Читать книгу Singing the Sadness - Reginald Hill - Страница 11

Beryl was right. Mirabelle in particular wanted to nail Joe to the floor till she’d finished quizzing him, and in the end he had to do a runner in mid-sentence, and even then he was late getting into the courtyard.

An old red pick-up was being revved impatiently on the cobbles, shedding a shower of rust with each vibration. Joe climbed into the passenger seat, apologizing profusely and trying to keep as much distance as he could between himself and the snuffling Williams.

Then he was hit by something soft on his left side, and Bronwen’s voice said, ‘Shove up, won’t you?’

Rev. Pot could have made a sermon out of the competing claims of the yielding warmth of Bron’s haunch on the one side and the hard angularity of the handbrake on the other, but both sensations were rapidly relegated to the realm of the inconsequential by the furiousness of Dai’s driving. Alongside him, Jehu was a slouch.

The hedgerows were so overgrown that there scarcely seemed room for one vehicle, yet soon they were hitting fifty which felt like eighty in these narrow winding tunnels.

It took Joe three mouth-moistening attempts to say, ‘Know I was late, but I ain’t in this much of a hurry.’

‘Hurry?’ said Williams, surprised. ‘Who says we’re hurrying?’

‘Your speedo for one.’

The caretaker took one hand off the wheel and blew his nose into what looked like an oily rag.

‘Round here you don’t drive by the speedo, Joe,’ he said. ‘You drive by the clock. Two minutes later and I’d be driving round this bend at two miles an hour.’

They took it on two wheels, or so it seemed to Joe. To his right he caught a glimpse of an open gate and a stampede of full-uddered cows about to emerge.

‘Ifor James’s beasts,’ said Williams. ‘Brings them to the milking parlour same time, spot on, every evening. You can put your life on it.’

‘Think we just did,’ said Joe, thinking nostalgically of the quiet pleasure of doing the ton down the Luton bypass in Merv Golightly’s taxi.

He contemplated drawing attention to a potentially fatal flaw in Dai’s road-safety strategy, to wit, the intrusion of strangers, but a sign saying Llanffugiol flashed by and thinking they’d soon be stopping, he held his peace.

It wasn’t a very big place but it seemed to have everything necessary to a not-very-big place, like a little shop, a little chapel, a little church, a little village hall, a little war memorial, and, the Lord be praised, a sizeable pub.

Only it was called the Grey Mare not the Goat and Axle. Also it was receding fast, as was a field full of marquees which must be the site of the festival.

‘Not going to the village pub, then?’ said Joe hopelessly.

‘No. More at home in the Goat, you’ll be, Joe,’ said Williams. ‘Your kind of people, see.’

The renewal of terror as they plunged back into a green tunnel prevented Joe from riddling this assertion. After what seemed an age, they drew up in front of a long single-storeyed building in leprous whitewash standing alone at a five-lane crossroads, and Joe climbed out with the unsteadiness of a round-the-world sailor finally hitting home.

‘Don’t know about you, boy, but I’m ready for a drink,’ said Dai, heading for the open door beneath a weatherbeaten sign proclaiming this was the Goat and Axle, prop. John Dawe Esquire.

A chorus of greeting swelled at his entrance, cut off as by a conductor’s baton when Joe followed.

‘Boys, meet Joe Sixsmith,’ said Williams. ‘You’ll have heard about the woman who got trapped in Copa Cottage last night. Well, Joe’s the hero who pulled her out.’

‘Bloody hot fire,’ said someone. ‘It’s grilled the bugger black.’

No one was given the chance to laugh as the tall barrel-chested man behind the bar, presumably John Dawe Esquire, brought his hand down on the polished oak with a crack that set the ashtrays jumping and said in a basso profundo, ‘Anyone thinks that’s clever can find another pub to drink in. Mr Sixsmith, you’re most welcome. Let me draw you a pint. And take heed, Danny Edwards, this is going on your slate.’

Edwards, Joe presumed, was the young man who’d made the crack.

He remained seated, looking resentful, and there were others who didn’t move either, but sat there either indifferent or neutral. Some – two or maybe three, he only got a fleeting impression of retreating forms – felt the need to leave as he came in, their exit marked by a sudden gust of rock music as an inner door opened then closed behind them. Joe hoped their exit was coincidence rather than comment, but his unease was soon dissipated in the unmistakably genuine warmth of the half dozen or so who crowded round to shake his hand.

They were all men in the bar. Bronwen had vanished, presumably heading straight for the source of the music. Certainly there was little here to attract such a bright young denizen of the modern era. In fact, Joe doubted if this particular bar had changed much in the past hundred years. Its small windows created perpetual dusk, which was no great deprivation unless you wanted a good look at the uncarpeted floorboards, the low ceiling stained with enough nicotine to dye a thousand lungs, or the dusty photos of depressed-looking men in stiff collars which crowded the flaking walls. Was sadness endemic in these parts? Joe wondered. Like one of them cancer clusters some folk reckoned existed round nuclear power stations. Or maybe some apparition of something bad that had once happened appeared from time to time and sent you plunging into the depths. Sights and sadness. He recalled the two odd ailments scratched into the sickbay locker’s paint. Perhaps there was a connection, cause and effect, the sights bringing on the sadness.

But the jollity of the chief welcomers quickly seemed to communicate itself to the others, and he began to feel that maybe there were worse places to be than sitting here among Dai Williams’s cronies, modestly retailing details of the Copa Cottage rescue to a continuo of admiring applause.

