“Peter Rector? Capel-y-ffin? Gomer Parry was shaking his head, pulling out his ciggy tin before remembering they were in the Black Swan. He pushed it back into his old tweed jacket, scowled. ‘Can’t be doin’ with them Welshies, see, vicar.’ Merrily tilted her head to one side. ‘But you are Welsh.’ ‘No, them Welshies. Some Welshies is all right, not much different to the rest of us. But other Welshies… Oh hell, keep your distance, vicar, that’s my view of it.’ Gomer’s bottle glasses were reflectin...g milky light from the panes of a small mullioned window in the lounge bar. His cap lay on the table next to his cider, his carrier bag from the Eight-Till-Late at his feet. She’d been absurdly grateful to see Gomer. ‘And it en’t about the ole language, vicar, don’t you go thinkin’ that.’ ‘Right.’ Some things were better left alone. It was probably a plant-hire issue: somebody quibbling over the bill for a complex system of drainage ditches and tarnishing, in Gomer’s eyes, the reputation of an entire region.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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