Aberystwyth Mon Amour

by Malcolm Pryce

  The land between Borth and Ynyslas is taken up by a golf course and we strolled gently between the rough of the links and the smooth of the ocean. Fifty yards ahead of us a lone figure could be seen tramping through the knee-high grass. His tattered army greatcoat and forlorn demeanour marked him out as one of the veterans from the war in Patagonia in 1961. We stopped walking and watched his slow, dreamy progress. Patagonia: the Welsh Vietnam. Even after a quarter of a century the scars on the collective heart had still not fully healed. Patagonia, a harsh tract of land on the tip of South America, a world of searing beauty and withering cold; difficult to find on an atlas and known only because Welsh settlers went out there in the nineteenth century. A story that began in adversity and ended in tragedy seventy years later when the Indians turned against them. It was a war of independence that soured a generation and left behind the legacy of the Vets: soldiers in a ghost army that haunted the lanes of West Wales. Each carrying in his heart the story of a military adventure that no one wanted to hear.

  He was looking for lost golf balls which he could sell for his evening’s meal. There was a sudden shout, a sharp crack, and the old soldier spun to the ground; felled by a golf ball. We ran towards him and from the fairway the party responsible for his misfortune came over at a more leisurely pace.

  He was sitting up rubbing his head when we arrived.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Myfanwy putting her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ the soldier said distantly. ‘Not the first time I’ve been hit by a golf ball.’

  As he spoke we looked up to watch the arrival of the golfers. There were five of them, although we could only see four because the fifth was inside a sedan chair. The Druidic crest at the front told us it belonged to Lovespoon. The first of the party to arrive was Pickel who cartwheeled towards us like a circus tumbler. Behind him came Valentine in tartan slacks, three-tone golfing brogues and a sleeveless diamond motif sweater over a floral pattern shirt. He was pulling a squeaking trolley. At the back of the group, standing by the sedan chair, was the school games teacher, Herod Jenkins.

  ‘I think he may be concussed,’ I said looking up.

  ‘Bloody idiot!’ Valentine spluttered. ‘I’ll give him thomething to be concuthed about. Tell him to move his arse tho we can get on with the game.’

  ‘He needs to rest a while.’

  ‘Not here he doesn’t.’

  Myfanwy spoke: ‘You should say sorry to him, you could have killed him.’

  ‘You can shut your mouth you little tart!’ said Pickel.

  ‘Why don’t you try and make me you smelly little piss-pot!’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I cried trying to wrest control of the situation. ‘This man is injured –’

  ‘Well he shouldn’t go jumping in front of golf balls, then, should he?’

  ‘Oh he jumped did he?’

  ‘Of course he did, didn’t you thee? He dived, tho he could make an inthurance claim or something.’

  ‘Does he look like the sort of guy who has insurance?’

  ‘Don’t you be fooled by him, I know his sort –’

  There was a sharp clicking sound and we all looked round to the sedan chair. A hand protruded through the curtains, like that of a Bourbon monarch. The hand waved impatiently and Valentine hurried over and poked his head inside. An uneasy silence ensued, broken occasionally by the sound of Herod Jenkins cracking his knuckles. I found myself unable to resist staring at him. Even after twenty years the sight of the man who sent Marty to his death on that cross-country run sent tremors of fear through my soul.

  Valentine returned and spoke to me. ‘Mr Lovethpoon extends his compliments and has asked me to remind you of the deadline we agreed for thunthet this evening. He says the thun thets at 21.17.’ Then, turning to the rest of the party, ‘OK, we’ll drop a thtroke and move on.’ They sauntered off.

  ‘Ooh they give me the creeps!’ shivered Myfanwy.

  The soldier sat up and crossed his arms over his knees. His coat was torn and stained and his hair long and matted, splaying out from beneath the famous green beret.

  ‘Thanks for your help. My name’s Cadwaladr.’

  ‘Louie and Myfanwy.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, the singer. I’ve seen the posters.’

  Myfanwy smiled. ‘Are you feeling all right now?’

  ‘Oh sure. It was only a little knock.’

  ‘It sounded pretty loud to me,’ I laughed.

  ‘No, no. It was nothing. It was the hunger that did it, y’see. I fell over from weakness, not because of the golf ball.’

  There was a moment of puzzlement until we realised that the old soldier was staring longingly at the hamper.

  ‘Of course!’ I reached inside and broke off a chicken leg and handed it to him.

