Up, Back, and Away

by K. Velk

  30. Into Temptation?

  The following day, Miles was assigned to clean the fireplaces and polish the grates. He saved the Drawing Room fireplace for last since it was his favorite room in the house and he wanted to linger there for a at least a few minutes when he was done with the job. The beautiful room was empty, as he had hoped it would be, so when the grate was shining and every trace of ash swept away, he posted himself in front of the diamond-paned windows and drank in the view.

  Low clouds hung like a wooly blanket to the edge of the world. The autumn-like weather was continuing, but the gardens and the Park were as beautiful in this matte light as they had been in full summer sun. Enlivening the view on this occasion were knots of men in their shirtsleeves putting up tents and platforms and paddocks in the garden in preparation for “the village Fête.”

  Miles gazed at it all until the bucket of blackened sudsy water he was carrying became uncomfortably heavy. When he turned to leave, however, he found Lady Fisher just behind him, apparently admiring the same scene. She smiled. He jumped, nearly spilling the bucket.

  “I’m sorry Miles. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He put his free hand to his pounding heart. “It’s all right Lady Fisher. I didn’t hear you come in. It’s a good thing I didn’t spill this all over the carpet.” The image of the lettuce-green rug with a big splash of sooty water on it chilled him. If he got fired, he was doomed.

  “Put that down and come talk with me a moment, won’t you?”

  It was a simple request and one that he could hardly disobey, but it threw him into a dilemma. Certainly, Mrs. Grimwald and Mr. Scott would never approve of him chit-chatting with Lady Fisher. His eyes flitted to the door. Lady Fisher interpreted the look.

  “It’s all right. I promise to shield you from Mrs. Grimwald. Come sit down.”

  He put the bucket back on the stone hearth – where it could do no harm to the rug – and sat down opposite his employer in front of the clean fireplace. “It just seems that there’s something about me that irritates Mrs. Grimwald, and I am really trying not to irritate Mrs. Grimwald,” he began.

  “Well, you’re just a bit different in your skin than our British boys, aren’t you? I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

  “I’ve been trying as hard as I can to do things the way I am supposed to. Trying to fit in…”

  “I think you have been doing a fine job. It’s only that you have a certain informality about you, something independent. I don’t expect it’s anything you could change, even if you wanted to, and you shouldn’t want to. It’s one of the things I loved about your country, the way everyone is so free and easy.”

  “I miss home,” he said with a pang. “It’s hard for me here to keep all the rules straight, about how to act and who I’m allowed to speak to and how I’m supposed to say things and all that.”

  Lady Fisher smiled. “I’m sure that all our little codes are a bit difficult when you haven’t been brought up with them. Normally, the local social rules aren’t applied to foreigners, but here you find yourself on staff at a great house and expected to behave as a native would.”

  She popped open a little silver case on the table, took out a cigarette, and lit it with a silver lighter. “You know, I felt a foreigner myself as a young wife here, trying to play the Lady to the satisfaction of all those who sat in judgment on me. I don’t know which panel was worse, my titled in-laws or the staff!”

  She settled back into the sofa. “The servants were especially severe, and believe me, I felt it. Of course, they were never openly disrespectful, but they had their ways of letting me know what they thought of me. Many of them, including Mrs. Grimwald, came down here from Reddlegowt, you know. And royalty and all the high and mighty of the land passed through Reddlegowt Castle in its great days. The servants of Reddlegowt knew a lady when they saw one, and when they looked at me they saw only the offspring of a potter and a farmer’s daughter who’d had some French lessons tacked on – like ribbons on a mule.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago. I’m not bothered by such things these days, of course. I haven’t been for a long, long time. I’m proud of the business that my father built – do you know the Fairlamb Pottery? My brother has taken it in hand now, the pottery as well as all the other enterprises it has launched. They have provided for us all very nicely. But money is only money, you see. It can’t ever buy a pedigree, and they seemed not to want to let me forget that in those early years here. Once the children came, I found my own way and stopped caring what my new relations and the servants thought of me. Funny, after I stopped trying to play a part, the staff started respecting me better. I could sense it clearly. Strange, isn’t it?”

