Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  Jack led us through the spotless, old-fashioned kitchen and out the back door. We stood beneath the cottage’s overhanging eaves, letting the rain-cooled air clear our heads, until Jack suggested a modest expedition.

  “I was poking around out here this morning, taking the lay of the land,” he said, “and I bumped into something you might find interesting. Want to see it?”

  “Absolutely,” said Bree.

  “Then grab your rain gear,” said Jack, “and come with me.”

  Seven

  The back garden was a shadow of its former self. A few reminders of its glory days were still visible—a tumbledown stone wall at its outermost boundaries, a broken pergola framing the gap that had once held a gate, a ruined trellis swallowed by a rampant rosebush—but in its present state it was nearly indistinguishable from the untamed meadows that surrounded it.

  Bree and I followed Jack along a trail of flattened greenery he’d left behind during his early morning rambles, to a spot in the center of the garden, where a tall mound of ivy rose like a bristling hillock from the matted vegetation. When we reached the mound, he motioned for us to stand back, then seized a handful of vines and drew them aside like a swathe of drapery to reveal his discovery.

  Bree’s face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.

  “It’s a well!” she exclaimed.

  It was a well, but it wasn’t a plain old workaday well. It was a well straight out of a fairy tale, round in shape and made of smooth river stones as large as cantaloupes, with a shingled roof resting on a pair of wooden posts. A wooden spindle spanned the posts, but there was no rope wound around it, and the crank, if it still existed, was concealed by vines.

  “Is it a real well?” I asked. “I mean, is there water in it or is it just there for decoration?”

  Instead of answering me directly, Jack plucked a pebble from the ground and let it fall into the well. I listened closely and felt a shivery thrill of delight when I heard a distant splash.

  “Let’s give it some air,” Bree proposed, and stepping forward, she began to tear vigorously at the ivy with both hands.

  “Hold up, Muscles,” Jack cautioned. “The posts may come down around your ears if you go at it full-bore.”

  “Right, Boss,” Bree agreed. “Easy does it.”

  Jack produced a fierce-looking folding knife and proceeded to slice through the tough vines as if they were strings of spaghetti. Bree and I removed the detached strands as gently as our eagerness would allow, and as the pile of discarded vines grew, my hopes rose. It looked as though at least one of the garden’s features had survived Hector Huggins’s reign of benign neglect.

  “I don’t see any holes in the roof,” Bree announced, “and the posts seem to be sound.”

  “The crank’s still attached,” I said happily, uncovering the spindle’s business end.

  “I reckon the rope rotted a long time ago,” said Jack, gazing into the well. “It’s probably down there, with the bucket.”

  “They can be replaced,” I said confidently.

  It took us thirty minutes to free the well from its tangled shroud and though the shingled roof shook from time to time, nothing came down around our ears. We were as wet as dishrags by the time we finished, but no one complained. Jack looked exhilarated, Bree seemed utterly enchanted, and I felt as giddy as an archaeologist excavating a treasure-filled tomb.

  While Jack and I stood back to survey the fruits of our labor, Bree remained on her knees, clearing the last few vines from the side of the wellhead nearest the cottage.

  “I wonder how long it’s been since anyone set eyes on it?” I mused aloud.

  “I wonder how long it’s been since anyone used it?” said Jack.

  “You’ll have to have the water tested,” I advised. “It might not be safe to drink. And you might consider putting a lid on it.”

  “We don’t want Will and Rob to make a splash,” Jack said, with an understanding nod.

  “We most certainly don’t,” I said fervently. “And they will, given the smallest opportunity.”

  Bree sat back on her heels suddenly and gave a short gasp of surprise.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Look,” she said, beckoning to us. “There are words. Words carved into the stone.”

  I sank to my knees beside her and saw that a bulbous river stone beneath the well’s rim had been chiseled flat to form a kind of plaque. Seven words had been engraved on the flattened stone, in a rough but readable Celtic script:

  SPEAK AND YOUR WISH WILL BE GRANTED.

