The Day Aberystwyth Stood Still (6 page)

‘You’re disappointed,’ she said.

‘About what?’

‘Because I’m flat-chested. It runs in the family. This is my gran’s corset. It’s made from real whalebone. She won a lot of Sunday School attendance medals wearing this.’

‘Why don’t you invite her over?’

‘She’s dead, silly. All those hymns wore her out.’

‘I bet the hat is hers, too.’

‘Of course. It’s antique, real beaver. That makes it waterproof.’

‘Such a shame to turn beavers into hats – they build excellent dams.’

Miaow rested her chin on her palm and gave me a cool stare. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. Guess which part of the beaver the Eskimos use.’

‘Surprise me.’

‘The bollocks.’

‘Really?’

‘As a painkiller. Beavers chew lots of willow trees, which is where aspirin comes from, isn’t it? They store it in their . . . glands.’

‘Do they have willow trees at the North Pole?’

Miaow considered the question and frowned slightly as if this rather obvious thought had not occurred to her. ‘I’m sure they have trees in Greenland, and that’s where Eskimos come from, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I thought in the real world they came from Canada.’

‘There you are, then. They’ve definitely got willow trees in Canada.’

‘Maybe they trade seal furs for the willow bark.’

I sipped my Jim Beam and peered in the gloom at her face. The twisting disco ball picked out her cheek’s edge with a line of silver; the line moved and shimmered but remained in the same place like the stripes on a barbershop pole or the moonlit sea going in and out but not really going anywhere. The line curved up from her chin with the delicate grace of an Egyptian vase, an amphora, one specially created to hold the frankincense hauled by caravan across the desert from Nubia. Her skin was pale and marked with that barely perceptible dusting of freckles that the Celts left behind along with the grey-green eyes and the sacrificial stones. Her hair was the colour of mahogany, dishevelled not through the absence of a brush but in a different way, the sort acquired from standing in the howling wind on the ramparts waiting for the first sight of a returning sail. She was one of those girls whose loveliness pierces your heart with a strange melancholy. It shone like a star in this sordid club and made me think about the men of the Iron Age hill fort who used to drink their mead here beneath a disco ball of real stars. I understood the source of this melancholy. It was born of the knowledge that in this shabby world we could never hope to be the man at the helm of that returning ship.

‘My real name is Penardim, but I think Miaow is much better, don’t you?’

‘Honestly? No, Penardim is a very beautiful name.’

‘I don’t like it. I’m a student, from Cwmnewidion Isaf.’

‘Are you a Denunciationist?’

‘Sort of, I guess. Not any more.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘Anthropology. Kinship rituals along the upper Rheidol.’

‘So what’s it like growing up among the Denunciationists?’

‘OK, I suppose. It’s not as bad as people think. I had a doll and a doll’s house just like other little girls, I just wasn’t allowed to have a washing machine or hoover for it.’

‘Didn’t you meet other girls from outside the community?’

‘Sometimes, but they thought we were the lucky ones because we had horses. And besides, a lot of the things we couldn’t have are not so great. When I was small, we thought the people of Aberystwyth must be so wonderful because they ate food from tins, but now that’s all I ever eat. It’s not so great; our food was much better. I know you think I’m old-fashioned.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You can’t buy me, I’m sorry. I don’t do that.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘I’m a virgin. Do you believe that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you staying at the camp?’

‘No.’

‘You’re lucky, it’s crap! I’ll get the sack if you tell them I said that.’

‘I’d better not tell them, then.’

‘Maelor Gawr. What sort of name is that for a caravan park?’

‘I expect all the good ones were taken.’

‘He was a giant who lived up on Pen Dinas, did you know that?’

‘No, I thought I knew everything about Aberystwyth, but I didn’t know that.’

‘He founded the town.’

‘Are you sure?’

She looked confused and put her glass next to mine and chinked. ‘I think so. If he didn’t, who did?’

‘I don’t know that either.’

‘Don’t know much, do you?’

‘Do towns always have to be founded? Can’t they just spring up?’

‘Not this one. He had a son called Bwbbwg. He’s the patron saint of Scrabble players with lousy tiles.’ She giggled and so did I, like a teenage boy on a date. ‘It’s not my joke,’ she added. ‘I stole it.’

‘Why confess? I would never have known.’

‘I wouldn’t want to give you the impression that I was funny. I wouldn’t want to mislead you.’

‘I think you are funny.’

‘You see!’

‘I promise not to complain if I find out I am wrong.’

More people began to arrive. One of them was Raspiwtin. He glanced at Miaow as he passed and she returned his gaze, and it seemed to me that a glance of recognition passed between them, but I could not be sure.

‘Do you know that man?’ I asked.

She asked, ‘Who?’ in a way that lent support to my suspicion because it was hardly possible that she didn’t know which man I meant. He was shown to a table towards the back where the two disks of his spectacles caught the spotlight and shone like silver pennies stuck in his face. A girl went to sit with him, but seemingly without much enthusiasm. She sat with her body twisted away, her chin resting on the back of her hand as she stared into the middle distance in an attitude of exaggerated petulance. Raspiwtin stared the whole time at Miaow.

