The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (25 page)

The flight back across the lake doesn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, the Professor has landed in the tall tree at Oat Cake Crag, where he pulls out his ham-and-onion sandwich and begins to eat. While he is eating, he reviews his notes, considering what he has seen and heard over the past several hours. It has been a very busy and eventful several hours, to be sure. His mission has been—at least in the Professor’s view—remarkably productive.

Of course, while the owl has been spying, other things have been going on in the area. Mr. Heelis has returned to his solicitor’s office in Hawkshead. Captain Woodcock has gone back to Tower Bank House to have luncheon with his loving wife. Mr. Baum continues to lie, white and unmoving, in a guestroom bed at Raven Hall, tended to by Dimity Kittredge, who is hoping that Dr. Butters will be able to stop in during the afternoon to check on his patient.

And while all these things have been happening, Miss Potter has been making her way toward—

But I think perhaps we should start a new chapter.

When we last saw Miss Potter, she was on her way back from Belle Green in the company of her friend Rascal. She had just opened her brother’s letter and read that her parents had been told that she was secretly engaged to Will Heelis. This news was startling and dreadfully unwelcome, and it had left her deeply dismayed.

But Beatrix was a staunch person who rarely gave in to darker sorts of feelings. Her philosophy was trusting and uncomplicated: she believed that a great power silently turned all things to good, and that you should behave yourself and never mind the rest. Of course, she wasn’t above taking a hand herself when there was something she could do to help. But for the most part, her practical turn of mind encouraged her to behave as though things would turn out well and trust that they would and leave the problem or the challenge or the dilemma to sort itself out. Then she could be surprised and pleased when it did, when what she dreamt of turned out right in the end. And if it didn’t—well, it wasn’t meant to be, that’s all.

It had been that way when she had lost Norman. She had feared, deep in her heart, that she would never again be happy. But she had believed and trusted, and now, to her surprise, just six years later, she found herself busy and content with her books and her farm and her animals here in this little Lake District village. And to her great delight, she had found another man who loved her and whom she could love, perhaps even more deeply and truly than she had loved Norman so long ago. The letter from London was lead in her pocket and the thought of what was happening at Bolton Gardens was an ominous cloud over her head, but she reminded herself that if she could only believe and trust, things would turn out well.

So she resolutely turned her attention away from the letter to the sun-brightened landscape around her. “Isn’t the countryside beautiful, Rascal?” she asked, making her voice as light and cheerful as she could. “It’s such a wonderful day. I want to go for a long, long walk!” But a few minutes later, to her surprise, she found that she couldn’t quite keep her attention from the letter. So she spoke about it to Rascal, and in a few moments, had spilled out the whole story, from the moment of the engagement to her efforts to keep it secret to receiving Bertram’s letter. She felt she had to tell someone, and who better than Rascal?

Rascal had been aware of the engagement for some time, of course. Animals always know a great deal more about human affairs than we give them credit for. But he wasn’t about to let Miss Potter know that he was already in on the secret.

“I’m delighted,”
he said firmly, when he had listened to the whole thing. As of course he truly was, for he loved Miss Potter with all his heart and was a great fan of Mr. Heelis, who always seemed to find a bit of biscuit in his pocket for his four-footed friends.
“I’m sorry to hear that your parents have learnt your secret. But it was bound to come out sooner or later, wasn’t it?”

Beatrix sighed. Now that she thought about it, she was surprised that the news of her engagement hadn’t leaked out sooner. Villages were horrible places for gossip, and she and Mr. Heelis had been together as often as they could. They pretended that they were just going about the country in search of property, but someone must have seen them and thought otherwise.

“But what am I going to tell my parents?” she wondered aloud. “What
am
I going to tell them?”

“Whatever you decide,”
Rascal said in a comforting tone,
“I’m sure it will be the right thing. Just trust your heart, and you’ll be fine.”
He leapt up and nipped gently at her sleeve.
“Now, then, shall we go for our walk? It’s such a beautiful morning. I will follow you wherever you like and we will make a grand time of it, just you and I. Lead on, dear Miss Potter. Lead on!”

