The Interrupted Tale

by Maryrose Wood

  She knew all his usual haunts in the barns and fields, but Dr. Westminster’s office was in the chicken coop, and that is where she went first. It was no ordinary coop, mind you, for the clever doctor had designed and built it himself. From the outside, it looked like a gingerbread cottage from a storybook, much to the delight of the littlest Swanburne girls. Inside were rows of nesting boxes in which the chickens laid their eggs, and an incubator room with its own woodstove, so the room could be kept warm for baby chicks. Dr. Westminster’s book-lined office was in the back, with extra windows for ventilation (for even the cleanest and most well-run chicken coop is bound to smell rather strongly of chicken).

  Dr. Westminster was in the middle of a training exercise. The chickens were out of their nesting boxes, lined up in a row. They regarded him with blinking, none-too-intelligent stares.

  “All right, my chicks, let’s try it again. Right foot, in!”

  He demonstrated, stepping forward on the right. The chickens, after a moment of ruffled-feather confusion, did the same.

  “Right foot, out!” This time they snapped back into position as a unit.

  He clucked approvingly. “Well done, clever hens. Now turn, and shimmy, and shake your tails. Shake ’em all about!”

  Dr. Westminster flapped his bent arms like wings, whirled in a circle, and wiggled his bottom as if it were a tail. The chickens followed suit, buck-buck-bucking all the way.

  “Perfect, perfect.” He dug into his trouser pockets and came out with fistfuls of grain, which he scattered on the ground. The eager chickens broke formation and pecked hungrily at their well-earned treat.

  Penelope had watched from the doorway, unwilling to disturb this remarkable scene. Now she applauded with vigor. “Dr. Westminster, you never cease to amaze me!” she exclaimed, and stepped inside, lifting her cloak high off the ground so as not to sweep the grain away from the birds.

  “Dr. Lumley, is that you?” The dear man had always teasingly referred to her as Dr. Lumley, ever since she was a tiny girl and had volunteered to assist him in his work, with her serious face, little piping voice, and knack for taming wild things. After that, she spent every moment that was not dedicated to her schoolwork helping him care for the animals of Swanburne, and the neighboring farms of Heathcote, too. “Allow me to present my colleague, Dr. Lumley,” he would announce to a lame horse or a colicky calf. “Between the two of us, we’ll have you fit as a fiddle in no time.”

  In spite of her worries she smiled. “Yes, your partner in medicine has returned. But I am a governess these days, and no longer a doctor—at least, not a practicing one.”

  He reached out to clasp her in a fond hug. “Well, well,” he said, and seemed too choked up to say more.

  Penelope too had a full heart, and the two of them stood there for a moment. “I see you are training the chickens,” she said at last.

  Dr. Westminster grinned. “Most people think chickens are simpleminded, but a bit of patient instruction goes a long way, as you well know. This group can perform three different synchronized dance routines in contrasting rhythmic patterns. Let me show you.”

  Following his cues, which included subtle hand gestures and some buck-buck-bucking in pitches high and low, the chickens stepped and bobbed their heads in rhythm. First they scratched out a ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three beat, as one might do when waltzing. Then they pecked a polka. As a finale, they formed two lines and performed a simple reel. It lacked the energetic skipping and twirling one would find in, say, a schottische, but the birds managed to switch partners and hold their positions as each couple waddled its way to the end of the line.

  (To put the chickens’ achievement in context, consider that in the whole entire history of the Imperial Russian Ballet, not once has even the greatest prima ballerina ever succeeded in laying a single egg. It is not for lack of trying, either. When a dancer attempts to lay an egg, it is called a grand plié. When a chicken attempts to dance, it is simply called a dancing chicken. As Agatha Swanburne once remarked, “Some things just sound better in French.”)

  “These dancing chickens are remarkable,” Penelope said, for she knew from personal experience how challenging it was to learn complicated dance steps. “With their well-developed sense of rhythm, these birds could easily learn poetic meter. In time, perhaps you might teach them to scratch out a sonnet.”

