“And he really thinks a trivia contest will help, does he?”
“Trying everything, isn’t he?” Charlie sucked through his remaining teeth. “It will be beauty contests next week, sheepdog trials, striptease acts … .” He shuffled on, his old body shaking with laughter as he walked.
It was just like old times when Evan entered the bar on Friday evening. Full of smoke and chatter and familiar faces. Evan was glad. He had had a hard week, spending every spare moment ministering to Bronwen while trying to drive two ministers’ wives away. The moment that Mrs. Parry Davies learned that Mrs. Powell-Jones had been tending to the sick, she had shown up on Bronwen’s doorstep with a bowl of homemade leek soup and some suitable reading material—mostly religious tracts on why everyone was going straight to hell.
Evan had had little enthusiasm for cooking since the Bronwen disaster. He had thrown the mound of spaghetti away, in case it was somehow poisoned, and he had lived on tinned soup and grilled cheese all week. As he made his way across to the pub on Friday, he decided that a couple of bangers and perhaps a meat pie would go down a treat.
“Here he is, the man himself,” Evans-the-Meat greeted him. “We’re going to need you on our team, boyo.”
“Team?”
“The trivia contest. We have to show those blokes from Beddgelert that we’re smarter than they are.”
“I don’t know if I’m much good at trivia,” Evan said, but Evans-the-Meat waved down his protests. “Went to that posh grammar school in Swansea, didn’t you? Of course you’ll know all the answers.”
Evan made his way to the counter. He remembered how nice it had been to see Betsy smiling at him and drawing his usual pint of Guinness. To the right of the counter, the blackboard had some words scrawled on it: “Not serving any food on account of the fact that the landlord only has one bloody pair of hands.”
Evan ordered his Guinness.
“Over here, boyo,” Evans-the-Meat beckoned Evan to join him. “We need to talk strategy.”
As Evan joined the group, Roberts-the-Pump leaned close to him. “We don’t hang around the bar these days. Harry gets that bad tempered. He wants Betsy back but he’s too proud to ask.”
“I don’t think he’ll get her back,” Evan said. “She’s having a good time at the Sacred Grove.”
“What, down among the loonies?”
“They’re loony enough to pay her for doing very little work, as far as I can see,” Evan said.
“Talk of the devil.” Evans-the-Meat nudged Evan in the side. The door had opened and Betsy came in, looking strangely elegant in a long dark coat and heels.
“What are you doing here, Betsy?” Evans-the-Meat asked. “Come to give Harry a hand?”
“Not likely,” Betsy said. “I just popped in to see how things are. I’m meeting Emmy and we’re going to dinner in Conwy. It’s her last night—she’s leaving tomorrow so she’s taking me and Mrs. Williams out for a treat.”
“I hope the restaurant can measure up to Mrs. Williams’s standards,” Evan said.
“She won’t even notice. She’s so upset, she’s been crying all day. She says she lost a son and now she’s losing a daughter. Terrible, it is.”
“Make up your minds. I haven’t got all day, you know,” came Harry’s gruff voice from behind the bar. “Dimple Haig? You bloody would—just because I have to stand on the stool to reach it!”
“He’s not exactly making it fun to be here, is he?” Betsy said. “Still, he brought it on himself, didn’t he?”
“So you like it down there, do you?” Owens-the-Sheep asked.
“It’s a lovely place. Of course, it’s very sad at the moment because Randy died, but they’re all being so nice to me. Lady Annabel says she’s coming to rely on me and even Rhiannon is being nice to me.”
“Rhiannon? Who the hell’s Rhiannon?” Evans-the-Meat demanded.
“She’s the Druid priestess,” Betsy said, ignoring the chuckles around her. “You can laugh, but you’d be surprised. Rhiannon says I’m a true Celt and all true Celts have the old religion, in their blood. She says we’re bound to the forces of the universe, whether we like it or not.”
“Never heard such a daft …” Evans-the-Meat began.
“You just wait, Mr. Evans, until I’ve got my powers developed. Then you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face. Rhiannon has been telling me about the Goddess.”
“Goddess? Betsy, don’t let the ministers hear you talking like that!” Charlie Hopkins looked around to see if Mr. Parry Davies was in his usual corner.
“It’s a free country, isn’t it? And I think a Goddess might be rather nice after having to pray to an old man in a white nightie all my life.” She gave Evan a challenging look. “She wants me to come to one of her ceremonies. I think it might be fun.”
“Just watch yourself, Betsy,” Evan said. “I don’t like that place. Never did.”
“That’s because you don’t have powers, Evan,” Betsy said.
“Powers!” Barry-the-Bucket came up to join them. “Are you still on about those powers?”
“I’ve already had one psychic dream this week, for your information,” Betsy said. “There’s no knowing where my powers will take me next. Go on, test me.”
“See if you can make that pint of Robinson’s float off the counter and into my hands, will you?” Barry-the-Bucket said.
“Not stuff like that. I’m not a magician. Things like seeing into the future.”
“All right. Predict something that’s going to happen tomorrow,” Barry said, still grinning.
“I won’t be going on a date with you, that’s for sure,” Betsy answered. “Tomorrow, let’s see.” Her face became suddenly serious. “I think it’s going to be a nice day. I can see myself feeling hot.”
“Hot and bothered when I’m near you, Betsy cariad,” Barry said, but she pushed him away, laughing. “Never give up, do you?”
“Can you come up with someone better? And don’t say Constable Evans here, because you’ll have to get rid of Bronwen Price first.”
Betsy tossed back her blond curls. “As a matter of fact I might well have someone in mind,” she said. “A gentleman I work with at the Sacred Grove. He’s a bit shy, but he’s really nice when you get to know him.” A car horn sounded outside. “That’s Emmy. I’ve got to run.” She pushed her way through the crowd, just as a group of strangers entered the pub.
“Here they are now, look you—the team from Beddgelert, come for the trivia contest,” Harry said loudly.
“Come to be soundly beaten,” a Llanfair voice chimed in. Harry ignored the comment and went on, “Welcome, gentlemen. Let’s have the Llanfair team over here, at this end of the bar, and you gentlemen down at that table in the corner.”
“How come we’re put down near the fire?” a Beddgelert man demanded. “It’s too bloody hot down here. We can’t think straight.”
“You lot couldn’t think straight if you were standing on top of a bloody mountain,” Evans-the-Meat said.
“Now, now, boys. Friendly contest, isn’t it, not a bloody war,” Harry interjected.
Evan decided to beat a hasty and well-timed retreat. He was in no mood for trivia contests, nor for keeping the peace between two sparring villages. He stepped out into the crisp night air. From one of the cottages came the smell of onions frying, reminding him that he’d had nothing to eat and wasn’t likely to get anything now. He looked wistfully down the road, wishing he could have gone with Betsy, who was now on her way to a good restaurant with Mrs. Williams and Emmy.
He started to walk up the street. At least Emmy would be gone in the morning, which was a good thing. Evan wished she had never come in the first place and never picked Betsy for her stupid tests. All this nonsense about powers and goddesses—and yet was it all nonsense? Betsy had, after all, dreamed where to find Randy Wunderlich’s body. He recalled her wide-eyed terror of that night, when she had knocked on his door.