Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  Peggy stopped halfway across the green and swung around to make a stand. Sally came to a halt a few feet away from her and Henry hung back a few more steps.

  “Wise of them to keep their distance,” Mr. Barlow commented. “Henry’s beefy and Sally’s plucky, but Peggy could fell an oak tree with one slap.”

  I whimpered.

  “How dare you interrupt my photo shoot?” Sally roared.

  “You may as well cancel your photo shoot,” Peggy thundered, “because the tearoom won’t be yours for much longer.” She pointed a finger at Sally. “I’ve told you once, but I’ll say it again. I’m buying up your lease!”

  “My lease isn’t for sale!” Sally bellowed.

  “So you say, but I know better,” Peggy said, with a self-satisfied smirk. “You may be able to find your way around a kitchen, Sally Pyne, but you’ve no head for business.”

  “No head for business?” Sally echoed, her voice rising along with her blood pressure.

  “An experienced businesswoman doesn’t shut up shop for two days running,” said Peggy. “She doesn’t leave paying customers out in the cold while she swans about, acting like the queen of the May.”

  “The queen of the May?” Sally screeched, her ruffles trembling.

  “There goes the boa,” Mr. Barlow observed.

  Jemma Renshawe was wriggling through the grass on her belly with her trim backside in the air, pausing every few feet to roll onto her side and photograph the villagers from below. The women who were wearing skirts looked scandalized and those who were wearing trousers scowled at her, but the men followed her progress avidly, elbowing one another in the ribs and waggling their eyebrows expressively.

  “Jemma, please,” Elspeth whispered piercingly as she wound her way through the assembled throng.

  Her niece ignored her plaintive hiss and continued crawling.

  “Cats and clowns,” said Mr. Barlow.

  “Hmmm?” I said, too absorbed in the drama to spare him a glance.

  “Cats and clowns,” Mr. Barlow repeated, gesturing toward the onlookers. “The women want to scratch her eyes out and the men look like village idiots. And she’s getting it all on film.” He chuckled happily. “I reckon Charles and Grant won’t be the only ones having fits when her book comes out.”

  I shushed him and bent my ear toward the green.

  “I am not swanning about,” Sally protested. “Haven’t you heard of publicity? It’s the way an experienced businesswoman attracts new customers. My media exposure will reach a much larger demographic than your poxy shop windows.”

  “Media exposure? Demographic?” Peggy scoffed. “Don’t wave your fancy words in my face until you know what they mean. And there’s nothing wrong with my shop windows.”

  “There’s an inch of dust on those rusty old tins of beans,” Sally retorted, “and the C fell off of your crumpets sign two months ago. Having a sale on rumpets, are we?”

  The villagers tittered cautiously, acknowledging Sally’s wit while at the same time respecting Peggy’s power.

  “Ow!” cried Jemma Renshawe.

  “Did I tread on you, dear?” Millicent Scroggins inquired. “So sorry.”

  “I think it might have been my fault,” said Opal Taylor. “I didn’t mean to kick you, dear.”

  “Jemma,” said Elspeth, looking mortified. “Please . . .”

  Jemma sat up with a pained grimace and rubbed her reddened shoulder vigorously, then scrambled to her feet and began creeping through the crowd, aiming her camera at random villagers.

  “We aren’t having a sale on anything,” Peggy bellowed, ignoring the sideshow, “because I’m about to buy your building. Once I have your lease in my hand, the tearoom will be mine!”

  “B-but I live above the tearoom,” Sally stammered, looking thunderstruck. “If you buy the building, you’ll be my landlady.”

  “I’ll be your boss as well,” Peggy said smugly.

  “Over my dead body,” Sally shot back.

  “Suit yourself,” said Peggy. “I wouldn’t have kept you on anyway. The amount of money you throw away on flour and sugar and cream and eggs is disgraceful. I know a supplier who’ll give them to me for half the price.”

  “They’ll have half the quality, too, I’ll wager,” Sally said doggedly. “Cheap ingredients taste cheap. Not that you’d know the difference.”

  A chorus of gasps rose from the onlookers.

  “She insulted Peggy,” I said, awestruck. “No one insults Peggy Taxman.”

  “Not to her face, they don’t,” said Mr. Barlow.

