Candlenight

'Never mind, I believe you,' George said. 'It's just bloody inconvenient.'

'Quite an old Volvo, see.'

'Volvos last for ever.' said George, affronted.

Some minutes later he caught up with Elinor.

'It's really not my fault, you know.'

'It's never your fault.'

'Look, what we'll do—'

'I won't go back there. I'll sleep on a park bench first.'

'Dammit, there isn't a park. Nor any benches. But what I was about to say… We've got a few hours. We'll have lunch at that Plas Moorig place and see if they can't find us a room. Any room. How about that? Please…'

Over lunch. Bethan said. I want not to think about it. Just for a while.'

'OK. Fine.'

'Tell me about you.'

'Oh, shit.'

Bethan started on her fresh salmon salad. 'What is that stuff?'

'It's a vegetarian cannelloni.'

'I know that, but what is it?'

'Well, it's got spinach and stuff inside.' He sampled a segment. 'It's OK.'

'For Wales.'

'No, it's real good. Jesus, you Celts are so touchy.'

He'd taken off his jacket, revealing a green sweatshirt probably older than Guto's, if less torn. In black Gothic lettering across the chest it said, AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON.

'You haven't told me about you,' Bethan said. 'You just said, 'Oh shit,' and then we were sidetracked by the food.'

'OK. I'm from New York originally, but I was brought up and educated in seven different states on account of my dad kept moving to further his career until it wouldn't go any further and he decided it was time he became a power and influence in the land.'

'What did he do? What was his job?'

'I just love it when people say that. I hate it when they say, hey, you related to Mario Morelli?'

'Who is Mario Morelli?'

'He's my dad, the bastard.'

'I had gathered that.'

'OK, Mario Morelli is maybe America's number one TV anchor man, known coast to coast. A household name, like that — what's that stuff you put down the John?'

'Harpic? Toilet Duck?'

'Yeah, he's a real toilet duck. Only the great American public doesn't want to know that on account of he has this mature elegance and charms the matrons with his dazzling Italian smile.'

He told her about Mario Morelli's role in the Irangate cover-up. He told her how his conscience wouldn't let him hit on this information when it seemed they were going to get away with it.

'Like. I don't want to come over as this big idealist. But when your dad's a national hero and you know what kind of asshole he really is… OK, in the end, it made no difference. Most of it came out. And Mario Morelli came out of it as this caring patriot. He did it for his country, all this shit. Cue for selfish, radical un-American activist son to leave town. Or leave country in this case. So I came to England and I find England's suddenly become a place where it's cool to make a million overnight and they're looking up to America as this big, successful younger brother who got it right, for Chrissake. That's about it. My vegetarian cannelloni's getting cold.'

He ate some cannelloni, then he said. 'One thing I kinda like about Wales is that it's just about the most obscure country in Western Europe, now even Belgium has the EC, but it doesn't seem to look up to anybody.'

'Wrong,' Bethan said. 'Wrong, wrong, wrong.'

'Wrong, huh?'

'You've only been exposed to people like Guto, who are the most vocal but not typical. For most of this century Welsh people have been looking up to anybody prepared to notice they're even there. Especially the English.'

'You're talking as a nationalist. It's an outdated concept.

'How else can we defend what is ours? The English wanted more water for Liverpool and Birmingham, so they came into Wales and flooded our valleys. Whole Welsh villages at the bottom of English reservoirs. And the humble Welsh people went to work for the English water boards and said how good they were and how well they looked their employees.'

'Sure, yeah, but—'

'I know, that was years ago. But they are doing it again. Only this time they're flooding us with people and they're drowning our language and our culture.'

Berry put his fork down. 'You know,' he said. 'You're beautiful when you're defending your culture.'

'Sir, with my hand on my heart, I can tell you that even if you were prepared to sleep standing up in the third floor broom-cupboard. I would not be able to accommodate you.

The proprietor of the Plas Meurig Hotel (two-star) was short, plump Englishman in a double-breasted fawn- coloured suit which matched the walls of the hotel lobby.

'I'm prepared to pay over the odds, if necessary,' George said.

'Sir, I've turned away Conservative members of Parliament who are prepared to pay well over the odds. I've turned away a senior editor from Independent Television News with a chequebook as thick as the New Testament. I swear if I could get an extension block put up in five days I'd call in the builders now and apply for planning permission later. I could be making a fortune. But I am utterly full and there's nothing I can do about it.'

'Well, where else would you recommend?'

'In this town, to be quite honest, there's nowhere I'd actually recommend. But I seriously don't believe there's anywhere you'd get in anyway.'

'Let's not be stupid about this.' George said to Elinor outside. 'It's going to be a damn cold night. I think we should ring Claire.'

At the top of the wide street, on the same side as the restaurant, was a very old building with flags protruding from its deep grey stonework.

Bethan said. 'This is where Owain Glyndwr convened the first Welsh parliament in 1403. By that time he was in control of most of Wales — the nearest we ever came to ruling ourselves.'

Inside, there was a tourist reception area with books about Vales and about Owain Glyndwr, including Guto's paperback.

'I bought one, you know,' Berry said. 'Still in the car.'

'It's really very good,' Bethan said. 'You should make time to read it.'

They saw a replica of Glyndwr's parliament table, pictures of the man himself, one of him sitting solemnly in state. The only real distinctive thing about him, Berry reckoned, was the fork in his beard, like somebody had tried to cleave his head apart from underneath.

'Hold on,' he said, as they emerged onto the street. 'I just realised who this guy is. He's Owen Glendower, from Shakespeare. Henry the Fourth Part One or Part Two, I can't remember. The point being—'

'Part One. I think,' Bethan said.

'The point being that Owen Glendower was a horse's ass, pompous, full of shit—'

'The point being.' Bethan snapped, 'that Shakespeare was biased. The real Owain was a fairly modest, cultured man who studied law in London, had many English friends and would never have gone to war with England if he hadn't been faced with a completely untenable—'

'OK, OK.' Berry held up his hands. Few other people were in sight on the wide, cold street. Bethan was facing him on the pavement, small lips tight, fists clenched by her sides. This was not about the rights and wrongs of Welsh nationalism or whether Owain Glyndwr was full of shit.

Her fists unclenched. She looked small and alone and without hope.

'I think,' she said slowly. 'I think I am ready now to have my nervous breakdown.'