The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (3 page)

“Only half a pair, actually,” I said, my mouth full of egg.

Mom's eyes opened wider. “Aunt Cass,” she sputtered, “you didn't sell one of the family portraits, did you?”

“Simmer down, Sandra. Of course I didn't sell it—I gave it to the Hargreaveses. They're descendants of George and his wife and have just as much right to the portrait as we do.”

“You mean Will Hargreaves? Is he still around?”

“Next farm over,” replied Aunt Cass.

“The one called Blackberry Hill Farm?” asked Dad. “That's a beautiful old place. Didn't know any Hargreaveses lived there.”

“A Hargreaves son married into the family over there around the time of the Civil War. That makes Will a distant cousin.”

“He and George used to pal around,” Mom chimed in. “Oh, Aunt Cass, remember when the two of them went through that hippie phase? They were so disappointed when you
liked
their ponytails!”

Dad stood up. “Well, I've got to go. Don't unpack everything today, honey. We've got lots of time to settle in,” he said.

Aunt Cass nodded. “He's right, Sandra. The boxes can wait.”

Mom went over to Dad. “Okay, we won't go into a frenzy. But I am going to get our bedroom set to rights, so
you
don't have to sleep sitting up. And Lars, I don't expect apple-pie order in your room right away, but at least make the bed.”

“Right,” I said, sneaking a look at Aunt Cass, who was sneaking an amused look back.

After Mom and Dad went out, Aunt Cass slapped her hands down on the table. “Now then, how would you like a tour of your new home?” she asked.

“Okay,” I said, mostly to be polite.

“Help me clean up and afterward I'll show you around.”

I cleared and wiped the table, then swept the plank floor while Aunt Cass did the dishes. Then she picked up a sweater and put it on. “Better wear your jacket,” she said. “Sandra put it in one of the settles last night.”

“Huh?”

“The settles—those high-backed benches. The seats open up. That's where I keep hats and mittens and things.”

I flipped open one of the wooden benches. My jacket was inside. “It looks like my coat is already settled in,” I punned.

“You're a punster—good,” remarked Aunt Cass without a glimmer of a smile. “Always liked puns; never much good at making 'em up. Come on.” She pushed open the door and we went outside.

As I shut the door behind me, I touched the leather thong hanging underneath the handle. “So that's a latchstring,” I said, innocently.

Aunt Cass shook her finger at me, then said, “Now then, George, we'll go to the orchard first. That used to be the heart of the farm. Of course, the fruit trees are dead now, more's the pity.”

We walked up past the barn and the pond that lay beyond it. Aunt Cass pointed out two sycamore trees at the pond's edge that were planted to mark the location of drinkable water in colonial times.

“Ah,” I said, pretending more interest than I felt.

She glanced at me, then moved through a rickety gate in the zigzag rail fence.

“Don't try climbing this fence until your dad has a chance to see if it's safe. I'm afraid I've let it go since I have no more animals to keep in. No sheep in the meadow or cows in the corn,” she said. “Here's the orchard. It doesn't look like much now, but generations back it was a working orchard with more than a thousand fruit trees—apples and pears and peaches.”

“Are these Seek-no-further apple trees?” I asked.

Aunt Cass sighed. “No, those all died and were chopped up for firewood years ago.”

I climbed one of the sturdier-looking trees and looked around. “Hey, somebody's riding a horse over there,” I said.

“That's probably Pat Hargreaves.”

“You mean there's a kid living so close?” I exclaimed. “Named Pat? My best friend in Minneapolis is named Patrick!”

“Wouldn't it be nice to become best friends with a Pat here, then?” Aunt Cass said, her face crinkling in an impish smile. “And this Pat's a particular favorite of mine. Goes to the same school you will, probably in your class. And crazy about horses—practically lives in the saddle. Do you ride?”

“Only a couple of times at camp. I fell off once when the saddle slid under the horse's belly.”

“Maybe you could get Pat to teach you how to ride.” She peered up at me. “I hope the two of you will get along. Pat's terrific—helps me out around Penncroft Farm. I don't know what I'd do without—George! What are you doing up there! Be care—!”

