'It's not meant to appeal to anyone,' said Charlie. 'That's not the idea. It comes to the brewer's turn to give his pubs a face-lift, and of course he hates forking out a couple of million quid on that, but he can just about face it if he grits his teeth and needn't ever think about it again. So he picks a noted designer and tells him to get on with it. A noted designer gets noted through having photographs of things he's designed published in Swedish magazines and stays noted through winning prizes from international committees sitting in Brasilia. And that's that. The poor old... '
His voice faded out as Peter, who had been looking from him to Malcolm and back again with increasing speed, was evidently driven into speech. 'Where's Alun?' he demanded. 'I thought he was supposed to be coming with you.'
'He was,' said Charlie. 'He is. Coming, I mean. Later, though.'
As he spoke a telephone-bell sounded and a youngster with a fearsome slouch moved from behind the bar towards what was apparently a fully furnished old-style red GPO telephone-box standing on its concrete base near the centre of the area.
Peter said with some rancour, 'But it seems he was present, even active, at the ceremony to honour Brydan, which I gather from Malcolm unluckily went through without the gross humiliation of all parties.'
'Yes to all that, but something suddenly came up.'
'What son of thing?'
'I don't know.'
The way Charlie said this made Peter glance at him sharply, then at Malcolm warily. But all three sat there in silence under an orange-and-white beach umbrella while they rather helplessly watched the crouching youth advance on them.
'One of you Mr Cellan-Davies?' he asked, pronouncing the first element of the name in a way no Welshman would have done.
Charlie hoped with some earnestness that Malcolm would not issue' a correction, but it was all right: he responded after no more than his standard interval for uptake.
'Your friend says he's on his way.' A rearward jerk of the head went with this, to allay any doubts about its source.
For no reason that Charlie could define, the information failed to cheer them up, producing instead a condition almost of gloom, certainly one in which no further talk seemed possible for the foreseeable future. It was good old Malcolm who rose to the occasion with details of the event at St Dogmael's, as seen by him, and some account of Pugh for Peter's benefit while Charlie came comfortably near nodding off in his cabana chair.
Alun turned up rea1Iy quite soon, striding vitally towards them over the tiles and gravel, grimacing apologies and deprecations of the decor, fetching fresh drinks. Though full of assorted prattle he had no information to offer about the preceding hour or so of his life. Charlie, now roused again to somewhere near full consciousness, found that the s1owingdown of his intake and the general relaxation of recent minutes had combined to advance considerably his feeling that he might be drunk. He waited (or Alun to finish going on about how today might or might not have been the first time for God knew how long since the four of them had been boozing together, and then said to him, 'I thought what you said at that do this morning was quite good.'
'Oh, well one just has to - '
'Except for that stuff about although Brydan couldn't actually understand Welsh he could nevertheless _understand__ it.'
'For Christ's sake that's only what they - '
'I want to get this over to you while I remember and before I have too many drinks. When somebody tells you in Welsh that the cat sat on the mat you won't be able to make out what he's saying unless you know the Welsh for cat and sat and mat. Well, he can draw you a picture. Otherwise it's just gibberish.'
'Well, strictly no doubt - '
'The point is it's unnecessary. They'll be just as pleased to hear how Brydan wrote English with the fire and the passion and the spirit of this, that and the bloody other only possible to a true or real or whatever-you- please Welshman, which if it means anything is debatable to say the least, but whatever it is it's only bullshit, not _nonsense__. Stick to bu1lshit and we're all in the clear.'
'How many of the people there could appreciate the distinction?'
'I don't know, but I can, and so can you.'
Alun sighed. 'You're right, Charlie. I didn't think. I was careless.'
'Look to it in future, good boy.'
'Hey, Alun.' Malcolm was leaning across and grinning rather. He went on in seriously incompetent but this time intelligible American, 'Would you say, Mr Weaver, that this here is a typical or characteristic Welsh pub?'.
There came a noise that began rather like a fart of heroic proportions but soon proved to be made by the exhaustive ripping of the canvas seat of Peter's chair under his buttocks. Luckily he was too fat to fall the whole way through to the ground, remaining - clasped round the hips by the metal frame of the chair, his drink intact in his hand. Before he or anyone else could move, a piece of rock music, with the compulsory s'ap on the third beat of every bar, started up all around them at enormous volume, giving the effect of an omission handsomely redressed.
'Out!' bawled Alun. 'Down drinks and out.'
Having downed his own drink he went over and held the torn chair in position while by fits and starts Peter heaved himself upright and was free. They hurried out after the other two. Nobody looked up at any of them.
'That was a near one,' said Charlie as they assembled at the mouth of the tunnel. The rain had of course grown heavier.
'Well.' Alun was glancing to and fro. 'Lunch. There we are, the very thing. Bengal Tiger Indian Bistro and Takeaway. Well, nearly the very thing. Hang on a minute, lads. Case the joint.'
