Aunt Dimity Digs In

by Nancy Atherton

  “I thought you’d disappeared,” Mr. Wetherhead said glumly.

  “There, there,” said Miranda, patting his shoulder. “It was a very misty night.”

  Mr. Taxman resumed. “I took the pamphlet from your desk, Vicar, and brought it to my cottage. The following day, I placed it in the box with the others.” He smoothed his tie, then looked around the half circle of expectant faces, like a schoolteacher awaiting questions.

  “Why, Jasper?” Peggy Kitchen’s voice trembled not with indignation but with bafflement. “Why did you want me to think the festival was ruined?”

  “I had to prove to you that Finch still needs you,” said Mr. Taxman. “I hoped your battle with Dr. Culver would reawaken your fighting spirit.”

  Sally Pyne gave a loud guffaw. “Reawaken her fighting spirit?” she scoffed. “Peggy’s fighting spirit hasn’t had a rest since the day she threw stones at poor Piero.”

  Mr. Taxman turned a cold eye on Sally. “You may have seen her anger on that day, but you never saw her tears. No one saw her hide back here and weep for her dead father. No one but me.” Mr. Taxman flicked a dismissive finger at Sally Pyne and Mr. Barlow. “You thought young Peggy Kitchen had no heart, but I knew better.”

  Peggy peered up at him, wide-eyed. “I never knew you were watching over me, Jasper.”

  “I wanted always to watch over you,” said Mr. Taxman. “When the war ended and your mother took you away, I thought I’d never see you again. Then Mrs. Farnham wrote to tell me that you’d bought Mr. Harmer’s shop, and I knew I’d been given a second chance.” He smoothed his brown tie with a trembling hand. “And just when everything seemed to be falling into place, you told me you’d be leaving town as soon as you completed the festival. I thought, if all else failed, I might at least postpone the festival by keeping Dr. Culver here. And the longer it was postponed, the longer I’d have you here with me. I’m too old to uproot my life again. I don’t want to move to Little Stubbing. And, as I said, Finch needs you, Mrs. Kitchen. I stole the vicar’s pamphlet to prove to you that your work here isn’t finished. If you leave, Finch will be incapable of defending itself from outsiders like Dr. Culver.”

  Peggy bowed her head. “But I’m an outsider, Jasper. Annie and Burt Hodge told me so.”

  “Hodges got their own back on you, did they?” asked Sally.

  “All they did was tell me the truth.” Peggy’s shoulders slumped. “ They made me think of the way I treated Piero, all those many years ago, and the way I’ve treated his children ever since. I’m none too proud of myself, Jasper. I never knew how much Piero and me had in common. I was too busy being angry to find out.”

  “You and Piero Sciaparelli?” Sally shook her head in disbelief. “What on earth could a hellion like you have in common with that good, kind man?”

  “We both came to Finch to find . . .What did you call it, Jasper? Sanctuary?” Peggy removed her pointy glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Sanctuary. Finch gave us shelter from the storm.” The glasses dangled limply from her fingers as she stared into thin air. “I’ve tried my best to repay my debt to Finch. I’ve tried to give the village a bit of life and bring back the old traditions, but all I’ve really done is interfere. Annie and Burt spoke true, Jasper. Finch doesn’t need me.”

  “You’re wrong, Peggy.” The words sprang to my lips so unexpectedly that for a moment I thought someone else had spoken. It was strange indeed to feel pity for Peggy Kitchen, stranger still to realize, in a blazing flash of intuition, that Finch needed its hellion far more than it needed anyone else assembled in the back room, including me.

  “You’re not the only outsider in Finch,” I declared. “I came here seeking sanctuary, too. I wanted a peaceful place to raise my sons.”

  “We, too, sought peace here,” said the vicar, putting an arm around his wife, “when I could no longer cope with the demands of my London parish.”

  “Finch is the perfect spot to write a book,” Miranda put in. “Absolutely no distractions.”

  “And we’re absolutely useless to the village.” I stared from face to face defiantly. “Left to our own devices, we’d enjoy the peace and quiet, but we’d give nothing in exchange. We’d huddle in our houses, hardly speaking to each other, and let the village take care of itself.”

