The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Henry says t’ aeroplane hangar is on t’ other side of t’ lake and not in t’ captain’s district,” Bertha replied. “Anyway, he says Tommy prob’ly done it hisself, an’ he’s tryin’ to cast asparagus on sumbody else.”

  Elsa shook her head. “Aspersions,” she said. “Cast aspersions on sumbody else.” Bertha was known for her abuse of the English language.

  Bertha sniffed, but rephrased. “Henry says Tommy prob’ly left t’ lid off t’ petrol barrel an’ he’s afeard he’ll be incinerated.”

  Elsa looked alarmed. Then she sighed. “I think tha meant to say ‘incriminated,’ Bertha.”

  Bertha and Elsa were discussing the meaning of “incinerate” when Hannah Braithwaite dropped in. As the wife of the village constable, Hannah was a valued member of any group of gossipers, because she had a direct route, so to speak, to important village information and generally knew what was going on for miles around.

  Hannah had plenty to tell today. Her avid listeners heard that Constable Braithwaite had had a long conversation with Paddy Pratt, Mr. Baum’s odd-jobs man—his former odd-jobs man, that is, since Mr. Baum had discharged him and the rest of the Lakeshore Manor servants the previous week. Amongst the topics of discussion was a sack of tools taken from the manor barn and discovered by Constable Braithwaite behind a barrel in Paddy Pratt’s shed. The tools bore a distinctive mark, identifying them as Lakeshore Manor tools. Paddy was due to explain himself to Captain Woodcock, the justice of the peace, that afternoon. However, as far as Mr. Baum’s fall from Oat Cake Crag was concerned, Paddy claimed to have no knowledge of it, and the constable was inclined to believe him, since Paddy was far too fat and lazy to climb to the top of the crag.

  Having delivered this news in a breathless sort of way, Hannah remembered that she had promised to drop in and see how Rose Sutton was coming along. Rose was expecting another baby (“Good heavens,” said Elsa, “does that make nine? However will they all fit into Courier Cottage?”) and would soon be losing Deirdre.

  “Losin’ Deirdre?” Bertha demanded. “Why, where’s she goin’?”

  “Why, dustna know?” Hannah asked. “Deirdre’s marryin’ Jeremy Crosfield in June and movin’ to Slatestone Cottage. Mr. Braithwaite told me so this mornin’.”

  Hannah couldn’t just drop this bit of tantalizing information into the conversation and then leave, so it was another ten minutes before she walked out the door—ten minutes filled with such ordinary gossip that it does not bear repeating here. When Hannah was gone, Bertha looked up at the clock and remarked that if she didn’t go home and put the sausage and taties into the kettle straightaway, Henry wouldn’t have any supper and she would be in for it (which isn’t true, since it is Bertha who wears the pants in that family).

  After Bertha and Hannah had both left, Elsa took off her flower-print apron and put on a thick knitted jumper and pulled a knit cap over her ears. She took up a basket and went through Sarah Barwick’s back garden and across the lane to the village shop, which had been called Ginger and Pickles in Miss Potter’s book by that name and by almost everybody in the village ever since. Lydia Dowling was happy to sell her a nice piece of lean bacon for the Woodcocks’ breakfast, a thrup’ny twist of tea, and a packet of needles. Both Lydia and her niece Gladys, who helped in the shop on alternate afternoons, were glad to listen (with appropriate exclamations of interest and curiosity) to Elsa’s tale about the water in the aeroplane’s petrol barrel, the stolen tools the constable had found in Paddy Pratt’s shed, and the pending marriage of Deidre Malone and Jeremy Crosfield.

  Not to be outdone, Lydia told Elsa that Mr. Baum had still not awakened (“t’ poor man is lyin’ mute as a stone an’ stiff as a dried fish in Dimity Kittredge’s guest bedroom”) and that heaven only knew whether he would ever in this world awaken, and whether it could possibly be discovered just how he had come to tumble off the top of Oat Cake Crag.

