Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  There is nothing quite as exhilarating as riding a spanking new bicycle through the English countryside on a perfect day in May. The warm sun caressed my face, a self-generated breeze cooled my brow, and birdsong filled my ears as I pedaled swiftly along the twisting lane. I felt as if I were flying, and though the road surface was still quite damp, I handled the tricky curve near Bree’s house without slowing.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Betsy’s twenty-one gears, but the gear she was in seemed to be working well enough for my needs, so I didn’t worry about changing into another. I arrived at Ivy Cottage feeling exultant, gave the hand brakes a firm squeeze, and tumbled over the handlebars and into the shaggy hedgerow.

  A few unfortunate words escaped my lips.

  “Lori?” Jack called over the hedge. “Is that you?”

  He raced through the gateway, ran to my side, and hovered anxiously while I extricated myself from a web of springy branches. I noted vaguely that he’d donned his cargo shorts and sandals again, but I was too mortified to savor my close-up view of his shapely legs.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No worries,” I said, spitting out a mouthful of hawthorn leaves as I hauled myself to my feet. “I had a soft landing.”

  “It’s a good thing we put off the hedge trimming,” he observed.

  “Agreed,” I said. I gestured to the modest sedan parked on the verge near Willis, Sr.’s, wrought-iron gates. “I see Bree has arrived.”

  “With far less drama than you,” said Jack.

  While he collected the items that had fallen from Betsy’s basket, Bree emerged from the gateway. She, too, was wearing shorts, but hers were denim cutoffs, and her feet were protected by her bumblebee-striped wellies. I was pleased to note that her short-sleeved purple T-shirt bore no national symbols, and though her tattooed arms were on full display, I considered the tattoos’ floral motifs to be politically neutral.

  She surmised from the scene what had happened and had the good grace not to laugh.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, pulling Betsy upright.

  “I’m embarrassed, but unbroken,” I told her.

  “No need to be embarrassed,” she said. “I reckon the only cyclists who haven’t taken a spill are cyclists who leave their bikes at home.” She squatted to examine Betsy, pronounced her fit to ride, and stood. “You’re right, Lori. She’s gorgeous.”

  “She?” said Jack.

  “Don’t ask,” said Bree.

  “Lori!” cried another voice, and I looked up to see short, plump Sally Pyne trotting toward us from the direction of the humpbacked bridge.

  “Great,” I muttered. If Sally had witnessed my fall, the whole village would know about it before lunchtime.

  “Good grief, Lori,” she exclaimed as she drew nearer. “Should I ring Dr. Finisterre? I saw you sail over your handlebars and I was sure you’d killed yourself.”

  “Not dead,” I said, spreading my arms wide to display my undead body. “Not even concussed. Nothing but a few scratches. It’s the hand brakes. I’ll have to get used to them.”

  “I should think so,” said Sally. She turned immediately to Jack and pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “Sally Pyne, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “How could I forget you, Mrs. Pyne?” said Jack. “You own the tearoom and you made the delicious chicken in wine sauce.”

  “I do, I did, and I’m Sally to you,” said Sally, blushing with the pleasure of being remembered by someone as young and handsome as Jack. “I’m sure you have lots to do, Jack, so I won’t beat about the bush. I don’t want you to feel pressurized in any way, but it dawned on me last night that you might not know how to return the casserole dishes once you’ve finished with them. So I thought I’d pop in and tell you whose dish is whose.”

  “You beauty,” said Jack. “That’s a great idea. I’ll show you to the kitchen.” Jack dumped my possessions into Betsy’s basket and presented his arm to Sally. “Allow me to assist you, Sally. The front garden’s a bit wild and I wouldn’t want you to turn an ankle.”

  “One crash landing per day is enough, eh?” Sally said, peering up at him roguishly. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and bounced through the gateway as gaily as a young girl on prom night.

  I took Betsy from Bree, began rolling her through the gateway, and stopped short.

  “What happened to the intercom?” I asked, gazing at the dark patch on the gatepost where the device had been mounted.

  “Jack dismantled it,” said Bree. “He plans to leave the gate unlocked as well. He wants the villagers to feel free to knock on his front door.”

