Then Mrs. Appledore, a most unspooky lady in her late fifties, with rosy cheeks, broad bosom and matching smile, let out a peal of uninhibited laughter and said, Dont worry, miss. Ive never laid eyes on the bugger and Ive lived here most of my life. Bathrooms across the corridor. Come down to the bar when youve cleaned up and Ill make you a sandwich. Or would you like something hot?
The assumption that she was staying couched in such a friendly way was irresistible. Suddenly the room seemed less constricting. Also shed been driving through steady drizzle since not long after dawn, and the thought of setting out once more had little appeal.
A sandwich will be fine, she said.
Ten minutes later shed descended to the bar to find herself confronted by something resembling a small cob loaf from which slices of ham dangled like the skirts of a hovercraft.
Mrs. Appledore had pushed a half-pint of beer toward her, saying, First on the house, to welcome you to Illthwaite.
Which had provoked her question about the origins of the name and the old leprechauns disconcerting interruption.
Anyway, dont let old Noddy put you off, the landlady concluded. Hes been living by himself too long and that sends you dotty. I should know. Woman on her own running a pub these days, I must be crazy!
Youre saying hes off his scone?
If that means daft but not daft enough to lock up, yes, said Mrs. Appledore cheerfully. So what are you going to do with yourself while youre here?
Sam bit into her sandwich and nearly went into toxic shock when her tongue discovered that internally the ham had been coated with the kind of mustard you could strip paint with. She grabbed for the beer and took a long cooling pull, using the pause to consider her reply.
Pas advice on communication was, Tell enough to get told what you want to know.
Ill see the sights, I guess, she said. What do most visitors do?
Most come to go walking on the fells. Thats what we call our hills, said Mrs. Appledore. As for sightseeing, theres not a lot to look at except St. Ylfs, and the Wolf-Head Cross in the churchyard.
Yeah? said Sam, carefully chewing at the hams mustard-free skirting. The church would be the place where they keep the parish records, right?
I suppose so, said Mrs. Appledore. You interested in that sort of thing?
Could be. I think my gran might come from this part of the world, said Sam.
She looked for polite interest and got a blank.
Is that right? And what would her name have been?
Flood, same as mine. Are there any Floods round here?
Only in a wet winter when the Skad overflows down the valley. Got in the cellars at the Powderham three years back, said Mrs. Appledore not without satisfaction. But theres definitely no local family called Flood. So when did your gran leave England?
Your spring, 1960. February or March, I think.
Spring 1960? echoed the woman.
Right. Does that mean something? asked Sam, detecting a note of significance.
Only that I turned fifteen in the spring of 1960, said Mrs. Appledore rather wistfully. Mam died the year before and Id started helping Dad in the pub. Against the law, but I was big for my age, so strangers didnt notice and locals werent going to complain. Point is, I knew everyone in the valley then. Definitely no local family called Flood. Sorry, dear. You sure its Illthwaite youre after?
Sam shrugged and said, Im short on detail, so maybe not. But Ill check the church out anyway. What about the local school? Theyll have records too, right?
Would do if we still had one. Got closed down three years back. Not enough kids, you see. The few there are get bused into the next valley. When I was a kid, the place was really buzzing. Thirty or forty of us. Now the young couples get out, go where theres a bit more life and a lot more money. Cant blame them.
Looks like it will have to be the church then. Is it far?
No. Just a step. Turn right when you leave the pub. You cant miss it. But youve not finished your sandwich. Its OK, is it?
The hams lovely, said Sam carefully. Ill take it with me. And one of these.
She helped herself from a small display of English Tourist Board leaflets standing at the end of the bar as she slipped off her stool.
By the way, I tried my mobile upstairs, couldnt get a signal.
You wouldnt. Its the fells. They wanted to build a mast but Gerry wouldnt let them.
Gerry?
Gerry Woollass up at the Hall.
The Hall? Her mind went back to some of the old Eng. Lit. stuff theyd made her read at school. You mean hes like some sort of squire?
No, said the woman, amused. Gerrys not the squire. Hes chairman of the Parish Council.
And just as Sam was feeling rebuked for her archaism, Mrs. Appledore added, Gerry wont be squire till old Dunstan, his dad, pops his clogs, which hes in no hurry to do. If you need to phone, help yourself to the one in my kitchen.
Thanks. I wanted to ring back home, tell them I was still in the land of the living. Ill use my credit number so it wont go on your bill.
Fine. Through here.
The landlady led her out of the bar and down the hall. The kitchen was a strange mix of old and new. Along the left-hand wall it was all modernity with a range of white kitchen units incorporating a built-in electric oven, fridge, dishwasher and stainless-steel sink. A coal fire glowed in a deep grate set in the end wall and from one of the two massive black crossbeams hung a pair of cured hams on hooks held by ropes running through pulleys screwed into the beam and thence to geared winding handles fixed into the walls. The floor was flagged with granite slabs which bore the marks of centuries of wear, as did the huge refectory table occupying most of the center space. One of the slabs, a rectangle of olive green stone which ran from just inside the door to twelve inches or so under the table, had some carving on it, almost indecipherable now.
Latin, said the landlady when Sam paused to look. Old Dunstan says its St. Matthews Gospel. Ask and it shall be given, that bit. Sort of a welcome. This was the room that the monks fed the travelers in. Phones 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 tables been here since the place were built. The units were Buckles idea.
Buckle?
My husband.
Sam tried to puzzle this out as she made the connection home.
Yeah? said a familiar voice.
Pa, its me.
Hey, Lu, its Sammy! she heard him yell. So hows it going, girl?
Fine, Pa. Howre things back there?
No problems, he said. The new vines are looking good. Heres 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 youre OK?
I told you, Ma. Fit as a butchers dog.
Its just that a couple of times recently I got this feeling
Ma, is this some of your my people stuff?
Mock my people, youre mocking yourself, girl. Im just telling you what Ive been told. You watch out for a stranger, Sam.
Ma, Im in England. Theyre 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, theyre 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. Ive wrapped it in a napkin so you can eat it as you walk to the church. And heres a front-door key in case Im out when you get back. And I thought this old guidebook might help you if youre looking round the village. Better than that useless leaflet.
She proffered a leather-bound volume, almost square in shape.
Thats 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 in Skaddale in the
County of Cumberland,
with maps and illustrations,
prepared by the Reverend Peter K. Swinebank DD
Vicar of St. Ylfs Church, Illthwaite,
assisted by Anthony Woollass Esquire of Illthwaite Hall.
Printed at the Lunar Press, Whitehaven mdcccxciv
Eighteen ninety-four, she worked out. Isnt this valuable? Id love to borrow it, but Im worried about damaging it.
Dont be daft, said the woman comfortably. Ive loaned it to worse than you and its 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. Dont forget your sandwich.
Wont 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. Shed 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 couldnt 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 shed stuffed a months supply into her flight bag. Unfortunately the ravages of Heathrow Customs had been followed by the rapine of the Aussie friends shed 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 shed 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.