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going to happen around here for a while.” Evan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, help me wheel the bike under cover in case it rains.”
    After a disappointed Terry had gone home, Evan let himself into number 28. It still felt cold and inhospitable and he thought longingly of the smell of cooking that had greeted him when he opened Mrs. Williams’s front door. Now if there was going to be any cooking smell, he’d have to produce it. And after last night’s effort he wasn’t so sure the result would be edible. He had tried making a steak-and-kidney pie. He had followed the recipe faithfully, but the steak and kidney had ended up as unidentifiable shriveled morsels and the pastry crust needed a chisel to puncture it. Maybe he was being too ambitious, he decided. Maybe he should stick to egg and chips until he knew his way around a kitchen.
    He took out a couple of eggs and started to peel a mound of potatoes. It took a while to cut them up, so he started heating a block of lard in a saucepan. Then he realized he should have lit the fire in the living room first if he wanted it to be habitable by mealtime. He went through and coaxed newspapers and kindling to life. They started smoking merrily, instantly filling the room with the smell of burning. He’d let them get going well before he put on coal. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw where the smell of burning was coming from. Smoke was billowing from the saucepan and as he approached, it sent up a great sheet of flame with a whoosh. Evan grabbed a saucepan lid and managed to drop it over the pan.
    “Pfew, that was close,” he muttered, pushing back his hair from his face with a sooty hand. “Smoke alarm,” he wrote on the growing list on the fridge.
    He had renewed admiration for Mrs. Williams, who could turn out a whole meal without apparent effort. It seemed pointless to start over with new fat and he had gone off the idea of chips anyhow. Scrambled eggs then. They were edible, if a little rubbery, but he was still ravenous. None of the cans in the pantry looked appetizing. There was nothing for it but to admit defeat and go over to the pub for bangers or a meat pie. Besides, he needed to get away from the smell.

    Having checked that the fire now glowing anemically in the fireplace wasn’t about to burn the house down, he put on his raincoat and crossed the street to the Red Dragon. Inside, it was as warm and welcoming as ever, the big fire glowing in the grate and the air heavy with smoke and conversation. Evan pushed his way to the bar. Instead of Betsy’s welcoming smile, Harry-the-Pub’s bald head poked up over the counter.
    “What do you want then?” he demanded.
    “And good evening to you too, Harry bach.” Evan looked at the men standing around the bar for some explanation of what was wrong. “I’d like the usual Guinness and something to eat if it’s not too much trouble.”
    “It is too much trouble,” Harry said. “Guinness you can have. Food’s not on tonight.”
    “Why, what happened? Where’s Betsy?”
    “You tell me,” Harry snapped as he drew Evan’s pint of Guinness. “She was due to work at five, wasn’t she? Where the devil is she?”
    “It’s not like her to be late,” Evan said. “Have you phoned her place?”
    “Yes, and there’s no answer. Her dad says she went off with some woman this morning.”
    “Some woman?”
    “I know who that would be.” Evans-the-Meat put down his empty glass and indicated that he’d like it refilled. “That foreigner who was in here the other day.”
    “English person, you mean?” Harry asked.
    “No, American, Betsy said she was. Over here studying.”
    Evan’s ears pricked up. “American girl, studying over here? Her name wasn’t Rebecca, was it?”
    “How would I know?” Evans-the-Meat demanded. “And I don’t think I’d call her a girl either. Mutton dressed up as lamb, if you ask me.”
    “So what was Betsy doing with her?” Harry asked, smoothly