Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs Page 6

“It won’t be for long, Gladys,” Evan said. “And I expect they’re paying you well.”

  Gladys smiled secretively. “If it weren’t for the money, I’d have quit on the first day,” she said. “The language, Mr. Evans. They use words I’ve never even heard before—not even on the telly and that’s getting bad enough these days. And fight! They’re always shouting and arguing—I’m just glad I don’t always understand the bad names they’re calling each other.”

  Evan was well aware of the fighting. So was every other resident of Llanfair. When the Llewellyns fought, which seemed to be most nights, the whole village heard it. Llanfair wasn’t used to any noise after nine o’clock and the first time the Llewellyns fought, neighbors had called Evan right away.

  “It sounds like they’re killing each other up there, Mr. Evans,” Mair Hopkins, Charlie’s wife and the closest neighbor to the Powell-Jones house, had said breathlessly.

  Evan hastily got dressed and ran up to the Powell-Jones house. As he approached he saw people in dressing gowns and slippers standing at their doorways. He could hear the noises long before the Powell-Jones house came in view—one of them a female voice just as loud as Ifor’s. Then the sounds of crockery smashing and a slap and a scream.

  Evan thundered on the front door. “Open up right away. It’s the police,” he yelled.

  After a few minutes the door was opened by Ifor in a Chinese silk dressing gown. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?” he asked. His voice was slurred enough to hint that he’d been working his way through the Jameson again.

  “I’ve received calls that domestic violence was taking place here,” Evan said.

  “Domestic violence?” Ifor threw back his head and laughed. “You hear that, my dear? Domestic violence is supposed to be taking place here.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn appeared behind Ifor. Evan expected her to look battered and bruised, but she looked serene and elegant in a turquoise satin robe, her face covered in cream and her hair in a turban. “We were just having a little disagreement, Officer,” she said. “Nothing serious. We tend to disagree loudly at times. Thank you for your concern.”

  “But I heard the sound of blows,” Evan said. “And something smashing.”

  Ifor laughed again. “My wife tends to express her anger by throwing things,” he said. “Two of the Powell-Jones plates are regretfully no more, which means we’ll have to buy them another set, I suppose. And when I nimbly dodged out of the way and laughed, she slapped me.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn looked slightly abashed. “It was only a slap, Officer. I do it all the time. It’s impossible to hurt someone of Ifor’s size.”

  “Felt like a fly landing on me,” Ifor said and put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “I can’t even remember what we were fighting about anymore, can you, my love?”

  “I expect I’ll remember it later,” she said coldly. “Thank you for stopping by, Officer.”

  “Please try to keep the noise down after nine o’clock,” Evan said. “People around here go to bed early.”

  “Don’t they just,” Mrs. Llewellyn said with a bitter laugh. “Godforsaken place. Why anyone would want to come back here when they’d had the chance to get out, I can’t understand. When I left Colwyn Bay I swore I’d never go back there again.”

  “My wife doesn’t have the Celtic soul, Constable Evans,” Ifor said. “Thank you again for coming so promptly. If she had been killing me, you’d have saved my life.”

  He escorted Evan firmly to the front door.

  * * *

  The evening fights didn’t stop but the villagers gradually got used to them. They happened after Ifor had spent the evening at the Red Dragon, which he did most nights. Evan was also spending more time at the Red Dragon than he ever had before. Mrs. Williams’s house was no longer the haven of peace and security it had been—there were dinners of stewed and pureed food followed by the Reverend Powell-Jones declaiming loudly from his room, or pointing out the evils of the modern world to Evan in the lounge as the latter tried to watch the news on the telly.

  “Have you taken residence here, young man?” the other minister, Reverend Parry Davies, asked Evan as he stopped by for his evening pint. “Every time I come in here, you seem to be a fixture.”

  Evan sighed. “I wouldn’t mind moving in here if they had a room for me. I can’t take it much longer at Mrs. Williams’s. All evening long he’s reciting in his bedroom—all this woe-is-me stuff.”

  “Powell-Jones, reciting? What’s he doing that for?”

  “He’s entering the eisteddfod, haven’t you heard?” Evan asked.

