by N. C. Lewis
Uncle Tristan said, "Thank God you arrived here safely, my darling niece. To celebrate, here is a little ditty just for you." He cleared his throat, tilted his head towards the heavens, and with a flowery voice, half spoke, half sang:
"Across the stony ridges,
Across the Norfolk plain,
Young Maggie Darling, the pie-and-mash girl,
To Cromer, comes home again."
We both fell about laughing.
"Oh, Uncle, you embellish trivial things as if they were threads of silk," I said, enjoying the fuss.
"My darling Maggie, if only you knew."
"Knew what?" I said, playing the little guessing game.
Uncle Tristan turned to look at the train. "That I have awaited your return, as a dog his master."
"Oh, don't be silly!"
"Dear Maggie, the dark night of winter has turned into day. I feel like a man rescued from a remote island." He threw his arms around me again. "Thank God. Thank God!"
We parted, and with his free hand, he gathered the cape over his skinny knees and danced with the vigour of youth, waving the ball-tipped cane high in the air. Then he twirled around and gave a shout of joy. "Hooray. Young Maggie Darling, the pie-and-mash girl. To Cromer, comes home again. Hooray!"
I remembered my uncle as flamboyant, but this was too much. Other passengers turned to stare in our direction. I gave an embarrassed nod to Hilda Ogbern, a little goodbye wave to George Edwards and young Frank Perry, and a smile to the train guard who raised his hat.
Uncle Tristan tipped his head back and began to sing a popular London music-hall song. "Last week down our alley came a toff. Nice old geezer with a nasty cough… Come on, Maggie, we're celebrating, sing along with me…"
"Oh, Uncle, I can't sing for toffee! If I had to sing for my supper, I'd go hungry."
Uncle Tristan let out a long laugh, stepped back, and surveyed me from head to toe. "In this short interval, darling Maggie," he remarked amiably, "you have put off youth and blossomed into a mature woman. Dear me, how seventeen years have flown by!"
"You look good too, Uncle," I said with delight. But as I took him in, a small doubt crept into my mind. He was painfully thin, somewhat gaunt in the face, and the brightness I remembered that had twinkled like stars in his eyes seemed somehow dimmed.
Then there were his clothes.
His khaki cord breeches were too short in the legs and too baggy around the waist. The cape frayed at the edges, shirt faded, and short in the arms. And there was the silk scarf. I knew it was fashionable once, but that was many years before my birth. It was as if he'd stepped out in the wardrobe of a man who had lived seventy years earlier and a man with much shorter arms and legs at that.
Uncle Tristan must have seen the questioning look in my eyes, for he said, "Do you remember Mr Gunthorpe?"
"The old man who lived in Belham Cottage?"
"That's right. His mother was from Austria, high up in the mountains. She used to dress him in short trousers and wooden clogs year-round, stunted his growth, I reckon. The poor fellow died last February."
Saddened at the passing of the old man, I said, "When I was a child, I thought he was the oldest person in the world."
"He was ninety-eight and left four shillings and two pence in the Post Office Savings Bank, and was, thus, buried by the parish."
I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. That's not the most dignified send-off for a cornerstone of our community."
Uncle said, "Not to worry, the new vicar, Wilfred Humberstone, did a wonderful service and afterwards gave me Mr Gunthorpe's clothes. Everything I'm wearing, except the silk scarf."
A little spiderweb of concern crept into my mind. Sharing clothes of the deceased was common amongst the poor in London. The police were often called to break up fights between relatives over little more than rags. But I had always presumed Uncle Tristan to be well off, for he had lived a life of artistic adventure, and I was never aware of money in his presence.
I said, "Oh, Uncle, it was kind of you to accept the vicar's gift… but do you feel you have to wear the clothes without having them tailored?"
He waved the question away with a rather theatrical flourish. "Not a perfect fit, I'll give you that. But it would be disrespectful to Mr Gunthorpe's memory not to wear them as he intended."
I thought back to when Father bought the mangle for Nancy and sensed there was more to it. With a casual air to my voice, I said, "How is the business going?"
