Thomas walked away, and stood staring out of the window.
‘Once I was watching you stood outside Cartref, evening it was. I expect you were hoping then. And d’you know what I said to myself?’
Thomas turned away from the window, looked at Jones. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said to myself, if Mr Thomas really wants to talk to her, I’ll charge him a pound to come in, and a shilling for every stair he climbs, and two pounds to stand outside her door. You could have listened to her dreaming. She often dreams out loud, Mr Thomas.’
‘Go away,’ Thomas said, and with a great weariness repeated it. ‘Go away,’ and went back to his chair.
‘I know why you’re sending me away,’ Jones said.
‘Don’t tell me.’
‘I will. It’s because I’m honest.’
He stood over Thomas, and continued. ‘You’re too good, Mr Thomas.’
Thomas said nothing, looked up at Jones.
‘And a silly man,’ thought Jones.
‘Go to Miss Vaughan. Take Miss Vaughan. Hug her, Mr Thomas, hug her. One good big hug, and you’ll pull her out of the clouds. Fact.’ Jones turned away, made to speak again, didn’t, and went straight to the door. He looked back at the Minister. And for the very first time in his life Jones felt sick, looking at this grown man, his half century beside him, locked in his dream. ‘Perhaps he expects it all to come to him on a big gold tray.’ He paused as he went out. ‘Mr Thomas?’
Thomas looked up, but said nothing.
‘And if you do,’ Jones said, ‘remember to take your collar off.’
He heard Jones go, heard the door bang, his feet heavy and grinding on the gravel path, and a sudden burst of whistling from Jones as he hurried back to the hotel. Had he remained a moment longer he would have heard Thomas say, ‘God! I am ill,’ a break in the Thomas voice, and only his sister would have got the message, and been glad and sorry at the same time.
Mrs Gandell was having tea when he got back.
‘That was a long walk you had, Jones.’
Jones hung his jacket in the hall, and then sat down.
‘It was,’ he said, and began his tea.
‘Where’ve you been, Jones?’
‘Everywhere.’
Jones was hungry, and very thirsty, he wolfed tea.
‘Saw the chap from The Labour, Mrs Gandell,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, expectantly.
‘No luck yet. He said it’s the low wages. Incidentally Dooley’s gone back to St Patrick and the shamrock.’
‘Will we never get anybody for that kitchen,’ cried Mrs Gandell, seeing the kitchen close, suddenly hating it.
‘He was quite optimistic,’ Jones said.
Mrs Gandell lit her usual cigarette. She gave Jones a penetrating look. ‘You’ve something to tell me, Jones.’
‘I saw the man with the chariot in his head, Mrs Gandell.’
‘Mr Thomas?’
‘His sister’s gone and left him.’
‘Left him? How extraordinary.’
‘Shame pushed her on the train at last. Gone to stay with her sister at Hengoed.’
‘Oh dear! I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry. You never cared anything about him. What d’you mean, sorry?’
She thought Jones would soon unwind, and she threw him a cigarette.
‘You called on him?’
‘Geraint Richards told me, said he’d just passed a dead house.’
‘So that’s where you went.’
‘Silly old fool,’ Jones said. ‘I thought he was going to cry. His sister’s quite right, Mrs Gandell. Two men with white coats will call and collect. Things he said to me. Wanted to laugh, and I didn’t, wanted to rush away, and I didn’t, even wanted to be sick, but I wasn’t. Asked me about the letters he pushed under her door.’ Jones paused, leaned in, ‘How the hell did he get in, Mrs Gandell?’ Mrs Gandell didn’t know.