  “Entering the eisteddfod? The nerve of the man!” Parry Davies roared. “He’s only doing it because he knows that I aspire to be crowned bard. Well, good luck to him. He is a newcomer who hasn’t a chance, especially with his puny little voice.”

  “Who’s got a puny little voice?” Ifor boomed as he came in. “Not talking about me again, are you?” His big laugh resounded and made the glasses on the shelves jangle in response.

  “I’m dying to hear you sing, Mr. Llewellyn,” Betsy said, pouring his whisky without being asked. “I’m so excited about the eisteddfod. They say you’re going to sing a solo with the choir.”

  “You should hear me sing in an opera,” Ifor said. “I can’t begin to give my full voice when I’m with the choir. I’d drown them all out. I’d probably bring the tent down.”

  “I’ve never seen a real opera,” Betsy said wistfully. “I hear they’re very romantic.”

  “Very,” Ifor said. “It’s always a story of an impossible love and the lovers die in each other’s arms. That’s how I intend to die—in the arms of a beautiful girl. But not until I’m ninety-eight of course.” He had taken Betsy’s hand and was idly playing with her fingers as he spoke. When he finished he put her fingers gently to his lips.

  “I’d love to see you singing in an opera,” Betsy said. Her cheeks were pink and she sounded flustered. “I bet you have all the girls in the audience sobbing when you die.”

  Ifor smiled. “If you’re very good, I’ll take you to an opera very soon. I’ve got the schedule for the Cardiff festival. We could drive down one day.”

  “You’d take me to an opera in Cardiff? I’d love it, Mr. Llewellyn.”

  “Call me Ifor,” he said, still playing with her fingers. “I’ve got a feeling that you and I are going to be good friends.”

  * * *

  Evan didn’t sleep well that night. For all her flirting and exposed midriffs, Betsy was a naive child. How could she fall so easily for Ifor’s line? Didn’t she know his reputation? Evan knew it was none of his business but he couldn’t just stand by and let her make a fool of herself. And he couldn’t stand the thought of Ifor pawing at her.

  Next morning he intercepted her on her way into work.

  “Betsy, you and I have to talk.”

  “Oh yes, what about?” Betsy was looking up at him expectantly.

  “About Ifor Llewellyn. I don’t want you going down to Cardiff with him.”

  “He’s only taking me to an opera,” Betsy said. “I think it’s very nice of him.”

  “Betsy, wake up. Ifor’s not the sort of man who takes young girls to operas with no strings attached. You should know that.”

  “And what if there are strings attached?” Betsy glared at him defiantly. “I’m a big girl, you know and I happen to find him very attractive and I’m flattered that he seems to fancy me, too.”

  “And he also happens to be married and he gets through women at the speed most people get through their library books,” Evan exploded.

  Suddenly Betsy’s face broke into a broad grin. “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “You’re jealous, Evan Evans. Finally it’s come out. You were just too shy to ask me before, weren’t you? Pretending that you’d rather spend your time with that dreary Bronwen. Oh, you men are so funny.” She ran her hands through her blond curls. “Tell you what then. If you’re really starting to show the proper amount of interest in
me, then I won’t go down to Cardiff with Ifor. How’s that then?”

  Evan’s brain was racing. Bronwen would understand that he was only doing it to save Betsy’s honor, wouldn’t she? Bronwen was a sensible, kind, caring person. She wouldn’t want Betsy to go to Cardiff with Ifor Llewellyn, so she’d understand that he was only doing his duty.

  “Well, Evan Evans,” Betsy said. “Do you want to ask me out yourself or not? Are you going to take me out on Saturday night or shall I see if Mr. Llewellyn is free to drive me to Cardiff?”

  Evan took a deep breath. “Okay, Betsy,” he said. “We’ll go out on Saturday night.”

  Chapter 7

  “So you see I had no choice, Bron,” Evan said.

  She was standing with her hand on the gate to the schoolhouse, looking at him steadily. He imagined she’d practiced that look for times when her students came to school with excuses about not doing their homework. “I see,” she said. She probably said the same thing to her students, too.

