by Kate Seredy
“Oh no, thank you very much,” Mother said politely. “We’ll have to go too .
“I’ll walk up the road with you, Mr. Van Keuran,” Gran offered briskly and trotted after the tall farmer.
Father sat down, gazing after her with a deep frown on his forehead. “You know, Molly,” he said musingly, “I really believe that Mom had made up her mind last week that we were NOT going to that camp . . . and by golly . . . she won!”
He rose and stretched. His arms reached for Dick and Janet and his smile reached for Mother. “Come on, family, let’s inspect what used to be the best farm in Orange County. Then I’ll get the car and we’ll go to a hotel for the night. Tomorrow I’ll put the place into some realtor’s hands. Temporarily I’m out three hundred dollars but we have a ‘valuable hound.’ ”
“Gee, Bluebell out of My Own Lass . . . what does it all mean?” Dick asked, unfastening the dog’s chain.
“My Own Lass was her mother and Pride of Orange her father,” Mother explained, patting the pup on her smooth little head. “Quite a lady . . . aren’t you, sweet?”
Janet wrinkled her nose. “Do we HAVE to call her Bluebell? She’s just Funnyface to me.”
“Me too, huh, Funnyface?” Dick took the little dog’s head between his hands and got an immediate and very moist answer. “Funnyface it is, she likes it so,” cried Dick and raced toward the house with the dog in the lead.
CHAPTER IV
THE MASTER SWITCH
A good deal later they were sitting on the sagging porch steps; a tired and bewildered family. The yard was now deserted; everyone had driven away, for the sale was over. Only their own car sat heavily on the drive, its load leaning perilously toward the slope. There was a promise of evening coolness in the air and the hush of summer twilight. Long blue shadows crept higher and higher on the hills beyond the road; the narrow valley was slowly flooded with shadows. Funnyface, exhausted but happy, sat close to Dick, her head resting in the crook of his arm. Her eyes were closed but she was not asleep; the soft thump-thump-thump of the tip of her tail proclaimed that.
On the far side of the yard the rambling mass of barns and sheds looked huge and forbidding. Doors yawned wide open, disclosing dark emptiness beyond and the few ancient pieces of machinery that had not been removed by their new owners, crouched like so many nightmarish monsters. From the branches of a dark spruce came a soft rustling flurry and a screech owl cried eerily. Mother shivered, drawing closer to Father. “Spooky.”
“It is that, and more,” Father sighed. “Everything gone to ruin . . . the house a shambles . . . it’s hopeless.”
“It must have been a sweet place though,” Mother mused. “Now that I can’t see the dirt, the peeling paint, where there is any paint,” she twisted to cast a glance at the doorway behind them, “I can just imagine how perfectly lovely this entrance must have been. Those paneled sidelights on the door and that sweeping stairway. . . .”
Father suppressed a yawn. “Yeah. And those charming bedsprings gracefully drooping against the wall that Lou Felter couldn’t even give away. Just . . . ducky! The house is as big as a barn too . . .”
“I counted fourteen rooms, Dad,” Janet chimed in. “Most of them have fireplaces but you can’t make them work. I looked for the switches; there aren’t ANY.”
“Did you see that big rusty iron thing in . . . in the big room that has the little cubbyholes . . . kitchen, is it, Dad? The big black iron thing I mean, with the doors. Is it a furnace?”
“No. That is just a kitchen range. Common garden variety of a man-killing kitchen range . . . of the same vintage probably as the one Gran was reminiscing about,” Father explained, then he burst out: “Where in thundering tarnation is that scheming grandmother of yours anyway?”
“I’m hungry!” Janet’s plaintive refrain made Father feel still worse.
“Hungry! What do you think I am?” he groaned. “If you hadn’t started that everlasting hungry business of yours, young lady, we would be all settled in a civilized place right this minute instead of . . .“ He paused and went on in a gentle voice, “Sorry, kid it’s my fault. I am terribly sorry, Molly,” he turned to Mother, “for landing you in this predicament.”
Mother laughed. “It seems to me we all did our share, but Gran did the landing! Maybe it was Fate or something . . .” She started to yawn too and she sighed: “Oh but I am tired and sleepy and I feel like a chimney sweep. I’d give anything for a hot bath.”
