The Heirs of Owain Glyndwr (16 page)

Ben smiled.

‘And what awaits us in Cardiff?'

‘The second part of your initiation into the mysteries of Wales,' Gareth replied. ‘Actually, we are meeting Donald for dinner tomorrow evening, and then on Saturday – well, let's just say we have very special plans for Saturday.'

30

Friday 3 April 1970

Gareth had booked them
into the Angel, a striking Victorian hotel in the heart of Cardiff city centre. Donald Weston was waiting for them in the bar when they arrived just after 6 o'clock, tired after a slow train journey from Caernarfon.

‘I'm glad to see you've made a start, Donald,' Gareth said.

‘I didn't know what time you were arriving,' Donald grinned, ‘so I decided it was better to wait here with a pint than in my room without one. What can I get you?'

‘Quite right. A pint of whatever you're drinking,' Gareth said.

‘Same for me,' Ben added.

‘How was Caernarfon?' Donald asked, when they were all seated with their drinks. ‘Do you feel any more Welsh now than you did before, Ben?'

Ben laughed.

‘I'm not sure I can answer that. Was that the objective, Gareth?'

‘No,' Gareth smiled. ‘You can't
become
Welsh. It was about soaking up the atmosphere and getting inside your client's head to some extent, which I think we achieved.'

‘Yes, I think we did,' Ben agreed. ‘Caernarfon is an odd place. Have you been there, Donald?'

‘No, never.'

‘It's amazing. It's such a small town, dominated by such a grand castle. That gives it an incredible atmosphere.'

‘And if you are born and bred there,' Gareth added, ‘that is part of your psyche. You grow up in the shadow of the Castle, and you know its history and its associations with the English domination of Wales. You grow up surrounded by all of that, and you can't escape it. It's mother's milk. It's not surprising that, in some cases, it turns into an obsession, and obsessions can get out of hand, and that's what we are dealing with now. But it's one thing to understand that intellectually, and it's another thing to feel it for yourself.'

‘I think I did feel something of it,' Ben said. ‘And if it made an impression on me in a couple of days, I can only imagine what it must be like to be aware of it every day of your life.'

‘Yes. In Caradog's case you are probably dealing with an intellectual who sees everything in black and white, and if you see everything in black and white you tend to see conspiracies against you everywhere, and from there it's a short journey to outright paranoia. And one day, it suddenly seems perfectly logical to you to build a bomb and plant it where it will cause enormous loss of life, and it doesn't bother you at all because it is a necessary and proportionate response to the evil done to you. And because you then have an absolute belief in yourself and your convictions, you can easily recruit a follower like Dai Bach, who is looking for a cause to make some sense of his life, and has been waiting all his life for someone to lead him to it. How Arianwen fits into that I don't know, but if the prosecution are right, she fits in somewhere. Your job is to work out whether he recruited her too, or whether she managed to stay on the right side of sanity.'

They were silent for some time.

‘How are you looking forward to the second part of your indoctrination tomorrow?' Donald asked.

‘I haven't been told about that,' Ben replied. ‘Gareth has been very mysterious about it.'

‘You haven't told him?'

‘No,' Gareth smiled. ‘'He's a devotee of the round ball game, a West Ham fan. Well, who isn't, after the last World Cup? But I didn't know how he would react to being exposed to football in its true form.'

‘You're taking me to a rugby match?' Ben laughed. ‘That game with the funny-shaped ball?'

Gareth feigned outrage.

‘Now then, now then… in the first place, Ben, if you are to have any hope of understanding Wales, you have to understand that rugby is not a game with a funny-shaped ball – it is the
only
game, and the ball is exactly as it should be. Rugby is not a sport in Wales; it's a religion. If you don't grasp that, you haven't grasped Wales. Dai Bach is the perfect example, but I bet you even Arianwen can tell you how many times Wales have beaten England, and give you the score in quite a few of the games, to boot. In the second place, I am not taking you to just
any
rugby match.'

‘Wales versus France at Cardiff Arms Park,' Donald smiled.

‘Yes,' Gareth added, ‘and I want you to know that I had to mortgage my soul to get three tickets for this match. Do you know how hard it is to get international tickets for Wales?'

Ben laughed.

‘I will take it seriously, then,' he said. ‘You're going to have to explain the rules to me as we go along. I know you have to ground the ball behind the other team's line, and you can't pass the ball forward, but all this business with the scrums and line-outs is very mysterious.'

‘It does get a bit esoteric,' Gareth agreed. ‘Donald can tell you all about the finer points. He's played enough. My main concern is that you experience the atmosphere of the Arms Park on international day. I guarantee that it will be quite different from anything you've felt at Upton Park.'

