A Matter of Taste

 

I’ve always been a picky eater. Many of the tears shed as a child were over being made to eat something I didn’t like.

Back then, I couldn’t stomach foods with strong flavors. I still mostly don’t. I didn’t even like pizza until I was about 10.

For me, corn and salad were the only two edible vegetables. And that salad had better not have peppers, onions or carrots in it, or that, too would be inedible.

Onions and peppers were the two worst offenders. I still don’t like onions all that much. Cooked, they’re slimy as well as harsh-tasting. Raw, they’re edible in tiny amounts, but my war with them is that they won’t go away. No matter how much toothpaste or mouthwash you apply, there’s that taste, still partying in your mouth the next morning. Yet oddly, I love French Onion Soup.

Peppers are another matter. It makes no difference if they’re green, orange or yellow. I have always had a hate-hate relationship with them, even though it wasn’t until I was an adult that I discovered my stomach liked them even less than my mouth did. And yet, the flavor of jalapenos doesn’t bother me.

Oh, lest I forget, I also have the gene that makes anything with cilantro in it taste like soap.

Some veggies were simply too strong-tasting for me to be able to handle as a child, like broccoli and asparagus – but with age I’ve come to appreciate them.

Actually, there are a number of veggies I never knew I liked because we never had them at home. Not until I went away to college did I discover such delights as broccoli, cauliflower – which I prefer raw – eggplant, zucchini, and butternut squash. When I announced I liked these things and asked why we never had them, my mother replied that my father didn’t like them.

I grew up thinking I didn’t like vegetables because I hated peas, carrots, lima beans and baked beans when there was a world of veggies I never knew about until college.

Peas have caused misunderstandings. I often describe my dislike of them in terms of being cute, but leaving a nasty scum on the roof of your mouth. People ignore the fact that I also say I don’t like the taste – the epitome of what green tastes like – and decide it’s a sensory thing. No, that just adds another layer.

I have found that I like fresh, uncooked peas in a salad. But cook them, freeze them or put them in a can and you’ve ruined them.

I also like carrots shredded in a salad. That way you can’t actually taste them. And who could refuse carrot cake? (Without the icky, overly-sweet icing, of course)

While I may not be the biggest veggie lover, I love almost all fruits – except cantaloupe, honeydew and watermelon.

To me honeydew and cantaloupe taste exactly the same. I get an argument when I say that, but that’s what my taste buds tell me: a harsh bland with an aftertaste. Perhaps I’m colorblind to their particular tastes. But they’re an all-around disappointment in my book.

Watermelon is a texture thing, mainly because it doesn’t have a whole lot of taste. It’s more of a wet sugar taste. I do like watermelon flavored things, like Jell-O or Jolly Ranchers.

I didn’t care for cream sauces, especially on meat, when I was a child. Potatoes au gratin (potatoes all-rotten, as I called it), cream dried beef or similar delights would not pass my lips. My mother knew it was the sauce, so I got the un-creamed version. Yet I loved milk.

Similarly, I ate nothing containing mayonnaise. “Salads” with mayo – potato, egg, macaroni, tuna, etc. – were on the repugnant list. They also usually contained peppers and onions, so it was a triple whammy. The sourness of the mayo put me right off. Consequently, I was an adult before I discovered by accident that I’m severely allergic to mayonnaise. My sensitive taste buds probably saved me from a childhood trip to the emergency room.

People get as defensive about mayonnaise as they do about meatloaf. Say you don’t like mustard or ketchup, and all is well. Say you don’t like mayonnaise, and it’s an attack on the American way of life!

It’s slightly less offensive to say you’re allergic to it.

“Store bought mayo or homemade?”

“Real mayonnaise or Miracle Whip?”

I really don’t know. Nor do I care. Several things containing mayo caused head to toe hives that lasted several days. I’m really not willing to experiment to find out which brand is the culprit. For heaven’s sake, it’s a condiment!

At a party, once they discover it’s an allergy, people are so consoling.

“You poor dear! You can’t have any potato or macaroni salad? That’s terrible.”

That’s okay I’ll “suffer” with potato chips instead.

Meat wasn’t a huge problem. I don’t like lamb, but we never had that when I was a child because my father didn’t like it. I’m not sure my mother did, either, and she liked everything – except mushrooms.

But the one meat I could never manage to swallow was meatloaf. It made me gag. It still does. While others seem affronted by my hatred of what they consider “comfort food,” it gives me only discomfort.

“You’d like mine,” they assure me.

No. No, I wouldn’t. I don’t care what you do or do not put into it. Trust me on this.

