The Tale of Hill Top Farm (7 page)

“No, of course not,” Beatrix said, although she privately thought that, as far as the villagers were concerned, a few loose pigs might provide a welcome distraction on a dull day. She reached down to pet Rascal, who had been following them on their walk. “And cows?” she pressed. “I counted only four.”

“Aye, cows.” Jennings nodded impassively. “O’ course, tha’d have to buy t’ right stock—Ayrshires, I’d say. And if tha has more cows, tha’ll need a new stone floor in t’ dairy, and a new roof. T’ missus sez t’ old dairy isna fit t’ keep cheese and butter in, for t’ rats. Rats is so big, they could just about carry off t’ cats.”

“D’you hear that?”
Rascal said to the ginger cat
. “Why aren’t you out in the barn, taking care of those rats?”

“That’s the barn cats’ job,”
Felicia Frummety explained
. “We all have our territories, you know, and the barn cats don’t much like it if I trespass. I’m responsible for the house—and believe you me, no rat dares to show his whiskers whilst I’m on duty. Or her whiskers,”
she added, thinking of Rosabelle Rat, who lived in the attic and had so far proved too wily to catch.

“I see,” Beatrix said, mentally adding the cost of a new dairy to the cost of the pigsty and the cost of the Ayrshires. It was clear that the next few books would have to return enough royalties to manage the improvements she wanted to make. “I noticed that there aren’t any sheep,” she added after a moment. “It would be good to have at least a few Herdwicks, wouldn’t you say? It would be a pity to see a fine breed die out.”

“Herdwicks?”
Rascal said in some surprise. He personally liked the Herdwicks, who seemed to him more intelligent than most other sheep. But the farmers always complained that they couldn’t make any money from their wool, and there wasn’t any market for the meat. Didn’t Miss Potter intend to turn a profit from her farm?

“Herdwicks, then,” Jennings said, seeming pleased. He tamped the tobacco in his pipe. “ ’Tis a bit late in t’ year, but we might find four or five draft ewes for sale at Penrith. November is tuppin’ time, and tha’ll want to hire a tup.”

“Tupping time?” Beatrix asked.

Jennings didn’t look at her. “When t’ ram—t’ tup—is put in with t’ ewes. April is lambin’ time.”

Felicia chuckled.
“Look at her face, gone all red. Well, that’s a lady for you. Her nanny probably told her that lambs are brought by the stork.”

Beatrix felt her cheeks flush. This was not the sort of subject she had ever discussed with a person of the opposite gender. But if she wanted to be a farmer, she would have to learn to talk like a farmer. She squared her shoulders.

“Go to Penrith and buy five good ewes for us, then,” she said bravely, “and hire the best tup you can find to breed them. And when April comes, we’ll have the beginnings of our flock.”

Now it was Rascal’s turn to chuckle. He leaned over and spoke into Felicia’s ginger-colored ear.
“Did you hear that, Felicia? This lady might make a farmer yet.”

“Maybe,”
Felicia said.
“It’s going to take a lot more than words, though. She’ll have to get her hands dirty—which might not be easy for a London lady.”

“April.” Jennings scratched a match against his boot, put it to his pipe, and pulled. “T’ missus and me, we’ll have a babe oursels in April. Three, make it.” He studied the flay-crow critically. “With pigs and cows and sheep and hay and t’ like, there’ll be work a’ plenty, and you mostly in London. I’m wondering what tha means t’ do for a farmer.”

“That’s it,”
Felicia said approvingly
. “Ask it straight out, Mr. J., so she knows she has to make up her mind.”

Beatrix had not been sure what she should do about John Jennings, but now it was time to come to a decision. She took a deep breath. “I hope,” she said, very seriously now, “that you and Mrs. Jennings will agree to stay on and manage Hill Top. I’m sure that, working together, we could have quite a good farm. It will be small, but that’s for the best, while I’m learning my way.” She paused. “Will you do it?”

There was a long silence, long enough for Beatrix to fear that Mr. Jennings was going to say no. In the barn, a hen began to cackle, announcing the arrival of a new egg, and after a moment, a second hen (who always took credit, even when the egg wasn’t hers) joined the celebration. Somewhere nearby, a cow made a soft lowing sound, and up at the house, someone was banging on a tin pan.

“I’d do it if she asked me,”
Rascal said
. “I think it’d be fun. And I like her, in spite of that foolish hedgehog she keeps.”

“Well, maybe,”
Felicia replied
, “but the problem is Mrs. J., y’see. She’s not at all in favor, and she’s already told him so.”

