Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth (8 page)

‘The name doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it? No one ever called me that. You all used to call me Tadpole.’ Her eyes watered at the memory and she stuck a pudgy fist into the socket and screwed it round. ‘Tadpole,’ she repeated and her mouth
became distorted into the shape of a figure-of-eight lying on its side.

I still couldn’t remember her but the sight of her pain, still vivid after so many years, made me squirm. ‘Oh, now I remember. I’m so sorry, kids can be very cruel, it shocks me when I think about it.’

‘You never cared about me at all.’

‘Oh, that’s not true. I really liked you.’

She looked at me. ‘Really?’

‘Of course. We all did.’

The hand shot back up to the eye and she began to cry. ‘Now I know you’re lying. You never cared about me. Maybe if I’d been called Hoffmann, that would have been different.’

I blinked in surprise.

‘That got you, didn’t it? Yeah, that got you.’

‘Did you say “Hoffmann”?’

‘Might have done,’ she snivelled.

‘Do you know something about Hoffmann?’

‘Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘I saw the ad in the paper. I don’t want your lousy books, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Tell me what you know.’

‘I used to nurse a man who had been a soldier in the war in Patagonia. They tortured him with an electric telephone generator. He used to cry out in the night, cry out the name “Hoffmann”. Bet you didn’t know that.’

‘No, I didn’t. Who was this soldier?’

Her face lit up in triumph. It was a small victory but I suppose people like Tadpole take what they can get. She minced off, seething with glee. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

I ran after her. ‘Look, Nurse Glenys, I’m sorry the kids in school called you Tadpole—’

‘That’s it butter me up, now I’ve got something you want.’

‘You saw the ad in the paper. You know I’m looking into the murder of Father Christmas. It was a shocking crime.’

‘Yeah, I know. They cut off his doodah and stuck it in his mouth. I know how that feels. But I don’t care about him.’

I sighed. ‘OK, Tadpole, if you don’t want to tell me, I can’t make you.’

She paused and considered for a second, then said with a sly edge to her voice,

‘I could take you to see him if you want.’

‘To see who?’

‘The soldier who used to cry out “Hoffmann” in his dreams. That’s if you give me what I want.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘I don’t want your lousy money.’

‘What do you want, then?’

‘A date.’

I looked at her in surprise, which she mistook for disdain. Her face crumpled up and the fist shot straight to the eye. Her voice rose to a whine. ‘See, I knew it. Just a lousy date and look at you . . .’

‘You mean, like dinner at the Indian or something?’

‘What’s the point? You can’t bear the thought of it, can you? It’s written all over your goddam face. I’m a leper, I know. Eugh! Look at him! He’s going out with stinky Tadpole!’

I touched her arm softly. ‘I’d love to. It would be great to catch up after all these years. We could have dinner and maybe go to the Pier afterwards for a dance. Would you like that?’

She smeared the tears away with the back of her fist. ‘That . . . that would be nice, but . . . but . . . there’s something else, something else I really want.’

‘Yes, what?’ I said with a cold feeling of dread. ‘Tell me what you really want.’

‘I want to go and see the new movie about Clip.’

‘YES,’ I SAID. ‘I will accept a reverse-charge call.’

‘Hold on, please. Go ahead, caller.’

Pause. Click. Rustle. Flustered breathing.

‘Oh, my goodness! What have I done? What have I done?’ said the Queen of Denmark. ‘I couldn’t find a coin. Can you believe it? My head’s on ten million of the damn things but there isn’t a single one in the palace.’

‘That’s OK, just keep it brief; international phone calls don’t come cheap.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was just wondering if you’d had any responses to the advertisement.’

‘Not many, I’m afraid.’

‘How many?’

‘Well, not any, actually.’

‘Oh dear . . . Do you think the newspaper will give us the money back?’

‘I would be highly surprised.’

‘Oh, dash it all. It cost forty pounds.’

