The Tale of Hawthorn House Page 5

  But what she uncovered instead was a baby doll, wearing a cleverly knitted pink cap and securely wrapped in pink flannel. And then the doll opened its very blue eyes, waved a tiny fist, and yawned, the prettiest, most perfect little round O of a yawn that anyone has ever seen.

  Beatrix gasped in sheer astonishment. “A baby!” she cried.

  She stared down at the baby for a moment, her heart beating fast. Of all the things in the world that might have been in that basket, a baby was the very last thing she would have thought of. And then, suddenly recollecting herself, she ran out onto the porch, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had left it.

  And what did she see?

  Why, exactly what you might have predicted. A small, round, gray-haired old lady wrapped in an untidy bundle of scarves and shawls was climbing over the garden wall. At the top, she turned and waved at Beatrix. Then she vanished.

  And at that moment, the heavens opened and it began to pour with rain.

  5

  The True Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck

  Listen to the story of Jemima Puddle-duck, who was annoyed because the farmer’s wife would not let her hatch her own eggs.

  Beatrix Potter, The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck

  The downpour delighted the ducks, annoyed the hens, and prompted Kep the collie and Mustard, the old yellow dog, to seek refuge in the Hill Top barn. They sprawled on the earthen floor just inside the door and watched the rain pelting in gusty, wind-spun sheets across the garden. They also took notice of the old woman who was just going over the wall.

  “Haven’t seen that one in quite a while,” Mustard remarked in his broad country dialect. “Those Hawthorn Folk mostly keep to themselves on Broomstick Lane. They moved house when they was evicted, back some while ago.”

  “Hawthorn Folk?” Kep asked curiously. A brown collie with a shawl of white fur around his shoulders, four white paws, and a white tip to his full tail, he had been brought from Low Longmire by Farmer Jennings to help Mustard with the herding. The older dog was getting on in years. He was fine with the cows (who were slow and deliberate) but no longer spry enough to go after Miss Potter’s nimble-footed sheep.

  “Thorn Folk are like t’ Oak and Beech and Willow Folk,” Mustard replied, licking a paw. “Fairy folk tree dwellers, y’know. This lot was evicted from t’ hawthorns at Hawthorn House when t’ trees was chopt down.”

  “Chopt down!” Kep barked, aghast. “Where I come from, taking down a thorn is the worst sort of luck. Unless it’s done right,” he added. “With proper notice and apologies. And even then, the Folk may take offence.”

  “ ’Tweren’t done right at Hawthorn House,” Mustard replied. “An Army man bought t’ place. Arrived one day, ordered t’ thorns chopt down t’ next. Said they stood in the way o’ his lookin’ out o’er t’ lake.” He shook his head darkly. “Gave t’ Thorn Folk no notice, no by-your-leave, not even ‘I’m sorry.’ T’ thorns was chopt down and carted off, with t’ Folk running after, cryin’ and sobbin’ as if their hearts ’ud break. Not that t’ Army man noticed, o’ course. Some humans doan’t, worse fer them.”

  Kep was somber. “I’ve heard people say that Hawthorn House is haunted.”

  “Worse ’n haunted,” Mustard said with a sigh. “Curst. T’ garden won’t grow, t’ well’s dried up, and there’s to be no babes.”

  “No babes? That’s a sad thing.”

  “Aye. If a babe is born in t’ house, t’ Folk are bound to carry it off.”

  Kep whistled softly and cast a glance at the spot where the woman had scaled the wall and disappeared. “And that was one of them?”

  “Aye. Wonder what she’s doin’ here at Hill Top.”

  Not having heard Mrs. Overthewall’s conversation with the children or seen what she left on Miss Potter’s doorstep, the dogs were at a loss. So we shall turn our attention to another creature in the barn: the would-be mother duck whose misadventure with a certain fox was chronicled in Miss Potter’s story The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck. I’m sure you have read it but perhaps a long time ago. So that you can understand what Jemima is doing in the barn, I will relate the tale to you here, although the story will include some details Miss Potter omitted from her book, perhaps in deference to the youthful innocence of her audience.

  When The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck begins, we learn that the farmer’s wife has been thwarting the duck’s desires to fulfill her maternal destiny. Each day, Mrs. Jennings sends her son, young Sammy, to collect the duck eggs and give them to the hens to hatch. (You may see a picture of Sammy taking Jemima’s eggs from under the rhubarb on page 12 of The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck. You will also see the box-hive that Miss Potter placed in an alcove of the garden fence. The box was built for a swarm of bees that were knocked out of a tree by a storm. Miss Potter found the swarm, brought them home, and installed them in the box, where they have lived happily ever after.)

