A String in the Harp (8 page)

“We haven’t met anyone to do with the University except for an American family that lives in Aberystwyth.”

“Thank heaven,” said Peter. “They’re awful. Twin girls four. Even Dad doesn’t like them much.”

“Has he talked about Dr. Rhys?” Jen persisted.

“Some. Dad seems to like him.”

“He sounds as if he might be interesting.”

***

The next few days were dry and almost sunny. There were always clouds moving across the vast expanse of sky, but there were gaps between them where the sun burned through, sweeping over the hills and moors and sea in brilliant shifting patterns.
Under the gunmetal sky and the fire of the sun the dead bracken on the slopes beyond the Bog smoldered a deep bronze. Jen was dazzled by the richness of the colors and how quickly they changed. You had only to look away for a minute and when you looked back they had altered mysteriously. It was impossible to ignore the country. It was ever-present, not as a backdrop, but as an active part in everything that went on.

Jen and Becky spent much of their time outside, walking on the beach or climbing about on the rocks under their cliff. Jen was a little disappointed that there weren’t more shells to find, but Becky informed her that Gwilym said you could pick up fossils and bits of agate and jasper on the sands, particularly at low tide, if you were sharp enough and lucky.

Sometimes Peter went with the two girls, more often he would disappear on his own without an excuse. He had a preoccupied air, but he didn’t seem to be brooding over the argument he and Jen had had, as she at first guessed. She didn’t want to bring it up again, so she left him alone.

He had a great deal to think about, not least, of course, was the Key which he now kept with him, wearing it on a silver chain around his neck, safely hidden under his shirt. He’d bought the chain in Aberystwyth, convinced that whatever it was, the Key was too precious to be separated from. The other matter was Jen. Once his anger at her had cooled, he realized he’d made a serious mistake. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be an ally, it was that he’d been much too hasty with her. He saw now that he’d been counting so heavily on her for support that he hadn’t stopped to think, to give her a chance to really look around, before he’d rushed her with his problem. He had to let her see how impossible life was here for herself before he tried again. He had to wait, and waiting had never been easy for Peter. So he held back and stifled his impatience, turning more and more of his attention to the Key.

Thursday, on their way back up the beach in the early afternoon dusk, Jen and Becky met Gwilym striding purposefully
toward Ynyslas at the mouth of the river. He had a heavy pair of binoculars around his neck, which he held protectively against his chest. He’d been reluctant to stop for more than a moment—he said he didn’t want to lose the light altogether, but Jen wondered if that were the only reason. He didn’t appear really comfortable with them, more because of Jen herself than because of Becky, she suspected. There was no mention made of the promised excursion on the Bog.

She remarked on that to Becky as they walked on back to Bryn Celyn.

“I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Maybe he’d like to,” Jen suggested. “Not that I care if he’d rather go out on his own than be friendly. He’s misanthropic.” She relished the sound of the word.

“Misanthropic?” Becky peered at her. “What’s that?”

“Means he doesn’t like people.”

“Do you really think so? I don’t. He’s a little strange and he isn’t used to you yet, but he’s not really misanthropic.”

***

Jen woke with a headache next morning. The clouds had closed ranks across the sky and lay low over the sea. The hills across the River Dovey were hidden completely, and the layer of air between land and cloud felt compressed and heavy, stirred only sluggishly by an uneasy wind. Breakfast was a silent meal.

“Change in weather,” Mrs. Davies informed them when she came in to clean and do the laundry, which she did twice a week. “Chill in me bones. Nothing good, I’d say.” She hung up her coat carefully. “Get out of me kitchen now, and I’ll get at the floor.”

“Change to what?” Becky asked. “The weather, I mean.”

“Storm coming,” replied Mrs. Davies shortly. “Go on and let a body do some work.” She pushed her sweater sleeves up over knobby elbows and began whisking chairs out of the way. “Or make yourselves useful, you could,” she added over her
shoulder, but Peter had miraculously vanished and Becky said she had to go make her bed, so Jen was left to help move the kitchen table.

“You got out quickly.” She accused her brother a few minutes later.

Peter was settled by the gas fire in David’s study. “Practice. She’s really good at trapping you if you aren’t careful.”

“But there’s no reason why you couldn’t do a few useful things, really,” Jen objected.

“Why should I?” replied Peter reasonably. “Look at it this way—she’s getting paid and I’m not. Besides, you wouldn’t want to give her the idea we could manage on our own, would you?”