I tried hiding small crumbs of the meat in my mashed potatoes, or forcing it down my throat with a mouthful of milk, but once the milk and potatoes were gone and there was meatloaf left, I knew I was in serious trouble.

My mother wouldn’t allow me more milk or potatoes because she thought I was trying to fill up on those things instead of eating my meat. She didn’t realize it was the only way that meat would make it to my digestive tract.

One such traumatic Sunday was when I was about four years old. My family apparently saw this as something special for Sunday dinner. I remember it clearly. Everyone else had finished eating, and my mother put out dessert, which was ice cream. Mine was near my plate, but I was forbidden to touch it until that meatloaf was gone. Everyone else had their ice cream to the tune of my crying, despite my mother’s admonishment, “Stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry for.”

Finally, when everyone else had gone and my mother was anxious to get the dishes washed and the table cleared, she let me have the semi-melted ice cream. She could have refused to give me the ice cream, but she knew it wasn’t enticing me to eat meatloaf, and she hated wasting things (and in those days, we didn’t have a dog).

My mother’s meatloaf contained both onions and peppers diced into nearly-microscopic pieces that couldn’t be picked out easily. She knew from other food concoctions that I didn’t like those two veggies.

So she tried making meatloaf with nothing in it at all, just shaped into a loaf and baked.

And to me, it tasted nearly as bad.

She persevered for so long trying to force me to eat it because I would eat ground beef in casseroles, meatballs and hamburgers without issue. But shape that thing into a loaf and bake it, and all bets were off. She didn’t seem to realize that baking it changed the texture as well as the taste.

Finally, tired of mealtime drama, every time the family got to enjoy their meatloaf, she would make me a hamburger.

I was lucky in not liking liver: my brothers didn’t like it, either. Rather than having a showdown with all three children, my mother decided it was too expensive to waste on unappreciative kids. The same with stuffed peppers – we had stuffed Pyrex dishes instead.

A final bit of oddness about me is a lack of appreciation of bacon. One of the worst smells to be stuck in a house with, in my humble opinion, is bacon. While I like Canadian and British bacon, those greasy strips of fat that pass for bacon in the US not only look disgusting, they also positively reek. And like onion, the stench refuses to leave the building.

I just hope the next wave of air fresheners isn’t bacon-scented.

Readers Wanted

 

Until I was 10, I hated to read.

Smelling salts for the librarians, please.

I wasn’t anti-books. In fact, I loved having someone read to me.

And libraries were my passion. I loved going to the local library and picking out two or three books with interesting covers, even when I couldn’t pronounce the titles. It was the actual sitting down to read that bothered me.

To put things into perspective, my mother sold me on the idea that school was the place where 1) I would make lots of friends, and 2) I would learn to read.

Neither thing happened much for me as far as I could tell in first grade. Initially, school was heavy on phonics, but without anything much to read.

As we learned the sounds of letters, consonant blends and vowel diphthongs, I misunderstood some of the explanations my teacher gave, like telling us if a word had a tail on the end, the vowel had a long sound. While she meant the silent E, I missed that as a tail completely. So, I gave any word ending in y, p or g a long vowel sound. It took some time before my mother figured out what the problem was.

With mild, undiagnosed, and at the time, unheard-of dyslexia, I had a few other problems with reading and writing, like starting from the wrong side of the page, that made my mother curse herself for not switching me from left to right handed years earlier when she had the chance. She didn’t realize that wouldn’t have solved the problem.

However, most of my difficulties had been resolved with my mother’s hard work by the time we finally got readers. She did such a good job that I was moved from the second reading group to the first in only a few weeks. No Bluejays for me; I was a Cardinal!

Getting readers wasn’t the thrill I was led to believe. The first “story” wasn’t what I was expecting, having been raised on Little Golden Books.

                        Look

                        Look, oh look.

                        Look and see.

Seriously? How about the Tawny Scrawny Lion? Even A Day at the Playground, which was so plotless that I made up an actual story to go with the pictures when I was four, was more interesting than the stories in our reader.

Subsequent “stories” weren’t much better.  “See Spot Run” wasn’t a story, either. Even the introduction of the family, Father, Mother, John, Jean and Judy as well as Puff the kitten and Judy’s stuffed bear, Tim, didn’t offer plot. The first actual story was the last one in the book. I read it the day I got my reader, and was ready to trade the book in on the next one.

But no.

We had to read every single “story” in the book before moving on. This was no way to spark a love of reading in anyone, in my humble opinion.

I discovered I could actually read the Little Golden Books, and eventually the Big Book of Fairy Tales, even if the words in the newspaper my dad read looked like spiders crawling along the page.

