Slow down, slow down
, Claire yelled inside her head. But Giles in
overdrive was not open to reasonable argument. She wanted to tell him about her
mother, but in his present state of drink-enhanced euphoria he wouldn't take it
in. And even when stone cold sober, hearing what she'd had to say—the
bitch—would only harden his determination.
As expected, her mother had
been stiff and resentful, so Claire herself had gone on the attack. "Mother,
why didn't you tell me he was dead? Why did I have to find out from the
solicitor?"
Elinor made an impatient noise.
"Because . . . Oh, look, we only found out the day we left. I mean,
really, what was I supposed to do, put it in a postcard from Greece? Weather
fine, old Rhys dead?"
Old Rhys. Claire's grandfather.
"Mum — I can't believe
this—he was your
father
."
A distant snort.
"I know, I know,"
Claire snapped. "But that doesn't alter anything, does it?"
"It clearly altered things
for him, if he's left his awful hovel to
you.
He only ever saw you once. I wonder what he did with his money."
"It seems." Claire
said icily, "that he left most of it to the Church."
There'd been a silence, then
Elinor gave her a short, false cackle. "Oh dear, do excuse me. It's simply
that the idea of God and my father discovering each other in that ghastly Welsh
backwater is rather too much to take at this hour of the night."
Claire had expected bitterness,
had been ready for some of this. But nothing as unpleasant as . . .
"What happened to his whores.
I wonder. Perhaps he was predeceased. Do you think he died alone and unloved? I
do hope so."
This is awful. Claire thought.
She knew her mother did not need the money. But she must, all the same, have
hoped for some token in the will, a sign that Thomas Rhys even remembered once
having a wife and a daughter ... as well as a grandchild.
"Did you—tell me the truth
now. Claire—did you ever go to visit him, you and Giles?"
"Of course not! I mean . .
." There had, it was true, often been times when Claire had felt
powerfully drawn to seek out the mysterious Judge Rhys. That tug of curiosity edged
with an undefined sense of guilt and longing, whenever she'd come across a
picture of Welsh mountains on some holiday brochure. And then there'd been that
electric moment when she'd first seen the village—a mere three months ago. but
it fell to Claire as if she'd known it all her life in some unexplored part of
her soul.
"Then why?" Elinor's voice
was flat and hard. "Apart from a desire to spit on your grandmother and
me. Why? Can you explain it?"
"No," Claire said in
a small voice. "Mother, look, I—I know you must be terribly hurt—"
"Don't patronise me,
Claire. I'm extremely glad the old swine's gone, I didn't want a penny of his
money and I shall be thankful when you've sold that damn house for as much as
you can get."
"Sell it?"
"Well you're hardly going to
live in it are you?" her mother had said.
"I've been thinking," Giles was saying. "Perhaps we
should make contact with a few of the local tradesmen — plumbers, carpenters.
Book them in advance. Sometimes guys like that
can be jolly hard to find in rural areas, and they need lots of notice. Then
we're going to need an automatic washing machine and all that. We shall have to
work pretty fast."
"Yes, but Giles . . . what
if the by-election goes ahead before probate's complete. There's no way round
that, you know. We can't let workmen into a house that isn't ours yet."
Claire somehow felt she had to
create as many obstacles as she could to counteract the awesome pull of the
village. To make sure that it was the right thing to do. that it really
was meant.
"Won't happen." Giles
said confidently. "No way there'll be a by-election until all the party
conferences are safely over. We're talking November at least."
Claire realised then that this
by-election could be quite a good thing after all. It would give them a trial
period to see if life in Wales really suited them. Trying to get the cottage
into some kind of shape and cover an election campaign at the same time would
be quite a testing experience. And if they realised they were making a big
mistake they could always come back here and either sell the place or keep it
as a holiday home—and feel grateful they hadn't burned their boats.
"I'll tell you one thing,
though," Giles said, leaning against the remoulded plaster of the
fireplace. "Those bastards tonight, my so-called colleagues. It's made me realise
how badly I want to get out of all this. It's a phoney life, a facade, just a garish
backcloth we think we can perform against. Not real at all. I mean, I can't get
on with those guys any more. Even Winstone - Christ, I thought he was a
friend." He shook his head with his mouth tight. Then he loosened up and
flashed Claire a grin. "What
have
you got on under there?" He tossed the phone into an armchair, threw off
his jacket and plunged at the sofa.
Claire let him pull the dressing
gown off her shoulders and suddenly quivered.
Nothing to do with Giles.
Something her mother had said was replaying itself. She hadn't realised at the
time, hadn't seen the significance. . .
left
his awful hovel to you. He only ever saw you once . . .
When? Claire didn't remember
ever seeing her grandfather. She'd always understood there'd been no contact
whatsoever since the day. two years before she was born, when Judge Thomas Rhys
had gravely announced that he would be returning to the place of his birth, but
his family would not be accompanying him. So when?
Excitement and dread combined
to make Claire shiver.
Giles moaned, lips tracking down her
bare shoulder. "Darling . . ." he breathed.
