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market yet, but if they thought you were keen—you
being a local boy, a Welsh- speaker and a respected professional man — I'm sure
a nice quick deal could be arranged, no fuss, no estate agents.
        "That it?" Aled
demanded. "Finished, have we?"
        "I can't credit that at
all," Dai said. "Bloody hell, in Pont, I'm not kidding, the estate agents'
signs have been going up faster than the TV aerials when we got the first
transmitter."
        "So they tell me."
said Aled.
        "But not here."
        "No." A note of
finality. "Not here."
        Dai was baffled and felt slighted.
What, he wondered, had happened to Tegwyn Jones's place now his wife was also
dead? Every village always had a couple of houses ready for the market,
especially now, when the English would pay a small fortune for something you
wouldn't keep chickens in. And what about—now here was a point — what about the
judge's house?
        "Having the lid on, are
we. Dai?"
        "I'll deal with that.
Tricky, this sort. Professional use only." Dai straightened up, gathering
what was left of his dignity. They only ever called him out here for the
foreigners, like that chap Martin, the curate. And poor Bethan's man.
        He sniffed. For Judge Rhys
there'd been a coffin custom-made by Dewi Fon, the carpenter, gravestone by
Myrddin Jones, the sculptor. He went out to the landing and returned with a
rectangular strip of fibreglass. which he slotted into place, concealing the
dreadful face of the Professor. Wondering gloomily who would be doing this job
in ten years' time when he and Harri had retired. Harri being a bachelor and
Dai's son away at university to study engineering. No doubt the business would
get taken over by one of these national chains with colour brochures of coffins
and off-the-peg shrouds. Well, bollocks to that.
        "So what happened,"
he asked bluntly, "to the judge's house?"
        "Well done, Dai,"
said Aled. ignoring the question.
    "Look, come and have a drink
before we take him down."
He towed the coffin away from the bedroom door so they could get out.
"There, see . . . getting soft, I am, helping you with your bloody corpse
then offering you a drink." He
smiled. "Stiff one, is it?"
        "Very funny." said
Dai Death. "I'll have a pint and I'll pay you for it."
        "Good God. Epidemic of
something fatal, is there, in Pontmeurig, that you're so wealthy?"
        "The judge's house."
Dai reminded him, annoyed now and showing it. "Just tell me what happened
to the fucking judge's house?"
     
    Driving away, customer in the back. Dai took careful note. And, yes, it
was true enough. Not a For Sale sign anywhere in the village He shook his head
in disbelief, afflicted by the usual aching longing as he took in the mellow
stone and timber-framed dwellings, the crooked stone steps and walled gardens,
the soft fields and the stately oaks, the wooded amphitheatre of hills sloping
to the Nearly Mountains. Even the bloody Nearly Mountains, wind-blasted and conifer-choked
. . . even they looked impressive when viewed from Y Groes.
        He looked back towards the lane
which led to the judge's house. It would have been perfect. Not too big, not
too small, nicely screened. But a lost cause. Christ, he'd never even heard of
the old chap having a grand-daughter. Recluse who never left the village, never
even went into Pontmeurig.
    Maybe—he brightened momentarily—maybe
she'd want to sell. But then—his spirits sagging again—what would she do but
advertise it in the London papers?
    It was, he thought, only a matter of time. They were bound to discover
this place, the English. Some young stockbroker-type would cruise out here in
his Porsche and spot a derelict bam, ripe for conversion, and make the farmer
an offer he'd be a fool to refuse. And another farmer would hear about it and
he'd sell two of his buildings. Then
some poor widow would be staggered at how much she could get for her cottage.
And, in no time at