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The small coastal village of Llangrannog lay in the valley of the little River Hawen, on the Ceredigion Coastal Path. On a sunny day, as one drove down past the houses to the beach, it could be mistaken for a Cornish village. However, this was Wales and the beauty of Cardigan Bay. Nicks had discovered it quite by chance as he drove aimlessly around the area, finding accommodation as he travelled; trying to put some normality back into his life in the days before he and Anca had met.
He’d stopped at the Pentre Arms and sat, watching the families on the beach, sipping a pint; waiting for confirmation a room was available. Its simple magic had infected him. Since then he’d been back several times over the years, but never often enough to be recognised by the staff. Once, a wild sea battered the shuttered windows so hard he thought they would implode. The locals hadn’t batted an eyelid.
In the afternoon of his second day, Simon joined him, stipulating he could only spare two nights then had to get back; there were ‘things’ to be sorted out.
The weather was good. The first evening was spent drinking whilst watching the sunset over the little cove which Nicks always thought had an element of ‘pirate’ about it. Had it not been just him and Simon, it may have been romantic.
The day after, he dragged Simon’s reluctant mind and body up out of the cove and along the coastal path where they experienced some magnificent views amidst Simon’s periodic whining enquiries of “Is this going to take much longer?...Is it far now?” and “are you certain there’s a pub at the end of this bloody thing?” Nicks answered: “Not long...not far” and “yes.” Only once did he have to say: “Yes, I’ve bloody told you twice!”
After 9 miles they reached New Quay with its picturesque harbour and expansive sandy beach. Stepping through the stile from the path onto tarmac, Simon suddenly gained new vigour striding off along Rock Street like a man on a mission. It was a beer mission. He could see the harbour wall and figured the pub couldn’t be far now. Nicks couldn’t help but smile.
After a couple of pints and a meal, they’d explored further, visiting several pubs before ending up at the Penrhiwllan Inn where they sat outside in the sunshine watching the world go by before catching a taxi back to the Pentre Arms. The next day Simon left Nicks to his own devices, having grudgingly admitted he’d enjoyed himself.
The following morning, after a breakfast of two poached eggs with mushrooms on toast, Nicks showered, packed his stuff and vacated the room. Then he strolled across to the village car park, threw his rucksack in the boot of the hired Nissan SUV and returned to the Pentre where he sat in the dining room, with a newspaper and a coffee, until he felt it was time to pay.
As he entered the bar, a sudden feeling gripped the pit of his stomach. He turned abruptly, scuttling back into the dining room where, from behind a newspaper in a corner seat, he was shielded from view but could still see anyone going to their room.
“No, it’s quite alright. I can manage,” the man said, as he headed for the stairs.
Nicks peered over the paper and watched him disappear before quickly re-entering the bar.
“Good morning, Sir. Are you paying your bill now?” she said with a smile. He nodded. “Just a moment. Ahh, here it is. Is it cash or card, Sir?”
“Cash,” Nicks replied, glancing at the receipt she gave him. “I hope you don’t mind, but that gentleman who just went upstairs looked familiar. I think I used to work with him many years ago, but can’t for the life of me remember his name.”
“Oh, yes, he had an unusual name,” she looked at the reservations screen on the computer. “Yes, it’s Thurstan Baddeley,” she said, then added, thoughtfully: “It’s got a nice sound to it, hasn’t it?”
“Yes! That’s it! I thought it was him.” Nicks was doing his best not to seem hurried.
“Well, you’ll be able to have a chat because he said he was just going to unpack and then come down for a drink.” She smiled again.
“Unfortunately, I have a train to catch.” He handed her a £5 note. “I wonder if I can give you this and ask you to pull him a pint of Guinness when he comes down but make sure it’s the normal stuff, not the chilled. He doesn’t like the chilled stuff.” He felt a desperate urge to leave, and quickly, but managed to maintain his air of calm as he smiled at her and said: “Give him my regards and please keep the change.” As he turned and walked away he heard her say:
“I will and thank you very much. Come again soon.”
Leaving the bar, he made his way back to the Nissan, only quickening his step when he knew he was out of sight of the Pentre. Settled in the driving seat, he drove onto the narrow B4321 gunning up the hill towards the main road where instead of turning left and taking the more direct route back to Liverpool, he would turn right and head across the country to Hereford; joining the A49 for home.
Thurstan unpacked his weekend bag and, after peering out of the small recessed window that overlooked the cove, he locked his room and descended to the bar wearing the same grey chinos, blue polo shirt and brown casual shoes he’d travelled down in. He looked around for somewhere nice to sit. Having chosen his spot, he turned to the girl behind the bar to order his drink but hesitated on seeing her pulling a pint of un-chilled Guinness which he assumed was for a temporarily absent customer.