I jumped out of the tree before my great-aunt could finish her sentence. Her affection for Pat Hargreaves made me a little jealous. I half hoped he wouldn't turn up in my class.

“I imagine you'll meet the Hargreaveses at meeting on Sunday,” Aunt Cass said. “They're Friends, too.”

“I thought they were relations,” I said, brushing pieces of bark off my jeans.

“I mean they belong to the Society of Friends. It's our religion, Lars. We're pacifists—we don't believe in war. Some people call us Quakers.”

“I thought you meant the Hargreaveses were
amigos
.”

“As a matter of fact, they're
amigos
, too,” she said, smiling. She took my arm, and we started back toward the barn.

I looked at the distant rider again. “There's something else I don't get. If the Hargreaveses are descendants of our ancestors who owned Penncroft Farm, why didn't
they
end up with it?”

Aunt Cass gave me an approving look. “I like honesty in a man,” she said, “and honesty in a woman, for that matter. So I'll tell you straight. It's always been a family tradition to leave Penncroft Farm to the member of the next generation who has a little something extra, a sort of feeling about the place—I guess you could call it being a kindred spirit. Your uncle George was the one in your mother's generation and he . . . well, you know what happened to him.

“Now, Pat is a kindred spirit, but also an only child who will inherit Blackberry Hill Farm. That's why, when your mother told me years ago that she wasn't interested in moving here, I thought to leave Penncroft Farm for a museum. And this is one of the things to be exhibited.”

She pointed to an old wagon, parked under a kind of lean-to attached to the barn. The barn was built into the side of the hill, and a fairly stiff slope ran down to the driveway below. I wondered how they had gotten the wagon up there.

“This wagon dates back to the American Revolution,” Aunt Cass said, giving the wheel a little thump with her hand. She gave me another of those measuring looks.

I didn't care how old the thing was, but it occurred to me that if I couldn't ride on top of a horse with style, maybe I could learn to drive one. “Have you got a horse to pull it, Aunt Cass?” I asked eagerly.

“Afraid not, but we do have some harness, and Pat keeps the wagon in pretty good repair. Maybe now that you're living here, we can buy a horse to get the old rig moving again. That is, if you'll learn from Pat how to hitch up and drive it properly.”

“Pat Hargreaves seems to be an expert on everything,” I said, more or less to myself.

My muttering didn't get past Aunt Cass. “No, not quite everything,” she said, patting my hand. “But remember: Pat grew up in the country and you're a city boy. Things are a bit different out here.”

“You can say that again.” I climbed up on the wagon and sat down on the seat. Underneath was a lever. I grabbed it and pretended to shift gears. I guess I thought it was too rotten or rusty to do anything. I was wrong. The lever moved easily in my hand and the wagon started to roll.

“Look out!” I shouted at Aunt Cass, who stepped backward in the nick of time, only to lose her balance and fall to the ground. I looked back to where she lay, too worried about her to think about what was happening to me. Then, as the wagon rolled past the house, I caught a glimpse of Mom at the window. The look on her face scared me. As the wagon lurched down the steep, rutted drive, picking up speed with every passing second, I tried to get up the nerve to jump off, but the sight of the ground rushing by kept my hands riveted to the wagon seat. With rising panic, I fixed my eyes on the pike below and the bone-breaking drop-off I knew was beyond it. In my mind I could see myself flying through the air and hear the splintering of wood. Then, suddenly, just before the wagon hurtled across the road to plunge over the edge, somebody reached out and pulled hard on the lever. The wagon groaned to a stop.

For a moment I sat there, hearing nothing but my own gasps and the faint creak of the Penncroft sign. Then, once I caught my breath, I started to think. Somebody had pulled that lever. That somebody had not been me. I whirled around on the seat to see who was behind me. There were some iron tools, some leather straps, and a rusty old pulley. No one was on the wagon but me.

I stared down at my own hand; except for the bitten-off fingernails, it didn't look like the one I'd seen grip the lever. Dazed, I peered around. Had I imagined the whole thing?

My mother's voice broke into my confusion. “Lars, are you all right? Answer me! Lars!” She sounded pretty hysterical.

