The Daring Escape of Beatrice and Peabody (11 page)

Cordelia is squealing and grunting and making quite a racket when we get home, so Peabody and I head right out to see what’s wrong.

I pick Peabody up and walk through the gate. Cordelia’s food bucket is still full of tea biscuits. We go inside her shed, where she is flopped on the straw.

‘What’s the matter?’ I whisper, kneeling beside her and rubbing her neck and scratching her back like she likes awful well.

She drops her head on her front legs. I look at Peabody. He has taken to sniffing her all over.

‘Stop that,’ I tell him.

The shed smells like sweet straw. Pauline was wrong. Pigs don’t smell bad at all if you give them a clean place to live. Cordelia knows enough to do her business outside away from her bed and her food bucket. Pigs are smart that way.

‘Why aren’t you eating? Do you miss LaVerne, Big Ben and Vivian?’ I whisper. ‘And Bobby?’

Cordelia closes her eyes from all my scratching.

‘Me too. I miss Bobby very much. And Pauline.’ I
scratch Cordelia along the back. ‘I don’t know why Pauline couldn’t see how beautiful you are.’ Peabody flops down beside Cordelia and licks the side of her face and then along her split ear. I like the way her light-coloured lashes blink up at me. Pigs are really beautiful if you give them half a chance. Pauline was wrong about a lot of things.

I sit back on my heels. There’s nothing like a little pig to help you forget how bad you are feeling about things.

I notice while Peabody is lying there that he is looking a little thin through the belly from eating nothing but biscuits.

‘Come on,’ I say, standing up, ‘let’s go get something for you and Cordelia to eat. I think you’re both hungry.’

When we get inside, Mrs Potter is waving a plate at Mrs Swift’s skirt. Tiny flames are flickering at the hem and each time Mrs Potter swings the plate, the sparks jump.

I scream and pick up a heavy kitchen towel and throw it on top of the flames and then scoop up the water pitcher from the table and fling water all over her skirt.

‘Oh my, oh my, oh my,’ Mrs Swift says as Mrs Potter helps her over to a chair, her skirt still smoking.

‘I’m sorry, dear,’ Mrs Potter tells her. ‘It seems I’ve forgotten some things.’

I stand there unbelieving. I bend down and lift Mrs Swift’s smoking skirt. Under all her petticoats, she wears
woollen stockings so long and thick that I can’t see a bit of skin.

‘Don’t worry, Bee. I’m not burned. All this wool protected me. I’ll just go change my skirt.’ She stands and totters a bit and needs Mrs Potter to help her up the stairs.

I am left in the kitchen with just Peabody, wondering about the two of them and about how good they really are at taking care of a girl, her pig and her dog.

After that I take over all the cooking. Otherwise I will starve.

Each day I read one of the old cookbooks I find in the back of the big wooden cupboard by the table and then make something.

I mash potatoes to go with the plump chicken and the next day I try chicken hash. Mrs Swift and Mrs Potter aren’t much interested in cooking or eating. While I am in the kitchen, Mrs Swift usually hurries into the library to work.

We hear her sputtering and cursing quite a bit. Mrs Potter tells me that Mrs Swift is very angry about some of the things that were written about her, so she is trying to straighten things out by writing her autobiography.

‘Oh?’ I am interested immediately.

‘She’s got to, Bee. You can’t trust those biographers to get it right. Good heavens, they have been writing all these years that when she spoke out against slavery and for women’s rights one hundred years ago, the crowd threw apples at her. They threw their Bibles!’

I think maybe she is kidding. Mrs Swift is old, but she
can’t be that old. I look to see if Mrs Potter is fibbing, but she has already gone back to teaching Peabody to balance a biscuit on his nose. He is not very good at this trick; he keeps eating the biscuit.

‘Beatrice, come in here!’

I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel and go in and see what Mrs Swift wants.

There are so many books piled high on her desk that I have to walk around to see her. She runs a magnifying glass over the sentences in a thick black book. ‘I did know what this means, but I don’t any more. Look it up for me, Bee.’

‘Look up what?’

‘
Equivocation
. In that dictionary over there.’ She points to a book that is so big it sits on a stand in the corner of the room.

Mrs Potter drops onto the sofa. Peabody jumps on her lap.

‘“She has a particular talent for equivocation.” Darned if I remember what that means. Do you?’ She looks up at Mrs Potter, who shakes her head.

‘My memory isn’t what it used to be,’ says Mrs Potter, scratching Peabody behind the ears.

‘Well, what’s taking so long, Beatrice?’

The truth is, I have never used a dictionary. I squint, pretending I am having trouble seeing all the words.

