Evans Above Page 2

  He found himself thinking back to his early childhood spent among these mountains and to the happy days with his grandfather up in the high country. In those days it seemed that it was just the two of them, alone on the roof of the world, sometimes in the clouds, sometimes above them, with eagles soaring below their feet.

  But now it was hard to find a place of solitude, even for someone like Evan who knew these mountains like the back of his hand. Most frequently he’d be settled and sunk into contemplation when laughter and loud voices on the path below would announce the arrival of another group of tourists. They’d stagger up the path, often clad in the most unsuitable clothes—shorts and T-shirts—no foul weather gear in case the cloud came in, sandals or city shoes, videotaping as they went. It was all a big lark to them. They had no idea that a storm could roll in and blow them off the path with gale force winds, or that the cloud could come down and blot out the way back, that one step off the path could lead to destruction, and that a night on the mountains could finish them off.

  “Give him until morning, major,” he said, drawing his mind back to the present problem. “I can’t have my lads missing their chapel over every climber who comes back late, can I? Likely as not you’ll have heard from him by morning. I’d wager your boy shows up late for dinner, or gives you a ring from Llanberis. And if he is stranded up there for the night … well, it’s not going to be too cold, is it and he could always make for the kiosk and shelter there. It might teach him a lesson about taking our Welsh mountains more seriously.”

  He smiled at the major. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to chapel. I don’t want to miss the reverend Parry Davies’ sermon. Heard about him, have you? He’s a famous orator. Goes to the eisteddfods every year and wins prizes, and gives powerful good sermons—all hellfire and damnation. You can almost smell the brimstone. The Reverend Powell-Jones has had to have double glazing put on his windows.”

  His gaze drifted across the street to the other chapel, Beulah, where the Reverend Powell-Jones was conducting his own evening worship. He made up for his lack of Parry Davies’ power of oratory by giving his sermons in Welsh and then in English. Since this took well over an hour, his congregation was considerably smaller than Bethel’s—mainly old women who had grown up as Welsh speakers and ardent nationalists. Still, it was hard to compete against Bethel’s added advantage: A footpath behind it that led to the back door of the Red Dragon.

  Even though all the pubs in Wales were now officially allowed to open on Sundays, Llanfair was one of those pockets of religious righteousness where Sunday drinking was still outwardly frowned upon, and the front door of the pub remained firmly shut to strangers. The back door, however, was open to admit regular customers, which was why most of the men of Llanfair attended evening services at Chapel Bethel.

  “Do I understand that you’re refusing to do anything to help?” the major blustered. “I’m going to have a word with your superiors about this.”

  “When I get word that someone’s in trouble, then I’ll be all too willing to help, major,” Evan said. “So will all the lads in the village. But we’re all volunteers, you know. We can’t go wandering all over the mountains looking for someone who might not even be up there by now. It’s going to be dark soon and I can’t risk losing one of my lads over a cliff, can I? Look, why don’t you call me in the morning if he hasn’t shown up. But right now God and Mr. Parry Davies are calling, if you don’t mind.”

  The major strode off, muttering, “Oh, this is absurd. Completely useless. Village idiots, the lot of them …”

  Charlie Hopkins turned back to Evan with an apologetic shrug. “You don’t suppose we should have gone, do you, Evan bach? That’s the type who likes to make trouble. Got friends in high places.”

  Evan scowled at the major’s disappearing back. “If he had friends in the right sort of high places,” he said pointing up at the silhouette of the mountain, “then they could bloody well look for his missing climber themselves and leave us in peace.”

  Charlie Hopkins chuckled and reluctantly Evan laughed, too. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but that man gets my goat. Barkin’ orders as if he was still in the army. We’re only volunteers, after all. Nobody pays us to go traipsing over mountains, ruining our good shoes and missing our chapel.”

  Mr. Hopkins dug Evan in the side. “Don’t let me keep you then, constable,” he said. “You’ll be wanting to get back for the rest of the sermon, I don’t doubt.”

  He winked at Evan.

