Singing the Sadness

by Reginald Hill

  Embarrassed, he raised an empty fork to his mouth and bit into it as if he were taking a mouthful of burger in Luton’s famous Grill & Burn It. Once when a stranger expressed concern about the meat’s provenance at the height of the BSE scare, Lulu, the ataxic waitress, had replied, ‘Relax, friend. When they killed the beast that provided this meat, they hadn’t invented mad cow disease.’

  Lewis caught his eye as he chewed on air and smiled as if in appreciation of the charade. Mrs Lewis was looking desperately into the casserole dish.

  The phone rang once more.

  Dai Bard pushed what little remained of his meal into his mouth and said, ‘It will be for me,’ with the certainty of one who knows the voice of God when he hears it.

  He went out. Everyone waited expectantly. This time there was no explosion and he reappeared after less than a minute.

  He looked almost happy.

  ‘Apocalypse now,’ he announced. ‘I told Mrs Pontin to check the other catering arrangements just in case. All cancelled. Except the greengrocer. He’s been told to deliver seven hundredweight of radishes and three cauliflowers. Thought it was odd but put it down to a lot of foreigners coming. Mrs Pontin is hysterical. I have to go. Thank you, Mrs Lewis, for a delicious meal. No, don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’

  He went. Distantly they heard the front door open and close.

  Lewis said, ‘Dai is at his best in a crisis which is perhaps why he sometimes gives the impression of wanting to cause one. Also he’s a fine poet. His bardic ode The Third Door will I think take its place among the classics of our literature.’

  Joe felt reproved for his uncharitable thoughts about the Reverend. He looked down at his plate and tried to feel ashamed. Mrs Lewis, perhaps misinterpreting his gaze, said in her quiet voice, ‘Won’t you finish off the casserole, Mr Sixsmith?’

  Seconds! Not for everyone, he gauged from the low level of the dish. Maybe this had been marked down for Davies and his early departure had put it back on the market.

  ‘Be a shame to waste it,’ said Joe fervently.

  She tipped up the dish and filled her ladle with all that remained which appeared to be another pair of the tiny lamb chops. Joe held out his plate. The ladle hovered over it.

  Then the door opened and Wain Lewis entered and slipped into the eighth place at the table.

  His mother froze.

  Joe often needed an icepack and a pocket calculator to work out a complex situation, but this one he grasped instantly.

  Morna Lewis had prepared precisely enough for eight and had decided that as her son hadn’t appeared by the end of the main course, he wasn’t coming.

  Joe wanted to withdraw his plate, but a drop of gravy was swelling on the end of the ladle and if he moved, it would fall on to the unblemished rosewood surface.

  Lewis said, ‘A little early for breakfast, aren’t we, Owain?’

  The gravy drop fell. Joe caught it, withdrew his plate, and said, ‘On second thoughts, better leave room for the pudding. That was real lovely, Mrs Lewis.’

  This got him the Audrey Hepburn smile.

  Wain said, ‘It’s all right, I’m not hungry.’

  Joe, who didn’t mind a sacrifice but hated an empty gesture, said, ‘Hi. I’m Joe Sixsmith. And if you’re not hungry, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.’

  The youth gave Joe a glance which said this wouldn’t surprise him in the least, but he accepted the plateful of casserole his mother offered him and began to pick at it with a fork as if determined to demonstrate his indifference to food.

  ‘Long time no see, Owain,’ said Fran the Man. ‘The States last year, and now you’re at university whenever we visit.’

  Wain looked as if he could bear the separation.

  ‘So how was America?’ enquired Franny.

  ‘American,’ said the young man laconically. Joe noticed he was eating his food in the American manner, fork in right hand, and guessed this was done to disoblige his father.

  ‘So what are you studying at college?’ Franny went on.

  ‘Sociology.’

  ‘Heavy,’ she said admiringly.

  ‘Not really,’ said Leon Lewis. ‘Basic second-class postage will cover carriage of a sociology degree if you follow the conventional route of applying to a mail order firm. Owain, however, for reasons best known to himself, has opted to spend three years on it.’

  His son, who did not acknowledge the sarcasm by so much as a glance, said to Joe, ‘You the big hero, then?’