So, cheered by the little dog’s friendship and encouragement, Beatrix led on. The north wind was blustery and chill, and the trees in Penny Woods and along Claife Heights had not yet put on their springtime dresses. But the sun was bright with the promise of April, not many days away, and the grass was green and sweet-smelling. The new lambs frolicked joyfully around their mothers, who watched with patient forbearance and now and then reminded their young charges not to venture too far. In the hedges, the robins were singing as gaily as if the warm days were already here and it was time to think about mates and babies and blossoms and worms. Spring in the Land Between the Lakes is a magical time, and it didn’t take long for that magic to lift and lighten Beatrix’s spirit.

The path that she and Rascal were following led away from the village, eastward across the meadows, to the rocky ford across Wilfin Beck. The name itself says what it is, for the word
wilfin
means “willow” and a beck is a stream. Even though (in the grand scheme of things) it is only an insignificant little beck, Wilfin feels very proud of itself and its willows as it wends its way across the greensward. I don’t wonder at that, for small as it may be, the beck is very beautiful. In the winter, it is sometimes frozen and quiet, glassy with ice and sparkling with diamonds of frost. And in the summer, when there is less rain, the water may move slowly, loitering along like a sluggish schoolboy. But in the spring, oh, in the early spring the beck brims bank-to-bank with the clearest, purest, sweetest snow-water from the higher fells, some of which are often still white with snow in March, even though the land below is emerald green.

This morning, the beck was in a mood to make sure that all this fresh, lovely water flowed as fast as it could into Windermere, and south right through the lake to the River Leven, under Newby Bridge and past the lovely white cottages of Greenodd and into Morecambe Bay and finally out into the broad, blue Irish Sea, a journey that takes a great deal more time to make than for me to tell you about it. But if you think this lovely adventure has ended when Wilfin’s water is lost in the vastness of the salty ocean, you must think again, for the sun on the sea is warm and inviting and pulls the water up to itself, into the highest atmosphere, where each drop lives in the clouds until the perfect moment, when it falls once again onto the higher fells, onto Crinkles Crag and Bow Fell and High Raise, and onto the lower fells, too, onto Latterbarrow and Claife Heights and then into the myriad rivulets that hurry down to Wilfin Beck and its willows and the green grass of the Land Between the Lakes.

Beatrix was reflecting on this wonderful cycle of nature as she lifted her woolen skirt and stepped from rock to mossy rock across the beck, whilst the dippers and wagtails and water-ouzels, splashing and chirping in the shallows, cheered her on. It was comforting, somehow, to know that all the life around her was part of a larger pattern, in which even the smallest drop of water, the least lichen and liverwort, and the slightest water-ouzel had its great and important and even magnificent role to play. It helped her to believe and trust that her own life would turn out as it was meant to do, no matter how dark it might seem at the moment.

It was in this more optimistic frame of mind that Beatrix looked across the meadow and realized that she had reached a fork in the path. One way led north into the higher fells, in the direction of Latterbarrow, where there were no houses and no people, only a great stone cairn standing guard at its lonely post and a splendid western view of the Coniston mountains and the Kentmere fells beyond. Oh, and from Latterbarrow a path went on to Windermere and Wray Castle, that huge, ugly pile of rock where her family had stayed one holiday long ago, when she was sixteen. Should she go that way, and visit Wray, and spend the day poking around her past?

But the other, nearer path led to the vicarage. This, of course, was where Reverend Sackett lived—the same Reverend Sackett who was pledged to marry her friend Grace Lythecoe sometime next month, if nothing intervened. At the distant sight of its gray stone walls, its gables and steeply pitched slate roofs, Beatrix discovered that her question was answered. She had not consciously chosen to come this way, but now that she had, she knew why. She would have a sit-down chat with Mrs. Thompson, the vicar’s cook-housekeeper, who was destined to be replaced when the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe were married. Mrs. Thompson was said to listen at doors. If she knew or suspected that she was facing imminent discharge, she would have a very good reason to wish that the marriage would not take place, and (although one did not like to think of it) the motivation to write those ugly letters.