In the second grade, I discovered the community library. An old building with creaky stairs leading up to the actual room of books, it had a wonderful scent of old paper, leather and furniture polish. That scent should be made into a cologne, perhaps “Booklover’s Dream.”

I was only allowed into the junior fiction section, a more open area with lower shelves than the stacks. But I looked enviously at the big kids who emerged from the stacks with an armload of books. Because of them, I always took two books out at a time, even though I chose chapter books that I couldn’t read one of completely in the two weeks allotted.

I didn’t have a favorite genre. I scrupulously avoided thin, chapterless books that looked too much like my school readers.

But I struggled to be interested in the books I did choose.

"Oh, you’ll love the Bobsey Twins books,” I was told.

I didn’t. The first chapter of each of the gazillion books in the series was long and tedious, laboriously setting the scene without any hint of action, as opposed to what I was taught years later in university writing classes, that if you didn’t grab the reader by the throat in the first paragraph, you’d lost them. 

The Bobsey Twins lost me. No amount of my teacher’s telling me you had to get through the first chapter and then it would get interesting could sway me. 

The Cherry Ames, R.N. series wasn’t any better. As a child who dreamed of being a rock star, stories about girls in any of the acceptable girl occupations of the time did not inspire.

If only someone had introduced me to The Chronicles of Narnia! Where the Wild Things Are wasn’t written until I was in third grade, and if my parents had even heard of it, I was beyond that reading level by then.

In fifth grade I received a novel as a Pollyanna gift at school. While it was a step above the hated jigsaw puzzles I received nearly every other year of elementary school, I didn’t hold out much hope. Good grief, a book! 

“You’ll love this!” my mother said when she saw the book was Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott. 

To my surprise, I did love it. And I’ve read it more than 15 times throughout my life. I’ve also read nearly everything else that author ever wrote. 

Thus was born my love for reading, which gave my father and me talking points. Whenever looking for my father at the mall, I knew he would be in the bookstore. The best gift to give him was a gift certificate to Walden’s Bookstore. And when we read the same books, we could launch into lengthy conversations about what worked and what didn’t. 

After reading Alcott, I branched out to Science Fiction, and eventually into vampires, starting with Dracula. I tried playing catch-up, reading as an adult the “classics” I’d missed as a child. While I still haven’t managed to retain enough interest to crawl through A Wrinkle in Time, I’ve gloried in the Narnia stories, loved the Wild Thing and Shel Silverstein’s books, and am currently interspersing Roald Dahl’s children’s books with a variety grownup books.

On my bookshelves, The Horatio Hornblower series shares space with a collection of Dickens, Morgan Llewelyn and almost everything by Bernard Cornwell except the Sharpe series (because I didn't get to that yet).

The reason I became a writer was probably due to my initial hatred of reading: Trying to find something that would hold my interest led me to write the stories I couldn’t find in the library.  I only wish my dad had lived long enough to see my first novel completed. I would love to have had his feedback.

My journey went from hating my readers at six to reading the unabridged version of War and Peace and most of Dickens in my teens and twenties, and more recently, venturing through the eight-book Outlander series, at about 1400 pages per book.

And of course, as any avid reader does, I have shelves of books that are waiting for me to finish what I’m currently reading so they can have their turn.

Librarians and booksellers can now relax. I’ll be in to see you.

Stroke of Fate

 

      Aidan Morgan yawned and stretched as he rose from his bed, touching feet onto the cold, bare floor of his bedroom. He looked out his window through the dim, grey winter light and a slight fog that hovered between the mountains. From there he could see the eastern side of the property, the part of the road that wound back toward the hills and Mr. Richards’ lower pastureland.

      Mr. Richards, staff in hand, rambled along his land examining his fields and coaxing the odd stray sheep to run along back to the others. The man stood for a long time staring off toward the hills. As a child Aidan had enjoyed wandering with Mr. Richards, asking questions of him. He knew every inch of the surrounding hills and valleys. Aidan had thought at the time that Mr. Richards must be the wisest man in the area.

      The boy stretched again and dressed for what looked like a raw day that offered little likelihood of improving. Corduroy trousers, a rugby shirt and a jumper would do, he thought, pulling the clothes out of drawers and his wardrobe. He pulled on a pair of woolen socks, knowing he had the sheep to look after before he’d have any free time to spend with his friends.

      “We’re to have guests this evening,” his mother said as he appeared for breakfast. That was what she called those who stayed at their bed and breakfast. The additional income, combined with a pub attached to the house, kept them just a bit better off than the other sheep herders in the area. It allowed Aidan to have more certainty of a university education.

      “I didn’t know we were open this time of year,” he replied.

      “We’re never officially closed, but we don’t often have requests after October or so. Had it been for any of the last three days, I would’ve said no.”

