A String in the Harp

by Bond, Nancy

  David thanked Dr. Owen again, formally and briefly, took Becky’s hand and headed toward the main entrance. Jen’s last glimpse of Dr. Owen was as he walked quickly in the opposite direction without glancing back; there was nothing she could do but follow her family. Becky was all right, Jen knew that. It had been the tension, the awfulness of what was about to happen. Becky had stopped it and saved Peter’s secret, and Jen felt strangely relieved. It had gone out of her hands, but at least she’d tried.

  Outside on the front steps of the museum, Becky was mopping her eyes and blowing her nose on David’s handkerchief and assuring him that she was fine. “I don’t know what happened,” she said, taking deep breaths. “It got very hot and I didn’t think I could breathe. I thought I might be sick. I’m much better now.”

  “Thank heaven for that!” David exclaimed.

  “We don’t have to go back in, do we?”

  “No. I think Dr. Owen is feeling well quit of us by now. At least we can say we saw him.”

  “And escaped,” added Becky, much recovered.

  “It was good of him to spend so much time on us.” But David was only mildly reproving.

  “I didn’t like him much,” said Becky candidly.

  “Neither did your brother. It’s a good thing Dr. Owen wasn’t particularly sensitive to you lot! Jen looked miserable most of the time, and I don’t think you opened your mouth at all while we were with him, Peter. Not an unqualified success, I’d say.” He shook his head. “Still, you never can tell ahead of time, and the museum, what we saw of it, is fascinating. We ought to come back later and spend a day without a guide. And where, may I ask, Jen, did you find your sudden interest in harp keys?”

  Peter, who had been sitting hunched over on a step, staring at his hands between his knees, seemed to stop breathing.

  “I just wondered, that’s all,” said Jen lamely. “They were curious looking, and I suppose you might find something small like that. It might not occur to you it was important.”

  “What shall we do now?” asked Becky, folding up the handkerchief and giving it back. “Is it time to go?”

  David consulted his watch. “Very nearly. We should get back to the bus station, I suppose.” He looked from Becky to Jen to Peter with a slight frown, as if to say, “I don’t know all that’s going on here, do I?” then got up. “Come on, Peter, let’s see if we can find a taxi. I’m tired.”

  They walked off together and irrelevantly Jen noticed that Peter was almost as tall as David now; his wrists stuck awkwardly out of his jacket sleeves and his stride matched his father’s. Aunt Beth would have taken him shopping for clothes that fit. There was so much Jen didn’t know how to do.

  “You were going to tell, weren’t you?”

  She turned on Becky defensively. “What if I was?”

  “You mustn’t.”

  “What if that thing of Peter’s is valuable? He can’t just hide it.”

  “But he has to decide what to do, not you, Jen. It isn’t yours.”

  “It isn’t Peter’s either. It doesn’t really belong to him—I agree with Dr. Owen, it belongs to Wales.” She knew she was sounding stuffy. If only Peter’s key didn’t upset her so much, she could be much more objective about it.

  Becky said gravely, “Maybe that’s true, but Peter found it, so it’s up to him. It’s to do with him, Jen, not you.”

  “And you pretended to be sick to keep me from telling.”

  “No, I didn’t. All of a sudden everything felt awful and I did feel hot. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want you to tell, though, not Dr. Owen. And what about Dad? Will you tell him now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jen helplessly. She didn’t feel like telling anyone anything at the moment.

  “Don’t. It won’t help.”

  “I’ll make up my own mind,” she said stiffly.

  Becky sighed. “We’d better go after them or we’ll lose them.” She started down the steps. “Jen?”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t be cross with Peter. Or me either. I know you don’t feel the same way about the Key, but it’s all worse if you’re mad.”

  Jen didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure how she felt any more. She’d been so close to telling—what would have happened if she had? Would it really have been the end of the Key? And she knew it wouldn’t have been.

  In the terminal David bought them all orange drinks in the crowded cafe, and they sat on stools along a sticky counter sipping and watching people until bus time. They were quiet on the trip back to Aberystwyth, sunk in various thoughts. Becky took a nap, though she indignantly denied it later. The day had been exhausting.