  “They’ll knock down his front door,” I said, pushing Betsy into the jungle. “Everyone’s dying to poke their noses into Ivy Cottage. Take Sally, for example. If she gives two hoots about casserole dishes, I’ll eat Betsy’s tires. Sally came here to snoop.”

  “The first of many,” Bree said, nodding sagely.

  “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” she replied. She pointed to an impressive array of tools piled on a blue tarpaulin stretched across the ground between the garage door and the front bumper of Jack’s rental car. “We unloaded my car and made a start on clearing the path between the garage and the cottage, but we haven’t gotten very far. Is Emma coming?”

  “She hopes to be here by noon,” I said.

  “Good,” said Bree. “I don’t mind clearing the paths because the paths are already there, but I’m not sure about the rest of it. Emma will know what’s worth saving and what isn’t.”

  “Forget the paths,” I told her. “Let’s snoop on the snoop.”

  I propped Betsy against the cottage, hung my helmet on her handlebars, took my wellies from her basket, and shooed Bree indoors. We entered the kitchen in time to hear Sally assign Miranda Morrow’s name to the purple casserole dish.

  “Shall I go over it again?” she asked.

  “I think I’ll remember,” Jack replied.

  “Good. When you’re ready to return them,” she concluded, “you can ask anyone in the village where to go and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

  “Thanks, Sally,” said Jack.

  “Not at all,” said Sally. She strolled casually to the wide-open back door, peered into the garden, and exclaimed, “You have a well, Jack! I didn’t know there was a well at Ivy Cottage.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you mind if I pop out for a peek?”

  “Be my guest,” said Jack.

  Bree and I exchanged speculative glances as Sally made a beeline for the well.

  “Jack,” I said, “have you spoken with anyone in the village since Bree and I were here yesterday?”

  “I spoke with Mrs. Taxman,” he replied. “I went to the post office yesterday afternoon to mail a water sample to a testing lab in Oxford, and since the post office is inside Mrs. Taxman’s general store, I had a look around the shop while I was there. I didn’t find the bucket or the rope I wanted, but Mrs. Taxman offered to order them for me. She was very helpful.”

  I nodded. “Did you tell Peggy about the well when you ordered the bucket and the rope?”

  “Of course I did,” said Jack. “I’m prepping the cottage for sale, remember? The well’s a selling point.”

  “Did you tell Peggy about my wish?” I went on patiently.

  “I may have made a joke about it,” Jack admitted. “It’s pretty hilarious, after all. Lori Shepherd wants the rain to stop and—bam!—it stops raining! I think I said we could use someone like you back home in the wet.”

  I groaned and Bree heaved a dolorous sigh.

  “Why the long faces?” Jack asked.

  “You don’t know what you’ve done,” I said.

  “Enlighten me,” said Jack.

  “Where do I start?” I said, gazing at him pityingly. “What you have to understand, Jack, is that everyone in Finch is frothing at the mouth to sneak a peek at Ivy Cottage because no one�
��s set foot in it since your uncle moved in.”

  “They would have come calling for that reason alone,” said Bree, “but you’ve given them an even better reason.”

  “The well?” Jack guessed.

  “The wishing well,” I clarified. “The villagers will be trooping through here morning, noon, and night to make a wish in your well.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Jack scoffed. “No one over the age of six believes in wishing wells.”

  “I’m not saying they believe in it,” I temporized. “Not all of them. Not deep down. But the ones who aren’t superstitious will be intrigued.”

  “When they hear about Lori’s wish coming true,” said Bree, “they’ll think to themselves, ‘Why not give it a go?’”

  “In short,” I concluded, “you’re about to be trampled by a herd of villagers.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” said Jack. “Let ’em come. The more, the merrier.”

  “Famous last words,” I intoned.

  Bree put a finger to her lips and we fell silent as Sally Pyne came in from the back garden.

  “It’s a wonderful well,” she said. “Like something out of a fairy story. I’d stay to lend a hand with the garden, Jack, but I don’t like to leave Henry alone in the tearoom for too long. Henry’s my fiancé,” she explained to Jack. “He used to be an entertainer on a cruise ship. His jokes make me laugh, but not everyone appreciates them.”

