The Wrong Boy

by Cathy Ace

  Typical!

  At least it was fun to belt out ‘For the healing of the nations’ to the tune of ‘Bread of heaven’. Hywel and some of the other men sang the harmonies, and Aled did an especially good job.

  I mustn’t stare at him, but it’s really hard not to. He’s looked at me a couple of times, but he has to keep an eye on the words in the hymn book, like me.

  Aled looks so regal, carrying the cross at the head of our procession out to the war memorial. At least the sun’s shining properly now.

  Everyone’s so quiet; unnaturally so. It makes me want to laugh out loud, but I mustn’t.

  The linnets are singing their hearts out this morning; I love the way they hop about, nibbling at the grass here on the Dragon’s Back. And that song of theirs? Perfection, it is.

  Everyone’s looking over at the lane that leads up the hill. Can’t help themselves, I suppose. Dad and I had a chat about what they’d found up there. Mam doesn’t know we talk, or meet. I don’t really like keeping those secrets from Mam, but it’s in everyone’s best interests that I do; that’s what Dad said, and he’s right.

  All those names carved on the memorial we’re all singing at? I don’t know why anyone ever thinks of any war as ‘great’. All wars are bad. And they called it the war to end all wars too – but it didn’t. None of them ever do. Because no one wants to talk about them when they’re over – not the people who fought in them, anyway.

  I wonder how many people here today are really thinking about the effects of war, and how many are just thinking about the body up on the hill.

  That’s all anyone’s been talking about. In the pub, anyway.

  Aled said the police had been to his Grannie Gwen’s house asking about people who might have gone missing, and I heard enough at the pub last night to know they’ve been to every house asking the same thing.

  But everyone agrees it can’t be anything to do with the village because no one from here is missing. Which is comforting.

  This two minutes of silence seems like a long time. Aled looks ethereal, with his eyes downcast, his lips moist and pink, and his surplice billowing.

  That police tape fluttering in the wind sounds like an injured bird’s wings when it panics because it finds it can’t fly.

  I suppose I’d better concentrate on the words again now. I hate ‘Abide with me’; it’s too sad. But that’s the general idea, I know, to be thoughtful about the lives lost in war. Just between 1914 and 1918 there were eighteen million dead, and twenty-three million wounded, the vicar said. Forty thousand of them Welshmen. That was a lot.

  I wonder how many of them burned, like the body up on the hill.

  Helen

  Glad to finally be sitting on the edge of her bed, Helen was pleased she’d managed to get through the day without crying in public. She had no idea why she’d always been so upset by thoughts of the First World War; it was specifically that one that got her – the idea of the second one didn’t seem to touch her at all. No, it was being able to visualize the trenches, the mud, and the squalor that did it for her.

  When she’d been little, she’d been regaled with stories about both her grandfathers’ war experiences. By her dad, not by her grandfathers themselves. Her father’s father had been gassed at the front in Ypres, and had never been the same man afterwards, she’d been told. It was usually at that point her dad would whisper, ‘But he was a bit lazy too, you know? I think he used his weak lungs as an excuse to get out of any hard labor on the farm,’ and they’d giggle together.

  Her mother’s father had been shot in the leg during the infamous battle of Mametz Wood in the Somme. She’d found out in school about how the 38th Welsh Battalion had lost a thousand men, and three thousand more had been wounded, all in just five days of bloody and brutal hand-to-hand combat. Their history teacher had talked to them about the historical perspective portrayed by the Welsh memorial sculpture at Mametz Wood, which was being erected at the time. All her dad had told her was how her mother’s father had enjoyed showing off his scar in the pub when he’d had a few pints.

  Both her grandmothers had been nurses, she’d been told: one at the front where she’d driven an ambulance, which Helen had always thought sounded fun – like a grand adventure, because in those days women hadn’t generally done such things. The other had been stationed in a manor house somewhere in the north of England, where they looked after men with shell shock. PTSD they called it now. Or had they changed that again? Helen couldn’t remember.

