She was sure Giles had learned about Guto and the pub incident. But he hadn't used it in his article — even though it would have underlined the point he was trying to make about Guto being the party hard-man.
"What I mean is," she said. "Giles is sympathetic. He can see what the incomers are doing to Wales and he doesn't want to be that kind of incomer. That is why he's so concerned about learning Welsh."
Dai Death said, "You're acquainted with this reporter from London then. Bethan?"
"Who do you think is teaching the bugger Welsh?" said Guto.
"He wants to learn Welsh for the election? There's enthusiasm."
"No, Dai," said Bethan. "He is thinking longer term. He has acquired a house in Y Groes."
A short but volcanic silence followed this disclosure.
"Y Groes!" Dai's voice rose to a squeak. He lurched in his seat, his bald head shining with hot indignation. "How the hell did he find a house there?"
Of course, Bethan realised. A sore point.
Amid muted rumblings from Guto about wealthy bloody incomers being able to find anything they wanted anywhere at a price, she briefly explained how Claire and Giles Freeman had gained admittance to Paradise.
Dai scowled.
"I've never been one to attack the incomers." he said. "Nothing personal, like. But the first house since I don't know when to come available in Y Groes… and it goes without a word, to a bloody Englishman. There is no justice."
"Englishwoman," Bethan said.
Idwal Roberts sniffed.
"I will tell you one thing." he said, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. "You would not catch me living there. Godless place, that village, always has been."
Bethan, who had begun her teaching career as a member of ldwal's staff at Pontmeurig's Nantglas Primary School, had heard that since his retirement he had somewhat deepened his commitment to non-conformist religion.
"Godless," he said.
"Only on your terms, man." said Dai. still annoyed. "Just because there is no chapel anymore."
"No," Idwal waved his pipe in the air. "That's not—"
"Still a church there." Dai said. "Bloody good church."
Guto looked up innocently from his beer. "Still a chapel too. Had my car repaired there once."
"What?" Dai looked blank for a moment. "Oh, you mean Dilwyn Dafis's garage. I forgot that used to be a chapel.
"Aye, well, still a public service, isn't it? And plenty of room for the ramp, see, with that high ceiling."
"What I was meaning—" Idwal said.
"What is more," said Guto deadpan, "give Dilwyn Dafis a couple of quid on top, and you can have your bloody brake linings blessed."
"This is getting stupid." Giles said.
Light conversation, in both English and Welsh, went on around them, the thump of darts on the board, nobody appearing to notice anything amiss or picking up on the tension. Giles knew how it must look — as if the three of them were having a nice quiet chat about beer-prices or the prospects of the Meurig bursting its banks.
Slit-mouth made a narrow smile. "He thinks you're stupid, Gary."
Getting into the comedy routine. But Giles had had enough. You really did find them everywhere, didn't you, always looking for somebody whose night they could spoil. A few casual remarks in the toilet and he'd set himself up as tonight's target. Well that was it, he wasn't taking any more.
"Look," he said firmly. "I just came in here for a drink. I've moved into the area. I'm trying to fit in. I didn't mean to cause any offence, all right? What else can I say?"
He felt his voice quiver. Bastards.
They were both studying him now with their stone-hard, hostile eyes.
"Got a house, have you? How much you pay for that?"
"Oh. for Christ's sake, this is getting awfully tedious."
"Oh dear," Slit-mouth said, mimicking Giles's accent. Awfully tedious. Oh, my—"
Crater-face said to Giles, "See, I've got this mate lookin' for a house. Gettin' married, he is. And you know what… you won't believe this, but this boy, my mate, he's been lookin' all over town for fuckin' weeks and he can't find one anywhere. Not as he can afford. You know why…?"
Leaning forward now, beer-breath sour in Giles's face "Know why, English?"
Oh yes. Giles knew why all right. "Now look, if you really want to talk about this—"
"Cause they've all been bought by your kind, is why, you bastard."
Giles got an explicit close-up of the angry, pitied skin and the eyes, wells of malice.
"Kid on the way, see."
Giles fell bits of beery spit spatter his face.
"Goin' to be really in the shit, he is, can't get a fuckin' house for his woman."
Edging his stool closer to Giles, he whispered. "I hate cunts like you, think you can buy in wherever you like. Come on, English, finish your drink."
Giles put one foot on the floor. Get out. Get out fast.
"But you think you're all right isn't it?" Lower lip out and curling. "You think you're laughing, cause—" Eyes glittered and the hand shot forward as if reaching for cigarettes or something.
" — cause you're learnin—"
Then pulled casually back, toppling Giles's beer glass still half full, off the bar and into his lap.
" — Welsh."
"You bast—!"
Leaping up in outrage, beer soaking invisibly into his dark suit, Giles was drowned out by Crater-face crying,
"Aaaaw!"
And leaping from his stool too, knocking it over. Crash of the stool, splintering of glass on the linoleum.
"Aaaaw, I'm sorry! My fault entirely, clumsy bugger I am. See, go in the lav, quick, sponge it off before it stains. I'll get you another — I'm sorry, pal, I really am!"
Everybody in the bar looking up now, vacant grins from around the dartboard. Obvious to Giles that nobody realised they were setting him up.
"Excuse me," he said stiffly and made for the door that said bilingually TOILETS/TOILED.
" — accident," He heard behind him. "No sense of humour, the English.
Stumbled into the passage, but instead of going to the gents he dashed in the opposite direction. A door before him, ajar, LOUNGE on frosted glass, group of people huddled over a table. Giles saw them look up as if disturbed in some conspiracy — more hostility, Christ. Turned quickly away and saw, to his overwhelming relief that the passage was empty all the way to the front door. Going to have to get out of here quick before those two went into the gents and found he wasn't there. Giles glanced apprehensively behind, but they hadn't emerged.
Years since he'd been in such a panic. Memory-flash: hiding from older kids in a cloakroom at school. The famous wheedling lie: Come out, Freeman, we're not going to hurt you…
Giles charged along the corridor, not caring how much noise he made, knocking over an umbrella stand. He looked behind him one more time — thought he saw a pitted face — and then, with his right arm outstretched like a lance, he sent the swing door flying open and lurched into the street, into the hard, stinging rain, slanting golden needles in the streetlights.
He stood in the cold rain, cold beer in his crotch, telling himself, you're never — breathing hard—never going to get in that kind of situation again.
And thinking of the ancient wooden warmth of Tafarn y Groes, where he was known and welcomed, he turned and ran through the rain to his car, his shiny new Subaru four-wheel-drive, the thinking driver's answer to the Nearly Mountains on a cold, wet night.
They were waiting for him in the shiny wet car park, rainwater streaming down their ghastly, grinning faces.
"What I like… out this pub…" — words fractured by the wind—"… two doors."