Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “Apology accepted,” the vicar broke in, with a sidelong glance at the children. Will and Rob were gazing up at Jack with stars in their eyes. Bloody wasn’t a word they heard often, especially in a churchyard. To hear a grown-up use it three times in one sentence at a funeral was an undreamt-of treat. I exchanged looks with Bill and silently added a refresher course in appropriate language to the day’s schedule.

  “Mrs. Bunting and I are hosting an informal gathering in the schoolhouse in remembrance of your late uncle,” the vicar continued. “We would be honored if you would join us, Jack.”

  “There’s cake,” Will piped up.

  “And hot chocolate,” Rob said, staring at Jack’s pink toes.

  “Gallons of hot chocolate,” Will confirmed.

  “Sounds like a proper feast,” said Jack, grinning at the boys. “Lead the way, mates!”

  Will and Rob grabbed Jack’s outstretched hands and bounced along on either side of him, talking a mile a minute. As if on cue, the villagers flowed through the lych-gate and up the cobbled lane toward the old schoolhouse, which served as Finch’s village hall. The Buntings, Bill, and I followed at a more sedate pace while Mr. Barlow and Bree stayed behind to fill in the grave.

  “Did you know he was coming?” I asked Lilian.

  “I didn’t know he existed,” Lilian replied.

  “Mr. Huggins’s family wasn’t mentioned in the letter I received from the solicitor,” said the vicar.

  “Maybe Mr. Huggins didn’t mention his family to his solicitor,” I said.

  “It seems an odd sort of thing to keep from one’s legal adviser,” said the vicar.

  “Mr. Huggins was an odd man,” said Lilian. “May he rest in peace.”

  “Amen,” said the vicar.

  “There have been rumors floating around,” I said thoughtfully, “about relatives living overseas. If Jack MacBride is Hector Huggins’s nephew and if he’s as Australian as he sounds, he’d count as an overseas relative.”

  “I suspect our questions will be answered before too long,” said Bill. “Young Jack doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to be interrogated by the entire village.”

  Whether consciously or unconsciously, our foursome picked up its pace. I wasn’t sure about the others, but I wanted to be on hand to hear my neighbors give young Jack the third degree.

  • • •

  The schoolhouse was blessedly warm and dry after the churchyard. We stashed our rain gear in the cloakroom and hurried into the schoolroom to help ourselves to steaming cups of tea. A coterie of influential women usually supervised the tea urn, so I was surprised to find a group of men lounging near it. Henry Cook, Dick Peacock, Jasper Taxman, and Grant Tavistock watched patiently while their significant others piled food on Jack MacBride’s already crowded plate.

  “Can’t blame them, really,” Henry said philosophically. “He’s a good-looking lad.”

  “The accent helps, of course,” said Grant. “Charles has always had a soft spot for Aussies.”

  “Peggy can’t abide Australians,” said Jasper. “She thinks they’re loud and vulgar.”

  “It looks as though Jack’s changed her mind,” Dick observed.

  “He hasn’t,” said Jasper, shaking his head. “She just doesn’t want Sally’s cake to outshine hers.”

  “She’s fighting a losing battle there,” Henry asserted. “My Sally is the best baker in the county.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Jasper said morosely. “But you’ll definitely get one from my wife.”

  “Perhaps there’ll be a food fight,” Dick said hopefully, and his companions perked up.

  Potluck meals were competitive events in Finch, and since my neighbors had expected the schoolhouse gathering to be the highlight of Mr. Huggins’s funeral, they’d gone all out to show off their culinary skills. The trestle tables along the walls trembled beneath the weight of savory casseroles, sausage rolls, quiches, and sandwiches, while the tables on the dais held a cornucopia of cookies as well as a truly magnificent parade of cakes. My own contribution, a modest seed cake, paled by comparison with the Dundee, Eccles, Madeira, and coconut cakes surrounding it. Devil’s food cake, I’d learned through hard experience, was regarded as unsuitable fare at a funeral luncheon.

  “Has Jack said anything interesting?” Bill asked the tea urn’s guardians.

  “He told us a pretty good joke before he was swept away,” said Dick, “but he hasn’t been able to get a word in edgewise since then.”

