“Hullo, Bozzy, old chap,” barked Rascal, squatting on his haunches. “Lovely afternoon, wouldn’t you say? Looks like spring has finally arrived. Not a moment too soon, either.”
Bosworth did not much like being called “Bozzy,” but he smiled all the same. “Hello there, my young friend. Been keeping well, down there in the village? I do hope you’re full of news, and that you’ll have a cup of tea and tell it all to me.”
And without waiting for a reply, the badger picked up the brown china teapot that sat on a tray at his elbow and filled the extra cup he kept always at hand, for one never knew which of one’s friends might pop in and be glad of a cup and bit of a chat.
“Nivver say nae to a cup o’ tae,” Rascal replied, in the broad dialect of the area. He cocked his head. “All’s well here at The Brockery, is it? Seen the Professor lately?”
Rascal was inquiring after Professor Galileo Newton Owl, D.Phil., one of Bosworth’s very best friends, who lived in an enormous hollow beech at the top of Cuckoo Brow Wood.
“I’m expecting to see him tomorrow,” Bosworth replied, handing over the tea, and passing lemon and sugar as well. “Did you have a special reason for asking?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Rascal. “Jeremy, Caroline, and one of Caroline’s friends are planning an expedition to look for fairies. Deirdre, Caroline’s friend, claims to be able to see them. I thought the Professor—since he keeps a sharp eye on all that goes on in the Wood—might know whether the Fern Vale village still exists. But p’rhaps you’ve an idea?”
“Fairies?” Bosworth was mildly surprised. “Why, nobody’s asked after the Folk for donkey’s years. Children hardly believe nowadays, and the grownups are too preoccupied with progress to bother about the past.”
“But you think they are still in the neighborhood?”
Bosworth gave the terrier an indulgent look. “My dear boy, that’s like asking whether there are still angels in the neighborhood! Of course there are. The difficulty lies in finding them.”
“I’m told that there once was a fairy village near Fern Vale Tarn,” Rascal said. “Do you know of it?”
“Oh, yes, Fern Vale Village.” Bosworth reflected. “My grandfather recorded something about it. The creatures he describes, however, are not at all like those little whizzy things with delicate wings and spangles that are pictured in children’s books—the sort that are commonly called ‘fairies.’ ” He frowned. “I doubt that the children are prepared for the real Folk. They’re an unreliable lot, you know. Well-meaning and often beguiling, but cheeky. Fond of trickery, and not to be trusted.”
The dog looked doubtful. “Do you suppose they’ll allow themselves to be found?”
“There’s no way of knowing,” Bosworth replied. “The children shall simply have to go and have a look. I can glance through the History and see if I can discover the exact location of the village. Shall I?”
“I’d be grateful,” Rascal said. He set down his cup.
“Don’t go just yet,” Bosworth said, putting up a paw. “I wanted to ask about a rumor that’s crept up here from the village. It concerns Hill Top Farm.”
“Miss Potter’s back from London, if that’s what you’re asking.” Rascal replied.
The badger shook his head uneasily. “This has to do with rats, I’m sorry to say. A pair stopped in last night on their way north. They’d been down at Hill Top, which they had heard was quite the place for rats on holiday. But not a very nice holiday, as they described it. They said that the place is attracting all sorts of riffraff and bad fellows. It has become . . . well, rather common. Not the sort of place for a self-respecting rat.”
Rascal made a face. “The problem lies with the Hill Top cat—a silly, frivolous creature who let the rats take advantage. However, Miss Potter will have the matter in hand shortly, although you might want to discourage any rat traffic headed in that direction.” He paused. “One more thing I should mention, Bozzy. This expedition—it may be Jeremy’s last. The lad is leaving school and going to work.”
“To work!” exclaimed Bosworth. Jeremy, who respected animals and nature, was respected in turn by everyone at The Brockery, and always welcomed when he came around.
“Yes. He’s to be an apprentice. He wants to go to the grammar school in Ambleside, but he’s going to have to go to work instead.” Rascal looked directly at Bosworth. “He wants it very much,” he added, with deliberate emphasis. “I was wondering if the fairies, or the Folk, if you prefer, might—” He broke off.
