A String in the Harp (26 page)

“Thank you,” said Jen a little stiffly.

Peter shrugged. “Not at all.”

They’d got rid of the smoke and set the table by the time David got in. The chicken smelled as if it were properly roasting.

“How are things going?” David asked his elder daughter.

“All right,” she answered, crossing her fingers.

“Good. It smells fine,” he said encouragingly.

It would serve no useful purpose, as far as Jen could see, to tell him about the earlier crisis. At six-fifteen she announced supper in what she hoped was a normal voice. The chicken lay dark brown and crisp on its platter in front of David’s place. He looked at it with interest but made no comment, just began carving. It appeared to offer some resistance, but David still said nothing, just bore down harder. Jen winced a bit. He sliced down firmly and the knife hesitated.

“Stuffing?” he inquired.

“Oh,” said Jen, stricken. “I forgot.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said David quickly. “We don’t need it with potatoes—I just thought—” He probed gently. “What’s this?” He’d uncovered a smallish bundle wrapped in what seemed to be paper and stuck in the middle of the bird.

“I don’t know.” In horrified fascination, Jen watched him pull it out.

“Like a message in a bottle,” observed Peter, and was instantly quelled with a frown from his father.

“Did you take out the liver and gizzard?” David asked. Jen shook her head unhappily. “Oh, well. As they say in these parts, not to worry! It won’t make any difference.” He went on carving.

Jen dished out the peas and potatoes when David finished and watched closely as her family started to eat. For a long moment there was silence while everyone chewed.

Then: “It’s good,” exclaimed Becky with too much conviction. David nodded in agreement. Peter continued to chew.

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Jen accusingly. “You might as well say.”

“Nothing,” David said. “Chicken’s a little tough, but that’s not your fault.”

And in spite of the pounding Jen had given them, the potatoes were lumpy. And the peas were lukewarm and hard as beebees—Jen had been so careful not to cook them too long, she hadn’t cooked them long enough. Any one of these problems by itself wouldn’t have been awful, but all together they amounted to a disaster. The first bite she took stuck in Jen’s throat and choked her. A flood of self-pity drowned her. “It’s awful! All of it!” she cried, slamming down her knife and fork. “Don’t sit there eating it! The chicken tastes burnt and it’s tough and the potatoes are terrible and the peas are
raw!
It’s all my fault!” For the first time in months—since her mother had died—Jen felt tears, and instead of trying bravely to hold them in, she gave in almost gratefully. The effect was electrifying. Becky froze, mouth open, fork in the air, staring. Peter’s face registered shock. And David watched her helplessly, as if he wasn’t at all sure what he should do. Jen wept harder.

“Go ahead and say it! You should have sent me home when I was supposed to go—I’ve ruined a perfectly good dinner. I can’t do it, I promised I would, but I just
can’t!
I’m hopeless!”

“Oh—” cried Becky in distress.

“It’s not that bad,” muttered Peter. “We can eat it.” He took another bite to show her. It alarmed him unexpectedly to see his sensible older sister go to pieces over a chicken. She wasn’t supposed to act this way.

“Of course, you’re not hopeless,” said David briskly, cutting across them all. His face was calm and sympathetic now; he had made up his mind about the situation. “It’s silly to say
you’re hopeless, when you know it’s not true. You just got nervous and tried too hard, that’s all! Everyone does it one time or another. Good heavens, I remember vividly some of the dinners your mother ruined just after we got married—of course, you didn’t know her then!” He grinned. “She was much older than you when she started learning, cheer up!”

“B-but I promised . . .”

“So you did, and you can try again. Whoever said you only got one chance?” David stood up. “Come on, all of you, I’ve got an idea.”

“W-what?” Jen raised her face to him, damp with tears.

“Here. My napkin’s clean. Dry your face and get your coat. We’re going out!”

“In
Borth?”
Peter was incredulous. “Nothing’s open!”

“Shows how little you know,” David retorted cheerfully.
“Quick!”

Becky caught hold of one of Jen’s hands and pulled her out of her chair.

“But what about all of this?” she protested weakly.