There was a moment of silence as Uncle Tristan tapped his cane on the wooden slats of the platform as if assessing its strength. "Dearest Maggie, we shall discuss such things tomorrow. Now let's get you over to Mrs Rusbridger's wonderful lodgings before nightfall."
Chapter 8
It was dark when we arrived at Mrs Rusbridger's boarding house. Overhead, the moon was a gorgeous buttery lantern in a greyish-purple sky. Only the faint noise of waves crashing on the nearby shore, the wistful wind in the trees overhead, and our footsteps on the gravel driveway broke the silence.
The house was built of rough grey-green stone. Clematis and tea roses grew along wooden trellises attached to the wall. The large leaded windows, with big oak beams that angled across the wide walls, gave the building a distinctive rustic look. A solitary oil lamp illuminated the entranceway. Uncle Tristan and I watched the shadows creep and dance in its flickering light.
"I remember this place," I said, looking around. "It used to be the King's Head Tavern."
"Ah, yes," said Uncle Tristan in a voice brimming with nostalgia. "Your father spent many a lazy Sunday afternoon in the old establishment. I, too, participated in their fine ales and meat pies as I thought up new poetic sonnets."
"When did it close down?"
"Years ago. We locals still refer to it as The Tavern, but the building lay abandoned for at least a decade. Lord Blackwood gave the property to his wife as a gift about three years ago. Lady Blackwood is a bit of a social reformer, and she turned it into a"—he paused as if searching for the words—"Victorian-style, ladies-only boarding house, and hired Mrs Rusbridger to run the place. It is a delightful guest house that conjures up a bygone era, with prices to match."
I'd seen remnants of Victorian accommodations in London. They still called them fourpenny dosshouses. In their grimy brick walls, the poor and desperate found room and board for a few coppers. I sucked in a deep breath as I recalled reading about a squabble between vagrants over a frying pan. They set the building alight, and everyone perished in the inferno.
"Uncle, are you sure this is a respectable establishment?"
"Lady Blackwood is a paragon of virtue, a pillar of our community, and as for Mrs Rusbridger, she is a no-nonsense woman, and a dear friend. When one is in need, she always comes through." Uncle Tristan knocked on the door with his cane. "Maggie, I'd have you stay at my lodgings, but I fear they are insufficient for your needs."
The front door creaked open. A tall, plump woman with a round face and saucers for eyes, peered out. She was around six feet in height with arms as thick as tree trunks. A mop of curly, grey hair peeked from under a ragged headscarf. "Yes?"
"Greetings, Mrs Rusbridger." Uncle Tristan gave a deep bow. "It is I, Mr Harbottle, with my niece, Maggie Darling."
Mrs Rusbridger opened the door wide and stepped onto the little porch. The night air filled with the fumes of cheap brandy. "Yes," she said again, this time adding a slight nod in my direction.
Uncle repeated his greeting. "It is I, Mr Harbottle, come with Maggie Darling, from London, to reside in your humble abode."
Her sharp green eyes blinked. "Yes."
Uncle Tristan stepped forward. The gentle glow of the lamp illuminated the concern that crossed his face. He tried again, "Miss Darling's room is ready, is it not?"
The woman placed a thick hand on her chin. She swayed from side to side for a moment, then her eyes narrowed. "Room?"
The single word knocked Uncle Tristan off his stride. He stumbled two steps back into the flickering s
hadows. "The lodgings we discussed for my dearest niece. She is here, down from London this very evening."
Mrs Rusbridger shook her head. "Mr Harbottle, I don't recall you booking a room." There was a heavy emphasis on the word booking.
"We discussed it, not four weeks ago," protested Uncle Tristan.
Again, Mrs Rusbridger shook her head. "Are you sure you made the booking?" Once again, there was a rather unusual emphasis on the last word.
The penny appeared to drop. Uncle Tristan fished around in the pockets of his Victorian cape. "Will two pennies be sufficient to secure entrance to your esteemed establishment?"
"Four."
Uncle eyed Mrs Rusbridger with the look of a wounded puppy. "Very well."
Mrs Rusbridger's thick hands grasped the coins. "I have a room at the back; that will 'ave to do. It's where my brother, Alan, died." She turned, and we followed her inside. "I've kept it just as it were when he was alive. Don't mind the mice, could do with another cat around here. Those little pests have been taking liberties since old Hoppy died. He were a good moggy."
