A String in the Harp

by Bond, Nancy

  “But that is all in the story of Taliesin, and it is very difficult to say how much of it is legend and how much true. That Taliesin himself, Maelgwn, Gwyddno, and Elphin were real men, that is known.”

  Quietly, effectively, Dr. Rhys destroyed Jen’s hopes. She had come looking for an ally and had found none. Becky was listening raptly to the story he told, but Jen scarcely heard it, she was too shaken. She had put trust in adults and they had failed her—they didn’t know the answers, they simply didn’t. Dr. Rhys was saying what Mr. Evans had said at Llechwedd Melyn, in different words, of course, and Jen was utterly confused.

  She got Becky away from Dr. Rhys as soon as she could, without being downright rude, and they rode back to Borth together in silence. Becky took one look at Jen’s withdrawn face and didn’t try to make conversation.

  “No one can have gotten enough sleep last night,” remarked David, looking at his family that evening. “You all look dismal. Bed early again, I’d say.”

  But before she went up, Jen finally broke her silence. “Peter?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Yes?”

  The question was terribly hard to ask, but she had to ask it. “Do you know what happened on the Bog last night?”

  “Yes,” he said. And that was all.

  ***

  The Key grew distant now, its song became a whisper that Peter found sometimes hard to hear. He felt as if he were all pins and needles, just coming back to life after being asleep when he oughtn’t to have been. It was a very odd sensation. There seemed to be a lot he couldn’t remember very well and he wondered if anyone had noticed him. It was a relief not to be pulled back and forth through time quite so much; it had been rather exhausting.

  Taliesin had left Gwyddno’s lands. Harp slung across his shoulders, he crossed the Dyfi and struck into the wild, mountainous country of Gwynedd. As a bard, he was welcomed in hut or hall, wherever he stopped for the night, but he always went on the next day at first light. He found, as if by instinct, the secret ways through the mountains of Eryri.

  Taliesin went away, and Peter came back.

  11

  * * *

  Roast Chicken and

  Mashed Potatoes

  “WELL, THEN, I’m just going,” said Mrs. Davies, sticking her head around the kitchen door. “I’ll be in tomorrow morning same as usual.”

  “Yes,” Jen answered absently. “That’s fine.” She was trying to make up her mind between peas and corn for dinner. Her father and Becky really liked corn, but it was the same color as chicken and Jen had read somewhere that you oughtn’t to cook meals that were all the same color. So it should be peas. And some other vegetable—there ought to be two anyway.

  “Do you think—” Jen began, looking up, but Mrs. Davies was gone. She was off to houseclean for Susan in Bow Street, and Jen was truly on her own. She wrote “Chicken” and “Peas” on her shopping list and thoughtfully chewed her pencil. Surely it didn’t take Mrs. Davies this long to plan each meal? It had to get easier with experience, and the nervous feeling must go away. But, Jen supposed, she was entitled to feel nervous the first time she cooked a whole meal by herself for her family. This was really a test; it would prove whether or not she was capable of managing Bryn Celyn for her father. She wrote “Mashed potatoes.”

  She had grand dreams of exotic casseroles or a roast of beef or leg of lamb, but commonsense won and she chose broiled chicken, quite plain, to begin on. The morning passed quickly and satisfactorily as Jen made a chocolate cake—from a package. Her conscience had given her a little trouble on that, but she put it to rest by making her own butter cream frosting. And it looked beautiful when she’d done: high and smooth and shiny.

  After lunch she walked down to the shops, with her grocery bag, in very good spirits. In the business of planning her first meal she’d managed to put Dr. Rhys and his disturbing conversation right out of her thoughts. She’d made a point of not discussing it with Becky after their visit. Instead she’d bottled her confusion and frustration inside herself, trying to find her own way out of the maze Peter had unknowingly created for her.

  The queue at the butcher shop was quite long when Jen joined it: older women, Jen observed, studying them out of the corners of her eyes. They’d all had years of experience and knew precisely what they wanted. Her spirits fell a little. There was a bewildering variety of meat and poultry at the counter to choose from. Jen glanced at it and chewed her lip.