  “After you, Mr. Hopkins,” Evan said, giving him a little shove in the direction of the chapel door. “You’re the usher. You have to be there to collect the hymn books, don’t you?”

  Mr. Hopkins looked at the chapel door and then let his gaze wander further down the street to where the Red Dragon pub sign was swinging in the evening breeze. “They all know where the hymn books go,” he said. “And it sounds like the Reverend Parry Davies is cutting it short tonight. He must be as thirsty as we are. No sense in going back in there just for one last hymn, is there? Might as well get our orders in first next door.” He nudged Evan again. “Give you a chance to be alone in the pub for a while with you know who.”

  His lean body shook with silent laughter.

  Evan sighed. Ever since he had come here a year ago, the entire valley had tried its best to play matchmaker. Betsy, the barmaid in the Red Dragon, had made no secret of the fact that she fancied Evan.

  “Get away with you now, Charlie,” Evan said, flushing with embarrassment. “Betsy’s a nice girl and all that but not exactly my type, you know.”

  “You could do worse, Evan boy.” Charlie chuckled. “I hear she’s ready, willing, and very able.”

  “That’s the trouble, Charlie,” Evan said with a grin. “She’s too ready and too willing. If I so much as say hello to her, she takes it as encouragement. She’s always on about taking her dancing in Caernarfon.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Charlie asked.

  Evan shook her head. “You’ve never seen me dance,” he said. “They tell me I look like a dying octopus. Besides, I’m not ready to get involved with anybody yet. Only just got here, haven’t I?”

  He had his back to the street and hadn’t heard anyone coming, so he jumped when a soft voice said, “Good evening, Constable Evans. Not in chapel tonight, I see?”

  Evan spun around to see a slim young woman smiling at him. She was dressed in khaki pants and a linen shirt. A dark green sweater was draped around her neck and brought out the green in her eyes. Her hair hung down her back in one lustrous braid. As always Evan felt tongue-tied in her presence.

  “Good evening, Bronwen Price,” Evan stammered. “I see you’re not in chapel yourself either.”

  Bronwen took in Evan’s jacket and tie. He must have been intending to go to chapel anyway, she thought. He wasn’t the kind of person who wore a jacket when he didn’t have to. Usually he was the old-jeans-and-sweater type. Out of uniform he looked quite handsome, she thought. She liked the way his dark hair flopped down boyishly across his forehead when he wasn’t wearing his policeman’s cap.

  “I’ve just got back from an all-day hike,” she said. “Did you know that a red kite is nesting up there now? Isn’t that wonderful news?”

  “Up above Llyn Llydaw? I saw it myself,” Evan said, his face lighting up.

  “You did?” Bronwen looked surprised. “When were you up there?”

  “Earlier today.”

  “You were? Pity we missed each other.”

  “Great pity,” Evan said with feeling. Then, suddenly awkward again with Charlie Hopkins looking on, he stammered, “Two babies in the nest, wasn’t it?”

  Charlie looked from Evan to Bronwen. “I’ll just nip on ahead to the Red Dragon then,” he said. “Let them know you’re coming.”

  Evan looked at Bronwen. “You feel like a drink?”

  “On a Sunday?” At first Evan thought that Bronwen sounded genuinely shocked, but then he noticed that her eye
s were teasing. “What would my pupils say if they saw their teacher going into the pub on a Sunday night?”

  “I thought it might be thirsty work, all that hiking,” Evan said.

  “You’re right, it was,” Bronwen agreed with a smile.

  “Then the drink is for medicinal purposes,” Evan said. “It’s a known fact that you have to replenish fluids after strenuous exercise—and we’ll go the back way by the footpath. Nobody will see you.”

  Bronwen laughed. “There’s nothing they don’t see or know in this village, but I’ll come along to keep you company, if you like. Not that I approve of playing hookey from chapel.”

  “I’ll have you know I was called out on official business,” Evan said. “Another lost climber.” He stood aside to let Bronwen go ahead of him as they started down the little footpath.

  “Not again,” Bronwen said over her shoulder. “They should make them pass a test before they let them loose on the mountain.”