The dark, narrow hallway smelled of lamp oil and bacon grease. A sudden pang of hunger cast my thoughts back to my uncle's letter.
We shall celebrate your arrival with a feast. Only the best Norfolk offers for my wonderful niece!
I inhaled hoping to catch the scent of something roasting on the fire. But no odour of a hearty roast filled my nostrils. No stewed vegetables, not even the faintest trace of steam from boiling water.
As if reading my thoughts, Uncle Tristan said, "Maggie, a plate of supper is in order. How about a large bowl of mulligatawny soup followed by three thick slices of roast beef, gravy, mustard, pickles, with a side of boiled cabbage?"
My stomach rumbled in agreement. "Delightful, that would go down a real treat."
Uncle Tristan said, "Mrs Rusbridger, can you rustle that up for Maggie, and I shall have a small plate of sardines with Gorgonzola cheese."
Mrs Rusbridger's head half turned. "Bread and lard is all we got."
Uncle Tristan waved his ball-tipped cane in annoyance. "Bread and lard!"
Mrs Rusbridger met him with a stony stare. "For four pennies, it's bread and lard or nothing."
"Tickety-boo," said Uncle with haste. "All that bread will remind our Maggie of her father in London. He's in the bakery business, you know, making a pretty penny in our capital city."
Mrs Rusbridger's oval eyes seemed to widen at the mention of money. "A killing in bakery goods?"
"Yes, yes. There are millions of hungry people in London. Bakeries can hardly keep up with the clamour for bread. Maggie's father is raking in the king's currency faster than you can crack an egg. Maggie will be your finest guest; her father would have it no other way." Uncle Tristan raised the ball-tipped cane to his head in a salute. "Are you sure you can't rustle up a stray tin of sardines?"
Mrs Rusbridger said, "I'll warm up some water for a pot of tea."
Uncle Tristan, the eternal optimist, replied, "To go with our sardines and Gorgonzola cheese?"
Mrs Rusbridger let out a savage grunt. "Now just you—"
"Bread and lard is wonderful," I said, interrupting. It was better than nothing. "A simple supper after a long journey is all one really needs."
The large woman turned, patted down a stray curl of hair, and for the first time, I saw the flicker of a smile across her face. "There is a quarter jug of milk in the larder, I'll add a splash with a little sugar to your tea and a nice dollop of brandy to warm your bones. As for you, Mr Harbottle, if you want to dine, that'll be four pennies."
Uncle Tristan beat a hasty retreat. "Maggie, you are in safe hands. Let us meet tomorrow at my business premises. It's on the town square, the top floor of John and Sons butcher shop. How does noon sound?"
"Isn't that a little late?" I was used to rising at 4 a.m.
"Nothing happens in Cromer before noon and even less at Tristan's Hands. Let's give the birds a chance to wake up and sing. Enjoy your supper. See you tomorrow."
Chapter 9
The following morning found me in good spirits. I had enjoyed a good night's sleep. I washed with cold water and put on a tailored tweed skirt, cotton blouse, and jacket. I wanted to look professional on my first day at Uncle Tristan's office.
In the kitchen, I enjoyed a good chat with Mrs Rusbridger along with a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham with bread, and tea. We talked about the bakery business, London, and she even shared that I was one of only three guests.
"The other ladies left at dawn for Norwich," she said. "So I packed 'em boiled eggs, cheese, pickles, and bread. Go on, 'ave another slice of ham. That's wild hog, caught by the new vicar over at Bagington Hall."
It was, therefore, with a full stomach and high spirits, I left the boarding house.
The gentle morning sun shone from a cloudless, blue sky as I strolled along the lane into the village. I had a full hour before noon and my meeting with Uncle Tristan. Although it had been seventeen years, the village had not changed a great deal, except many of the dirt tracks were now paved.
At the iron gates of Saint Magdalene, I stopped, adjusted my hair, and followed the rose-bush-lined flagstone path that led to the cemetery. I ambled amongst the oak trees and the graves, stopping here and there to read the headstones. I found the resting place of Mr Gunthorpe and paid my respects in quiet prayer.
