Perhaps, after all the excitement, Gwynbrynydd and Bwlchgwydder represent the Good Life; fresh air, closeness to nature, honest toil, simple folk in whose company one may drink warm beer in the evening, and a comely young woman with whom to have amatory congress, either in Nicky’s caravan, or in Ms. Perks’ tiny cottage on the Abbeycwmhir Road.
All of which makes me surprised to witness the conversation which follows (sound courtesy of Myfanwy Perks’ mobile, vision from the Cross Foxes bar security camera; thanks, both). To set the scene, Nicky has been drinking Wem Bitter, an import from abroad (Shropshire) and Myfanwy is on her third pint of snakebite. They are seated to the left of the fireplace, in which a lump of peat smolders, and to the right of the dartboard, where Des the Wheel needs seventeen double top to finish.
Myf drains her glass and shines her headlamps upon her English lover. Even a fridge-freezer knows what this means (the scrap dealer brothers know too; they nod at one another in a particular way and the barman checks his watch to confirm).
“You about set then?” she says.
“Come back to mine tonight,” says Nicky quietly. “I’m up early to meet a train.”
Myfanwy signals she is ready to hear further and better particulars.
“Have to scoot down to London. Some family matters I need to clear up.”
“Good of you to tell me.”
Myf is… well, she’s miffed! He squeezes her hand.
“Sorry. The lawyer only phoned at five to six. I’ll just be away a day or two.”
An ugly expression settles itself into the pale complexion of the Welshwoman.
“Family business, is it?” she says unpleasantly.
And here I see for myself what a brilliant liar Nicky has become, or perhaps always was. Without missing a beat he tells her how he urgently needs to attend a legal conference with his sisters in relation to their parents, who are going into sheltered accommodation together: The house needs to be sold, and there are tricky issues in regard to several long-standing tenants on the estate; all of which I know to be an absolute crock of pork pies, there being no estate, and mother and father having decamped to a lovely stone villa in the Luberon some years previously.
“Poor Mums,” he says. “There’s the question of her dogs, Lupin and Chester. The last of the great Sally’s litter. She absolutely lives for those lurchers.”
He shakes his head, blinking rather a lot, and busies himself swallowing beer.
Disarmed by this sad tale of the end of things—the masterly touch of naming the fictitious canines, and the bitch who carried them!—the pair are soon heading back to Gwynbrynydd in Myfanwy’s Ford Focus, Bavin’s bicycle poking precariously from the rear.
The small caravan rocks on its tires during the lovemaking—Myf’s phone shares that detail—and when the mental health nurse is snoring happily, Nicky creeps from the narrow bed, powers on his laptop and activates the dial-up connection to the internet. One fully understands he is a duplicitous shitbird—and a dangerously charming one to boot—nevertheless the two words he types into the Google search box cause a sudden chill to travel through my pipework.
Daisy Parsloe.
seven
Dr. Eggstain’s next visit was a shocker.
Oh. Em. Eff. Gee.
Seriously!
Me and Mum only recognized him from the terrible trainers and the knitted tie.
“Facial hair is a powerful visual signifier,” he explained. “A newborn baby’s gaze will track its mother’s hairline. My own father, who was bald as a billiard ball, made himself vanish every time he put on a hat.”
Dr. E raked his fingers through his skin.
“I feel a bit naked without it,” he confessed.
“You look amazing without it!”
He did! He was a totally different person. A handsome one. The brown eyes which used to peer through the thatch like a depressed owl’s now seemed warm, intelligent and soulful when set in their proper frame. The jaw… well, it was almost chiseled, FFS. Okay, he wasn’t quite George Clooney, but there was something classically good-looking about the memory specialist; even Mum noticed.
“Much better,” she said. And then ruined it by adding, “All you need now is a decent haircut, a new watch and some proper shoes.”
Eggstain smiled. “I’m impressed you recalled the watch.”
“It’s there on your wrist, dear.”
“You’re remembering to take the pills?”
“What pills?”
“I phone Mum every morning to remind her.”
“You’re lucky to have such a dutiful daughter, Mrs. Parsloe.”
“I am. And if she forgets, the fridge reminds me. It’s been very helpful in lots of ways. We’re off sailing next weekend.”
A long (metaphorical) farting noise followed that comment. It had all been going so well.
But Eggstain was unfazed.
“It will almost certainly take time before the cumulative effects of the medication kick in,” he said. “Now, before I go, do you happen to remember the name and address I mentioned earlier?”
Long pause while she thought about it.
“Well, no. But the fridge would. Actually, I’m not supposed to talk about him. Forget I said that.”
Eggstain was, as always, intrigued.
“Not our job to forget things, Mrs. Parsloe. Our job to bring them into the light. May I ask who told you not to talk about him.”
Mum did the MMR face.
“You may. But I’m afraid I shall not answer.”
“Was it the fridge itself? Or perhaps another.”
“There’s only one fridge, dear.”
“Another voice, I meant. Another actor.”
Mum shot me a look, as though Eggstain might have been losing the plot.
“Are you
