The old soldier nodded. 'I was seventeen at the time, never been further than Swansea before, and then only to see Father Christmas. The thing I remember most is the cold. And the food - all that school potato.' He laughed bitterly. 'As a gesture of solidarity the school kids at home were going without their dinners so they could send them to us. Until we wrote asking them to stop.'
He chuckled and took out a scrap of newspaper and some tobacco and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
'Lovespoon won the Cross of Asaph, didn't he?' said Myfanwy brightly.
The soldier nodded. 'For sitting on his backside the whole war in a plane.'
'He won it for the raid over Rio Caeriog.' A shadow of pain passed across the soldier's face on hearing Myfanwy's words and she added quickly, 'We ... we ... we did it in school.'
Cadwaladr laughed bitterly. 'I bet they didn't teach you my version of it.' He paused, as if about to recall the bitter events of those far-off times, and then thought better of it. He shook his head and said in a tone of remote sadness, 'No, I bet they didn't tell you that one.'
He didn't say any more and concentrated his attention on the cigarette. The rolling paper added a faint rustling to the sighing of the wind in the marram grass. We stared at the old soldier and Myfanwy gave me a helpless look, angry with herself for having mentioned the one battle that no one wanted to talk about. Rio Caeriog, a slowly meandering river in the foothills of the Sierra Machynlleth mountains. The most famous or infamous battle of the conflict. They said it was a great victory and handed out medals like sweets. But no one who came back ever wanted to talk about it.
I started to pack away the remains of the picnic and Cadwaladr stood up.
'Thanks for the meal, it was lovely.'
'Where you going?' I asked. 'Maybe we could give you a lift.'
'Don't see how. Not unless you're going nowhere.'
'Just tell us where you're going, we can drop you off.'
'No, really, I'm going nowhere. As long as I don't reach there too soon, I'll be fine.'
Myfanwy looked at me and I shrugged. 'We'll see you around anyway.'
He nodded and then trudged off. We watched as he walked down the wall of stones to the sand and on to the water's edge.
Then he turned in the direction of Borth and followed the line of the sea; he didn't look back.
Half an hour later we were sitting on the veranda of Evans the Boot's dilapidated wooden bungalow, drinking tea. The garden looked out on to the estuary and was filled with bric-a-brac: a rusting child's swing; an upturned boat with rotten planks; a swampy pond with an old pram in it; and a number of car tyres strewn around the spiky grass. A channel filled with slate-coloured water and a simple piece of wire strung between two concrete posts served as a fence. In the distance across the constantly sliding estuarial waters, was Aberdovey, that Shangri-la of restless Aberystwyth misfits.
Surprisingly, given the temperament of the son she had borne, Ma Evans was a gentle and thoughtful lady: two soft grey eyes, a bun of fine white hair and a face worn with the myriad cares that came from bringing a rebel into the world alone. She shook her head sadly.
'Nope. This time it's different. He's gone before, but this time it's different, I can feel it.'
'You mustn't give up hope, dear,' said Myfanwy.
'You can't fool me. A mother knows. I knew it as soon as the police came round. You know why? They were polite. First time in fifty years they've been polite to me. Called me 'Madam'. I knew then something bad had happened to the boy.'
Myfanwy picked up the tea pot and refreshed the cups. 'That still doesn't prove anything.'
'They had a special dog with them. Wanted to put it in his bedroom. 'What for?' I said, 'you'll frighten the cat.' They said it was a whiffer dog or something. Had a very delicate sense of smell. 'Well, you don't want to be sending him into my boy's room then,' I said, 'the pong in there!' Well, of course they wouldn't listen to me. I wouldn't let them but they had a warrant, so what could I do? That was a novelty as well, going to the trouble of getting some paperwork. So they send the dog in and he's sick. Wouldn't go back neither, just sat in the garden howling. So then they went themselves. Should have seen them when they came out. Green as Martians, they were.'
She enjoyed a mild snicker and sipped her tea. Then she opened her handbag with
'They found this under the bed. They put it in a plastic bag and gave me a receipt for it. 'Suspected tea cosy', it said. 'He's never been involved in anything like that,' I said. 'That's for the judge to decide,' they said. Then they went.'
I took the cloth and looked at it.
It was just a scrap of wool, about the size of a postage stamp.
'I suppose you know your son had a few enemies?'
She snorted. 'Bloomin' millions. If it wasn't for Myfanwy coming round here once in a while, I don't think we'd ever see another human face. We're not a very popular family —'
'Now don't go saying that,' interjected Myfanwy.
'Ha! you don't have to waste any time trying to fool me. I know the things they say.'
'What do they say?' I asked.
'You know very well. Don't you go teasing me. They say I'm a witch.'
Myfanwy gasped and put her hand to her mouth. It fooled no one. Everyone knew Evans the Boot's Mam was a witch.
'Are they right?' I joked.
She pulled a face as if trying to dismiss any significance that might attach to her words. 'Well, as you know, if a young girl's in trouble and she doesn't want her parents to learn of it, she can always come here for some advice, and maybe a few herbs if you know what I mean. But that hardly makes you a witch now does it?'
Myfanwy sympathised. 'Of course not.'
'It's not like I use a knitting needle. Just a few boiled leaves, no harm in that.'
'No different from aromatherapy,' said Myfanwy.
'And then there's the runes. I do a bit of translating, now and again, you know. Nothing fancy of course.'
Myfanwy turned to me. 'Mrs Evans is the best rune-translater for miles around.'
She nodded to the chimney breast where a piece of framed runic script hung decoratively over the mantelpiece. It made my mind wander back to those desolate Friday afternoons in the third year when the double- period of rune composition made the time until 4 o'clock seem like a life sentence.
'She used to translate for the County,' Myfanwy added.
I smiled at Mrs Evans but she waved the compliment aside.
'Or if someone can't sleep,' she continued, taking care not to overlook any piece of evidence against her, 'well I know a few herbs which can be useful there, too, don't I?'
'And they call you a witch just for that!' scoffed Myfanwy.
'And there's the love potions, of course, and the Saturday mornings at the Witches' Co-op. But only on the till.'
Myfanwy scoffed again. 'No different from working in the sweet shop. Mrs Abergynolwen works on the till on Wednesdays, too.'
Ma Evans spat in contempt. 'Mrs Abergynolwen! She doesn't know her mandragora from her henbane!'
'Anyway,' said Myfanwy soothingly, 'you shouldn't let them call you a witch. I'd put a spell on them if I were you.'
'Oh I do! You should see the rash I give 'em! All over - like spotted dick. All I need is a bit of their clothing, or something they've touched. Menstrual fluid and nail clippings work best; or sometimes Julian brings me a vole and I can —'
The cat jumped up from within the house on to the window frame and mewed.
'No not you, I was just talking to Myfanwy.'
Julian mewed again.
'I didn't! I just mentioned your name! I was telling her about the voles.'
The cat made a short exasperated mew and leaped back into the house.
As we walked back along the dunes, the sky in the west became molten and the far-off windows of Borth
