Not a word more did I get from her on the subject; though I was conscious of her speculative glance on occasion and certainly her manner was less severe from that moment on.
There was nothing to be got from Mrs. Bardette either. “Pooh; that’s nothing,” she scoffed with a toss of her head to the window—which I took to indicate the Wash House.
With the temerity of youth, and the curiosity of a kitten, I hung about the shed in the daytime. (I was not allowed out after six at night). It was a gloomy, dank place frequented by the occasional frog and lit only by a much-dirtied skylight. It could be brilliant sunshine outside, but the minute I entered (there was no door), darkness closed in on me and had the physical effect of making me breathless. Overall hung an indescribable mustiness. I could see the old wrought-iron mangles, and the two ‘coppers’ for heating water. In the dimness my eyes could just discern a brace of heavy flatirons on a stove top, and between the intangible outlines of the coppers gleamed the dull white of a sink. Close by this, further into the shadows, hung an inverted face. It was so grotesquely unrecognizable that I stared at it for several moments without realizing what it was. It was bloated and puffy and it began to drip water from the dangling hair to the floor. I had unconsciously advanced into the shed and I turned to run, only to be confronted by another, between me and the doorway. The hair from its sodden features trailed onto the floor. I shut my eyes and hurled myself at where I judged the opening to be, and so ran out into the sunlight; straight into the apron of Mrs. B. who was on the chapel path.
“Hmm, I know where you’ve been,” said she, dryly, and frog-marched me off to the chapel, where I sat on one of the chairs, trembling now, while she collected up the coconut mats. We hung them over the privet hedge and I helped her to beat them with the ‘spider.’ She made no further allusion to the cause of my fright, except to growl, “I’d keep out of there, my lad—and, whatever you do, say nothing to the mistress,” but she kept me beside her, and we went indoors and had a cup of tea together.
That was the eve of my departure, and nothing else untoward happened. I had expected fearsome dreams but in fact passed a quiet night. In the morning, my aunt walked with me to the—getting much salutation from local people—and put me on to the train home. To my utter amazement, she kissed my cheek and pressed half-a-crown into my hand. I was moved to wave from the carriage, but she had gone, and the interest of the journey dispelled all other thoughts.
“Doubtless you have already anticipated the outcome of my little experience, gentlemen?” remarked Mr. Cummings, stirring in his chair and lighting a vile little cheroot that smelled like burning cowpost. (I had visions of poor Mrs. Bailey trying to get the smell out of the curtains.) He waved the thing about like a joss-stick, describing smoke trails in the air, and at our lack of response, settled down again and continued.
I heard nothing of my aunt for years, save that thereafter she sent me a pound on each successive birthday. My father’s long illness intervened, and he died. She did not attend the funeral, nor did any others from the family in Shropshire; though I wrote to them all.
I was at theological college when I got a letter forwarded from home. It was written in large, badly formed letters, and was from a second cousin I had never met, telling me of the old Lady’s sudden death. Due to the delay in forwarding, the funeral was imminent and it seemed that she had named me to the family lawyer, and they were inviting me to attend and—later—to execute the will. I got compassionate leave and caught a train within a couple of hours.
The vagaries of railway timetables meant that I had to break my journey at Hereford. I could not resist revisiting the magnificent cathedral. Then, after a bun and an unpleasantly warm glass of milk in a teashop, I caught the Shrewsbury train and headed for Craven Arms.
There I crossed to the platform for the Wellington Branch, where a diminutive tank engine—running backwards—and two coaches were hopefully awaiting passengers. At 5 pm by the station clock we puffed out. Nostalgia awoke in me, for it had been this same train I had caught as a child of ten; a large and embarrassing label with my name and destination affixed to my best (and only) coat. The guard of the Shrewsbury train had handed me over to his counterpart of the branch line to ensure my alighting at Longbury. This time I would have to fend for myself! Even the engine was the same; for I remembered the number well—4401. Surely the carriage too? Had I not seen the sepia picture of Dawlish sea wall before? (But then it is in so many carriages!)
The little train left the main line at Marsh Farm Junction and headed out across Wenlock Edge, that lovely country of Houseman’s verses. (I will refrain from comment on Mary Webb, that other Salopian writer of note—since I know her bilge is popular with Mr. Timothy!) The sun was behind Long Mynd and one could not have guessed from the wild beauty of the scene that a little farther along this rural railway lay Shropshire’s ‘black country’—the iron foundries of Coalbrookdale and Horsehay & Dawley (what a deceptively lovely name!), dating back to 1709 and the Dudley family; though I believe charcoal forges had heated iron in those hills since Tudor times.
I was the only passenger to alight in the soft warm air at Longbury. The porter took my ticket, and replied to my compliment in the well-kept flower beds on the platform. “A welcome to you, Mr. Cummings,” he said, with a rather odd look at me, and signaled to a waiting car outside before marching off to the little cabin at the end of the platform to receive the tablet back from the engine driver. Clearly my coming was known in the village.
As I stepped forward to meet my cousin I could hear the explosive staccato bark of the train pulling away from the station and off toward Much Wenlock.
My cousin Sefton was a likeable enough chap, who was obviously intending me to stay at his farm. However in course of conversation on details of the morrow’s funeral, it transpired that my great aunt’s body was lying alone at her cottage. “Harry Jones, the Undertaker, wouldn’t take her to his parlor of course,” was the bald statement in Sefton’s Shropshire accents. When I asked the reason, and why “of course,” I was met with a shrug of the shoulders. In my stubborn way, I therefore determined to spend the night at the cottage, if only for the remembrance of her kiss, half-crown and annual pound! Seeing I meant what I said, Sefton made no argument—though he was clearly surprised—gave me the key and said there would doubtless be provisions in the larder. He gave me his telephone number “in case” (there were phones at the pub, village store and vicarage). As he dropped me with my suitcase at the gate to the cottage, I said brightly, “Well, if I’m lonely, I’ll drop into the pub.”
“Mebbee you’d better not,” he said, with an odd look. “In any case, you won’t lack for company.” And with that he drove off.
I walked up the well-remembered path through the tidy garden, full of the scent of thyme and other herbs, and with roses and honeysuckle over the porch and walls; opened the door and put on the light. Great Aunt Lucy was lying in her open coffin in the old parlor. Even the tang of medication could not mask the all-pervading smell of unlit fire. What memories that smell evoked! I looked at my aunt’s waxen features; she was smaller than I remembered and her face had got thinner and more lined. As I bent and kissed her cold forehead, I became conscious of a murmur of voices from beyond the chapel wall. There must be a ‘Convenanters’ meeting or something in progress—though six o’clock of an evening was an odd time to have it. I put my ear to the wall; the murmur resolved into the voices of a man and woman, but I could catch nothing of what they had said. I went outside to look at the chapel wing, but it was immediately obvious in the gloaming that there were no lights within; indeed, the door was locked. How peculiar! However, remembering my childhood tenor on the stairs, I just had to accept that this was a house of inexplicable sounds. This put me in mind of my other fright and I looked apprehensively toward the louring bulk of the Wash House, thought better of it and went back into the cottage. The muffled voices had, I thought, sunk to whispers, but might have ceased altogether. I gave it up and went into the scullery to forage.