Candlenight (25 page)

                       
The Mayor
of Pontmeurig (an "independent" like most councillors
             
    
hereabouts)
reckons opinions have not changed a great deal in the intervening
                       
years.

Giles went on to outline the problem of comparatively wealthy English
people moving into the area, pricing many houses beyond the range of locals, often
buying shops and pubs and post offices and conducting their business in English
where once Welsh had been the language of the streets.

   
"What say we take a look
at this?" Berry said casually, and
Addison
Walls
gave him a wry smile that said no way.

   
"They may be a big deal
over here, but you think back, son, and tell me how many British by-elections
you saw reported in the
New York Times
.

   
"It's been known."
said Berry.

   
"It's been known if the
Government's on the brink."

   
"I just thought, maybe
this language angle."

   
"Forget it. You compare this
situation with Ulster, it's chickenshit."

   
"Yeah," Berry said.

                  
Housing and immigration are going to be key issue; in this
election."
                      
Roberts
says. "People are getting very angry, seeing their sons and daughters
                    
having to leave the area
because they can't afford a house anymore."

                       
One local
estate agent admits that more than sixty per cent of the
                         
houses he's sold this
year have gone to English people moving to rural Wales
                   
in search what they see as a
"healthier" lifestyle.

                       
"There
is going to be acrimony." says Idwal Roberts. "Sparks will fly.
                    
You can count on that, my friend."

"You can sure count on it with Giles around." Berry muttered.
The article went on to discuss the two leading contenders—the Conservative
Party and the Welsh nationalist party, Plaid Cymru. The Conservatives had
chosen their man. a local auctioneer called Simon Gallier. But Plaid, as Giles
explained, had a crucial decision to make.

                  
If Plaid want to play safe, they'll go for Wil James, a mild-mannered
                     
Baptist minister from
Cardigan. He's well liked, but party strategists are
                            
wondering if he really has what it takes
to slug it out with a man used to the
                       
cut-and-thrust
of the livestock sales.

                       
If Plaid
want to live dangerously, however, they'll take a chance on
                      
    
Guto Evans, a 44-year-old part-time college lecturer, author and
one-time
                   
    
bass-guitarist in a Welsh language rock and
roll band.

                       
Evans is a
man not known for keeping his opinions to
                                               
    
himself—especially on the subject of mass-immigration
by well-off English
                
people.

                       
"Ah,
yes," says the Mayor of Pontmeurig, relighting his pipe. "Guto
                       
    
Evans. Now that really would be interesting."

                       
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.

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.