The Tale of Holly How (4 page)

Jeremy shoved his sketchbook and telescope back into his pack. “I’ll go with you as far as your garden.”

The two of them went away downhill, leaving Holly How deserted and alone once more, to enjoy its wide view of the peaceful Land between the Lakes and the soft touch of the warm afternoon breeze on its rocky flank.

4

Bosworth Badger Is Mystified

But Holly How was not deserted, for a rather substantial stripy fellow had just emerged onto his porch, eager for a bit of fresh summer breeze to blow the cobwebs out of his mind. The porch was the front entrance to The Brockery Inn, one of the most highly regarded hostelries in the Land between the Lakes, and the stripy fellow was Bosworth Badger XVII, The Brockery’s proprietor. The name “Brockery,” of course, was derived from the Celtic word
broc,
for badger, and throughout the Lake District, badgers (who were thought to be rather disagreeable creatures) were known as “brocks.”

Bosworth sat down in the rocking chair on his front porch, blinked several times against the bright sun, and lifted his face to sniff the pleasant, heather-scented breeze. Now, badgers are rather near-sighted, but even Bosworth could not fail to notice the two young persons sitting not far away, beside one of The Brockery’s many side entrances, one that had not been used for some time. The girl seemed to be writing something, whilst the boy was apparently drawing pictures.

Bosworth was accustomed to the fell walkers who occasionally climbed Holly How, and to the village boys who played explorer amongst the rocky crags. And he was always on the lookout for the detestable badger diggers who might come to the sett with their dogs and badger tongs and potato sacks, aiming to catch an unwary badger. But whilst Bosworth recognized the young fellow as someone who visited Holly How from time to time, he had not seen the girl before, and he regarded her inquisitively.

She was writing in a book. Bosworth was well acquainted with books, for he himself was an historian of some repute. Upon the death of his father, the Honorable Bosworth Badger XVI, he had assumed responsibility, not only for The Brockery Inn, but also for the official
History of the Badgers of the Land between the Lakes
and its companion project, the
Holly How Badger Genealogy
. The
History
and
Genealogy
were recorded in some two dozen leather-bound volumes in The Brockery’s library—quite the nicest room in the sett, Bosworth always felt, with its comfortable fire and leather armchairs and the carved oak table that served as his desk. In fact, he had spent the last hour there, recording the details of a kidnapping at the rock quarry at Hill Top Farm, from which a mother badger and her two young cubs had been recently taken by badger diggers. It was a tragic event and deserved to be recorded for future generations.

Bosworth had never seen a young female person writing, and he was intrigued, especially when he saw that she was crying. He was a soft-hearted fellow who found it difficult to turn away from a creature in distress. Lodgers temporarily down on their luck—like the fox with the injured leg, and the family of rabbits whose burrow had been flooded—were permitted to stay at The Brockery even when they could not pay their bill. And although he recalled the Badger First Rule of Thumb (“Do not on any account approach a human, for they are not trustworthy”), Bosworth began to wonder whether he should go over and inquire if there was something he might do to help.

However, just as he was hoisting his bulk out of the rocking chair, the girl stopped writing, wiped her eyes, and stowed her book in a biscuit tin. She and the boy exchanged a few words, after which she pushed the tin into . . . yes, into The Brockery’s side entrance! Then the two of them walked down Holly How together, in the direction of Tidmarsh Manor.

Bosworth frowned. He had no objection to the young person’s concealing her writing in his side entry, but he thought he ought to know what sort of writing it was, in case of—well, just in case. So he went round the hill, located the biscuit tin, and took out the book, which bore the legend
Kitchen Accounts
on its black leather cover.

Bosworth smiled. Ah, Kitchen Accounts. As the proprietor of The Brockery, he had to deal with things like this on a daily basis, so Kitchen Accounts were familiar, although he didn’t know quite why the girl should have been weeping over them—unless, of course, the Accounts were overdue or in a muddle, which frequently happened at The Brockery, in spite of Bosworth’s best efforts. But when he opened the book to the first page, he saw to his great surprise that these accounts were not written in any language that he could read.

