day,’ the mother said.
‘
Ach
.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Forty-three.’
‘Were things going well with the two of you?’
The husband thought for a moment. ‘No.’ After a while he said it again. ‘No.’
‘He’s a complete nutter,’ the father said.
‘What was the matter? What was going on?’ the mother asked.
‘
Ach
.’
‘And now?’
‘Wait a bit longer?’
‘And then?’
‘Maybe go to the police? I’ll ask the policeman who questioned me what else we can do.’
‘Do you still see him then?’
‘After he took my statement, we went and had a beer together.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason. He’s a nice guy.’
‘Even though he should have thrown you in jail.’
‘That wasn’t necessary.’
‘Police officers are ordinary citizens too,’ the father said.
‘What do you know about it?’ the mother asked.
‘
Ach
, woman.’
The husband couldn’t help but notice how loving that sounded.
The mother took her last mouthful of wine. ‘I still prefer a good cup of tea,’ she said.
23
The bread was finished. She had dumped the cake in the bin; she’d gone off it. She decided not to drive to Waunfawr,she wanted to see if she was able to follow one of those dotted green lines, converting symbols on a two-dimensional map into real paths, hills, houses and fields. She pulled on her hiking boots, grabbed a rucksack and locked the front door. On the path in front of the house her heart sank. The cord she had strung was still there, the bamboo posts too. She’d have to move a lot of slate. She turned the corner of the house and walked down the drive past the goose field. Five were standing at the gate. She acted as if she hadn’t seen them. The inquisitive faces, the quiet gaggling, the expectant shuffling. Five.
*
Map in hand, she walked through the oiled kissing gate. The green dotted line had told her not to follow her own drive, but the long grass hid every trace of a path. Shoulders hunched, she crossed the field at random and came out at a fence with a stile. She climbed over it and wanted to turn left. There was the neighbour’s house; by the looks of things she’d have to walk right past it. A door seemed to be open. She hesitated and studied the map carefully before turning back, as if she were just a walker who had taken a wrong turning. Quickly she climbed up onto the stile and down again, crossed the field with the long grass and followed the drive to the narrow road. She picked up the green dotted line again a few hundred metres farther along, indicated in the real world by the sign with the hiker. When she stepped into the bakery after a walk that felt like it would never end, she saw that it was quarter to one.
‘On foot?’ the baker asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered, out of breath.
‘No distance at all, huh?’
‘No, here in no time.’
‘We close at one. Just so you know next time. Awen!’
The baker’s wife emerged from the back. ‘Oh, hello, love,’ she said. ‘How was the cake?’
‘Good. Rhys Jones was enthusiastic about it too.’
‘Rhys Jones,’ the baker said.
‘He loves our cakes,’ Awen said. ‘Are you settling here permanently, love?’
‘Where does he actually live?’
‘Near the mountain. That way.’ The baker gestured through the wall. ‘In late October he moves his sheep to the old Evans farm.’
‘Do you get enough customers here?’ She was starting to feel hot and took a step to one side under the pretext of looking at something in the glass case under the counter.
‘His wife died,’ Awen continued. ‘All very tragic, and if she was still alive she would never let him eat so much cake.’
‘We get by.’ The baker gave his wife a sideways glance. ‘As long as people don’t buy their bread at Tesco’s…’
‘Is there enough heating in that house?’ Awen asked.
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
‘It’s not too lonely and isolated for you?’
‘No, that’s not a problem. There are geese. And a lot of
‘
Ach
.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Forty-three.’
‘Were things going well with the two of you?’
The husband thought for a moment. ‘No.’ After a while he said it again. ‘No.’
‘He’s a complete nutter,’ the father said.
‘What was the matter? What was going on?’ the mother asked.
‘
Ach
.’
‘And now?’
‘Wait a bit longer?’
‘And then?’
‘Maybe go to the police? I’ll ask the policeman who questioned me what else we can do.’
‘Do you still see him then?’
‘After he took my statement, we went and had a beer together.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason. He’s a nice guy.’
‘Even though he should have thrown you in jail.’
‘That wasn’t necessary.’
‘Police officers are ordinary citizens too,’ the father said.
‘What do you know about it?’ the mother asked.
‘
Ach
, woman.’
The husband couldn’t help but notice how loving that sounded.
The mother took her last mouthful of wine. ‘I still prefer a good cup of tea,’ she said.
23
The bread was finished. She had dumped the cake in the bin; she’d gone off it. She decided not to drive to Waunfawr,she wanted to see if she was able to follow one of those dotted green lines, converting symbols on a two-dimensional map into real paths, hills, houses and fields. She pulled on her hiking boots, grabbed a rucksack and locked the front door. On the path in front of the house her heart sank. The cord she had strung was still there, the bamboo posts too. She’d have to move a lot of slate. She turned the corner of the house and walked down the drive past the goose field. Five were standing at the gate. She acted as if she hadn’t seen them. The inquisitive faces, the quiet gaggling, the expectant shuffling. Five.
*
Map in hand, she walked through the oiled kissing gate. The green dotted line had told her not to follow her own drive, but the long grass hid every trace of a path. Shoulders hunched, she crossed the field at random and came out at a fence with a stile. She climbed over it and wanted to turn left. There was the neighbour’s house; by the looks of things she’d have to walk right past it. A door seemed to be open. She hesitated and studied the map carefully before turning back, as if she were just a walker who had taken a wrong turning. Quickly she climbed up onto the stile and down again, crossed the field with the long grass and followed the drive to the narrow road. She picked up the green dotted line again a few hundred metres farther along, indicated in the real world by the sign with the hiker. When she stepped into the bakery after a walk that felt like it would never end, she saw that it was quarter to one.
‘On foot?’ the baker asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered, out of breath.
‘No distance at all, huh?’
‘No, here in no time.’
‘We close at one. Just so you know next time. Awen!’
The baker’s wife emerged from the back. ‘Oh, hello, love,’ she said. ‘How was the cake?’
‘Good. Rhys Jones was enthusiastic about it too.’
‘Rhys Jones,’ the baker said.
‘He loves our cakes,’ Awen said. ‘Are you settling here permanently, love?’
‘Where does he actually live?’
‘Near the mountain. That way.’ The baker gestured through the wall. ‘In late October he moves his sheep to the old Evans farm.’
‘Do you get enough customers here?’ She was starting to feel hot and took a step to one side under the pretext of looking at something in the glass case under the counter.
‘His wife died,’ Awen continued. ‘All very tragic, and if she was still alive she would never let him eat so much cake.’
‘We get by.’ The baker gave his wife a sideways glance. ‘As long as people don’t buy their bread at Tesco’s…’
‘Is there enough heating in that house?’ Awen asked.
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
‘It’s not too lonely and isolated for you?’
‘No, that’s not a problem. There are geese. And a lot of
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