  “Hello?” called a man’s voice. “Anyone at home?”

  “We’re in here, Mr. Barlow,” Sally shouted in reply.

  My eyebrows rose. Mr. Barlow was a down-to-earth handyman, sexton, and retired mechanic whose work-booted feet were planted firmly on the ground. Had I made a mental list of the people least likely to test the wishing well’s alleged powers, Mr. Barlow’s name would have been at the very top of it. Happily, my faith in him was justified when he entered the kitchen lugging his tool kit, a bundle of hairy jute rope, and an iron-banded oak bucket with a sturdy iron handle.

  “Morning, Jack,” he said. “I heard you were looking to fix up your well, so I had a rummage in my shed and found these.” He held up the bucket and the rope. “No point in buying new when old will do.”

  “No point at all,” said Jack. “Much obliged, Mr. Barlow.”

  “Let’s see if the rope’s long enough,” said Mr. Barlow, turning toward the back door.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” said Jack, “as soon as I’ve—”

  “You go ahead,” Sally broke in. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Jack followed Mr. Barlow into the garden and Sally trotted back to the tearoom to rescue her customers from her fiancé’s sense of humor. Bree and I, left alone in the kitchen, paused for a meditative moment.

  “Peggy’s going to hit the roof when Jack cancels his order,” Bree said, breaking the silence. “She’ll have Mr. Barlow’s guts for garters when she finds out his rummage lost her a sale, and she’ll give Jack an earful.”

  “We can’t do everything, Bree,” I said philosophically. “Jack will have to learn some lessons the hard way. In the meantime . . .” I took off my sneakers and stepped into my Wellington boots. “We’d better clear the footpath to the front door. It’s about to become a superhighway.”

  Nine

  I would have added clairvoyance to my list of superpowers if my prediction hadn’t been so . . . predictable. Bree and I were less than halfway through our clearance project when Miranda Morrow arrived at Ivy Cottage, accompanied by Elspeth Binney, Selena Buxton, and Opal Taylor.

  Elspeth and Opal wore their everyday tweed skirts, blouses, cardigans, and sensible shoes, but Selena, a retired wedding planner, was dressier, in a pale pink, tailored skirt suit and pale pink pumps enveloped in dainty, see-through galoshes. Miranda’s leaf-green gossamer gown set her apart from the older ladies, suggesting much about her lithe figure while revealing nothing.

  “Where’s Millicent?” I asked.

  Elspeth, Opal, and Selena were rarely seen without their friend and neighbor Millicent Scroggins. Bill had dubbed the quartet “Father’s Handmaidens” because of their devotion to my genteel father-in-law. Willis, Sr., disliked the nickname intensely, but his disapproval couldn’t keep me from thinking of Elspeth, Opal, Selena, and Millicent as the Handmaidens.

  “Dentist,” Elspeth answered. “The poor dear is having trouble with a back tooth.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.

  “Millicent’s sorry, too,” said Selena. “She wanted so much to be with us when we welcomed Jack MacBride to Finch.”

  “You welcomed him on Saturday, didn’t you?” Bree asked.

  “Yes,” said Opal, “but it was a general, community welcome. We wish to welcome him personally.”

  Their story would have been more credible had they looked me or Bree in the eye while they delivered it. Instead, they scanned every inch of the front garden and peered voraciously at the cottage, as if they hoped to see through it to the miraculous well that had, I strongly suspected, been described to them in loving detail by Peggy Taxman.

  Miranda’s pagan beliefs allowed her to come straight to the point.

  “Thanks for the sunshine, Lori,” she said cheerfully. The sunlight glinted in her strawberry-blond hair, as if to underscore the efficacy of my wish. “I hope Jack won’t mind if I put his well to therapeutic use.” She held up her wicker basket to display a half dozen glass bottles stoppered with corks. “My rheumatic patients might benefit from a dose of his well water.”

  “It hasn’t been tested yet,” I said quickly. “A dose might give your patients something worse than rheumatism.”