Even Danny Edwards had come out of his sulk and was showing a lively interest. At one point he turned to a neighbour and said something in Welsh. Instantly the landlord, who was addressed familarly as Long John, said, ‘English, boyo. Show some manners. We don’t have much to be grateful for, but at least the bastards gave us a common language to curse them in, isn’t that right, Glyn?’

His question was aimed at a slight pale-faced man in a corduroy jacket, sitting at one end of the bar, rather apart from the others.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘If they could have foreseen the communications revolution, there’s no way they would have been so keen to teach English to their subject races.’

He glanced at Joe as he spoke with an including smile.

Here’s another got me pinned down wrong, thought Joe.

‘Only did it ‘cos they were too thick and idle to learn anyone else’s language themselves,’ said Edwards.

‘Not sure about that,’ said Glyn, the pale-faced man. ‘I’ve heard from my language colleagues at the comp. that it’s often the settlers’ kids who are quickest and keenest at picking up the Welsh.’

‘That’s right,’ said someone else. ‘And if we’re so clever, why aren’t we in charge of our own country, that’s the question.’

Joe said, ‘Thought you were, this Welsh Assembly and all.’

There was a brief silence then Long John said, ‘Don’t let them blind you with their propaganda, Joe. They’ve got assemblies in schools, but it’s still the staff who run the show, eh, Glyn?’

Everybody laughed, except Glyn who said quietly, ‘Not all the time,’ which seemed to throw a bit of a damper.

Then Danny Edwards, who despite the earliness of the hour seemed well-liquored, burst into excited Welsh again.

Long John said sharply, ‘Enough of that, Danny. Why don’t you –’

‘All right, I’ll say it in English,’ interrupted Edwards. ‘Or is it what I’m saying, not the sodding language, that bothers you, John? What I say is, where’s this pussyfooting around getting us? Fires are all right, but they’re even better when they’re started by bombs. How do you think the IRA have got real power while our independence movement is still a bit of a joke? The English don’t pay you no heed till you start hurting them …’

Long John came in hard, this time in Welsh. Others joined in and for a while Joe found himself forgotten while a furious argument raged. He couldn’t understand a word, though body language suggested a majority against Edwards, but a fair minority with.

Finally Long John said, ‘Gents, we’re forgetting our guest. Joe, friend, I’m sorry, but you’ll understand, I’m sure. Same the whole world over, I guess, probably you’ve found it with your mates. Doesn’t matter how good your cause is, there’s always a little healthy disagreement about the best way to fight the enemy.’

Joe finished his beer. Wise move would be to nod sagely, then make an excuse and leave. Except that wisdom like that got a bit too close to cowardice. And he recalled the wisdom of his father – whom he didn’t remember – retailed to him via his mother – whom he did remember, just – never take sweets from strangers, advice from friends, or crap from any man.

That was his sole inheritance but it was worth a lot.

He said, ‘Something you maybe should know, Mr Dawe. I ain’t no downtrodden disadvantaged minority cause. If this enemy you’re arguing about hurting is the English, then this enemy is me. I’m a lot of things, time-served lathe operator, baritone, Luton Town supporter, PI, and you can stick English in front of all of them and I’ll not be ashamed. Now I reckon it’s time for me to go. I got a dinner date.’

He stood up. Another furious discussion broke out, as before in Welsh, but this time he did pick up a single phrase. Uncle Tom.

Definitely time to go.

Only a dignified exit wasn’t much help if it meant a long walk back along unfamiliar roads, with his legs wobbly from the combined effects of last night’s exertions, this evening’s confrontations, and three pints of Welsh bitter, there being no Guinness in the place.

He said, ‘Mr Williams, thanks for the hospitality. Does it run to driving me back?’

On second thoughts, memories of the journey here rising through the beer, maybe he’d be better off walking.

More jabbering. Then Williams said ungraciously, ‘Can’t have you hanging round here, that’s for sure. But I’ve got some business will keep me. I’ll see if Bron can take you back.’

He went to a door almost invisible in the dreary wall, opened it to admit a blast of rock, and yelled, ‘Bron!’

The girl appeared with a can of something in her hand. Her father spoke to her, she looked reluctant, he spoke again, she said, ‘Take it now, I get it tomorrow morning, right? All morning?’

‘Right,’ he growled handing her the keys.

She came towards Joe and said, ‘Hear you need a chauffeur.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Catch you later then, Joe,’ said Williams, suddenly conciliatory. ‘It’s been good talking to you.’

‘That’s right,’ said Long John. ‘Hope you’ll come again.’

They’d realized they were silly making a big thing out of this when I can’t have understood a word of what was said, thought Joe.

As he turned to the door, his mind as usual was seeking for the good exit line he would hit upon at four o’clock the next morning. As usual it didn’t come.

Then Danny Edwards said something in Welsh, the words incomprehensible but the tone of voice unmistakably derisory, and several of the others laughed. And now inspiration came.

Apart from a bit of French at school, Joe had never messed with foreign languages, not to speak anyway. But you couldn’t sing serious if you sang in nothing but English, and he’d developed an excellent aural memory for sounds and inflexions. The Boyling Corner Choir had prepared for their visit to the festival by learning ‘Men of Harlech’ in Welsh to impress the judges. First verse seemed pretty appropriate. He cleared his throat and declaimed:

‘Wele goelcerth wen yn fflamio, A thafodau tân yn bloeddio, Ar i’r dewrion ddod i daro, Unwaith eto’n un?’

Rev. Pot had once told the choir, ‘Silence is sometimes a better response than applause.’

As Joe walked out of the Goat and Axle, he knew what he meant.