  13

  * * *

  Wolf!

  THE WELSH WINTER was not like a New England one. Through December, January, and February, the country lay cold and damp, the trees bare, the hills behind the Bog muted with frost. But there was no snow; there were no hard freezes. Inland, two or three miles, the country was often dusted with snow and it lay deep among the mountains of Snowdonia in the north. But along the coast there were only long days of rain. Sometimes the rain came in fierce, sudden showers; usually it lay as a gray curtain across sea and land for hours at a time.

  The hooks in Bryn Celyn’s front hall seemed always to be full of dripping macintoshes. Umbrellas dried open beside the stairs, and there was a jumble of wellingtons inside the front door.

  Gwilym had looked genuinely surprised when, one extremely wet afternoon on the bus to Aber, Jen had complained loudly about being shut in the house all day by the weather.

  “Why should you be?” he asked.

  “Because it rains all the time,” Jen answered crossly.

  Gwilym’s forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “I suppose I don’t really notice. I have things to do outside whether it’s raining or no, and a bit of water doesn’t hurt. I just wear my boots and a mac.”

  “Well, yours must be better than mine because I get wet even when I wear them,” retorted Jen.

  “Ah, see now,” Hugh-the-Bus put in, smiling at Jen in his rearview mirror, “there is a wise man said either you wear a mac and get wet, or you don’t wear a mac and get very wet, you see?”

  Even Jen, sitting there dripping, couldn’t keep herself from laughing.

  ***

  But as the winter blustered by, the Morgans adjusted to it. The damp air was fresh and smelled good—it cleared the head of too much thinking and stuffy rooms. There were always dry clothes to change into after being in the rain: wool socks and warm sweaters; and the heat of the stove in the kitchen or the coal fire in the lounge could be counted on to take the chill out of fingers and feet.

  At Mrs. Rhys’s suggestion, Jen bought four hot water bottles, and filling them each night, then sliding them between cold sheets half an hour before bed, became a ritual like brushing teeth. Grumbles and complaints grew less frequent and more good-humored, as the Morgans got used to a different kind of living.

  Routine settled in again after the trip to Cardiff: school, university, housework, meals. And gradually the days began to spin themselves out so that it was no longer necessary to go off in the morning and come back in the afternoon in darkness. No one mentioned Dr. Owen or harp keys; David asked no questions, Jen made no explanations. But without apologizing to him, she made a kind of peace with Peter, leaving him alone, but not ignoring him.

  Jen found plenty to keep her busy during the week. The formidable routines of housework came easier with practice and she no longer had to think so much about the chores she did. She discovered she had not the least compulsion to clean corners and scrub the front doorstep like Mrs. Davies, but she could manage to keep Bryn Celyn in pretty good order and still have time to herself.

  Rather to her surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Rhys took a lively interest in Jen’s domestic progress and invited her to stop in for coffee any morning Jen was coming to Aberystwyth on errands. Over sweet, milky coffee and delicious homemade scones, Mrs. Rhys taught Jen to knit, listened
to problems, and gave all kinds of advice on scores of subjects; she was very good company indeed.

  And one afternoon Jen discovered the tiny Borth library, stuck away in a shabby building by the station—just one room lined with books, open apparently according to the librarian’s whim rather than regular hours. Some days Jen would be lucky and others she would find it locked and dark. The librarian was a tiny, white-haired man, bent over with age. He sat in a corner reading—always the same huge book, moving slowly through it, then starting again. She wished she knew what it was, but it was in Welsh. He smiled at her when she came, and she at him, but she couldn’t understand a word he said, and she hunted through the books on her own. Many of them were in Welsh, all of them were old and well-worn, but she unearthed an endless series of identical romances, which caused David to raise his eyebrows when he found her reading them, and an ancient copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Cookery and Household Management, which caused Mrs. Davies to snort, and dark little volumes with the titles worn off: the history of Cardiganshire, Welsh folklore and customs, poetry, biographies of Owain Glendwr. Jen had a lovely time exploring them.

