The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (9 page)

“Muttering? Muttering about what?”
Tabitha asked.
“And what good is the tar supposed to—”

“Do you want to tell this story,”
asked the ferret, frowning,
“or shall I?”

Rascal coughed.
“Please go on, Ferret. I beg you.”
To Tabitha, he growled,
“Do be quiet, Tabitha, or we’ll never find out what happened.”

“The tar,”
the ferret said,
“sticks everything together so thoroughly that it can’t be pulled apart. As he worked, he kept muttering about the haystack. From what I heard, he believes it was burnt by people using the path—ramblers or day-trippers or village folk, most likely ramblers. And he means it not to happen again.”

“That’s all?”
Tabitha looked dissatisfied.
“There’s nothing else you can tell us?”

The ferret sniffed.
“You expected more?”

“I’m not sure that it’s ramblers or day-trippers,”
Rascal said hurriedly.
“There’s Auld Beechie, remember. He’s got a grudge.”

“Auld Beechie?”
Max asked.

“Thomas Beecham,”
Rascal replied.
“He used to live in the Applebeck cottage—until Mr. Harmsworth turned him out last year. Now, he’s odd-job man at the pub. Lives in that tumble-down cottage beside Cunsey Beck, where Jeremy Crosfield and his aunt used to live.”

“You’re suggesting that Mr. Beecham burnt that haystack?”
Tabitha sniffed.
“Seriously, I doubt it. After he’s swept the kitchen at the pub, he always puts out a saucer of milk for me.”

Crumpet hooted.
“And that makes him a good person? Just because he’s kind to an old cat? Don’t be silly, Tabitha. Whenever Auld Beechie drinks more than his usual half-pint, he says some very nasty things about Mr. Harmsworth. Blames him for losing his cottage. Swears he’ll get even. If you ask me, Auld Beechie burnt that haystack.”

“Just who are you calling an ‘old cat’?”
Tabitha inquired icily.

“If the collar fits—”
Crumpet purred.

“Girls!”
barked Rascal.
“That’s enough.”
He paused.
“I have to say, though, that I agree with Crumpet. When Auld Beechie drinks too much, there’s no predicting what he’ll do.”

The ferret frowned.
“I can tell you this,”
he said slowly.
“Mr. Harmsworth is wrong if he’s thinking that it was a rambler or a day-tripper who fired that haystack.”
He drained his tea-cup.

“Well, then, who was it?”
Crumpet demanded. She glared at Tabitha.
“Mr. Beecham, I suppose.”

At that moment, the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime.
“My gracious,”
the ferret said, putting down his cup.
“Just look how late it’s got. I have work to do this morning, and I’m sure that you have other matters to attend to. Perhaps we can continue this conversation at another time.”

“Bother,”
Crumpet grumbled.

“But we want to know
now
!”
Tabitha stamped her paw.
“Tell us!”

“Ladies, ladies.”
The ferret gave a reproving tsk-tsk.
“You’ll never get anywhere making demands.”
He stood.
“When you arrived, you came in the back way. You’ll be glad to know that there’s another entry, much more direct. Come, let me show you.”

And with that, he led them through a hallway lined with more paintings and into an entrance foyer, which was furnished with an elegant table, a mirror, a vase of fresh flowers, and the sculpture of a ewe with her lamb. As usual, Max brought up the rear.

The ferret stopped him at the door.
“I admire uniqueness,”
he said.
“I believe I have an eye for it. And if you don’t mind my saying so, old chap, you are truly unique. Common cats have tails. You don’t. I should very much like to paint your portrait, if you would be so kind as to agree.”

Max was dumbfounded.
“Paint—paint my portrait?”
he gasped. It took a moment for Max to find his voice.
“I can’t think of anything I would rather do,”
he managed at last.

“It won’t take long,”
the ferret assured him.
“I work quickly, and I shouldn’t impose on you for more than a few hours. Of course, we can do this at your convenience.”
With a flourish, he bowed from the waist.
“I am your servant.”

