[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Alex squinted his eyes. “Hmm, not quite, but one thing I do know, though. Our friend Ben is like nobody I’ve ever met.”

23

THE BIG, LOPING LABRADOR MET BEN on the way up to the house. He sniffed Ben’s hand. “Where’ve you been all afternoon, young master?” The boy grinned as they ambled along together, exchanging thoughts. “You were sniffing to see if I’d had anything nice to eat while I was out. Well, I didn’t. I’ve made friends with the man at the almshouse. His name is Jon, you’ll like him. He’s not a bit mad, like they’d said. I’ll take you over to meet him tomorrow.” Ben roughed the back of his dog’s neck. “Our friend Wilf, I think he’s hurt his hand, took a swipe at me and punched a brick wall.”

Ned interrupted. “Huh, I know that.”

Ben stopped. “How’d you know?”

The black Labrador winked one eye. “Horatio took me on a guided tour of Chapelvale. We found the place where that Smithers man lives, that lad of his, too. It’s a big new house in its own grounds, up past the railway station. I was sniffing about outside, when Dai Evans and another fellow, the chemist I think, brought young Wilf home to his parents. Hoho, he must have given that wall a right old whack! You should see the wads of bandage and the splint on his arm—he was the color of sour milk. Anyhow, before I could stop him, that half-witted cat followed them into the house. I got as far as the driveway, when Mr. Smithers came roaring out with a garden rake, so I got out of the way fast. Well, I went around the back of the house to see if I could locate Horatio. Huh, there he was, being fed a saucer of milk by a nice girl called Hetty.

“Now, there’s a girl I could take to. She stroked me a bit, said I was a nice fellow, which I am of course, and gave me a great gammon hambone, with lots of meat on it. Then she said she was finished working for the day and put on her hat and coat. She knew Horatio. I think he pops over there regular and lets Hetty feed him, the furry little fraud. Anyhow, she picked Horatio up and said she’d better get him back home. So I went along with them both. Huh, I notice she didn’t offer to carry me!”

Ben tweaked Ned’s tail. “I don’t blame her. Where is she now?”

The dog shambled up the driveway to the house. “Inside with Winnie, you’d better go and meet her.”

Hetty was a thin, angular woman, clad in a long bottle-green coat with an old fox-fur collar, lace-up kneeboots, and a worn green felt hat that had seen better days. She sat at the kitchen table with Mrs. Winn, a pot of tea and some sliced fruitcake between them as they chatted animatedly. Mrs. Winn introduced her to Ben.

“Ah, Ben, this is Hetty Sullivan, an old friend of mine. Her mother used to be maid here when I was not long married and my son Jim was young. Hetty is the maid up at the Smithers house now. She often calls in for tea and a chat on her way home. Come and sit with us.”

The boy pulled up a chair, listening to Hetty’s tales of woe as Mrs. Winn poured tea for him. Hetty was one of those people who always had a tale to tell, usually in the manner of a complaint.

“Smithers! Don’t talk to me about that family! ‘Hetty fetch this, Hetty do that.’ I’m at their beck and call every second. I wish I could work for you, Miz Winn, like my old mum used to. I always liked this ’ouse.”

Mrs. Winn poured more tea for Hetty, remarking wistfully, “I wish I could afford for you to work here, Hetty my dear, but I’m only a widow on a Royal Navy pension. I can understand you not liking to work for Smithers—I wouldn’t fancy the job.”

Hetty pursed her lips as she sipped her tea. “No more you wouldn’t, marm! That Obadiah Smithers, nasty bossy man, always asking me t’leave the room, so he can talk business, if you please! Then there’s the other young madam, Miss Maud Bowe, wants waitin’ on ’and an’ foot. Wants to get back to Lunnon, that’s what she needs t’do. An’ that young Master Wilfred, dirty towels, muddy bootmarks, bad manners. Cheeky wretch, you should see the mess he leaves the bathroom in every day. But his mother won’t hear a word said agin him. No, she drifts about there, givin’ her orders like she was a bloomin’ duchess or somethin’: ‘I think we’ll have the gammon for lunch, Hetty, boil those potatoes until they’re floury, Hetty, you may pour the tea, Hetty.’ Humph! An’ her the daughter of a Yorkshire sack an’ bag maker. Oh, I notice these things, y’know. There ain’t many secrets in the Smithers ’ouse that Hetty Sullivan ain’t over’eard!”

Ben nodded sympathetically. “You haven’t had it easy working for them, eh, Hetty?”

The maid primped at her lank, mousy hair. “I certainly ’ave not, Master Ben!”

Ben seemed very concerned at the maid’s plight. “What’ll you do for a job if Smithers carries out his plan and takes over the village for his cement business? Surely you’ll be out of house and home, won’t you, Hetty?”