Mrs. Winn’s cottage pie was as mouthwatering as the dessert of jam roly-poly pudding and custard. She certainly knew how to cook for a hungry lad and his dog.
Ben brought up Mrs. Winn’s remark from the afternoon. “Winnie, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why did you say that it would be better if your son and his family stayed in Ceylon? Don’t you want them to visit you?” As if she had been waiting for a sympathetic ear, the old lady poured forth her tale of woe.
“A man from up north has come to live just outside of Chapelvale. His name is Obadiah Smithers, and he is in the business of industrial speculation. Do you know what that means? Small villages and hamlets right across Britain are being destroyed by men like Smithers. They build their mills and factories with chimneys belching black smoke, sink mines with slag heaps defacing the countryside, hack out quarries, scarring the fields and destroying the wood-lands—all in the name of progress, which they say nothing can stop! Yet all they bring, the Smitherses of this world, is misery, for money. Temporary hovels for their workers, low wages, and folk working right ’round the clock to make vast profits for their masters.”
Ben could see by Mrs. Winn’s clenched fists and quivering voice that she was defiant, yet frightened. He spoke soothingly. “So, what is it that Smithers wants with Chapelvale? It’s just a little village.”
With an effort she steadied her voice. “He wants limestone, would you believe. It appears Chapelvale is sitting on top of huge limestone deposits! As you know, limestone is the basis of cement, and what with all the building going on all over England, cement is in great demand. Progress means more buildings: more buildings, more cement! Obadiah Smithers, together with Jackman Donning and Bowe, a London firm, did a survey of the land and made the discovery. They plan to have a limestone quarry and a cement factory, right here in Chapelvale. They even had the railway branch line built so they can deliver cement anywhere. By next Thursday, when the demolition order is made official, the shops, houses, school, the entire village will be no more!”
“Couldn’t you move to another village?”
Ben’s remark was quite innocent. He was taken aback at the vehemence of the old lady’s reaction—she virtually exploded.
“Move? Certainly not, young man! Chapelvale and the surrounding lands first belonged to the Winn family. I consider it my village!”
The boy shrugged. “Has nobody tried to stop all of this?”
Mrs. Winn banged the table with frustration. “I tried, the day that Smithers posted his first notice in the square. I went straight to my lawyer, Mr. Mackay, and stated my claim as a member of the Winn family. But the only deeds of ownership I have are for this house. I haven’t any other written proof—I don’t even have the deeds to the village almshouse in the square, though Captain Winn said it still belongs to his family and it is our inheritance.”
“A village almshouse?”
The old lady poured tea as she explained. “Long ago an almshouse was a place where poor people could find free food and lodging. They were generally owned by rich families, or the Church. Poor friars, brothers of begging orders, mendicant monks, often stayed at them. Nobody really knows how old our almshouse is, but it’s very ancient. Unfortunately, it’s in a dreadful state of repair. An old friend of Captain Winn’s has taken to living there. His name is Jon Preston—the villagers think that he’s quite mad.”
Ben replenished the old lady’s teacup. “I’d like to meet him.”
She shook her head with a quick, severe, bird-like movement. “I’d advise you to steer clear of him, lad. That old hermit doesn’t take kindly to strangers or young people!”
She sniffed, wiping her eyes with her apron hem. “He’ll have to find somewhere else to live after next Thursday. The deadline comes in force then and there’s little I, or anyone else, can do about it.”
The strange boy’s blue eyes softened. He felt sad for the old lady. “Only one week, but why?”
Mrs. Winn gave a hopeless little shrug. “Smithers and his London investors are powerful people. I can’t prove the Winn title to Chapelvale land, and I haven’t the money to fight them. Jon Preston said he’d look for evidence, and Mr. Mackay has done his best to help, but it’s no use.
“A month ago Smithers and his friends took out a Court Order. They posted a notice in the village square. It says that any person—but it really means me—must prove ownership of the land. In the event of no legal claims turning up, Smithers and the Londoners intend to purchase the village, shops, houses, almshouse, farms, everything. Then they can demolish Chapelvale to make way for their quarry and cement factory.