Max pulled himself up, feeling as if the earth had suddenly shifted on its axis.
“Thank you,”
he said simply.
“Thank you.”

“Splendid! Splendid, old chap!”
the ferret cried.
“I shall even get up early, so we can get a good start. You’ll come tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,”
Max said, and left with his head high.

He would have carried his tail high, too, if he’d had one.

5

Another Conundrum

When Miss Potter of London purchased Hill Top Farm in 1905, the village of Sawrey was not pleased. The women feared that a city lady would be much too grand for village society, while the men were affronted by the idea that the nicest old farm in the district had been bought by an off-comer, a spinster with no experience whatsoever as a farmer. They laughed at her for paying too much for the old place, predicted that she’d fail by year’s end, and laid bets on who would buy the farm when it came up for sale again.

But Miss Potter surprised the men by not only lasting the year but by making very wise and necessary repairs to the farm buildings, improving the Hill Top sheep flock by acquiring some fine Herdwick ewes, and expanding the cattle herd with the purchase of two Galway cows. She surprised the women by proving, as Bertha Stubbs put it, “as common as any t’ rest of us, only more so.” And for the next year or two or three, they became rather comfortable with Miss Potter as their neighbor, and some even thought that her celebrity brought a certain . . . well, distinction to the village. It was a compliment to the village that a famous author had chosen Near Sawrey as her country residence, wasn’t it?

The villagers were not so pleased, however, when Miss Potter bought Castle Farm, thereby becoming the largest landowner in Sawrey, next to Lady Longford. Oh, there were a few who pointed out that old farms were no longer bought by real farmers, for there was no money to be made in farming. If Miss Potter (most still didn’t consider her a “real” farmer) hadn’t bought Castle Farm, it might have fallen into the hands of a land speculator, who would have built cottages and perhaps even a hotel and shops. All of this would’ve meant a influx of day-trippers and fell-walkers and noise and traffic and an increase in the rates, which would have been bad for everyone. So it was lucky for the village that Miss Potter took the farm off the market.

But others pointed out (quite reasonably) that land development would also have brought employment, which would have meant steady money in everyone’s pockets, and when this was said, many people found themselves nodding. A few more shillings a week would not be amiss, would it, now? I regret to say that the villagers, like most of us, wanted both the penny and the bun.

Beatrix, however, was not troubled by the villagers’ opinions, for she was simply doing what she most wanted to do. She had paid for both farms from the royalties of her children’s books, among them
Peter Rabbit
,
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle
,
Jemima Puddle-duck
,
Ginger and Pickles
, and the latest, recently published,
The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse.
Her little books were very inexpensive (
Peter
had sold for just one-and-six) so that children could buy them from their pocket money. She found it hard to believe that all these tiny purchases had brought her enough money to buy not just one but two—two!—beautiful old farms, and some other small fields besides. She couldn’t help thinking that the whole thing had happened entirely by magic, a feeling that possessed her every time she returned to Hill Top Farm, as she was doing this morning.

She got down from Mr. Heelis’ gig and bade him goodbye. She watched him drive off, then stood for a moment on the path and surveyed the house, thinking once again how much she loved it and how astonishing it was that this magical place, on such a magical morning, actually belonged to
her
.

When you go to visit Hill Top (as you certainly may, since the house now belongs to the National Trust, which opens it almost daily to the public), you might not see immediately why Beatrix Potter loved it so much. The house is a traditional seventeenth-century, two-story North Country farmhouse, plain and unadorned by any kind of architectural fripperies. It had been long neglected when she bought it, and she put quite a lot of effort into restoring its original appearance, as well as building an addition for Mr. Jennings (the farmer who managed her animals) and his family. Like the other houses in the village, the exterior was plastered with a pebbly mortar painted with gray limewash. The eight-over-eight windows were lined up symmetrically, bottom and top, the sashes painted white. The house was roofed with local blue slate, and the chimney pots, like well-tutored schoolboys standing in a row, wore peaked slate caps. The porch was constructed of slate, four enormous blue slabs, two vertical pieces at the sides and two more for the peaked roof. The slate itself came from Outgate, just north of Hawkshead. It pleased Beatrix to know that her house—its timbers and slates and stones and mortar—was made entirely of materials that came from the land all around, and that her quarry also provided rock for road and bridge repair.

