Stoney Beck

by Jean Houghton-Beatty

  “Stoney Beck. The Hare and Hounds Inn. Is it far?”

  “About twenty minutes. If you don’t mind riding in my old van, I’ll be glad to give you a lift. I live there.”

  Jenny pretended to check the lock on her suitcase, then opened and closed her handbag as she tried to appear nonchalant, well traveled, as though she got on and off trains in a different country every week. She didn’t want this stranger knowing she’d hardly set foot out of the Carolinas, but neither was she about to take a chance on being abducted. One heard such tales.

  “Thanks all the same, but guess I’ll call a cab.”

  “That’s my van over there,” he said, “the tan one with the dog hanging out the window. He doesn’t bite and neither do I.”

  His amused shrug irritated her. Was she that easy to read? “I didn’t mean to imply—it’s just that—”

  “I know,” he said with a grin. “Who can you trust these days?”

  She felt her face turn crimson. He was taunting her. They both turned as a guard blew his whistle and the train started up.

  “Was your package on the train, Andy?” He shouted.

  “No, but that’s nothing new. I’ll ring them later. Thanks, Jim.”

  After the man had gone inside, Andy turned back to Jenny. “See, even the station master knows me. Still, if you’d rather get a taxi, my mobile phone’s in the car.”

  “No, please. I’d appreciate the lift.” She extended her hand and smiled. “I’m Jenny. Jenny Robinson from North Carolina.”

  Andy Ferguson picked up the suitcase as easily as if it was filled with down, and then placed it in the back of the van next to a stack of used tires. Beside them, nestled in a huge nest of old pillows, was a grandfather clock.

  “Move over, boy,” he said to his dog as he opened the door, then picked up a rag from under the dashboard, and wiped off the seat. “This is Pete,” he said to Jenny. “Pete, meet Jenny Robinson from America.”

  The dog, a border collie with large intelligent eyes, gave a little happy woof and held out his paw. Jenny laughed as her fear of Andy Ferguson faded. He drove slowly as if giving her time to take in the scenery, all the time talking as if he were a guide. There were almost two hundred fells in the Lakes, he said, with eight of them over three thousand feet, high enough to be classified as mountains. There were about fifteen lakes and at least twenty mountain passes.

  Jenny stared out the window. “I didn’t know it was this wild, or this undeveloped. I’d always thought it would be more touristy.”

  “Some parts are,” he said, “but not so much in this area. The Lake District is a National Park and you almost have to have a permit from God to build up here.” He glanced at her. “Why, are you disappointed?”

  “No. I like this better. It’s beautiful.”

  Pete rested his head on his master’s shoulder, Andy’s hand sneaking up every now and then to rub the dog’s ears.

  “That’s Stoney Beck down there,” he said, as they came over the last rise. He slowed the car almost to a stop, as if giving Jenny time to take in the view.

  She took a long deep breath, unprepared for the postcard scene spread out before her. Her mother hadn’t told her the village was in the center of an emerald green valley or that it bordered a lake. She hadn’t said a word either about the meadows, most of them dotted with sheep, or the heather-covered hills. It was June, a few weeks past lambing season, Andy said. Jenny watched the lambs chase after their mothers.

  “Oh, man,” was all she could manage.

  “That’s my garage up the brow to the left there,” Andy said while they waited at the stop sign leading onto the main street. “I live in the house next to it.” The grey stone house was trimmed in white with a green door and shutters. Gas pumps and what looked like a body shop in the same grey stone was next door. Five or six cars were parked outside.

  “Everything’s so quaint,” Jenny said. “Is that the village green in front of your place?”

  “You could say that. It used to be the old market square but it’s Hallveck Common now.”

  On the far side, the common was bordered by stores. There was Malone’s Corner Shop with the Bookworm next door, then the Lake Boutique and The Cup and Saucer Tea Shop. Jenny leaned forward holding tight to her seat belt. Her mother had said she worked in a bookshop until Jenny was born. Was this the one and was it likely anyone there or anywhere else in the village would remember her after all these years?

