Chapter One
Do I remember anything of those days? It's as clear asif it was yesterday. I remember the first time she noticedme. It was at Johnny Morgan's going-away party. He'd just joinedthe Royal Welch Fusiliers and he was being sent to France. Ithought he looked the cat's whisker in that uniform. All the girlsdid, too. They were all clustering around him, giving him theiraddresses and promising to write to him. Then She came into theroom. I didn't recognize her at first. Then someone said,"Mwfanwy? It's never Mwfanwy Davies."
And she laughed and said, "You're right. It's not MwfanwyDavies. The name's Ginger from now on, honey. Ginger, like GingerRogers." She did a pretty good American accent, too.
The girls all crowded around her. "Your mam's going to killyou," Gwynneth Morgan said.
"She's already tried, but there's not much she can do about it,is there?" She put her hand to her platinum blond hair. "I can'tunbleach it. She'll have to wait until it grows out. And anyway Ilike it and she can't tell me what to do with my own hair." Shepushed through the circle of girls and went over to the punch bowl."Just wait until I get to Hollywood, then she'll be sorry, won't she?"
"So how are you getting to Hollywood, then?" one of the boysasked. "I don't think the train from Blenau goes there."
Some of the other kids laughed, but Ginger looked at him coldly."I'll get there," she said. "Some way or other. I don't know how, yet,but I'll get there."
Then she looked at me. She had the clearest blue eyes and theysparkled when she smiled. "Find me a cigarette, will you, Treforlove?"
I was too young to smoke, but I ran all the way to the cornershop and bought a packer of Woodbines with all that was left of myweekly wage packet. I'd just started as an apprentice at the mineand it was only a few shillings a week. I only kept enough for thecinema and a beer or two for myself. The rest went straight tomy mam.
Then I ran all the way back from the shop. By the time I gotback, Mwfanwy was sitting on the sofa with Johnny Morgan, smokingone of his cigarettes, and she had forgotten all about me.
That's the way it was with Ginger. I knew I should stay wellclear, but it was too late. I was already in love with her.
Trefor Thomas, memories of World War II, recorded.
"Is this it?" Grantley Smith roused himself from the backseat andpeered between the two occupants of the front seats as the LandRover slowed. Rain was peppering the windscreen too fiercelyfor the wipers to handle, but the frantic swishing allowed briefglimpses of a steep, narrow road lined with gray stone cottages.A couple of bedraggled sheep cropped the grass beside thestream as the Land Rover went over a stone humpbacked bridge.It was early evening and the light was fading fast, yet no welcominglights shone out from windows. In fact, the village gavethe appearance of having shut down for the winter.
"This is it," the driver said without looking around. "The signsaid `Llanfair.'"
"Surely you jest," scoffed Grantley Smith in a voice that hadbeen compared to that of the young Larry Olivier. He swungaround to the girl beside him in the backseat. "You must havegiven us wrong directions, Sandie. I thought I told you to get aprintout from the Internet. This can't be right."
"I did get a printout, honestly, I did, Grantley," the girl said,gazing at him with large, pleading eyes. "This has to be the rightplace. We've been doing exactly what it told us to, all the timeyou've been asleep."
"You must have taken a wrong turn somewhere," Grantleyinsisted. "I mean, really, I know we have to get the feel of theplace because we're going to be shooting up here, but thatdoesn't mean that I actually crave a bath in front of the kitchenfire with the slate miners...."
If he expected a laugh, he didn't get one. The other occupantsof the vehicle had taken turns at the wheel all the wayfrom London in driving rain while Grantley slept, sprawled inthe back.
"If the site is up here, then it makes sense to stay somewhereclose," the driver said in a clipped voice. In contrast to Grantley,who worked at looking sleek and mercurial like a young LordByron, Edward Ferrers was pink and solid, like an overgrowncherub. "The only big hotels are on the coast and you wouldn'twant to commute up this pass every day, would you? I have tobe on the spot to keep an eye on the salvage crew. I don't wantanything touched when I'm not around."
"Edward and his precious plane," Grantley muttered. "Nobody'stouching my toys!" He took out a packet of Gitanes andlit one, filling the car with pungent, herby fumes. Edward lookedback in annoyance as the smoke wafted over him.
"Jesus, Grantley, so it's not exactly Beverly Hills up here," thepassenger in the other front seat drawled in a voice that betrayedtransatlantic origins. "I just don't think you'd have found anybetter accommodation even if we'd stayed in one of those hotelson the coast." He was an older man, dressed in a checked shirt,old jeans, suede waistcoat, and a faded black French beret. If thewords "Movie Director" had been printed across his back, hisprofession could not have been more obvious. "This place issupposed to be okay."