“That was a month ago—there’s only seven days left now. Not only that. I know Smithers allows that boy of his to run loose with his gang. They harass me, the shopkeepers, and village folk. Some folk are so tormented by them that they’ll be glad to move away in the end!”
Ned and Horatio had wandered into the parlor. They both lay stretched on the hearthrug when the hall clock chimed nine. Other than that the room lay silent in the gathering dusk of late-summer evening. Mrs. Winn sat staring out of the window at her garden with its high redbrick wall, rhododendrons and roses, the neat square lawn separated by a gently curving path with borders of pansies, gypsy grass, and busy lizzie. Ben resisted the urge to comfort her. Instead he passed a thought to his dog.
“Did you hear all that?”
The big black animal opened one eye. “Well, almost, I’ve got the general idea of what’s going on. Though I don’t see how we can help.”
Ben’s fists clenched involuntarily. “But we’ve got to help. Now I know why the angel steered us to Chapelvale, Ned: We must help these people to help themselves in some way or other! Ned, you’ve closed that eye—are you going to sleep?”
The Labrador’s eye flicked lazily open. “No, I’m giving it some thought. The best way to solve a problem is to sleep on it. Not a lot we can start doing until tomorrow, is there, Ben?”
The boy watched Mrs. Winn rise and start clearing away the dinner things. He helped her to carry the dishes out to the kitchen, then took up a dishcloth. “You wash and I’ll wipe, Winnie. We’ll soon get these dishes cleared away, and please stop worrying, everything will turn out all right, you’ve got me and Ned to help you now.”
She shook her head and smiled. “Ned can’t help with the dishes.” Turning away from the sink, Mrs. Winn found herself staring into the boy’s wise blue eyes.
“You’d be surprised how me and Ned can help you!” he said.
15
AS SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the window onto the counterpane, a dairy cart clattered by in the lane. Ben wakened gradually, taking stock of his new surroundings. The house was quiet, which gave him the feeling it was quite early. He let his gaze wander from the lace curtains and the warm July day outside. Stretching lazily, he lay back, studying the flowered wallpaper and the small iron-and-tile fireplace with a lacquered screen standing on its hearth. He heard the hall clock chime faintly from downstairs and counted each chime. . . . Ten!
Leaping out of bed, he dressed hastily, rushed to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and dashed downstairs, having to leap the last three to avoid tripping over Horatio.
Ned was sitting in the kitchen beside an empty bowl. He nodded at Ben. “Morning. Sleep well?”
The boy answered the thought as he picked up a note from the table. “Why didn’t you come up and wake me earlier?”
The dog put his front paws up on the table alongside his mate. “Didn’t want to disturb any plans you were sleeping on, you know, to help Mrs. Winn. What does her note say?”
Ben scanned the scrap of paper. “ ‘Gone to village to do some shopping, porridge in pot on range, make tea for yourself. See you later. Winnie.’ ”
He felt the pot, it was still hot. So was the tea in the teapot. The boy served himself and sat at the table, thinking. “She can’t have gone too long ago.”
The big black Lab blinked patiently. “Not more than t
en minutes or so. Well, what’s the plan, O wise master?”
Over the centuries, Ben had come to appreciate the dog’s banter. Dishing himself a large bowl of porridge, he conversed as he ate.
“A library, that’s it, Ned. If Chapelvale has a library, that’d be a good place for us to start. It would probably have local history and reference books concerning this area. Might give us a lead or two.”
The Lab snorted. “A lead: was that meant to be a joke? Libraries aren’t fond of dogs roaming ’round loose among the books. Not great readers, us dogs.”
Ben poured tea, stirring in lots of sugar. “Right, Ned, so what are your plans for the day?”
The dog trotted out of the kitchen, passing on his thoughts. “Open the front door, mate, I think I’ll take a stroll ’round the village. Keep the old ears open, y’know. Might hear some information to pass on to the young master, eh?”
Ben grinned. “I’m older than you. Let me see, I was born in 1607, that makes me two hundred and eighty-nine years old. You were only four when I met you. That makes you, er, two hundred and eighty. So be more respectful to your elders, pup!”
