by K. Velk
“Could I help with that Mrs. Peppermore?”
She laughed. “You’re good to ask but there’s not enough bulk to you to turn dough this stiff.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of a floury hand. “It would be a help, though, if you could collect the eggs. I couldn’t get to it this morning and it’s one job that Susannah’s not good for. The egg basket’s on the shelf,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “Mind, don’t let Mabel get away with any of her tricks! She’s broody lately.”
“Oh. OK. Sure.” Miles tried to sound relaxed.
Now what?
The chickens in his life generally arrived in a tidy little box after having been configured into bite-sized pieces. He had never been near one that was still breathing and in its feathers. Mrs. Peppermore obviously assumed that anyone with a pulse and eyesight was capable of gathering a few eggs – even the privileged son of rich Americans. He thought it was a lot to assume but he swallowed hard and retrieved the little wire basket.
As soon as Miles eased himself past the door of the small stone chicken coop, chaos erupted. The birds flapped, clucked, and scrabbled away in panic from the American stranger. Their speed was startling given their ungainliness.
Once they had fled, however the eggs were mostly easy pickings – they lay neatly in straw-lined nest boxes, as though they had been arranged for a photo shoot. He collected them and found himself, for the first time ever, really looking at eggs. Their perfection was amazing – like something machined by the precision German equipment that had made his father’s turntable, or maybe sculpted by an artist. It was incredible to think that they had been pumped from the insides of these awkward birds.
One bird remained in the coop, a red hen sitting plump in her nest. This had to be Mabel. Miles collected the last easy-to-get egg, and then squared his shoulders and looked at her. She cocked her head and looked back steadily.
He noticed that the black center of his opponent’s eye was rimmed with a beautiful gold color, like some kind of exotic make up. Her red feathers were beautiful too. In fact, she was gorgeous in her way. This was also a surprise. Chickens were even more attractive in life than when reduced to white and dark meat and put next to a pile of mashed potatoes. (Although he still preferred them that way).
But her looks wouldn’t save her now. “All right bird, let’s have those eggs.” He reached for Mabel and she, with a mechanical twitch, pecked his thumb. It didn’t hurt much but it startled him so that he yanked his hand back, shooting two of the eggs out if the basket and against the back wall of the coop. He swore and grabbed his thumb. Egg yokes and shell dribbled down the wall behind him. The sight embarrassed him, and then made him mad. Shamed by a chicken, of all creatures.
Miles put down the basket and reached for Mabel again, decisively this time, clamping both hands on her warm sides and lifting her off her nest. She clucked in outrage but leapt away with a great flap. Miles found three warm eggs in her nest.
He came out to find Susannah filling a bucket of coal from the coal pile next to the house.
“How did you do?” She asked.
“Fine – nearly a dozen.”
“Mabel give you any trouble?”
“No. Not really. I felt a little bad to be taking her eggs, though.”
Susannah laughed. “You did her a favor, believe me, and she’s got more where those came from.” Susannah bent back to her bucket and chunked in a few more bits of coal. “If there just happened to be a few broken eggs in there, though, you might want to tidy them up. It doesn’t do to let hens get a taste for eggs.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Miles said. He would be ready for those chickens tomorrow and, who knew, maybe for dogs and horses by Sunday.
14. To Market
The next day Dr. Slade pronounced Miles sufficiently fit for an outing and the two of them climbed into the Doctor’s little car right after the bandage changing. Miles’ injured bicycle was propped awkwardly in the dickey seat behind them.
Miles had a gratifying sense of déjà vu as the car putt-putted up Tipton High Street. They passed the butcher shop, the milliner’s, the bridge over the river Hawls, the sweet shop, and so forth. Each establishment presented itself almost exactly as he had laid it out in his model Dibden.
How? He wondered. How could he have known? And who, or what, had inspired him – driven him really –to build his Dibden? Something, obviously, had been working on Miles for a long time. He had been prepared somehow, marked for this journey, and long ago.
