"They may be a big deal over here, but you think back, son, and tell me how many British by-elections you saw reported in the New York Times.
"It's been known." said Berry.
"It's been known if the Government's on the brink."
"I just thought, maybe this language angle."
"Forget it. You compare this situation with Ulster, it's chickenshit."
"Yeah," Berry said.
Housing and immigration are going to be key issue; in this election." Roberts says. "People are getting very angry, seeing their sons and daughters having to leave the area because they can't afford a house anymore."
One local estate agent admits that more than sixty per cent of the houses he's sold this year have gone to English people moving to rural Wales in search what they see as a "healthier" lifestyle.
"There is going to be acrimony." says Idwal Roberts. "Sparks will fly. You can count on that, my friend."
"You can sure count on it with Giles around." Berry muttered. The article went on to discuss the two leading contenders — the Conservative Party and the Welsh nationalist party, Plaid Cymru. The Conservatives had chosen their man. a local auctioneer called Simon Gallier. But Plaid, as Giles explained, had a crucial decision to make.
If Plaid want to play safe, they'll go for Wil James, a mild-mannered Baptist minister from Cardigan. He's well liked, but party strategists are wondering if he really has what it takes to slug it out with a man used to the cut-and-thrust of the livestock sales.
If Plaid want to live dangerously, however, they'll take a chance on Guto Evans, a 44-year-old part-time college lecturer, author and one-time bass-guitarist in a Welsh language rock and roll band.
Evans is a man not known for keeping his opinions to himself — especially on the subject of mass-immigration by well-off English people.
"Ah, yes," says the Mayor of Pontmeurig, relighting his pipe. "Guto Evans. Now that really would be interesting."
And he gives what could only be described as a sinister chuckle.
It's now felt the election is unlikely to take place before December because of…
'Addison. I can't help wondering if this isn't gonna get heavy." Berry said.
"Anybody dies," said Addison, "you can go out there."
"Thanks."
"Meantime, listen up, I got something here the West Coast papers could be clamouring for by tonight so I figure we got no time to waste."
"Right, I…" Something had caught Berry's eye. It was the picture byline.
It was placed unobtrusively in the top right hand corner of the photo of the castle and the "for sale" sign. Tiny lettering, as was normal in Giles's paper, especially when they used a freelance photographer.
It said
Picture by Claire Rhys.
"Now that's weird," Berry said. "That is real weird."
"What?" said Addison Walls.
"Sorry." Berry said. "You go ahead, I'm listening."
Maybe it wasn't that weird. People often changed their names for professional purposes. Women reverted to their premarital names. Claire, of course, had never been called Rhys, but maybe she thought a Welsh name like that would attract more work within Wales. Also, when people moved to a different country they altered their names so as not to sound unpronounceably foreign. A lot of Poles did that.
But English people called Freeman?
No, he was right first time.
It was weird.
Part Five
TOILI
Chapter XXX
By mid-November the weather had turned nasty.
There had been much heavy rain, with three Red Two flood alerts for the River Meurig in as many weeks. And it was suddenly much colder. On the tops of the Nearly Mountains the rain fell as wintry showers, leaving premature patches of stiff snow behind the crags.
In its bowl of snow-encrusted hills, the village of Y Groes was, as usual, preserved from the worst of it. A blue hole, they called it. Bethan thought scientists might explain this in terms of changes in atmospheric pressure brought about by the geophysical features of the surrounding landscape. But the truth was she didn't know, so there was little she could say when Buddug told the children that Y Groes was especially favoured by the heavens because it had preserved the old traditions more faithfully than anywhere else in Wales.
"If you pay attention," Buddug said, wagging a fat forefinger, "you will see how clouds shrink away from the tower of our church. As if they are afraid."
Crazy old bat, Bethan thought, leaning moodily on the piano, as Buddug lectured the assembly, two dozen scrubbed, rapt faces.
Later, as she drove home in the sepia dusk, she glanced towards the church tower and noted with some annoyance that the timbered belfry was hard against an almost perfect cloudless circle.
That day the Conservative Party had moved the writ for the Glanmeurig by-election, naming the day as December 15th — unusually late in the year. A week ago, the prospective Conservative candidate, Simon Gallier, a local auctioneer and valuer, protégé of Burnham-Lloyd and well in with the fanners, had officially been adopted by his constituency party in the suitably dignified setting of the Plas Meurig Hotel. The other parties were not far behind — except for Plaid Cymru which, as usual, took its time selecting a candidate, with predictable implications for Guto Evans's nervous system.
"Quite honestly," he lied that night. "I don't bloody care anymore. If they go for the soft option and choose Wil James, they won't be the party I joined all those years ago, so it won't matter anyway."
Guto was slumped in the shabby lounge of the Drovers' Arms with Bethan and two other friends, Dai Death, the funeral director, and Idwal Roberts — the "independent" Mayor of Pontmeurig.
In Pont it was raining hard again.
Although the public bar was half full, the less-dedicated drinkers had been deterred by the weather and Guto's table was the only one occupied in the lounge. Because of the shortage of custom the lounge bar itself remained closed, its shutters down. This meant they had to fetch their own drinks from the public bar, but it also meant nobody could eavesdrop on what they were saying. Which was fortunate because the little gathering had turned into an impromptu training session for Guto's final interview by the Party's selection panel.
It was not going well.
Bethan thought this was not altogether surprising in view of the publication that morning in Wales's daily newspaper, the Western Mail, of the story Guto had been dreading.
It was brief but slotted significantly into the front page. It said police had confirmed having interviewed Guto Evans, a shortlisted contender for the Plaid Cymru candidacy in the forthcoming Glanmeurig by-election, following an incident in a public bar a few weeks ago, during which a 26-year-old merchant banker had been slightly hurt. The injured man, who came from Surrey, had just bought a farmhouse on the outskirts of Pontmeurig at auction when the incident occurred at the Drovers' Arms in the town centre. He had been treated at Pontmeurig Cottage Hospital for minor facial injuries. However, police said they had no evidence of an offence being committed and charges were unlikely. Mr. Evans had been unavailable for comment last night.
"It could have been worse." Bethan said.
Her companions clearly disagreed. Plaid's riskier option for the Glanmeurig candidacy was miserably mopping beer froth from his beard with a frayed tartan handkerchief. The Mayor, a solid man with crinkly grey hair, sucked morosely on an empty pipe. Dai Death just stared sorrowfully into space in his best graveside manner.
They looked as dismal as the lounge, which was lit by naked bulbs in tarnished brass wall-brackets and smelled of beer and mothballs.