The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “No!” exclaimed the ferret. “It crashed? What happened? Was anyone hurt? Is it done for? I hope,” he added. “Not that I wish anyone ill. It’s just that the plane is a wretched nuisance. One can’t sleep properly in the daytime.” This was important to the nocturnal ferret, who was making an exception to his no-daytime-outings rule to come to Bosworth’s party.

  “The pilot and passenger got a good dunking,” Max said, “but the aeroplane isn’t permanently damaged. The crew is working on repairs.” Max went on to tell Fritz what he had learnt from the major, who had been waiting for the ferry when the aeroplane nosedived into the water, and had shared the news with a neighbor in earshot of Max.

  In another corner of the room, the fox was hearing a similar report from Rascal, who had got it (secondhand) from the Dalmatian who rode on the seat beside the driver of the Coniston coach, who had got it from a passenger who had been among the spectators when the wrecked plane was brought in.

  “Do they know why it crashed?” asked the fox curiously.

  “The Dalmatian said that the passenger said that somebody heard there might have been water in the petrol,” Rascal replied. He grinned. “I can think offhand of a couple of dozen Big People who might have put it there. Can’t you?”

  “And they call foxes sly,” said Reynard with a chuckle. “I wonder which of the villagers is the culprit.” Now that they mention this, I wonder, too. When we last saw Roger Dowling, in the company of Henry Stubbs and George Crook, it sounded as if he might be hatching a plot—or might know of someone one else who was doing so.

  In another corner, Bailey and Thorvaald, sipping ginger beer, were observing the scene. The dragon had banked his fire as much as he could and was keeping a close eye on his tail, lest he inadvertently knock a picture off the wall, or disturb the spiders assembled in the corner, where they were not so likely to be trodden upon.

  The Professor came up to them. “And whooo are yooou?” he asked the dragon. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Well, I can fix that,” Bailey said, and introduced them forthwith. “You two have something in common, you know,” he added with a grin.

  The owl eyed the dragon. “Oh? And what is that?” His tone suggested that he did not think that this large scaly beast was anything like his proudly feathered self.

  “Why, you can both fly,” said the badger, and went off to wish Bosworth the happiest of birthdays.

  The owl and the dragon regarded each other for a moment, pondering this unlikely likeness. The owl widened his eyes and flexed his wing feathers slightly, as if to suggest that there was a basic aerodynamic anomaly here, but the dragon immediately saw the similarity.

  “Why, szso we can,” he said cheerfully. “Matter of fact, I’ve just returned from a little flying trip myszself.”

  “And I have just flown back across Windermere,” replied the owl. “Quite bumpy out there this morning, actually.”

  To his credit, the dragon did not boast that his “little trip” had been an around-the-world flight that had taken him to America, Hawaii, and Siberia, with only short stops for refueling—a distance that would have been impossible for the owl. Instead, he said, “I’ve just been hearing about the posszsibility of some szsort of large creature living in the lake. You wouldn’t have szseen it, by any chance?”

  “I believe I have,” the owl replied. “Largish beast, about . . . oooh, about the size of the ferry boat, I’d say. Tail, fooour wings, very noisy. Is that what yooou’re looking for?”

  “You’ve szseen it?” the dragon hissed with great excitement. When the owl nodded, his belly began to glow warmly. “You’ve actually szseen it! And you say it has four wings and a tail? Four wingszs!” He whooshed out a smoky breath. “The Grand Dragonszs will be astonished when they hear thiszs!”

  The owl stepped back, fearing that his feathers might be singed. “Why, yes,” he said. “Indeed, I saw it crash, just a few hours ago. Right down intooo the water. Made a gigantic splash, it did. Broke a wing, wrecked the tail, nearly drowned twooo men.”

  “Oh, my starszs!” breathed the dragon. His words were studded with exclamation points. “Oh, my scaleszs! Perhaps I shall be able to give the Grand Dragons an eyewitneszss report! Even arrange for an interview!” He paused for breath. “Bailey sayszs that one of his relatives saw this creature from Oat Cake Crag. Do you think that would be a good place for me to watch for it? Tonight, perhapszs?”