  But back to Mrs. Jennings, who did not think much of ducks as mothers. “Ducks is lazy sitters,” she told Miss Potter. “We gets more ducklings wi’ less bodderment when t’ chickens is put in charge, and that’s a fact.”

  This arrangement met with the enthusiastic approval of most of the female ducks. (The drakes had no opinion, since their part of the business was already done.) Rebecca Puddle-duck, Jemima’s sister-in-law, was delighted to leave the hatching to the chickens, and advised Jemima to do the same.

  “I don’t have the patience QUACK to spend twenty-eight days on a nest,” Rebecca said. She shuddered. “Not to mention the danger from weasels and QUACK! stoats.” (Ducks, as you may know, have a habit of nesting away from the civilized safety of the barnyard, in wild places where they are vulnerable to ambush.) “Let the Bonnet and Boots and Shawl hatch the duCKLUCKLINGS,” she added, with a careless flip of her wing. “I have no laCK of things to do with my time, Jemima. I am content to sit baCK and let the hens taCKle it, and so should you be.”

  But Jemima felt deep in her heart that motherhood was both a duty and a privilege, and scorned the suggestion that the hens could do a better job. So she hid her eggs as cleverly as she could, under a rhubarb leaf, in the middle of a blackberry thicket, or among the ferns on the bank of Wilfin Beck. But she was never quite clever enough, for Sammy Jennings stole each one. And twenty-eight days later, a smug red hen was parading around the barnyard with Jemima’s ducklings quacking along beside her. It was enough to drive a duck to distraction!

  Which is why Jemima, desperate to start her family, put on her best blue poke bonnet, tied her paisley shawl over her shoulders, and flew across the fields, searching for a nesting site so far away that Sammy couldn’t find it. She landed on a neatly clipped lawn where, to her surprise, she came face to face with a sporting gentleman with a narrow, sharpish face and the handsomest sandy whiskers she had ever seen. Dressed in smart green tweeds and a salmon-colored waistcoat with brass buttons, he was lounging in a wicker chair, sipping a cup of fine coffee, smoking a fat Manila cheroot, and studying the racing form in the Times. (These last few details, reported to me by Jemima, are not in the book. It must be assumed that Miss Potter omitted them so as not to corrupt the morals of her youngest readers.)

  This sporting gentleman, who seemed to be of a cheerful and sympathetic temperament, lived in a summer-house built of faggots and turfs in a casually elegant style, like the holiday home of a Turkish pasha. (Miss Potter was apparently not impressed by the house, calling it “dismal-looking.”) Its name, and its owner’s, were engraved on a small gold plate under the bell-pull beside the door:

  Foxglove Close

  R. V. Vulpes, Esq.

  When Jemima explained that she was looking for a place to begin her family, Mr. Vulpes (who spoke in an accent that you or I might think of as phony-French, but certainly impressed the duck) was eager to help. He showed her to a chamber at the rear of his summer-house, sumptuously upholstered with feather bolsters spread with Turkish shawls.

  “Eet eez a poor place,” he said with a deprecating wave, “b
ut private and comfort-able. I hope zat eet eez not unworthy of Madam’s maternal dedication.”

  Jemima was thrilled. The feathers were soft, the shawls luxurious, and the chamber was quite the thing. Quite the thing, indeed—and entirely safe, for Mr. Vulpes (who was the kindest and most courteous of gentlemen) generously offered to keep an eye on her eggs in her absence.

  And when Jemima had finished what she came to do, Mr. Vulpes brought out a silver dish on which were arranged a half-dozen sugared pieces of Turkish Delight and served them with tiny cups of very dark Turkish coffee, to which he added a great deal of sugar. The charming Mr. Vulpes was, as you can clearly see, a gourmet, and Jemima indulged in his dainties with great enthusiasm—as well she might, since laying such a fine, large egg had made her very hungry, and of course, she had to fly all the way home.

