Evan's Gate Page 7

  For now, of course, home was not a haven of peace on the mountainside, but a dreary two-up-two-down terraced miner’s cottage in the village. Evan had been living there since he moved away from Mrs. Williams’s tender care to prove that he could fend for himself. In truth, he hadn’t been doing too well at the fending. He had learned to boil eggs and cook spaghetti, but that was about the limit of his culinary skills. When he got home, he was usually so tired and hungry that it was easier to fry up eggs and bacon than learn a new cooking skill. And at the back of his mind was the thought that someday soon Bronwen would be doing the cooking.

  The place felt cold and damp as he let himself into the front hall, this being one of the few homes that had never had central heating installed. It had never really warmed up after the winter, and he was usually home too late to think about making a fire. Instead he put on the kettle to make some tea, then opened the fridge to see what he might eat. The choice was egg or cheese, and he didn’t fancy either. He turned off the gas under the kettle again and did something he’d promised he’d never do. He went across the road to the pub.

  The RED DRAGON sign was swinging in the stiff breeze, each swing being accompanied by a loud squeak. Evan pushed open the outer door, then ducked under the oak beam that led to the main bar. He was greeted by warmth, voices, and Frank Sinatra in the background—the village’s taste in music being a little behind the times. A fire was burning in the fireplace at the far end of the bar. A group stood around it, silhouetted against the firelight. Another group stood around the bar, in the center of which was a tall young man wearing a turtleneck and smart sports coat. Evan took a moment to register that the man was Barry-the-Bucket, the local bulldozer driver who had never been seen in anything but dirty overalls until recently. He was leaning on the polished wood bar, his face inches from barmaid Betsy’s as he whispered something to her and she responded by blushing and slapping him playfully.

  A minor miracle had taken place in the village when Betsy and Barry fell for each other, Evan decided. He welcomed it as it meant Betsy had stopped her relentless pursuit of him. She was no longer wearing sexy sweaters and exposed midriffs, but a demure white blouse. As she moved away from Barry, she spotted Evan making his way through the crowd to the bar.

  “Well, here he is at last, then,” she said loudly. “We thought you’d got lost, Evan bach. What will it be? The usual?”

  Her hand had already moved to draw a pint of Guinness.

  “Lovely, thanks. And what have you got to eat tonight then, Betsy? What delicacies to tempt a hungry man?”

  “Ooh, listen to him,” one of the men chuckled. “You want to watch it, Evan, boyo. Barry’s standing right here and he gets awfully jealous.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be learning to cook.” Betsy gave him a stern frown. “I’ll have to tell Bronwen if you keep popping in here for your dinner.”

  “I don’t keep popping in. I’ve been looking for a missing girl since this morning, and I’m starving.”

  “Missing girl, eh? Oh, that’s bad. Did you find her?” Old Charlie Hopkins turned to Evan from where he had been propping up the bar, his hands nursing a half-empty glass.

  “Not yet. It seems she might have been taken by her father.”

  “That’s what always happens when people get divorced, isn’t it?” Betsy said. “They do it to spite each other and don’t think about how it might upset the children. They should make sure they’re marrying the right person before they start bringing children into the world, that’s what I say.”

  “Quite right, you tell’em, cariad,” Barry said, patting her hand. “But not everyone can be as lucky as you, meeting a spectacular bloke like me.”

  “Anyone would think you were Irish, the amount of blarney you talk, Barry,” she said, pushing his hand away. “I hope you find her, Evan bach. Now what were you wanting to eat? I’ve got a nice toad in the hole or I can do you some plaice and chips.”

  “Toad in the hole will do nicely, thanks, Betsy.”

  “I’ll just pop it in the microwave. It won’t take a second,” Betsy said, darting away from the bar.

  “Are you going out tonight then, Barry?” he asked the bulldozer driver. “I’ve never seen you all tarted up on a weeknight.”