“I'm fine, Mom,” I shouted back, my voice a bit shaky.

She came running down. “How did you stop that thing?”

“I didn't. There was . . . that is . . . didn't you see anybody in here with me?” I quavered.

“Honestly, Lars! This is no time to be fooling around. Where's Aunt Cass?”

I suddenly remembered where I'd left Aunt Cass. “Oh, Mom, she fell! Up there!” I jumped down from the seat and sprinted up the hill. Aunt Cass was sitting helplessly in the middle of the gravel driveway, her hands over her face. When I squatted down next to her, I saw that she was shaking all over.

Mom knelt down. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

My great-aunt dropped her hands, and we could see how helpless she was—helpless with laughter.

Seeing that she was all right, I blurted out, “Aunt Cass, did
you
see anybody on the wagon with me? I saw this hand pull the lever and . . .”

“Panic can do strange things to your perceptions, honey,” Mom said soothingly as she helped Aunt Cass to her feet. “I saw you go by, Lars. You were the only one in that dreadful wagon.”

Aunt Cass stared at me, then nodded emphatically. “George, I think you've been
properly
introduced to Penncroft Farm now!”

Mom put an arm around each of us and said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, “Let's go eat some of Cass's pasties—good old colonial meat pies.”

“And we'll wash down the pasties with some ice-cold squash!” Aunt Cass said, giving Mom a wink.

“Wash it down with ice-cold squash?” I squeaked. “That sounds disgusting!” I hated squash almost as much as peas.

“Relax,” Mom laughed. “Squash is a kind of punch made of orange juice and lemonade, or the juice from some other squashed fruit. The Founding Fathers were all big squash fans.”

I don't know if it was my close call on the wagon or the thought of drinkable squash, but suddenly I felt a little dizzy.

“Toto,” I said under my breath, “I don't think we're in Minnesota anymore.”

3

The next day I woke up feeling groggy. I had stared up at my canopy for hours thinking about the hand that had clutched the brake. It was not my hand. It couldn't have been.

Mom knocked on my door to get me up for school, and there was no time to wonder about the day before. She hustled me along and all too soon we were pulling up in front of my new school.

“Look how big the school grounds are,” Mom said in an encouraging tone of voice. “And did you see the obstacle course? I'll bet you'll like going through that.”

I gave her a scornful look.

We went in, registered, and in what seemed like only a millisecond, stood reading the sign on my new classroom.

“'Mrs. Hettrick. Grade Six.' Guess this is it, Lars. Want me to come in with you?” Mom whispered.

“No, thanks,” I replied, trying to sound brave.

Mom gave me an anxious look. “All right, then, I guess I'll run along.” She took a couple of steps, then came back again. “Do you remember which bus to take and where to get off?”

Fear was making me irritable. “Yes, yes! Bus number eight, and I get off on Seek-No-Further Pike. How could I ever forget
that
name?” I snapped.

“Okay. Bye, honey,” Mom said uncertainly, and finally left.

With a sinking feeling, I watched her walk away. Taking a deep breath, I turned the handle and walked through the door to meet my new classmates. I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd expected Pennsylvania kids might look different from my Minnesota friends, but not
this
different. Open-mouthed, I stared at a room full of punks and pirates, ghosts and Martians. I had forgotten it was nearly Halloween.

A woman dressed like Raggedy Ann came up to me. “You must be our new student,” she said with a warm smile, trying to smooth orange yarn hair out of her eyes. “I'm Mrs. Hettrick. Welcome to the class. Oh, and Happy Halloween!” She glanced at my jeans and sweatshirt with dismay. “But you don't have a costume on! What a shame you didn't know we were having a party. Well, it doesn't matter. Come meet the other students.”

A group of kids had gathered around and were looking curiously at me. Embarrassed, I blabbed out the first thing that came into my head. “Where I come from, only
kindergartners
wear costumes to school.”

Several girls nudged each other and whispered. One tall, sandy-haired girl in a pirate costume was edging up, but stopped when she heard me. Her smile vanished.

Who cares about girls, anyway?
I said to myself.