I listened intently. When we reached the main Borth Road we turned right and continued for about two minutes and then left the road and drove on to a car park of rough stones from the beach. We drove around this a bit, doing some reversing and three-point turns, clearly intended to disorientate me, but when we returned to the main road we turned left so we were going back the way we came. We kept to the main road and omitted the turning to the caravan park, not long after that we went over the railway tracks. A couple of minutes after that, I got lost.
A while later, we drove over a cattle grid and then the world became muffled and my nostrils filled with the smoky, woody smell of old forest and dry pine-needles. We stopped and the driver helped me climb out. We began to walk through the forest, somewhere to my left a stream babbled. We walked for a while and then emerged into a clearing, the smell of pine needles was replaced by cooking smells and woodsmoke. A dog barked and a voice cried out, ‘Gelert! Here boy!’ The sounds took on a modulated quality that suggested there was a body of water nearby. There was also the crackle of fire burning bone-dry twigs and a wooden pole stirring a heavy metal receptacle that my heightened sensitivity and general knowledge of the vicinity led me to imagine was a cauldron. A girl’s voice sang a soft melody on the scented breeze of the summer night.
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips . . .
I was taken into a cottage or barn, a low lintel at the entrance was kindly pointed out. I walked down a corridor of stone flags, under another low doorway, and was ushered on to a wooden chair with a wide back. A man spoke to me.
‘This is the last time we will ever talk so listen carefully. Firstly I apologise for the theatrics necessary to bring you here but, as a dealer in our hidden world, you will no doubt understand. All further communication between us will take place via Mr Mooncalf who will deny at all times that the merchandise of which we talk even exists. He will tell you that you are bonkers but you must not be dismayed by this essential security measure. In a minute your blindfold will be removed and you will be left alone for ten minutes to examine the stamps. We have a First Day cover celebrating the formation of the SAVAK, the Iranian secret police, circa 1957; a letter addressed to 39 Hilldrop Crescent, Holloway, London, the house where the notorious Dr Crippen murdered his wife, although the letter post-dates this incident; a letter from a soldier at Maindiff Court Military Hospital in Abergavenny, written at the same time that Rudolf Hess was an inmate there. We also have a ransom note from the kidnappers of a German businessman in Kinshasa in 1978. And the envelope and tape that was sent to Mrs Walters. You have ten minutes, no more. After your ten minutes you will be taken back to the main road at Tre’r-ddôl, after which you may make an offer through the office of Mr Mooncalf if you so wish.’
The blindfold was pulled off, the door slammed, I was alone at a kitchen table with some old letters spread out in front of me. Next to them was a cigar box in which they had been stored. The room was small with a low ceiling in which wooden beams could be seen. A cold empty fireplace yawned in one wall, and next to it was a traditional oak dresser. It was set with plates and cups and some tins of paint and glue stood on it with brushes soaking in turpentine, giving off a strong odour. Next to that was a spinning wheel. At the time it was just a wheel, but a week later and I could have told you it was a Semi-Saxon horizontal, sheathed bobbin, slip-backed flyer with five-speed twin treadle array – basically a souped-up ‘Cinderella’; you could cover a lot of yarn on a job like that. The owner of the house was a pro. I turned my attention to the letters.
The envelope was postmarked Aberaeron and contained a small spool of tape and a typewritten letter from a spiritualist who explained that she was familiar with the story from the newspapers and had made the recording at a recent sitting. There was no name and no signature. On impulse, I held the letter up to my nose. Despite the passage of time it still held a scent, that was the remarkable thing about paper, you can leave it lying in the back of the cupboard drawer for years and when you take it out it retains a trace of scent, sometimes enough to ambush the heart with the memory of a long-lost love. I sniffed again and my heart quivered, my head filled with a dizzy sensation of long ago. What it was I didn’t know, but I knew that I had smelled it before. The sound of footsteps outside made me realise time was short. It was too risky to steal the tape now, I needed to come back, and to do that I needed to know where I was. There were more footsteps outside, voices, whispered conversation. I looked at the spinning wheel and wondered. Tomorrow morning I had been booked for a day on the road with the spinning-wheel salesman. Maybe if I just . . . more footsteps. I walked across to the spinning wheel, picked up the brush from the glue pot and smeared it on the axle of the flywheel. I sat down again. The man came in and put my blindfold back on. I heard the cigar box snap shut. The man walked over to the dresser on my right, I heard a door being opened, a drawer opened and shut. Then we left. Behind me, the resin slowly thickened and turned to stone, fusing two pieces of wood. All I had to do was ask Meici Jones about reports of jammed wheels on his patch. Piece of cake. It was my first act of spinning-wheel sabotage.
Chapter 4
Meici Jones stood with his hands on his hips and complained about death taking away his customers. ‘It’s a dying business, all right. The young ones aren’t interested in spinning, and the rest get fewer each year. The number of funerals I attend! You wouldn’t believe, sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. It costs me more in dry-cleaning getting me togs ready than I ever get out of the will when it’s read.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s not like the old days. What did you say your name was again?’
‘Louie, and this is Calamity, my niece.’
Meici Jones sized us up, and nodded. ‘Mooncalf’s a good guy.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘one of the best.’
‘I do a lot of business through him, a lot.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘The sort of business that if you asked about it I’d have to say was none of your business, if you see what I mean.’ He was short, in his thirties, with the melancholy eyes of a spaniel. ‘I was quite surprised when he said you and your niece wanted to learn. Not many people do these days. You hoping for some action on the bequests and legacies stuff, are you? You’re wasting your time if you are.’
‘No, it’s for the coming apocalypse.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘You know, end of the world, nuclear Armageddon. Civilisation will be destroyed, it will be back to the hoe and plough, armed marauding gangs infesting the radioactive countryside, a man will need to survive by his own wits. Spinning will be an essential.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ He stood back and surveyed the scene. His Cavalier estate was parked outside our office in Stryd-y-Popty, the boot raised. Sample cases and bits of wood and rubber were strewn around the boot. ‘Let’s see what we have here, then. Good salesman always runs through the checklist.’ He pulled a sample case forward and opened up the lid with two snaps of the fasteners. Bits of spinning wheel, cut into sections, lay embedded on green velour in form-fitted depressions. The high-gloss finish flashed in the sun like a welder’s torch. ‘This is what the guy in The Day of the Jackal used to keep his sniper rifle in,’ he said. ‘The ladies love it when I tell them that. That’s what it’s all about, you see, the old black magic; know what I mean?’ He picked up a quadrant of wheel rim cut from deeply polished mahogany. ‘Look at that, quality that is. Last a lifetime it will, not that we want it to, of course, but you can always go back and bugger the thing up every now and again, can’t you? You’re in luck, as it happens, Mrs Eglwys Fach was on the phone, her wheel’s jammed up. Might be able to get her to take a new one.’ He banged the side of my head with the piece of spinning wheel. ‘Feel that? This is from Marmaduke & Sons. Best there is. Marmaduke Semi-Saxon horizontal, sheathed bobbin, slip-backed flyer with five-speed twin treadle complete with Teflon-coated dérailleur gear change by Shimano of Japan.’