Last Tango in Aberystwyth an-2

by Malcolm Pryce

  Chapter 8

  I walked down the dimly lit, green-tiled corridor in a pair of paper socks given me at the door and a one-piece paper suit that rustled softly as I went. I had no keys and no watch and no coins and nothing made of metal nor any material that could be filed to an edge or moulded into something that could be used to bludgeon with. If the guards could have taken my fillings they would have done. I was thirty feet beneath ground level, under the castle, in a suite of rooms designed by Owain Glyndwr for people he didn't like. I was on my way to see Dai the Custard Pie.

  It felt more like a hospital than a prison, the faint smell of disinfectant and a distant generator hum emphasising the otherwise total silence. Only the elaborate electronic locking of the huge steel doors made it clear that it was a prison. But perhaps at this end of the spectrum of penal incarceration there was no real difference. The psychologists might spend their lives trying to disentangle the Gordian knot of hate, insanity, malice, neurosis, psychosis, intent and irresistibility, genes and environment that made up the peculiar evil of men like Custard Pie, but whatever their conclusions you still needed a strong door on the room.

  Thirty feet beneath the town; a tomb of steel and concrete that was fitted out like an ICBM silo and manned by guards who underwent the same psychological testing to get the job. Going to see a man whom I was responsible for putting here and who I knew would never talk to me. But all the same, for the sake of the Dean — way out of his depth in the maelstrom of Aberystwyth and maybe already dead — I had to ask.

  The Dean, like thousands of misguided fools before him, had dreamed of becoming a clown and then leaped into the abyss in an act that suggested that he already was one. And there was no one in all of Wales who knew more about the psychopathology of the clown's mind than Custard Pie.

  I don't know what I expected, but I was shocked when I saw him. He stood just a couple of feet away from me, a wall of bars from floor to ceiling separating us. He stared with eyes glittering crazily above the leather muzzle they had forced him to wear. He wore a bright orange prison-issue boiler suit and underneath it a knitted tank-top over a paisley pattern shirt. He smelled sour and unwashed; his fingernails were a couple of inches long and had started to turn yellow and curl. Most upsetting of all, the floor of his cell was littered with excrement. I turned in disgust to one of the guards who sat a few feet away playing Solitaire.

  'It's OK, mate,' the guard said. 'They're not real. They're fake ones, like in a joke shop.'

  'You allow people to give him things like this?'

  'He makes them himself.'

  'But the regulations?'

  'Regulations against most things but there's not one against making fake poo.' He returned his attention to the cards and I looked at Custard Pie. The last time we had met we had been dropping through the incandescent white clouds, flying in low towards the lake of Nant-y-moch.

  'I know why you're here,' he said in cold monotone devoid of any inflection or feeling. 'You're looking for the Dean.'

  'You're well-informed.'

  'There's nothing that happens in this town I don't know about. The only thing I don't know, in fact, is why you think I will help you.'

  'He may have gone to join the clowns.'

  'Of course he's gone to join the clowns. But why should I help you? The man who took away my liberty?'

  I looked at him and considered. 'He threw away forty years of scholarship to go and get his arse slapsticked all day in front of a jeering crowd. Most people wouldn't understand what drives a man to do something like that. I certainly wouldn't. But you would.'

  'So?'

  'So you could probably find him. You could predict his next move better than anyone else in the whole world. It would be a feat of such audacious brilliance that I thought an egotist like you wouldn't be able to resist.'

  A contemplative look appeared in his eyes. 'As a project it would not be without interest. I might even enjoy it, but what of it? I have passed the stage of doing things for the sake of enjoyment.'

  'With your genius for understanding the comic mind —'

  'Or even the deranged comic mind —'

  'If you say so.'

  'Tell me, Louie, do you think I am mad?'

  I hesitated.

  'Or are you smart enough to see the sadness where others see madness or badness?'

  'All I see are good guys and crooks. I don't need it any more complicated than that.'