  ‘No no!’ he protested. ‘I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t dream of taking your picnic.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Myfanwy, ‘honestly it is!’

  ‘Yes, please be our guest.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he insisted, ‘I won’t hear of it; although if it’s all the same to you I wouldn’t mind just trying the chicken to remind myself what they taste like. It’s been so long you see.’

  Myfanwy and I exchanged glances.

  ‘Well, I suppose here is as good a place as anywhere.’ We dragged the hamper off the fairway and up to the top of one of the dunes. Then we found a sandy spot with a commanding view of the ocean and began our picnic. Cadwaladr ate with the hunger of one who no longer has to worry about keeping the wolf from his door, because the beast has grown so thin you can fend him off with a stick. Chicken and bread, champagne, strawberries, ice cream and gateaux, it all disappeared.

  ‘That Welsh teacher,’ said Myfanwy after she finished eating, ‘he really thinks he’s something.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s because he is something. Grand Wizard on the Druid council, head-teacher, prize-winning poet, scholar … war hero as well, so I hear.’

  Cadwaladr spat out a piece of chicken gristle. ‘War hero my foot!’

  We both looked at him.

  ‘I fought alongside him in ’61. I don’t remember him being carried around in a sedan chair then. He was just like the rest of us, a scared, skinny kid who just wanted to go home to his Mam.’

  ‘It must have been terrible,’ said Myfanwy.

  The old soldier nodded. ‘I was seventeen at the time, never been further than Swansea before, and then only to see Father Christmas. The thing I remember most is the cold. And the food – all that school potato.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘As a gesture of solidarity the school kids at home were going without their dinners so they could send them to us. Until we wrote asking them to stop.’

  He chuckled and took out a scrap of newspaper and some tobacco and proceeded to roll a cigarette.

  ‘Lovespoon won the Cross of Asaph, didn’t he?’ said Myfanwy brightly.

  The soldier nodded. ‘For sitting on his backside the whole war in a plane.’

  ‘He won it for the raid over Rio Caeriog.’ A shadow of pain passed across the soldier’s face on hearing Myfanwy’s words and she added quickly, ‘We … we … we did it in school.’

  Cadwaladr laughed bitterly. ‘I bet they didn’t teach you my version of it.’ He paused, as if about to recall the bitter events of those far-off times, and then thought better of it. He shook his head and said in a tone of remote sadness, ‘No, I bet they didn’t tell you that one.’

  He didn’t say any more and concentrated his attention on the cigarette. The rolling paper added a faint rustling to the sighing of the wind in the marram grass. We stared at the old soldier and Myfanwy gave me a helpless look, angry with herself for having mentioned the one battle that no one wanted to talk about. Rio Caeriog, a slowly meandering river in the foothills of the Sierra Machynlleth mountains. The most famous or infamous battle of the conflict. They said it was a great victory and handed out medals like sweets. But no one who came back ever wanted to talk about it.

 
; I started to pack away the remains of the picnic and Cadwaladr stood up.

  ‘Thanks for the meal, it was lovely.’

  ‘Where you going?’ I asked. ‘Maybe we could give you a lift.’

  ‘Don’t see how. Not unless you’re going nowhere.’

  ‘Just tell us where you’re going, we can drop you off.’

  ‘No, really, I’m going nowhere. As long as I don’t reach there too soon, I’ll be fine.’

  Myfanwy looked at me and I shrugged. ‘We’ll see you around anyway.’

  He nodded and then trudged off. We watched as he walked down the wall of stones to the sand and on to the water’s edge. Then he turned in the direction of Borth and followed the line of the sea; he didn’t look back.

  Half an hour later we were sitting on the veranda of Evans the Boot’s dilapidated wooden bungalow, drinking tea. The garden looked out on to the estuary and was filled with bric-à-brac: a rusting child’s swing; an upturned boat with rotten planks; a swampy pond with an old pram in it; and a number of car tyres strewn around the spiky grass. A channel filled with slate-coloured water and a simple piece of wire strung between two concrete posts served as a fence. In the distance across the constantly sliding estuarial waters, was Aberdovey, that Shangri-la of restless Aberystwyth misfits.

  Surprisingly, given the temperament of the son she had borne, Ma Evans was a gentle and thoughtful lady: two soft grey eyes, a bun of fine white hair and a face worn with the myriad cares that came from bringing a rebel into the world alone. She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Nope. This time it’s different. He’s gone before, but this time it’s different, I can feel it.’

