'For your private information,' Addison Walls said.
Newsnet's London bureau chief was a small, neat, precise man with steel-rimmed glasses, a thin bow tie that was always straight and an unassuming brown toupee. It was Berry's unvoiced theory that Addison possessed a normal head of hair but shaved it off periodically on account of a toupee was tidier.
'Your buddy, I think,' Addison said and went back to his examination of the
The staff consisted of a secretary, a research assistant and three reporters including Berry Morelli. Although there would usually be orders for the major stories of the day, Newsnet specialised in features dealing with peripheral issues of American interest which the big agencies had no time to mess with. Occasionally, compiling his morning inventory of the British press, Addison Walls would suddenly zap an item with his thick black marker pen and announce, 'This is a Newsnet story.'
Berry noticed the item flung at him had not been zapped, although the paper had been neatly folded around an inside-page feature starkly headlined,
THE ANGRY HILLS
Above the text was a photograph of a ruined castle which resembled the lower plate of a set of dentures, two walls standing up like teeth. The view was framed by the walls of more recent buildings; a for sale sign hung crookedly from one.
Underneath the picture, it said, Giles Freeman, of our political staff, reports on what's shaping up to be a dramatic by-election battle in wildest Wales.
Berry smiled and sat down and lit a cigarette. So Giles had pulled it off. They'd let him cover the Pontmeurig by-election. Filing his stuff, no doubt, from his own cottage, probably over the phone from the judge's study. Two weeks had passed since Berry had fled that place. Two weeks in which to consider the possibility that he'd been overreacting. Him and old Winstone both.
He started to read the feature, thinking Giles would be sure to hype up the issue to persuade his editor that this election was worthy of intensive on-the-spot coverage.
It was not the usual political backgrounder. Giles had gone folksy.
Idwal Roberts smiled knowingly as he laid out his leather tobacco pouch on the bar of the Drovers' Arms.
This.' he said, 'is going to be a bit of an eye-opener for a London boy. I imagine you've reported a fair few by-elections, but I can tell you — you won't have seen one like this.
'Oh. I know they've had them in South Wales and the Borders in recent years. But this time you're in the real Wales. A foreign country, see.'
Idwal Roberts, a retired headmaster, is the Mayor of Pontmeurig, a little market town at the southern end of the range of rugged hills called in Welsh something long and complicated which translates roughly as 'the Nearly Mountains.'
This is the principal town in the constituency of Glanmeurig, which recently lost its long-serving Conservative MP, Sir Maurice Burnham-Lloyd and is now preparing for its first ever by-election. Local people will tell you that the last time anything really exciting happened in Pontmeurig was in the fifteenth century when the Welsh nationalist leader Owain Glyndwr (or Owen Glendower, as they call him east of Offa's Dyke) set fire to the castle.
The gaunt remains of this castle still frown over the cattle market and the new car-park. The fortress was actually built by the Welsh but subsequently commandeered by the English king Edward I. One story tells how the wealthy baron in charge of the castle offered to support Glyndwr's rebellion, but Owain set light to the place anyway on the grounds that you could never trust the word of an Englishman.
The Mayor of Pontmeurig (an 'independent' like most councillors hereabouts) reckons opinions have not changed a great deal in the intervening years.
Giles went on to outline the problem of comparatively wealthy English people moving into the area, pricing many houses beyond the range of locals, often buying shops and pubs and post offices and conducting their business in English where once Welsh had been the language of the streets.
'What say we take a look at this?' Berry said casually, and Addison Walls gave him a wry smile that said no way.
'They may be a big deal over here, but you think back, son, and tell me how many British by-elections you saw reported in the
'It's been known.' said Berry.
'It's been known if the Government's on the brink.'
'I just thought, maybe this language angle.'
'Forget it. You compare this situation with Ulster, it's chickenshit.'
'Yeah,' Berry said.
Housing and immigration are going to be key issue; in this election.' Roberts says. 'People are getting very angry, seeing their sons and daughters having to leave the area because they can't afford a house anymore.'
One local estate agent admits that more than sixty per cent of the houses he's sold this year have gone to English people moving to rural Wales in search what they see as a 'healthier' lifestyle.
'There is going to be acrimony.' says Idwal Roberts. 'Sparks will fly. You can count on that, my friend.'
'You can sure count on it with Giles around.' Berry muttered. The article went on to discuss the two leading contenders — the Conservative Party and the Welsh nationalist party, Plaid Cymru. The Conservatives had chosen their man. a local auctioneer called Simon Gallier. But Plaid, as Giles explained, had a crucial decision to make.
If Plaid want to play safe, they'll go for Wil James, a mild-mannered Baptist minister from Cardigan. He's well liked, but party strategists are wondering if he really has what it takes to slug it out with a man used to the cut- and-thrust of the livestock sales.
If Plaid want to live dangerously, however, they'll take a chance on Guto Evans, a 44-year-old part-time college lecturer, author and one-time bass-guitarist in a Welsh language rock and roll band.
Evans is a man not known for keeping his opinions to himself — especially on the subject of mass- immigration by well-off English people.
'Ah, yes,' says the Mayor of Pontmeurig, relighting his pipe. 'Guto Evans. Now that really would be interesting.'
And he gives what could only be described as a sinister chuckle.
It's now felt the election is unlikely to take place before December because of…
'Addison. I can't help wondering if this isn't gonna get heavy.' Berry said.
'Anybody dies,' said Addison, 'you can go out there.'
'Thanks.'
'Meantime, listen up, I got something here the West Coast papers could be clamouring for by tonight so I figure we got no time to waste.'
'Right, I…' Something had caught Berry's eye. It was the picture byline.
It was placed unobtrusively in the top right hand corner of the photo of the castle and the 'for sale' sign. Tiny lettering, as was normal in Giles's paper, especially when they used a freelance photographer.
It said
Picture by Claire Rhys.
'Now that's weird,' Berry said. 'That is real weird.'
'What?' said Addison Walls.
'Sorry.' Berry said. 'You go ahead, I'm listening.'
Maybe it wasn't that weird. People often changed their names for professional purposes. Women reverted to their premarital names. Claire, of course, had never been called Rhys, but maybe she thought a Welsh name like that would attract more work within Wales. Also, when people moved to a different country they altered their names so as not to sound unpronounceably foreign. A lot of Poles did that.
But English people called Freeman?
No, he was right first time.
It was weird.
