The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [112]
“I need your help, Dai,” I said softly. “Help like I’ve never needed before.”
He must have been following the news broadcasts because he fell silent. He gently took an early volume of R. S. Thomas out of the hands of a prospective customer, told him it was closing time and ushered him out of the bookshop before he had time to complain.
“This is Bowden Cable,” I explained as the bookseller bolted the door. “He’s my partner; if you can trust me you can trust him. Bowden, this is Jones the Manuscript, my Welsh contact.”
“Ah!” said the bookseller, shaking Bowden’s hand warmly. “Any friend of Thursday’s is a friend of mine. This is Haelwyn the Book,” he added, introducing us to his assistant, who smiled shyly. “Now, young Thursday, what can I do for you?”
I paused.
“We need to get to Merthyr Tydfil—”
The bookseller laughed explosively.
“—tonight,” I added.
He stopped laughing and walked behind the counter, tidying absently as he went.
“Your reputation precedes you, Thursday. They tell me you seek Jane Eyre. They say you have a good heart—and have faced wickedness and lived.”
“What else do people say?”
“That Darkness walks in the valleys,” interrupted Haelwyn with a good deal of doom in her voice.
“Thank you, Haelwyn,” said Jones. “The man you seek—”
“—and the Rhondda has lain in shadow these past few weeks,” continued Haelwyn, who obviously hadn’t finished yet.
“That’s enough, Haelwyn,” said Jones more sternly. “There are some new copies of Cold Comfort Farm that need to be dispatched to Llan-dod, hmm?”
Haelwyn walked off with a pained expression.
“What about—” I began.
“—and the milk is delivered sour from the cows’ udders!” called Haelwyn from behind a bookshelf. “And the compasses in Merthyr have all gone mad these past few days!”
“Take no heed of her,” explained Jones apologetically. “She reads a lot of books. But how can I help you? Me, an old bookseller with no connections?”
“An old bookseller with Welsh citizenship and free access across the border doesn’t need connections to get to where he wants to go.”
“Wait a moment, Thursday, bach; you want me to take you to Merthyr?”
I nodded. Jones was the best and last chance I had, all rolled into one. But he wasn’t as happy with the plan as I thought he might be.
“And why would I want to do that?” he asked sharply. “You know the punishment for smuggling? Want to see an old man like me end my days in a cell on Skokholm? You ask too much. I’m a crazy old man—not a stupid one.”
I had thought he might say this.
“If you’ll help us,” I began, reaching into my briefcase, “I can let you have . . . this.”
I placed the single sheet of paper on the counter in front of him; Jones gave a sharp intake of breath and sat heavily on a chair. He knew what it was without close examination.
“How . . . how did you get this?” he asked me suspiciously.
“The English government rates the return of Jane Eyre very highly—high enough to wish to trade.”
He leaned forward and picked up the sheet. There, in all its glory, was an early handwritten draft of “I See the Boys of Summer,” the opening poem in the anthology that would later become 18 Poems, the first published work of Dylan Thomas; Wales had been demanding its return for some time.
“This belongs not to one man but to the Republic,” announced the bookseller slowly. “It is the heritage.”
“Agreed,” I replied. “You can do with the manuscript what you will.”
But Jones the Manuscript was not going to be swayed. I could have brought him Under Milk Wood and Richard Burton to read it and he still wouldn’t have taken us to Merthyr.
“Thursday, you ask too much!” he wailed. “The laws here are very strict! The HeddluCyfrinach have eyes and ears everywhere!—”
My heart sank.
“I understand, Jones—and thanks.”
“I’ll take you to Merthyr, Miss Next,” interrupted Haelwyn, fixing me with a half-smile.
“It is too dangerous,” muttered Jones. “I forbid it!”
“Hush!” replied Haelwyn. “Enough of that talk from you. I read adventures every day—now I can be in one. Besides—the streetlights dimmed last night; it was a sign!”
We sat