Bethan said. "I accept that over-confidence is not to be recommended, but I can't help feeling…"
She sighed and gave up.
"Warning him weeks ago, I was," said Dai Death. "The day of the activist is over, see. Public displays of anger, all this oratory and rhetoric — forget it. man. Plausible on the telly is what it takes now."
"Oratory and rhetoric have rather more to commend them." Idwal Roberts said heavily, "than physical violence. But I follow your reasoning. Give him another question. Bethan."
Bethan looked at Guto. who shrugged and nodded gloomily.
"All right." Bethan said, straightening her skirt and adjusting her glasses lo consult the clipboard on her knee. "So. Mr. Evans, there's been a lot of debate about the upsurge of terrorism in Wales, with the burning of English-owned property and a wave of anti-English feeling. Where do you stand on this controversial issue?"
Guto cleared his throat. "Well, er… I, of course, abhor all terrorism, while recognising that the present economic situation, the price of housing, the shortage of low-cost homes for local people, the mass immigration — all this, sadly, is an invitation to those for whom democracy seems such a painfully slow way of bringing about change. But nonetheless, we— Ah, I am tying myself up in knots trying to avoid saying that while I might deplore their methods I applaud their aims — ask me an easier one. I'll be all right on the night."
"Hmmm," Bethan looked doubtful. "All right, then. So why, if you abhor all terrorism, did you—?"
She stopped when she saw Idwal Roberts pursing his lips and shaking his head.
"That reporter fellow." Idwal whispered, "has just walked past the door."
Giles Freeman had only really called in at the Drovers' to use the lavatory. He'd spent four days at the paper and was on his way home, still wearing his dark suit, still looking and feeling very London. Far too London for the Drovers' Arms, but he really did need a slash.
Feeling better though, the nearer he got to Y Groes — in spite of the weather, the rain coming at the windscreen so hard it was like being permanently stuck in a high-powered car wash.
Feeling better the further he got from London. Feeling especially good because he would not now have to return until after the by-election. When his fortnight's holiday had ended and still no date had been fixed, he'd had no alternative but to spend four days a week in London. And, in these conditions, the journey had been more gruelling than he could have imagined.
On each of the three weekends, he'd started out happily for home. But each time the drive seemed to get longer— perhaps because he was getting used to the scenery, an element of the routine setting in. And when he arrived back in Y Groes the effects of the journey would hit him like an avalanche and he'd feel utterly exhausted, waking up the following morning with a ghastly headache. A couple of days at the cottage — most of them spent recovering in bed — and he'd had to make his way back to the Islington flat and another week on the paper.
"Giles, you look bloody awful." his boss, the political editor had told him bluntly last week. "Commuting's one thing — I mean we all commute, up to a point — but commuting a couple of hundred miles each way is bloody lunacy, if you ask me."
"Don't worry about me," Giles had said. "It's just there's a lot of extra pressure, what with moving stuff out there and everything."
"You're nuts." said the political editor.
"It'll be OK." Giles insisted. "Soon get used to it.
But he knew he wouldn't. He knew he was trying to marry two totally incompatible lifestyles.
The headaches, he realised now, had been the result of years of grinding tension: smoking, drinking, late nights, junk food, driving like a bat out of hell — his system had adjusted itself over the years to that kind of lifestyle. And now it had reacted perversely to intensive bursts of fresh air, relaxation and healthy eating.
Withdrawal symptoms. A sort of Cold Turkey.
This had become clear over the past few days, after Giles had been ordered to return to London and plunge back into the urban cesspit. His system had reverted to the old routine, the familiar self-destruct mechanism clicking back into place, the body throwing up the usual smokescreen telling him it didn't mind being abused, quite liked it really and look, here's the proof: no headaches while you're down in the Smoke, drinking, slugging it out with the traffic, pressurising politicians who've been barely on nodding terms with the truth for years.
One good thing, though — the Welsh. Every night in the Islington flat, with no distractions — for the first time he was glad to have the kind of London neighbours who wouldn't notice if you were dead until the smell began to offend them — Giles would sit down and spend at least ninety minutes with his Welsh textbook and his cassette tapes.
And, though he said it himself, it was coming on a treat.
"Noswaith dda" he said affably to the young man next to him at the urinal in the Drovers' gents.
Feeling friendly, feeling good about the language again. Glad to be using it.
He'd been left badly shaken by several nights of humiliation in the judge's study, the last one ending with an almost unbearable headache. But now the grammar was making sense again. Bethan was a great girl, but perhaps he was more suited to working on his own than having lessons.
"Mae hi'n bwrw glaw," he observed to the youth in the adjacent stall, nodding at the rain dripping down the crevices of the bubbled window above their heads.
"Yeah," said the youth. He smirked, zipped up his fly and turned away.
Incomer, Giles thought disparagingly.
The youth went out, glancing over his shoulder at Giles.
Giles washed his hands and stared at his face in the mirror above the basin. He looked pale but determined.
Already his new life in Y Groes had shown him the things which were really important. Shown him, above all, that London and the paper were no longer for him — unless he could convince them that they needed a full-time staff reporter in Wales. After all, the Telegraph had one now.
Failing that, he and Claire would flog the Islington flat for serious money and then set up some sort of news and features agency in Wales, supplying national papers, radio, television, the international media. He had the contacts. All he had to do now was make sure this election generated enough excitement to convince enough editors that Wales was a country they needed to keep a much closer eye on in the future.
Giles and Claire would be that eye. Claire Rhys. He liked the way she'd changed her name for professional purposes. Added a certain credibility. One in the eye for Elinor too. He only wished he could call himself Giles Rhys.
He decided to go into the public bar for one drink before tackling the Nearly Mountains. Unfair to use the place merely as a urinal.
Guto said sharply. "Is it that bastard from Cardiff?" He was halfway out of his chair, face darkening.
"That's right," said Dai Death sarcastically. "That's just the way to handle it. You get up and clobber him in public. He's probably got a photographer with him. you could hit him too. Would you like me to hold your jacket?"
Idwal Roberts said. "Sit down, you silly bugger. It's not him, anyway, it's the other fellow, the English one."
Bethan said. "Giles Freeman?"
She hadn't seen Giles for nearly a week. If he was back from London, she wanted to talk to him.
About Claire, of course.
Claire was still wandering around with her camera as the days shortened and the hills grew misty. Bethan thought she must have photographed everything worth photographing at least five times. Before she realised that Claire was just drifting about with the camera around her neck — but not taking pictures at all any more.