“Very unlikely,” said Jen, smiling in spite of herself. This was a Peter she knew, expert at dodging chores. “Where’s Becky?”

“Dunno,” said Peter. “She said something about meeting a friend of hers this morning, but I don’t think she’s gone out yet.”

“What sort of friend?” Becky had quite an assortment.

“A girl from school, I think. Jen, I’ve got to talk to you.”

Jen made a face. “Not about Dad and going home again, is it?”

“Partly.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’ve already told you there isn’t anything I can do for you. I’ll mention it to Dad if I get a chance, but I’m not going to get him cross with me, too. There just isn’t any point, it wouldn’t do any good. Let’s not argue about it again.”

“Okay,” said Peter sulkily. “It wasn’t really about that anyway, but I’m not sure I want to tell you now.”

“Well, it’s up to you,” Jen replied. “If you want to act like a baby—”

“I am
not
acting like a baby!” Peter blazed at her. “You
don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re no better than Dad—I thought you’d at least listen, but you don’t care how I feel, none of you do. You won’t even try to understand. I won’t tell you
any
thing!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Peter, don’t be so dramatic,” Jen snapped.

Peter’s mouth was open to retort when Becky came in wearing a yellow macintosh. “Mrs. Davies says it’s going to rain; have you seen my hat?” She looked from Jen to Peter and gave her head a small shake. “Rhian’s coming to Borth when her mother does the shopping and I said I’d meet her. Is it all right if she comes to lunch, Jen, and stays the afternoon?” She went on as if she hadn’t noticed how furious Peter looked or how cross Jen’s face was.

“It’s all right if she doesn’t mind sandwiches and soup.”

“She won’t.” A minute later the front door closed behind Becky. She’d issued no invitations to either of them to go along with her—she had seen the signs of a family argument and retreated.

With a great show of carelessness, Peter opened the book in his lap and pointedly ignored Jen. Whatever he’d been hinting at, he wouldn’t tell her now, that was certain. With a sigh, Jen went up to make her own bed.

***

At half-past twelve, Rhian, with Becky in tow, burst through the front door. From the kitchen, where she was trying to decide between chicken and tomato soup, Jen heard the door bang and excited voices in the hall.

“. . . jacket there.”

“I am perishing with hunger! Thought Mam would
never
be done gossiping with Mrs. Williams-the-Shop! When they begin, there’s no stopping them until they have run out of breath, I am saying. Will we see what’s for lunch, now? Hullo! You’ll be Jen, is it? I am Rhian Evans.” She was small and dark, her black hair in a long braid. She was obviously not afflicted with
shyness like Gwilym. Her movements were quick and decisive. She made a frank but not unfriendly examination of Jen. In spite of having been Becky’s sister for ten years, Jen was still frequently surprised at the people her younger sister brought home.

She collected herself enough to ask, “Now you’re here, chicken soup or tomato?”

“Tomato,” said Rhian without hesitation. “Mam’s always making chicken.”

“Well, this is a can,” Jen informed her. But it didn’t matter to Rhian.

She and Becky were soon busy spreading sandwiches with butter and pickle and slapping cheese into them. Rhian seemed right at home in the Bryn Celyn kitchen, businesslike and capable. In fact, she made Jen rather nervous. When lunch was ready, she told Becky to get Peter.

He was still curled over his book in the study, pretending to read the same page he’d been pretending to read an hour ago.

“Lunch.”

“Not hungry,” Peter responded without looking up.

“You’re kidding!” Becky stared at him in disbelief. “You?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’ll get something later.”

“
I
don’t know what’s wrong with him—if he wants to be difficult, we’ll just leave him alone,” Jen declared when Becky reported back. “Let’s have ours anyway.”

“Maybe it’s the weather, like your headache,” suggested Becky. “It feels funny today; even
my
bones think so.”

“Are we saving him any?” Rhian asked practically. She held the soup pan poised over the fourth bowl.

“I don’t see why we should—it’s his own lookout if he won’t eat with us.”

“Right-o,” agreed Rhian, and divided Peter’s portion among the other three.

She must indeed have been famished. She had no trouble finishing a huge sandwich and emptying her soup bowl. Jen and Becky could only manage half of their sandwiches each.

“You are quite sure you’re not wanting that extra?” Rhian asked, eyeing the other halves. “It’ll go stale if you leave it.”