  Gladys broke in to confide that it was her personal opinion that Mr. Baum had been pushed off the crag, and the pusher had to be that pilot of his, that loud-mouthed braggart Oscar Wyatt, who was always after Mr. Baum for more money. She knew this for a fact because her friend Pearl (who worked as a chambermaid at the Sawrey Hotel) had heard from her friend Arnold (who worked as the hotel barman) that the two men had had a jolly loud row (“Pearl says they nearly came to blows!”) over drinks in the hotel bar. Mr. Baum said that he was pulling out as an investor in the aeroplane business, and Mr. Wyatt said he was very glad that Mr. Baum felt that way, because he (Mr. Wyatt) was sick and tired of hearing that there wasn’t enough money for this or enough money for that and trying to do things the way Mr. Baum wanted them done, when that wasn’t the right way at all. To which Mr. Baum replied, well, that was jolly good, because he was jolly sick and tired of having to shell out money and now Mr. Wyatt could do exactly as he jolly well pleased, which was to go to the devil, as far as he was concerned.

  Lydia added that it was her personal opinion that the bad luck of the aeroplane crash and the worse luck of Mr. Baum’s fall both taken together added up (in a manner of speaking) to a windfall of good luck for the village. Now, the aeroplane would surely go away. Everyone could enjoy the silence that the Good Lord had so generously bestowed upon the lakes and fells. The village children could get their naps and their poor mothers would finally get some peace. Happy days were here again.

  Elsa and Gladys agreed. All three of them were happily congratulating one another on the fact that they couldn’t hear anything when they heard it. The loud buzzing of the aeroplane’s engine, like a hive of demented bees in the garden.

  “Oh, no,” all three moaned in unhappy unison. And from the bedroom in the back came the disconsolate wail of Gladys’ little baby.

  The Water Bird was in the air again.

  The aeroplane’s remarkable recovery was due to the concerted efforts of two men—Anderson and the man called Tommy—who toiled through the night, rebuilding and repairing and replacing broken parts. When Oscar Wyatt came back to the hangar late the next morning, looking relaxed and chipper and ready for anything, the aeroplane’s wing, tail, and engine had been repaired.

  “I say, now, fellows,” Wyatt proclaimed, walking around the aeroplane. “You’ve done excellent work. First-rate! The Bird looks jolly good. Good as new.” He looked at Anderson. “And what went wrong with the engine? Did you figure out why it stopped?”

  “We checked the petrol in the outside barrel,” Anderson said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sure enough—there was water in it. It’s been replaced now, and the lid on the barrel’s been secured.” He glanced at Tommy, who ducked his head and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Wyatt missed the glance. “Must’ve been sabotage, then,” he muttered sourly. “I suppose it’s one of those people around here who are always railing against progress. God knows, there’re plenty of ’em. Like ostriches, they are. Got their heads in the sand, wishing they could turn the clock back a century or two. They’re even trying to get Parliament involved. Fancy that!” He shook his head. “Well, they’ll just have to get used to it. The Bird will be back in the air again. This is progress, men, progress.” He thrust his fist into the air. “We’re working on behalf of the national defense! Britain needs this aeroplane!”

  “And what about Mr. Baum?” Tommy asked, changing the subject. “Any better, is he, Mr. Wyatt?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “I called this morning at Raven Hall. Still wasn’t allowed to see him.” His voice took on a new resonance. “But you can put him out of your mind, boys. Baum or no Baum, we’ve got plenty of money to keep the Bird flying. It’s firm now. I’ve found another investor. And this one has no problem putting up the money we need. This one is ready to go along with us, all the way.”

  “Well, now,” Anderson drawled, “I think we ought to have a little talk.” He put his hands on his hips. “Just who is this person, Mr. Wyatt? I’m asking you because Mr. Baum hired me and made me responsible for the maintenance on this machine. If
somebody else is taking his place and will start giving me orders, I have a right to know who it is. And I want to know now.”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “I told you before, Anderson. The person prefers to remain anonymous. However, I can tell you that this is a local individual who—”

  Wyatt did not get a chance to finish whatever he had been about to say, because he was interrupted by a shout from the far end of the aeroplane hangar and the appearance of a small group of men. The gentleman in front (clearly a gentleman, from his light gray top hat to his gold watch fob to the polished tips of his black shoes) wore a black wool overcoat, carried a walking stick, and sucked on a huge brown cigar. The other three hung behind until a fifth man, wearing a natty white naval uniform strung with ribbons across his chest, stepped forward.

  “I say there!” he shouted at Wyatt, Anderson, and Tommy. “Look sharp, men. The First Lord of the Admiralty is here to inspect your aeroplane. The Right Honorable Winston Churchill!”

