[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Even from a distance it was plain to see that the old lady’s dander was up. Mr. Mackay, a small, dapper lawyer, was standing between Mrs. Winn, Obadiah Smithers, and Maud Bowe, anxiously trying to prevent trouble. He was not having much success. The old lady, her chin thrust forward pugnaciously, was wagging a finger at Smithers and Bowe, evidently giving them a piece of her mind. Several times the pair tried to walk away, but she confronted them, not giving up until she had said what she wanted. It was Mrs. Winn who finished the argument as well. She stamped her foot and marched off, leaving her foes dumbfounded. Mr. Mackay scuttled back into his office, glad to have all three away from his premises before they attracted too much notice.

Amy nodded admiringly. “Here she comes, good old Winnie. Oh, Ben. I wish there were more folk in Chapelvale like her. She won’t give up without a fight!”

The blue-eyed lad licked the last of his ice cream from the spoon. “Who knows, maybe there are, once they get stirred up enough to do something about their problems.”

Mrs. Winn’s black-button boots clicked sharply on the floor as she marched into Evans Tea Shoppe. Her cheeks were quite pink and she was obviously irate. She rapped twice on the counter. “A pot of Ceylon tea and a hot buttered scone, if you please, Blodwen!”

Blodwen gave her a cheery nod. “Indeed to goodness, Winnie Winn, there’s bothered you look. Sit you down, dearie, I’ll bring them right to you!”

Amy moved swiftly to make room as Mrs. Winn came to sit at the table. She blew out a long breath, took a small mirror from her bag, and began primping the hair that wisped out either side of her navy blue straw boater hat. Her order arrived swiftly; she poured a cup of tea, took three good sips, and tried to compose herself. Then she spoke.

“Well! The very nerve of that Smithers and that young snippet with the dreadful London accent!”

Ben felt like smiling at her indignation, but he put on a serious face. “Did they upset you, Miz Winn?”

She drew herself up and took another sip of tea. “Upset me? Certainly not! I wouldn’t lower my standards and allow myself to be upset by the likes of them. Do you know, they made me a cash offer for my home and the almshouse? A piffling sum! When they saw I was not impressed, they doubled the offer. Hmph! I told them they could quadruple their paltry money, it still wouldn’t budge me an inch!

“Then Smithers said he had taken legal advice, he said that if I still refused their offer after his scheme was under way, he could have me forcibly put out of my home and he could take possession of the almshouse without further permission!”

Blodwen Evans had been lingering nearby, eavesdropping, as she usually did on any good village gossip. She moved in to collect the empty ice cream dishes. “And what did Mackay have to say about that, Winnie?”

The old lady seemed to deflate, her voice dropped to a murmur. “He said Smithers and his friends had the law on their side. That unless I can prove valid ownership and proper legal documents I haven’t a leg to stand on.”

Blodwen Evans gestured with a thumb to where her husband was at work in the back of the shop. “Aye, Smithers made my Dai a miserable offer as well, but what can we do, we ain’t got the money to fight him. My Dai says we’ll prob’ly have to take the offer for the teashop an’ move back to Wales. Still, that may not be. I’ve talked to a lot of folk. There’s Pettigrew the newsagent, Riley the ironmonger, Mrs. White from the sweetshop, and Mr. Stansfield the butcher. They say it can’t happen, you know. Look you, even Smithers can’t demolish a whole village just for some old limestone!”

Ben interrupted her. “He can, Mrs. Evans, and he will, unless something is done to stop him.”

Any further conversation was cut short by loud banging on the wall from the alley outside. A row of willow-pattern plates standing on edge upon a shelf began to tremble and clatter under the pounding vibration from the outside of the wall. Mr. Dai Evans came running out into the shop, wiping flour from his hands and untying his baking apron.

As his wife hurried to steady the plates, she called to him. “It’s that young Smithers an’ his gang again, Dai!”

He dashed outside. Amy was about to rise when Ben stopped her. “Wait a moment, let’s listen.”

From outside Dai Evans could be heard shouting. “I know it’s you, Wilf Smithers, no use leanin’ against that wall, lookin’ as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Go on, be off with the lot of you!”

Wilf Smithers’s voice sounded out impudently. “It wasn’t us! We’ve got as much right to lean against this wall as anyone. Why blame us?”

Mr. Evans’s voice shook with temper. “I know it was you lot. If you’re not gone from here in two ticks, I’ll call the constable!” Dai walked back into the shop, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, shaking his head and muttering. “I tell you, Blodwen. They’ll have us out of here one way or the other. I’ll be glad to get back to Wales, look you!”