Singing the Sadness

Now who had said that?

Stepping out of the shower he began to towel himself down carefully to avoid reactivating the sensitive areas. Then, dried off, he put on his clothes, combed his hair and went out to explore.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_4047d33e-6d0c-5b2d-9783-eb724e2cb896)

Outside the sickbay, Joe found himself in a stone flagged corridor which magnified the slap of his trainers and set up an echo so strong he looked back to see if he were being followed. He must have passed along it when he arrived, but the press of company and his own fragility meant he hadn’t paid much attention. To one side a line of high narrow windows with pointed arches looked out on to a rolling, wooded landscape, but it wasn’t the light they admitted that you noticed, rather the shadows they threw, creating the effect of a medieval cloister which Joe recollected from some old Robin Hood film on the telly. The only hint to the casual visitor that this was the twentieth century was the winking light of a security camera high on the walls at either end. Maybe any kid spotted running instead of walking got shot with an arrow.

On the other side were classrooms. He pushed open a couple of doors and peered in. Rows of old-fashioned one-piece desks stood on carefully measured parade. The floorboards, though scrubbed clean, were old, uneven, and splintered, and the whitewashed walls were devoid of ornament and peeling.

People paid for their kids to come here? thought Joe. They managed things better in Luton.

A flight of stairs almost tempted him upwards but he decided best to keep his feet planted firm on the ground till he sussed out the geography, which didn’t promise to be easy. He turned a couple of corners and lost contact with the outside world for a while. Once more only the security cameras kept him reassured that he hadn’t time-travelled. Finally a narrow door opened on to what looked like a scaled-down version of the kind of baronial hall he recalled from that same old TV movie, its walls decorated with ragged banners, battered shields, rusty weapons and mouldering animal heads, plus (presumably the modern equivalent) photographs of scenes from college life, most featuring the High Master in close proximity to visiting dignitaries. One showed a sunlit group of boys in running shorts, flanked by a blazered Lewis and a tall angular, strawberry-nosed man in top-brass police uniform, looking like he was suffering from prickly heat. The legend beneath confirmed what Joe guessed, that this was DCC Penty-Hooser, who had presented the prizes at the last sports day.

No point having important friends if you can’t use them, thought Joe, heading across the hall to a huge oak door, solid enough to deter a peasants’ revolt. But first impressions, especially Joe’s, weren’t always right. At the merest touch of his finger the door swung smoothly open and he stepped out into the light.

As even The Lost Traveller’s Guide acknowledges, whatever the architectural shortcomings of Branddreth Hall, the guy who chose the site knew a thing or two.

Built on the other side of the ridge from the burnt-out cottage, it looked out westward across a tumble of wooded hills to a line of high mountains whose every detail was swept clear by the house-proud sun.

It was a great view. Even Joe, a devout bricks-and-mortar man, was impressed.

Then a wisp of cloud floated across the sun, running its shadow towards him over the white fields like a wolf loping towards a lost traveller. Joe shivered and quickly turned his head to look at something closer.

It turned out to be Frank Sinatra’s face, only a foot or so away.

Joe took a step backwards, thinking, is there some big Welsh lookalike convention going on? Or has Ol’ Blue Eyes really made it back?

‘Shoot,’ he said, recovering. ‘Where you drop from, friend?’

‘You the one from the fire?’ demanded the man, who was in his forties, wearing dungarees and the kind of look Sinatra might have worn if he’d flown in from the States to discover he’d been booked for Karaoke Nite at the Llanffugiol Working Men’s Club.

Or maybe it was just he was clearly suffering from a bad cold.

‘Suppose I am,’ said Joe distrustfully.

The aggressive distrust vanished to be replaced by a broad smile showing the kind of teeth that probably got you jailed in Hollywood.

‘Dai Williams,’ said the man, wiping his running nose on the back of the hand he then thrust out to Joe. ‘I’m the caretaker. Glad to meet you, Mr …?’

‘Sixsmith,’ said Joe, reluctantly touching the proffered hand.

‘Sixsmith? That all?’ said Williams.

‘Joe to my friends.’

‘And I hope I can be one of those, Joe. What you did last night was the act of a man I’d be proud to call my friend.’

‘Thanks,’ said Joe, embarrassed. ‘The caretaker? Think I met your daughter.’

‘Bron. Not been bothering you, has she?’ said Williams, frowning.

Oh, yes, thought Joe. But not in a way I can tell a protective dad. Not that the caretaker looked too protective, but with dads you could never tell.

‘No, no. Just dropped by to see I was OK. Mr Lewis came too.’

Just to underline, no hanky-panky.

‘Did he? Well, it’s his school, and welcome to it. Less I see the better. Had to come back early from Barmouth to see to your lot.’

This came over as an accusation.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Joe, who sometimes wondered how he came to be apologizing so often for things which he didn’t really feel responsible for.

‘That’s OK,’ snuffled Williams magnanimously. ‘Just as well you were coming, way things turned out. You hungry?’

Joe consulted his stomach and got a big yes vote. Nothing but that bowl of soup since Mirabelle’s sandwiches yesterday. It was a wonder he could still stand upright!

He said, ‘Think I could manage a bite.’

‘Yes, her the nurse said you’d be hungry when you woke,’ said Williams.

‘Beryl, you mean?’ said Joe, moved at her foresight.

‘That’s the one. Fine-looking girl, that,’ said Williams, with an appreciative crinkling of his runny nose.

Joe regarded him sharply. Was this pint-sized Sinatra imitation the local Pal Joey? he wondered as he followed him down the long west façade of the building and round the corner into a courtyard formed by the two main wings. The caretaker led him through a doorway which was probably the tradesman’s entrance in the old days. And probably the new days too, thought Joe, for didn’t places like this exist to keep the old days fresh?

‘Ella!’ called Willams. ‘You in there, girl? Got a hungry hero out here who needs feeding up.’

Joe’s incipient jealousy quickly evaporated when he saw Mrs Williams. A broad-shouldered, strong-featured woman a good six inches taller than Dai, she didn’t look the kind of wife a wise husband would mess with.

She told Dai sharply to take his germs elsewhere, then sat Joe at a well-scrubbed kitchen table and without prompting (or maybe Beryl had briefed her) she produced a mountain of scrambled eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes which filled Joe’s stomach without offending his tender throat. This was followed by soft white bread, fresh butter and home-made marmalade washed down with strong tea. And she didn’t trouble him with talk while he was eating.

A jewel among women, he told himself.

‘That was the goods,’ he told her fervently as he held out his cup for a refill.

The cup was a fine piece of Wedgwood china matching his plate, the best set, he guessed. A childhood spent observing Mirabelle in her natural habitat had taught him it wasn’t what a visitor ate that signified status, it was what they ate it off. His hostess, he noticed, was drinking her tea from a plain white breakfast cup.

‘More where that came from,’ she offered.

Joe was tempted but shook his head.

‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Mr Lewis has asked me to eat with them tonight and if his lady is as generous with the grub as you, I’d better leave a space.’

A knowing smile flickered across her lips but the only comment she offered on her employers’ cuisine was, ‘They’ll be wanting you to sing for your supper, I expect.’

‘Shan’t be doing any of that for a while,’ said Joe.