  “Now that would be a good idea,” Evan said.

  “I see you aren’t in a hurry to go and find him,” Bronwen said.

  “If I went to find every climber who was half an hour late for dinner, I might as well forget my day job and live in a tent up on the mountain,” Evan said. “We’ll hear about it soon enough if he’s really in trouble. It’s not even dark yet.”

  He paused outside the pub and looked appreciatively at the dark outlines of the mountains, etched against a pure rose pink sky. “Going to be a beautiful day again tomorrow,” he said, as he shepherded Bronwen into the back door of the Red Dragon.

  Chapter 2

  Up on the mountain the sun sank, plunging the cliffs into deep shadow so that it was hard to discern what it was that lay among the rocks. A chill wind sprang up, howling through the crevices and drowning a cry that nobody heard.

  Betsy, the barmaid, looked up expectantly as Charlie Hopkins came into the pub.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hopkins,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re the only one drinking tonight?”

  Charlie glanced back at the door. “Chapel’s not out yet, Betsy bach. Constable Evans and I were called out on an emergency so we got a head start.”

  “Constable Evans isn’t coming then?” she asked, the disappointment showing in her wide blue eyes.

  “He’s coming right enough,” Charlie said, “But he’s taking his time about it. He got waylaid.” His eyes danced with wicked merriment.

  “You mean he’s with someone?” Betsy demanded. “Not that Bronwen Price?”

  “My lips are sealed,” Charlie said. “Give me a pint of best bitter, will you love?”

  Betsy pulled the pint as if she was wringing a chicken’s neck. “Bronwen Bloody Price. Don’t tell me he sees anything in her.” she demanded. “What is there to see under all those clothes she wears? Most men like a woman to look like a woman, don’t they, Charlie?”

  She pulled down the low-necked angora sweater she was wearing to emphasize the point.

  Charlie didn’t like to say that Bronwen wasn’t wearing her usual voluminous skirts tonight and that she looked very neat and trim in her hiking gear.

  “No doubt he’s only being friendly, isn’t it?” Betsy said to reassure herself as she put the overflowing glass in front of Charlie Hopkins. “He’s a very friendly person, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Hopkins?”

  “Very friendly,” Charlie said. He was thinking that Evan and Bronwen were taking an awful long time to walk a few yards.

  Betsy’s eyes widened as the door opened and Evan’s voice could be heard. She smoothed down her sweater again. Just let that Bronwen Price try her best—a poor specimen of womanhood she was. No curves to speak of and no makeup either. What had she got to offer a man on cold winter’s nights?

  Betsy watched Evan come in and lead Bronwen through to the lounge on the other side of the bar. Even though there was no written rule, it was generally accepted that women didn’t belong in the public bar with the men. It was a brave woman who defied this tradition. Betsy watched with annoyance as Evan pulled out a chair for Bronwen, who smiled at him as she sat down. He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Betsy’s eyes lingered appreciatively on his broad back. She liked them well built. She imagined herself unbuttoning that white shirt some day and running her hands over those big shoulders. She lowered her eyes and pretended to be busy as he headed for the bar.

  “Evening, Betsy,” he said. “I’d like a pint of Guinness for myself, and …” He lowered his voice, glancing around to see if anyone was in earshot. “A Perrier for the lady.”

  “A Perrier?” Betsy’s nose wrinkled and she glanced across at Bronwen. She went to the fridge and carried the bottle back between two fingers. “Waste of money, if you ask me,” she said. “Might as well go and take a drink from the stream.”

  Evan tried not to smile. He knew from experience that she took every smile as encouragement and he certainly didn’t want to encourage her in front of Bronwen.

  “And Guinness for you, is it, Evan bach?” she asked, pouring the pint glass so full that it slopped over. “I like a man with a good healthy appetite,” she added, running her tongue over her full lips. Even felt himself flushing.

  “Thanks, Betsy,” he said, fishing for money in his pocket. He put the money on the bar.