  “Lori’s right,” said Lilian. “It’s tempting to bury myself in my research.”

  “Not half so tempting as it is to sink into my armchair,” admitted the vicar.

  “Peggy won’t let any of us sink into our armchairs,” I snapped angrily. “She’s the one who started the garden fetes and sheepdog trials and morris dancing, and she hounded us until we all joined in. Peggy’s trying to turn Finch back into a true village.” I crossed to Peggy’s side and swung around to face the others. “Do any of you think you could take her place? I know I couldn’t.”

  There was a long silence as the others shuffled, shamefaced, avoiding one another’s eyes.

  Sally was the first to step forward. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Peggy, if I could help with the refreshments during the festival. My new line of low-calorie pastries went down very well at Rainey’s birthday party.”

  Mr. Barlow nodded thoughtfully. “I could rig out a few more of those chariots,” he said. “We could have races for the kiddies.”

  “I have a . . .” Mr. Wetherhead quailed as all eyes focused on him, but he gripped his cane tightly and went on. “. . . a train collection. Lori thought it might be nice to let folks have a look at it during the Harvest Festival, but I’d be glad of your opinion, Mrs. Kitchen.”

  “If you’re in need of a fortune-teller,” Miranda piped up, “look no further.”

  The vicar added his voice to the chorus. “I’m so looking forward to the beast blessing,” he said, with more charity than honesty. “I can think of nothing more inspira tional than to welcome Buster, Grog, and Caesar to Saint George’s.”

  It took Peggy a full minute to find her voice, but when she did, it had a familiar ring. “Don’t be stupid, Vicar. Caesar’s an RC, just like the Hodges.” She brushed the back of her hand impatiently across her eyes and put her glasses on. “But perhaps Annie and Burt would be kind enough to enter Caesar in the dog show. I’ll invite them personally. Come along, Jasper. There’s so much to do.” She held a hand out to Mr. Taxman. “And only a bloody fool would think that I could do it without you.”

  Mr. Taxman’s sunken chest expanded until his buttons nearly burst. He drew himself up to his full, though average, height, then sank to one knee and pressed his lips to Peggy’s proffered hand. Until that moment, I hadn’t truly believed him capable of a crime passionnel, but his gallant gesture chased all doubts away. Jasper Taxman might be an unlikely hero, a nondescript knight in dull brown armor, but I’d learned long ago that handsome princes came in all shapes and sizes.

  Peggy rose to her feet. Her mad eyes sparkled with a new and lovely light as she turned sideways to maneuver down the aisle. “I’ll be by first thing tomorrow morning to have a look at these trains of yours, Mr. Wetherhead. And you know about fortune-telling, do you, Mrs. Morrow? It’ll cost a packet to buy a gypsy tent, but it might be worth it. What do you think, Jasper? Can we raise enough money by August to pay for a tent and goat-cart races? I’m sure Sally won’t mind donating the food.”

  Sally’s squawk of protest shook the gray metal shelves, but Peggy forged ahead. I had no doubt that she’d whip her volunteers into shape, and by August they’d be almost glad she had.

  I sipped my tea and settled the blue journal on my lap. Bill was reading stories to Rob and Will in the living room, and Francesca was at the schoolhouse, helping Adrian prepare a lecture on the many uses of sweet-chestnut flour. The rain continued to fall steadily, spattering the windowpanes and drumming on the roof. The study was comfortably warm and dry, but I’d lit a fire in the hearth, for the pure pleasure of watching the flames dance.

  “It’s funny, Dimity. I wasn’t all that crazy about Finch in its natural state,
but I think I’m going to miss the old wreck, now that Peggy’s decided to fix it up.”

  Perhaps you shouldn’t have told her about the man in Labrador.

  “It just slipped out. When Lilian said that there were more than a hundred Gladwell pamphlets in the wooden box, I couldn’t help remembering Stan’s joke about the Lamborghini. Lilian mentioned it to Jasper Taxman, and one thing led to another. . . .”

  Peggy had asked me to stick around while she placed her long-distance call to Labrador, but she hadn’t needed my help to negotiate the sale of the pamphlets. She could have given Stan a few tips on playing hardball. When I’d left the shop, she and Mr. Taxman had been laying out plans to resod the village green, relay the cobbles on the square, and steam-clean the limestone facades on all of the buildings.