  On weekends she and Becky, sometimes even Peter, usually climbed back up the valley to Llechwedd Melyn. There, in the comfortable farm kitchen, Mrs. Evans showed Jen how to make Bara Brith—speckled bread full of currants and raisins—and flat spicy Welsh cakes in an iron skillet. These were eaten hot with cinnamon sugar or butter and honey. Mr. Evans and his sons got used to finding two or three Morgans at their table for Saturday tea.

  A little nervously, Jen tried making her own Bara Brith at Bryn Celyn one Wednesday afternoon. She did everything Mrs. Evans had told her, and the dough did everything it was supposed to. The loaves came out of the oven miraculously rounded and golden, filling the house with their rich smell, and Jen felt like crowing. From flour and sugar and yeast she had made her own bread instead of buying it in a shop.

  David, when he came in tired and damp as usual, found his three children sitting companionably around the kitchen table, devouring new bread, strawberry jam, and tea. Peter, with a book open in front of him, and Jen, cutting more Bara Brith, were listening to Becky relate the latest Borth scandal about a young English professor at the University and the respectable widow, ten years his senior, with whom he’d been keeping company.

  “Where on earth did you get that from?” inquired David.

  “Mrs. Davies,” said Becky promptly.

  “I’ve never thought of her as a gossip. Jen, could I have a piece of that—and is there another cup of tea in the pot?”

  “Oh, she’s better than anyone else. She knows everything.”

  “And so do you now.”

  “I was helping to fold sheets this afternoon. She wasn’t really telling me, she was telling Hugh-the-Bus, but I don’t think he was listening.”

  “I’m not at all sure you should have been!” They all watched David take his first bite; he looked up and found their eyes on him.

  “Is it all right?” asked Jen, struggling to sound casual.

  “Mmm. Very good. Why?”

  “Jen made it!” said Becky. “This afternoon.”

  “You did? From scratch?”

  Jen nodded.

  “Wherever did you learn that?”

  “From Mrs. Evans.”

  “Congratulations to both of you—it’s delicious!”

  Jen grinned triumphantly. “And that cancels out the chicken!”

  “What chicken?” said Peter, taking another piece of bread.

  ***

  Toward the end of February the days began to swell with spring; the wind was full of impatience and sent clouds racing across the sky, making sun shadows on the sea and hills. New plants pushed up along the roadsides, and Jen ferreted out a plant guide in the library. When she went walking, she paused to examine the uncurling ferns and strange little leaves she found. Daily Gwilym reported fresh migratory birds on the estuary or singing in the bog grass.

  But to Jen and Becky at least, most wonderful of all were the lambs.

  The second Saturday in March the sun rose out of the morning mist, catching rainbows in the new grass and leaves, dazzling Jen and Becky on their way up the lane to Llechwedd Melyn. They paused for breath, leaning against the lichen-covered stone wall that bounded the field descending into the cwm. Jen was content to stand in the sun, her face turned up toward it, but Becky stood watching the ewes. Mr. Evans had brought them down from the hills to be near the farm where he could keep an eye on them during lambing.

  Becky suddenly caught Jen’s sleeve. “Look!”

  Jen turned to see a fat, woolly ewe nibbling grass close to the wall.

  “Wait till she moves,” said Becky, staring fascinated. In a moment the ewe took a few steps ahead and Jen saw it too—a tiny, wobbly white lamb, left standing splay-legged. Both ewe and lamb were marked with the daub of red dye Mr. Evans used to identify his sheep: a splash on the left shoulder.

  “New this morning,” said Rhian, who had come down to meet them. She was dressed as usual in gumboots, jeans, and a heavy brown pullover. “There’ll be a flood of them now. Once one starts, they all go!”

  “You mean it was just born today?” Becky was incredulous.

  Rhian nodded. “Four more further down the cwm, too.”

  Becky shook back her tousled hair and gazed around at the sun and the green valley, full of the sounds of running water and the overhead cry of gulls, the smell of damp earth and grass. “What a day to be born!”

