Candlenight

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.