The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (14 page)

“You’ll find it,”
comforted Bailey.
“I’m just not sure you’ll find it in Lake Windermere, that’s all.”

As things turned out, the badger was wrong. But that’s another part of the story. We’ll get to it when the time comes. Now, we have a meeting to attend.

But before the meeting, we shall make a stop at Tower Bank House, the home of Captain and Mrs. Miles Woodcock.

I am afraid that there is certain amount of muddle about these two names—Tower Bank House and the Tower Bank Arms. It is the same sort of confusion that people often feel about the names of Near and Far Sawrey, for Far Sawrey is nearer Windermere and the ferry, when approached from the east, and Near Sawrey is farther away. Why is Far Sawrey not called Near? people often ask. And why is Near Sawrey not called Far?

This seemingly illogical bit can be very simply explained, but you have to come at it from the other direction: that is, from the west. (Illogical things often clear themselves up when you turn them upside down, or wrong side front, or inside out.) Then you will see that Near Sawrey is nearer the market town of Hawkshead, while Far Sawrey is farther away by a half mile or so. If you are still muddled, you might want to glance at the map at the front of this book, which may help to unmuddle you.

The confusion in names came about many years ago, when Tower Bank House was home to the village squire, who imagined himself somewhat grander than he was. It happened that the pub—known for many years as The Blue Pig—was put up for sale, and since the price was reasonable, the squire thought he would buy it. However, upon reflection, it seemed to him that owning a “Blue Pig” was a notch or so beneath him, and that he would rather own a “Tower Bank Arms,” which sounded a good deal more impressive. The villagers found this funny (they still called the pub The Blue Pig) but off-comers were terribly confused. Some who wanted a bed at the Tower Bank Arms found themselves ringing the squire’s door bell, whilst those who had business at Tower Bank House ended up with a half-pint at the pub.

The squire is dead and gone, but the names have lived on. Now, Tower Bank House is the home of Captain and Mrs. Miles Woodcock. Captain Woodcock—a fine-looking, capable gentleman, respected by all who know him—is retired from His Majesty’s Army and serves as the justice of the peace for Claife Parish. This position requires him to hear complaints, witness documents, certify deaths, deal with disturbances of the peace, and the like, so that the captain finds himself involved in a great many aspects of village life and feels entitled to hold a general opinion about all of it (even those parts that are none of his business).

The new Mrs. Woodcock (the former Margaret Nash) retired from her position as headmistress of Sawrey School upon the announcement of her engagement to the captain. They were married by the vicar at St. Peter’s in a ceremony that was attended by everyone in the parish, and afterward feted at a lovely garden reception at Raven Hall (Mrs. Kittredge of Raven Hall is the captain’s sister). Mrs. Woodcock misses her work with the children, although she is very happy with her new position as mistress of Tower Bank House. It took a little while, but she and Elsa Grape (the captain’s cook-housekeeper) have come to an understanding about who is to make the menus and oversee the tweeny. Now that the duties have been equitably divided (at least from Elsa’s point of view), the household is humming along quite peaceably.

Tonight, the captain and his wife are entertaining the captain’s closest friend, Mr. Will Heelis, at dinner. They would have invited Miss Potter as well, if they had known of the secret engagement. But since it is still a secret and nobody knows, they didn’t—and anyway, Mrs. Woodcock had not yet heard that Miss Potter had arrived from London and was in residence at Hill Top. So to make four, they invited Jeremy Crosfield, a favorite former student of Mrs. Woodcock’s and a recent graduate of Kelsick Grammar School in Ambleside.

Jeremy (whom I’m sure you remember from earlier books in the series) is now eighteen, tall and stalwart, with reddish-brown hair, wide-spaced gray eyes, and fine, regular features. He has taken Mrs. Woodcock’s place as teacher of the junior class at Sawrey School, where the young boys in the class particularly benefit from his teaching and his example. He might have gone on to university (with the help of Major and Mrs. Kittredge, who offered), but he decided to spend this year practicing the botanical illustrations that are his passion, which I think is a very good idea. He is already quite a competent naturalist, and the time away from formal studies will give him the opportunity to develop his art, for which he has a true gift.

The fish and soup had already been removed and the company was enjoying lamb cutlets, carrots and cauliflower, and Pommes de Terre Duchesse. (Mrs. Woodcock had got the recipe out of Mrs. Beeton’s, but it was nothing more, Elsa said with a sniff, than fried potato cakes dressed up with a fancy French name). Jeremy was young enough not to be intimidated by formal dinner-table rules and enlivened the conversation with his funny tales of the doings of the schoolchildren. Mrs. Woodcock smiled at his stories, but she was a bit misty-eyed, since she missed her charges and was sometimes sorry that she could not go back to teaching.

From there, the talk turned to the subject of the evening’s meeting at the pub: Fred Baum’s hydroplane. As it turned out, the captain had a definite opinion about this flying machine, and it was not in agreement with Mr. Heelis’ position, or anybody else’s at the table—or in the village, for that matter. He was very much in support of the thing.

“I am sorry, my dear,” he said in response to his wife’s complaint about the hours she had spent with cotton stuffed in her ears. “But I am afraid we shall just have to learn to live with the noise—at least while the machine is under development here in the area. In fact, we should applaud it. The hydroplane is progress. It is necessary to our national defense.”

Mrs. Woodcock looked unconvinced.

“Our national defense?” Mr. Heelis asked mildly, picking up a slice of bread. “And why is that, Woodcock?”

The captain waved his fork. “Why, everyone knows the Germans are arming, Heelis. Just look at all the dreadnoughts they are building. And I read in
The Times
that the German Military Aviation Commission has set a prize for the development of new aircraft. If we don’t build an aeroplane suitable for combat, they will. And then where will we be?”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Heelis steadily. “The Germans are building one dreadnought for every one of ours. Once we start building aeroplanes for combat, they will, too.” His face was sober. “It is a race that neither side can win. And once entered into it, there’s no getting out—in my opinion, anyway.”