‘Of course,' Ben said. ‘You got your blue at Cambridge, didn't you?'

‘I did,' Donald replied. ‘Actually, we have two members of Chambers who got their blues the same year, Clive Overton and myself. That must be something of a record.'

‘So you must have had ambitions of playing here yourself at one time, or perhaps you still do?'

Donald shook his head.

‘I wasn't quite that good, unfortunately. I would have loved to play for England, but it wasn't going to happen. I decided to call it a day to concentrate on my practice. It's an incredible time commitment to play rugby at that level, or any serious level, really.'

‘But you must miss it.'

‘I do.' He paused. ‘Now, Clive was a different story. He could have played for England. The selectors were looking at him while he was still up at Cambridge. If it hadn't been for… well, you know, the prank that went wrong after the rugby club dinner, that chap dying, and his father sending Clive to America…'

‘Yes,' Ben said. ‘I suppose that put an end to it.'

‘Yes. It's a shame. He would have been a source of tickets for Twickenham.'

Ben laughed.

‘Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose. So, Gareth, what's at stake tomorrow – other than national pride in beating France, obviously?'

‘If we win, we will share the honours of the Five Nations for this season. They may just pip us to the post on points difference if we don't run up a decent score. It would be nice to win outright.'

Donald laughed.

‘He says that,' he said, ‘but it's already been a successful campaign, hasn't it, Gareth, regardless of what happens tomorrow?'

‘Certainly.'

‘In what sense?' Ben asked.

‘We beat England,' Gareth replied. ‘At Twickenham.'

31

Saturday 4 April 1970

In Caernarfon, looking out
over the calm of the Menai Strait, and standing in the
Maes,
awed by the majestic towers of Caernarfon Castle, it was the silence that had entranced Ben. Now it was the sounds. Even an hour before kick-off, when they took their seats in the North Stand, there was an air of expectation, a steady hubbub among the spectators. A male voice choir, its members dressed in identical smart navy blue blazers with the three feathers of the Prince of Wales emblazoned on the top pocket, was warming up in the centre of the pitch, players in track suits running around them, also warming up, as if the choir were just as much at home on the pitch as they were.

‘Quite a sight,' Ben said. He felt unaccountably nervous, butterflies in his stomach.

‘The Park is changing, isn't it?' Donald asked. ‘When is the new National Stadium due to open?'

‘Any time now,' Gareth replied despondently. ‘It's been some time since I was here last, but you can see the construction going on all around us. We may be seeing the last Five Nations in the old Arms Park. I hope the new stadium can keep the atmosphere alive.'

The crowd grew steadily in size and became more vocal, chants and shouts began to drift across the stadium towards them. Gareth smiled.

‘You can just imagine Dai Bach over there, in the South Stand, getting his voice warmed up, can't you?'

‘I'm sure he wishes he was here,' Donald said.

‘So do I,' Gareth said.

As Ben looked around him, the butterflies grew stronger. It was not an unpleasant sensation. It reminded him of how he felt when he was waiting to go into court, feeling the surge of adrenalin through his body which made him ready to perform. He felt almost as though he was waiting to play in the match, and smiled inwardly at the thought. It was not the stadium itself. He had grown up as a regular at First Division matches at Upton Park. He was used to big stadiums and big matches and the crowds that went with them, and to the singing, chanting and cheering which accompanied them. None of that seemed strange at all, but there was something about this place that made today's experience different from anything he had known before. As he watched the legion of fans, with their red scarves, rapidly filling the stadium, there was a tangible feeling of ever-increasing excitement in the air.

Suddenly, there was only half an hour to go to kick-off; an announcement was made; and the choir suddenly formed their serried ranks and were ready to begin. A conductor with a long, thin baton, took his place in front of them. He held the baton aloft. He had the choir's full attention, and there was a momentary silence. Then they began. Within seconds, the many rows of fans had joined in, making one massive choir of thousands of voices, effortlessly picking up the bass and tenor lines, as if they sang together every day.

The first song was in Welsh. Ben turned to Gareth to ask for a translation, but was only just able to make himself heard as the waves of harmonious sound swept over them from all around the ground, and those around them joined in.

Mae bys Mari Ann wedi brifo,

A Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach,

Mae'r baban yn y crud yn crio,

A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny Bach.

‘It's called
Sospan Fach
. It's a nonsense song,' Gareth almost shouted. ‘It's all to do with saucepans boiling, and a baby crying, and the cat scratching little Johnny.'

‘Those are strange lyrics for a rugby song,' Ben shouted back.

Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tan!