Thinking about all this made him uneasy. There were apparently forces at work in his life that he had never before sensed or even guessed at. What did that mean about what was happening to him now? Or what would happen next? Was he in charge of his own destiny, or was he just being moved around in time and space like some kind of chess piece? He had been drafted to serve in this bizarre role, that much was clear – but by whom or what, and why him?
The Doctor noticed his troubled expression and commanded him to cheer up. “It’s a beautiful day, your head is mending well, and we are off to a bicycle shop! What could be better?”
The Doctor’s buoyancy was irresistible and Miles succumbed to it. Fat white clouds were floating in a bright blue sky and the open car offered an expansive view of the green and yellow fields that stretched away, patchwork style, to the blue hills beyond. The paved road, or “metaled road” as the Doctor put it, was smooth and satisfyingly curved. So while he had no business feeling relaxed and happy, Miles let relaxation and happiness overtake him. Why not? He needed a break.
The bike shop was just where Miles had placed it in his Dibden layout, between the cobbler and the post office. Its proprietor was a small, sandy-haired young man called Morris.
Miles’ focus on his Dibden had always been on getting the physical details of the town right. He had never really tried to imagine the people who might have inhabited the buildings he had modeled and placed. He was amazed now at himself. How could he have been guilty of such a breathtaking oversight? Now that he was actually here, or there, or whatever, it was the people who mattered much more than their buildings.
As Miles and Morris shook hands, it occurred to him, however, that even if he had tried to imagine the owner of the town’s cycle shop, he would not have conjured Morris. All the serious cyclists in Miles’ acquaintance were thin, upright, and ropily muscled. Morris didn’t look the least bit athletic. He had a long, thin neck from which his large head hung forward, like a heavy fruit on an under-built stalk. His shoulders were rounded and narrow. He looked soft, but his shopkeeper’s gaze was keen and sharp. He raked a professional eye over the Professor’s bicycle.
“Gentleman’s Royal Sunbeam, built in 1913. Top of the line in its day and still a fine machine,” he pronounced. “Must’ve cost a packet when it were new.” He looked at Miles with a similar, appraising expression. “Kind of a big machine for a little fella like you, innit? Someone make a present of it to you, or d’you buy it?”
Doctor Slade broke in, “He didn’t steal it Morris, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. I can vouch for my young friend 100 percent.”
“A’ course, a’ course – I meant nothing of the kind. Just passing the time o’ day,”
Morris said that he thought he could have the Sunbeam repaired in about an hour, if they could wait. The Doctor shook his wristwatch out of his sleeve. “I can’t stay. I must look in on Mrs. Peterson directly. But Miles can wait and cycle back to the Peppermore’s. You’re up to it now, aren’t you? It’s not far.”
Of course Miles knew the way, and if twelve miles was “not far” he had to agree. The thought of pedaling alone through this new, old world made him nervous, but he wasn’t about to embarrass himself by admitting it. He nodded.
“Now, my business with Morris – it’s a bit of a surprise for someone. You won’t mind if he and I inspect it alone? You’ll see it for yourself presently, I expect.”
Morris and the Doctor disappeared int
o the back room leaving Miles alone in the little shop. It was amazing to see vintage cycling merchandise all brand new and at such low prices! A big, bright railway poster announced, “Glorious Devon” and featured a cyclist flying down a steep hill toward the sea. It was tacked carelessly to the wall. In Miles’ time such a thing would be worth hundreds of dollars. It was hard to believe that people here thought of it as nothing special. Strange to think that all the bikes and saddles and parts that filled the shop were almost all destined to rust away or be thrown out.
The Doctor and Morris reemerged after a few minutes with the Doctor looking very pleased. “Back on Saturday, Morris. I’ll take it with me then. I apologize for the mystery Miles, but can’t risk any spoiling of the surprise. Though perhaps you’ve guessed? No, no, mustn’t invite speculation. I’m off to see to Mrs. Peterson.”
They stepped out to the sidewalk and as Dr. Slade opened his car door, a pretty young woman crept up behind him and covered his eyes with her gloved hands.