Just now, the front door was open—left so by Mrs. Jennings, who had been airing the place for her landlady’s expected arrival. So Beatrix picked up her satchel and her hamper, went onto the porch, and through the door. And since I’m sure you want to know what the interior looks like, we will follow her. (Or you can go and see all the furniture and curtains and pictures and curios for yourself, for when Beatrix bequeathed Hill Top Farm to the National Trust on her death in 1943, she asked that it be kept exactly as she left it.)

At Beatrix’s heels, we step directly into the main living area—the “hall,” as it was called by the North Country folk. When she bought the house, there was a partition here that formed a dark hallway, but she pulled it down, bringing in light and opening the room to its original generous size. Looking over her shoulder, we can see that the walls and ceiling are papered in a flowery green print, and that the room is furnished with a gate-legged table and rush-seated chairs, and two dressers, one a dark antique with a date of 1667, the other a pale oak dresser that displays a collection of blue and white ware and two portrait bowls. (If you look closely, you can see that one bowl pictures George III and Queen Charlotte, while the other depicts Lord Nelson.) Next to the dresser, facing the front door, is a tall oak clock, its dial painted with pretty flowers.

Along the west wall is a cast-iron range that fits neatly into the fireplace alcove, and a kettle steams quietly on the range. The floor is dark slate, with a red-bordered sea-grass rug and a smaller, shaggy blue one. The curtains at the deep-set window are red, and there is a pot of red geraniums on the window seat. A row of brasses hangs under the mantel, an old spinning wheel stands beside the fireplace, and a rocking chair is waiting for Beatrix to take a moment and sit down. Her leather clogs, made for her by a cobbler in Hawkshead, are waiting for her to put them on and go out to the barn to see the cows and chickens and pigs—but they will have to wait for a while, for she has other things to do.

Beatrix smiled at the room, which seemed to smile back, as excited and pleased as she was that she had come home again. The other rooms in this small house smiled, too, and chuckled and said how glad they were to see her and hoped that she would be able to stay for a very long time. Downstairs, there was the parlor with its marble Adam-style fireplace, oriental carpet, and richly paneled walls. Upstairs, her very own bedroom, with its stone fireplace and a window overlooking the garden; and the treasure room where she kept her collections of favorite things—porcelain, pictures, miniatures, embroideries, everything arranged just the way she wanted it.

Indeed, as she stood still in the hall, taking deep breaths of the tranquil air, filled with country scents of summer-warm dust and fresh-cut hay and blooming flowers, Beatrix felt that the house was perfect in every way. Her parents’ elegant home at Number Two Bolton Gardens might be filled with angry squalls, London might be bleak and gray and chilly, and all of England might be peering into an anxious and unsettled future, with labor strikes and rising prices and war clouds gathering on the horizon. But none of that troubled her here. Hill Top was a refuge, a sanctuary, a haven from every storm.

Because of this, when she came to Hill Top, Beatrix always tried her best to put everything out of her mind except the tasks immediately before her. She focused all her attention on enjoying the present and keeping as contented and busy as possible, and in my opinion, she was doing exactly as she should. Wouldn’t you agree? The past was full of unhappiness. More important, it was the
past.
It was over and done with, so why make herself miserable by thinking about what could not be changed? It had been the best of times and the worst of times, both together. She had loved Norman Warne with all her heart, but he had died suddenly, too young, too soon, just a month after she had accepted his ring.