‘Just go to the
Es
and then go to
Eq
. I would do it myself but the letters are so small in that book. Why
they do that is beyond me.’

I flip the pages until all the words begin with
E
and then I look for
Eq
.

‘Here, use this.’ Mrs Swift hands me the magnifying glass. Now I have no excuse.

‘E-q-u-i-v-o-c-a-t-i-o-n,’ she says.

It takes me quite a bit of time, but I finally find the word.

‘I have it!’ I say, and Peabody jumps up, because he can hear the excitement in my voice.

‘Well, what does it mean?’ asks Mrs Swift, pushing her spectacles up on her nose.

‘The act of being intentionally vague, ambiguous or evasive, especially with the intent to deceive.’

‘Oh my,’ says Mrs Potter. ‘That is not very kind.’

‘Blasted fool!’ Mrs Swift shoves the book onto the floor. ‘See why I need to rewrite all this? I don’t have an evasive bone in my body. And I don’t waffle, either. When something needs to be said, I say it. When something needs to be done, I do it. Isn’t that right, Mrs Potter?’

Mrs Potter chuckles. ‘Yes, Abigail. Ever since you were a girl you have spoken your mind.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to hide and do nothing. Slavery was wrong, I said so. Women’s rights needed to be fought for, and I did. If you hide, you become no one in particular. Who wants to be nobody at all?’

She looks over at me. ‘Isn’t that right, Beatrice?’

Mrs Potter teaches Peabody to beg (which he puts up with) and play hide-and-seek with a biscuit. One thing about Peabody, he knows when somebody is hiding something.

When he gets tired of biscuits, Mrs Potter goes over and looks at the wall by the stove. Then she limps down to the basement and comes back up with a big axe.

‘I know it was right here,’ she says, looking at the wall. Then she swings and whacks at the wall, sending wall dust all up and over my pot of mashed potatoes.

‘What are you doing? You’re getting it all over everything.’ I hurry and cover the pot.

Mrs Potter takes another swing. She might limp, but her arms are strong. Plaster crumbles and wall dust billows into the room. I cover all the pots and put everything in the icebox as old plaster crumbles to the floor. There is dust everywhere. I have to wipe it off the cookbook.

‘What does it matter if there was a fireplace there? We have a
STOVE NOW
.’

Mrs Potter whacks again, sending an enormous cloud of white powder across my nose. Peabody runs out of
the room. We are still coughing when Mrs Swift comes in from the library asking what all the racket is about. ‘Could you wait and do that later?’

‘No, I cannot. I know the fireplace is back here.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ I say, looking at the hole in the wall.

Mrs Potter huffs and puffs. She swings again and then goes over to sit down.

‘Water, please,’ she croaks.

I get her a glass from the pitcher and put it in front of her. She gulps it quickly and asks for more.

‘Go look!’ Mrs Potter points to the small hole she made in the wall.

I go over and look. It is very dark inside the wall, but I can make out the outline of blackened brick.

She grins. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that fireplace.’ She gulps more water. There is a sparkle in her eye.

When we finally get the plaster cleaned up and sit down to supper, they play with their food, rolling it around and around their plates with their forks.

‘Don’t you like it?’ My cheeks are filled with mashed potatoes.

‘It’s delicious, Bee,’ says Mrs Potter.

‘Quite good,’ says Mrs Swift, rolling her carrots into her potatoes.

‘Well, why aren’t you eating?’

They look at each other and then away. I look at Peabody. He has finished everything on his plate except for the carrots and is waiting for more. I spoon more chicken onto his plate and set it on the floor.

‘I’m full,’ says Mrs Potter, pushing her plate away.

‘Yes,’ says Mrs Swift, standing up. ‘We don’t eat much at our age, you know.’

I stare at them. They are not going to last long if they do not eat more. Already they look very thin to me.

I try harder the next night.

I light a candle and lay the white tablecloth on the table and the napkins. Everything looks heavenly. I serve meat loaf and rice and green beans, and once again Peabody and I eat the whole thing ourselves.

‘Very nice, dear,’ says Mrs Potter.

I take a very old cookbook to bed and read all about potted beef, codfish pie, creamed peas on toast, Welsh rabbit.

‘What do you think?’ I ask Peabody, who is snuggled against me. ‘Should I try codfish pie?’ Peabody hides his nose under my arm.

‘Me neither.’

I put the cookbook down. I lie back in bed. Peabody snuggles closer. I fall asleep listening to the peepers and thinking about how Pauline would love to sleep in a bed like this.

Cordelia is looking no better three days later.

I pour the potato peels and the leftover carrots that nobody ate and mostly all the onions into her feed bucket. She sniffs delicately like she is smelling a daisy, and then she looks back at me.