‘I’m sorry but the problem is the reward. This philosopher—’

‘Kierkegaard.’

‘It’s not a great motivator.’

‘I suppose I’m a bit out of touch. What if I were to offer them a duchy or something? Or a bit of Africa – we’ve still got some somewhere.’

‘That might be interpreted as taking the mickey.’

‘You must think I’m a dreadfully silly old woman—’

‘Not at all. I think it’s great that you’re showing an interest.’

‘I really called because I was bored.’

‘Don’t you have anything to do?’

‘Opening a shopping mall this afternoon. How dull is that? My mum used to launch ships.’

‘You build ships in Denmark?’

‘Begging your pardon, Mr Knight, we are a race of seafarers. Have you never heard of the Hanseatic League? Where do you think the Vikings came from?’

‘Never really thought about it.’

‘Our boys used to come over in their longboats and whup your sorry asses. Oh, God! What have I said? I’m so sorry—’

‘There’s no need to be. I underestimated your nation – I thought you just made bacon.’

‘Despite our small size our influence on the world stage has been quite considerable. We invented Lego.’

There was a pause and then she burst out laughing. ‘Oh Lord! What have I said? I’d better get off the line and stop wasting your money. I’ll call you next week when you might have something for me.’

‘See if you can find some coins next time.’

‘I’ll get some specially minted.’

‘Did the Danes really invent Lego?’

‘Stop teasing.’

‘I’m not, I was just thinking about the reward in your ad. Forgive me for saying this, but Lego’s a lot more popular in Aberystwyth than the works of Kierkegaard.’

‘You think it would make a better reward?’

‘I think so.’

‘My God, what a brilliant idea. We could offer the centenary set.’ She hung up.

I left the receiver cradled against my cheek and watched Calamity. She was writing out index cards with a marker pen, a frown of deep concentration on her face; acrid inky fumes surrounding her in a cloud. She wrote ‘Dead Santa, name:
Absalom’ on one and pinned it to the incident board. She wrote ‘Butch Cassidy’ and pinned it to the board. She followed that with the ‘Queen of Denmark’, ‘Rocking-chair Man’ and ‘Emily’.

She felt my gaze on her and looked across. ‘Every scrap of information has to go up because you never know which ones are the significant ones. If you just concentrate on what you think is important you often overlook the crucial stuff.’

‘Is that so?’

She slapped the Pinkerton manual. ‘It’s all in here. Incident-board tectonics. It’s a new science.’

I nodded. ‘Makes me wonder how I survived all these years without that book. Where did you get it, anyway?’

‘Eeyore gave it to me. He got it from the police library.’

‘I didn’t know he was still a member.’

‘He isn’t. It’s a rarity, this book. The man at the antiquarian bookshop offered me fifty quid for it.’

‘How did he know you had it?’

‘He asked me to get it.’

‘From the police library? What’s Eeyore going to say?

‘He gets fifty per cent. He needs a new manger.’

‘Is there a chapter in there on fencing stolen goods?’

Silence.

‘So what went wrong?’

Silence.

‘What happened?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why didn’t you get the fifty quid?’

‘I started reading it.’

I watched her work, aware of a strange feeling fizzing inside my chest. It wasn’t one of those feelings we easily find names for; none seems quite right. An emotion which, paradoxically, has a physical representation: pins and needles of pride. When I first met Calamity she was an amusement-arcade hustler, with
the bad complexion and glassy look that come from a troglodytic life spent in dimly lit caverns staring all day at fruit machines. She would have regarded a trip to the town library with about the same relish as dogs view their monthly bath. She was the sort of kid who was going nowhere and had it all mapped out. The sort you tend to look warily at when they congregate in groups, the sort you damn at first sight and regard as evidence that the world is going to pot. And yet.

‘You don’t believe in it, do you?’

‘I didn’t say that. If it helps you work, that’s fine. I keep my incident board in my head.’