  Now, I venture to say that if you found yourself in this situation, you might not have been so willing to leave your offspring in a stranger’s care, or so eager to accept his offer of treats. But an inexperienced duck who has never before been so far from her barnyard can scarcely be faulted for yielding to the sophisticated temptations of confection, coffee, and feather bolsters. What Jemima’s mother, Priscilla Puddle-duck (who was brought up Presbyterian by very strict parents), would have said about her daughter’s adventure, I daren’t think. But if this simple duck is susceptible to the seductions of such a sweetly mannered host, who amongst us can blame her? Surely not I, nor you, nor anybody else.

  So each afternoon, Jemima flew over the fields, landed on the lawn at Foxglove Close, and retired to her upholstered chamber to lay an egg. When there were nine altogether, it was time to begin hatching. She told Mr. Vulpes that when next she came, she would bring her knitting (she was planning nine dear little shawls, all in yellow wool) and a few romantic novels to pass the time. When her eggs had hatched, she would lead her nine fine ducklings back to the barnyard. And then those smug hens would learn who was the better mother!

  Mr. Vulpes congratulated her, proposing that they celebrate the auspicious occasion with a feast. The menu might include a savory omelette, he said, as well as some delicious pâté de foie gras—“Zat most delicious of delicacies!” he exclaimed, kissing his fingers and rolling his eyes—if Jemima could contribute two onions and a few sprigs of sage, thyme, and parsley. Jemima was not familiar with pâté or omelettes (she had never learnt French), but she was sure that they would be every bit as delicious as everything else her host had served.

  But alas! Jemima was not to enjoy her feast. When she went to the Hill Top kitchen to get two onions out of Mrs. Jennings’s basket, Kep inquired what she was doing. Flattered by his interest, the duck told him. He listened, asked several thoughtful questions, and then went about his business, as did she, forgetting all about their conversation.

  But she had scarcely reached Foxglove Close that afternoon when Kep appeared, accompanied by the two fox-hound puppies who lived at the Tower Bank Arms. The puppies chased Jemima’s host away while Kep translated the words “pâté de foie gras” (a paste made from the liver of a fat goose or duck) and “omelette” (eggs whipped and fried) for a horrified Jemima. She burst into tears when Kep told her that R.V. Vulpes of Foxglove Close was actually Reynard Fox (the poor duck was as ignorant of Latin as French), and that her host intended to breakfast on her eggs and dine upon her person, in the form of roast duck, with herb-and-onion stuffing and fois gras on the side.

  Ah, poor Jemima. She felt betrayed, a betrayal that was made worse—oh, much, much worse!—by the fact that she had begun to feel something more than friendship for Mr. Vulpes. Naively, she had even hoped that, over the time they would spend together while her eggs were hatching, the gentleman might come to return her feelings. And now, in the light of Kep’s explanation, she saw herself for exactly what she was, an unwary, unsuspecting, gullible duck who had been duped by a bold deceiver. A duck with no more brains than a ha’penny bun (as Lady Longford once said about Emily). Her heart was broken.

  But at that moment, another tragedy occurred. Having got rid of the fox, the puppies ran straight to Jemima’s nest and gobbled up all nine of her beautiful eggs, proving that foxes and fox-hounds have similar appetites, and that neither are to be trusted.

  Distraught over her betrayal and hysterical over the loss of her eggs, Jemima allowed Kep to escort her home. And Kep, who wanted to spare her feelings as best he could, promised that he would tell no one about her disgrace, a promise that he honored.

  But the perfidious puppies had no such consideration. Back at the Tower Bank Arms, they confided the tale to Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet, who went straight out to tell all the other animals. News travels fast in a village, and it took only a short while for the word to spread to every Sawrey household and across the Hill Top barnyard. Jemima was deeply chagrined.

  And then things got worse.

  Miss Potter put the story into a book, portraying Jemima’s humiliation to the whole, wide world. In fact, Miss Potter was overheard to say that twenty thousand copies of her book had been printed, with the likelihood of one or two additional printings before the holiday season, as grandmothers bought them to read aloud to their little grandchildren on Christmas morning.

  Twenty thousand copies! Jemima had no head for numbers, but it sounded as if every single person on this earth would soon know that she was a miserable failure as a mother. On the very last page of the story, Miss Potter had drawn her with four ducklings, but that was a fictitious happy ending, so that the children would not be disappointed. And even so, the last seven words of Jemima’s book were like seven knives plunged right into Jemima’s heart:

  She had always been a bad sitter.

  There.

  Now that you have heard the full story, perhaps you can appreciate Jemima’s desire to redeem her reputation.

