Australia in his life, and this is the first time that I have been, but we always understood—I suppose it was passed down from generation to generation—that a good many years ago we had come from a place called Tapsfield somewhere in the south of England.’
‘This is the only place of the name that I know of,’ said the vicar. ‘Possibly the parochial records—’
‘One little bit of evidence—if you can call it that—came to light when I went through my father’s things after his death last year,’ continued Dixson. ‘Plainly it had been kept for its personal association, though it’s only brass and can’t be of any value. I mean, no one called Anthony Dixson would be likely to throw it away and by what I’m told one of us always has been called Anthony, and very few people nowadays spell the name D-i-x-s-o-n.’
‘A coin—really?’ The vicar put on his reading glasses and took the insignificant object that Dixson had meanwhile extracted from a pouch of his serviceable leather belt. ‘I have myself—’
‘I don’t see that it can be a coin because that should have the king—Charles the Second wouldn’t it be?—on it. In fact I don’t understand why—’
‘Oh, but this is quite all right,’ exclaimed Mr Galton with rising enthusiasm, as he carefully deciphered the inscription, ‘It is one of an extensive series called the seventeenth-century tokens. I speak as a collector in a modest way, though I personally favour the regal issues—“Antho Dixson, Cordwainer, of Tapsfield in Susex”, and on the other side “His half peny 1666”, with a device—probably the arms of the cordwainers’ company.’
‘Yes,’ said the namesake of Antho Dixson of 1666 carelessly. ‘That’s what it seems to read isn’t it?’
‘But this is most interesting; really most extraordinarily interesting,’ insisted the now thoroughly intrigued clergyman. ‘In the year when the Great Fire of London was raging and—yes—I suppose Milton would be writing Paradise Lost then, your remote ancestor was issuing these halfpennies to provide the necessary shopping change here in Tapsfield. And now, more than two hundred and fifty years later, you turn up from Australia to visit the birthplace of your race. Do you know, I find that a really suggestive line of thought, Mr Dixson; most extraordinarily impressive.’
‘I can hardly expect to discover any Dixson here,’ commented Anthony, with a speculative note of inquiry, ‘and even if there were they would be too remote to have any actual relationship. But possibly there are some of the old houses standing—’
‘There are no Dixsons now,’ replied Mr Galton with decision. ‘I know every family and can speak positively. Even in the more common form we have no one of that surname. As for old houses—well, Tapsfield is scarcely a show-place, one must admit. “Model” perhaps, but not picturesque. The church is practically the only thing remaining of any note: if you can spare the time I should be delighted to take you over the building where your forebears worshipped. We are almost there now. Was there any particular train back that you were thinking of catching?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Dixson readily, ‘I came intending to stay a few days and look around here. I’ve always had a hankering to see the place properly, and in any case I don’t find that living in London suits me. So I shall hope to see over the church when it’s most convenient to you.’
‘Oh, you intend staying? I didn’t—I mean, not seeing any luggage, I inferred that you were just here for the afternoon. Of course—er—any time I shall be really delighted.’
‘I left my traps up at the station. I must find a room and then I can have them sent over. To tell you the truth, I couldn’t stand London any longer. I have hardly slept a wink for the last two nights. Perhaps you could put me in the way of a place where they let apartments?’
It was a very natural request in the circumstances—nothing could have been more so—but for some reason the vicar did not reply at once, nor did his expression seem to indicate that he was considering the most suitable addresses. Actually, one might have guessed that he had become slightly embarrassed.
‘Almost any sort of a place would suit me—just simple meals and a bedroom,’ prompted Dixson, without apparently noticing his acquaintance’s difficulty. ‘On the whole I prefer a private house—even a workman’s—to an inn, but that is only a harmless fancy.’
‘Awkwardly enough, a room is practically unobtainable either at a private house or even at one of the inns,’ at length admitted Mr Galton with slow reluctance. ‘It’s an unusual state of things, I know, but there are special circumstances and the people here have always been encouraged to refuse chance visitors. The consequence is that nobody sets out to let apartments.’
‘“Special circumstances”? Does that mean—?’
‘Evidently you have not heard of the Tapsfield paper mill, Mr Dixson. The particular circumstance is that all the paper used in the printing of Bank of England notes is made here in the village.’
‘You surprise me. I should have imagined that they would be printed in a strongroom at the Bank itself or something of that sort. Surely—?’
‘Printed, yes,’ assented the vicar. ‘I believe they are. But the peculiar and characteristic paper is all made within a stone’s throw of where we are. It is really our only local industry and practically all the people are either employed there or dependent on the business. Of course it is a very important and confidential—I might almost say dangerous—position, and although there is no actual rule, newcomers do not find it practicable to settle here and strangers are not accommodated.’
‘Newcomers and strangers, eh?’ The visitor laughed with a slightly wry good humour.
‘I know, I know,’ admitted the vicar ruefully. ‘It is we who are really the interlopers and newcomers compared with your status. But the difficulty is that owing to the established order of things it is out of these good people’s power to make exceptions.’
‘But what am I to do about it?’ protested Mr Dixson rather blankly. ‘You see how I am placed now?… I can’t go back to London for another wretched night, and it would be too late to get on to some other district … I never dreamt of not finding any sort of lodgings. Surely there must be someone with a room to spare, even if they don’t make it a business. Then if you wouldn’t mind putting in a word—’
‘Now let me think; let me think,’ mused the good-natured pastor. ‘It would be really deplorable if you of all people should find yourself cold-shouldered out of Tapsfield. As you say, there may be someone—’
Since the moment when chance had brought them into conversation, the two men had been walking together towards the village of which the only evidence so far had been an ancient tower showing above a mass of trees, where a querulous congregation of rooks incessantly put resolutions and urged amendments. Now a final bend of the devious lane laid the main village street open before them, and so near that they were in it before Mr Galton’s cogitation had reached any practical expression.
‘There surely might be someone—?’ he repeated hopefully, for by this time, what with one slight influence and another, the excellent man felt himself almost morally bound to get Dixson out of his dilemma. ‘I have it!—at least, there’s really quite a good chance there—Mrs Hocking.’
‘Splendid,’ acquiesced Dixson with an easy assumption that this was as good as settled. ‘Mrs Hocking by all means.’
‘She is an aunt