  Someone had been talking about PTSD not being an appropriate term for the condition in one of her online groups recently, but Helen couldn’t see the point of quibbling about the name. Did it really matter if it was called a disorder or a syndrome, or just called PTS? She couldn’t imagine it did. But years ago the then-new PTSD website had been useful; even if she couldn’t afford to keep going to any of the psychotherapists it listed as being available relatively close by, at least it had eventually allowed her to find her online chat rooms. Places where she knew psychotherapists visited, and commented. Well, usually they asked questions, encouraging you to answer them for yourself, rather than offering any advice as such. But why would she reply online? Put her soul out there into the world like that?

  As she rubbed her tired feet, Helen wondered what she’d have ended up doing if she’d been called upon to serve in a war. She couldn’t have been a nurse like her grandmothers; she didn’t have the stomach for it. She stared at the tall brass cylinder full of dusty dried flowers sitting in the middle of her bedroom windowsill. It had been made from a shell from World War One. Trench art, they called it. She wondered how people could have had them in their homes, on display like that, so soon after the war. To torture themselves with the knowledge they were that close to a once-lethal object. It was weird.

  Then she wondered why she still had it there, now.

  It’s always been there, she told herself. Like so many items in the living quarters above the pub.

  A bit like her; the possibility of any original function removed. Essentially without purpose.

  The rest of the stuff from World War One had been consigned to the attic, she recalled. Her grandfathers’ improbably small uniforms, caps, medals, and some other stuff piled in a rusty heap at the bottom of an old trunk. Sadie had dressed up as an old-fashioned nurse for something at school, and she’d had a great time rooting about up there until she’d found what she wanted, Helen recalled.

  She flipped the switch on her little speaker to play ocean sounds, and snuggled down to try to sleep.

  But her ex-husband found her in her dreams, and that never went well.

  30th January

  Evan

  With his Caribbean tan all but gone, and his waist a little slimmer as a result of the diet Betty had put him on after their over-indulgence on the cruise and during the Festive Season, Evan Glover studied himself in the wardrobe-door mirror; he reckoned his retirement wasn’t something that had overly affected his appearance. Maybe he’d lost a couple of layers of bags under his eyes, which were possibly a slightly more vivid blue than they had once been. That was about it.

  ‘They’ll be here in half an hour. Are you ready?’ called Betty up the stairs.

  ‘Down in a minute,’ he replied, then let his stomach distend, and made his way down to the pot of chili he’d spent half the day preparing.

  ‘It smells fantastic, cariad,’ said Betty, patting him on the bum. ‘Thanks for this. I knew you could do it. I’d have been home an hour ago, except the traffic on the M4 near Port Talbot was horrific. I caught it at just the wrong time.’

  ‘Not sure there’s ever a right time on that stretch,’ replied Evan, blowing steam from the tiny sample of food he’d put on a wooden spoon to taste.

  ‘Here, try this,’ said his wife, putting a metal spoon and a small glass bowl on the counter. ‘Put a bit of chili in that bowl,’ she said, ‘then roll it around with the spoon, and it’ll cool a lot faster. Touch the underneath of the
spoon with the tip of your tongue before you put it all in your mouth. You don’t want to go burning yourself, do you?’

  Evan took her advice. ‘That’s a lot better. Ta. Your years of experience of tasting hot food paying off?’

  ‘Absolutely. I know Rakel and Gareth might be disappointed we won’t be offering them my famous lamb stew, but this smells wonderful. I’m sure they’ll be pleased to try something you cooked. It’s perfect for a cold and damp night like tonight. Can I have a taste?’

  Evan poked the spoon into his wife’s mouth. ‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. ‘Maybe a final drop of red wine, to punch it up a bit? And stir in a knob of butter, at the last minute.’

  Evan chuckled. ‘That’s your secret, is it? Slosh in the wine and dollop in the butter? What’s happening to our diet tonight?’

  ‘It never hurts to have a bit of a treat now and again, cariad,’ said Betty grinning. ‘And I haven’t ever heard you complain about how my cooking’s tasted all these years so, yes, take good advice when you’re given it, but don’t go passing it on. We all have to keep some secrets.’