  “Well, what would you have done?” he demanded.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve made a very gallant sacrifice,” she said. “Not every man would give up a thrilling evening at the pub for a hot nightclub with a half-clad Betsy. Maybe they’ll give you a medal.”

  “At least I’m telling you about it,” Evan said. “At least I’m asking your opinion.”

  “What I think doesn’t matter, does it?” Bronwen’s voice was still infuriatingly calm. “You and I are just friends, aren’t we? That’s what you tell everyone.”

  Evan fought to control himself. He had expected Bronwen to be reasonable. He had tried to be reasonable. Reason wasn’t working. “Bronwen, you must know that I have no desire to go dancing with Betsy, but I couldn’t let her go down to Cardiff with the Welsh Don Juan, could I? It seemed to be the easiest way to solve things, and I told myself that being a sensible, caring person, you’d understand.”

  Bronwen swung the gate to and fro then finally looked up with a half smile. “I suppose I do understand. And I don’t really think you’ll be seduced by one evening with Betsy, but you know how tongues wag in this village. You’ll probably have her father showing up on your doorstep, demanding that you make an honest woman of her.”

  “Maybe that would have been the best way to solve this.”

  “Being pressured into a shotgun wedding with Betsy?”

  “No,” Evan had to smile now. “I mean the Ifor business. If I’d managed to catch old Sam Edwards when he was sober enough to listen to me, he could have gone after Ifor with that old shotgun of his and put the fear of God into him.”

  “I didn’t think that policemen were supposed to recommend shooting people as a way of solving problems.” Bronwen had relaxed. Her hands no longer gripped the gate.

  “Sam Edwards has never hit anything yet with that old gun, or I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

  “Ah well. Too late now,” Bronwen said.

  “At least I’ve managed to postpone the date until the eisteddfod’s over,” Evan said. “We’ve got practices every evening until we perform.”

  “How’s it coming along? You sound alright from what I can hear.”

  “What you can hear is Ifor singing and the rest of us opening our mouths,” Evan said with a grin.

  “When are you performing?”

  “Saturday night. We’re going down to Harlech on Friday evening to rehearse in the pavilion, so we get a feel for the size of the place.”

  “I’ll have to come and listen to you on Saturday,” Bronwen said. “I’ve promised to take some of my children from school down to watch the folk dancing. Maybe we’ll stay on to listen to your choir if it’s not too late.”

  “I shouldn’t bother if I were you,” Evan said. He realized that the last thing in the world he wanted was for Bronwen to hear him singing.

  “Oh, why?” Bronwen looked disappointed. “You don’t want me to hear you sing?”

  “We’re not very good, Bron. Frankly I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Evan said. “The atmosphere at rehearsals is getting uncomfortable.”

  “Oh? In what way?”

  Evan sighed. “Mostyn Phillips takes the thing very seriously. Ifor thinks it’s a huge joke. I think we’re heading for a major blowup.”

  * * *

  That evening Evan had just come home from the pub and was sitting in his room reading when the phone rang. It was Mair Hopkins, Charlie’s wife. “They’re at it again, Mr. Evans,” she breathed into the phone. “I can hear shoutin’ going on outside this time. I don’t like to complain, but it’s past nine o’clock.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll go up there and see what’s going on, Mrs. Hopkins,” Evan said. “Thanks for calling me.”

  He put on his uniform jacket and hurried up the street. He could hear raised voices but he couldn’t see what was happening because the chapel blocked his view of the speakers. Evan realized immediately that this time it wasn’t just a domestic brawl. The voices were both male.

  “I’m warning you!” The voice was clearly not English or Welsh.

  “You think I’m scared of your warnings?” Evan recognized Ifor’s big voice immediately. “Go back home and do your worst. I’m itching for a good fight. I’d just love to see you in court—best publicity I ever had!”

  Before Evan had reached the chapel he heard something that sounded, in the clear night air, like a shot. With heart pounding, he realized it was only a car door slamming. An engine revved and a long, low car sped away. Evan could see that it had a foreign number plate. By the time he got to the Powell-Joneses’ driveway, Ifor Llewellyn had gone back inside and everything was quiet. Evan hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should knock on the door, then decided whatever it was, it wasn’t his business to interfere.

  Ifor didn’t show up for rehearsal the next day.

