Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “On the plus side,” he said, “you didn’t damage the fork or the wheel. On the minus side, you shattered the axle.”

  “I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I admitted guiltily.

  “It’s not your fault,” Arthur assured me. “The axle was clearly defective. When I’m finished here, I’ll get on the blower and advise the manufacturer to issue a recall. You could, of course, sue the company for—”

  “No, I couldn’t,” I interrupted. “My husband and I don’t believe in frivolous lawsuits. Bess and I were startled, yes, but there was no real harm done to either of us. As long as the manufacturer issues a recall, we won’t take anyone to court.”

  “Good,” said Arthur. “I won’t have to preserve the evidence.”

  “I don’t care if you bury the evidence in a deep, dark hole,” I told him, “as long as you can fix the axle.”

  “I’m afraid it’s beyond repair,” Arthur replied, “but I can replace it with a better one.”

  “How?” I said, taken aback. “Did you bring a non-defective pram axle with you, just in case?”

  Arthur was about to answer when a renewed chorus of shouts and laughter reached us from beyond the stone wall. I glanced up and saw the goldfish chasing the red dragon across the sky.

  “Who are the kite-flyers?” I asked.

  “A veritable horde of Hargreaveses,” Arthur replied, smiling. “Grandchildren, mainly. They’ve designed and built the kites, so it would be a pity for them to miss launch day.”

  “Do you throw a party on, er, launch day?” I inquired carefully. “Is that why you’re, um, dressed up?”

  “Dressed up?” Arthur looked from his rolled shirtsleeves to his grease-and-grass–stained trousers, then peered at me questioningly. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “I mean . . .” I pointed at my own head, then at his.

  “Oh, I see,” he said as enlightenment dawned. “Sorry, I forgot.” He touched a finger to his grapevine wreath and smiled sheepishly. “I was crowned just an hour ago.”

  Three

  I wasn’t sure whether Arthur was joking or not, but his twinkling eyes seemed to indicate that he didn’t take his title too seriously.

  “Are you King Arthur?” I said. “The man who invented the Round Table? Camelot’s head honcho?” I allowed myself a small smile. “My goodness, Bess, we’re in exalted company today.”

  “I rule a realm larger than Camelot,” Arthur informed me. “I am the Summer King.”

  “Impressive,” I said playfully. “What does a Summer King do, Your Highness?”

  “He banishes clouds, promotes sunshine, repairs prams . . .” Arthur shrugged. “The usual.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “It’s a family tradition,” he continued. “There’s always been a Summer King at Hillfont Abbey.” He reached up to make a minute adjustment to his crown. “The coronation took place early this year because one of my grandsons will be in Chile on Midsummer’s Day. He leaves tomorrow.”

  “Holiday?” I asked.

  “A working holiday,” Arthur replied. “He’s delivering a paper at an astrophysicists’ conference in Santiago, but I’m sure he’ll find ways to enjoy himself while he’s there.”

  “Wow,” I said, authentically impressed. “Your grandson’s an astrophysicist? You must be very proud of him.”

  “He’s a good lad,” Arthur said complacently. “He designed and built the biplane kite. He wouldn’t dream of missing its first flight.”

  “Naturally,” I said, wondering how many astrophysicists flew kites in their spare time.

  Arthur carried the pram’s frame across the track and set it down beside the box trailer. I looked in on Bess, saw that she was contentedly playing with her toes, and trotted over to stand beside the frame. I was ready to offer Arthur an extra pair of hands if he needed one, but when he raised the trailer’s hinged lid, it occurred to me that he might not need my help. If appearances were anything to go by, Arthur was a pram repair specialist.

  The box trailer appeared to be filled to the brim with pram parts. An assortment of wheels and frame components lay in orderly piles at one end, while the smaller parts—screws, nuts, washers, and such—were stored in neatly stacked plastic trays at the other end. Arthur pulled a toolbox from between two of the trays and opened it.

  “Good grief,” I said, scanning the trailer’s contents. “You really did bring a non-defective pram axle with you.”

