Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (8 page)

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?”

*   *   *

“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.

“Look at all the TV vans,” Billy Hopkins commented as they came to a halt outside the biggest tent. “Do you think my mam will be able to watch us at home?”

“It might even go out on the BBC national,” Mostyn said proudly. “Especially since we’ve got such a great man singing with us.”

“Where is he then?” Evans-the-Milk looked around nervously.

“He said he was driving down in his own car,” Mostyn said. “That’s understandable. You can’t expect a celebrity to carpool.”

This remark made the choir members smile. Inside the tent they could hear another Côr Meibion going through its paces. The strains of “Men of Harlech” competed with the tooting of car horns and the hammering of scaffolding.

Mostyn consulted his watch. “I hope they know they have to vacate the stage by seven,” he said. “Our practice time is from seven to seven-thirty. I’m going in there on the dot of seven. I’m not sacrificing our practice time. Let’s just hope that Ifor shows up right away.”

As they entered the huge tent the choir on the stage finished their rehearsal and began to file off the stage. “The Ffestiniog Choir,” Mostyn said with a disapproving sniff. “I see they didn’t persuade Ifor to join them yet.”

“’Ello, Mostyn, old friend,” the director called out as he came down the steps from the stage. “Going to give us a run for our money then, are you? I hear you’ve found yourselves a secret weapon.”

“No thanks to you,” Mostyn said coldly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know very well,” Mostyn said. He passed the other man as if he didn’t exist and started arranging his music on the stand. The choir director looked long and hard at Mostyn then shrugged and walked away. The Llanfair choir took up their positions.

“Five past seven,” Mostyn said, checking his watch again, “and Ifor still isn’t here. What did I tell him? I said seven o’clock sharp, didn’t I? He really has no idea of time. We only have half an hour.”

“He’ll be here,” Evans-the-Meat said. “We heard him warming up when we stopped to pick up Harry.”

“He better get a move on,” Mostyn said. “Warming up indeed. This isn’t Covent Garden. What does he need to warm up for?”

Ten minutes later Ifor still hadn’t arrived. Mostyn took them through their three songs, but it was only a half-hearted attempt as the men all had one eye on the door. Mostyn was getting angrier by the second. He yelled at the men who were setting up chairs and told them to go away until he’d finished. At last he threw down his baton. “Oh, this is hopeless. Hopeless. He’s ruined everything. How could I be so stupid to think that he’d help us? When did he ever help me? Ifor was always for himself and nobody else.” He started packing music mechanically into his briefcase. “I know what he’s doing, of course. He’s realized how bad we sound and he doesn’t want to lose face by singing with us. Understandable I suppose, but why did he say he’d do it, when he knew what we sounded like?”

“He’ll be alright on the night,” Harry-the-Pub said. “He’s a professional. He knows what to do.”

“That’s right, Mostyn,” Evans-the-Meat added. “Stars like Ifor don’t need rehearsals. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Mostyn said. “If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, we’ll all look like fools standing up there with no soloist.” He stalked down the steps and out of the pavilion ahead of the choir members, his eyes darting left then right, still searching for Ifor. He paused beside his Mini. “I’ve decided. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” he said. “He’s a professional and this is inexcusable.”

“Don’t go and upset him, Mostyn,” Harry-the-Pub warned. “Then he might decide not to sing with us at all. As he said, he’s not under a contract, is he? He’s only doing us a favor.”

Mostyn sighed. “You’ve got a point, Harry. But I still want to talk to him. He has to know how we all feel about being let down like this. It’s just not right. It’s not fair.” His gaze fastened on Evan. “You come with me, Constable Evans. You know about handling people and saying the right thing. You can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t say something I’ll regret. I know I have a tendency to fly off the handle.”

“Alright, I suppose,” Evan said hesitantly. He really had no wish to be trapped in a room while Ifor and Mostyn shouted at each other, but if it resulted in Ifor showing up on time at the
eisteddfod
on Saturday, then he supposed he should do it.