      Aidan knew his mother kept the three-day Christmas holiday sacrosanct. The twenty-seventh, however, was fine.

      “It’s odd this time of year, isn’t it?” Aidan asked.

      “And American. I gather they’re over for Christmas and decided to see a bit of the country.”

      “Daring that, Americans driving here. This is a bit out of the way,” Aidan said.

      “Probably think the inn is actually in town. Or they could originally be from here.”

      “Or taking the bus,” Aidan replied, chuckling.

      “See that the sheep are properly penned. Mr. Richards said he saw one of ours wandering down by the stream on his side of the road.”

      “That was kind of him. What did he do about it?”

      “He brought it back. He just wanted us to be aware that part of the fence might need mending.”

      Mr. Richards’ pastureland was on the other side of the road that wound down and around the hills between Caernarfon proper and the south.

      The Morgans’ pasture was up the hill behind their home. Although their land extended about an acre farther on the other side of the road, they only used that portion of it as the car park for the pub.  In good weather it would be full. This time of year only the locals, many of whom simply walked, kept the pub from being empty most nights.

      Gwilym Jones and his family came every Thursday for dinner. He never took advantage of discounted prices Mrs. Morgan offered.

      “Your prices are fair and I need no charity. Save it against a time when I may,” he’d say.

 

      Aidan finished his breakfast and prepared to go outside to see to the sheep. His mother bustled about making sure the empty breakfast room was set with breakfast things. Then she went upstairs to clean the en-suite bathroom and make sure everything in the main room was dusted and as it should be. She refilled a container with tea bags and instant coffee packets, and put out fresh packets of shortbread.

      Meanwhile, Aidan wandered the pasture, the sheep moving as he passed. He walked the perimeter of the wire fence and found the break – a cut, actually. Sheep or even a dog hadn’t done this. Humans had. He bound top and bottom of the fence with some cord he’d brought until he could fix it.

      He whistled, and Tally, their border collie ran to him. At Aidan’s command the dog rounded up the sheep. Aidan counted them twice and found none missing. Whoever had cut the fence apparently wasn’t in the sheep stealing business.

      The sheep accounted for, Aidan walked the perimeter again before checking the shed where the sheep sheltered in bad weather. It was empty, but things were not as they should be. It looked like someone had spent the night.

      Aidan sighed. He wouldn’t have a peaceful night tonight. There were predictions of sleet. He wanted nothing more than to spend the night in his own bed, warm and dry.

      He found his father inside the pub directing the delivery of beer. Mr. Morgan looked up as his son entered.

      “Everything all right with the sheep?” he asked.

      “They’re all there. But the fence was cut and needs mending. And the shed has a look of having been slept in.”

      “Help me with the replacement kegs, and when the delivery’s done and we’ll mend that.”

      “Do you think it’ll be cut again?”

      “We’ll keep an eye to it, now it’s been done.”

      “Will we patrol the grounds, do you think?”

      “I doubt anyone will be about tonight. Rough weather. Keep an eye today for strangers in town if you’re there with your friends. You know the sort.” Aidan nodded.

      The man from the delivery lorry, Isaac Adams, entered with a keg on his shoulder.

      “Aidan, is it? How are you boy? Was Father Christmas good to you, then?”

      Aidan laughed. Isaac still spoke to the sixteen-year-old as if he were six.

      “He was good as he usually is. Did he treat you well?”

      “Oh, fine, fine. You know how he is, all about the children.”

      Aidan knew little about Isaac beyond the fact that he worked for the beer company. Occasionally over the years he’d mentioned a wife, and Aidan thought he must have children. But Aidan was seldom about when Isaac made his deliveries.

      “So, did he treat your children well?” Aidan asked.

      “Mine? Och! They’re grown with their own children.”

      Aidan hadn’t expected that. Isaac didn’t look much older than his own father, who was in his forties. Aidan’s sister, had she lived, would just be 21 this year.

      “Your grandchildren, then?”

      “He’ll never finish to see them if you rabbit on like that,” Mr. Morgan said.

      Mr. Adams hadn’t stopped his work while he spoke, and now he was finished.

      “Happy New Year to you, Aidan, lad.”

      “And to you, Mr. Adams.”

      Aidan took a damp cloth and wiped the tables in the pub while Mr. Morgan and Mr. Adams finished their business. Although they’d been cleaned at the end of service the night before, Mr. Morgan liked to be certain of a thorough job.

      That finished, the boy made sure each table had its correct number of chairs and that the salt and pepper shakers were filled. By the time he had finished, his father was ready to set up the kegs under the bar. Aidan helped move them and connect them to the taps. Once everything was attached properly, they went to the pasture.

