The Tale of Applebeck Orchard

by Susan Albert

  “Thank you, Professor,” the badger said loudly, rattling his cup. Once the professor began to lecture, one had to plug a stopper in the flow however one could, or one was in for it. But it was already too late.

  “—Simply lacking in females,” the owl went on, not noticing. “Which is not tooo say that the fairer sex lacks the finer feeling. Oooh nooo, not a bit! It is only tooo say that our charming females lack the disciplined, deep understanding of fundamental truths that is granted tooo males, and are consequently unable tooo undertake abstract speculation in those intellectually demanding branches of knowledge, such as history or philosophy or the sciences. This was the view of the great Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) and I myself am of the same opinion, for which reason I am strenuously opposed tooo female suffrage. Females dooo not have the intellect required tooo cast a considered vote, nor dooo they—”

  He was (thank heaven!) interrupted by the opening of the front door. “Parsley says to tell you that lunch is ready, Uncle,” said a crisp young female voice. “Cold cucumber soup and cress sandwiches.” It was Hyacinth herself, an attractive badger with a gleaming black and silver coat, a long, delicate snout, and a very pretty black nose, as shiny as patent leather. Bosworth was not her blood uncle, but she (like Thorn) had adopted the term as an endearment, and he liked it.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Gratefully, the badger stood and brushed scone crumbs from his fur. “Will you join us, Owl? There’s plenty, you know. And I should like to hear more about what you saw the night the haystack burnt.”

  Indeed, there was always plenty. The corollary to the Fifth Rule of Thumb (regarding hospitality) was that a badger’s table should be spread in generous abundance, with enough food for any visitors who happened by at mealtime. As a consequence, a great many visitors made it a definite point to happen by at mealtime, and almost every seat was almost always occupied.

  But the owl had another urgent appointment. “Lunch!” he hooted. “My stars—is it that late already? My midday nap has been expecting me for the past quarter-hour, and I dooo not

  like tooo keep it waiting.” He pulled his flying goggles down over his great round eyes and raised his wings. “Mind what I say, Badger. Surely there is an alternative tooo—” He cast a significant look at Hyacinth. “You take my meaning, I am sure,” he added. And with that, he lifted himself heavily into the air.

  The owl’s precipitous departure leaves us rather dissatisfied, I should think. I for one would like to have heard more about the cloaked and bonneted person who might have been responsible for Mr. Harmsworth’s haystack catching fire—although since she, or he, was carrying a lantern, perhaps it was accidental, rather than deliberate.

  I would also like to give the professor a good, hard shake on account of his attitude toward females, although I know it wouldn’t change a thing. This owl may be very learned, but he (like everyone else in this story; indeed, like all of us) is the product of his times and cannot help himself. And he is certainly no more bigoted and intolerant than that celebrated philosopher, the eminent Immanuel Kant, whose ideas he has borrowed. I must warn you that, in the course of our story, we shall hear more comments like these, and counsel you to keep your temper.

  Bosworth sighed as he gathered up the cups and the empty plate and put them all on the tray. An alternative to Hyacinth? If there were, he had not yet come up with the name. And for the life of him, he couldn’t think why there should be any serious objection to her.

  But then, he was only a badger. The professor and Mr. Kant certainly knew better. It was a perplexing problem, a conundrum. Perhaps he should put off making a decision until he’d had time to think some more.

  “Let me, Uncle,” Hyacinth said, adding the teapot to the tray and taking it from him. “I wonder if you’ve heard about the closing of the Applebeck Footpath.”

  “The professor was just mentioning it,” Bosworth said, holding the door open for Hyacinth. Really, she was such a capable badger. Surely—“You’ve heard about the situation, then?”

  “I happened to run into Fritz the ferret last night, near the rabbit warren. He told me that the path was closed off. Wire and sticks and staves and tar, he said.”

  “Ah, Fritz,” Bosworth remarked. They were walking down the hall. “Not a very sociable creature, I’m afraid. Standoffish.”

