The Tale of Hill Top Farm Page 2

  Up the hill, at Castle Cottage, Viola Crabbe learnt of Miss Tolliver’s death from the baker’s boy from Hawkshead, when he delivered the usual weekly order of two loaves, a half-dozen glazed currant buns, and three seed wigs, one for each of the three Misses Crabbe. The boy had stopped at Anvil Cottage on his way up Market Street and heard the news from Dimity Woodcock, who had answered his knock at the door. Viola Crabbe immediately went to tell her sister, Pansy, who—clad in a voluminous purple morning dress that expressed her artistic nature—was playing the piano in the sitting room.

  “Oh, dear,” Pansy exclaimed, flinging the end of her fringed purple scarf over her shoulder. “Whoever will I find to take dear Abigail’s soprano solo in ‘Let Us with a Glad-some Mind’?” Pansy led the Sawrey Choral Society.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Viola said, in her shrill, reedy voice. “Mathilda Crook, perhaps, although her high G is liable to be appallingly flat. Abigail reached it so easily and truly. She shall be missed.” She took out her handkerchief and touched her eyes. “Oh, yes, she shall be sorely missed.” Her voice trembled. Viola gave dramatic readings, and had schooled herself in the effective expression of grief.

  “It’s odd that Myrtle didn’t mention an illness,” Pansy said, referring to the third Miss Crabbe, their older sister, who was a teacher and headmistress at Sawrey School. “Didn’t she stop to have a chat with Abigail yesterday evening?”

  “I believe so,” Viola replied, and put her handkerchief away. “Now I must go and look out my good black. I shall want it for the funeral.”

  Within the half-hour, Joseph Skead, the sexton at St. Peter’s, was ringing the passing bell in slow and steady strokes, six strokes and a pause, then six more, to let the parish know that it was a woman who had died. (If the departed had been a man, Joseph would have rung nine, or three for a child.) Around the twin hamlets of Near and Far Sawrey and out on the waters of Lake Windermere, the men looked up from their work to tally the peals and wonder who had died. And in all the cottages and gardens within earshot, the women paused as they stirred soup on the stove or picked the last runner beans in their gardens, listening and counting and feeling a little shiver as the ringing went on and on. Six strokes, pause, six strokes, pause.

  “What a pity about dear Miss Tolliver,” said Margaret Nash, the teacher of the infants class at Sawrey School, to Myrtle Crabbe, headmistress and teacher of the junior class. The two of them were standing in the school doorway, watching their exuberant charges race around the yard after lunch. “It is the end of an epoch.” Margaret shook her head, feeling dazed. “We will all be lost without her.”

  Miss Crabbe, who had lately begun to seem rather nervous about things, pulled at her long upper lip. “It is sad—and so sudden. I do hope she arranged to have the roof repaired. Water dripped on my desk yesterday, and I had to put a bucket to catch—” She raised her voice. “Harold, stop pushing Jeremy! That is not at all nice!”

  Margaret gave her headmistress a startled look. “But the Roof Fund Committee hasn’t got properly underway yet, Miss Crabbe. I doubt that there’s been any money at all collected.”

  “It is my understanding that the solicitation has been completed, Miss Nash,” Miss Crabbe said in a reproving tone.

  Margaret knew there was no point in arguing the matter. Miss Crabbe’s memory could not be relied upon at all these days, but the headmistress was far too proud to acknowledge the problem, and any attempt to correct her only led to unpleasantness. The week before, she had misplaced her attendance book, and they’d turned the school upside down before it was finally found, under a stack of song-sheets on a shelf in the map locker. In the interval, Bertha Stubbs, the school’s daily woman, had been blamed, and there had been a great deal of rancor and ill will all round.

  “I think you mentioned that you intended to see Miss Tolliver yesterday evening after supper,” Margaret said, tactfully returning to the subject. “Did she show any signs of illness?”

  “I didn’t see her,” Miss Crabbe said shortly. “It was late and I could not take the time.”

  “Ah,” said Margaret, and sighed. “Well, we shall all miss her dreadfully.”

  Margaret Nash’s view of the situation was shared by everyone. In the post office at Low Green Gate Cottage, there was distress and dismay.

  “I simply can’t b’lieve it,” mourned Lucy Skead, the plump, cherub-faced postmistress. “Miss Tolliver wasn’t that old, and never a day’s ill health. Who will take her place in the Mother’s Union?”

