‘No, he was just the man Mrs Llantrisant sent to get the coat back. Could have been anyone. Tiresias and I often comment on the irony of it.’
‘Just a gofer.’
‘Or maybe the errand boy of destiny.’ At the sound of the word his gaze clouded. ‘I hear you were with Miss Evangeline when she died.’
I nodded.
‘Did . . . Did she say anything about . . . you know . . . it?’
‘Yes. Her last words were, “Tell Caleb Penpegws I forgive him.”’
He didn’t take his gaze from me, but I could tell as the words sank in that he was no longer thinking of me. His features slowly lit up and then he grinned and looked down at the mouse.
‘Hear that, Tiresias? Did you hear that? She forgave us!’ He reached out and shook my hand. ‘You’re a good man, Mr Knight, a truly good man. A Merry Christmas to you.’
He walked off down the Prom humming ‘The First Noel’; and it seemed to me that Tiresias bobbed his head in time to the beat. As I turned my steps to follow, a Black Maria drove past and for the briefest of seconds I fancied I glimpsed Tadpole’s face pressed against the grille of the back window, looking at me; her fist digging into her eye, her mouth a twisted figure of eight on its side. Tadpole permanently on the road to Calvary.
I drove slowly through the streets of a deserted town; up a hill peopled only by ghosts. I didn’t need to speed; I knew sooner or later I would overtake the bus. It could be at Taliesin or Machynlleth, it made no difference. I listened to carols from London on the radio; and turned the wipers to a higher setting as the snow grew heavier and heavier the further I drove inland. There’s something so soothing about the hum of wipers in the night. And the songs of choirboys in a distant cathedral, wrapped in golden light, filled with wonder . . . smocks of scarlet and white. The cold stone nave filled with the sweetness that Antonini Stradivarius found a way to capture in a box of wood. His secret, his genius, to use timber that grew with immemorial slowness and thereby distilled the silence of a dark alpine forest: falling feathers of snow; drooping, thick, heavy doorsteps of snow; the hoot of an owl; the thin bleat of a posthorn as a vehicle with big wooden wheels struggled through the growing drifts; because no mission is more urgent than the one to get the messages of human warmth across the silent, frozen world. Just after Rhydypennau the eyes of a fox glittered at the roadside, greener than a brook.
I intercepted the bus just before Tre’r-ddol, and flagged it down.
‘This had better be good,’ said the driver.
Myfanwy was sitting on the front seat near the driver. She had one small suitcase. Her face was puffed and swollen as if she had been crying. Sitting next to her was an old woman. Something in the complicity of their attitude suggested the woman had been interrupted in the act of comforting Myfanwy.
‘I told you not to try and stop me,’ she said.
‘I know you did, but I’m here anyway. I’ve come to fetch you.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘No it isn’t. It’s never too late.’
‘You said if you love someone, let them go.’
‘That’s right, I did. But I’ve been doing some thinking about that, and it seems to me there are two schools of thought. One you find in gift shops, written on trinkets adorned with pink hearts, on little notebooks and diaries and teddies and stuff; it says, “If you love them, let them go.” And then there’s the other school of thought, the Louie Knight school, which says, “If you love someone, don’t let them go.” The first one is fine if you live in a gift shop or if your supply of happiness on this earth is as plentiful and uninterrupted as the gas that comes through the mains. But if you’re like me and you find that most of the time the gas is cut off, you can’t afford to be so prodigal.’ I picked up her case. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Why should I?’
‘What do you mean, “why”?’
‘Why? Why?’
‘Why? God, I don’t know, dammit Myfanwy. Because . . . because . . . my life is nothing without you, and if you go now I will die like a dog in a marketplace in an unknown town and strangers will spit on my corpse and throw rocks on my grave. That’s why.’
Myfanwy stared at me in wonder.
‘And also because you are a silly goose.’
The old lady nudged Myfanwy and said, ‘Well, go on then, you silly girl. What more do you want? Jam on it?’
The caravan looked like an iced bun. Thick snow was piled up on the roof, on the step, even on the crappy vinyl washing line that strung the caravan to a crooked pole. A faint breeze stirred the falling flakes and made them dance, made the sky tingle. The Lyons Maid sign outside the shop swung silently; the only sound was the crunch of our footsteps. Everything shone or glistened; all the grey and drabness had been erased; the sharp edges, the junk and bric-a-brac, milk bottles and gas canisters, TV aerials and dustbins, had all been softened and cushioned; the contours of the world rounded and worn away as the falling snow veiled the earth and revealed the deeper contours of the heart. All gone, invisibly mended; even the defiling plod of Tadpole’s hoofprints across the roof of my home. The caravan park had been glazed with crystal.
Myfanwy climbed out of the car and raised her face to the dark sky, the edge of her cheek gilded by the strange milky efflorescence that filled the world. I opened up the caravan and conducted her inside. I lit the soft yellow lamps; rummaged around and found rum, mince pies and Ludo; and set them on the table. I walked back outside to the bins and threw away the envelope containing the wire trace on the Queen of Denmark.
I’ll find out soon enough. One fine day, when I take that slow boat to Ultima Thule; in springtime, when the golden light returns, and the thaw begins. I can see it so clearly. The sea is darker than a bluebottle’s eye; the timbers creak and groan; the sails tug and the rigging sings in the breeze. Off the starboard bow we see land, empty except for the crocuses and lichen and wild seabirds. A single polar bear emerges from the long winter hibernation with that puzzled look on his face, the one that says, ‘My, oh, my! That must have been some night I had last autumn.’ I turn and offer some smoked seal to the Inuit pilot and say, ‘Tell me, fellah, what’s the name of this beautiful place?’
And he says, ‘My people call this place Louie Knight Sound.’
Also available by Malcolm Pryce:
The latest instalment in the wickedly funny
It is a sweltering August in Aberystwyth: the bandstand melts, the Pier droops, and Sospan the ice-cream seller experiments with some dangerously avant-garde new flavours. A man wearing a Soviet museum curator’s uniform walks into Louie Knight’s office and spins a wild and impossible tale of love, death, madness and betrayal.
Sure, Louie had heard about Hughesovka, the legendary replica of Aberystwyth built in the Ukraine by some crazy nineteenth-century Czar. But he hadn’t believed that it really existed until he met Uncle Vanya. Now the old man’s story catapults him into the neon-drenched wilderness of Aberystwyth Prom in search of a girl who mysteriously disappeared thirty years ago. His life imperilled by snuff philatelists and a renegade spinning wheel salesman, Louie finds his fate depending on two most unlikely talismans – a ticket to Hughesovka and a Russian cosmonaut’s sock.
ISBN: 9781408801024 / Paperback / ?7.99
(Published May 2009)
