After taking her leave from the mystified man-servant of the big-house, Peggy had walked a mile before deciding
that sleep was catching up with her. She'd snoozed for nearly an hour under a large Bottlebrush bush that wouldn't
be denied its place among the receding heather. It was only when Peggy heard the steady clop of hooves on cobble
did she rouse herself and straighten her single item of clothes. A ride might be in the making.
Thomas Hector was a good man, she could tell the moment she alighted his cart and struck-up a conversation with
the fellow. As Peggy had climbed down next to the path to her destination, she'd wished the man with nice eyes and
a nice mien of address had picked her up sooner.
Leaning from his creaking seat, Thomas warned "now there's been funny goings-on in Little Compton, so you watch
yourself, Peggy" and the Witch -who held a high taste in men, liked the way he said her name. With a flick of the reins,
Mr Hector went on his way to wherever cordial people go.
...................................................
Peggy Powler finally allowed her muddy bare feet to just clean themselves of sticky dirt by simply walking though
the scattered puddles that lay along the unpaved track instead of attempting to go around them. The small wooden
sign that indicated the junction -if one wished to be optimistic, from Calder's Way to Little Compton was broken and
lay in a large clump of fennel that the little Witch later chewed on as she waded through the remains of the deluge.
Stark leafless trees escorted the half-flooded path and apart from glimpsing a couple of houses and a small church,
Peggy reviewed her decision to come here and ply her trade. The place seemed desolate and arriving at a more
open place to survey the so-called village, she genuinely wondered if it was abandoned.
That was when Peggy spotted someone working in the kirkyard.
Clambering onto the cemetary wall and holding the back of her poncho to hide her lack of underwear, Peggy called
cheerfully "Fair travels, Sir, how are yer' today?" and for a moment, she thought the hunched man hadn't heard her.
Gazing over his shoulder at the newcomer, the grave-digger offered a passionless face and then went back to filling
in the rectangular hole.
"Suit yer' bloody-self" Peggy murmured and carefully climbing down from her perch, she was about to continue her
journey towards the spaced-out cottages, when she saw something that caught her breath. It was a single print and
the recent rain had eroded the rear-part of the spoor, but it was definitely that of large canine.
Checking that the miserable bastard with the spade wasn't watching, the bantam Witch crouched down and looked
closer at the strange impression in the mud. No, she was wrong. The storm hadn't damaged the back of the print,
it was a pronounced heel... a human heel. With her nose almost touching the moist dirt, Peggy could see the whorls
and lines left by a person's skin. There were even signs of callouses near where the edge of the foot had touched.
"Whey yer' bugger!" she exclaimed and wondered what had been happening in Little Compton.
...................................................
"I can say without doubt, she was a lovely woman..." Father Jacobs said in a consoling voice to the seated sobbing
young woman. "...A devoted mother and an ardent member of the faith" he added and patted Jenny Dinsdale on the
shoulder.
The aroma of the house had improved since the last time the Priest had visited, what furniture there was had been
cleaned and arranged to accommodate the coffin that had now been taken away. The dull-coloured curtains were still
closed, of course and Father Jacobs hadn't commented of the old traditional ways he'd often disapproved of.
Jenny sniffed her grief and clutching the vicar's handkerchief like her life depended on it, she looked up at her man
of the cloth with the eyes of pleading doe. "Me-Ma's in a better place, Sir... and her strife is gratefully over" she said
with a slight lilt in her voice, the kerchief changed hands as she wondered if she should say more.
The last two days and nights had been difficult for Jenny Dinsdale as she'd sat beside the bed of her mother and
watched her try to sleep. Then just before midnight, Martha would rise like her arthritis had fled and walk to the rear
wall of her bedroom. This same act would play-out again in daytime, but with one slight difference.
At first, the young woman had tried to cajole her mother back to her crib with soft words of encouragement, but the
old biddy was like a block of stone cemented onto the floorboards of the little room. Then it would begin -just had it
had the next night, Martha would move quickly to the left and then hurry sideways to the right, her eyes never leaving
the faded wallpaper that adorned the place where Jenny's father had once slept.
Back and forth Martha Dinsdale would move, lithe and eager like an avid watcher. Jenny had even thought that her
mother was doing just that... monitoring an unseen force somewhere beyond the wall of the cottage, but not having
the schooling of such esteemed folk as the Priest, she was left in a state of confusion.
Only when dawn broke, did the little old woman shuffle back to her bed and close her eyes as if she'd been at rest
all night. Then when the weary daughter had brought her mother some breakfast, she'd find her back at the wall, but
during daylight, she never moved.