  “Your nippers are having a high old time of it,” Henry observed. “They’re like baby birds catching the crumbs falling from Jack’s plate.”

  “Except that, in this case, the crumbs are macaroons, meringues, and brandy snaps,” said Grant.

  Visions of sugar shock danced in my head. I promptly abandoned Bill and scurried across the room to pull Will and Rob from the scrum surrounding their idol. After wiping powdered sugar from the boys’ chins and whipped cream from their sticky fingers, I sent them straight home with their father. Bill didn’t object to the prospect of being stuck in the cottage on a rainy day with a pair of hyperglycemic eight-year-olds because he knew it would be pointless. Nothing short of a burst appendix would pry me away from what promised to be the main topic of conversation in Finch for months, if not years, to come.

  “Enough is enough,” Lilian murmured. “The poor boy will be crushed to death if we don’t rescue him.” Raising her voice to be heard above the din, she called, “Ladies and gentleman!”

  The babble of voices ceased.

  “Shall we give our honored guest a chance to breathe?”

  Before anyone could reply, Lilian marched across the room, and gently but firmly extracted Jack from his legion of admirers. She then tucked his free hand into the crook of her elbow and guided him to a chair in a corner of the room. The vicar and I promptly slid into the chairs flanking Jack’s and Lilian pulled one over to face his.

  The legion, realizing that it had wasted a golden opportunity to question the newcomer, surveyed our defensive perimeter crossly and began to sidle slowly in our direction.

  Jack brushed cake, cookie, and bread crumbs from his rumpled blue pullover and smiled gratefully at Henry Cook, who’d brought him a cup of tea.

  “Eat up,” said Lilian. “You must be famished.”

  “I could eat a horse and chase the jockey,” Jack acknowledged. “Haven’t had a decent bite since Bangkok.”

  He tried to balance his overladen plate on his knee, but finally gave up and placed it on the floor. We allowed him to wolf down a ham sandwich, three sausage rolls, a bacon butty, and a gargantuan hunk of Sally Pyne’s Madeira cake before we got down to business.

  “You must be tired after your long journey,” the vicar began. “To come all the way from Bangkok—”

  “I came all the way from Sydney,” Jack corrected him. “Bangkok was a layover.”

  “Do you live in Sydney?” Lilian asked.

  “Sometimes,” Jack replied, “but I was born in Malua Bay—about 300 k’s south of Sydney.”

  “Do your parents still live there?” I inquired. Behind the question lay several others: Were Jack’s parents alive? If so, why hadn’t they come to the funeral? Had there been a rift in the family? Was that why Mr. Huggins had lived in England while his closest blood relations lived in Australia? And so on.

  Sadly, Jack answered only the question I’d actually asked.

  “You couldn’t pry my parents away from Malua Bay with a crowbar. It’s their little slice of paradise.” Jack drank his tea, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and regarded me quizzically. “I can give you their phone number, if you want to check up on me.”

  I blushed, but Lilian chuckled.

  “You must forgive our curiosity, Jack,” she said. “Your late uncle never spoke of his family, and his solicitor failed to inform us of your plans to attend the funeral. If we’d known you were coming, we would have postponed it for another day, to allow you time t
o arrive at your leisure.”

  “No worries,” said Jack. “I didn’t know I was coming until a few days ago. It was all a bit of a rush. Aldous Winterbottom—”

  “Your uncle’s solicitor,” the vicar interjected.

  “Right,” said Jack. “Old Aldous tottered out to meet me at Heathrow with the keys to Uncle Hector’s digs and a pile of papers. He can vouch for me.” He plunged a hand into a pocket in his cargo shorts. “I’ve got his number here somewhere.”

  “I have Mr. Winterbottom’s telephone number,” the vicar assured him, “but I feel no compulsion to ring him. You wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to be here if you weren’t who you say you are.”

  “Have you a place to stay this evening?” Lilian inquired. “If not, you’re more than welcome to spend the night with Teddy and me at the vicarage. We have bedrooms to spare.”

  “Kind of you, Mrs. Bunting,” said Jack, “but I’ll be kipping at Uncle Hector’s for the next little while. Aldous Winterbottom tells me the electric’s still on and the phone’s still working, so I should be snug as a tick on a sheep’s backside.” His forehead wrinkled as he looked from the vicar to Lilian. “Trouble is, I’m not sure where Uncle Hector lived.”