“Why, bless my stripes,”
Bosworth muttered. He turned the page in some puzzlement, for he was a linguist as well as a historian, and knew a great many languages. But Page Two was much like Page One, written in writing that looked exactly like writing. The sentences (if that’s what they were) began with a capital letter and ended with a period, but in between there was only an unreadable jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols:

Sr%jm# kqm sp*nn ergx2.

Frowning, the badger turned the book upside down to see if this might improve matters, but finding that it did not, turned it right-side up and studied it again. At last, in some puzzlement, he returned the book to the biscuit tin and the biscuit tin to its hiding place and sat back on his haunches, thoughtfully scratching his chin with his right hind paw and wondering what he should make of this mystery.

Indeed, it was the second mystery (the third, if one counted the badger kidnapping at the Hill Top quarry) that Bosworth had recently encountered. Very early that morning, just as the sun had peered over Claife Heights to inquire what sort of day it was going to be in the Land between the Lakes, Bosworth had ambled around the hill and down, aiming for the sheep fold above Holly How Farm. The meals at The Brockery were ably prepared by Parsley, a young badger of some culinary talent, but Bosworth liked to go out for breakfast once a week or so. Earthworms were plentiful under the dew-wet grass of the stone-fenced fold, which was chiefly used at sheep-clipping time and when the ewes and lambs were to be sorted and sold.

The farmer, old Ben Hornby, was evidently intending to sell some of his Herdwicks, for the evening before, he had put two ewes and three lambs in the fold. Bosworth (who had quite a wide view from the rocking chair on his front porch) had watched him do this. It was quite natural, then, that the badger should expect to have company for breakfast—not a problem, of course, since badgers and sheep have shared the same fellsides and patches of tasty turf for eons.

Indeed, Bosworth was rather looking forward to hearing the latest gossip from Tibbie, the chief Herdwick ewe, who could always be counted on to know the news. The Herdwicks were given free range upon the fellsides, for they had an unerring sense of direction and a very strong sense of place. They were heafed to their native pasture, it was said, and required neither shepherd nor bell-wether to take them to and from the fell. On their travels, Herdwicks were always encountering other Herdwicks who came from as far away as Dungeon Gyll or Borrowdale or even Seathwaite Tarn, and there was always a great deal of news to trade. In fact, the animals always said that Herdwicks were better than newspapers, and that they could tell you anything from the price of wool in Carlisle to the weather in Ambleside to the number of lambs that had been born that spring. Bosworth was hoping that Tibbie had heard some word of a young badger of his acquaintance who had stayed briefly at The Brockery and then headed west and north, beyond Ambleside.

But he was to be disappointed, for when he reached the fold just after sunrise, he found the gate standing open and the enclosure empty. Tibbie, her twin lambs, and the other ewe and lamb were gone. For a moment, the badger stared around him, wondering whether old Ben Hornby had had second thoughts about selling his sheep, or whether a fell-walker had happened along and opened the gate, or whether Tibbie and the others had, for their own good reasons, decided to lift the hasp on the gate and take themselves off somewhere else.

But badgers abide by the animal axiom that it is an impropriety to inquire into the whereabouts of one’s absent friends and companions, for life in wood and field is prone to accident. (This is obliquely expressed in the Seventeenth Badger Rule of Thumb, which says, “Hold a true friend with both paws, but be willing to let him go when the time comes.”) And anyway, Bosworth knew that life is made up of things that go as one expects and things that don’t, so it is well to be flexible and adapt oneself to the current circumstance. And since what was wanted at this moment was breakfast, Bosworth ignored the fact that the fold was empty and began to poke his nose here and there under the grass. Within the half hour, he had completely satisfied his appetite for earthworms and was on his way back to Holly How.

But the mystery of the missing sheep had bothered the badger all the while he carried out his ordinary responsibilities of the day: discussing The Brockery’s dinner menu with Parsley; overseeing the two young rabbit maids, Flotsam and Jetsam, as they swept and dusted and made the lodgers’ beds; inventorying the items in the Supplies and Necessities Closet; reading his post, which contained a chatty missive from a distant cousin who lived in the Wild Wood, far to the south; and penning that sad note in the
History,
regarding the kidnapping of the mother badger and two cubs from the Hill Top sett.