  “Churchill!” Anderson exclaimed. He shot a look at Wyatt. “What the devil—”

  “Oh, glory!” Wyatt breathed. “I’d no idea he was coming today.” And he went forward to be introduced.

  Well. It looks to me as if the Water Bird has been repaired in the nick of time, for Mr. Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, would have been greatly out of temper if he had ridden the railroad train all the way from London to see a crippled aeroplane. But thanks to the diligent overnight work of Anderson and Tommy, the Bird has been fully restored to her former glory and is ready to take to the air.

  Mr. Churchill walked all the way around the aeroplane several times, alternately nodding, shaking his head, and scowling. Once he rapped on the wing with his stick, twice he rapped on the tail, and finally he kicked at the center float, all the while muttering to himself or tossing gruff staccato words over his shoulder to a man who walked three paces behind him, making rapid notes in a leather-bound book. Another man was taking photographs, first from one angle and then from another. Wyatt strongly objected to the camera, but the imperious Mr. Churchill brushed his objections aside as if they were flies.

  After his third circumnavigation of the Water Bird, Churchill stopped, folded his hands on the head of his walking stick, and swept the aeroplane with his glance from one end to the other.

  “Now, then, Mr. Wyatt,” he growled, around his cigar, “shall we go up?”

  Oscar Wyatt’s eyes widened. “You . . . you want to . . . to fly, sir? In the Bird?”

  Churchill took his cigar out of his mouth and fixed a stern glance on Wyatt. “I am not wearing wings, am I, Mr. Wyatt?”

  Wyatt swallowed. “No, sir, but—”

  Churchill pounded his stick on the dirt floor of the hangar. “Well, then, what the devil is the delay? I didn’t come here to talk, by Jove. I came to see what your machine can do.” He scowled. “Are you trying to tell me she’s not in flying condition?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Wyatt replied hurriedly. “She’ll fly. Pretty as a picture she is in the air, sir. Graceful as a girl. Best little hydroplane you could ever wish for, sir.”

  “Well, dash it all, then,” Churchill barked, “let’s fly!”

  And that, for the next several hours, was what Winston Churchill, Oscar Wyatt, and the Water Bird did. They flew. They flew north toward Ambleside and south toward Newby Bridge, the Water Bird soaring far above the waves without a hiccup or a cough, Wyatt sitting in the pilot’s seat, and Churchill perched in the passenger’s seat, wearing goggles and an aviator’s cap, with his black overcoat billowing out behind him. I think it is fair to say that he was enjoying himself, for he thrust his stick into the air and shouted with an undisguised gusto. He looked for all the world (said Tommy later, over a half-pint in the Bowness pub) “like a half-mad wizard ridin’ a bloody dragon.”

  When the Bird, her pilot, and her illustrious passenger were safely back in the hangar at Cockshott Point, Mr. Churchill announced gruffly, “Mr. Wyatt, I commend you. I do, sir. Your seaplane design is first-rate. Greatly superior to anything we have seen so far.” He looked at his group. “Right, gentlemen?” “Right, Mr. Churchill,” chorused the men in unison.

  “Right.” Churchill turned back to Wyatt. “Very good, then. I shall shortly send one or two officers from the Admiralty to discuss the details of transfer with you.”

  Wyatt looked blank. “The details of . . . of what?”

  “Why, the transfer of ownership, of course. I am commandeering this project for the purposes of the national defense. Its development and testing will continue under your supervision—for now. However, the site here is vulnerable, and we shall have to secure this aeroplane to protect it from hostile intelligence operations. The Admiralty will compensate the investors, of course.” He paused, eyeing Wyatt. “What did you expect?”

  Wyatt was entirely taken aback, for he had not thought any further than showing off the aeroplane and had not a clue to what might come after. He gulped. “Why, I expected—That is, I thought—I mean, I—” He sputtered to a stop. “Yessir.”

  “Excellent,” Churchill snarled. “Expect my officers in the next few days. And in the meantime—”

  He rapped the aeroplane’s wing affectionately with his stick. “In the meantime, I am holding you personally responsible, Wyatt. Don’t let anything happen to my Bird.”

  22

  The Dragon and the Owl Hatch a Scheme

  The three ladies in the village shop weren’t the only ones to hear the hydroplane, like a hoard of angry hornets, buzzing up and down the lake. Miss Potter, cutting rhubarb stalks in her garden at Hill Top Farm, heard it and heaved a heavy sigh.

