The Magus of Hay(61)

‘I’ve heard that.’

She remembered Fred Potter, from the Three Counties News Service, saying how difficult radio and TV reporters had getting a usable soundbite from the King of Hay. Like he was speaking in tongues sometimes, Fred said. He could cover four separate issues in the space of a sentence that had more alleyways than Hay itself.

‘He en’t what he looks, see,’ Gomer said. ‘And yet he is.’

‘Duh…’

‘Educated down Oxford, they reckons, but he don’t give a toss for fancy qualifications. “Gomer,” he says – and you knowed he wasn’t bullshittin’ – “Gomer, give me fifteen fellers with doctor’s degrees for one o’ of the likes o’ you.” See? Real wisdom that is, vicar. Wait for a bloody graduate to cut your blocks, you’ll freeze to death.’

Rarely so effusive about anything, Gomer. Merrily just sat there, nodding, letting it all come out, stowing away nuggets. Local knowledge. She must have shopped in Hay a hundred times but she wasn’t from there. She was outside the orb, connections missed, dots unjoined. And she hadn’t been around here in the years when Hay was the most exciting town on the planet, all because a chaotic bloke in trousers that might have seen better years had declared independence.

‘Some’ing in the air, vicar. At the time, you was thinking what a load of ole wallop… but looking back you was proud to be part of it. You din’t say, “Oh, that en’t my department kind o’ thing, I just does plant-hire.” You said, “All right then, Richard, gimme a couple o’ days I’ll figure out how to do it.” Never worked on a castle before, see, but, hell, there’s always a first time.’

‘What did you do at the castle?’

‘Ground to be cleared, ole stone to uncover. And other stuff I don’t talk about.’ Gomer tapped his nose. ‘Handful of us worked as the key-retainers, kind o’ thing. He made that town the best little bloody town in the country – both bloody countries! And the bloody ole councillors and politicians, English and Welsh gnashing their teeth on account of what they had to pay for, bigtime, the King got for nothing.’

‘You mean through all the publicity he attracted?’



‘And because folks liked what was happenin’ there. All the famous folks as flocked in. I seen that Marianne Faithfull once. Her was there a good while, on and off. Tidy bit of— Anyway, there was a sorter magic at work, you could feel it. You’d think the King was all washed up one week, facin’ the bankrupt court, all the bloody hestablishment vultures hoverin’ around, claws out… then he was bloody back.’

‘But now he’s lost the castle.’

‘I reckon he never quite got a grip on the ole castle,’ Gomer said. ‘We all done what we could, but we all knowed it was goner takes bloody millions to make it safe.’

‘Safe? The masonry?’

‘They wasn’t safe together, that castle and Booth. Falled asleep one night, left a big ole tree trunk in his big ole fireplace. Bloody place catches fire. Hell of a mess. It was like…’ Gomer rubbing his hands together, thinking. ‘En’t my place to ponticate, see, vicar, but it was like the ole castle was the only place din’t like what he was at. Didn’t like gettin’ loaded up with books. He resented it, that ole castle, he was about war, not readin’ books. Know what I’m saying?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Load o’ books got burned that night, mind, sure to. Get you another drink, vicar?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Gomer.’

‘Gonner be a bit quiet for you. Janie away, Lol away.’

‘Bit of bad timing,’ Merrily said.

She’d left messages for Canon George Curtiss, but he hadn’t rung back. In the end, when the mobile chimed, it was Sophie, calling from home. She took it on Lol’s sofa, curtains open to the last light.

‘You’re not going to let this go, are you, Merrily?’

‘Would you, if you’d been accused of what, in most jobs, would be classed as unprofessional conduct?’

‘George isn’t sure if he’s permitted to talk to you, given that a complaint may have been made. Which seems…’



‘What?’

‘… silly, but George likes to tick boxes that don’t exist. He made an appointment to see Sylvia Merchant, turned up at the appointed time and there was nobody in. The next time, he didn’t ring, just went to the house at Tupsley, in civvies, quite early in the morning, and she had to let him in, claiming she’d been confused about the time for their first meeting. But, essentially, George got nowhere. He says she was very polite, quite pleasant. And entirely unhelpful.’