  Barry actually blushed. “Betsy took me shopping in Bangor and helped me pick out some things.”

  “Ooh, you want to watch it, boy,” Charlie Hopkins chuckled. “Next it will be picking out home furnishings, and then you’re done for.”

  “He could do worse,” Evan said, reaching across to pick up his glass of Guinness. “Everyone has to settle down sometime, you know.”

  “There speaks the voice of experience,” Barry said. “Just because you’ve been caught, you want every other poor bloke to suffer too—and don’t you dare tell Betsy I said that!”

  Evan smiled and was just taking a long, appreciative sip of his Guinness when a hand slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  Evan managed to move his glass away without spilling stout down his front, and turned to see Evans-the-Meat, local butcher, standing behind him.

  “Careful, man. You nearly made me spill my drink,” he said. “And why shouldn’t I be here? I’m here most nights.”

  “I just thought you’d be wise to stay away, on account of how Mr. Owens-the-Sheep wants your head.”

  “Owens-the-Sheep? He’s not still mad about what happened during the foot-and-mouth epidemic, is he? I thought we’d patched that up long ago.”

  “Not that, boyo. Today. That man you took to see the cottage today—that’s what’s upset him.”

  “Why would that upset him?” Evan frowned. “We only walked up the track and back again. We didn’t go over Bill Owens’s land. Oh, don’t tell me he left the gate open when he came down.”

  “No, worse than that. You left the bugger up there, didn’t you? Left him to make his own way down.”

  “I had to. I was paged by my boss.”

  “I dare say you had to,” Evans-the-Meat said, “but you should have brought him down with you, not left him on his own to do more mischief.”

  “He couldn’t keep up with me,” Evan said. “I was in a hurry. Why, what happened?”

  “Let Bill Owens tell you himself,” Evans-the-Meat said. “He’s over by the fire and he’s on his third whisky chaser.”

  Evan took a deep breath and followed the butcher to the group by the fire. “I understand that you had an unpleasant encounter, Mr. Owens,” he said.

  “I did. Thanks to you, young man,” the farmer muttered, his face red and his consonants slurred. “You brought trouble to me today.”

  “I did? What kind of trouble?”

  The old man stared down at the empty glass in his hand. “That bloke was a National Parks inspector, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right. He had to inspect the cottage I want to rebuild. Did he do any damage to your property?”

  “He damaged his wallet, that’s what,” Roberts-the-Pump, owner of the local petrol station, exclaimed with a loud laugh.

  “You wouldn’t find it funny if it happened to you,” Owens said. “Trouble was, Evan bach, he didn’t go straight down the mountain, he starts snooping around where he’s no right to, and he finds my new barn.” He sucked through his teeth in disgust. “You know that compensation I got for losing my flock last year. Well, the wife says why put it all back into sheep at our age? You’ve kept saying you were going to rebuild that old barn. Now’s the time to do it before it falls on someone’s head and kills them.”

  “Oh,” Evan said, realizing where this conversation could be going. “And you didn’t get planning permission.”

  “What do I need permission for? That barn’s been up there since before that little squirt was born. I don’t need permission to rebuild something on my own land.”

  “That’s probably not how he saw it.”

  “It wasn’t. He tells me I could be in a lot of trouble. He sa
ys I have to submit plans for approval before the committee, and the structure has to comply with National Park standards and be built of local materials, just like everything else.”

  “That’s what he told me too,” Evan agreed.

  “Bloody daft, if you ask me,” Roberts commented. “Next they’ll be telling me that my petrol pumps have to be chiseled from local slate.”

  “They probably will, boyo. You’d better watch out.” There was general laughter.

  “But you need a barn on your farm, Mr. Owens,” Evan said. “Tell them that. Tell them the old one was falling down, and you have to take your lambs inside if the weather turns nasty like yesterday. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “I’m not at all sure,” the farmer said. “None of them are locals, are they? This bloke comes from Lancashire so he tells me. Speaks no Welsh. What would he know about sheep farming? I’ve already had to deal with one lot of bureaucracy within the last year; I’m not standing for another. I told him the barn’s going up and if he wants to tear it down again, he’ll have me and my shotgun to deal with.”

