Candlenight (21 page)

   
Being reasonable again, the old
Mrs. Nice and Mrs. Nasty routine, Giles thought. "I'm aware that hovel may
not be in a fit condition to sell, but surely you could afford to pay someone
to
do
something with it. You didn't
have to go there yourselves."

   
"It's already in good
enough condition for us, old darling," said Giles. "Well, virtually.
I mean, it needs a few minor alterations, mainly of a cosmetic nature. Anyway, look.
I may as well tell you. Expect Claire's been too busy to fill you in about our
plans, but the current situation is that we're actually living here now."

   
The silence lasted nearly half
a minute, it seemed to Giles. Why did she always have to phone when Claire was out?
He'd have to suffer it all twice now—the heavy threats over the phone from
Elinor and then, when he'd told her about the conversation, half an hour or so
of Claire pacing around saying what an old cow her mother was.

   
"Elinor, you still
there?"

   
"In ... in that house?"
She was sounding very far away. "
His
house?"

   
"No. Elinor.
Our
house."

   
"Oh, Giles."
Unexpectedly her voice had turned itself down low, with apparent anxiety rather
than anger. "What about your work, both of you?"

   
"No problem." said
Giles, enjoying talking about this bit, as he always did. He explained how fate
had intervened in the form of the Glanmeurig by-election, how he was taking
a fortnight's holiday by the end of which, with any luck, they'd be into the
campaign. Could be weeks before he'd have to return to London, give or take the
odd day, and then,
afterwards—

   
"And then you'll sell it, that's
what you're saying, when this election is over. Because—"

   
Giles mentally battered his
forehead with an exasperated hand.

   
"Good God, no, you're not
getting this at all. are you? We'll still have our base here. I'll travel lo
London during the week. Claire will work directly from here—good as anywhere—and
then we've got a few long-term plans to make sure that Wales remains our home. I
mean for good. Forever. Got it now?"

   
There came a stage with Elinor
when only brutality would work. He heard her breathe in sharply and then force herself
to calm down and reason with him.

   
"Giles, listen—before this
nonsense goes any further—"

   
"Oh. bloody hell, it isn't
. . ."

   
"—I—I can talk to you.
can't I? I've always thought I could — most of the time." She drew a long
breath.

   
Christ, Giles thought, get me
out of this. "Now, I assume this is some insane idea of Claire's . . . You
have to talk her out of it, do you understand? I can't do it, never could once
she'd made up her mind about something—now that's an admission, isn't it, from
a mother? Giles, please. I'm relying on you, and one day you'll thank me for
this—"

   
"I'll do it now, in case
we don't see you for a while. Thanks, Elinor. Now if you don't mind—"

   
"Giles, don't you dare
hang up on me! Listen—" The old girl was racing along breathlessly now.
"You could probably get rid of it—the house—quite quickly, if you put your
mind to it. I'm sure, if you really want to live in the country, you could get
quite a nice property in ... in Berkshire or somewhere, for the money. Isn't
there some land to sell?"

   
"Strewth." Giles
said. "We don't want to live in bloody Berkshire. I mean, don't worry,
we'll still come to see you at Christmas, it's not exactly the other side of
the world."

   
Christ, how could somebody as
balanced as Claire have a mother like this? She reflected all the worst aspects
of Home Counties womanhood—smugness, snobbery, inability to conceive of
civilised society anywhere north of—

   
"Giles, this is not funny.
You must fetch Claire home at once."

   
He felt a warning ripple behind
his forehead. "Home? Home? Listen, Elinor, if you want the truth"—the
headache was coming back, bloody woman—"If you really want the truth, I've
never fell more at home in my entire bloody life. OK, sure, we all know you and
the old man were not exactly close but—well, it's not as if he's still there,
is it?"

   
"Isn't it?" his mother-in-law
said, sounding suddenly strained and old and tired.
   
Then she hung up on him.

   
"All fixed," Claire
said. "Starting tomorrow evening."
   
"What's she like?"
   
"Very pleasant."

   
"I mean, is she young or .
. . not so young?"
   
"I suppose," said Claire,
"that depends on what you mean by young."

   
Getting a bit cryptic these
days, Claire. Must be exposure to the Welsh.

   
"What's she called. I
mean, what's her last name?"

   
"Something English.
McQueen—or is that Scottish?"
   
Although, obviously, she isn't.
Anyway, she's going to pop round after school as many nights as she can manage.
We didn't get round to agreeing a fee, but I'm sure it'll be reasonable."

   
"Doesn't matter,"
Giles said. "Where else would you get Welsh lessons in your own home? But,
look, we've got lots to talk about, so why don't I light a fire? Brought some
more logs in. Marvellous logs, you know, these, dry as bone."

   
Going dark earlier these
nights. Colder too. Giles thought, glad Claire was back; it was good to stride
around the place during the day but he could never go too long without a spot
of company. He was dismayed when Claire said. "I have to go out
again."

   
"Go out? Where?"

   
"I've got some more
pictures to take." A wry little twitch of the mouth. "I'm photographing
my way into the community, aren't I?"

   
"Christ, haven't you got
enough pictures yet?"

