A String in the Harp by Nancy Bond Page B

Jen, as the bus paused, shuddering, at the top of the hill for passengers to get on and off, was the town of Aberystwyth below them: a cluster of buildings, spread across the mouth of the River Rheidol, like flotsam carried down to the sea by the river and left stranded on the fan-shaped estuary. Thousandsof years the Rheidol had worn its way among the hills, weaving back and forth across its valley, and now it was invisible, lost among the tumble of slate roofs and steeples, channeled away among the railway sidings and bridges and stone walls of the harbor.
    “And that?” asked Jen, pointing across the town. “What’s that tower?”
    “Pen Dinas,” Becky answered. “It’s a monument of some sort. Dad says there’re the traces of an ancient hill fort near it.”
    Pen Dinas stood like a sentinel guarding the southern side of Aberystwyth, a dark, straight finger pointing at the sky on the crest of a rounded hill.
    Jen shook her head wonderingly. “It sure isn’t like home.”
    “No,” agreed Peter.
    They got out at the Aberystwyth railway station. “You can go and do what you want. I have an errand,” Peter announced.
    “What kind?” Becky wanted to know.
    “Private.”
    “Well, I only asked. Anyhow, I have private shopping to do, too. We’ll meet you at Woolworth’s in an hour for the decorations.”
    Peter was about to say he didn’t care about the decorations, then changed his mind and walked quickly away.
    Jen and Becky spent a happy hour poking about in the little shops that lined the narrow streets. Aberystwyth was much livelier than Borth; none of the buildings seemed to be closed for the winter and the sidewalks were full of people. Jen had a great deal to see for the first time and Becky was quite content to wander.
    The main street was very broad, with shops at the top and guest houses and flats at the bottom. A sign on the corner pointed down a side street and said simply, “To The Sea.”
    “But not now,” said Becky. “It’s time to meet Peter. We can go out on the Prom after lunch.”
    Peter was already at Woolworth’s, looking impatient. “I’ve been waiting ages. What took you so long?”
    “We said an hour and that’s what it’s been,” Jen declared. “It’s not our fault you got here early.”
    It was after twelve when they’d settled the problem of decorations to Becky’s satisfaction. They had to decide whether to buy inexpensive lights or the ones that blinked and whether to have a star or an angel for the top of the tree. In the end they got blinking lights and a star and colored balls and icicles and red plastic bells.
    When it was all paid for, it was nearly time to meet David, so Becky struck out at a brisk trot for the old University building with the other two following close behind. David was leaning against a pillar at the entrance when they got there.
    “Sorry we’re late,” said Jen breathlessly.
    “You’re not—I’m early.”
    He took them to a little cafe nearby where he said he often had his lunch. It was dark and crowded with tables and there were artificial flowers in the windows.
    Peter dared Jen to order oxtail soup, and she accepted his challenge. When it came, it was thick and dark brown like gravy and steaming hot. Peter and Becky and David all had plates of savory mince, which looked like spaghetti sauce, and baked potatoes.
    “Well?” asked Peter, when Jen had tasted her soup.
    “It’s good. What’s it made of?”
    “Oxtails.”
    When Jen looked at him blankly, David laughed. “He’s quite right, it is.”
    Jen swallowed another spoonful carefully. “I guess so long as I don’t have to see them it’s all right,” she conceded.
    “Hello, Mr. Morgan. I had not expected to see you at College this vacation.” A thin little man in a well-worn suithad come to stand by their table. He wore wire-framed spectacles, pushed down on his nose.
    David got hastily to his feet. “Dr. Rhys! I thought actually that with the students away I could