  “It’s a wishing well,” Bree said wonderingly. “A real, live wishing well.” She craned her neck to peer up at Jack, who’d bent over us to read the inscription. “You mustn’t put a lid on it,” she said urgently, “not a solid lid. If you do, the well won’t be able to hear you.”

  For a moment it looked as though Jack would lose whatever ground he’d gained with Bree by laughing at her, but he bit his lip, straightened, and gave a passable imitation of taking her seriously.

  “I’ll put a removable lid on it,” he assured her. “That way, it’ll be safe for the nippers, but accessible to, um, well wishers. Have a wish in mind, Bree?”

  Bree’s rosy cheeks became rosier as she looked away, muttering, “Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as a wishing well. It’s just a . . . a silly game.”

  “I’m always up for a silly game,” I said brightly. I sprang to my feet, leaned low over the well, and bellowed into its black depths, “I wish it would stop raining!”

  Bree and Jack laughed—Bree, somewhat sheepishly.

  “Problem solved,” Jack declared. He gave Bree a hand up and tilted his head toward the cottage. “Tea, anyone? And brandy snaps? I’d offer you Anzac biscuits as well, but I’ve already scoffed the lot.”

  Bree’s face went from rose to beet-red as the compliment registered and she looked more confused than ever as Jack turned his back on her and strode jauntily into the cottage.

  • • •

  The fresh pot of tea arrived too late in the day for me to take full advantage of it. I had things to do at home before I picked Will and Rob up from school—not the least of which was to change into dry clothes—so I gulped the scalding brew, gobbled a brandy snap, thanked Jack for his hospitality, and promised to return the following morning to begin work on Hector Huggins’s gardens.

  Bree seemed relieved rather than disappointed when I cut our tea party short. She thanked Jack politely, though without quite meeting his gaze, and scampered out to the Rover like a rabbit pursued by a wolf.

  Our return journey was conducted in a Hector Hugginsesque state of silence. Bree was absorbed in her own thoughts, and since anything I said would have sounded like “I told you so,” I kept my mouth shut. Though we had a cornucopia of fresh subjects to discuss, we didn’t exchange a single word until we reached Bree’s house and she turned to me, looking perplexed.

  “What’s he up to?” she asked.

  “Jack?” I hazarded. “Why should he be up to anything?”

  “Because I was a complete cow,” she stated flatly, “and he was a complete . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Gentleman?” I suggested.

  “Yes, he was a gentleman,” she admitted, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense, Lori. I was horrible to him. Why was he so nice to me?”

  “Because he’s a nice guy,” I said mildly. With heroic self-restraint, I refrained from adding, And because not all Aussies are ockers, you young idiot!

  “He does seem like a nice guy,” Bree acknowledged reluctantly, “but I still think it’s weird.”

  She undid her seat belt, hopped out of the Rover, said she’d see me at Ivy Cottage in the morning, and trudged through the pouring rain to her front door.

  I opened my own front door ten minutes later and threw a hasty greeting to Stanley, who was in the living room, curled into a sleek black ball on Bill’s favorite armchair. I ripped off my rain jacket, kicked off my boots, t
ore upstairs to change, and tore back downstairs to turn on the lights in the study, pat Reginald’s pink flannel snout, snatch the blue journal from its shelf, and drop into one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth, opening the journal as I fell.

  “Dimity?” I said, panting slightly. “I’m back from Ivy Cottage and I have tons to tell you!”

  Good afternoon, Lori. Your fact-finding luncheon was a success, was it?

  “It was like bathing in a waterfall of gossip,” I confirmed. “I’d intended to draw Jack out gradually, but Bree went straight for his jugular and as a result, I now know three thousand times more about him than I did this morning. I know about his mousy mother and his blowhard father and his bullying big brother, Conor, Jr., and when he met his uncle and how they kept in touch and why Jack never came to Finch and where he got his tan and—” I broke off to catch my breath and Aunt Dimity took advantage of the pause to ask a question.

  What did you mean when you said that Bree went straight for Jack’s jugular?

  “I meant that she more or less accused him of being a rotten, no-good, absentee nephew,” I said. “It was more than a little tactless of her, but it worked. In order to defend himself, Jack had to tell us all sorts of things about his family and himself.” I sighed happily. “Oh, Dimity, it was wonderful!”