  “As a matter of fact, I brought quite a few,” he said, selecting a crescent wrench from the toolbox. “I harvest the useful parts from my family’s old prams and recycle the rest. I could build an entirely new pram for Bess, but there’s no need. A simple axle replacement will do.”

  A gurgle caught my ear and I dashed back to the bassinet. Bess had decided that her toes were less interesting than what Mummy was doing, so I scooped her up and carried her with me to watch the Summer King save the day. He did so at warp speed. In less than ten minutes, the reassembled pram was upright and rolling as smoothly as ever.

  “There you are,” said Arthur, snapping the bassinet into place. “Your chariot awaits. For safety’s sake, I replaced all three axles. The new ones will stand up to any amount of abuse. I know.” He inclined his head toward the wall. “I’ve tested them.”

  “Thank you, Arthur,” I said, beaming at him. “Thank you very much indeed. If Bess could talk, I’m sure she’d tell you how grateful she is, too.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said. “It was a very basic repair. Your sons could have managed it, young though they are.”

  My smile faded slightly as he placed the toolbox and the defective axles in the trailer and closed the lid.

  “How do you know my sons are young, Arthur?” I asked. “You can’t have heard about them in Tillcote. Bill and I have never been to Tillcote, nor have our sons.”

  “Another educated guess,” he answered readily. “You’re much too young yourself to have grown children.”

  Since I’d spent most of the winter feeling like an elderly hippopotamus, the compliment cheered me immensely. Before I could do more than blush and stutter, however, a new voice joined the conversation.

  “Grandad? Sorry to intrude, but you’re needed.”

  I looked up to see a boy in torn blue jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and scruffy sneakers straddling the stone wall. He had shaggy blond hair, his blue eyes were framed by round, wire-rimmed spectacles, and he couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old. Bess squirmed in my arms and smacked her lips when she heard him, as if she hoped to catch his eye.

  “Why am I needed?” Arthur asked the boy.

  “Harriet’s got kite paste in her hair and she wants to cut it out with her pocketknife,” the boy replied. “I’ve told her to rinse the paste out with water, but she claims it’ll take too much time.”

  “Please tell Harriet to put her knife away,” Arthur said calmly, “and ask her to meet me at the spigot in the kitchen garden. I’ll be along presently. My grandson Marcus,” he added for my benefit. “Marcus? Allow me to introduce Lori Shepherd and her daughter, Bess.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Marcus. “I’d hurry, if I were you, Grandad. Harriet’s in one of her impetuous moods. She’s not likely to listen to me.”

  The boy twisted around like a gymnast, pushed himself off the wall, and landed with an audible thud on the other side.

  Arthur turned to me with a wry smile.

  “I’m needed,” he said.

  “I understand,” I assured him. “Paste emergencies are a regular occurrence in my house. I don’t know how you’ll turn your bike and your trailer around in a hurry, though. The lane’s pretty narrow.”

  “I designed the hitch to function in tight spaces,” said Arthur. “It’s a yoke, you see. I simply detach it from the bicycle, swing it over the tr
ailer, move the bicycle to the opposite end of the trailer, reattach the hitch, and voilà!”

  He matched his actions to his words and by the time he finished his sentence, he was ready to tow the trailer back to the distant opening in the wall.

  “Clever,” I said admiringly.

  “Simplicity itself,” he countered, mounting the bicycle. “Good day, Lori. I’ve enjoyed meeting you and Bess. If you’re ever in the neighborhood again, please feel free to pay us a call.”

  “Thank you, Arthur,” I said. “We may take you up on your invitation.” I kissed Bess’s plump cheek. “I think my daughter has a crush on your grandson.”

  “What a pity,” said Arthur. He stood on the pedals and, with an almighty effort, forced them to rotate. “Marcus leaves for Santiago tomorrow.”

  “Is his father the astrophysicist?” I asked, giving the trailer a shove to help Arthur on his way.