‘What?’ I whisper, climbing over the fence and kneeling beside her and rubbing my hands all over her back and down her sides and scratching behind her ears. A spot of manure is stuck to her leg and I wipe that off with a clump of straw. There is mud on her chest, and I wipe that off, too. It is not like Cordelia to get dirty.

Peabody barrels out of the house and jumps up at the fence, yipping that he wants to be let in. He gives me an idea.

I open the gate and tell Cordelia I think she needs a little exercise. ‘Bobby says it fixes everything.’

But Cordelia isn’t so sure. She looks back at her shed and the warm pile of straw inside. It takes quite a bit of coaxing before she is trotting down the road.

I let Peabody lead the way and soon we are on a road we have never been on before. Peabody bounces along,
but Cordelia is slow. I am very worried about her.

We run at a turtle pace while Peabody gets very far ahead.

‘Brawk-ack,’ I hear a chicken shrieking. ‘Brawk-ack.’

I race ahead and just as I come upon a farm, with a white house and a big red barn with a rooster weather vane on top, I see Peabody chasing a chicken around and around a clothesline with blankets hanging down.

Chickens don’t fly too well, but Peabody gets this one so bothered it
brawk-acks
and squawks and flaps its wings hard enough to raise itself to the barn roof. Before I can get Peabody picked up and in my arms and away from there, Cordelia is rooting around the barn, and soon a black-
and-white
hen that looks very familiar comes flapping out.

And then wouldn’t you know it, Mrs Marsh is running into the yard and hooting and hollering and screaming about her Daphne and chasing us all around the chicken yard with a broom.

Peabody and Cordelia rush for the road and I am just about to follow them when Mrs Marsh grabs the strap of my overalls.

I pull my hair over my cheek and look up at her, my chest heaving, all out of breath.

‘What are you doing scaring my chickens like that?’

‘We didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was your house. It’s just that Peabody is so interested in chickens.’

Mrs Marsh looks out at the mess.

‘You’ll have to pay for this. I’ll be needing a new blanket, and a new hen with all her feathers!’

Peabody and Cordelia wait for me on the road. Cordelia is more trusting than Peabody and she comes back to get me. But Mrs Marsh is ready with her broom in the air. ‘An ugly little smelly pig in my chicken yard? Absolutely not,’ she shrieks. ‘Absolutely not.’

She whacks Cordelia on the backside. ‘Shoo. Shoo.’

I want to cover Cordelia’s ears from the terrible things Mrs Marsh is saying. I can just tell it makes her feel awful bad.

The next morning I master the art of French toast.

Thanks to me we have all the ingredients at the same time: sturdy white bread (not puffy), eggs, milk, butter, cinnamon, honey and frozen strawberries. I thawed the strawberries in a bowl overnight and they are glistening on the counter when I get up. Peabody is already on the chair watching me get everything ready.

I get out a pie plate and crack two eggs. I pour in milk and whip it all up with some cinnamon. I melt butter in the fry pan and as it sizzles I dip the bread in the egg mix and drop it into the pan.

Peabody is already raising his nose and wondering what that wonderful smell is. Then I flip the toast and when it is brown on both sides I take it out of the pan and put two slices on my plate and two on Peabody’s. Then I spoon strawberries on the top and drizzle honey over everything.

Mrs Potter comes in the kitchen and takes one look at the stack of French toast and walks closer. I look at Peabody. I put the plate I made for me on the table, right in front of Mrs Potter. I put the one I made for Peabody
on the floor. I dip two more slices of bread and drop them in the fry pan.

‘Hungry?’ I ask.

Mrs Potter looks up at me, then back down at the stack of French toast. She sits down and picks up her fork and knife. Very carefully she cuts a bite, holds it up and looks at it for a minute.

‘It’s been sooooo long.’ She glances at me, then takes a bite.

‘Ohhhhhhhh.’ She tilts her head back a little to savour the moment and chews slowly. ‘It is just wonderful.’

Mrs Swift hurries into the room, wanting to know what that wonderful smell is.

‘Elizabeth!’ she says when she sees Mrs Potter.

‘Oh, have some,’ says Mrs Potter, taking Mrs Swift by the arm and pulling her down into a chair.

I bring a stack over for Mrs Swift. She looks at the French toast on her plate for several seconds and then very slowly cuts a piece and picks up a forkful and looks at the way it glistens from the strawberries. Then she plops it into her mouth and from the look in her eyes you can tell all the flavours are bursting together.

‘Oh my stars, it
has
been a long, long time,’ she says, cutting another piece and popping it into her mouth, and now there is a smile starting on her face.

French toast will do that to a person.