Chapter 8
‘DO THIS,’ SAID Calamity. She wrapped the fingers of her left hand round the two middle fingers of her right. ‘Why?’
‘Trust me. Now do this.’ She tapped her palm with her index finger, pointed at her eye, waved her hand and then made a curious gesture like someone emptying a bag. ‘OK? Got that?’
‘This is sign language, isn’t it?’
‘Now do this.’ She speeded up like someone doing high-speed origami.
I tried to copy the sequence and Calamity corrected me until I’d about got it right. Maybe the accent was a little strong, but the words were in the right order.
‘OK, so what did I just say?’
‘You just said, “Sorry but we still haven’t seen him.”’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Bojangles. That’s what you just said.’
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘I have my sources.’ She picked up the card she had been scribbling on and walked over to the incident board. She pinned it on and stood back with the same satisfaction of someone putting the first bauble on the Christmas tree.
‘Another clue, huh?’
‘Slowly but surely. Bit by bit, the full picture emerges.’
‘Is that how it works?’
She looked up slightly and across as if peering askance at the neighbour’s garden.
‘Yours isn’t looking too good.’
‘I keep my incident board in my head.’
‘That means you haven’t got anything yet.’
‘I’ve got loads of things.’
‘Share them with your partner.’
I held out a finger and grabbed it as if ticking off items in a long list. ‘One, I’ve got a girl from the Waifery who deliberately planted a locket to mislead the search party. Two, I’ve got the Mother Superior from the Waifery who is definitely not dealing in straight goods. Three, I’ve got Brainbocs. Four I’ve got a Pat vet called Rimbaud seen in the vicinity of the car after I left to buy the ice creams. And five … five … he’s got a tattoo.’
Calamity nodded. ‘Uh-huh. My hunch is the veteran’s a red herring.’
‘My hunch says he knows something.’
‘Yeah, but my hunch came first.’
‘But my hunch counts for more because it’s based on more experience.’
‘What does that prove? A hunch is a hunch.’
‘Sure, but they can’t both be right, so when hunch meets hunch something has to give.’
‘So you’re pulling rank in the hunch department?’
‘When your name is on the frosted glass outside, you get to out-hunch your partner.’
‘All right. That’s a lot of “gots”. What does it all mean?’
‘No idea whatsoever.’ I walked over to the wall and bent forward to read the cards. ‘What about you? Housekeeper dismissed shortly after the fire. Is that suspicious?’
‘I don’t know yet, it’s just a detail. You never know which ones will turn out to be significant.’
‘That’s true. Gems showed signs of fire damage. What does that mean?’
‘The peeler’s report said the gems were found in the stable and were the main evidence used to nail the kid. But the jeweller’s evidence – not presented at the trial – said they showed signs of fire damage which means they must have been removed after the fire, not before.’
‘That’s very good. You know, it was Llunos’s great-grandfather who was in charge of this, don’t you? Cardiganshire’s first peeler.’
‘I know. He told me. He’s writing a book about it.’
I started reading again. ‘Groundsman testified that he saw the boy climbing into the room, later altered testimony to say he saw him climbing out.’
‘Claims he was mistaken, but I don’t see how you can make a mistake like that.’
‘That’s very good. Where do you get all this?’
‘Here and there.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh, you know, around and about.’
‘You haven’t been talking to Gluebone again have you?’
‘No!’
We heard the by now familiar unmusical clang of the barrel organ beign dumped against the wall outside and the sound of foot and paw steps on the stairs.
‘Hi there,’ said Gabriel. ‘Just dropping by because Cleopatra wanted to ask if you’d—’
I raised my hand to silence him and turned to the monkey. I did the sequence of hand signs, just as Calamity had shown me. When I finished, there was a brief, astonished pause and then Cleopatra squealed, jumped into the air, landed on the floor, did two forward somersaults and then ran in a single bound up the desk, up the wall, and – don’t ask me how – along the ceiling, until she got to the light fitting from which she swung with one arm, screeching ‘Woo woo woo!’
Gabriel turned to me in amazement. ‘You’ve seen him!?’
‘Seen who?’
‘Mr Bojangles.’
‘No, we haven’t seen him.’
‘But you just told her you’d seen him.’
‘I said I hadn’t.’
Gabriel slumped into the client’s chair, rested his head in his hands and said softly, ‘Oh Lord.’
It took about ten minutes to get Cleopatra down from the light. And another ten minutes to explain how sorry we were over the mistake. To try and smooth things over I asked Gabriel to tell us about Mr Bojangles, and he filled us in on the background.
‘The primate language research unit used to supply a lot of monkeys to the physics department for the satellites. You remember the space programme in the Seventies?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, like most people in Wales, we were glued to the TV.’
‘There’d been animals in orbit before, of course, the Russians sent dogs and the Americans sent some chimps. But this was the first time any of them were able to tell us what they saw up there. It was quite a coup. Cleopatra was the wife of one of the astronauts – a chimpanzee called Major Tom—’
Cleopatra took a letter out of her waistcoat pocket and proffered it to us.