Bosworth returned the look, with concern. Animals usually know exactly what other animals are thinking, which is why they find it so hard to deceive. And Bosworth, who had a great deal of practice in understanding the various residents of The Brockery, understood what Rascal had not quite said.
“Oh, dear me,” said Bosworth. “Well, well. I am sorry to hear that. I shall certainly see what I can discover about the village.” He waved goodbye as the little dog trotted away down Holly How, then poured himself another cup of tea and sat back in his chair, shaking his head in consternation.
Poor Jeremy. Of course, it was dangerous to ask the Folk to intervene, for once they were invited to become involved in human affairs, they never knew when to stop. De Parvis, grandis acervus erit, and one could not quite predict what sort of grandis they might conjure up.
15
The Power of Advertising
SATURDAY, 27 APRIL
Beatrix awakened at an early hour on Saturday morning. The night had been a noisy one, with rats scrabbling and squeaking in the wall, the occasional yowl of a cat in one of the outbuildings (Fang and Max, no doubt, doing their job), and the frequent growl of thunder, for the weather had been stormy. She got up at an early hour, breakfasted by the fire on a bowl of oat porridge, a boiled egg, a slice of toast, and a cup of coffee, then settled down to ink a pencil drawing of the kitchen range, with its mantel-shelf of china plates, cups, and pitchers and the blue rug on the floor. The drawing would go into The Roly-Poly Pudding, which was to include several interior scenes in the quaint old farmhouse: the stair landing with its grandfather clock and claret-colored curtains, the old oak dresser, and the front door with its polished brass handle.
The book was about a kitten named Tom Twitchit and a pair of rats, Samuel Whiskers and his wife, Anna Maria. The kitten climbed up the chimney and into the attic and fell into the clutches of the rats, who trussed him up with string, buttered him generously, and wrapped him in dough, aiming to steam him like a dumpling. Tom was rescued and returned, sooty but safe, to his mother, Tabitha. Mr. and Mrs. Whiskers ran off to Farmer Potatoes’ barn, trundling their belongings in a stolen wheelbarrow. Beatrix had already written the book’s dedication, to her favorite pet rat:
In remembrance of
SAMMY,
The intelligent pink-eyed representative
of a persecuted (but irrepressible) race
An affectionate little friend
and most accomplished thief
Beatrix had just finished inking the drawing when she heard a noise outside. She put down her pen, got up, and opened the door. On the stone step sat two unfamiliar, scruffy-looking yellow cats. They looked as if they had recently been brawling—their ears were ripped, their faces scarred, their fur tattered and torn—but both were impressively muscular, with sharp claws and convincing yellow teeth.
“We’ve come about yer advertisement, miss,” said one.
“We’re rat-catchers, we are,” said the other. “We ain’t much to look at, but we allus get the job done.” He flexed a claw, his eyes narrowed into slits. “No quarter asked, none given.”
“Good heavens,” Beatrix said, thinking that this pair could have made a quick meal of sweet Sammy, who had been almost too fat to run. “You gentlemen look as though you’ve come a long way.”
“Short er long, ’tis all the same to us, miss,” one said philosophically.
“As long as there’s rats at the end of the journey,” added t
he other.
“I expect you’d like some milk,” Beatrix said.
“That’ud take the edge off, fer sure, miss,” one cat agreed, twitching his tail.
“And then we’ll get straight to work,” said the other, glancing around. “Rats is what we like, miss. Rats and the occasional bird.”
“Birds’ eggs is nice, too, miss,” added the first.
“I’d be glad to have you stay and give Fang and Max a hand with the rat-catching,” Beatrix said, pouring a saucer of milk for each of the cats and putting them on the doorstep. “You can sleep in the barn. But you will have to promise to leave the birds alone. If I find so much as one dead bird,” she added sternly, “you shall both be on your way.”
The cats exchanged conferring glances, then nodded. “We’ll try our best, miss,” they said in one voice, and addressed themselves diligently to the milk.
“Plain names,” Beatrix murmured, watching them lap it up. “I can’t think of anything plainer than Lion and Tiger. Will that do?”