  “He lived in Ivy Cottage,” I informed him. “It’s not far from here. If you’ll drive me home, I’ll point it out to you.”

  “Deal,” said Jack. His brilliant grin widened suddenly into a gaping yawn. “Sorry,” he muttered, raising a hand to cover a second yawn. “I reckon jet lag’s caught up with me. I’m knackered.”

  “If you’ll come to the vicarage, I’ll give you tea, eggs, bacon—whatever you need for breakfast,” said Lilian. “You can stock your pantry properly when you’ve recovered from your travels.”

  “You’re one out of the box, Mrs. Bunting,” said Jack, clapping her on the shoulder.

  Sally Pyne stepped forward and said timidly, “I could pack up a bite or two for you, too, Jack.”

  “So could I,” Opal Taylor said, sliding neatly in front of Sally. “You’ll be too tired to shop tomorrow—”

  “And we can’t let you starve!” gushed Selena Buxton, jostling Opal to one side.

  “Cheers, ladies, that’d be great,” said Jack, winking at them.

  Sally, Opal, Selena, and the rest of Jack’s fans dispersed to prepare their special offerings for transport. Jack smiled good-naturedly, then focused his attention on a single, unassuming cookie on the edge of his plate. He picked it up and studied it for a moment, then popped the whole thing into his mouth. A faraway look came to his eyes as he chewed.

  “Magic,” he said, smacking his lips appreciatively. “I don’t suppose you can tell me who made the Anzac biscuits.”

  “That would be Bree Pym,” Lilian informed him. “You may have noticed her in the churchyard—the dark-haired girl with the nose ring.”

  “Bree’s from New Zealand,” I said.

  “That would explain it,” said Jack. “No one but a true blue Aussie or a can-do Kiwi can make a proper Anzac biscuit. I’ll have to thank Bree for giving me a taste of home.” He craned his neck to scan the room. “Is she here?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Lilian. “Bree remained in the churchyard with our sexton, to fill in your uncle’s grave.”

  “Bree helped Mr. Barlow to dig it, too,” said the vicar. “She and Mr. Barlow shared the task of lowering the coffin into its final resting place.”

  “That little girl dug a grave?” Jack exclaimed. “She must be stronger than she looks.”

  “Word to the wise,” I said. “Don’t call Bree a little girl. She won’t appreciate it and you might live to regret it because, yes, she’s a whole lot stronger than she looks.”

  “Point taken,” said Jack.

  “Bree’s very fit,” the vicar observed, “but Mr. Barlow is of the opinion that coffin-lowering is a matter of technique rather than strength.”

  “Either way, I have a hell of a lot to thank Bree Pym for,” said Jack. “And Mr. Barlow, too. Good thing I’ll be staying on for a bit.” He yawned again and a tide of tiredness dimmed his bright blue eyes.

  “Come along,” said Lilian, getting to her feet. “It won’t take me a moment to fill a basket for you at the vicarage. Then you and Lori can be on your way.”

  “If Ivy Cottage is in any way deficient,” said the vicar, “please feel free to accept my wife’s invitation to stay with us.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bunting,” said Jack, “but to do my job, I need to be on the spot.”

  “Your job?” inquired the vicar.

  “Didn’t I say?” said Jack. “I’m here to settle Uncle Hector’s affairs.”

  Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine what kind of affairs a quiet, retiring man like Hector Huggins would leave unsettled, but I didn’t press Jack for details. The drive home would give me ample time to conduct a proper interrogation.

  Three

  The good people of Finch bestowed a whole week’s worth of food upon Jack MacBride as he exited the schoolhouse. The vicar and I helped him to tote the bulging bags and the brimming baskets to his rental car and I watched with interest as he pushed aside a beat-up khaki backpack and a rectangular black box to make room for his bounty.

  The black box instantly caught and held my attention. It reminded me of the boxes Bill used to store legal papers for his English clients. I wondered if it contained the papers Aldous Winterbottom had delivered to Jack at Heathrow and whether those papers concerned Hector Huggins’s unsettled affairs. Given half a chance, I would have taken a quick peek inside, but I wasn’t given any chance at all.

