn't
it. Now is there anything you need for tonight. Tea? Sugar? Bread?"

   
"Thank you." Giles said.
"But we're fine. We've got everything. Everything we could wish for."

   
The small dark eyes of the
women were darting about like bluebottles, over Giles and Claire and the BMW
beyond the gate.

   
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
Claire asked. "Before you go?"

   
The ladies said they would not
put her to such trouble but when Mr. and Mrs. Freeman had settled in they would
be pleased to accept their hospitality.

   
"Super," said Claire.

   
Walking the ladies to the gate,
holding it open for them, Giles asked how well they'd known Claire's grandfather.
   
They told him the judge was a very
quiet and dignified man, who never came out, even in the height of summer,
without a jacket and a tie and a watch and chain. Claire, they said, would have
been proud to know him. And he, they were sure, would have been very proud of
his granddaughter.

   
"Er, we ... We don't know
an awful lot about the judge." Giles admitted. "That is, his death . .
. The solicitor, Mr. Davies, implied it had been fairly sudden. Quick, I mean."

   
"And without pain, wasn't
it, Eirlys." Mrs. Huws said.
   
"Very weak, he was though, at the
end. Weak in body, mind, not in spirit. And he was over ninety. Dr. Wyn wanted
to send him to the hospital in Pont, but he refused. He knew he was going, see.
and would not leave Y Groesfan."

   
"In case his spirit could
not find its way back." Mrs. Hywels said. Giles smiled, acknowledging that
no spirit in its right mind would want to leave Y Groes.

   
"Don't forget now." Mair
Huws said. "If you find you have run out of anything, come to the shop and
knock on the door if we are closed."

   
"Great." said Giles.
"Er,
diolch yn fawr
."

   
"Goodbye then Mr. Freeman.
"And welcome to Y Groesfan."

   
Giles went back to the house,
his gratitude brimming over. Life in Y Groes was already turning out exactly as
he'd hoped it would.

That night they built a big log fire in the inglenook (Giles, with a
howl of delight, had uncovered what looked like a year's supply of cut, dry logs
in a shed) and spread two sleeping bags on the living room floor.

   
Claire, ever efficient, had
brought them just in case. The house really was remarkably clean, and Giles was
surprised how generally trauma-free the move had been. They hadn't had a single
row — although Claire was the sort of quietly-efficient professional person it
was hard to pick fights with anyway.

   
Giles did get rather angry with
himself as he discovered he had no natural ability when it came to making log
fires and had to keep getting up in the night to feed the thing. At this rate
what looked like a year's supply of logs would probably last about six weeks.
     
Altogether Giles reckoned he got about
three hours' sleep, and he awoke next morning
with a slight headache.

   
Of course, the ache began to
fade as soon as he looked out of the window and saw the hills freshly speckled
with early sun. He pulled on his trousers and went barefoot through the primitive
kitchen to fill the kettle with spring water which came, apparently, from their
own private supply and in as much quantity as if it were from the mains. He
cupped his
hands under the tap and tasted it—probably better than the stuff they bought in
bottles from Sainsbury's—and rubbed the rest into his eyes, rinsing away the
remains of his
headache.

   
He went back into the living
room and stared down at Claire, still sleeping, curled foetally in her yellow
sleeping bag. He didn't think he'd ever seen her looking so relaxed. so
untroubled. Even her hair—short, blonde, business-like—mustn't have it flying
over the lens, ruining a shot—seemed to have loosened up and was fanned out
over the edge of the sleeping bag and onto the hearthrug below.
   
She really did, he thought, look
reborn.
   
Giles felt his lungs expand with
something he identified as joy. It felt quite strange and moving.

   
"This, my darling,"
he said softly, a little chokily, "is where it really begins."

   
Claire slept on.

Chapter XXI

On Sunday evening, Giles decided to make his first visit to his new
local,
Tafarn y Groesfan
.
Claire watched him walk out of sight down the hill
before setting off alone to chase the spirit of the place in the only way she
knew how: by taking pictures of things.

   
She walked out of the front
garden gate and did not look back. She wanted to photograph the cottage last of
all. That was the natural sequence. She didn't want to take its picture until
she'd made other connections ... out there.

   
Feeling as if she were
descending into a dream, Claire walked into the last burst of brilliance from
the setting sun.
   
It forced her to look downwards,
denying her a view of the church, denying her a picture too, because from this
side the tower would be hard against the light and it was too bright yet to
make any dramatic use of that.

   
There was nobody on the main
street. Dark blinds were down in the windows of the post office—
Swyddfa 'r Post
, it said above the door,
without a translation. Claire took a picture of the post office, with herself
reflected in the dark window, a slender, crop-haired woman, face semi-concealed
behind the battered Nikon. This was a picture to prove that she really was
here, an image in the window along with two terraced cottages and a black cat.
Part of the scene.

   
She photographed interlocking
beams in the end wall of the general store, pushing out like bones under a taut
white skin.

   
Then she became aware of a very
distinguished old oak tree, standing at the bottom of the street, above the
river bridge. She filled the frame with the stern expressions on its trunk, and
then took another shot on wide angle, to get in a heavy tractor looking flimsy
and transient in its shade.

   
Claire could almost feel the
ancient male arrogance of the tree, its roots flexing in the earth.

That made her wonder about her own roots, how deep
they
were here.

   
She'd phoned her mother to
explain that they would spending a few days at the cottage. Not yet telling her
however, that they actually intended to make it the
permanent home—although Giles had thought they should.
   
Indeed, he seemed to be looking
forward to it. "Christ. I'd love to see the old bag's face, when she finds
out." he kept saying. Giles, who had never got on with his mother-in-law was
taking full advantage of her being out of favour with Claire as well.

   
"You're doing what?"
Elinor had said.

   
"It seems only right,
mother. He
did
leave it to me. Did you
really think I could sell it without a second thought?"

   
"You can't sleep there.
It'll be damp."

   
"Why should it be? It hasn't
been empty long. I gather he hadn't been in hospital for more than a few days
when he died."

   
"And dirty."
   
"We'll clean it."
   
Elinor was breathing very hard.
   
"Mother . . ."
   
"What?" Elinor snapped.

   
"You said my grandfather
had only seen me once."
   
"When did I say that?"
   
"When I rang you two weeks
ago."
   
"Well. I—I've told you about that,
surely."
   
"No."

   
"I must have."
   
"You haven't."

   
"Well. I don't want to
talk about it now."

   
"Oh mother, please—this is
ridiculous."

   
"You don't know what that
man was like, Claire."

   
"I expect I'll find out
this weekend then. I shall ask people in the village about him. I'll find out
from them when I saw him. Somebody must know—"

   
"No!"

   
"What?"