      When they got their, his father taught him how to make the repair so it was nearly invisible. Once they had finished, he showed his father the place he thought intruders had slept.

      “We run a bed and breakfast and folk steal a place!” Mr. Morgan muttered.

      He rang the local constabulary to alert them to what had happened.

      “Likely hikers passing through,” P.C. Evans said when he arrived to inspect the area.

      “I don’t like that they cut the fence,” Mr. Morgan replied. “It’s one thing to use the sheep shed, but they’ve cost me time and materials for repairs.”

      “We’ll keep an eye. Cold time of year to be living on the land,” the policeman said. “Hopefully, we’ll have no more incidents.”

      Mr. Richards came by and Mr. Morgan thanked him for such a watchful eye.

      “No more than you’d do for me,” he replied.

      They discussed the cut fence and whether or not it was likely that troublemakers would be about.

      Aidan sized up the two men. His father still had a full head of hair, although the curls were salt and pepper now. He was medium height and a little stocky whereas the balding Mr. Richards was taller and leaner, with sharp features that looked to have been shaped by the windswept landscape. Mr. Richards frightened many of the local children, who thought he was strict and as sharp-tempered as he was sharp featured. Aidan had known the man all his life and found him amiable, quick to laugh at a joke, but serious when the need arose. He knew how to drive a bargain or take pity equally.

      Once Aidan had told the police what he’d seen, he went on his way to find his mates in town. Winter carnival provided amusement for the children and teens out of school for the holidays. The town bustled with activity.

      Aidan told his friends about the sheep pen incident.

      “Who’s daft enough to sleep in the open in this weather?” Jason Bond asked, looking at the heavy grey sky that was only slightly lighter at noon than it had been at sunrise.

      “Dunno,” Aidan replied. “And why come to our farm when there are warmer places to kip in town?”

      “So we’ll be on the lookout for someone smelling of sheep, then?” his other friend, Matt Hopkins asked.

      They all laughed. Matt was as dark haired as Aidan, but with brown eyes rather than Aidan’s blue. He was considered the wit of the set. Jason, with his light ginger hair that was always falling in his eyes, was their thinker, taking in information and ruminating over each bit for hours at a time. He’d likely have some theory about the incident by next day.

      They headed toward the carnival grounds, thoughts of anything else replaced by the anticipation of a day of fun.

      Morning rounded into afternoon amid fish and chips and food from the vendors. As the afternoon light faded, Aidan told them he was needed at home.

      “It’s only three,” Matt protested.

      “I need to be back before dark. We have guests in tonight.”

      This time of year?” Jason asked. “So you didn’t close for the holidays?”

      “We closed for the hols themselves. It’s unusual to have anyone now, and since it’s not a huge party, it doesn’t put Mum to much work.”

      “Foreigners?”

      “Americans. I’ll let you know what they’re like tomorrow. At least they won’t sleep in the sheep pen.”

      “Are we on for the panto tomorrow?” Jason asked.

      “Definitely,” Aidan replied.

      They parted company and Aidan walked to the bus stop for the journey home.

      “Ah, good, you’re home,” his mother said. He’d forgotten and used the front door. They generally didn’t when they had guests.

      “Have they come?” he asked.

      “Yes, they’re up in their suite. Apparently spent the day in town and were quite surprised how far we were.”

      “I imagine it’s dearer in town,” Aidan commented.

      “If anything is open in town.”

      His parents knew all of the bed and breakfasts as well as hotel people in Caernarfon. They were likely to know which were open.

      Mr. Morgan had done a check of the sheep pen before it was full dark and found nothing amiss. He hadn’t expected anything wrong in daylight. The landscape was empty of people except for the occasional car and one passerby who’d stopped for lunch.

      “Aidan,” his mother said, coming out of the hallway, “the ladies upstairs need towels. Be a love and run these up to them. I’ve been up and down all day.”

      He took the towels and ascended. He knocked on the door, and to avoid any embarrassment, said, “Towels, Miss.”

      The door opened. A girl nearly his height with large brown eyes and pale blonde hair smiled at him.

      “Hello. Thanks,” she said.

      He smiled. “Anything else, Miss?”

      “No, we’re fine now. Thanks. What’s your name?”

      “Aidan.”

      “Hi. I’m Susan.”

      Aidan nodded.

      “Sue, I’m sure he’s busy,” said the other woman from farther back in the room. She was a bit older, dark-haired and bore no resemblance to Susan.

      “Well, if there’s nothing else?” he said.

      “Oh, no. Thanks. But, when does dinner start?”

      “Half five, Miss,” he replied.

