Evans to Betsy

“I’d know how to handle him, that’s for sure,” Betsy responded. “And I’d start off by feeding him right.” She gave Evan her most encouraging smile. “Hold on a second and I’ll pop a meat pie in the microwave. Will that do, do you think?”

“Lovely. Thanks.”

“I give him a week,” Charlie Hopkins said to Evans-the-Milk, who had just come up to the bar. “Then he’ll be back with Mrs. Williams again.”

“Oh, but he can’t do that!” Betsy exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s already let his room.”

There was an instant hush. It wasn’t often that something happened in Llanfair without the news being spread within seconds.

“Let his room?” Evans-the-Milk said. “There are no tourists at this time of year, surely.”

“It’s not a tourist,” Betsy said. “It’s my friend Emmy. You know, the American lady from the university who I told you about. She needed a cheap place to stay because she’ll be here for a while doing her research. She wants to find out how many Celtic people still have ESP. That’s extrasensory perspication, in case you didn’t know, Barry- the-Bucket.” She added triumphantly, “And I’m her first subject and what do you know? She gave me one test and I scored right off the chart.”

“Off the wall, if you ask me,” Harry muttered.

“So I’ve got to go back for further testing. I met the owner of the place today and he’s going to test me himself.”

“Bland-Tiggy or what he’s called? I thought the old lord died long ago and it was his daughter who owns it now.”

“It’s pronounce Bland-Tie, not Tiggy. You lot are so ignorant,” Betsy said crushingly. “And Lady Annabel Bland-Tyghe does still own the place, but she’s married to an American man called Randy and he’s a very famous psychic over there and he’s going to make this place just as famous. I met him today. Ooh, he was lovely, just. Like a film star—long blond hair right over his shoulders … .”

“A bloke?” Barry asked. “With long blond hair?”

“That’s right.”

“Sounds like a proper pansy to me.” Barry looked around at the other men for agreement.

“Ooh, he’s not at all. He’s ever so sexy-looking—just like those men you see on the covers of romance novels —you know, rippling muscles and open shirtfront. Too bad he’s married and to an old woman like her too. He’s going to be testing me tomorrow.”

“Hang about,” Harry said. “What’s all this about tomorrow? It’s Saturday tomorrow. I’ll need you here all day.”

“Oh, but Harry …” Betsy turned her big eyes on him, pleading.

“I can’t have you going running off just when you feel like it. You’ve got a job to do here, young lady, and Saturday isn’t your day off.”

“Not just this once, seeing as how it’s so important?”

“No, not just this once. Tell your psychic friends they can wait for Monday and your day off. And if they were really bloody psychic, they’d already know that Monday is your day off! And before you start pouting, go and collect the empties. I’m running out of glasses back here.”

“Old spoilsport,” Betsy muttered as she pushed past the men at the bar.

She was just passing the front door with a tray full of glasses when it opened and a woman came in. Betsy looked up and gave a shriek of delight. “Emmy! You’re here. How lovely to see you! Everybody!” She raised her voice. “This is Emmy I’ve been telling you about. The one who has just moved in with Mrs. Williams.”

The woman smiled shyly, pushing a curtain of dark hair back from her face. “Boy, what a dinner I’ve just had!” she said. “Can that woman cook, or can she cook? I owe you big-time, Betsy, for finding me that place to live. Those lamb chops tonight—boy, am I glad I stopped being a vegetarian. I am in hog heaven!”

Evan swallowed hard as disturbing visions of Mrs. Williams’s lamb chops danced before his eyes—nicely brown on the outside and just pink enough in the middle, probably accompanied by fluffy mashed potatoes and cauliflower in a parsley sauce. He remembered that Betsy hadn’t served him the warmed-over meat pie yet.

“Come on in, Emmy, and meet everyone,” Betsy said, clearing a path for her through the crowd with her tray.

“I wasn’t sure whether to come or not, seeing that women aren’t really welcome in the pub.”

“Not really welcome—who’s been telling you that?” Harry demanded. “Of course they’re welcome. We’ve a lovely lounge with comfortable chairs and tables all ready and waiting. Show her the way through then, Betsy.”

“Oh, don’t make her go in there on her own,” Betsy said. “It’s terrible cold and unfriendly in there tonight and she’s the only one. It’s up to us to make her feel welcome in the village.”

“Rules are rules,” Harry said in Welsh, “and we’re not breaking them for any foreigners.”

“You really are being an old grumpy tonight,” Betsy said, also in Welsh.

“On account of my being run off my feet because the hired help didn’t turn up on time,” Harry said.

“Come on through to the ladies’ lounge then, Emmy,” Betsy said in English. “Harry here is a stickler for his rules, I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay. I find it delightfully quaint,” Emmy said. “It’s nice to know that there still are parts of the world