  I’m sure it was, my dear, but I’d be grateful to you if you’d give me an intelligible account of what, exactly, Jack told you.

  “One intelligible account, coming up,” I said. I distilled Jack’s long, sad story into a more compact version, but by the time I finished, Aunt Dimity knew as much about Jack MacBride as I did.

  What a touching tale. Hector Huggins looked into the eyes of a six-year-old boy and saw someone quite different from himself, but instead of denigrating the difference—as Jack’s father did—he accepted, admired, and nurtured it. By doing so, he helped Jack to become the fine young man you’ve described.

  “He certainly did,” I said. “Jack seems to be aware of the debt he owes his uncle.”

  It’s a debt of love and gratitude, which he has already begun to repay. You and I might be bored to tears by Mr. Huggins’s memoir, but I doubt Jack will be. I believe Jack will treasure every word. Yes, indeed, a very touching tale, and at the same time, as you put it, a waterfall of gossip! Jack painted a remarkably detailed picture of his past and present circumstances for you and Bree. I wonder why he was willing to explain himself to you?

  “He wasn’t just explaining himself to us,” I said. “He was explaining himself to the whole village and it’s not hard to understand why. He doesn’t want people to see him as a vulture swooping in to pick his uncle’s bones.”

  I don’t believe anyone who met him on Saturday regarded him as a vulture.

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but they’ve had time to reconsider. Who knows what nasty notions have occurred to them since then?”

  Very true. He was wise to enlist you and Bree as his ambassadors. You’ll both be fearless in his defense, should the need arise.

  “I wouldn’t count on Bree just yet,” I said. “She thinks Jack’s up to something.”

  What sort of something?

  “Who knows?” I said. “She doesn’t. If you ask me, she’s miffed with Jack for confounding her expectations. She wanted him to be a foul-mouthed, beer-guzzling Aussie lout, but his charm offensive disarmed her.”

  It can be unsettling to have one’s prejudices undermined.

  “Prejudices should be undermined,” I stated firmly. I hesitated, then added, “I have to agree with her about one thing, though. Jack was preternaturally nice to her. He shrugged off every poisoned dart she threw at him and kept on smiling.”

  Yes, well, she’s the only young person he’s laid eyes on since he arrived in Finch, and she happens to be an immensely attractive young person. Jack, too, is young, he’s a long way from home, and he and Bree do come from the same hemisphere. It’s entirely understandable that he should be drawn to her. Wouldn’t it be splendid if they fell in love?

  “Matchmaking from beyond the grave,” I said, clucking my tongue. “You simply can’t help yourself, can you, Dimity?”

  Old habits die hard. So to speak.

  I laughed out loud.

  “I’ll let you know if I detect any softening on Bree’s part,” I said. “I won’t be able to observe her on the way to Ivy Cottage tomorrow, though, because she’ll be driving her car and I’ll be riding my new bike.”

  Through the rain?

  “It won’t rain tomorrow,” I said.

  You sound very sure of yourself.

  “I am very sure of myself, because—” I stopped short and started over again, feeling foolish. “Sorry, Dimity. I forgot to tell you about the wishing well.” I hunkered down in the tall armchair and repaired my omission. When I was done, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting resumed.

  I seem to recall a well at Ivy Cottage—the Sandersons lived there in my time, and Mrs. Sanderson used to take tea with my mother in the back garden—but I don’t remember it as a wishing well. Mr. Sanderson had trained ivy to grow up the sides, though, so the inscription you mentioned must have been hidden from view.

  “What a pity,” I said airily. “You missed your chance to make a wish. I, on the other hand, spoke, so my wish will be granted. The soggy season ends tomorrow.”

  Naturally.

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your response, Dimity?” I inquired.

  You detect an entire symphony of sarcasm in my response, my dear. Did Bree make a wish?

  “Certainly not,” I said. “She’s much more grown up than I am.”

  In some ways, perhaps. Jack MacBride may help us to see just how grown up she is.

  “Stay tuned for further developments,” I said. I glanced at the mantel clock and scrambled to my feet.