      “Half?” She looked confused. He realized Americans phrased it differently.

      “Sorry. Half past five.”

      “Oh. Okay then. Thanks.”

      He nodded and went downstairs.

      “Everything all right?” his mother asked when he returned to the lounge.

      “Yeah. Pretty one, that blonde. Is that her mum with her?”

      “No. Two different names. I don’t think the older one’s old enough to be her mum.”

      “Dunno. I didn’t get a good enough look.”

 

      Mrs. Morgan had the family’s meal ready for tea. While they ate, she asked about the sheep and Mr. Morgan asked after the guests.

      “Will you check the pen tonight?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

      “I reckon before bed Aidan and I can have a look.”

      “Do you think we’ll be busy this evening?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

      “Not if the sleet comes.”

      “I hope it doesn’t,” Aidan said. “I don’t fancy going through the pen in the sleet.”

      “How are the guests settling in?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      “I’ve heard not a peep since they went up other than asking for towels,” Mrs. Morgan replied. “Although I suspect Aiden fancies the younger one.”

      “Does he indeed?”

      “I only said she was pretty. I think they’ll be down for dinner.”

      “It’s Thursday. Gwilym Jones usually comes,” Mrs. Morgan replied.

      “I hope you have your shepherd’s pie ready,” Mr. Morgan said. His wife laughed. Gwilym, without fail, ordered shepherd’s pie.

      They finished tea and Mrs. Morgan finished preparations for meals for the pub.

      Gwen Owens came by to help with cooking as she did three nights a week. A quiet, middle-aged woman, she’d never married and enjoyed the quiet, behind-the-scenes work of preparing food and cleaning dishes. She’d have been embarrassed beyond all telling if she’d had to face customers, even those who were neighbors. She got on well with Aidan, who never teased her, although some of the town children did.

      Aidan walked through the pub making sure everything was as it should be, and his father brought glasses behind the bar to put away.

      “Kevin Flynn says his parents are thinking of going back to Ireland to live,” Aidan offered. “We ran into him today at the carnival.”

      “Does he, then? I hear there aren’t any jobs to be had there just now.”

      “His dad would still work for the company here, but as an advisor to a shop there.”

      “I wish him good luck, then. I know they’ve sorely missed their homeland,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “I can’t imagine needing to leave your home,” Aidan said.

      “And just last summer you were talking of going to America.”

      “Not by being forced. And I’d go for a visit first to see if I liked it.”

      “It’s different to what they show in the movies, I’ll wager. Ask our guests if you want to know.”

      Aidan laughed. His parents never encouraged bothering the guests.

 

      The women came down to the pub and sat at a table. Mr. Morgan gave them menus and asked if they’d like anything from the bar. They each ordered a glass of wine and looked over the menu. When he brought their wine they ordered.

      Aidan entered the pub and went behind the bar.

      “Go on with you,” his father said. “You can’t be back here.”

      “Just getting a bag of crisps.”

      “Eating the profits, are you? You’ve just finished tea. Go. You know you’re not to be back here during hours.”

      Aidan nicked the bag of crisps and scooted out.

      “Here, take this order, will you?”

      Mr. Morgan handed his son the check. Aidan glanced at the two women, then went the back way to the kitchen.

      Mrs. Morgan and Gwen busied themselves with the order.

      From the kitchen they could hear Gwilym’s booming voice as he and his family made their weekly appearance. They sat in a booth by the window and Gwilym called his greeting over to the bar.

      “Your usual?” Mr. Morgan asked as he took out a pint glass and some glasses for the cokes he knew the two girls would want.

      “I’ll have white wine if you have it,” Gwilym’s wife said.

      “When have you known me not to have it, my darling?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      He reached overhead for a wine glass.

      As he took the drinks to the table, a young couple entered and hailed Mr. Morgan. Thomas Andrews and his new bride hadn’t been to the pub since before their wedding a month earlier.

      “Thomas, about time you showed yourself. Glynnis, is this lad treating you well?”

      “He is.”

      Mr. Morgan took Gwilym’s family’s order, and handed it to Aidan as he returned. He gave the couple their menus and returned to the bar to get their drinks while Aidan took Gwilym’s order to the kitchen.

      It looked like a busy night for midweek. Aidan wondered if the weather would hold so that the later regulars would come for their pints.

      The boy came back quickly to get Thomas’s order.

      Lively conversation arose amongst the local patrons who spoke now in English and now in Welsh. The locals frequently used a mix of the two.

      When the meal was ready, Aidan brought it on a tray and set a plate in front of each of the ladies.

      “Will you have anything else?” he asked.

      “Thank you, no. We’re fine,” The older woman said. The younger smiled and blushed.