  “When I’m running the tearoom,” said Peggy, “I’ll turn a pretty profit.”

  “You? Run the tearoom?” Sally laughed derisively. “Your cakes fall, your lemon curd tastes like soap, and you’ve never baked a loaf of bread you haven’t burnt.”

  “I don’t intend to waste my valuable time slaving over a hot oven,” said Peggy. “I plan to hire a real baker.”

  “Is your husband a real baker, then?” Sally taunted. “He’d better be, because you won’t find anyone else willing to work for you.”

  “You’re sacked!” bellowed Peggy.

  “You can’t sack me because I don’t work for you and I never will,” Sally hollered. “For your information, Mistress High-and-Mighty, I don’t need to work at all.” She reached behind her, pulled Henry Cook forward, and linked arms with him. “My Henry will support me.”

  “How will Henry support you?” Peggy demanded. “He works for you!”

  “Not anymore,” said Sally. She drew herself up and surveyed her audience with an air of great satisfaction, then dropped her bombshell. “Henry is going back into show business!”

  The villagers emitted a collective and deeply impressed, “Oooooh!”

  “Sally dear,” Henry began, but he had no chance of interrupting Sally, who was in full flow.

  “My Henry is too humble to toot his own horn, so I’ll toot it for him,” said Sally. “One of Dabney’s motoring friends is a theatrical agent. His name is Arty Barnes—”

  “The scrawny little chap with the big nose?” Dick Peacock asked. “He was in my pub last week. Likes his lager, does Arty. Good storyteller, too.”

  “Arty has an eye for talent as well as a way with words,” Sally said, beaming at Dick. “He thinks Henry is the next big thing. Thanks to Arty, my husband-to-be will make his return to the stage at a comedy club in Bristol on Tuesday night.”

  “It’s just one gig,” said Henry, looking very uncomfortable.

  “One gig leads to another,” said Sally, patting his arm. “After he finishes his run in Bristol, Henry will take his show on the road and who knows what will happen next? His own television series? A lead role in a movie? Anything’s possible! When my Henry hits the big time, we won’t have to live in a pokey little flat above a shop. We’ll buy a proper house as far away from the Grand Poohbah”—she pointed at Peggy—“as we can get!”

  “You’re getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Peggy asked.

  “I have complete faith in my Henry,” Sally replied. She whipped off her frilly pink apron and threw it at Peggy’s feet. “Go ahead. Buy the building. The tearoom is all yours. Let’s see what a dog’s dinner you make of it.” She turned to the villagers. “The rest of you are invited to see Henry perform at the Lots O’ Laughs club in Bristol on Tuesday night at seven o’clock. There’ll be free jelly doughnuts to celebrate the stellar occasion—and my jelly doughnuts won’t poison you!”

  While Peggy prepared a rejoinder, Elspeth’s niece received another lesson in good manners.

  “Oof!” Jemma grunted as she bent double and clutched her side.

  “Were those your ribs, dear?” said Opal. “I’m afraid I caught you with my elbow. Do forgive me. I didn’t see you creeping up behind me.”

  Elspeth’s jaw was set and her face was crimson as she hurried forward, put an arm around Jemma’s waist, and hustled her toward the safety of her cottage. As they departed, a stocky
, bearded man in blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and tasseled loafers put his head out of the tearoom, caught sight of Sally, and strode across the green to address her.

  “Mrs. Pyne?” he said, tapping his wristwatch impatiently. “We really must be getting on. Mr. Holdstrom will want at least ten more shots of you and your summer pudding. As I explained earlier, he likes to choose from a variety of images when it comes time for him to make his final selection.”

  “Sorry, Rick,” said Sally. “I’ve been replaced. If you want to photograph the tearoom’s owner, you’ll have to deal with the dragon lady.” She bent her head toward Peggy, then clapped Rick on the shoulder. “Good luck, young man. You’ll need it.”

  “Pah!” Peggy said scornfully. She flicked a hand at Sally, as if she were shooing away a gnat, then wheeled around and sailed majestically toward the Emporium.

  “Er, Mrs. Pyne?” said Rick, looking utterly befuddled. “We can’t change course in the middle of a shoot.”