  They turned right at the post office onto cobble-stoned Market Street and crawled past a yarn shop next door called The Knitting Needles. Then followed a string of whitewashed houses huddled together as if for warmth against the cold her mother had told her about. Each house had a handkerchief size lawn with a border of flowers. Jenny had never seen the like of the flower boxes, not only on windowsills, or hanging over the front door, but nailed into the walls of the houses. Even the street’s lampposts had baskets dripping with blossoms hanging from the post arms.

  Just when it seemed they’d leave the village behind, Andy pulled into the parking lot of the rambling three-story Hare and Hounds Inn. The road continued on, snaking its way into the hills beyond. Jenny stepped out and shaded her eyes as she looked about. The sun was warm on her face. There were tables and chairs on the terrace in front of the inn, and more hanging baskets overflowing with flowers hung at intervals on brackets along the wall. On the lawn outside the inn sat two of the sun worshipers Uncle Tim had joked about. A man and women, probably in their seventies, sat in lawn chairs, eyes closed, faces raised to the sun.

  She turned back to the van. “Bye, Pete,” she said as she shook the dog’s paw, then followed Andy past tubs of geraniums into the inn.

  He set her suitcase on the worn stone-flagged floor, at the edge of the bar. “If you need to hire a car while you’re here, I’ll be glad to rent you one of mine. I’m even cheaper than Hertz.”

  “Oh Lord, I don’t know if I’m brave enough to drive. I’ll have to think about it,”

  One of the men playing darts across the bar walked toward them. “Can I drop my clock off at your place this week?” he said to Andy, at the same time giving Jenny a friendly nod. “The minute hand fell off. I’m afraid to tinker with it.”

  “Drop it off any time. No problem,”

  “Is my car ready yet?” shouted another man from the corner.

  “I think so, George. Let me get on back and I’ll give you a ring.”

  Andy grinned at Jenny as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “See how popular I am. Everybody knows me.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Jenny said, grinning back. “And thanks for the lift.”

  She watched him walk away, and when he looked back over his shoulder and caught her looking, she felt her face burn. He threw up his hand and winked before disappearing out the door.

  A short round man, fiftyish, came from behind the bar toward her. He had twinkling green eyes and a full head of curly red hair, turning grey now. There were curls too in his neatly trimmed beard and he was the nearest thing to a real live leprechaun she’d ever seen. He smiled and extended his hand. “Miss Jenny Robinson from America? Welcome to Stoney Beck. I’m Walter Pudsley, the man you spoke to on the phone.”

  She returned his smile and shook his hand. “How did you know who I was?”

  He rubbed his hands in a delighted sort of way and pointed to her suitcase. “Well, for starters, you’ve got those airline labels on your luggage. Besides all our other reservations were for people we already know. On the phone you said someone recommended the cottage. Were they here recently?”

  “No, it’s been about twenty-four years. It was a friend of the family. She stayed in the cottage. Said for me to get it if I could.”

  “That was before my time. I was born in the village but joined the merchant navy at seventeen. Bought the inn fifteen years ago.”

  “Ah.”

  He pulled out the handle of her suitcase. “Come on; let’s get
you settled in the cottage. You’ll be tired after your journey.”

  She walked behind him as he wheeled her suitcase through the bar, along a passage and out the back door. The late spring afternoon was heavy with scents. Honeysuckle, blended with roses, and from the inn’s open kitchen windows came the mixed fragrances of hot bread and smoked salmon.

  Walter Pudsley took the key out of his pocket and unlocked the cottage door. As Jenny stepped inside, there was a feeling of going back in time, to another century. The warmth of the little bungalow reached out to her, with its wide plank floors, rosewood furniture, and chintz curtains that matched the wallpaper. A bedroom with the same warm country feel led off to the left, and through an open door, she glimpsed the claw-footed bathtub, with a shower curtain over it. The kitchen was nothing more than a tiny fridge, stove, a little sink, and two feet of counter.

