Then he had been sent to Siberia to see whether there might be a dragon or two in the region of Tunguska, where a few years before (in 1908) witnesses said that a great stream of fire had split the sky from horizon to horizon and that an explosion in the sky had flattened the trees for hundreds of square miles. After a lengthy investigation, Thorvaald determined that the event had been a meteor explosion and reported to the Assembly that no dragons had been involved. A few of the dragons had grumbled about this, for they had been very sure that the Tunguska explosion had been a dragon-caused event and wanted to take credit for it.
Thorvaald’s third assignment was in America, where he was supposed to scout out Yellowstone National Park. This evidence harbored a great many geysers—evidence, the dragons hoped, of a large dragon colony, or at the least, a small outpost. Extensive exploration, unfortunately, had turned up no dragons, but the sight of Old Faithful in the moonlight, its fountain of water and steam like boiling silver, had been astonishing. Thorvaald was glad he went.
“You must have been disappointed when you didn’t find what you were looking for,” Thackeray remarked. “You’ve invested quite a lot of time and effort in those trips.”
“That’s what the Aszsembly said,” Thorvaald replied sadly. “They thought I should have been able to find something to add to the censuszs. But you can’t count a dragon that isn’t there.”
“And Loch Ness?” Bailey prodded. “Tell us about the monster.”
This tale was also a story of disappointment, for Thorvaald had not found any evidence that the monster existed, much less that it was actually a seagoing dragon, as the Assembly had hoped. “I patrolled the loch for several nightszs,” he said. “I flew the entire sixty-mile length, from Invernesszs in the north to Fort William in the south.” He sighed gustily, and Bailey moved out of the way of his steamy breath. “All I sszsaw was a patch of disturbed water and a shadow that may or may not have been the monszster. Of course, it was night, and the moon was only a sliver, and I couldn’t szsee very much. That’s what comes of being a dragon and having to go about after dark, for fear of attracting too much of the wrong kind of attention.” He sighed again. “If I had been able to fly down closzse to the water during the daytime, I might have actually caught the monszster in operation.”
“We all have our limitations,” Thackeray remarked sarcastically.
Bailey gave the guinea pig a stern look. Thackeray was not exactly jealous of the dragon, but there might be a bit of competition going on there, Bailey thought. He shifted the subject slightly by mentioning the note from his great-great-grandfather that he and Thackeray had found in the pages of Trollope’s novel Framley Parsonage.
“An eyewitness account of a monszster in Windermere?” the dragon asked eagerly, and his belly glowed with excitement. “I don’t think the dragonszs have heard about thiszs, or they would no doubt have asked me to look into it. Have you szseen the creature yourself, Bailey?”
“No, I haven’t,” Bailey replied. “Thackeray and I just found the note a few nights ago. Anyway, I’m not sure you can trust my great-great-grandfather’s report. He was a truthful old badger, but a bit nearsighted, I am told.” Nevertheless, he got out the note and showed it to Thorvaald. “A snakelike creature with three humps and a long neck,” the old badger had written, “about the length of the ferry boat. Saw it from Oat Cake Crag, swimming between the shore and Belle Isle.” After it was read, Bailey folded up the paper and put it with his hat, to take to Hyacinth for recording in the History.
“Three humpszs and a long neck!” the dragon exclaimed with a hiss of steamy enthusiasm. “Why, that’s exactly what the Loch Ness monster was supposzsed to look like. Perhapszs the two are related!”
“Perhaps,” said Thackeray dryly, “they both came out of the same bottle of Scotch.”
“My great-great-grandfather did not drink,” Bailey said, a little offended. “He was a teetotaler.” He added, thoughtfully, “Of course, Windermere is very deep—over two hundred feet at the northern end. It was originally known by the Norse name of Vinandr’s Mere. Mere is the Old English word for ‘lake.’ ”
“Perhaps the Norseman Vinandr dropped a baby dragon into his lake.” Thackeray snorted a laugh. “And it’s been growing ever since. Imagine that, if you will!”
“It’s more likely to be a very large pike,” Bailey replied. “Some of them do grow to be quite large.”
