by Joan Aiken
Pen, who for some time past had been growing more and more melancholy, now fairly burst into tears.
"Oh, I don't suppose we'll ever see any of them again," she sobbed. "They'll probably be wrecked in this gale. And I'll have to spend the rest of my life in this hateful, lonely place with nobody but Aunt T-T-Tribulation. And I hope I die soon, I do! I'd sooner be dead with d-dear Mamma."
"Now, Pen," Dido began. But then, instead of scolding, she reached over backward and patted what she could find of Pen in the darkness. She thought her companion's remarks both ungrateful and poor-spirited, but the day had been long and the weather nasty; Pen had some excuse. "I say," she suggested instead, "let's hope that Auntie Trib has a huge big fire blazing and a socking great jug o' red-hot cocoa. Eh?"
Pen made no reply beyond a sniff.
"How about a song to keep ourselves cheerful, one o' Nate's?" And Dido began to sing in a hoarse but tuneful voice:
"Oh, fierce is the Ocean and wild is the Sound,
But the isle of Nantucket is where I am bound—
Sweet isle of Nantucket! where the grapes are so red,
And the light flashes nightly on Sankaty Head!"
Inspired by this, Mungo the mule actually broke into a canter, and so they went briskly on their way through the storm. Even so, it seemed a long journey, and both of them were thoroughly soaked and stiff with cold by the time that Mungo pricked his ears, accelerated his pace, and made a sudden swerve to the right. In spite of the storm the night was not altogether dark, for there was a full moon now behind the driving wrack of sea mist, and ahead of them a narrow lane could be seen leading uphill from the main highway. From time to time dark forms got up and bundled away off the track as they approached.
"I'm glad we ain't in Hyde Park," Dido remarked. "If we was, these'd be wolves, likely as not; as it is, I's'pose they're some more of those sheep you seem to have such a lot of. Hey, Pen, here's a gate; Croopus, did you ever see sich a peculiar one? Is this your pa's place?"
"I think so," Pen sighed faintly, peering forward in the gloom. "Yes, he put up the gate; it is made of a sperm whale's jawbone. Oh, I am so cold and wet and miserable."
"Ne'mind. In ten minutes you'll be tucked in bed with a warming pan. There's a barn, anyhows; Mungo seems to think he lives here."
In fact, after they had passed the gate, which was like an enormous wishbone, Mungo trotted into the big barn without worrying any further about his human passengers. Penitence was rather impatient when Dido insisted on unharnessing him and giving him a rub with a wisp of hay, "Just in case," she said, "your Auntie Trib don't fancy stepping out into the wet. All right, come on now, bring your traps."
There appeared to be quite a group of farm buildings, set in a hollow of the hillside with a few trees roundabout. Not a light showed anywhere, and it was hard to be sure which was the dwelling house.
"Come on, Pen," Dido urged. "After all, you live here. Show us the way."
"Ye-es," Pen said shivering, "but we were here so little. Mamma took me away on so many visits that we were hardly ever at home."
At last they found what seemed to be a house door and Pen, a sudden memory returning from earlier childhood, stood on tiptoe and discovered a key hanging on a nail.
"Hooroar," Dido said as they stepped inside. "Ain't I glad to get in out o' the wet. Looks as if Auntie Trib musta gone to bed. Know where the candles is kept, Pen?"
"N-no, I forget," Pen said dolefully. "Oh, isn't it dark and cold!"
Luckily, feeling about, Dido chanced to knock over a candle; when it was restored and lit they saw that they were in a large, old-fashioned kitchen which, given warmth and light, would have been a cheerful enough place. There was a big potbellied stove, black, unlit, and unwelcoming; a brightly colored braided rug; and a dresser covered with dishes. An enormous grandfather clock ticked solemnly against the wall. The place was clean and tidy but silent, empty, and deathly cold.
"Oh," whispered Pen, "what shall we do now?"
"Do? Why, go to bed. Things'll be better in the morning," Dido said stoutly. "Where's the stairs?"
Pen opened a door, disclosing a steep, narrow flight, and Dido went ahead with the candle.
"Hey," she said, checking to let Pen catch up, "look, there's a light under that door at the end o' the passage. Must be your Auntie Trib's room. We'd better go and tell her we've come."
