Evans to Betsy

“What did you call him?” Emmy asked, fascinated.

“Barry-the-Bucket, on account of he drives the bulldozer with that big scooper thing in the front.”

“Barry-the-Bucket. I like that.”

The men were now all leaning on the bar, watching Emmy with interest as she took a long swig of her beer. She was tempted to drain the glass in one go, as she had learned to do in college, but it was important that she create the right image. She took one swig, put the glass down, and smiled at them. “It’s good,” she said. “Nice and full-bodied.”

“You like beer, then, do you?” Barry asked her. “Do they drink beer in America? It is America you come from, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Pennsylvania. And we drink quite a bit of beer, although you’d probably find it too weak and cold.”

“That very pale stuff, fizzy like lemonade. I had some once. Bud—wasn’t it?”

Barry turned to his mate, who nodded agreement.

“Here on holiday, are you, miss?” Charlie asked.

Emmy noted with amusement that apparently it was okay if the men talked to her through the bar—rather like a convent with a grille, she decided. “Actually, I’m here to do research,” she said. “I’m a grad student at the University of Pennsylvania, doing a Ph.D. in psychology, and my thesis is on psychic ability.”

“Fancy!” The barmaid gave the men an impressed glance.

Emmy had worked on the speech long enough and now the words flowed out easily. He’d be pleased with how it was going so far. “I’m over here because Celts were famous for their psychic abilities. If there are any pure- blooded Celts left, it would have to be in an area like this. So I’m here to look for anyone with psychic power.”

“Like reading the tea leaves, that kind of thing, you mean?” The barmaid leaned forward, eagerly.

“Yeah, that kind of thing. Seeing the future, having prophetic dreams, sensing danger—the ancient Druids supposedly possessed all of those abilities.”

“Pity my old nain passed away a couple of years ago,” the barmaid said.

“Nine what?” Emmy was puzzled. She knew that nine was a significant number in Celtic mythology, but …

“Nain—oh sorry, I mean my grandmother. Nain’s how we say it in Welsh. I get mixed up sometimes.”

“So your grandma was psychic?”

“Oh, indeed she was, wasn’t she, Charlie?” Betsy turned to the older man. “She even saw the Derin Corff a couple of times, or was it the Cannwyll Corff?”

“What are they?” Emmy got out her notebook and started scribbling.

“Well, the Derin Corff is the bird of death and the Cannwyll Corff is the candle of death. They’re the same really—you see them when somebody’s about to die.”

“Fascinating,” Emmy said. “And your grandma saw them?”

“Oh, she did. I remember she came home late one night and she said to us, ‘Huw Lloyd won’t last the night. There was the Derin Corff perched on his shed roof.’”

“That was probably only the Lloyd’s old rooster,” Barry-the-Bucket commented, chuckling.

“You be quiet, Barry,” Betsy said and slapped his hand. “Whatever it was, she was right. Huw was gone by morning. And so was the thing she saw on the rooftop.” She shuddered. “It still gives me goose bumps to think of it. And she was a dab hand at reading the tea leaves too, was my nain.”

“Did she ever tell you that you’d go out with a good-looking bloke from the village this Saturday night?” Barry asked, leaning across the counter until his face was close to hers.

“Yes, but Constable Evans hasn’t asked me yet,” Betsy replied smoothly. “Even though I’ve given him enough hints.”

The older man chuckled. “She’s the match of you, boyo.”

“And she’s wasting her time mooning over Evan Evans,” Barry replied with a sniff.

“I don’t see why.” Betsy’s gaze was challenging.

“You know very well why. You let Bronwen Price get a hold on him, didn’t you? You’ll not shake him loose from her now.”

“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” Betsy smoothed down her tight sweater. “I’m going to get my chance someday, and then I’ll show him what he’s been missing—even if I do have to push Bronwen-Bloody-Price off a mountain first!”

The men laughed and so did Betsy. Then she seemed to remember Emmy standing alone at the other bar and turned back to her. “Sorry, miss. Don’t mind them. Always teasing me, they are, because I’ve got my heart set on our local policeman.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Emmy said. “So tell me about your grandma seeing the future, Betsy. That is your name, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, miss. Betsy Edwards.”

“Hi, Betsy, I’m Emmy.” She held out her hand and Betsy took it awkwardly. “So go on about your grandma.”

“Well, she was well known in the village for having the sight, wasn’t she, Charlie?”