  Out on the lake, Henry Stubbs, piloting the ferry with the Coniston coach and one black-and-white cow on board, heard it—and held his breath while the coachman clung to the bridles of his plunging horses and the cowman grabbed the horns of his terrified cow and hung on to keep her from leaping overboard.

  In Bowness, a shopkeeper was so startled by the noise that he dropped an expensive crystal goblet and broke it. When he turned to get the broom, he knocked the matching crystal pitcher from the shelf.

  In Ambleside, at the blacksmith’s shop, the smith and his helper rushed out to see the plane, leaving a pile of wood shavings too near the forge. The shavings burst into flame and caught a horse blanket, which burnt a timber and then another and finally ended by bringing the roof down.

  And down at Newby Bridge, a motorcyclist looked up to see the plane and was so distracted by the sight that he ran into the back of a wagon carrying a load of milk cans bound for the cheese factory, startling the draft horse so that it bolted and flung the wagon, cans and all, into the ditch.

  None of these major and minor calamities, however, was visible from Oat Cake Crag, where the owl and the dragon were watching Water Bird as it skimmed up and down the lake with its pilot and its animated passenger. The owl was perched on the limb of a tree, whilst the dragon crouched beneath, disguised as a bush. The dragon had turned nearly purple with astonishment, for he had never before seen a flying object the size of Water Bird—except for other dragons, of course.

  Now, the last time we saw the owl and the dragon together (at Bosworth’s birthday party), the two of them appeared to be very confused. The dragon had inquired about the Windermere monster whose sighting had been reported by Bailey Badger’s great-great-grandfather. The owl replied with regard to the hydroplane. It was clear that each was laboring under a rather substantial misconception as to the meaning of the other.

  But at last the dragon realized that the owl was describing some sort of motorized flying machine, like an oversized mechanical wind-up toy that was somehow capable of getting into the air, and the owl got it through his head that the dragon was looking for a water-dwelling monster, something on the order of an aquatic dragon.

  Having sorted out their misunderstanding, the pair discussed the matter at length. They decided to go to Oat Cake Crag, take up a lookout position, and see what they could of the m
onster, the hydroplane, or both. The owl had packed a light lunch (mutton-and-cheese sandwiches with pickle, cold sliced tongue, deviled eggs with capers, carrot sticks, and frosted ginger cakes). In addition, he had worn his vest and daytime goggles and brought binoculars, a notebook, and a stopwatch. Thus equipped and provisioned, the owl and the dragon had just set up their post when the hangar doors swung wide open and Water Bird skidded down the ramp and splashed into the water.

  The dragon watched, open-mouthed, as the aeroplane wended its way through the moorings of sailboats and row-boats and fishing boats and took off upwind, climbing into the sky. “Oh, my starsz and scaleszs,” he hissed incredulously. “It swimsz and it fliesz. It really doeszs.” He stared at the Bird out of the ragged fringe of fir branches he had tied to his head and shoulders. “Doesz it dive? Under the water, I mean.”

  “It did once, after a fashion,” said the owl, watching the aeroplane through his binoculars as it whizzed up the lake in the direction of Ambleside. “But that was when it stopped flying and crashed intooo the water. I dooo not believe that it dives deliberately. It does not seem tooo be constructed for that purpose.” He frowned, trying to focus on the passenger riding behind the pilot. The previous passenger had clung to the struts, bleating and terrified and repenting his desire to fly. This one, however, was almost demonic, shouting and waving his arms, with his greatcoat streaming behind like a magician’s cape. He was obviously enjoying himself.

  “And thiszs iszs the thing that haszs been terrorizszsing the neighborhood?” asked the dragon, studying the hydroplane from behind his screen branches. “Thiszs iszs the creature who iszs annoying people and frightening animalszs?”

  “This is it,” the Professor replied grimly. “But people know what it is and can take account of it. The animals—particularly the not-sooo-bright ones, the cows and silly sheep—are terrified of it, and with gooood cause. They fear it is going tooo eat them, and nooo amount of talking will persuade them otherwise.” He put down his binoculars and shook his head gloomily. “The machine is truly a monster,” he added, “although not in the sense that you are looooking for.”