The dragon ignored him. “Your great-great-grandfather said he saw this monster from Oat Cake Crag, Bailey. Where iszs that?”
So then Bailey had to tell the story about the Scottish soldiers who had camped on the crag and cooked their oat cakes there and found it a very fine lookout, until one of their number stepped over the edge and fell to his death on the rocks below. “The story has passed into legend,” said the badger. “I have heard it renewed lately, for there have been a few sightings of a dark, ghost-like shadow falling from the top of the crag—the ghost of the Scottish soldier, it is said.”
“Most likely an owl,” remarked Thackeray, who didn’t believe in ghosts. However, he had not previously believed in dragons, either, so you may discount his remark if you wish.
“But if your great-great-grandfather saw the monszster from that point,” the dragon said, now very enthusiastic, “it standszs to reason that it would be a good place for me to szset up a lookout.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Bailey said dubiously. “It’s a rather exposed crag. On a moonlit night, someone might look up and see you. You are large, you know. And you do glow.”
The dragon looked down at his belly. “I can try to turn it off.”
“No, you can’t,” said the guinea pig. “Turn off your fire and you won’t be a dragon anymore. You’ll just be a large green lizard with a long tail.” He grinned. “Get used to it, Thorvaald. You are what you are.”
The dragon heaved a huge sigh. “But I’ve got to find some way to redeem myself in the eyes of the Grand Aszsembley!” he moaned. “Otherwise, I’ll be doing the census forever. Or worse, I’ll be waiting tableszs in the dining hall.”
“You’ll find it,” comforted Bailey. “I’m just not sure you’ll find it in Lake Windermere, that’s all.”
As things turned out, the badger was wrong. But that’s another part of the story. We’ll get to it when the time comes. Now, we have a meeting to attend.
8
At the Tower Bank Arms
But before the meeting, we shall make a stop at Tower Bank House, the home of Captain and Mrs. Miles Woodcock.
I am afraid that there is certain amount of muddle about these two names—Tower Bank House and the Tower Bank Arms. It is the same sort of confusion that people often feel about the names of Near and Far Sawrey, for Far Sawrey is nearer Windermere and the ferry, when approached from the east, and Near Sawrey is farther away. Why is Far Sawrey not called Near? people often ask. And why is Near Sawrey not called Far?
This seemingly illogical bit can be very simply explained, but you have to come at it from the other direction: that is, from the west. (Illogical things often clear themselves up when you turn them upside down, or wrong side front, or inside out.) Then you will see that Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, while Far Sawrey is farther away by a half mile or so. If you are still muddled, you might want to glance at the map at the front of this book, which may help to unmuddle you.
The confusion in names came about many years ago, when Tower Bank House was home to the village squire, who imagined himself somewhat grander than he was. It happened that the pub—known for many years as The Blue Pig—was put up for sale, and since the price was reasonable, the squire thought he would buy it. However, upon reflection, it seemed to him that owning a “Blue Pig” was a notch or so beneath him, and that he would rather own a “Tower Bank Arms,” which sounded a good deal more impressive. The villagers found this funny (they still called the pub The Blue Pig) but off-comers were terribly confused. Some who wanted a bed at the Tower
Bank Arms found themselves ringing the squire’s door bell, whilst those who had business at Tower Bank House ended up with a half-pint at the pub.
The squire is dead and gone, but the names have lived on. Now, Tower Bank House is the home of Captain and Mrs. Miles Woodcock. Captain Woodcock—a fine-looking, capable gentleman, respected by all who know him—is retired from His Majesty’s Army and serves as the justice of the peace for Claife Parish. This position requires him to hear complaints, witness documents, certify deaths, deal with disturbances of the peace, and the like, so that the captain finds himself involved in a great many aspects of village life and feels entitled to hold a general opinion about all of it (even those parts that are none of his business).
