by Rhys Bowen
“I know,” Evan said. “You just wanted to be in a movie. People have taken stupid risks before to make that kind of dream come true.”
She looked up at him adoringly. “You do understand. You were being such an old killjoy, I thought you’d be really angry with me.”
“I’d have been really angry if you’d drowned yourself,” Evan said.
She looked up at him hopefully. “Would you, Evan bach? Would you really?”
“Of course I would. Of all the stupid things to do, Betsy—swimming in a lake in the middle of winter. You must want this very badly.”
“Ooh, I do. I didn’t realize before how much I wanted to be famous.”
“Then go about it the proper way,” Evan said. “If you really want to be an actress, save up to take classes. That way you’ll know if you’ve got any talent or not.”
“Talent?” Betsy demanded, no longer submissive and shivering. “I’ve noticed you appreciating my talents before now, Evan Evans. Judging by the looks you men give me in the Dragon, I’d say I’d got a lot of what it takes!”
Then she strutted ahead of him along the trail back to the village.
As they drew level with the two chapels, they saw a sign on the door of Capel Beulah: “Children’s Christmas Pageant. Rehearsal today.”
Suddenly a loud shriek echoed from Capel Beulah. The door burst open and Mrs. Powell-Jones came flying out, pursued by a large and angry sheep. Delighted children ran to the playground fence and cheered as Mrs. Powell-Jones and the sheep disappeared down the road.
I wanted to get rid of that painting, but I wasn’t going down that mine again, ever. So I left it on the wall at home. If they found it, they found it. I was going to fight. I didn’t expect to live anyway.
But I did live. I was sent to the Far East and I found more hell waiting for me there. I was captured by Japs and spent a year in prison camp. Oh, yes, of all the hells I’ve been in, this one came closest to the real thing. I still can’t talk about it, even now. Most of my mates died, but I didn’t. Then I saw that it was God’s little joke. He wanted me to stay alive and relive what I had done again and again.
At the end of the war, I came back home and went back down the mine. You might wonder how I could do that. Well, jobs were hard to find after the war and the place where Ginger was buried was in old workings that we didn’t go near anymore.
A year or so later, I even got married because everyone pushed me into it. It didn’t seem like such a bad idea at the time—every healthy chap needs someone to share his bed with, and to take care of him, too. She was a nice enough girl, quiet, not bad-looking. I thought maybe I might feel something for her one day, but I never did. She must have sensed that, because she got pneumonia one winter and she didn’t bother to recover. She left me to bring up our little boy. I tried to be a good father to him, but I never could feel much for him either.
Everyone thought it was because of the war experience and the prison camp that I was such a changed person. But it wasn’t. My heart had died in 1942. And I never painted again.
The painting? Well, it’s still hanging on my wall. When I die, my son will probably throw it out with all the rest of my stuff. H’ell never know the truth, because nobody is ever going to get this tape. Now that I’m done, it’s going in the fire—up in smoke with all my dreams, my love, my life.
Glossary of Welsh Words
Bach/fach—small. Used as a term of endearment much as the English say “love” and “dear.” Bach for a male, fatch for a female.
Ble ryt ti?—Where are you? (pronounced blay root tea)
Cariad—darling, honey (term of endearment) (pronounced car-ee-ad)
Cigydd—butcher (from cig—meat) (pronounced kigeth)
Diolch yn fawr—Thank you very much (pronounced diolch in vower)
Escob Annwyl—literally “Dear Bishop” (similar to “Good Heavens”) (pronounced escobe an-wheel)
Fron Heulog—Sunny Hillside (name of farm) (pronounced fron high-log)
Gloch las—blue bell (pronounced like Scottish loch); (las—pronounced lass)
Iechyd da—Cheers, good health (pronounced yacky dah)
Mam—mother (pronounced as it looks)
Nain—Grandma (pronounced nine)
Noswaith dda—Good evening (pronounced nos-why-th thah)
Or gore—all right, okay (pronounced or gor-ay)
Pobl y Cwm—People of the Valley (a popular Welsh soap opera) (pronounced Pobble a Cum)
Tad—father (pronounced as it looks)
Ty Gwyn—White House (pronounced tee gwin)
Yr Wyddfa—Welsh name for Snowdon (pronounced Er Withva)
Also by Rhys Bowen
Evanly Choirs
Evans Above
Evan Help Us
Evan and Elle
EVAN CAN WAIT. Copyright © 2001 by Rhys Bowen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Production Editor: David Stanford Burr
eISBN 9781429967990
First eBook Edition : February 2011