  “You could certainly see it from there,” the Professor agreed. “I don’t believe, however, that the thing is likely tooo fly again anytime soon. The men have got tooo repair the wing, rebuild the tail, and get the motor working again, yooou see. It might be several days before—”

  “The men?” The dragon was staring at him blankly. “The motor?”

  “Why, the men who are supposed tooo keep the hydroooplane flying, of course.”

  “The hydroplane?”

  “Indeed.” The Professor, with some justification, felt himself to be in the company of a backward student. He cleared his throat. “Hydroooplane.” He uttered the word carefully, to ensure that Thorvaald understood it. “That is hydrooo, as in water, from the Greek, ύδρ. Tooo wit: hydrooography, hydrooopathy, hydrooometer. There is also hydrooometer and hydrooophobia and hydrooosphere, which is tooo say—”

  “Excuszse me,” broke in the dragon. “I’m not at all zssure we’re talking about the same thing, Professzsor. I am inquiring about a dragon-like creature that swimszs in the water. It may fly from time to time, but—”

  “And I am talking,” interrupted the Professor stiffly, “about a dragonfly-like creature that swims in the water from time tooo time but otherwise flies through the air.”

  As you can see, there is some confusion here. I think we should leave Thorvaald and the Professor to sort it out and drop in on one or two other conversations. It is, after all, a party, and the animals are sharing a few other tidbits of local news, some fact, some fiction.

  In the corner near the fireplace, Hyacinth was regaling a rapt group of listeners with the true story of what had happened on Oak Cake Crag—Mr. Baum’s fall and rescue, as well as the doctor’s report that it was impossible to tell when or even whether the injured man would awaken.

  “It’s a good thing for Mr. Baum that you and the others happened to be there,” Thorn said. “Otherwise, he might have lain there for days and days.”

  “Too right,” said a brown hare. “He might never have been found.”

  “People never really appreciate all that animals do for them,” the second brown hare said. “They think they do it all themselves.” This was a common lament when animals got together. Humans took them for granted, or abused them, or actively campaigned against them. It hadn’t always been that way, of course, but it was now.

  “If Mr. Baum is out of the picture,” the third brown hare asked, “does that mean that the aeroplane will go away?”

  “There might not be any aeroplane left,” a hedgehog put in excitedly. He had just been listening as Max the Manx and Fritz the ferret discussed the aeroplane crash, so he began to repeat what he had heard.

  But since we already know that story, we’ll move on to another corner, where Parsley and the village cats have put their heads together over a subject of great interest—a romantic subject.

  “I’ve just heard,” said Parsley excitedly, “that Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis are secretly engaged to be married. Flotsam and Jetsam went down to the Crooks’ garden for carrots around lunchtime, and overheard Mrs. Crook telling Bertha Stubbs all about it. Isn’t that lovely news?”

  “Married!” squealed Tabitha and Crumpet in unison. “Is it true? Married?” They turned to Rascal, who had just walked up to them. “Rascal! Mrs. Crook says that Miss Potter is secretly engaged to Mr. Heelis! They’re going to be married! What do you think of that?”

  Rascal knew the truth about Miss Potter’s engagement, for she had told him herself. But of course, he didn’t mention that part of it. What he said
was, “Sorry to disappoint you, ladies, but I heard Miss Potter tell Mrs. Crook explicitly that there’s no wedding planned. If Mrs. Crook is saying otherwise, she is deliberately contradicting what Miss Potter told her.”

  “You heard it?” Tabitha asked, wide-eyed.

  “With my very own ears, in Mrs. Crook’s kitchen, where I was sitting under Miss Potter’s chair. This morning. No wedding.” He looked around the group. “You might want to tell the others,” he added. “There’s no point in spreading unfounded rumors.”

  “No wedding,” Crumpet repeated sadly.

  “No wedding,” Tabitha moaned.

  “No wedding,” Parsley said in a disappointed tone. “I’ll tell the rabbits that they’re not to say another word to anyone.”

  “And that goes for you two, as well,” Rascal barked to the cats. “Not a word. Got it?”

  “Yessir,” said Crumpet. Tabitha nodded.