  Before I could so much as bend down for a closer look at the box, Lilian was beside me, placing the promised supply of staples in the trunk. With a sigh, I closed the trunk, climbed into the car, and waited for Jack to say his good-byes to the Buntings. I waved to Lilian and the vicar as Jack took his place behind the steering wheel, then directed him to drive toward the humpbacked bridge.

  “I appreciate the lift,” I said. “Bill took the boys home in our car. If it weren’t for you, I’d have a damp two-mile walk ahead of me.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Willis,” said Jack.

  “I’m Lori Shepherd,” I informed him. “I didn’t change my last name when I married Bill, but it hardly matters because everyone calls me Lori. I hope you will, too, Jack.”

  “Right you are, Lori,” he said with an amiable nod.

  “Sorry about the lousy weather,” I said.

  “We have our fair share of rain in Oz,” he said. “It buckets down during the monsoon. Rivers break their banks, flood towns. Rain’s a bloody nuisance in the wet.”

  “The wet?” I repeated.

  “The monsoon season,” Jack explained. “We call it ‘the wet’ and it is. It’s not so cold, though.” He smiled ruefully. “Wish I’d taken the time to find my socks. My feet are bloody frozen.”

  “I prescribe a hot bath and a roaring fire,” I said. “And a nice cup of tea. A cat in your lap would warm you up, too, but I don’t think your uncle owned a cat.”

  “No,” said Jack. “Uncle Hector wasn’t one for pets.”

  We bumped over the humpbacked bridge and I advised Jack to slow to a crawl. “See the big, shaggy hedgerow?” I said, pointing ahead and to my right. “Ivy Cottage is behind it. The narrow gap is for the front gate and the wider one is for the driveway.”

  “Ta,” said Jack.

  I gestured to my left. “My father-in-law lives across the lane. He wanted to attend your uncle’s funeral, but he’s recovering from a bad chest cold and we didn’t want him to risk a relapse. To tell you the truth, we had to lock him in his bedroom and hide the key.”

  “Really?” said Jack, looking surprised.

  “No, not really,” I admitted. “But he does regret missing the funeral. He has strong feelings about participating in communal rituals.”

  “Poor old cobber,” said Jack. “Hope he’s fighting fit again soon.”

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling a
t the mental image of my genteel father-in-law brandishing boxing gloves at a brutish opponent. “William’s housekeeper would have been there, too, but she had to stay at home to keep an eye on him.”

  “In case he found the key, eh?” said Jack.

  “More or less,” I said. “Her name is Deirdre Donovan. If you need anything—a cup of sugar, directions to the gas station—she’ll be happy to help.”

  “Helpful sort of place, Finch,” Jack commented.

  “We try.” And we try a lot harder for someone with your good looks and sunny disposition, I added silently. Aloud, I said, “Two miles to go to my cottage. Then you can drive straight back to Ivy Cottage and hit the sack.”

  “That’s the plan,” he said.

  “I hope your uncle didn’t leave too much for you to do,” I said.

  “Not too much.” Jack shrugged nonchalantly. “No worries.”

  “Excellent,” I said, hiding my disappointment behind another smile. A generalized “not too much” wasn’t the sort of in-depth personal information I’d hoped to glean from Jack during our time together, but I gave it another shot. “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough,” Jack replied.

  I began to suspect that Jack was too tired to give my questions the answers they deserved, but before I could try again, he turned the tables on me.

  “You’re a Yank, aren’t you?” he asked. “A Pom would’ve said ‘petrol’ station.”

  “I am a Yank,” I confirmed. “Bill is, too, but we’ve spent the past ten years in England.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I inherited property here, and since my husband’s clients live in Europe, we decided to make England our home base,” I replied. “But, mainly, we moved here because we fell in love with Finch. It’s a great place to raise a family.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” said Jack. “Quiet, safe, lots of room for the kiddies to run about, no yobbos to set them a bad example.”

  “No,” I agreed. “No yobbos.”

  “Except for me,” said Jack, giving me a sheepish glance. “I’ll have to clean up my act while I’m here. Wouldn’t want the ankle biters picking up my bad habits.”