But sometimes, guests have nothing to give and are too ailing to help, like the aged ferret, nearly blind, who lived for several years in one of the best bedrooms, or the tiny orphaned squirrels, recently abandoned on the doorstep, who were too young to do anything but run in circles and squeal. These needy creatures are always welcomed and given a chance to rest and recuperate—or to grow up, as the case may be.
To manage the place currently requires a staff of three badgers: Hyacinth, the hosteller; Hyacinth’s mother, Primrose, the chief housekeeper; and Parsley, the cook. Primrose is assisted by the rabbit twins, Flotsam and Jetsam, who keep the place in tidy order, help with the laundry and the sweeping out, and run errands (rabbits are very good at this). Parsley has a kitchen helper named Honey, a pretty little hedgehog, quite a capable cook for her young age, and a dormouse named Hazel, who is exceptionally good at gathering the nuts and berries that Parsley incorporates into various dishes.
Bosworth Badger, the clan’s pater familias, bestowed the Badge of Authority upon Hyacinth the previous year. (The Badge entitles the bearer to great respect and bestows upon her the responsibility of ensuring the safety and comfort of all the sett’s residents.) Having relinquished his post as hosteller to Hyacinth, Bosworth now serves as chief recorder emeritus for the History of the Badgers of the Land Between the Lakes and its companion work, the Genealogy. Bosworth is teaching Hyacinth all she needs to know to continue with these important volumes when he is gone—a time that will come soon, he feels, for he is by now quite an old badger and has lived a comfortable span of years. This idea does not make him at all sad or fearful, for like all animals—except for we humans, of course, who are too smart for our own good—Bosworth accepts with equanimity the fact that his days are numbered.
Usually, the badgers and their helpers are busy throughout the day and well into the evening, when they finally sit down and toast their toes at the fire and relax, whilst Hyacinth reads aloud from their favorite books. This week, they are reading Miss Potter’s The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck and enjoying it very much. (I am sorry to report, however, that they were not at all fond of The Tale of Mr. Tod, which does not portray badgers at their best. Miss Potter, it seems, is remarkably ill-informed about the true nature of Meles meles. There may be some badgers who, like the notorious Tommy Brock, wear dirty clothes and go to bed in their boots, but The Brockery badgers are not among that unkempt clan.)
As I say, the badgers are an industrious lot and spend most of the day doing their chores. You’d be surprised to know how many chores a badger can find to do. Their family Latin motto, engraved on the family coat of arms, hangs over the fireplace in The Brockery library:De Parvis, grandis acervus erit
Some translate this as “Do a little bit every day, and you will accomplish a lot.” Or in the vernacular of the Land Between the Lakes: “Many littles make a mickle; many mickles make a mile.”
But today is Parsley’s birthday, and the hardworking badgers have laid aside their tasks and are taking a half-holiday to celebrate with a picnic. Hyacinth made cucumber, egg, mayonnaise, and cress sandwiches and deviled two dozen cuckoo eggs (removed from the robin nests where clever cuckoos put them, to be hatched and fed by the mother robins). Primrose baked her famous carrot cake, and the rabbits fashioned party hats out of paper doilies decorated with crayon and bits of colored ribbon. Hyacinth invited Rascal, the little fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier from the village. He had brought a basket of snapdragons, daisies, and marigolds for Parsley, who put them in the middle of the picnic cloth for all to enjoy.
By the time the picnic was over, every sandwich, every egg, and all the birthday cake had disappeared. Not a crumb was left.
“Ah,” said Bosworth, exhaling happily and stretching out full length on his back, his forepaws clasped behind his head as he gazed up at the feathery clouds that brushed the blue sky. (I must confess that I envy him for thinking that his world is perfect and that he himself is perfectly placed in this perfect world. I do not always find my world to be as perfect as his. But then, of course, I am a human, and too smart for my own good.)
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Parsley, who perfectly understood what was going through Bosworth’s mind. She picked up the luncheon cloth and shook it whilst the two young rabbits and the little hedgehog dashed off to play. “Thank you all for the beautiful birthday lunch, and especially the cake.” With a smile, she added, “I shall have to arrange to have another birthday at this very same time next year.”