  Mathilda Crook, who had stepped into the post office to buy a stamp for her letter to her sister in Brighton, replied with a dramatic sigh. “And the May Fete? That’s been Miss Tolliver’s doing for thirty-five years.” With a resolute frown, she added, “If anybody should take it in mind to ask me, I want nothing to do with it. That job is more ‘n’ two people can manage, and I’ve my hands busy at Belle Green, with a house full of boarders.”

  “She’s exaggerating, as usual.” Rascal, a small fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier, spoke in a low voice to Crumpet, a smart-looking gray tabby cat with a red collar. Rascal, who had a great passion for detail, always liked to state things precisely. “The house isn’t nearly full. There’s only two boarders, and two empty bedrooms.”

  “Now is not the time to quibble, Rascal,” said Crumpet sternly. She shook herself so that the little gold bell on her collar tinkled. Some cats might not like being belled by their owners (in this case, Bertha Stubbs), but Crumpet was not one of them. She thought the bell lent her a certain authority. “The real question is, what’s to become of Tabitha Twitchit, now that Miss Tolliver is gone?”

  In the queue behind Mathilda, Hannah Braithwaite, wife of the village constable, spoke up sadly. “There was never a more generous soul than Miss Tolliver. Why, last Christmas, she gave my Sally a new pair of boots, and Jack a knitted cap.” She paused and added, “I s’pose the vicar will telegraph her nephew in Kendal, won’t he?”

  “That one!” Mathilda snorted. “Never came, never wrote. No other family, though, so I s’pose he’ll get the cottage, more’s the pity.” She frowned at the little dog, who had followed her into the post office. “Tha’s mud on thi paws, Rascal. Wait for me outside, and doan’t go runnin’ off.”

  “Come on, Rascal,” Crumpet said comfortingly, seeing Rascal hang his head. She knew he hated to be scolded in public—it made him feel foolish. “We’ll both go outside. We need to talk, anyway.”

  “There’s a woman in Manchester,” Lucy Skead said. “Sarah Barwick is her name. She’s not kin, though. She writes twice a year, and always sends a little something for Miss Tolliver’s Christmas and birthday. Home-baked tea cakes, ’twas, just day before yesterday. Almond, I b’lieve.” Lucy, an inveterate snoop, could be counted on to know the names of everyone’s relations and how often they kept in touch, since all their letters and cards and packages came and went through her hands. Some minded, of course, but it did them no good, for Lucy could no more keep herself from noticing names and relationships than the sun could keep itself from peering into the windows.

  By this time, Crumpet and Rascal had gone a little way down the path. “I think we should go and see Tabitha,” Crumpet said, pausing for an appreciative sniff at a bit of fragrant, low-growing mint. “It makes me sad to think of her staying in Anvil Cottage all by herself. And there’s no one to feed her, now that Miss Tolliver is gone. We have to help her find somewhere to stay.” Crumpet was an organizer who could be counted on to take charge in a difficult situation. Show her a stray kitten and she’d find a home for him before any of the Big Folk could say, “Somebody ought to get rid of that extra cat.”

  “Well,” Rascal replied judiciously, “there’s room at Belle Green, and since the Crooks keep a cow, there’s always plenty of milk. And now that old Cranberry’s dead and gone, the mice have rather taken over the place. Tabitha certainly wouldn’t lack for work.”

  “Good,” Crumpet said. “I’ll let her know.”


  Rascal looked over his shoulder to see if Mathilda Crook had come out of the post office yet. She hadn’t, so he said, “I’ll catch up to you later, Crumpet. I want to stop in at the joinery. Mr. Dowling usually has a bit of something in his lunch pail for me.”

  Down the way, in Roger Dowling’s joiner’s shop, Roger and his nephew David were already at work on Miss Tolliver’s coffin. Both undertaker and coffin-maker, Roger took pride in having the coffin ready when the family came to lay out the deceased, a task which in this case would probably be performed by the women of the village, since the nearest relation was the nephew in Kendal.

  “Wonder what’s t’ become of Anvil Cottage,” young David Dowling said to his uncle as they fitted the last plank of seasoned oak. “Fine place, that,” he added enviously, “with t’ garden ‘n’ all. Bees, too. Hope somebody thought to tell them the news, so’s they don’t go flyin’ off.”