And now, to the morning’s mystery of the missing Herdwicks, Bosworth could add the equally puzzling mystery of the afternoon: What was the meaning of the unintelligible writing in the girl’s Kitchen Accounts? What sort of secret might be concealed in such cryptic sentences as the one that kept teasing Bosworth, as if it were a puzzle to be solved, or some sort of mystic chant:

Sr%jm# kqm sp*nn ergx2.

5

Sarah Barwick Makes a Mess

The afternoon had turned overcast and sultry, and Sawrey drowsed in the growing July heat. Clouds of tiny midges—thunderflies, people called them—very small and black, and thought to be a sign of a coming storm, gathered in the air all over the village. In the garden of Tower Bank House, they annoyed Dimity Woodcock no end. She had tucked a sprig of rue behind one ear and a sprig of southernwood behind the other, hoping that the herbs’ strong scents would fend them off, but to no avail. And whilst thunderflies didn’t bite or sting, they got in one’s eyes and one’s mouth and were certainly aggravating.

The garden had been without rain for too long, and Dimity was trying to catch up with the gardening chores, which probably seemed as overwhelming to old Fred Phinn (who came twice a week to putter around the borders) as they did to her. The lettuces, past their prime, were ready to bolt; the parched-looking roses and lupines, drooping with heat exhaustion, pleaded for a good sprinkle; and the couch grass, chickweed, and groundsel, always especially insubordinate at this time of year, were clearly plotting a major invasion of the flower borders.

But between the thunderflies getting into her eyes and the disagreeable recollection of Lady Longford’s words still ringing in her ears—not to mention the ominous cloud of second thoughts regarding the Flower Show that hung over her head—Dimity could not keep her attention on her tasks. At last, with a sigh of exasperation, she threw down her garden trowel, got to her feet, and brushed the leaves from her skirt. There was no use in trying to work when she was vexed—and she was certainly vexed this afternoon. What she needed was a cup of tea and some good, strong, mind-rattling conversation. And the only place in the village where she could get both together was just on the other side of the stone wall along the edge of the garden, at Anvil Cottage, where Sarah Barwick lived.

Sarah Barwick was a newcomer to Sawrey. In the previous autumn, she had inherited Anvil Cottage upon the death of Miss Agnes Tolliver, an elderly lady who had been greatly respected for her many good works. The villagers were astonished when they learnt that Miss Tolliver had not left the cottage to her nephew, as everyone naturally expected, but to the daughter of a man whom she had loved in her youth and had been forbidden to marry. Most people in Sawrey had an inborn wariness when it came to off-comers like Miss Barwick and Miss Potter, who had purchased Hill Top Farm at about the same time that Anvil Cottage landed so unexpectedly in Sarah’s lap. However, the villagers understood that such things, whilst regrettable, were beyond their control, and most had had settled into a cautious acceptance of their two new neighbors.

But if the village thought that Miss Barwick might become another Miss Agnes Tolliver, they were mightily mistaken, for it soon became clear that she was one of those “New Women” who were always pointing out ways that women could take charge of their lives and change things for the better. The most striking evidence of this was her appearance, for Miss Barwick, whilst she occasionally dressed like all the other respectable Sawrey ladies in a dark serge skirt and a white cotton blouse, much preferred trousers. In fact, she had several pairs in different colors—black, brown, blue, and dark green—all fully cut for maximum comfort, and she wore them on every possible occasion. Dimity privately thought that Sarah looked quite smart in her trousers, and even her brother Miles had been heard to comment that it was rather a sensible get-up, if somewhat outlandish. But the rest of the village could express nothing but consternation.

The second thing that had alarmed the village was Miss Barwick’s green bicycle. Bicycles had long since ceased to be a novelty, of course. Henry Stubbs bicycled to and from his work at the ferry landing every day, and the boy who carried the newspaper from Hawkshead came on a bicycle, as did several of the men who worked on outlying farms. And there was the Esthwaite Vale Cycling Club, sporting gentlemen who cycled as fast and as far as they could through the moors and fells. Sarah Barwick, however, was the only female in the district who regularly rode a bicycle, and in
trousers
! The village was shocked, and several had forcefully suggested to the vicar that he discuss the matter with Miss Barwick, which he wisely declined to do.