“And I shall have to learn to be more careful when Rooker Rat is around,” Primrose said with a rueful smile. She put the empty cake plate back in the basket. “I should have locked that cupboard. And put away those spoons.”
“That rat won’t be around again if I’ve got anything to say about it,” Hyacinth replied grimly. “He is definitely on our do-notadmit list. And I intend to get your spoons back, Mother, if it’s the last thing I do!”
Two days before, Hyacinth had opened the front door to a grimy, scruffy old rat wearing an Army veteran’s khaki cap and leaning on a makeshift crutch. He was obviously in need of a wash, a bed, and a good meal. He signed the guest register as Corporal Rooker, received an hospitable welcome, and was shown to a pleasant room with a neatly made bed, fresh towel and soap, and a pitcher and basin for washing. The corporal had not said much at supper, for the poor, hungry fellow had been too busy shoveling food into his mouth. He had begged to be allowed to retire early, claiming to be completely worn out from his strenuous travels.
Meanwhile, Primrose had been planning ahead for Parsley’s favorite carrot cake. She had sent Flotsam and Jetsam to fetch a bunch of carrots from Jeremy and Deirdre Crosfield’s pretty little garden at Slatestone Cottage. Primrose knew that Deirdre, who was soon to be a mother, would never begrudge The Brockery badgers a few carrots, especially for a birthday cake. However, she had cautioned the rabbit twins to take only as many as were needed, reminding them of the important Twelfth Badger Rule of Thumb, which she rephrased in this way: “When you’re helping yourself in someone else’s garden or larder, you must be mindful of the others who depend upon the same food. Enough is as good as a feast, and it is a well-mannered badger (or rabbit) who leaves a fair share for the gardener and the cook.”
But Corporal Rooker had apparently never heard this important maxim. That evening, after Primrose had baked and frosted Parsley’s birthday cake and hidden it safely away in a cupboard, the rascally rat crept into the kitchen and helped himself. He ate most of it on the spot and carried the rest back to his guest bedroom, carelessly leaving a trail of crumbs behind him.
The next morning, Primrose discovered the empty plate and, horrified, summoned Hyacinth. The two of them followed the tell-tale crumb trail and confronted the thief, who was sleeping off the effects of his midnight banquet in his bed.
“I didn’t do it!” Corporal Rooker protested feebly, pulling the covers over his head. “I am an innocent rat! And anyway,” he added, his thin voice muffled by the blanket, “you have no proof.” Rats usually find that such a defense is successful, because they have eaten the evidence. But not in this case.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Hyacinth snapped. She jerked the covers off the rat. “Crumbs do not lie. You have left a trail of them from the kitchen straight to this room. And just look! The bed is full of them.” She narrowed her eyes and bared her badger teeth. “Pack your things and leave, Corporal. Don’t stop for breakfast—you’ve already eaten it. And don’t bother to come back. You are no longer welcome here.”
It wasn’t until Corporal Rooker had left that Primrose discovered the missing silver spoons—three of them, engraved with an ornate B and handed down through a dozen badger generations on her mother’s side of the family. It was an appalling loss. Primrose blamed herself for not locking the silver chest, whilst Hyacinth blamed herself for giving hospitality to a thief. It wasn’t until later that day that the badgers heard from one of the village cats that Rooker had been implicated in at least two oth
er thefts: Miss Potter’s turkey’s eggs and Miss Barwick’s bakery goods. (This is not entirely surprising, since according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the name Rooker has meant “cheat” or “charlatan” since the seventeenth century.)
What’s more, the village cats were whispering that Rooker might not be the only rat in town, for they had caught glimpses of foreign (that is, unfamiliar) rats darting here and there through the midnight darkness. They were said to be very large rats, some even larger than the village cats—but of course, you know that cats exaggerate everything, so their reports aren’t entirely reliable. Some even speculated that the village might have been invaded by a gang of organized thieves, which just shows you how far cats will go in creating a good story.
