happens?’
‘We bust her. We tell her we are detectives and threaten to nick her under the illegal spirits act or something. Then we offer to cut her a deal: we play the tape and ask her where it was made; if she co-operates we let her walk.’
Our attention was distracted by a strange clumping sound in the stairwell. There were footsteps, then a clump, then more footsteps. We listened intently, holding our breath as the sound got closer and closer. Finally an old woman appeared in the doorway, leaning her weight on an aluminium walking stick. She wore a frock patterned with sunflowers, and apricot-coloured stockings; there were bandages on both her swollen ankles. She stopped, paused to catch her breath and said, ‘I’m Ffanci Llangollen.’
Evening had fallen with a melancholy so soft one could almost hear a bugle playing in a distant shire. Fog wafted in from the bay, foreshortening visibility, muffling the stars; the sea became a millpond of grey-green milk. Sospan was starting to pack up. The blackboard on the counter listed the special as Fish Milt Sundae and it was evident that the original price had been rubbed out and replaced with another more tempting one. Ffanci clutched Calamity’s forearm to steady herself and stared at the kiosk with a look that suggested it had been years since she last treated herself to an ice cream; years during which, perhaps, she had assumed they were forbidden to people over the age of ten.
‘Three day-returns to the Promised Land,’ I said.
Sospan pulled a wan face.
‘That’s a tall order, Mr Knight. Taller than usual.’
‘I thought it was your speciality.’
‘Tickets to paradise I dispense, not the Promised Land.’ He walked off to serve another customer as if the distinction was self-explanatory.
‘What did she look like?’ said Ffanci Llangollen. ‘The man at the police station told me it was you who found the hat.’
I turned to stare at her. She had a soft face, a kind face, but one which was etched with the years of travelling and perhaps the strain of relighting a candle of hope every morning.
‘She had a blue pinafore dress,’ I said, ‘over a white blouse, her hair was auburn, I think, shoulder length . . .’
‘What about her eyes?’ said Ffanci impatiently.
‘I can’t remember the colour but they sparkled like . . . like . . .’
‘Mischievously, like an imp?’ said Ffanci, and without waiting for me to answer, said, ‘Yes, it’s her. I knew it. Finally, I can rest.’
Sospan returned. ‘Is there a difference?’ I said to him.
‘Between what?’
‘Paradise and promised lands.’
‘There’s a world of difference. Promised lands are illusions, born of the failure to understand the central problem of the human condition, namely that dissatisfactions are not the result of physical geography but rather the geography of the soul. Paradise, on the other hand, is something we have lost, a happy dell from which we have been expelled, and to which we yearn to return.’
‘And your ice cream facilitates a temporary return to this lost paradise?’
‘Ice cream is the vehicle, but the true conduit is the vanilla. A remarkable product: an orchid containing in its flower both the male and female private parts, with a little vegetable curtain between them to prevent hanky-panky. Vanilla is from Tahiti which furnishes us with the one indisputable instance in the history of the world of men finding true paradise.’
‘In Tahiti?’
‘The vanilla-scented isle of dreams. The first European sailors to set foot there discovered it in a sea fog not dissimilar to the one we have here this evening. The scent of vanilla drifted to them through the fog, and they heard the sound of women singing. When the fog burned off the mariners found themselves in a bay more beautiful than any they had seen before: a lush golden-green perfumed paradise. All around them were little canoes in which stood maidens wearing petticoats of paper, playing songs on conches. Then, upon a hidden signal, they let their paper petticoats fall and revealed themselves to the men who all cheered. They spent the next month making love and all the girls wanted in return for their favours was a ship’s nail.’ Sospan paused in the action of serving the ice as if temporarily overpowered by anguish.
‘Maybe you should go there,’ said Calamity.
‘Alas, Calamity, my first loyalty is to my box.’
‘Have you never been tempted,’ I said, ‘to find a little maiden to play the conch to you?’
Sospan looked thoughtful and a distant look entered his eyes. ‘There was a girl once . . . but it was not meant to be.’
‘But there are other girls,’ I said. ‘There are lots of nice girls in Aberystwyth.’
‘No, you don’t understand. When a man takes the ice-cream orders, he shapes his entire life for better or ill, there is no turning back. I won’t pretend that I don’t occasionally dream of how it might have been; in autumn sometimes at the end of the season, when we take in the first delivery of coal for the coming winter, and the traffic at the kiosk drops off . . . I sometimes think how nice it would be to arrive home and . . . and . . . you know how it is when you open the door and smell that peculiar smell that belongs to a house wherein is found love? I sometimes picture her standing there, my girl, she kisses me and asks how my day at the box was. I kiss her back and bend down and sweep my little son into my arms and his little eyes sparkle because he loves me and especially loves my smell of vanilla.’
‘I don’t see why you can’t sell ice cream and have a family,’ said Calamity.
Sospan looked flustered. ‘It’s not as simple as that, Calamity, it’s . . . hard to . . . one day you will understand.’
‘They also serve who only stand and scoop,’ I said in a lame attempt to lift his spirits. He did not answer, but stared into space wearing a pained expression.
We stopped to watch as an old man glided past pushing someone in a wheelchair. The man was wearing mustard-coloured tartan drainpipe trousers, at half mast on his legs, and a moth-eaten rain-coloured frock coat. His hair was long and white and thin, turning up at the collar in untidy curls. It was Ephraim Barnaby V, the owner of the rock emporium. His son Gomer, sitting in the wheelchair, was in his late fifties, but he did not look like a man of that age. Instead he looked like a goblin foetus: ageless, shrivelled, skinny and bonier than a kipper.
Ffanci Llangollen gasped and said in a fierce whisper, ‘It’s Gomer Barnaby! Went missing the same day as Gethsemane.’
‘Hasn’t spoken or walked since the day,’ said Sospan.
Calamity and I turned to him, and, fancying himself in possession of privileged information, he warmed to his theme. ‘They found him wandering in a daze among the abandoned houses of Abercuawg, his wits all gone.’
‘They say he lost his teeth, too,’ I said.
‘All broken,’ said Sospan. ‘No one knows what happened, and he has never been able to say.’
‘I heard he saw a troll,’ said Calamity.
Ephraim Barnaby wheeled his son past the children’s paddling pool and out on to the wooden jetty where the council posted the tide tables. He pushed to the very end and there they remained in poses of utter tranquillity, motionless as men turned to stone by sorcery.
Sospan, mindful that this sudden image of unmerited suffering had thrown a shadow over the sacrament of vanilla-taking, spoke to break the spell. ‘So, are you going anywhere nice for your holidays?’
‘We may be going to Hughesovka,’ said Calamity.
Sospan nodded as if pleased by our choice. ‘You must look up my cousin.’
‘It’s only a sort of long shot,’ I said. ‘We’re not really likely to be going.’
‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time there, just so long as you don’t try and save money by purchasing the tickets from Mooncalf.’
‘Is that not a good idea?’ asked Calamity.
‘You know Mooncalf, he’ll have you on a side trip to Romania or something. My grandfather gave me two pieces of advice when he was on his deathbed. Always polish the heels as well as the toes, he said, and never delegate your travel arrangements to Mooncalf & Sons. I have followed both these injunctions to the letter all
