deposit of ore on his land would benefit him and the country both. Ever since they lifted off, Marland had been expounding in this vein, and quite frankly, Rafe was sick of the sound of his cultivated tones. He didn’t need some pompous bureaucrat implying where his duties lay, explaining the situation to him as if he was some ignorant schoolboy, not conversant with the simple mathematics of economics.
‘I think Mr Glyndower understands your position, Sir George,’ Norman interposed now. ‘However, Penwyth has belonged to his family for many generations, and the farmers—the tenant farmers, that is—–’
‘Farmers!’ Marland’s tones mirrored the contempt he felt for such an interruption. ‘My dear John, the wealth accrued from such land is negligible. What is it? Sheep country at best! There’s your equation. In my view, there is no problem. And let us not forget that it’s Lord Penwyth’s decision, not Glyndower’s.’
‘My father has put the affair into my hands,’ retorted Rafe tersely, pulling a case of the narrow cheroots he smoked out of the pocket of his tweed hacking jacket. When both men declined his offer of the case, he put one of the slim cigars between his teeth, and added: ‘Conversely, I’m of the opinion that there are conflicting interests here. Interests of humanity, and ecology. This country of ours—and I mean Wales, not England, or Great Britain, as it sometimes suits the government to call us—has been torn apart by mining of one sort or another. Pits, spewing slag and slurry all over our hillsides, belching black dust into air that was once clean and pure. Is that an equation, Sir George? Is that what you mean by mineral wealth?’
Marland’s plump shoulders stiffened. He was not used to such plain speaking. His heavy jowls above the starched white collar of his shirt visibly stiffened. Brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ironed crease in his pin-striped trouser leg, he adopted an air of frosty forbearance.
‘I trust you’re not about to enter that as a serious point of opposition, Glyndower,’ he observed sourly. ‘With your apparent concern for humanity, you should be the first to realise that without the coalmines, the people you so staunchly defend would have starved.’
Rafe put away the lighter he had used to light his cheroot and drew deeply on the tobacco, exhaling a cloud of aromatically-flavoured smoke into the enclosed cabin of the helicopter. He supposed it was impolite of him to smoke in such a confined atmosphere, when neither of his colleagues was doing so, but right now he needed the sustenance it gave him. Lucy would not approve, he knew that, but then there were a lot of things he did of which Lucy did not approve, and at the moment her approval was not in question.
Of course, he knew he had been a fool, bringing up the subject of coalmining. Marland could cut any argument he might make to ribbons, and the humane aspects of rheumatic diseases and silicosis were more than compensated by the rewards offered. Or so it seemed. There were still plenty of men willing to risk life and limb to bring up the energy-bearing carbon, and his own ancestors had not been unwilling to take their fair share of the patrimony offered. It was as well Marland knew nothing of his own history, and besides, what bearing did it really have on what was happening here?
‘I’m simply saying that—enough is enough,’ he replied now, weariness descending like a shroud. ‘I don’t know that in this case, the end justifies the means.’
‘Rafe!’ It was John Norman who spoke, his good-natured features drawn into an uncharacteristic frown. ‘You know perfectly well, Penwyth needs the capital.’
Rafe moved his shoulders impatiently. ‘I don’t deny that. But is that sufficient reason to deny a man his livelihood?’
Marland cleared his throat. ‘I understand that without a—shall we say—substantial investment of capital, the estate may have to be sold any way.’
Rafe stiffened now. ‘Where did you hear that?’ He glanced at John Norman again. ‘Was that your opinion, too?’
The president of the Norcroft Mining Company shifted uncomfortably. ‘One doesn’t have to be a fortune-teller to see for oneself, Rafe,’ he demurred. ‘You’ve said yourself…’
‘We’re going through a rough patch, yes.’ Rafe inclined his head. ‘But it’s been rough before. We’ve survived.’
‘An estate like Penwyth is an anachronism,’ declared Marland heavily. ‘Too small to be efficient, too hilly to farm economically. Who would want this land anyway? Fields and fields of rough turf, climbing among acres of second-rate timber. Pretty, maybe—valuable, it’s not.’
Rafe stilled the ready retort that sprang to his lips. Now was not the time to sentimentalise or offer emotive reasons why he wanted Penwyth to stay the same as it had always been. In all honesty, Sir George was probably right: Penwyth was not a viable proposition. It never had been. The house was a rambling mausoleum, badly in need of roofing and repair, and the acres of garden that surrounded it were gradually running to seed. Old Laurence did what he could, but there was a limit to one man’s abilities in that field, and the man was old—too old to handle a garden like the Manor’s, yet not old enough to pension off. And if they did pension him off, who would take it on? The young people left the valley in search of work in Cardiff or Swansea, and he hadn’t the time to handle it himself. Not along with everything else.
How much easier it had been years ago, he reflected bitterly. The rents from the farms had never contributed much towards the upkeep of the Manor, but in those days, the subsequent lords of Penwyth had had independent means. They had had the money to maintain the valley as an oasis of peace and tranquillity in a world being torn by economic collapse and starvation, money derived from sources it was not always polite to question. They had not been crippled by a series of taxes and death duties, supplemented by rising costs and soaring prices, that left Penwyth almost bankrupt and struggling to survive. Now the rents from the farms were a much-needed necessity, though they went only a small way towards the upkeep of the estate, and his father’s lengthy illness had even eaten into Lucy’s allowance.
‘What would you suggest I tell my tenants?’ he asked Marland now. ‘Like me, they were born and brought up in this valley. They don’t know any other life. It takes some swallowing, doesn’t it? Destroying a whole community!’
‘How many farms are involved? Six? Seven?’ Marland sniffed. ‘You can’t seriously consider the needs of half a dozen families more important than the wealth of the nation as a whole.’
‘How dramatic!’ Rafe’s lips twisted. ‘No, Sir George, I’m not that arrogant—or altruistic. I know what granting exploratory rights means, and I’m aware how important such a find might be.’ He shook his head. ‘It just seems ironic that it was Mervyn Powys who brought that axe to me. He had no idea what it would lead to.’
Marland shrugged. ‘The luck of the game, Glyndower. Now, can we discuss primary claims?’
It was after five before they had completed the aerial survey. The helicopter belonging to the Norcroft Mining Company came down on the field below the manor, and levering himself out beneath the lethal blades of its propellers, Rafe felt it was incumbent upon him to offer his guests some refreshment before they returned to their hotel in Llandrindod Wells. Lucy would expect it, he knew, and besides, he would be interested to have her opinion of Sir George Marland. Lucy was quite a shrewd judge of character, and just because he didn’t like the man, it did not mean he was unlikeable. He was not surprised when his offer was accepted. No definite decision had yet been made, and he knew both Marland and Norman would welcome this opportunity to further their mutual ends.
While the pilot stilled the noisy propellers, Rafe walked towards the Land Rover he had left parked earlier in the afternoon. His dog, a golden-haired Labrador