  “Chickens with a knack for iambic pentameter? Dr. Lumley, I think you’re on to something. Ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK, ba-BUCK!” Dr. Westminster’s expression altered to one of deep concentration. One eye opened a bit more than was usual, and the other closed halfway; he cocked his head to the side and tugged fiercely at his chin.

  It was a peculiar expression, yet one that Penelope found familiar. Impulsively, she said, “Dr. Westminster, there is a fellow at Ashton Place who serves as head coachman. He goes by the name of Old Timothy. I believe he may be an acquaintance of yours?”

  Dr. Westminster’s eyes darted this way and that. “If he’s a coachman, perhaps I’ve tended to his horses at one time or another,” he said uneasily.

  Penelope’s curiosity made her press on. “He mentioned you by name, just before I left for Swanburne. He called you ‘young Westminster.’ But he did not say how he knew you.”

  “Didn’t say how, eh?” Dr. Westminster cocked his head to the other side; the opened eye narrowed, and the closed one opened wide. “Since he didn’t say, I’d guess he’d prefer to keep it private. I’ll respect that decision for now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well! That is an enigmatic reply,” Penelope said, hoping to draw him out further.

  Dr. Westminster reached into his pockets and busied himself scattering feed on the ground. “There are questions with no answers, and answers with no questions,” he muttered. “And yet sometimes the truth of a thing is as plain as the nose on your face. Or the hair on your head.” He stopped, and looked at her meaningfully. “Dr. Lumley, what do your friends call you?”

  Puzzled, she answered, “Penny. Short for Penelope.”

  “Mine call me Timmy. Short for Timothy.” He tossed the last of the feed on the ground. “The nickname was given to me as a boy, so people wouldn’t get me mixed up with my father.”

  Penelope’s thoughts raced like a thoroughbred at the Epsom Derby. “So, the enigmatic coachman at Ashton Place is Old Timothy. And Dr. Westminster is also named Timothy, but nicknamed Timmy, to distinguish him from his father, whose name, therefore, must also be—”

  “Eureka! Young Westminster!” she cried, understanding. “Old Timothy and Young Timmy! Why, the two of you are father and—”

  Buck-buck-buck!

  Buck-buck-buck!

  All at once, in a blizzard of flying feathers and tasty, furiously beating wings, the chickens rose into the air. This took enormous effort, for although chickens are not, technically speaking, flightless birds, like ostriches or dodos, nor are they known for their ability to easily “lift off,” as we say nowadays. But they did somehow all end up in the rafters.

  “Sorry about that,” said Dr. Westminster, blank faced. “I seem to have accidentally given the ‘chickens, up!’ command.” He crooked his pinkie finger to demonstrate. “They like a bird’s-eye view, you know. Gives them a fresh perspective on things.”

  Penelope’s heart took a minute to slow. “I did not even know chickens could fly,” she gasped.

  “It takes practice and determination. No complaining and no quitting.” He covered his mouth with a hand and whispered, “I’d say it takes pluck, but they hate that word.”

  DR. WESTMINSTER WOULD NOT SAY any more about Old Timothy, and soon they bid each other farewell. It had been a pleasant visit, but this chicken coop (like most others) was a strong-smelling place, and Penelope was grateful to get back into the fresh air.

  Once outside, she huddled in her borrowed cloak and stamped her feet against the chill, first the right foot, then the left. Then she laughed. “I am doing the same step as the chickens,” she thought.
“What remarkable birds! There they were, dancing and flying, though few would expect that a chicken could do either. Most people underestimate chickens, it seems. It reminds me of something Agatha Swanburne once said: ‘Never underestimate a Swanburne girl, for a Swanburne girl never underestimates herself.’”

  She stopped and let her gaze sweep across the field to the buildings beyond, and then up again to where the observatory tower rose above the school, tall and slender, like a fountain pen poised to write across the sky.

  “Yes, indeed,” she thought. “I imagine Edward Ashton thinks I have quite given up.” Then she broke into a run.

