houses, beads on a string, are a single thread thinner than a tripwire. Borth is a cheerful haven of demotic pleasure. The land between the railway and the sea is scrub, like a tramp’s coat – weather-stained and trimmed at the cuffs with marram grass. In winter everything is closed and the shutters squeak. But in summer, everything is bright, silver and blue. Dark spots dance before your eyes from the endless brightness. It is a vinyl-scented trove of rubber rings, spade, buckets and mats. The eyes ache from squinting and the distant roar of the churning water has the effect of muffling all sound, near or far. Sand gets in your eyes and between your teeth; in the milk and the butter, in your bed and in your toothpaste. And every evening, inflatable rubber dinghies wildly unsuited to the sea transport children like little Hansels and Gretels over the horizon to Greenland.
Mrs Pugh opened the door to the farmhouse and feigned delight. She looked like a mouse in a bonnet. We told her we were old friends of Farmer Pugh and had come to offer our sympathy following his recent close encounter of the third kind. She led us into the kitchen where she put the kettle on and then took us upstairs. Huw Pugh lay beached on the big pillows of a big bed. The room had bare stone walls and funereal black oak furniture. He stared at the ceiling with the intensity of an Old Testament prophet.
‘I’ve got someone to see you,’ said Mrs Pugh. ‘Isn’t that nice, an old friend from long ago.’ She made a few cosmetic changes to the arrangement of the bedclothes and then hobbled past us out of the room.
There was a pause. We stood in the doorway, hesitant to enter the room of a stranger. He moved his head and stared at us, narrowing his eyes as he tried to focus.
‘Rhys? Is it you?’
We shuffled our feet.
‘No, no, it can’t be . . .’
‘Good afternoon, Huw,’ I said.
‘Rhys? No . . . it’s . . . it’s not possible. Not after all these years, not after all that’s been said.’
I looked at Calamity. Her face blazed with silent imperative, urging me to act the role of the mysterious Rhys.
‘Nothing’s impossible, Huw, for a man whose heart is strong.’
‘But . . . you . . . oh dear Lord! Come closer!’
I walked over to the bed. ‘You’re looking well, Huw.’
He continued to stare at the ceiling, but reached out with his hand and grabbed my sleeve. ‘Promise me you’ll do it quickly . . . no . . . no . . . I have no right to ask such a thing; did I promise an easy deliverance to our sweet brother? No. But at least show me mercy, permit me to say one small prayer first. Just the one to the Lord Jesus.’
‘No, Huw.’
‘No? You’d slay me without more ado? You, who had half a lifetime to savour this act of fratricide; only now do you make haste to fulfil the vow you made? Do you think Ifan would object to a little prayer? Gentle Ifan –’
‘No, Huw, I come not to kill you.’
‘Not?’
‘Not.’
Confusion creased his features. ‘And the vow you made to our dying mother?’
‘They lied to you, Huw, I never made such a vow. She went to her grave not knowing; I thought it best to spare her.’
‘You have a big heart, Rhys Pugh.’
‘What good would it have done to tell her?’
‘It would have broken her in two. You did the right thing.’
‘Only me and you know.’
‘And Sioned.’
‘Oh . . . er . . . yes and Sioned.’
‘If it hadn’t been for her, none of this would have happened, would it? When she told me what he’d been doing to her – his own flesh and blood! His own sister! Well . . . you know what happened. Who could have stayed his hand on hearing such things?’
‘Who indeed!’
‘Still, it was wrong. To kill a brother . . . I deserved your curse.’
‘No longer. I come to embrace you and beg forgiveness for the years I cast you out from my heart.’
Tears filled his eyes and overflowed, big drops fell down the sides of his face and thudded the counterpane. ‘Oh Lord! Quick, pass me my specs – they’re on the table somewhere.’
I looked at them lying on the bedside table. Calamity picked them up and hid them behind a flower vase.
‘I can’t see them, Huw.’
‘Is there someone else there? I sense a presence.’
‘My daughter Eluned. I never told you.’
‘A daughter!’
‘Yes.’
‘Wonder of wonders! How old? No, not you. Let me hear her speak.’
‘I’m eighteen, Uncle Huw,’ said Calamity.
‘She sounds just like you. Quick, dear niece, hold your uncle’s hand.’
Calamity pulled a face and placed her hand in his. ‘I’ve prayed for this reconciliation every day,’ she said.
‘She’s studying Law now,’ I said. ‘At Bangor.’
‘My oh my! A Pugh at university, who’d have thought it! Makes a change from the debtors’ prison.’
Mrs Pugh brought in the tea and left without a word. We drank politely, trying to change the subject.
‘We read about you in the papers,’ I said.
Huw Pugh nodded and answered dreamily. ‘Yes, it was a great strain; having to tell all those lies, having to pretend all the time about Ifan. I had to keep making phone calls to relatives and folk, asking if they’d seen him, even though I knew he was dead in the cellar. “We think he might have lost his memory,” I’d say. “He might be wandering around all lost. You will look out for him, won’t you?” And I’d say to mam, “See? He’ll be back next week, you mark my words. He won’t be able to keep away from your home cooking much longer, not if I know old Ifan.” ’ Huw Pugh wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt. ‘You remember Old Gelert the dog? He used to bark at the cellar door, and scratch at it. And if I went near him, his hackles would rise and he would snarl. If I put food out, he wouldn’t eat it. I told mam it was just a reaction to losing Ifan and she would say, “But what’s that got to do with the cellar? Ifan used to be scared of the cellar; he never went near it.” Eventually I decided the only thing to do was get rid of the dog. Smash his head in with a brick, I thought. But he was a clever bugger, that dog – he knew, you see. He knew what I was thinking. It’s funny how they can tell, isn’t it? I spent a whole month trying to catch him and all the time when my back was turned he’d be there whining and scratching at the cellar door. It was doing my head in. Then I had an idea. I dressed up in Ifan’s clothes and came back down the lane like he always used to. Well, I tell you, that fooled him, he came bounding up the lane, barking and yapping with joy until he was about 5 foot away, then he screeched to a halt like they do in the cartoons; amazing it was, he left skid marks in the dirt; you wouldn’t think a dog could do that, would you? But I tell you, he did. It was too late, though, I had him by the collar so there was nothing he could do. Bashed him in good and proper, although he fought like a tiger. Then I left him in the road so it would look like he’d been hit by a car. I was almost high and dry until mam came back from the shops early whooping with joy, saying she’d seen Ifan in the lane with Gelert. “He’s back!” she cried, “he’s back!” She wouldn’t be persuaded neither; she went round telling everyone in the village she’d seen him. That’s why they had to commit her. After that, I waited a while, then moved the body to Tregaron Bog.’
‘Let’s not dwell on the past,’ I said.
‘No, you’re right,’ he said.
‘Now we need to get you well again. Tell us about the flying saucer.’
‘Oh that,’ he said without interest. ‘First, come and give your brother a hug and let him feel your love.’ He reached his arms out.
I looked at Calamity. Her expression said plainly that here was a challenge that could not be ducked. I leant forward into his embrace and dug my arms under him, clasping him in a bear hug. He squeezed. ‘Oh Rhys,’ he croaked. ‘Rhys, Rhys, Rhys.’ The bristles of his unshaven chin, hot with tears, rasped against my cheek. ‘Oh Rhys bach . . .’
I let my hug go limp but waited patiently to be released.