      “I saw the blonde flirting with you,” his father said in Welsh.

      Aidan laughed and returned to the kitchen for Gwilym’s order.

      Mr. Morgan went to the ladies’ table to see if they needed any more wine, but they assured him all was well.

      “The waiter asked us already,” the older woman said.

      “Ah. My son isn’t old enough to serve the liquor just yet.”

      “Oh, I guess he looks older than he is,” the younger said.

      Mr. Morgan smiled. He thought nothing of the kind, but supposed she meant it as a complement.

      “If you need anything else, give a shout.”

      Aidan appeared a few moments later with Gwilym’s order.

      “You have yourself a girlfriend, have you?” Gwilym asked.

      “A guest only,” Aidan replied, glad that the Americans didn’t understand Welsh.

      “And I thought I was your one and only,” Morgan, Gwilym’s youngest daughter teased.

      “Ah, but think of it. If we married you’d become Morgan Morgan.”

      Gwilym and his family laughed. Morgan was two years older than Aidan and as a small boy he’d been smitten with her. He’d outgrown that, but they shared a playful fondness.

      “I hear you’ve had troubles with your sheep pen?” Gwilym asked.

      “News travels fast.” Aidan told them what had happened. “The police thought perhaps it was someone passing through. They’ll keep an eye, but they don’t expect a repeat of it.”

      “With the weather turning colder, I’d expect not. If you need help, let me know.”

      “We will, I’m sure.”

      He crossed the room and stopped at the guests’ table on his way.

      “How is everything?”

      “Wonderful,” the older woman said.

      “What language was that you were speaking over there?” Susan asked.

      “Welsh.”

      “Oh. Does everyone speak that here?”

      “Mostly everyone. But we all speak English as well.”

      “That is so cool,” she said.

      He smiled and nodded and returned to the family part of the house.

      Once his mother had ascertained that all of the customers were taken care of, Aidan told her he was going to check the sheep pen.

      It was full dark and the cold bit his face when he first stepped outdoors. He looked at muddy-looking sky. The clouds looked ready to burst. He expected to see snow the next day.

      Aidan trudged around the perimeter of the fence. All looked well, but he noticed the latch on the gate was open. He didn’t remember his father leaving it that way, but he’d mention it later. With people vandalizing things, it wouldn’t do to leave the gate open. He shut it.

      He wandered around the field, making sure the sheep weren’t out. The dog usually investigated whenever anyone came inside the fence, which is what made the previous night’s vandalism so odd. Aidan couldn’t imagine him being silent or even being friendly toward a stranger when no one from the house was there.

      “Tally!” he called. “Come on, boy!”

      There must be a sheep out of bounds for him not to race over to Aidan.

      The boy crept to the shed the sheep stayed in at night. As he entered he saw the dog lying on the floor just inside the door.

      “Tally!” he cried, kneeling down to see if the dog was alive.

      As he touched the warm fur, the crack of something hitting his head hard reverberated through his skull before blackness.

 

      The pain in his head confused Aidan. He didn’t expect to feel pain after death. Perhaps he hadn’t been good enough for heaven after all. Or perhaps he was only on his way to judgement.

      “I think he’s coming round,” said the disembodied voice.

      St. Peter? Surely St. Peter wasn’t a Welshman?

      St. Peter surely would have spoken Aramaic. And he’d spoken in Welsh. Is that what they meant by speaking in tongues?

      He opened his eyes against the glare of celestial light to see the local doctor, Gwilym and his anxious parents staring at him.

      Oh. Not being dead was so much less disappointing than a headache in hell.

      “Aidan,” his mother said, “how do you feel?”

      “My head hurts.”

      The men chuckled.

      “I expect so,” the doctor said. “You’ve had a good crack in the head.”

      “I went to check the pen and didn’t see Tally. He didn’t come when I called, so I went to the shed to check, and found him. Is he dead, then?”

      “No. He was drugged, but he’ll be just fine,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “Someone hit me in the head, and that was the end of it. I didn’t see anyone. Who’s minding the pub?”

      “My son, Gareth is, and Davey Furman came by to help,” Gwilym said.

      “And Sarah stayed behind until our return for the guests,” his mother added.

      “Don’t worry yourself about anything,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “Fortunately, you’ve had no fractures,” the doctor said. “I’ve put in a few stitches to fix the break in your scalp. It’s a hard head you have there, Aidan Morgan.”

      Once they’d made sure everything was all right, Aidan was allowed to return home with his parents.

      A light snow had begun to fall as they went along the winding, deserted road. Aidan wondered briefly if the guests would have any difficulty getting out in the morning, and thought if only it had snowed earlier, he would’ve been alerted by footsteps – or someone could at least have tracked the intruders.