“Will I do it?” Jennings repeated. “Well, now, I s’pose it all depends.” He looked up at the house. “T’ missus was wonderin’ what tha had in mind about t’ living arrangements. Will tha be wantin’ to stay here at Hill Top?”

Beatrix followed his glance. Mrs. Jennings was standing in the porch, holding a large pot and looking in their direction. Even at this distance, she could see that the woman was scowling. She sighed.

“Yes, I should certainly like to stay here when I come. But I must confess that I’m not at all sure how that might be managed. As you yourself say, there will soon be five of you, and we six would be very crowded.” Beatrix knew enough about her own need for privacy to be sure that she would not enjoy living in the midst of the noisy family for more than a day or two, and she was very sure that Mrs. Jennings would not be happy about sharing the small house.

“Very crowded,”
repeated Felicia firmly
. “Somebody would have to sleep on the floor—and it won’t be Mrs. J., I can tell you that.”

“Well, then, what’s t’ be done?” Jennings asked. “T’ missus is ’specially worrit about t’ house. If we can’t conclude an arrangement, I fear tha may need to find another farmer.”

“I understand her position entirely,” Beatrix said, adding, with more confidence than she felt, “but I’m sure we can work something out. Will you speak to Mrs. Jennings about it, or shall I?”

Jennings puffed on his pipe. “I’d best do’t,” he said at last. “She’s not o’er happy about t’ idea of us stayin’ on here, I’m sorry to say.” He turned, and his serious blue eyes lightened, although he did not quite smile. “I’ll be takin’ t’ pony cart t’ Hawkshead on Saturday, to sell butter and eggs. Would tha like t’ come wi’ me?”

“I would, very much,” Beatrix said. She looked down at her feet. “Perhaps I could visit the cobbler and have him make me a pair of clogs just like these.”

Rascal turned to Felicia, who wore a surprised look.
“There,”
he said, with satisfaction.
“She talks like a farmer and walks like a farmer. The lady will make a farmer yet.”

On her way back to Belle Green for lunch, Beatrix went to the post office, where she said hello to Lucy Skead, the postmistress, and asked for her mail. It proved to be a substantial bundle: two letters from Millie Warne, Norman’s sister; a letter from her mother; a letter and a check from her publisher; and a package labeled as containing six copies of
The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.

“Welcome to the village, Miss,” Lucy Skead said primly. “Ye’ll be with us long this visit?”

“Until the end of the month,” Beatrix replied. She glanced at her letters and added, “unless I’m needed at home.” Her mother had a way of developing an ailment or creating a crisis among the household servants the minute Beatrix was out of the house. She hoped this letter wasn’t a summons.

“I couldn’t help noticin’,” Lucy confided in an innocent tone, “that thi package was full o’ books. Mayhap there’s a new one? Me mum has read all that tha’s written. Her fav’rite is
Benjamin Bunny.
Reads it over and over to my girls, though they can read fer thersels.” She trilled a light laugh. “She says thi rabbits put her in mind of folks she knows.”

Beatrix opened the paper package of books and took out a copy. “This is the book that came out last month. There’s another new one, but they haven’t sent it yet.” She smiled at Lucy. “Perhaps your mother would like to have it.”

Lucy Skead’s eyes grew round. “Tha’d
give
it to Mum?” she asked in a whisper.

“I’d be glad to sign it if you like,” Beatrix said diffidently. “What’s her name?” Lucy told her, and Beatrix took up the pen on the counter, dipped it into the glass inkwell, and wrote, with care, “To Mrs. Dolly Dorking, with kind regards, HBP.”

“Oh, thank you!” Lucy exclaimed. “Mum’ll be that pleased.” She peered at the inscription. “H?” she asked curiously. “What’s that stand for?”

Beatrix, feeling that Lucy was a busybody, did not want to tell her that she had been named Helen, for her mother. She was relieved when a shadow darkened the doorway. It was a stooped old lady in a gray dress, a black tippet around her shoulders, leaning on a cane.

“Ooh, look, Mum!” Lucy cried excitedly, holding up
The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle
. “It’s a new book, and Miss Potter has put her initials in it, and thi name. See? It says ‘To Mrs. Dolly Dorking.’ She wants tha should have it, with her kind regards!”

The old lady came closer, peering up at Beatrix. She was very short, just above five feet high, with shrewd blue eyes, a face as wrinkled and brown as a scrap of wash-leather, and a strong scent of lavender about her. “Thank’ee,” she said, in a cracked, high-pitched voice. “Thank’ee much. Is this ’un about a rabbit? I did admire that Benjamin Bunny, for all his mischief. Put me in mind of my own brother, when he was young.”

