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alone run at his old Powderhall lick.’
    â€˜Oh leave me out of this, Gomer. Here were Iolo and I, on a serious social beat, staring at the voters and trying to estimate how many mental inches separated them from the County Clinic. Leave us be. I’m not interested in Cynlais anymore and I don’t know this Moira Hallam, except to feel vaguely grate ful to her for having helped to shuffle off Alfie Cranwell, who was, as a ram, indiscriminate, irrational and a nuisance.’
    â€˜I want you to come along to Moira’s house for the very reason that you’re called Edwin Pugh the Pang. You are so full of pity the sight and sound of you would bring tears even to the eyes of Nathan Wilkins, the only gorsedd stone ever to opt for hillside farming and working in trousers of heavy corduroy. You can play on the feelings of this Moira. Don’t be surprised if, at the door of the Hallam home, I introduce you as Cynlais Coleman’s father, who took up thinking instead of sprinting.’
    Uncle Edwin was on the point of opening his mouth to tell Gomer Gough to go and jump into the deeper reach of the Moody, our river, when Gomer stopped outside one of a long row of identical houses and said: ‘Here we are.’
    I was about to move off but he held me back and said he preferred a mixed delegation.
    â€˜If we need a statement from the youth of Meadow Prospect, Iolo, to support our own pleas, we’d like to have you on hand. Just turn a possible statement over in your mind while you’re waiting.’
    The door opened to Gomer’s knock. Mrs Hallam, the mother of Moira, was a big, vigorous woman whose eyes and arms gave the impression of being red and steaming.
    â€˜Oh good evening to you, Mrs Hallam,’ said Gomer, with what he thought was a courtly bow copied from Cunninghame Graham, whom he had once seen at a socialist rally, but Gomer was at least a foot too short to make this gesture look anything but an attempt to duck for safety. Mrs Hallam sprang back into the passage, thinking that Gomer was going to butt her.
    â€˜What do you want?’ she said. ‘If you are after my husband to join that old Discussion Group again you can save your wind. The last time he went the topic was capital punishment and hanging and so forth and he had the migraine for a week. Anything about pressure on the neck and the poor dab is off.’
    â€˜No, we are not here about that. It’s about your daughter, Moira.’
    â€˜ A ll day long there’s a knock on the door and it’s the same old tale. Moira, Moira, Moira. But you are the two oldest per formers to turn up so far, I’ll say that. Why don’t you two boys stick to debating?’
    Uncle Edwin groaned and came to flatten himself against the patch of wall against which I had already flattened myself trying to think out what the youth of Meadow Prospect might have to say to Mrs Hallam. Uncle Edwin spoke in a dramatic whisper:
    â€˜Here am I, my senses in this field of carnality out for the count since 1913, and I have to stand here and listen to this prattle.’
    Gomer pulled Edwin back into the field of play.
    â€˜We are here, Mrs Hallam, on behalf of that fine runner, Cynlais Coleman.’ It was clear from the drop of Mrs Hallam’s jaw that she had never heard a sentence she had followed less well.
    â€˜What’s he running for? Whenever my husband runs he gets the migraine.’
    Gomer slipped into his voice the fine bel canto effect he used when he quoted the Bible at public meetings to support social change.
    â€˜Mrs Hallam, Cynlais Coleman loves your daughter.’
    Uncle Edwin groaned again and I, hoping it might help us to get off that doorstep, groaned with him. There was also a short whimper from beyond the dimly lighted passageway which I took to be Mr Hallam switching on to a fresh track of his endemic migraine. But Gomer went straight on: ‘He’s losing sleep and health over her, Mrs