[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Mr. Braithwaite had a slight stoop, and small spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He also had a huge cloud of frizzy grey hair, which he constantly scratched at absentmindedly. As Ben and his friends entered the library, Mr. Braithwaite glanced up over his glasses at them. “Hmm, er, Alexander and Amelia, er, er, Somers, isn’t it, hmm yes, right, er. Not like you two t’be in the er, library when the hmm, school’s finished for summer, er, er, no indeed!”

Amy introduced their new friend. “Sir, this is Ben, he wants to look at local history books. We’re trying to save the village, you see.”

The librarian-cum-schoolmaster came out from behind his counter. Scratching his head with one hand, whilst brushing dandruff from his collar with the other, he peered at the strange boy with blue eyes.

“Hmm, ah yes, very good! Is there, er, any specific reference you wanted to er, see, young, er . . . man?”

Ben tried his best to look intelligent and polite. “Yes sir, I’d like to look at anything in connection with Chapelvale and the Winn family, please.”

Mr. Braithwaite nodded furiously, a pencil falling from behind his ear as he warmed to his favorite subject. “Hmm, mm, mm, yes, Chapelvale, Winn family, very good! I’m er, actually er, quite a noted, er, devotee of hmm, local history. Now, if I’m, er, correct, the volume you want is called, er, Village Chronicles of the British Isles, part, er, four! Yes, very good, very good, by Roger, let me see, Russell Hope. By Roger Hope Russell, er, pardon me!”

They followed him as he scurried animatedly to a back shelf and knelt on the floor, his head to one side, muttering. “Domesday Commentary, Anglo-Saxon Settlements . . . Aha! Here ’tis, the very volume, er, er, indeed!”

The huge, dusty, leather-bound volume made an echoing thud when Mr. Braithwaite slammed it on the table. With the enthusiasm of an amateur historian, he scoured the index. “Chapelmount, Chapel Norton, Chapelton . . . Yes, yes, got it! Page 986, appendix B.”

Leafing through the yellowed pages, Mr. Braithwaite found the relevant item. He stood scratching his frizzy mop in a shaft of sunlight, until he was surrounded by a halo of dandruff. He nodded approvingly as Ben read aloud from the page.

“ ‘Chapelvale (circa 1340), medieval village land. Granted to a Sea Captain (origin and name unknown) by the Black Prince, Edward III. Church built there, later to become an almshouse. Used by wayfaring poor and mendicant monks. Second church building (circa 1673) following Test Act and persecution of Catholics under Charles II. Mainly pasture and some agriculture. Middle England village with square. Nearby town Hadford.’ ”

Ben scanned the page in silence awhile before looking up. “Nothing more of any real interest here. Thank you, sir. Is there anything else about Chapelvale in your library?”

Mr. Braithwaite rocked back and forth on his heels. “Any what? Oh, er, hmmm. No no, nothing, er, I’m afraid!”

Ben signaled his friends with a nod. “Many thanks for your help, sir. We’ve got to go now. Good-bye!”

The stooped librarian stood watching them leave, searching for the pencil behind his ear, which had fallen earlier. “Quite, er, yes. Good-bye, er, er. . . . Call again if there’s anything you should, er, need, very good, very good, yes!”

They emerged from the library into the sunlit late morning. Ben chuckled. “What an odd old fogey.”

Without warning Alex went pale. He turned to go back into the library. Ben checked him, noting his frightened look.

“Steady on, there. What’s the matter with you, pal?”

Staring straight ahead, Amy answered for her brother. “It’s the Grange Gang!”

Wilf Smithers, Regina Woodworthy, and the gang had formed a semicircle about the library steps, blocking the way.

Ben threw an arm around the younger boy. “Stick with me, they won’t bother us, pal!”

As they started down the steps, Wilf and Regina circled either side of them, their aim to get behind the trio and cut off any retreat. Wilf pinched Alex’s cheek and smiled maliciously.

“Hello, it’s little Alexandra!”

Clearly terrified, the boy turned beetroot red and kept silent.

This encouraged the bully, who sniggered. “Alexandra’s gone all shy. Blushing, are we, Alexandra?”

Amy came fearlessly to her brother’s defense. Whirling on Wilf, she shouted at him defiantly. “He’s not Alexandra, his name is Alexander! You big bully, why don’t you go away and leave us alone?”

Wilf pretended he had not heard her, but Regina positioned herself in front of the smaller girl. She stood blocking Amy’s path, arms folded and a sneer on her face, which was red and bruised from her fall off the garden wall a day earlier.

“Are you going to make us go away, eh?”

Smiling at the results of his dog’s chase, Ben addressed the Grange Gang girl in a friendly tone. “That’s a nasty bruise on your face, what happened to you?”

Wilf was two steps above Ben. He turned on the new-comer. “It’s none of your business. Anyhow, who are you? An’ what do you want around here?”