  “Gotta run, Dimity. Will and Rob will have to flag down a cab if I don’t leave right this minute.”

  Drive carefully, my dear. I don’t want you to end up in a ditch again.

  “You and Bill will never let me forget the ditch incident, will you?” I grumbled.

  I sincerely doubt it.

  I smiled wryly while Aunt Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page, then returned the journal to its shelf, gave Reginald’s ears a quick twiddle, and took off in the Rover for Upper Deeping.

  It may have been wishful thinking, but as I dodged puddles and braved rushing rivulets, I could have sworn the rain was slacking off.

  Eight

  “You’re proud of yourself,” Bill said during breakfast on Tuesday morning. “You’re actually proud of yourself.”

  He shook his head in disbelief as he stared at me across the kitchen table.

  “Why shouldn’t I be proud of myself?” I retorted. “The sun’s shining, isn’t it? The wind has stopped howling and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.” I buttered a triangle of toast and pointed it at him as I continued, “You should be grateful to me for making such a wise and benevolent wish. If I hadn’t, you’d have half the river running through your office right now.”

  I’d spent much of the previous evening telling Bill about the luncheon at Ivy Cottage. Like Dimity, he’d reacted skeptically when I’d mentioned the wish I’d bellowed into Jack’s rediscovered well, and I’d spent the entire, sun-drenched morning reminding him of how wrong he’d been to doubt me.

  “You did not stop the rain, Lori,” Bill stated unequivocally.

  “I didn’t do it alone,” I acknowledged through a mouthful of buttered toast. “The wishing well—”

  “Lori,” Bill interrupted, glancing meaningfully at Will and Rob, who’d been following our conversation with great interest.

  “Oh, all right,” I conceded. I paused to swallow my bite of toast before saying solemnly, “I can’t control the weather. A wishing well can’t control the weather. A wish can’t keep the rain from falling or make the sun shine.”

  “Thank you,” said Bill.

  “But you have to admit,” I adde
d, eyeing him mischievously, “it’s a corker of a coincidence.”

  “What’s a coincidence?” Will asked.

  “Did you use a corker to stop the rain, Mummy?” asked Rob.

  Chastened by Bill’s accusatory glare, I spent the next few minutes explaining to our sons that I’d been playing a game with Daddy when I’d said those silly things about the wishing well and that intelligent young men knew better than to believe in silly things. I then scooped their dishes from the table and headed for the sink, leaving the definitions of corker as well as coincidence to Bill.

  • • •

  Since Emma Harris’s mornings were even more hectic than mine, I waited until after the school run to telephone her. She sounded harassed when I reached her, so I was slightly surprised when she jumped at the chance to put her vast expanse of gardening knowledge at Jack’s disposal.

  “It’ll be a relief to get away from the stables for a while,” she said.

  “Are you still nursing Pegasus?” I inquired, recalling her chestnut mare’s convenient case of colic.

  “Rosie’s fine,” she assured me, “but not much else is. I had to cancel today’s riding lessons as well as tomorrow’s because the south pasture is flooded, the riding rings are knee-deep in mud, and half the hands are off sick. It’s nothing we can’t handle, but I won’t mind putting it behind me for an hour or two.”

  “Come whenever you can,” I said. “We’ll have a nice cup of tea waiting for you.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” she said. “I’ll try to get away around noon.”

  “See you then,” I said, and rang off.

  I’d dressed for the day in an old T-shirt, an old cardigan, a very old Windbreaker, and a pair of nylon hiking trousers that were old but still water repellent. I’d donned a pair of sneakers as well, but I’d tucked my trusty wellies into the rattan basket on Betsy’s handlebars, along with a pair of gardening gloves and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I was, I thought, ready to deal with whatever Hector Huggins’s gardens could throw at me.

  My beautiful bicycle was waiting for me where I’d left her, leaning against the garage door, with a matching helmet dangling from her handlebars. After donning the helmet, I settled myself on Betsy’s well-cushioned seat, pushed off, and rang her brass bell to express the sheer joy I felt at finally taking her out for a spin.