  ‘You mustn’t give up hope, dear,’ said Myfanwy.

  ‘You can’t fool me. A mother knows. I knew it as soon as the police came round. You know why? They were polite. First time in fifty years they’ve been polite to me. Called me “Madam”. I knew then something bad had happened to the boy.’

  Myfanwy picked up the tea pot and refreshed the cups. ‘That still doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘They had a special dog with them. Wanted to put it in his bedroom. “What for?” I said, “you’ll frighten the cat.” They said it was a whiffer dog or something. Had a very delicate sense of smell. “Well, you don’t want to be sending him into my boy’s room then,” I said, “the pong in there!” Well, of course they wouldn’t listen to me. I wouldn’t let them but they had a warrant, so what could I do? That was a novelty as well, going to the trouble of getting some paperwork. So they send the dog in and he’s sick. Wouldn’t go back neither, just sat in the garden howling. So then they went themselves. Should have seen them when they came out. Green as Martians, they were.’

  She enjoyed a mild snicker and sipped her tea. Then she opened her handbag with a snap and pulled out a scrap of purple cloth.

  ‘They found this under the bed. They put it in a plastic bag and gave me a receipt for it. “Suspected tea cosy”, it said. “He’s never been involved in anything like that,” I said. “That’s for the judge to decide,” they said. Then they went.’

  I took the cloth and looked at it.

  It was just a scrap of wool, about the size of a postage stamp.

  ‘I suppose you know your son had a few enemies?’

  She snorted. ‘Bloomin’ millions. If it wasn’t for Myfanwy coming round here once in a while, I don’t think we’d ever see another human face. We’re not a very popular family –’

  ‘Now don’t go saying that,’ interjected Myfanwy.

  ‘Ha! you don’t have to waste any time trying to fool me. I know the things they say.’

  ‘What do they say?’ I asked.

  ‘You know very well. Don’t you go teasing me. They say I’m a witch.’

  Myfanwy gasped and put her hand to her mouth. It fooled no one. Everyone knew Evans the Boot’s Mam was a witch.

  ‘Are they right?’ I joked.

  She pulled a face as if trying to dismiss any significance that might attach to her words. ‘Well, as you know, if a young girl’s in trouble and she doesn’t want her parents to learn of it, she can always come here for some advice, and maybe a few herbs if you know what I mean. But that hardly makes you a witch now does it?’

  Myfanwy sympathised. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s not like I use a knitting needle. Just a few boiled leaves, no harm in that.’

  ‘No different from aromatherapy,’ said Myfanwy.

  ‘And then there’s the runes. I do a bit of translating, now and again, you know. Nothing fancy of course.’

  Myfanwy turned to me. ‘Mrs Evans is the best rune-translater for miles around.’

  She nodded to the chimney breast where a piece of framed runic script hung decoratively over the mantelpiece. It made my mind wander back to those desolate Friday afternoons in the third year when the double-period of rune composition made the time until 4 o’clock seem like a life sentence.

  ‘She used to translate for the County,’ Myfanwy added.

  I smiled at Mrs Evans but she waved the compliment aside.

  ‘Or if someone can’t sleep,’ she continued, taking care not to overlook any piece of evidence against her, ‘well I know a few herbs which can be useful there, too, don’t I?’

  ‘And they call you a witch just for that!’ scoffed Myfanwy.

  ‘And there’s the love potions, of course, and the Saturday mornings at the Witches’ Co-op. But only on the till.’

  Myfanwy scoffed again. ‘No different from working in the sweet shop. Mrs Abergynolwen works on the till on Wednesdays, too.’

  Ma Evans spat in contempt. ‘Mrs Abergynolwen! She doesn’t know her mandragora from her henbane!’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Myfanwy soothingly, ‘you shouldn’t let them call you a witch. I’d put a spell on them if I were you.’

  ‘Oh I do! You should see the rash I give ’em! All over – like spotted dick. All I need is a bit of their clothing, or something they’ve touched. Menstrual fluid and nail clippings work best; or sometimes Julian brings me a vole and I can –’

  The cat jumped up from within the house on to the window frame and mewed.

  ‘No not you, I was just talking to Myfanwy.’

  Julian mewed again.

  ‘I didn’t! I just mentioned your name! I was telling her about the voles.’