Ned turned and poked his head around the doorway. “Pup indeed! Listen, laddie, one human year is equal to eight dog years. So that makes me . . . er, hmmm . . . a lot older than you by far, so show a little respect and mind your manners!”
The boy, his hair an unruly thatch, watched his friend trot off down the path. “Go easy now, old fellow, it’ll soon be time for your nap. Hahaha!”
The dog turned and wrinkled his nose. “Silence, insolent child!”
After breakfast Ben saw Alex and Amy Somers in the lane, and nodded back at the house. “D’you like my new place?”
Amy giggled. “That’s Miz Winn’s house, she’s nice. We went there with Dad when he treated her cat. Are you staying there, Ben?”
The boy flicked the hair from his eyes. “For a while. Listen, you two, I need your help again. You know Chapelvale, is there a local library hereabouts?”
The girl pointed. “Over by the school, actually it’s attached to our village school. The librarian is Mr. Braithwaite. He works in the library right through the summer holidays. You’ll like him, he’s funny.”
Alex led the way. “Come on, we’ll take you there. What do you want, some kind of special book? Where’s your dog today?”
Ben strolled along with the friendly pair. “Oh, he’s around somewhere. He often goes off on lone rambles. I was wondering if I might get hold of a book about the local history of Chapelvale. I’m trying to help Mrs. Winn prove her claim to the land hereabout.”
Amy pulled a face. “Oh that, you should hear the names our dad calls Mr. Smithers. If Smithers has his way, it looks like we will be moving to Hadford soon.”
Ben noticed the angry look on the girl’s pretty face. “Hadford, where’s that?”
Alex explained. “It’s the nearest big town, all factories and streets full of chimney smoke. Dad won’t lose his job, he’s the veterinary surgeon for most of the county, but if Smithers buys every shop in the village and sets up his quarry and cement works, everyone will have to move. I’d hate to live in Hadford! Chapelvale’s a good little village. We like it here.”
Ben nodded. “Good! Then let’s see what we can do to save the old place. Will you help me?”
His new friend’s eyes shone with excitement. “I’ll say we will!”
Mr. Braithwaite had a slight stoop, and small spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He also had a huge cloud of frizzy grey hair, which he constantly scratched at absentmindedly. As Ben and his friends entered the library, Mr. Braithwaite glanced up over his glasses at them. “Hmm, er, Alexander and Amelia, er, er, Somers, isn’t it, hmm yes, right, er. Not like you two t’be in the er, library when the hmm, school’s finished for summer, er, er, no indeed!”
Amy introduced their new friend. “Sir, this is Ben, he wants to look at local history books. We’re trying to save the village, you see.”
The librarian-cum-schoolmaster came out from behind his counter. Scratching his head with one hand, whilst brushing dandruff from his collar with the other, he peered at the strange boy with blue eyes.
“Hmm, ah yes, very good! Is there, er, any specific reference you wanted to er, see, young, er . . . man?”
Ben tried his best to look intelligent and polite. “Yes sir, I’d like to look at anything in connection with Chapelvale and the Winn family, please.”
Mr. Braithwaite nodded furiously, a pencil falling from behind his ear as he warmed to his favorite subject. “Hmm, mm, mm, yes, Chapelvale, Winn family, very good! I’m er, actually er, quite a noted, er, devotee of hmm, local history. Now, if I’m, er, correct, the volume you want is called, er, Village Chronicles of the British Isles, part, er, four! Yes, very good, very good, by Roger, let me see, Russell Hope. By Roger Hope Russell, er, pardon me!”
They followed him as he scurried animatedly to a back shelf and knelt on the floor, his head to one side, muttering. “Domesday Commentary, Anglo-Saxon Settlements . . . Aha! Here ’tis, the very volume, er, er, indeed!”
The huge, dusty, leather-bound volume made an echoing thud when Mr. Braithwaite slammed it on the table. With the enthusiasm of an amateur historian, he scoured the index. “Chapelmount, Chapel Norton, Chapelton . . . Yes, yes, got it! Page 986, appendix B.”
Leafing through the yellowed pages, Mr. Braithwaite found the relevant item. He stood scratching his frizzy mop in a shaft of sunlight, until he was surrounded by a halo of dandruff. He nodded approvingly as Ben read aloud from the page.