“They haven’t any bathrooms here,” Janet stated calmly. Dick giggled. “THEY haven’t? WE are the ones who haven’t. It’s our house . . .” Funnyface interrupted with a threatening puppy growl. Then she burst into a shrill bark and galumphed toward the road. A deep voice said: “Hush your noise, Bluebell; you ought to know me.”
“Sounds like Mr. Van Keuran,” Father said, peering toward the road. “And Gran. Good! Now we can get going.”
“Oh here you are, Mr. Preston . . . good evening,” said Mr. Van Keuran. He walked by them straight up the porch steps. His arms were full of bundles. Gran, also carrying as much as she could hold, was right behind him.
“Where do you want these things now?” he asked her.
“In the kitchen. Just put them any place; I’ll manage from now on. Tomorrow I may ask for the loan of some . . .“ Gran’s brisk voice faded as both disappeared in the dark house. A surprised “WELL,” was all Father could manage. Mother was past being surprised; she just hunched her shoulders and sighed. After a while Mr. Van Keuran appeared in the doorway again. He leaned against the doorjamb and started to fill his pipe.
“I didn’t know you folks were real country people,” he said in a comfortable, gossipy voice. “Mrs. Preston gave me a hand with the milkin’ and she sure can make the pail sing.”
Father choked on something.
“How was that, Mr. Preston?”
“Oh, I only said . . . she sure can . . . do anything,” Father said.
“Yessir. Grand old lady. We had ourselves a real visit. She says your
family came from Oneonta ways . . . we may be kinfolk for all we know. Good old-time stock the Prestons . . . used to have a big farm near my Grandfather’s place. Funny thing . . .” he chuckled, settling his back against the doorjamb more comfortably, “when I first laid eyes on you today, I said to myself . . . another city slicker. We get them once in a while . . . fellers who think farmin’ is quick, easy money. They come and go. We give them seven years on the outside, Spend a lot of money foolin’ with livestock ‘n buy all new fangled tractors, gadgets for the house . . . then get their bellyful losin’ money and pffth—back they go to the city. Yessir. But, when you spoke up with that bid of three thousand dollars . . . well, sir that was a real smart thing to do.” He chuckled and drew a few noisy puffs. “Hit it right on the nose . . . smack, like that! Ha-ha! Scared old Charlie Houtaling right out of his breeches. Smart, that. Yessir.”
“Oh . . . I just took a chance,” Father said uncertainly.
“Can’t tell me that, young feller . . . not after my visit with your Ma. Charlie, he thought he had the place as good as bought. ‘Go as high as four thousand in a pinch,’ he said, ‘but not a penny more.’”
“Why didn’t he?” Mother quavered.
“Ha! That’s where you were smart. Come in here, decked up like a city slicker, holler right out, real anxious-like before Lou could even wind up to a good cry . . . bingo! Charlie just pulls in his horns and says to me he says: ‘Goldarn it, I am’ going to bid against that feller. He’s slick, he is, slick like a greased pig. I’ll quit, says Charlie, afore I git fightin’ mad and get hooked with a high bid. So off he walks, real put out like, ‘n you get the farm. And you ain’t no seven year come’n go bird, not with a Ma like yours.”
“No . . . oh no, I’m sure of that,” Mother said hurriedly. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“Took a likin’ to the place already . . . have you!” said Mr. Van Keuran with deep satisfaction. “Good. Well then,” he detached himse
lf from the door, “I’ll be over tomorrow and give you a hand. Aim to stock the place right away? Lou Felter has some dandy young Holstein stock . . . or are you minded to get Guernseys?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet, really.” Father spoke hastily. “We may just . . .”
“That’s all right. Look around . . . get the best for your money,” Mr. Van Keuran said, clumping down the steps. “Well, g’ night.”
“GOOD NIGHT,” Father said, but it was more like a groan.
“He is nice though, John,’ Mother said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“Sure. He is nice. The place is lovely. I am a smart fellow who got a bargain. The only trouble is,” Father’s voice crackled, “that I don’t like farms, we don’t know anything about farms, we don’t want to know anything about farms and I am not going to let you slave . . .”
“John! Get me some wood from the shed!” came Gran’s voice, echoing hollowly through the empty house. “I’ll have supper in a jiffy.” Father gulped. “Supper? HERE?”
