[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Feeling slightly crestfallen, Ben arrived at the back of the almshouse only to find Alex and Amy already there with the old seaman. Furthermore, Amy had already solved the “Luke to the left” problem. Ben did not show his disappointment, telling himself that it was better for the villagers to help themselves anyway. He smiled at Amy.

“Clever bit of thinking that, L for Luke and L for left. I lay for ages trying to sort it out in bed last night—my mind was a blank. Good job you solved it, Amy.”

Jon sat down on the window ledge, stroking his beard. “Aye, our Amy’s a bright girl, but it still don’t solve much. Turn to the left yourself, Ben. What do you see?”

Ben did as Jon bid him, looking off to the left in a straight line. “Hmm, nothing much, just the usual countryside, trees, farmland, some fields, and the church on top of the hill.”

Amy stood alongside him. “We’re looking for the house named for the rock, though what that’s supposed to be goodness knows.”

Alex had an idea. “Maybe there’s a house or a cottage out there called Gibraltar; that’s a rock. Sometimes people name their house after a place they’ve visited. Or a religious person might have named their house after the Rock of Ages, like in the hymn.”

Ben nodded. “You could be right. Are there any places out there like that, named after a rock? Who’d know a thing like that?”

Jon stood up. “Mr. Braithwaite will know. Let’s go and ask him.”

As they were about to pull the heavy door of the almshouse shut behind them, a voice called out. “Now then, young ’uns, she’s runnin’ fine today!”

A cheery, ruddy-faced fellow, clad in dairyman’s smock and gaiters, reined up a smartly varnished gig, pulled by a dun mare. Ben followed Amy and Alex as they ran to greet him.

“Good morning, Will.” Amy patted the mare’s flank. “Is Delia over her colic? She looks well!”

He eyed the mare fondly. “Ole Delia’s bright as a button, thanks to your dad. I don’t know what was in that medicine he gave her, but it certainly got rid of her colic. I’ve just finished my milk’n’eggs round, why don’t you come up to the farm for a visit? Eileen’d be pleased to see you. Hi, Jon Preston, you ole hermit. Fancy a cup o’ decent tea an’ some scones up at my farm’ouse?”

Moments later they were in the gig, all sitting on empty milk churns and egg crates, as Delia jogged spiritedly up the back lane toward the hill beyond.

Alex looked around. “Where’s Ned?”

Ben shrugged. “Oh, that fellow, he’s probably off exploring somewhere. Don’t worry about the old boy, he’ll find us when he wants to. Is it far to the farm?”

Alex gestured up ahead. “About halfway up the hill, it’s called Hillside Farm. Will Drummond is our local dairy farmer. His family’ve had a place up there for centuries. My dad often tends his animals when they’re ill. He says Will’s a good man, you’ll like him. Bet his mother knows if there’s a place named after a rock hereabouts. She knows everything!”

Will’s wife, Eileen, was a bustling lady with an ever-present smile. Holding an infant of just over two years on her forearm, she came out into the cobbled farmyard to meet them. “Look, liddle Willum, ’ere’s daddy, an’ friends with him, too. Come on, Delia my beauty, I got an apple for ye!”

Introductions were made all around. Ben and Alex helped the dairyman unload the empty churns and egg-boxes before going in for tea.

Eileen Drummond’s scones, served with clotted cream and strawberry jam, were a real treat. As they ate, Ben explained all they were doing in an effort to save Chapelvale but how time was running out. And how they couldn’t figure out a house named for a rock.

It was cool and shady in the old, low-beamed farmhouse, with its whitewashed walls, tile floor, and little bull’s-eye-paned windows. Will’s mother, Sarah, sat installed in her wing chair by the fireplace, a Bible upon her knee, listening carefully until Ben finished talking. She was a bright, alert little woman, quick and bird-like in her actions.

Drawing a knitted black shawl close around her narrow shoulders, she shook her head disapprovingly at Jon and his three young friends and tapped the Bible meaningfully. “Place named after the rock?

“Hah, I can tell you haven’t read your scriptures properly. But that’s no surprise. Most folk these days don’t seem to have the time to heed the word of the Lord!”

Will chided her gently. “Now now, Ma. Don’t take on so. Just ’cos folks don’t study scripture all the time, doesn’t mean they ain’t good people. Look at me, I don’t read the Bible a lot, but I’m honest an’ hardworking.”

His mother gave him a hard stare. “Ye’d be a lot better if ye did, Will, an’ your friends, too. They should know what the Lord said to his disciple. ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church’! ’Tis written here in the good book. So then, tell me, what’s the name o’ the church atop of this hill?”

Will blurted out, “St. Peter’s!”

The old woman could not help looking slightly smug as she sat back, patting her Bible. “Tell me the rest of your puzzle.”