  Evan poured out half a glass from the box of cooking Cabernet that always sat on the counter; now he knew why it was there.

  He quipped, ‘I bet that’s not what you’ve been saying in Cardiff all day, is it? Your entire career’s based upon getting people to reveal their secrets, and deal with them.’

  Betty headed toward the stairs as she replied, ‘Secrets? Bury them and they can bury you, that’s what I say. Well, that’s what my tutor for my counselling qualifications used to say, and she wasn’t wrong. Now I’m going to change into something more comfy, then I’ll come back down and lay the table.’

  ‘Ha! The old “changing into something more comfortable” routine, is it?’ called Evan. ‘And laying the table? Just the table? What’s wrong with this picture, Betty Glover?’

  ‘Be good, or it’s no afters for you,’ shouted his wife, sounding happy. ‘I brought home some of that lemon ice cream you like so much, so you’d better be on your best behavior, or it’ll stay in the freezer.’

  As the front door bell rang, Evan looked at the table he and Betty had prepared together. He felt a strange sense of pride; he’d never played so active a role in having friends over for dinner before, and it felt . . . it felt wonderful. It might just be a quick midweek visit by some people he’d not seen for months, but this was a special night for him; Betty had been doing her counselling thing all day in Cardiff, and he’d done this. He’d even cleared and sort-of cleaned the house. The living room smelled of the Brasso he’d used to buff up his late-mother’s horse brasses – an aroma that took him back to the security of his childhood, even if there was no smell of coal smoke to accompany it, which there always had been when he was growing up.

  ‘Evan, lovely to see you after so long,’ said Rakel Souza as she entered, throwing her wiry little arms around him. As they hugged, Evan thought he caught a whiff of the dissection suite, despite the fact he knew she meticulously shoved every strand of her thick black hair into protective headgear before she went anywhere near a cadaver.

  ‘Looking good there, Evan,’ said Gareth, extending his large hand. ‘Lost a bit of weight, by the looks of it, mun. Got you off the beer, has she?’ He winked as he patted Evan on the back. ‘Here’s a few now.’ He handed Evan eight cans of Felinfoel Nut Brown Ale. ‘They’re a present for you, so she can’t stop you from drinking them all.’

  ‘Who’s “she”? The cat’s mother?’ quipped Betty as she hugged Rakel, then Gareth.

  Evan cradled the beers; the cans were the same temperature as his hands. Perfect. ‘Thanks, Gareth,’ he said. ‘They’ll go lovely with the chili I made for dinner.’

  Gareth feigned mock shock. ‘No lamb stew tonight? Oh my God, I knew it would happen. Got you cooking now, too, has she? Been wearing a pinnie all day, slaving over a hot stove, have you?’

  ‘It’s only fair,’ replied Evan, slapping Gareth on the back. ‘Betty’s been with clients all day today, so I did what I could here. My humble efforts might not be as good as her stew, but I’ll be checking to make sure you lick your bowl clean, right?’

  Dinner was an enjoyable experience for Evan, during which the foursome managed to solve most of the problems being faced by the Welsh parliament, the church in Wales, the NHS, and the education system. And all before second helpings had been offered. Evan was happy to be able to express opinions he could only share with true friends, and reveled in the camaraderie of a good discussion.

  However, he had to admit to himself he was anxious about how his food was being received; he couldn’t believe he kept asking if everyone was enjoying it. He told himself he should comment more often about how good Betty’s cooking was.

  He’d always tried to tell those who’d provided him with information and insights at work how much he’d valued their contributions; but at home it had never occurred to him that the same sort of behavior might be appropriate. Now it did. Just planning, preparing, cooking, and serving one single meal to a couple of people who weren’t his wife had taught him that. And no one had ever accused him of not being a fast learner.

  He pondered how weird he felt about the evening as Betty chatted about a couple of women wearing old-fashioned headscarves she’d encountered in Cardiff a week earlier who’d been arguing in the street in Welsh; she’d been horrified when a young professional-looking couple had told the women to ‘Go back where you came from’.