‘She still keeps his first day cover.’
The envelope had University College of Wales insignia on it and a single stamp showing a group of chimps in a space suits. There was also a Latin motto: per ardua ad astra.
‘That’s Major Tom, there, second from the right.’
‘Good-looking guy.’
‘During their time together they had a son, Mr Bojangles, and he … well … he …’ Gabriel seem uncomfortable with this part of the story. ‘He went away … to … er … to Timbuktu.’
‘Timbuktu?’
‘Yes … the … er … university. I expect you’ve heard of it?’
He looked at us with eyes that implored.
‘Yes, of course. It’s a great institution. The Harvard of the Sahara …’
Gabriel translated and Cleopatra swelled with pride. She took out another letter and reached it across.
‘He still writes when he can get the time,’ explained Gabriel. ‘But his research, well …’
‘I expect he doesn’t have much spare time, being a famous scientist,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Gabriel sadly, ‘he doesn’t get a lot of time to write.’
I looked at the letter. It was postmarked Llanrhystud.
When Bassett left I found a note slipped under the door from Poxcrop. It told me to meet him at the Cliff Railway base station at eleven and bring a bone. It didn’t say how big or what kind, but I dutifully stopped at the Spa in Terrace Road and bought a chop. I arrived five minutes late and asked the shoeshine kid if he’d seen Poxcrop. The shoeshine kid was Poxcrop.
‘You’re late, Mac,’ he said looking up from his shine stool, not bothering to rise.
‘Don’t try and kid me you’ve got better things to do with your time. What have you got for me?’
‘Two hot tips but there’s a little problem about my expenses …’
‘I already gave you a fiver.’
<
br /> ‘I’ve been undervaluing my services. I’ve been hearing about you, about how sweet you were on the night club singer. Seems to me—’
I grabbed Poxcrop by his collar and jerked him to his feet.
‘Look here, you little runt!’
Poxcrop threw his hands up in mock surrender. ‘No violence, no violence!’
The stationmaster rapped sharply on the window of his office. Heads turned. Disapproving looks were dispensed. I let Poxcrop go and he brushed himself down with a well-rehearsed air of insulted dignity.
‘I abhor physical violence. I’m a businessman. Either you respect certain civilised norms or we can’t do business.’
‘If you want to stay in business don’t ever make another remark about my relations with Myfanwy.’
‘All right, you’re in love, I can understand that. Plenty of guys feel the same about my sister.’
‘Just tell me what you’ve got. If it’s good I’ll give you some more money.’
Poxcrop looked round and then drew me over to the shadows in the corner next to the milk-dispensing machine. If he’d wanted to flag the fact that he was about to contract some nefarious business he couldn’t have done it better. To complete the effect he lowered his voice.
‘I’ve been speaking to a fence. Not one of the usual ones. This guy is a deeper level. Maybe the deepest. The police don’t know about him. If they find out, he’ll know it was you who told them. If that happens he’ll know it was me who told you. Then I’m dead. That’s why I need the money, y’see. Insurance. For my mum in case something happens to me.’
‘Tell me what the guy has got and I’ll see how deserving a cause your mum is.’
‘Take the train to the top and walk over to Clarach. Count the fourth caravan from the stile. Watch out for the dog in the shed, sometimes it’s not chained up. That’s what you need the bone for. The guy in the caravan has something. I can’t tell you what it is, you have to see for yourself. He’s expecting you, so just knock and say I sent you. His name’s Mooncalf. And here—’
Poxcrop took out a marker pen and put a cross on my hand. It didn’t leave a mark.
‘What’s that?’
‘Ultra-violet light like they use in the discos. Just for security.’
‘OK. What else? You said there were two things.’
‘My sister has been offered a part in a movie. Special production for the What-the-Butler-Saw format.’
‘You must be very proud.’
‘She met someone on the set who’d recently auditioned for a part in a different movie. I think it might interest you.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think you need to sit down first.’
‘I’m OK standing.’
‘No, trust me, you need to sit down.’
He pulled me over to the waiting room and we went inside.
‘This movie they were shooting,’ he said. ‘Look, Mac, get upset but don’t get upset with me, I’m just the messenger, I didn’t write the message.’
‘Get on with it.’
‘They were shooting a movie of Myfanwy’s funeral.’
He paused and scrutinised my face to see how I would take the news and whether he needed to duck. He didn’t. I said nothing. It was too bizarre.
‘Her funeral?’
‘That’s what the guy told my sister.’
‘Where can I find this guy?’
‘Believe me, Mac, I want to tell you, really I do, but these are dangerous times and I have to think of my poor mam.’
I took out the roll Gabriel Bassett had left on my desk and peeled off a fiver. Poxcrop produced a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. It was a photocopy containing a list of numbers with the crest of the Bank of England at the top. He read the serial number of the note and searched for it on the photocopied list. ‘No offence, but I’ve been done like this before.’
‘Where do you get that?’