"Yes, she's resting with the Angels now" Mathew Jacobs agreed with a sigh and his only congregation wondered if
that was true.
that sleep was catching up with her. She'd snoozed for nearly an hour under a large Bottlebrush bush that wouldn't
be denied its place among the receding heather. It was only when Peggy heard the steady clop of hooves on cobble
did she rouse herself and straighten her single item of clothes. A ride might be in the making.
Thomas Hector was a good man, she could tell the moment she alighted his cart and struck-up a conversation with
the fellow. As Peggy had climbed down next to the path to her destination, she'd wished the man with nice eyes and
a nice mien of address had picked her up sooner.
Leaning from his creaking seat, Thomas warned "now there's been funny goings-on in Little Compton, so you watch
yourself, Peggy" and the Witch -who held a high taste in men, liked the way he said her name. With a flick of the reins,
Mr Hector went on his way to wherever cordial people go.
...................................................
Peggy Powler finally allowed her muddy bare feet to just clean themselves of sticky dirt by simply walking though
the scattered puddles that lay along the unpaved track instead of attempting to go around them. The small wooden
sign that indicated the junction -if one wished to be optimistic, from Calder's Way to Little Compton was broken and
lay in a large clump of fennel that the little Witch later chewed on as she waded through the remains of the deluge.
Stark leafless trees escorted the half-flooded path and apart from glimpsing a couple of houses and a small church,
Peggy reviewed her decision to come here and ply her trade. The place seemed desolate and arriving at a more
open place to survey the so-called village, she genuinely wondered if it was abandoned.
That was when Peggy spotted someone working in the kirkyard.
Clambering onto the cemetary wall and holding the back of her poncho to hide her lack of underwear, Peggy called
cheerfully "Fair travels, Sir, how are yer' today?" and for a moment, she thought the hunched man hadn't heard her.
Gazing over his shoulder at the newcomer, the grave-digger offered a passionless face and then went back to filling
in the rectangular hole.
"Suit yer' bloody-self" Peggy murmured and carefully climbing down from her perch, she was about to continue her
journey towards the spaced-out cottages, when she saw something that caught her breath. It was a single print and
the recent rain had eroded the rear-part of the spoor, but it was definitely that of large canine.
Checking that the miserable bastard with the spade wasn't watching, the bantam Witch crouched down and looked
closer at the strange impression in the mud. No, she was wrong. The storm hadn't damaged the back of the print,
it was a pronounced heel... a human heel. With her nose almost touching the moist dirt, Peggy could see the whorls
and lines left by a person's skin. There were even signs of callouses near where the edge of the foot had touched.
"Whey yer' bugger!" she exclaimed and wondered what had been happening in Little Compton.
...................................................
"I can say without doubt, she was a lovely woman..." Father Jacobs said in a consoling voice to the seated sobbing
young woman. "...A devoted mother and an ardent member of the faith" he added and patted Jenny Dinsdale on the
shoulder.
The aroma of the house had improved since the last time the Priest had visited, what furniture there was had been
cleaned and arranged to accommodate the coffin that had now been taken away. The dull-coloured curtains were still
closed, of course and Father Jacobs hadn't commented of the old traditional ways he'd often disapproved of.
Jenny sniffed her grief and clutching the vicar's handkerchief like her life depended on it, she looked up at her man
of the cloth with the eyes of pleading doe. "Me-Ma's in a better place, Sir... and her strife is gratefully over" she said
with a slight lilt in her voice, the kerchief changed hands as she wondered if she should say more.
The last two days and nights had been difficult for Jenny Dinsdale as she'd sat beside the bed of her mother and
watched her try to sleep. Then just before midnight, Martha would rise like her arthritis had fled and walk to the rear
wall of her bedroom. This same act would play-out again in daytime, but with one slight difference.
At first, the young woman had tried to cajole her mother back to her crib with soft words of encouragement, but the
old biddy was like a block of stone cemented onto the floorboards of the little room. Then it would begin -just had it
had the next night, Martha would move quickly to the left and then hurry sideways to the right, her eyes never leaving
the faded wallpaper that adorned the place where Jenny's father had once slept.
Back and forth Martha Dinsdale would move, lithe and eager like an avid watcher. Jenny had even thought that her
mother was doing just that... monitoring an unseen force somewhere beyond the wall of the cottage, but not having
the schooling of such esteemed folk as the Priest, she was left in a state of confusion.
Only when dawn broke, did the little old woman shuffle back to her bed and close her eyes as if she'd been at rest
all night. Then when the weary daughter had brought her mother some breakfast, she'd find her back at the wall, but
during daylight, she never moved.
"Yes, she's resting with the Angels now" Mathew Jacobs agreed with a sigh and his only congregation wondered if
that was true.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.