  The women’s retort – in English – of ‘What, you mean Blaenavon?’ followed by howls of laughter and a torrent of Welsh-language insults hurled at the posh English pair made the threesome at the table giggle; Evan was the only non-Welsh speaker among them.

  ‘What did I miss?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘It wouldn’t work in translation, mun,’ replied Gareth. ‘I haven’t heard a few of those words since my days on the rugby field. I’m sure you’d remember some of them; you’d have heard them being screamed at you often enough as you scarpered down the sidelines.’

  ‘Water off a duck’s back, old chap, for we Anglophones, don’t you know,’ mugged Evan.

  ‘Now, now, don’t go making fun of the cook, Gareth,’ said Betty, a playful smile on her face. ‘He’s good at many things, but picking up Welsh just isn’t one of them. Not like Rakel here. Is it five languages you speak now?’

  Rakel replied, ‘Six. Well, nearly seven. There were three spoken at home, because my parents were keen that we children retained what they always called “our native languages”, so we spoke Konkani and Portuguese, plus English. I’m sure that training meant the part of my brain used for understanding language grew in an elastic way. I didn’t find Welsh especially difficult to learn, nor French. German was a bit of a slog, but the compound words are quite a joy, in their own way. I’m almost there with Swedish now, but I’m still working on it.’

  ‘Good for you for wanting to keep on bettering yourself; for continuing to learn new things,’ said Betty. ‘Standing still can feel like going backwards, sometimes, don’t you think?’

  Was Betty trying to make a point, Evan wondered? Had he been ‘standing still’ since he’d retired? Did she think he should be trying to improve himself somehow? Had she noticed?

  ‘So how’s retirement treating you, then, Evan? Managing to keep yourself out of trouble?’ Rakel asked the questions with a warm smile.

  ‘To be honest, I’m managing to keep myself out of trouble alright, but I’m not thriving, Rakel,’ replied Evan.

  He noticed his wife’s eyelids flicker.

  There suddenly seemed to be less air in the room.

  ‘Right, well that’s out in the open at last,’ he added. ‘Betty knows it, but we haven’t talked about it. Properly. I’m missing it. The job. No question.’

  ‘All of it?’ pressed Gareth.

  Evan admitted, ‘No. Not the hours, nor the stress, nor the constant annoyance of oversight by someone I feel doesn’t understand a case as well I do. And cer
tainly not the ever-revolving conversations about possible reorganization. I miss investigating. Following leads. Finding things out. Making sense of bits of information. Catching culprits.’

  ‘Evan doesn’t miss the politics or management shenanigans, but he does miss the puzzle solving,’ said Betty.

  For the first time that evening, Evan noticed her eyes were glistening in the flickering flames of the tea-light candles on the table.

  Betty’s voice was full of something Evan believed to be sorrow when she added, ‘Though this is the first time he’s admitted it.’

  The awkward silence lasted for about three long seconds.

  Rakel said, ‘Remember the case that was almost yours down in Rhosddraig?’ Evan and Betty nodded. ‘They think they’ve found out whose remains they were. Came in from London today. I dare say it’ll be all over the news before too long.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Evan was desperate to know. Hoping the knowledge would . . . he wasn’t sure what.

  Rakel’s back straightened a little as she replied, ‘A twenty-three-year-old drug dealer from Townhill. Dean Hughes. Partial DNA match. They had him on file because of previous charges. It seems this bloke’s been missing from his usual dealing patch since the beginning of November last year, so the timeframe’s right. No one reported him gone. No one put two and two together. Why would they? The woefully run-down estates of Townhill and the magnificent isolation of the village of Rhosddraig seem worlds apart, and they are in many ways, even if only about twenty miles separates them by road.’

  Three heads nodded in understanding.

  ‘But this is just for us, around this table, alright?’ added Rakel. ‘You’re no longer within the golden circle, Evan, and you two know nothing at all. Not until it’s out in the open. Understand?’

  ‘Who am I going to tell, anyway?’ asked Gareth. ‘I’m just a maths teacher. We’re all too busy whining about the kids in class to have anything approaching a sensible conversation during our lunch break in the staff room.’