If he doesn’t, please feel free to use the story I’ve devised for you.
“Well,” I said, “the story you concocted about Carrie Osborne’s cream buns kept Sally Cook from blowing her stack, so I’ll keep the monocle story in my back pocket.”
How is the new churchyard wall coming along?
“The weather has not cooperated,” I declared, “but Mr. Barlow thinks it’ll be finished by Christmas.”
A fine time of year to consecrate a grave.
“Spiritually, yes,” I allowed, “but if we get any more snow, we’ll need a horse-drawn sleigh to get to the grave. Bess wouldn’t mind. She thinks snow is the best thing since puréed carrots.”
You’ll attend the consecration, then, regardless of the weather?
“Everyone will attend the consecration,” I said firmly. “The villagers may be fair-weather detectorists, but they’ll brave a blizzard for poor old Dave Dillehaye. It was snowing like mad when Lilian unveiled his name on the war memorial, but everyone was there.”
I wish my family had been as attentive to him while he was alive, but we weren’t aware of his troubles until after he died. My parents fell out with the vicar when he refused to bury Dave in the churchyard. We stopped attending services at St. George’s until a new vicar replaced the old one.
“Where did you attend services?” I asked.
St. Leonard’s in Upper Deeping. It cost my father a small fortune in petrol to drive there every Sunday, but he was willing to make a small sacrifice to honor Dave’s much greater sacrifice. We all were.
“Your parents were ahead of their time,” I said. “I’ll ask the vicar to say a prayer for them during Dave’s memorial service.”
Thank you, Lori. Has the vicar set a date for the memorial?
“Not yet,” I said. “Lilian’s waiting for Mr. Barlow to finish the wall. Whenever it’s held, I’m sure it’ll draw a standing-room-only congregation. The piece Lilian wrote about Dave for the museum has gotten a lot of attention.”
She’s an excellent writer. Speaking of which, did you remember to deliver the copies of Peter Pan to Morningside School?
“I did,” I replied. “One copy per student to read during Christmas break. The teachers explained that the money from the books helps sick children at Great Ormond Street Hospital. As it turns out, one of the twins’ classmates had been in Great Ormond Street Hospital, so the books meant more to the school than I’d thought they would.”
Perhaps they’ll put on the play next year.
“If they do,” I said, “I know two little boys who will jump at the chance to fly.”
The Christmas holiday began yesterday, didn’t it?
“Yep,” I said. “Will and Rob spent all day playing in the snow. I thought I’d need a blowtorch to thaw them out, but hot chocolates did the trick. Bill and I took them to see the history museum after church on Sunday. They were too busy stuffing their faces with Sally’s profiteroles to look at it on opening day.”
And?
“And they were disappointed by the lack of bugs,” I replied. “They told Lilian all sorts of things about the horseshoes, though, and they were chuffed when she jotted their comments in her notebook.”
I suspect a revised caption is in the offing.
“Our museum will always be a work in progress,” I said. “Contrary to what most people think, history doesn’t stand still.”
Very true. There’s always more to learn about the past.
“I’ve certainly learned a lot about your past in the last few weeks,” I said. “I feel as if I should write a thank-you note to the Hobsons’ movers. If those klutzes hadn’t broken the blender, I wouldn’t have found the armlet, and if I hadn’t found the armlet, you wouldn’t have told me about your life in London during and after the war.”
Am I really so reticent?
“Not at all,” I said. “You’re just so interested in other people that you forget to talk about yourself.”
Now that you mention it, I’ve been meaning to ask you about Adam and Sarah and everyone else you met in London.
“See what I mean?” I said, smiling. “You can’t help yourself. You’d rather talk about anyone but you.”
Indulge me, then. Tell me if Adam and Sarah are still good friends.
“Adam and Sarah are well on their way to living happily ever after,” I said, “with Carrie’s wholehearted approval, I might add. I don’t expect to see Chocks, Ginger, and Fish again until the spring, but Carrie tells me they’re doing well. And as you know, Badger continues to be remarkably healthy.”
I still find it hard to believe that you brought Bess with you when you last visited him. What happened to your fear of London?
I shrugged. “I don’t know if I’ve changed or if London has—maybe it’s a bit of both—but the big scary city doesn’t scare me anymore. After all, it’s just a collection of villages. And I know how to handle myself in a village.”
You most certainly do.
“I don’t want Bess and the boys to be as stupid as I was,” I said, “so I’m going to take them to London much more often. The boys can hardly wait to start our grand gala Christmastime walking tour of Bloomsbury.”
There’s no place quite like London at Christmas, especially if you wander off the beaten track.
“Adam and Sarah are coming with us,” I said, “so we can wander as far off the beaten track as we like.”
Will you visit Badger?
“The man has a library full of scarabs,” I said. “We can’t not visit him. Besides, he’s promised to tell the boys spooky stories about the pyramids while they’re guzzling his hot chocolate. Will and Rob may not love him when we walk into the town house, but they’ll love him by the time we say good-bye.”
Badger’s easy to love.
“Do you ever wish you could have loved him?” I asked. “And I’m not talking about loving him like a brother.”
I know what you mean, Lori, and I hope you’ll forgive my reticence, but I believe I’ll keep my answer to myself. In the immortal words of Peggy Taxman: Some things are best left buried. Good night, my dear. Sleep well.
“Good night, Dimity,” I said. “I always sleep well in winter. Except on Christmas Eve.”
Naturally!
As the graceful, old-fashioned handwriting faded from the page, I thought of the many treasures I’d encountered since the Hobsons had moved into Ivy Cottage. One was made of gold and garnets, while another was nothing more than a bit of ribbon attached to a bronze-colored metal disk. The most valuable were made of flesh and blood, but the most mysterious were buried deep within the heart.
“The buried treasures of the heart,” I murmured. “You needn’t guard them from me, Dimity. I won’t come looking for them. But I may ask to you help me pick out a Christmas present for Badger. Something tells me you’ll know what he likes.”
Smiling, I closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, kissed Reginald on the snout, and went to rouse the treasure of my heart from his slumbers.
Eggless Fruit Cake
Lightly adapted from the original recipe in the 1941 edition of Rational Recipes by Gertrude Baker
Recipe
½ pound flour
pinch of salt
1 level teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
¼ teaspoon mixed spice
3 ounces margarine
¼ pound sultanas or currants
3 ounces moist brown sugar
2 ounces mixed peel
milk to mix
Method
1. Sieve flour, salt, and bicarbonate of soda into a bowl.
2. Add mixed spice to dry ingredients.
3. Rub fat into dry ingredients.
4. Add fruit, sugar, and mixed peel to dry ingredients, and mix with milk.
5. Place mixture in a greased and
floured loaf pan.
6. Bake in a moderate oven for about 1 hour. Allow to cool.
Note to readers who don’t know what “mixed spice” and “mixed peel” are: Both can be purchased at a well-stocked British specialty shop.
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Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure Page 22