“That’ll do nicely, miss,” said Lion and Tiger with one voice. And in another moment, they were streaking toward the barn, on their way to work.
Beatrix went back inside and put on the kettle for tea, thinking as she resumed her drawing that cats were very well as long as they kept their place, which was in the barn and out of the birds’ nests, and as long as one had no pet rats about. She had just finished the picture and was examining it critically when there was a knock on the door. She opened it to Mrs. Jennings, who was carrying a pitcher.
“Thought tha might like a bit of Kitchen’s milk, Miss Potter,” she said, handing over the pitcher. “And tha cans’t stop worryin’ about t’ rats. Another cat arrived this morning, a big, wicked-looking gray fellow about t’ size of a small dog. A reet ratter, I’d swear.”
“Another one?” Beatrix asked, startled. “I just took in two yellow cats—Lion and Tiger.”
“Lion and Tiger.” Mrs. Jennings gave an approving nod. “Good plain names for cats. Mappen they’ll live up to ’em.”
“Yes,” Beatrix said, with a little smile. She poured the milk into a jug and handed back the pitcher. “What did you name the gray?”
“Claw,” said Mrs. Jennings firmly. “Big an’ sharp, his claws.”
Beatrix pursed her lips. “Fang, Max, Claw, Lion, and Tiger.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Five cats. I’m sure that’s enough.”
“Oh, no, Miss Potter,” protested Mrs. Jennings. “Nobbut seven ’ud do, or eight.”
Beatrix frowned at the prospect of seven or eight strange cats, but did not disagree. Cats were well as long as they kept their place. “There are plenty of rats in the barn and sheds,” she said firmly. “I do not expect to see any cats in the house.”
“Oh, aye, Miss Potter,” said Mrs. Jennings, in an off-hand tone that Beatrix feared did not sufficiently reflect the seriousness of the business, and left. Beatrix went back to her work, feeling slightly cross. It was not that she held any personal ill-will against cats; she did not keep them simply for fear that they might try to snatch one of her little animals—the rabbits, hedgehogs, mice, and guinea pigs she kept as models for her drawings. She had not brought Josey or Mopsy or the others on this trip, but if she had, a cat would certainly threaten them.
An hour or so later, Beatrix put on her hat and went out to do some weeding in the garden. She was on her way to the rhubarb patch when she noticed an unfamiliar figure, a young girl with thick red braids, at the foot of the garden. She seemed to be searching for something amongst the herbs, some of which had not yet fully emerged from their winter’s sleep. Beatrix usually discouraged the village children from coming into the garden, for they came in pairs or gangs and could do a great deal of damage if they climbed the new little fruit trees, or walked down the row of little lettuces.
But this girl was alone, and she was obviously watching where she stepped. Beatrix was curious about her.
“Hello,” she called. “May I help you find something?” And since she thought she sounded like a out-of-temper shop clerk, she added, in a softer tone, “What sort of plant are you looking for?”
The girl had jumped, startled. “Yarrow,” she replied, adding defensively, “Mrs. Jennings said I could.” She was wearing a blue cotton dress and a gray pinafore, with a shawl flung over her head against the mist that had come down from the fells. She spoke with an engaging Irish accent.
Beatrix walked down the path, thinking that the girl’s green eyes and much-freckled face, framed in red curls, reminded her of Norman’s favorite niece. “If you’ve come for yarrow flowers,” she said gently, “you’re several months early.” She pointed to a gray-green mound of feathery leaves. “In July, there’ll be stalks with flat yellow blooms, but for now, this is all there is.”
“Leaves’ll do as well,” the girl replied with surprising assurance. She picked several and added them to the sprigs of rue and hawthorn she held in her hand. She threw a curious glance at Beatrix. “You’re Miss Potter, are you? The lady that makes the books?”
Beatrix nodded. “And you are—”
“Deirdre. I work for Mrs. Sutton. She reads your books out loud to the kids at bedtime, she does.”
“Oh, yes,” Beatrix said, remembering what Sarah Barwick had told her about the girl. She nodded at the small bouquet. “Is that for Mrs. Sutton?”
