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

“There’s nought there to worry about, marm, just a backyard with a plot o’ garden. I sees it from my back bedroom window every day, tends the garden m’self. I like t’keep it tidy.”

“I’ll wager you do, Constable. D’you think we could take a look at it?”

The policeman appeared disconcerted at Eileen’s request. “Oh, I don’t know so much about that, Mrs. Drummond. That’s official police property. The public ain’t allowed in there. ’Twould be more’n my job’s worth if Sergeant Patterson found I’d let folks go wanderin’ willynilly ’round the station.”

This announcement was followed by an awkward silence, which was broken by the arrival of the sergeant himself on his bicycle.

Patterson was a cheerful man in his mid-thirties, very tall and lean, with curly red hair and narrow sideburns. His voice carried the faint trace of a Scottish border accent, from Coldstream, the town of his birth. He touched his peak cap to the small assembly and smiled.

“Mornin’ to ye, looks like another warm ’un today, eh!”

Sergeant Patterson nodded to the constable, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “Ah’ve just come from yon railway station. There’s three truckloads o’ machinery an’ buildin’ materials arrived there. They’ve been sent to Smithers, from Jackman an’ Company of London. Aye, all shunted intae a sidin’ for unloading an’ cartin’ tae the village square, where they plan on stackin’ et! So ah told the stationmaster tae put a stop on the operation.

“Your man Smithers was there, too. Weel, ah soon put a flea up his nose! Told him he’s not allowed tae unload a single nail until the morrow, when the court order comes intae force. Auld Smithers roared like a Heeland bull, so ah read him the riot act an’ said that if he disobeyed the law, ah’d arrest him an’ lock him up! Ah cannae take to the man, he’s a pompous windbag, if ye’ll pardon mah opinion, Mr. Mackay.”

The lawyer nodded. “That is my observation of Smithers also, Sergeant.”

Patterson parked his bicycle against the garden wall. “Mah thanks tae ye, sir. Constable, ah want ye tae go down tae the railway station an’ stand guard over those wagons, d’ye ken? Oh, an’ take a Prohibition of Movement order form. Pin it tae the delivery. Mind now, make sure et all stops right there!”

The constable saluted needlessly. “Right away, Sarn’t. Leave it t’me! Permission to borrow your bike?”

Patterson looked as if he was trying to hide a smile. “Permission granted, Constable, carry on!”

They stood watching Constable Judmann wobble ponderously off down the lane. The sergeant chuckled.

“Will ye look at the man go! Och, he loves ridin’ mah old bicycle. Weel now, an’ what can I do for you good folk?”

Eileen answered. “We wanted to have a look at the old execution place, but the constable didn’t seem too happy about it.”

Will swelled out his chest and stomach, in a passable imitation of Judmann. “Invasion of police property, if I ain’t mistaken, Sarn’t. Sort of a peasant’s revolt!”

The sergeant pretended to look grave. “Och, sounds serious tae me! Ye’d best all come in, ah’ll put the kettle on for tea, an’ we’ll discuss the matter. Just hauld yer wheesht a moment!”

Patterson took an apple from his pocket and fed it to the mare, rubbing her muzzle affectionately. “Stay out o’ this revolt, bonny lass. Mah gaol couldnae cope with ye!”

The walls inside the police station were covered thick with countless applications of whitewash on the top, and equally heavy layers of bitumen and tar on the bottom. All the woodwork had been painted dark blue many times over the years, some of it showing blisters around the black-leaded iron fireplace. A notice board by the window was crowded with official-looking posters, old and new. Patterson made tea, seating Mr. Braithwaite, Mr. Mackay, Will, and Eileen on tall stools at the charge office desk. Amy and her brother sat on a long bench with Jon and Ben.

Ned lay under the desk, gnawing a thick, gristly mutton bone, making his thoughts known to his master. “Good man, Sergeant Patterson, what d’you think, pal?”

Ben returned the thought, sipping tea from a brown pottery mug. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t feel right in here. I’m starting to go cold and sweating at the same time.”

The Labrador crawled from under the desk, carrying his bone. “Hmm, you don’t look too good. This is a creepy old place. Let’s go outside and sit with Delia in the sun.”

Amy saw the pair leave, she followed them out. “Are you all right, Ben? You look rather pale.”

He leaned on the garden wall, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I’m all right now, thanks. There was something about the atmosphere in there. Don’t know what it was, but I didn’t like it.”

She patted his hand. “There’s no need to go back in if you don’t want to. We’ll stay out here and let the others talk to the sergeant.

“You’re a strange one, Ben, not like anyone in the village, and certainly not like me or my brother. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but where were you born? What other places have you lived in, before you came here?”

Avoiding the girl’s face, he looked off into the distance. “I’d like to tell you, Amy . . . but . . .”

She watched her friend’s fathomless blue eyes cloud over. It was like looking at a faraway sea when a storm broods over it. Without knowing why, a wave of pity for the strange boy swept through her mind. “Ben . . . I’m sorry.”

When he turned and looked at her, his eyes were clear, and the color had returned to his cheeks. Best of all, he was giving her the smile she had come to like so much.

“You’ve no cause to be sorry. You’re my friend, that’s what counts.”

The old ship’s carpenter provided most of the story, but Patterson let his gaze rove from Alex to Eileen, to Will, Mr. Braithwaite, and Mr. Mackay, as they put in their contributions to the intriguing narrative.

The sergeant sat gazing into the dregs of his mug before speaking. “Ah was posted tae this village four years ago, as ye know. ’Tis a grand wee place. Ah’ve come tae like it fine. But tomorrow modern progress is due tae move in here. Och, they cannae turn us out of the police station, ’tis Crown property ye ken. Though who in their right mind would want tae stay here, amid a dusty great quarry an’ cement factory?

“Judmann’s auld now, he’ll take his pension an’ move. As for me, och, I’ll prob’ly put in for transfer tae another post. Though ’twill sair grieve me to go. Friends, if ah can help ye in any way, then ah will. D’ye want tae take a look ’round the auld hangin’ ground out back, eh? Then be mah guest!”

Jon was like a big child on a Sunday school outing. He dashed out of the station, rubbing his large, tattooed hands together gleefully, calling to Amy and Ben. “Come on, mates, away boat’s crew! We’ve got permission to search around the back—in fact, we’ve got the sergeant’s blessing!”

His two young friends seemed glad, but not overimpressed. “You go, mate, we’ll go around the outside of the building. See you there later.”

The ex-ship’s carpenter’s craggy face showed concern. He ruffled the boy’s tow-colored hair. “D’you feel all right, son?”

Ben managed a cheery grin. “Never felt better, shipmate!”

The old seaman stared oddly at the pair for a moment. “Righto, see you two ’round there, eh. Hah, look at Ned, snoozin’ away like an old grampus there!”

The black Labrador was curled up in the gig, asleep under the shade of a seat. Amy wrinkled her nose sympathetically. “He’s keeping Delia company, poor old boy. He must be tired in this heat—let him sleep.”