‘But we’ve got a car, we want to go to our car.’
His face fell and a look of utter hopelessness swept across it. ‘Your car, yes, of course you do. And why not? If I had a car, I’d want to go to it too. It would be crazy to expect anything else.’ He let go of my sleeve with the air of a man whose last hope of salvation has disappeared. ‘It was foolish of me. Absurdly foolish.’
‘I’m sorry but we really must be going.’
‘You can come, too, if you like,’ said Calamity.
The man struggled with himself in the grip of his anguish. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it. ‘But what are you going to do when you get to your car?’
‘Drive home, I suppose.’
‘But that’s a crazy plan . . .’
A man in a tuxedo and black bow tie appeared from around a corner and joined us. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘He wants to drive home,’ said the chef.
The man in the tuxedo grinned with joy. ‘My word, sir, my word! A sportsman, a true sportsman.’
‘We were going to drive to Talybont.’
‘I see, sir, you are an optimist. A man who, if I may be permitted the observation, sees always the doughnut and never the hole.’ He turned to the chef. ‘Don’t you agree, Johnny?’
‘Absolutely Mr Fortnightly. You have to admire it, you really do.’
The man who was Mr Fortnightly allowed a look of wan sadness to transform his face. It was acting, but it was good acting. ‘Ah, but alas, sir, I suspect even you would be rather less sanguine if you were to see the condition of your car now.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘I fear a rock may have hit the fuel tank.’
‘Is someone throwing rocks?’
‘Rocks are a common feature of the sea shore.’
‘But our car isn’t on the sea shore . . . is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how did it get there?
‘Plummeted.’
How?’
‘I’m afraid there you have me, sir. You will have to take the matter up with Mr Newton.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He’s in Westminster Abbey. Unless you are a modernist, in which case you would probably have more sympathy for the view of Mr Einstein . . .’
‘You’re referring to Sir Isaac Newton, aren’t you?
‘Indeed, sir. Your car has been gripped by the mysterious force of gravity and fallen off the cliff. In doing so, it has sustained what both the aforementioned physicists would describe as a massive increase in entropy, to a degree that would severely prejudice your plan of driving it home.’
We reached the car park and found, to our relief, that our car was still there. But the one next to it was being winched up from the beach. The two men exchanged gleeful glances and then burst out laughing. The man in the tuxedo handed me a card on which was written, ‘Kongratulations! You’ve just had your leg pulled by Johnny Sarkastik and his assistant, Mr Fortnightly.’ He grabbed my hand and shook it, saying: ‘Well done, sir, what a sport!’ Then he lowered his voice and added, ‘You had a lucky fucking escape this time, didn’t you, snooper.’
We interpreted this as an invitation to leave and drove to Talybont. On the way we stopped a district nurse who pointed out the cottage where the harpist lived. It was set away from the road at the end of a small lane, built from slabs of grey stone under a mauve roof of slate gleaming in the watery air. Dank weeds and grasses grew up against the walls and gave off a strong vapour of rottenness; a horse stamped in a stable nearby.
We stood in the doorway and knocked, Calamity doing her best to look sick and woebegone.
The door was opened by a girl wearing a red flannel shawl over a white blouse and a black-and-white checked skirt; on her feet were shoes with shiny Tudor buckles. She looked younger than the photo in the newspaper – about nineteen, perhaps – and prettier. She smiled.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘My daughter has had a nasty turn. Could we trouble you for an aspirin?’
‘Oh, you poor little mite,’ said the girl, automatically lowering herself a few inches as if Calamity were a five-year-old. She pressed the back of her hand against Calamity’s brow.
‘All I need is an aspirin,’ said Calamity with thinly disguised hostility.
‘She really isn’t very well,’ I said.
We were invited into the kitchen and seated at a table of unvarnished wood. The old man of the house sat in a rocking chair next to an open fire. He had thin white hair and white whiskers, and bright pink cheeks. A book rested on his knees, old and worn like a Bible or some ancient religious tract. Reading glasses lay on the book. Another man, much younger, stood with his back to us, staring out of the window. He stood stiffly erect, without the softness of the old man. Three stovepipe hats hung on a stand by the door. The girl picked up a sooty black kettle from the hearth, brought down cups and saucers from a Welsh dresser set against one wall, and made us tea.
‘You have a nice cup of tea, now,’ she said, ‘and I’ll have a little word with the spirits to see what we can do for you.’
‘Please don’t go to the trouble,’ I said hastily. ‘She’ll be fine. All she needs is to sit down for a few minutes and a little aspirin.’
‘Nonsense, it’s no trouble. It’s a pleasure to be able to help you.’
‘That’s if you are who you say you are,’ said the man standing at the window.
The girl screwed up her face in consternation. ‘Peredur, please!’
He about-turned like a soldier on a parade ground. ‘I mean no disrespect, but who are you? We don’t know. You could be anyone. We don’t take kindly to strangers bringing the troubles of Aberystwyth here like mud on their shoes.’ He wore a tight black jacket, cut like a frock coat, and had a dog collar. His face was young and glowed with the conviction of the zealot.
The girl walked over and put her hands either side of his face. ‘Please, Perry.’
He jerked away.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘we didn’t mean to cause you folk any problems. Maybe it’s better if we leave.’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘Please do not be offended by Peredur’s sharp tongue. He forgets his manners sometimes.’
‘We’re not offended,’ I said. ‘We understand your caution. These are dangerous times. Why, a department store Santa was murdered in town last week.’
There was a palpable increase in tension in the room.
‘I expect you heard about it,’ I added.
‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘We read about it – Arwel does work in the village and he brings us the papers sometimes.’
‘And we have a wireless,’ said the girl with a nervous look at Peredur. ‘We sometimes listen to the BBC.’
The back door opened and a man came in carrying a shotgun and with a leather bag slung across his shoulder. His hair was thick and curly, jet black. He pulled a dead hare out of the bag and slung it down on the table. Dark blood where the jaws of a trap had closed was congealed in a ring around the hare’s hind leg.
‘This is my brother, Arwel,’ said the girl. She poured him a tea. He nodded but didn’t offer to shake my hand.
‘These people are from the city,’ the girl said.
He nodded again but said nothing.
‘Fancy that!’ said the old man. ‘Tell me, I hear they have cappuccino in Aberystwyth now. Is it true?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s true.’
The man smiled and gave a slight shake of his head. ‘My, my. And an escalator? I hear there is an escalator there now?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think the nearest one is still in Shrewsbury.’
He looked slightly crestfallen, as if a trip on an escalator was the one dream still left burning in the embers of his life.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Shrewsbury, not Aberystwyth.’