Deirdre shook her head. She had, Beatrix thought, more freckles than she had ever seen on a child’s face. “For me. An’ me friend Caroline.”
“I know Caroline,” Beatrix said, adding with a smile, “I like her very much.”
“She likes you,” Deirdre replied, cocking her head with a knowing air. “She told me.”
Beatrix glanced again at the little bouquet. “Yarrow, rue, lavender, and thyme. You and Caroline are looking for fairies, then?”
Deirdre’s blue-green eyes opened wide. “You know?”
“I’ve tried it myself,” Beatrix confided. “I’ve even thought I had a glimpse of them, dancing on the smooth turf under the moon.”
It was true. Perhaps it was the influence of the old Scottish woman she’d known when she was a child, who was so utterly convinced of the reality of fairies that she had made them seem real to Beatrix, too. Or perhaps it was the delight she still felt when she imagined—as she liked to do when she went for walks through the countryside—that the whole of the Land between the Lakes was enchanted, all of the crags and meadows and woods, but especially the woods; and that each of the trees in the forest had a fairy of its own, birch fairies and beech fairies, alder and fir and pine fairies, and especially oak fairies.
Or perhaps it was the same sort of impulse that compelled her to make her children’s stories: the secret wish that she would never have to leave the spirit-places of childhood and join the adult ranks of skeptics and cynics who delighted in throwing cold water on dreamers. Whatever it was, Beatrix was glad to admit to believing in fairies when she was a girl and to wishing that she could still believe—and sometimes pretending that she did—now that she was fully grown up.
And perhaps it was this that caused her to bend over and pick a primrose and hold it out to the girl. “Take this, too, then, if you’re looking for fairies.” And then, half to herself and half to the child, she recited,
“There came a lady from Fairy-land,
Who carried a primrose in her hand.
The green grass leapt after, wherever she trod,
And daisies and buttercups danced on the sod.”
“I like that,” Deirdre said, adding the primrose to her bouquet. “Daisies and buttercups really do dance. I’ve seen them.” She paused. “Is it one of your stories?”
“Not yet,” Beatrix replied sadly. She had written the rhyme for Appley Dapply, a book of illustrated nursery rhymes she had been working on when Norman died. The book might never be finished now, for she always thought of him when she read the rhymes and felt a deep, sad loneliness that kept her from working on the drawings
. She often thought that Norman himself had had a child’s imagination. He loved building dolls’ houses for his nephews and nieces and putting on magic shows and dressing up as Father Christmas to hand out candy and gifts. “There came a lady from Fairyland” was a rhyme he’d especially liked. If he were here just now, he and Deirdre would have been walking hand-in-hand through the garden, exchanging playful stories about the fairies they had seen or hoped to see. And perhaps she and Norman would have had their own children, and told them fairy stories every night before they went to sleep. A sharp pang of loss struck her, and she drew in her breath.
“Well, I think it should be in a book,” said Deirdre in a decided tone. “And you should draw the Fairy Lady’s picture. With a primrose in her hand.”
“P’rhaps I will.” Beatrix smiled. “Are you planning to look for fairies on May Eve? I understand that’s the best time to see them.”
The girl cocked her head to one side, as if she were not sure whether to take Beatrix into her confidence. “If you were hopin’ to see fairies, where would you go?” she asked at last.
“I’d look for a place where there are lots of ferns and moss,” Beatrix replied thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, and fairy rings—rings of fairy fungi, I mean. That’s where the fairies are said to dance. Although I’d be very sure not to step into the ring, because—”
“I know why!” Deirdre said brandishing her bouquet. “ ’Cause the fairies might carry you off! Or change you into one of them.”
“Exactly,” Beatrix said, very seriously. “So be careful where you put your feet. Of course, you’re more likely to see fairy rings in autumn, but May Eve is certainly a magical time. You may see all sorts of things.” She paused, thinking that perhaps it wasn’t wise to encourage this child to go wandering through the woods at twilight—although she had certainly done just that, and as often as she could, when she was a girl on holiday. “If you’re going on May Eve, will Caroline be with you?” she asked tentatively.
The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood Page 11