Chapter IX
Look," Miranda said. "I just don't see it. Why don't you come
back to bed?"
The sun had emerged, and
Miranda looked rosy and warm and inviting.
"I didn't expect you would."
Berry said, standing by the window, turning to look into the street three
storeys down.
"What counts is how I see
it." He gazed out towards the Thames. This building did not itself
overlook the Thames but you could see some other buildings which did.
"Well it certainly isn't
my idea of a dying wish or a last request or whatever," Miranda said. "To
make a last request you have to know you're dying. And from what you say. he
didn't."
At the hospital, the tired-eyed
young doctor on night-duty, jeans under the white coat, had said it looked like
a small stroke followed by a second, massive stroke. Happened like an
earthquake, or maybe an earthquake in reverse, a mild foreshock and then the
big one. Bip. bam! Good a way to go as any, better than most. And he'd had a minor
one before, had he? Say no more. Later, the cops had gone through the motions,
because of the way it happened.
"I'm gonna call
Giles," Berry said. "Maybe we can organise lunch."
. .
. Look, you put the arm on young Giles. Persuade him to get the bloody place
sold. Soon as he can.
"You were going to have lunch
with me, remember, if you were in town." Miranda pulled the duvet over her
breasts and went into a pout.
Shit, how was he supposed to
get this across?
"See, it's just . . . when
I first came over here I didn't know England from a hole in the ocean and ole
Winstone, he kind of initiated me."
"Is England so
complicated?"
"Minefield." Berry said.
He'd taken the job with the agency, American Newsnet, without thinking, in his
haste to get out. Mario Morelli's son guilty of unAmerican behaviour.
"The English National
Press, they were a club I didn't know how to join." he said. "I walked
in this bar one night and sat down and all these guys stared at me like I'd thrown
up on the table. After a while one leaned over and said out of the corner of
his mouth, "You do know you're sitting in Winstone's chair.'"
"I think I've seen that
film," Miranda said.
"So I apologised to
Winstone."
"As you would."
"And he became the first one
of them I really talked to, you know? I asked him a whole bunch of those
questions I didn't dare ask anyone else. By closing time he'd explained how
Parliament worked and all those British niceties. Why it isn't done to talk to
the Queen without she talks to you first, or label a guy a killer after he's
charged and like that. No big deal, but he saved my ass a few times, while
certain people stood around waiting for me to fall on it. He was always there,
anything I needed to know. He drank like prohibition was starting tomorrow, but
it didn't matter to him that I didn't join him."
"So long as you paid for his
I shouldn't imagine it would bother him in the slightest," said Miranda.
"You're endearingly naive sometimes, Morelli."
"The only other guy ever
spared the time to help me along was Giles," said Berry.
Stop
him. I mean it.
"Morelli," Miranda
said. "You're overreacting. If Freeman is loopy enough to want to throw up
his career to go and live in wildest Wales it's his decision. None of your
business. And if you think old-what's-his-name is going to come back and haunt
you, you must be even simpler than most of your race. Now come back to bed. I
warn you - last chance."
We're really not meant to be there, you know,
the English.
"How much of a
generalisation is it, that stuff about rugby and the Bible?"
"Wales? Who cares? It's
still an awfully long way from Harrods."
"You're a big help.
Miranda."
"Oh, you are a pain,
Morelli. Look. I haven't been very often. It's got lovely mountains and nice
beaches here and there. And in the south there used to be a lot of coal mines,
and Cardiff's fairly civilised these days but terribly bland . . .But, from
what you say, your friend is off to one of the primitive bits, about which I'm
really not qualified to comment. You know me and the primitive. Admittedly, there
are times for being primitive . .
Miranda put on her most
lascivious smile which, Berry had to admit, was pretty damn lascivious.
"Yeah, OK," he said.
"Maybe I'll call Giles later."
Chapter X
WALES
It was the third headline on the BBC Radio Wales news at 8 a.m.
". . . and Sir Maurice
Burnham-Lloyd, Conservative MP for Glanmeurig for more than thirty years, is
dead."
Guto Evans felt unexpectedly
nervous. He lay in bed and waited for the full report. By the time it came on,
he'd convinced himself that he definitely wasn't going to get the Plaid
nomination. Dai Death had been right: no chance.
The whole report lasted just
over one minute. After a summary of the high points of Burnham-Lloyd's career (Guto
wondered how they'd managed to pad it out to twenty seconds) there was a short
clip of the Secretary of State for Wales speaking over the telephone to the
studio.
". . . but most of
all." crackled the Secretary of State, "Maurice was a constituency man,
a farmer among farmers. He was always
deeply
concerned that people in London and in Brussels should be
aware
of exactly how their policies would affect a sheep farmer in
the heart of Glanmeurig."
Guto groaned, snapped off the
radio and pushed back the covers. "Mam!" he shouted, hearing the
clatter of a pan from downstairs. "Mam, no breakfast for me. I've got to
go out right away. OK?"
Bethan. He had to see her
before she left for school or he'd spend the day in a state of advanced
paranoia. Being a widow seemed to have endowed Bethan with a certain aura of
wisdom.