  “The telly’s brand new.” Mr. Pudsley gave the top a quick dust with the sleeve of his jacket, then opened the window and stood back. “Well, what do you think?” His face was suddenly serious, anxious to please.

  “It’s very lovely,” Jenny said, turning away, pretending to study the room, so he wouldn’t see the emotion working in her face. What would be his reaction if she told him she’d been conceived in this very cottage?

  He straightened the curtains and fussed around the vase of wild flowers on the windowsill. “Do you have any plans? I mean do you know how long you’ll be staying?”

  “Not really. My time’s my own. Will this be a problem with renting the cottage?”

  He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, it’s stood empty for years. Just been refurbished. It wasn’t quite ready when you rang but because it seemed to mean a lot to you to have it, we buckled down. Finished it a couple of days ago. Nobody else asked for it especially, so consider it yours for as long as you like.”

  Jenny, her emotions now under control, gave him a big appreciative smile. “That was very kind. Thanks a lot.”

  “I’ve booked you in for bed and breakfast like you said. We serve a nice afternoon tea at four in the tearoom and there’s the usual pub food in the bar every day from twelve noon.”

  Jenny looked at her watch. Three o’clock. “I really could eat a bite. I’ll freshen up, then come over for tea.”

  He beamed as he handed her the key. “You be sure to let us know if you need anything. Press nine twice on the phone there. Someone will pick up.”

  After he’d gone, she walked round the cottage, ran her hand along the wainscoting, touched chairs, the chest of drawers in the bedroom, straightened the cushion on the chair, then sat on the bed. She stared into the mirror over the dresser, half expecting, even longing to see her mother staring back at her. She gripped the bed’s headboard and closed her eyes, imagining how it was, them holding hands across the tiny kitchen table, sitting by the fire, in the bed making love, making her.

  She telephoned Uncle Tim but heard only his voice on the answering machine. She told him she’d arrived safely. Stoney Beck and the Hare and Hounds were straight out of an English novel. And guess what, it was a fine warm day. She gave him the phone number then hung up and ran water for a bath.

  ***

  The tearoom was crowded and Jenny felt lucky to be shown to a small table set in one of the bay windows. Afternoon tea at the Hare and Hounds was better than anything she’d had in London. As well as the usual cucumber and watercress sandwiches, there was a plate of crackers and three kinds of cheeses, along with a delicious pate the waitress said was wild boar. There was clotted cream for the scones, still warm from the oven, and a tray with miniature jars of assorted jams. The sun glinted off the small brass vase of pansies in the center of the table.

  A woman stared at her from across the aisle. Jenny smiled and nodded but when the woman didn’t respond, except to continue to stare, Jenny turned away.

  A group of people in their twenties or thirties, in khaki shorts or blue jeans, probably hikers or mountain climbers, sat at a large table in the center of the room. She listened in on their conversation, and when they laughed at some joke, she smiled at one of the girls who looked her way. The girl, still laughing, gave a casual nod, then turned back to her friends.

  Jenny looked out the window and played the game she’d played since she’d stepped off the plane at Gatwick Airport, searching the faces of most middle-aged men, looking for a match or any resemblance at all to the Charles Woodleigh in the picture she now had in her purse.

  “You here on holiday?”

  Jenny spun around. The woman who had stared at her made a loud scraping sound as she pulled out the chair across from Jenny and sat on it. She leaned forward, her thin, pointed face now no more than two feet away. The thick lenses in her glasses magnified her eyes and the smile which wasn’t a smile displayed a mouthful of loose-fitting false teeth. Her hair had alternating streaks of grey and brown and was snatched back into a bun. A badger in glasses.

  As the woman leaned across the table, her face up close, Jenny pressed her shoulder into the wall. “Why, yes. Yes I am. I’ve wanted to come to England ever since high school. I can’t believe I’m really here.” She picked up a tiny three-cornered sandwich and took a bite while the badger continued to stare.

  “I knew you’d come one day,” she said. “I knew you’d find out and come.”

  The sandwich slipped out of Jenny’s hand and landed on her plate. “Find out what?”