  Roger Dowling picked up his joiner’s plane and began to true the edge of the coffin, the shavings curling in golden ringlets to the sawdust-covered floor. “Cottage’ll be sold up, most like,” he grunted. “There’s only just that nephew. A draper, he is, in Kendal, with several shops to look after. He woan’t want t’ bodderment of a cottage here. He’ll sell it for what he can get and be done wi’ it.” He glanced at the little dog who had just come in through the open door. “Hullo, Rascal. Come fer thi bone?” He reached into his lunch pail, took out a small ham bone, and tossed it to the dog.

  Rascal caught it deftly in his mouth. “Kind of you,” he muttered, around the bone.

  “Doan’t mention it.” Roger Dowling chuckled, as Rascal turned and trotted back out the door. “Odd thing how old George’s dog manages to be so near human. More human than old George hissel, sometimes.”

  David was still thinking about the cottage. “If tha ask me, it’d be a girt pity if that place was sold to an off-comer,” he remarked, a little ungraciously, since he knew he could not afford to buy it himself. But David’s feelings were understandable, for Anvil Cottage had been owned by Tollivers since Sawrey’s earliest days, and the villagers, rightly or wrongly, thought of it as belonging to them, or nearly so. And none of them welcomed off-comers, especially in the village proper. The cottages were small and close together, as if they all belonged to one family, as in a way they did, and most of the villagers thought of Sawrey village as one large family, which in a way it was. People from outside the village were not exactly welcome.

  At George Crook’s smithy, next door to the joinery, Rascal’s master was expressing similar sentiments to his helper, Charlie Hotchkiss. The two of them were shoeing Big Bonny, one of the great shire horses that belonged to Tobias Llewellyn at High Green Gate farm.

  “T’will be sold to another of t’ city folk,” George predicted gloomily as he pushed a horseshoe into the coals of the forge, where it began to glow, turning from cherry to bright orange. “Like t’ spinster writer lady who’s bought Hill Top Farm, right out from under Silas Tadcastle’s nose. Silas is that put out ’bout it, and I don’t blame him a bit.”

  Charlie nodded. “Nice farm,” he said wistfully. “Silas could’ve made something verra fine of it.”

  “Lord only knows what t’ spinster lady’ll do with t’ place,” George went on, “her bein’ from Lonnun and not a brain in her head for animals—so sez Jennings, anyway.” John Jennings was the tenant farmer at Hill Top. He lived in the farmhouse with his wife Becky and two children. “Anybody puts dressed-up rabbits and suchlike in books will nivver do well as a farmer.”

  “Oh aye,” Charlie agreed. He lifted Big Bonny’s massive left hind hoof, holding it between his knees and beginning to extract horseshoe nails with an iron pincer. “Shame to see cottages and farms sold off to city folk who comes and goes and takes small mind of t’ land and t’ village.” Miss Tolliver, an active member of the Lake District Defense Society, had actively opposed the building of sprawling summer villas along the lake shore and the incursions of the hundreds of day trippers who came to eat their lunches by the side of the road and leave their greasy fish-and-chip wrappings in the ditch.

  “Even more of a shame to see good farms bought by rich ladies with no head for farmin’—or fer land-buyin’, either,” said George, pulling the hot shoe out of the fire and measuring it over Big Bonny’s massive hoof. “Did tha hear what she’s paid fer it? Nearly three thousand pounds, fer only thirty-four acres. Auld Jepson sold it to her fer double what he paid t’ timber merchant, just a few months ago. Took fer a reet fool, she was.” With a scornful grin, he tapped the shoe with his hammer on the anvil to size it, then quenched it in a wooden bucket, where it gave a satisfying sizzle, as if it had been the spinster writer lady herself.

  “That’s t’ trouble with rich folk,” Charlie said, taking the steaming shoe in one callused hand and filling his mouth with horseshoe nails from the pocket of his leather apron. “They got too much money. Jepson would’ve sold Hill Top to Silas Tadcastle more reason’ble, if t’ rich lady hadn’t happened along and bid up t’ price. ’Tis a nice auld house, though,” he added. “Wouldn’t mind livin’ in it, mysel.” He picked up the hammer and began to tap, whilst Big Bonny placidly munched her extra ration of oats.

  “Dairy wants repair,” George replied, pumping the leather bellows with his foot. “And where are t’ Jennings to go, I ask. Farms aren’t easy to find these days.” He paused, frowning. “Come to think, wasn’t t’ spinster lady to arrive this week, and board with Miss Tolliver?”

  “B’lieve ye’re right, George,” Charlie said. “So now that Miss Tolliver’s gone, where’s t’ lady t’ stay?”