  NO ONE SAW THE CLOAKED figure make her way through a little-used side entrance to the main building and then up the twisted stairs to the observatory. Here Penelope was quite alone, like a maiden in a tower from some fairy tale of old. It was silent, too, except for the wind that whistled all around.

  She gazed out the narrow windows. She did not know what she was looking for, exactly, but if a bird’s-eye view could lend a fresh perspective to a chicken, imagine what it might do for an educated young lady with a decent grasp of geography! Still, she did not have much time. The setting sun balanced on the rim of the valley in a fiery red blaze. Soon all would be plunged into shadow.

  “Never underestimate a Swanburne girl,” she repeated uncertainly, “for a Swanburne girl never underestimates herself.” Already her faith wavered. To think that some creaky old saying, too long even to stitch onto a pillow, had the power to solve her problems! Even at sixteen, was she nothing more than a child still, believing in the power of magic words?

  “Yet some words do matter a great deal—like the unreadable words in the cannibal book.” She paced in a circle inside the tower, to keep herself warm and help her think. “The book must say something terribly important, or else Edward Ashton would not want it so badly. But what? If only I had thought of the invisible milk ink earlier, when I had the book in my own two hands!”

  Despair lapped against her heart like a tide rising against a bulkhead. “Perhaps if I gaze through the telescope, things will come into focus,” she thought, and put her eye to the eyepiece. But the sun had already dipped below the horizon. In the valley, night fell all at once. The rosy glow faded before her eyes, and soon it was too dark to see anything but shadows.

  She let the telescope go and sank to the floor. A deep fatigue washed over her. “Tonight could well be the last night of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females,” she thought, curling into a ball. “Tomorrow my alma mater will become the School for Miserable Girls, and there will be no singing of the school song, ever again. I expect Baroness Hoover will make a rule against dancing chickens, once she discovers that they exist. Edward Ashton is up to no good, and I have failed to stop him. . . . It is all . . . my . . . fault. . . .”

  Exhausted by self-pity, and swaddled tightly in her cloak like an infant, Penelope fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. By the time she awoke it was night. Was it ten o’clock? Midnight? Two in the morning? She had no way of knowing.

  Certainly, the Incorrigible children had long since been put to bed. She knew she ought to return to their room at once and relieve poor Mrs. Apple of the children’s care. Instead she stood, shivering, and peered out the narrow windows of the observatory. Now she could see quite easily, for the moon was only one night shy of full, and the sky was crisp and clear, an expanse of black velvet pinpricked by stars. It was nothing short of magical, and restored her spirits even more than sleep could.

  “Here is a fresh perspective, indeed,” she whispered to the night. Once more she looked through the telescope. “What a remarkable device this is! A long tube, some simple glass lenses, and a basic understanding of optics, and voilà: faraway things come impossibly near, and without the inconvenience of a long train ride, either.”

  She swiveled the telescope this way and that. “I wonder what has become of Cassiopeia’s sheep. No doubt it is out there somewhere, chewing away. It must have a marvelously strong jaw, stronger even than Demosthenes! That sheep would make a fine orator, if it had anything of interest to say, that is.” She heaved a deep sigh of understanding. “For memorizing all the great speeches of history is of little value if one cannot find words to speak the truth of one’s own heart.”

  Hindsight, indeed! Why was it all so obvious, now that it was too late? Clearly, the bird’s-eye view was having its desired effect. “It is too bad, really, the way things have turned out. Now I feel I could have given quite a wonderful speech in praise of Swanburne, and without much preparation at all, for I know the subject well, and it is quite dear to me, too. My, my! It is not easy to wipe away tears of regret while one’s eye is pressed to a telescope!” she thought as she attempted to do just that with the edge of her sleeve.

  She swiveled the telescope elsewhere; anywhere would do. She surveyed the empty fields and tried to peek into the shadowy folds of the forest. She looked at the craters of the moon and watched falling stars streak through the skies.

  She tried to get a glimpse of the chickens—were they still in the rafters, or had they returned to their roosts for the night?—but the windows of the chicken coop were at the wrong angle to catch the moonlight. Instead she peeked into a large, high window on the near side of the cow barn. There, with a few quick turns of the focus knob, she was able to bring the tender, moonlit eye of a calf into close-up view.