With heavy steps, I turned towards a distant shaded area. My heartbeat quickened, and my mood became sombre. Walking more deliberately, I approached a clump of shrubs, beyond which lay, in the shade of an old oak tree, a single headstone.
I stopped at my mother's grave.
The land sloped gently away to a rocky stream. The rustle of water over the stones drifted faintly in the air with the musical tinkle of raindrops on a glass windowpane. Beyond the walled graveyard were hedgerows lit here and there by the mid-morning sun. The spot was all so rural and still.
A beautiful resting place for Mother.
As I stooped to clear away weeds at the base of the headstone, I saw a small china vase filled with wilted, brown roses. There was a little yellowed card at the side. I picked it up.
Scrawled in a thin, untidy hand were the words:
Miss you, big sister.
Tristan.
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"Miss you too, Mother. So does Father and little Nancy."
A sharp scuffling came from behind.
I spun around, expecting to see a rabbit or fox.
Nothing.
Standing very still, I scanned the tombstones, rosebushes, and oak trees.
Still nothing.
"Missed it!"
I half turned back towards my mother's tombstone, when, from the corner of my eye, a shadow flickered.
This time I spun around with speed.
The sun went behind a cloud, casting shadows across the tombstones. A figure, all in black, darted between the shrubs and crouched down low beside a statue.
There was a rapid whoosh of air followed by a high-pitched squeal. The figure stood up and hurried in my direction.
It was a man.
He carried a bow with a quiver filled with arrows slung across his shoulder.
And he was smiling.
"Wilfred Humberstone." He adjusted his dog collar. "I'm the new vicar."
He was a short, thickset man in his sixties, with a large nose, heavy moustache, ruddy complexion, and bright, piercing eyes.
With a half curtsy, half bow, I said, "Maggie Darling, nice to meet you."
The vicar beamed and encased my hand in strong, rough, calloused fingers. They felt more like those of a working man than an office-bound priest. Instantly, I warmed to Vicar Humberstone.
"Maggie Darling," said the vicar, rolling the words around his mouth as if savouring a fine wine. "Ah, yes, Mr Harbottle's niece. Your uncle has had a rum time of things. Are you down from London to stay?"
I should have answered with a question like "What on earth were you doin
g crouching behind headstones with a bow and arrow?" or "Tell me more about Uncle Tristan's problems." But his natural smile and soft voice threw me off. I said, "I've come down to help with my uncle's business."
The vicar's eyes dropped to the headstone. "And to visit your mother."
A sob caught in my throat. I nodded and said, "Seventeen years since Mother left us."
The vicar touched my shoulder. "Dear, your Uncle Tristan told me all about her. She sounded like a wonderful person. I would have loved to have met her."
Together, we stood in silence under the branches of the oak tree. Birds chirped. The breeze rustled through the leaves.
After a long moment, the vicar pulled out a silver hip flask, took a quick sip, then said, "Medicinal purposes. The doctor says it keeps the airways clear." He nodded towards the bow. "Old fashioned, I know. The wife overfeeds the vicarage cats. I use the bow and arrows to keep the rats down. Much better than shooting. The only downside is the cunning rodents make a terrible racket when you miss 'em."
I laughed then said, "Sounded like a soul screaming from hell."
Again, the vicar chuckled. "That's a clever way of putting it. The bow and arrow are my little pastime. I enjoy it for hunting too: more natural than a gun. The sound of an arrow attracts less attention than the sharp crack of a bullet."
"I can't say I really see the difference, at least for the rat."
"Well, it really comes into play when I'm hunting pheasant or game in the grounds of Bagington Hall. West Wood is the best spot for that. Nice and quiet. A gun would make a terrible racket and alert the gamekeeper…" His face flushed. He'd said more than he intended. "Not that I endorse poaching, but there's nothing quite like braised pheasant with roast potatoes and apple sauce for Sunday afternoon dinner, is there?"
Chapter 10
Tristan's Hands was through John and Sons butcher shop, up a narrow flight of stairs, at the end of a short corridor. It was a small loft with a tiny window, bare wooden floors, and exposed brick wall. The air hung with a thick, unidentifiable stench.
