Free The Day Aberystwyth Stood Still by Malcolm Pryce Page A

who moonlights at executions,’ said Calamity.
    ‘I know what you mean, but it’s not really moonlighting. It was a serious duty. If you are going to hang people, it stands to reason you need a doctor in attendance to certify the death and things.’
    ‘It doesn’t seem right for a doctor. Don’t they swear some sort of oath to preserve life?’
    ‘People thought differently about such things back then; they weren’t so squeamish. I’m sure he probably can hardly believe it himself, looking back.’
    ‘Still, it’s a bit ghoulish.’
    ‘You’re the one who dug up his name from the Cambrian News  . . .’
    ‘Yes, I know. We have to ask him. Iestyn Probert. That’s quite a common name. They might have executed more than one. Maybe he’s forgotten.’
    ‘I’m sure he will remember the Iestyn Probert who took part in the raid on the Coliseum cinema; everyone else seems to.’
    ‘I’ll let the doctor know you are here,’ said Mrs Lewis, his housekeeper, from the doorway.
    The gloom in the sitting room was as palpable as plasticine; you felt you could grab it from the air and mould it into shapes. Heavy velvet curtains, kept in check by sashes of braided gold, hung from curtain rails; closely packed lumps of mahogany furniture pressed down on the spirit; a grandfather clock stood sentinel and delivered tocks like water dropping in a cave. The tops of all the chests and cabinets were arranged with black-and-white photos, pictures of frozen happiness from the ’50s. A car, an Austin perhaps, with shiny chrome trim, amid the tufts of marram grass overlooking a beach. Caravans were discarded on the dunes like children’s blocks; a woman in a headscarf and sunglasses sat amid a picnic and gazed at the camera; from her expression, the mixture of tenderness and gentle reproach, it was possible to imagine the photographer peering inexpertly into the viewfinder of a Rolleiflex camera, giving instructions. Who was she?
    ‘You promise we’re going to see the farmer who saw the flying saucer after this,’ said Calamity.
    ‘I promise, even though I would like to put it on record that I think it’s an unpromising avenue of inquiry, although not as unpromising as advertising a black 1948 Buick in the Cambrian News .’
    ‘It’s a ’47, not a ’48.’
    Mrs Lewis showed us up. The door was ajar at the top of the stairs and darkness seeped out, perfumed with the faint smell of formaldehyde that clings to the lives of old doctors. We walked in; there was a rustle of sheet; two ferret-bright eyes shone from amid the shadows.
    ‘Good morning,’ he whispered.
    ‘We’re sorry to disturb you . . .’ I began.
    ‘I wasn’t doing anything – apart from dying. Come into the light. It’s nice to see you whoever you are. I don’t get many patients these days; they don’t like my bedside manner. Isn’t that what they told you?’
    ‘They told us you were a fine doctor,’ I said.
    ‘They told you I was an awful doctor.’ He put on a cartoon voice: “ I sent my little boy to him with tonsillitis and the damned fool told the boy he was dying ”. Isn’t that how it goes? Well, I make no apologies for not sugar-coating the truth.’
    ‘You told a little boy he was dying?’ asked Calamity.
    ‘I tell all my patients they are dying; it’s the only diagnosis I can make with any certainty. You’d think they would be grateful. Set against the implacable fact of their mortality, what does a cold or case of tonsillitis matter? It’s all too trivial for words.’
    ‘Ultimately, yes,’ I said. ‘But it’s not trivial at the time.’
    ‘Tell me, do you follow the latest scientific developments?’
    ‘Not too closely.’
    ‘Just as well; you’d stick a paperknife into your heart if you did.’ He raised a feeble finger and pointed at Calamity. ‘Tell me, little girl, do you like flowers?’
    ‘They’re OK.’
    ‘Of course you do. You like bright colours, too, eh? All little girls do –’
    ‘She’s not so