"Howard, we all know that you are the intrepid one." Grantleyrested his elbows on the two front seats so that his face was nowbetween them. "Your definition of quite good is sleeping in a tenton the African veldt when the hyenas aren't biting your toes. Youridea of luxury is probably an outhouse with running water."
"It will be fine, Grantley. Just shut up," Edward said tersely."I've made the reservation and if you don't like it, you can findsomewhere else in the morning, okay?"
"Keep your hair on, Edward," Grantley said. "If you two havediscovered this little gem, then I'm sure it is just perfect. Myonly question is, where the devil is it? We're almost out of thevillage again." He moved across to the side window and cleareda circle of condensation with his hand. "This really doesn't looklike the kind of place anyone in his right mind would build aluxury hotel. Wait—there's some kind of sign on the left. Infront of that big white building ..."
The sign was swinging wildly in the wind and it took them awhile to make out the red dragon on it.
"It's only the local pub," Edward said.
"Thank God. It looked positively dismal." Grantley gave along, dramatic sigh. "In fact, everything about this place looksdismal. Look at those shops over there. R. Evans. G. Evans—youobviously have to be called Evans to live in this place, andwhat the devil is `Cigydd'?"
"It has a window full of meat, Grantley. I think even you canfigure that one out," Howard muttered, but Grantley went on,"It's a bloody foreign country! Whose crazy idea was it to cometo Wales in the middle of winter anyway?"
"You were excited when I told you about it," Edward said."You were the one who thought it would make a great documentary."
Howard put his hand on Edward's arm. "Let's stop and asksomeone."
Edward laughed. "Any suggestions? The place isn't exactlypulsing with life."
As if on cue a door opened, light shone out, and a young manin uniform appeared. He was wearing a navy raincoat and whenhe noticed the severity of the rain, he stood in the doorway,turning up his collar, before heading out into the street.
Grantley gave a delighted laugh. "Incredible. They even havepolicemen in this godforsaken place. Don't let him get away,Edward," as the policeman was clearly about to sprint for cover."Now let's just pray he speaks English. People do speak Englishhere, don't they, Edward?"
"It's not Kazakhstan, Grantley. It's Wales," Edward said. "Iexpect they'll understand you if you wave your arms a lot, likeyou do in France."
"My French is bloody good," Grantley said. "Go on, catchup with him."
They pulled to a halt beside the policeman, who stopped obediently,rain plastering dark hair to his face. He was a youngman, broad shouldered, with a pleasant boyish smile. "Can I helpyou gentlemen?" he asked. His voice betrayed just a trace of aWelsh lilt.
"We're trying to find a hotel called the Everest Inn." Howardleaned across Edward. "It's supposed to be around here but Iguess we must have missed it somehow."
The policeman gestured to his left. "It's just up the road pastthe village. You'll come to the big stone gateposts. Turn in thereand you'll see it off to the right. In fact, you can't miss it."
"Is it all right? A decent sort of place?" Grantley leaned forwardfrom the backseat.
"I haven't stayed there myself, look you, but it's very posh,"the constable said. "I understand it's got five stars."
"Well, thanks a lot, Officer," Edward said. "We mustn't keepyou. You're getting very wet."
"Oh, we're used to that kind of thing around here, sir," theconstable said. "It rains quite often."
He gave them a friendly grin, then crossed the street behindthe car.
"There you are. All that panic for nothing," Edward said asthey drove on.
"Panic? Who was panicking? It was just concern born fromexhaustion." Grantley sank back into his seat and took anotherdraw on his cigarette.
"I like that. You've slept all the way here." Howard gave adry chuckle.
"Ah, but we don't all have your stamina, Howard," Grantleysaid smoothly. "All that endurance built up tramping throughjungles at night, avoiding E. coli and cholera and not gettinghacked to death with machetes by gangs of child soldiers."
"One of these days you'll go too far, Grantley," Howard said.
"Oh, I don't think so," Grantley said. "I don't think so for amoment." He leaned forward again, grabbing their shoulders ashe peered out of the windscreen. "Oh look, there it is!"
To their right the shape of a large building loomed throughthe rain, lights twinkling on the wet tarmac of the car park.
"Christ, Edward," Grantley exclaimed as they swung off theroad up to the car park. "You see, I was right. You did take awrong turn somewhere. You've landed us in bloody Switzerland!"
The building revealed itself as an overgrown rock and timberchalet, complete with carved wooden balconies adorned withboxes of late geraniums.
"Either Switzerland or Disneyland, I'm not sure which," hewent on, giggling like an overgrown schoolboy. "It's delightfullymonstrous, isn't it? You know, I think this is going to be funafter all."
Howard Bauer and Edward Ferrers exchanged a quick glancethat Grantley, still gazing up at the building, didn't notice.
Continues...
Excerpted from Evan Can Waitby Rhys Bowen Copyright © 2001 by Rhys Bowen. Excerpted by permission.
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