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

Wilf had lost the power of intelligent speech and continued to scream and dance. Ben came forward, unhurt, calmly explaining. “We were playing a game, sir, and he punched the wall by accident. I think his hand is hurt. Are you all right, Wilf?”

Mr. Braithwaite showered dandruff around as he scratched his wiry mop furiously. “Hand, er, right, er, whats-ername . . . Woodworthy. Go and get somebody, er, immediately. Yes, right away, er, I should think!”

Regina went dashing out of the schoolyard, straight into Mr. and Mrs. Evans, who were out for a stroll.

Blodwen Evans strode purposefully toward the speechless dancing boy, with her husband Dai trailing behind. She took charge of the situation, addressing Mr. Braithwaite. “Indeed to goodness, what’s possessin’ the lad?”

“Er, ah, er, hand I should, er, think, yes!”

She brushed Mr. Braithwaite aside, grabbed Wilf by his injured hand, and felt it. He gave out a last shriek and fainted. Blodwen Evans pursed her lips as she made a quick diagnosis. “Look, you, the lad’s hand is broken! Dai, Mr. Braithwaite, you’ll ’ave to help me carry him to the chemist. He’s closed, but we’ll rattle the door ’til he opens.”

She seized the unconscious Wilf’s feet, glaring at the librarian. “Don’t lift him by the right hand, man, take his shoulders!” Between them they struggled out of the schoolyard, carrying their limp burden.

Regina turned on Ben immediately. “You’re responsible for that. Couldn’t fight him fair and square. Coward!”

Amy pushed herself between Regina and Ben. “Don’t be silly, Wilf did that to himself!”

Regina took a swinging slap at Amy’s face, but Ben’s arm blocked it. He seemed to touch Regina at a point between ear and neck. Instantly she rose on tiptoe as he kept up the pressure with a slightly bent forefinger. Amy was amazed—the girl was standing rock-still, with her chin tilted upward and an expression of silent anguish on her face.

Ben’s voice was soft, but with a hint of steel in it. “Listen to me, Regina, I’ve got you by a nerve point—painful, isn’t it? I don’t like hurting anybody, so save yourself some pain and say that we must not fight and I’ll let you go.”

The big girl’s jaw was clenched so tight that all she could manage was something that sounded like “Gnn, ee nust nok kite!” Ben released her and she dashed off sobbing, with the rest of the Grange Gang trailing behind sullenly.

Alex was lost in admiration. “Where did you learn to do that, Ben? You could’ve licked Wilf with one finger. Show me how you did it, go on, Ben!”

The flaxen-haired boy thrust his hands into his pockets, ignoring his friend. “Oh no, pal, you’d be going about paralyzing anyone who came near you. What’s the use of fighting, kicking, and punching another person just to prove your point? It only ends up with both of you getting hurt and solving nothing. Come on, I’m due back for dinner soon, have to get cleaned up. Don’t want to disappoint Miz Winn.”

They parted at the corner of the lane and turned. The dark-haired girl watched Ben lope off toward Mrs. Winn’s house. Alex looked at his older sister, puzzled. “So Ben isn’t a coward?”

Amy shook her head, slowly. “Far from it!”

“Then why wouldn’t he fight Wilf? He could have beat him easily with those secret things he knows.”

Ben had now gone out of sight around the bend in the lane.

Amy gave her brother a long look before she replied. “You know, there’s a lot more to Ben than either of us imagine. He has a sort of air about him—confidence, that’s it. He acts as if he can do a great deal of things. Of course he could have beaten Wilf. I think he didn’t fight because he knew he could win, but he didn’t have to prove it to himself. It must be good, to be like that. He didn’t need us when he went to meet Wilf, but he let us come. He said he needed us. You know, Alex, I think he was trying to give us a bit of confidence in ourselves. D’you see what I mean?”

Alex squinted his eyes. “Hmm, not quite, but one thing I do know, though. Our friend Ben is like nobody I’ve ever met.”

23

THE BIG, LOPING LABRADOR MET BEN on the way up to the house. He sniffed Ben’s hand. “Where’ve you been all afternoon, young master?” The boy grinned as they ambled along together, exchanging thoughts. “You were sniffing to see if I’d had anything nice to eat while I was out. Well, I didn’t. I’ve made friends with the man at the almshouse. His name is Jon, you’ll like him. He’s not a bit mad, like they’d said. I’ll take you over to meet him tomorrow.” Ben roughed the back of his dog’s neck. “Our friend Wilf, I think he’s hurt his hand, took a swipe at me and punched a brick wall.”

Ned interrupted. “Huh, I know that.”

Ben stopped. “How’d you know?”

The black Labrador winked one eye. “Horatio took me on a guided tour of Chapelvale. We found the place where that Smithers man lives, that lad of his, too. It’s a big new house in its own grounds, up past the railway station. I was sniffing about outside, when Dai Evans and another fellow, the chemist I think, brought young Wilf home to his parents. Hoho, he must have given that wall a right old whack! You should see the wads of bandage and the splint on his arm—he was the color of sour milk. Anyhow, before I could stop him, that half-witted cat followed them into the house. I got as far as the driveway, when Mr. Smithers came roaring out with a garden rake, so I got out of the way fast. Well, I went around the back of the house to see if I could locate Horatio. Huh, there he was, being fed a saucer of milk by a nice girl called Hetty.

“Now, there’s a girl I could take to. She stroked me a bit, said I was a nice fellow, which I am of course, and gave me a great gammon hambone, with lots of meat on it. Then she said she was finished working for the day and put on her hat and coat. She knew Horatio. I think he pops over there regular and lets Hetty feed him, the furry little fraud. Anyhow, she picked Horatio up and said she’d better get him back home. So I went along with them both. Huh, I notice she didn’t offer to carry me!”

Ben tweaked Ned’s tail. “I don’t blame her. Where is she now?”

The dog shambled up the driveway to the house. “Inside with Winnie, you’d better go and meet her.”

Hetty was a thin, angular woman, clad in a long bottle-green coat with an old fox-fur collar, lace-up kneeboots, and a worn green felt hat that had seen better days. She sat at the kitchen table with Mrs. Winn, a pot of tea and some sliced fruitcake between them as they chatted animatedly. Mrs. Winn introduced her to Ben.

“Ah, Ben, this is Hetty Sullivan, an old friend of mine. Her mother used to be maid here when I was not long married and my son Jim was young. Hetty is the maid up at the Smithers house now. She often calls in for tea and a chat on her way home. Come and sit with us.”

The boy pulled up a chair, listening to Hetty’s tales of woe as Mrs. Winn poured tea for him. Hetty was one of those people who always had a tale to tell, usually in the manner of a complaint.

“Smithers! Don’t talk to me about that family! ‘Hetty fetch this, Hetty do that.’ I’m at their beck and call every second. I wish I could work for you, Miz Winn, like my old mum used to. I always liked this ’ouse.”

Mrs. Winn poured more tea for Hetty, remarking wistfully, “I wish I could afford for you to work here, Hetty my dear, but I’m only a widow on a Royal Navy pension. I can understand you not liking to work for Smithers—I wouldn’t fancy the job.”