‘She’s late.’
He sat back, spread legs, enjoyed his cigar. He wondered if, the previous evening, Mrs Gandell’s ears had burned.
‘They ought to have done,’ he thought, and a thin smile came from thin lips. ‘Yes indeed.’
For only last evening he had dined at The Oak with Jack Blair. Over the succulent Welsh lamb they had quietly discussed the position of a property called The Palms, a very large house of twenty rooms that had long been empty, and which, during the war, had been turned into a guest house for elderly refugees. It stood at the opposite end of the bridge, bigger than Cartref, and more threatening. The moment Mr Griffith realised that The Palms had been empty too long, he rang up a solicitor friend about it, and in a flash it was a good idea to them both. Why on earth hadn’t they thought of it before. Mr Griffith’s head went right back, he sent up a cloud of smoke, and idly contemplated the ceiling. ‘Quick on his toes,’ Griffith thought.
‘Make a good hotel, Jack, get it cheap, I know the owner.’
‘There’s the small place at the other end of the bridge,’ Mr Blair said.
‘Had it in mind. The owner might sell. Having a very difficult time of it at the moment, hardly any visitors at all this winter, though the usual summer traffic. But it’s a struggle for her, and she might be glad to let it go.’
‘You want both?’ asked Blair.
‘Why not?’ and he gave a vigorous nod.
‘No harm in trying. Might refuse. Say she’s stubborn.’
‘She’s from Yorkshire,’ Mr Griffith said.
Mr Blair said he would certainly think about the idea.
‘Good.’
‘Coming in to see me this week,’ Griffith said.
‘Property is valuable.’
Mr Griffith had called for another half bottle of hock, lit a fresh cigar. ‘You’ve a new typist, Jack,’ he said.
Laughing, Jack said yes he had. Best he’d ever had.
‘I’ve heard about her,’ Griffith said. ‘At Cartref now.’
‘Yes.’
Miss Vaughan was on their horizon, but they would never know if her ears, too, were burning.
‘If you paid her in crumbs she’d say thank you.’
‘Indeed. Must come from the more desperate part of Dinbych,’ said Mr Griffith, his smile suddenly expansive, a convivial evening was bound to follow. Yes he’d heard all about her, and Mrs Gandell, and the orphan of storms, Jones, and that near potty Minister at Penuel.
‘If Gandell agrees to sell,’ Mr Griffith said, ‘she would probably go home to Yorkshire.’
‘Probably. Tough for Jones.’
‘She could throw him in with the fittings.’
And they both laughed.
‘Rather late in the day for Thomas,’ Blair said, and laughed again.
‘Old man,’ Mr Griffith said, and finished off the hock.
‘A nice evening, Cledwyn,’ said Mr Blair, rising from the table.
‘And do some cogitating tonight, Jack, and give me a ring tomorrow.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not indeed.’
They smiled their way out of the hotel, stood for a moment in the dark street, and after more than one convivial good night, they went their separate ways.
Griffith was still reflecting on the evening when the second knock came, and a Mr Hughes put his head in and said that Mrs Gandell had not yet arrived.
‘Oh dear!’ and then more hushed, ‘Damned nuisance,’ and he looked even more anxiously at the clock on the wall. It was at this very moment that Mrs Gandell towered her way into the bank.
‘Here now, sir,’ called Hughes.
Griffith got up. ‘Good. Show her in,’ and he went forward to meet her.
‘Ah! There you are, Mrs Gandell. Nice to see you. Do sit down,’ offering her the large black leather chair. ‘Right.’
He sat down. ‘Seems ages since we met, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ she said, and it surprised Griffith.