  “No,” he called to me as the bicycle picked up speed. “Marcus is.”

  My jaw dropped. My sons were as bright as buttons, but with the best will in the world I couldn’t picture either one of them delivering a paper at an academic conference before they were old enough to drive.

  “Well, my dear,” I murmured to Bess, “it’s good to know you like ’em smart.”

  I watched Arthur until he disappeared from view, then returned Bess to the pram and began to retrace our steps. I tried to avoid the track’s most obvious hazards, but I found it difficult to keep my mind from wandering.

  I felt as if I’d stepped through the looking glass into a world where shaggy-haired, kite-flying boys morphed overnight into jet-setting scientists while their grandfathers dissected used prams, invented ingenious trailer hitches, and claimed sovereignty over a season instead of a kingdom.

  “Maybe he’s a crackpot,” I said to Bess. “Maybe Grandpa William heard about his wacky ways and decided not to pursue the acquaintance.”

  Bess waved her arms in protest.

  “You’re right,” I said. “If Arthur Hargreaves is a crackpot, he’s a very nice crackpot. Without him—”

  I broke off and came to a standstill as my cell phone rang. It was Bill.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said with some asperity, “forty minutes came and went over an hour ago. Are you lost again? How many farmyards will I have to search this time?”

  “None,” I told him airily. “Bess and I were unavoidably detained, but we’re on our way home now.”

  “What detained you?” Bill asked.

  “I’ll tell you when I see you,” I replied. “The story would be incomplete without arm gestures and facial expressions.”

  “Must be some story,” he said.

  “It’s a doozy,” I confirmed. “We’ll be home soon.”

  “I’m home already,” said Bill. “I’ll have lunch on the table when you get here.”

  “You are a prince among men,” I said, and after exchanging good-byes, we ended the call.

  I tucked the cell phone into my pocket and resumed my homeward journey, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Summer King. I’d become accustomed to knowing just about everything about everyone in Finch. It was unsettling to realize how little I knew about someone who lived within walking distance of the village.

  Who was Arthur Hargreaves? I asked myself. Did he live alone at Hillfont Abbey or did the veritable horde of Hargreaveses live there with him? What would I see if I looked over the tall stone wall?

  The story, I decided, was far from over.

  • • •

  Bill was shocked to learn that his fabulous all-terrain pram was defective, but he wasn’t shocked enough to file a lawsuit. He threatened to file one when he telephoned the manufacturer after hearing my tale of woe, but he didn’t have to employ scare tactics to stir the company into action because Arthur Hargreaves had already done the job for him.

  According to a corporate minion, Arthur had kept his promise to “get on the blower and advise the manufacturer to issue a recall.” Acting solely upon my new friend’s recommendations, the company’s CEO had immediately dispatched an urgent recall notice, cut ties with the supplier who’d provided the faulty axles, and begun the process of vetting a replacement.

  By the time Bill finished regaling me with the results of his phone rant, I was halfway through the fruit smoothie and the veggie-stuffed pita sandwich he’d prepared for me. Long walks always made me peckish. Bess, on the other hand, had turned down a meal in favor of practicing push-ups on her padded floor mat, watched from a distance by Stanley, who’d followed Bill into the kitchen. The sleek black cat seemed to find Bess fascinating, but he wisely kept his long, curling tail far away from her questing fingers.

  “Who is Arthur Hargreaves?” Bill asked when he’d finally calmed down enough to sit with me at the kitchen table. “And why does he wield so much clout in the corporate world?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t know,” I replied. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Sorry,” said Bill. “I’ve never met the man, but I’d like to shake his hand. He may have saved our daughter’s life.”

  “Let’s not get overdramatic,” I mumbled through a mouthful of grilled eggplant. “It’s not as if Bess flew out of the pram and landed on her head.”

  “Even so,” said Bill, reaching for his own sandwich, “Mr. Hargreaves did us a great favor. I wish I could think of a way to repay him.”