“ ‘Chapelvale (circa 1340), medieval village land. Granted to a Sea Captain (origin and name unknown) by the Black Prince, Edward III. Church built there, later to become an almshouse. Used by wayfaring poor and mendicant monks. Second church building (circa 1673) following Test Act and persecution of Catholics under Charles II. Mainly pasture and some agriculture. Middle England village with square. Nearby town Hadford.’ ”
Ben scanned the page in silence awhile before looking up. “Nothing more of any real interest here. Thank you, sir. Is there anything else about Chapelvale in your library?”
Mr. Braithwaite rocked back and forth on his heels. “Any what? Oh, er, hmmm. No no, nothing, er, I’m afraid!”
Ben signaled his friends with a nod. “Many thanks for your help, sir. We’ve got to go now. Good-bye!”
The stooped librarian stood watching them leave, searching for the pencil behind his ear, which had fallen earlier. “Quite, er, yes. Good-bye, er, er. . . . Call again if there’s anything you should, er, need, very good, very good, yes!”
They emerged from the library into the sunlit late morning. Ben chuckled. “What an odd old fogey.”
Without warning Alex went pale. He turned to go back into the library. Ben checked him, noting his frightened look.
“Steady on, there. What’s the matter with you, pal?”
Staring straight ahead, Amy answered for her brother. “It’s the Grange Gang!”
Wilf Smithers, Regina Woodworthy, and the gang had formed a semicircle about the library steps, blocking the way.
Ben threw an arm around the younger boy. “Stick with me, they won’t bother us, pal!”
As they started down the steps, Wilf and Regina circled either side of them, their aim to get behind the trio and cut off any retreat. Wilf pinched Alex’s cheek and smiled maliciously.
“Hello, it’s little Alexandra!”
Clearly terrified, the boy turned beetroot red and kept silent.
This encouraged the bully, who sniggered. “Alexandra’s gone all shy. Blushing, are we, Alexandra?”
Amy came fearlessly to her brother’s defense. Whirling on Wilf, she shouted at him defiantly. “He’s not Alexandra, his name is Alexander! You big bully, why don’t you go away and leave us alone?”
Wilf pretended he had not heard her, but Regina positioned herself in front of the smaller girl. She stood blocking Amy’s path, arms folded and a sne
er on her face, which was red and bruised from her fall off the garden wall a day earlier.
“Are you going to make us go away, eh?”
Smiling at the results of his dog’s chase, Ben addressed the Grange Gang girl in a friendly tone. “That’s a nasty bruise on your face, what happened to you?”
Wilf was two steps above Ben. He turned on the new-comer. “It’s none of your business. Anyhow, who are you? An’ what do you want around here?”
Smiling even wider, the boy shrugged. “Oh, I’m nobody really, just been to the library to catch up on a bit of reading. But I don’t imagine reading interests you. No, you look more like the type who likes to color in the pictures.”
The rest of the gang looked at one another, shocked. You didn’t talk to Wilf Smithers like that. The village bully was the biggest, strongest boy in Chapelvale, and he had a reputation for being quick-tempered and extremely violent. Wilf’s face turned brick red at the stranger’s insult. Clenching both fists, he snarled dangerously. “I’ll color your face in for you, smart mouth!”
Amy shook with fright as Wilf launched himself down the steps, fists swinging. Ben was bound to get hurt.
However, the smaller, towheaded lad stood there, still smiling, as if unaware of the danger. Moving a swift half-pace to one side, he turned to face Alex. “D’you think he’s upset?” Ben ducked his head slightly.
It was a perfectly timed move. Wilf’s fist actually brushed the back of Ben’s hair, then he went sailing past his victim, carried by his own impetus. Stumbling awkwardly, he fell down the last four steps onto the gravel path. Before anyone could react, the boy skipped nimbly down and began hauling Wilf upright, helpfully brushing the bully’s clothing off.
“What a dreadful fall. Are you all right? Easy now, friend. Hope you haven’t broken anything!” Wilf’s nose had scraped the gravel, and a swelling was starting to show on his forehead. He shoved free of Ben’s hands.
[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman Page 9