That evening, I drove to the docks, to the Taff Green warehouse, but Naz wasn’t there. So, I phoned my friend Mac, an ‘odd-job’ man who’d turn his hand to just about anything, and arranged a meeting; we’d get together at 9 a.m., at the Museum of Welsh Life, by the Celtic Village.
Situated in St Fagans, the Museum of Welsh Life was a delight. Spread over fifty acres, the open-air museum contained dozens of original buildings from various corners of Wales, all skilfully re-erected to demonstrate how our ancestors lived. In addition, traditional livestock roamed the grounds while craftsmen displayed centuries-old skills. St Fagans Castle – a sixteenth century mansion house – formal gardens and fishponds also attracted thousands of visitors each year.
The Celtic Village, a collection of Iron Age roundhouses reconstructed from the remains of actual buildings, was situated to the north of the museum, near the tannery. And there I found Mac, his bald head glinting in the sunlight, his huge ginger moustache bristling, the upper half of his muscular body daubed in woad. In his left hand, he held a spear, which he tilted towards me.
He said, “You laugh, Missy, and I’ll drop you in the lake.”
I grinned then laughed, unable to contain myself. “You look very fetching, Mac.” I laughed again. “You planning on wearing that to the wedding?”
Mac turned away then shook his head in mock indignation. “I was thinking of wearing my kilt, but now I’m not so sure.”
“So what’s with the robes and make-up?” I asked, circling him, ignoring the hubbub of activity that emanated from the Celtic Village.
“I strolled along to watch my lover at work, didn’t I,” Mac explained. “Then the director casts an eye over me and says I’d be great as an extra, just wandering around in the background, waving a spear.”
“A whole new career beckons,” I said, realizing that a film crew had commandeered the Celtic Village, that they were shooting a movie.
“I quit after today, I tell you,” Mac insisted, thumping the haft of his long spear on to the hard ground. “All you do is hang around.”
“A bit like our game, on stakeouts.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “Has all the fun of a blister on your bum.”
The director was orchestrating the next scene, so the film set was a hive of activity for some, yet a place of inactivity for others. In a calm, assured voice, he instructed the actors and technicians, while a small knot of onlookers nudged each other and pointed at the famous faces, many of whom were stalwarts of modern television dramas.
“So,” I said while gazing at the film crew, at the actors and technicians, at the incongruous blend of ancient and hi-tech modern, “which one is your lover?”
“Over there.” With his spear, Mac pointed at an incredibly handsome man, a man blessed with jet-black hair and a set of brilliant white teeth. “He’s sort of a chieftain in this picture, a minor role to be sure, but an important one all the same.”
“Is this a cinema release?” I asked while admiring the actor’s sensual, statuesque physique.
“TV film. They’re recording it in Welsh and English, would you believe.”
“Your lover speaks Welsh?” I asked.
“He’s learned his lines, nothing beyond that. He’s from the States, but I reckon I told you that already.”
“Handsome,” I said, noting that Mac’s lover was the centre of attention, eclipsing his fellow actors, including the star.
“Aye,” Mac grinned, standing tall and proud, puffing out his chest. “He’s a helluva hunk. Gets lots of fan mail from the ladies, even though he’s gay.”
“Is this film his big break?”
“A stepping-stone. After this, he’s auditioning for the lead in a sci-fi series, The Guards of Magog. If he lands that part, he’ll become public property.”
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
Mac grimaced. He thrust out his bottom lip then licked his huge ginger moustache. “I’m not thrilled, but it’s his career. He puts up with me and my shenanigans. Who am I to deny him his claim to fame?”
Most of the actors were daubed in woad so the make-up lady scurried around them, adding fresh touches of blue dye, including a swirl over Mac’s lover’s hairless chest.
While eyeing the make-up lady, Mac continued, “He’s a good actor; he’ll get the part, and I can live with that; I guess you’d call that love, eh, Missy?”
“True devotion,” I said.
“Aye,” Mac grinned again. “I think he’s the one.”
Someone on the film set, maybe the assistant director, yelled ‘quiet, please!’, and the onlookers fell silent. Not wishing to evoke anyone’s wrath, we wandered away from the Celtic Village, south, past the tannery, towards a corn mill.
As we walked along a tree-lined path, Mac asked, “So, you here to pick up filming tips for the wedding?”
“Faye’s taking care of all that,” I explained; “she’s hired someone.” We paused to admire the corn mill, a splendid, whitewashed building. A museum piece now, a water-powered corn mill would have been a common sight for our Victorian ancestors, an essential landmark in the community landscape as the mill turned grain into flour for human consumption and animal feed.
“I’m looking for an ex-con,” I said, “someone who still dabbles, Frankie Quinn.”
Mac frowned. He shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Gawain ‘Madman’ Morgan?”
Mac nodded. “Aye. I’ve heard of him. He has a certain reputation amongst the criminal fraternity. A bit of a lad in his day, but retired now, so I believe.”
“He’s my dad,” I said.
Mac paused. He looked at me askance. “‘Madman’ Morgan?”
“Yes. Gawain Morgan is my father.”
While a handful of visitors wandered around the corn mill, I regaled Mac with details of my father and the fact that I was working for him.
“Well, you certainly know how to pull a rabbit out of a hat,” Mac said, running a shovel of a hand over his bald head.
I shrugged. “Maybe that explains who I am and what I do; what do you think?”
Mac examined the tip of his spear, which glinted in the morning sunlight. “Is the good Dr Storey aware of this fact?” he asked.
“He is.”
“Then maybe you should discuss it with him.”
“He’s in Australia,” I explained, “attending a psychology conference.”
Mac nodded. He said, “So Morgan’s your dad and client, and you’re looking for Frankie Quinn.”
“That’s the size and shape of it. I have a lead, a bloke called Naz.”
“The Nazi,” Mac scowled, knitting his eyebrows together, gripping his spear with violent intent.
“Heard of him?” I asked.
Although Mac adjusted his grip, he continued to hold the spear with aggressive intent. “Naz the Nazi, an unpleasant man, as his name suggests, a very unpleasant man, the sort of guy who’d like to reintroduce the gas chambers for everyone who isn’t white, male, able bodied and heterosexual.”
“A right bastard then.”
Despite himself, Mac grinned. “Missy, you have such an eloquent way with words.” He added, “You planning to meet Naz?”
“I was thinking of it.”
“Want me to tag along?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I can look after myself. Besides, if you wander through the streets of Cardiff looking like that you might instigate an uprising.”
Mac ran an eye over his Iron Age attire. On most modern men, the daub and plaid clothing would have looked ridiculous, but I had to concede that the costume suited my friend. He said, “That’s the trouble with Britain – never had a revolution. Most civilised countries have had at least one, to break off the shackles of the past, to purge the class system from their system. Britain is still tied to the past; in reality, we haven’t moved on from the mud huts, from the Dark Ages.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “you’d better get back to Taffywood before your director starts calling. But when you’re through filming, put the word out will you that I’m looking for Frankie Quinn.”
Mac nodded. “I’ll do that.” As he turned away, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “And Missy, if you do encounter Naz, you take care.”