  'Oh but you do, Louie. You do.' His voice took on an insinuating quality that suggested that he had thoroughly examined my psyche and found it wanting. 'You do. That's your curse. I know you, Louie. I know that sometimes you lie awake at night and try to fight off this monstrous thought that just won't be driven away. How can we really be held responsible for our actions? Whether it is nature or nurture that fashions us it makes little difference, does it not? Give me the child for seven years and I will give you the man. Can I be blamed for becoming what I became? For what I had no power to avoid becoming? And if not, how can you justify punishing me?'

  I smiled. 'Maybe. And maybe not. But if you helped save the Dean no one could argue about the Tightness of that.'

  'Are you really such a fool that you think he can be saved? Yes, I can find him and send him back to his college to spend another twenty years marking essays, but do you really call that saving? Some people might call it the opposite. They might say only now is he truly saved.'

  'Except that his new world won't make him happy. It may even kill him.'

  'You're right. There is no happiness for him now. He has entered the world of the clown and discovered to his dismay that, laugh as he might, there is nothing funny about it. Nothing at all. We huddle round the camp fire and laugh merely to drown out the howl that comes in the night. Save the Dean? Louie, I can't even save myself.'

  I waved to the guard; the interview was over and had accomplished about as much as I imagined. As I walked away the prisoner hissed a word. I stopped and he hissed it again. Three words, or four. I turned and he said, 'The girl! Suffer the girl to come to me!'

  My brow furrowed. 'Which girl?'

  And then he flung himself at the bars like a furious caged beast and rattled and kicked them and screamed, 'Calamity! Calamity! Calamity!'

  As I climbed the steps up to the street level I could hear far off from the depths of the dungeon the sound of a wolf howling.

  There was a message waiting for me when I got back, from Llunos asking me to go down and bail Calamity. I groaned. This was the third time in six weeks, and I knew I'd just about run out of favours. It had taken me ages to explain to his satisfaction how I came to be in that cupboard at the Rock Wholesaler's.

  A little hole had appeared in the threadbare woollen jersey of cloud, and a disc of light bathed the length of the Prom from the castle to the harbour. The railings and chrome bumpers of the cars sparkled. Eeyore was leaning against the kiosk, reading to Sospan from a book. He closed it when I arrived and greeted me.

  'He's been telling me about Sitting Bull,' said Sospan. 'Very interesting man. What'll you have?'

  'What's good this week?'

  Eeyore held up his ice.

  'Flavour of the month,' said Sospan.

  'Looks like chocolate.'

  'But it sure doesn't taste like it. It's Xocolatl. The original Aztec recipe. That flavour dispensed elsewhere on the Prom under the name of chocolate is but a vulgar abasement.'

  'What's in it?'

  'Cocoa, pepper, chillies, vanilla, honey and dried flowers. They used to drink it out of a golden beaker that was used once and then thrown in the lake.'

  'Are you going to introduce that system?'

  'I've no objection so long as you bring your own cup.'

  I ordered and when it arrived Eeyore and I chinked cornets like they were mugs of beer.

  'So what's with the book, Pop?'

  Eeyore placed his hand on it and said, 'Medicine Line.'

  'Oh yeah, what's that?'

  'It's
a concept from the Old West, you see. From the old days when there weren't any frontiers and things. Apparently they had this team of men who crossed the continent surveying the boundary between America and Canada and marking it with little cairns of stones. When the Red Indians asked them what they were doing they said they were making medicine for Queen Victoria, the Great Mother across the Ocean. That's what I was reading about.'

  'So what's so interesting about it?'

  'Well, the funny thing was, them Indians weren't all that impressed at the time - little piles of stones ... it didn't seem like powerful medicine at all. But when they went horse-stealing south of the border the following spring, they made an amazing discovery. They found that when the sheriff and his men chased them the posse stopped up short at the piles of stone and couldn't pass. It was as if there was a glass wall there or something. For the life of them, those Indians couldn't see what was stopping the lawmen, but they had to admit the Great Mother across the Water had heap big powerful medicine. They called it the Medicine Line. That's where Sitting Bull took them after the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Up beyond the Medicine Line to Canada where they'd be safe.'

