Candlenight by Phil Rickman Page B

clearly altered things
for him, if he's left his awful hovel to you. He only ever saw you once. I wonder what he did with his money."
        "It seems." Claire
said icily, "that he left most of it to the Church."
        There'd been a silence, then
Elinor gave her a short, false cackle. "Oh dear, do excuse me. It's simply
that the idea of God and my father discovering each other in that ghastly Welsh
backwater is rather too much to take at this hour of the night."
        Claire had expected bitterness,
had been ready for some of this. But nothing as unpleasant as . . .
        "What happened to his whores.
I wonder. Perhaps he was predeceased. Do you think he died alone and unloved? I
do hope so."
        This is awful. Claire thought.
She knew her mother did not need the money. But she must, all the same, have
hoped for some token in the will, a sign that Thomas Rhys even remembered once
having a wife and a daughter ... as well as a grandchild.
        "Did you—tell me the truth
now. Claire—did you ever go to visit him, you and Giles?"
        "Of course not! I mean . .
." There had, it was true, often been times when Claire had felt
powerfully drawn to seek out the mysterious Judge Rhys. That tug of curiosity edged
with an undefined sense of guilt and longing, whenever she'd come across a
picture of Welsh mountains on some holiday brochure. And then there'd been that
electric moment when she'd first seen the village—a mere three months ago. but
it fell to Claire as if she'd known it all her life in some unexplored part of
her soul.
        "Then why?" Elinor's voice
was flat and hard. "Apart from a desire to spit on your grandmother and
me. Why? Can you explain it?"
        "No," Claire said in
a small voice. "Mother, look, I—I know you must be terribly hurt—"
        "Don't patronise me,
Claire. I'm extremely glad the old swine's gone, I didn't want a penny of his
money and I shall be thankful when you've sold that damn house for as much as
you can get."
        "Sell it?"
        "Well you're hardly going to
live in it are you?" her mother had said.
     
    "I've been thinking," Giles was saying. "Perhaps we
should make contact with a few of the local tradesmen — plumbers, carpenters.
Book them in advance. Sometimes guys like that
can be jolly hard to find in rural areas, and they need lots of notice. Then
we're going to need an automatic washing machine and all that. We shall have to
work pretty fast."
        "Yes, but Giles . . . what
if the by-election goes ahead before probate's complete. There's no way round
that, you know. We can't let workmen into a house that isn't ours yet."
        Claire somehow felt she had to
create as many obstacles as she could to counteract the awesome pull of the
village. To make sure that it was the right thing to do. that it really
was meant.
        "Won't happen." Giles
said confidently. "No way there'll be a by-election until all the party
conferences are safely over. We're talking November at least."
        Claire realised then that this
by-election could be quite a good thing after all. It would give them a trial
period to see if life in Wales really suited them. Trying to get the cottage
into some kind of shape and cover an election campaign at the same time would
be quite a testing experience. And if they realised they were making a big
mistake they could always come back here and either sell the place or keep it
as a holiday home—and feel grateful they hadn't burned their boats.
        "I'll tell you one thing,
though," Giles said, leaning against the remoulded plaster of the
fireplace. "Those bastards tonight, my so-called colleagues. It's made me realise
how badly I want to get out of all this. It's a phoney life, a facade, just a garish
backcloth we think we can perform against. Not real at all. I mean, I can't get
on with those guys any more. Even Winstone - Christ, I thought he was a
friend." He shook his head with his mouth tight. Then he loosened up