  “That probably wasn’t a good idea,” Evan said, thinking of the officious Mr. Pilcher.

  “No, I don’t think he took it too kindly,” Mr. Owens said. “He stomped off, not looking very pleased, and I told the dogs to follow him, just in case he felt like more snooping. You’ve never seen anyone get down the mountain so fast in your life as when he saw those dogs coming after him. As if they’d hurt a fly!”

  His old body shook with silent laughter.

  “All the same, Mr. Owens, I think you’d better go down to National Park headquarters and convince them that you’re just rebuilding the barn the way it always was.”

  “Maybe you’re right, young man,” Owens said. “You don’t seem to be able to fight authority these days, do you? Not like the old days when a man’s farm was his own property and people had to ask permission to walk across it.”

  “So did he give you your permission then, Evan bach?” Roberts asked.

  “Not exactly. He thought it might qualify as a listed building.”

  “What does that mean?” someone asked.

  “You know, of historical value, worth preserving.”

  “That old shepherd’s cottage? Historical value?” There was a loud outburst of laughter. Evan smiled too.

  “That’s what I told him, but he thinks the walls and foundation might have been there long enough to make it qualify.”

  “And what would that mean for you, trying to build it up again?” Roberts asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t met the listed buildings bloke yet,” Evan said.

  “You should ask him if you need to re-create the smell,” Mr. Owens said.

  “The smell?” Evan asked.

  “Yes, old Rhodri, last shepherd up there, always kept a lamb or two inside the place. Well, it wasn’t very big and it always smelled like a zoo in there—cross between a zoo and wet wool. You’d need to re-create that, I’d imagine.”

  “Evan, do you want this toad in the hole or not? It’s sitting here getting cold,” came Betsy’s high, clear voice toward him.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. Dinner calls.” Evan made his way back toward the bar.

  “Make the most of this. You won’t be allowed in here anymore when you’re married,” Evans-the-Meat called after him. “The little woman will expect you to spend your evenings at home with her.”

  “As if your wife ever sees you in the evenings, Gareth,” Roberts-the-Pump said.

  “Ah, but it’s different when you’re newlywed. You have to break wives in slowly, over the years, don’t you?”

  Evan picked up his plate, suddenly not so hungry. They were right. He should have gone straight to see Bronwen. She’d been waiting all day for news about the cottage. He carried the plate through to the lounge, set it down on the nearest table, and ate it as quickly as possible. Then he drained his glass, put the plate back on the counter, and went to leave.

  “Where are you off to now in such a hurry?” Charlie asked him.

  “I haven’t told Bronwen about that damned inspector yet.”

  “See, what did I tell you?” Evans-the-Meat called triumphantly from the fire. “Once they get you hooked, they have you dancing like a bloody puppet. You’ll be next, Barry, boyo.”

  “Don’t you listen to him,” Betsy said. “Just because his wife doesn’t want him at home because he’s a pain in the you-know-what.”

  Evan heard the laughter as he pushed open the door into the cold night air. He walked briskly up the village street, past the shops and the row of cottages, until he came to the low wall of the school playground. Like many old-fashioned village schools, the Llanfair schoolteacher’s residence was at one end of the school building. This practice was dying out as children were bused to newer schools in the towns. There was talk that the Llanfair school would be closed as soon as the new steel-and-glass building was finished outside Porthmadog.

  Evan almost broke into a run as he crossed the playground and tapped on Bronwen’s door. She opened it looking like a long-ago figure from folklore, her ash blonde hair loose over her shoulders and wearing a floor-length robe of deep blue.

  “Oh, Evan, I’d almost given up on you. I was about to go to bed and read.” She raised her face for his kiss. “Come on in, you poor thing. Have you been out all this time looking for the little girl? You must be starving.”