  “Oh, this really is too bad,” Mostyn said as the choir stood ready to start and Ifor hadn’t made his entrance. “He knows how important it is to start rehearsals on time. He’s doing it deliberately to annoy me, that’s what it is. Alright. We’ll start without him.”

  He nodded to Miss Johns at the piano. They worked their way through their program and still no Ifor. Evan sang along uneasily and was just about to volunteer to go and find him when the door burst open and Ifor strode in. “What was that meant to be?” he boomed. His speech betrayed a recent visit to the Red Dragon. “It sounded like a group of mice squeaking in a very large church. Give it some sound, for God’s sake. Make it ring.”

  “You’re very late, Ifor,” Mostyn said in a clipped voice. “It’s setting a poor example to these men.”

  Ifor grinned. “Ah well, I’ve just had some interesting visitors,” he said. He looked around expectantly. “You’ll never guess who just approached me—the boys from the Blaenau Ffestiniog choir! They’ve asked me to join them. It’s a very fine choir, I hear. First class. They hope to win the gold medal and with me they’d definitely do it, wouldn’t they?”

  The color had drained from Mostyn’s face. “You’re not seriously thinking of backing out at this stage, and joining a rival choir?”

  “Don’t shriek, Mostyn. It’s unladylike,” Ifor said, still grinning. “I haven’t signed a contract with you, you know. I was only doing this out of the goodness of my heart, and frankly I’m having second thoughts. I have my reputation to consider. I don’t want Ifor Llewellyn to look a complete idiot in front of an audience, do I now?”

  “It’s just the sort of traitorous act I’d expect from you,” Mostyn yelled. “I don’t know why I thought you’d ever change. You always excelled at backstabbing, didn’t you? Well, you’re not letting us down now. Dress rehearsal in the pavilion, seven o’clock sharp tomorrow, and I expect you to be on time!”

  He stormed out, pushed past Ifor and slammed the door behind him. Ifor looked at the stunned faces then he shrugged. “I really shouldn’t do it, but it’s too tempting,” he said. “He asks for it, doesn’t he?”

  * * *

&nb
sp; “Bloody ’ell,” young Billy Hopkins, Charlie’s grandson, exclaimed as he climbed out of the back of the van and got his first sight of the eisteddfod grounds. Evan seconded the thought. On what used to be the playing fields there were now three huge marquees, the middle one the size of a circus tent. Around them were tents of varying sizes, and around the perimeter hundreds of small booths were going up, ready to sell everything from Celtic jewelry to toffy apples. Everywhere was bustling with activity. Guy ropes were being tightened, frames assembled. People passed them carrying spinning wheels, garlands of flowers, blots of cloth, stage prop pillars, boxes of paper cups. A young girl staggered past, clutching a Welsh harp as big as she was. Cars and vans wove cautiously in and out, hooting at pedestrians to get out of their way. The overall effect was that of an army setting up for a siege. This was heightened by the banner of the Red Dragon of Wales, fluttering from the tallest tent post and the towering form of Harlech Castle etched in black against a threatening sky.

  “I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” Billy Hopkins muttered to Evan, who had just emerged from Roberts-the-Pump’s ancient limo. “I mean, this is something, isn’t it?”

  “Where’s Austin Mostyn then?” Roberts-the-Pump asked, looking around him.

  “He drove some students here straight from his school,” Evans-the-Meat said. “They were in the the boy soprano competition so Mostyn said he’d meet us here.”

  “Boy soprano, thet’s what you should have entered, Evan bach,” Charlie chuckled.

  “And where’s Ifor?” Roberts-the-Pump lowered his voice this time.

  “Don’t ask,” Barry-the-Bucket muttered. “Let’s just hope he shows up by seven o’clock or we’ll never hear the last of it.”

  Mostyn came bustling over to them, clutching his conductor’s baton and trying to look important. “Ah, there you are. I’ve had a chance to scout the place out and I know which pavilion we’ll be singing in. So let’s look sharp and get over there. I’ve been told they’re on a very strict schedule.” The words came out in a torrent. He set off at a brisk pace, causing the rest of the choir to break into a run to keep up with him.