The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (19 page)

We shall follow him for a bit, as he strides, jauntily now, along the Kendal Road, across the bridge over Wilfin Beck, past Hill Top Farm and the Tower Bank Arms and the village shop, which Miss Potter immortalized in
Ginger and Pickles
. He is swinging his walking stick with a great flourish and whistling tunelessly between his teeth, entirely satisfied with his plan for tomorrow’s trespass. Law and order, that was the ticket. Devise a strategy, develop a plan, carry it out with good sense and sound judgment, and peace and harmony will be restored in the land. All will be well. All will indeed be well.

Ah, Captain Woodcock, Captain Woodcock. Wouldn’t it be nice if everything worked out exactly as we planned? Life would be so simple, and we should all be so very happy.

But of course it doesn’t.

And it isn’t.

And we aren’t.

12

In Which We Hear a Ghost Story

We could ask almost anyone in the village to relate the tale of the ghost of Applebeck Orchard. Agnes Llewellyn and Mathilda Crook mentioned it at the very beginning of our story, and would be delighted to tell us all about it, I’m quite sure. The vicar certainly knows it, at least in outline. And old Dolly Dorking would undoubtedly be glad to serve it up to us with great relish, in eerie detail. In fact, there is nothing the Sawrey villagers like better than a good story, especially when it is told in front of a dancing fire on a cold winter’s night, and accompanied by a cup of hot mulled cider.

And ghost stories are the very best stories of all. The tale-teller speaks in a hushed voice that inspires shivers and shakes and half-frightened silences, whilst the conjured spirits lurk, listening, in the dark corners of the room. At last, the fire burns down, the cider is drunk up, and the storyteller and the audience creep off to bed, where they hurriedly say their prayers and pull the covers over their heads very fast, before the fairies or ghosts or trolls can come out of their corners and carry them off.

But when we left The Brockery at the end of Chapter Six, Hyacinth and Bosworth were planning to have a look at the
History
, where the story of the ghost of Applebeck Orchard—together with a great many stories about animal spirits—is recorded. And since badger historians are a great deal more reliable than the villagers (who love to embroider every ghost story with their own particular experiences of ghosts and positively relish a bit of exaggeration here and there), I should rather hear about the Applebeck ghost from the badgers, if you don’t mind.

So we will leave Captain Woodcock to enjoy his illusions, walk up Market Street and Stony Lane and across the meadow to Holly How and then up the hill to The Brockery. But we don’t have to hurry, because—what with one thing and another—it isn’t until nearly teatime that Bosworth Badger and Hyacinth can sit down with the
History
and read the ghost story that Hyacinth discovered buried in its pages.

They had intended to do this right after lunch. But that meal had become rather complicated. Three visitors had come over from their home at Briar Bank: Bailey Badger, his guinea-pig friend Thackeray, and Thorvaald, the young dragon who lived with them. Thorvaald (whose unusual story you can read in
The Tale of Briar Bank
) had been away for several weeks, flying around England to visit a number of his fellow dragons who were assigned to guard ancient hoards of treasure. This was part of a survey Thorvaald was conducting, and he wanted to tell Bosworth all about it so that his research could be recorded in the
History.
He also had an interesting story to relate about a close encounter he had had with a petrol-powered flying boat over Lake Windermere.

“A flying boat!”
exclaimed Bosworth, wide-eyed and disbelieving.
“A boat that
flies
? Are you sure that’s what you saw, Thorvaald? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

If you find it odd to hear a badger marveling to a dragon about a flying boat, I don’t suppose I can blame you. However, as I said, almost anything can happen in the Land Between the Lakes, and generally does. And in this case, the flying boat that Thorvaald almost ran into (quite literally, I’m afraid—it was a very near miss) is a real thing, not a fiction invented by me or Thorvaald or anyone else. A certain gentleman had taken it into his head to build a hydroplane factory at Cockshott Point on Lake Windermere, and the local people (as we overheard Mr. Heelis telling Captain Woodcock) were all up in arms about it. This is the flying boat that the dragon saw. And since Bosworth considered that a flying boat was a great deal stranger than a dragon—he was, after all, acquainted with a dragon, but had never seen a flying boat—he was utterly engrossed in the dragon’s story, although he was a good deal confused when the dragon happened to mention that the boat had wings and a tail.

Meanwhile, Primrose and Parsley kept Hyacinth busy with the regular after-dinner and housekeeping chores. So it was not until an hour before tea, when the Briar Bank trio had departed for home, that Hyacinth and Bosworth could find a moment to sit down in front of the fire in the library with the
History
open before them and glasses of cold lemonade beside them.

“This is the story?”
Bosworth asked, turning to the page that Hyacinth had marked.

“That’s it, Uncle,”
Hyacinth said.
“I found the tale enormously intriguing—but then, I’m rather fond of ghost stories. I wonder what you’ll think.”

“I think,”
said Bosworth, leaning back,
“that I should like to hear you read it aloud.”
He smiled at the young badger.
“If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I’d love to,”
Hyacinth replied warmly.

And so Bosworth reclined comfortably in his leather chair with his feet on his ottoman, sipping his lemonade and listening as Hyacinth read aloud in her musical voice. And whilst he very much wished that her brother could have been there to share the story with them, he could only be quite happy that
she
was there in Thorn’s place and feel very much put out at the owl for making such an enormous to-do over the possibility that a young female might be awarded the Badger Badge of Authority and appointed as the official Badger historian.

