The Old Devils

       Alun turned up rea1Iy quite soon, striding vitally towards them over the tiles and gravel, grimacing apologies and deprecations of the decor, fetching fresh drinks. Though full of assorted prattle he had no information to offer about the preceding hour or so of his life. Charlie, now roused again to somewhere near full consciousness, found that the s1owingdown of his intake and the general relaxation of recent minutes had combined to advance considerably his feeling that he might be drunk. He waited (or Alun to finish going on about how today might or might not have been the first time for God knew how long since the four of them had been boozing together, and then said to him, 'I thought what you said at that do this morning was quite good.'

       'Oh, well one just has to - '

       'Except for that stuff about although Brydan couldn't actually understand Welsh he could nevertheless _understand__ it.'

       'For Christ's sake that's only what they - '

       'I want to get this over to you while I remember and before I have too many drinks. When somebody tells you in Welsh that the cat sat on the mat you won't be able to make out what he's saying unless you know the Welsh for cat and sat and mat. Well, he can draw you a picture. Otherwise it's just gibberish.'

       'Well, strictly no doubt - '

       'The point is it's unnecessary. They'll be just as pleased to hear how Brydan wrote English with the fire and the passion and the spirit of this, that and the bloody other only possible to a true or real or whatever-you-please Welshman, which if it means anything is debatable to say the least, but whatever it is it's only bullshit, not _nonsense__. Stick to bu1lshit and we're all in the clear.'

       'How many of the people there could appreciate the distinction?'

       'I don't know, but I can, and so can you.'

       Alun sighed. 'You're right, Charlie. I didn't think. I was careless.'

       'Look to it in future, good boy.'

       'Hey, Alun.' Malcolm was leaning across and grinning rather. He went on in seriously incompetent but this time intelligible American, 'Would you say, Mr Weaver, that this here is a typical or characteristic Welsh pub?'.

       There came a noise that began rather like a fart of heroic proportions but soon proved to be made by the exhaustive ripping of the canvas seat of Peter's chair under his buttocks. Luckily he was too fat to fall the whole way through to the ground, remaining - clasped round the hips by the metal frame of the chair, his drink intact in his hand. Before he or anyone else could move, a piece of rock music, with the compulsory s'ap on the third beat of every bar, started up all around them at enormous volume, giving the effect of an omission handsomely redressed.

       'Out!' bawled Alun. 'Down drinks and out.'

       Having downed his own drink he went over and held the torn chair in position while by fits and starts Peter heaved himself upright and was free. They hurried out after the other two. Nobody looked up at any of them.

       'That was a near one,' said Charlie as they assembled at the mouth of the tunnel. The rain had of course grown heavier.

       'Well.' Alun was glancing to and fro. 'Lunch. There we are, the very thing. Bengal Tiger Indian Bistro and Takeaway. Well, nearly the very thing. Hang on a minute, lads. Case the joint.'

       He dashed across the road in full athletic style, marring the effect hardly at all by holding a newspaper over his head. The three left in the tunnel turned morosely to one another.

       'Got to watch him, you know.'

       'What's he lined up for us?'

       'I'm not quite clear. There was something said about a trip to Courcey.'

       'Bit late for that, isn't it? Most of the way back and out again.'

       'Not half-past one yet.'

       'Do I look all right?' This was Malcolm.

       'Yes, you look fine,' said the other two. 'Why, don't you feel all right?'

       'Yes; I feel fine. I just wondered if I look all right. Looked all right.'

       'No, you look fine.'

       'Christ, here he is already.'

       Making washout signals as he came, Alun hurried back and joined them in the tunnel. 'Bloody awful. You can't even get - I'll hold it for now. We'd better be moving. I don't think we'll find anywhere bearable round here, so let's head for Courcey right away. There's all sorts of tourist spots there now. Where's your car, Malcolm?'

       'Haven't you got yours?'

       'Came by minicab. More fun if we all go together.'

       It was certainly more crowded than it might have been, but really quite pleasant in the warm damp and the half dark. Charlie was comfortable enough in the back, with Peter's bulk next to his seeing to it that, although Malcolm's car was not particularly small, staying unbudged on corners was no problem. As number one, Alun had naturally secured the front passenger seat, and he was soon twisted most of the way round in it to push on with conversation.

       'Nightmare place back there, you know. Like a seaside boarding house hung with fairy lights and log-cabin music playing. Completely empty, of course, in fact no sign anybody had been there ever. A nice-enough female appeared and what could I have, well, I could have a cooked dinner, that's beef dinner or lamb dinner with cheese after, or I could have chicken salad, but you gets the Indian chutney-stand with that if you wants it, and pickled onions. And cheese after.'

       'As served in Chittagong,' said Charlie.

       'Couldn't I have a curry? No, sorry, it's only English till the evening. The Indian, he don't come on till six. She didn't like telling me, poor little thing. I rather cantankerously pointed out that it said Indian-Continental cuisine outside, which she agreed was the case. And then... _then__... I asked her who owned the joint, and oh, she looked bloody uncomfortable. And what do you think? Arabs own it. '

       There was a united cry of rage and disgust, given extra punch by the effect of the bump in the road that shook the car at that moment.

       'I mean my God,' said Alun, glaring seriously. 'Arabs owning airlines, Arabs owning half London you can sort of... But Arabs owning the Bengal Tiger Bistro in a clapped-out industrial village on the edge of a mouldering, rotting former manufacturing centre and coal port in a God-forsaken province, it makes you, well I don't know what it does, it makes you sweat. Or something.'

       'It's not only the province's fault,' said Malcolm. 'Perhaps not even chiefly.'

       'Nobody said it was, boy, nobody said it was.'

       Silence fell in the car. Malcolm drove it perhaps a trifle faster than his habit but safely enough, and they ran into little traffic. For some minutes Charlie dozed. When he woke up it was to hear Alun singing to himself in the front.

       'Was it little Nell whose nasty smell diffused general gloom?

       Oh no, it wasn't little Nell... '

       Anyone in a position to compare Alun's style of rendering these phrases with his effort on leaving Sophie's might well have noticed a falling off, a downturn in force and conviction. Charlie hardly took them in. It seemed to be shaping into one of his good days. The rain had stopped, or just as likely they had moved out of it as they approached sea level, and there was watery sunlight. Courcey came up on a signpost. Everything was peaceful and safe.