by Rhys Bowen
“I’ll come if you want me to,” he said. “I thought you might want a private chat.”
“Oh God, no.” She made a face. “I don’t really want to go at all. I was just too startled to say no.”
“We don’t have to stay long,” Evan said.
She smiled up at him. “No. Just to let them see I’m wonderfully happy and well-adjusted and adore my life, then I don’t have to see them ever again.”
Evan opened the front door for her. “Is this going to be hard for you?” he asked. “I always had the feeling it was an amicable split-up—because you’d both changed so much.”
It was getting dark. The sky was silver, streaked with lines of navy blue cloud. Street lamps shone pools of light onto wet pavement. Evans-the-Meat was pulling down the roller blind on his shop window. “Noswaith dda!” he called as they passed.
Bronwen waited until they were well past the butcher. “I didn’t exactly go into details with you,” she said. “Mainly because I didn’t want to face the truth myself. I haven’t seen Edward since he announced he was leaving me for someone else.”
“Oh, I see.”
“It was a big blow, as you can imagine,” she said. “That’s why I came here, to a little village where nobody knew me.”
“I’m glad you did,” Evan said.
She reached out and took out his hand. “I’m glad I did, too.”
There was a big fire roaring in the river rock fireplace as they entered the lobby of the Everest Inn. A harpist was playing in the corner and an elderly couple in hiking gear was having tea by the window. Grantley’s group was again seated around the fire.
“Here she is now.” Grantley leaped up, although Edward remained sitting. “With our faithful policeman escorting her in case she was attacked by bandits along the way. I must say, the police give wonderful service up here. Far better than the Met!”
Evan took Bronwen’s arm as they crossed the expanse of lobby. Edward now rose to his feet. “Hello, Bronwen. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, Edward. And you?”
“Oh fine, thank you. I must say, you’re looking lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me get you a chair.” He ran to drag one across from the nearest table.
“And Evan will need one too,” Bronwen said.
“It’s okay. I can get my own.” Evan reached for a chair before anyone else could move. He sat slightly behind Bronwen.
“There’s no need to wait, Constable,” Grantley said. “We’ll make sure she gets home safely and no wolves eat her.”
“Evan’s with me,” Bronwen said evenly. “We don’t go anywhere without each other.”
“Oh, I see.” Edward’s pink face turned even pinker. “Oh, right.”
“I don’t think you’ve met our director, Howard Bauer,” Grantley said.
“I’ve heard of you, of course.” Bronwen exchanged a smile with Howard. “I’ve been very impressed with your work.”
“And my secretary, Sandie. Sandie, Bronwen is an old friend from our Cambridge days.”
“Oh, how lovely.” Sandie smiled shyly. “I’ve heard a lot about your time in Cambridge. It must have been such fun.”
“It was,” Grantley said. “Oh, it was. We belonged to this radical theater group … . Remember that play we took to the Edinburgh fringe?”
“It was a ridiculous play,” Bronwen said, laughing. “You made me spend the entire second act with my head in a birdcage, spouting the sayings of Chairman Mao.”
“And the audience couldn’t understand what it was about.” Edward laughed too.
“They didn’t even know when it had finished or whether they should applaud.”
“We thought we were out-Ionescoing Ionesco, didn’t we?” Grantley demanded loudly.
As the noise level rose and the conversation flowed around the table, Evan sat in the shadows behind Bronwen, watching uneasily. This was a new Bronwen, one he had never seen before—witty, animated, laughing easily, discussing things that were outside his world and experience. He had hoped that seeing him and Edward together would make her realize what good choices she had made. Now he felt that exactly the opposite was happening. She was back with her own crowd, on her own intellectual level, and she must realize how very much was lacking in her quiet village life.