Not that Bosworth had fully made up his mind to do this. The question was still under consideration. But the more he considered it, the more confident he became that this was what he ought to do, Owl or no Owl. Of course, he might live for a very long time, happily continuing to carry out his appointed tasks. But if he should die or become incapacitated, Hyacinth—with a little training and encouragement along the proper lines—could certainly take his place. As far as he was concerned, the fact that she was a female was neither here nor there.

Hyacinth (who had no idea that her future was under such serious consideration) took the book, cleared her throat, and began. Should you care to read the story for yourself, you will find it on pages 113 and 114 in Volume 11 of the
History
, to the right of the fireplace in the study, third shelf from the top. The page is dated December 12, 1873, and the record is written in a minuscule hand in a crisp, no-nonsense style. Should you prefer to hear, rather than read, it, I invite you to join Bosworth and me. The leather chair opposite the fireplace is empty and waiting, and I believe there is an extra glass beside the pitcher of lemonade. Would you care for a cool drink?

In 1837 (the same year that the young queen Victoria ascended to the throne), Applebeck Farm and Orchard were owned by John Fowles. He and his wife, Elizabeth, had one daughter, Hester, who at this time was twelve years old. She was a pretty child with golden hair and blue eyes, the very dearest thing in the world to her mother and father. It was a great tragedy, then, when the child drowned in a willow-fringed pool of Apple Beck. Hester’s mourning parents buried her in the churchyard.

Hester’s father went back to work in his orchard, tending silently to his trees. But her mother blamed herself for the child’s death and grieved violently, spending every day beside the brook where Hester had drowned, scattering wild-flowers over the water and carrying on conversations with her daughter. One day she ran to her husband where he was working amongst his apple trees. She was laughing and happy, for she had seen Hester, she said, gathering flowers in the meadow on the other side of Apple Beck. “She’s not dead!” she cried. “I know she isn’t dead!”

So every morning, the mother would go out into the meadow and search all day long for Hester, and every evening, she would walk through the twilight along the public footpath, carrying a tin candle lantern and calling for the child. There was no stopping her, even on the most inclement of winter nights, when she would put on her black bonnet and wrap herself in a long gray cloak and tramp through the snow with her candle lantern.

John Fowles was distraught. His neighbors, the vicar, and everyone in the village counseled him to put his wife in an asylum, where she could be cared for and perhaps get well. But John loved Elizabeth very much and could not bear to have her sent away from him, especially to such a dreadful place as an asylum for the insane. Instead, he confined her to the house for fear she would injure herself, and when she still managed to make her way out, locked her in the attic. From her window, she could look down on the pool where Hester had drowned. Because he loved her, John took very good care of her, making her meals, ensuring that she had everything she needed or wanted.

But of course, what she wanted was Hester. And so, when Elizabeth died in 1852, she was buried next to her little girl. But that was not the end of her story. Her ghost was seen for the first time the very evening of her burial, dressed in a flowing gray cloak and walking along the Applebeck Footpath, carrying a tin candle lantern and calling out for Hester. The next day, a horse ran away with a carriage and two people were killed on the road. The villagers were sure that the ghost of Elizabeth Fowles was a portent of this misfortune.

And so it may have been, for as time has gone on, the ghost of Applebeck Orchard has appeared before many sad tragedies. She was seen walking along the footpath on the eve of Prince Albert’s untimely death of typhoid in December 1861; a day prior to a horrendous train wreck in Wales in which many were killed; the night before a terrible storm took the lives of six fishermen on Lake Windermere; and other similar occasions.

These sightings were reported by respected villagers, whose word, it would seem, could be trusted. In one case, she was seen by two persons walking together: the owner of the Sawrey Hotel and the village butcher. Sightings were also reported by trusted animals: by a pair of elderly Herdwick ewes at Hill Top Farm, by three rabbits from the warren across the road from Applebeck Orchard, and by the senior badger from the Applebeck badger sett, amongst others. Human sightings cannot be completely verified (and since humans are frequently known to exaggerate and embellish their reports, and even to lie), but the animal sightings are testimony to the true existence of this spirit.

 

 

“An entirely satisfactory ghost story,”
said Bosworth, when Hyacinth had finished reading.
“Sad, of course, but most ghost stories are.”

Hyacinth closed the book with a sigh.
“Yes, sad.”
She leaned forward.
“But there’s more, Uncle. Fritz the ferret claims to have seen the ghost—at least, he saw a mysterious figure with a lantern, wearing a bonnet and cloak.”

“He’s not the only one,”
replied Bosworth.
“Professor Owl also saw that figure, although he didn’t identify it as a ghost. He told me he thought that she—or a male dressed as a female—set the haystack afire, although he didn’t actually see her do it.”
The badger chuckled.
“He was on his way to dinner at the time, I believe, so he may not have been paying attention.”

“Do you suppose a ghost could cause a fire?”
Hyacinth asked doubtfully.
“Perhaps her appearance was simply a portent of the fire.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,”
Bosworth confessed.
“You might have another talk with the ferret, now that you’ve read the story.”
He paused.
“Have you a moment, Hyacinth? There’s something important I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course,”
Hyacinth said, putting the
History
on the table.
“What is it, Uncle?”

Bosworth smiled. An idea had come to him, perhaps the answer to his dilemma. He could name Hyacinth to an interim post as Historian-and-Genealogist-in-Training, with the possibility of accepting the Badger Badge of Authority when the time came—if Thorn had not returned by that time. He and Hyacinth could work together for several hours a day. He could teach her everything he knew about the
History
and the
Genealogy
—everything he would have taught Thorn. And if Thorn came back before he was ready to turn over the Badge, Bosworth felt confident that Hyacinth would willingly, even happily, step aside and let her brother wear it.