  “Oh, he’s just shy,” Hyacinth said in a cheerful tone, over her shoulder. “He’s much friendlier after you’ve got acquainted. Did you know he’s an artist?”

  “No, I must say I didn’t know.”

  “He does very fine work, Uncle. And he’s such a great source of information. You know how ferrets love to snoop. Regular detectives, they are—you can’t keep a thing from them. Anyway, he told me that Mr. Harmsworth had closed off the path. He also said that he had seen something mysterious on the night the haystack burnt.”

  “Mysterious?” Bosworth asked. “What was it?”

  “A figure in an old-fashioned bonnet and cloak, he said, carrying a lantern—one of those old-time candle lanterns. I tried to get him to tell me more, but that was all he would say.”

  A cloak and bonnet? Why, that was what the owl had reported, Bosworth thought. So they had both seen the same thing. As an historian, he always appreciated confirmations. And confirmations from two unrelated sources were the very best.

  Hyacinth was going on. “Anyway, what Fritz said about the barricades made me curious about the path—how long it has been in use and all that sort of thing. So I took the liberty and looked it up in the History. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind!” exclaimed the badger. “Why, bless my stripes, I don’t mind at all, my dear. You may make free of the History anytime you like. And what did you discover? The path has been in public use for a very long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Hyacinth replied. “And what’s more, I discovered an interesting mystery about that path—and about the orchard, as well.” She gave an excited little laugh. “It appears that the orchard is haunted, Uncle! And I think it’s entirely possible that the ferret actually saw the ghost!”

  Bosworth paused. “Now that you mention it, I believe I do recall my great-grandmother speaking of a ghost—a human ghost, that is, the ghost of a woman—who occasionally appeared in Applebeck Orchard.”

  Casting his mind back into the far distant past, he could see himself as a tiny badger, sitting at Great-Grandmother’s knee in front of the winter fire and listening to her old, cracked voice as she told the stories her own great-grandmother had told her, many badger lifetimes ago. But it was no wonder that he had forgotten, for Great-Grandmother had told many stories and most of them had been ghost stories, in one way or another, since animals have a very strong sense of the immanent and pervasive realities of the spirit world. The Fourteenth Rule of Thumb states it very clearly: Our badger ancestors have crossed the bridge to the Back of Beyond, but their spirits are constantly with us, in the form of what humans like to call “ghosts.” The prudent badger is mindful of their presence, and always behaves as if he is in the company of watchful elders.

  “That’s the one,” Hyacinth said excitedly. “The ghost of Applebeck Orchard!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember the details of that particular ghost,” Bosworth remarked ruefully. “There have been so many.” It was true. The Land Between the Lakes sometimes seemed peopled by ghosts, who were often said to take an active hand in human affairs. But in this case, Bosworth thought he ought to remember, and felt a twinge of worry. It was just one more sign of his growing forgetfulness.

  “Perhaps the ghost’s story is recorded in the History,” he added. The dozen large, leather-bound volumes contained thousands of pages, all covered with neat, tiny writing. It was impossible for even the most devoted badger historian to have read them all.

  “It is, indeed,” Hyacinth replied. “And it’s fascinating. Apparently, the ghost only appears when there’s trouble in store for the village. In fact, I wonder if she might have something to do wit
h—”

  But they had reached the kitchen. Parsley took the tray from Hyacinth and set her to work filling the soup tureen, while Bosworth was handed a plate of cress sandwiches and a stack of napkins to carry to the table. So we shall have to contain our souls in patience until lunch is over, the washing-up done, and Hyacinth and Bosworth can sit down together and read their ghost story.

  And in the meantime, we have something else to do. When we left Miss Potter at the end of Chapter Five, she was on her way to answer a knock at her door. I think it is time to go and see who is calling at Hill Top Farm.

  7

  Miss Potter Accepts an Assignment

  To Beatrix’s great relief, the person knocking at the door was not Mr. Heelis. It was Margaret Nash, of Sawrey School. She was carrying a cloth-covered basket.

