by K. Velk
Miles reached up to the bandage, which had fallen loose again revealing the spidery black stitches.
“I, I ran into a tree.”
She snorted, “And clumsy into the bargain. It’s quite impossible.”
Mr. Scott spoke politely, but firmly. “Lady Fisher has a proposal for the employment of McTavish which was conveyed to me. It does not involve work inside the house, at least for the time being, and so need not concern you. I shall communicate this proposal to him, and, if I deem that he is suitable, and he wants the job, he will be joining the staff.”
“Oh, I’ll want it!” Miles gushed. “Whatever it is. I really want to work here.”
Mr. Scott nodded at him in a way that suggested approval, but also made clear he should keep silent. He then turned an arched eyebrow at Mrs. Grimwald. This time she took the hint.
“Where is Morgan Davies these days, McTavish?” She asked in an offhand manner as she stepped to the door.
“Oh. He’s a professor of English, in Texas, where I’m from.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” she sniffed. “Though I expect the requirements for a professional academic in Texas must, of necessity, be somewhat relaxed.”
Part II
19. Welcome to the Working Week
Mr. Scott arranged for Miles to stay with Jack in the Bothy Cottage near the kennels. The Bothy was a simple, one-room building with two beds, a dresser, and a washstand. It housed kennel boys or other lowly outside staff. Jack was happy with it, and happy to share it with Miles. Miles wouldn’t be working at the kennel, however, nor the dairy, nor the stable, nor anyplace else on the estate that involved four-footed creatures, to his great relief. His assigned task sounded, at least, like something he might be able to handle. He was to serve as a helper to the mason who was repairing the Park’s perimeter wall. Once the Fishers returned, if Miles were still in need of a job, some new duties might be assigned. What those duties might be would depend on Miles and Lady Fisher.
He didn’t know whether work outside or inside would be better for fulfilling his mission, but he was glad he wasn’t going to be under the direction of the formidable Mrs. Grimwald. He felt cold suspicion in her gaze. She had obviously taken an instant dislike to him, even before she had learned of his connection to Morgan Davies and that clearly had not improved her opinion. Mr. Scott had chided Jack at the end of the interview for revealing the link.
“I know you are a well brought-up boy, Peppermore. Surely your mother told you not to speak to your superiors before they have spoken to you?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Mrs. Grimwald had some grievance with the Davies family,” Mr. Scott said with a frown. “I never did know what it was all about, but I had not intended her to learn that McTavish here was connected to them.”
“Sorry Sir. It’s just everyone else seemed so pleased…”
“Well, Mrs. Grimwald is exceptional in many ways,” Mr. Scott sighed. “I suppose it was a fond hope, trying to keep her in ignorance. Still, least said the better now. Don’t mention it to her again unless she directly asks.”
Awaiting Miles on his first morning as a wage earner, in addition to a wheelbarrow and a shovel, were two men. His boss would be the mason, Tom Pauling, a low-slung, powerfully-built man in his early thirties. Despite his obvious physical strength, Tom had an intelligent face, with a wide brow and bright eyes. He was accompanied by his apprentice, a boy of about nineteen, whom Tom introduced as “Ginger Rogers.”
Miles laughed. “Good one!”
Ginger was tall and stick-thin. His arms were too long for his sleeves and his legs were too long for his pants. He had a fringe of bright red hair showing beneath his cap. He reminded Miles of a pencil: an unhappy pencil.
“Now what’s so funny about that?” Ginger asked, looking wounded.
The name had not, apparently, been Tom’s joke.
“Oh. Sorry. Really. Dude. It’s just that there’s an actress, uhhh, a dancer, back home named ‘Ginger Rogers’. I didn’t know ‘Ginger’ could be a boy’s name.” Miles had no idea when Ginger Rogers had become famous for dancing with Fred Aastaire. Whenever it was, this Ginger Rogers and the others here had clearly never heard of her.
“Well, it’s not my mother as named me ‘Ginger,’” he said. “People call me that on account of my hair, being ginger colored.”
“His Christian name’s Evelyn,” said Tom Pauling.