  'That's a nice story, Dad.'

  'I was just saying to Sospan, I reckon a lot of people in this town have medicine lines inside their heads.'

  'I don't get you.'

  'You know, they live their lives penned in by fear — never get to know more than a tiny part of who they are ... never realise the things that distinguish a man in this life lie wrapped in danger and wonder in the continent beyond the line.'

  'I've never really thought about it like that,' I said. And added, 'But I wish someone would put a medicine line round Calamity!' I put some money down, gave Eeyore's shoulder a squeeze, and walked off in the direction of the town lock-up.

  It was still only late afternoon but the cell was full with the usual smattering of drunks, handbag thieves, black marketeers and an old lady who looked out of place. Calamity sat at a small table playing cards with a stoker. He was sitting in a singlet, anchors tattooed on each bicep, and, neatly folded on Calamity's side of the table, was his shirt. Calamity dealt with a stern businesslike mien and he stared at the cards, mesmerised like a child being shown a conjuring trick. It was five-card Ludo which meant he would soon be losing his ship as well, because although he was cheating there was no way on earth he could cheat better than Calamity. No one could.

  The warder jangled the keys and let her out.

  'Thanks for bailing me! Where did you get the money?'

  'Out of your salary for next month.'

  'Hmm. Maybe it's better if I stay inside.'

  'Do that and you don't get a salary at all. And give the man his shirt back.'

  'But I won it fair and square! By the rules.'

  'You don't even know what the rules are! What do you want with a dirty old sailor's shirt anyway?'

  'Merchandise, Louie. For every object there's a buyer, it's just a case of bringing them together.'

  I smiled and said, 'Go home and arrange a deal between your head and the pillow. We've got an early start tomorrow.'

  Chapter 9

  The train rolled gently to a halt at Borth station. The platform was empty except for a lone figure standing in the dawn mist. The figure of a man with a suitcase, a man who had once been a clown's Johnny. Calamity, eyes bleary with sleep, yawned like a small hippo.

  The man walked down the platform and climbed aboard, the clunk of the door the only sound disturbing the early morning stillness. The guard shouted and the diesel grunted and strained and slowly pulled us out of Borth towards the bright sky in the east.

  Bert spotted us and sat down in the seat in front. 'This isn't what we agreed on the phone,' he said over his shoulder. 'I thought I said come alone.'

  'Calamity's my partner.'

  He turned to look, his face creased with suspicion. 'It'll cost extra, another person and all that.'

  'No it won't,' I snapped. 'Just stop moaning.'

  He made a half-hearted attempt to rise and leave but it convinced no one. 'I don't have to do this, you know.'

  'Who does? Just get on with it.'

  The train picked up speed and glided soundlessly through the wide watery silence. Condensation dripped in icy streams down the inside of the window and, outside, the world seemed to be taking a lie-in. The sun glimmered through the lemon mist above the estuary like a nightwatchman's lantern. Patches of water in the peat glistened and looked as if they had been cut out of the sodden turf with a giant pastry cutter. To the west beyond the dunes the sea was silent. At times like this the sight of the estuary in all its beauty made the heart gasp and long to turn back, a last final coquettish trick from that old whore Aberystwyth. Like a lover who catches you with a packed bag, tiptoeing down the stairs before sunrise, and calls to you from the landing, looking like she used to all those years ago when you first met at the Borth Carnival dance.

  The rickety, tar-stained wooden bridge appeared out of the mist. We were approaching Dovey Junction, the great fork in the road for British Rail caravans. One route led north, hugging the rocky, castle-studded coast, the other went over the mountains to Shrewsbury. Bert pressed his face against the cold glass, straining his eyes to make out features in the soft misty world. 'Never thought I'd finally do it,' he said. 'Never, thought I'd leave like this, never in a million years ...'

  'Get used to it, pal,' I said, already tired of his moping. 'It's Aberystwyth not Monte Carlo.'

  At Dovey Junction we all stepped out on to the deserted platform and faced each other in a huddled group.

  'You got the money?'

  I nodded. 'You got the name?'