  “Well, now!” Parsley said brightly. “I think it’s time to light the candles and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to our favorite badger.” She raised her voice. “Everybody, gather round. We’re about to cut the birthday cake!”

  Let’s make our exit while everybody is singing. I’m sorry to miss out on Bosworth’s birthday cake, but I’ve just remembered that something important is scheduled for four o’clock at Tidmarsh Manor, and I shouldn’t like to miss it.

  17

  “No Proposals, I Say!”

  We must now direct our attention to a part of our story that we have neglected, for the very simple reason that nothing of any consequence has seemed to be taking place. Or if it has, we’re not privy to it—which often happens, you know. A story can’t include every single detail, or we would be reading forever. By necessity, a great many things are left out because they don’t seem immediately important, such as the color of the shirtwaist Miss Potter was wearing when she went out this morning (it was pale green, with a darker green ruffle down the front), or the whereabouts of the vicar when Miss Potter arrived at the vicarage (he had gone to call on Mrs. Taylor, who was ill with pneumonia). What’s more, a great many important things (some of them very important) are left out for the simple reason that we don’t know about them. Much goes on in this busy world that we don’t learn about until somebody chooses to let us in on the secret. Maybe they will and maybe they won’t. Maybe we’ll be in the dark forever.

  I think, however, that we are about to witness something important. It is just now getting on to four o’clock, and today is the day that Caroline Longford has agreed to walk with Jeremy Crosfield in the garden at Tidmarsh Manor. Lady Longford, as usual, has not withheld her opinion of this agreement. She has told Caroline, in a sour tone and several times over, that it is not seemly for her to consort with this young village person, who is not of her social class and must not be encouraged to think that he might be permitted to become a suitor. But I suspect—or at least, I hope—that this is just talk, and that her ladyship learnt her lesson when her son left: it is no good trying to make people do what you want them to do.

  And Caroline (who I am happy to say has become quite willful now that she has become a young lady and spent some months in London, where all young ladies are by definition quite willful) has told her grandmother very sweetly that she intends to see whomever she likes and that if her grandmama wishes, she may spy on them out the window and see that they are behaving circumspectly.

  Now, I am a little puzzled by this, and perhaps you are, too. Earlier, when Caroline told Miss Potter about her plans, she did not mention having a particular inclination toward a certain young man, let alone Jeremy Crosfield. She said that she expected to finish her musical studies and then take a trip to Europe and perhaps to America and New Zealand, and then return to Tidmarsh Manor and settle down to pursue her dearest love, musical composition. She is free to do this, and to do whatever else she likes, wherever she chooses to do it, because she is an heiress and will inherit not only her father’s small fortune but also her grandmother’s much larger one. She will never have to work to get her living, unlike her friend Deirdre Malone, who keeps the accounts for Mr. Sutton’s veterinary practice and helps Mrs. Sutton manage the eight Sutton children at Courier Cottage—two big jobs that Deirdre performs very capably, I must say.

  But perhaps Caroline didn’t mention her feeling to Miss Potter because she wanted to keep it secret. After all, one does not tell one’s grownup friends all one’s private thoughts, does one? Moreover, she had not seen Jeremy for some time. He had gone off to school and then she had gone off to study music at the Academy, and their paths had not recently crossed. But not seeing him did not keep her from thinking longingly of him, or saving in her scrapbook the few casual cards and notes she had received from him over the years. Or treasuring his photograph, which she herself had taken on the top of Holly How, one splendid afternoon of blue skies and bright sunshine when they were students together at the village school. That photograph, too, was hidden in her scrapbook, and the page was dog-eared and limp from being looked at so often, and touched, and—yes—kissed.

  And now you and I have teased out Caroline’s secret, which she has never confessed to anyone. She had long ago fallen into love with Jeremy, and had never fallen out. And when they met again at the Tower Bank Arms, where the villagers came to discuss their concerns with Mr. Baum’s aeroplane, she fell even more deeply into love with him, and was overjoyed when he asked if he might call.

