Storyteller - Colin & Anne Brookfield (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📗

that something had gone badly wrong, and what was more, the feedback he was receiving from his shoulders and limbs, gave the clear message that they were not prepared to put up with much more of it. It was then that he saw something that raised his hopes.

The track had just made a sharp bend to the left and he was grateful to be confronted by a small, low cottage that looked as old and as natural in its surroundings, as did the two ancient oaks that stood to the left of it. The track itself ended at a five-bar farm gate at the other side of the cottage. It then led on further into some small outbuildings belonging to the tiny farm.

 

Peter spotted the name ‘Sanscroft’ above the cottage front entrance. “That’s something I wasn’t told,” he muttered to himself.

After lifting the iron door-knocker, it fell with an unexpectedly loud crash, that once again set the birds squawking – and Peter, cringing.

A few moments later, he heard approaching footsteps on a stone floor, and the door opened wide to reveal the cheerful, though slightly surprised figure, of a motherly, middle-aged woman wearing rather old-fashioned clothes.

“Yes sir?” she said, in a strong country accent. “What can I do for you?”

There was a clear feeling that he was unexpected.

“My name is Spencer,” he spluttered, “Peter Spencer. I was under the impression that arrangements had been made for me to stay with you for a week’s holiday.”

“Well, I’ve not ‘eard anything about that, I’m afraid you must ‘ave come to the wrong place,” she replied.

“Obviously, something has gone dreadfully wrong and it’s left me in rather a mess. I can’t face the walk back to the road with all my luggage, and even if I could, it’s a further seven miles to the village.”

“Pr’aps you ‘ad better come in,” she said, “and we can talk about it while the kettle is boiling. By the way sir, my name is Mrs Persill.”

“I’m from London,” he quickly added.

“I could tell that,” she replied, “city folk, they say, ‘ave some very rum ways of dressing, like we never see in these parts.”

They passed through a second doorway that led immediately into a cosy, low-ceilinged, apparently multipurpose room. It had a small window to the front and another that looked out on the back of the cottage. Under this window stood a large table covered with a heavy material. A handsome brass oil lamp, with amber coloured glassware stood in its centre. The room so fascinated Peter, that despite his obvious plight, he couldn’t help absorbing every little detail. There were four chairs placed around the table and like the hallway, the floor was flagged in stone.

On the wall to the left of the table, there was a wide chimney breast, and inset into it was a large black, iron cooking range with an open fire in its centre. The fire apparently heated the oven to the left of it, as well as the water on the right, as there was a large polished brass tap to the lower part of that section. On the hot plates over the oven and the water section, stood a large iron frying pan, several black cooking pots and a huge black kettle which Mrs. Persill was now filling with fresh water from a nearby jug. The kettle was then hoisted – with the skill of constant practice – onto a large hook which left it suspended at the optimum distance above the flames. There was a great deal of headroom above the range, almost five feet from floor level, before the heavy timber mantle shelf jutted out. On this, stood a collection of hand-carved wooden pipes and a few clay ones. Three well-used candle holders with their snuffs sat there as if in readiness for some emergency.

Hanging on the wall to one side of the chimney breast was a highly-polished copper, bed-warming pan. On a shelf above it, casting a baleful eye in Peter’s direction, was a stuffed owl, covered for protection with an elongated glass dome. To the other side of the chimney breast hung a wall clock; its brass pendulum swinging hypnotically from side-to-side beneath its glass-windowed wooden case.

The only rug to be seen, lay in front of the cooking range, and nearby stood a comfortable chair.

The wall opposite the fire had a heavy curtain hanging in its centre, which he suspected covered an opening at the foot of some stairs. Several feet to the left of that, was a door which presumably led to another room.

Suddenly, a slight sound drew his attention to an armchair that had its back towards him. Moving forward a little, he spied a small boy curled up fast asleep within it.

Mrs. Persill noticed Peter’s sudden observation. “Unusual for our William to be asleep this time a day,” she said.

“He looks comfortable,” Peter indicated, as he lowered himself into a chair that was provided for him, and it wasn’t long before a hot drink and home-made bread and butter was placed in front of him.

“Now look,” she said as she sat down, “if you feel a need to get back to the village, I can get my ‘usband to ‘fix up the ‘orse and cart. It’s not very posh mind you. Then he could take you, once ‘e’s finished in the lower field. That’d be in about three hours or so. He couldn’t come right away as ‘e’s cutting the last of the corn while the weather is right. I would like to say though, we ‘ave ‘ad the odd guest stay ‘ere over the years, although not a posh London gent like yourself. But there you are, whatever way you want to do things, we would be obliging.”