  “Welcome back to the village, Beatrix,” Margaret said with a smile, and held out the basket. “I’ve brought you a jar of jam and half a loaf of Annie’s fresh-baked soda bread, as a special thank-you for the books you sent for the library shelf at school. The children practically read them to tatters last spring.”

  Beatrix stepped back. “How very kind of you, Margaret.” She took the basket. “I’ve been thinking of you, as well. And your sister. Come in, won’t you? The kettle’s hot—we can have tea in just a moment.”

  “Why, thank you,” Margaret said. “I’d love to.” She was a slender, brown-haired woman with a high forehead, wide cheekbones, and a cheerful expression that gave her a youthful look and made her pretty, in a modest sort of way. Today, she was dressed in her usual working costume, a simple ivory shirtwaist and brown skirt, although since it was summer, her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and she wore a wide-brimmed cream-colored straw hat that shaded her face. Like Beatrix, Miss Nash was a spinster—married, everyone said, to Sawrey School and the children who passed through its doors and then went on to marry and have children of their own, who became her pupils in their turn. She was held in considerable esteem in the village, for (after many years of serving as the teacher of the infant class) she was now the school’s headmistress, one of the highest positions an unmarried woman might hope to achieve in most of England at that time.

  Beatrix undid the paper-wrapped parcel she had brought in her satchel and took out a packet of tea. “I’ve brought some Earl Grey. Would you like it?”

  “That will be a great treat,” Margaret said, taking off her hat and sitting down at the oak table. “The Hawkshead shops seem never to have it, and when I went over to Kendal, I couldn’t find it there, either.” Margaret could remember her growing-up years in a farming village not far from Liverpool, when China tea was still a luxury. Her mother, who knew all there was to know about herbs, brewed teas from their garden—peppermint and catmint and chamomile and medicinal teas, such as sage for stomach upsets and lavender for headaches. Now these old herb teas were nearly forgotten, replaced by China tea. Earl Grey was such a favorite that the shops could not keep it in stock.

  “I’m curious,” Beatrix said, pouring hot water from the kettle over the loose tea in the brown china teapot. “I’ve only just arrived, Margaret. How did you know I was here?”

  Appreciatively, Margaret sniffed the delicious aroma of bergamot and citrus that rose out of the teapot. “Why, Bertha Stubbs, of course. Who else?” During the school term, Margaret’s next-door neighbor at Lakefield Cottages also did daily work at the school—mopping, cleaning, keeping up the stoves. She was in the habit of voicing her opinion about anything and everything as loudly as possible, and carried on until she herself was ready to stop, and not before. “I’m afraid . . . That is—” Margaret took a deep breath. “The fact of the matter is that she happened to see you and Mr. Heelis driving together and . . . well, jumped to conclusions. ‘Contusions,’ as she put it.” Bertha was notorious for her unconventional use of language.

  Beatrix gave a vexed sigh. “I’m the one who’s likely to feel those ‘contusions.’ Stories about oneself—especially untrue stories—are as bad as a bruising.” She shook her head. “Bertha Stubbs will have me married off within the month, I’m afraid.”

  “Within the week is more like it,” Margaret said with a rueful laugh. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news, Beatrix. But I did think you ought to know.”

  “I’m glad you told me.” Beatrix squared her shoulders. “There’s no help for it, I suppose,” she added practically. “The villagers are going to say whatever they please. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that there is absolutely nothing between Mr. Heelis and myself.”

  Now, you and I know that this is not quite true, strictly speaking. There is something between Beatrix and Mr. Heelis, about the size and shape (in our modern way of putting it) of a very large elephant in a very small room. The difficulty was that Beatrix wished the elephant would go away, and could not, under any circumstances, admit the existence of such a creature to anyone else, not even to Margaret, whom she liked very much.

  Margaret shook her head quickly. “No, of course not,” she said, although from the way Beatrix’s cheeks had colored, she wondered whether Bertha Stubbs—who could be surprisingly perceptive, especially when one did not want her to be—might have glimpsed something close to the truth.