"B-b-but," whispered Pen tremulously, "supposing it isn't her?"
She clutched Dido's arm.
"Why, you sapskull! Who else could it be? Come on!"
Dido marched boldly along the passage and rapped on the door.
"Miss Casket?" she called. "It's us—Penitence and Dido, just arrived."
From the room beyond, a voice replied, "And about time, too! Wipe your feet on the mat before you come in."
Even Dido quailed momentarily at the sound of this voice. It was low, harsh, and grating; there was something very forbidding and something strangely familiar about it. Her hand trembled slightly and she spilled a drop of hot wax from the candle, which went out; then, summoning resolution, she pushed open the door and went in.
By the light of one dim candle on the bedside table they could see a woman in the bed, propped against many pillows, regarding them fixedly.
6
Aunt Tribulation. Cows and sheep.
Green boots in the attic. Aunt Tribulation is hungry.
Pen meets a stranger.
"Light another candle," ordered the woman in the bed, "and let's have a look at you. Hm," she said to Dido, "you don't favor my side of the family. Must take after that poor sickly Sarah."
"You got it wrong, ma'am," Dido said hastily. "That's Pen there. I'm Dido Twite."
Although she stared at the girls pretty sharply, it was hard for them to see much of Pen's aunt, for she held the bedclothes up to her chin, and had on a nightcap with a wide frill that left most of her face in shadow. They could just make out a gaunt, nutcracker chin, and a thin nose, so like a ship's rudder that Dido half expected it to move from side to side. A pair of tinted glasses hid Aunt Tribulation's eyes from view. Dido grinned, thinking of the wolf, and subdued an urge to exclaim, "Why, Auntie Trib, what big eyes you have!"
"You're a pasty-faced little bag of bones," Aunt Tribulation commented, looking at Pen. "Haven't filled out as you grew, have you? Well, I hope you're both used to hard work, that's all. You'll get no lounging and pampering here." She thumped on the floor with a rubber-shod stick to emphasize her words. "There's all the house chores and the farm work; I can't help you, as I've been sick abed ever since I got here; this damp island air turns a body's bones to corkscrews. So you'd best get to bed now; there's the milking to be done in the morning."
"B-but I can't milk!" exclaimed Pen in horror.
"You'll have to learn, then, miss," Aunt Tribulation returned shortly.
"Oh, come on, Pen," Dido muttered. "It's a rusty lookout for the cows, but I's'pose it's got to be done by somebody. Where shall we sleep, Aunt Trib?"
"In the chamber at the other end of the passage. Sheets and blankets are in the cedarwood box. Milk the cows at four, take them to pasture, feed the hens and pigs, groom the mule. Light the stove—you'll need to chop some kindling if there's none in the cellar—and the peat's in the peat house—and you can bring me a pot of coffee and a bowl of milk toast at seven. Look sharp now."
Too dazed by the length of this list of tasks to make any protest, the girls retreated and found their room, which was as bleak and clean as at Cousin Ann's, but lacked the washstand, square of oilcloth, and braided rug. Shivering and yawning, they dragged comforters and sheets from the cedar box, made up the bed, and tumbled into it, huddling against one another for warmth.
"I'm that tired I could sleep for a week o' Thursdays," Dido murmured drowsily. "Dear knows how we'll ever wake at four."
Pen fell asleep immediately. But Dido, tired though she was, lay tossing and turning for a long time. Outside the wind sighed over the moors, and
a night heron was calling—a harsh, monotonous quock-quock that went on and on until Dido, in exasperation, pressed her hands over her ears to shut out the noise.
How'm I ever going to get away from here? she wondered. Aunt Trib's quite as bad as poor old Pen made out, a real, sure-enough Tartar. How'm I going to find someone else to look after Pen or take her part? And why does Auntie Trib's voice sound so blame familiar? Where've I heard it before?
This certainly is a moldy lookout.
Now that Pen was asleep, and it was not necessary to cheer and encourage her, Dido could admit to herself that she, too, felt lonely and miserable. London had never seemed farther away. It was hard to imagine the bright, bustling streets in this dark and windy place.
Her pillow was wet with homesick tears before she finally sank into a troubled sleep.