“Thank you. You really are so kind. I’d love to stay for the week, that’s if your husband doesn’t mind. I think the people that were supposed to arrange all this, will have it sorted out by then. Incidentally, I’m hoping to be out fishing from dawn to dusk, so I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself ‘bout that, we’ll manage. Now can I get some more for you to eat or drink?”

“No I’m quite full thank you.”

“Well then, if you’d just like to follow me sir, I’ll show you where things are, so as you’ll know your way around.”

“By the way,” he added, “people usually call me Peter.”

“Oh I couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be proper, you being a city gentleman and all that,” she added.

Peter followed her, but said no more as she opened the door to the left of the curtained stair entrance. It led into a small utility room where food was presumably prepared prior to cooking. They then passed through another door and out into the open.

“We ‘ave another little room,” she said, “but we can only get to it through this other door on the outside. There you are; ‘ave a look inside. It’s the coldest place that we ‘ave, as the sun never reaches this wall of the cottage, so it’s where we keep our perishables, not that we keep too much in ‘ere in the warmer months.”

Hanging up inside were several joints of cooked meat, some rather high pheasants, and a side of bacon that was covered in a muslin-like material to protect it. Various covered dishes lay on the shelves.

“Well that’s our main food store; all the rest of our needs we grow in our vegetable garden. Now then, I don’t suppose that really interests you. What I really brung you out for, is to show you where the pump is, in case you be in need of water anytime, but when you want a wash in the morning, there’ll be a jug of water and a bowl on the wash-stand in your bedroom.”

Peter couldn’t help but remark on the water pump, because its extravagant design seemed so out of place.

“Oh, that was father’s work,” she replied, “he replaced the old one that used to be here with another that he found lying abandoned in a nearby field. It must ‘ave belonged to the great house that used to be somewhere ‘ere-abouts afore it were burnt down and then demolished.”

She led on further down the pathway until they came to a small building, which due to its isolation and particular size and shape, needed no explanation – even to a ‘city gent’.

“This be the small room,” she said, “in case you need it, if you know what I mean.”

He nodded his head enthusiastically, hoping that by doing so, they might move a little faster away from the cowshed midden that was steamily marinating close-by in the late afternoon sun.

‘Barney’ was the next port of call. “We be very proud of our Barney,” she said. Peter noticed the udders beneath Barney, but decided not to ask the obvious question. “She gives lovely creamy milk.” Barney swung her head around as if in appreciation, and her large brown eyes surveyed Peter for a second, before she turned her attention back to the large chunk of brown-coloured salt she had been licking.

Peter noted how clean Barney’s stall was. The floor was thickly covered with, what he took to be straw. Up in one corner, stood a small three leggèd stool and several spotless containers with handles. Milking equipment, how charming, he thought, but like Mrs. Persill and her house, they seem like relics from the past.

Sounds of activity from outside the cowshed, sent Mrs. Persill hurriedly away, having first excused herself. Peter followed at a much slower rate, examining each area before putting a foot down. He thought it best to be prudent when cows were around.

Outside, Mrs. Persill was standing there chattering away to a man, who Peter assumed was her husband. Surprisingly, he was dressed like a farmer who had just stepped out of a Dickens’ novel. They certainly go in for hand-me-down clothes in a serious way, thought Peter.

Unlike his wife, the man had a lean build. His face and hands were weathered to a deep brown. His moustache had points that projected out a couple of inches either side of his upper lip; they had been waxed and given a twist or two, to provide the sort of military appearance of a bygone age.

He was holding the bridle of a very large draft horse, which was scuffing impatiently at the ground with one of its gigantic hair-covered hooves. With a nod of the head in Peter’s direction and a touch of his hand to his forelock, the man and horse moved off, as if they had just bidden ‘Good Evening’ to the Squire.

That evening, they all sat down to a meal. It was one of the tastiest Peter had ever eaten, and the quietest. Apart from the occasional “Can I get you some more sir?” or “I’ve packed some lunch for your fishing trip in the morning,” that was about it.

Strangely enough, there was no sense of inhibition, just a comfortable feeling that idle chatter was surplus to their needs, or perhaps Peter thought, surplus to Mr. Persill’s, especially when he suddenly murmured, “Stop blathering at the table woman!” She smiled at Peter as if to say ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

Her husband must have exhausted himself with that diatribe. It was the last word he mentioned that evening and very nearly for the rest of the week.

After dinner, the farmer settled down by the fire, having first brought down a gigantic pipe from the mantle shelf. Its bowl was about three inches in diameter and about four inches deep, with a stem some twelve inches long. It was curved at the end towards the smoker’s mouth. He deposited what seemed like an ounce of tobacco into its gaping maw, and applied a light to it. He sat there for half an hour or so, with both hands cupped in his lap supporting the bowl of the pipe, as it threw out great puffs of