Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “I’d wish for a wonderful family,” he said. “Oh, wait, I already have one. I guess I’ll give the wishing well a miss.”

  I blew a lazy kiss at him, then said with a sigh, “If only Emma were as pleased with her life as you are with yours.”

  “What’s wrong with Emma?” Bill asked.

  “She’s not a happy camper at the moment,” I said. “Too much office work, not enough horsey fun. Or gardening fun. Or any kind of fun. I’d offer to help her, but if I did her accounting, she’d be bankrupt in five minutes. I’m hopeless with numbers.”

  “Be a sounding board, then,” said Bill. “Be the one person who lets her vent whenever she feels the need.”

  “I will,” I said, “but I wish I could do more.”

  “Speak to the well. It seems to like the sound of your voice.” Bill laughed at his own joke, then shifted my legs from his lap to the sofa as he stood. “Sorry, love, but I brought work home with me. I must commune with my laptop.”

  “No worries,” I said, sitting up with a groan. “I’ve got some communing of my own to do.” I let Bill pull me gently to my feet and continued the upward motion until our lips met in a soft but thorough kiss.

  “I’ll be ready for bed when you are,” he said when we came up for air.

  “Good,” I said. “Because you may have to carry me upstairs.”

  Bill took his laptop from the coffee table and began the unenviable task of evicting Stanley from his armchair. I limped into the study. I couldn’t bear the thought of kneeling to light a fire, so I lit the mantel lights, took the blue journal from its shelf, lowered myself laboriously onto one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth, and looked up at Reginald, who peered down at me from his special niche on the bookshelves.

  “Guess what, mate?” I said. “Jack MacBride has a buddy like you, only his buddy is a baby kangaroo named Joey. I knew I liked that boy.”

  The gleam in Reginald’s black button eyes seemed to suggest that he was predisposed to like Jack MacBride, too. I leaned back in the chair, rested my creaky legs on the ottoman, and opened the blue journal.

  “Dimity?” I said. I smiled wryly as the graceful lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the page.

  Good evening, my dear. Congratulations on the fine weather. You are undoubtedly a meteorological magician. With one wish, you kept the river from overflowing and made a pleasant outing on your new bicycle possible.

  “You and Bill should form a comedy team,” I said. “You could be his ghostwriter.”

  You were rather full of yourself last night.

  “I was joking,” I said. “I didn’t expect the rain to end because I told it to. Unfortunately . . .”

  I spent the next half hour repeating to Aunt Dimity everything I’d said to Bill. I gave her a more detailed account than I’d given him and I saved the best bit for last.

  “I’ve detected signs of softening in Bree,” I announced.

  Clear signs?

  “You be the judge,” I said. “She arrived at Ivy Cottage twenty minutes before I did. She didn’t tease Jack about Joey. I didn’t hear any explosions coming from the front garden when I cleverly arranged for them to spend time there together. And she volunteered to help Jack again tomorrow.”

  The signs are promising, very promising. The relationship presents certain difficulties, of course. For example, they’ll have to decide whether to live in England or in Australia. It won’t be easy for Bree to abandon the house she inherited from Ruth and Louise.

  “Slow down, Dimity,” I said, amused by her musings. “Jack and Bree met yesterday. They have a long way to go before they face problems like deciding where to live.”

  I know, but I can’t help wishing them well, can I?

  “Wish them well by all means,” I said, “but try not to get too far ahead of yourself. I’m the one who jumps to conclusions, not you.”

  True. There are some situations, however, that beg one to jump. With your permission, I shall jump to a conclusion about just such a situation: There is a great deal of silliness abroad in Finch.

  “Permission granted,” I said, “if you’re referring to the wishing well silliness.”

  I am, of course, referring to the wishing well silliness. I’m at a loss to understand why six grown women would go out of their way to make cakes of themselves. Sally, Miranda, Elspeth, Selena, Opal, and Millicent should know better than to believe in such childish nonsense.

  “I agree,” I said. “And I’m afraid it won’t stop with six grown women. Christine Peacock will probably be there as soon as the pub closes and I wouldn’t count on Charles Bellingham, Henry Cook, or George Wetherhead to stay away.”