The new Mrs. Woodcock (the former Margaret Nash) retired from her position as headmistress of Sawrey School upon the announcement of her engagement to the captain. They were married by the vicar at St. Peter’s in a ceremony that was attended by everyone in the parish, and afterward feted at a lovely garden reception at Raven Hall (Mrs. Kittredge of Raven Hall is the captain’s sister). Mrs. Woodcock misses her work with the children, although she is very happy with her new position as mistress of Tower Bank House. It took a little while, but she and Elsa Grape (the captain’s cook-housekeeper) have come to an understanding about who is to make the menus and oversee the tweeny. Now that the duties have been equitably divided (at least from Elsa’s point of view), the household is humming along quite peaceably.
Tonight, the captain and his wife are entertaining the captain’s closest friend, Mr. Will Heelis, at dinner. They would have invited Miss Potter as well, if they had known of the secret engagement. But since it is still a secret and nobody knows, they didn’t—and anyway, Mrs. Woodcock had not yet heard that Miss Potter had arrived from London and was in residence at Hill Top. So to make four, they invited Jeremy Crosfield, a favorite former student of Mrs. Woodcock’s and a recent graduate of Kelsick Grammar School in Ambleside.
Jeremy (whom I’m sure you remember from earlier books in the series) is now eighteen, tall and stalwart, with reddish-brown hair, wide-spaced gray eyes, and fine, regular features. He has taken Mrs. Woodcock’s place as teacher of the junior class at Sawrey School, where the young boys in the class particularly benefit from his teaching and his example. He might have gone on to university (with the help of Major and Mrs. Kittredge, who offered), but he decided to spend this year practicing the botanical illustrations that are his passion, which I think is a very good idea. He is already quite a competent naturalist, and the time away from formal studies will give him the opportunity to develop his art, for which he has a true gift.
The fish and soup had already been removed and the company was enjoying lamb cutlets, carrots and cauliflower, and Pommes de Terre Duchesse. (Mrs. Woodcock had got the recipe out of Mrs. Beeton’s, but it was nothing more, Elsa said with a sniff, than fried potato cakes dressed up with a fancy French name). Jeremy was young enough not to be intimidated by formal dinner-table rules and enlivened the conversation with his funny tales of the doings of the schoolchildren. Mrs. Woodcock smiled at his stories, but she was a bit misty-eyed, since she missed her charges and was sometimes sorry that she could not go back to teaching.
From there, the talk turned to the subject of the evening’s meeting at the pub: Fred Baum’s hydroplane. As it turned out, the captain had a definite opinion about this flying machine, and it was not in agreement with Mr. Heelis’ position, or anybody else’s at the table—or in the village, for that matter. He was very much in support of the thing.
“I am sorry, my dear,” he said in response to his wife’s complaint about the hours she had spent with cotton stuffed in her ears. “But I am afraid we shall just have to learn to live with the noise—at least while the machine is under development here in the area. In fact, we should applaud it. The hydroplane is progress. It is necessary to our national defense.”
Mrs. Woodcock looked unconvinced.
“Our national defense?” Mr. Heelis asked mildly, picking up a slice of bread. “And why is that, Woodcock?”
The captain waved his fork. “Why, everyone knows the Germans are arming, Heelis. Just look at all the dreadnoughts they are building. And I read in The Times that the German Military Aviation Commission has set a prize for the development of new aircraft. If we don’t build an aeroplane suitable for combat, they will. And then where will we be?”
“Indeed,” replied Mr. Heelis steadily. “The Germans are building one dreadnought for every one of ours. Once we start building aeroplanes for combat, they will, too.” His face was sober. “It is a race that neither side can win. And once entered into it, there’s no getting out—in my opinion, anyway.”
“I can’t agree with your premise,” said the captain firmly, who as a former military man was entirely convinced that his opinion about armaments was all that counted. “We must enter, and we shall win.” His voice rose. “Of course we shall win, and handily, at that. But we shall need aeroplanes, and plenty of them. Losses are likely to be high.”
“Because they crash so often, I suppose,” Jeremy put in. Even as a child, he had not learnt to hold his tongue and got into all sorts of trouble for talking back to his teachers. Now that he was a grownup, he enjoyed speaking up even more.