  Perhaps you can understand why she was determined to have another go at motherhood, this time in the safety of the barn, as far away as possible from fox-hound puppies, foxes, and one particular fox.

  And there was the rub.

  The duck had tried with some success to put that particular fox out of her mind, for she knew that harboring any sort of friendly feeling toward such a crafty creature was the worst sort of romantic folly.

  But alas! She had not been able to put him out of her heart. In spite of all she knew about him, in spite of Kep’s stern warnings and the Puddle-ducks’ worried remonstrations, she had still remembered how much she had enjoyed Mr. Vulpes’ witty conversation, his charming manners, his intriguing accent, and yes, his Turkish Delights. And even though she knew what a feather-brained fool she had been to trust him, she had to admit that, deep in her heart, she still cared for the fellow, for her sandy-whiskered gentleman, as she had come to think of him. She was afraid that if she met him, she might fall under his spell once again.

  So she found a secret place for her eggs behind the feedbox, where nobody could see her. The ducks’ nesting season was over, so Sammy Jennings was no longer dispatched to look for eggs. Boots, Bonnet, and Shawl had done their duty as surrogate mothers, and Mrs. Jennings was already considering which of their fat young ducklings ought to be invited to holiday dinner. (I hope that you, as I do, consider it a cruel irony that everyone should go to great trouble to keep the ducklings safe from foxes, only to eat them at the holidays!)

  So Jemima had every reason to believe that her nest was secret, and thus far, she had been right. Not even Kep knew. The Sutton children sometimes stole into the barn to say hello and stroke her feathers and whisper encouragement, but there had been no other visitors or intruders—except for an annoying Cockney magpie named Jackboy, who had recently flown up from London and hung around the barnyard, chattering incessant nonsense. He couldn’t be trusted to keep her secret, but his magpie jabber was so full of rhyming slang that it was impossible to know what he was saying.

  “Apples and pears, kick me upstairs,” he chortled, peering at her with one glittering black eye. “Still here, duc
ky dear?”

  “Go away, JaCKboy,” Jemima said, with great dignity. “I am QUACK a busy duCK.” To prove it, she took her knitting out of the basket beside her. It was the tenth little yellow shawl, for the last of her ten ducklings—a good thing, too, since she was almost out of yarn.

  “Busy lizzie, buzzie loozie,” Jackboy warbled gaily. He hopped from one foot to the other. “Rub-a-dub-ducky, chuck-a-luck-dabble-duck. Wot can I give ye, me fine Puddleplucky?”

  “You’re giving me a headAChe,” said Jemima. She looked down at her knitting. Had she dropped a stitch in the previous row?

  “Kiss me a-miss,” chirped Jackboy impolitely. “Miss me a kiss. Why ain’t yer eggs hatched, cluckie-duckie?”

  “BeCAUse they haven’t,” Jemima snapped. She had dropped not one stitch but two, two rows back, not one—which I daresay wouldn’t be a problem for you, but for a duck of limited intelligence, it posed a puzzling dilemma. Should she rip out two whole rows and repair it, or simply go on and pretend it hadn’t happened?

  “Bad batch!” Jackboy cackled maliciously. “Dropt stitch won’t fix, broke lock won’t latch, watched pot won’t boil, spoilt egg won’t hatch.”

  “TaKe that baCK!” Jemima cried in dismay. “My eggs are not QUACK spoilt! They are the very finest of duCK eGGs!”

  “Bad eggs,” Jackboy sang gaily. “Mad eggs, sad eggs, plaid eggs.” He twirled around on one foot. “Eggs begs, bandy legs, hat pegs, beer kegs!”

  Jemima gave the bird a cold look. “PaCK it up, JaCK. I have important worK to do.”

  “Kegs ’n’ kettles, kettles ’n’ hobs!” Jackboy shrieked madly. “Foils ’n’ fobs! Foxes ’n’ clockses! Watched clockses never boil! Boiled eggses never spoil.” And with that, he flew away.

  Jemima settled herself back onto her nest, trying to concentrate on her knitting. Boiled eggs, spoilt eggs! Now she wouldn’t be able to get the phrase out of her mind. How many days had it been since she began to sit? Quite a few, she thought wearily, more than twenty-eight. More than thirty-two, more than thirty-five! Her brain was growing fuzzy, her thoughts were in a muddle, and her posterior had gone numb.