“Guess who?” she asked teasingly.
The Doctor jumped. “It must be Miss Lightfoot?”
“Oh, how did you guess so quickly?” she said with mock disappointment.
The Doctor gently removed her hands, turned, and lifted his hat. “How nice to see you again Miss Lightfoot. Please allow me to introduce my young American friend, Miles McTavish. Miles, this is Miss Daphne Lightfoot.”
Daphne must have been about twenty one. She was very pretty with short, wavy, black hair showing from beneath a blue felt hat that fit and looked a little like an old fashioned aviator’s helmet. Her smile showed teeth that were small and white. Miles had been noticing all morning how many people in Tipton had brown or missing teeth and he wondered what her secret for dental care might be. A pencil straight dress made of shiny black material outlined her slender figure. In the bright June sun, she glistened.
“Please, you must call me Daphne!” she exclaimed. “America, how wonderful! One of your patients, I surmise?” The bandage was Miles’ most prominent feature, next to his American-ness.
“Yes, but well on the way to mending.”
“I’ll take our meeting this morning as evidence that you followed my advice about the flowers?”
“Well, my intentions were good, but I am afraid that I was not able to get up in time to catch the dew.”
“Oh dear. Well, there’s always next year. I shall, however, report this lapse to my father.”
“Miss Lightfoot’s father is a professor from Oxford, Miles.”
“A folklorist to be precise,” Daphne said. “Full of all kinds of interesting stories about ye olde England. He’s hoping to plant the seeds of a Folklore Society while we’re here in the Marches and I know he has his eye on you for a founding member, Doctor.” She turned her pearly whites on Miles. “Do they teach you about any English history over in America, Miles? Do you know about the old Britons, Celts, Romans, Vikings, Saxons and such?”
He came up (almost) empty. “Uh, I know a little about Stonehenge.”
“Well, that’s a start, I suppose. We’re organizing a picnic and a walk along the local section of Offa’s Dyke. Perhaps both of you could come on Sunday? I hear there are beautiful views into Wales from there.”
“That sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid I have a previous engagement,” the Doctor replied.
“Oh dear. How about you Miles?”
“I, uh, I don’t think I can. I have to go see about a job on Sunday. But, what’s exactly is ‘Office Dyke’?” He was sure it wasn’t what he was thinking…
“I must admit that it’s basically an old ditch – but that will hardly entice you, will it? It’s a particularly historic and interesting ditch, built, or dug, I suppose one should say, by King Offa of the ancient kingdom in Mercia in the 700s. It runs for miles and miles and more or less separates England from Wales. We’re planning at least one outing a week this summer, and we’d love to have you along on as many as possible. Shall I send you a schedule, Doctor?”
“Please do. Now I am afraid I have kept Mrs. Peterson waiting too long. Goodbye Daphne. Goodbye Miles.” The Doctor tipped his hat again and was off.
“Can I give you a lift somewhere, Miles?” Daphne asked. “My car is just round the corner.”
“Oh, that’s OK. Thanks. My bike is being fixed right now and I’ll ride it home, er, to where I’m staying.”
“Well it’s lovely to have met you and I hope I shall see you again very soon.” She turned and shimmered through the traffic like a fish slipping through reeds in a stream.
People here were so polite! Miles thought. He liked Daphne and he wondered, for a moment, whether she might be “The Girl.”
No. That didn’t feel right. Daphne Lightfoot was right where she belonged.
But how would he know when “The Girl” appeared?
He scanned the sidewalks, which were called “pavements” here, and wondered about a girl of around twelve who was walking very fast and carrying a basket on one arm, and another of about seventeen who was sweeping the pavement in front of the tobacconist’s. Would there be a sign when the mystery girl appeared? How would he know her? Would she have a halo? Would fiery finger appear above her head? Would the Gypsy stand next to her, waving and pointing?
The troubling question came like a storm cloud over his sunny day, but as he looked up and down the street, a real, actual sign caught his eye.
