Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (3 page)

Evan lamented silently that more food sticking to his ribs was the last thing he needed. Mrs. Williams’s generous helpings were already beginning to show around his waistline.

He had only taken a couple of bites when there was a knock at the front door.

“Now who can that be?” Mrs. Williams demanded in annoyance. Evan often wondered if she expected him to be psychic or this was merely a rhetorical question.

“I’ll go and see, shall I?” He got up from the table only to be pushed back into his seat.

“You’ll finish your dinner. I’ll go,” she said firmly.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Evan heard her say, “but he’s only started in on his food just.”

Then the kitchen door opened and Charlie Hopkins came in. He was one of the older men in the village, scrawny and undersize with thinning hair. He always wore boots that seemed too big for the rest of him—a throwback to the days when he worked in the slate quarry. He might have looked frail but Evan had seen him walk up mountains as if he was on an afternoon stroll through the park.

“Sorry to interrupt you when you’re eating, Evan
bach,
” he said.

“No problem, Charlie. Sit down and join me. You can see that Mrs. Williams has cooked enough for an army as usual.”

“Oh, no thanks. I can’t stay. I’ve got a delivery to make in Llandudno,” Charlie said. He operated a local hauling service. “I’m here on official business.”

Evan looked up, his fork poised in his hand. “Official business?” Charlie was the usher at Chapel Bethel, but other than that held no office.

Charlie cleared his throat. “I’ve been asked to come and speak to you in my official capacity as secretary of the Llanfair and District Men’s Choir,” he said importantly.

“Oh really? You’ve got a problem with the choir, have you Charlie?”

Charlie nodded. “A pretty big problem if you ask me. With the baritones.”

“And you need my advice or you want police help?”

“We need help right enough. We need another baritone,” Charlie said bluntly. “We’ve got the
eisteddfod
coming up in another month and we sound terrible, so Austin Mostyn asked me if I’d talk to you.”

The choir director was Mostyn Phillips, who was also the music master at the comprehensive school in Caernarfon. He drove a very ancient Austin Mini, hence the nickname.

“I don’t see why you’ve come to me, Charlie…”

“We’ve heard that you’ve got a good voice.”

“Me? A good voice? Who told you that?” Evan laughed.

“Mrs. Williams,” Charlie said, looking up to catch her eye as she lurked by the door. “She’s heard you singing in the bathroom.”

“I wasn’t listening, you understand, Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Williams said apologetically. “I just couldn’t help hearing like. And you do sing lovely.”

“I might sound okay in a tiled room or after a rugby match.” Evan gave an embarrassed laugh. “But I’ve never sung properly in my life—well, not since the mixed infants choir.”

“You couldn’t be worse than what we’ve got,” Charlie said. “Pathetic, that’s what it is, Evan
bach,
and the regional
eisteddfod
in Harlech is less than a month away. Won’t you come and help us out?”

“I really don’t see that I’d be much help, Charlie. I can’t even read music.”

“You wouldn’t need to. Austin Mostyn will have you going over the music so many times that it will be drilled into your head. A right stickler he is—takes his duties very seriously. He expects us to be the bloody Welsh National Opera or something.” He gave Evan a grin that revealed a couple of missing teeth. “At least say you’ll come to the rehearsal this evening. I promised you’d be there. I’ll treat you to a pint in the Dragon afterward.”

Evan sighed. “Well, I had no other plans for the evening…”

Charlie chuckled. “No hot dates with the schoolteacher?”

“Give over, Charlie. Bronwen and I are—”

“I know, just good friends, like the politicians say in the
Daily Mirror
when they’re caught in the Caribbean with a French bit of crumpet.” He gave Evan’s shoulder a nudge. “You want to take out young Betsy-the-Bar. You’d do more than bird watching with her!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Evan said dryly. He was getting a little tired of the constant matchmaking efforts that went on in the village.

“Betsy-the-Bar?” Mrs. Williams demanded. “She’s not right for him. Mr. Evans is a serious, refined young man. You can’t see him taking out a girl who wears skirts halfway up her thighs and necklines almost to meet them? What he needs is a nice refined girl who can cook. Now our Sharon, for example—”

“Gracious, is that the time?” Charlie interrupted, mercifully sparing Evan from having to hear more about Mrs. Williams’s oversize granddaughter.

“I’d better get a move on, too,” Evan said, turning to look at the kitchen clock above the Welsh dresser.