Chapter 6
As a matter of fact, I was quite looking forward to the war. I’d turned fourteen in 1939, see, and that meant leaving school and going down the slate mine like my father and all the other men. There wasn’t a choice. If you lived in Blenau, you were a slate miner, unless you were a preacher—we had more than our share of chapels in those days, although I don’t know why we needed them. Anyone who worked down a slate mine knew all about hell. In the winter months, we went all week without seeing the light of day—down the mine before it was light in the morning and back in the evening after the sun had already set. That kind of thing gets to you, especially a lad like me who loved the open air. When I was still in school, I was out on the moor, any spare moment, with my paintbox and my sketchbook, drawing and painting anything I saw. The schoolmaster, Mr. Hughes, told me I had real talent. He encouraged me and he even bought me paints once. Never make do with cheap colors, Trefor, he told me. He also said he’d write a letter to a chap at an art college in London. They’d give me a scholarship, he said. But of course they only laughed at home when I told them. What’s the good of art down a mine—too dark to see much to draw, down the mine, my dad said.
I hated it down there from the beginning—well, quite scary for a fourteen-year-old, I can tell you. Down and down, all those hundreds of steps, almost no light at all, and then that huge cavern, dotted with pinpoints of light where the miners had hung their lamps. All day long in the darkness with the echo of the hammers and the ghostly murmur of voices. Yes, it was pretty much like hell all right.
War was declared in the summer of ’39. That summer I turned fourteen, left school, and went down the mine. Some of the older boys in the village went straight off to join the services. I thought they looked pretty good in their uniforms. I was too young, of course, and I just prayed the war would last long enough for me to turn seventeen. Johnny Morgan was sent to France. I would have given anything to trade places with him. France—the country of painters. I’d seen the pictures in the books Mr. Hughes had lent me.
Of course I didn’t envy Johnny so much when the telegram came. He never saw much of France. He was killed on the beaches of Dunkirk.
There were many times after when I wished that had been me.
The next morning, the inhabitants of Llanfair rushed out of doors at the sound of an approaching helicopter. It appeared, laboring slowly up the pass, dangling below it a large piece of cargo that wasn’t immediately identifiable.
“It’s the army doing exercises again,” Evans-the-Milk called to Evans-the-Meat.
“No it’s not. It’s those foreigners and their bloody German plane. We won’t have a moment’s peace until they go. You wait and see—it will be helicopters up and down the pass, day and night … .” His last words were drowned out by the throb of the helicopter motor. He glared up at the mountains. “I think I’ll go up there and tell them what I think of them. This is a quiet place. We don’t want to be disturbed.”
“For once I’m with you, Gareth,” Evans-the-Milk agreed. “I don’t mind the tourists, but helicopters coming and going up and down the pass all day—that’s too much.”
“Mr. Owens-the-Farm won’t be too happy either, I’ll warrant. That thing will panic the sheep.”
“And Mr. Howell’s dairy cows might be too unsettled to give milk, and then where would I be?”
“We should make an official complaint and get all the villagers to sign it,” Evans-the-Meat said. “They never asked us if we wanted a film crew here, did they?”
“We should go and see Reverend Parry Davies. He’d know how to make an official complaint.”
“He would, only Reverend Powel
l-Jones would do it better.”
“He would not!”
“He most certainly would. Being the senior minister, who preaches better sermons, and in Welsh, too.”
For a moment they faced each other, fists raised. Then Evans-the-Milk laughed.
“Or the ministers’ wives. They’re even better. Nobody stands up to Mrs. Powell-Jones, do they?”
Evans-the-Meat started laughing also. “No time like the present, is there? What do you say we both go up there now—as representatives of the village.”
“I’m with you, Gareth bach.”
For one brief moment the two men were in complete agreement and harmony. They joined other curious villagers, young and old, who were hurrying after the helicopter.
They hadn’t reached the two chapels when a Land Rover, laden with equipment, pulled up beside them.
“We’re supposed to be going up to some lake to film a helicopter arriving.” A young man with a ginger beard stuck his head out of the window and called to the two Evans. “Llyn Llydaw—any idea where that would be?”