  That very same question was being voiced in the street outside. Mrs. Grace Lythecoe, widow of the former vicar, had just left Rose Cottage with her basket, on her way to the village shop next door for some cheese and crackers. She encountered Mathilda Crook and pretty little Hannah Braithwaite, accompanied by Crumpet, the gray tabby cat who lived with Bertha Stubbs, and George Crook’s dog, Rascal, who was carrying a large ham bone.

  “Oh, Mrs. Lythecoe,” Hannah Braithwaite exclaimed breathlessly. “A’n’t it just dreadful about poor dear Miss Tolliver? Who would’ve thought, and her always so hale and hearty? We’ll all be lost without her.”

  “It’s very, very sad,” Grace replied. Then she frowned and remarked on something that had been troubling her since she had heard the news. “If I’m not mistaken, Miss Tolliver was expecting Miss Potter to stay with her for a fortnight. She’s due to arrive shortly.”

  “She’s right!” Crumpet exclaimed to Rascal. “I’d forgotten, but Tabitha told me that she and Miss Tolliver were expecting a guest. Miss Potter is an eccentric, apparently. She keeps a pet hedgehog.” Crumpet wrinkled her nose distastefully. “Fancy her keeping a foolish hedgehog when she might have a clever, sophisticated, useful cat!”

  “Tha’s right, Mrs. Lythecoe,” said Mathilda. “Miss Tolliver mentioned it to me just yesterday, when I was handing her birthday cake around.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Death in t’ midst of life,” she added piously. “We never knows when ’t will come to us. Best to be always prepared.”

  “Who is Miss Potter?” Hannah Braithwaite wanted to know.

  Mathilda’s reply was tinged with scorn. “The spinster lady writer who’s bought Hill Top Farm.”

  “Bought Hill Top Farm?” Crumpet exclaimed, twitching her tail. “Tabitha didn’t tell me that!” Since Crumpet made it her special responsibility to learn about everything that was going on in the village, she was nettled that someone else—especially Tabitha Twitchit—hadn’t shared this interesting snippet of information with her.

  Rascal lay down in the street, dropped his bone between his paws, and began to lick it solicitously. “Maybe Tabitha wanted to keep it a secret,” he said. “Maybe she doesn’t feel that she has to tell you everything that goes on.”

  Crumpet made a growling noise deep in her throat. “I just like to stay informed, that’s all. Somebody has to mind things.”
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br />   “Oh, now I remember,” Hannah said. “Miss Potter is t’ lady who sent t’ books when t’ children all come down with scarlet fever and t’ school closed. Our Sally got Benjamin Bunny, and has read all the words right off t’ page. She loved it when Mr. McGregor’s cat sat atop t’ basket, with t’ two rabbits under it.”

  Hearing this, Crumpet forgot all about her disagreement with Rascal. “A cat on top of a basket of rabbits?” She giggled. “How very clever. Maybe this Potter person has her heart in the right place after all.”

  Frowning, Mathilda nudged the cat with her foot. “Go home, Crumpet. We can’t hear oursels think over thi yowling.”

  “But Mr. Braithwaite sez that Miss Potter’s nivver e’en even seen t’ farm,” Hannah went on. “He sez he can’t think why she wants it, ’specially at t’ price she paid.” In an awe-struck voice, she added, “Nearly three thousand pounds, he sez.”

  “Nay, o’course she’s seen Hill Top,” Mathilda replied with a knowing air. “Miss Potter and her mother and father took their holidays at Lakefield, ’fore tha married Mr. Braithwaite and come to t’ village.” Lakefield was a large and elegant home near the village, with a wide garden overlooking Esthwaite Water. It was let by its owners, the Beltons, to summer visitors. “Miss Potter was ivver underfoot about t’ village, sketchin’ all she could lay eyes on. She spent a whole morning drawin’ t’ door of t’ post office, if tha’ll believe, and two more making pictures of Miranda Rollins’s two Pomeranians. And I saw her danderin’ ’round Moss Eccles Tarn, on t’ hunt for toadstools.”

  “Toadstools!” Hannah exclaimed, her blue eyes widening. “Whatever for?” She lowered her voice. “She a’n’t a witch like Auld Dolly, is she?”

  “A witch? Now, that’s interesting,” Crumpet remarked, pricking her ears forward. Cats have more than a passing interest in the occult, and have for centuries volunteered as companions to Big Folk who are considered witches. Crumpet had sometimes thought that it might be interesting to be a witch’s familiar.