[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

She looked at him over the rim of her teacup. “I don’t use it for anything, that was Captain Winn’s study. He called it his den. All his stuff is in there. I only go in once every couple of months to dust around.”

Ben had made an educated guess that the room would be the captain’s private sanctum. Apart from one or two souvenirs he had brought home for his wife and some photographs that decorated the mantel, there was not much evidence of a Royal Navy ship’s commander about the rest of the house. Evidently Mrs. Winn kept the room as some sort of shrine to her husband’s memory. She watched Ben’s eyes carefully.

Knowing what he was going to say next, he hesitated a moment before speaking. “Miz Winn, would it be all right if I took a look in there?”

The black dog had wandered up to the table. She patted his head, feeding him buttered toast crusts, and kept Ben waiting on her answer, which she gave after a lengthy interval. “Is it important that you look in the captain’s room, Ben?”

The boy nodded earnestly. “Time’s running short for your village. We might find something up there that could help.”

She took a final sip of tea. “Right, then, you may take a look this afternoon, when we get back from shopping in the village. I’ll need your help to carry things, I’m not just shopping for myself anymore. Come on, then, let’s make an early start!”

Hiding his frustration at not being able to search immediately, Ben thanked her and passed a thought to Ned. “Never mind hiding under the table, you’re coming, too!”

Morning sun dappled through the trees growing behind the village square. The place hummed gently with that Saturday morning sound of folk doing their weekend shopping. Ben carried Mrs. Winn’s basket dutifully, wondering when she was going to finish getting her supplies. They had gone from shop to shop, the old lady bustling about, dropping items into the basket, talking aloud to herself. “There, sugar and rice and some nutmegs for my Sunday rice pudding. Come on, young man, keep up!”

At last they emerged from the shop. Mrs. Winn pursed her lips, mentally itemizing the grocery list. “Oh dear, I forgot the tea! Maybe I’ll get some cocoa, too, a mug of cocoa’s nice at bedtime. Do you like cocoa, Ben? You stay here, I’ll go and get it.” She vanished inside the shop again.

Ben changed hands, swapping the basket from right to left and tightening his hold on a package beneath his arm. He caught a thoughtwave from Ned. “Good boy, don’t let that basket drop now. Over here, Ben, look who’s with me.”

The Somerses were sitting on the post office steps, stroking Ned, who was enjoying the attention immensely. Ben spoke aloud to the dog as he approached.

“You great lazy lump, you should be carrying this. Whew! Miz Winn certainly takes some keeping up with for an old lady. Hello there, you two!”

Amy pointed to the package beneath his arm. “What’s in the parcel, Ben?”

To her surprise he looked faintly embarrassed. “Some new clothes. Miz Winn bought them. I didn’t want her to, but she thinks I need to look respectable for Sunday church service tomorrow. Move over there, pals.”

Ben sat with them on the post office steps, watching folk following their weekend shopping routines as always. Shop doorbells tinkled as people came and went, standing beneath the canvas awnings, gossiping and viewing the goods behind the bull’s-eye-paned windows of drapers, chandlers, butchers, and dairy produce merchants. Housewives with heavily laden shopping bags hanging from the handles of baby perambulators, calling to husbands who were chatting to other menfolk outside the newsagent and tobacconists. Children with coned paper bags, emerging from the sweetshop, sucking on treacle toffees, aniseed balls, and nut brittle, gazing absently about to locate their parents. Ben could not help commenting.

“Odd, isn’t it. You wouldn’t think that the place has less than a week left as a village. Don’t they care, what’s the matter with them?”

The girl watched Ben’s intense blue eyes studying the scene. “My mum says it’s because they’re village folk, with a village mentality. She says they won’t accept it could happen to them. These village families go back centuries. They just don’t know what progress and change mean. If anything frightens them, they push it to the back of their minds and get on with their lives. Hoping it’ll go away, I suppose.”

Alex’s face reddened, and he stared down at the step. “Like me. I try to ignore Wilf Smithers and his gang. I wasn’t much use to you yesterday, never said a word, just stood there like a lump.”

Ben patted his friend’s arm reassuringly. “But you did do something, pal, you stood alongside Amy and me. It was Ned who saved the day. I was as scared as you or your sister—there was a whole gang of them. No shame in being afraid when you’re outnumbered more than three to one, right, Amy?”