Gran pattered out. “Where did you think you were going to have it . . . at the Ritz? Where are the children? I want some help. Oh, there you are. Janet, you come in and peel some potatoes. Dick, find my black grip in the car—I have table linen in there. But I want the wood first! I’ve got biscuits in the oven, can’t let them get ruined.”
“Biscuits . . .“ Janet’s voice was full of bliss. “Did I hear ‘biscuits’?”
“You did and you will smell them too if you come with me. That range has the best oven I’ve ever had anything to do with.” She raised her voice: “Coming with that wood, John?”
Father, who hadn’t moved at all, scrambled to his feet. “Where is the woodshed? Can’t see my hand before my face, let alone find a woodshed in a pitch dark yard.”
“Come and get the lantern then, Helpless.” Gran bustled away, followed by Dick and Janet. Father pulled Mother to her feet and they felt their way into the dark hall. Gran met them, coming out of the kitchen with a lighted lantern.
“Walk down the porch steps . . . there are five of them. Turn to your right, go around the house,” she directed in an exaggeratedly patient voice, “and THERE is the woodshed. Don’t fool with the ax; it’s sharp. Just bring me some stove lengths,” she pushed the lantern into Mother’s hands and held her own hands about a foot apart, “you know, THIS big. You light the way for him, Molly, or he’ll fall and break his neck. MY son!”
Gran spun on her heel and the kitchen door slammed after her. Suddenly Mother started to giggle. She leaned against the wall and gasped between peals of laughter: “Just open the door and the . . . house practically . . . runs itself . . . ooooh.”
Father cast an uneasy glance at her, then his face broke into a broad, if a slightly sheepish grin. “Uhum. SOME switch! She can make anything run . . . even me. Come on, Molly, we might as well try to save those biscuits.”
When they walked into the kitchen, Father almost dropped the big armful of wood he was carrying and Mother said: “Ohhh,” as if she had been confronted with a miracle.
“Isn’t this ducky?” Janet laughed up at her, carefully placing a large platter of meat on a table set for five. Candles, little stumps of them only but still candles, cast a soft, festive glow onto the white tablecloth. Gran banged the oven door shut and turned her flushed face to Father:
“Drop it into the woodbox, John, and get another load. Make it a man-size one next time. Then wash up . . . I’m about ready. You can wash right now, Molly . . . you’re a sight.”
“Where?” Mother asked, looking at Gran helplessly. Gran snorted.
“Oh my saint! Look, dear,” she pointed a firm finger at the pump in the corner, “THAT is a pump. You work the handle up and down . . . show your Mother how, Dick . . . and, believe it or not, see? water comes out of it!”
“Yes’m,” Mother said meekly, suppressing a smile. Dick, grinning, handed her a piece of soap and pointed at towels hanging on a rack, then at a chipped but clean basin in the black cast iron sink. He asked in an excited voice: “Would you like some hot water, Mom?” Without waiting for an answer he marched importantly to the stove, lifted a large, square lid and dipped an enameled pitcher into it. He came back with steaming hot water, poured some into the basin and started to pump cold water into it. “Don’t forget behind your ears, Mother,” he whispered, grinning at her. Mother gazed from one to the other. “You are all so . . . clean!” she said incredulously.
“Your clean dress is hanging on the door. You can change in the outhouse,” Gran said, stirring something on the stove. “Drop your soiled clothes in the old crate out there, with ours. We’ll wash them some day next week.”
Mother gasped and peeked up through soapsuds. She found Gran’s snapping eyes looking straight at her; there was such challenge in them that she hastily withdrew behind soapsuds again.
When she came back from the dark outhouse that was just off the kitchen, she found Father learning all over again what he had once known but long forgotten: how to get clean without automatic hot and cold water. There were chairs now around the table and Mother shook her head in a dazed way. “Somebody pinch me . . I must be dreaming. Where did these chairs come from?”
“Attic,” Gran said laconically.
“And the candles?”
“Cupboard,” was the equally short answer. “Now stop asking foolish questions and sit down. I’m ready.”
They ate . . . and how they ate! . . . the miraculous meal of hot biscuits with fresh yellow butter, sliced roast beef that came out of the picnic box, creamed potatoes, salad and a hot, meltingly good apple pie, drowned in thick cream. There was a pitcher of cold milk on the table, pickles, relish, and two kinds of jam. Finally, when no one could eat any more, Father leaned back in his chair and sighed, a deep, thoroughly satisfied sigh. “I’ve never sat down to a better meal. Mom, you’re a wizard. How did you do it?”
