‘We are an austere Church,’ said Peredur. ‘Our beliefs are considered too severe for many of the people round here. We believe that the truth about God is contained in the Old Testament and that the New Testament is a perversion of his message by His Son.’
‘Jesus lied you see,’ said the girl.
‘Like a lot of children he disobeyed his father,’ added the girl’s father, giving her a meaningful stare.
‘But . . . but . . .’ I struggled for a response. ‘What about the bit, you know, “A new commandment I give unto thee, that ye love one another”?’
‘He made it up,’ said Peredur.
‘He was very naughty,’ added the girl.
‘And for two thousand years mankind has been deceived.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked.
‘The evidence is there in the gospels but people just don’t have the eyes to see it. Has it never struck you? The startling difference in the personality of God between the Old and New Testaments? How do you account for such a thing? Do you suppose God, the divine and immutable, underwent a personality change? Or that He is somehow schizophrenic? That He perhaps drank a potion like Dr Jekyll to transform His character? It is absurd. The true God, as revealed by His prophets, is stern and vengeful, quick to anger, jealous and terrible to behold. And yet He is fair and loves us after His fashion, but demands obedience. He is, in fact, like most fathers. He wants only what is best for His children but He is wise enough to know that the route to their felicity does not lie through the fields of softness and indulgence. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was never more truly written than about God’s children. What He categorically is not is sentimental. And yet the New Testament, the outpourings of Jesus, is a febrile, toffee-coated chocolate box of vile and corrupt sentimentality. Love thy neighbour? How can a man in Aberystwyth follow such a precept? Oh, yes, I know they will say it is not literally true but we are not shilly- shallyers here, sir. For us a gospel is precisely that: gospel. The true and undiluted, literal word of God. If it says we must turn the other cheek, we suppose it to mean that. And yet who could take such a precept seriously? Is it not obvious, when you consider it, that Jesus was taking the piss when He said that? Love, forgiveness, charity . . . it is all the grossest sentimentality, foisted on a credulous world by a disobedient son. He was a terrible disappointment to His father.’
Calamity sneezed. ‘’Scuse me.’
‘Oh dear!’ cried the girl, seemingly grateful for the opportunity to divert the conversation from Peredur’s gloomy liturgy.
‘You poor little thing, all the time we’ve been prattling away and you there still suffering. Wait a moment.’ She put her face into her hands and started to groan. She groaned for a whole minute and then looked up.
‘I’ve spoken to the spirits and they recommend a little salve of wormwood, betony, lupin, vervain, henbane, dittander, viper’s bugloss, bilberry, cropleek and madder. That should do the trick.’
‘All I want is a goddam aspirin,’ said Calamity.
‘Don’t use bad words, Mary-Lou!’ I said with the sternest voice I could muster.
‘One of my salves is much better than a silly aspirin,’ said the girl. ‘You just boil it up in sheep’s grease, place under an altar, sing five masses, strain through a cloth and use it to anoint your face after meals.’
‘It works best at five-night-old moon,’ said the old man.
‘Oh, Dad!’ laughed the girl. ‘You are so old-fashioned!’ She smiled at us conspiratorially, adding, ‘If you replace the viper’s bugloss with blackthorn bark and boil it in ewe’s milk it’s good against goblins, too.’
‘And if you say, “Wizen and waste shrew till thy tongue is smaller than a handworm’s hipbone,”’ said the old man, ‘it’s effective against a chattering woman.’
The girl flushed. ‘Oh, Dad, really! You always go too far. You know I don’t like to hear such talk.’
The old man winked at us and said, ‘See what happens? I send my daughter to the school in Talybont and they send me back a feminist.’
We stood up and I said, ‘Maybe we’ll try a chemist.’
The girl showed us out to the car. I slid into the driver’s seat and she bent forward and whispered with a nervous backward glance at the cottage in case Peredur was in the window, ‘I’m sorry about Peredur. He’s frightened, you see. They say the man was killed by gangsters and it is better not to get involved.’
‘Is it true what the papers say, about you and . . . the dead man?’
‘You mean Absalom? Most of it is lies, of course.’
‘You knew him?’
‘You mustn’t tell Perry.’
‘Oh we won’t.’
‘You see . . . I went to Aberystwyth. To see
‘Of course we won’t breathe a word.’
‘I met him in the queue for the movie. He was a Jew, you see, and I was wearing my stovepipe hat because they told me I would get a concession on the ticket if I did. And Absalom saw my hat and thought I must be a Jew and started talking to me. He asked me what tribe I was from.’ She giggled.
We forced polite smiles.
The girl looked over her shoulder again and leaned further into the car window. ‘I had dinner with him afterwards. But you mustn’t tell Peredur.’
‘We won’t.’
‘We talked, you know, about things. Mostly about hats and stuff and the best way to re-black the brim. He had some good tips.’
‘Did he say anything unusual?’
‘Well, the funny thing is, he did say something rather odd. He said, “After seeing this movie tonight my life is fulfilled.” And I said, “Yes, it was a jolly good film, wasn’t it?” And he said, “No, I don’t mean that. I mean tonight at the cinema I saw a man, a man whom I have sought all my life. My quest is ended.”’ She smiled. ‘He was ever so posh!’
I pressed a card into her hand.
‘If you think of anything that might help us, feel free to drop in to our office.’
She stuck the card up the sleeve of her blouse along with her handkerchief.
‘It’s in Aberystwyth,’ added Calamity.
The mention of the town lit a small fire in her eyes. ‘Ooh!’
‘And merry Chr . . . er . . . Christ Mass.’
‘No, you mustn’t say that – it’s like saying merry funeral or something.’
‘Happy New Year, then.’
‘No, you mustn’t say that, either; God doesn’t like it because it implies there was something wrong with the old one.’
‘What about “Oh, the baby’s knuckle or the baby’s knee, Where will the baby’s dimple be?”’ said Calamity. ‘Can we say that?’
‘I’ve never heard that one.’
‘It’s traditional.’
‘Well, then, I think it would be suitable.’
I dropped Calamity at her bus stop and drove back to the office. The sky was overcast and, though it was still only midafternoon, the cloud had snuffed the last dregs of light from the day. Occasional flakes of snow fell. There was a small crowd gathered in the street outside the office. But, for once, they hadn’t come to complain. They were watching a crane winch a fat man into a garret across the road.
The woman from the all-night sweetshop said, ‘You’ve just missed the reinforced bed. You’d think he’d find somewhere on the ground floor, wouldn’t you?’
‘Who is he?’
A man leaning against a lamppost spoke from under the brim of a fedora hat pulled down low. ‘Nobody knows.’ He had a slight American accent and was impeccably dressed: two-tone black and white brogues, sharply creased, generously cut trousers. A silk handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of a coat of midnight blue. The discretion of the handkerchief was good: just enough to see it. Most people get that bit wrong. The man walked off.