  “By the time she’s done spending money on Finch,” I said, “she’ll be lucky to have enough left over to pay for a marriage license.”

  How is Jasper holding up?

  “Splendidly,” I said. “He called her Peggy the other day, and asked her politely never to mention Little Stubbing again. He’s getting to be a regular tyrant.”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of a knight fighting battles for a dragon.

  “Peggy’s a handful,” I agreed. “But maybe you need someone like Peggy to move the rest of us along.”

  You seem to have made that clear to Sally Pyne and the others.

  “I suppose I did,” I said ruefully, “but I had no right to lecture them. I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to get involved in my community.”

  You’ve been awfully busy with the twins.

  “Yes, and what have I been teaching them?” I asked. “How to stay at home and ignore your neighbors? It’s not good enough, Dimity.”

  It’s easy to live in a place. It takes hard work to belong. I assume you’re ready for some hard work?

  “Not just me,” I told her. “Finch is a family affair. Bill’s putting on his dancing shoes if I have to hold a gun to his head.”

  You’re more like Peggy Kitchen every day.

  I laughed.

  And what will you be doing while Bill dances?

  I counted on my fingers. “Selling off my parenting magazines to raise money for the church roof fund, helping Mr. Barlow with the chariot races, entering the twins in the Cutest Baby contest, judging the Floral Arrangements Around a Stuffed Animal competition, and baking a blue-ribbon batch of lemon bars.” I looked down at the journal. “Well? Do I sound like a true villager?”

  A true villager wouldn’t go within ten yards of a Cutest Baby contest. I’ve known riots to break out after the judging.

  “But I’m absolutely positive the boys will win,” I insisted.

  Now you sound like a true villager. There was a pause, and a soft, sighing breeze made the flames sway and flicker. How I wish I could be there with you.

  “You know what, Dimity?” I took another drink of tea and stared reflectively at the fire. “I think that can be arranged.”

  Epilogue

  Finch glowed like old gold on green velvet. The late-summer sun flowed like honey across the freshly scrubbed stonework and glinted from each blade of grass on the lush, emerald lawn. I sat at my Union Jack-bedecked table in front of Bill’s office, with my bundles of parenting magazines and my small tin of coins, and marveled at the changes Peggy had wrought. The empress had made a small fortune from the sale of the Gladwell pamphlets, and she’d invested every penny of it in Finch. Thanks to her, the green was finally living up to its name and the cobbles fringing the square were so smooth and straight that even Mr. Farnham could totter across them unaided.

  Emma sat beside me, in a wicker armchair I’d brought from my back garden, and watched while I laboriously totted up my accounts. The sales figures were pathetic—there simply wasn’t much demand for parenting magazines in a village full of retirees.

  Annie Hodge had purchased three bundles, and Rainey’s mother four more, but they’d done so at the behest of Peggy Kitchen, who’d made it her business to see that every facet of the festival had its share of success, however modest. I was grateful for the pity purchases, but they wouldn’t do much to swell the church roof fund. My takings would scarcely cover the cost of a cupful of slate nails, unless Derek got them wholesale.

  Emma looked closely at the columns of numbers I’d penciled in my ledger, then reached over to shake the tin. “I hope no one does an audit,” she commented, “because if I didn’t know you were scrupulously honest, I’d swear you were cooking your books.”

  “This is one book I have no intention of cooking.” I lifted the ledger from the table and gave Emma a glimpse of the smooth blue-leather binding. “Like the disguise?”

  Emma nearly fell off of her chair. “Is that . . . ?”

  Good afternoon, Emma. Aunt Dimity’s handwriting showed clearly through the faint pencil marks. My compliments on the vicarage garden. I enjoyed the lecture tour immensely.

  “Th-thank you.” Emma looked furtively around the square and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “It’ll be much better next year. It’s still pretty scruffy around the edges.”

  Emma was, as usual, being too humble. In the past few weeks she’d transformed the vicarage garden from an untamed jungle into an enchanted bower. With Rainey’s help, she’d transplanted brightly colored plants from her own greenhouses—blue geraniums, white spirea, pink cranesbill, and mounds of yellow potentilla—into beds bounded by narrow, curving grass paths.

