"That'll be fine." Giles said, wondering where the hell they were going to sleep over the weekend.
"Blaen-y-cwm, is it?" Mr. Pugh asked.
"What?"
"Mrs. Harris's old place. Where you're living?"
"No," Giles said. "We've taken over my wife's grandfather's house at Y Groes. Judge Rhys."
"Oh, I see." said Mr. Pugh. with a little more interest. "Siarad Cymraeg?"
"I'm afraid not." Giles said. "But we hope to learn."
"They don't speak much English in Y Groes." Mr. Pugh said with a smirk.
"Good," said Giles.
When they left the shop. Claire said. "Not very friendly, are they? He didn't particularly want to sell us that bed."
"He's probably sick to death of posh English people buying things and then seeing something better and cancelling their order."
"They weren't very friendly in the Drovers' Arms either."
"They were OK. They didn't all start speaking Welsh or anything when we walked in."
"Oh yes, most of them were speaking English," said Claire. "But not to us."
"For God's sake—" Giles snapped. "Give them a chance, can't you?"
Claire's small face was solemn, and Giles's mood softened. He knew she was looking for reasons not to stay here. Not because she didn't want to, but because she did want to very badly.
"Look," Giles said. "We can't expect them to rush out and welcome us with open arms. We're just another English couple in love with a dream. They've seen us before. That's what they think."
Claire smiled. "I doubt if anyone has seen you before Giles." she said.
Giles ignored this. "We've got to persuade them we're not the usual kind of pompous self-satisfied shits who come in and throw money about until they get bored and move to Provence or somewhere the weather's better." He put an arm around Claire. "Come on. let's go home."
He loved the sound of that. Home.
Y Groes was home now.
Giles had taken a fortnight's leave to coincide with the move, which had become possible far sooner than they imagined. It turned out that the usual six months' probate period did not apply in the case of property bequeathed to a close relative.
Suddenly the judge's house was theirs. The weather was still warm, the travelling was easy. There'd never be a better time, Giles had maintained, freckles aglow, hustling Claire.
So they'd done it.
As they were retaining their London flat — for the time being, at least — and the cottage was already furnished, there wasn't a great deal to bring, and the removal firm had used its smallest van.
Now, as they drove back from Pontmeurig with groceries and things in the boot of the BMW, Giles was once again aware of the difference in atmosphere as they came out of the Nearly Mountains.
It wasn't simply the transition from the bleak forestry to the broadleaved haven of the village. It was the striking difference between Y Groes and Pontmeurig — a town Giles had never actually visited before today.
He tried to explain it to Claire. "A definite air of depression. I don't mean the people. The shops weren't exactly overstocked. And there was quite a lot of, you know, not exactly dereliction, but peeling paintwork, that sort of thing."
"Not a prosperous town." Claire conceded.
"Dying on its feet, if you ask me. All right, there were a couple of shiny new shop fronts — the bookshop and that awful pizza joint. But you get the feeling they won't be there this time next year — or they'll be replaced by other experiments in the area of retailing."
"Not enough money." Claire said. "Because there aren't enough people. I bet… I bet all the incomers get their provisions from the supermarkets in Aberystwyth. They're used to travelling a fair distance on shopping trips back in England — big discount furniture places and hypermarkets."
"Well we won't be doing that." Giles said firmly, turning into the track between the two sycamores. "I don't care what it costs or how many different shops we have to go to. These people deserve our trade."
They found the gate already open and two women by the front step. Oh God, Giles thought. What have we done wrong? If there were neighbours outside the flat in Islington, they'd usually come to complain.
He remembered what young Mr. Pugh had said about Y Groes. "Bore da" he said uncertainly, then realised it was no use wishing them good morning at three-thirty in the afternoon. He tried again.
"Er… Prynhawn da."
The first of the ladies came forward, smiling, hand outstretched. "Oh, Mr. Freeman, good afternoon." she said. "We are terribly sorry to trouble you, but the telephone people arrived to reconnect your line and could not get in. I am Mrs. Huws, from the Post Office, this is Mrs. Hywels."
Mrs. Huws and Mrs. Hywels both shook hands with Giles and with Claire. "Pleased to meet you. Miss Rhys."
"Oh gosh." Giles said. "I mean, there was no need for you to come all the way up here just to—"
"Well, they could hardly ring to tell you they had been to connect your telephone." said Mrs. Hywels.
"We are delighted to help in any way we can," said Mrs. Huws. "Moving house is such a trial. You must be exhausted."
"What you must do," said Mrs. Hywels. "is to tell Mair when it is convenient for the telephone people to come to you, and she will ring them."
"Good God, no." Giles was glowing with pleasure at their kindness. "There's a phone box in the village. I'll ring them. We can't put you to that kind of trouble."
"Now, Mr. Freeman." said Mrs. Huws severely. "We are a very close village. When you come to live amongst us, you are part of our community whether you like it or not, isn't it. Now is there anything you need for tonight. Tea? Sugar? Bread?"
"Thank you." Giles said. "But we're fine. We've got everything. Everything we could wish for."
The small dark eyes of the women were darting about like bluebottles, over Giles and Claire and the BMW beyond the gate.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Claire asked. "Before you go?"
The ladies said they would not put her to such trouble but when Mr. and Mrs. Freeman had settled in they would be pleased to accept their hospitality.
"Super," said Claire.
Walking the ladies to the gate, holding it open for them, Giles asked how well they'd known Claire's grandfather.
They told him the judge was a very quiet and dignified man, who never came out, even in the height of summer, without a jacket and a tie and a watch and chain. Claire, they said, would have been proud to know him. And he, they were sure, would have been very proud of his granddaughter.
"Er, we… We don't know an awful lot about the judge." Giles admitted. "That is, his death… The solicitor, Mr. Davies, implied it had been fairly sudden. Quick, I mean."
"And without pain, wasn't it, Eirlys." Mrs. Huws said.
"Very weak, he was though, at the end. Weak in body, mind, not in spirit. And he was over ninety. Dr. Wyn wanted to send him to the hospital in Pont, but he refused. He knew he was going, see. and would not leave Y Groesfan."
"In case his spirit could not find its way back." Mrs. Hywels said. Giles smiled, acknowledging that no spirit in its right mind would want to leave Y Groes.
"Don't forget now." Mair Huws said. "If you find you have run out of anything, come to the shop and knock on the door if we are closed."
"Great." said Giles. "Er, diolch yn fawr."
"Goodbye then Mr. Freeman. "And welcome to Y Groesfan."
Giles went back to the house, his gratitude brimming over. Life in Y Groes was already turning out exactly as he'd hoped it would.
That night they built a big log fire in the inglenook (Giles, with a howl of delight, had uncovered what looked like a year's supply of cut, dry logs in a shed) and spread two sleeping bags on the living room floor.