  ‘Watch your manners, sir,’ thundered Lewis. ‘Mr Sixsmith is our honoured guest.’

  ‘Gotta be a first for everything,’ muttered Wain into his plate.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Joe. ‘Not so big. Not so heroic either. Just plain stupid really.’

  ‘Saving people’s lives is stupid?’

  ‘Didn’t mean to say that,’ said Joe. ‘Just that I acted before my brain got engaged, know what I mean? Thinking about doing something and being scared, then doing it, that’s brave.’

  Franny’s hand was squeezing his knee again, or maybe this time a few inches above his knee.

  ‘Now that is one of the loveliest things I’ve ever heard,’ she said. ‘Darling, why can’t you find me plays in which people say lovely things like that?’

  Fran the Man seemed to consider an answer but contented himself with a helpless shrug. Mrs Lewis started clearing the plates away. Joe observed with some amusement that despite her son’s claimed indifference, his was completely empty.

  A bread pudding which wouldn’t have made above two decent sandwiches was soon polished off. Then came coffee in an elegant silver jug, but Joe recognized the flavour as belonging to the supermarket instant he himself favoured. He piled in two sugars and an inch of cream and drank it quick. He was beginning to feel seriously knackered and the sooner this evening was done, the better.

  He waited for his moment, then coughed, which was easy with his throat, and said, ‘Time for me to be off. Still a bit achy from, you know, last night …’

  Sounded like he was wanting to milk the applause, he thought.

  ‘Of course, my dear chap. How inconsiderate of us to keep you so long,’ said Lewis.

  ‘No, that’s OK. I mean, I’ve enjoyed it. Thanks for a lovely dinner, Mrs Lewis. And thanks everyone …’

  For the second time that night he sought a good exit line. The quote from ‘Men of Harlech’ that had got him out of the Goat didn’t quite fit here, but there was that other bit of Welsh Bronwen had used. Thanks for your company, she said it meant.

  He conjured up the memory of her voice and said carefully, ‘Sugnwch fy nhethau, bachgen bach.’

  He thought he’d got it just about perfect. Certainly everyone looked amazed.

  Franny said, ‘Joe, am I right, is that Welsh? My, my, you even speak the lingo. What a man of hidden talents you are.’

  That hand on his leg again, this time unambiguously on the upper thigh. This rate of progress, it was definitely time to leave.

  ‘So are we going to be let into the secret?’ said Fran the Man. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Perhaps you should do the honours, Mr Sixsmith,’ said Lewis.

  Maybe his book-learned Welsh didn’t run to everyday conversation, thought Joe.

  ‘Don’t really speak the language,’ he said to Franny. ‘Just a phrase I picked up earlier. It means, thanks for your company, something like that.’

  ‘Well, I’m still very impressed,’ said the woman. ‘All the time I’ve been coming here and I’ve never picked up a word. Don’t you think it’s amazing, Leon?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Lewis. ‘Mr Sixsmith, I compliment you on the excellence of your ear.’

  Wain stood up so abruptly he knocked his chair over.

  ‘You’re not going to tell him then?’ he demanded. ‘You’re going to wait till he’s gone, then have a quiet little chuckle at his expense?’

  ‘Owain, that’s enough,’ thundered Lewis in a voice which probabl
y had the sixth form trembling and the first form wetting themselves. But it had no effect on his son.

  ‘You disgust me, you know that?’ said the youth, suddenly sounding more mature than his father. ‘Mr Sixsmith, someone’s been playing a joke on you and my father obviously thinks it would be funny to let it happen again. But if you spend all your life with children, that’s how you end up – childish – isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Joe.

  ‘What you said doesn’t mean anything like thanks for your company,’ said Wain. ‘What it actually means is Suck my tits, little man.’

  Chapter 10

  When Joe was consternated, he stepped in consternation deeply, but he didn’t track it next door. Though he left the Lady House apologizing, and being apologized to, within a very short time he had regained his normal equanimity and was able to laugh out loud at what had just transpired, causing some consternation in a swarm of gnats enjoying the balmy air.

  It was an evening to make even a devout anti-pantheist sigh appreciatively at its beauty, with the sun perched on the horizon like the ball on West Germany’s goal-line in the ‘66 World Cup, not certain whether it was all over or not. Across the azure sky a passing jet had left a twin vapour trail which the sunset rays had flushed a delicate pink. Not much given to poetry unless it had a good tune, Joe was inspired by weariness to think it looked like a cherry-blossom-strewn path to slumberland.