“So you’ll come tonight?” Charlie paused in the doorway.

“I’ll be there,” Evan said, “but I’m not making any promises.”

Chapter 3

“I’m most appreciative, Constable Evans.” Mostyn Phillips shook Evan’s hand as they came out of the village hall. It was almost dark and as they took the shortcut to the Red Dragon, the peak of Mount Snowdon glowed black against a silver sky.

“I do hope you decide to join our little endeavor,” Mostyn continued. “As you can see, or should I say hear, we could really use the extra voice.”

Evan thought privately that the modest addition of his somewhat-in-tune voice was hardly going to turn the Llanfair Côr Meibion into an award-winning choir, but he kept quiet. He felt sorry for Mostyn Phillips, who took his duties so seriously and was faced with a choir of aging voices. Most of the singers were more of Charlie Hopkins’s vintage—former slate miners to whom singing in the choir was almost a requirement of living in Llanfair. There were only a few young men in the village now and those teenage grandsons and nephews who were dragged along thought the whole thing was a bit of a joke.

“This used to be a fine choir in its heyday,” Mostyn went on, voicing Evan’s thoughts out loud. “When the slate mine was working, every man in this neighborhood was proud to sing with the choir. Has Charlie shown you the cups we won in those days? My, but they were fine—the National Eisteddfod, too, not just local ones.”

Evan glanced at Mostyn Phillips. He was a dapper little man with a neat Hitler-style moustache. He always dressed formally in a blazer and striped tie, or tweed jacket and cravat, but he gave the impression of being frozen in a time warp in both his dress and his behavior. He could never forget that he was a schoolmaster either. It must have been a constant annoyance for him to face an undisciplined group of men who couldn’t be threatened with detention.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Mostyn went on. “I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, entering us for the
eisteddfod
again. My whole reputation is riding on it. I’m well known for the quality of my choirs, Mr. Evans.”

“Then maybe you should think twice about this
eisteddfod,
” Evan said. “I doubt very much that you can whip us into shape in a month.”

“But it’s good for the men to compete. It gives them something to aim for—and we’re only entered in the small choir division—under one hundred voices.” He leaned confidentially close to Evan. “I hope to stun the judges with my choice of music.”

Evan kept quiet about this, too. After all, what did he know about music? But none of the songs they had sung tonight were familiar to Evan. None of the old favorites that you could belt out with confidence, like “Men of Harlech” or “Sauspan Fach.” It seemed to be all modern stuff and rather strange.

They had reached the Red Dragon at the same time as a couple of village women and Mostyn sprang ahead to open the door for them.

“After you, ladies,” he said with a little bow, reducing both of the round village matrons to giggles.

“
Diolch yn fawr,
thank you very much,” they mumbled.

“Nice to know that old world chivalry isn’t dead yet, eh Sioned?” one of them exclaimed with a glance back at Mostyn.

“Holding the door open for us then, Austin Mostyn?” Roberts-the-Pump gave Charlie Hopkins a nudge as they walked through the open door. “Nice to know that old world chivalry isn’t dead yet, eh Charlie?”

Mostyn flushed and gave a half laugh to show that he appreciated the joke.

“No, Constable Evans. I’m going to keep plowing ahead regardless,” he said as they followed the men inside. “I’m an optimist. I keep hoping for a miracle.”

“I don’t think miracles come around too often, Mr. Phillips,” Evan said.

“Well, look you, here he is now!” Betsy’s high clear voice cut through the murmur of voices in the crowded bar. Her face lit up as Evan ducked under the big oak beam at the doorway and made his way through the crowd. “Charlie’s just told me to pour you a pint of Brains courtesy of him, to celebrate your joining the choir.” She beamed at Evan and smoothed down the Lycra tank top she was wearing, pulling the already-low neckline even lower. As Evan approached the bar, he was interested to see that the neon green top finished a good four inches above her waist, leaving a delicious exposure of flesh above her frilly white apron.

“I didn’t say I was joining,” Evan commented as he pushed his way to the bar between Charlie and Evans-the-Meat. “I only promised to come along and see. And I did come along and I did see. And now that I’ve got my free pint…”

The other men knew he was joking, but Mostyn Phillips turned a horrified face to Evan. “Oh, but Constable Evans, you can’t leave us now. We need you, man. We can’t do without you.”