  “I’ll use the first batch for external applications only,” said Miranda. “But I’ll be back for more if the tests—and Jack—give me the all-clear.”

  The Handmaidens chuckled tolerantly.

  “Such an imagination,” said Elspeth.

  “So entertaining,” said Selena.

  “You’ll be taking Henry Cook’s place soon, Miranda,” said Opal.

  “I’m not telling a funny story,” Miranda protested. “It’s common knowledge that sacred wells have healing powers. Lori used Jack’s well to heal the weather. I’ll use the water to heal the infirm.”

  Elspeth gave Miranda a condescending smile, then turned to me, saying, “My interest in the well is purely historical. The discovery of a traditional water source in our village should be recorded for posterity.”

  “Oh, I so agree,” Selena chimed in sincerely. “It’s an architectural find of great distinction.”

  “An artistic one, as well,” Elspeth asserted. “I’ve heard it’s lovely. Like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “Is Jack at home?” Opal inquired. “Will he mind showing us his well?”

  “While we welcome him to Finch,” Selena added hurriedly.

  Bree couldn’t restrain a snigger as she sliced through a mass of weeds with her brush hook, but I maintained a straight face and led the ladies through the cottage to see the architectural find of great distinction.

  “Jack,” I sang from the kitchen doorway as the Handmaidens spilled past me and into the back garden. “You have visitors.”

  The sound of high-pitched twittering filled the air as Elspeth, Selena, and Opal surged forward to greet Jack, to cluck over the state of the garden, and to admire the well, which was now equipped with an appropriately aged bucket dangling from a suitably rough-hewn rope. Miranda waited for the chatter to subside, then explained her mission to Jack.

  “You’re welcome to fill your bottles,” he said, “as long as you—”

  “Don’t let anyone drink from them,” Miranda broke in, nodding. “I won’t. I’ll use the water in massages until I know it’s safe for human consumption.”

  “In that case . . .” Jack wheeled around and held an arm out, as if he were an impresario presenting Mr. Barlow to an audience. “Mr. Barlow? If you please?”

  Mr. Barlow employed the freshly oiled crank to lower the bucket soun
dlessly into the well and to bring it up again, brimming with water. Elspeth, Selena, and Opal applauded and Jack pulled the bucket over to rest on the wellhead. Miranda filled her bottles, thanked her host, and departed.

  “I’ll be off, too,” Mr. Barlow announced. “My job’s done.”

  Jack demonstrated great tact by waiting until he and Mr. Barlow were in the kitchen before bringing up the delicate subject of payment. Mr. Barlow didn’t mind discussing money matters in front of me, but he thought it unwise to mention them within earshot of the Handmaidens.

  “Make it a tenner for the bucket and twenty for the rope,” said Mr. Barlow.

  “And your labor?” asked Jack.

  “Tuppence,” said Mr. Barlow, with a wry smile.

  “Wait here,” said Jack. “My cash stash is upstairs.”

  He left to fetch the money and Mr. Barlow wandered over to stand beside me in the doorway.

  “Daft old biddies,” he said scathingly, observing the Handmaidens. “Look at them, pretending to take an interest in the trellis and the pergola, when they know very well why they’re here. Each one’s making a wish as soon as the others’ backs are turned.”

  “Did you make a wish?” I asked.

  “Do I look daft to you?” he retorted.

  “No,” I said. “But if you were daft enough to make a wish, what would it be?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a Jaguar,” Mr. Barlow replied after a moment’s thought. “Not to own—the maintenance is too dear—but I wouldn’t say no to working on a Jaguar. A classic E-Type, for preference. Not likely to get my hands on one in Finch, but if I believed in all this make-a-wish malarkey, I’d ask the old well to bring one to me.”

  “Here you are, Mr. Barlow,” said Jack, striding into the kitchen.

  Mr. Barlow took the bills Jack offered, counted them, and tried unsuccessfully to return a few. Jack adamantly refused to take them back, saying that Mr. Barlow had earned every pence.

  “A fool and his money are soon parted,” Mr. Barlow said gruffly.