“Ah,” said Mr. Heelis approvingly. “Yes, Jeremy, indeed they do crash. Which is not to say that we should not have them,” he added. “Just that it would be better to fly them over the Channel, say, where, in case of a crash, people and animals on the ground are not injured. Not,” he said emphatically, “in the Lakes. Over our villages.”
The captain ignored both of them. “And some of those aeroplanes ought to be hydroplanes,” he went on, “so as to take off and land on water when necessary.”
“And is that why we must have that hydroplane flying over our heads from sunrise to sunset?” asked Mrs. Woodcock wearily. “Really, my dear, there ought to be a limit. Say, no flying between the hours of two and four, when the village children are having their naps. Otherwise, it is very inconvenient for their mothers. I wish you would tell that to Mr. Baum this evening.”
But Mrs. Woodcock spoke gently, so as not to be seen as disagreeing with her husband. She found that she adored him so amazingly that she could not bring herself to contradict him on even the slightest thing, even when she knew in her heart that he was wrong (as in this case). And since they had no children—not yet, at least—it was a matter of inconvenience chiefly to herself.
Her husband chuckled in a loving way. “Yes, of course I shall tell him, my dear, although I doubt he will comply. Baum is still testing his machine, you see, so it must be flown frequently and in all sorts of weather. It is still very experimental. The scientists are keen on learning all they can from every flight.”
Jeremy looked up from his cutlet. “Is that why Mr. Wyatt takes paying passengers?” he put in, somewhat ironically. “To test the machine?”
“Who is Mr. Wyatt?” Mrs. Woodcock inquired.
“The pilot,” Jeremy told her. “Oscar Wyatt. The machine was all his idea. Designed and built it. Mr. Baum put up the money, but he doesn’t know anything about aeroplanes.”
“Paying passengers?” the captain asked, frowning.
“Why, yes,” Mr. Heelis said. “Didn’t you know? People are lining up at the hangar where the hydroplane is kept, hoping for a ride. Wyatt charges them five shillings for thirty minutes in the air.”
“Five shillings!” Mrs. Woodcock asked, shocked. “Why, that’s outrageous! It’s half a week’s wages for most people.”
“It does seem rather excessive,” said the captain slowly. “But of course, there’s the fuel cost and—”
“I have heard from a reliable source,” Mr. Heelis said, “that Wyatt has it in mind to establish an aeroplane route between Bowness and Grasmere. It might be used to transport passengers, as well as the mail.” He looked straight at the captain. “I know that it seems hardly feasible, at least at this stage of the machine�
��s development. But who knows what advancements will be made in the next year or two.” He paused. “If commercial development is behind this project, would you support it?”
“An aeroplane route!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodcock, wide-eyed. “But that means that we shall never be rid of the wretched thing.”
The captain was somewhat flustered. “I was under the impression that this venture was created for the purpose of national defense. If there is a commercial aspect—” He stopped.
“If there is,” persisted Mr. Heelis, “would you support it? Bearing in mind,” he added, “that there was so much public opposition to building a railroad into the Lake District that the project failed. It would seem to me that there might be just as much opposition to an aeroplane route, and for some of the same reasons.”
Many had opposed the expansion of the railroad into the mountainous areas of the Lake District when it was proposed some years earlier, not only because of the noise and soot from the trains, but because they feared that increased tourism and commercial development would spoil the scenic landscape. On the other side of the issue, many argued that the railroad would be an economic boon to a struggling region, and that jobs were more important than landscapes any day of the week.
“I suppose I shall have to ask Baum to tell us what he has in mind,” the captain replied stiffly, now on his dignity. “I shall do that this evening.”
“Well, then,” Mr. Heelis said, “I think we can count on an interesting meeting. Assuming,” he added thoughtfully, “that Baum actually tells us what he and Wyatt are planning. I am not at all sure that he will. This aeroplane of theirs is surely a long way from any commercial use, but neither of them will want word of a possible air route to get out. Some other aeroplane developer might come along and trump them—or attempt to buy them out. Or people might start organizing an opposition.”
The Tale of Oat Cake Crag Page 10