  He grimaced. 'No I don't have the name. I told you. All I got is the box-top.'

  'That's an expensive box of chocolates. Twenty quid.'

  'If you didn't like the deal you shouldn't have got on the train. You want to go and find her yourself, be my guest. There are only about ten thousand girls like her.'

  I took out the four crumpled-up fivers and straightened them out. He pulled out a piece of cardboard from his bag. We exchanged them. The cardboard had once been the top of a fudge box. And on the front, as always, a girl at a spinning-wheel in Welsh national dress. We all looked at it.

  'I don't go for that type, myself, mind. But there are plenty that do. The old professor couldn't get over her. Always staring at her and begging me to give him the box. "Isn't she a beauty?" he would say. Soon as he left I knew where he was heading. I've seen it before.'

  In the distance we heard the feeble lowing of the train from Machynlleth. The clown's Johnny shuffled his bag over to the edge of the adjacent platform, ready to jump aboard and swing north over the bridge to a better life. He turned to face us.

  'Well, so long then.'

  'Good luck.'

  One lone, broken man against the huge clear backdrop of mountains and sky.

  We caught the train back to Borth and took the bus outside the station, down the arrow-straight road that bisects the golf course, towards Ynyslas. On Calamity's lap was a bag from Peacocks containing the sort of coat that used to be popular with medieval Jews and that had now come back into fashion with druid assassins. Meirion said he thought it had something to do with the military. And in West Wales there is only one military. The Welsh Foreign Legion, famous or notorious depending on the way you looked at it, for the campaign to liberate the former Welsh colony of Patagonia in 1961.

  It was all more than a quarter of a century ago now, but for the army of broken ghosts that haunted the fields and lanes of West Wales the memory burned as fiercely as ever. Five minutes in a recruiting office above Boots was all it took to seal their fate — farm boys who'd never been further than Builth Wells rubbing shoulders with a rag-bag of foreign intellectuals, artists and soldiers of fortune. Five minutes to think of a nom de guerre that hadn't already been taken and sign your cross on the dotted line and head off to the Welsh Vietnam. Sorry there's no kйpi blanc — that fam
ous white pillbox hat worn by the heroes of Beau Geste — but here's a free knapsack of woe to carry for the rest of your life.

  For two miles the scene was the same, a long line of rolling dunes, unending and unchanging, fringed with tufted marram grass like a lion's mane. The eternal dunes that were really nothing of the sort. Under the coat of scrubby grass the sands were shifting and moving even as we spoke. Come back in a year and if you had a photographic memory you would be shocked at how much everything had changed. Compared to the geological slowness with which mountains altered their shape, the dunes of Ynyslas shifted at high speed: bubbling and boiling like the cloudscapes in time-lapse photography, or like the rippling sinews of a well-fed lion.

  When we reached the end we got off and walked past the man in the kiosk on to the wide flat sands of the estuary. A few cars were parked here and there was an ice-cream van with no one to serve. We spotted Cadwaladr outlined against the sky like a Red Indian on the ridge of the dunes; behind him the houses of Aberdovey across the estuary glinted like milk teeth left on a blue-green pillow.

  Calamity and I fetched some ice creams from the van and then walked to the top of the dune. Cadwaladr raised an arm in greeting and we sat down on the sandy top.

  'You live up here all the time?' I asked.

  'Until it gets too cold. Then I spend the winter being chased out of barns by angry farmers.'

  'Where do you sleep?' said Calamity.

  'Just a bivvy bag. That's all I need.'

  'But where do you keep your things?'

  'I haven't got any.'

  The ice-cream man had smothered the ices in a home-made raspberry sauce that scented the wind with a pungent tang.

  Cadwaladr sniffed. 'There's a smell that takes me back,' he said. 'Wild raspberries. It's the smell of spring in Patagonia. They used to grow everywhere.' His eyes misted over. 'Beautiful sight. At a time like that, even when you're a skinny seventeen-year-old, you don't half wonder about the point of travelling round the world to die in such a beautiful place.'

  'And then you come home and there's not even a bed for you to sleep in.'