Part Five
TOILI
Chapter XXX
By mid-November the weather had turned nasty.
There had been much heavy rain, with three Red Two flood alerts for the River Meurig in as many weeks. And it was suddenly much colder. On the tops of the Nearly Mountains the rain fell as wintry showers, leaving premature patches of stiff snow behind the crags.
In its bowl of snow-encrusted hills, the village of Y Groes was, as usual, preserved from the worst of it. A blue hole, they called it. Bethan thought scientists might explain this in terms of changes in atmospheric pressure brought about by the geophysical features of the surrounding landscape. But the truth was she didn't know, so there was little she could say when Buddug told the children that Y Groes was especially favoured by the heavens because it had preserved the old traditions more faithfully than anywhere else in Wales.
'If you pay attention,' Buddug said, wagging a fat forefinger, 'you will see how clouds shrink away from the tower of our church. As if they are afraid.'
Crazy old bat, Bethan thought, leaning moodily on the piano, as Buddug lectured the assembly, two dozen scrubbed, rapt faces.
Later, as she drove home in the sepia dusk, she glanced towards the church tower and noted with some annoyance that the timbered belfry was hard against an almost perfect cloudless circle.
That day the Conservative Party had moved the writ for the Glanmeurig by-election, naming the day as December 15th — unusually late in the year. A week ago, the prospective Conservative candidate, Simon Gallier, a local auctioneer and valuer, protege of Burnham-Lloyd and well in with the fanners, had officially been adopted by his constituency party in the suitably dignified setting of the Plas Meurig Hotel. The other parties were not far behind — except for Plaid Cymru which, as usual, took its time selecting a candidate, with predictable implications for Guto Evans's nervous system.
'Quite honestly,' he lied that night. 'I don't bloody care anymore. If they go for the soft option and choose Wil James, they won't be the party I joined all those years ago, so it won't matter anyway.'
Guto was slumped in the shabby lounge of the Drovers' Arms with Bethan and two other friends, Dai Death, the funeral director, and Idwal Roberts — the 'independent' Mayor of Pontmeurig.
In Pont it was raining hard again.
Although the public bar was half full, the less-dedicated drinkers had been deterred by the weather and Guto's table was the only one occupied in the lounge. Because of the shortage of custom the lounge bar itself remained closed, its shutters down. This meant they had to fetch their own drinks from the public bar, but it also meant nobody could eavesdrop on what they were saying. Which was fortunate because the little gathering had turned into an impromptu training session for Guto's final interview by the Party's selection panel.
It was not going well.
Bethan thought this was not altogether surprising in view of the publication that morning in Wales's daily newspaper, the
It was brief but slotted significantly into the front page. It said police had confirmed having interviewed Guto Evans, a shortlisted contender for the Plaid Cymru candidacy in the forthcoming Glanmeurig by-election, following an incident in a public bar a few weeks ago, during which a 26-year-old merchant banker had been slightly hurt. The injured man, who came from Surrey, had just bought a farmhouse on the outskirts of Pontmeurig at auction when the incident occurred at the Drovers' Arms in the town centre. He had been treated at Pontmeurig Cottage Hospital for minor facial injuries. However, police said they had no evidence of an offence being committed and charges were unlikely. Mr. Evans had been unavailable for comment last night.
'It could have been worse.' Bethan said.
Her companions clearly disagreed. Plaid's riskier option for the Glanmeurig candidacy was miserably mopping beer froth from his beard with a frayed tartan handkerchief. The Mayor, a solid man with crinkly grey hair, sucked morosely on an empty pipe. Dai Death just stared sorrowfully into space in his best graveside manner.
They looked as dismal as the lounge, which was lit by naked bulbs in tarnished brass wall-brackets and smelled of beer and mothballs.
Bethan said. 'I accept that over-confidence is not to be recommended, but I can't help feeling…'
She sighed and gave up.
'Warning him weeks ago, I was,' said Dai Death. 'The day of the activist is over, see. Public displays of anger, all this oratory and rhetoric — forget it. man. Plausible on the telly is what it takes now.'
'Oratory and rhetoric have rather more to commend them.' Idwal Roberts said heavily, 'than physical violence. But I follow your reasoning. Give him another question. Bethan.'
Bethan looked at Guto. who shrugged and nodded gloomily.
'All right.' Bethan said, straightening her skirt and adjusting her glasses lo consult the clipboard on her knee. 'So. Mr. Evans, there's been a lot of debate about the upsurge of terrorism in Wales, with the burning of English- owned property and a wave of anti-English feeling. Where do you stand on this controversial issue?'
Guto cleared his throat. 'Well, er… I, of course, abhor all terrorism, while recognising that the present economic situation, the price of housing, the shortage of low-cost homes for local people, the mass immigration — all this, sadly, is an invitation to those for whom democracy seems such a painfully
'Hmmm,' Bethan looked doubtful. 'All right, then. So why, if you abhor all terrorism, did you—?'
She stopped when she saw Idwal Roberts pursing his lips and shaking his head.
'That reporter fellow.' Idwal whispered, 'has just walked past the door.'
Giles Freeman had only really called in at the Drovers' to use the lavatory. He'd spent four days at the paper and was on his way home, still wearing his dark suit, still looking and feeling very London. Far too London for the Drovers' Arms, but he really did need a slash.
Feeling better though, the nearer he got to Y Groes — in spite of the weather, the rain coming at the windscreen so hard it was like being permanently stuck in a high-powered car wash.
Feeling better the further he got from London. Feeling especially good because he would not now have to return until after the by-election. When his fortnight's holiday had ended and still no date had been fixed, he'd had no alternative but to spend four days a week in London. And, in these conditions, the journey had been more gruelling than he could have imagined.
On each of the three weekends, he'd started out happily for home. But each time the drive seemed to get longer— perhaps because he was getting used to the scenery, an element of the routine setting in. And when he arrived back in Y Groes the effects of the journey would hit him like an avalanche and he'd feel utterly exhausted, waking up the following morning with a ghastly headache. A couple of days at the cottage — most of them spent recovering in bed — and he'd had to make his way back to the Islington flat and another week on the paper.
'Giles, you look bloody awful.' his boss, the political editor had told him bluntly last week. 'Commuting's one thing — I mean we all commute, up to a point — but commuting a couple of hundred miles each way is bloody lunacy, if you ask me.'
'Don't worry about me,' Giles had said. 'It's just there's a lot of extra pressure, what with moving stuff out there and everything.'
'You're nuts.' said the political editor.
'It'll be OK.' Giles insisted. 'Soon get used to it.
But he knew he wouldn't. He knew he was trying to marry two totally incompatible lifestyles.
The headaches, he realised now, had been the result of years of grinding tension: smoking, drinking, late nights, junk food, driving like a bat out of hell — his system had adjusted itself over the years to that kind of
