And then the old swine came up the lane from the church. He was holding your hand and we could hear him — well, I was disgusted. I snatched you away at once."
"Good God, Mother, what on earth—?"
"I put you in the car and I made your father drive us away from there. We didn't bother to say goodbye. We'd been insulted enough."
"But what was he doing? Did he say something to you? To me?"
"And we swore never to go back there again, ever. And we never did."
"But what—?"
"I don't know!" her mother had almost screamed. "He was talking to you in Welsh, for God's sake!"
The old oak tree stood there, as if it were absorbing her thoughts and her emotions and considering what to do about her.
Claire looked up the lane towards the church and pictured a distinguished gentleman in a black suit walking slowly down it, a little girl clinging to his hand.
But, of course, this was all imagination because Claire had no idea what her grandfather had looked like. She'd never seen a single photograph of him. Her mother wouldn't have one in the house.
Chapter XXII
Walking towards Tafarn y Groesfan Giles fell undeniably nervous. For some reason, he started to think about Charlie Firth, of the Mail, and the allegedly poisoned eggs. All that absolute nonsense.
But, bloody hell — if, in parts of Wales, there was a lingering suspicion of the English, was it not amply justified by people like Charlie Firth and the others? If the locals were suspicious of him, better to find out now. Show his face, let them get used to it.
It was the last week of British Summertime. The evening sun was losing strength, although it was still remarkably warm, as Giles approached the huge oaken door which hung ajar, giving direct access to the bar. As it swung open, the heads of three men inside slowly pivoted, as if they were part of the same mechanism, and three gazes came to rest on Giles.
He blinked timidly.
The bar was so small and — well, woody, that it was almost like being inside an ancient, hollow tree. Beams everywhere, far thicker than the ones in the cottage. It was lit only by the dying sun, so it was dark. But dark in a rich and burnished way, rather than dim like, say, the judge's study.
It was palpably old. The phrase "as old as the hills" — a cliché too hackneyed for Giles ever to use in an article— suddenly resounded in his head, making dramatic sense.
All the richness came from the age of the building, for it was very plain inside. No brass work, no awful reproduction warming pans.
In a most an publike silence Giles approached the bar. From beneath a beam the shape and colour of a giant Mars bar, a face peered out.
The landlord, if indeed it was he, was a small man with white hair and a Lloyd George moustache. Aled Gruffydd, it had said over the door. What Giles had presumed was the familiar line about Aled Gruffydd being allowed to sell liquor pursuant to sub-section whatever of the Licensing Act had been given only in Welsh.
Either side of the bar a man stood sentinel-like. Giles tentatively flashed each of them a smile and recognised one immediately, having almost run out of petrol on the way here in his determination to fill up locally, at this wonderfully old-fashioned grey stone garage. It had tall, thin pumps, no self-service and a small, rickety sign outside which said Dilwyn Dafis and something in Welsh involving the word modur, which he'd taken to mean motor.
This was Dilwyn Dafis. He was in his thirties, wore an oily cap and had a spectacular beer belly. The second customer was a contrastingly cadaverous chap with large, white protruding teeth and thick glasses which were trained now on Giles, like powerful binoculars.
Giles had to bend his head because the great beam over the bar was bowed so low. Too low for an Englishman's comfort. All three of them stared at him.
Should he try greeting them in Welsh? Nos da? No, that was good night, said when you were leaving. Nos…nos… noswaith da? Was that it? Was that good evening? Bloody hell, he ought to know something as simple as that, he'd learned a whole collection of greetings weeks ago. Noswaith da. It was close but it wasn't quite there.
The three men went on staring at him in silence. Giles began to sweat. Come on. come on, say something, for God's sake.
"Er… evening," he said lamely. "Pint of bitter, please."
The landlord nodded and reached for a pint glass.
"And please." Giles added earnestly, flattening his hair as if trying to make himself shorter and thus less English. "Absolutely no need to speak English just because I'm here."
Christ! What a bloody stupid, patronising thing to say. Especially as nobody, as yet, had spoken at all. He wanted to go out and never, ever come in again.
Still nobody spoke, but the white-haired barman gave him an amused and quizzical look, into which Giles read withering contempt.
"I mean—" he floundered, feeling his face reddening. All those years a journalist and he was going red! But this wasn't an assignment, this was the first faltering step into his future. "If I want to know what's going on around here. I'll just, er, just have to learn your language, won't I?"
Christ, worse and worse…
Dilwyn Dafis, the garage man. chuckled quietly.
Aled the landlord stepped back to pull the pint. The pump gurgled and spat.
It was the thin man with the sticking-out teeth who finally spoke. He said, "Well… there's a fine thing."
What the hell did that mean? For the first time. Giles came close to wishing he were back in London.
Aled Gruffydd topped up Giles's pint, leaned across the bar with it. "Nobody expects that, man."
"I'm sorry…?"
"I said nobody expects you to learn Welsh. Right Glyn?"
"Good God, no." said the thin man.
"No indeed," said Dilwyn Dafis, shaking his head and his oily cap.
Giles inspected the three faces, found no hint of sarcasm in any of them and was nonplussed. "That's very generous of you." he said. "But I want to learn Welsh. I believe it's the least one can do when one comes to live in a Welsh-speaking community." How pompous it sounded, how horribly, unforgivably, tight-arsed English.
Aled Gruffydd said, "Why? What is it you think is going to happen if you don't?"
"Waste of time for you. man." Dilwyn Dafis said. "We speak it because we grew up speaking it, the Welsh. No great thing, here. Just the way it is, see."
"Have a seat." said Glyn. A faded tweed suit hung limply from his angular frame. "Tell us about yourself. We won't bite you."
Giles sat down rather shakily on a wooden bar stool. The whole atmosphere had changed. He'd walked into silence and stares, and now they were making him welcome and telling him there was absolutely no need to learn Welsh — in a village where little else ever seemed to be spoken. He was confused.
"Where is your wife?" Aled Gruffydd said.
"Oh, she's, out. Taking a few pictures."
"Photos, is it?"
"That's what she does. She's a photographer."
"Well, well," said Aled.
Giles had the feeling Gruffydd knew this already. A feeling there was very little he could tell them about himself that they didn't already know. But he explained about his wife's inheritance and they nodded and said "well, well" and "good God" a few times as if it was the first they'd heard about it. They were unbelievably affable. And this made it more important for them to know he and Claire were not just going to be holiday-home-owners, that this was now their principal residence and they were going to preserve its character; there'd be no phoney suburban bits and pieces, no patio doors, no plastic-framed double-glazing, no carriage lamps…