He crossed the street to where the sign of the Red Dragon squeaked as it swung in the evening breeze. The main bar was in full swing as he ducked his head to pass through the low doorway. Voices were raised in animated conversation. Through the smoke haze, Evan observed the usual group of men who assembled there most evenings.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Charlie Hopkins was exclaiming loudly. "When my Mair told me that one of them was dressed in those funny robes with a beard and sandals and all . . ."

"We don't want them here," a voice growled from a dark corner. "Why don't they go back where they came from?"

"Leeds, you mean?" someone challenged.

"Bloody Pakistan is what I mean. If God had intended dark-skinned people to live in Wales, he'd have made the sun shine here occasionally."

A chuckle ran around the bar.

"Well, I don't think it's all bad," Evans-the-Meat, countered.

Evan paused, on his way up to the bar, and listened in amazement. Of all the villagers, he would have labeled Evans-the-Meat as the most prejudiced, militantly Welsh, and antiforeigner.

"I think we'll get along just fine," Gareth Evans continued. "After all, Pakistan and Wales have something in common, don't they?"

"Similar accents when we speak English?" someone suggested.

"I'm serious, boyo. We both know what it's like to be dominated by a colonial power, don't we? We've both been occupied by the bloody English."

"So you're saying you'd rather have Pakis run that grocer's shop than, say, English people?" Barry-the-Bucket, the local bulldozer driver, asked.

"Absolutely," Evans-the-Meat insisted.

"Well, I don't agree with that at all," Betsy the barmaid leaned across the bar to join in. "I've been to Asian grocers before, and everything in the place stinks of curry. You'll probably go in for a can of baked beans and find you have to buy lentils instead. Great sacks of lentils everywhere, you wait and see. In fact-" She broke off as she spotted Evan waiting patiently behind the men at the bar. "Well, would you look who's here? Aren't you a sight for sore eyes. What will it be, the usual?"

"Oh, poor boy, half starved he is these days. They say his wife doesn't feed him properly." Charlie chuckled and dug Evan in his well-padded ribs.

"I'm surprised she's letting you out so soon after the wedding," the butcher said. "You must have licked her into shape really quickly if she's letting you spend your evenings in the pub already."

"Oh, come on, Gareth." Evan chuckled. "I am not spending my evenings at the pub, and I certainly haven't attempted to lick Bron-wen into shape. I just thought I'd pop in for a few minutes to see what everyone's heard about the people moving into the shop."

"They're Pakis," Charlie Hopkins said, as Betsy put a foaming mug of Guinness on the counter for Evan.

"I know. I went over just now. It's a father and son, doing the carpentry themselves."

"It's going to be trouble if you ask me," Barry-the-Bucket commented, between swigs from his glass. "You saw how the young one was dressed-like one of those Muslim priests you see on the telly. I wouldn't be surprised if they're not a terrorist cell hiding out here. You want to keep an eye on them, Evan."

"Give them a break, Barry," Evan said. "I'm sure they're a perfectly normal family. It's up to them how they choose to dress. They've got their religion, and we've got ours. That doesn't make them dangerous. I suggest we all work hard to make them feel welcome in the village."

"If they want us to make them feel welcome, then they've got to learn to be a bloody sight friendlier than they were today," Charlie Hopkins said. "My Mair poked her head around the door, just to exchange a friendly word with whoever it was, and they cut her dead. The younger one wouldn't even speak to her."

"Ah well, they're Muslims, look you, and she's a woman," Barry said. "Women don't count for anything in their religion. They'll probably start making all the women in the village wear veils when they go into the shop."

Evan laughed, a little uneasily. "Come on, Barry. They're as British as you or I. Give them a chance, all right?"

"I'd like to see anyone make me start wearing a veil," Betsy said. "I've got a good body, and I don't mind showing it off a little."

She smoothed down her T shirt, pulling the low neckline even lower, making every man in the bar look up from his glass.

"You get back to your pouring," Barry said firmly. He and Betsy had been dating for a while. "That's enough showing it off for one evening."

"Mind you"-Betsy gave him a teasing smile-"one of those see-through, filmy veils would be dead sexy. Like Salomé doing the dance of the seven veils." She wiggled her hips, making the men laugh.

Evan drained his glass and replaced it on the bar. "Thanks, Betsy love. I'd better be going, then. I don't like to keep Bronwen waiting, and I've had a tough day."

"Big case you're working on?" Charlie Hopkins asked.

"No, worse luck. Big meeting. It's the new Chief Constable. He's shaking up the whole police force. You want to hear the latest thing? New uniforms. He's going to have the poor blokes on the beat wearing black cargo pants and black turtleneck sweaters instead of the old shirts and ties."

"What? Cargo pants and sweaters? They'll look like a bunch of thugs. Where's the authority in that? People like a policeman to look like a policeman. They respect the brass buttons and the neat tie." Charlie Hopkins shook his head in disgust.

"I agree with you, Charlie," Evan said. "But the new Chief Constable says the ties are a liability during a scuffle, even though they're only clip on and come off easily, and he says the shirts only get crumpled when you wear them with body armor."

"Body armor?" Barry burst out laughing. "When have you ever worn body armor?"

"Never, personally, but some of the force has to, sometimes."

The rest of the men were laughing now.

"It's not as if you blokes are breaking up a gang fight or an international terrorist cell every day of the week now, is it?" Evans-the Meat chuckled.

"There's nothing I can do about it, Gareth," Evan said. "I'm at the bottom of the pecking order. My opinion doesn't count for much. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that this new uniform is only the tip of the iceberg. We've got special meetings of the Plain Clothes Division going on for the next couple of weeks, and he's scheduled us for sensitivity training."