  Margaret had had her own romantic hopes for many years, although I am happy to say that Mr. Heelis was not the target. No. Enshrined in Margaret’s heart of hearts was Captain Woodcock. Not to put too fine a point on it, she thought him simply the most handsome, most intelligent, most reasonable, and kindest gentleman in all the world. In fact, there had been a brief time a few years before, when he had helped her gain appointment as headmistress of Sawrey School, that she had hoped . . .

  No again. Hoped is too strong a word. Margaret had only allowed herself to imagine—for merely a moment or two, or perhaps not even as long as that—what it would be like to be loved by such a man, to live with him in a house as grand as Tower Bank House, with Elsa Grape to do the cooking and a tweeny and an upstairs girl and old Fred Phinn in the garden. And she would have the management of the house and make sure that everything was comfortable and convenient for the captain, and that there were always clean collars and cuffs in his bureau drawer. And perhaps there would even be children, if—

  But that particular heaven was totally out of reach, not even worth the imagining, and Margaret knew precisely why. Captain Woodcock was a gentleman, and she was not a lady. She was a working woman, a school headmistress—not so very much different, when she thought about it, than being a schoolteacher. It scarcely mattered that he and she were of an age and both free, for he was a settled bachelor, quite handsome, and she was a spinster and plain. And of course, if she thought about it very long, she had to admit that she was not free at all. There was Annie, dear, dearest Annie, who could never in the world manage on her own, poor sweet soul, especially in the wintertime.

  And that was all there was to it, as Margaret knew very well. She was a practical person. Hoping was of no use and imagining was an utter waste of time, so she wasn’t going to indulge in either, at least for no more than a moment. But still—

  “And how is your sister?” Beatrix rummaged in her parcel and took out two lemons, a packet of sugar cubes, and a small box of biscuits. She picked up a knife and began to slice the lemons. “You said in your letter that she is not well.”

  Beatrix and Margaret had begun to correspond rather regularly, and Margaret usually included a few snippets of news in her letters. As headmistress, she was acquainted with all the local families, and Beatrix loved to hear what was going on in the village.

  “She’s a little better,” Margaret said cheerfully. “She’s usually well in the summer, you know. It’s the winter cold that does not agree with her.”

  Annie, two years younger than Margaret, walked with a limp due to an illness as a child, and had never fully recovered her strength. But she was always positive in her thinking and she worked as much as she was able. For a time, she’d been employed in the Far Saw
rey post office. Now she gave piano lessons at home and led the local choral group and cooked and kept the garden (with a little help from Henry Stubbs) and the cottage, which was always as bright and tidy and snug as Margaret could wish. In fact, if Margaret had reflected on the matter, she might have seen how much she depended on Annie for all the comforts of home. But she didn’t, and when she thought of it, it was always the other way round: Annie depended on her for love and strength and care. Not even the bit of money each of them had recently received from their father’s estate made any real difference.

  Beatrix put the sliced lemons on a plate. “Have you thought of moving to the south?” She lifted the cloth from the basket. “Oh, what a lovely loaf of bread! And shall we have some jam, as well?”

  “Yes, let’s,” Margaret replied. “It’s Annie’s strawberry jam, you know. We divide the labor. I pick and Annie jams. She sells quite a lot of it now. Sarah Barwick has put it on the counter in her bakery, and Lydia Dowling has it in her shop.” With a sigh, she folded her arms on the table. “The south would be much better for Annie, of course. But I should have to find a new position and we should have to up sticks and move and—”

  She laughed helplessly, thinking what a hugely unmanageable task it seemed. And of how much she loved the village and hated the thought of living anywhere else, which made her feel quite guilty, of course, for Annie would indeed fare better in a warmer climate. (I understand these confused feelings all too well, and I daresay you do, too.)

  “And school will be starting in just a few weeks,” she went on, pushing her guilt away. “So a change is quite out of the question for this year, I’m afraid. P’rhaps next.” Although they had been through this before, she and Annie, and Margaret knew very well that next year would be exactly the same, especially since Annie (whilst she sometimes expressed a vague longing for seeing the world beyond the village) had no very clear idea of where she wanted to move.