      When the Morgans returned, their friends dashed out to see how Aidan was.

      “I’m fine,” he answered them.

      “A thwack on the head,” Gwilym said, “wouldn’t harm this boy.” The others laughed.

      A policeman stood inside the door. He followed the family into the breakfast room and asked Aidan a few questions about the events of the day.

      We have a man in custody,” PC Evans said. “Mr. Richards saw something out of the ordinary and stopped the man as he ran from your property. He had him when we arrived. I need your memory of what happened. What of the dog?”

      “He was drugged, but the vet says he’ll be all right in a few hours,” Mr. Morgan said. “Apparently they did the same to him last night, which is why we heard no barking.”

      “The man was in possession of some sleep aids. That’s likely what he gave the dog. And he stole some tools. Now that we have him, I trust we’ll have no more trouble here.”

      “Has the bloke said anything?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      “Not much so far. He’s at least guilty of theft and trespassing, and we’ll likely have him for assault as well as damages to your sheep pen.

      Aidan told him all that he knew, and PC Evans went on his way.

 

      In the morning Aidan awoke with a terrible headache. He lay in bed thinking about the previous evening. His father had said they’d gone looking for him when he wasn’t back in half an hour.

      He glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly nine. He jumped out of bed and regretted it almost immediately as the pain became a steady throb. Slowly, he dressed and prepared for the day.

      “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked his mother when he entered the kitchen.

      “That man nearly split your skull. You’re owed a bit of rest after that. I’ve kept watch, and I woke you a few times in the night to be sure you were all right.”

      “Did you? I don’t remember. Are the guests gone?”

      “No, they’re having breakfast. I told them they might want to wait a bit before leaving to let the roads clear.”

      “I didn’t even look,” Aidan said, peering through the window.

      “Not much. Just enough to make a mess for morning traffic. The roads were well gritted last night. You could see if the guests need anything.”

      Aidan walked through the kitchen to the breakfast room. George Singleton, the local plumber, was sipping coffee at the table nearest the kitchen. It had been his habit to do so ever since Aidan’s parents first opened the bed and breakfast. The small table with a single chair was out of the way of guests. He insisted on paying for his coffee, saying it was his job to see the place stayed in business.

      “I heard you came to some mischief last night,” he said as Aidan entered.

      “Yes, but I’m better now. Head just hurts a bit.”

      “They’ve caught the party responsible, have they?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you’ll testify at a trial, then?”

      “I expect I will,” Aidan replied.

      That would be the talk of the town, Aidan suspected. This sort of crime was unusual, and folks would hope it wasn’t a sign of the times.

      “Is everything satisfactory?” he asked the two ladies who sat at the table nearest the gas fireplace that gave a snug warmth to that part of the room.

      “Oh yes, everything is delicious,” the older woman said.

      Aidan asked if they needed anything else, but the older woman said no.

      “I heard you had an accident last night,” Susan said.

      “Just some minor trouble. I hope it didn’t disturb you. Everything is fine now. Are you travelling far today?”

      “To Aberystwyth.”

      “That’s a long drive, but scenic if you’re taking the coastal road.”

      “Have you been there?” the girl asked.

      “I have. It’s a lovely town. Have you lodging there?”

      “Oh, yes, everything is reserved.”

      “Brilliant. Well, then, drive safely and enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

      He turned away from them on his way back to the kitchen so they wouldn’t see the bandage covering the stitches on his head. He hoped his small talk wasn’t too much. No point in longing gazes at a girl he’d never see again.

      “Oh, wait,” the girl called as he started toward the kitchen.

      He turned, an inquisitive look on his face. “Yes, miss?”

      “Do you have a business card or something? If I’m ever in the area again, I’ll want to stay here.”

      He nodded, wondering how likely it would be that she would visit the area again. Still, she might recommend the establishment to a friend.

      He brought a card from the desk and explained how to make the call from America, something he was frequently asked.

      “Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled back and nodded before returning to the kitchen. Mr. Singleton winked at him as he passed.

      About an hour later, as Aidan finished gritting the walkway from the door to the car park, the ladies settled their bill with his mother and started toward their car.

      Aidan asked if they needed any help. Each woman carried a small, wheeled suitcase.

      “Thank you, no,” the older woman said.

      “Safe journey,” he said.

      The two smiled and walked carefully to the car.

      Once they were safely on the road, Aidan went inside. His mother would want him to rest after his ordeal, and for once he wouldn’t fight it. He had the memory of the blonde American woman looking out the car window, giving him a wave and a smile in the milky morning sunlight to keep him company.