Dimity herself suspected that behind this criticism was the recognition that women who rode bicycles enjoyed an unusual degree of mobility, and that mobility led to independence, and
that
—as all of the men in the village very well knew—might create all sorts of problems. Why, a wife who rode a bicycle to Hawkshead in the afternoon might not arrive home in time to cook her poor husband’s supper, and him bone-weary after a day’s hard work. And if she was gadding about on her bicycle, who would iron his shirts or scrub the floor? Yes, indeed, in more ways than one, Miss Barwick was a danger.

As Dimity looked over the wall in the direction of Anvil Cottage, she saw the sinister green bicycle leaning against the fence. Concluding that its owner was at home, she went through the gate between their two gardens and down the path, and knocked.

“Yoo-hoo, Sarah!” she called. “It’s Dimity. I’m in dire need of some tea and talk. Are you free?”

“Oh, bother,” said a very cross voice.

Dimity sighed. “Well, of course, it can wait, if you’re busy. I’ll come back later.”

Sarah had her own bakery business at Anvil Cottage, and she was usually busy with something or another—making scones and Cumberland sausage rolls or baking bread or experimenting with this or that new recipe. But baking was the sort of thing one did with one’s hands whilst one talked, and Dimity and her friend had enjoyed a great many conversations and pleasant cups of tea whilst Sarah mixed and kneaded and stirred and stoked the stove and wielded her rolling pin.

“Oh, BLAST!” the voice roared. This was followed by a loud clattering noise, as if something had fallen from a height and rolled across the floor. “No, not
later,
” the voice said. “Now. And of course, you’re not a bother, Dim. Or a blast, either—that’s just my tongue talking. But do mind your feet as you come in. There’s treacle and milk all over the floor.”

“Treacle!” Dimity exclaimed, standing on the threshold. “And milk?”

“Yes, treacle and milk,” Sarah said grimly. “Puddles of it.” She was on her hands and knees with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water. “And sugar. And flour.”

“Sugar and flour,” Dimity said in a wondering tone. She looked down at a spreading patch of brown treacle, which was streaked with milk, dotted with several volcanic islands of sugar, and dusted with flour. Sarah’s kitchen was never spotless, far from it, but Dimity didn’t remember ever seeing such a catastrophe as this. “I don’t suppose I should ask what happened,” she remarked tentatively.

“It’s these damned thunderflies,” Sarah replied through her teeth. “
They
did it. What I need is some flypaper strips, but Lydia Dowling says she’s sold all they had.” She scrambled to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

No one could call Sarah Barwick handsome, for she had a horsey face, a freckled nose, and a square, determined jaw—attributes rarely considered beautiful in a woman. But her dark hair was thick and shining and her eyes revealed both intelligence and humor. She was wearing a skirt today, tucked up and showing a trim ankle, and Dimity saw treacle smeared on her cheek, treacle dribbled on her white apron, and white flour dusting her hair.

“And if it’s not completely cleaned up,” Sarah went on grimly, “the treacle will get into all the cracks, and then there will be ants. And if thunderflies aren’t
evil
enough,” she added, dropping to her knees again and applying her scrub brush fiercely, “ants are positively diabolical.”

“But I don’t see how the thunderflies managed to—”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Sarah looked up with a dark scowl. “Well, I wouldn’t have upset the treacle pot if I hadn’t been trying to slap the flies out of my eyes. And when I tried to catch the pot before it rolled off the table, the milk jug flew off. And when the milk went, the sugar canister fell over and the lid came off and it spilt. And just now, when you came to the door, I hit the table leg with my elbow and down came the flour bin.” She bit her lip and her mouth twisted. “Don’t look, Dim. I’m going to cry, and I’m an awful sight when I cry.”

“I won’t look,” Dim said compassionately. “Stay where you are, Sarah, and I’ll get another bucket. This is a job for two.”

Sarah sighed and rubbed her nose. “It’s a job for ten, or—better yet—a team of floor-cleaning fairies. But thanks, Dim. I’m desperate. I’ll take all the help I can get.”

So for the next half hour, the two women scrubbed and scraped and emptied buckets of dirty water and filled fresh ones, until the milk and treacle and sugar and flour had been washed completely off the floor.