  Pity Beryl wasn’t around to try the image on. Nothing like a flight of flowery fancy for softening up the ladies. At least that was the gospel according to Big Merv Golightly, who claimed to have softened up more leathery hearts than a barrelful of dubbin.

  So immersed was Joe in this dream of a softened-up Beryl drifting to sleep with him on a bed of cherry blossom, he didn’t notice the figure lurking in the shrubbery till it was too late.

  ‘Gotcha!’ cried his ambusher, leaping out and wrapping his arms about Joe from behind and lifting him high in the air.

  Lesson 16 in Mr Takeushi’s martial arts class at the Luton Sports Centre had been all about dealing with the attacks from behind. Trouble was it assumed that your feet remained firm on the ground. Nor did it mention the fact that being lifted violently into the air could instantly undo the analgesic effect of Welsh bitter, dry sherry and red wine.

  He screamed very loud. Perhaps Lesson 17, which he’d missed, went into the use of scream as defensive technique. Whatever, it certainly worked.

  His attacker placed him gently on the ground, released him and began apologizing profusely.

  ‘Joe, I’m sorry … I didn’t think … you OK, man?’

  ‘Merv! No, I’m not OK. If anything I feel worse than I did last night.’

  ‘I’m real sorry … here, try a shot of this … it’s Welsh whisky…’

  ‘What you trying to do? Case you haven’t crushed me to death, you want to finish me off with some moonshine brewed in the hills?’

  ‘No, this stuff comes in a proper bottle, all legal,’ said Merv. ‘Here, try it.’

  Joe took the bottle and drank cautiously, then with more abandon.

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘Tastes like real Scotch.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it? Just like Scotland, this place,’ said Merv without noticeable enthusiasm. ‘All hills and sheep crap and people speaking like they had their throats slit, which wouldn’t surprise me.’

  Joe felt a general sympathy with this analysis, but he never liked rushing to judgement without examining all available evidence.

  ‘You ever been to Scotland?’ he asked.

  ‘Not conscious,’ said Merv. ‘You?’

  ‘Went to Cumberland once.’

  ‘Is that in Scotland?’

  ‘Might as well be,’ said Joe.

  Having established his superiority of knowledge, he now showed his generosity of spirit by saying, ‘Live and let live, Merv. There’s good things everywhere if you look hard enough.’

  ‘Yeah? Name one good thing about Wales.’

  ‘Well, Paul Robeson was very fond of it,’ said Joe.

  Robeson was one of his all-time heroes. Merv knew he’d get nowhere arguing with Joe once he’d cited the great man on his side.

  He said, ‘OK, I’ll keep on looking. What you been doing anyway? I went looking for you in that sickbay and got told you were out living it up. Thought you made a miraculous recovery or something, else I wouldn’t have jumped you.’

  ‘Miraculous don’t come into it.’

  He gave Merv a rundown of his evening.

  The taxi driver was much amused at Joe’s discomfiture over Bronwen’s Welsh phrase.

  ‘Next time she says anything to you in Welsh, you grab her tit, man. Tell her you took a rain check. She a good looker, you say?’

  ‘Oh yes. But young. Younger than she looks, maybe, playing a kid’s trick like that.’

  ‘Don’t sound like no trick to me, Joe,’ said Merv. ‘Didn’t you say you spoke some Welsh just to wind up those guys in the pub? Maybe they wanted to find out how much you’d really understood of what they were saying and got the girl to check you out.’

  Now Joe recollected waiting for Bron in the car park and seeing her in the doorway with Glyn Matthias speaking earnestly in her ear. Maybe something had been said they didn’t like the idea of him understanding. Shoot! Did this mean he ought to speak to Ursell after all?

  ‘Another thing,’ said Merv. ‘I’ve been down the Grey Mare in Llanffugiol. You know that wide boy who fixed my bus …’

  Joe grinned his appreciation that Merv was using wide boy in every sense.

  ‘Nye Garage, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. Him. Well, he got talking to me and he was asking a lot of questions about you. He wasn’t at the Goat, was he?’