  “Actually, cariad, I’ve already had a bite to eat.”

  “What was it—bread and cheese?”

  “Toad in the hole.”

  “My, but your cooking skills are improving. I’m impressed.”

  Unfortunately it was just not possible to lie to Bronwen. Evan gave her a guilty smile. “I popped into the pub and grabbed a quick bite to eat. There was nothing in my fridge, and you’re right, I was starving.”

  “Then why on earth didn’t you come up here? I could have fixed you something.”

  “You were the one who told me I had to learn to fend for myself.”

  “That doesn’t mean that I don’t understand that there are times when you’re too tired to want to cook, you daftie. I’m sure the food they serve down at the pub is taken straight from a package and microwaved—full of stuff that’s not good for you.”

  “It filled the spot, but now I’ve got the most awful indigestion because I gulped it down as quickly as possible, knowing that you’d be waiting for me.”

  “I don’t know.” Bronwen smiled, shaking her head. “You men. I’ll be glad when I can finally look after you and make sure you eat properly. Sit down. I’ll pour you a brandy to settle your stomach.”

  Evan sat by the fire that Bronwen always lit on cold days and watched her moving around the kitchen, her hair and her robe floating out around her as she moved, as if she was a magical creature of no substance. Again he was overcome by the wonder that she had chosen him. She brought back a brandy snifter with a generous amount of cognac in it. “Here. Get that down you.” She pulled up another chair beside him. “Now, tell me all about everything—first the cottage.”

  She listened patiently as he went through the whole encounter.

  “Well, I think it sounds positive, don’t you?”

  “I hope so—if the listed buildings man isn’t even more officious than Mr. Pilcher. Anyway, I’m going to get busy myself. As soon as I’ve got a moment of free time, I’ll start digging out the sewer line and have a plumber come to check it.”

  “I wish they’d hurry up,” Bronwen said. “I can’t wait to get in there and start painting and putting up curtains and making it look like home.”

  Funny things women look forward to, Evan thought. He reached across and stroked her hair.

  “And what about the little girl? You didn’t find her yet?”

  Evan shook his head. “No trace of her. I kept hoping that she’d just wandered off and got lost, but that doesn’t seem likely now. We’ve had our blokes combing the whole area and asking at all t
he houses nearby.”

  “So you think she was kidnapped?”

  Evan sighed. “It was most likely her own father who took her. He’s a Russian and was planning to go back to Russia.”

  “Well, that’s better than other options, isn’t it?” Bronwen said, staring thoughtfully into her own glass. “At least she’s still alive, and he’ll look after her and there’s a chance of getting her back.”

  “When you put it that way, you’re right,” Evan agreed. “We’ll know more when he’s been traced. The ports have been alerted so he can’t flee the country with her.”

  “Well, that’s good then.”

  Evan leaned back in his chair, feeling the cognac flowing through his system. “I’m so whacked, I don’t think I’ve got the energy to go home,” he said.

  “Who is telling you to?” Bronwen gave him a teasing smile as she got to her feet and ruffled his hair.

  Chapter 9

  On a level area of paddock outside the house, a large tent was being erected. Shouts of men and the sound of guy ropes being hammered into the soil echoed back from the valley walls and made sheep look up and trot off in alarm. Old Tomos Thomas stood on his doorstep, scratching his head.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he said to the men standing beside him. One of the men was his grandson, Henry Bosley-Thomas. The other, managing to look like an advertisement out of Hare and Hound for the elegant country squire in well-cut slacks and a checked vyella shirt, was Henry’s father, Hugh Bosley-Thomas, creator of their hyhenated surname.

  “You asked the family to help you arrange a party for your birthday, Father,” Hugh said, in a voice that betrayed time at an expensive public school and then Oxford.

  “I didn’t think you counted yourself as family any longer. Haven’t exactly been coming to visit too often, have you?” old Tomos said.