(5/20)Over the Gate (4 page)

Sally was secretly nettled at this embarrassment of flesh. She let out seams, moved buttons and unpicked waistbands hoping, in vain, that one day she might revert to her former size. But the months grew into years and Sally's bulk grew too.

One sunny evening she sat in her back porch with a very strange book in her hand. It was one of those bequeathed to her by her late master, a leather-covered exercise book which she had not troubled to open before. In it she found a number of recipes written out in a crabbed angular hand, in ink which had faded to a dull brown. They were not particularly interesting to Sally. Cooking was not one of her major interests and such household hints as: 'A Useful Polish for Ebonised Mahogany,' or 'A Valuable Amelioration for Children's Croup,' which were also included in the book, did not stir her imagination. She yawned widely, and was about to put the book away and prepare her simple supper, when a heading caught her eye. It said: 'An Infallible Receipt for Losing Weight.'

Tilting the book to get the maximum light from the setting sun, Sally read with growing excitement.

To be sure, some of the ingredients sounded perfectly horrid. A basinful of pig's blood beaten with a pound of honey, some goose grease and a plover's egg was bad enough, thought Sally, but when an impressive list of ground herbs, moistened with cuckoo-spit, was to be added to it, then the concoction would surely be nauseating.

'Seal Top of Paste with Pig's Lard to Exclude Air,' said the recipe, and added in capital letters:
'PARTAKE SPARINGLY.'

Sally considered the page. Revolting it might be, but it was supposed to be infallible. The title said so. Would it be worth trying? She read the list of ingredients over again with close attention. The herbs would be easy to obtain, either from her own garden or the Parrs'. Cuckoo-spit glistened in all the meadows of Fairacre, honey stood ready in its comb on her pantry shelf, pig's blood and goose-grease could be obtained fairly readily. The plover's egg would be the most difficult article to procure, but somewhere on the flanks of the downs which sheltered Fairacre a boy's sharp eyes would be able to find a plover's nest, she felt sure.

The biggest problem was the assembling of all these ingredients without arousing suspicion. There are no secrets capable of being hidden in a village, as Sally well knew. It was not that she feared ridicule alone. Within her time she had seen old women ducked in the horse pond because their neighbours had suspected them of dabbling in witchcraft; and although the exercise book purported to be a straightforward recipe book there was something suspiciously sinister about the weight-reducing recipe. Sally decided to go about her task with the greatest circumspection. Who knows, in a few months' time she might have the trim slim figure of her youth? It was worth the trouble.

All went well. Even the plover's egg was obtained with comparative ease from a shepherd boy who, carrying six eggs to her cottage in his cap, was glad to earn a silver sixpence. One evening, after work, Sally prudently drew the curtain in her kitchen against prying eyes, and set about making the paste.

It smelt terrible and looked worse. It was yellowish-grey in colour, and speckled abominably with the ground herbs. Sally felt that she could not bring herself to taste it that evening, but would hope for strength in the morning. She retired to bed, with the reek of the concoction still in her nostrils.

It looked singularly unattractive by morning light, but after breakfast Sally put the tip of a spoon into the jar and bravely swallowed a morsel.

'I must do as it says and partake sparingly,' she told herself as she washed the spoon.

All that week she continued with the treatment. There seemed to be no result, but Sally was patient, and in any case expected to wait some weeks before her bulk began to diminish. Sometimes she felt a slight giddiness a few minutes after swallowing the stuff, but when one considered the nature of the ingredients this was hardly surprising.

One morning she decided to take a slightly larger dose. The clock on the mantel shelf told her it was later than usual, so that she flung the spoon in the washing-up bowl and set off at a brisk trot to the big house at the end of the village. She was perturbed to find that her gait was impaired. It seemed almost impossible to keep her heels on the ground, and Sally found herself tripping along on her toes, scarcely touching the ground at all. At the same time the giddiness occurred with some strength.

'Very strong stuff' thought Sally to herself. 'Small wonder one's bid to partake sparingly!'