“Go ahead,” Becky urged. “Eat it.”

“I suppose it’s my brothers and all. You have to be quick at our table or you will miss out. They are great big and eat ever so much more than me.”

“How many brothers?” Jen inquired.

“Three.”

“Older,” Becky explained, as Rhian had her mouth full. “They work with Mr. Evans on the farm. They’re out of school.”

“And wishing I was, too!” exclaimed Rhian, swallowing hard.
“And
a boy, see. Then I’d not be troubled with it now and learning all that useless stuff. I would be a hill farmer like Da and Dai and Aled and Evan. I am sure I don’t know what school’s good for anyway.”

“You and Peter would get along,” remarked Jen. “Only with him it’s mostly learning Welsh.”

“The Welsh is not so bad; it’s the other stuff I don’t see the use in. French!” snorted Rhian. “Now
there’s
a waste of time for you!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s so bad.” Becky disagreed. “I can’t see why I need to know all about the Wars of the Roses and the Spanish Armada.”

“I’m glad Dad can’t hear you,” Jen observed with a grin.

“As soon as I’m old enough, I’ll leave school, too, see if I don’t,” Rhian declared. “Then I’ll be some real use to Da.”

“What kind of farm?” asked Jen.

“Sheep, ours. Da has a few heifers and a bull, of course, and Mam keeps chickens, so we have enough eggs and some over to sell.”

“Does your father grow crops at all, like corn or wheat?” Jen wondered, thinking of the farms around Amherst.

“Not up by yere, the land’s not good for that. Mind you, there is some growing hay, but not on the hills. There it’s just sheep. My brother Aled was working down to Swansea once, on the docks, and he says in Pembroke they grow potatoes and like that, but soil’s different. It’s red, he says.”

“What about the Plant Breeding Station, then?” Becky asked. “Gwilym says they grow crops there.”

“That’s the valley,” explained Rhian. “Can’t plow the side of a mountain very well even say it weren’t full of rocks. You can come up and see if you like. I’ll tell Mam.”

“Oh, we would!” said Becky eagerly. “Can’t we, Jen? I’ve never been—it’s too far for me to go alone, but if you came Dad wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure,” agreed Jen, hoping this was more definite than Gwilym’s invitation.

“If that brother of yours isn’t going to eat now, we might as well wash up,” stated Rhian.

Outside, the wind had begun in earnest. It came in hard gusts up the coast from the southwest, flinging itself at the houses on the top of Borth cliff, hurtling over miles of churning sea. Waves drove across the wide beach to the very foot of the sea wall, making the thin string of houses look terribly vulnerable.

Something was coming, Peter knew it, and he was pretty sure he was going to be involved in it. Against his skin the Key felt hot. There was no vibration as yet, but . . . Peter was afraid and yet he couldn’t take it off, he couldn’t get rid of it. He was drawn to the Key even as it frightened him. He wished someone else knew. Jen was the only person he could imagine telling, but he had sense enough to see she was in no mood to believe such an outrageous story. He heard the girls talking in the kitchen and felt very much alone, but he’d refused them.

Instead of joining them, he pulled his jacket down from
its peg and went out, down the cliff path to the monument. There was no shelter from the wind there. If anything, it was even more exposed than Bryn Celyn. When Peter turned to look south, the wind blew his eyelashes together so he could only see a blur of gray. It roared in his ears, full of the pounding of surf and stone flung upon stone. He tossed the hair back from his forehead, and shielding his eyes with his hand, he faced the coming storm. He looked out, not on roiling, foaming sea, but the tossing crowns of trees and wind-flattened grassland. When he turned, bewildered, to look at Borth he saw instead of the cement sea wall, a huge dyke built of earth and stone, against which the waves flung themselves and broke, throwing up white claws of spray. The rain had not yet begun, but the great clouds of salt-spume fell drenching, like rain. The dyke had been built to withstand just such storms as this, to protect the low-lying country from the greedy seas. It stood firm.

Peter was overcome; he wanted no part of this. He shook his head desperately, and the rough granite of the War Memorial’s shaft bit comfortingly into his hands. He found himself clutching it so hard his knuckles were white; he was hugging it for dear life. But the bay had come back the way he knew it, Borth was there again and the patchwork of the Bog. He breathed a sigh of relief. The calm, sun-flecked island was one thing—this wild, storm-battered headland was altogether another matter.