The Tale of Hawthorn House (27 page)

Were they?

Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Who knows? Certainly not Reynard, for like many of us, who understand others better than we understand ourselves, the fox was not at all sure how he felt about Jemima. She was the duck who got away, a distasteful fact that certainly sharpened his appetite. Worse yet, she and that wretched collie—and Miss Potter, too, come to that—had made him look an utter fool. Word about the misadventure had traveled far and wide, and even farther, now that Miss Potter’s book had achieved best-sellerdom. No question about it—the surest and most satisfactory way to redeem himself would be to raid the barn, snatch Jemima out from under the collie’s nose (Miss Potter’s, too), and eat her and her eggs on the spot, leaving a pile of bloody feathers and broken shells in testimony to his superior hunting skills. Reynard had no doubt that Jemima would taste just as good as the countless other ducks he had eaten. Foxes ate ducks. What could be simpler and easier than that?

But this particular truth, as truths often are, was complicated. The embarrassing fact of the matter was that over the course of the duck’s visits to Foxglove Close, Reynard had grown almost too fond of her—not as a duck to be sauced or stewed or sautéed and served up at table, but as a duck who appreciated his talents as a gourmet cook, a duck who would laugh at his stories, a duck with whom he might enjoy an interesting dinner-table conversation. Reynard’s solitary life was beginning to pall. He wanted company. He wanted companionship. He wanted . . . well, to be honest, he wanted Jemima.

But this was an unconventional, unorthodox, and even unnatural thought, so the fox (much as you or I, when confronted by some inexplicable paradox within ourselves) preferred not to think it. Instead, he made his way to Hill Top Farm the next morning (that would be Wednesday), where he lurked in the bushes and waited and watched as the animals went about their business. He saw the Herdwick sheep and their lambs, the Galloway cows and their calves, the mother pigs with their piglets, the hens with their chicks— all models of maternal domesticity. He also saw Mustard, the old yellow dog, napping in the sunshine beside the barn door, and Kep the collie patrolling the barnyard boundaries. There was no sign of Jemima, who was no doubt penned up, as Thorn had said, in the barn.

So the fox went off to find luncheon, which he did with the help of a young and inexperienced rabbit whom he met on the bank of Wilfin Beck. Then he retired to Foxglove Close, where he drank a cup of Turkish coffee, enjoyed a pipe of his favorite tobacco, and caught up on the newspapers. He napped until the moon floated up over Cuckoo Brow Wood, at which time he took himself down to the barn, where he crept along the outside wall, sniffing until he came to a point directly behind Jemima’s secret nest.

Ah, here she was! He stopped, closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and inhaled deeply, smelling her scent— the fragrance of warm duck feathers, that unmistakably sweet-sour odor that spells d-u-c-k. This odor (which might have offended some delicate noses) was like attar of roses to our fox, who stood stock-still, inhaling deeply. Whether this was an emotional response or simply hunger, we are not permitted to know, but it is certainly true that he found the scent entrancing.

But the fox did not linger long in sweet enjoyment of Jemima’s perfume, for the next moment, he heard the sound of barking. Kep the collie was rounding the corner of the barn at a gallop, shouting and snapping his teeth. Deciding that prudence was the better part of valor, Reynard took to his heels. Anyway, he now knew what he had come to find out: the whereabouts of his duck. His reconnaissance mission was a success, and he could call again when the dog was out on other business. (And yes, you are right to notice that the fox thought of the duck as “his,” although in what sense he is using the term is not entirely clear.)

Of course, one creature’s odiferous stench is another creature’s perfume, so we should not be surprised that while Kep had found Reynard’s scent “filthy,” the duck had quite a different reaction. She had been dozing and dreaming on her nest, as she did much of the time (hatching is a boring business, after all, especially if it is too dark to read and you are not allowed a candle). In her dream, she was back at Foxglove Close with her dear friend, the sporting gentleman. He was offering her a whole plateful of the most exquisite Turkish Delight, and when she had eaten it, he escorted her to her own private boudoir, which was furnished with soft pillows spread with paisley shawls.

But now she is wide awake, no longer dreaming, and suddenly aware of the scent of . . . was it? Can it be? Yes, she is sure of it! The heady odor that hangs around her like a delicious fog is the favorite cologne of Mr. Vulpes, her very own sandy-whiskered sporting gentleman!