This was pronounced “Eve Lynn,” not ‘Evv-a-lin’ as Miles would have said it if he had seen it written down, but “Eve-Lynn” was bad enough. Miles’ attempts to smother his laughter resulted in a series of loud snorts.
“What’s wrong with that now?” Asked poor Ginger. “There’s lots of fellows called Evelyn.”
Miles was powerless. “I’m sor, sor, sorry,” he said gasping. “Really sorry. I, well, never mind. I never heard that name either, for a boy. My bad, really. Ignore me.”
“All right then, that’s what we’ll do,” Tom Pauling said. “Ginger, why don’t you and Young America finish taking down that bit o’ wall there. I’m going to work on the footings for the section we demolished yesterday. We’ll take lunch at noon by the factory hooter.”
Miles realized then that in his nervousness and excitement that morning, he had neglected to pack a lunch. Now Ginger stalked over to the section of wall that Tom had ordered them to take down.
“Where’s yer gloves, Dude?” Ginger asked, as he showily pulled on a pair of well-worn leather work gloves. No gloves either. The July sun was just burning off the morning mist. It was going to be a long day.
20. What Doesn’t Kill You…
Miles had heard the phrase “crawled into bed” many times. He had never actually done it himself, however, until the end of his first day as a mason’s assistant. He had been so beat, and actually bloody, by the time they were done for the day that he had been afraid that Ginger would have to bring him back to the Bothy in a wheelbarrow. He only just managed to stumble back under his own power. His fingers were too ravaged and swollen to manage the buttons on his shirt and pants. When would the zipper be invented, anyway? He fumbled miserably for a few moments before giving up and collapsing on the little bed.
At that moment he hated life in 1928 bitterly and longed for home. He would have cried himself to sleep if sleep hadn’t overtaken him almost immediately.
In the morning Miles showed his injured hands to Jack who looked worried and said that Mr. Hardy must be consulted.
Mr. Hardy in his turn betrayed no emotion but said loudly and derisively to Jack, “Not cut out for hard work, is he? I’ll have to consult with Mr. Scott about what’s to be done as he’s in a rare category.”
Mr. Hardy dictated that Miles was to stay in until Dr. Slade came to see him, then it would be doctor’s orders.
If Mr. Hardy meant to make Miles feel ashamed, he succeeded. Miles made up his mind right then, however, that he would redeem himself. He would have to for Jack’s sake since Jack had vouched for him. Still, he was so sore and his hands so ravaged he fell gratefully back onto his pillow. His campaign for redemption would begin after just a little rest.
Doctor Slade washed and salved Miles’ tattered hands and bandaged them with a distracted air. Coming to himself as the last bit of gauze was snipped he asked, “Whatever were you thinking, McTavish? Hauling a lot of rough stones with those soft hands of yours?”
“I didn’t dare to stop while Tom and Ginger worked.”
Tom and Ginger had hardly spoken to him that whole long day. At lunch they had ignored him, though they must have seen he’d brought nothing to eat.
“Did you tell them what was happening?”
“No. I think I got off on the wrong foot with them. They weren’t really talking to me. And Mr. Hardy thinks I’m a weakling now on top of it all, which isn’t fair!”
“Well, you’ll be all right in a day or two. I’ll have a word with Pauling. He’s a good man – and don’t worry. I won’t say you’ve comp
lained.”
“And I didn’t!” It had cost Miles the greatest physical effort of his life to keep his mouth closed while he hoisted stones all day. He couldn’t help feeling that he should get some credit. “I just kept on.”
“You were stalwart, no question, to the point of foolishness. Tom and Ginger might have ribbed you a little if you had run back to the Lodge for a bit of food and a pair of gloves, but now you’ve deprived them of your labor altogether for at least a day or two. Still, I suppose it serves them right for giving you the cold shoulder.”
Miles looked down at his bandaged hands. “I kind of earned that silent treatment. I laughed at Ginger’s name.”
“His nickname or his Christian name?”
“Both.”
Dr. Slade chuckled. “Well, even if he wanted to continue to give you ‘the silent treatment,’ as you call it, Ginger Rogers is incapable of keeping his mouth shut for long. He’s going to need someone to chatter to this summer and Pauling is not the man for that. Well, never fear. I’ll have a word with Pauling, and you can spend a day convalescing and repenting.”
