Candlenight

'Nothing really, just a modern one amongst all the old stuff. It hasn't got its dustjacket so it looked like all the rest. It's ap Siencyn, one of his early books of poetry.'

'What, you mean ap Siencyn, the vicar here?'

'The rector, yes. He used to be a poet.' Bethan smiled.

'What I mean is, he used to publish his poetry. Many years ago.'

'That's amazing,' Giles said.

'Not really, there are poets everywhere in Wales and quite a few are ministers.'

Giles nodded solemnly 'Exactly. That's the whole point.'

He folded his arms, rocking back on his heels in the middle of the room on the dragon rug. 'What I mean is — We've become so smug and cynical in England because our cultural heritage is so safe. We've got the world's number one language, we've got Shakespeare and Jane Austen and all these literary giants planted in state in Westminster Abbey. But Welsh culture's about ordinary people. I mean, your writers and poets don't spend all their time poncing about at fancy publishers' parties and doing lecture tours of the States. They're working farmers and schoolteachers and — clergymen. And they'll never be remotely famous outside Wales because virtually nobody out there can understand a word they write. It takes real commitment to carry on in a situation like that, wouldn't you say?'

Bethan watched Giles's lean English face shining with an honest fervour in the unsteady lamplight. How could the issue of Wales be seized on with such vigour by people like Giles and Claire, who had not been brought up in the warmth of a Welsh community, not had bedtime stories read to them in Welsh, sung Welsh nursery rhymes or made their first terrifying public appearance performing a little recitation before a critical audience of neighbours at the local eisteddfod? Did they equate Wales with whales? Were the Welsh suddenly interesting because they looked like a threatened species?

Then Bethan glanced at Claire and drew in a sharp breath.

Claire, small face not mellow but stark in the lamplight, was looking up at Giles. And wearing a rigid expression of explicit contempt.

'You know,' Giles was idling Bethan enthusiastically. 'I wouldn't mind doing a feature sometime on old ap Siencyn. What's he like?'

'He's— You've met him. Claire, what did you think of him?'

Giles looked hurt. 'Claire, you never mentioned meeting the rector.'

'I—' Claire didn't look at him. 'Our paths crossed while I was out taking pictures.'

'She took his picture.' Bethan said.

'I didn't see that,' Giles said.

'It didn't come out.' Claire snapped. 'Can we make a start?'

Bethan thought. Her pictures never don't come out. Besides, I saw it.

'Well, I think I've seen his house.' Giles said. 'Upon the edge of the woods. Very impressive.'

Bethan said. 'Sometimes I take the kids up to the woods, but we go the other way. I don't like that part somehow.'

Especially now, she thought, shuddering at the image, which came to her unbidden, of two leather hiking boots slowly swinging overhead.

'I thought it was magnificent.' Giles said, freckles aglow in the lamplight. 'You get the feeling that's where the whole village was born — you know, the timber for the cottages. I think it's fantastic the way they're managing it, renewing the trees and everything. I mean, who actually does that? Who are the foresters?'

Claire, face taut, severe in the oil-light, said, with quiet menace, 'Ydy chi'n barod, Bethan?'

Giles fell silent, looked embarrassed.

'Yes,' Bethan said, feeling sorry for him. Why did his innocent ardour seem to irritate his wife so? 'Yes. I'm ready.' When she'd agreed to teach them Welsh, she'd been looking forward to a chat over coffee with people who weren't a part of this stifling community. Not this formal, frigid atmosphere, this sense of… ritual, almost.

It's the house, she thought, It's the damned house. She opened one of her books on the card table. Aware, on the periphery of her vision, of the old, heavy desk and the Victorian Gothic chair across the room, beyond the dome of the lamplight. As if they were awaiting the arrival of the real teacher.

It was nearly eight o'clock when Bethan left.

There was no moon. It was very dark.

'Where's your car?' Giles asked.

'I left it at the school, it's only three minutes walk.'

'It's pitch black. I'll come with you, bring a torch.'

'Thank you. but I used to live in this village, there's no—'

'There is.' Giles said firmly, grabbing his green waxed jacket from behind the door, switching his heavyweight policeman's torch on and off to make sure it was working.

'Well, thank you.' Bethan said. Oh god, she thought. I don't really want to be alone with Giles now. I don't need this.

Following the torchbeam. they walked down the hill and over the bridge, the river hissing below them. There was an anguished silence between them until they reached the entrance to the school lane.

'Christ,' Giles said.

'Look—' Bethan put a reassuring hand on his arm.

'Don't worry, all right?'

'Huh—' Giles twisted away like a petulant schoolboy then immediately turned back, apologetic. He expelled a sigh, full of hopelessness, and rubbed his eyes.

'You will soon get the hang of it.'

It was too dark to see his face.

'But you don't understand.' Giles said desperately. 'I thought I was getting the hang of it. I've been working at it for weeks. Before we even came. I used to spend all my lunch hours swotting. I mean, you know — I really thought I was getting pretty good. It's just so bloody embarrassing.'

'Don't worry.' Bethan said. 'Everybody has days like that. When they're beginning. A few weeks really isn't very long, you know.'

'All right then, what about Claire? I mean, she hasn't spent anywhere near as much time on it as me.'

'Look,' Bethan said, as they reached the Peugeot. 'The very worst thing you can do is worry.'

'But I couldn't put together even the simplest sentences! I mean things I know!' Bethan heard Giles punching the palm of his hand in bitter frustration. The violent movement seemed to hurt him more than he'd intended because he gave a small moan of pain.

'Mr. Freeman, are you sure you're all right?'

'Giles. Please. I hate being Freeman, so bloody English. Yes I'm fine. Well, I've got a headache, but that's nothing unusual. I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous.'

'I know it means a lot to you.' Bethan said gently. She felt terribly sorry for him. He wanted so badly to be a part of this culture. It had been awful watching him agonisingly entangled in the alien grammar, tongue frozen around words he just could not say, getting stuck on the same ones again and again, stammering in his confusion. Sometimes — his hands gripping the edge of the table until the knuckles were white as bone — it seemed almost as if his facial muscles had been driven into paralysis by the complexity of the language.

'Look,' Bethan said. 'Get a good night's sleep. Don't think about it. Don't look at any books. I'll see you again tomorrow. Maybe… Look, maybe it's something I am doing wrong. I'm so used to teaching children.'

'But what about Claire?' he cried. 'I mean, for God's sake, how do you explain that?'

Chapter XXIX

ENGLAND

Berry Morelli had not long been in the office when his boss threw a newspaper at him.