  “Come on. You don’t have to play coy with me.” The grainy, heavy smoker’s voice emphasized every word.

  “I think you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

  “Oh, there’s no mix-up. It’s you all right. I’ve seen your photograph.”

  “My photograph?”

  “The one your mother sent to the doctor. I was in his office when it came. He pulled it out of the envelope and showed it to me. I’d have known you anywhere.”

  “I think probably—”

  “Staying at the inn are you? In the cottage?”

  The false teeth clacked, watercress from the sandwiches lodged between them. “Thought so,” she said when Jenny nodded. “Only natural you’d stay there.”

  Jenny gripped her cup with both hands as she tried doing something normal like sipping her tea.

  “You’ve come snooping around haven’t you?”

  Jenny lowered her cup with a clatter, slopping tea onto the tablecloth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Snooping around for what?”

  The woman got to her feet. “Don’t you play little miss innocent with me. It’ll get you nowhere.” Her harsh raised voice carried round the room causing heads to turn.”

  Jenny also stood up and at five feet nine inches, towered over the woman. “Hang on a minute. What do you mean by—” But the woman was already heading for the entrance.

  Jenny snatched up her purse and turned to hurry after her. Her face burned as she grazed the arm of a man in the seat behind her causing him to drop his fork. She stopped to pick it up and after apologizing, threaded her way around crowded tables, filled with people all turned to look at her.

  Mr. Pudsley stood in the doorway, his face anxious as Jenny strode toward him.

  “Did you see that woman?” she asked, amazed at her strong steady voice. “She sat at my table and started talking as if she knew me. Then she just got up and took off. She was real strange.”

  “That’s old Biddy Biggerstaff,” Mr. Pudsley said. “And you’re right, she is strange. She’s always been a bit odd, but lately it’s as if—still, it’s not like her to talk to strangers. She doesn’t leave the big house much any more. There’s just her and a girl. I’m sorry if she bothered you.”

  The worried frown on Mr. Pudsley’s face and the way he bit his lip made Jenny wish she hadn’t said anything.

  “It was nothing. We’ve got someone just like her back home.” Jenny couldn’t think of anyone in her neighborhood quite like Biddy Biggerstaff but at least the remark brought a ghost of a smile to Mr. Pudsley’s
face.

  “Maybe she was interested because you’re an American. You know, different.”

  Jenny looked down at her clothes. White slacks, blue denim shirt, tennis shoes and white socks. As far as she could see no different from other young people in the inn or roaming around outside. But her clothes of course had nothing to do with it or even that she was an American. It all had something to do with the photograph. What had the woman said? “It’s you all right and I know why you’re here.” She’d accused Jenny of snooping around. Snooping around for what? Could this have anything to do with what her mother had so desperately wanted Jenny to know? She took a long breath. In spite of the shaky feeling, she began to feel a little satisfied. After no more than a couple of hours in Stoney Beck, already she was getting somewhere. Even though the woman had unnerved her, the confrontation had given Jenny a lead, something to go on.

  “I left the table in a hurry,” she said to Mr. Pudsley. “I didn’t even wait for my check. Perhaps I—”

  Mr. Pudsley waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll just add it to your bill, but I want this first one to be on me.”

  “You don’t have to do that. It was really nothing.”

  “This has nothing to do with Biddy. I just happen to like Americans.”

  The bar was almost deserted now, obviously a quiet time between afternoon and evening. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the open door onto the ancient stone flags and burnished mahogany counter with its brass fittings. The smell of flowers from outside mingled with the smell of beer.

  Without even planning to ask, and more to get her mind off the strange woman, Jenny blurted out the words. “Have you ever heard of a man called Charles Woodleigh?” She watched Mr. Pudsley’s face for any sign of surprise, but saw none. “A friend of the family came through here years ago. Said if I met him, to say hello.”

  The question was a long shot because her mother had said Charles was from London. Still, there was always the chance he’d come back, maybe just to see the place. And if he had, wouldn’t it be the most natural thing in the world for him to stop at the Hare and Hounds for a glass of beer, or a meal even?