21. The Wide World of Quarter Sessions
Mr. Hardy ordered Miles to make some use of his time off by learning about the working part of the estate. “Not makin’ yourself a nuisance, mind, but findin’ out what’s what and who’s who. Though the Fishers should dock your pay, they won’t, so try to give your employers some value for their money.”
Miles nodded humbly but he was not, in truth, much bothered by the fact that he was being paid to wander around the estate for a day. He was excited. Here was a prime opportunity to seek “The Girl” and maybe the secret as well!
Jack had shown Miles around the stables and the kennels after the interview with Mr. Scott, but that brief tour had just scratched the surface. Quarter Sessions was immense. There were clusters of buildings for acres around the house and gardens, farms, and fields that stretched out of sight.
Miles decided to start his day off at the cook’s cottage. It was joined to the back of the kitchen and was the first in a row of connected buildings that trailed away from the main house like a tail.
He discovered that it wasn’t really a cottage – just a hallway with Nell’s room behind a door. He followed the corridor and came next to the bake house, where he met a broad-beamed smiling woman called Sally. She handed him a fistful of ginger snaps and sent him on his way. He passed through the “wet laundry” where there was some tub-shaped apparatus that looked like the ancestors of the washing machines he knew. The big laundry room was dominated by a huge brick oven or fireplace whose purpose Miles could not guess. A girl of about twenty was turning the wheel on a machine that reminded Miles of an old-time printing press. Her turning had the effect of drawing a wet sheet through a pair of wooden rollers that squeezed water out of it. When she noticed him, she jumped.
“What d’ya mean, creepin’ up like that?”
“I’m new here,” he said, trying to be pleasant. “Just learning my way around. What’s your name? Want a ginger snap?” He extended a cookie in her direction.
She looked like she had a mouthful of vinegar. “My name’s none o’ yer business. I don’t want a dirty biscuit and I don’t care to be gawked at.” Miles left without another word, making a mental note to follow up on the laundry girl although he powerfully hoped she was not the one he had been sent to find.
The wet laundry was joined to the “dry laundry,” which had a huge table in the center with more big wheels and gears attached to it. A frame hung from the ceiling and it was festooned with tablecloths and dishtowels and other bits of linen. After the laundries came a “U” shaped building, the harness room and the tack room, which was full of saddles, bridles, blankets, and a row of high black riding boots on a low shelf. The boots had a strange presence, standing tall by virtue of wooden forms. The room was cool and smelled pleasantly of leather and hay.
He passed through a door at the back of the tack room and found himself in the vast stable. Only a few horses were in their boxes. Miles nodded at the one groom who took notice of him. The stable was beautiful. Shafts of lights, picked out by floating bits of hay and dust, came through the elegant tall windows, and the woodwork on the stalls was nearly as extravagant as it was in the house.
He went through the open doors at the front of the stable and into the sunlit courtyard of the quadrangle. It was a beautiful summer day and the bright weather showed off the handsome buildings to their best advantage. The main entrance to the quad was through a tall archway with a clock set into a tower above it. In addition the stable block, the quad also included a coach house, with three stately carriages parked under a low roof, and a hay barn.
He wandered out of the quad and into another barn, surprising a man with a hammer and a mouthful of nails. The burly man nodded and spit the nails into his hand. “The new bull near broke down the whole pen,” he said, apparently by way of explanation of his task. Miles introduced himself.
“Oh yes, the American lad. I’ve heard about you. I’m Jim Hatley, the carpenter.” Miles explained that he had been instructed to familiarize himself with the estate.
“Well, I’ve finished here, I’ll walk you through the next bit.” Mr. Hatley placed a last nail in the thick board, whacked it down expertly. “Let’s go look at the wagons,” he said.
Miles had already seen the wagon shed, as he had been directed to park his bicycle there on Sunday. He was relieved to see that the Royal Sunbeam was just where he had left it under a heavy canvas cloth. The wagon shed also housed a hulking steam-driven tractor with spiky metal wheels, various farm wagons and a horse-drawn sleigh with upholstered red seats.