She took care to reduce the dose during the next week or two. By now it was high summer. Plumes of scented meadowsweet tossed by the roadside, and the bright small birds kept up a gay clamour as they flashed from hedge to meadow and meadow to garden. Sally tried on her summer print gowns with growing despair. They were as tight as ever. Buttons burst from the strained bodices and waistbands gaped as Sally strove in vain to ram her bulk into the protesting garments.

'Dratted stuff!' panted Sally. 'Never done me a 'aporth of good!' She surveyed herself in the small mirror which she had tilted forward in order to get a better view of her figure. Exasperation flooded her bulky frame. It was no good. She would simply have to make new dresses. These had been let out to their furthest limit.

She struggled out of the useless frocks, dressed in her former gown, and went sadly downstairs. The offending pot stood on the kitchen shelf.

'For two pins,' exclaimed Sally aloud, 'I'd throw you where you belongs—out on the rubbish heap!'

She was about to bustle about her household chores, when a thought struck her.

'Maybe I ain't been taking quite enough,' thought Sally. 'It's worth trying.'

Today was the perfect day to make an experiment. It was Sunday, and she need not go out anywhere. If a giddy attack followed die taking of too much medicine, then she could simply lie down until she recovered.

'And if it do make me giddy, but it works, then 'twill be worth it,' said Sally aloud. 'I can always take it at nights afore going to bed and sleep the giddiness off afore morning.'

She took a large spoon, dipped it deeply into the reeking mixture, and bravely downed it.

For a moment, nothing happened, apart from a slight feeling of nausea which taking the stuff habitually gave her. And then, to Sally's horror and alarm, her feet left the ground and she began to rise steadily to the ceiling. She bumped her head against the central rafter with some violence, and was about to scream loudly with combined pain and terror, when prudence checked her.

'A fine thing if the neighbours saw you now,' she told herself severely. 'Look a proper fool, you would.' She tried to quieten her panicky heart; and the fear of ridicule, as well as being suspected of witchcraft, helped to keep her tongue silent.

It was uncomfortable and strange bobbing loosely about the ceiling trying to dodge the iron-hard rafter and the hanging oil lamp suspended from it; but Sally had always been of a philosophic strain and decided to make the best of a bad job.

'"What can't be cured must be endured ",' quoted Sally, running a finger along the top of the white china lamp shade. It was thick with dust, and Sally clucked disapprovingly at such filth in her house.

'No doubt about it: "Out of sight is out of mind." I must take this lot down and give it a real good wash in some suds.' A pang seized her.

'If I ever do get down,' she added despairingly. She propelled herself by pushing her hands against the ceiling until she was level with the high shelf where she stored bottling jars and preserving pans. To her horror she saw a large black beetle, dead and on its back, in the pan she kept for making pickles and chutney.

"Tis really shameful,' Sally scolded herself. 'If it hadn't been for this misfortune I'd never have realised what a slovenly fool I am.'

Below her the potatoes waited in a bowl of water to be peeled. The cat mewed by his empty saucer, and the big black kettle on the oil stove began to hum.

'Lawks!' thought Sally, 'How long do I have to stick up here, I wonder? Them dizzy turns went over in ten minutes or so. With any luck I'll be down in half an hour.' Would the kettle boil over before then, she thought agitatedly? Really, it was too bad! It would teach her a lesson to go dabbling in things she didn't understand!

She had realised, as soon as her head cracked against the beam, that she had misconstrued the heading of the recipe. She had indeed lost weight, but not size. It was only now, in the first half hour or so of her bizarre imprisonment, that she began to foresee the possibilities of her discovery. As a short woman, she had always found difficulty in reaching shelves and cupboards put into the cottage by her tall father. A stout stool accompanied Sally on many a job in the house such as window-cleaning, or storing preserves, or the winter blankets, in high little-used cupboards.

'If I takes just the right amount,' pondered Sally, picking a particularly thick cobweb from the top of the curtains, 'I can float just where I need to.' She began to dally with the idea of picking apples and plums without needing to borrow a ladder, but reason told her at once of the dangers.

