Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth (25 page)

‘What did come next?’

He opened his hands and looked through them at me. ‘I can’t tell you; my lips cannot utter it. All I can say is this. If I was that angel, I would never have gone back.’

THE DESK DIARY said today was the shortest day: the moment the tide of light changed from ebb to flow, the highwater mark of night. It must have been tough working it out in the days before desk diaries, but nothing was more important. They had good reason to fear the dark, huddled together for warmth in their wooden halls. It was full of terrors. The evil men who had been cast out from the bosom of society and lived in the dark forests grew leaner and more desperate; travel was treacherous. Malevolent spirits, incorporeal, came out at night and waltzed through the wooden walls and locked doors and took away whoever they wished. No one was safe, but the old people, those whitebeards over twenty-five, had most to fear. They sat awake at night, too frightened to close their eyes; sleep, the one balm, now a Judas. They huddled together and threw great logs of oak onto the fires and licked the grease from their fingers. They put their best priests on the task of measuring the lengthening night; augurers who divined the year’s pulse in the sweat of the gravedigger’s brow, and the fat on the ribs of his children. When they pronounced the moment had arrived, the morning after the longest night, it meant the worst was over; the time had come to bring in the Yule log, and to wassail. You had passed the halfway mark, there was hope. You could maybe make the long run in till spring. All you had to do was get to the end of the shortest day. Piece of cake.

*     *     *

Myfanwy was leaving.

She stood in the middle of the office, as if reluctant to come in too far, anxious not to make it last longer than necessary. She did not want a cup of tea.

‘I think it’s best this way.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’ll be leaving on the bus to Shrewsbury tonight, after the carol concert.’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll stay with my auntie. Maybe I can help out in the shop – you know, start a new life.’

I sat at the desk, resting my head on the palm of one hand. I felt grimy and unwashed, unshaved; mouth filled with old beer; teeth gritty with old rum and not enough food. My head ached. I dragged my head up from staring at the desk and said, ‘Help out in the shop? That’s a great idea.’

‘Don’t make it difficult, Louie.’

‘You’re a singer. Your place is in Aberystwyth . . . singing. We need you.’

‘I just don’t feel I can do it any more.’

‘You can’t go.’

‘Please don’t try and stop me; you said you would never stand in my way—’

‘When did I say that? I never said that.’

‘In the caravan.’

‘I said I wouldn’t stand in Calamity’s way.’

‘Because you love her?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you don’t love me.’

‘Myfanwy, what’s happened?’

‘Tadpole has explained everything. I—’

‘Tadpole!’

‘Please don’t make this harder than it is. You needn’t try to explain.’

‘There’s nothing to explain.’

‘No one’s to blame, these things happen. It’s not a crime to fall in love.’

‘It ought to be if this is what you have to deal with.’

‘I hate it when you get like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Bitter and dark.’

‘You’re walking out on me, what did you expect?’

‘I think that’s a bit rich in view of what you did. Oh, don’t say anything, please! I don’t want it to be like this. I didn’t come here to end in recrimination. It’s not your fault, I know. She told me. Told me how it was, and that you never meant it to happen.’

‘Myfanwy, this is all fantasy. She only joined the nursing home a few weeks ago. She’s a screwball.’

‘Is she? I think she’s been very brave.’

‘Brave? Climbing onto the caravan roof?’

‘She let you go, Louie.’

‘How did she manage that?’

‘If only you knew how hard it was for her. You were the first man she ever loved, did you know that? If only you’d seen her, Louie, how noble she was to let you go like that, if you’d seen how much she cried.’

‘I’ve seen her cry. She does it all the time.’

‘But of course I wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Her cheek muscles quivered. ‘It’s no good, Louie. I love you and always will but I’m going to leave because it’s for the best.’ She turned her face away, towards the window, the drab morning light causing her eyes to glisten. ‘We can’t argue with the iron laws of fate.’

I stared, mesmerised, at the edges of her eyes, two soft lanterns in the darkness of my life. Pure, soft translucence. ‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Oh it’s too hard, I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ She wiped her hand roughly across her cheek, as if swatting a fly. The tears ran unheeding.

I sat, unable to think of the words to say, that might make her stay.

‘I just wish you hadn’t . . . I could forgive everything but that . . . just wish you hadn’t given them to her. That’s all.’ She turned to the door, with her knuckles digging into her eye.

‘Given her what?

‘M . . . my records.’

‘Huh?’

‘See! You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?’

‘But, Myfanwy, I d-didn’t. I’d never do such a thing!’

‘Don’t make it worse by lying, Louie. She’s got them all. And you’ve scribbled my name out and written hers on the l-l-label.’

Myfanwy ran out the door, slammed it behind her. High heels clattered down the bare wooden stairs. I stared at the closed door. I sat there strangely inert, drained of energy. I looked out at the garret across the road. The Pieman’s light was still burning. Maybe he would know what to do about Myfanwy. I put on my hat and coat. The phone rang.

‘I’ve named an inlet after you.’

‘Lucky me.’

‘In Greenland. Louie Knight Sound. Just below Van Hoegafhgaaerden’s Land, a hundred and fifty miles south of Ultima Thule. That’s what I do, you see. Name inlets.’

‘That sounds like my kind of job.’

‘Trust me, you wouldn’t like. There are so many of them, the whole coastline is perforated like the edge of a postage stamp.’

‘Couldn’t you have named it Louie’s Gulch?’

‘What’s a gulch?’

‘I don’t know, but all the tough guys get one named after them.’

‘It doesn’t sound very Greenlandy.’

‘Not to worry. I’m not feeling very tough today.’

‘How’s the case going?’

‘Oh, pretty good. It’s largely solved, just tidying up a few loose ends. I was going to send you a report in the new year.’