  And why not? Jeremy Crosfield is even handsomer than he was when she took his photograph, tall and well built, with the most appealing of features and the dearest red-brown hair that Caroline has ever seen on a boy. (She has not, I must observe, seen a great many boys, but of course, that’s neither here nor there.) He is clearly very intelligent. He did exceedingly well at Kelsick Grammar School and is greatly admired in his current position as teacher of the junior class at Sawrey School, where he is spoken of as a potential headmaster, should he choose to stay on. His botanical drawings are really quite remarkable, and Caroline—who believes that Jeremy has an extraordinary talent (she is, after all, in love with him)—hopes that he will be able to pursue the artistic career for which he is so clearly destined.

  In fact, in her romantic dreams, Caroline cannot help picturing herself as Jeremy’s loyal patron, her financial support enabling him to draw and paint unfettered by any obligation to earn a living in the ordinary way. From there, it is only a hop-skip-and-a-jump to picturing herself as his beautiful bride, all in white, with an armful of white roses. And then as his loving wife and the mother of his adorable babies, of whom there will certainly be as many as possible, since she will hire a nanny to take care of them.

  When she thinks about this, she thinks that her friend Deirdre Malone would make a splendid nanny, and the two of them together—she and Deirdre—would have such delightful romps with the children. And there would be a nanny’s helper and a laundress and a cook to make the nursery milk puddings and a nursery maid to sweep the nursery floors and iron the babies’ ribbons and laces, so that they looked sweet and pretty when Deirdre fetched them down for Caroline and Jeremy to give them kisses before bedtime. And again, why not? After all, Jeremy has a great deal of talent and Caroline has (or will have, which amounts to the same thing, at least when you are dreaming) a great deal of money. And since she has grown into a confident and willful young lady who is accustomed to having things her way, she sees no reason why her dreams can’t become a reality.

  Well, you and I know that this is not always possible, and that the world has a habit of getting in the way of what we would like to do and putting up such road blocks that we are forced to go stumbling around in the dark. But a young girl’s fancy turns quite easily to ardent thoughts of love and a husband and babies—even a young girl who is ardently pursuing her own musical interests. And this particular young girl sees no conflict at all between her passion for music and her passion for Jeremy and his passion for drawing. In her imagination, it has already worked itself out, and
the third floor of Tidmarsh Manor has already been converted into a nursery, with a sleeping room for Deirdre, so that she can get up with the babies when they cry in the night.

  Oh, and an artist’s studio has been built for Jeremy in the back garden, with clever curtains at the windows and its own dear little patch of flowers in front, and an awning over a sweet little table where they will take their tea, with the children all in white pinafores and ribbons, pink for the girls, blue for the boys, playing around their feet. She will wear a pale yellow dress the color of daffodils and Jeremy will wear a blue frock coat and one of those wonderfully floppy artist’s ties, and he will tell her that he would love to paint her, instead of climbing the fells to paint those rare wild flowers. “You, my sweet,” he might say, “are my dearest flower, my very own.”

  And so it is with a great deal of pleasure and anticipation that Caroline dresses this afternoon in her most stylish blue woolen suit, which has one of those modern ankle-length hobble skirts (so narrow at the hem that walking is an uncomfortable challenge). She buttons up the close-fitting jacket with its blue velvet piping and clever blue buttons, brushes her hair until it gleams, and tops her pretty head with a pretty blue velvet cloche decorated with a cluster of pretty blue feathers, and pauses to admire herself in the mirror, thinking that she is very glad to be pretty and have enough money to dress attractively and hoping that Jeremy will think she is pretty, too.

  And the masculine object of Caroline’s unconfessed feminine affections? Jeremy Crosfield? What is he thinking as he shuts the door on his classroom at Sawrey School, puts on his Norfolk jacket and tweed cap, and strides purposefully in the direction of Tidmarsh Manor?

  I wish we could see into Jeremy’s head, but he (because he is a boy, I suppose) is not as transparent as Caroline. We can, however, hear him whistling and see by his jaunty, arm-swinging walk that he is mightily pleased with himself. In fact, he is so pleased that he puts me in mind of Peter Pan, who (when he thinks that he has cleverly reattached his shadow), crows “How clever I am. Oh, the cleverness of me!”