[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman (11 page)

“Hurry up, Winnie, fly off and bring the bobby, hah. Fat lot of good that'll do you!”

She knew they were right. Her tormentors would leave the moment she made a move for the police, but once the constable had come and gone, they would return to renew the persecution. It was an all-too-familiar pattern during the last months. Her house was isolated, standing alone on the far hill slope outside the village. She had no neighbors to call upon for help. Clamping her jaw resolutely, she grabbed her pail of soapy water and hurled it at the bushes. It fell short, splashing on the lawn. This caused great hilarity from the gang in hiding. They rattled the bushes until several clumps of rhododendron blossoms fell to the ground.

“Hahaha! Silly old witch, you missed! Witchie, witchie!”

Horatio's tail swirled around the doorjamb. He stalked smoothly back into the house. Mrs. Winn watched him go. She swayed slightly in the hot afternoon sun, wiping a bent wrist across her forehead, then, gathering up her cleaning implements, she trekked wearily in after the cat. As she closed the front door, a fresh battery of rubbish rattled against the panels outside.

“Winn, Winn, Winnie the Witch! Hahahahaha!”

Striving to ignore the children, she boiled a kettle and made tea, pouring some into a saucer and adding extra milk for the cat. Horatio liked the drink of milky tea. She stroked the back of his head as he bent to lap it up.

“They won't leave us alone, Horatio. If it's not those youngsters, then it's Obadiah Smithers with his legal notices, trying to get me out. Oh dear, Horatio, only one week left after today. Those lawyers from London will be here to enforce the clearance notices—I could lose my house! Unbelievable! And the village, oh, Horatio, the poor village.”

Horatio licked a paw and wiped it carefully over one ear, staring solemnly at her, as if expecting an answer to the problem. However, it never came. Mrs. Winn sat looking at her work-worn hands, a tidy, plump little old lady, with silver hair swept into a bun, her slippered feet scarcely touching the rustic, tiled floor from the chair she sat in.

Outside the golden afternoon rolled by, punctuated by the guffaws and mocking comments from behind the rhododendrons. Mrs. Winn toyed absently with her thin, gold wedding band, turning it upon her finger. From out in the mosaic-tiled hallway, flat chimes from a walnut-cased grandfather clock announced the arrival of half past three. A shaft of sunlight from the kitchen window, which illuminated the old woman's chair, had shifted slightly, leaving her face in the shade. Her half-filled teacup stood on the table in its Crown Derby saucer, a wedding present from her favorite aunt. The tea had grown cold.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the din from outside. It was no use, an afternoon nap was out of the question. Horatio prowled about for a while, choosing finally to settle at her feet. Mrs Winn was seldom prone to feeling sorry for herself, but now she dabbed away a threatening tear with her apron corner. Clenching a fist in a sudden show of temper, she spoke to her cat. “Ooh! If only somebody would happen along and teach those wretches outside a lesson! . . . If only . . .”

Then she sat staring at the white-and-blue flower-patterned tiles around her kitchen sink. Some summer afternoons could be very lonely for an old widow and her cat.

BEN AND NED WERE WALKING ALONG together, still discussing the merits and drawbacks of barns. In the absence of anything better, the dog was warming to the idea. “I like lots of nice deep straw in a barn. Good fun, straw is. You can roll about in it and jump off bales.”

Ben smiled mischievously as he answered his dog's thought. “Huh, you can brush your own self off tomorrow if you're planning on rolling about in straw all night. I'm not your kennel maid.”

The Labrador looked indignant. “Never said y'were, and by the way, when did I last roll about in a barnful of straw, eh?”

Ben mused a moment before answering. “Er, April the ninth, 1865, if I remember rightly. The day Robert E. Lee surrendered to Grant. We were in a barn somewhere outside Kansas City.”

“Oh yes, you jumped on my head, I remember that much!”

“Had to jump on your fat head. Otherwise you'd have kicked off doing your barking exercises and betrayed us to those renegades. Don't forget, Ned, I saved you from becoming a dogskin saddlebag.”

The Labrador sniffed airily. “Thank you kindly, young sir, but this isn't the American Civil War. 'Tis nought but a sleepy English backwater village. I'll bark to my heart's content. Got to exercise the old bark now and again, y'know. Never can tell when it'll come in useful!”

Ben halted. “Quiet, Ned, d'you hear that? Sounds like shouting?”

The dog's keen ears raised. “It is shouting. ‘Winnie the Witch with the crinkly face, come on out and give us a chase.' Might be some type of quaint local custom, eh, Ben?”

As they rounded a tree-fringed bend, Ben caught sight of the big, old, redbrick house, standing alone on the hillside.

“What did Alex say that gang's name was, Ned?”

“Er, the Grange Gang, I think. Why?”

“I think we may have found them. Come on, let's go and take a quiet peep at what's going on.”

There were ten of them altogether, led by Wilf Smithers and his cousin Regina Woodworthy. Wilf kept the others busy searching for more ammunition to throw, whilst he and Regina stood by, shaking the rhododendron bushes. A fat boy with piggy eyes, who had been searching the garden, came creeping back through the shrubbery. He was carrying a double handful of rotten vegetation.

Wilf pulled a face, turning away from the stench that emanated from the mess. “Phwaw! That doesn't half stink. Where'd you get it, Tommo?”

The fat boy threw the stuff awkwardly. It landed short of the house, splattering on the front steps. He snickered with glee, wiping his hands upon the grass. “ 'Round the back there, Wilf. Winnie the Witch has a big compost heap piled up against the wall!” He watched Wilf's tough, sun-reddened face for signs of approval.

The leader of the Grange Gang ignored his minion and gave orders to the others. “You lot get 'round to that compost heap and fetch a load back here. We'll make the witch's house smell like a sewer before we're finished. Bring as much as you can!”