  Miles nodded. “I just don’t get that about England, the way it matters so much who your parents are. No one in the States cares much about that – I mean especially not if you were a success on your own. And no one would look down on anyone who had made a fortune, well, at least not in any honest business.”

  “Yes, I suppose we can all still deplore and feel superior to the bootleggers at least.” She laughed at her own joke. “Really, it is wonderful how a person may make himself into anything in your country. I think that’s why my brother loves it so much in America. It was worse for him when we were growing up. My father sent him to a very posh school where his status as the child of a member of ‘the commercial community’ was, shall we say, not much respected. He was a sensitive boy – much more cut by such snobbery than I ever was. Truth be told, those ancient insults were the great reason behind his support of Quarter Sessions, at least in early days. Of course, he has evolved now. I suppose losing the boys put all that into perspective for him. Admittedly, though, there was a time when he got great satisfaction from having a brother-in-law who was the younger son of an Earl, and a sister and nephews and a niece all listed in Burke’s Peerage.” She tapped the ash off her cigarette and looked out the window.

  “Of course, I mustn’t be disloyal. I love this country. It has given us everything, and we have given everything to it, everything that matters most, anyway. With all this blood sacrifice we are sanctified and sealed to one another, and I feel sure that my duty lies in trying to improve it for the next generation.”

  Something about this talk of America combined with Lady Fisher’s sympathetic manner went straight through Miles. He felt such longing for home that he thought he might cry. She saw his looks change and came to the rescue.

  “Anyway, what I wanted to say to you was that I was watching you at the window just now. I hope you don’t mind. I was struck by how like my son Andy you are. He was my elder son, and he loved this place so much. Andy would stand at that window and look out over the Park with that same look I thought I saw on your face just now. He loved to talk about his plans for the place, once it came down to him…”

  Miles turned back to the window. “It’s so beautiful here. It’s true. I miss home so much sometimes I can’t stand it – but I guess I am coming to love it here too. The etiquette rules and all this rank and society stuff is not for me, but England is so beautiful.”

  “How old are you now Miles?”

  “Almost sixteen.”

  “Hmm. You are so mature and reserved, I would have guessed you were a bit older.”

  “Huh. Thanks for saying so. That’s a first.”

  “Really? Well, I know you have faced much adversity of late, and adversity has the effect of accelerating our years. I have been pleased that we were able to find something for you to do while you got your bearings. I expect that a boy of your age is not thinking of settling his life – nor should you be – it’s just that, I hope you will feel now that, come what may, you have a place here.”

  “Thank you.” Miles was moved and grateful. “I have to say that the first time I laid eyes on Quarter Sessions I had a strange feeling like I was coming home – which is nuts, since I never saw anyplace like it before.”


  “Oh Miles, be careful what you say or you’ll tempt me into some nonsense about reincarnation or some other half-baked palliative.”

  He looked at her with a puzzled expression and she took another long pull on her cigarette. “It was so terrible, you see, losing my sons. I was quite out of my head for nearly two years after the news came – very close together – regarding both boys. I still have moments when I feel I should just sink into the ground and stay there. I have learned to look ahead, again, and to live again – but I would give anything – anything – to have my boys back and to have things here the way they were before the war. When I saw you at the window, I was carried back to those days. I felt, here is a boy who belongs to the place, the way my boys did. Even when Quarter Sessions goes over to the school, Miles, it will need devotion and care by those who love it. I could arrange a post …”

  Miles felt a tearing sensation somewhere under his ribs. Was he meant to leave this place? He had been wondering and worrying about that in varying degrees since his arrival. The worry had grown worse since Violet and Rhonda had proved dead ends.