“How’s the Guinness today?” he casually enquired, immediately regretting it in the realisation she wasn’t likely to say: ‘It’s shit, I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.”
“Well, you tell me,” she smiled, placing the dark creamy topped pint in front of him. “That’s from your friend who left about five minutes ago. He said you used to work together and to give you his regards, but he couldn’t stop because he’d a train to catch.”
Thurstan was pleasantly stunned. It was always nice to get a free pint. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a satisfying mouthful of foam and liquid. The Guinness was indeed good. He wiped his mouth. “Did this chap say what his name was, at all?”
“Ooh! No, he didn’t. I forgot to ask him, but I’ll check his room details for you.” She pushed a few keys on the computer then said: “His name was John Steed.”
Thurstan looked confused. “Well, it rings a bell. Certainly sounds familiar, but I can’t place him at the moment. Did he say where we worked together?”
She shook her head. “No, just to give you his regards.”
“I dare say it’ll come back to me. Probably at three in the morning. Don’t worry, I won’t phone you.”
She looked blankly back at him. Sometimes, he thought, humour was wasted on the young. He took his pint and sat down at a small table by the picture window and looked out onto the beach pondering the mysterious Mr Steed. Eventually, he gave up and settled down to enjoy his drink as he read the lunchtime menu.
After lunch, he had a walk around the village and meandered through one of the shops. It sold all the things interesting to small children on holiday and he reacquainted himself with fishing nets, plastic buckets in the shape of castles, cowboy pistols and the like. Afterwards, he bought himself an ice cream and wandered up the hill overlooking the bay.
At the top, he sat on a bench for some quiet reflection and it wasn’t long before his thoughts turned to Lizzie. Just thinking about her made him feel good. Was he misreading the ‘signs’? Maybe when she smiled ‘that smile’, it wasn’t just for him. Maybe it was just the way she smiled at everyone. He’d no idea. He needed to pay more attention.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
He spun round on the bench. A couple of walkers were looking at him.
Thurstan blushed with embarrassment. “Oh! Um. Sorry. I didn’t realise I was err...”
The woman smiled. “Oh, that’s alright. I do the same myself, quite often.”
He threw them a smile, grabbed his jacket and walked back down the path to the village.
Later that evening, after a shower, he had dinner in the restaurant then entered the bar, carefully scanning its occupants for the ‘walking couple’. Their absence a relief, he was able to enjoy a pleasant evening in conversation with several locals.
The following day, he walked south along the coastal path to Aberporth, after which, filled with a sense of achievement, he lay on his bed and idly flicked through the TV stations waiting for his attention to be caught.
“Is that you, Steed?” the attractive woman, bound to a chair by heavy rope, called out.
A dapper man in a suit, wearing a bowler hat at a jaunty angle, leaned against a doorway smiling flirtatiously, waving his umbrella at her.
“Ah, Mrs Peel. I see you’re a bit tied up at the moment. Shall I come back later?”
The end titles rolled and the music played as Thurstan, now sitting bolt upright, stared at the screen.
“And you can join John Steed and Mrs Peel tomorrow at the same time as we air another classic episode of The Avengers.”
“Ahhhh! That’s it! That’s why the bloody name’s familiar,” he declared aloud to himself as he scrabbled about the bed for his phone. Quickly, he connected to the internet and typed in ‘John Steed’ then clicked into several sites before he began to feverishly scribble down something on the writing paper provided in his room’s welcome pack.
Slipping his shoes on, he left the room and went to the bar. She was there. He asked for a Guinness. She was about to ask whether he wanted chilled or un-chilled when she recognised him. As she pulled the pint, he asked her if she could look up his ‘friends’’ address on the computer and confirm whether he had the right one. He waved the piece of paper at her.
She smiled sympathetically. “I’m not allowed to give you people’s addresses and things. I shouldn’t really have given you his name. It’s something called Data Protection, you see.”
“I know all about Data Protection. I’m a policeman. You don’t have to give me anything because I’m giving you the address and all you have to do is nod or shake your head,” Thurstan said pleasantly.
“Oh, a policeman. You don’t look like a policeman,” she replied.
“Thank you, I do my best,” Thurstan retorted, handing her the piece of paper.
She took it from him.
“I don’t need to look it up anyway. I can remember it. One of those Mews places.”
She looked at the address Thurstan had written down.
“There’s your Guinness,” she said as she placed it carefully in front of him and passed him back the note. Then she nodded.
“Thank you very much and please, please keep the change,” Thurstan said as he handed her a £5 note.
Stepping over to an empty table, he sat down, took a large mouthful of beer, leant back and said quietly: “You cheeky bastard.”