‘Which is your favourite girl?’

I pulled a face.

‘You’re looking around; if you point out which one you like, I can get her to sit with you. There are lots of pretty girls here.’

‘No, there aren’t.’

‘Prettier than me.’

‘That’s not true either.’

‘You’re only saying that. What sort of girls do you go for?’

‘I’m looking for the sort of girl who stands on the battlements scanning the horizon for the return of my ship.’

‘What is she wearing?’

‘She is wrapped in a cloak of wool dyed with herbs she picked from the woods; the cloak is clasped at her throat with a silver brooch of intricate Celtic design. Her hair is a thousand shades of chestnuts like yours and on top sits a genuine antique beaver stovepipe hat.’

‘I wear a cream-coloured mac and a school satchel when I’m not working.’

‘So does she, sometimes.’

‘Tell me more about her; she sounds nice. Isn’t it cold up on that battlement?’

‘Of course, but that’s why I love her; her love is pure and her heart steadfast. She’s there in all weathers, standing still as a statue: in winter when the howling wind drives the sleet against her cheek, and in spring when the apple blossom dapples it with pale green snow.’

‘Your ship is late.’

‘All the best ships are.’

‘Don’t other men try to tempt her away?’

‘Yes, but they mean nothing to her.’

‘I wish I was her.’

‘You are her.’

‘Do you have a boat?’

‘I could organise one.’

‘I’d like that. We could sail away.’

‘We could.’

‘To the land where the bong tree grows.’

‘Orchards full of them; we would take a basket and collect the bongs to make jam.’

Miaow leaned forward, staring at me but really looking through and beyond. ‘It sounds so lovely.’ A shadow passed over her brow. ‘But then it will all go sour when you find out I’m not her.’

‘Not who?’

‘The girl you are looking for.’

‘Aren’t you Miaow?’

‘Yes, and you asked for me like you knew me, but we’ve never met.’

‘I was looking for you. I wanted to ask you about Iestyn.’

‘Who’s Iestyn?’

I picked up the bottle and refilled the glasses. ‘Nobody important.’

‘You’re different to the other men who come here.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I say that to all the customers.’

‘I know.’

‘I have to say it.’

‘That’s all right, the one thing all men in places like this have in common is they think they are different.’

‘In one respect you are like all the rest.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Sweet-talking me, saying you’d take me to the land where the bong trees grow.’

‘I meant it.’

‘Really?’

‘When’s your day off?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

‘I’ll pick you up at 9.00.’

She narrowed her eyes slightly and tilted her head. ‘You serious?’

‘Of course. If you want.’

She didn’t speak immediately, but watched me closely for signs that I might be joking. ‘Do you know what I really want? You’ll laugh at me if I tell you but I don’t care, I’m going to tell you anyway. Even though I know you’ll laugh. Will you laugh?’

‘How can I tell? It sounds like I might.’

‘If I tell you, it will confirm all your prejudices about girls from Cwmnewidion Isaf.’

‘If you are going to tell me you want to go on the Devil’s Bridge train it won’t shock me.’

‘Worse than that. Promise you won’t laugh.’

‘I promise.’

‘I want to go on an escalator.’

Chapter 6

The next
morning was damp and grey – chilly. On such days, the Prom never looked more forlorn. The only hint of colour was the glossy scarlet tube of the human cannonball they were erecting, pointing like a finger at God. This was how we chose our mayors: on the premise that public men may lie, but you can’t fake flying through the air.

Calamity was sitting on the floor of the office, amid photocopies of newspaper cuttings, and an OS map of the area spread on her knees like a blanket. She looked up and smiled. I went into the kitchenette, put the kettle on and returned to sink down to the floor opposite her. I did so without the easy grace that Calamity displayed.

‘We must get a table,’ she said.

‘Yes, the room looks bare without it.’

‘I’ve been checking out the
Cambrian News
archives about the night they raided the Coliseum cinema.’

‘Found anything interesting?’

‘Loads. There were three perps: two brothers called Richards from Llanfarian, and Iestyn. There was a lot of bad feeling about the case; a cop got run over in the chase. They pinned that on Iestyn. The Richards brothers each got twenty-five. I’m still trying to find out what became of them.’

‘What about the hangman? If we are investigating the claim that a hanged man might still be alive, he would be a good place to start.’

‘Died ten years ago, but I’ve found the doctor who presided at executions; he lives at the top of town in Laura Place.’

‘We’ll have to pay him a visit. Ask him if he might have made a mistake about the hanged man being dead.’

‘Stop making fun!’ said Calamity. ‘Here’s something else. The cop who arrested them turns out to be our old friend Preseli Watkins, the mayor.’ She let her gaze linger on me for a second. She knew this was significant.