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Hallam. We were wondering if you…’
    â€˜Not a hope,’ said Mrs Hallam, and she seemed triumphant that after thirty years of indeterminate and depressing interviews at that front door she had at last come across one topic about which she could be utterly final. ‘Moira was in the Trecelyn Amateur Operatics last winter. They did Carmen and now she’s daft about that baritone Moelwyn Cox, who took the part of the toreador. You ought to see his velvet coat and his satin breeches. So tight, so shiny, a treat.’
    Edwin pulled strongly at Gomer’s coat.
    â€˜Gomer,’ he said, very softly, ‘could I make a short statement here that would cover both love and bullfighting?’
    â€˜No,’ said Gomer, so quietly Mrs Hallam thrust her head forward to keep a check on what was going on. ‘Sebastopol Street is no place to be discussing ethics. You know that, boy.’ He raised his voice and then said to Mrs Hallam in a voice that came as close to the bedside manner as Gomer would ever get on the street side of the front door: ‘Mrs Hallam, how is your husband’s migraine now?’
    Mrs Hallam looked at Gomer suspiciously. She was probably marshalling in her mind memories of some of the gloomy specifics for mankind’s many ails which had been recommended at the Discussion Group of which her husband had been a transient member.
    â€˜Oh, not bad,’ she said. ‘Twice a week he wears a turban of brown paper soaked in vinegar and it’s like having chips in the house. A treat.’ She raised her arm and smiled as if wishing to convince Gomer that she regarded this turban motif as the last word, and she wanted no hints from him or Uncle Edwin.
    â€˜Will you put in a word with Moira for Cynlais Coleman?’
    â€˜I’ll mention it. But only because you asked about the migraine. Sympathy is what matters. But I can tell you now, Moira is daft about Moelwyn Cox.’
    We made our way back down the street. Darkness had fallen. Our steps were loud and had a flavour. Gomer Gough was staring at the great-looking shape of Merlin’s Crown. Uncle Edwin was shaking his head in desperation and warning me in general terms not to get mixed up in anything, not with Gomer Gough or Silcox as a partner anyway.
    On the day of the Trecelyn Sports a large body of us left Meadow Prospect to see Cynlais run. There was a huge crowd and the sports field, converted by the flimsiest manoeuvres from being an ordinary field, was full, well-flagged and happy. Cynlais was right in the middle of us and he had been on edge during that walk to Trecelyn by having Uncle Edwin sidling up to him on the pavement and giving him a little supplementary massage.
    â€˜Stop doing that, for God’s sake, Edwin. You never know what people will think.’
    He broke away from us as we entered the field, glad, for a few seconds, to be rid of us.
    â€˜How do you think Cynlais is feeling, Gomer?’ asked Uncle Edwin.
    â€˜Fine, Edwin. Can’t you see he looks fine?’
    â€˜Frankly, I think there is a very lax, bemused look about him. He doesn’t seem too solid on his pins to me. Milton Nicholas says he’s been over trained and worn down to the canvas by having to dodge those molehills up on the waun while travelling faster than light, and making sense of the axioms of Willie Silcox the Psyche while travelling mentally not at all.’ Uncle Edwin thrust his lips out to show that he was sick and tired of giving consideration to Cynlais. Then his face lit up. ‘They’ve certainly enjoyed full employment, those moles up on the waun. What the hell is their motive in shifting all that earth?’
    Milton Nicholas, a nature lover, was going to explain when Gomer Gough broke in roughly:
    â€˜Don’t go saying things like that to Cynlais. The race is due in twenty minutes and I don’t want to upset him. For temperament he’s worse than any tenor. I told him that