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

Smithers waved his hands uselessly. “But the table isn’t laid, my dress clothes haven’t been brought out of the wardrobe. Nothing’s been done—wineglasses, sherry decanters, side trays, and clean linen. Where are they? I’m supposed to be holding a reception this afternoon for the county planners, a magistrate, business associates arriving from all over to begin our plans!”

Maud spooned tea leaves into the pot. “Then you’ll just have to change your arrangements. I’m not your maid of all work.”

Smithers wiped sweat from his reddening brow. “Piece o’ bread ’n’ butter an’ a cup of tea is no breakfast for a man to start a full day on, eh?” He blinked under Maud’s frosty stare.

“Then cook something for yourself—this is my breakfast!”

Having made tea, Maud put it on a tray with the bread and butter and retired to the garden with it. A few moments passed before Smithers emerged, eating a thick slice of bread with strawberry jam slathered on it and holding a beer tankard filled with milk. He plunked himself moodily down next to her at the wrought-iron table.

“That maid, Hetty, she’s sacked, finished, bag an’ baggage!”

Maud curled her lip in disgust as milk spilled down Smithers’s chin from the tankard. He wiped it off on his sleeve.

“What’re you turnin’ your nose up at, little miss high ’n’ mighty? All very prim an’ proper, aren’t you, eh, eh? What happened to your bullyboys from London? Never turned up, did they? Well, whether or not, things’ll go ahead today. You’ll see, I’ve got it all organized on my own, without your help, missie!”

Maud was about to make a cutting reply, when a carter, wearing a burlap apron, appeared at the gate and shouted, “Hoi! Mr. Smithers, we’ve ’ad the stuff that you ’ired brought over from ’Adford. Been waitin’ in the village square since six-thirty. Wot d’yer want us t’do with it?”

Smithers yanked the oversized watch from his vest pocket. “Twenty past seven already, I’d better get movin’. Listen, you’d best get down t’the station at nine-ten an’ meet the officials. Don’t be late, now, d’ye hear me?”

Maud shooed a sparrow away from her plate. “I’m hardly likely to be late meeting my own father.”

Smithers stopped in his tracks. “Your father? You never said anything about him arrivin’ today!”

Maud considered her lacquered nails carefully. “He’ll be traveling up from London with some investors just to check on the amounts of money paid out to the villagers. They’ll arrive on the eight-fifty. To meet up with the magistrate and county planners coming down on the nine-ten. I’ll show them the way to the square—you’d best have things ready there.”

Maud thought Obadiah Smithers looked about ready to take a fit. He stood scarlet-faced and quivering. “Check on the money? What’s the matter, doesn’t the man trust me?”

Maud was satisfied her nails were perfect. She replied coolly, “When it comes to business, my father trusts nobody!”

At eight-fifteen Blodwen Evans opened the front door of the Tea Shoppe and began sweeping over the step with a broom. She stopped to view the activity in the square. Directly in front of the notice board post, two wagons had pulled up. Men were unloading a table, chairs, and what looked like a small marquee with an open front. Smithers was directing two other men to put up a large sign, painted on a plywood board. Shopkeeper Blodwen called to her husband, “Dai, look you, see what’s ’appenin’ out ’ere!”

Dai Evans emerged, wiping flour from his hands, and gave a long, mournful sigh. “Whoa! Look at that, now, will you. Our village square full of strangers. Read me that notice, will you, Blodwen, I ain’t got my glasses with me.”

Blodwen read it aloud slowly. “ ‘Progressive Development Company Limited. Payments made here for all land and properties within the Chapelvale area. All persons wishing to receive the stipulated compensation must be in possession of legal deeds to their land and property or payment cannot be made.’ ”

Blowing her nose loudly on her apron hem, Blodwen wiped her eyes on it. “There’s sad for the village, Dai. I never thought I’d see this day!”

Dai put an arm about his wife. “There there, lovely, you make a cup of tea. I’ll go an’ look for the deeds to our shop.”

Blodwen stood watching Smithers approaching, she called over her shoulder to Dai, “You’ll find ’em in the blue hatbox on top of the wardrobe!”

Smithers had a spring to his step and a happy smile on his face. He touched his hat brim to Blodwen cheerfully. “Mornin’, marm, another good summer’s day, eh. Am I too early to order breakfast and a large pot of tea?”

Blodwen Evans drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable, and stared down from the front step of her shop. “Put one foot over this step, boyo, and I’ll crack this broom over your skull!”

Smithers beat a hasty retreat back to the square, where he began finding fault and bullying the workmen. Blodwen held her aggressive pose for a moment, then sighed unhappily and leaned on the broom. Chapelvale, the little village she had come to love so much, was about to be destroyed. In a short time, the drapers, butchers, post office, general shop, and the ironmongers, those neat, small shops with their wares gaily displayed behind well-polished windows, would stand empty, waiting for demolition, their former owners gone off to other places.

Even the almshouse, with its tall, shady trees in the lane behind, would be trampled under the wheels of progress. Children dashing eagerly into her Tea Shoppe, pennies clutched in their hands for ice cream cones, old ladies wanting to sit and chat over pots of India and China tea, with cakes or hot buttered scones. They would soon be little more than a memory to her. But such a beautiful memory. Blodwen Evans lifted an apron hem to her face and cried for the loss of the place she knew as home.

45

IN MR. MACKAY’S OFFICE WINDOW, THE clock stood at half past nine. A lot of people had gathered in the square at Chapelvale. It was, as Smithers had predicted, a good summer’s day, with hardly a breeze stirring and the sun beaming out of a cloudless blue sky. However, the square was still and silent, despite the large gathering of villagers.

Percival Bowe stood with his daughter Maud upon his arm. In subdued voices they made small talk with the magistrate, the county planning officer, and their lawyers. Principal shareholders, who had traveled up from London, stood apart, with the project engineers. They carried on a low-key conversation, every so often casting quick glances from under the marquee shade at the faces outside, of the sad, puzzled, hostile villagers.

Smithers felt untidy and out of place, trying unsuccessfully to mingle with those in the marquee. He approached Mr. Bowe, rubbing his hands nervously. “The, er, Tea Shoppe is closed today, or I’d have sent for some refreshments.” He wilted under the icy stares of Maud and her father. Wiping perspiration from under his collar with a grubby finger, Smithers shrugged apologetically. “I was goin’ to have a reception up at the house, but, er, maid’s day off y’know. Haha . . .”

Percival Bowe had a sonorous voice that any undertaker might have admired. “So I gather, sir. Not quite what I was led to expect from your letters. What time is it?”

Eager to please, Smithers fumbled out his oversized watch. “Nine-forty exactly, Percy . . . er, Mr. Bowe. Nine-forty, sir!”

Mr. Bowe touched the pearl stickpin he wore in his cravat. “Those bumpkins out there will stand all day, staring dumbly at us like a herd of cattle. Do you not think it might be wise to encourage them forward? I assume they will want payment for their properties today, as small as it is.”