The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

was like incredible.

‘Me and Danny, we falled this ole dead oak for Mrs Maginn, Cwmgaer,’ Gomer said. ‘Then we sets up the tractor and the sawbench, cuts him up for her stove.’

Gomer was now spending most days at Danny Thomas’s farm in the Radnor Valley, ten minutes from Stanner, while his yard was cleaned up after the fire and the big shed was being rebuilt. Danny was Gomer’s new partner in the plant-hire business — which made all kinds of sense, with Gomer’s nephew Nev dead and Danny having discovered how much he hated farming.

Rural serendipity.

In the dimness of the truck, with no dashboard lights working, Jane watched the tip of Gomer’s ciggy receding towards his mouth. He had to be over seventy now, not that anybody would ever prove it. Mum always maintained that Gomer had his own organic generator, and you could sometimes see light in his glasses when there wasn’t any around to be reflected.

Serendipity. Maybe Antony would change his mind. Maybe it wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t be holding her breath exactly. But, like… wow.

‘Hope that bugger’s still paying you, Janey.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Foley. Word is he en’t doing brilliant business. Danny’s Greta’s sister, she yeard as they wanted help in the bar over Christmas, and then when she gived ’em a call they said they was all right now. But there en’t been nobody else took on, otherwise her’d have yeard. Don’t miss a thing yereabouts, Gret and Gret’s sister.’

‘That’s bollocks.’ Jane was annoyed. It was sunk deep into the collective psyche of this area: the joy of failure. ‘In fact, things are really picking up. They’ve just had a major conference booked.’

‘From Off?’

‘Of course from Off. Off’s where the money is, Gomer.’

‘True.’ Gomer wasn’t parochial himself, he just mixed with people who were.

‘And Nat can handle the bar, anyway.’

Gomer slowed for the roundabout at the end of the bypass. ‘This’d be Miz Natalie Craven, Jeremy Berrows’s… friend.’

‘Why, what are they saying about her?’ Jane had often wondered, although she could probably guess.

‘Oh… hippy,’ Gomer said. ‘Not Danny, mind. He don’t call her that.’

That was probably because Danny was a real hippy, Jane thought, as Gomer cleared the roundabout and the sporadic lights of Kington were behind them, dark fields on either side.

‘There was plenty folks, see, wanted Jeremy to get back with Mary Morson, after this do with the plant feller from the Rocks — well, Mary’s ma, partic’ly, on account of Jeremy’s worth a bob or two. This plant feller, he was just on some Government work scheme. Gone now, and never even said he was off.’

‘I’m sorry, Gomer, I’m not getting this.’ She was interested, naturally: the enigma of Nat and Jeremy.

‘Mary Morson, her was engaged to Jeremy?’

‘OK.’

‘Two year or more, sure t’be. Then her goes to this rock music night at The Eagle, with some mates. Meets up with this smoothy plant feller.’

‘You mean one of the botanists working on the Rocks? For the Hereford and Radnor Nature Trust?’ There was a study project, Jane knew, centred on this rare plant, the Early Star of Bethlehem, found on Stanner Rocks and virtually nowhere else in Britain.

‘Sure t’be,’ Gomer confirmed. ‘Bit of a fling. ’Course, Mary Morson reckoned her could easy go back to Jeremy on account of Jeremy, he en’t going nowhere, is he? He don’t never go nowhere, that boy, won’t leave his stock no more’n half a day. But meantime this Natalie turns up sudden, with the kiddie, in this van. No accounting for circumstance, Janey.’

‘Served the bitch right, if you ask me.’

Gomer’s grin flashed in the gloom. ‘Exackly what Danny’d say. Danny reckoned her was good for Jeremy, this Natalie. Bring him out of ’isself.’

‘Quite right,’ Jane said. She stared at him. ‘Was good?’

Gomer clamped his teeth on about a millimetre of ciggy. ‘Boy en’t right, n’more, Janey.’

‘How do you mean?’

But he just shook his head and said nothing, and Jane didn’t push it. Maybe she ought to have pushed it, if only for Clancy’s sake, but everything else was looking too good tonight.

The heavy stuff started for Danny not long after he got in. It started with Greta pulling off the left-hand channel of his big old Wharfedale cans and booming down his ear like her was taking over lead-vocal.

Danny sat up. ‘Who?’

Greta said it again, slowly. ‘Jeremy Berrows. Needs help. At The Nant. Urgent. Won’t tell me n’more, but you just be careful what you takes on, Danny Thomas, because—’

‘Bugger.’ Danny blinked at the telly, the Foo Fighters still roaring somewhere in his brain. The telly was on, but Danny had been watching the wood-burner, like he always did when he had his music playing on winter nights, just gazing and gazing into the glass. They had these lovely barn-dried ash logs on there tonight, burning bright orange and molten gold, just coming up to perfection, and he could smell his tea, cheese toasting, and the curtains were drawn against the cold black night and… Bugger!

Danny laid the cans on the back of his armchair, where his head had been, and Greta shoved the cordless at him.

‘Yeah?’

‘Danny?’

‘Ar.’

‘They won’t go away.’

‘What?’

‘They won’t listen to me. It’s like I en’t yere. They’re all over the yard, all over the meadow…’

‘What you on about? Who?’ Danny had Greta leaning between him and the wood-burner, trying to hear what was coming down the line. He waved at her to get out of his heat.

‘Welshies,’ Jeremy said.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the house. I come back in the house, see. En’t no way I can deal with all three of ’em, Danny. I got the kid with me, Clancy.’

‘Well, that—’

‘Don’t know whatter do. Don’t want no cops yere, they’d just turn it back on me or it’d get in the papers.’

‘They threatenin’ you?’

‘Danny, I en’t good in these situations, you know that.’

‘Lemme get this straight, Jeremy. Welshies. This would be a raiding party come over the bloody border, is it?’

‘Could say that.’ Jeremy’s voice had gone faint. ‘I dunno, Danny, basically. I dunno what’s gonner happen.’

When Jane walked into the kitchen, it was clear that Mum hadn’t been in long — coat over the chair, bag on the table. Jane placed her own overnight bag very carefully by the kitchen door; she’d need to get it upstairs as soon as poss. Tried not to keep looking at it as she helped Mum cobble a meal together.

‘It might snow,’ Mum said from the fridge.

‘Gomer said that. I bet it’ll all be gone by Christmas, though. I don’t remember a white Christmas.’

‘There was one when you were little.’ Mum came over and looked at her with evident suspicion. ‘Did something happen?’

‘No, why?’

‘You seem… strangely energized.’

‘It’s the wonderful world of work. Invigorating.’ Jane sawed hard at a farmhouse cob, keeping her head down over the bread knife. Hell, was it that obvious?

‘Are they… going to want you much over Christmas?’