Omega

He wondered if their uncle had said anything to Rhys about his own spell in hospital over Christmas. Hard to imagine he hadn’t, and typical of Rhys to make no reference to it.

The tart was some kind of chickpea and cheese confection. Owain ate only a portion, whereas Rhys scooped his down as if he was ravenous. He kept fiddling with his signet ring. It was gold, worn on the little finger of his right hand.

“Get married, did you?” Owain said in Welsh, and with heavy sarcasm.

Rhys was able to avoid replying as his plate was removed and a casserole dish

brought to the table.

There hadn’t always been such a distance between them. As children they had

been close, and they had both undertaken officer training at Sandhurst. But while Owain was serving in North Africa Rhys had been suspended from the academy, in murky circumstances involving two other cadets and plenty of sexual innuendo. Their uncle would never refer to it. Later he had re-emerged as an intelligence operative, work to which his talents were more suited, according to the field marshal.

The casserole comprised whole onions, carrots and little cubes of pale meat.

Green beans and mashed potatoes accompanied it. While their plates were being loaded, Giselle started asking his brother how he had enjoyed Geneva.

“I didn’t see much of it,” Rhys told her, swallowing more wine. “Underground it looked and smelt the same as anywhere else.”

Owain waved a second dollop of mashed potatoes aside. “It was a perfectly reasonable question,” he said. “There’s no need to be so damn churlish.”

Rhys looked surprised. “Sorry,” he said to Giselle. “No offence meant.”

“None taken,” she assured him.

“I’ve spent so much time below stairs I think I’ve forgotten how to make proper dinner-table conversation.”

“Below stairs” was backroom jargon for “underground”. Rhys’s easy use of the phrase irritated him.

“Sounds like he could do with a surface posting,” he said to the field marshal in Welsh. “Of course we’d need to make sure it isn’t anywhere where there might be bullets flying.”

The old man gave him an admonitory stare. In English he said, “I didn’t bring you to my table to bicker.”

Rhys just continued shovelling food into his mouth. My own instincts were to impose a more conciliatory manner on Owain, if only because his hostility unsettled me. But Owain was too irritated by his brother’s presence to be chastened.

It was Sir Gruffydd and Giselle who carried the conversation as they ate, the old man talking about an opera he intended to see in the city before he left. Something by Wagner. When the talk turned to the prospect of taking a winter break, Rhys offered the opinion that the Canary Islands were still reasonably unspoilt and relatively warm.

“Been there yourself?” Owain asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Rhys shook his head. “Someone I work with told me. I haven’t taken a holiday in years.”

“Poor ” Owain retorted. “Still, there are other consolations. Salary good, is it? Looks like you get the pick of the PPs.”

Rhys didn’t reply. PP stood for Priority Provision, stores whose merchandise was unavailable to the general public. Owain ignored another glare from his uncle.” And at least you’re not in the firing line,” he persisted.

“Neither are you.”

I could feel Owain’s face flushing with embarrassment and rage. His brother had spoken diffidently but Owain could not have been more sensitive about the issue.

“Not out of choice,” he said hotly. “I’d be there now if I could.”

“I know,” Rhys said.

“At least I’ve served. Put my life on the line.”

Rhys looked down at his plate. “I didn’t mean anything.”

Owain reverted to Welsh: “You’ve got a fucking cheek, saying that to me.”

“Enough!” Sir Gruffydd shouted, lurching to his feet. “If you can’t be civil to one another, then close your mouths or get out of my sight!”

He was truly angry this time. Angry and, Owain realised, exhausted. He supported himself by resting both knuckles on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Owain said in Welsh. “Please forgive me.”

“It’s not me you ought to be apologising to,” the field marshal said, sticking resolutely to English. “Damn it all, Owain!”

Owain pushed back his chair and stood up, letting his napkin fall. One of the housemaids was hovering in the doorway with a tray of desserts. Owain pushed past her as he hurried out.

A short corridor took him to the front door. The guard on duty opened it and he stumbled outside.

I was as relieved as he was to be outside. The earlier thaw had given way to a renewed chill. Frost glittered on the steps, while overhead the sky was already darkening, even though it was no later than three-thirty. His uncle had always taken dinner in the afternoon, a custom which he claimed improved digestion and warded off nightmares.