‘Latin,’ said the landlady when Sam paused to look. ‘Old Dunstan says it’s St Matthew’s Gospel. Ask and it shall be given, that bit. Sort of a welcome. This was the room that the monks fed the travellers in. Phone’s at yon end by the fireplace.’
As Sam made her way down the narrow corridor between the table and the units she had to pause to shut the dishwasher door.
‘Bloody nuisance,’ said Mrs Appledore.
‘Why not get something smaller?’ asked Sam, looking at the huge table.
‘No, not the table, those units,’ said the woman. ‘The table’s been here since the place were built. The units were Buckle’s idea.’
‘Buckle?’
‘My husband.’
Sam tried to puzzle this out as she made the connection home.
‘Yeah?’ said a familiar voice.
‘Pa, it’s me.’
‘Hey, Lu, it’s Sammy!’ she heard him yell. ‘So how’s it going, girl?’
‘Fine, Pa. How’re things back there?’
‘No problems,’ he said. ‘The new vines are looking good. Here’s your ma. Missing you like hell. Take care now.’
This got close to a heart-to-heart with her father. When he said you were missed, it made you feel missed clearer than a book of sonnets. Her eyes prickled with tears but she brushed them away and greeted her mother brightly, assuring her she was well and having a great time seeing a bit of the country before getting down to work.
Despite this, Lu needed more reassurance, asking after a while, ‘Sam, you sure you’re OK?’
‘I told you, Ma. Fit as a butcher’s dog.’
‘It’s just that a couple of times recently I got this feeling…’
‘Ma, is this some of your my people stuff?’
‘Mock my people, you’re mocking yourself, girl. I’m just telling you what I’ve been told. You watch out for a stranger, Sam.’
‘Ma, I’m in England. They’re all bleeding strangers!’
Mrs Appledore had left the kitchen to give her some privacy. When she finished her call, Sam blew her nose, then headed for the door. The winding gear to raise the hams caught her eye and she paused to examine it. Instead of a simple wheel-and-axle system, it had three gearing cogwheels. Between two blinks of her eye, her mind measured radiuses, turned them into circumferences, counted cogs, and calculated lifting power.
‘Real antiques those. As old as the house, they say. Ropes been changed of course, but ‘part from a bit of oiling, they’re just the same as they were when some old monk put them together,’ said Mrs Appledore from the doorway.
‘Clever old monk,’ said Sam. ‘This is real neat work. Did they have bigger pigs in those days? With this gearing you could hoist a whole porker, if the rope held.’
‘Bigger appetites maybe. Talking of which, you left your sandwich on the bar. I’ve wrapped it in a napkin so you can eat it as you walk to the church. And here’s a front-door key in case I’m out when you get back. And I thought this old guidebook might help you if you’re looking round the village. Better than that useless leaflet.’
She proffered a leather-bound volume, almost square in shape.
‘That’s kind,’ said Sam, taking the book and opening it at the title page.
A GUIDE to ILLTHWAITE and its ENVIRONS being a brief introduction to the history, architecture,and economy of the parish of Illthwaite inSkaddale in the County of Cumberland,with maps and illustrations,prepared by the Reverend Peter K. Swinebank DDVicar of St Ylf’s Church, Illthwaite,assisted by Anthony Woollass Esquire of Illthwaite Hall.Printed at the Lunar Press, Whitehaven mdcccxciv
‘Eighteen ninety-four,’ she worked out. ‘Isn’t this valuable? I’d love to borrow it, but I’m worried about damaging it.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said the woman comfortably. ‘I’ve loaned it to worse than you and it’s come to no harm.’
Worse than you. Had to be a compliment in there somewhere, thought Sam.
‘Then thank you so much.’
‘Think nowt of it,’ said the woman. ‘Enjoy the church. See you later. Don’t forget your sandwich.’
‘Won’t do that in a hurry. See you later!’
Outside, she found the drizzle which had accompanied her most of the way from London seemed at last to have given up. She reached into her hired car parked on the narrow forecourt and opened the glove compartment. There were three Cherry Ripes in there. She’d been incredulous when Martie, whose gorgeous looks had earned her more air miles than most Qantas pilots by the time she left uni, had told her you couldn’t get them outside of Oz. Life without a daily injection of this cherry-and-coconut mix in its dark chocolate wrapping had seemed impossible and she’d stuffed a month’s supply into her flight bag. Unfortunately the ravages of Heathrow Customs had been followed by the rapine of the Aussie friends she’d stayed with in London, and now she was down to her last three. She slipped two of them into her bumbag, one to eat on her walk to the church, one for emergencies.
Then she took one of them out and replaced it in the compartment.
Knowing yourself was the beginning of wisdom, and she had still to find a way of not consuming every bit of chocolate available once she started.
The landlady had followed her to the front door. In case she’d noticed the business with the Cherry Ripes, Sam held up the cob and nibbled appreciatively at one of the dangling skirts of ham. Then with the Illthwaite Guide tucked under one arm, she set off along the road.
Mrs Appledore stood and watched her guest out of sight, then turned and went back into the Stranger House, slipping the bolt into the door behind her. In her kitchen she lifted the telephone and dialled. After three rings, it was answered.
‘Thor, it’s Edie,’ she said. ‘Something weird. I’ve got a lass staying here, funny little thing, would pass for a squirrel if you glimpsed her in the wood, skin brown as a nut, hair red as rowan berries. Looks about twelve, but from her passport she’s early twenties…Don’t interrupt, I’m coming to the point. Her name’s Sam Flood…That’s right. Sam for Samantha Flood, it’s in her passport. She’s from Australia, got an accent you could scratch glass with, and she thinks her grandmother might have come from these parts…1960, spring…Yes, ‘60, so it’s got to be just coincidence, but I thought I’d mention it. She’s off up to the church to see if there’s any records…Yes, I’ll be there, but not till he’s well screwed down. I’ll take your word the little bugger’s dead!’
Sam Flood and Miguel