‘It’s supposed to help you see the links and interconnections between the pieces of the puzzle. Things which aren’t obvious.’

‘I’ve got a guy in my head who does the links for me – he works the night shift.’

She pinned up another card.

And yet. And yet here she was: focused and determined. And with less cynicism than a newborn puppy. After removal from the amusement arcade her eyes had acquired a natural brightness; it would dim with the coming years, I knew, but it was still good to behold. Having her around was a tonic and I didn’t want to do anything to curb that bright heart. But sometimes I had to.

‘You do understand about what I said? Faxing the Pinkertons and that?’

‘Sure.’

‘I know you’re pretty excited about it, but really you can’t just dance off with a fresh piece of evidence and spill the beans – even to the Pinkertons.’

‘It’s all right. I understand.’

‘I mean, it’s not like they’re going to be interested or anything.’

‘It’s all right, Louie.’

‘I don’t like to stop you, but . . .’

‘Can we drop it?’

‘As long as you’re OK about it.’

‘You’re the boss, right or wrong.’

‘Honestly, Calamity, this time I’m not wrong. Who’s Emily, anyway?’

‘She rang earlier when you were visiting Myfanwy. She’s a student at the theology college in Lampeter. Apparently, everyone out there is pretty excited about the Kierkegaard books. She says she’s got information on the Father Christmas case.’

‘Really?’

‘He went to see her last week.’

‘Did you tell her the last student we had from Lampeter ended up with a “Come to Sunny Aberystwyth” knife between the ribs?’

‘I thought it better to gloss over that bit. Anyway, she’s not from the Faculty of Undertaking. She’s from Jezebel College.’

‘I don’t know that one.’

She consulted her notebook and said without understanding, ‘Comparative ethnography of the icon of the fallen woman in Cardiganshire.’

‘They study that?’

‘Seems so.’

‘Kids of today, eh? We never had the opportunities when I was young. What’s that roll of celluloid in the corner?’

‘Acetate film. Anti-glare coating for the incident board. A guy dropped it off here earlier.’

‘What sort of guy?’

‘Just a guy. He was a salesman. Left it as a free sample. He said it would work well on our incident board.’

‘In case you get snow blindness from staring at it.’

‘It was free, what are you worried about?’

I called Meirion at the
Cambrian News
and we arranged to meet at the museum in half an hour. I arrived early and stood for a while pondering in the gloom and enjoying the calm that fills the
soul in a world of musty linen, penny-farthings, and whalebone corsetry. Clip the Sheepdog stood mutely in his glass tomb, ear permanently cocked for the Great Farmer’s whistle. The dead Santa had been to see him and afterwards said his life was fulfilled. That had to mean something. Was it something about the dog or the war? The casual visitor could visit the town and leave without ever knowing about the war that had been fought in 1961 for the colony of Patagonia. It was one of those things kept hidden from view, a war no one wanted to talk about – the Welsh Vietnam.

The settlers left Wales in the middle of the nineteenth century to start a new life. They sent letters home complaining how hard and unforgiving the land was; wresting potatoes from the soil was like wrenching coins from a miser’s hand. And yet, paradoxically, when the war of independence erupted they spent three years irrigating the land with their blood, rather than surrender the colony. Some people saw it all as a monument to an essential truth about the human condition: to contrariness, or man’s deep-seated need to moan. But not me. For all the names of obscure battles we memorised in school, the campaigns and mountain ranges, the lamas and lamentation, the one image that has remained with me across the years is the strange story of their arrival on those far off shores. The story of the first day. The good ship
Mimosa
was anchored out in the bay, men were wading ashore; and one man – the perennial early bird – ran ahead and climbed a nearby hill to view the promised land. What happened next must surely have crushed their spirits and made them want to turn back. But emigrating in those days was a life sentence against which there was no appeal. Everything you had was sold to buy the dream, the one-way ticket; there was no surplus and no returning. You had to admire their guts; or their desperation . . .