  “Next? Miss?”

  She started when she realized the butcher was talking to her and she had to make up her mind. He was brusque and businesslike, anxious not to keep his customers waiting too long.

  “I’d like a chicken, please.”

  “What kind of chicken, then?”

  Jen looked at the man blankly. “Kind?”

  “What do you want it for?” he asked as if she were dim.

  “Just eating,” she ventured.

  “Roaster? Boiler? For stewing?”

  “Boiler.” She clutched at a straw. Why on earth wasn’t chicken just chicken?

  “Head and feet taken off, do you?”

  Jen felt herself going scarlet. She thought everyone must be watching her and wondering why she’d been sent to do the shopping. “No,” she managed, “I’ll just take it!” Thankfully, she grabbed the brown paper parcel he handed her, paid, and escaped from the shop.

  The peas and potatoes were simple enough to buy, at least.

  But she knew she’d made a mistake the moment she unwrapped the chicken. It lay in front of her, quite dead and plucked—not a chicken at all. It was a corpse. The sight of it, with its scrawny neck and funny little head, its feet stiff, made Jen feel queasy. She stared at it for several minutes wondering what in the name of heaven she ought to do with it. She couldn’t broil it whole, obviously. Finally, in desperation, she grabbed the bread knife and without stopping to consider, she somehow hacked off the head and feet rather untidily, then stuffed them quickly back into the paper and pushed them into the garbage. She couldn’t bring herself to chop any more, so she decided to roast the thing instead.

  When Becky and Peter came in after school, they found Jen red-faced and cross, pounding potatoes in a large pot. Exchanging a glance, they left her to it and vanished quietly. It looked like a good idea not to interfere.

  But they both came racing back to the kitchen half an hour later when they heard a horrified shriek. They collided in the doorway. The kitchen was full of the smell of burning, and smoke and flames were coming out of the open oven.

  “What is it?” cried Becky.

  “It’s caught fire, can’t you see?” wailed Jen.

  “Do something!” Becky advised, dancing up and down.

  “What?” said Jen furiously.

  “Close the oven door first.” Peter took command.

  “But my chicken—”

  “Just close it or your chicken will be a crisp! Oh, here!” He ran over and slammed the door. “It’ll stop burning if it can’t get air, see?” He fiddled with the oven knobs. “What did you do to make it catch fire?”

  “I didn’t do anything! I turned it on to warm up and I put the chicken in, then I smelled it burning and when I opened the oven, there were flames.” The outside of the oven was smoked black.

  “Well, no wonder,” said Peter in a tone that made Jen bristle. “You had the grill on. The oven should have been turned to bake.”

  “But how did you know to close the door?” Becky asked, interested.

  “You smother a fire. You stamp on people or wrap them in blankets when they’re burning because the flames need oxygen. I learned that in Boy Scouts years ago.”

  Hesitantly Jen opened the oven again. The flames had indeed died, but a cloud of bitter smoke rolled out making her eyes smart. She looked at the charred object with helpless rage.

  “Stopped burning anyway,” said Becky encouragingly.

  “What does that matter?” cried Jen. “It’s ruined! It’s a cinder! Oh, damn, damn, d
amn!”

  Becky looked at Jen in amazement. Peter matter-of-factly pulled the roasting pan out and set it on the edge of the sink. “Don’t swear,” he told his sister maddeningly. “All you need to do is scrape off the black part, and under the skin there’s nothing wrong with it. See? It didn’t have time to burn through. Just cook it the rest of the way and no one’ll know.”

  “You will,” said Becky.

  “I’m not sure—” began Jen.

  “Oh, it’ll be all right. I’m sure Peter’s right.”

  Jen relit the oven, making sure it was set at bake. Peter suggested she lower the rack inside two notches so the chicken wouldn’t touch the heating coil this time. He handed her the pan without further comment.

  “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.