Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (7 page)

He put the music down up on a music stand. “And I have been doing some serious soul-searching. I’m afraid I really cannot presume on my former friendship to ask a singer of the calibre of Ifor Llewellyn to join our little choir. I just wouldn’t have the cheek. I mean, to think that a world-renowned man like that would ever—”

“Would ever what, Mostyn?” A huge voice resounded from the doorway.

Mostyn’s jaw dropped. “Ifor,” he said. “Is it really you?”

“In the flesh, old friend,” Ifor said, striding across the floor so that the rickety floorboards creaked alarmingly. “In the flesh as you can see, and plenty of it.” He enveloped Mostyn in a huge bear hug, sending the music stand and all the music flying. “Here I am, as you can see, ready to do my part.”

“Ifor, I don’t know what to say. I am overwhelmed.” Mostyn dropped to his knees and started picking up the music. “I don’t know how to thank you. As Constable Evans said, this is indeed a miracle.”

“Come on then,” Ifor said. “Don’t just stand there, man. Let’s get to work. Show me what music you’re planning to sing for the
eisteddfod.
”

Mostyn juggled papers on the music stand. He was clearly flustered. “Well, look you, this is what I’d planned to start with.”

He nodded to Miss Johns at the piano and raised his baton. Ifor sat without moving until they had finished the song.

“And what was that supposed to be then?” he enquired.

“A Byrd motet. In praise of music.”

“A Byrd motet?” Ifor exploded. “It sounded like a flock of birds, if you don’t mind my saying so—or the Luton Girls’ Choir. I’ve never heard such a dreary noise in my life. You want to start with a good rousing chorus, man. Make the audience sit up and listen. Something like ‘Men of Harlech’!”

Mostyn’s face was bright red. His little moustache twitched nervously. “We can hardly start with ‘Men of Harlech’ when we’re singing in Harlech and half the audience will be men of Harlech, can we?” he demanded. “That wouldn’t make us any friends. And every choir sings songs like that. If we want to make an impression, we should sound different.”

“Balderdash,” Ifor boomed. “Give the audience something they know and like—‘All Through he Night,’ or ‘Land of My Fathers,’ or even a chorus from a popular musical.
Oklahoma!
…”

“Oklahoma!?”
Mostyn looked horrified.

“Too old-fashioned. Maybe you’re right. Something from
Les Misérables
then.” He launched into “Do you hear the people sing, singing a song of angry men.” His huge voice filled the room and soon all the choir members were nodding in time.

“There you are,” he said. “That’s what a chorus should sound like. Not this pansy nonsense. It’s not called a Choir of Daughters, is it? Well then, let them sound like men. I think I’ve got the score of
Lohengrin
with me. They could handle the Anvil Chorus. Or maybe the Soldiers’ Chorus from
Faust?
”

“Everyone does the Soldier’s Chorus,” Mostyn said through clenched teeth. “We don’t have the numbers for a big sound, so I was trying for a different sound.”

“Yes, but not bloody effeminate wailing,” Ifor said, still smiling amiably. Evan got the impression he enjoyed baiting Mostyn. “You never did get it, did you, old chap? Remember that presentation you gave at college on medieval lute music? Half the audience fell asleep and even the professor fell off his chair!” He laughed loudly, slapping his tree-trunk thigh. “Well, you can forget all this rubbish. You’ve got a big sound now. You’ve got me!” He turned to the choir. “Do any of you boys happen to know the parts to ‘Land of My Fathers’?”

By the end of the evening Evan had to admit that they sounded a lot better. Actually they sounded like Ifor singing with background noise. But that was preferable to the sound they had made before. At least it drowned out the out-of-tune baritones. But he noticed that Mostyn hastily put together his papers and scurried out to his car, without waiting to socialize. He was just getting into the car when Ifor appeared. “Is that what you’re driving, Mostyn
bach?
” His voice resounded back from the hills. “That’s the Austin? How does it go—a clockwork motor, or do you pedal it?”

“Oh dear me,” he muttered to the men standing around him as Mostyn drove away. “I think I’ve upset him. He always was quick to take offence. Unfortunately it was always too easy to tease poor old Mostyn. It was almost as if he was asking for it. He always did take himself too seriously. Just think what would happen if I drove off in a huff every time I got bad press! I just say publish and be damned and laugh it off.” He draped his arms over the nearest shoulders. “Alright then lads, who’s ready for a drink?”

*   *   *

The general consensus was that Ifor was a thoroughly good bloke who had arrived in the nick of time to save the
eisteddfod.
Evan wasn’t so sure. He watched Mostyn, tight-lipped and increasingly nervous during rehearsals as they belted out “Land of My Fathers” and Ifor sang the drinking song from
La Traviata
with oompahs from the choir.

As the Llewellyns settled in, other villagers beside Evan started to wonder if having him in residence was a good thing.

“Would you listen to that, Constable Evans,” Gladys, the Powell-Joneses’ daily help, said as she came out of the grocer’s shop and met Evan. “Imagine trying to do the dusting with that noise in the next room.”

The sound of Ifor’s huge tenor voice, practicing scales, echoed around the narrow valley.

“He’s always singing, Mr. Evans. Morning, noon, and night,” Gladys said, shaking her head. “And I thought he came here to rest his voice. I’d hate to hear what he sounds like when he’s not resting it.”

Evan grinned. “Some people pay hundreds of pounds and queue all night to hear him sing, Gladys. They’d think you were lucky to hear him for free.”

“They can have my job anytime,” Gladys said. “I’m thinking of writing to Mrs. Powell-Jones and handing in my notice. The minister and Mrs. Powell-Jones are no trouble at all—at least she can be picky and she always manages to find a spot I haven’t dusted, but they let me get on with my work in peace. These people have no idea of time. They’re just getting up at eleven o’clock in the morning and they want to use the bathroom when I’m trying to clean it and they want lunch at three o’clock in the afternoon. I tell you, Mr. Evans, I’m at sixes and sevens with them.”

“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?”