But although Beatrix had met Mrs. Thompson on one or two occasions, she didn’t really know the woman and felt that she couldn’t just go barging in on such a slight acquaintance. She needed an excuse for her visit, like the tablecloth she had taken to Matilda Crook for mending. What could it be?

And then, as she asked herself this question, she realized that she was very thirsty, and thought that no excuse could be better than the truth. She looked down at the little dog. “Rascal, do you suppose you could occupy yourself for a while? I am going to drop in on Mrs. Thompson at the vicarage.”

“Of course,”
Rascal agreed cheerily.
“I’ll just pop out to the barn and see if Cyril is around.”
Cyril was the shaggy old sheepdog who had lived at the vicarage for longer than Rascal could remember.
“The dear fellow is really rather lonely. He doesn’t get out much these days, and I like to drop in and bring him up to date on the news whenever I’m in the neighborhood.”

A few minutes later, Beatrix was ringing the bell at the vicarage’s tradesman’s entrance, around the back of the large house, near the kitchen. The bell was answered by a meek-looking young girl in a white apron and cap. She admitted Beatrix to the downstairs back hall and summoned Mrs. Thompson, a tall, angular woman with sharp elbows, gray hair skinned back in a bun, and dark eyes deep-set in a thin, sallow face. Beatrix always thought of a stork when she saw Mrs. Thompson, not so much because of the way she looked as because of the stiff, ungainly way she moved, as if she were picking her way amongst the reeds along the lake shore.

“It’s Miss Potter come callin’, mum,” said the girl with a quick bob, and vanished.

“Oh, Miss Potter!” cried Mrs. Thompson, wringing her hands in consternation. “My goodness, Miss Potter! Oh, dear, dear, dear, I’m verra sorry—t’ vicar is out for t’ mornin’. But whyever didn’t tha knock at t’ front door?”

The real answer was that Beatrix didn’t want to talk to the vicar and was glad that he was out. But she could hardly say that. Instead, she uttered another truth, just as it popped into her mind.

“Because I’m really rather muddy.” She looked ruefully down at her brown boots, which were indeed muddy after crossing Wilfin Beck. “I went out for a walk this morning and have come farther than I meant. I’m so thirsty, and when I saw that I was nearby, I thought I would impose upon you for a cup of water. I’m sorry to trouble you, but would you be so kind?”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all, Miss Potter!” Mrs. Thompson exclaimed. “I’m glad for t’ comp’ny, I am.” In fact, her sallow cheeks had become quite pink with pleasure and she was wreathed in smiles. “Dost tha mind t’ kitchen? Nay? Then do come in for a bit of a rest, an’ we’ll have a cup of tea. T’ kettle’s on. It woan’t take a moment. An’ p’rhaps tha wudst like a bite, as well? T’ scones for t’ vicar’s tea have just come out of t’ oven.”

Well. I must admit to being a little surprised, now that we have met Mrs. Thompson. With everything that has been said of her, I have been expecting a dark-featured person, sullen and disagreeable and exceedingly ill-tempered, who might begrudge even so much as a cup of water to a thirsty caller, and who might be capable of writing nasty letters in an attempt to hold on to her employment.

But even though she might not be the best housekeeper and cook in the world, and although she may occasionally apply her ear to a door, it appears that Mrs. Thompson is, after all, a pleasant person. In fact, it is entirely possible that she (like Cyril the sheepdog, out in the barn) is really rather lonely, for the vicarage is out of the way and if she wants to see anyone—her cousin Agnes Llewellyn, for instance, to whom she is very close—it is something of a walk. The vicar is busy about his duties all day and with his books all evening, and the only other persons she is likely to see on a regular basis are the butcher in Far Sawrey, the tweeny and upstairs maid, and old Mr. Biddle, the gardener who comes twice a week. Upon reflection, I am not surprised that she is delighted to see Miss Potter, who is after all the most famous resident of Sawrey, Near and Far—and here she is, come to beg a cup of water!