believe that? Henry! And they leave them to hatch in the sun, don’t they? Do you suppose we could actually
hatch
it? In the airing-cupboard, perhaps, or over the stove?’ Quite suddenly, it seemed, Miss Linsey was back with us in the real and daylight world. She gave Miss Mildred a look where I could see a kind of indulgent affection. ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to bring up a dear little baby tortoise? What do you think, Kathy?’
‘I don’t know. You could try. But – well, does Henry live on his own, or does anyone else in the village have a tortoise?’
‘No, I’ve never heard of another one here, and I’ve had him for three years. Oh, well.’ And Miss Linsey dropped the egg into her pocket. ‘All right, Mildred, thanks. I’ll take him – it’s far too difficult to say “her” all of a sudden – I’ll take him home to his pen, and I’d love some coffee, thank you.’ Then to me, ‘You’ll be staying, too, Kathy?’
‘I can’t. I must get back, but I hope I’ll see you again before I leave. Perhaps—’ But she had already disappeared back to her own garden. We could hear her admonishing Henry as she went.
‘Er – Kathy, my dear,’ said Miss Mildred, low-voiced, ‘what she was saying about your poor mother – all that was just her way, you know. It doesn’t mean anything. She sees things. She was telling me just the other day that our dear father had been here, working in the garden, and you know he’s been gone fornearly fifteen years, and he never was a great gardener. I don’t know if you remember how she talks sometimes—’
‘Yes, I do.’ I also remembered what I had heard about the old tyrant of a father who had never lifted a spade in his life, and who had been lovingly cared for by his daughters until any chance of living their own lives was long past. I said gently, ‘I know. Just one of her dreams. Don’t worry. It didn’t matter.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Relieved, she turned the subject, moving with me towards the gate. ‘Well, my dear, if you must go. How very strange about Henry, isn’t it? The egg, I mean. And wouldn’t it be nice – and kind to dear little Henry, too – to try and hatch it? Do you think perhaps one of Mrs Blaney’s hens – I’m sure she said she has a broody just now.’
‘I don’t think it would hatch. If there’s no other tortoise in the village—’
‘What difference does that make?’
A startled glance at her kind, inquiring face, and I fell back on a cowardly kind of truth. ‘The hen wouldn’t sit long enough. They take ages, tortoises. It – well, believe me, Miss Mildred, it wouldn’t work.’
‘Oh? What a pity. Ah, well. Now don’t you worry about Bella’s dreams and visions. She does get so mixed up. She’s a dear girl, but you could say a little
unworldly
. You really can’t stay for coffee?’
‘No, thank you. There are things I’ve got to look out, and there’s a lot to do, getting Gran’s things sorted ready for the carrier. But I’d love to come again to seeyou – and Miss Agatha too – before I go. Goodbye, then, Miss Mildred.’
Feeling rather like Alice emerging from Wonderland, I set off for home.
13
It was true. At a point about half way along the side of the toolshed, someone had been digging. The turned soil had dried out, but it still appeared fresh.
I stood looking at it, while the recent words of the ladies at Witches’ Corner ran a chilly finger up my spine. Ghosts, spirits, darkness and shifting lights, digging … The word they combined to suggest was
grave
. Even on that sunny day the word was cold.
Then I took a pull at myself. A grave? The disturbed patch of earth was roughly two feet square, no more. If something really was buried here, it could not be anything much bigger than a cat.
Buried
. This time the word held none of the chilling connotations of ‘digging’. The word that went with it was ‘treasure’. People buried treasure. And a treasure of a kind had been
hatch
it? In the airing-cupboard, perhaps, or over the stove?’ Quite suddenly, it seemed, Miss Linsey was back with us in the real and daylight world. She gave Miss Mildred a look where I could see a kind of indulgent affection. ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to bring up a dear little baby tortoise? What do you think, Kathy?’
‘I don’t know. You could try. But – well, does Henry live on his own, or does anyone else in the village have a tortoise?’
‘No, I’ve never heard of another one here, and I’ve had him for three years. Oh, well.’ And Miss Linsey dropped the egg into her pocket. ‘All right, Mildred, thanks. I’ll take him – it’s far too difficult to say “her” all of a sudden – I’ll take him home to his pen, and I’d love some coffee, thank you.’ Then to me, ‘You’ll be staying, too, Kathy?’
‘I can’t. I must get back, but I hope I’ll see you again before I leave. Perhaps—’ But she had already disappeared back to her own garden. We could hear her admonishing Henry as she went.
‘Er – Kathy, my dear,’ said Miss Mildred, low-voiced, ‘what she was saying about your poor mother – all that was just her way, you know. It doesn’t mean anything. She sees things. She was telling me just the other day that our dear father had been here, working in the garden, and you know he’s been gone fornearly fifteen years, and he never was a great gardener. I don’t know if you remember how she talks sometimes—’
‘Yes, I do.’ I also remembered what I had heard about the old tyrant of a father who had never lifted a spade in his life, and who had been lovingly cared for by his daughters until any chance of living their own lives was long past. I said gently, ‘I know. Just one of her dreams. Don’t worry. It didn’t matter.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Relieved, she turned the subject, moving with me towards the gate. ‘Well, my dear, if you must go. How very strange about Henry, isn’t it? The egg, I mean. And wouldn’t it be nice – and kind to dear little Henry, too – to try and hatch it? Do you think perhaps one of Mrs Blaney’s hens – I’m sure she said she has a broody just now.’
‘I don’t think it would hatch. If there’s no other tortoise in the village—’
‘What difference does that make?’
A startled glance at her kind, inquiring face, and I fell back on a cowardly kind of truth. ‘The hen wouldn’t sit long enough. They take ages, tortoises. It – well, believe me, Miss Mildred, it wouldn’t work.’
‘Oh? What a pity. Ah, well. Now don’t you worry about Bella’s dreams and visions. She does get so mixed up. She’s a dear girl, but you could say a little
unworldly
. You really can’t stay for coffee?’
‘No, thank you. There are things I’ve got to look out, and there’s a lot to do, getting Gran’s things sorted ready for the carrier. But I’d love to come again to seeyou – and Miss Agatha too – before I go. Goodbye, then, Miss Mildred.’
Feeling rather like Alice emerging from Wonderland, I set off for home.
13
It was true. At a point about half way along the side of the toolshed, someone had been digging. The turned soil had dried out, but it still appeared fresh.
I stood looking at it, while the recent words of the ladies at Witches’ Corner ran a chilly finger up my spine. Ghosts, spirits, darkness and shifting lights, digging … The word they combined to suggest was
grave
. Even on that sunny day the word was cold.
Then I took a pull at myself. A grave? The disturbed patch of earth was roughly two feet square, no more. If something really was buried here, it could not be anything much bigger than a cat.
Buried
. This time the word held none of the chilling connotations of ‘digging’. The word that went with it was ‘treasure’. People buried treasure. And a treasure of a kind had been
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