by Kit Cox
Ben didn’t say a word and Rosalie felt that she would be needed over the next few days to make sense of it all for him. She squeezed his hand and smiled proudly at the warrior standing beside her. She had been ready to finish the creature herself but was glad Ben had slain not just this Bogle but the demon of another in his soul.
The fire of the lamp spread quickly across the drying limbs of the Bogle and soon the surrounding cherry trees were also alight, crackling and popping with the salt they had picked up from the sea air. Great rolling clouds of black smoke filled the morning sky.
Adventure’s End
The fire could be seen for miles; even the passing ships could see the great fiery beacon on the Kentish headland. The folks of Whitgate lined the morning streets looking towards the coast and the rolling black clouds that moved inland across the hills. The children of the orphanage pressed their faces against the widows of the classroom, many whispering that it lay in the direction of the ancient cherry orchard. Behind them stood Nanny Belle, wanting to rush to the scene but knowing that it would do no good whatever the situation that was unfolding; she just had to wait and find out what news would come their way and hope the two children were safe.
Constable Bobbins had ridden quickly from the station house on his trusted Doris and was soon cycling out of town. They had precautions for fires in Whitgate: everyone knew where the pumps were and everyone had a bucket. A well-formed chain gang of fire workers could save a barn or at the very least stop it from spreading, but Constable Bobbins knew that this would fall under none of those headings and no folk would be heading up to the hill to quench the fire on the cliff.
He was right to think that, too, because as he reached the bottom of the hill where the orchard blazed he was met by a crowd of farmers and farmhands all standing by the closest wall, looking up to the inferno.
‘You going up to old Tom Granger’s orchard then, Bob?’ It was Blake Mansfield, Buddy’s brother, who shouted at Constable Bobbins as he rode into the crowd and got off his bike.
‘That’s Constable Bobbins to you, Blake, and yes, someone needs to make sure we don’t have some unfortunate soul trapped up there, and I don’t see any of you men going to check.’
‘Been an unfortunate soul trapped up there for close on a century,’ said another voice in the crowd as Constable Bobbins climbed the wall.
‘Looks like Hell’s finally claimed him,’ chipped in another.
This stopped Robert Bobbins in his tracks for a moment. They all knew the story of Tom Granger’s orchard. Like a cautionary tale it had been passed down through the folks of Whitgate’s farming community.
Thomas Samuel Granger had been the youngest of a great Kentish farming dynasty. His father had given plots of land to his older sons and awarded dowries of land to his daughters, but when it came to Tom there was very little left to give. He could not be seen to give his youngest son nothing, so he gave him the orchard on the cliff. And whereas the other children sold or lost their land to debt, Thomas worked his orchard until it produced the finest fruit in Kent and the blossoms were an annual spectacle for all.
As is the tragedy of life, Thomas fell ill and died at the age of just twenty, leaving no wife, children or legacy. However, his last will and testament saw that he would be remembered. He had instructed the doctor to open his chest and place a cherry and a grey stone from the border he had laid around his orchard against his heart and he was to be embalmed with a liquid he had distilled himself. His grave was to be cut into the chalk but left open so the blossom would fall on to his coffin. The requests were initially scorned by the doctor and undertaker, who both considered the process to be witchcraft and dark magic, but Tom’s father was still a powerful man and, in his grief, his son’s wishes were carried out to the letter.
The legend of the demon that protected the orchard grew over the years. No birds would roost among the branches and no rabbits made their home beneath the roots, but the trees still flowered and bore wonderful fruit well beyond season’s end. No man brave enough would pick the delicious cherries and they would simply drop to the earth and rot, more trees growing until once-neat rows became a tangled mess.
As Constable Bobbins looked at the burning trees he remembered the poem:
Along the coast till the cliff rises high.
No hares on the ground, or birds in the sky.
Where young Tom Granger was laid to rest,
To tend his cherries as he knows best.
The poem had always sent a shiver through the policeman and right now he was more than happy to believe that Hell had indeed claimed the orchard – that was until he saw the children walking away along the coastline silhouetted against the morning sky.
The crowd was impressed when their lawman suddenly rushed off across the fields towards the inferno; it was certainly an act none of them wished to take part in.
Ben and Rosalie had gathered their possessions and watched as the orchard was consumed by fire until they had decided to walk back to the orphanage. Ben was still a little taken aback by the way his instincts had taken over while he fought the Bogle. Rosalie was trying to lift their moods with small talk but she couldn’t seem to find the right words. Suddenly, she heard Ben’s full name being called. Both of them looked across the fields and saw Constable Bobbins ambling towards them. He had lost his impetus after a run halfway up the slope and had taken to shouting instead.
‘We’re in trouble now,’ said Rosalie, as if the sight of the lawman was more of a threat than the monster in the trees had been.
‘He doesn’t seem happy,’ Ben added.
‘We can’t tell him we’ve just saved the orphanage from more deaths, I suppose?’ asked Rosalie as they turned to face the approaching policeman.