“I can’t agree with your premise,” said the captain firmly, who as a former military man was entirely convinced that his opinion about armaments was all that counted. “We must enter, and we shall win.” His voice rose. “Of course we shall win, and handily, at that. But we shall need aeroplanes, and plenty of them. Losses are likely to be high.”

“Because they crash so often, I suppose,” Jeremy put in. Even as a child, he had not learnt to hold his tongue and got into all sorts of trouble for talking back to his teachers. Now that he was a grownup, he enjoyed speaking up even more.

“Ah,” said Mr. Heelis approvingly. “Yes, Jeremy, indeed they do crash. Which is not to say that we should not have them,” he added. “Just that it would be better to fly them over the Channel, say, where, in case of a crash, people and animals on the ground are not injured.
Not,
” he said emphatically, “in the Lakes. Over our villages.”

The captain ignored both of them. “And some of those aeroplanes ought to be hydroplanes,” he went on, “so as to take off and land on water when necessary.”

“And is that why we must have that hydroplane flying over our heads from sunrise to sunset?” asked Mrs. Woodcock wearily. “Really, my dear, there ought to be a
limit.
Say, no flying between the hours of two and four, when the village children are having their naps. Otherwise, it is very inconvenient for their mothers. I wish you would tell that to Mr. Baum this evening.”

But Mrs. Woodcock spoke gently, so as not to be seen as disagreeing with her husband. She found that she adored him so amazingly that she could not bring herself to contradict him on even the slightest thing, even when she knew in her heart that he was wrong (as in this case). And since they had no children—not yet, at least—it was a matter of inconvenience chiefly to herself.

Her husband chuckled in a loving way. “Yes, of course I shall tell him, my dear, although I doubt he will comply. Baum is still testing his machine, you see, so it must be flown frequently and in all sorts of weather. It is still very experimental. The scientists are keen on learning all they can from every flight.”

Jeremy looked up from his cutlet. “Is that why Mr. Wyatt takes paying passengers?” he put in, somewhat ironically. “To test the machine?”

“Who is Mr. Wyatt?” Mrs. Woodcock inquired.

“The pilot,” Jeremy told her. “Oscar Wyatt. The machine was all his idea. Designed and built it. Mr. Baum put up the money, but he doesn’t know anything about aeroplanes.”

“Paying passengers?” the captain asked, frowning.

“Why, yes,” Mr. Heelis said. “Didn’t you know? People are lining up at the hangar where the hydroplane is kept, hoping for a ride. Wyatt charges them five shillings for thirty minutes in the air.”

“Five shillings!” Mrs. Woodcock asked, shocked. “Why, that’s outrageous! It’s half a week’s wages for most people.”

“It does seem rather excessive,” said the captain slowly. “But of course, there’s the fuel cost and—”

“I have heard from a reliable source,” Mr. Heelis said, “that Wyatt has it in mind to establish an aeroplane route between Bowness and Grasmere. It might be used to transport passengers, as well as the mail.” He looked straight at the captain. “I know that it seems hardly feasible, at least at this stage of the machine’s development. But who knows what advancements will be made in the next year or two.” He paused. “If commercial development is behind this project, would you support it?”

“An aeroplane route!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodcock, wide-eyed. “But that means that we shall
never
be rid of the wretched thing.”

The captain was somewhat flustered. “I was under the impression that this venture was created for the purpose of national defense. If there is a commercial aspect—” He stopped.

“If there is,” persisted Mr. Heelis, “would you support it? Bearing in mind,” he added, “that there was so much public opposition to building a railroad into the Lake District that the project failed. It would seem to me that there might be just as much opposition to an aeroplane route, and for some of the same reasons.”

Many had opposed the expansion of the railroad into the mountainous areas of the Lake District when it was proposed some years earlier, not only because of the noise and soot from the trains, but because they feared that increased tourism and commercial development would spoil the scenic landscape. On the other side of the issue, many argued that the railroad would be an economic boon to a struggling region, and that jobs were more important than landscapes any day of the week.

“I suppose I shall have to ask Baum to tell us what he has in mind,” the captain replied stiffly, now on his dignity. “I shall do that this evening.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Heelis said, “I think we can count on an interesting meeting. Assuming,” he added thoughtfully, “that Baum actually tells us what he and Wyatt are planning. I am not at all sure that he will. This aeroplane of theirs is surely a long way from any commercial use, but neither of them will want word of a possible air route to get out. Some other aeroplane developer might come along and trump them—or attempt to buy them out. Or people might start organizing an opposition.”

The captain did not reply to this. Instead, he looked down the table at his wife. “My dear, will you ring for Mrs. Grape? I believe we are ready for our dessert. What are we having?”

“A Charlotte Russe,” said Mrs. Woodcock proudly, having also got that recipe from Mrs. Beeton. In case you don’t know, this is an elaborate dessert in which a mold is made of ladyfingers, filled with a vanilla custard and decorated with fruit, berries, and whipped cream. Some say that it was created by the French Chef Marie-Antoine Carême and named in honor of his Russian employer, Czar Alexander, others that it took its name from Queen Charlotte, wife of George III. Mrs. Woodcock, being British, inclined to the latter view.

After the dessert was handed round and they had all begun to eat it, Mr. Heelis remarked, as if quite casually, “I understand that the vicar and Mrs. Lythecoe have set their wedding date.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Woodcock said happily. “It is to be on April twentieth. Not quite a month away.” Now that she is married, she feels it the most blessed state in the world and wishes that everyone else could enter into it, too.