In this case, however, the cats were right. But what nobody guessed was that Rooker’s real purpose for visiting The Brockery was to reconnoiter the place, with the notion that some of its far-flung bedrooms, those close to long-abandoned exits, might make a good hideout for himself and a few friends. When Hyacinth gave him the boot, he decided that it would be better if they found another place, which resulted in—Well, you’ll see.
Luckily, there was still time for Primrose to bake another cake. She hurriedly dispatched Flotsam and Jetsam for more carrots (this time, from Miss Potter’s garden), and baked a second cake, which was even prettier than the first. She had served it with a flourish at today’s picnic.
Now, having helped her mother pack everything back into the picnic basket, Hyacinth went to sit down beside Uncle Bosworth. He was not really her uncle, but she loved him as dearly as if they were related—as no doubt they were, for all badgers seem to be related to all other badgers, however distantly. He had been a wonderful guide and mentor and had entrusted the Badge of Authority to her—a great compliment that still made her breathless when she thought about it, for the Badge was traditionally passed on to the oldest son. Uncle Bosworth had no children, but Hyacinth had always imagined that the Badge would go to her brother Thorn. Instead, through a combination of circumstances both wonderful and frightening, Uncle Bosworth had bestowed it upon her. Hyacinth was now the first female to serve as the leader of the sett, and she tried hard to live up to the expectations that came with the position.
Rascal joined Hyacinth and Bosworth, and the trio sat quietly, gazing at the narrow green valley. Below them, the silvery ribbon of Wilfen Beck curled around the foot of Holly How. To the east, the darker shadows of Cuckoo Brow Wood climbed up Claife Heights along the shore of Windermere. To the north lay the green pastures of Holly How Farm, where a flock of Herdwick sheep kept the grass neatly clipped, and the spreading lawns and gardens of Tidmarsh Manor, where old Lady Longford waited and hoped that her granddaughter Caroline would stop lingering willfully in London and return home to the family estate. To the west rose the fells, their blue shoulders holding up the bluer sky. The animals couldn’t glimpse Far Sawrey, for it was tucked away behind a low hill, but they could see the roof of Castle Cottage, some little distance away, and beyond that, the roofs of the other houses in Near Sawrey.
“I wonder how much longer the renovation at Castle Cottage will take,” Hyacinth remarked, looking down at the piles of boards and stacks of slate shingles in the garden. “It’s been going on for a month or more.”
“Right you are, Hyacinth,” Rascal barked. “Three months, to be precise. And likely to be much longer.”
Bosworth sat up. “It’s taking such a great while because Miss Potter is adding on an entire wing at one end,” he reported. “I understand that there’s to be a parlor with a fireplace on the first floor, with a large window bay. As well,” he went on, “some of the interior walls in the old part of the house are being torn out and the window frames replaced. Not to mention the water being laid on. It’s a very big job. I don’t wonder that it’s taking so long.”
“The job could go much faster if Mr. Biddle’s workmen weren’t such idlers,” Rascal remarked in a caustic tone. “If you ask my opinion, he’s not paying enough attention to the project. On my way up here, for instance, I noticed that they were just sitting around twiddling their thumbs, as if they didn’t have the brains to get on with it themselves. And Biddle’s supervisor—Maguire, his name is—was nowhere to be seen. Slackers, every one of them,” he added scornfully.
Now, if you have ever had the privilege (or the challenge) of living with a Jack Russell terrier, you already know that he has a very strong sense of the right way to do things (his way) and the time at which they ought to be done (right now). For instance, if you and your Jack Russell always go for a walk at three in the afternoon, you will find him waiting beside the door at two fifty-seven, and if you are late, he will come to fetch you from your book and chair. If your Jack Russell has pockets, he will no doubt have a pocket watch in one and a calendar and notebook and pencil in the other. If he were a person, he would most likely be a consultant in time management.
Hence Rascal’s derisive remark about slackers and lazy louts. Castle Farm is just across the lane from Belle Green, you see, where Rascal lives with Mr. and Mrs. George Crook. The little dog makes it his business to monitor what goes on there and everywhere else in the village. But he is a devoted friend and admirer of Miss Potter, so he has paid special attention to the work at Castle Farm, which began with the repair and refurbishment of the barn and other outbuildings, then progressed to the drains and fences, and now finally to the grand old house itself (which is really a house, although it has always been called Castle Cottage). He has not always been satisfied with the way things were done: the drains, for example, were not laid exactly as he would have done. But the work was adequate, so he merely observed and held his tongue.