Now, Jemima knew very well that it would be smart to forget the fox, but his gracious charm, his delightful wit, his generous warmth all lingered in the duck’s romantic heart. And even though Kep had made it brutally clear who Mr. Vulpes was and what he had wanted of her, none of the collie’s warnings or admonitions made any difference. The truth—the irrefutable, indisputable truth (which she should have been ashamed to admit, but was not)—was this: that she cared for Mr. Vulpes. She yearned to leave her nest and these stupid eggs and run away with him. And why else would he have come, if it were not to fetch her?

Who knows what foolishness this simpleton duck might have got up to that night if it had not been for Kep the courageous? His barking awakened old Mustard, who had been sleeping just inside the barn, and both dogs were chasing the fox around the garden, howling and baying and making a furious noise. Mustard could not see very well in the dark, however, and blundered into the cucumber frame, adding the smash of breaking glass to the general clamor.

All this fracas woke Winston the pony, who began to mutter imprecations against rude fellows who stayed up all night, romping and roistering about the garden while respectable working animals were trying to get their sleep.

On the rafter over Winston’s head, Chanticleer the rooster also awoke. Thinking that he had somehow slept through the dawn, he raised his voice and announced with authority that the day had begun. (Why he thought this, I don’t know, since it was still pitch-black outside, but there’s a rooster for you.) Mrs. Boots and Mrs. Shawl, who knew exactly what time it was and that it was
not
time to get up, began to cackle with loud vexation, telling Chanticleer exactly what they thought of inconsiderate roosters.

Upstairs at the Jenningses’ end of the Hill Top farmhouse, the barking dogs and crowing rooster and cackling hens awakened Baby Pearl, the youngest Jennings, who began to scream at the top of her baby lungs. Mrs. Jennings, in her hurry to comfort her daughter, knocked over the bedroom washstand, breaking the china pitcher and basin into smithereens.

At nearby Tower Bank Arms (which is very close to the Hill Top farmhouse, as you know if you have ever been to the village), the windows were open on this warm August night, and the Barrows (father and mother and two small Barrows) were asleep upstairs. Mrs. Barrow heard the barking, the crowing and cackling, the crashing of glass and china, and thought that a thief must have broken into the pub through the scullery window. She roused Mr. Barrow, who got up and fetched his bird-hunting gun from the closet whilst she ran to fling herself over the bodies of her children, to protect them from their horrible fate.

Now, Mr. Barrow is a crack shot, and no one brings home more red grouse or pheasants in season than he. He has even won prizes for his shooting at the Hawkshead sporting competition held each year in April, so it must not be said that he is unskilled with his gun. But having never confronted a burglar before, he was understandably nervous (as I daresay you or I would be, in the circumstance). He tripped over his pyjama leg and fell flat on his face. His shotgun discharged, the thunderous blast blowing the glass out of the pub’s front door and frightening Tabitha Twitchit and Crumpet, who were innocently hunting voles under the rosebushes in the Buckle Yeat garden next door, and startling the clan of bats who lived in the Buckle Yeat roof. The cats, thinking that Mr. Barrow was firing at them, cried out in alarmed protest and climbed up the beech tree. Mrs. Barrow, thinking that the burglar had killed her husband and that she and her children were next to be slaughtered, added her voice.

And since this is a village and each house is cheek-to-jowl with its neighbor, the alarm was instantaneous. Up Market Street at Croft End Cottage, Constable Braithwaite was startled out of a pleasant dream (we shall not report its subject) by the shattering roar of Mr. Barrow’s shotgun, followed by the ear-splitting shrieks of female and feline voices. Fearing the worst, the valiant constable sprang out of bed, pulled his trousers on under his red flannel nightshirt, and ran at top speed down Market Street to the pub, brandishing his truncheon and shouting “Stop, thief!” loudly enough to frighten off the most foolhardy of villains and waken the soundest of village sleepers—which of course he did. The thief (that is, the fox, who had come calling on Jemima) was nowhere to be seen, but all along Market Street, people were waking up, jumping out of bed, and hurrying to their windows to find out who had been shooting and who had been shot.