'Too many prying eyes,' decided Sally sagaciously, 'and dear knows how high I might go if the wind got me! It's got to be faced. I'm more like a balloon than anything else when I've that stuff inside me.'

At that moment she heard footsteps. Her front door stood open, as was its custom in fine weather, and this gave direct access to the living-room. Luckily, the door between that room and the kitchen was securely shut. Sally edged her way, silently and painfully, to a shadowy corner of the ceiling. Her heart pounded. Would she be discovered?

'You in, my dear?' called her neighbour. Sally preserved a frozen silence.

'Be you upstairs?' went on the voice. Sally heard the clang of the metal door scraper. Lawks a mercy, what if she came in? Sally's throat dried at the very thought. She clung to the pan shelf with trembling fingers, praying with all her might. The kettle began to bubble steadily, and the cat jumped noisily on to the table among the dishes.

'You home, Sal?' said the voice, a little louder. The door scraper clanged again; then silence fell. At last, there was the sound of muttering and the slow fading of footsteps along the brick path to Sally's gate. Sally covered her face with her grimy hands and wept with relief. Ten minutes later, her body began to feel more solid and manageable. She found she could control die direction of her legs and arms with growing accuracy, and slowly she sank groundwards.

The first thing she did was to make a good strong pot of tea and carry it into the living-room to recover. A fine cabbage, obviously brought by her neighbour, waited on the threshold. She must go and thank her, when her legs stopped trembling, and explain that she must have been 'down the garden' when she called.

Meanwhile, sipping and thinking, Sally regained her composure and turned over in her mind the best way of making use of the secret and surprising accomplishment with winch she was now endowed.

There now began, for Sally, a period of engrossing interest and pleasure. After her duties at the big house, she hurried home to experiment with her essays in levitation. She found that by taking a small amount of the concoction she could hover about a foot above the ground for a period of roughly ten minutes. This gave her ample time to tidy shelves, wash out high cupboards, dust the picture rail and so on, tasks which had always been irksome to one of her low stature.

She found it wholly delightful to be without weight, and became skilled at balancing herself, with one hand touching a wall, whilst the other performed its task. Naturally, she did not indulge in this secret practice every day. For one thing, she still feared that it might be discovered by her neighbours in Fairacre, and she had no intention of giving them cause for gossip. She found it prudent to keep her 'floating periods' for Thursdays. Market day in Caxley was on a Thursday, and usually the other inhabitants of Tyler's Row spent their Thursdays hunting for bargains, meeting their friends and catching up with their news amidst the market-day bustle. Alone in her cottage, Sally felt safe from unexpected visitors, and experimented with the mixture.

One day she noticed that both the plum tree and the ancient Bramley Seedling apple tree were heavy with fruit. She had wondered for some time if she might dare to practise floating out of doors, and this seemed the time to experiment. There was much to consider before she began.

Of course she must remain unseen by the neighbours. That was the first consideration. It would be wise, therefore, to wait until nightfall to make her first attempt. Then she must be careful to leave a considerable amount of fruit to be picked in the normal way or her neighbours would wonder why she had not borrowed a ladder as was her usual practice.

Then, of course, there was the question of staying in her own garden. She shuddered at the thought of floating out into the blue, as well she might, if she did not take care. It was not so much the
danger
that worried Sally as the
impropriety
of such a mode of travelling. After considerable thought she decided to tie a stout length of clothes line round her waist and to tie a brick to the other end. She would carry the brick, already tied, up in the basket with her. On attaining the correct height she would throw the brick to the ground, remain safely tethered level with the fruit, pick it and place it in the basket, and so get the job done.

Of course there was more to it than the general plan. For one thing Sally had to calculate the height of the fruit from the ground, how much the brick would weigh and how much of her mixture she needed to take to balance all these factors. But she was determined to try her luck, and one moonless night she crept from the cottage to embark on this adventure.

It was very still and quiet. The windows in the row of cottages were dark. Not a soul stirred. St Patrick's clock had struck one as Sally tip-toed down her stairs, and all Fairacre slept the dreamless sleep of those who live and work in the bracing air of the downs.