  “There’s lucky, that one is,” Rhian agreed. “They do get born in storms or at night, down the cwm or up on the hills where we aren’t always finding them quick enough.”

  “But not this one,” said Becky, and laughed aloud, delighted. “Think of it seeing all of this for the first time!” She stretched out her arms. “Imagine, can’t you?”

  Rhian looked around her thoughtfully, then her face lit with a wide smile. “I am seeing this every day of my life. Don’t suppose I pay more attention to it than that old ewe there! But you are right!”

  Then they were all three of them laughing for no reason except that it felt good, and they ran up the rest of the lane to the farmhouse, arriving out of breath and noisy at the kitchen door.

  “What’s this then?” said Aled, who was pulling on his boots in the doorway. “If you’ve so much energy, why not turn it to mucking out the byre?”

  “It’s the lambs,” said Becky.

  Aled grinned and shook his head. “Mad you all are!”

  Rhian stuck out her tongue. “And Da, too, if you don’t get on up to the ffridd!”

  “Ah, now that’s a different kind of mad entirely. And far more dangerous, that.”

  “What’s a ffridd?” asked Jen, when he’d gone.

  “Field we keep most of the ewes in above the farm. Do you want to see?”

  “Go on with you,” said Mrs. Evans from the sink. “You’re not wanted indoors on a day like this. Too good for that, says Gram.”

  The old lady smiled and nodded.

  So they spent the day on the hills. Up first to the ffridd where the men were working, going through the flock with the dogs, checking the ewes for signs of trouble, marking new lambs. For a while Jen, Becky, and Rhian hung on the gate watching, then they went on up the cart track. The highness and vastness of the windy hills brought Jen to a new sense of freedom. The world stretched endlessly away in every direction, and the energy of life filled her to bursting. Becky and Rhian shared her exhilaration; they walked miles, not returning to the farm until late afternoon, weary but content.

  ***

  It was lovely to wake up Monday morning and remember it was spring vacation, no need to get up and rush for school, not for another two weeks. Breakfast was late and long. Even David paid no attention to the clock for a change, but sat comfortably drinking coffee and eating toast.

  “What will you do with yourselves? Any plans?” he asked.

  “Lots,” said Becky at once.

&nb
sp; Jen said, “Gwilym’s talked about going to Ponterwyd to the reservoir hunting for red kites. And we’ve only begun to explore the hills behind Rhian’s farm.”

  A loud knock at the back door interrupted them. Without waiting for anyone to answer, Gwilym burst in, looking excited, his hair on end. “D’you know what?” he said, “they’re organizing a hunt down at the post office!”

  “A hunt? What sort of hunt?” David asked. “Isn’t it the wrong time of year?”

  “It’s Jones-the-Top, the farmer above Llechwedd. He says some beast has been after his sheep. Killed two lambs last night, it did.”

  “Lambs!” Becky sounded shocked. “But Rhian said the only animal that kills sheep around here would be a dog that’s gone wild.”

  “Yes,” said Gwilym. “That’s right enough, but Jones-the-Top swears it isn’t an outlaw dog. Says he’s not seen the likes of it round here before—big and gray, it is. No one has a dog like that.”

  “A stray then,” said David.

  Gwilym hesitated a moment. “Not a dog at all, says Jones-the-Top.”

  “What then?”

  “More like a wolf, he says.”

  “Impossible, isn’t it?” exclaimed David. “There aren’t any wolves left in Wales these days. They’ve been extinct for years.”

  Gwilym nodded vigorously. “Yes, I know that, sir, but it’s being said. The beast came down last night while Jones-the-Top was watching. He claims his Bett wouldn’t go near it and when he’d got his shotgun loaded it was gone.”

  “But there did used to be wolves,” said Peter.

  “Makes a good story,” David said, “but there isn’t any way there could be wolves in the area now without people knowing. Just can’t be.”

  “Well,” said Gwilym, “I’m going to join up with them. I want to see this beast myself.”

  “They’ll only kill it, won’t they?” asked Jen.

  “If they catch it.”

  “I’m going too,” said Peter, getting up.

  “Hurry then and I’ll wait,” Gwilym offered.