Of course! The bakery was just down the block, right where he had put it in his layout, though he hadn’t given it a name. He found out now that it was called the “Bunwright Bake Shop” and the sign promised “Bread, Morning Goods, Cakes, Tarts and Pastries.”
The bike repair would leave plenty of change for a few pastries, maybe even a cake for desert tonight. He could tie a cake box to the rack over the rear fender. They would have plenty of string in a bake shop.
Miles walked down the block and into the chocolate-scented shop beneath the welcoming jangle of a bell. He found there, as so many have before and since, that misery shrivels in the presence of a glass case full of baked goods.
15. A Step Forward
Mrs. Peppermore seemed downcast over the next couple of days. Miles felt sure something bad had happened, but she didn’t mention any particular trouble and he didn’t want to pry. On Saturday morning, however, anticipating her son’s return, she was cheerful enough to sing a little song as she prepared the afternoon meal.
“The food at Sessions is fine and ample,” she said as she expertly scraped potato peels into the pig’s bucket (and not on her freshly-scrubbed flagstones), “but there’s nothing like a meal cooked at home and eaten under your own roof. Oh, and I hope you’ll now think of this old roof as yours too, Miles.” She gave him one of her kindest smiles, one that reached into her eyes and banished the sadness that lingered there. Oddly enough, Miles thought, the cottage was becoming home. At least he thought of it as home whenever he went out, and since he had gotten his bike back, Miles had been out a lot.
He had taken long rides morning and evening each day. He found that riding for miles around Westfield and Tipton had eased his worried mind. He told himself that these rides were a kind of intelligence gathering – not just a way to relax and to get out from under the busy feet of Susannah and Mrs. Peppermore. He made a point of carefully observing his surroundings as he went. After all, “The Girl” or “the Secret” might turn up anywhere. Riding around meant, he told himself, that he was at least actually doing something.
This new habit of observation had already brought a few surprises. It seemed that nearly everywhere he looked – now that he was looking closely – there was something intriguing in view. He rolled over impossibly ancient stone bridges and wondered about the others who had crossed them. He never passed a cluster of trees without wondering if they were more than met the eye. Any doorways through time there? Any messengers from the beyond lurking?
Most interesting of all were the old buildings. Many were curious and unlike anything at
home. There was a squat round tower at the edge of Westfield village standing alone in a field. What was that about? There were old barns with no windows, and elaborate big birdhouses called “dovecotes.”
Susannah told him one evening that the Peppermore’s cottage, which had been passed down to Mrs. Peppermore by her grandfather, was more than 400 years old. When he had commented that their house was far older even than his country, she had fetched a funny looking spoon from a drawer in the sideboard.
“We found this when my father was fixing the roof, years ago. It was sitting on a supporting beam where it looked to have fallen around the time the house was built. We sent it on to the schoolmaster who sent it to an antiques dealer in London. The dealer said that if Shakespeare had happened by the cottage he might have used this spoon for his dinner. I sometimes eat my soup with it just with that in mind.”
Despite his interest in old bicycles, Miles had never actually been much of a cyclist before. Back in Texas, he had been attracted by the looks of vintage bicycles. They had a steam-punk cool about them, like old-time aviator’s goggles, or manual typewriters. And of course, he had always been interested in old things. Actually riding the old bikes, or any bikes for that matter, had never really appealed to him.
No wonder, he thought now. His parents were avid cyclists, but when they went out riding (on their expensive, shark-like, technical bikes), they seemed focused on nothing but their heart rates and their cycling cadence. They never looked like they were enjoying themselves, and they had never made cycling sound like fun to their indoor-loving son.
Even if he had been interested, however, Miles would never have been allowed to go out for hours on his own, just exploring, as he was doing now. He would have had to go with them or some other minder who, no doubt, would want Miles to focus on his own heart rate and cadence.
Now that he was cycling hard, however, Miles found he loved it. Even on the heavy old Sunbeam with only three gears at his disposal, he was having a blast – especially on the downhill runs. And the freedom of being out on his own, which had first made him uneasy, was becoming intoxicating.