  “You’ll have to,” said Sally.

  “What about my jams and marmalades?” said Opal Taylor, stepping forward. “You could photograph them.”

  “I’m not here to photograph jams and marmalades,” Rick said curtly. “I’m here to photograph Mrs. Pyne and her summer pudding.”

  “Sally and her pudding are no prettier than me and my marmalades,” Opal said obstinately.

  “It’s not a matter of prettiness,” Rick informed her, sounding exasperated. “An assignment is an assignment.”

  “Change the assignment,” Opal commanded. “I can be ready for you in two ticks.”

  “Come, Henry,” said Sally. “I need to speak with my solicitor.”

  “Mrs. Pyne!” Rick said, stretching his arms toward her beseechingly. “You can’t walk out in the middle of a shoot.”

  “Watch me,” said Sally.

  She and Henry hotfooted it to my husband’s office, Sally bouncing on her toes like a boxer, Henry dawdling behind her with his head bowed. Opal attempted to pursue her argument with the hapless Rick, but he ignored her, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and spoke into it rapidly as he retreated to the tearoom.

  “Is Bill Sally’s solicitor?” Mr. Barlow asked as the villagers dispersed.

  “I hope not,” I said fervently. “Can you imagine him brokering a truce between Sally Pyne and Peggy Taxman?”

  “Rock and a hard place,” said Mr. Barlow. He took the socket wrench from his pocket and spun it between his fingers. “Show’s over. Guess I’ll get back to work. Nice talking with you, Lori. I’d have a doctor take a look at that thumb, if I were you. It’s gone a funny color.”

  I was too worn out to tell him that he was responsible for my injury. I felt as battered as Jemma Renshawe, as if each harsh word, each angry look that had passed between my neighbors had left a bruise on my heart. I leaned on the low stone wall and stared blindly into the river while my thumb throbbed and my overloaded brain spun in circles.

  A vehicle stopped behind me on the bridge and I turned to see Jack MacBride peering at me through the open window of his rental car. Bree was in the passenger seat and the backseat was filled with birdbaths.

  “Are you okay, Lori?” Jack asked. “You look a bit crook.”

  I understood his meaning and went along with it. I needed time to process the day’s kaleidoscopic events before I could explain them to my young friends.

  “I don’t feel at all well,” I admitted.

  “It’s my fault,” Jack said contritely. “You’ve been putting in too many hours at Uncle Hector’s.”

  “Wait here,” Bree called across him. “We’ll unload the car, bung Betsy in the boot, and come back for you. You’re not cycling home today.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “What happened to your thumb?” Jack asked.

  “What can I say?” I replied with a tired shrug. “I’m not a carpenter.”

  “My fault again,” said Jack, rapping himself on the forehead with his fist.

  “Don’t move, Lori,” said Bree. “We’ll be right back.”

  They drove off and I turned to gaze at my beloved village. Finch looked tranquil, but I knew in my bruised heart that it was crumbling beneath the weight of its good fortune.

  Eighteen

  Jack and Bree returned with a makeshift ice pack—six ice cubes wrapped in a clean tea towel—and let me nurse my thumb in silence all the way home. While Jack stashed Betsy in the garage, Bree walked with me into the cottage. She offered to telephone Bill, but I declined, telling myself that, if Bill were Sally Pyne’s solicitor, he wouldn’t be able to leave his office until she’d had her say, which could take quite some time.

  “Don’t be such a mother hen,” I chided Bree gently. “You should know by now that I can look after myself. Run along. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” Bree said reluctantly. “But if you need anything, ring me.”

  “I will,” I said, forcing a smile. “Go!”

  Bree and Jack departed and I dragged myself to the study. The room was blissfully still and silent and the ivy leaves cloaking the diamond-paned windows filtered the bright sunlight that had beaten down upon me atop the humpbacked bridge. I approached Reginald wordlessly, took him from his niche, and held him to my cheek, taking comfort, as I had done throughout my life, from the touch of his soft pink flannel. If my thumb hadn’t been as big as a bloated sausage, I would have sucked it.

  With a sigh, I returned Reginald to his niche and took the blue journal with me to a tall leather armchair near the hearth. I leaned back in the chair, put my feet on the ottoman, propped the journal on my knees, opened it clumsily with one hand, and began to cry.