“Actually, this one is about a hedgehog,” said Beatrix, who was always delighted to find an eager reader. “I used my own pet hedgehog—Mrs. Tiggy—as a model.”

“Well, I’ll read it,” the old lady said, “and tell tha how I like it.” She sniffed. “But I won’t lie, mind. If it’s not up to
Benjamin Bunny,
I’ll let tha know.”

“Mum!” Lucy protested, scandalized. “She
gave
it to you!”

“Well, that’s no reason for a body to lie, now, is’t?” muttered the old lady, and shuffled off down a dark passage.

Amused, Beatrix gathered up her mail and was about to leave the post office when a woman came in. She was dressed in a neat gray skirt and jacket and white blouse, and her dark, silver-streaked hair was twisted up under a wide-brimmed hat. She was accompanied by a handsome gray tabby cat with a red collar and a little bell.

“Why, Miss Potter,” she said pleasantly. “How very nice to see you again. Perhaps you’ll remember me—I’m Grace Lythecoe.”

“Of course,” Beatrix said shyly. She glanced down at the cat. “And this is Crumpet, isn’t it? I recall her from my earlier visit.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lythecoe replied, smiling. “I’m surprised that you remember her name.”

“So am I,”
Crumpet purred, flattered. She wound herself around Beatrix’s ankles.
“But then, I’m a memorable cat.”

“I remember,” Beatrix replied, “because I put Crumpet into a book called
The Pie and the Patty-Pan.
I called her by another name—Ribby Pipstone—but it’s Crumpet, all the same.” She bent down and stroked the cat’s sleek fur. “You didn’t notice, Crumpet, but I made several sketches of you whilst I was here.”

“You put me into a book?”
Crumpet sat down and stared up at Beatrix, wide-eyed.
“Just wait until Tabitha Twitchit hears this!”

“I included one of Mrs. Rollins’s little dogs, as well,” Beatrix added, straightening, “and several village scenes.”

“Oh, what fun!” Mrs. Lythecoe exclaimed. “I know that the children loved the books you sent when they were ill.” She stepped up to the counter. “Hello, Lucy,” she said. “I’ll have a stamp, please.”

Beatrix stood by, waiting, as Mrs. Lythecoe paid for the stamp, affixed it to a letter, and handed it to Lucy Skead. As they walked out of the post office, followed by the cat, Beatrix said, shyly, “I wanted to thank you for arranging my stay at Belle Green. Miss Woodcock told me that you suggested the idea to Mrs. Crook.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Mrs. Lythecoe gave her a bright smile. “I do hope George Crook is behaving himself. He’s a very nice man, but he’s apt to be a bit gruff now and then.”

“A bit gruff, is it?”
Crumpet laughed
. “Why don’t you tell her about the time he chased the gypsy tinker down the street?”

“So it’s not just me, then,” Beatrix said in some relief. “Sometimes one feels . . . rather awkward, when it comes to strangers.”

“If you don’t mind my speaking frankly,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, “I’m not sure George likes the idea of a woman buying Hill Top Farm. Some of the men are a bit . . . well, a bit uncertain about the idea of a lady farmer, and especially one from the city.” Her gray eyes twinkled. “They predict disaster, of course. Men always do, when a woman plans something out of the ordinary.”

Beatrix had to smile, for that was exactly the way her father behaved. “Well, they’ll just have to get used to the idea,” she said briskly, “for I am determined. I spent the morning with Mr. Jennings, looking around the farm. We talked about repairing the dairy and the pigsty and getting some sheep.”

“So the Jenningses are staying on, then?” Mrs. Lythecoe asked, in a serious way. “I really don’t mean to pry, but I did wonder how you were going to manage.”

“I’ve asked them to stay,” Beatrix answered. “I’m not sure they’ll agree, though. Obviously, there’s not room at Hill Top for all of us. I—”

“Mrs. Lythecoe!” came a blustery shout. “I say, Mrs. Lythecoe! Hold up there!”

Beatrix turned to see a very stout man in a brown waistcoat, a red tie, and a mustard-yellow tweed suit hurrying across the meadow. Another man, also short and stout but with a fuzzy brown beard, was two paces behind him, almost running to catch up. They looked, Beatrix thought, rather like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

“Hello, Mrs. Lythecoe,” said the first man breathlessly. “So nice to see you again, ma’am.”

“Hello, Mr. Roberts,” Mrs. Lythecoe said, in a cool, remote voice that gave Beatrix to understand that Mrs. Lythecoe did not consider the man a friend. “I should like you to meet Miss Potter.”