‘Official police issue – to the Penparcau bureau de change.’
‘Is there a bureau de change in Penparcau?’
‘You’re looking at it, Mac. You want dollars? I can get you a good rate.’
‘Not today, as far as I know they still use pounds in Clarach.’
‘You know where to come if you do.’ And then, finally satisfied of the note’s authenticity, he slipped it into his coat pocket and said, ‘Ever hear of a guy called R. S. Thomas?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a poet. Writes about rain and sheep and abandoned farmhouses. Quite popular. I don’t get it myself, they told me art was the stored honey of the human soul, not gooseberry jam.
‘Dust in-breathed was a house
The wall, the wainscot and the mouse.
‘Now that’s what I call a poem, you want to know why?’
‘Because it rhymes?’
‘No, you’re getting me all wrong. I’m agnostic on the rhyme question. What matters for me is how the poet touches your soul, not whether he can rhyme seesaw with Margery Daw. It’s a poem because it embodies an eternal human truth, Mac.’
‘Doesn’t a poem about an abandoned farmhouse do the same? Doesn’t it make you ask why they left?’
‘Of course but not every human truth deserves to be embodied, that’s the point I’m trying to make. Take the other fellah, the one who wrote about the anthracite horses and the dog in the wetnosed yard. Now there you have something worth embodying! Our dog did that before he got run over. Wet-nosed yard, it touches you somewhere deep.’
‘Tell me why I might be interested in this particular poet.’
‘Because he wrote a poem about a chap called Iago Prytherch.
‘Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction—’
‘All right, all right! If I want the rest I’ll go to Galloways. What’s it mean?’
‘The best bit’s where he gobs in the fire.’
‘Get on with it. I’ve missed two trains since standing here discussing poetry.’
‘Point is, a lot of people like that poem. A lot of people here and a lot of people not here.’
‘And who would they be?’
‘People from overseas. American college kids, mainly. They come over here with their Yale sweatshirts and baseball caps and they want to meet Iago Prytherch. I don’t see why myself. When I go to America I don’t ask to meet Hiawatha, but there you go.’
‘I think maybe you should give me some of that money back.’
‘Don’t be in such a rush, I’m filling you in on the background so you don’t get caught out later. The point I’m trying to make is this, all these people – literary pilgrims they call them – come here and want to meet Iago Prytherch. So what do you do? I’ll tell you what you do. You make their dream come true, just like for the kids who write to Father Christmas at the North Pole. You ever been to the North Pole? I tell you, there’s nothing there. Not even a post office. Not even a box to post your letters in. In fact the only way you can tell you’re there is by looking at your compass.’
‘But a compass won’t work at the North Pole.’
‘That’s it! That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. It won’t work. So as soon as it stops working you know you’ve arrived. But don’t expect to find a post office. But the funny thing is, all those kids get replies to their letters. It’s the same with the literary pilgrims. They get off the Devil’s Bridge train at Nantyronen and who do they meet? Iago Prytherch is who. It’s a home-stay, you see. The real and only official Iago Prytherch home-stay.’
‘And how exactly does this information deserve five pounds?’
‘Think about it. The guy’s a fictional character so how can they meet him? Same way you can go to a department store at Christmas and meet Santa. They get someone to play him. And who d
o they get? They get the ghost-train howler.’
‘And who’s he?’
‘You’ve been on the ghost train, right? The one that comes every autumn with the funfair. You’ve seen it?’
‘Yeah I’ve seen it.’
‘What does it arrive in?’
‘A Pickfords van.’
‘That’s right. Track, train, castle, landscape and ghosts. All in the back of a Pickfords van. How scary can that be? It can’t. In fact that’s the first thing you notice. It’s not scary at all. The second thing you notice is this: even though it’s not scary there’s always a guy sitting at the front when it comes out of the last tunnel screaming his head off. He’s the howler. He’s a stooge. And the guy who plays the howler is usually one of those bit part actors who hang around on the fringes of the What-the-Butler-Saw industry. And last autumn’s howler usually turns into next season’s Iago Prytherch in what is known as a perennial cycle of birth and renewal. One that testifies, like the barbershop pole, to the vanity of all human striving.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Read your Bible, Mac. Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. All the rivers run into the sea; and yet the sea is not full.’
‘What’s that got to do with a barber shop?’
‘Not the shop, the pole. Did I say shop? Have you never noticed? It turns and turns, the red spiral stripes move ever upwards, but they never get anywhere; nothing changes. That’s like you and me, Mac. We never get anywhere. Like the waves on the sea always coming in but the sea stays in the same place. Like Cadwaladr creosoting his bridge. Like the cars of the Cliff Railway perennially changing position. One up, one down. Vanity of vanities, and the phoney Iago Prytherchs pass over the face of the earth like the leaves on the trees.’
‘What’s any of this got to do with Myfanwy?’
‘I’m trying to tell you but you keep interrupting. The guy playing the current Iago Prytherch is the guy that auditioned for a part in the movie of Myfanwy’s funeral.’
The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth Page 10