Ben and his dog had been eavesdropping from the other side of the garden wall. Ned's hackles rose. “Witch hunters persecuting some poor old lady! Grr, stupid ignorant louts, I can't abide them!”

Ben was of the same mind. “There's always bullies to pick on somebody who can't defend themselves, Ned. Let's go and upset them a bit.”

The Labrador shook his head. “If we're staying 'round here awhile, it won't do for you to invite trouble right off. Leave this to me, pal!”

Ben cautioned his friend. “Don't go causing them any real damage, Ned. This isn't the Battle of Trafalgar, you know.”

Ned's face was the picture of injured doggy innocence. “Who, me? What possible harm could a gentle, ancient pooch do to a gang of great, tough teenagers?”

Thinking back to past adventures, Ben was about to remind Ned of several incidents. But when he looked around, the Labrador had vanished like a black shadow.

The gang was taking its time gathering garbage from the compost pile—rotting apples, carrot tops, withered cabbages. Wilf's deputy, Regina, crouched impatiently behind the bushes. “What's the matter with 'em, Wilf, have they gone asleep 'round there?”

Wilf was facing away from her, peering across the garden. “I'll kick that Tommo's behind if he doesn't move himself!”

Something heavy hit Regina's back and knocked her flat. She turned over and found herself facing a giant mad dog! It was black as night, showing gleaming white fangs as its lips twitched hungrily. Dark eyes glittering, fur standing up on its spine, it stood snarling, ready to attack.

Regina managed to stammer. “W-W-Wilf, there's a d-d-dog!”

She need not have spoken, the beast already had Wilf's undivided attention. The boy took one pace back and fell flat on his behind. The dog turned to face him, froth showing in its jaws.

“Grrrrr gurrrr, wooooof!”

The thunderous bark galvanized them both into instant motion. Scrambling upright, Regina ran for it, banging into Wilf and smacking his head against the sandstone garden wall. “Owwooof! Yaaaaagh!”

Ned had the way out blocked. Wilf and Regina both fled toward the compost heap, which, being piled high against the wall, offered the only quick way out of the garden. The big black Labrador pursued them, snarling and growling viciously. The rest of the gang took one look at the savage hound and tried to make good their escape. However, the soft, ripe compost couldn't bear their joint weight, and Wilf, Regina, and their cohorts found themselves sinking into the odious squelching mire, shrieking and grabbing at one another. As he barked and bayed like a mad wolf, Ned allowed a little slather of froth to wreathe his jaws, though inside he was giggling like a puppy. The fleeing Grange members fell over one another, kicking and fighting to be first over the wall, faces, hands, elbows, and legs covered with the stinking mass of decayed vegetation.

Standing outside, Ben saw the first few fling themselves from the walltop, thudding painfully onto the dusty path. Before they could rise, more yowling muddy apparitions landed on them. It was utter bedlam! Ben pulled a disgusted face at the smell hanging on the air, then he turned away, carelessly whistling an old sea shanty, his untidy blond shock of hair bobbing as he entered the garden jauntily.

Ned came bounding up, his teeth bared in a huge doggy grin. “Now you know why my barking practice is important. Did you hear me, Ben, I made more din than a pack of beagles. Pretty good going, I'd say!”

“Excellent! You did very well for an ancient hound. Bet they cover a mile or two before they stop running. What's this? Look, Ned, there's an old lady coming out of the house.”

Mrs. Winn had a walking stick in her hand in case of trouble, and she stopped several yards from them. Her voice had a sharp note to it as she looked them over. “You don't look like one of those hooligans. What are you doing here? Is that dog yours?”

Ned sat still and did some friendly dog-panting exercises, which he rated as important as barking practice.

Ben flicked the hair from his eyes with a swift nod and smiled disarmingly. “Afternoon, marm. We didn't mean to trespass, but we thought that gang was annoying you. Not nice that, annoying folk.”

Mrs. Winn peered closer at the strange, polite boy. His white canvas pants and crewneck sweater, together with what appeared to be a cut-down naval jacket, gave him the look of a seaman, freshly arrived ashore.

Behind his smile she could sense calm; however, it was mainly the boy's blue eyes that caught her attention—they seemed ageless, misty blue, like the summer horizon of a far sea.

She blinked, beckoning the two forward with her stick. “Does that dog attack cats?”

The Labrador shot out an indignant thought. “Attack cats, me? Is the old dear mad? I love the furry little things, as long as they keep their claws to themselves. Huh, attack cats!”

Ben patted his dog fondly. “Ned's just fine with cats, marm. He's friendly, too. Give the lady your paw, Ned!”

Mrs. Winn held out her hand, and Ned dutifully presented a paw.

Obviously impressed, the old lady stroked Ned's sleek coat. “Oh, you're a good dog, Ned, good dog!”

Ned gave her the benefit of his soulful gaze. “Thank you, marm, and you're a nice lady, nice lady!”

She turned to the strange boy. “So, what's your name?”

“Ben, marm, just call me Ben.”

She offered her hand. Ben shook it gently, and she winked at him. “My name's Winifred Winn, but you can call me Winnie, and stop ‘marming' me. You sound like my husband used to. ‘Marm' this and ‘marm' that. Well, Ben, I suppose you like apple pie and lemonade, and I'll bet Ned wouldn't mind a dish of water and a beef bone with lots of marrow and fat to it.”

“Ooh, ooh! I could grow to love this old lady dearly!”

Ben bypassed the dog's compliment. “That'd be very nice, ma . . . er, Winnie, thank you.”

She ushered them both inside. “It's the least I can do to thank you for driving those wretches away from the house. The trouble they've caused me! And the whole village. But enough of that, you've probably got troubles of your own. Come on, you two, we'll use the parlor. It's not often I have visitors.”