Candlenight

At the top of the street, past Hampton's Bookshop but before you got to the bridge, there was a teashop which also sold Welsh crafts. Mainly lovespoons, which were made of wood and were intricately carved and came in a variety of sizes. Berry wondered what they had to do with love. Maybe he'd ask Bethan, who ought, by now, to be waiting in there. An arrangement they'd made last night.

They'd talked until eleven-thirty, then Berry had said he ought to go because Guto would be home and Mrs. Evans would want to get to bed. He hadn't wanted to go. Christ, no.

As he approached the teashop, he could see her sitting in the window, black hair tumbling into a black cowl-neck woollen sweater.

She'd told him last night how she'd done this dumb thing, gone to the education department and suggested they close down the village school. How she felt the school had been corrupting generations of kids. She'd found it hard to explain why she thought this. Said he'd need to meet the other teacher to understand.

Berry had told her about breaking into the judge's house that day with Giles. He'd told her about the study, the deep, dark atmosphere of hate.

'Yes.' she'd said. 'Yes.'

He hadn't told her about the room whispering, sice … sice… because he wasn't even sure that had happened.

The education department had told Bethan to take two or three weeks off. They figured she had to be nuts, trying to get her own school shut down, maybe heading for a breakdown.

I think a nervous breakdown would be quite a relief.

He walked across the road to the teashop. She had her back to him, talking to someone maybe. He caught a flash of gold earring as she tossed her hair back. No way could this woman be insane, but then, who was he to judge?

Chapter XLIX

Inside the teashop it was very dim, all the furniture stained as dark as the lovespoons on the walls. Which was why, from outside, you could only see the person sitting in the window. Why he hadn't seen the other two people at Bethan's table.

It was the older couple who'd been at Giles's funeral. The guy with white hair, yellow at the front, and deep lines down both cheeks. The woman thin-faced, harsh hair rinsed an uneasy auburn, looking like copper wire.

'Berry, this is Claire's mother and father.'

'Oh.' Somehow, he'd thought they must have been relations of Giles, rather than Claire. 'Hi,' he said, pulling out a chair.

Bethan introduced him as a friend and colleague of Giles's, down here for the election. 'Mr. and Mrs. Hardy had to spend the night at the Tafarn at Y Groes. They are having problems with their car.'

'But we're getting it back this morning,' George Hardy said. 'That's why we're here. Claire dropped us off.'

Berry turned to the woman. He'd heard her muttering 'Thank God,' when her husband talked about getting the car back.

'You don't like it here?'

'Not really our son of place. I'm afraid,' Elinor Hardy said, tight-voiced.

'Not being snobbish or anything,' George assured Bethan. 'Good God, no. Wonderful place for a quiet summer holiday. Just that at this time of year it seems a little cold and remote and it's not quite what we're used to. Certainly never had to wait two days before to get what seemed quite a simple problem with the cam belt seen to.'

'We didn't get much sleep, I'm afraid,' Elinor said. The skin under her eyes was blue, Berry saw, and it wasn't cosmetic. She was fingering her coffee cup nervously. He wondered why Claire had put them in a teashop and just left them.

'Bloody bed kept creaking,' George said. 'Had to get down on my hands and knees and mess about with a loose floorboard underneath to stop it. Good God, I'd forgotten— Elinor, why didn't you remind me?'

From an inside pocket of his overcoat he pulled a slim, red, hard-backed notebook. 'Found it under the damned floorboard. Meant to give it to the manager chap this morning.'

'Unlikely to have been his anyway,' Elinor said.

'Suppose not. Must belong to somebody, though, and he'd be belter placed than us to find out who, obviously.'

Bethan said. 'You found it under the floorboard in the bedroom? Can I see?'

George passed her the book. 'Keep it, if it's of any interest. Odd little hand-drawn maps of the village, that sort of thing. Probably mean more to you than me.'

'Thank you.' Bethan made no attempt to look at the notebook, slipping it into her bag.

'If you find any treasure, send us a few bob, won't you.' Ignoring his wife's withering glance. George laughed and coughed and pulled out his cigarettes. 'Don't mind, do you? Only things that seem to stop me coughing these days.'

A waitress appeared, glum girl of about seventeen. Bethan said, 'Can I order you more coffee?'

Elinor grimaced.

'Just one pot of tea, then.' Bethan told the girl, 'Un te, plis.' Pointed at Berry. 'Dim laeth. '

Berry saw the woman flinch when Bethan spoke Welsh. She was in some state.

The hell with tact. He said. 'I hear that Claire… she has this amazing aptitude for the Welsh language.'

Elinor said, tonelessly. 'Has she?'

George Hardy looked at his watch, stood up, cigarette in hand. 'Think I'd better pop round the comer lo the garage, see how they're getting on with it. Have to stand over these chaps sometimes. Nice to meet you. Miss… er. Yes.'

When he'd gone, squeezing his overcoated bulk past the racks of lovespoons, his wife just came apart.

She leaned across the table, seized Bethan's wrist. 'Look, I don't know anything about you, but please will you help?'

'Of course.' Bethan was startled. 'If I can.'

'I'm sorry. I don't usually behave like this. Bui I don't know anybody here, do you see?' Berry saw her eyes fill up. She let go of Bethan's wrist, pulled a paper napkin from a wooden bowl. 'Pen.'

Berry handed her his.

'I want to give you my telephone number.' She began to write erratically on the napkin, talking as fast and jerkily as her wrist was moving. 'Want you to promise to ring me. If anything happens. You see Claire, don't you?'Of course you do. Teaching her… that language.'

Bethan said, 'I—' Berry's eyes said. Don't contradict her, let her talk.

'Something's happened to her. She's not the same.'

'No.' Bethan said.

'You can tell that, can't you? You've only known her a short time, but you can see it.'

'Yes.'

'I won't say—' Elinor put down the pen, folded the napkin; Bethan look it. 'I won't say we were ever terribly close. Dreadful admission, but I have to be frank. Have to.'

She looked defiantly from Bethan to Berry and back to Bethan.

'Often felt closer to Giles. He would tell me things she concealed. And now he's dead. And we weren't told. Weren't invited to the funeral, you know.'

'That's awful.' Bethan said.

'She said,' Elinor pulled another napkin from the bowl, dabbed her eyes. 'She says she wrote to us, but she couldn't invite us here. We had to decide. For ourselves.' She blew her nose, crumpled the napkin in her hand. 'Never saw a letter. Read about it in the paper. Suppose she didn't tell us because… when my father died… we