“The helicopter has already passed over,” Evans-the-Milk called back. “Frightening all the bloody sheep and disturbing the peace.”
“Damn. I knew we were running late,” the man muttered. “So where is it now?”
Evans-the-Milk looked at the crowd now working its way up the pass. “Follow them. You can’t miss it.”
The young man muttered “Damn” again, and roared off up the street.
Meanwhile, up at the lake, Evan stared dismally across the bleak waters, while he played the scene from last night over and over in his head. Bronwen was reassuring as they walked home together, but Evan had not been comforted. It had been a shock to see this new, witty, laughing Bronwen. Why had she never mentioned that she’d been to Cambridge before? Maybe because he’d never asked. He knew she’d been to University, but Cambridge—well, only the very brightest went there, didn’t they? Would it only be a matter of time before she decided that village life didn’t have enough to offer her?
As he watched, the helicopter appeared and lowered its cargo to the lakeshore. Grantley was filming the helicopter’s arrival, not in the best of tempers since the camera crew hadn’t shown up in time. Howard was standing beside him, watching silently.
Then Evan’s gaze was suddenly riveted to the top of the pass, where several heads were now appearing. It seemed that the entire population of Llanfair was coming to see the helicopter. He clambered up the slope and intercepted the front-runners.
“They don’t want people up here, I’m afraid, boys,” he said.
“What do you mean—it’s a perfectly good public path up the mountain, isn’t it?” one of the young men demanded. “You can’t keep people off public paths.”
“I’ve been instructed to keep everyone away—my chief inspector’s orders—so that they can get on with their filming with no mishaps. So be good lads and go back home.”
The two boys turned back reluctantly, but Evan found that more people were sneaking in on either side. He ran back and forth, feeling like a sheepdog.
“I thought I asked you to keep everyone away,” Grantley yelled. “That’s another sequence ruined by grinning faces popping up from behind rocks.”
The camera crew arrived, bumping and lurching along the track, and soon a large camera and lighting were set up on the shore.
Grantley came over to Evan, who waited for more complaints.
“Everything’s working smoothly now, Constable. I can leave the directing to Howard and the crew. I want you to come with me on another little venture. We’ll take the vehicle.”
Evan climbed into the Land Rover beside him and they set off. “I’ve got a woman arriving from Manchester in about an hour,” Grantley confided. “We’re meeting her from the train in Bangor and then taking her to a farm called Fron Heulog. It’s supposed to be around here—do you know where it is?”
“Fron Heulog?” Evan deciphered the name from Grantley’s butchered pronunciation and tried to remember which farm was called what. “I know it’s one of the farms around here. Do you know the name of the owners?”
“James,” Grantley said.
“Oh, then I do know it. Old couple, aren’t they? I don’t think they farm actively any more. Down the valley toward Llanberis—little white house.”
“Splendid. I’m arranging a sentimental meeting.” Grantley smiled mischievously. “I’m bringing their old evacuee back to visit them. She hasn’t seen them since the war ended. Should make great cinema.”
Evan didn’t take to Pauline Hardcastle when they met her at Bangor station. She had a hard, pinched look to her face and her little, deep-set eyes darted around nervously.
“I’m not sure I want to do this—wake old memories,” she said, “but you say it will be good for both of us, so I’ll give it a try. Both alive, are they? I thought they would have kicked the bucket years ago. Is the son still living with them? Nasty little bugger he were.”
Evan glanced across at Grantley. There was still a smile on his face.
The Jameses came to their cottage door at the sound of the approaching car. Two elderly border collies stood at their feet, tails wagging tentatively.
“Well, well, look you, Father,” Mrs. James came forward, holding out her arms. “If it isn’t little Pauline from the war, come back to see us after all this time.”
“Little Pauline,” the old man muttered.
The gaunt, bony woman stood there and allowed herself to be hugged.
