Candlenight

Last night, after returning from the pub, Giles had unpacked his word processor and was struggling into the judge's study with the monitor in his arms, fumbling for the light switch, when he found there wasn't one.

There was no electric light in there!

Not only that, there were no bloody power points either.

'Bit of a primitive, your granddad, was he?' he'd said in some irritation.

Claire's reply had been, 'Oh, didn't you know about that?' Which could have meant anything. Giles had resolved to contact an electrician. He really wanted that room.

Meanwhile he'd decided to adopt the smallest of the three bedrooms for his office, and he had to admit there were compensations.

Not least the view, through a gap in the trees (an intentional gap, surely) and down over the rooftops of the village towards the Pontmeurig road. The church was just out of sight, seemingly behind the cottage at this point, but he could sense its presence, somehow.

There was another window to the side and it was against this one that Giles had pushed his desk, which was actually their old stripped-pine dining table from the flat in Islington, one of the comparatively few items of furniture they'd brought with them. Claire had insisted they should eat at her grandfather's dining table, which was a terrible fifties-style thing with fat legs. Giles himself would have chopped it up for kindling; he hated its lugubrious lack of style.

Through the side window he could look out from his desk on to an acre of their own land sloping down towards the river. The neighbouring farmer apparently had some sort of grazing right, and the field was full of fat sheep. Giles was thrilled. He could gaze on all this and the enclosing hills with one eye while keeping the other, so to speak, on the VDU. He was, he felt, in the vanguard of journalism: living in this superb rural location, yet in full and immediate contact with London. Or he would be once he'd installed a fax machine.

He didn't think he'd ever felt so happy or so secure. For the first time in years the job was not the most compelling thing in his life. And he knew that if he did have to quit the paper and go freelance like Claire — a freelance specialising, of course, in honest features about the real Wales— they'd be cushioned for the forseeable future by the no doubt astonishing amount of money they'd get for the flat in Islington.

Giles was feeling so buoyant he told the computer how happy he was, typing it out on the keyboard in Welsh: R'wyn hapus.

He examined the sentence on the screen. It wasn't right, was it? It didn't look right at all. He hadn't had much chance to work on his Welsh since moving to Y Groes. Awkward bastard of a language; back in London he'd been sure he was going to have it cracked in no time at all.

Still, no doubt it would start to improve again now Claire was arranging a teacher for them. 'Well, all right then, why don't you have a word with Bethan at the school,' Aled in the pub had said finally, when he'd emphasised how determined they were to learn the language. 'She used to teach a lot of English kids in Pont. Must be good at it'

'Right,' Giles had said. Tremendous. Thanks.' Getting somewhere now.

'I'll go and see her,' Claire had said that morning, when Giles got up with another headache. Then I'll drive over to Aberystwyth and get my film processed and get some food and things. You take an aspirin and sort out your office.'

The headache had completely vanished now, the office was in order, everything was fine. He rather wished he'd gone with Claire. He'd been wondering which of the teachers this Bethan was, what she looked like — just hoping she didn't turn out to be that female-wrestler type he'd seen stumping down the lane to the school. He understood she was called Mrs. Morgan and was in fact their neighbour, wife of the farmer who raised sheep in their field. Mrs. B. Morgan. Bethan Morgan? He did hope not.

Giles leapt up in alarm when, down in the living room, the phone rang for the first time since the Telecom blokes had reconnected it. He charged downstairs, thinking he'd get them back to scatter a few extensions around when he and Claire had worked out which rooms they were using. At present the only phone was on a deep window ledge in the living room.

'Hullo, yes. This is, er, hang on — Y Groes two three nine.'

'Giles? Is that you. Giles?'

'Certainly is.'

'Giles, this is Elinor. Could I speak to Claire?'

Oh hell. He should have known it was all too good to last.

'Sorry, Elinor. Claire's out with her camera. I'm not sure when she'll be back. Might be staying out late to photograph badgers or something.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Giles. Now tell me what on earth you're doing there. Why is there a message on your answering machine referring people to this number? What's going on?'

Giles smiled indulgently into the phone. 'Going on? Nothing's going on. That's the whole beauty of this place, nothing ever goes on.'

'Giles—' The voice of his mother-in-law had acquired a warning weight. 'Am I to expect any sense at all out of you? Or should I call back when my daughter's in? Look—'

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