Brian Jacques - [Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Smithers poured himself more claret, stuffing a piece of gammon into his mouth with his fingers. Table manners were not his strong point. He pointed a greasy finger at Maud. “Good man, your father, nice fellow. But he doesn’t know everything. Not by a long chalk, missie!”

Maud hid her revulsion of the ill-bred northerner, but spoke out pertly in her father’s defense. “My father knows his business, sir! He has made contracts with building firms that will not wait seven extra days. If Mrs. Winn is not out of her house on the deadline stated in the clearance notice, it will cost our scheme dearly with penalties for broken agreements. I hope you are aware of the position that delays can put us in!”

Mrs. Smithers flinched as her husband’s temper broke. He sprayed ham and claret into the air as he shouted. “Don’t you dare to tell me my business, girl! I know these villagers better than you or your father. Hah! What has that old Winn biddy got to prove her claims, eh? Nothing! We’ll be saving ourselves money by clapping a compulsory court order on her. A mere pittance set by the county developer, that’s all she’ll get for her house! As for the almshouse, it belongs to nobody, we’ll get that free! The rest of the villagers are too disorganized to resist us. They know virtually nothing about the law, we’ll pay ’em the set rate for their properties. Little enough that’ll be, I can tell you!”

He sat back, digging a scrap of ham from his teeth with a fingernail. But Maud would not be browbeaten. Wiping her lips daintily on a damask table napkin, she pushed aside her plate and rose from the table. “I’m going to my room, sir. Nothing has changed, we need to get the old lady out of her house by the appointed time. Whilst I’m upstairs, I’ll give some thought to the problem. Perhaps you would do well to follow my example!”

She swept out of the dining room without another word, leaving Obadiah Smithers spluttering to his wife. “Cheeky little snip, who does she think she’s talking to, eh? She’s not twelve months out of some fancy finishing school. Hah! I was building my fortune the hard way, long before she was born. Right?”

Mrs. Smithers poured herself a glass of barley water as she replied dutifully to her irate husband. “Yes, dear, would you like some barley water? It’s nice and cool.”

Claret slopped onto the tablecloth as he poured more from the decanter. “Barley water, bah! Can’t abide the filthy stuff. Look out, here’s that harum-scarum of mine.”

Wilf entered from the lawn by the French windows, red-faced and breathing heavily. He plunked himself down in the chair Maud had vacated. Taking the gammon ham slices from her plate, he slathered them with mustard and crammed them between two pieces of bread. His mother lectured him as he tore at the sandwich.

“Oh, Wilfred, you haven’t washed your hands and you’re late for lunch again. Leave that salad alone, it was Miss Bowe’s. I’ll tell Hetty to bring you a fresh plate. Dearie me, just look at you—”

Smithers interrupted his wife brusquely. “Oh, leave the lad alone, Clarissa. Stop fussin’ an’ faffin’ about him! Now then, you young rip, got enough to eat there, eh?”

Wilf grumbled through a mouthful of ham sandwich. “Could do with some lemonade an’ a piece of cake.”

Mrs. Smithers got up from the table. “I’ll go and fetch them.”

Her husband called out as she left the room. “No need for you to go, what’m I payin’ servants for?”

She paid him no heed and made her way to the pantry.

Smithers poured himself more claret. “Huh, women!”

He leaned close to his son and nudged him, lowering his voice confidentially.

“So then, what’ve you been up to, you and that gang of yours?”

Wilf wiped mustard from his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. He knew it was better to speak of victories than defeats to his father. “Just livening things up in the village. Gave old Evans a bad time. I heard him say he’d be glad to get back to Wales.”

Mrs. Smithers came in bearing a glass of lemonade and a plate of sliced sultana cake and was making as if to sit down when Obadiah stared pointedly at her.

“Finished your lunch, m’dear?”

She understood immediately that he wanted to be alone with Wilf. “Yes, dear, I’ll go along and give Cook the menu for dinner this evening. Do you think Miss Bowe likes roast beef?”

Obadiah snorted. “Who gives a fig what she likes. She’ll get what she’s given in my house, and be thankful for it!”

Mrs. Smithers nodded and left the room.

Obadiah watched his son swigging lemonade and stuffing cake. “Never mind Evans and the rest. I’ve got them well under control. Mrs. Winn’s the fly in the ointment—have you and your friends been ’round to her house lately? I need her out of there.”

Wilf stopped eating and gnawed at a hangnail. “There’s a lad always hanging ’round with her. He’s got a black dog with him, big, vicious thing. Makes it hard to do anything with them around, but I’ll try.”

His father’s face hardened, he grabbed Wilf’s arm tight. “I’ve seen them. Listen, don’t let the dog bother you. The moment it bites you or your pals, let me know. I’ll get the constable to round it up and have it destroyed. I’m surprised at you, though, Wilf. That boy is half a head shorter than you and a lot lighter. Big fellow like you should be able to whale the livin’ daylights out of him, that’d teach him a lesson. You’re not scared of him, are you, son?”

Wilf’s face grew even redder. “Me, scared of that shrimp? Huh!”

His father smiled. “Good boy, just like me when I was your age. You find a way to get him on his own and give him a good thrashin’. Don’t let up if he cries, show him who’s boss. Will y’do that for me, eh?”

Fired by his father’s words, Wilf nodded vigorously. “I’ll do it, all right. I owe that one a few good punches!”

Obadiah released his son’s arm. Digging into his vest pocket, he produced an assortment of silver coins and gave them to him. “Here, buy your friends some toffee and tell them to keep old Ma Winn on her toes.”

Wilf jammed two slices of sultana cake together and took a bite. He ruled the Grange Gang with an iron fist, not toffee, and he would keep the money. “Thanks, Dad, I will,” he lied.

19

MRS. WINN TOOK A KEY FROM A JUG ON the kitchen shelf. “Let’s take a look at the captain’s room, Ben.”

Ned’s ears rose slightly. “I’d better come with you, a good bloodhound may be required to search the room.”

Ben tugged his dog’s ear lightly. “You’re no bloodhound, Ned.”

The Labrador sniffed airily. “I should hope not—great, mournful-looking lollopers, that lot. But you know I’m pretty good at sniffing things out, so come on, my old shipmate!”

Ben helped Mrs. Winn to negotiate the stairs, trying not to show his impatience at her lack of speed. He told himself that he, too, would be old one day, then caught Ned’s thoughtful observation. “Will you? When’ll that be?”

The door was a heavy mahogany one, shining from layers of dark varnish, with brass trimmings.

Mrs. Winn gave the key to Ben. As he fitted it into the lock, he gave an involuntary shiver. Images of the sea welled up in his mind, ships, waves, wind, thrumming sails. He pictured himself and Ned long, long ago, locked in the galley of the Flying Dutchman, whilst outside, Vanderdecken murdered the seaman Vogel by shooting him. Then Mrs. Winn’s hand was on his arm, breaking the spell.

“Ben, are you all right, boy?”