  “I don’t think he’d accept repayment,” I said thoughtfully. “He seems like the kind of guy who helps people because he likes to help people.” I finished my sandwich and took another swig of the smoothie before continuing, “I can’t believe he’s flown under our radar for an entire decade, Bill. He lives next door to your father, for heaven’s sake. You’d think they’d have a nodding acquaintance, but as far as I can tell, they’ve never set eyes on each other. Don’t you find it a bit odd?”

  “Not really,” said Bill. “Father’s estate is fairly large, remember. Hillfont Abbey may be next door to Fairworth House, but it isn’t next door in the same sense that Pussywillows is next door to the tearoom. Father can stroll the grounds from dawn to dusk without running into another living soul.”

  “If I were in William’s shoes,” I said stubbornly, “I’d make more of an effort to get to know my neighbors.”

  “Father knows quite a few of his neighbors,” Bill pointed out. “I’m pretty sure he knows every villager in Finch, whether he wants to or not. He may be relieved to have at least one neighbor who isn’t constantly dunning him for donations or recruiting him to work at the church fête.”

  “I recruited William to work at the church fête,” I protested in injured tones. “I thought he enjoyed announcing the raffle winners.”

  “He does, Lori, but it’s not only the church fête, is it?” said Bill. “He reads the lessons at church, plays Joseph in the Nativity play, judges the roses at the flower show, pays for the brass band at the gymkhana, holds the sheep dog trials in his south meadow. . . .” Bill shook his head. “I could go on, but you get the picture. It all adds up. He may be content to let sleeping neighbors lie.”

  “I suppose so,” I said grudgingly.

  “You’re not, though,” said Bill.

  “I’m not what?” I asked.

  “You’re not content to let anything lie,” Bill declared, laughing. “You’re planning to investigate your new chum, aren’t you? You’re going to make the rounds at church tomorrow morning in order to dig up whatever gossip you can find about Arthur Hargreaves.”

  “Why wait until tomorrow morning?” I retorted loftily. “I’m not the only inquisitive soul around here. I can think of someone close at hand who’s bound to know more about Arthur than we do. I thought I’d ask her about him after lunch.”

  “A fine idea,” said Bill. He popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, brushed the
crumbs from his fingers, and pushed his chair away from the table. “I was hoping to grab some daddy-daughter time with Bess while the boys are at the stables.”

  “Grab all the daddy-daughter time you want,” I told him, getting to my feet. “If you need me, I’ll be in the study, chatting with Aunt Dimity.”

  Four

  Hardly anyone knew about Aunt Dimity. Bill was one of the scant handful of people who were aware of her existence. I didn’t advertise her presence in the cottage because she wasn’t a normal house guest. She was, in fact, about as far from normal as it was possible to get.

  When I was a little girl, my mother told me stories about a wonderful woman named Aunt Dimity who lived in a magical, faraway place known as England. They were my favorite stories and since none of my friends were familiar with them, I grew up believing that my mother had invented Aunt Dimity for the sole purpose of entertaining me, her only child. Many years passed before I learned that my mother had modeled her fictional creation on a real-life Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood.

  Dimity Westwood had been my mother’s closest friend. The two women had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. They’d been very young, very frightened, very brave, and very determined to live life to the fullest despite long work hours, short rations, and the ever-present threat of high-explosive bombs blowing them to kingdom come.

  When the war in Europe ended and my mother returned to the States, she and Dimity maintained their friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. After my father’s sudden death, those letters became my mother’s refuge, a peaceful haven in which she could find respite from the rigors of teaching full time while raising a rambunctious daughter on her own.

  My mother was extremely protective of her refuge. I knew nothing of her close ties with Dimity Westwood until I was almost thirty years old and both she and Dimity were dead. It was only then that I learned through a law firm—Bill’s law firm—that the seemingly fictional Aunt Dimity had been a living, breathing woman who’d bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d grown up, the precious correspondence she’d exchanged with my mother, and a curious book filled with blank pages and bound in smooth blue leather.