He took out a couple of eggs and started to peel a mound of potatoes. It took a while to cut them up, so he started heating a block of lard in a saucepan. Then he realized he should have lit the fire in the living room first if he wanted it to be habitable by mealtime. He went through and coaxed newspapers and kindling to life. They started smoking merrily, instantly filling the room with the smell of burning. He’d let them get going well before he put on coal. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw where the smell of burning was coming from. Smoke was billowing from the saucepan and as he approached, it sent up a great sheet of flame with a whoosh. Evan grabbed a saucepan lid and managed to drop it over the pan.
“Pfew, that was close,” he muttered, pushing back his hair from his face with a sooty hand. “Smoke alarm,” he wrote on the growing list on the fridge.
He had renewed admiration for Mrs. Williams, who could turn out a whole meal without apparent effort. It seemed pointless to start over with new fat and he had gone off the idea of chips anyhow. Scrambled eggs then. They were edible, if a little rubbery, but he was still ravenous. None of the cans in the pantry looked appetizing. There was nothing for it but to admit defeat and go over to the pub for bangers or a meat pie. Besides, he needed to get away from the smell.
Having checked that the fire now glowing anemically in the fireplace wasn’t about to burn the house down, he put on his raincoat and crossed the street to the Red Dragon. Inside, it was as warm and welcoming as ever, the big fire glowing in the grate and the air heavy with smoke and conversation. Evan pushed his way to the bar. Instead of Betsy’s welcoming smile, Harry-the-Pub’s bald head poked up over the counter.
“What do you want then?” he demanded.
“And good evening to you too, Harry bach.” Evan looked at the men standing around the bar for some explanation of what was wrong. “I’d like the usual Guinness and something to eat if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is too much trouble,” Harry said. “Guinness you can have. Food’s not on tonight.”
“Why, what happened? Where’s Betsy?”
“You tell me,” Harry snapped as he drew Evan’s pint of Guinness. “She was due to work at five, wasn’t she? Where the devil is she?”
“It’s not like her to be late,” Evan said. “Have you phoned her place?”
“Yes, and there’s no answer. Her dad says she went off with some woman this morning.”
“Some woman?”
“I know who that would be.” Evans-the-Meat put down his empty glass and indicated that he’d like it refilled. “That foreigner who was in here the other day.”
“English person, you mean?” Harry asked.
“No, American, Betsy said she was. Over here studying.”
Evan’s ears pricked up. “American girl, studying over here? Her name wasn’t Rebecca, was it?”
“How would I know?” Evans-the-Meat demanded. “And I don’t think I’d call her a girl either. Mutton dressed up as lamb, if you ask me.”
“So what was Betsy doing with her?” Harry asked, smoothly refilling the pint and putting it down in front of the butcher.
“I’m not really sure. I only came in at the end of it. A lot of nonsense about Betsy having special powers and second sight, from what she said.”
“Always was daft in the head, that girl,” Harry commented. “She’d believe anything you told her.”
“Still, I hope she hasn’t come to any harm.” Evan looked around uneasily. “Where was this American supposed to be studying? At Bangor?”
Evans-the-Meat shrugged. “Ask Barry-the-Bucket. He was there. He might know.”
Heads turned to where Barry was chatting with his friends in the corner by the fire. “Hey, Barry, boyo,” Evans-the-Meat called. “You were there, weren’t you? When that American woman came into the pub and talked to Betsy.”
Barry left his corner and came across to the bar. “I was,” he said. “Real brainy type with all kinds of degrees. Not a bad looker either—bit on the scrawny side but she’d be okay with some fattening up. I bet she’s the kind that eats nothing but nuts and rice.”
“So where do you think Betsy might have gone with her?”
“That place she was going to be studying. You know, that estate down on the coast built by the crazy lord Tiggy. What do they call it now? That’s right. The Sacred Grove. That’s what she called it. From what she said the lot that own it now are even crazier than that old lord—she was going to find out if Betsy had the second sight.”
“Like reading tea leaves, you mean?” Harry asked.
“I’d imagine so. Seeing into the future, anyway. This woman told Betsy that Celts used to have the ability and she thought Betsy might still have it, seeing that her old nain used to see the Derin Corff.”
Harry let out a chuckle. “Well, if that isn’t one of the daftest things I’ve ever heard. And Betsy believed her, did she? She would. But she’s got no more knowledge of the future than the chickens in my back garden, and they’re the daftest creatures on God’s earth. If she could see into the future, she’d have helped me pick the right horse in the Grand National, wouldn’t she? And I wouldn’t have lost my ten quid.”
And she’d have foreseen that old Colonel Arbuthnot was going to be murdered that night he left the pub, Evan thought. If ever there was a moment for second sight, that would have had to be it. Betsy was so anxious to be noticed that she’d say and do anything.
“I can tell you haven’t got the second sight of the Celt, Harry,” Barry-the-Bucket said, banging his glass down on the counter, “or you’d have seen that I was dying of thirst, waiting for a refill.”
Harry opened his mouth to answer this when the door opened and Betsy stepped in, her blond curls windswept but her eyes sparkling with triumph.
“Sorry I’m late, Harry,” she said, pushing through the crowd of men to reach the bar, “but I want you to know that you’re talking to someone who may be a real live psychic.”
“So your psychic ability didn’t tell you that you were late then? You didn’t pick up the negative vibrations in the air from me being ticked off at you?”
Betsy gave him a dazzling smile as she opened the swing section of the bar and came through, taking off her coat as she walked. “I thought you’d understand, just this once. This is a special day in my life, Harry. You won’t believe the things that I’ve seen today. It’s like another world down there.”
“You were abducted by aliens, were you?” Barry leaned on the bar, grinning at her.
“You have no idea, Barry-the-Bucket,” Betsy said. “If you saw what I’ve seen today, your eyes would pop right out of your head. It’s like another world.”
“Well, go on then, tell me what I’m thinking if you’re a real psychic,” Barry teased.
“If your aura is anything to go by, it’s the sort of thoughts a gentleman shouldn’t have, as usual,” Betsy said.
“My aura? What aura?”
“Emmy says we all have an aura around us,” Betsy said. “And we psychics can learn to see it. Everyone is surrounded by lovely colored light. Some people have gold auras, some have pink, some have mauve—and you, Barry-the-Bucket, have a dirty brown aura.”
“I never heard such a load of rubbish,” Harry said. “Where on earth have you been that they’ve filled your head with ideas like that?”
“It’s not rubbish. You wouldn’t understand, not being psychic like me,” Betsy said. “The Sacred Grove is full of people who can see auras and heal with crystals, and who worship the trees—all kinds of wonderful stuff. It’s the most amazing place. It’s like this beautiful village you’d see on television, not like somewhere in Wales at all. Pools and fountains and spas, and the guests each have their own little houses. Like another world.”