blouse, bodice, shawl and fingerless mittens; obsidian beads and studs in her ears and a sable knitting needle through a bun of hair now silver but that no doubt had once been black. She stroked the Sleeping Beauty lovingly. 'Handcrafted titanium distaff. None of your injection-moulded tat. Last for ever this one will.'
'That's good, I hate it when they fall apart halfway through a spin.'
'Is it for yourself, or are you looking for a gift?'
I took out the fudge-box top. 'I was actually looking for a driver.' I pushed the lid under her nose and she cast an eye over. Her face fell slightly.
'I'm afraid we don't sell girls. It's too much trouble feeding them up.'
'Yeah I know, they leave a trail of your best bread all the way home; tell me about the wheel.'
'Cheap plastic wood, probably Taiwanese. You wouldn't get very far spinning on it but then the people who take these sort of snaps don't care too much about that, do they?'
'You ever sell one like this?'
'I'm afraid we don't handle that end of the market.'
'What about the girl?'
'What about her? She's no spinner, that's for sure. Her seating position's all crooked, and her hands are in the wrong place. The way she's clutching the distaff like that you'd think it was a man's 'you know what'. Still, you can hardly blame her, I suppose, it's probably what she's used to, isn't it! Treadle trollops we call them.' And then added, 'I've just put the cauldron on, if you'd like a cup of tea?'
'No thanks,' I said turning to go. 'I'm in a hurry.'
'Well, would you like to sign the petition?'
'Petition for what?'
'Mrs Llantrisant. We're hoping to get her sentence reduced.'
'But I'm the one who put her there.'
'Oh I know, but you couldn't have known they would stick her on that cold damp island. It's giving her all sorts of problems with her joints.'
'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I don't think I can sign it. I mean, what if she starts another flood?'
She followed me to the door and held it open. 'Are you sure I can't interest you in the Sleeping Beauty? We do hire purchase.'
'I'll let you know, I still need to look at a few others first.'
She smiled knowingly, and shouted after me, 'Good luck with your search. If you bring me a piece of the girl's hair I can probably ask the spirits for you.'
If the girl was selling herself down by the harbour, the best man to ask was the one who had a professional interest in fallen women - Father Seamus. I strolled with renewed sense of purpose up Great Darkgate Street towards the ghetto in the shadow of the castle. I bumped into him coming out of one of the houses where he made pastoral visits. Like many of the houses that had managed to withstand the flood, it now had five or six families instead of two or three. He greeted me and we shook hands. The problems he had to deal with were not that different from the ones his medieval forebears had faced and had the same cause: too many families living in one room, the clothes drying on one radiator, the horrible thick unhealthy fug poisoning the air. But he soldiered on.
'Still fighting the good fight, are we, Father?' I asked cheerfully.
'Oh struggling on, struggling on,' he said, the words delivered with the affected soul-weariness of the man who dons the cloak of the martyr and finds he likes the fit so much he gets a matching pair of gloves made.
'How about yourself, Louie?'
'Struggling on, struggling on.'
He put a fraternal arm on my shoulder and led me down the street. 'Don't give up now, we need men like you.'
'Do we, Father? Do we really?'
He stopped and took a closer look at me, his finely attuned antenna warning him of an impending loss of faith. 'Are you all right, Louie?'
'Of course.' I showed him the photo. 'I'm looking for this girl.'
He took it wordlessly, peered at it and then handed it back. 'Sorry, Louie. You know how it is. I've seen loads like this.'
'Yeah I know how it is.'
'Sorry I can't be more help. Is she in trouble?'
'I don't know. Probably. Isn't everybody?'
'That's why we need men like you, Louie. Men who scorn the comforts of the hearth and the softness of straw beneath their heads. Men who stand guard so weaker men can sleep. Men who climb the cold stone steps to the battlement and stand watch, blasted by the icy wind, their eyes unvisited by sleep and smarting in the winter frost. Silent centurions, Mr Knight, to hold out their shield. Men like you and Mr Cefnmabws at the lighthouse flashing his light to guide the ships safely home.'
'Amen,' I said.
We stopped at the street corner and prepared to part.
'And don't forget to include yourself in that list, Father,' I added.
He smiled wanly. 'I do what I can with the strength God gives me. It isn't much.'
I said goodbye and walked through the churchyard behind the old college. As I walked the words of his sermon echoed in my mind. It was a pretty speech, but it didn't really ring true. Was I really a silent centurion, scorning the soft straw to climb up the icy battlement? I didn't think so. I certainly didn't feel like one. But one thing I was pretty certain of. When I showed him the picture of the girl and he said he didn't know her, he had been lying.
I reached the bit of the Prom where it bent like an elbow jutting out into the frothing water. There was a girl standing on the D-shaped buttress, staring out to sea, wearing an old fur coat from the Salvation Army shop. It was Ionawr. I touched her gently on the shoulder so as not to make her start. But she did anyway and looked round. Then she squealed and hugged me and when we broke off she still held one of my hands in hers.
'I've been looking for you everywhere,' she said.
'I was out at Ynyslas.'
'I've got someone who wants to meet you. Well, he doesn't really want to but I told him he had to.'
'Who is it?'
'Remember after Mrs Beynon's you told me about that monk with the suitcase?'
I nodded.
'I know who it is, it's one of my regular ... er ... you know ...'
'Friends?'
'Yes. He'll be in the new Moulin tonight.' She jerked her head back slightly to indicate the pier behind her where the replacement for the famous old club in Patriarch Street had recently sprung up. 'You don't go there much, do you?'
'Not really, too many memories, I suppose.' I showed her the fudge-box top and this time I got a reaction.
'I don't know who the girl is,' she said, 'but I recognise the location. I've done some work there myself. It's the Heritage Folk Museum.'
I went to the Cabin in Pier Street and met Calamity. Her expression told me straightaway that she had something on her mind.
'Why didn't you tell me?' she said when I sat down.
'Tell you what?'
'About Custard Pie.'
I breathed in sharply.
'He asked to see me, didn't he?'
'Yes.'
'So why didn't you tell me?'
'You know damn well why I didn't. Because if I had, the next minute you would be down there visiting him.'