Dido need not have worried about how they were to wake; there were three roosters on the farm whose lusty crowing had the girls roused long before any touch of dawn had crossed the sky. Dressing themselves hastily in warm things—Dido put on the denims and red shirt she had bought—they stumbled downstairs and went out to the byre.
"Chase me if I ever thought I'd have to milk a cow," muttered Dido, staring up at them—in the dim light they looked as large as battleships—"but at least there's only three of 'em. Let's start with this yaller one. D'you reckon we could tie her up, somehow, Pen, while we works on her? Could you hold her tail?"
"Oh, I w-wouldn't d-dare!"
Pen was indeed so white and shaking that Dido took pity on her and said, "Here, young 'un, you go feed the hens, you told me you done that with your ma. I'll tackle old Mossface here. And see if you can find some eggs. I'd fancy half a dozen for breakfast; my stomach's a-wrapped round my backbone."
Left alone with the yellow cow, who seemed quite peaceably inclined, the resourceful Dido found a bit of rope and made fast both horns and tail to pegs in the wall, despite doleful bellows of protest. She found a three-legged milking stool and sat down on it. Extracting any milk was another matter, however.
"You needn't trouble to keep kicking the pail over; there ain't a drop in it," Dido snapped when twenty minutes had gone by. She was hot, damp, and tousled, while Buttercup seemed calmly resolved to stand there till judgment day without cooperating.
A cheerful laugh from the doorway made Dido spin round.
"Bless me if ever I saw the like!" the woman who stood there exclaimed. "You'll never get any milk from her that way, child!"
"Doggone it, missus," Dido said, pushing back the hair from her forehead, "how does I get milk, then? It'd be easier to squeeze it out of a milestone."
"Here, untie those ropes and I'll show you."
The woman, a good-humored, plump, fresh-faced individual, pulled out a sacking apron she had with her in a basket, put it on, and proceeded to give Dido a lesson in milking.
"You shape at it right well," she said when at last the three cows were milked. "You'll soon get the hang now you see how it's done. I thought I'd just step over and see was all well; I've been coming here a bit to see to the animals and tend Miss Casket while she was sick. She said her young 'uns was expected this week, but I judged you still might need a bit of help."
"We're mighty obliged to you, missus," Dido said gruffly. "There's a fair deal to learn. Now I'd best go and see if young Pen's got into trouble."
Pen had succeeded in feeding the chickens, but was paralyzed with terror by the hogs; they found her shivering outside their pen, listening to the hungry squeals within.
"They won't hurt you, child," the woman said kindly. "Here, give 'em this bucket of mash." Dido did so. "So you're little Penitence, are you? Bless me, how you have grown since you've been away. Do you mind how we used to come and see you sometimes, and how my boy Nate used to bring over the bantam eggs?"
"Why, you must be Mrs. Pardon!" Pen cried joyfully. "Oh, have you come to help us? You are kind!"
"Can't stop long," Mrs. Pardon said cheerfully, "for it's a fair step home, and I've got my old father, Nate's granddad, sick in bed. So we'd best get on. But I can see you're a pair of right smart young 'uns and will soon know your way round. Just turn the cows loose in the bottom pasture, Dido, won't you, and Pen, bring in the eggs."
With Mrs. Pardon's assistance they whirled through the rest of the tasks. She showed them how to light the potbellied stove. "Never heard of burning earth afore," grumbled Dido, "and don't it weigh heavy?" as she stumped up with a bucketful from the outhouse. "That's peat, lovey," Mrs. Pardon told her. "Makes the best smoked bacon from here to Schenectady."
"And don't I wish I had a bit inside me now," Dido sighed, taking out a pail to the log pump, which was so stiff and heavy that both children had to hang on the handle before any water could be obtained.
"This water comes all the way from the White Mountains," Pen remarked. "I remember dear Mamma telling me so."
They staggered indoors with the pail between them.
"Then, why the blazes didn't they take it a bit farther and put a tap inside while they was about it?" Dido said irritably. But things were looking up now; the sun had risen, the stove was crackling finely, and the big kitchen seemed a warm and pleasant place.
