Read Online Candlenight by Phil Rickman - Free Book Online Page B

length about the English and what we should do
to keep them out? Ah, they say to strangers, you know who that is don't you?
That is Guto Evans the famous extremist."
        "Well, good God, woman,
they all agree with me."
        "Of course they don't, and
neither does the party. Guto, the one thing you must never suggest these days
is that Welsh Nationalist means anti-English."
        "I know that, but . .
."
        "And a by-election! In-depth
scrutiny by the media of all the candidates, especially ours. Muck-raking. Well,
think about it—can Plaid credibly be represented by a man who once had a homing
device attached to the underside of his van so the police could keep track of
his movements?"
        "Oh, now, that was a
mistake. They thought I was—"
        "But it will come out. So
will the pub brawl—"
        "I was never charged, for
God's sake—"
        "Only because all your friends
lied through their teeth. Now Guto. I'm not saying that, in one respect, a man
of your talents would not be the best hope in a by-election. But you have a lot
of work to do. Have to change your image, Guto. People must get used to seeing
you around in a smart suit and a tie. And er—" Bethan smothered a giggle "—kissing
babies."
        "Aaaargh." growled
Guto in disgust.
        "English babies too."
Bethan slid into her car.
        Guto watched her drive away,
dragging a cloud of early-morning exhaust across the Pontmeurig bypass and on to
the mountain road to Y Groes. Though still warm, it was the first grey morning
in three weeks. There was rain in the air and mist on the hills.
        "Damn it. Bethan." Guto
mumbled wistfully, shambling back into the town, past the castle destroyed by
his hero, Owain Glyndwr. "If I could have you, they could stuff the bloody
nomination."
     
        Impossibly, as Bethan drove out
of the forestry, the mist appeared to evaporate and the church tower of Y Groes
shimmered in a shaft of gold. It's a blue hole, this place. Bethan thought, but
she took no great pleasure in the thought these days.
        The school was on the other
side of the river in a little lane of its own. screened from the village by a
row of elms which had somehow survived successive epidemics of Dutch Elm
Disease when nearly all the others for miles around had succumbed.
        Bethan liked to get to school
at least ten minutes before the first of the children, but Guto had delayed her
and there was a small group of them around the wooden gate, chattering in
Welsh. They stopped when they saw Bethan and chorused dutifully, " Bore da , Mrs. McQueen."
        " Bore da, blant ,' said Bethan, shouldering the gate open, arms full
of briefcase and books. The children followed her in, all good Welsh-speaking
children from Welsh-speaking families, not a single English cuckoo. Which
disappointed Bethan in a way, because she used to enjoy the challenge of taking
a handful of children from London or Birmingham at
    the age of five and then sending them on to the secondary school
completely fluent in Welsh, even starting to think in Welsh.
        The school had been lucky to
survive so long with only twenty-four pupils. Twice the education authority had
attempted to close it down and transfer the children to Pontmeurig. But that
would have meant an eight-mile journey for them along a mountain road that was
often impassable in winter, and the local councillors had won the day.
        Bethan waded into the school
through a puddle of children, the smallest ones pulling at her skirt to attract
her attention. She never discouraged them. The school had a warm family
atmosphere.
        " Bore da , Mrs. Morgan." the children sang, as Buddug entered,
the deputy head teacher or Bethan's entire staff, depending on how you saw it.
Buddug, a big woman in her middle fifties, a farmer's wife with red cheeks full
of broken veins, like a map of the London Underground, had taught at Y Groes
for over thirty years and was regarded as the head of