“See Evan, you’re going to be the star,” Betsy said, her eyes smiling into his as she handed him the overflowing glass of dark liquor. “I always knew you must have hidden talents if the right person knew how to draw them out of you.” She put such meaning into this and stared so frankly that he had to take a large gulp of beer.

Why couldn’t he just tell Betsy that he wasn’t interested and then maybe she’d stop all this embarrassing nonsense. He wondered if, deep down, he really did want her to stop.

“So Evan, did you hear that there’s a Musicfest down on the quay in Caernarfon tomorrow?” Betsy went on as if the two of them were alone, not surrounded by the rest of Llanfair. “Live bands and dancing and all.”

“Half my students are playing in those bands,” Austin Mostyn commented. “I keep trying to educate them to like real music and what do they want—heavy metal, whatever that is.”

Betsy laughed. “Heavy metal? That went out years ago, Mr. Phillips. Get with it! You should go to the Musicfest and see what the young people like today. I thought I might go. My cousin Eddie’s in one of the bands. The Groovin’ Druids, they call themselves. They’re ever so good.” Her gaze moved toward Evan. “How about you come with me, Evan? Remember I promised to teach you the latest dance steps? You haven’t even learned the macarena yet.”

“You’re wasting your time, Betsy love,” Charlie Hopkins said while Evan was still forming an answer in his head. “He’s off with Bronwen-the-Book again tomorrow.”

“Her again? Bloody bird watching, no doubt,” Betsy muttered as she set down a glass, none too gently, in front of another customer. “Sounds like a barrel of laughs to me.” She ignored Evan and leaned closer to Charlie. “Now if he came on a date with me, Mr. Hopkins, I’d show him that there was more fun in life than watching birds. He wouldn’t have the time or energy to notice bloody birds if he was with me.”

This was greeted with noisy laughter. Evan was glad that the public bar was dark. He was always embarrassed at blushing so easily—one of the problems of fair Celtic skin, he supposed. He took a long drink and emptied his glass.

“I’m not giving up, you know,” Betsy said, taking the glass from him and refilling it without being asked. “I’m going to get you dancing with me one of these days, Evan Evans, and when you’re out there with me, you’ll wonder what hit you.”

“The floor, probably, when I trip over my own feet,” Evan said, grinning at Charlie.

A blast of cold air made everyone turn to the door.

“It’s
y Parch,
the minister,” Charlie muttered, digging Evan in the ribs. “Better watch our language from now on. Evening, Reverend,” he called as the crowd parted to let the Reverend Parry Davies, the more worldly of the two ministers, approach the bar.

“Good evening, one and all.” The Reverend Parry Davies nodded genially to those around him. “A pint of your best Brains, please, my dear. I’ve a thirst that could drain Llŷn Llydaw tonight.”

“Been practicing your sermon for Sunday, have you, Reverend?” Evans-the-Meat asked. It was well known in Llanfair that he was a regular at the other chapel and thought that its preacher, Mr. Powell-Jones, was far superior. “When are you going to try sermonizing in Welsh, then? Isn’t our mother tongue good enough for you?”

“I have to cater to everybody, Gareth,” Reverend Parry Davies said, still smiling genially. “And not everybody speaks our mother tongue as well as you and I do.” He looked around with pride. “As a matter of fact, I’ve just been reciting some of the finest Welsh words ever written. It’s for the bardic competition at the
eisteddfod,
you know. This year I’m doing a poem based on the story of the Lady Rhiannon in the
Mabinogion.
”

“The what?” young Barry-the-Bucket, the local bulldozer driver, asked in a stage whisper.

“The
Mabinogion,
” Evans-the-Meat hissed back. “One of the oldest books in the world, and full of stories of Welsh heroes, too. What do they teach you in the schools these days?”

The minister nodded. “Magnificent it is! The drama of it—the pathos when her little son is taken from her and she searches in vain. There won’t be a dry eye in the pavilion, I can tell you.”

“Why? Are you going to bring onions with you, Reverend?” Barry-the-Bucket, quipped to his friends.

“You be quiet, Barry-the-Bucket,” Betsy said fiercely. “You wouldn’t know culture if it jumped up and bit you. I think the reverend is going to do just fine. He’ll be a credit to us all.”

“Your faith in me is very touching, my dear,” Reverend Parry Davies said. “I have to confess that I have high hopes of being chaired bard this year.”