  You’ve created a floral stained-glass window.Very appropriate to the setting. And you were right about the Rosa hemisphaerica. What a splendid discovery! I hope your tours were appreciated.

  “I think they were,” said Emma. “I’ve raised fifteen pounds for the roof fund, and I’ve been around the vicarage so often I feel dizzy.”

  “Dizzy enough to tell us what Derek’s done to the war memorial?” I inquired slyly.

  Emma shook her head. “Sorry. My lips are sealed. Peggy would have a fit if word leaked out before closing ceremonies.”

  “Not even a hint?” I wheedled.

  “I’ve replaced the willows with holly bushes,” Emma said, then closed her mouth decisively.

  She hadn’t told me anything I couldn’t see for myself. I glanced over at the circle of neatly trimmed holly bushes, burning to see what lay beneath the swath of black silk that had shrouded the war memorial for the past week. Rumor had it that Derek had carved a new name on the dignified stone cairn, but Peggy had kept such a close watch on the memorial that no one had been able to give an eyewitness report.

  “Be that way,” I grumbled. “I can wait until closing ceremonies, just like everyone—”

  “Mr. Peacock!” Peggy’s indignant voice thundered from next door, as it had so many times that afternoon. “If you don’t control that hound of yours, I’ll have his ears on a plate!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Kitchen.” Dick tugged a recalcitrant Grog away from the blue-painted concrete pillars in front of the tea shop.

  Sally Pyne looked up from her table. She and Peggy had formed an alliance, of sorts. Sally had agreed to give away the Empire Tearoom’s bounty on festival day if Peggy would defend the tearoom’s pseudo-Ionic columns from the depredations of Finch’s canine contingent.

  Peggy hasn’t spotted Buster yet, has she?

  “Not yet,” I murmured.

  Let’s hope Burt Hodge keeps Caesar on his lead. A dog with his capacity could put quite a damper on the festivities.

  “Dimity!” I exclaimed.

  Emma nudged me with her elbow. “Careful,” she said, but her warning came too late.

  Peggy Kitchen had overheard my cry. She left her post at the tearoom and strode over to my table. “Dimity?” she said. “ That’s the name of the woman who used to own your cottage, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Emma and I were . . . discussing names for Annie Hodge’s baby. I like the sound of Dimity, don’t you?”

  Peggy favored me with t
he superior smile of the well informed. “Annie told me the results of her last sonogram. The baby is a boy—a fine, healthy boy. She and Burt intend to call him Piero, after his grandfather. I only hope the child will be able to live up to his name.” She peered into my tin, then headed for the schoolhouse, calling over her shoulder, “Not having a very successful day, are you, Lori?”

  Dimity’s handwriting flew across the page. There’s nothing shameful about second place.

  I looked at the red ribbon lying beside the tin and gritted my teeth. Dick Peacock had awarded the blue ribbon to Lilian’s lemon bars, declaring that their tartness made a nice change from the sweetness of the meads he’d been sampling all afternoon. In my opinion, the man had been dead drunk when he’d judged the competition.

  The vicar, unlike myself, had had a wholly satisfying day. Adrian’s students, under Emma’s supervision, had decorated Saint George’s aisles with sheaves of wheat, corn, and barley, filled the windowsills with bright-red apples and sprays of red barberries, and wreathed the pillars with wild hop vines and stringed ivy. I’d helped Emma dress the font with moss and white asters, and spread the floor with fresh-cut rushes, in hopes of easing the burden on the cleanup crew after the beast blessing.

  The vicar was way ahead of us, however. He thought Saint George’s looked heavenly in its autumn finery, and he wasn’t about to let any creature, great or small, spoil the effect. He promptly decreed that the blessing of the beasts would take place at an open-air altar in the churchyard, and appointed Mr. Taxman the task of keeping the graveled paths clear of their offerings.

  The vicar had raised a cheer during the morning service by publishing the banns of marriage between Peggy Kitchen and Jasper Taxman. Mr. Taxman had acknowledged the villagers’ good wishes with a jaunty lift of his shovel.

  You were very wise not to enter Rob and Will in the Cutest Baby contest. Dimity was still attempting to console me for the ignominious red ribbon.