  I expect the excitement will die down when none of the wishes come true. Until then, we can rely on Lilian and Theodore Bunting to behave like adults. It wouldn’t do for the vicar and his wife to replace prayers with wishes. We can rely on Emma, too. She’s far too rational to make use of the wishing well.

  “You can add Bill to your list of abstainers,” I said. “He places wishing wells in the same category as horoscopes and tea leaves.”

  Good for Bill! A father should set a sensible example for his children.

  A strange feeling of unease came over me as I read the word children.

  “Bill’s a brilliant father,” I said slowly. “He reacted oddly, though, when I asked him what his wish would be. He didn’t know I was looking at him, but I was, and his face looked kind of . . . sad. He perked up right away and said he’d wish for a wonderful family if he didn’t have one already, but I wonder . . .”

  What do you wonder?

  “I wonder if he’d wish for a bigger family,” I said, gazing pensively into the empty grate. “It’s not as though we haven’t tried, Dimity, but nothing’s happened. I thought he—I thought we—had given up on the idea, but maybe he hasn’t.”

  Why would you give up on the idea of expanding your family?

  “It took us forever to get the twins started,” I reminded her, “and I’m not getting any younger. I don’t have a lot of confidence in my reproductive system.”

  Go upstairs this instant, Lori, and look at your beautiful boys. They should give you all the confidence you need.

  I smiled at Aunt Dimity’s bracing words, but the fact that my sons were eight years old told me everything I needed to know about my ability to have more children. Thankfully, I was quite content with the children I had, despite their gratuitous praise of mountain-biking Mrs. Kerby. And I was sure—almost sure—that Bill felt the same way.

  Before you go, however, please tell me how you and Betsy fared on your first outing. I presume you took advantage of the glorious weather to put her through her paces.

  “I put her through her paces,” I said, groaning, “and she put me through the wringer. My thighs feel as if they’d been clawed by a mountain lion and my calves scream every time I flex my feet. I’m not sure I’ll be able to climb the stairs when we finish here. I may have to sleep on the sofa.”

  Of course you’ll be able to climb the stairs. Your sons are up there. Look at Will and Rob, Lori, and be hopeful. Sleep well, my dear.

  “I will, Dimity,” I said. “Believe me, I will!”

  I waited until the curving lines of elegant copperplate had faded from the page, then returned the blue journal to its shelf, said good night to Reginald, turned out the lights, and with Bill’s help, went up to bed. I didn’t stop at the boys’ room. Though I appreciated Aunt Dimity’s advice, I’d run out of hope a long time ago.

  Eleven

  I could have used Wednesday’s blue skies to solidify my status as a meteorological magician. Since I wasn’t quite as silly as some of my neighbors, however, it was the boring old weather report that allowed me to drive Will and Rob to school secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t be soaked to the skin when I picked them up because there would be no puddles in the school yard to tempt them.

  Pride—and the thought of Bill’s teasing—prev
ented me from leaving Betsy at home on such a fine day. When I returned from the school run, I strapped on my helmet and cycled to Ivy Cottage, appeasing my irate tendons by taking full advantage of the downward slope and pedaling only when necessary.

  I still didn’t know what to do with the gears, but I tested the hand brakes as I coasted along and through trial and error learned how to stop my forward motion while remaining in an upright position. Tragically, no one but a chattering squirrel was on hand to witness my graceful dismount at journey’s end.

  Bree had again arrived at Ivy Cottage before me. Her car was parked in its accustomed place on Willis, Sr.’s verge and she was already in the front garden when I wheeled my trusty bicycle up the brick path. She and Jack stood across from each other, looking down at the three wooden extension ladders that lay on the ground between them. Bree’s arms were folded—never a good sign—and Jack appeared to be lost in deeply unpleasant thoughts.

  “Good morning?” I said, when the pair failed to greet me.

  “Morning,” Bree said with a brief nod.

  “G’day,” said Jack, adding almost as an afterthought, “Garage door’s open. Mr. Barlow’s crowbar did the trick. Bung your bike in there or she’ll end up buried in ivy.”