"For what?" Barry asked.

"We have to learn how to be nice to the public so that they don't regard us with hostility."

He broke off as the men around him were laughing.

"So when you catch a young thug you have to say, 'Oh no, you naughty boy. Please don't bash in that old lady's head and take her purse. It isn't nice,' " Evans-the-Meat said in high falsetto.

"You think it's funny, but that's just about what it's going to be," Evan said gloomily. "Oh well, there's not much I can do about it. I'd better get on home or Bronwen will worry."

Evan nodded to his friends and stepped out into the brisk evening breeze. It was quite a climb up the hill to the cottage. It had been easy enough during dry weather when the daylight lasted until after nine o'clock. Now, at the beginning of October, the evenings were closing in, and the valley was plunged into darkness by seven. Evan stumbled and slithered his way upward, wishing he had a car that could make the slope. But he still had only his old bone shaker, and in this weather the track really needed a four-wheel drive.

Light was streaming out of the cottage windows, sending a welcoming beacon down to him. As he approached the front door, Evan paused to savor the satisfaction of the moment-his own home built mainly by his own hands, his wife waiting for him with dinner on the table. What more could a man want from life?

He pushed open the front door. "Bron?" he called. "I hope I haven't kept dinner waiting too long, but I just had to pop into the pub . . ."

"Oh yes?" Bronwen appeared from the kitchen, taking off the apron she was wearing over her jeans and sweater. "Just had to pop in, did you?"

"I was only there a few minutes," Evan said, "and I just wanted to find out what the blokes in the village had heard about the Harris's old shop. Did you know it's been sold, and a Pakistani family has bought it? They're down there now, refitting the shelves and counters."

"I do know all about it," Bronwen said, "and I didn't have to pop into the pub to find out. It just so happens that we've got company."

"What?" Evan looked around the room for the first time. Perched at the edge of one of the kitchen chairs was a young girl, dressed in a navy blue-and-white school uniform. She looked to be in her mid-teens, with light brown skin and one long, luxurious dark braid of hair down her back. She rose awkwardly to her feet and smiled shyly. "Oh hello," Evan said. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Evan"-Bronwen took his arm-"I'd like you to meet Jamila. She's the daughter of the new people at the grocer's shop. We met on the bus coming home from school and got talking, and she very kindly offered to help me carry my shopping up the hill. So I thought the very least I could do was invite her to stay for dinner with us. Our first dinner guest."

"Nice to meet you, Jamila. This is all right with your family, is it?"

"Oh yes. I asked Mummy, and she it would be fine to stay and help Mrs. Evans, especially when she found out that Mrs. Evans was the schoolteacher. I'd only be in the way at the shop while Daddy and Rashid are working anyway."

"So has your family moved in yet?"

"We're in the process of moving in. We had the van bring up some things today, and the rest is coming tomorrow. Daddy says they'll have the shop opened on Saturday." She spoke, like her brother, with a slight Yorkshire accent.

"Where are you living now then?" Evan asked.

"We've been renting a couple of rooms in Bangor so that Rashid and I could start the school year here. But now we'll be living in the flat over the shop. It's going to be rather crowded, but I expect we'll survive. Rashid wants to move into student housing at the university as soon as they can find a suitable place."

"That shouldn't take long, should it? I thought the university would find housing for students."

"Well, there is plenty of housing, but not what Rashid wants. He'll only live with other Muslim students, you see, so they're trying to find a house to rent-and not everybody is too keen to rent to a group of Pakistani boys, as you can imagine."

"That's illegal, isn't it?" Bronwen said angrily.

"I'm sure it is," Evan agreed, "but you're not surprised to hear that an old Welsh landlady finds an excuse not to let out rooms to anybody who looks so different, are you? It's very hard to prove a discrimination case. But I'm sure the university will have to come up with something if your brother perseveres."

"Oh, he's good at pushing to get his own way, believe me." Jamila smiled. "Rashid is a great one for his rights."

"Well, don't just stand there, Evan," Bronwen said. "Dinner's all ready, and I'm sure you're starving as usual. Let's eat, and we can continue our conversation at the dining table." She put a hand on Jamila's shoulder. "I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen, Jamila, but we decided the living room would be too cramped if we tried to fit in a dining table."

"Oh no, I think what you've got here is just lovely," she said. "So warm and friendly, like something out of a storybook."

"That was the idea," Bronwen said. "Sit down, you two. It's a chicken casserole tonight. You don't have any dietary restrictions about chicken, do you, Jamila?"

"I'm not like my brother, Mrs. Evans." Jamila rolled her eyes. "I'm not particularly religious. I don't eat pork because my family never cooks it, but I've eaten a sausage at a friend's house before now. I mean, it made sense not to eat pork when people lived in a desert and had no means of refrigeration, but now pigs are as safe as any other animals, aren't they?"

"Well, I'd agree with that," Bronwen said, ladling out a generous helping of casserole onto Jamila's plate and putting it in front of her, "but many people feel passionately about it, don't they? Wars have been started over less."

"Well, I say stick to your guns, Jamila," Bronwen said.

Jamila beamed. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Evans. You don't know how encouraging it is to hear that. Luckily I've already made some good friends at school, and they're supportive too. I'm trying hard to learn Welsh quickly; then I can talk to my friends on the phone, and Rashid won't know what I'm saying."

"You can come up here and practice with us," Evan said. "I'm a policeman and I often work long hours. Bronwen would enjoy the company, wouldn't you, love?"

"That would be lovely," Bronwen said. "I'll help you with your Welsh if you like. And since I'm an old married schoolteacher, even your brother couldn't object, could he?"

Jamila gave them both a happy smile.