“None taken,” she assured him.
“I’ve spent so much time below stairs I think I’ve forgotten how to make proper dinner-table conversation.”
“Below stairs” was backroom jargon for “underground”. Rhys’s easy use of the phrase irritated him.
“Sounds like he could do with a surface posting,” he said to the field marshal in Welsh. “Of course we’d need to make sure it isn’t anywhere where there might be bullets flying.”
The old man gave him an admonitory stare. In English he said, “I didn’t bring you to my table to bicker.”
Rhys just continued shovelling food into his mouth. My own instincts were to impose a more conciliatory manner on Owain, if only because his hostility unsettled me. But Owain was too irritated by his brother’s presence to be chastened.
It was Sir Gruffydd and Giselle who carried the conversation as they ate, the old man talking about an opera he intended to see in the city before he left. Something by Wagner. When the talk turned to the prospect of taking a winter break, Rhys offered the opinion that the Canary Islands were still reasonably unspoilt and relatively warm.
“Been there yourself?” Owain asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.
Rhys shook his head. “Someone I work with told me. I haven’t taken a holiday in years.”
“Poor ” Owain retorted. “Still, there are other consolations. Salary good, is it? Looks like you get the pick of the PPs.”
Rhys didn’t reply. PP stood for Priority Provision, stores whose merchandise was unavailable to the general public. Owain ignored another glare from his uncle.” And at least you’re not in the firing line,” he persisted.
“Neither are you.”
I could feel Owain’s face flushing with embarrassment and rage. His brother had spoken diffidently but Owain could not have been more sensitive about the issue.
“Not out of choice,” he said hotly. “I’d be there now if I could.”
“I know,” Rhys said.
“At least I’ve served. Put my life on the line.”
Rhys looked down at his plate. “I didn’t mean anything.”
Owain reverted to Welsh: “You’ve got a fucking cheek, saying that to me.”
“Enough!” Sir Gruffydd shouted, lurching to his feet. “If you can’t be civil to one another, then close your mouths or get out of my sight!”
He was truly angry this time. Angry and, Owain realised, exhausted. He supported himself by resting both knuckles on the table.
“I’m sorry,” Owain said in Welsh. “Please forgive me.”
“It’s not me you ought to be apologising to,” the field marshal said, sticking resolutely to English. “Damn it all, Owain!”
Owain pushed back his chair and stood up, letting his napkin fall. One of the housemaids was hovering in the doorway with a tray of desserts. Owain pushed past her as he hurried out.
A short corridor took him to the front door. The guard on duty opened it and he stumbled outside.
I was as relieved as he was to be outside. The earlier thaw had given way to a renewed chill. Frost glittered on the steps, while overhead the sky was already darkening, even though it was no later than three-thirty. His uncle had always taken dinner in the afternoon, a custom which he claimed improved digestion and warded off nightmares.
Owain descended the steps and stood on the path. The house was of modest proportions, but surrounded by sturdy stone walls. Guards manned the front gates, smoking cigarettes and warming their hands on the slanted nose of an Echelon APC. A black Citroen staff car sat on the driveway, muddy slush now hardening to ice around its wheels. The old man must have had Rhys ferried in for the occasion. He set great store in family ties, the more so since his own direct bloodline had been extinguished. And Owainhad spoiled it all. But, try as he might, he couldn’t feel charitable towards Rhys. Why should he grow plump and pampered on the sacrifices of others?
Behind him the door opened again. His uncle came shuffling out.
“What on earth’s the matter with you?” he asked, more incomprehension than anger in his tone.
“I’m sorry,” Owain said again, taking care to stick to English. “I know you wanted it to be—” he tried to find a phrase—“like old times.”
The field marshal leant on his stick. “I don’t understand why there’s this bitterness between you, Owain. Care to enlighten me?”
How could he explain without saying that he considered Rhys a coward whose personal life he found repulsive?
“We’ve nothing in common,” he said.
“You used to be as thick as thieves.”
“That was a long time ago, sir.”
“He’s your brother. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“We live in different worlds. I can’t find it in me to respect what little I know of his.”
The field marshal shook his head. “You’re too hard on him, my boy. There’s a lot he’s not in a position to talk about. Not all of us are cut out to be men of action.”
“I can’t believe that his—activities have always been a credit to the family and in particular to your position, sir.”
Sir Gruffydd made a dismissive noise. “Which of us are free of peccadilloes, eh? Turn over any stone and you’ll find things crawling about underneath. It’s only human nature, after all.”
“That’s a very generous consideration, sir.”
“Set rank aside for a moment. This is a family gathering. Rhys is all you have apart from me. And I’m not always going to be around.”
His breathing was laboured in the sharp air. Owain said, “Is there something I should know, sir?”
The field marshal wasn’t looking at him. “We live in challenging times, Owain. There might come a day when you’ll need one another, when the ties of blood are the only thing you can be certain of. Could be sooner than later.”
He didn’t elaborate. Owain was unsure what to say, though he was conscious that Rhys and his uncle were his sole surviving relatives. When the o marsha was gone—then what?
Frustrated with taking a back seat, I made Owain blurt: “Are you dying?”
His uncle at first looked surprised. He gave a humourless laugh. “Aren’t we all?”
Owain squirmed with embarrassment: he couldn’t fathom what had possessed him to say this. In a sense it was cruel of me, but his uncle didn’t show the least sign of being offended. And there was a limit to my tolerance of Owain’s reticence.
I had also wanted to see if he finally knew I was there. But he viewed my interventions as maverick outbursts of his own.
“My dinner’s getting cold,” Sir Gruffydd said, going inside. “Clear your head and get back to the dinner table. Where you belong.”
Still feeling mortified, Owain walked around to the garden at the rear of the house. The walls obscured views of everything except the lowering sky. They were in Croissy, but it might have been anywhere.
Only the muted drone of the Echelon’s engine disturbed the silence. The garden was featureless, devoid of shrubbery. Its lawn had been swept and diminutive goalposts set up at either end. Near the centre spot several identical birds were rooting around, searching for something to eat.
“Redwings,” a voice said softly at his shoulder.
Rhys had come up behind him.
“Northern thrushes,” his brother went on. “Once upon a time they were rarely seen this far south.”
The usual irritation blossomed in Owain, swamping any feelings of shame. His brother had always been a pedant, always ready to flaunt his store of useless facts.
Owain turned slowly to face him. Rhys had only just come outside but already he was shivering, his hands clasped across his chest.
“What do you want?” Owain asked.
“I think we need to talk.”