“Leave it. It’ll be here when we get back,” David said.

The night was very dark, the sky like the inside of a bucket full of holes, without a moon. Below the cliff, the sea crunched up and down the beach, and overhead the wind sang in the electric wires. David put Jen’s arm firmly through his and Becky clutched her other hand. Peter was right beside Becky. It struck Jen that it had been a long time since they’d all been that close to each other. She began to relax; no one seemed to mind about the disastrous supper. David was even whistling softly, as if pleased with himself. It was a minute or two before Jen recognized the tune and smiled in spite of herself; it was
Lord Jeffrey Amherst.

David piloted them along the Borth street at a quick, purposeful pace, down to a shop across from the bakery. Glaring white light spilled out onto the pavement through its open door and the thick, hot smell of deep-fat-frying. David pulled them
into the queue of University students, hunched laughing and talking outside.

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” David remarked.

“Fish and chips,” exclaimed Becky. “Rhian calls it the chippy.”

“Isn’t it awfully fried?” hazarded Jen.

“Terribly, by the smell of it. Hundreds of satisfied customers, though,” said David. “It’ll make your hair shiny.”

The queue moved fast and in a very short time the Morgans were through the door. Ahead was a glass-fronted counter and a man and two girls in tired white aprons, laughing and talking as hard as the customers, scooping up mounds of French fried potatoes and great slabs of crusty fish and bundling them into brown paper. The windows ran with steam.

When they emerged, they were each clutching a hot package.

“We can take them home and eat them with our fingers,” David said.

“I did make a cake that turned out.” Jen brightened. “Dessert anyway.”

“Good!” Peter exclaimed through a mouthful of fish.

“You’re supposed to wait,” objected Becky, opening her own bundle.

“Who cares?” asked David. “I’m hungry!” So they walked back along the street and up the hill, swapping bits of fish and munching chips happily.

In the kitchen at Bryn Celyn, David and Peter simply heaped the remains of the dinner by the sink while Jen and Becky put out clean plates and napkins and the cake; and the meal that had begun more than an hour before in disaster finished in triumph, with them all chattering and grinning and stuffing themselves.

There was no trace of the unfortunate chicken for Mrs. Davies to find the next morning; the potatoes and peas had disappeared
with it, and there was only one very small piece of cake left under a bowl on the shelf. No other clue. And none of the family offered any.

Finally Mrs. Davis had to ask, “And did your meal go all right, then?”

David looked up from his coffee and paper. “Oh, yes indeed. Very good. A bit more practice and there’ll be no holding her, Mrs. Davies. Hmm?” He looked around at Becky and Peter, who exchanged glances, grinned and nodded. A sudden rush of affection filled Jen, affection for all three of them.

“Well.” Mrs. Davies was obviously curious to hear more, but had no intention of saying so. “Well, I’m that glad to hear it, Mr. Morgan.”

***

After dinner Sunday Peter announced loudly to everyone that he was going for a walk along the cliffs if no one minded. David shook his head and said mildly he saw no reason why not if Peter were home at a reasonable hour.

Becky waited until she heard the front door close, then said, “Me, too!” flung on her jacket and was gone after her brother before Jen or David could speak.

“She’s in a hurry,” remarked David. Jen nodded and turned back to the letter she was struggling to write to Aunt Beth. It never seemed to get easier, but it had to be done every week and she was resigned. Aunt Beth’s letters back had bristled with disapproval ever since she’d been told Jen was staying in Wales. David took the brunt of it, and Jen felt guilty every time one of the letters came.

Outside, it was one of those sharp, gray afternoons when the clouds hung low, but the air was clear between the sea and the sky, so you could see for miles along the coast. Peter had got as far as the War Memorial when he realized he was being followed by someone going faster than he was. The path beyond the point was narrow, worn deep into the cliff top and wide enough for only one person at a time, so Peter stood back
and waited for the other person to go by. It was Becky, steaming along, head down, watching for roots and rocks. She was almost on top of him before she discovered he’d stopped.

“Whew,” she panted thankfully.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming after you.”

“Why?” Peter made no attempt to sound welcoming.