  “What a fine chocolaty-brown eye that is,” she said aloud, though there was no one there to hear her. “And so intelligent looking, for a cow. It sparkles with the promise of wit, and at the same time seems to shine with a steadfast, loyal glow. Why, that eye positively gleams; there is no other word for it. One might nearly call it a gleam of genius— Wait!”

  Frantically, she adjusted the knob once more, to get a broader view. There it was: the delicately arched eyebrow, the waves of brown hair cascading poetically over that intelligent forehead. . . . No doubt he was busy thinking up plot twists even now. . . .

  “That is no cow!” she cried. “It is Simon! Simon Harley-Dickinson!”

  HE COULD NOT HEAR HER, but “Simon!” she yelled nevertheless. She raced down the stairs and through empty halls until she was outside once more. Her cloak billowed after her like a wind-filled sail.

  The earth was muddy with dew, the stone paths slippery and wet. Still she ran, and did not pause until she reached the barn. She undid the rough iron latch with trembling fingers. With her full strength, she pushed the doors open.

  “Moooooo,” the startled cows objected, for it was much too early for milking.

  “Simon, where are you?” she called. Then she realized: he must be in the hayloft! For that was the only high window through which her telescope could have spied. She made her way past the sleepy cows and shed her cloak at the base of the ladder so she might scurry up without getting tangled.

  A moment later she peeked over the top of ladder. The loft was empty! Had she dreamed it? But no; among the tied bales nearest the window, there was one particular pile of hay that seemed to be breathing. A lock of wavy hair poked through.

  She stepped off the ladder and into the loft. “I may be searching for a playwright in a haystack, but I think I have found him, nevertheless. Simon! Simon Harley-Dickinson!”

  Her words were met with a poetic snore.

  “Simon!” She pushed the hay aside until a boot-clad human foot emerged. “You were only just awake. I saw you looking out at the stars.”

  “Harr!” he moaned, dreaming. “Avast, ye hearties! Who’s there? Have we been boarded?”

  She kicked the bottom of his boot to rouse him. “You are not at sea, but on dry land, or dry hay, at least. Improbable as it may be, you are in the hayloft of the cow barn at the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females.”

  He turned over and grunted. “Females! Careful, they’re bad luck aboard ship.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. “Nonsense; that is mere superstition. There have been many competent lady sailors, and even
notorious lady pirates. Not that being a pirate is anything to brag about.”

  Simon flipped onto his back. “I was dreaming I was in the crow’s nest . . . my turn as lookout,” he mumbled. “Thought I saw an enemy ship in the moonlight, a glint of light off the starboard bow. . . .” He sat up abruptly and gave his head a shake, like a dog coming in from the rain. Then he spat a piece of hay out of his mouth and looked around. “Penelope!” he exclaimed, awake at last. “I mean, Miss Lumley! I mean— Well! This is unexpected, to say the least.”

  “I am rather surprised to find you here as well,” she replied. That it was a happy surprise to them both was clear enough by the looks on their faces, and did not need saying.

  Simon rubbed his head. “You’re just the person I came to see, but it seems you found me first. Have you acquired skills of prognostication, like our friend Madame Ionesco?”

  “I did make use of a telescope,” she confessed. “And how did you know to find me at Swanburne? Surely there was a crystal ball involved.”

  He smiled. “Sure, there was. One named Old Timothy.”

  Old Timothy, again! But there was no time to wonder about that now, for her mind flooded with questions. “Simon, I am eager to hear of your adventures, but first I must ask: Did you ever make it to Brighton to see Great-Uncle Pudge? And, if you did, was he really the cabin boy who wrote the diary of that doomed voyage to Ahwoo-Ahwoo? And, if he was, did you find out what happened on the island? For I have reason to think something did happen there—something terribly important—”

  His face darkened. “I did, and he was, and I’ve got plenty to say about the rest, never you fear. But perhaps it’s best if I start at the beginning and tell you all that’s happened since last we saw each other.”