Sospan fawr yn berwi ar y llawr!

A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny Bach!

Gareth laughed.

‘It's not so important what words they sing. It's the tune that counts, and how they sing it. They will come on to a couple of hymns in a moment, and not everyone would associate hymns with rugby, either.'

‘No, but you did tell me that rugby is a religion in Wales.'

‘Yes. There you go. Now you're getting the idea.'

As the strains of the cat scratching little Johnny died away, the choir eased off the volume a little, and the tone became sweeter for a moment as they launched into
Calon Lân
.

Nid wy'n gofyn bywyd moethus,

Aur y byd na'i berlau mân;

Gofyn 'rwyf am galon hapus,

Calon onest, calon lân.

‘This is one of our great Welsh hymns,' Gareth said. ‘They learn it in chapel, and all the male voice choirs sing it. It's all about having a clean heart.'

Then the choir broke into the chorus, and once again the volume soared, wave after wave of pulsating chapel fervour sweeping across the Arms Park.

Calon lân, yn llawn daioni,

Tecach yw na'r lili dlos,

Dim ond calon lân all ganu,

Canu'r dydd a chanu'r nos!

‘Only a clean heart can sing,' Gareth was saying, ‘singing by day and by night… well, it's very poetic language, and a translation doesn't really do it justice.'

Ben nodded, but he was only vaguely aware of Gareth's voice. The music had almost engulfed him. Other verses were sung, and they were followed by a deafening final chorus.

As the time arrived for the presentation of the players and the national anthems, the choir had time for one more: in English this time, and Ben needed no translation. Two verses of
Guide me, oh thou Great Jehovah
. The stadium was now one huge choir, and as the bass chorus rose as one man to the famous arpeggio on the line
Feed me till I want no more
, Ben found himself lost in the stadium in the midst of the crowd, overwhelmed by a physical wall of noise.

Finally, the anthems. A good crowd of French supporters, sporting blue scarves and black berets and placards bearing the legend
Allez Bleu!
had established themselves in one corner of the stadium, and gave a hearty rendition of the
Marseillaise
, but when the Welsh anthem started, Ben felt light, as if the music itself might carry him away of its own accord.

Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,

Gwlad beirdd a chantorion enwogion o fri,

Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mad,

Tros Ryddid collasant eu gwa'd!

Gareth was too busy singing to translate, and it was much later, in the hotel bar, that Ben understood the references to the land of bards and singers, about their love for the language and the country. At the time, no translation was necessary. The passion echoed through in every word. The wall of noise was physical, making the whole stadium reverberate.

Gwlad! Gwlad!

Pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad,

Tra môr yn fur, i'r bur hoff bau,

O bydded i'r hen iaith barhau!

Afterwards, Ben remembered little about the match. At half time he asked Donald one or two token technical questions about what he had seen, but Donald was preoccupied with the game, and Gareth was anxious about the outcome. When the final whistle blew, with Wales ahead 11-6, Gareth gave a triumphant shout. They waited for the crowds to clear before beginning the short walk back to their hotel. The singing and the roar of the crowd had dissipated now, but Ben continued to hear it until much later, when he eventually drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning.

Just before 4 o'clock he awoke with a start. He had the impression that he had been shouting something, but he could not recall what it was. He suddenly realised that he was in a cold sweat, and he pulled the bedclothes tightly around him. When the shivering finally subsided, he tried to reconstruct the dream, or nightmare, from which he had awoken so abruptly. There were only fragments, and only one fragment made any sense. He was in Caernarfon, walking slowly from the
Maes
towards the Castle, holding a brightly-coloured duffle bag. There was a thick fog, and the towers of the Castle were only visible by its lights, high above the ground. Through the fog, in the fragmented light, he could just make out the shapes of some shadowy figures clothed in black. These people were calling out to him, but he could not see who they were, or even whether they were men or women, and he could not hear what they were saying. He walked on, but however much he walked, he never seemed to get any closer to the Castle.

He had to be up before 7 o'clock to ready himself for the journey home. He decided not to try to go back to sleep.

When he arrived home Jess noticed that he was distracted, and tried to draw him into conversation about his short visit to Wales. But he seemed to find it hard to give a coherent account of it. He made an effort to describe what he had felt at Cardiff Arms Park but, as he had not yet understood it himself, what he said made no sense to her, and little enough to him.

‘Well, do you at least feel you understand Arianwen any better?' she asked eventually.

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘I think so. I think I am beginning to see Wales through her eyes.'

‘Does that make you want to rush out and bomb something?' she asked.

‘No,' he replied. ‘But I've only lived with it for three days.'