“I wanted to talk to you. And,” she added frankly, “I wanted to know where you go off to.”

“That’s really my business, though, isn’t it.” He started out along the path.

“I suppose so.” Becky followed undiscouraged.

“What about?” asked Peter after a moment.

“Hmmm?”

“What do you want to talk to me
about?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to tell you to your back. It would be much easier if we could sit down somewhere. Do you mind?”

Peter said nothing, but in another five minutes he turned off the path and climbed over the scrub into a little hollow almost at the cliff’s edge. The two of them sat down side by side on a flat boulder out of the wind. Peter waited.

Becky sighed. “It’s just that I thought you should know Jen went to see Dr. Rhys last week.”

“So?”

“About your Key.”

Peter went very still. “She told him?”

“Yes.”

“But she had no right to! It’s nothing to do with her—she doesn’t want it to be.”

“That’s just it. She doesn’t like it, it bothers her.”

“How can it? She doesn’t believe in it.”

Becky shook her head.

“And Dr. Rhys told her I was crazy or making up a story.” Peter’s hand clenched around a bracken stem.

“But that’s the strange part,” said Becky. “That’s what I really wanted to tell you—he didn’t say that at all. He said it might be true.”

Peter looked at his sister coldly. “I
know
it’s true. You didn’t have to come out here to tell me. I don’t care about Dr. Rhys.”

“Well, you should,” retorted Becky. “This is important. It isn’t like
me
saying I believe you, or even Jen. This is Dr. Rhys. He’s old and he’s a professor and people listen to him, Peter. He’s studied Welsh history and he knows all about your Taliesin. He was interested.”

“Were you there?”

“Mmm. Jen made me go, too. Dr. Rhys told us the story of Taliesin, how he washed ashore near here, and saved the King’s son—what was his name?”

“Elphin.” Peter was listening now, his eyes wary but with a glint of excitement.

“Taliesin rescued Elphin from the king of the north by asking a riddle that no one could answer.”

The bracken stem broke in Peter’s fingers and he twisted it thoughtlessly. In a strange, distant voice he said,

Guess who it is.

Created before the flood.

A creature strong,

Without flesh, without bone,

Without veins, without blood,

Without head, and without feet.

It will not be older, it will not be younger

Than it was in the beginning.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And it is as wide

As the face of the earth,

And it was not born,

And it has not been seen.

It, on sea, it, on land,

It sees not, it is not seen.

“I know!” cried Becky suddenly. “The wind, Dr. Rhys said it was the wind! But how do you know the riddle?”

Peter shook his head. “I just do. Taliesin called it and the wind came into Maelgwn’s great hall and blew out all the torches.” The distance left him abruptly. “It’s in the book, you know.”

“If Jen really thought you were making all of this up,” said Becky slowly, “I don’t think it would bother her nearly so much. It’s not being sure that upsets her and that’s why she had to go to Dr. Rhys.”

Peter looked skeptical, but Becky continued. “She hasn’t said a word about it since we saw him, and before that she kept trying to convince me the story wasn’t true.”

“What did Dr. Rhys say then?”

“That it wasn’t impossible. He was very nice you know, Peter.”

All round were the great, endless sounds of wind and ocean. Peter stared out at the gray restlessness beyond their hollow. “What about Dad?” he said at last. “Did she tell him, too?”

“No, he doesn’t know about any of this, not even about our going to see Dr. Rhys. Jen won’t say anything and neither will I.” She read Peter’s thoughts with disturbing ease. “Jen didn’t send me after you.”

“At first I thought she’d help,” said Peter with a sigh.

“She’s afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Are you?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted with sudden relief. “It gets so strong—and it isn’t always very easy.”

“Tell me,” Becky demanded, her eyes steady on his face. “Tell me.”

And haltingly, Peter began. Words weren’t much good for describing the Key and its singing, he discovered. It was difficult to explain what happened when the songs came; how it felt to be pulled out of his own time and plunged into another, but as he talked he relaxed. By telling Becky, he found he could put the pieces together better himself, he saw the way they fit. And Becky listened raptly, working to follow him.