And when at last the constable returned up the street to Croft End, he had to answer the questions everyone shouted at him out their windows, until the village was finally satisfied that there was no danger. No one had been injured, and the only serious casualties seemed to be a cucumber frame, two pieces of Hill Top china, and the front door of the pub. Still, it was a full half hour before Market Street had gone back to its slumbers and Mr. Barrow had persuaded Mrs. Barrow that she and the two little Barrows would not be murdered in their beds.

When the hurly-burly began—and especially when she heard the roar of Mr. Barrow’s shotgun—Jemima had been very frightened for the fox’s safety. But as the cacophony abated and Kep’s barking and Mustard’s baying sounded fainter and farther away, she knew with relief that Mr. Vulpes was safe. He was very fast, he knew the lay of the land better than any dog, and there were any number of dens where he could find refuge. Mustard would never even see his back, and not even Kep was fast enough to catch him.

Winston went to sleep, Chanticleer settled back on his rafter, the hens stopped clucking, and there was silence at last. Jemima heaved a heavy sigh. If she were allowed to choose, she would leave off this tedious undertaking and follow her friend. But she could feel the new life stirring beneath her. Soon there would be ducklings. She would be a mother, and she could not, must not,
would not
abandon her babies in pursuit of her own pleasures.

But after what had happened tonight, Jemima was now beginning to think outside of her nest. She would not be a mother forever, for it was in the nature of ducklings to grow up and leave her with an empty nest. Once her babies were hatched, it would be only a matter of hours before they were running about the barnyard. In only a few short weeks they would be completely on their own, ready to join the rest of the Puddle-duck flock. Oh, they would come back to her now and then to show off a new accomplishment, or to consult about a particular social problem, or just to tell her they loved her. But basically, they would be their own ducks, with their hopes and their own dreams, and she would be free to have a life of her own, at last. At last!

Jemima took a deep breath, stretched her wings, and resettledherself on the nest. She would prove to Kep and the Puddle-ducks, and especially to Miss Potter, that she could be a good mother, even though it meant denying herself, momentarily, at least.

But as soon as her obligation to her ducklings was satisfied, she would be responsible to no one but herself. She could fulfill what she now admitted was her heart’s dearest wish: to be with her own dear sporting gentleman, the one in green tweeds, with beautiful sandy whiskers.

25

Captain Woodcock Learns the Latest

The shotgun blast in the night was not the only thing the village had to discuss on Thursday morning, and by Thursday noon, all the various bits and pieces of gossip had been neatly sorted and conclusions reached, proving once again that there is nothing like a village for managing everyone’s affairs.

There was both bad news and good news, certainties and uncertainties, and something for everyone.

The bad news was that Miss Woodcock was to marry Major Kittredge and adopt Flora, the foundling infant. There was great dismay over this, because it was widely felt that the major’s reputation was forever tarnished by his decision to marry that London actress, and that poor Miss Woodcock, who was widely acknowledged to be the nearest thing to a saint most people had ever met, would be tarred by the same wicked brush. In the general opinion, this marriage was a monumental mistake.

The good news was that Captain Woodcock was to marry Miss Potter. Cheers were heard when this got abroad, although not perhaps for the reason one might think: that everyone wished the couple well and desired their marital happiness. Instead, it was generally believed that the reins of Hill Top Farm belonged in a man’s hands, not a woman’s—and what more capable hands than those of Captain Woodcock?

It was also felt to be good news that Elsa Grape (a proud person who would never in the world allow herself to be managed by Miss Potter, when Miss Potter became Mrs. Woodcock) was going to work at the vicarage, where the vicar had been in serious want of managing for some time, witness the hems of his trousers and the elbows of his sweaters and the sad want of sweets at the vicarage tea.

But far as the ancestry of the foundling infant was concerned, the village was still in doubt. Some said (darkly, with a frown) that the mother was a gypsy and the father was the major, and Miss Woodcock ought to have a care how she threw her life away on a man who didn’t deserve it. Others suspected that the mother and father were
both
gypsies, and that Miss Woodcock ought to have a care about taking in a gypsy child, since it was bound to bring her nothing but grief. None were quite certain how the gypsy (or half-gypsy) child got to Miss Potter’s doorstep: some blamed the gypsies themselves, while a few of the older folk insisted that the Folk surely had a hand in it. But whilst there was a great deal of uncertainty about Flora’s ancestry, the village had a very firm opinion as to her future. Gypsy children did not belong in the village. She should be sent to the parish workhouse, to grow up with the other foundling children.