  Maybe the Gypsy’s mission had been a ruse, just a pretext for getting him back in time? After all, Professor Davies had spent his whole life in America after he had been time shifted. If the Gypsy had told Professor Davies that Miles was to go and never return, the Professor would not likely have played the part he had been assigned. Perhaps Miles had been lied to, and was meant to stay?

  “Thank you, Lady Fisher,” he managed at last. “I don’t know yet what I am going to do. I wonder about it every day – every hour.” She looked disappointed. “But honestly, he added, “I will always love Quarter Sessions.”

  “Thank you for that, Miles,” she said. “Do let me know what you decide, or if there’s some other way I can help you. Now I must get down to the garden. Apparently my advice is needed rather urgently on the placement of the coconut shy.”

  After she left, Miles reflexively picked up her ashtray and tipped its contents into the dirty water in his bucket. Then he wiped the ashtray clean with a rag, examining if thoroughly for smudges before he replaced it on the table. (Mrs. Grimwald often checked such details). He had, he realized, apparently, been changed at least a little by his time in England…

  31. A Gathering

  Summer weather returned on Saturday, the day of the Fête and the Folklore Society outing. Miles planned to attend both. All the Peppermores were excited about the Fête, but none of them had any interest in mixing with the folklorists.

  “Dr. Slade’s taken up with that Professor’s daughter,” Jack said with disgust. “Besides, who would want to go listen to some dreary old teacher when the Fête is on?”

  So Miles went alone to the folklorists’ rendezvous point which was just at the roadside where Jack and Miles had emerged from the woods on that first, reeling day. Doctor Slade and Daphne were there already, along with Mrs. Slade. The Doctor’s mother was a handsome woman with a very upright posture and a floppy black hat. Miles was predisposed to hate her, based on what he had heard from Jack, but she was smiling and friendly.

  A pair of matching white-haired ladies with deeply-lined faces flanked Professor Lightfoot. Both were wore clunky, black walking shoes and carried walking sticks. They reminded Miles of novelty salt and pepper shakers. Also present were some young men in white who seemed to have come straight from a cricket match or tennis game.

  His unfamiliarity with the little crowd forced him into conversation with Dr. Slade. Miles was polite, but as cool as he could manage. He tried giving the Doctor some dirty looks, but these seemed to miss the mark.

  “Are you feeling all right, Miles?” the Doctor asked. “Not experiencing any vision problems, are you?”

  “No, my vision is fine. Thank God.” Even with such a broad hint, the Doctor didn’t ask about the Peppermores.

  The last to arrive was Tom Pauling. He stepped right up and introduced himself to Professor Lightfoot. Miles was glad to see him, especially since it gave him a way to escape the company of the disloyal Doctor.

  “Are we all here then?” Professor Lightfoot asked. Miles was not surprised that Mrs. Grimwald and Reverend Stone had failed to appear.

  “Wonderful that we have such a fine day for what must be, alas, our last outing of the season,” the Professor began. “Events dictate that my daughter and I must fit in a trip to London before term begins, but I must say that we have found our sojourn here in Tipton relaxing and stimulating in perfect proportion.” There was a scattering of polite applause, as on televised golf matches.

  “We are privileged to have with us today the Misses Green,” he continued, indicating the white-haired ladies.

  “They are well known to most of you. In their working years they owned and managed the Green Millinery on the High Street, which is now so ably managed by their niece.” The ladies beamed.

  Miles thought of the hat shop that he had included in his train layout, and felt again the strangeness of being faced with people from a place he once believed he had only imagined.

  “In their working years, the Misses Green had an opportunity to speak with nearly the entire female population of the district. They are making splendid use of their retirement by recording the local history that they gathered in this fashion. Historians will, no doubt, bless your names forever, ladies.” Mutual beaming from the ladies and more polite applause.

  “For those of you who don’t know them, this is Miss Joan Green,” (the one on the left nodded) “and Miss Ida Green,” (a nod from the one on the right). Now, Ida, before we begin our walk, would you share the tale you told me as we were planning this event?”