  The cat made a short exasperated mew and leaped back into the house.

  As we walked back along the dunes, the sky in the west became molten and the far-off windows of Borth burned with golden fire. The heat of the day had slipped away, and the rising breeze had a sudden chill edge to it which brought goosebumps to Myfanwy’s back. We quickened our step and I reflected on the extra significance that today’s sunset had acquired. Why hadn’t I just told them I didn’t know what they were looking for? I began to regret having been so cocky with them.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink,’ said Myfanwy.

  ‘Don’t you have to work tonight?’

  ‘I phoned in sick this morning.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a misery. Aren’t you having fun?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  I led the way across the road to the Schooner Inn. We sat on a sofa in the lounge and drank beer as the setting sun turned the windows to stained glass.

  ‘I’ve had a really, really, really lovely day,’ said Myfanwy simply.

  I nodded.

  ‘Later we can have fish and chips.’

  I said nothing and Myfanwy put her hand on my arm.

  ‘What’s wrong? You’ve gone all quiet.’

  I sighed and took a drink. ‘Do you know what has happened to Evans the Boot?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Haven’t you any idea at all?’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘After you left my office, some Druids came and ransacked it. I don’t know what they were looking for but they told me I had until sunset this evenin
g to give it to them.’

  ‘What will they do to you?’

  I shrugged. ‘You know their methods.’

  She twisted a beer mat between her fingers. ‘And I’ve got you into this. I’m such a cow, I should never have involved you.’

  ‘What could they be after?’

  ‘Louie, I really don’t know what it could be.’

  A glittering drop of rain spattered against the window.

  It must have been just after midnight; the rain was sluicing down from the sky in torrents and we took cover beneath a coat from the back of the car and ran across the street to my office. Once inside I went into the kitchen to fetch the bottle of rum and two glasses. When I returned to the office Myfanwy was standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

  ‘Mmmm … how many poor girls have you undone in this room?’

  ‘Not many.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me you wicked man.’

  ‘No honest.’

  ‘You’re a private detective, you must get women throwing themselves at you all the time.’

  I laughed. ‘In Aberystwyth?’

  ‘You surely don’t expect me to believe you?’

  ‘It’s up to you.’

  She disappeared into the bedroom and I followed her in. She sat down on the bed and ran her hand across the covers, and then stopped with a puzzled look on her face. We both looked across to her hand, which was resting on an odd-looking mound in the duvet. Gingerly she pulled back the covers, her expression deepening from one of puzzlement to fear and then, as she let out a long, shrill, ear-piercing scream, to one of horror. Lying on the pillow, in a dark sticky pool, was the head of a donkey.

  Chapter 6

  ‘HERE YOU ARE, Mr Knight, my multi-vitamin special to pick you up.’

  I took the ice cream and wandered disconsolately along the Prom in the direction of Eeyore’s stable, the donkey’s head in a cardboard box under my arm. Sospan had said I looked tired and it was hardly surprising really. Friday night had been spent in the police cell. And last night, after I had calmed Myfanwy down and driven her home, my attempts at catching a few hours’ sleep met with little success. And when I did finally manage to fall asleep shortly before dawn, I had slipped into the nightmare which has visited me, on and off, for the past twenty years. A cold, rainswept late Friday afternoon in January, the light fading so fast behind the lowering cloud that it is almost dusk, and there’s still half an hour to go before the last school bell. The world is a symphony of greys: slate sky, grass the colour of the sea in winter, the mobile classrooms and metalwork blocks discernible only as black shapes containing yellow postage stamps of warm, yellow light – the light from which we are exiled. Reaching into the sky the white totemic masts of the rugby posts. And walking towards me through a herd of muddy boys in rugby jerseys is Herod Jenkins. I don’t know why, among all the many episodes of misery, it is always this one that haunts me. Why, for example, it is not the terrible day when Marty went off on that cross-country run and didn’t return. Or why it isn’t that time in the summer downpour when Herod ordered the other boys to bowl cricket balls at me and to aim for my nose. But it is always this particular scene: that cold, rainy January afternoon when he walked towards me through the jeering boys and said, ‘Come on then, son, do you want some?’ And I was faced with the Hobson’s choice of trying to take the ball off him and suffering the battering which that would entail, or of disobeying him, which was even worse. ‘Come on then, son, do you want some?’ As the kids jeered and Herod’s face widened with that horizontal crease he called a smile.