   
Claire didn't reply. She began
to load a film into her newest Nikon as if leaving for a major assignment in the
jungles of Nicaragua. It had been like this all day, as though he didn't really
exist. She'd just announced what she was going to do and then done it.

   
Giles said plaintively. "I
was waiting to light the fire, have a discussion about, you know, the future. I
mean we've hardly had much chance to talk, the past few days. Also, your
m—" No, he wasn't going to go into all that Elinor business. Not now.

   
"We can talk later,"
Claire said. "I have to catch what's left of the light, OK?"

   
"Bugger all left, if you
ask me. Why not leave it till tomorrow?"

   
"Also," Claire mumbled,
snapping the camera shut. "I have to find my tree."

   
"I see. And which tree is
that?"

   
"Just a tree I shot last
night, and then it went missing."

   
"I see," said Giles,
gritting his teeth. "Now look, Claire, I really do think—"

   
But Claire had shouldered her
camera and was off before he could even tell her about the call from her
mother.

Fuck her, thought Giles, and then realised he hadn't done that for quite
a while either.

Chapter XXVI

Through the living-room window, Giles watched Claire approach the iron
gate. The trees seemed to close around her, and it was as though she were
passing quietly into some other dimension. Claire opened the gate without
effort and went through, and the landscape appeared to absorb her on the other
side. She fitted. She blended with the scene. It welcomed her.
   
Croeso
.

   
As if she's lived here all her
life, Giles thought.
   
The illusion frightened him. He
thought, has she ever really blended with me like that? For the first time since
they'd come to live in Y Groes he felt heartsick and alone. And vaguely jealous
of the village, which was ridiculous.

   
He was becoming aware of how
differently they regarded this move, this new life. It had been, for him, the
big adventure, the great expedition into the unknown, a terrific challenge. It
had filled him with energy just thinking about the future. Now he felt his wife
was not tuned to quite the same wavelength.

   
With her it was not elation. It
was less of a fun thing. Here they were, just of the two of them in a totally
strange place and, far from getting closer, confiding more in each other
there was a hazy space between them. Well, not so much between them as around
Claire, who had always been so practical and clear-sighted. Now she was altering
in unpredictable ways. Like tonight, doing what she'd never done, in his
experience, before: going out to take pictures, not in a professional way, but
just snapping things, looking for some special sodding tree, for God's sake!
This, especially, had got to Giles because only rarely could Claire be
persuaded to get out her camera for holiday photos and family occasions. He
remembered once suggesting she might knock off a few pics at the christening of
his cousin's new baby and she'd gone very huffy indeed, asking him how he'd
feel about being asked to write features for the local parish magazine.

   
Giles sat down at the bloody
awful fat-legged dining table and looked into the fireplace which he'd laid
with paper and kindling and three small logs and didn't feel like lighting
any more.

   
He ought to try to understand
her instead of feeling sorry for himself. She was obviously preoccupied,
something here she was struggling to come to terms with. A responsibility to
her surroundings that she'd never felt before? Because of her grandfather, yes?
Filling in for a missing generation, her mother, who had spurned everything the
old man wanted out
of life? And what
had
he wanted out
of life except for a bit of peace and quiet, back among his compatriots?

   
For the old man perhaps, this
had represented peace and quiet, but for English people it was a lot more
demanding, Giles thought, only now realising how clean-cut their life in
London had been.
That
was the simple
life, when you thought about it, for people with their background. He was a
hack. Claire took pictures for money. Professionals. The flat in Islington had
been like a station waiting room where they'd passed the time until trains took
them in different directions. Maybe he only knew Claire as a kind of intimate
colleague.

   
Stuff this! Giles stood up
angrily and reached on the deepset window sill for a box of kitchen matches. He
struck two at once and flung them at the fireplace, watched the paper flare,
listened to the kindling crackle. Life. Energy.

   
Early days. Give it time. Be
positive. Be practical.

   
In the diminishing light, he
moved purposefully around the house, thinking about the improvements they could
make without spoiling its character. He took with him the slimline pocket cassette-recorder
he used sometimes for interviews.

   
The living room—well, that was
more or less OK.
   
Beams, inglenook fireplace—great. A wood-burning
stove might be useful in the inglenook, more energy-efficient. It would save a
lot of work too; amazing how many logs you got through on an open fire, and
most of the heat went up the chimney anyway.

   
Giles went out into the hall,
trying to remember where he'd seen a shop specialising in woodstoves.

   
"Was it Aberystwyth?"
he said into the slim, leather-covered cassette machine. "Check in Yellow
Pages."

   
The hall, too, was basically
all right. Bit dark, and you had to walk permanently stooped or risk collecting
a pair of black eyes from the low-slung beams.

   
"Hall," he said.
"Perhaps some diffused lighting under the beams."

   
He came back through the living
room to the kitchen. This, of course, would need the mast attention. In Giles's
view only the solid-fuel Aga-type stove was worth keeping. It hummed and
belched a bit, but he liked that. Also, it took both coal and wood.

   
"OK." Giles said into
the recorder. "New sink, for starters. Fitted units, maybe the wall
between the kitchen and the pantry knocked out. Discuss with Claire . . . if
she can spare the time."

   
Right. OK . . .

   
The study.

   
"Now. we shall have to be a
bit careful here." Giles told the machine.