A String in the Harp Read Free Page B

heater, and there’s a gas fire in Dad’s study and a coal fire in the lounge.”
    “Very efficient,” said Peter, returning to his book.
    Becky made a face at him which he didn’t see. “You really do get used to it. It just means wearing more clothes,” she said.
    The kettle was boiling on the back of the gas stove, and Jen made herself a mug of instant coffee, half filling it with milk and sugar.
    “Is there any toast?”
    There were two slices, both stone cold. Jen sighed and said she’d make more, where was the toaster? But the toaster was a grill under the top of the stove, which Becky wasn’t allowed to light and Peter claimed he didn’t know how to, so Jen had to content herself with a couple of slices of bread and jam.
    “Where’s Dad?”
    “He ate long ago,” said Becky. “He’s in his study.”
    “Working?”
    “Grading papers.”
    “He hates being disturbed,” warned Peter.
    “This is ridiculous,” said Jen looking around the kitchen. She felt a mixture of desperation and helplessness. This wasn’t what she’d imagined, not at all.
    “I’ve been saying that ever since we got to this awful place, but all he does is get furious.”
    “But what about meals? How do you manage?”
    “Mrs. Davies,” Becky said. “She lives next door and cleans and makes us supper, and dinner on weekends. She does cleaning for another professor down the way, too.”
    “Thank goodness for that! Is she nice?” Jen was relieved to find it wasn’t quite as bad as she had, for a black moment, thought.
    “Mmm. She is quite,” Becky sounded a little cautious.
    “She’s a perfect witch,” contradicted Peter.
    “No, she isn’t. Mr. Davies drives one of the buses, andeveryone calls him Hugh-the-Bus because there are so many other people named Davies, so you tell them apart by what they do, like Billy-Davies-Taxi. Hugh-the-Bus knows absolutely everyone and he tells me all about them when I go next door for lunch on school days.”
    Jen grinned with grudging admiration at her sister. Trust Becky to have stored away lots of information about people already. She always took great interest in whoever was around.
    “. . . and she has three children, but they’re grown up now and only one’s at home. Her daughters are married and one of them lives in Bow Street, which is very close. The other’s gone to Birmingham, and Mrs. Davies says she can’t see why anyone would want to live there. Gwilym’s the one at home—he’s still in school. You’ll see Mrs. Davies when she comes to fix dinner.”
    “Well,” said Jen, “what do you do on Sundays?”
    “Homework,” Peter said gloomily. “Try to keep warm. There isn’t much else.”
    “I’ll take you to get the newspapers,” Becky volunteered. “You can see the shop.”
    “Don’t get too excited,” Peter advised.
    “What about the dishes?”
    “Leave them for Mrs. Davies.”
    Jen looked doubtful. “I don’t think we should.”
    “We always do,” said Peter irritably. “She gets paid for it anyway.”
    Becky shrugged. “It won’t take long.”
    “Not me,” said Peter, picking up his book. He paused at the door to say, “She’ll expect us to do them every week now.”
    “No one will expect you to do anything,” retorted Jen, flinging a handful of knives and forks into the dishpan.
    ***
    Borth certainly was a peculiar-looking town. Jen had to agree with Peter. She’d never seen anything like it either. Becky paused in front of the house to point out the landmarks beforethey walked down to the shop, and Jen stared out over the cliff in fascination. Borth was, indeed, one street wide and about two miles long, shops and houses strung out on the street like beads on a cord. To the west was a wide margin of sandy beach and the cold-looking sheet of Cardigan Bay; to the east, the strange, desolate expanse of Borth Bog: dull patches of tan and wind-bitten green. She wondered if the town were there simply to show where the sea ended and the Bog