  “Okay,” I said equably and wheeled Betsy toward the rickety shed, wondering if Bree had found a way to argue with Jack about ladders.

  As Emma had predicted, Hector Huggins had stored his gardening implements in the garage. It was well organized and much cleaner than I’d expected it to be, and it had room to spare for my bicycle.

  “Well?” I said, returning to Jack and Bree. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Jack doesn’t trust the ladders,” said Bree, sounding exasperated. “He’s afraid they’ll collapse under us.”

  “Whose are they?” I asked.

  “One was Uncle Hector’s,” Jack replied, “and the other two belong to Mr. Barlow.” He prodded the ladder closest to him with his toe. “Mr. B. said they were pukka, but I reckon they belong in a museum.”

  “If Mr. Barlow gave them his stamp of approval,” I said, “you have nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t let us use them if they weren’t, uh, pukka.”

  “Satisfied?” Bree demanded.

  “Not very.” Jack raised his head to look at her. “You’re doing me a favor. How do you think I’d feel if you broke your neck doing me a favor?”

  Jack was clearly more focused on Bree’s neck than on mine, but I didn’t mind. His concern for Bree’s welfare would, I knew, please Aunt Dimity, though it had quite the opposite effect on Bree.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered impatiently and without further ado, she picked up a ladder, leaned it against the cottage, extended it to roof height, and scrambled up it as nimbly as a gymnast.

  “See?” she shouted down to us. “Solid as a rock. Stop fussing, Jack, and get up here!”

  “If she does fall,” I murmured, hoping to allay Jack’s fears, “she’ll land on a three-foot cushion of weeds.”

  “If she misses the bricks,” said Jack, peering anxiously at Bree.

  “She’ll miss the bricks,” I elaborated, “because she’ll slow her fall by grabbing onto the ivy. That’ll give her enough time to aim for the weeds.”

  “The vines are like a backup ladder.” Jack’s sunny smile returned. “She’ll be right.”

  “Bring secateurs with you,” Bree hollered, brandishing her own pair. “The ivy’s sneaking under the slates. It must be pruned with a firm hand!”

  Jack laughed. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “She’s a pistol,” I agreed.

  The words had scarcely left my lips when a sound louder than a hundred pistol shots rent the air. I jumped in alarm and Jack sprang toward the cottage with his arms outstretched, as if he expected Bree to plummet from on high. She kept her balance, but descended the ladder rapidly, looking rattled.

  “What on earth . . . ?” I said.

  “It’s coming from the village,” said Bree. “It sounds like a plane crash-landed on the green.”

  “Let’s find out,” said Jack.

  With my husband in apparent danger, I didn’t need Jack’s advice to race toward the village green. I outsprinted him and Bree to the top of the humpbacked bridge, where a singular sight met my eyes.

  The green lay before me, a long, oval island of tussocky grass encircled by a cobbled lane. The lane was lined with venerable buildings—businesses as well as residences—made of the same golden stone as my cottage and Ivy Cottage. The mellow melding of green and gold gave the village a timeless air of unruffled tranquility.

  On that glorious May morning, however, Finch looked distinctly ruffled. Villagers leaned out of open windows or spilled through doorways or stood like statues on the green, their hands pressed to their ears as they glared at the source of the appalling din.

  The sound wasn’t coming from a doomed airliner, but from a red two-seater sports car. The deafening roar it emitted was out of all proportion to its size. Three village dogs slipped their leashes and tore after it, barking like mad, as it crawled past the vicarage, the schoolmaster’s house, and the old schoolhouse before coming to rest directly in front of my husband’s place of work, Wysteria Lodge, whereupon the roar ceased, though the dogs kept barking.

  Bill strode forth from Wysteria Lodge, caught the overexcited pups by their collars, and returned them to their grateful owners. Only then did the hapless driver get out of the car, doff his suede driving cap, and engage my helpful husband in conversation.

  The driver was a short, stout man with a bald head and a very pink face. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles, leather driving gloves, and a loden-green tweed suit, and he made small, fussy gestures as he spoke, as if he were picking lint from the air.

  I arrived on the scene in time to hear him utter the last word of the first question I would have asked, had I been in his situation.

