Saturday was one of those typical Cornish days. The sun barely made itself peek through the lowering clouds and a misty rain came down eventually soaking everything. Dad and Mr. P were glad to see it, they’d both agree that the Kieber acres of wheat needed more moisture before harvest and we’d been unusually dry for a long time.
The town was fairly large, a half hours drive from the farm and I’d slept most of the way in, only waking when Neddie nudged me as the Range Rover dipped onto the bridge and the old street cobblestones.
“Good morning, little Silver,” Mr. P grinned. “Ready for the feed dealer? Or do you want to go with his lordship to the Law clerks?”
I snorted. Dry, dusty books and even drier, dusty old men with white wigs. Like I wanted to spend the morning in with them when I could wander the aisles of farm gadgets, smell the sweetness of molasses and pet the nearly feral shop cats who kept down the rats.
My dad dropped us off, we strode into the feed mill, and the smells overwhelmed me. I darted down the aisle where the blacksmithing supplies were, kept my ears out for Mr. P’s tones. He told me not to wander too far and I hollered back where I was and was going.
Ned met me at the corner of the alley where 50 gallon drums of seed potatoes were stored next to bins of onion sets. The smell was musty and sweet, reminded me of early spring planting in Mum’s small veggie garden.
“You ready?” he asked and I hesitated. “If I just leave, Mr. P will look for us.”
“Tell him you’re going to meet your dad,” he suggested.
“Okay.” I went in search of the farm manager and found him talking to the feed dealer ordering a gross ton of sweet feed for the show heifers. Mr. Braithwaite said hi and handed me a sucker from the jar on the counter.
“The wheat’s doing well,” Mr. P added. “Yield will be double this year with that new hybrid seed.”
“Mr. P, I’m going to meet Da at the Bubble and Squeak for lunch,” I said and tried not to blush while lying.
“Tired of this place already? Tell his Lordship, I’ll be another hour. I have to order more hi-tensile fence.”
“Da said he’d buy me an ice cream,” I said. “Can I go? It’s not far and I know the way.” I looked up at him with my eyes wide and my best pleading smile and saw him melt.
“Go on then. Keep to the sidewalks,” he warned. “I’ll be along presently.
“Ta,” I said and ran off. The coach stop was on the corner of Main near the Apothecary, the post office customers were already waiting for the coach, and when I asked when it was due, a matron smiled and told me the express was due in any minute. She asked me if I was off to Holcombe and I nodded.
“You have your sixpence?” she asked, smiling and I dug into my pocket for the shilling I’d set aside.
“Where’s your nanny?”
“Don’t need a nanny,” I said affronted. I was too old for a nursemaid.
“Ooh, a big grown up lad you are to be sure,” she agreed, blue eyes twinkling. “What lovely pansy purple eyes you have.” I heard the hiss of air brakes and a large old coach pulled up to the curb and the doors slid open. I tripped up the steps with her, paid for myself and the driver in his neat uniform and cap assumed was with the lady.
Ned told me to sit in the way back where we could stay unnoticed as the coach lurched and wobbled on the village streets until we reached the main highway. Ned pointed out the signs mounted on great metal poles and painted green and white. Some of the names we puzzled over, especially the ones in Welsh, which I could read, and he couldn’t, being English.
My Mum spoke both Gaelic and Welsh and sang to me in each so I was familiar with them.
“Wish I’d brought some biscuits and tea,” I mourned. “I’m hungry. You got anything?” He shook his head. “Guess we’ll have to wait till we reach Holcombe-on-the-Moor.”
One of the passengers ahead of us turned round; he was short, chubby with rough homespun and smelled of sheep. His eyes were faded blue, his hair under his cap an iron gray and his cheeks were rosy with a button chin and blowzy sideburns.
“Holcombe-on-the-Moor! That’s a long way on this coach, lad. Where’s your mum?”
“I’m meeting her,” I said quickly. “My Da sent me off.”
“On your own? A wee lad like you? How old are you?”
“Nearly six,” I answered proudly.
“Six! What mum would let a six-year-old ride to Holcombe by his own self? Where’s your mum meeting you? At the Coach stop?”
“At Holcombe. Pennyroyal Court.”
“Pennyroyal! Lad, there’s nothing there but a great big hole and some stones. The walls fell in years ago. Even the National Trust don’t want that ruin. Besides, the coach don’t stop there but twelve miles away in town.” He got up, lurched his way forward to the driver, and spoke to him, glancing back at us.
“Uh oh, Ned,” I murmured. “I don’t think they like that we’re on the coach.”
“Well, they can’t throw us off until they stop,” he said. “I think this one goes straight to Truro before it stops.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t check the route on the front,” I said uneasily. “Do you think Dan will be mad at us?”
The farmer came back down the aisle and sat opposite us, studying me with deliberation and now; several others joined him, a woman who looked like a shopkeeper, the woman we’d sneaked in with and an Anglican reverend.
“What’s your name, lad?” the farmer asked. Ned told me to lie and use his name. So I did.
“Ned. Edward Plantagenet.”
He hooted. “Him that’s been dead these four hundred years? You can’t be one of the Tower Princes, boy. What’s your real name? Tell me or we’ll call the Bobbies on ye.”
‘Ned Pendennis,” I returned using Mr. P’s last name. I knew better than to use my own, they’d be on the phone to my Da that next minute.
“You hungry?” he asked and handed me a cloth wrapped parcel, which unfolded to reveal a sandwich of farm cheese and mutton spread with horseradish. I took a bite and chewed. It was delicious and I was very hungry. I offered half to Neddie, he declined, and the farmer smiled.
“What’s your friend’s name?” he asked.
“Neddie,” I chewed another bite and lost some down my shirtfront.
“Pleased to meetcha, Neddie,” he said and stuck out his hand. Of course, Ned ignored him, his noble sensitivity affronted by his common mien. Ned was a bit of a snob.
“My name is Sam Tregarth; I run a sheep farm on the Dales. On my way to Connemara to pick up a new ram and visit my daughter.”
“Hullo,” I said remembering my manners. “Thank you for the sandwich. Dorset or Shropshire?”
“New Zealand,” he answered. “You know your sheep.”
“Oh, aye. We have a Rambouillet buck.”
“I’ve heard they double your wool and meat crop.”
“Mr. P says so. Worth X-breeding he says.” I finished the sandwich and looked hopefully for more. He handed me an Anjou pear and it was so sweet and juicy, my first bite ran down my chin and he topped it off with a small bottle of home brew, tart and sweet. I was suddenly sleepy and leaned against the window, rested my head and closed my eyes. The droning of his voice and the tires lulled me into a doze.