“Just using the horse sense I was born with,” Gran said airily. “Eureka here is a good stove, I’m a tolerable cook, we got together and . . . there we are!”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Mother said, laughing up at Father. “The only thing I shudder to think of . . . where would we be if this same Eureka and I—also a tolerable cook—got together? Gran, if I may ask . . . did you and Eureka cook the relish and jam and pie and . . . this very table here?”
“Oh, that,” Gran shrugged. She lifted the tablecloth, disclosing two battered sawhorses with rough planks laid over them. “Jake set these up for me when we came home,” she explained. “Relish, pie, milk, jam, cream, butter . . . I borrowed those from his wife, nice neighborly soul. She’s bringing us some layin’ hens tomorrow; good Barred Rocks, and a plucked hen for dinner.”
Father closed his eyes. “I see.” He seemed to have difficulty in breathing. “Do I understand that we have moved in then? To STAY?”
Gran looked hurt. She folded her hands in her lap and glanced at Father out of innocent eyes. “Why . . . isn’t that what you want to do, John? You bought the farm . . .“ Her face puckered. “I . . . I only want to help . . . of course I am not as young as I used to be . . .”
Mother rushed around the table and put her arms around her. “Oh my dear, you were wonderful. Just think, without you we would have been completely at a loss. This dinner and everything . . . John,” she turned to Father, “you have hurt her feelings.”
What Father was thinking was, that without Gran they would not have been here at all, but he didn’t say it. He sighed and said contritely:
“I’m sorry, Mom. You did more than your share. What’s more, you KNOW it.” Then his eyes crinkled and he sighed: “You and that old Eureka didn’t happen to cook up a few nice soft beds for us?”
“Oh, we’ll just drive to a hotel, John, I couldn’t think of spending the night here!” Mother looked alarmed.
“And why not?” Gran bristled.
“Why . . . there isn’t anything to sleep on and it’s dirty and . . . spiderwebby and
I bet there are mice!” Mother wailed. Gran’s voice was meek. “All right, you go on. It won’t be the first night I’ve spent alone in a farmhouse.”
“Oh we couldn’t possibly leave you here,” Father exclaimed. “That’s out of the question, Mom. I mean it!”
Gran looked at him quietly. She resembled a little marble statue of a sweet old lady; cool, delicate and just as immovable. “I am NOT going,” she said mildly.
“You and Mother go on, Dad, I am staying with Gran,” Dick offered. “We’ll manage.”
“Me too.” Janet drew close to Gran. “It’ll be piles of fun.”
A smile flitted across Gran’s face. She rose, brushing invisible crumbs off her bosom, like a proud, preening little bird. “The pioneer spirit,” she murmured to herself, “sometimes skips a poor generation but it doesn’t die. Waffles and sausages for breakfast, John . . . if you care to come back.”
Father’s face was flushed. He jammed his hands into his pockets and glowered at his mother. Gran, however, seemed unaware of him. She and the children were busily clearing the table. Gran spread a piece of wrapping paper on the drainboard. She scraped green leftovers and crumbs onto it. “Chickens.” Meat scraps and pieces of buttered biscuit went into an old pie tin she had found in the outhouse. “Funnyface. Mustn’t waste anything. Incinerators! Hmmph.”
Mother glanced at Father, quickly concealed a smile behind her hand and quietly went to the sink to help Janet wash the dishes. Dick bustled around with an unconcealed grin on his face.
“What’s so funny?“ Father growled at him, but before Dick could answer, Gran said:
“Dicky, you’d better help your father to unload my bedding. He is anxious to get going.” Dick lighted the lantern in a businesslike way. He walked to the door with it. “O.K.?” Father hrrrumph-ed once and stalked out after Dick.
Gran whisked the tablecloth off the boards. “Tell them to leave my things here, Molly. You come with me, Janet . . . bring a candle.”
She took an old rat-eaten broom from behind the stove, then disappeared into the hail. Janet, on her way out, stopped by Mother’s side. She whispered: “You going to miss the fun, Mother? Really?” Mother. whispered back, her face flushed and smiling: “What do you think?” Janet winked, gave Mother a quick hug and hurried after Gran.