The work at hand, however, was quite another story, and now that the subject had come up, Rascal was more than willing to express his opinion. Bosworth gave him the chance.
“Slackers?” the badger asked, frowning. Bosworth is a diligent and hardworking badger and is always distressed to hear that someone is lying down on the job.
“Slackers,” Rascal repeated firmly. “You should see the lot, Bozzy, old chap. Only one of them—Mr. Adcock—knows what he’s doing, and the supervisor—Maguire—is usually somewhere else. And Mr. Biddle . . .” Rascal shook his head, exasperated. “Instead of paying attention to the job, he spends too much time at the pub, mooning around Ruth Safford.” Ruth Safford was the new barmaid, a plump, pretty widow with a flirtatious glance. She had caught the attention of half the bachelors in the village, but Mr. Biddle seemed to have an inside track. “I tell you, it’s a bloody shame.”
Bosworth disliked rough language and disliked being called “Bozzy” even more, but he didn’t want to correct such a dear friend. “I daresay it is,” he said mildly, “but I doubt that there’s anything we can do about it.”
“What about Mr. Heelis?” Hyacinth wanted to know. “I thought he was supposed to be looking after Miss Potter’s interests. They are going to live there, aren’t they? After they’re married?”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Primrose said, coming to sit with the group. “But there seem to be no plans for a wedding. I suppose that’s why Mr. Heelis is not very urgent about requiring Mr. Biddle to get on with the work.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” said Rascal a little defensively. He was also great friends with Mr. Heelis, who always took time out to speak to the little dog and tug his ears lightly and find a bit of biscuit in his pocket. “Mr. Heelis is a very busy solicitor, with clients all over the district. He can’t be expected to stop by Castle Farm every day of the week and keep the men on the job. No, no—the problem lies entirely with Mr. Biddle. You know what sort he is. I’m sure that Miss Potter takes a very poor view of the situation. She doesn’t much like him, either.”
The three badgers nodded knowingly. Holly How might be a tidy walk from the village, but there were always animals going to and fro, carrying the latest news and gossip. They had heard that Miss Potter had hired Mr. Biddle—agains
t her better judgment, they suspected, for he had once worked for her at Hill Top Farm, and they had not parted on the best of terms. But that had been several years before, and Mr. Biddle’s competitors had all gone out of business—strangely, some said, for there was certainly plenty of work to go around. Quite a few people had expressed their dissatisfactions with the fellow, but there were not many choices when it came to local building contractors. Mr. Biddle was one of a kind.
“If I were Mr. Heelis,” Bosworth remarked, “I fear that I should be tempted to give that man Biddle a sharp dressing down.”
“Mr. Heelis is an awf’ly patient man.” Primrose politely shooed away an inquisitive orange-tip butterfly who wanted to land on her nose. “He and Miss Potter have been engaged for a very long time. I wonder when the wedding will take place.” Her smile was wistful. “I think it should be a spring wedding, when all the flowers are blooming and there are new lambs in the field. That would truly be lovely.”
“P’rhaps never,” Rascal replied sorrowfully.
“Never?” Primrose cried, her eyes widening. She was a romantic at heart, and obviously found this idea distressing. “But whyever not, Rascal? Miss Potter and Mr. Heelis are perfect for each other.”
“Because there are so many people opposed to it,” Rascal replied in a realistic tone. “Miss Potter’s parents absolutely refuse to let her marry. They don’t want her to move here to the village and leave them high and dry in London, at the mercy of their servants.”
“It would serve them right if she did,” Primrose muttered, “for all the pain they’ve caused her.”
“But they’re not the only ones,” Rascal went on. “At the Tower Bank Arms the other night, I heard that there are some in Mr. Heelis’ family who are not at all happy with his choice.”
The Tale of Castle Cottage Page 4