  ‘Thought I saw his van in the car park,’ admitted Joe. ‘And there were a couple of guys left the bar pretty quick as I went in, one tall and thin, one short, could’ve been Nye. How come you two are so friendly anyway? Thought you were going to run him off the road next time you saw him?’

  ‘Got told if I wanted a bet on the singing, there was this guy ran a book locally coming in later, and it turned out to be Nye.’ His expression darkened, and he went on, ‘Not going running to the Old Bill with any of this stuff, are you, Joe? I mean, it’s all guessing, isn’t it? Nothing firm to link Nye to those guys in the Goat, or any of them to anything dodgy either.’

  ‘Why are you so worried? No, let me guess, you put a big bet on, and Nye Garage wouldn’t be paying out if he was behind bars!’

  ‘Not so big, just a pony. But I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Joe, glad of another reason for not talking to Ursell. ‘Hope you win. Sorry I won’t be singing, it’s bad enough all this talking, but the others are in good voice and they’ll do their best to see your money’s safe.’

  He regarded his friend fondly, touched that the big man who was a notoriously careful punter, should have put his money where the Boyling Corner mouths were. Then a certain evasiveness in Merv’s return gaze sparked suspicion.

  ‘It is the Corner you’re backing, isn’t it, Merv?’ he asked.

  The big man raised his arms defensively.

  ‘There’s this little Irish girl from Donegal. I heard her singing in the bar. Voice like an angel, Joe, and she says the rest of her lot are even better. I was chatting her up when Nye appeared and said he’d heard I was looking to place a bet. Well, what else could I do but ask the odds on Donegal? But she really does sing like an angel.’

  ‘So you’ve bet against your friends for the sake of carnal pleasure,’ said Joe primly. ‘Rev. Pot is going to love that. I just hope she was worth it.’

  ‘Didn’t have no chance to find out,’ said Merv gloomily. ‘These two guys turned up, built like barrels of Guinness. One’s her brother, other’s her fiancé, didn’t stay around long enough to work out which was which. That’s why I’m back early.’

  ‘Well, it may be early for you, Merv, but it�
�s bedtime for me,’ said Joe yawning. ‘You see Mirabelle or the others, tell them I’m getting my head down and don’t want no tucking up.’

  ‘Not even Beryl?’ leered Merv.

  ‘Five minutes past, maybe, but since this lunatic attacked me, all I want under me is my mattress.’

  They parted company, Joe carrying on down the drive to the hall, Merv branching off to his coach. He insisted on sleeping in it, for security, he claimed, but Joe guessed it was partly so he could play his usual lullaby of heavy rock, and partly in case he struck lucky.

  The sun had finally decided it was all over, though the pale sky was still not pimpled by stars. A few birds were twittering. Joe presumed they were saying good night.

  ‘You too,’ said Joe, then stopped dead in his tracks when what he’d taken for a piece of statuary came to life ahead of him.

  It took him only a nervous second to recognize Fran the Man, so presumably he was safe from even a mock-attack.

  ‘Saw you talking to your friend and I didn’t want to interrupt,’ said Haggard.

  ‘Nice of you,’ said Joe. ‘I’m just on my way to bed. It’s been a hard day’s night.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to the college,’ said Haggard, falling into step beside him. ‘Let me come straight to the point. I’ve a proposition for you. It’s about the cottage. I had a lot of valuable stuff in there, equipment, papers that are going to cost me time and money to get replaced, even a fair amount of the folding stuff put aside for a rainy day.’

  He paused as if totting up mentally the extent of his loss.

  Joe said, ‘And you kept all this valuable stuff in an old cottage out in the sticks?’

  ‘I know. Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But it’s a lot safer than our London flat, I tell you. So many break-ins round us, I think the agent must be issuing keys. Anyway, I thought I’d got maximum security after Sample’s firm finished the job. But that’s another story. And of course I’ve got insurance. Trouble is, there’s the usual exclusion clause about acts of civil disobedience and terrorist activity. If it turns out this was definitely down to some bunch of nationalist nutters, my company won’t pay a penny. The police are being almost obstructively cagey. They refer me to the fire chief and he refers me back to the police. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local rep of my insurance company isn’t in cahoots with both. Or am I being paranoid?’