Now she had gone to live with her daughter in Cardiff, of all places—another sign that her judgment was slightly off. Evan had heard through the grapevine that the cottage would be vacant and he had jumped to take it. Not that there would have been too many others waiting to fight over it. The population of Llanfair, like that of most other Welsh villages, was aging and shrinking. No work since the slate mines closed and no prospects for young people apart from waiting tables and making beds at nearby hotels.
He fitted his key into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open. He picked up the box and stepped inside, conscious of the damp-cold feel of an empty house. It was so different from the warm friendliness of Mrs. Williams’s front hall that he looked back longingly across the street. He wondered how long it would be before he could turn this place into a home. So far he had a couple of saucepans and some mismatched china, courtesy of Bronwen, a vinyl-topped table, two chairs from the discount hardware emporium in Bangor, and a single bed. Hardly a promising start.
Evan carried the box through to the back room, which would serve as his living/dining room, and put it on the floor. The brown, pockmarked linoleum made the room feel even colder and gloomier. A rug would be one of his first purchases. Maybe he’d go down to Bangor or Llandudno this afternoon and do a rapid tour of the thrift shops. With his police constable’s salary he couldn’t afford to buy the kind of furniture he’d like all at once. He reminded himself this was just a temporary measure. With any luck the permits would come through for him to rebuild the old shepherd’s cottage in the national park above the village. This was his dream and he had been waiting patiently for several months with no word from the national parks people. When he finished building his own cottage, then he could start furnishing it the way he wanted—he corrected himself—the way Bronwen would want it. She had already expressed her willingness to live there, although she hadn’t mentioned anything about marriage. Neither had he, for that matter. It was still a hole in the ice around which they skated cautiously.
He wished that Bronwen were here to help him. But his department was on a cost-cutting drive and had started scheduling him to work every other weekend. This meant he was doing this on a Tuesday, when Bronwen was teaching at the village school. Evan took out a lamp, looked around the room for somewhere to put it, then stood it, for want of anywhere better, on the mantelpiece. He was just heading back to Mrs. Williams’s when the front door opened and Bronwen burst in.
“Haven’t got very far yet, have you?” She stood in the doorway, looking around disapprovingly. She was wearing a navy fisherman’s sweater that made her eyes look almost the same color, and her cheeks were pink from walking in the wind. Strands of ash blond hair had escaped from her long braid and blown across her face.
“What are you doing here?” Evan asked, his face lighting up. “You haven’t abandoned your pupils to come and see me, have you?”
Bronwen grinned. “It’s lunchtime and I’ve got two volunteer mothers on lunch duty, so I thought I’d pop over and see how you were doing.” She pushed back her wisps of hair as she surveyed the room. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t remembered it as quite so dreary.”
“That’s because last time you saw it it was full of Mrs. Howells’s furniture. And this floor was hidden under a rug,” Evan said. “I think a rug better be one of my first purchases, don’t you? As well as pots and pans, chairs and tables, a wardrobe, chests of drawers—oh, and food.”
“They’ve given you a raise then, have they?”
“I thought I’d go down to Bangor this afternoon and have a look at the charity shops. It’s the only way I’ll get this place furnished.”
Bronwen nodded. “And you don’t want to spend a lot on stuff that might not fit in the cottage someday.”
“If the permission ever comes through.” Evan sighed. “There’s some old codger on the board who thinks that all national park property should be allowed to return to wilderness.”
Bronwen came across and wrapped her arms around his neck. “It will come through. Just be patient. And in the meantime you’ll be gaining valuable experience at survival techniques.”
“You make it sound as if I’m about to cross Antarctica on foot.” Evan chuckled. “Of course, with my cooking, I may die of starvation pretty rapidly.”
“Get away with you.” Bronwen released him and gave him a playful slap. “You know very well that you’ll be eating at my place half the time, and Mrs. Williams will be popping round every day with a little something she’s baked, just to make sure …”
“She already invited me to dinner any night I felt like it,” Evan said. “But I’m going to be strong and resist temptation. And no take-aways and frozen meals either. I’ve got that cookbook you gave me for Christmas and I’m going to learn to cook. You’ll see.”
“I’m very proud of you,” she said. “I shall expect to be invited to dinner in the—”
She was interrupted by the beep of Evan’s pager. He took it from his belt and grimaced. “Oh, no, that’s all I need. HQ on the phone for me.”
“That’s not fair,” Bronwen said angrily. “First they take away half your weekends and give you two useless weekdays off instead, and then they phone you on your days off too.”
“I am a policeman, Bron,” he said. “It goes with the job. If there’s some sort of emergency, days off don’t count.”
“But I hardly ever see you these days,” she said. “I’m busy marking papers all week and you’re working all weekend. I had to do that lovely hike over Glyder Fach by myself.”
“We could always solve that,” Evan said, slipping an arm around her. “I could give up trying to make this place habitable and come and live with you instead.”
“Oh, yes, that would go down very well with the locals, wouldn’t it!” Bronwen laughed. “Imagine what fodder that would give the two ministers for their Sunday sermons. Besides,” she reached up and stroked his cheek, “we’re doing this for a purpose, aren’t we?” She gave him a hasty peck on the cheek. “Got to go,” she said. “If I don’t get back, those kids will be running wild.”
Evan followed her out and watched her run up the street before he made his way down the hill to his little sub-police station.
“Oh, Constable Evans. Glad we found you,” Megan, the dispatcher, came on the phone. “Sorry to be disturbing you on your day off, but the chief inspector would like a word with you and he’s off to Birmingham for a conference in the morning. It’s all about this reorganization he’s planning. He’s come up with a solution to making you more—upwardly mobile, shall we say.”
“Is he there to speak to me now?”
“He’d like you to come down so that he can speak to you in person. Is that all right? I know it’s your day off, but …”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Evan said.
He put the phone down and went out to his old clunker of a car. It started on the third attempt. Community policemen were not equipped with police cars. Mobile units were sent as backup from Caernarfon when needed, so the car was his own—had been his own for many years now. “Upwardly mobile”—what could that mean? And she had sounded so enigmatic when she said it, too. Did she know something he didn’t—a promotion maybe? His transfer at last to the plainclothes division? He put his foot down and the engine growled in protest as he drove out of the car park.