Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs Read Online Free Page B

he was a regular at the other chapel and thought that its preacher, Mr. Powell-Jones, was far superior. “When are you going to try sermonizing in Welsh, then? Isn’t our mother tongue good enough for you?”
    “I have to cater to everybody, Gareth,” Reverend Parry Davies said, still smiling genially. “And not everybody speaks our mother tongue as well as you and I do.” He looked around with pride. “As a matter of fact, I’ve just been reciting some of the finest Welsh words ever written. It’s for the bardic competition at the eisteddfod, you know. This year I’m doing a poem based on the story of the Lady Rhiannon in the Mabinogion. ”
    “The what?” young Barry-the-Bucket, the local bulldozer driver, asked in a stage whisper.
    “The Mabinogion, ” Evans-the-Meat hissed back. “One of the oldest books in the world, and full of stories of Welsh heroes, too. What do they teach you in the schools these days?”
    The minister nodded. “Magnificent it is! The drama of it—the pathos when her little son is taken from her and she searches in vain. There won’t be a dry eye in the pavilion, I can tell you.”
    “Why? Are you going to bring onions with you, Reverend?” Barry-the-Bucket, quipped to his friends.
    “You be quiet, Barry-the-Bucket,” Betsy said fiercely. “You wouldn’t know culture if it jumped up and bit you. I think the reverend is going to do just fine. He’ll be a credit to us all.”
    “Your faith in me is very touching, my dear,” Reverend Parry Davies said. “I have to confess that I have high hopes of being chaired bard this year.”
    “Good for you, Reverend,” Charlie Hopkins said. “But what about Mr. Powell-Jones? Isn’t he entering the eisteddfod, too?”
    “My fellow minister doesn’t believe in getting involved in secular declamations.”
    “What?” Barry-the-Bucket asked.
    “He thinks it’s sinful to enter competitions,” Evans-the-Meat clarified.
    “Only because he’s not good enough,” Evans-the-Milk muttered, loud enough for Evans-the-Meat to hear.
    “What’s that you’re saying?” Evans-the-Meat demanded. “You’re talking bloody rubbish as usual. The Reverend Powell-Jones has the finest voice this side of the mountain. That’s my opinion and I don’t care who knows it.”
    “I don’t dispute it,” the Reverend Parry Davies said easily. “He does have a fine voice. Almost as good as mine.”
    This got general laughter.
    “But I don’t even know if he’ll be here for the eisteddfod, ” he went on.
    A hush fell on the room.
    “Not be here? Where’s he going then?” Evans-the-Meat asked.
    “Haven’t you heard?” The Reverend Parry Davies looked from face to face. “He’s letting his house for the summer. His wife’s going down to Barmouth to look after her mother.”
    There was a muffled cheer and someone at the back of the room muttered, “Good riddance.”
    “He’s letting his house?” Harry-the-Pub appeared at Betsy’s side, wiping his hands on his apron. “The Powell-Joneses are moving out for the summer? Where did you hear that?”
    “Our daily woman, Elen, is friendly with their daily woman, Gladys. Elen heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. She said he was on the phone this afternoon arranging things and then he asked Gladys if she could come in over the weekend to help get their things packed away and give the place a good cleaning. Gladys said he offered an extra fifty pounds.”
    “Fifty pounds? That’s not like him,” Betsy exclaimed. “He’s usually an old skinflint.” She saw Harry-the-Pub’s frown. “Well, he is,” she repeated. “It’s common knowledge in the village. He only had one go when I was in charge of the coconut shy at the last fete.”
    “You should have been in charge of the kissing booth, Betsy,” Barry-the-Bucket said. “Then you’d have made a fortune.”
    “And I wouldn’t have let you, even for a hundred pounds,” Betsy responded quickly.
    “Hold on a