Free Candlenight by Phil Rickman Page B

something even thicker and murkier than Hollywood's
idea of English beer.
        "Hair of the dog."
Giles said. "Bloody animal."
        "He'd hate you to feel bad
about this, Giles. He was very fond of you and Claire. Winstone, I mean."
        Giles found a lop-sided smile.
He told Berry a couple of funny Old Winstone anecdotes from way back. Berry had
heard both before, but he chuckled over them anyway, for Giles's sake, assuring
him again that Winstone had in no way been offended by the way he'd stormed out
of the bar and no, there was no way it had caused any stress which might have
hastened the stroke.
        "That story he told."
Berry said, fishing for a reaction.
    "About the domestic murder and
the Welsh landlady and all. I guess it was kind of a Winstone parable. He'd
been hearing about how bad things were over in Wales. Folks feeling their
heritage was being ripped off. Dumb foreigners on a back-to-nature trip
stampeding the sacred cows."
        "Yes." Giles said.
"But, don't you go thinking we're going to be like that. Claire and me. We
aren't going to march in like bloody yuppies on the make. We'll learn the
language, the whole bit. Go, er, go native. Well . . .I . . . You're not really
interested in hearing this, are you, Berry?"
        "I am, Giles."
        "You sure? I think people
were bored last night."
    "No way, Giles. Jealous, is
all."
    "You think that?"
        "Sure. Tell me about Wales,
Giles."
        Giles shrugged and had a slurp
of Real Ale. "Well, for a start, even though she'd never even been there
before this, Claire has very strong family links with this village. Y Groes. So
we feel we're . . . reviving something. And reviving ourselves in the process.
Do you know what I mean?"
        "When I was a kid."
Berry said, "they used to tell me my great grandpa made the best pasta in
Venice. That doesn't mean that to find eternal fulfilment I have to be a
fucking gondolier"
        Giles gave him a warning look
and started rocking on his bar stool. "Look, poor old Winstone struck a
nerve when I was pissed. I'm sorry about that, but it doesn't change anything.
You hear about Burnham-Lloyd?"
        "Who?"
        Giles told Berry about the
impending by-election. It seemed to restore his mood. "Brilliant timing,
don't you think? Not just another midterm by-election, old son." He was
holding his beer to the light and nodding appreciatively at tiny specks in the amber
fluid.       Berry pushed his own glass
away in disgust.
        "Burnham-Lloyd."
Giles said. "Tory, OK? Held that seat for over thirty years on the
strength of being a local chap, well in with the farmers, all that. But Plaid
Cymru—that's
the Welsh nationalist party—have been slowly gaining on him for years. The
other parties haven't much support, so it's a two-horse race. Going to be a
cracker. Gives me a chance to go in there as a reporter, meet the local people,
discover all the key local issues. So when we move we won't be going in
cold."
        Berry nodded. Maybe Giles
wouldn't get along with the local people, would discover he was out of sympathy
with the local issues. Well, maybe . . .
        "What about you. Berry?
Has it got Newsnet potential? I'll tell you—mass-immigration by English people
is sure to be a major issue. And the one that could give the seat to Plaid. Absolutely
fascinating."
        "What are we looking at
here Giles? Beginnings of an Ulster situation?"
        "Oh, good God no. They're
just after devolution to begin with, power to run their own affairs. Then to
become a free state within Europe. Not a huge step for Wales—or Scotland, for
that matter. And in spite of the odd bits of terrorism, it's not a nation
inflamed by anti-English passions, whatever Old—whatever people say."
        "Yeah," Berry said
non-commitally. Most Americans didn't even realise Wales was a separate
country. If they mentioned it at all they talked about "Wales,
England." like it was some