  “If you’re free later,” she said in a low voice as he picked up the glasses, “I’ve rented this very interesting video from the store in Caernarfon. It’s Italian—all about the dolce vita in Rome. I can’t understand a word of what they’re saying, but you don’t really need to, do you?”

  Evan tried to think of something to say, but his mind was a blank. He was trying hard to keep his eyes from straying to Betsy’s cleavage. She was pressing herself up against the bar as she spoke, which pulled her neckline even lower, and he knew she was doing it quite deliberately. He found himself wondering, just for a moment, what it would be like if …

  “So, do you feel like coming over later?” she asked again. “I always get out early on Sundays, seeing as how it’s only the regulars.”

  “Can’t tonight, love,” he said. “We had a missing climber call. I’d have to stay by the phone, wouldn’t I?”

  With that he hurried the beer and the Perrier to the table, before Betsy could come up with any more interesting suggestions.

  “Sorry,” he said, putting the Perrier in front of Bronwen.

  “That’s all right,” Bronwen said politely, “I could see you were—otherwise occupied.” Her eyes strayed across to the bar. “She tries hard, doesn’t she?” she went on. “I’d have to give her an A for effort.”

  “She means well,” Evan said charitably.

  “I’m sure she does,” Bronwen said.

  “She never takes no for an answer, that’s the problem,” Evan said. “And I don’t like to be rude …”

  “Of course not,” Bronwen said smoothly.

  Evan had just sat down opposite Bronwen when the chapel crowd came in, talking noisily.

  “What was that all about then, Constable Evans?” one of the men demanded. “Was that the major I saw call you out of chapel?”

  “Indeed it was, Mr. Rees. One of his climbers was late for dinner and he wanted us to go find him.”

  “The man’s got a nerve,” someone else growled. “Anyone would think we did this for a living.”

  “So what did you tell him, Evan bach? I hope you told him where to get off?”

  “I can tell you what I’d like to have told him, but there are ladies present,” Evan said, getting a chuckle all around. “He got quite put out when I said I wasn’t calling you lads out tonight and wandering all over the mountains looking for his climber.”

  “Quite right, Evan bach,” one of the men agreed. “Nothing but trouble that Everest Inn has been since it was built.”

  Evan turned to smile at Bronwen as the men crowded around the bar.

  “I get the feeling that the major isn’t your favorite person,” she said.

/>   “You can say that again,” Evan said. “That man gets my goat, Bronwen. He reminds me of my old headmaster at school—he had the same accent and he was always looking down at me because I was only a scholarship boy.”

  Bronwen looked up with interest. “A scholarship boy? Where?”

  “Down in Swansea. Swansea Grammar School—do you know it?” Evan asked. “Very posh. My parents were so proud when I got a scholarship there.”

  “I thought everyone said you were from around here.”

  “I was born up here. We moved to Swansea when I was a little kiddy. My dad got a job down there, see, so we had to move.”

  “That must have been hard for you, moving to the big city.”

  “It was pretty tough. And then I got a scholarship to this posh school and that was even harder. They used to make fun of me because my English wasn’t too good in those days and because I was undersized and skinny.”

  Bronwen laughed. “You? Undersized and skinny? You certainly changed.”

  Evan smiled too. “They changed their tune at school when I started growing and turned into a useful rugby player. By the time I left, I was twice the size of that headmaster and he couldn’t look down his nose at me any more, even if he’d wanted to.”

  “What made your father move down to Swansea?” Bronwen asked. “Did he work in the docks?”

  “He was a copper,” Evan said. “They paid more down there.”

  “So you’re following in your father’s footsteps then?”

  Evan’s face grew solemn. “Something like that,” he said.

  “And what made you come back up here?”

  He paused. “I’d had enough of Swansea,” he said quickly. “What about you? What made you come here?”

  She shrugged. “I wanted the simple life,” she said. “Back to basics. I wanted to teach kids who still had a sense of innocence and wonder. No drugs or gangs or shopping centers.”

  “Do you really believe that we can shut out the world in a place like this?” he asked quietly.

  “I hope so,” she said.