  “Certainly Professor. Thank you so much for your gracious introduction, and all your efforts this summer,” Ida Green said with obvious pleasure. “It is a strange, old tale and I am pleased to be able to tell it to such an estimable assembly.”

  32. Miss Green’s Tale

  She stepped forward, and with the air of one addressing an auditorium, began in a surprisingly clear, loud voice:

  “When I was a young girl, just starting in the business, which was owned by our father before us, for those of you new to the neighborhood,” here her gaze fell on Miles, “I had a very old lady for a customer. Though the young seldom pay attention to the old,” again, looking at Miles, “I remember her very well because she was a character, I suppose, and more particularly because she praised me to the skies. She told my father she thought I was a genius.” (Polite laughter). “She would have no other hat maker but me. This is the kind of thing that lodges in the memory of a diffident twenty-year-old girl, as I was then.

  “This lady’s name was Susan Truecoat and she must have been ninety at the time, which would have been 1872. The Truecoats had lived in Tipton since before there was a record in Tipton Parish. There are still some descendants of another branch of the family hereabouts, though Susan was the last of her own line, but I digress. Miss Truecoat told me one day, as I was fitting her with a new Sunday-best bonnet, a story that had been told to her by her grandfather when she was a child. I remember very particularly that she said that the story had come to him from his grandfather before him and together we worked out that events concerned must have occurred more than two hundred years before the time she related it to me.”

  Miss Joan Green shifted a little irritably in her comfortable shoes. “Get on with it Ida, they don’t have all day.”

  “Don’t distract me, Joan! I was getting to it. Where was I? Yes, well, the Truecoats owned a cottage that once stood in the field opposite.” She gestured to the empty pasture across the road. “The house burned some fifty years ago and the Clarks bought the land as an addition to their farm. Not a mark of that cottage remains today, as you can see. However one of the incidents of ownership for the property, one that had been handed down from feudal days, was the right to collect windfall from the woods of Quarter Sessions and to have two mature trees each year. Miss Truecoat’s grandfather persisted in claiming
that right clear up to the year of his death at age ninety two. Miss Truecoat knew the great oaks that stood in the midst of these woods and she asked her grandfather once why he didn’t take those as part of his allotment.

  “Her grandfather told her that folks hereabouts had always regarded them as strange and unchancy. Tipton woodmen gave them a wide berth, notwithstanding that there was enough timber in them to build a guildhall. The story he had heard from his grandfather was that in the last plague year, a century before…”

  “Excuse me, Miss Green,” Professor Lightfoot interjected, “but I have worked out that he was most likely referring to the outbreak of bubonic plague that was general around England in 1527.”

  “Thank you, Professor. That is an illuminating detail. But as I was saying, the story was that in that year, that would be 1527, a strange woman appeared in Tipton. At least she appeared to a few. She went to the homes of three people, all of whom lived alone – two widows and an orphan boy. She gave each one of them some little object. One was given a stone, one received a wand of willow, and the last a blue feather. This dark woman, who did not identify herself, also came with a warning. She told the chosen three that the plague was coming, but that they could, and should, escape by doing as she told them.

  “Each got the same instruction. They were directed to take the object she had given, and on the night of the new moon following the first report of plague in the district, they were to take the gift and run, one by one, between the two great oaks of the Quarter Sessions forest.

  “The lady instructed them to keep this secret from the other villagers, but one of the widows, fearing that the woman was a witch, consulted the local priest. He condemned the whole business. He commanded the villagers to hunt for the mysterious lady, but she was never found. The priest then ordered the three recipients to turn over the objects to him. Not surprisingly, each claimed that the thing he or she had received had mysteriously vanished. Few there were who believed the gifts had been lost, but to find such small and commonplace items by searching was hardly practical. Instead, the villagers determined to keep a watch on the three.