  “. . . mechanic?”

  “We have an excellent mechanic in Finch,” Bill assured him. “His name is—Ah! Here he is now. Mr. Barlow?”

  Mr. Barlow approached the red sports car with a dreamlike expression on his grizzled face. Bill had to call his name twice before he came out of his trance and strolled over to meet the bespectacled stranger.

  “Dabney Holdstrom,” said the man, extending his gloved hand to our sexton.

  “Billy Barlow,” said Mr. Barlow. He shook the little man’s hand, but his gaze remained fixed on the car. “Pretty motor you have there, Mr. Holdstrom. A 1964 Jaguar XK-E, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “You’re not mistaken, Mr. Barlow,” said Mr. Holdstrom. “And she certainly doesn’t sound very pretty. I was tootling along one of your deliciously twisty lanes when she had a fit of some sort. I can’t think what’s ailing her.”

  “I can,” said Mr. Barlow.

  “Can you really?” said Mr. Holdstrom, sounding impressed. “I say, Mr., er, Barlow, is it?” He glanced at Bill for confirmation, then continued, “I realize that it would be a frightful imposition, Mr. Barlow, but do you suppose you could take a look at her? If you have the time,” he added diffidently.

  “I have the time,” said Mr. Barlow. He was almost crooning. “I have all the time in the world for a beauty like her. The most beautiful car ever made, Mr. Ferrari called her, and Mr. Ferrari knew a thing or two about beautiful cars. Four-point-two-liter engine, all-syncromesh four-speed gearbox . . . Detachable hardtop?” he asked, with a sidelong glance at Mr. Holdstrom.

  “Yes, but I left it at home,” Mr. Holdstrom replied. “No need for it on such a scrumptious day.”

  Mr. Barlow heaved a tremulous sigh, took the ignition key from Mr. Holdstrom, and looked into the crowd of villagers who’d drifted over to enjoy the commotion. “Henry! Dick! Lend us a hand, will you?”

  Mr. Barlow slid into the driver’s seat while Henry Cook and Dick Peacock put their considerable weight to use, pushing Mr. Holdstrom’s stricken vehicle to Mr. Barlow’s garage.

  �
�Stranded,” said Mr. Holdstrom with a heavy sigh.

  “The tearoom is next door,” Bill informed him. “And the pub is across the green.”

  “Tea is best when bracing oneself for catastrophic news,” said Mr. Holdstrom, “and when one owns a classic motor, catastrophic news is the only news one ever hears.” He nodded at Bill. “Thank you. I shall repair to the tearoom, there to await my fate.”

  The crowd parted and Mr. Holdstrom entered the tearoom, mopping his glistening pate with a large silk handkerchief. Half the crowd followed him—in hopes, no doubt, of gathering gossip fodder—but Sally Pyne trotted over to speak with me.

  “Do you know who that man is?” she asked in an urgent undertone.

  “Dabney Holdstrom?” I ventured.

  “Yes, but do you know who Dabney Holdstrom is?” she asked, her face flushed with suppressed excitement.

  “No,” I said. “Is he someone?”

  “Is he someone?” Sally repeated incredulously. “He’s only the editor-in-chief of Cozy Cookery magazine! A good word from him will put my tearoom on the map!” She raised a plump hand to pat my cheek, then wheeled around, saying as she departed, “The well brought him here, Lori! The well brought him!”

  I stared at her retreating back while my brain began to fizz. Bill seized my arm, pulled me into his office, and closed the door behind him.

  “Sit,” he said, directing me to the leather sofa upon which he took power naps and, on rare occasions, interviewed clients.

  I sank onto the sofa, feeling as though I’d stumbled through the looking glass. Bill sat beside me and put his hand on my knee, as if to anchor me in reality. It didn’t work.

  “Lori,” he began, but I cut him off.

  “Is a Jaguar XK-E the same thing as a Jaguar E-Type?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Bill, “but—”

  “Mr. Barlow wished for a Jaguar E-Type,” I interrupted, “not to own, but to work on.”

  “I know, but—”

  “He didn’t speak to the well,” I said, “but he spoke within earshot of it.”