"Mercy, I must fly along home, or Pa will wake up and wonder what's happened to me," Mrs. Pardon said, looking at the grandfather clock. "I'll be over tomorrow morning again to give ye a lesson in butter making. You can always come to me if you're in trouble. It's not much more than three miles to my house, just this side of Polpis."
She took off her apron, gave them both a hearty kiss, and hurried away just as a loud thumping on the floor overhead proclaimed that Aunt Tribulation was awake. Pen went up to see what she wanted and was greeted with the words, "Where's my breakfast? You're ten minutes late."
"I—I'm very sorry, Aunt Tribulation."
"Sorry! Sorry's not good enough. Don't forget to cut the crusts off the toast. And scald the coffeepot. And clear the coffee with eggshells. And when you've brought me my breakfast and washed the dishes and towels, you can scrub the kitchen floor and dust the parlor. Then you'll have to make some bread. And that other girl can hoe the potato field."
"Huh," Dido said when this program was unfolded to her. "Don't she want us to cut down no trees? Or slap a few bricks together and put up a new barn? Any hows, I'm a - going to have some breakfast before I start on that lot. Here, I'll take up the old girl's prog, Pen. I've fried you some eggs; sit down and get 'em inside you—you look like a bit o' cheesecloth."
Aunt Tribulation received her breakfast tray without enthusiasm. "Wash your face before you come up another time, girl," she said harshly. "And where's my napkin? You should have used the pink china; this is kitchen stuff."
"Lookahere, you ungrateful old cuss," burst out Dido, her patience at an end, "you oughta be thankful I didn't bring it up in a baking pan! Lord bless us, am I glad you ain't my Aunt Trib."
She ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her, but was hardly in the kitchen before the thumping overhead began again.
"I'll go," Pen said bravely. "I've had all I want." She gulped the last of her coffee and hurried upstairs. Dido, shoveling down eggs and bacon, heard a long, snarling monologue going on overhead; she could distinguish the tone but not the words. Giving Pen what-for because I sauced her, she thought, and, going to the top of the stairs, she called, "Pen! Pen, come quick. The cows have broke into the tater field."
Pen ran down, looking scared.
"There, there, it was just to fiddle you out o' that old harpy's room," Dido said cheerfully, patting her on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get these crocks washed. Auntie Trib can stew in her own vinegar for a bit. I don't reckon she can be very sick, not if she has the strength to thump the way she's a-doing now."
To Dido's great surprise and relief, Pen proved a handy little creature with the indoor tasks; she had been taught by her mother to wash and bake and cook and polish. She soon took over the making of meals—"which it's as well," Dido admitted,
"for I never could abide housework and I don't know a waffle iron from a skillet; eggs and bacon is as far as I go. If I'd 'a had to make the bread, it'd turn out tougher'n old boots. It beats all how you get it to rise so, Pen. You'll have to teach me; one thing, housework ain't so bad when it's just us on our own. In fact, it's quite a lark. Pity the old gal couldn't go back to wherever she came from."
"Oh, Dido," confessed Pen—they were out of earshot of Aunt Tribulation now, sociably hoeing the enormous potato field together—"she frightens me dreadfully! Her eyes glare so—at least, I'm sure they do behind her glasses! And her voice is so angry and scolding. Now I know what Mamma meant when she said Aunt Tribulation was a Tartar. I'm sure I shall never get used to her."
"Now, now, Pen," Dido admonished. "Remember as how you're learning to be brave? Every morning when you get up you must say twenty times, 'I am not scared of Auntie Trib.' You'd best start now."
"I am not scared of Auntie Trib," Pen said obediently. But then she broke out, "It's no use, Dido, I am scared of her!"
"Well, we'll have to get you out o' the habit," Dido said stoutly. "You watch me. See how I stand up to the old sulphur bottom."
Pen gulped, nodding, but she looked apprehensive.
"Do you remember her now you see her again, Penny?" Dido asked. "Is she like she was when you was small?"
"Just as frightening," Pen said. "But I don't really remember her much. She looks older than I expected. And even crosser than I remembered!"
This is a moldy lookout for me getting back to England, Dido said to herself; how'm I ever going to stiffen up Pen so's she don't mind old Aunt Gruff-and-Grumble? For that's the only chance there seems to be. Who else would come and live out here at the back end o' nowhere?