‘We could but I very much doubt he would believe us.’ Ben turned towards the huge fire on the hill. ‘Especially with no evidence.’
The officer was now close enough to talk to the children and he didn’t mince his words or his accusations. ‘I take it this is your doing,’ he said, pointing towards the fire. The two just nodded and shuffled their feet.
It wasn’t long before they were standing quietly before Mrs Reed’s desk, Constable Bobbins behind them, his hands on their shoulders.
‘Since this boy has come into your care, I have had to deal with runaways, Gypsies and now fires. You’ve inherited a one-child crime wave, Mrs Reed, and as much as it pains me to say so this last piece of vandalism is the final straw. I cannot stand by and let these children get away with burning up the countryside and putting lives and livelihoods at risk.’ The words of Constable Bobbins were firm as if he was stating facts rather than a point of view. Nobody present in the room – and that was currently Mrs Reed, her brother and the children – had ever heard Whitgate’s policeman sound so much like a paid officer of the law.
‘I don’t know what our options are, Constable Bobbins. We have sworn off corporal punishment at the Garden Orphanage as was the design of our benefactor.’ Mrs Reed sounded upset as she pointed to the painting above the fireplace of the orphanage’s chief patron.
‘Then I can only offer suggestions. You send the Gypsy girl away and make sure that her guardian raises her better without his influence, or you return her to her family. The boy, on the other hand, I suggest is taken to the workhouse in Canterbury or moved to the brickworks at Sittingbourne. I think a tough upbringing and a proper trade will keep him out of harm’s way. However, I do expect a decision to be made today, for I feel the people of Whitgate would expect me to act quickly and decisively in this matter if they are to keep a healthy trust of the law.’
The officer’s words were interrupted by a knock at the door and before Mrs Reed could answer the door opened. All were surprised when a soldier stepped into the room, someone they had not seen before. He was taller than the policeman and broad across the shoulders, a fact that was accentuated by the cut of his uniform. He carried a pith helmet tucked beneath his arm, wore a Sam Browne belt and hig
h boots, and displayed various insignia indicating his rank of Major. His hair was smart and light brown in colour and his facial hair was styled almost flamboyantly like that of a musketeer: a small beard beneath his mouth and a moustache hooked at the ends.
His presence made the atmosphere of the room change immediately. Mr Reed stopped leaning on the fireplace and stood up straight; Mrs Reed blushed and adjusted herself in her chair almost going to rise; and Constable Bobbins let go of the children’s shoulders, snapped to attention and saluted with a very ordered ‘Sir!’ before letting his arms fall stiffly to his sides. As the man looked at the children, Nanny Belle entered the room behind him, trying to hide her amused smile. Ben at once knew who the man was even before he announced his presence.
‘I am Major Jack Union of Her Majesty’s Forces. Please excuse my intrusion but I am wondering why my recruits have been taken away by an officer of the law before reporting back to me.’ He looked at Constable Bobbins. ‘Stand at ease, man – you’re not on parade.’ The policeman almost slumped at the command, his army days as a youth all flooding back to him. He did, however, keep some composure and started to speak.
‘I was not aware the children were under military orders, Sir.’
‘And why would you have been, Constable? I had not made my intentions known to you or even my presence.’
The Major turned his attention to Mrs Reed, who blushed more under his scrutiny. ‘Mrs Reed, it is to you that I owe an apology. I have been investigating a spate of poisonings, perpetrated on children, for the Crown. The Empire has enemies and targeting our children is a despicable crime, but one I’m afraid that has to be looked into. Nanny Belle is my sister and when I found she had become governess at the school I asked for her help in this situation as I knew I could trust her discretion and secrecy.’ The Major turned briefly towards his sister and smiled before continuing. ‘It seemed prudent to tackle an attack on children by using children, especially at a school we expected was infected. We could not let it be known that the children of Whitgate were possibly a target, as if there were indeed a poisoner, then it would have given the game away. Ben and his friend have been helping us with our investigations and I can tell you now that the threat has been neutralised.’
Mr Reed interrupted, suddenly feeling like he ought to have some input. ‘Neutralised! So you have caught the poisoner?’ he asked, an element of pride creeping into his voice that his children could have helped stop a foreign threat.
The Major turned his attentions on the new speaker. ‘There was, I’m afraid, no poisoner – just a series of events that my young recruits identified and eliminated.’
‘Badgers!’ said Constable Bobbins, a note of venom to his voice, causing the Major to raise his eyebrows at the interruption.
‘Well, there was certainly an animal involved… Maybe badgers, but anyway your charges had located the source of the poisoning to the cherry orchard. The ancient fruit trees had removed all the nutrients from the shallow soil and were instead bringing toxins from the ground into the fruit. Your children, not burdened by a local superstition, were the only ones eating the fruit. Ben and his friend…’
‘Rosalie,’ interrupted the girl, suddenly wanting a name check for the heroics the soldier was dishing out in his story. The Major briefly chuckled.