‘I’ll look forward to it. Any chance of a heads-up?’

‘It’s all very complicated and not easy to reduce to a few sentences, but I think we have narrowed the field of enquiry down to a couple of main theories. Theory 1: the dead Father Christmas was a former Mossad agent gunned down because of historical links with Odessa and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Or . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Or theory 2: he was just an unemployed guy who took a seasonal job and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and got gunned down; and all the rest is moonshine.’

‘Hmmm. Quite different sorts of theory. You seem to have covered both ends of the spectrum.’

‘It’s a special technique I’ve devised. Start with two theories, the mundane and the outlandish, then work inwards. Never fails.’

‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid eh? I loved that movie.’

‘We all did.’

‘Sure hope that part of the theory comes good.’

‘We’re all keeping our fingers crossed on that one.’

‘Must go now, I’ve got “thank you” letters to write. I’ll send you some more money for what you’ve done, and we’ll talk after Christmas.’

‘OK. Thanks for the inlet.’

‘It’s nothing.’

The line went click. I replaced the receiver with exaggerated care, anxious not to disturb the silence with an upsetting clack of Bakelite. I don’t know why. There was no one here to disturb. I sat and thought about that other guy I pity, the twin of the one who was weaned. He’s lying there staring at a bare ceiling. Nothing to look at except discolouration in the distemper.
A strange word that means a dog’s disease and cheap municipal paint. His teeth are in a glass on the bedside cabinet, next to the panic button. They keep him drugged because it’s cheaper than pictures or ornaments. Everything would be fine but for one thing: he’s not stupid. They haven’t found a drug that will do that yet. Or, rather, the ones that do can induce unacceptable side-effects such as euphoria and happiness. When the nurse puts her head round the door every morning he knows it’s only to see if he’s still alive. He can feel the impatience, like the chambermaid’s when you stay in your hotel room past noon. In front of other people she adopts a phoney cheery tone of voice, is nice to him in a patronising way. But it’s different when they are alone.

He feels like a dog being given a bath by a technician in an animal lab. In the periods of clarity he thinks of how things were many years before in Ynyslas. He digests the honeycomb of happiness gathered long ago and stored in his heart; subsists on it like a chick in the egg devouring the rich protein of the yolk; except he will never break out of this shell. Will fade away and dissolve to nothing in the sea of albumen. Sky, dunes, marram grass . . . A train like a tiny blue and green caterpillar far off crawls across the estuary, over a bridge of lollipop sticks and treacle; the estuarial waters glistening and sliding. The train glides without sound as in a silent movie towards Barmouth, along the coast, round the gentle curves, so close to the water you could lean out of the window and catch a fish. The train ducks into a tunnel and as it emerges into the bright summer sun the sea glitters and a party of heliographers in the lead carriage flash their mirrors in unison. He thinks of these things before the drugs kick in and the lids fall. He thinks of the sand dunes, the estuary, a girl with chestnut hair, chasing into the sharp, cold sea; hot breath of an embrace in the foam, her hair wet and sticky, goose bumps flickering along her salty arms . . . He winces at the sweet agony of remembrance, the gathered honeycomb of a life. She
was a nightclub singer, the one whom the whole town loved, but whom no one loved more deeply than he did . . . What was her name, now? The last ceiling he’ll ever see; the last human touch, visits from Nurse Tadpole. She comes in one day with a marker pen and unbuttons his pyjama top. She’s giggling, he can smell liquor. He watches, too frail to intervene, as she holds the thick pen like a child and draws on his old white belly. A smiley. Then buttons him up and walks out snorting with suppressed laughter. Is that how it ends? At least I’ve got an inlet. Myfanwy is leaving. It’s time to talk to the Pieman.

Empty pie boxes were strewn outside his door. I knocked and waited. I knocked again, listened, pressed my ear against the door and listened harder. I went in. A small attic room. Bare floorboards, a reinforced iron bed, a chamber pot filled with yellow liquid, an incident board, a camera on a tripod, and various darkroom paraphernalia. And a fat man was staring out of the window with his back to me. The incident board was similar to ours except for one significant detail: it looked like someone had thrown a fruit pie at it – raspberry or strawberry. But when I looked more closely I saw it was not a fruit pie but the Pieman’s brains. One side of his head was missing and on the other side, corresponding to it, was a hole. I was no expert but I’d say he’d been shot. At close range. I touched his clammy skin. It was colder than a bathroom floor in winter. A floorboard creaked and I spun round. Erw Watcyns was standing in the doorway.

He smiled. ‘Lousy weather we’re having, isn’t it?’ He walked into the room and looked around. ‘I’m glad I found you. I’ve been looking all over.’ He wandered round and pretended to be taken by surprise at the mess on the board, but he said nothing. It was too droll for words. He bent forward, peered at the dead Pieman and said to me, ‘What’s up with him?’

‘I don’t know. He hasn’t said a word the whole time I’ve been here.’

‘He’s probably shy.’

‘That’s probably it. I knew there’d be an explanation.’

‘Some folks are like that, they clam up in company, they don’t feel at ease in social situations. You shouldn’t hold it against him.’

‘I don’t.’

‘It’s psychological.’

‘That’s OK by me. A man has a right to remain silent if that’s the way he feels.’

‘That’s about the way I see it, too.’

‘Most people don’t understand. They encounter a silence and they can’t resist filling it. They don’t care what they fill it with as long as there’s some noise.’

‘You and me, we think alike. I’m a quiet type. I reckon if you don’t have anything worth saying it’s better to hold your peace.’

He peered closely at the hole in the Pieman’s head. ‘Yeah, I sure do like a man who can keep his peace.’ He touched the hole with his finger. ‘So what do you think you’ll be doing for Christmas? Going anywhere special?’