[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

“That maid, Hetty, she’s sacked, finished, bag an’ baggage!”

Maud curled her lip in disgust as milk spilled down Smithers’s chin from the tankard. He wiped it off on his sleeve.

“What’re you turnin’ your nose up at, little miss high ’n’ mighty? All very prim an’ proper, aren’t you, eh, eh? What happened to your bullyboys from London? Never turned up, did they? Well, whether or not, things’ll go ahead today. You’ll see, I’ve got it all organized on my own, without your help, missie!”

Maud was about to make a cutting reply, when a carter, wearing a burlap apron, appeared at the gate and shouted, “Hoi! Mr. Smithers, we’ve ’ad the stuff that you ’ired brought over from ’Adford. Been waitin’ in the village square since six-thirty. Wot d’yer want us t’do with it?”

Smithers yanked the oversized watch from his vest pocket. “Twenty past seven already, I’d better get movin’. Listen, you’d best get down t’the station at nine-ten an’ meet the officials. Don’t be late, now, d’ye hear me?”

Maud shooed a sparrow away from her plate. “I’m hardly likely to be late meeting my own father.”

Smithers stopped in his tracks. “Your father? You never said anything about him arrivin’ today!”

Maud considered her lacquered nails carefully. “He’ll be traveling up from London with some investors just to check on the amounts of money paid out to the villagers. They’ll arrive on the eight-fifty. To meet up with the magistrate and county planners coming down on the nine-ten. I’ll show them the way to the square—you’d best have things ready there.”

Maud thought Obadiah Smithers looked about ready to take a fit. He stood scarlet-faced and quivering. “Check on the money? What’s the matter, doesn’t the man trust me?”

Maud was satisfied her nails were perfect. She replied coolly, “When it comes to business, my father trusts nobody!”

At eight-fifteen Blodwen Evans opened the front door of the Tea Shoppe and began sweeping over the step with a broom. She stopped to view the activity in the square. Directly in front of the notice board post, two wagons had pulled up. Men were unloading a table, chairs, and what looked like a small marquee with an open front. Smithers was directing two other men to put up a large sign, painted on a plywood board. Shopkeeper Blodwen called to her husband, “Dai, look you, see what’s ’appenin’ out ’ere!”

Dai Evans emerged, wiping flour from his hands, and gave a long, mournful sigh. “Whoa! Look at that, now, will you. Our village square full of strangers. Read me that notice, will you, Blodwen, I ain’t got my glasses with me.”

Blodwen read it aloud slowly. “ ‘Progressive Development Company Limited. Payments made here for all land and properties within the Chapelvale area. All persons wishing to receive the stipulated compensation must be in possession of legal deeds to their land and property or payment cannot be made.’ ”

Blowing her nose loudly on her apron hem, Blodwen wiped her eyes on it. “There’s sad for the village, Dai. I never thought I’d see this day!”

Dai put an arm about his wife. “There there, lovely, you make a cup of tea. I’ll go an’ look for the deeds to our shop.”

Blodwen stood watching Smithers approaching, she called over her shoulder to Dai, “You’ll find ’em in the blue hatbox on top of the wardrobe!”

Smithers had a spring to his step and a happy smile on his face. He touched his hat brim to Blodwen cheerfully. “Mornin’, marm, another good summer’s day, eh. Am I too early to order breakfast and a large pot of tea?”

Blodwen Evans drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable, and stared down from the front step of her shop. “Put one foot over this step, boyo, and I’ll crack this broom over your skull!”

Smithers beat a hasty retreat back to the square, where he began finding fault and bullying the workmen. Blodwen held her aggressive pose for a moment, then sighed unhappily and leaned on the broom. Chapelvale, the little village she had come to love so much, was about to be destroyed. In a short time, the drapers, butchers, post office, general shop, and the ironmongers, those neat, small shops with their wares gaily displayed behind well-polished windows, would stand empty, waiting for demolition, their former owners gone off to other places.

Even the almshouse, with its tall, shady trees in the lane behind, would be trampled under the wheels of progress. Children dashing eagerly into her Tea Shoppe, pennies clutched in their hands for ice cream cones, old ladies wanting to sit and chat over pots of India and China tea, with cakes or hot buttered scones. They would soon be little more than a memory to her. But such a beautiful memory. Blodwen Evans lifted an apron hem to her face and cried for the loss of the place she knew as home.

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