‘Ben and Rosalie picked some of the fruit for me, which we had checked and found to be poisonous, I therefore instructed the children to destroy the wild orchard and report back to me.’ The Major had made a point of describing the orchard as wild rather than the property of some farmer. ‘When they did not return, I feared the worst, that they had become somehow caught in the fire while on their life-saving mission. My sister informed me, however, that the children had in fact been arrested and that is why I now stand before you.’ The handsome soldier stopped talking and bowed his head towards Mrs Reed as if indicating now was her time to speak.
Flustered, at first she started to ask the children whether all this was the case when she realised this would mean her doubting the word of a royal officer, so she turned her words to thanks for their courageous actions. Constable Bobbins was also all confused apologies and actually took his hat off to the children.
The Major informed them that he would prefer the story to go no further than the walls of the orphanage and added that it would be prudent to tell the other children of Ben and Rosalie’s close scrape with death and that it was they to whom they should be thankful for their lives.
And so it was that the children who had been walked into the office of Mrs Reed as criminals exited as heroes.
Ben and Rosalie left the office and couldn’t believe what had befallen them; they had saved the orphanage’s children and battled demons both figurative and literal. They were trying to come to terms with it all on the track facing their home when they saw Major Union and his sister appear at the front door. Nanny Belle was smiling and she leant forward, kissing her brother on the cheek. His face was more serious as he bid her a farewell of sorts and started off up the road, giving a brief salute to the children as he passed but offering no words. Ben watched him go.
‘Go after him,’ said Rosalie. ‘How often do you get to meet your heroes?’
Ben didn’t need telling twice. He ran off down the road as Rosalie walked back towards the orphanage and her waiting guardian.
Ben soon caught sight of the Major.
‘Major Union!’ he shouted, pleased to see the figure stop and turn in the road.
‘What is it, Ben?’ The Major’s tone was curt as you would expect of a military man who hunted monsters but it was not so dismissive as to put Ben off.
‘I read your book,’ was all he could think to say.
‘So I gathered. I can’t be cross as it appears you may have had permission.’ The tone was matter of fact; it contained neither anger nor regret.
‘I just wanted you to know,’ the boy said and he got the nod he had been given by so many men since leaving Ceylon. He was starting to see it as a seal of approval from men who didn’t have the right words to express emotion. The monster hunter started to turn to head off again and Ben thought that their conversation must be over. But the Major stopped and turned back for a moment, studying the boy.
‘I knew your mother… She was a good woman, a fighter. You should find out more about her … when you’re ready. You have monster hunting in your blood…’ There was a definite pause as if there would be more, but there was only another nod. This time, though, the nod seemed to be for the Major’s benefit as if he had got something off his chest. He turned and walked off down the road, leaving the boy standing alone with tears in his eyes and so many questions that he just didn’t know how to ask.
The following days at the orphanage passed with a fair amount of excitement. The story about the poisonous cherries was revealed to the orphans and reprimands issued about the hazards of playing with wild animals. Ben and Rosalie became the heroes of the hour for most, although certainly not for all. Ben continued his work at the oyster factory and Rosalie became Nanny Belle’s teaching assistant when she wasn’t receiving private tuition.
Now forgiven by most, Ben moved back into the dorm, where he found he became quite good at making up stories, as he had to keep up the charade of working secretly for the Crown and the enigmatic Major Jack Union, without giving away the truth. Rosalie, though, retained her room above the classroom; she could mingle with the children her age but liked the fact that she could retire to her private space when she needed to.
‘You were very quiet when your brother spoke to Mrs Reed,’ she finally said one afternoon as Nanny Belle ran through the periodic table. The question had long been puzzling her.
‘I had nothing to say,’ replied the nanny, fully aware there was more to follow.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ continued Rosalie. ‘In my experience it’s the people with nothing to say who do the most talking and yet you didn’t say one word.’ Nanny Belle tried to hide her smile by turning a
way towards the chart on the wall.
‘So what did you think I should have been saying?’ Nanny Bell asked curiously.
‘I think you said just the right amount back then, but I also think you should be telling me everything you didn’t say.’
Nanny Belle turned to face the grinning Gypsy girl and couldn’t help smiling back.
‘It’s a very long path, young lady, and one you can never tell anyone about, but if you want to learn how to be a nanny you need to take a seat.’
The sound of the chair being pulled up warmed Nanny Belle’s heart.
Someone Watching
It was a few months later when Nanny Belle visited her mother at her house, which also served as her business premises. The streets of London were cold and grey snow lined the alleyways and pavements.
The pavements on her mother’s street, however, were clear of any trace of snow. Young men with big shovels warmed themselves by braziers, respectfully tipping their hats as Nanny Belle walked past. As she walked through the front door, she was greeted by one of her mother’s girls.
‘Miss Belle, what a pleasant surprise. I don’t believe your mother was expecting you because she has gone out for the day and…’
Nanny Belle raised a hand and stilled the girl’s conversation.
‘I’m not expected until this evening. I came early so I could catch up with my brother.’
The girl seemed to relax at this, as if she had somehow been let off the hook. ‘Oh well, he’s certainly home. He got back yesterday, in fact.’