“Well,” Sarah said, getting to her feet, “I don’t think this floor has been so clean since dear Miss Tolliver was alive. I can bake a very nice loaf of bread, but I daresay I’m not nearly the housekeeper she was.” She made a rueful face. “The flour does have a way of getting all over, even when I’m careful.”

Tactfully, Dimity said, “I see that the kettle is hot. I’ll make us some tea.” And five minutes later, the two were sitting down to freshly brewed cups of tea and a plate of Sarah’s lemon bars, which were decorated with tiny bits of candied orange peel.

“Cover those lemon bars, Dim,” Sarah said, handing her a napkin, “or the thunderflies will track all over them with their nasty little feet. And then tell me what you came to tell me. You sounded as if you were dreadfully upset about something.”

“What I came to—” Dimity laughed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Sarah. Your calamity drove mine right out of my head.”

“If a little thing like treacle could distract you, your calamity must not have been so calamitous after all.” Sarah took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Cigarettes, along with the trousers and the bicycle, marked her as a New Woman.

“Yes, it is,” Dimity replied, sobering. “It’s horrible. It’s appalling. For Margaret Nash, at least. And for the children at the school. And on top of all that, there’s the Flower Show. Mrs. Wharton can’t possibly be permitted to judge the dahlias again, or we shall have a rebellion on our hands. But I don’t know how to tell her without—” She was interrupted by a knock at the kitchen door. “Why, Miss Potter!” she exclaimed in surprise, glancing up. “I didn’t know you were back in the village! How very nice to see you.”

“I thought we agreed,” Sarah said sternly, “that we would all use first names. Hullo, Beatrix. If you’ll look down, you’ll see that you’re walking on the cleanest floor that ever was.”

“How extraordinary,” Beatrix said, bending over for a close examination. “It’s cleaner than Mathilda Crook’s kitchen floor, which is saying a great deal, considering that she washes it every morning, whether it needs it or not.” She straightened, her china-blue eyes twinkling. “I don’t suppose I ought to ask how it got to be so clean.”

“A great lot of treacle and milk and even more elbow grease,” Sarah rejoined cheerfully. “However, all’s well that ends well. Dim has a story she’s dying to tell us, though. You’ll want a cup of tea whilst you listen. And you should try one of my lemon bars, too. You’ll like them.” She got up and fetched another cup, poured it full, and set it in front of Beatrix. “All right, Dim,” she commanded. “Fire away.”

With a sigh, Dimity told Beatrix and Sarah about Lady Longford’s visit. “It’s her intention,” she added, “that the trustees interview Dr. Gainwell as soon as possible after he arrives. She insists that he’s the best-qualified person for the job. Anyway, he’s the one
she
wants,” she added, “no matter whether he’s qualified or not.”

“I don’t understand,” Sarah said, frowning. She tapped her cigarette ash into her saucer. “Who is this Lady Longfellow, that she can dictate who is going to be the next head teacher?”

“Longford,” Dimity corrected.

“Oh, I know her name,” Sarah said, waving away several inquisitive thunderflies. “I know where she lives, too, for I’ve delivered there. Her cook, Mrs. Beever, orders two loaves a week of my best white bread, and wants a ginger cake for this coming Wednesday. Her ladyship professes a great liking for my ginger cake, it seems. She thinks it helps to settle her stomach. I oughtn’t speak ill of a customer, I suppose. But who
is
she?”

“She’s the wealthiest woman in the district,” Dimity replied. “And a truly disagreeable old thing. She mostly keeps to herself these days, and we don’t see much of her in the village. But until he died, her husband was involved in everything—judging agricultural shows and being president of the Sawrey Institute and buying a piano for the school and helping out the poorer families with coal during the worst of the winter. He was a bit of a busybody, but his heart was in the right place. He was also a school trustee—which, I suppose, makes her think that she has the right to interfere.”

“And who is this Gainwell person?” Beatrix asked, with interest. “What is his chief claim to fame?” She looked at Sarah. “These bars are very good, Sarah. When I go back to London, I’d like to take some with me. My mother would enjoy them, I’m sure. She’s very fond of sweets.”