“Come inside now, for goodness sakes, and let’s all have a cup of tea,” Mrs. James said in lilting English. “Put the kettle on, Father.”
She led them through to a spotless, scrubbed kitchen with its well-polished Welsh dresser and high-backed settle. The old black stove stood unused in the corner while Mr. James plugged in a modern electric jug. There were radiators along the walls and the kitchen was delightfully warm.
“A bit different from when you were here last, is it?” Mrs. James asked shyly. “My, but I remember that day like it was yesterday. What a poor little mite you were, standing there shivering. Nothing but a bag of bones. Not an ounce of spare flesh on you. Clothes all ragged and dirty and I don’t think you’d had a bath in weeks. I had to take you out and scrub you under the pump so you didn’t bring fleas into the house.”
Evan noticed that Grantley had the camera going.
“I remember it too,” Pauline said. “I nearly froze to death when you scrubbed me at that pump. It took all my skin off. I cried but you didn’t care.”
“Oh, but we had to do it, love,” Mrs. James went on in her soft voice.
Pauline cut in. “Had to do it. You treated me like shit and you know it. Talk about child abuse. If this were today, you’d be up in court for the way you treated me.”
“Here, hang on a minute,” Mr. James interrupted. “There’s no need to go yelling at my wife. It was good of us to take you in … .”
“Good of you?” Pauline was yelling now. “All you wanted was an extra slave. You wouldn’t feed me if I didn’t work—remember that? I went to bed hungry in a bedroom with no heating in it. I cried myself to sleep every night.”
She turned to Grantley. “I did, you know. I begged them to send me home, but they wanted a slave to help on their farm. I had to get up at the crack of dawn and feed their bloody hens—I were scared to death of those hens. And you made me peel potatoes and do the washing. I were eight years old and you treated me like a bloody slave. And you took the strap to me if I back answered you and you made me go to that bleedin’ chapel every Sunday.”
There was a pause during which the only sound came from the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Pauline looked from one face to the next. “I’ve waited all these years to tell you to your face, and now it feels bloody marvelous!” She got to her feet. “We can go now. I’ve got nothing left to say to these people.”
The Jameses looked stunned. “It wasn’
t like that at all, Pauline, love,” Mrs. James said. “We treated you just like our own children. Everyone has to work hard on a farm or the chores don’t get done. We only gave you the lightest things to do and you made a terrible fuss about those. I don’t think you’d ever lifted a finger at home, had you? Didn’t know how to cook or sew or mend … .”
“I were eight years bleedin’ old,” Pauline yelled. “I were a little kid, for Christ’s sake! I was away from my mum for the first time in my life. And you let him abuse me.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. James demanded.
“You know what I mean, you dirty old man.” She turned to the wife. “He couldn’t keep his hands off me, and you turned the other way.”
She started toward the door. “I’ve had my say. This is too painful to talk about. Get me out of here.”
Grantley had been filming. He got up, camera still rolling, and followed Pauline out of the house. Evan stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say to the old couple.
“It wasn’t like that at all, Constable Evans,” Mrs. James said at last. “I don’t know where she got those ideas, but we treated her like our own child. Why would she want to come here and say those things?”
“Wicked, that’s what it is,” Mr. James said. “Someone’s been putting ideas into her head. Like as not one of these therapists you read about.” He looked as the boiling water jug clicked off. “You’ll not be wanting that tea now, I’m thinking.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. James,” Evan said. “I’m sure Mr. Smith didn’t think it was going to be like this, or he’d never have suggested meeting up with Pauline again.”
Grantley was subdued until they had dropped Pauline back at the station. Then he let out a great whoop of delight. “How about that, eh? Brilliant stuff. That will make them sit up in their seats, won’t it?”
Evan stared at him. “You knew she was going to say those things?”
“My dear chap, that was the whole point. I put out feelers for evacuees who had had bad experiences in North Wales. She was the only one who fitted the bill.”