“I never seen a great house yet but what didn’t have a sleigh somewhere,” Mr. Hatley said, shaking his head. “Yet in all my years I’ve never seen one put to use.”
The pair went back out into the bright day and Mr. Hatley pointed out the Gardener’s House. It was a large brick building, new in comparison to many of the others. Seeing it gave Miles a little shiver. Professor Davies had lived in this house as a boy. In fact, it was the only home he had known prior to his journey through the Birch Gate. Miles thought it looked like a happy house, with flowers in boxes at the windows. Professor Davies had never spoken of it to Miles, however, except for that one time, at the hospital. He said Maryanne Davies had hidden the last letters from her husband, and the little banded stone, under some loose floorboards near the fireplace in the front room of this house. She never knew Morgan had found them. She “slipped into oblivion” the very day that her son made his discovery. Miles sensed that Professor Davies hadn’t quite forgiven his mother for trying to keep it all a secret.
Miles’ mind boggled at the extent of Quarter Sessions – and to think it was all in support of one family! He doubted that any of the “high net worth” individuals whose investments were handled by his father back in Texas were surrounded by anything as elaborate as this.
“How many buildings are there here?” Miles asked.
“Hmm. Now that’s a stumper,” Mr. Hatley said. “Must be thirty up here, and a’ course there’s more out in the Park, a couple lovely follies, and then there’s the home farm and dairy down the lane – and I almost forgot about the dynamo at the old mill. That’s where they make all the electric for the place. Lady Fisher had the house and all the big barns electrified back in ’04.”
It was really was a world of its own – a world, however, in which Miles had discovered only one girl all day, and she was a terrible candidate, he felt sure. At the end of his tour, he felt no further along on his mission than he had been at the beginning.
“Are there any girls at work on the estate staff? I saw only one today – an angry looking girl back at the laundry.”
Mr. Hatley laughed and winked at Miles. “That was Lettice.”
Miles bit his tongue this time.
“She comes in from the village. She’s walking out with your friend Ginger, as it happens.” Lettice with Gin
ger, Miles thought. Perfect. It sounded like a menu item at one of the restaurants his mother favored.
“As for other girls? Mind now, I am not in the business of noticing such things myself, ancient married man that I am, but come to think of it, girls are a bit of a rarity at Sessions these days. The Fishers haven’t hired much since the war, and any girl that might have come on staff before 1914 isn’t likely a ‘girl’ now, fourteen years later.”
“No. I guess not.”
“I guess you’re thinking of girls about your age?”
“Maybe a bit older. Like seventeen or eighteen?” Miles couldn’t really believe he’d been sent back in time to find a child. He felt quite sure that the girl of the Gypsy’s task must be one old enough to make up her own mind about the journey he had on offer.
“Very wise. Older women are just the thing for a young fellow.” Mr. Hatley said with another wink.
“It’s not what you think.” Miles could feel himself redden.
“No, no. I’m sure I don’t think anything about a young fellow asking about girls in the neighborhood. Well, let me see. There’s Mary the Dairy at the home farm, she’s about seventeen I think, but her face is not her fortune if you’ll forgive me saying so. And Effie, the lodge cook, she’s got a pair of twin daughters, Ruth and Esther. I have to say they remind me of the wicked stepsisters in Cinderella.”
“Oh looks don’t matter,” Miles said.
Mr. Hatley gave him an odd look. “I weren’t talking about the way they look. Still, that’s a view not often held by lads your age, but wise again.”
“I’m wondering whether there’s a girl, probably working or living on the estate, that’s maybe a bit… unusual. Not quite fitting in?”
“Well, I can’t think of any girl on staff that I would call queer or out of place. The village has the usual eccentrics, a few suffragettes and blue stockings and the like. And o’ course there are the unfortunates, Rosemary Ditcher with a hare lip; Liza Taylor with a clubfoot. Enid Bagshot has that port-wine stain across her cheek, though she’s a lovely girl for all of that. Then there are one or two that are simple, but they’re only the usual sort of unusual, if you take my meaning.”