  Lori, my child, what’s wrong?

  “Everything,” I sobbed, looking down at the familiar handwriting through a flood of tears. “Mr. Barlow didn’t mow the cemetery and he didn’t help us fix the bird tables and Charles is mad at Grant and Grant is mad at Charles and Jemma embarrassed Elspeth and Rick won’t shoot Opal’s marmalades and Peggy’s buying the tearoom and Sally’s moving away because Henry’s going to be a big star and . . . and . . . and my thumb hurts,” I howled.

  Why does your thumb hurt?

  “I h-hit it with a h-hammer,” I replied tremulously.

  I see. Have you had anything to eat or drink since breakfast?

  “N-no,” I quavered miserably. “I didn’t sleep very well last night, either. T-tidal waves.”

  Tidal waves disrupted your sleep? You poor thing. All right, my dear, here’s what you’re going to do. You will ring Bill and tell him to come home. I don’t care if he’s writing the Duke of Northumberland’s last will and testament, he’s to come home AT ONCE. While you’re waiting for him, you’ll reheat a cup of the chicken broth you made last week.

  “B-broth,” I hiccuped, nodding docilely.

  A hot, nourishing drink will lessen the effects of shock.

  “Am I in shock?” I asked, vaguely surprised.

  You’re dehydrated, malnourished, exhausted, injured, and, yes, you’re in shock. You may have a touch of sunstroke as well, if your tidal wave comment is anything to go by. Which is why, after you’ve swallowed every last drop of the broth, Bill will take you directly to the hospital in Upper Deeping.

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital,” I wailed.

  Of course you shall go to hospital. Your thumb may be broken. If it becomes infected, you could lose your entire hand.

  The dire prognosis brought me up short. I stopped crying and stared at my distended digit in disbelief.

  “But Dimity,” I said faintly, “I have so much to tell you.”

  You can tell me later. I’m not going anywhere. But you are. Ring Bill now.

  • • •

  Bill found me at the kitchen table, crying into my chicken broth. He didn’t reproach me for not calling him sooner or scold me for ogling my neighbors when I should have been taking care of myself. He simply wrapped me in a blanket and drove me straight to the hospital.

 
; After a few X-rays, blood tests, and antibiotic injections, the attending physician informed Bill that my thumb was badly contused rather than broken and that I’d probably lose the nail, which struck me as a better deal than losing a whole hand. The doctor agreed with Aunt Dimity’s diagnosis of dehydration and put me on an IV drip before sending me home with three kinds of prescription medications and a thumb that resembled an itty-bitty mummy.

  One of the drugs was a sedative, but Bill didn’t need to administer it because I was fast asleep before we reached the cottage. He carried me upstairs and put me to bed and I awoke briefly as he was tucking me in.

  “The boys,” I murmured drowsily.

  “They’re spending the night at Father’s,” he said. “Deirdre will take them to school tomorrow morning.”

  “Good old Deirdre,” I said, closing my eyes. “Are you Sally Pyne’s solicitor?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” said Bill.

  He smoothed my hair back from my forehead, kissed me tenderly on the lips, and sat with me until I dropped off to sleep again.

  • • •

  I awoke at half past nine on Friday morning, feeling ravenous. Bill was seated in the armchair near the sliding glass door to the deck, tapping away at his laptop’s keyboard, and Stanley was asleep in the pool of sunlight next to Bill’s chair. When I raised my head from the pillows, Bill closed the laptop and came to sit beside me on the bed.

  “Are you Sally Pyne’s solicitor?” I asked.

  “Excellent,” said Bill. “The medication hasn’t affected the gossip quadrant of your brain.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “No, I’m not Sally’s solicitor. She came to me for advice on managing Henry’s career and I referred her to a colleague in London.”

  “Thank heavens,” I said.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “The painkiller the doctor gave you must still be working.”

  “It hasn’t killed my appetite,” I said. “I could chase a horse and eat the jockey.”

  “Would a bowl of porridge do?” Bill asked.

  “I’d prefer a full fry-up with a large glass of orange juice and a pot of tea,” I said. “I haven’t had anything to eat since the IV drip.”