Singing the Sadness

Everybody laughed, except Glyn who said quietly, ‘Not all the time,’ which seemed to throw a bit of a damper.

Then Danny Edwards, who despite the earliness of the hour seemed well-liquored, burst into excited Welsh again.

Long John said sharply, ‘Enough of that, Danny. Why don’t you –’

‘All right, I’ll say it in English,’ interrupted Edwards. ‘Or is it what I’m saying, not the sodding language, that bothers you, John? What I say is, where’s this pussyfooting around getting us? Fires are all right, but they’re even better when they’re started by bombs. How do you think the IRA have got real power while our independence movement is still a bit of a joke? The English don’t pay you no heed till you start hurting them …’

Long John came in hard, this time in Welsh. Others joined in and for a while Joe found himself forgotten while a furious argument raged. He couldn’t understand a word, though body language suggested a majority against Edwards, but a fair minority with.

Finally Long John said, ‘Gents, we’re forgetting our guest. Joe, friend, I’m sorry, but you’ll understand, I’m sure. Same the whole world over, I guess, probably you’ve found it with your mates. Doesn’t matter how good your cause is, there’s always a little healthy disagreement about the best way to fight the enemy.’

Joe finished his beer. Wise move would be to nod sagely, then make an excuse and leave. Except that wisdom like that got a bit too close to cowardice. And he recalled the wisdom of his father – whom he didn’t remember – retailed to him via his mother – whom he did remember, just – never take sweets from strangers, advice from friends, or crap from any man.

That was his sole inheritance but it was worth a lot.

He said, ‘Something you maybe should know, Mr Dawe. I ain’t no downtrodden disadvantaged minority cause. If this enemy you’re arguing about hurting is the English, then this enemy is me. I’m a lot of things, time-served lathe operator, baritone, Luton Town supporter, PI, and you can stick English in front of all of them and I’ll not be ashamed. Now I reckon it’s time for me to go. I got a dinner date.’

He stood up. Another furious discussion broke out, as before in Welsh, but this time he did pick up a single phrase. Uncle Tom.

Definitely time to go.

Only a dignified exit wasn’t much help if it meant a long walk back along unfamiliar roads, with his legs wobbly from the combined effects of last night’s exertions, this evening’s confrontations, and three pints of Welsh bitter, there being no Guinness in the place.

He said, ‘Mr Williams, thanks for the hospitality. Does it run to driving me back?’

On second thoughts, memories of the journey here rising through the beer, maybe he’d be better off walking.

More jabbering. Then Williams said ungraciously, ‘Can’t have you hanging round here, that’s for sure. But I’ve got some business will keep me. I’ll see if Bron can take you back.’

He went to a door almost invisible in the dreary wall, opened it to admit a blast of rock, and yelled, ‘Bron!’

The girl appeared with a can of something in her hand. Her father spoke to her, she looked reluctant, he spoke again, she said, ‘Take it now, I get it tomorrow morning, right? All morning?’

‘Right,’ he growled handing her the keys.

She came towards Joe and said, ‘Hear you need a chauffeur.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Catch you later then, Joe,’ said Williams, suddenly conciliatory. ‘It’s been good talking to you.’

‘That’s right,’ said Long John. ‘Hope you’ll come again.’

They’d realized they were silly making a big thing out of this when I can’t have understood a word of what was said, thought Joe.

As he turned to the door, his mind as usual was seeking for the good exit line he would hit upon at four o’clock the next morning. As usual it didn’t come.

Then Danny Edwards said something in Welsh, the words incomprehensible but the tone of voice unmistakably derisory, and several of the others laughed. And now inspiration came.

Apart from a bit of French at school, Joe had never messed with foreign languages, not to speak anyway. But you couldn’t sing serious if you sang in nothing but English, and he’d developed an excellent aural memory for sounds and inflexions. The Boyling Corner Choir had prepared for their visit to the festival by learning ‘Men of Harlech’ in Welsh to impress the judges. First verse seemed pretty appropriate. He cleared his throat and declaimed:

‘Wele goelcerth wen yn fflamio, A thafodau tân yn bloeddio, Ar i’r dewrion ddod i daro, Unwaith eto’n un?’

Rev. Pot had once told the choir, ‘Silence is sometimes a better response than applause.’

As Joe walked out of the Goat and Axle, he knew what he meant.

Chapter 7

Joe stood by the pick-up waiting for Bronwen. She was taking her time. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Lots of cars parked round the side of the pub, he noticed. Well, there would be. Not exactly the kind of place you strolled out of your front door to. He noticed a couple of farm buggies like the one he’d seen last night. Significant? Hardly. Must be common as muck round here, and from the odd whiff coming from the nearby fields, muck was very common. That van, on the other hand, looked definitely familiar. Surely it belonged to Nye Garage, their mechanical saviour? He began to stroll towards it when the pub door opened and Bronwen emerged. Behind her was the man in the cord jacket, Glyn, the teacher. He saw Joe looking and waved, then went back inside.

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